David Baldacci - Hour Game

"I can't rule it out."

"He's definitely holding something back. You think he killed his son?"

"Son. That's an interesting word."

She looked at him puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Only that Canney never referred to him as his son. Just Steve."

"That's right. Although it might just be because Steve was almost a man, and the relationship was strained."

"No, I think he might have given us the answer."

"Okay, Sean. What was it?"

"He was explaining why their relationship had gone wrong. He said Steve blamed him for his mother's death."

"So?"

"Well, right before that he said…" King pulled out his notepad and read from it. "He said, ‘Steve was, quite simply, his mother's child.'"

"Right, meaning he favored his mother over his father."

"Or, more literally, that she was his mother-" King stopped and looked at Michelle.

His point finally dawned on her. "And Roger Canney was not his father."

Outside, the pickup truck started up. The man had heard all he needed to. It was time to act. But first he had to lay the groundwork.

KYLE MONTGOMERY HADN'T HAD a response to his blackmail letter yet. He had rented a post-office box a while back and had given that address for the person to respond to. He'd sent it anonymously, of course. His letter covered up the fact-very cleverly, he thought-that he actually didn't know much at all. He was counting on a guilty conscience to bring out something of importance, meaning, in his mind, something of material value. Yet he was starting to wonder if he was wrong. Well, if so, there was no harm done. Or so he thought.

He was heading to the Aphrodisiac with another delivery for his "client." He hadn't had to make another withdrawal from the pharmacy, having smartly taken extra quantities the last time. No reason to push his luck there.

He parked in the crowded lot and went inside. He didn't notice the car pull in behind him. Lost in thoughts of forthcoming cash, Kyle was completely unaware he'd been followed since leaving his apartment.

He went inside and, as was his habit, spent a few minutes watching the pole dancers. There was one in particular he favored, not that he had much of a chance with her. He had neither the looks nor, more important, the money these girls required to show him special attention.

He went upstairs and started to go behind the red curtain when a woman appeared next to him. She looked drawn and wobbly on her feet.

"Where you going?" she asked.

"To see someone," he answered nervously. "I'm expected."

"Is that right?" the obviously intoxicated woman slurred. "You got some ID?"

"ID? For what? I'm not drinking and I'm not watching the girls. And do I look like I'm underage? Or did you miss the gray hair in my goatee?"

"Don't get smart with me or your ass is out of here."

"Look, ma'am, is there a problem?" asked Kyle in a more polite tone. "I've gone back there before," he added.

"I know you have, I've seen you," said the woman.

"You come here a lot?" asked Kyle nervously. It suddenly dawned on him that earning a reputation as a regular visitor wasn't a good thing.

"I come every day," answered Lulu Oxley. She flicked her hand toward the red curtain. "Knock yourself out, slick."

Lulu staggered down the stairs while Kyle hurried through the red curtain.

He knocked on the same door and received the usual reply. He went in. The woman was lying on the bed, a blanket over her. The room was so dark he could barely make this out.

He held up his Baggie. "Here you go."

She pitched something to him. He put out his hand but missed, and the object fell to the floor. He picked it up. Ten rolled hundreds secured by a rubber band. He put the Baggie on the table and stood there, nervously looking at her. After a few seconds passed and she said nothing, he turned to leave. He stopped when he heard the bedsprings rattle and saw the lights brighten. Squinting, he looked back and saw her coming toward him. She wore the scarf and the dark glasses and had the blanket wrapped around her. When she drew closer, he could see that her shoulders were bare and she was in her stocking feet.

When she drew within a foot of him, she let the blanket drop. She had on a black lace thong and matching thigh-high stockings and bra, and that was it. He started breathing hard and felt every muscle tense. Her body was absolutely stunning, her belly flat, her hips soft, her breasts straining against the slender black material holding them in. He just wanted to rip off what little she had on.

As if sensing his thoughts, transparent as they were, she reached behind her, undid the clasp, and the bra fell to the floor and her breasts sprang free.

Kyle moaned and almost dropped to his knees. This was, without doubt, the greatest night of his life.

She reached out as if to touch him but then merely took the Baggie, picked up the blanket and covered herself again.

Kyle moved forward. "No need to do that, baby," he said in as cool a fashion as he could muster. "It'll just get in the way." He'd never come close to having a woman like this. A thousand bucks and he gets laid for free too. What could be better? He went to put his arms around her, but she shoved him back with a strength that surprised him.

His face flushed when she started to laugh.

She returned to the bed, let the blanket slip to the floor again, lay back on the bed and stretched like a cat. Then she turned over on all fours, reached over and put the Baggie on the nightstand. She did it with a slow deliberateness that gave him a long and unobstructed view of her from behind. He was so aroused now it was actually painful.

She rolled over on her back, put her feet up in the air and took her time sliding each stocking down her leg and then balled them up and tossed them at him. After that she pointed at him and laughed again. Kyle felt his blood pressure shoot upward even as other parts of him deflated.

"You little bitch!" His fantasy would finally be realized, and he was going to teach her a lesson at the same time. He rushed forward and then stopped just as quickly when the pistol swiveled in his direction. It must have been hidden under the bedcovers.

"Get out." This was the first time she'd spoken in a normal tone to him. He didn't recognize the voice. However, he wasn't focused on that. His gaze was on the gun that moved up and down, aimed first at his head and then at his crotch.

Kyle started to back up, his hands up in front of him as though to deflect a bullet. "Hey, just stay cool, lady. I'm going."

"Now," she said in a louder voice. She wrapped the blanket around her and stood in front of him, holding the gun with both hands like she knew exactly how to use it.

He raised his hands even higher. "I'm going. I'm going! Damn!"

He turned to leave.

"Put the money on the table," she said.

He turned slowly back around. "Excuse me?"

"On the table, the money." She motioned with her gun.

"I brought you what you wanted. That costs money. "

In response she let the blanket drop once more and ran one hand along her curvy, nearly naked body. "So does this," she said very firmly. "Take a good look, little boy, it'll be the last time you see it."

He bristled at this insult. "A thousand dollars! For what? A frigging peep show? I wouldn't pay a thousand bucks even if I got to screw you."

"No amount of money would be enough to let you even touch me," she said bluntly.

"Oh, yeah? Boy, you're quite the catch. A druggie exhibitionist living in a room in a strip club? And hiding behind a scarf and those big dark glasses. Waving your naked ass in front of me and then not giving it up. Who the hell do you think you are? Huh?"

"You're boring me. Get out."