Hour Game

Smoke was now coming out of the Lexus's hood, and every single gauge King was staring at was foretelling their doom. Their speed dropped to sixty, then fifty. It was over.

"Sean, here he comes!" screamed Michelle.

"There's not a damn thing I can do about it," he shouted back, hopelessness evolving to rage in the course of a single breath.

The SUV roared past, pulled back and took its two and one half tons and broadsided them. King kept one hand on the wheel and clamped the other on Michelle's ankle as she struggled to get the gun. His fingers dug in so tightly on her skin that he knew he was drawing blood. His arm and shoulder were being torqued almost beyond limit.

"Are you okay?" he called out, gritting his teeth against the pain as he could feel her full weight pulling against his tendons.

"I am now, I've got the gun."

"Well, good, because the bastard's coming again. Hold on!"

He looked over to see the black SUV swerve toward him about the same time he felt Michelle's limb twist around in his hand.

"What are you do-" He didn't have time to finish his sentence. The SUV clipped the rear end of the Lexus, and the car did what King had feared all along. It started to fishtail, and then it went into a 360, totally out of control.

"Hold on!" he called out hoarsely as seemingly every ounce of belly bile started to march upward to incinerate his throat. As a Secret Service agent King had trained relentlessly to master the maneuvers of vehicles in the most hazardous conditions imaginable. Warmed up by the J-turn, he just let instinct take over. Instead of fighting the movements of the car, he went with them, turning the wheel toward the spin instead of against it and beating back the natural impulse to crush his brakes. The thing he was most fearful of was the car rolling. If it did, Michelle was dead and he probably would be too or at best a quad. King didn't know how many revolutions the car took, but the low-built, bottom-heavy 3,800-pound Lexus held the road despite jettisoning a good deal of its tire rubber and a bunch of its metal guts.

The car finally came to a stop facing in the direction of where they'd been heading; the black SUV was just up ahead and moving away from them fast, apparently having decided to give up the fight. Michelle's gun fired, and the rear tires of the SUV disintegrated as the ordnance ripped into them. The vehicle started to whip around, went into a 360 and then did what the Lexus had steadfastly refused to: it rolled. Three shuddering flips, and it came to rest on its shattered roof along the right shoulder of the road far ahead of them, a trail of metal, glass and rubber left in its turbulent wake.

King sped forward, as much as he could in his wrecked car, while Michelle slid down in the seat next to him.

"Sean?"

"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 Ca

CHAPTER 77

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 spi

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.