David Baldacci - Hour Game

He came back around in time to see her taillights winking at him before disappearing in the darkness as she rounded the curve and then was out of sight. She certainly moved fast, he thought. He eyed the front door. It was locked, but that didn't pose much of a problem. There was no security system; he'd checked on that too. He pulled out the appropriate pick and tension tool from the set he carried.

A couple of lock-picking minutes later he was inside and looking around. The house was a mess; he marveled at the woman's ability to function amid such chaos. He placed the device behind a pile of books and CDs gathering dust in one corner of the living room. It was an FM test transmitter about the size of a quarter. He'd soldered a microphone to the transmitter, which was illegal under U.S. law because it turned the transmitter into a surveillance bug, not that he was concerned about that violation of law and privacy. He hustled upstairs to Michelle's bedroom, where he scanned her closet and found several black pantsuits, two white blouses, a trio of battered dress heels and also an abundance of jeans, sweatshirts and workout clothes and a variety of athletic shoes.

He went back downstairs. She didn't have a formal office area here; still he sorted through the stack of mail haphazardly scattered on the kitchen table. Nothing unusual there so long as one considered subscriptions to the S hooting Magazine and Iron Women normal.

He slipped outside; he had one last task to perform. Because he was hiding these bugs at different locations, he wouldn't be able to be present at all of them at the same time. Thus, he'd modified the transmitter such that it would connect wirelessly with a voice-activated digital microrecorder that he was now hiding outside of Michelle's cottage. The transmitter had an open range of a hundred meters inside a building, and the recorder had a hard drive that would allow it to store hundreds of hours of recording. He went back inside the house, spoke and then hurried back out to check the micro recorder. His snatch of conversation had been captured on it. Satisfied, he drove off. He'd already bugged King's houseboat, as well as the private investigators' office and phones. He had quickly discovered that Chief Williams was using King and Maxwell in the investigation. He realized how very helpful that could be to him. So now at least two of the people trying to find him would unwittingly provide him with advance information. As King had predicted, he had been listening to the news. He was well aware that an army of lawmen was being assembled to capture him. Well, he'd die first. And he'd take as many others with him as possible.

LATER THAT NIGHT KYLE MONTGOMERY, Sylvia's assistant and rock star wannabe, parked his Jeep in front of the morgue and got out. He was dressed in a dark hood coat with "UVA" printed across it, rumpled dungaree pants and hiking boots without socks. He noted that Sylvia's navy-blue Audi convertible was also parked in front. He checked his watch. Almost ten o'clock. Pretty late for her to be here, but there was the latest victim to dissect: the lawyer woman, he recalled. His boss had not requested his help on that one, a decision for which he was very appreciative. However, her presence here tonight made what he'd come to do a little dicey because he didn't know which facility she was in. Probably the morgue, yet if she was in the medical office, he could always make up an excuse if she discovered him. He swiped his security card in the slot by the front door, heard the lock click open and went inside Sylvia's medical office.

Only the low-level emergency lights were on. He threaded his way through the familiar surroundings, pausing only when he passed Sylvia's office. The light was on, but there was no one in there.

He slipped into the pharmacy area of the office, used his key to open one of the cabinets and withdrew a number of bottles. He took one pill from each, taking care to segregate them into Baggies which he'd earlier labeled with a black Magic Marker. He'd hack into the practice's computer system later and fudge the inventory numbers to mask his theft. Kyle only took a few pills each time, so it was easy to cover his tracks.

He was about to leave when he remembered he'd left his wallet in his locker at the morgue earlier that day. He put the pills away in his backpack and quietly unlocked the door that separated the two offices. If he ran into her, he could just tell the truth, that he'd left his wallet. He passed Sylvia's office at the morgue. It was unoccupied. He went on to the scrub area. The autopsy room was at the very back of the facility; that's where Sylvia would be attending to her silent companion. He wasn't going anywhere near there. He listened intently for a few seconds, straining to hear the sounds of the Stryker saw, water running or sterilized instruments clattering on metal, but there was only silence. That was a little unnerving, although much of what happened during an autopsy involved such quiet. The dead were not going to complain about all the poking and prodding after all.

There was a sound now, distinctly, he thought, from the rear of the place. His boss might be on the move. He quickly grabbed his wallet and withdrew into the shadows. He was suddenly fearful that if she happened upon him here, she might start asking uncomfortable questions. She could be that way, direct and blunt. What if she asked him to open his bag? He pushed farther back into the recess of the wall, his pulse knocking in his ears. He silently cursed his lack of nerve. Minutes passed. He finally found the courage to come back into the scant light. Thirty seconds later he was out of the building and driving down the road, the stolen prescription drugs safely in his bag.

When he reached the place, the parking lot was full. He wedged his Jeep between a pair of fat SUVs and went inside.

The Aphrodisiac was full of life and activity, with virtually every table and stool at the bars taken. Kyle showed his ID to a sleepy-looking bouncer at the entrance to the room where the dancers were and spent a few minutes admiring the ladies. The shapely, barely clothed women were performing acts so lewd against the metal dancing poles that it would have caused their poor mothers to die of humiliation-after they had strangled their shameless daughters, that is. Kyle loved every minute of it.

He checked his watch and then made his way up the stairs to the second floor and down a hallway toward a thick red curtain that hung across the passageway. Beyond the red curtain was a maze of small rooms. He went to the first door, rapped out an agreed-upon signal and immediately received permission to enter.

He closed the door behind him and stood nervously, unwilling to advance far into the darkened space. This was not the first time he'd done this, but each time held its own share of risk and uncertainty.

"Do you have them?" the woman asked in a voice so low he could barely hear it.

Kyle nodded. "Right here. All the stuff you like." He dug his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out the Baggies. He held them up like a small boy proudly displaying a dead bird to his mother.

As always, the woman was clothed in a long flowing dress with a scarf wound around her head. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, even though the room was poorly lit. She obviously didn't want to be recognized. Kyle had often wondered who she was but had never worked up the courage to ask. The voice seemed familiar but he couldn't definitively place it.

There'd been a note left in his Jeep one evening saying that if he'd like to make some extra money, he could call the number written on the paper. Well, who didn't want to score some extra cash? He answered affirmatively and was told that the small pharmacy Sylvia kept in her office could be a very lucrative source of income for him. Potent painkillers and other potentially mind-altering drugs were the items on the purchaser's wish list.