Hour Game (48 page)

K
ING AND
M
ICHELLE BOARDED THE SMALL PLANE AND FLEW
down to South Carolina. From there they drove an hour to the maximum security prison Eddie Battle had been transferred to and where he would spend the rest of his life. Michelle chose to wait outside while King went in.

Eddie was brought in wearing shackles and surrounded by four beefy guards who never took their eyes off him. Eddie’s hair was shaved to the scalp, and there were scars and wounds on his face and forearms which King knew had been inflicted since he’d been incarcerated. He wondered how many others were hidden under the jumpsuit. He sat down across from Eddie. They were separated by inch-thick Plexiglas. King had already been instructed on all the visitor’s rules, chief of which was to make no sudden moves and never ever try to have any physical contact with the prisoner.

King knew he’d have no trouble following those procedures.

“I’d ask you how it’s going, but I can see.”

Eddie shrugged. “It’s not that bad. Pretty basic stuff. Kill or be killed and I’m still here.” He eyed King with a curious look. “Didn’t expect to be seeing you again.”

“I had a few questions to ask you. And then I had something to tell you. What do you want first?”

“Give me the questions. The boys in here don’t have many. Spend most of my time in the library. Lifting weights, playing ball, getting some of the boys organized into a team. They won’t
let me paint, though. Guess they’re afraid I’ll drown somebody in a bucket. Shoot.”

“First question: Did your father’s stroke start everything in motion?”

Eddie nodded. “I’d been thinking about it for a while. Wasn’t sure if I’d have the balls to actually do it. When the old man went down, it just snapped in my head. Now or never.”

“Second question: Why kill Steve Canney? I thought you did it for your mother, but now I know that wasn’t the case.”

Eddie shifted in his seat, the shackles rattling. One of the guards looked over. Eddie smiled and waved before looking back at King. “My parents let my brother die, and my old man goes off and has another son with some slut. Well, I didn’t want or need another brother. This Canney kid grew up healthy and strong. That should’ve been Bobby, you hear me? It should’ve been Bobby.” His voice rose higher, and now all four guards looked over. King didn’t know if he was more frightened of Eddie or them.

“Third question: What made you kill Junior? At first I thought it was because you believed he’d stolen from your mother. Now I know you wouldn’t have cared about that. So why?”

“There was a drawing of my brother that got busted up during the burglary.”

“Your mother showed me it.”

“It was a drawing of Bobby before he got really sick.” Eddie paused and put his shackled hands on the wood in front of him. “I was the one who drew it. I loved that picture. And I wanted it in Mom’s room so she’d always know what she did. When I saw it smashed up, I knew I’d kill whoever had done it. I thought Junior had broken it. That was his death sentence.”

King suppressed a shudder at Eddie’s reasoning for murder and said, “In case you’re interested, this has all really hit Remmy hard, though she tries not to show it.”

“She’s just lucky I didn’t have the guts to kill
her.
”

“Did you come up with the plan to impersonate famous serial killers because of Chip Bailey?”

Eddie grinned. “Old Chippy. Bragged all the time about how much smarter he was than everyone else, how much he knew about serial killers, their M.O. He claimed he could run down the smartest of them. Well, I took him up on that challenge. I think the results speak for themselves.”

“If your father hadn’t been murdered, what would you have done?”

“Killed him. But before I did I was going to tell him about all the people I’d killed and why. I wanted him to know what he’d done. For once in his life I wanted him to take responsibility.”

“Last question. Why’d you take something from each of your victims?”

“So I could plant them at Harold Robinson’s, to put the blame on him.” He paused, his brow wrinkled, and he finally said in a low voice, “I guess I’m just like my old man.”

King understood that this was by far the harshest sentence Eddie could have been given, and it was a self-imposed one. That was why he had asked the question.

“So what’d you come here to tell me?”

King sunk his voice low. “That you were right about Sylvia. I confronted her with it all, but I can’t prove any of it, though I’ll keep trying.”

“Did you figure out my ‘Teet’ clue?”

“Yeah.”

“Found out about him when I went down to the FBI at Quantico with Chip once.”

“Sylvia’s moved away from Wrightsburg, probably set up a new life under another name.”

“Lucky her.”

“I haven’t told anyone else about it, not even Michelle.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“It
does
matter, Eddie, there’s just nothing I can do about it
right now. I have no proof. She covered her tracks really well, but I’ll keep trying.” King rose. “I won’t be back to see you.”

“I know.” As Eddie started to rise, he called out, “Hey, Sean, can you tell Michelle I wouldn’t have really hurt her that night? And tell her I enjoyed our dance together.”

The last image King had of the man was him shuffling off surrounded by the guards. And then Eddie Battle was gone. King hoped forever.

As he was leaving the prison, King was stopped and given a package at the visitor’s center. He was only told that it had been mailed here and they were to hold it for him. It was actually addressed to Michelle. He got back in the car.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s for you. We’ll stop for lunch at that diner we passed earlier, and you can open it.”

It was truly a greasy spoon full of truckers, but the food was good and the coffee hot. They found a spot near the back and ate their lunch.

“Don’t you want to know how he is?” asked King.

“No. Why, did he ask about me?”

King hesitated and said, “No, he never mentioned you.”

Michelle swallowed her bite and chased it with some coffee.

“One thing still has me puzzled,” she said.

“Really, only one thing?” King attempted a smile.

“What was in her closet safe that Remmy wanted back so badly?”

“I think they were letters from a certain gentleman acquaintance of hers.”

“So she
was
having an affair?”

“No, this was a case of unrequited love. The gentleman in question would have it no other way with a married woman. But she wanted his letters back.”

“I wonder who it could have—” She stopped, eyes huge. “Not—”

“Yes,” said King quickly. “Yes. But it was a long time ago, and
he did nothing to be ashamed of. He simply cared for a woman who turned out not to have deserved it.”

“God, that’s so sad.”

He helped her rip open the package. They both sat staring at the object.

It was the painting of Michelle in the ball gown that Eddie had done.

King looked at her and then at the painting but said nothing. They paid their bill and left. Before they got in the car, Michelle threw the painting in the diner’s Dumpster.

“Ready to go home?” King asked as she climbed in the driver’s seat.

“Oh, yeah.”

Michelle punched the gas, and they drove off in a swirl of dust.

To Michelle, it’s hard to believe, novel number ten and counting. I wouldn’t have wanted to share the ride with anyone else.

To Rick Horgan, for helping me see the forest
and
the trees when I really need to.

To Maureen, Jamie and Larry, for all you do, and for being such terrific friends.

To Tina Andreadis, for being a dear friend and a major reason why the public knows who I am.

To the rest of the Warner Books crew for all your hard work and support. I know the books don’t sell themselves.

To Aaron Priest, for always being there for me.

To Lucy Childs and Lisa Erbach Vance, for all that you do.

To Maria Rejt, for your thoughtful editorial comments.

To Dr. Monica Smiddy, for all your forensics wizardry. You’d make a great teacher.

To Dr. Marcella Fierro, for patiently answering all of my questions and giving me a behind-the-scenes look at the medical examiner’s office in Richmond.

To Dr. Catherine Broome, for making this author seem far more knowledgeable about medical matters than I actually am.

To Bob Schule, my resident wine expert, stellar proofreader and great friend.

To Dr. Alli Guleria and her husband, Dr. Anshu Guleria, for helping me on medical matters, for allowing me to borrow your really cool cars for the story and for being such wonderful friends. Consultants are great, aren’t they?

To Jennifer Steinberg, for all your excellent research. I haven’t stumped you yet, but I’ll keep trying.

To Lynette and Deborah, for all you do every day to keep me straight. I know it’s not an easy task.

Absolute Power

Total Control

The Winner

The Simple Truth

Saving Faith

Wish You Well

Last Man Standing

The Christmas Train

Split Second

Hour Game

The Camel Club

The Collectors

Simple Genius

Stone Cold

The Whole Truth

Divine Justice

First Family

True Blue

Deliver Us from Evil

Hell’s Corner

The Sixth Man

One Summer

Zero Day

The Innocent

The Forgotten

The Hit

King and Maxwell

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—
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—
Newark Star-Ledger

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—
Buffalo News

“Utterly absorbing… spins in unexpected directions… There are terrific action sequences throughout and plenty of suspense… texture and depth… A snappy surprise ending will have Baldacci’s many fans remembering why they love this author so much.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“HOUR GAME has the elements of a classic Baldacci thriller. His characters keep getting better and richer and the plots—while always tight and well executed—are becoming more intricate and realistic… There is no question: David Baldacci will stay on the bestseller list for a long time to come.”

—
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—
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—BestsellersWorld.com

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“A masterpiece of misdirection, wonderfully played out by a storyteller at the absolute top of his game.”

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“Fresh and engaging… a lean, relentlessly-paced thriller…
The Sixth Man
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—
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—
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Richmond Times-Dispatch

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Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

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—
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—
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Oklahoman

“David Baldacci is indisputably one of the greatest thriller writers of the last decade. One of the most endearing qualities of a Baldacci novel is the world he creates: heroes with severe flaws, powerful men of influence who are easily corruptible… Rather than write the same type of book several times, Baldacci has repeatedly traveled away from his comfort zone, with astounding results.”

—
Strand Magazine