David Baldacci - Hour Game

"What?"

"You can let go of my leg."

"What? Oh, right." He released his death grip.

"I know; I was scared too." She gave his hand a comforting squeeze as they looked at each other and drew long, thankful breaths.

"That was some damn fine driving, Agent King," she said gratefully.

"And I sincerely hope it's the last time I ever have to do it."

They pulled next to the wreck and got out. They advanced toward the car; Michelle had her pistol ready. King managed to wrench the driver's door open.

The man lunged toward them.

Michelle was ready to fire, but then her finger relaxed against the trigger.

The driver was upside down and bound by his seat belt. When King had opened the car door, he had plunged through the opening.

The head was so bloody and mangled King didn't bother checking for a pulse.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"I can't tell; it's so damn dark out here. Wait a minute." He ran over and pulled the Lexus up so that its headlights were pointed right at the dead man.

They looked at the body now outlined in bright light.

It was Roger Canney.

AT TEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING the Deavers' double-wide trailer was empty. The kids were back in school, and Lulu was at work. Priscilla Oxley had driven off to a mom-and-pop store for cigarettes and some more tonic to wash down her cherished vodka. Meanwhile a truck was parked behind a stand of trees that bordered the paved road leading to the gravel one the trailer was situated on. The man inside the truck had watched as Priscilla sped by in her LTD, a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other as she steered with her dimpled knees.

The man immediately got out and made his way through the woods until he was on the edge of the clearing by the trailer. Luther, the old dog, moseyed out from the rear shed, cocked its head in the man's direction as it caught his smell, gave a tired bark and then retreated back to the shed. A minute later the man was inside the trailer after picking the simple front-door lock and made his way swiftly to the small bedroom-office that was located at one end.

Junior Deaver had never been much of a businessman and was a worse record keeper, but fortunately, his wife was very strong in both those areas. Junior's construction company files were organized and easily accessible. Keeping one ear attuned for anyone coming, the man went through the files, which were conveniently arranged in chronological order. When he finished, he noted that he'd compiled a fairly lengthy list. One of these people had to be it.

He folded the list and put it away in his pocket and replaced all the files to their proper place. Then he left the way he'd come. As he returned to his truck, Priscilla Oxley drove past on her way back to the trailer with her tobacco and tonic. A lucky woman, he thought. Five minutes earlier and she would have been dead.

He drove off, his precious list in his pocket. He thought about the burglary that had been unjustly blamed on Junior Deaver. He tried to recall every detail he'd heard of the crime. There was something there he was definitely missing. In the same vein he went over and over again the circumstances of Bobby's death. Who was unaccounted for who might want the bastard dead? There were several possible suspects but no one he truly believed could have killed the old man. It would have taken nerve and knowledge, attributes he possessed in abundance and that he respected in others. He hoped for the day to be able to tell the impostor of his admiration, right before he slit his throat.

Perhaps he should have made Sally talk before he killed her. Yet what could she really have known? She was with Junior, she'd said. They'd had sex. She was a stupid woman who preferred spending her days with four-legged beasts and her nights with two-legged ones. She deserved the quick death she'd gotten. What's one less Sally Wainwright on the planet anyway? he asked himself.

He'd killed six people so far, one of them in error, a mistake he'd made retribution for at least in his way. It wasn't like he could pull out the rosary for this; no confessional could possibly contain his sins. He'd missed eliminating King and Maxwell, which frustrated him greatly. They were no doubt right now spinning new theories about what was really going on, and one day they might just alight on the right one. As complicated as it all seemed, the pair might figure it all out and ruin everything. It would be risky, but he was going to have to try again to kill them, in a way that wouldn't fail. It would take time to come up with such a scenario, and in the meantime he'd pay close attention to the intelligence he received from his bugs and try to stay a step ahead. It would be tight, but if he kept his head and stuck to his plan, it would turn out all right.

He was confident he was going to win. He had the most powerful advantage of all: he wasn't afraid to die for ultimate victory. He doubted his opponents felt the same.

Yet now he had another component of his plan to put into place.

A successful exit.

"YOU CAN'T BELIEVE ROGER CANNEY'S the one," said King heatedly.

They were at police headquarters, around a long conference table. Williams and Bailey stared back at him doubtfully. Michelle doodled on a pad in front of her while simultaneously watching her partner closely.

"He tried to kill both of you," pointed out Bailey.

King said, "Because we pretty much accused Canney of blackmailing Bobby Battle. The fact he tried to kill us pretty conclusively proves we were right. And if Canney did kill his wife, he'd probably be terrified we'd uncover that too. He goes on the run, we think. But he's really still in the area and tries to kill us. That doesn't mean he committed all those other murders."

Bailey shook his head. "He'd have to know or at least believe you'd shared your suspicions with us. And his method of trying to kill you was pretty stupid. Someone could have driven by and seen it all. And he used his own vehicle to try and kill you."

"I didn't say he was a smart criminal. Frankly, I think he became unhinged. He'd been living on easy street for years thinking he's safe. And then his son's murdered and we stumble upon the blackmail. Maybe he just snapped. And if you do paternity testing on both the Canneys and Bobby, I'll think you'll find out who Steve Canney's real father was," added King.

"Okay, then, maybe Canney killed his son and his girlfriend and Bobby Battle, and then killed the prostitute and Diane Hinson to muddy the waters."

"And Junior Deaver?" pointed out King. "How does he fit into it?"

"Canney could have hired him to burglarize the Battles' house," said Bailey.

"For what reason?" shot back King.

"Well, if Battle and Mrs. Canney were having an affair, maybe Battle had something belonging to his lover that Roger Canney wanted back. Or Canney was afraid Battle had something incriminating on him. But then Junior also steals items from Remmy too, and Canney's ticked about that or is afraid Junior will give him away. So he kills him. By going after you two he showed he didn't mind murdering someone who got in his way."

"And Sally's death?" asked Michelle. "How does that figure in?"

"From what you've told us she was-and not to speak ill of the dead-a gal who'd jump into bed with anything wearing pants. Maybe Junior told her about Canney, and Canney found out and had to kill her too," said Bailey, who smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself.

King sat back, shaking his head.

"It does sort of make sense, Sean," conceded Williams.

"It's wrong, Todd," said King very firmly. "All wrong."

"So give me an alternative theory that fits the facts," challenged Bailey.