David Baldacci - Hour Game

"Well, if he did mean to make it one minute past, why?" asked Michelle.

King had no answer for that. He looked down at the dead woman for a long moment as Williams went off to check something else in the room.

Michelle put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sean, I forgot you knew her."

"She was a good person and a fine lawyer. And she sure as hell didn't deserve this-not that anyone does."

As they walked past Sylvia on their way out, she stopped them. The man in the suit had joined another group hovering over the body. He was a little shorter than King but thicker and very strongly built; his shoulders seemed to be splitting out of his suit. He had thinning brownish-gray hair, cauliflower ears and a boxer's flattened nose resting between two intense brown eyes.

Sylvia said, "Well, number four and counting. The Night Stalker. Who would have thought?" She shook her head.

"Who's the guy you were talking to?" King asked.

"FBI agent. Chip Bailey, from Charlottesville."

"Chip Bailey?" King said slowly.

"Do you know him?" asked Sylvia.

"No, but I think I'd like to."

"I can arrange something. Later, of course. People are pretty busy right now."

"That's fine." He paused and then added, "Did you note the time on the watch?"

Sylvia nodded. "One minute past four. Like Pembroke's."

"What?" King and Michelle said together.

"Pembroke's watch was set to one minute past two. Didn't I tell you that?"

"No," said Michelle, "and neither did Todd. He seems to think it was close enough to discount any significance."

"What do you think?" King asked her.

"I think it's important. I just don't know why."

"Anything else jump out at you?" asked King.

"I did a rectal temp on Hinson, after I checked for evidence of sexual assault, of course; that turned out negative. She's been dead eight to nine hours. There are twelve stab wounds, though."

Michelle picked up on the tone in Sylvia's voice. "That equals overkill."

"Yes. It also equals rage," said Sylvia. "There were no defensive wounds on her hands or forearms. She was obviously surprised and quickly overpowered."

She picked up her bag and nodded toward the door. "I'm heading back to the office. I've got patients to see, and then I'll do the post on Hinson."

"We'll walk out with you," said King.

They headed out into brisk air that was being quickly warmed by the sun.

"I meant to ask you, how's your investigation coming with Junior Deaver?"

King glanced at her in surprise. "How'd you know about that?"

"I ran into Harry Carrick at the grocery store. I told him you two were looking into these murders, and he told me you were doing work for him. I still can't believe Junior Deaver could have done it. He's done work at my house. I always found him very courteous and accommodating, if a little rough around the edges."

"We met with Remmy, Eddie, Dorothea and Savannah and the household staff."

"And didn't get too far, I'm sure," noted Sylvia.

"Remmy's really torn up about Bobby," said King.

"I heard he was in very bad shape."

"Well, there's hope," said Michelle. "He recently regained consciousness, even spoke, but he just rambles apparently; he's not really coherent, just spouting off names and such. But still that's a positive thing, I suppose."

"Strokes are completely unpredictable," said Sylvia. "Just when you think someone's recovering, they suddenly pass away, or vice versa."

King shook his head. "Well, for Remmy's sake, I hope he makes it." He glanced at Sylvia. "You'll let us know what you find on Hinson?"

"Todd told me to and he's the boss. At least until the FBI or the state police take over the investigation."

"Do you think that's probable?" asked Michelle.

"For purposes of finding this maniac, I think that actually would be a positive development," said Sylvia firmly.

THE FOUR SERIAL MURDERS IN Wrightsburg hit the national news pipeline that afternoon and continued on into the evening. Most citizens of the small town sat in front of their TV screens as dour anchorpersons went about dutifully explaining where the rural Virginia municipality was, and how it had been devastated by a series of violent and apparently random murders. State and federal authorities were on the scene, the TV people said, and hopefully, the killer would be stopped soon. Left unsaid was the fact that no one actively involved in the investigation thought that was a very real possibility.

Like their fellow townspeople, King and Michelle sat in front of a television in King's office and watched and listened to the stories documenting what a slaughterhouse their humble domicile had become. When the fact that two letters had been sent to the Wrightsburg Gazette by the killer was announced to the nation, King exclaimed, "Shit!"

Michelle nodded in understanding. "Do you think the killer's watching?"

"Of course he is," snapped King. "The notoriety's all part of it."

"Do you really think the killings are random?"

"There's no obvious connection among any of the victims." King fell silent for a moment. "Except the reference to only one kid in the Canney and Pembroke letter. The question is, which kid?"

"I'm not following."

He looked at her. "If Pembroke was targeted specifically, for example, and Canney just happened to be there when it happened, that means there was a reason for Pembroke to die. Now, if there was a reason for her to die, then maybe there's a reason why the others died too. And maybe those reasons are connected somehow."

"And the watches?"

"The guy's trademark obviously, but maybe there's more to it."

"Hopefully, Sylvia will have some answers soon."

King checked his watch. "I've got a dinner I need to get to."

"Where?"

"The Sage Gentleman, with people in from out of town. You want to tag along?"

"Nope. I've got some stuff to do too."

"Date?" He smiled at her.

"Yeah, with my kickboxing instructor. Our plan is to sweat and groan a lot with our clothes on."

They headed off in opposite directions. As was typical for her, Michelle clocked an average of twenty miles over the speed limit in her white Toyota Sequoia that she'd nicknamed the Whale, in honor of Melville's fictional creation, Moby-Dick. She passed the last little-used intersection about thirty seconds before she would reach the gravel road that wound through the woods to her cottage. As soon as she cleared the intersection, the lights of the pale blue VW came on and the driver put the Bug in gear, turned right and started following her.

He slowed as she turned onto the gravel road, and watched as her wheels kicked up dust and bits of rock and then was quickly out of sight in the gathering darkness. A quarter mile up and then to the left, he knew, having been up there already while Michelle wasn't at home. There were no other residences within a half mile of the place. It backed to the lake where she kept a scull, kayak and Sea-Doo at her small floating dock. The cottage was around fifteen hundred square feet and designed with an open floor plan. He'd ascertained that she lived alone with not even a dog to keep her company, and safe. However, she was a former federal agent with specialized skills; a person not to be underestimated. He drove a little farther down the main road, parked his car on a dirt patch behind a screen of trees and set off on foot through the woods toward the cottage.

When he arrived there, he saw that the Sequoia was parked in the roundabout by the front door. The lights were on in the house. He pulled out his binoculars and ran them over the front of the cottage. No sign of her. Keeping well back in the trees, he made his way to the rear of the house. A light was on in one of the rooms back here, upper floor. Her bedroom, he surmised. There was a sheet across the window, but he caught her silhouette twice. The movements were straightforward: she was undressing. He lowered his binoculars while she did so. She came out a few minutes later dressed in workout clothes, jumped in her truck and spun dirt as she headed off.