David Baldacci - Split Second

"Money stuffed in her mouth," he said thoughtfully.

"My money," said Michelle miserably. "I gave her that hundred dollars, five twenties, for answering my questions."

King rubbed his chin. "Okay, robbery wasn't a motive. They wouldn't have left the cash. But they searched the house. The person was looking for something."

"But the cash in her mouth. My God, that's gruesome."

"Maybe not so much gruesome as making a statement."

She looked at him curiously. "What sort of statement?"

"Maybe a fatal one, for both of them. Who would have thought it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I haven't finished thinking about it, that's why. It's just the way I do things."

Michelle threw up her hands in frustration. "God, you are so maddening."

"Thanks, I really work at it." King looked out the window for a while and then finally stirred. "Okay, this is a small town, and we're bound to attract suspicion, particularly with so many cops around. Let's head out and find a place to stay. We'll wait until late tonight before we hit it."

"Hit what?'

He looked at her. "I can be as nostalgic as the next person."

Michelle scowled. "Do lawyers always find it impossible to actually answer a question directly?"

"Okay, I think it's about time I paid the Fairmount Hotel a visit. Is that direct enough for you?"

They approached the hotel from the rear, careful to stay close to the thick tree line. The two were dressed identically and moved in tandem. They waited a bit at the edge of the trees, scanning the area ahead for signs of anyone. Satisfied, they moved out, quickly covering the ground between the forest and the fence surrounding the hotel. Scrambling over, they dropped on the other side. One of the pair pulled a pistol, and then they made their way down the rear face of the hotel. They found a side door that they forced open. In another moment they disappeared inside the dark space.

King and Michelle parked a good distance away from the Fairmount Hotel and covered the rest on foot. As they approached the building, they ducked back into the woods as the chopper, its searchlight racing over the ground, shot across overhead.

"This is actually exciting," said Michelle as they emerged from the trees and threaded their way to the hotel. "You know, sort of being on the other side of the badge for a change."

"Yeah, it's a thrill a minute. Just think, I could be at my house with a nice glass of Viognier in front of a blazing fire reading Proust instead of skipping merrily through the environs of Bowlington, North Carolina, while dodging police choppers."

"Please tell me you don't actually read Proust while drinking wine," she said.

"Well, only if there's nothing good on ESPN."

As they drew near to the hotel, King ran his gaze along the jumbled facade. "This place always struck me as something Frank Lloyd Wright might have designed if he'd been strung out on heroin."

"It is pretty ugly," agreed Michelle.

"Just so you understand Clyde Ritter's sense of aesthetics, he thought the Fairmont was beautiful."

The gap in the fence Michelle had used on her earlier visit had been sealed. So they were forced to go over the fence. King looked on a little enviously as Michelle clambered over with much greater ease than he would probably demonstrate. He was right. He almost fell on his face coming down the other side when his foot caught in one of the links. She helped him up without comment and led him down the side of the building. They entered through the same place she'd used on her first visit.

Inside she pulled out a flashlight, but King held up a warning hand. "Wait a minute. You said there was a guard."

"Yes, but I didn't see him around when we came through."

King looked at her strangely. "Actually as I recall, you said the second time you came you ran into the guard, but the first time there wasn't anyone."

"He could have been making his rounds on the other side. They probably just patrol the perimeter."

"Yeah, probably," said King. He nodded for her to turn on the flashlight, and they made their way toward the lobby.

"The Stonewall Jackson Room is just down this hall," she said.

"Oh, is it? I had no idea."

"I'm sorry, Sean. It was so long ago and I was just here."

"Forget it," he said. "I'm just being a jerk."

"Do you want to go there now?"

"Maybe later. There's something I want to check first."

"The closet Loretta Baldwin hid in?"

"Great minds really do think alike. The next thing you know you'll be drinking fine wine and reading thought-provoking literature. And maybe, just maybe, that might lead you actually to clean out your truck, if you find you have a spare year or two."

They went to the closet and pulled open the door. Taking the flashlight from Michelle, King went inside and looked around. He zeroed in on a small crevice in the very back, then turned to her.

"Loretta was small?"

"Almost skeletal."

"So she could have gotten back there with no problem. She didn't actually say where she was hiding in here?"

"No, but she could have just stood anywhere."

King shook his head. "If I was a terrified person in the middle of murder, mayhem and screaming, panicked people, and I ran into a closet to hide, I think I'd burrow in as deeply as possible. It's sort of instinctive, like pulling the covers over your head. She wouldn't have known at that point what the hell was going on. For all she knew, some guy with a gun would come running in here to hide too and-" He stopped and stared at the spot where Loretta might have hidden.

"What is it, Sean?"

He simply shook his head. "I'm not sure." He stepped back out of the closet and shut the door.

"Okay, where now?" asked Michelle.

He drew a long breath. "To the Stonewall Jackson Room."

When they arrived there, Michelle silently watched, shining the light along his path as King stepped off the room's parameters precisely, his gaze sweeping every point. Then he looked at the spot where he'd stood eight years before. Letting go of another deep breath, King walked over and seemed to take up his old post there, his hand creeping up on the imaginary back of a sweaty, coatless Clyde Ritter.

King was now firmly back in September 1996 as his gaze wentto the imaginary people, the potential troublemakers, babies being kissed, the jibe from the back and Ritter's response to it. He even found himself mumbling into his mic, relaying intelligence. He glanced at the clock at the back, though there wasn't one there, and he couldn't have seen it in the darkness anyway. Only three more minutes and the meet-and-greet would be over. Amazing when you thought about it. If Ramsey had been late or Ritter had ended the event early, none of it would have happened. How different King's life would have been.

He wasn't quite aware of it, but his gaze was now on the elevator bank. He heard the ding over and over. In his mind's eye the doors opened over and over. It was as though he were being sucked into that vacuum.

The bang startled him badly, but his hand flew to his holster, and he pulled out his imaginary gun, his eyes going to the floor where Ritter's body was. Then he looked over at where Michelle was standing with the flashlight, having just slammed the door shut.

"Sorry," she said, "I just wanted to see your reaction. I guess I shouldn't have done it."

"No, you shouldn't have," he said firmly.

She came and stood beside him. "What were you thinking just now?"

"Would it surprise you if I told you I wasn't really sure?"

"Talk it out, then. It might be important."

He thought for a few moments. "Well, I remember staring at Arnold Ramsey. He had this expression on his face that was not the look of a man who'd just assassinated a presidential candidate. He didn't look scared or defiant, or angry or nuts."