David Baldacci - Hour Game

"Unless she found out he hadn't and was so furious she murdered him," said Michelle.

Harry rose and stood next to Michelle in front of the fire. "At over seventy, one's whole body becomes drafty regardless of the amount of clothing or the relative heat of the room," he explained.

Returning to the discussion, he said, "There might be a third possibility. We've been focused on what was taken from Remmy's closet, but what was stolen from Bobby's closet?"

They both stared at him but said nothing.

Harry continued. "The will that left everything to Remmy is the one that's being used by the lawyers. It was drawn up many years ago."

"How do you know that?" asked Michelle.

"The lawyer who drafted it was a former clerk of mine, currently a partner at a firm in Charlottesville. They had the original, and that's the will that's being probated."

"Did anyone look for another, more recent will?" asked King.

"That's the point. I don't think so. But what if a later will was the thing stolen from Bobby's closet during the burglary?"

King said, "But if it was in Bobby's secret compartment, which Remmy told us she was unaware of, she wouldn't have had the opportunity to destroy it."

"I'm not saying it was Remmy. Bobby had a stroke, he was delirious, talking gibberish at the hospital, so I heard," said Harry.

"And maybe he mentioned another will," said King, snapping his fingers.

"So anyone who heard him could have committed the burglary," said Harry.

"If Dorothea had it, though, she would have made it public, wouldn't she?"

"But there'd be the little matter of where it came from," said Harry. "I don't think she would want to confess to burglary."

King looked puzzled. "But, Harry, we're overlooking something. Bobby's death was well publicized. Whoever drew up the new will would have come forward."

"Maybe he didn't use a law firm to draft it."

"If he did it himself, he'd still need witnesses."

"Not if it were a holographic will, entirely in his handwriting."

"So if there is such a will, who has it, and why aren't they making it public?"

"A question to which I would dearly love the answer," remarked Harry as he finished off his snifter of cognac.

KING AND MICHELLE SAID GOOD night to Harry and drove off. The weather was still nice enough to keep the top down. However, Michelle tugged her wrap more tightly around her shoulders.

"I can put up the top if you want," said King, noting her movement.

"No, the breeze feels wonderful and the air smells so good."

"Spring in rural Virginia, can't beat it."

"I feel like we made some progress tonight."

"At least we took the time to talk out different angles. That's always helpful."

She glanced at him with a suspicious look. "As usual you're saying less than you know."

He pretended to be offended by her remark; however, his smile betrayed this effort. "I'm not conceding I know anything. But I do suspect some things that I might not have mentioned."

"Such as, partner?"

"Such as I've spent a wonderful evening over two fabulous bottles of wine with an attractive young woman, and all I've talked about is murder and mayhem."

"You're stalling. And mentioning the wine before mentioning me says a lot."

"Well, I've known those bottles of wine longer than I've known you."

"Thanks a lot, but you're still stalling."

The SUV hit them from behind so hard that if they hadn't been wearing their seat belts, they both would have gone headfirst through the windshield.

"What the hell!" yelled out King as he looked in his rearview mirror. "Where did they come from?" The words were barely out of his mouth before they were rammed again. King fought the wheel, trying to keep the two-door Lexus coupe on the windy road.

Michelle kicked off her heels and pushed her bare feet against the floorboard to steady herself. Reaching into her bag, she slid out her gun, chambered a round and punched off the safety pretty much all in one smooth motion.

"Can you see the driver?" asked King.

"Not with the damn headlights shining in my face. But it has to be the killer."

King pulled out his cell phone. "This time we're going to nail the bastard."

"Look out, here he comes again," yelled Michelle.

The next impact by the far heavier vehicle almost lifted the rear of the Lexus off the road. King's cell phone was knocked out of his hand, banged against the windshield and then went rocketing backward. It clanged off the hood of the SUV, hit the street and broke apart.

King tangled with the wheel again and managed to regain control as the two vehicles uncoupled. King's car was outweighed by at least a ton. Still the Lexus coupe was far more nimble than the beast attacking them, and it had three hundred horses under the hood. Calling on all of them when they hit a straightaway, King punched the gas and the Lexus leaped forward, leaving the other vehicle far behind.

Michelle undid her safety belt.

"What the hell are you doing?" cried King.

"You can't outrun him on these windy roads, and I can't get a decent shot off with my belt on. Just keep ahead of him."

"Wait a minute, call 911 first."

"I can't. I didn't bring my cell phone. My purse was too small for it and my gun."

King looked at her incredulously. "You didn't bring your phone but you brought your gun?"

"I think I have my priorities right," she said sharply. "What can I do with a phone: call him to death?"

She turned around in her seat, leaned over it and placed her elbow on the headrest of the rear seat. "Keep ahead of him," she repeated.

"Well, damn it, you keep from getting killed," he shot back.

The truck came powering up again for another collision of metal on metal, but before it could make contact, King shot across to the other side of the road, whipped back and rat-tat-tatted on the gravel shoulder before regaining the hard surface. He downshifted and nailed the hairpin turn at fifty, tires screaming. He suddenly felt the right wheels losing touch with the asphalt, and he lurched his two hundred pounds to that side, grabbing hold of Michelle's right hip and pushing her sideways against the passenger door.

"I'm not being fresh. I just need the ballast. Stay there for a sec."

He dropped his speed a couple of mphs and exhaled a sigh of relief as the rubber attached itself once more to terra firma.

They hit another straightaway that King knew would run for a quarter of a mile before a series of serpentine curves would confront them. He smashed down on the gas so hard he was sure his loafers would be hitting the pavement in another quarter inch. As he ripped right through triple digits on the speedometer, the trees flashed by at such dizzying speed he would've started puking had he bothered to look.

Behind him the driver of the truck wound it up to well over a hundred on the quarter-mile stretch, keeping well within striking distance. King hit 130 and looked for another gear to grab, but the Lexus didn't have any more to give. All he could think about was, How many air bags does the damn car have? He hoped it was at least a dozen; it looked like they would need every one because the series of curves was flying at them. If he slowed down, they were dead; if he kept this speed, they'd be equally dead.

Michelle eyed the headlights bearing down on them and then slid her gaze up to the driver's silhouette. She inched forward, finally resting her right elbow on the top part of the car's trunk, and took aim with both hands on her pistol.

They hit the curvy area, and King braked hard to sixty when the signs said twenty, but the traffic engineers had undoubtedly not taken into account murderous SUVs in their calculations of highway safety. This allowed the truck to make up significant ground. "He's coming up," warned King. "I can't go any faster without us flipping."