Hour Game by David Baldacci
ease as clicking a mouse key. Hell, you could buy anything on the Net—guns, ammo, women, children, marriage, divorce, happiness, death—if you just knew where to look. But it was only one gun against a thousand, far worse odds than even at the Alamo.
And yet a man with nothing to live for is a powerful man indeed. Perhaps unbeatable. Had he read that somewhere or just made it up? Whatever, it would become his coda from this point forward.
They’d eventually hunt him down and kill him. Of that he was certain. But it didn’t matter so long as he got to his father’s killer first. That’s all that really mattered now. Wow, he’d certainly streamlined his life. He laughed again.
He took the list from his pocket. The names were dwindling, but he wasn’t sure he could manage now to get to them all. However, after much thought he might just have come upon a shortcut. He’d try it out tonight. Two more deaths: his father’s killer and his own. And then Wrightsburg could get back to normal. His family could move forward with fresh lives, finally free of their monster patriarch.
He lay back down on the cot, listened with one ear to the radio and with the other to any noise coming from outside. The cave’s isolated location and well-hidden entrance made it highly unlikely anyone would come near. However, if they had the misfortune to, he’d give them a proper burial. He was not a monster; in his case the apple had fallen far from the tree.
I am not my father’s son. And thank you, Jesus, for that. But I’ll be seeing you soon, Pop. Maybe the devil will bunk us together. For all time. We’ll talk.
He cracked his thick knuckles and dreamed of such an encounter as the afternoon receded into night. The night when he’d be on the move. To his shortcut. To his last target. And then the big curtain would come down on the Eddie Lee Battle Show. There’d be no encore. He was getting tired. Good-bye, everybody, it was cool while it lasted.
Just one more to go… Or maybe more? Yes, maybe more. What did it matter after all?
CHAPTER
92
THE SMALL BUILDING
housing the Wrightsburg Gazette was dark and empty at this hour of the night. There was no alarm system and no night watchman either, for what was there to steal from the venerable but money-losing Gazette other than paper? Cash was tight at the daily publication, and the owner didn’t like to waste it on protecting things he believed didn’t need it.
The back door’s simple lock turned and then opened, and Eddie moved inside, shutting the door behind him. He shot across to the small room at the back of the printing area. He pushed open the door to this windowless section, shone his light around at the flat file cabinets stacked one on top of the other and started reading the labels on the fronts.
He found the one he wanted, opened it, lifted out the spool of old-fashioned microfiche and went to one of the terminals that lined the outside ring of the room. He sat down, inserted the spool into the reader, clicked on the light behind the screen and turned on the machine. He knew the date he was looking for, and he quickly found the story he wanted. Of course, it all fit now, all the things he’d heard over the last few years, the little clues here and there. Another thought struck him as he remembered something Chip Bailey had once told him. It had happened before, not in this country, but in another.
Yes, now it all makes perfect sense.
He removed the spool and replaced it in the file cabinet. He was about to leave but paused, thinking something over, finally breaking into a smile. Why not? He picked up a Sharpie pen from a holder on one of the tables and went over to the wall. He wrote the four letters large on the concrete wall. They couldn’t very well miss it, could they? Not that they’d have any clue what it actually meant. He wanted to get there first after all. They could come and pick up the pieces after it was all over.
He admired his handiwork for a moment and then slipped back out. His truck was parked about a mile off, on a dirt road that he very much doubted the police would be covering. He kept to the wood line as he made his way back.
Chip Bailey sat up in bed, confused for a moment, then realized what the noise was. It was his cell phone ringing. He groped around, found the light in his small motel room and clicked on the phone. It was Chief Williams; his message was terse but drove from him thoughts of sleep.
Someone had just broken into the Wrightsburg Gazette. The description of the person fit Eddie Battle. They were locking down the entire area. Bailey was dressed in a minute, put on his belt clip and slipped his gun inside. He ran to his car and jumped in.
The knife hit him in the chest with such force that the hilt smacked into Bailey’s sternum. The dying FBI agent tried to look around, to see who’d just killed him, but the blade had nearly severed his heart in two. He slumped back against the seat, his head tilted to one side.
Eddie rose up from the backseat and let go of the knife. He’d passed by the motel on his way back to his truck. Seeing Bailey’s car in the parking lot, he’d thought it appropriate to pay back his old friend for “saving him” all those years ago. He might not get another chance. He’d dialed Bailey’s cell phone, a number well known to him, from a pay phone. He’d imitated Williams just well enough that the groggy FBI agent would not have picked up on the difference.
Well, that inattention to detail had certainly cost him.
Sorry, Chip, you snooze you lose. And you weren’t that good of an agent anyway. Pretty damn inept and pompous actually. And you wanted to be my stepfather so badly. Those big bucks are quite the attraction, aren’t they, old Chip? Old buddy. Old pal.
Eddie climbed out of the car. He made it to his truck in half an hour, keeping well out of sight of the roads. It was now time to sleep and prepare. And then to act on the information he’d obtained tonight.
His shortcut to determine the identity of the person who’d killed his father had worked to perfection. He just hoped the “execution” on the other end would be as flawless.
“It was his knife,” Williams told King and Michelle at the Battles’ house. “His prints were on it. Eddie’s not trying to hide that he did it. Hell, he’s probably proud of it.”
Chip Bailey’s body had been found the following morning by one of his men. The death of the veteran FBI agent had staggered everyone.
“Pretty damn ballsy for Eddie to come out of hiding to take out Chip like that,” said King.
“I’m not sure that’s the only reason he came out,” replied the police chief. “You two better come with me.”
He drove them to the Gazette building and pointed out the word on the wall that Eddie had written there.
TEAT
King looked at the word and then glanced at Williams. “Teat? What, like a cow’s teat? You’re sure this was Eddie’s doing and not some kid’s prank?”
“No, I’m not sure. It looks like just that, in fact. But the Gazette isn’t that far from the motel where Chip was killed.”
King looked around the room. “What would he want from here?”
Michelle pointed to the numerous microfiche files. “Maybe he was looking for something in there.”
“That’s a lot to look at when you don’t know what you’re looking for,” said King. He turned to Williams with a concerned expression. “You better watch your back, Todd.”
“I’m not looking to get a knife in my chest. I’ve got twenty-four/seven protection on me. I wish Chip had done the same.”
“Maybe he thought it could never happen to him,” said Michelle. “Or maybe he was too proud.”
“Or maybe he really believed Eddie was his friend,” commented Williams.
“Some friend,” remarked King. “How’s the search coming?”
“Way too many back roads and woods. And apparently, everybody within a four-state area has called in and said they saw Eddie. He’s ten feet tall with claws and has body parts dangling out of his blood-encrusted mouth. I swear to holy Jesus I don’t know how anybody gets convicted in this country, I really don’t.”
“It only takes one good lead,
“I might die of old age before that happens,” Williams shot back.
Michelle looked at her partner. “What do you think, Sean?”
He shook his head wearily. “I think after all this, Eddie’s in the driver’s seat and we’re back at square one.”
CHAPTER
93
KING AND SYLVIA HAD
just finished dinner at her home. King had taken leave of the armed camp at Casa Battle. However, there was a deputy at the end of Sylvia’s driveway just to make sure their private meal wouldn’t be interrupted.
Sylvia played with the bracelet on her left wrist. “Where do you think he is?”
King shrugged. “Either a thousand miles away or ten feet, it’s hard to say.”
“He crushed Jean Robinson’s skull, you know. And the windpipe of that police officer at the courthouse too. And he stabbed Chip Bailey so hard the knife blade hit the man’s spinal cord! Not to mention what he did to Sally Wainwright and all those other people and almost killing you.”
“And yet he didn’t kill Tommy Robinson.”
“You think that excuses what he’s done?” she said sharply.
He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass. “No.” He rose and picked up the bottle of wine he’d brought. “This vintage is best drunk outside.” He was tired of talking about Eddie. He was sick of it actually.
They walked down the steps to Sylvia’s small dock.
“When did you put up the gazebo?” he asked.
“Last year. I like to sit and just look.”
“You’ve got a nice spot to do it, although you ought to think about putting in a boat slip.”
“I get seasick. And I’m not that good a swimmer.”
“I’d be proud to teach you.”
They sat and drank the wine.
“I’ll get you out on my boat. It’s actually a very safe lake,” King said after a while.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
The man alternated between swimming just below the surface for fifty feet and then coming up shallow, only his face out of the water, and taking a breath before heading back under. He came up one last time, treading water and looking around. It was just as he’d thought: they hadn’t secured the dock. Why would they think of that? They were only the police.
Eddie swam the short distance to the dock with methodical strokes. In his black wet suit he was pretty much invisible. He reached the swim ladder, eased himself out of the water and then stopped, listening. He made a detailed sweep of the surrounding area before continuing up and onto the dock, then pulling up the watertight pouch that was tied to his foot. He took his gun out of the pouch and checked his watch. He’d have to move fast. It wasn’t like he could make a quiet exit, although there were rumbles of thunder in the distance. He’d heard on his radio that a major storm was heading in: high winds, rain and lots of lightning and thunder. He couldn’t have asked for a better night. The natural elements were always his friend, it seemed. That was good, because he didn’t have any others.
He went to the storage shed, worked the combo on the lock, opened the door and went in. He grabbed the gear he’d need, hit the switch on the electric lift and hurried back out, the lift remote in hand.
The Formula FasTech was lowering into the water. Before he’d been caught, he’d had the foresight to make sure it was completely ready to roll. The dealer who’d sold it to his father had said it was one of the fastest boats—if not the fastest—on the lake. Well, depending on how things went, he might just need every knot it could produce.
He climbed into the cockpit. When the boat was fully in the water, he hit the stop button on the lift remote. All became silent again. He wouldn’t turn on his running lights until he was well out onto the water, if even then. It was fortunate for him that no one else in his family was really much of a boater. There’d be no one coming down to the dock at this hour of the night. Lucky for them. He was in a killing mood, family or not. He couldn’t seem to help himself now.
He waited, waited. There it was, the enormous crack of thunder as the storm began its barrage. He fired the twin Mercs almost simultaneously, and a thousand horsepower instantly lit up under him. He hit the captain’s switch, which sent most of the engines’ noise under the water. He eased back on the throttle, and the boat edged out of its slip. He turned the bow to the cove’s opening, nudged the throttle forward and did about ten knots heading away from the house. He felt the hull trembling a bit under him, as though the Mercs were angry he wasn’t pushing them harder, getting up on plane, blasting all comers away. He patted the dash. That will come later, I promise.
Once he hit an open channel, he went to half-speed and the FasTech immediately leaped to thirty-five knots, the Mercs still not entirely happy but getting there. He eyed the colorful GPS screen in the center of his dash and made his heading to the southeast at 150 degrees. There were no other boats on the water, and he knew the lake intimately. The channels were well marked with lighted buoys: red buoys blinking even numbers upriver and green buoys blinking odd numbers downriver. Shoals were marked in startling white light. He knew where they all were anyway. The only trouble one could get into was in the coves where low spots weren’t always marked and the land jutted out randomly. However, his father had purchased a radar add-on for the FasTech, so he wasn’t worried about running aground, even in the coves. Thanks, Dad, I owe you, you son of a bitch.
He kept his running lights off and upped his speed to fifty knots. He alternated between looking over the bow and glancing at the GPS. The Mercs were now fairly content; at least the hull had stopped trembling. He was up on plane and running smooth, though the storm was really blowing in now. He turned on his VHF radio and listened to the weather report. All small craft were being ordered off the water. People were being told to batten down the hatches. It was going to be a damn fine corker of a storm.
Thank you, Jesus. He’d have the whole show to himself. He changed course when he hit the main channel and pointed his bow to the southwest now, 220 degrees on the compass. It was not all that far by water really. It was far longer by car, which was why he’d taken the boat. And anyway, the cops were watching all the roads. However, there was only one police boat on the water, and it only worked weekends when the lake was most crowded. There’d be no one out here to give him trouble tonight.
He stood at the wheel and let the wind whip across his face and lift his hair. As the breeze kicked up, so did the chop; edges of frothing white outlined the tops of the dark waves now. However, the FasTech ate through the two-footers and kept right on plowing. Eddie looked at the ominous sky. He’d always loved the outdoors. Riding horses, playing soldier, camping under the wide, wide sky, painting breathtaking sunrises, hunting and fishing, coming to understand how one thing worked with another, fed off each other.
It was all coming to an end, though. He understood quite clearly that this would be his last ride. Surprising how fast it had come. He was very strong and healthy, and yet his life expectancy had topped out at age forty. Yet when it was done, he would have accomplished everything he’d set out to do. How many people could claim that? He’d lived his life exactly on his terms, not his father’s or his mother’s or anyone else’s. His alone.
It was a lie he told himself every day.
He opened the cooler and pulled out the single beer he’d put in there before he’d been arrested. He hadn’t known then that he’d need the boat, only that he might.
The beer was warm, of course, all the ice long since melted. But it tasted so good. He held up the metal against his face and rammed the throttle to full forward. The Mercs woke up from their wimpy cruising speed, and the boat screamed to seventy nautical miles per hour and then beyond. The hills that rose up from the man-made lake flew past him; the thousands of trees dotting their skin were silent sentinels to his last hurrah. The Charge of Eddie Lee Battle and His Trusty Light Brigade. God, was he in his ele
“Into the breach once more,” he screamed to the dark, flashing skies as the rain started to pour. He licked the drops off his face. “A man’s greatest virtue is the courage of one against all. When it seems darkest, then there shall be light, if only from the pulse of one beating heart,” he proclaimed, quoting the purple prose of some long-dead Civil War–era writer who’d probably never shouldered a musket in his life. As if on cue the sky was suddenly lit by a billion-candlepower stab of lightning and the thunder roared as the storm began to unleash itself.
The scream of the Mercs matched Mother Nature decibel for decibel. The wake behind him was enormous, but the ride was smooth, so damn smooth, high up on plane as he was. Almost three-quarters of the thirty-five-foot boat was out of the water, blowing right through three-footers now. He was a frigging jet. Nobody could catch him.
Nobody!
CHAPTER
94
MICHELLE PACED IN HER
room at Casa Battle like a caged beast looking for any possible opening to squeeze through to freedom. King had gone to Sylvia’s for dinner. Why that bothered her she wasn’t sure. Well, maybe she was sure. She hadn’t been invited. And why exactly did that surprise her?
She finally bolted from her room, took the main stairs two at a time and went into the family room. She hadn’t seen Remmy all day. Dorothea was probably asleep. She slept a lot. Who could blame her? She was ruined financially, had a drug problem, was still suspected of murdering Kyle Montgomery, and her husband had turned out to be a deranged killer and was on the loose. If it were Michelle, she’d probably sleep for the rest of her life.
She stopped when she saw Savannah coming down the hall. The young