Hour Game (36 page)

S
EAN HAD UNCORKED BOTH BOTTLES OF WINE UPON HIS
arrival so that they could properly breathe before dinner. At the table he poured out the first one. “This is a La Croix de Peyrolie out of Lussac-St-Emilion.”

“And I’m sure it has some wonderfully nifty history,” said Michelle as she smelled it.

“It’s made by the appropriately named Carole Bouquet, who used to be a famous model and was a James Bond girl in one of the films—
For Your Eyes Only,
I believe. The other bottle is a Ma Vérité de Gérard Depardieu, Haut-Médoc.”

“Let me guess, made by the actor of the same name,” chanced Harry.

“Yes. These wines are really up and coming, and I only bring them out on special occasions.”

“Harry and I feel so honored,” said Michelle, smirking.

They toasted and began their meal, which was served by Calpurnia. She was about sixty years of age and over six feet tall, blocky of build and with thick gray hair pulled back in a harsh bun. She looked like every child’s worst school-cafeteria-worker nightmare. Yet the food was spectacular.

As Calpurnia left them, Harry said, “Now, Michelle was asking where your speculations about Steven Canney’s lineage and Rhonda Tyler’s possible liaison with Bobby Battle left us.”

“With the fact that two of the victims might be connected to Bobby Battle. Does it stand to reason that more are as well?”

“Janice Pembroke?” said Michelle.

“No. I figure her simply as a person in the wrong place at the wrong time,” answered King.

“Diane Hinson? She was a lawyer. Maybe she was working on some corporate deal with Bobby,” Michelle suggested.

King shook his head. “Doubtful. She was a trial lawyer, mostly criminal work. I made a lot of inquiries and could find no one who could place them together at any time. Let’s leave Hinson for the moment and move on. Next up is Junior Deaver. He had a clear connection to the Battles.”

“Right. He worked for them and was also accused of stealing from them,” said Michelle.

“But the burglary occurred
after
Bobby had his stroke,” said Harry.

“I never thought that Bobby was killing anyone,” said King, “perhaps other than Mrs. Canney. But we have three people with possible connections to Bobby Battle. Each was killed using the M.O. of an infamous serial killer, a watch was placed on the wrists and a letter was subsequently received.”

Michelle looked unconvinced. “Granted, Pembroke might have been killed merely because she was with Canney, yet Hinson was killed in the manner of the Night Stalker. But you say she has no connection to Battle.”

“Her watch was set to one minute past four,” said King. He paused and said, “And remember, Pembroke’s watch was set to one minute past two. The others were right on the hour.”

“So Hinson’s and Pembroke’s were one tick off,” said Michelle slowly.

“Exactly.” King looked at her puzzled. “One tick off? There’s something familiar about that phrase, but I can’t think of what it is.”

“So the killer is intentionally telling us, via the watches, that some victims are, what, slightly off?”

“I think he’s telling us that Tyler, Canney and Junior were killed intentionally because of their connection to Bobby. Pembroke
and Hinson were not specifically targeted, because they had no such connection.”

“All right, let’s assume Pembroke was killed because she was with Canney. Why was Hinson murdered?” asked Michelle.

“So we’d run down numerous paths trying to have it all make sense but it never would. For our killer’s purposes having Pembroke die at the same time as Canney was simply gravy. It muddied the waters even more. If Canney had been alone, I bet we’d have had another murder like Hinson’s to cover up the connection to Bobby. And it also explains why the killer used the word ‘kid’ instead of ‘kids’ in his letter following the teenagers’ deaths. Only one kid was his target: Steve Canney.”

“But, Sean, if the killer really wanted to throw us off, why set some of the watches so they were one tick off? If he’d kept them all on the hour, chances are you’d never have stumbled on this line of reasoning.”

“For some reason I think this guy is trying to play fair by giving us a legitimate clue.”

“Or he’s just screwing with us,” said Michelle.

“Possible, but I don’t think so.”

Michelle still looked skeptical. “All right, let’s assume all that’s true. Now we have Bobby Battle as a possible common denominator. But you don’t think he was killed by the same person. Isn’t his being linked to yet another killer too huge of a coincidence? And then we have Kyle and Sally. How do those deaths fit in?”

“Despite what Sylvia found, Kyle may have been a suicide. And Sally may have been killed because she didn’t come forward about the alibi for Junior.”

“I’m not following, Sean,” said Harry.

“If Junior was killed only because he stole from the Battles, then once the killer found out he really hadn’t committed the burglary, that meant Junior was killed for no reason. The killer revenged himself and in his sick mind perhaps thought he was avenging Junior as well by killing Sally. He might have foregone his trademark watch and infamous serial killer indicia in her case
because he was too incensed or didn’t consider her to be important enough. And he didn’t have much time to plan it. Sally only told me the truth barely seven hours before she was killed.”

“Well,” said Michelle, “her face being crushed by repeated blows after she was dead maybe fits with the theory of revenge. Someone in a rage.”

“Right. A man capable of ferocious attack and—” King froze. “Seven hours.”

“What is it, Sean?” asked Harry.

“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “What I just said about seven hours, it struck me somehow, but not the way I thought it would.” He thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Sorry, probably a slightly premature senior moment.”

“What about Chip Bailey’s theory that Sally lied about being with Junior and committed or helped commit the burglary?” asked Michelle.

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “That’s an intriguing conjecture.”

“Yes, it is,” said King slowly. “And not one we can entirely discount right now, although my instincts tell me he’s wrong.”

They continued with their meal and also finished off the second bottle of wine. Afterward in the library they sipped coffee that Harry poured for them. He offered them an after-dinner cognac, but they both declined.

“I have to drive home,” said King. “The wine was plenty.”

“And I have to look after him while he drives us home,” added Michelle, smiling.

The room had grown chilly, and Michelle stood in front of the fire warming her long legs. “Dresses can be very drafty,” she said self-consciously.

Harry turned to King. “What’s your opinion of Dorothea?”

“Well, the source of the drug Eddie was given wasn’t the wine, nor did they find any of the drugs Dorothea had purchased from Kyle,” said King. “However, I checked with Sylvia. The morphine sulfate Eddie was given was a drug she kept in her
pharmacy and may have been one of the drugs Kyle brought to Dorothea at the Aphrodisiac. And Dorothea has no alibi for the time Kyle was killed. She said she was at home, but Eddie didn’t see her.”

“Actually, he was out in his studio all night painting a picture of me,” said Michelle in an embarrassed tone.

King eyed her closely but said nothing.

Harry looked at her curiously for a moment and then said, “So she was buying the drugs, and she’s a possible suspect in both Battle’s and Kyle Montgomery’s deaths. She was also the person who had the best opportunity to drug Eddie, and lived very near where Sally was killed. All circumstantial obviously, but still compelling.”

“And she’s been depressed due to the financial setbacks and family issues she told us about,” said Michelle. “A troubled woman all around.”

King replied, “I don’t disagree with you, but I’m having a hard time finding her motive. She said Bobby had promised to change his will to benefit her, but he didn’t. So there goes her motive to kill him.”

“Unless she found out he hadn’t and was so furious she murdered him,” said Michelle.

Harry rose and stood next to Michelle in front of the fire. “At over seventy, one’s whole body becomes drafty regardless of the amount of clothing or the relative heat of the room,” he explained.

Returning to the discussion, he said, “There might be a third possibility. We’ve been focused on what was taken from Remmy’s closet, but what was stolen from Bobby’s closet?”

They both stared at him but said nothing.

Harry continued. “The will that left everything to Remmy is the one that’s being used by the lawyers. It was drawn up many years ago.”

“How do you know that?” asked Michelle.

“The lawyer who drafted it was a former clerk of mine, currently a partner at a firm in Charlottesville. They had the original, and that’s the will that’s being probated.”

“Did anyone look for another, more recent will?” asked King.

“That’s the point. I don’t think so. But what if a later will was the thing stolen from Bobby’s closet during the burglary?”

King said, “But if it was in Bobby’s secret compartment, which Remmy told us she was unaware of, she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to destroy it.”

“I’m not saying it was Remmy. Bobby had a stroke, he was delirious, talking gibberish at the hospital, so I heard,” said Harry.

“And maybe he mentioned another will,” said King, snapping his fingers.

“So anyone who heard him could have committed the burglary,” said Harry.

“If Dorothea had it, though, she would have made it public, wouldn’t she?”

“But there’d be the little matter of where it came from,” said Harry. “I don’t think she would want to confess to burglary.”

King looked puzzled. “But, Harry, we’re overlooking something. Bobby’s death was well publicized. Whoever drew up the new will would have come forward.”

“Maybe he didn’t use a law firm to draft it.”

“If he did it himself, he’d still need witnesses.”

“Not if it were a holographic will, entirely in his handwriting.”

“So if there is such a will, who has it, and why aren’t they making it public?”

“A question to which I would dearly love the answer,” remarked Harry as he finished off his snifter of cognac.

K
ING AND
M
ICHELLE SAID GOOD NIGHT TO
H
ARRY AND
drove off. The weather was still nice enough to keep the top down. However, Michelle tugged her wrap more tightly around her shoulders.

“I can put up the top if you want,” said King, noting her movement.

“No, the breeze feels wonderful and the air smells so good.”

“Spring in rural Virginia, can’t beat it.”

“I feel like we made some progress tonight.”

“At least we took the time to talk out different angles. That’s always helpful.”

She glanced at him with a suspicious look. “As usual you’re saying less than you know.”

He pretended to be offended by her remark; however, his smile betrayed this effort. “I’m not conceding I
know
anything. But I do suspect some things that I might not have mentioned.”

“Such as,
partner
?”

“Such as I’ve spent a wonderful evening over two fabulous bottles of wine with an attractive young woman, and all I’ve talked about is murder and mayhem.”

“You’re stalling. And mentioning the wine before mentioning me says a lot.”

“Well, I’ve known those bottles of wine longer than I’ve known you.”

“Thanks a lot, but you’re still stalling.”

The SUV hit them from behind so hard that if they hadn’t been wearing their seat belts, they both would have gone headfirst through the windshield.

“What the hell!” yelled out King as he looked in his rearview mirror. “Where did they come from?” The words were barely out of his mouth before they were rammed again. King fought the wheel, trying to keep the two-door Lexus coupe on the windy road.

Michelle kicked off her heels and pushed her bare feet against the floorboard to steady herself. Reaching into her bag, she slid out her gun, chambered a round and punched off the safety pretty much all in one smooth motion.

“Can you see the driver?” asked King.

“Not with the damn headlights shining in my face. But it has to be the killer.”

King pulled out his cell phone. “This time we’re going to nail the bastard.”

“Look out, here he comes again,” yelled Michelle.

The next impact by the far heavier vehicle almost lifted the rear of the Lexus off the road. King’s cell phone was knocked out of his hand, banged against the windshield and then went rocketing backward. It clanged off the hood of the SUV, hit the street and broke apart.

King tangled with the wheel again and managed to regain control as the two vehicles uncoupled. King’s car was outweighed by at least a ton. Still the Lexus coupe was far more nimble than the beast attacking them, and it had three hundred horses under the hood. Calling on all of them when they hit a straightaway, King punched the gas and the Lexus leaped forward, leaving the other vehicle far behind.

Michelle undid her safety belt.

“What the hell are you doing?” cried King.

“You can’t outrun him on these windy roads, and I can’t get a decent shot off with my belt on. Just keep ahead of him.”

“Wait a minute, call 911 first.”

“I can’t. I didn’t bring my cell phone. My purse was too small for it
and
my gun.”

King looked at her incredulously. “You didn’t bring your phone but you brought your gun?”

“I think I have my priorities right,” she said sharply. “What can I do with a phone: call him to death?”

She turned around in her seat, leaned over it and placed her elbow on the headrest of the rear seat. “Keep ahead of him,” she repeated.

“Well, damn it, you keep from getting killed,” he shot back.

The truck came powering up again for another collision of metal on metal, but before it could make contact, King shot across to the other side of the road, whipped back and rat-tat-tatted on the gravel shoulder before regaining the hard surface. He downshifted and nailed the hairpin turn at fifty, tires screaming. He suddenly felt the right wheels losing touch with the asphalt, and he lurched his two hundred pounds to that side, grabbing hold of Michelle’s right hip and pushing her sideways against the passenger door.

“I’m not being fresh. I just need the ballast. Stay there for a sec.”

He dropped his speed a couple of mphs and exhaled a sigh of relief as the rubber attached itself once more to terra firma.

They hit another straightaway that King knew would run for a quarter of a mile before a series of serpentine curves would confront them. He smashed down on the gas so hard he was sure his loafers would be hitting the pavement in another quarter inch. As he ripped right through triple digits on the speedometer, the trees flashed by at such dizzying speed he would’ve started puking had he bothered to look.

Behind him the driver of the truck wound it up to well over a hundred on the quarter-mile stretch, keeping well within striking distance. King hit 130 and looked for another gear to grab, but the Lexus didn’t have any more to give. All he could think about was,
How many air bags does the damn car have?
He hoped it was at least a dozen; it looked like they would need every one because the series of curves was flying at them. If he slowed down, they were dead; if he kept this speed, they’d be equally dead.

Michelle eyed the headlights bearing down on them and then slid her gaze up to the driver’s silhouette. She inched forward, finally resting her right elbow on the top part of the car’s trunk, and took aim with both hands on her pistol.

They hit the curvy area, and King braked hard to sixty when the signs said twenty, but the traffic engineers had undoubtedly not taken into account murderous SUVs in their calculations of highway safety. This allowed the truck to make up significant ground. “He’s coming up,” warned King. “I can’t go any faster without us flipping.”

“Just hold it steady. If he doesn’t back off, I’m going to take out his front tire.”

Their pursuer came within fifty feet and then twenty. He had to see that she had him dead in her sights, Michelle thought, and yet he wasn’t giving an inch of ground. Then the SUV took an incredible leap forward as the driver gunned it.

King had seen this and mimicked the man’s efforts. The Lexus shot forward, the truck right on their ass. King arched his body and stamped both feet on the gas as though that would give them the turbocharge they so desperately needed.

What he hadn’t counted on was a family of deer choosing that moment to amble across the road.

“Look out!” screamed King. He whipped the wheel to the left and then to the right. They went off the road and pinballed alongside a stretch of guardrail as the Bambis scattered. King felt the guardrail imprint its signature on his once beautiful convertible rivet by screeching rivet. He regained the road and looked back. The driver of the truck had smashed on his brakes to avoid the deer, but the SUV had never left the road, and it was barreling down on them once more.

King didn’t have time to get back up to cruising speed, and
anyway, the engine’s peculiar whine made him wonder if the guardrail had done more than simply cosmetic damage. What was certain was that the speedometer had dropped to under ninety and was staying there.

“Brace yourself,” cried out Michelle. “Here comes the son of a bitch.” She fired her gun twice right as the truck ate into the rear of the Lexus, ripping a hole in the car and taking what little was left of the molded bumper and flinging it into the woods. Michelle was thrust forward from the collision toward the rear of the car. As King saw her legs flying past him, he reached out with his free hand and clamped down on her ankle, looping his arm around her limb and holding on for dear life. They hit another straightaway, and he somehow coaxed more speed from the car, leaving the truck behind again.

“Shit!” yelled Michelle.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I got off a couple shots, but I lost my gun. Damn it, I’ve had that SIG for five years.”

“Will you forget the gun; this guy’s trying to kill us.”

“Well, if I had my gun, I could kill him before he kills us. I don’t know if I hit anything. He slammed into us right as I fired.” She yelled out, “Wait a minute!”

“What?”

“There it is. My gun landed on the lip of the rear spoiler. It’s wedged there.”

“No way—don’t you even think about it, lady.”

“Just hold on to my leg. I can almost reach it.”

“Damn it, Michelle, you’re going to give me a heart attack, and I’m about to have one as it is.”

So focused was King on her that he didn’t see the SUV speed up and come alongside until the last instant.

“Hold on,” he screamed as he instantly downshifted, leaping over gears in a way that probably voided every manufacturer’s warranty Lexus offered. He could almost hear the car screaming at him to
Just stop it!
and he expected to see his transmission
vomited all over the road. He plunged to twenty clicks on the speedometer, both feet on the brakes now, then came to a thudding stop, wheels smoking, as the g’s raced down his torso and washed off his toes. Michelle had a death grip around the rear headrest, her bare feet braced against the back of his seat.

King’s body was misfiring in so many ways he figured cardiac arrest was the least he could expect. He slammed the car into reverse, jammed down on the accelerator, firewalled what was left of his engine, and rocketed backward.

The SUV had stopped so hard that its tires seemed ablaze, such was the volume of smoke pouring from them. The driver cut a swift 180 and was coming at them full tilt, the SUV’s grille resembling bared teeth looking to devour them. It was gaining with every revolution of the wheel.

Michelle stopped inching toward her gun and eyed her partner, who was looking backward as he drove. “You can’t drive faster backward than he can forward, Sean.”

“Thanks for telling me.” His knuckles were turning purple from his grip on the wheel. “Hold on to everything you can. On the count of five I’m cutting a J.”

“You must be nuts.”

“Yes, I must be.”

By cutting a J he meant that from a fast reverse driving position he was going to whip the car into a 180-degree turn, probably on two wheels, slam it into drive, fire the turbos and rocket off in the opposite direction. All that in one neat motion, preferably without killing them both.

Sweat broke over King’s brow as he prayed that all his Secret Service training would come back to him so many years later. He clamped on the door with his free hand for leverage, braced his left foot against the floorboard as a fulcrum point, gauged the exact right moment and whipped the wheel hard, letting go of it completely and then clamping down on it. It worked to perfection. He leapfrogged over the first two forward gears, gunned it
and shot ahead. However, five seconds later the SUV was chasing them and gaining.

Smoke was now coming out of the Lexus’s hood, and every single gauge King was staring at was foretelling their doom. Their speed dropped to sixty, then fifty. It was over.

“Sean, here he comes!” screamed Michelle.

“There’s not a damn thing I can do about it,” he shouted back, hopelessness evolving to rage in the course of a single breath.

The SUV roared past, pulled back and took its two and one half tons and broadsided them. King kept one hand on the wheel and clamped the other on Michelle’s ankle as she struggled to get the gun. His fingers dug in so tightly on her skin that he knew he was drawing blood. His arm and shoulder were being torqued almost beyond limit.

“Are you okay?” he called out, gritting his teeth against the pain as he could feel her full weight pulling against his tendons.

“I am now, I’ve got the gun.”

“Well, good, because the bastard’s coming again. Hold on!”

He looked over to see the black SUV swerve toward him about the same time he felt Michelle’s limb twist around in his hand.

“What are you do—” He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The SUV clipped the rear end of the Lexus, and the car did what King had feared all along. It started to fishtail, and then it went into a 360, totally out of control.

“Hold on!” he called out hoarsely as seemingly every ounce of belly bile started to march upward to incinerate his throat. As a Secret Service agent King had trained relentlessly to master the maneuvers of vehicles in the most hazardous conditions imaginable. Warmed up by the J-turn, he just let instinct take over. Instead of fighting the movements of the car, he went with them, turning the wheel toward the spin instead of against it and beating back the natural impulse to crush his brakes. The thing he was most fearful of was the car rolling. If it did, Michelle was dead and he probably would be too or at best a quad. King didn’t
know how many revolutions the car took, but the low-built, bottom-heavy 3,800-pound Lexus held the road despite jettisoning a good deal of its tire rubber and a bunch of its metal guts.

The car finally came to a stop facing in the direction of where they’d been heading; the black SUV was just up ahead and moving away from them fast, apparently having decided to give up the fight. Michelle’s gun fired, and the rear tires of the SUV disintegrated as the ordnance ripped into them. The vehicle started to whip around, went into a 360 and then did what the Lexus had steadfastly refused to: it rolled. Three shuddering flips, and it came to rest on its shattered roof along the right shoulder of the road far ahead of them, a trail of metal, glass and rubber left in its turbulent wake.

King sped forward, as much as he could in his wrecked car, while Michelle slid down in the seat next to him.

“Sean?”

“What?”

“You can let go of my leg.”

“What? Oh, right.” He released his death grip.

“I know; I was scared too.” She gave his hand a comforting squeeze as they looked at each other and drew long, thankful breaths.

“That was some damn fine driving, Agent King,” she said gratefully.

“And I sincerely hope it’s the last time I ever have to do it.”

They pulled next to the wreck and got out. They advanced toward the car; Michelle had her pistol ready. King managed to wrench the driver’s door open.

The man lunged toward them.