David Baldacci - Hour Game

He turned back once more to look at his work. Yes, it was all nicely set up-first-rate, in fact.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

He went to the kitchen, found her purse, took out her cell phone, hit the directory, obtained the number he wanted and called the good husband, who was on the road, not too far from here. He said four simple words. "Your wife is dead." He then hung up and turned off the phone. He reached up on top of the kitchen cabinet and retrieved the bug he'd planted there in an earlier burglary. He'd no longer need it.

Now he had one more task to perform, and then it would be over, at least for tonight. He started to the back stairs leading to the basement.

"Mom?"

He froze there in the hallway as the light in the upper hall came on. Footsteps approached; they were short, halting strides; bare feet sliding along wood flooring.

"Mom?"

The little boy appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down. In one hand he clutched a stuffed dog that he was dragging along. He was clad in white underpants and a Spider-Man T-shirt. He rubbed sleepy eyes with a small, dimpled fist.

"Mommy?" he said again. Still looking down, he finally saw the shadow of black hood at the bottom of the stairs.

"Daddy?"

The killer stood there and stared back up at the child. His gloved hand slipped to his pocket, fingered a knife. It would be over in an instant. A deuce instead of only one dead, what did it matter? Mother and son, what the hell does it matter? He tensed to do this very thing. Yet he made not a move. He simply stared at the small frame outlined in the weak light; the potential eyewitness.

"Daddy?" he said again, now his voice rising with fear when no answer came.

He snapped back just in time. "It's Daddy, son, go back to sleep."

"I thought you had to go, Daddy."

"I forgot something, Tommy, that's all. Go back to sleep before you wake up your brothers. You know once your little brother starts to cry, it's all over. And give Bucky a kiss for me," he added, referring to the stuffed bear. While he couldn't exactly imitate the father's voice, knowing the son's name, that he had brothers and other intimate details would certainly put the little boy at ease.

He'd researched the Robinsons thoroughly. He knew everything from their nicknames to their Social Security numbers to their favorite restaurant to the various sports the two older boys, Tommy and Jeff, played: Tommy baseball and Jeff soccer. He knew that Harold Robinson had left the house at a little before midnight on his way to Washington, D.C… that their mother loved them very much… that tonight he'd taken that person away from them forever. He'd done so solely because she'd had the great misfortune to pass by his radar while shopping for milk and eggs. It could have been anyone's mother. Anyone's. But it just happened to be Tommy's. And twelve-year-old Jeff's. And little one-year-old Andy's, who'd had the colic his first six months of life. It was amazing the intimate details people shared if one just listened. Yet no one did listen anymore, except perhaps priests. And killers like him.

He let go of the knife in his pocket. Tommy would have the chance to grow up. One Robinson was enough for tonight.

"Go back to bed, son," he said again more firmly.

"Okay, Daddy. I love you." The little boy turned and headed back down the hall.

Black hood stood there for far too long, staring up at the empty space where sleepy Tommy had been, where he'd said, I love you, Daddy. He should be making his escape; finishing up his last task. I love you, Daddy.

He suddenly felt ashamed to even be in the same house with the child who'd said that to him, however mistakenly. He cursed himself. Go, go now. The husband is probably right now phoning the police. Go, you idiot!

Down in the unfinished basement he shone his light on the capped piping that marked a future toilet area. He unscrewed the cap, took out the large Baggie of items, stuffed it in the pipe and screwed the cap back on just so. In planting evidence one could neither be too obvious nor too obtuse. His fence-straddling would have to be perfect.

He slipped outside, crossed the backyard and made his way to his blue VW parked several blocks off. He took off his hood as he drove away. Then he did something he'd never done before. He drove directly to the home where he'd just committed perhaps his most heinous crime of all. The murdered mother was in her bedroom. Tommy was in his-the third dormer window from his left. The kids got up at seven to be ready for school. If their mother wasn't up by then, they'd go and get her. He checked his watch; it was one o'clock now. Tommy perhaps had six more hours of normalcy. "Enjoy them, Tommy," he mumbled to the dark window. "Enjoy them… And I'm sorry."

He drove off, licking at the salt of the tears sliding down his cheeks.

KING HAD ALREADY LEFT IN A rental car by the time Todd Williams called Michelle with the news of Jean Robinson's death. When she arrived at the stricken home, it was surrounded with police and emergency vehicles. Neighbors stared terrified from windows and porches. There was not a child to be seen anywhere. The three Robinson children had gone to a nearby relative's home with their father.

Michelle found Williams, Sylvia and Bailey in the master bedroom; all three were staring down at the former lady of the house.

Michelle recoiled slightly as she saw what had been done to the woman.

Sylvia looked over at her, and nodded in understanding. "Stigmata."

Jean Robinson's palms and feet had been mutilated as though to resemble the markings of Jesus on the cross. And her body had been laid out too, like the son of God on that piece of chiseled wood.

Bailey said wearily, "Bobby Joe Lucas. He did the exact same thing to fourteen women in Kansas and Missouri in the early 1970s, after raping them."

"I'm pretty certain no rape occurred here," said Sylvia.

"I wasn't suggesting that. Lucas died of a heart attack in prison in 1987. And her nightgown is missing according to the husband. That would fit our killer's M.O."

"Where's Sean?" asked Williams.

"Out getting some questions answered."

Bailey looked at her suspiciously. "Where?"

"Don't really know."

"I didn't think Batman went anywhere without Robin," said the FBI agent sarcastically.

Before Michelle could fire back a response, Williams said, "Well, can't you call him? He'll want to know about this."

"His cell phone was broken during the chase with Roger Canney. He hasn't replaced it yet."

"I'm sure he'll hear about this soon enough," said Sylvia. "Bad news always travels faster than good."

"Where's the husband?"

Williams answered, "With the kids. He was on the road when it happened. He's a salesman with a high-tech outfit. He said he got a call from his wife's cell phone a little before one o'clock this morning. The voice said his wife was dead. He tried calling her cell phone back but there was no answer. Then he tried calling the house but the line wasn't working. We later found the wires had been cut. So he called 911."

"When did Robinson arrive here?"

"About an hour after my men. He was on his way to Washington for a sales conference."

"He likes to travel pretty late at night."

"He said he wanted to put his kids to bed and spend time with his wife before he left," answered Bailey.

"Any reason to suspect him?" asked Michelle.

"Other than that there was no forced entry, none that we can see," replied Williams.

"And no one saw anything?" she asked.

"There were only the three kids here. The infant of course can't help us. The oldest boy-"

A female deputy rushed into the room. "Chief, I just finished interviewing Tommy, the middle child. He said his father was in the house last night when he woke up. He doesn't know what time it was. He said his father told him he forgot something, to go back to bed."