Hour Game

CHAPTER 91

EDDIE SAT BACK ON THE SMALL cot in his cave. He'd rested, eaten and pla

After all these years of bouncing from thing to thing, never really etching an identity anywhere, he'd finally found his niche: fugitive killer. He laughed, rose, stretched, dropped to the ground and did a hundred push-ups and an equal number of sit-ups. He had wedged a steel bar between two jagged outcroppings of rock farther back in the cave. He did twenty-five quick pull-ups and then five with each arm. He dropped to the ground, breathing hard. He wasn't twenty anymore, but for his age he wasn't doing too badly. Big cop would no doubt have attested to that.

He slid the pistol out of its holster and chambered body-armor-piercing ammo he'd purchased on the black market with as much ease as clicking a mouse key. Hell, you could buy anything on the Net-guns, ammo, women, children, marriage, divorce, happiness, death-if you just knew where to look. But it was only one gun against a thousand, far worse odds than even at the Alamo.

And yet a man with nothing to live for is a powerful man indeed. Perhaps unbeatable. Had he read that somewhere or just made it up? Whatever, it would become his coda from this point forward.

They'd eventually hunt him down and kill him. Of that he was certain. But it didn't matter so long as he got to his father's killer first. That's all that really mattered now. Wow, he'd certainly streamlined his life. He laughed again.

He took the list from his pocket. The names were dwindling, but he wasn't sure he could manage now to get to them all. However, after much thought he might just have come upon a shortcut. He'd try it out tonight. Two more deaths: his father's killer and his own. And then Wrightsburg could get back to normal. His family could move forward with fresh lives, finally free of their monster patriarch.

He lay back down on the cot, listened with one ear to the radio and with the other to any noise coming from outside. The cave's isolated location and well-hidden entrance made it highly unlikely anyone would come near. However, if they had the misfortune to, he'd give them a proper burial. He was not a monster; in his case the apple had fallen far from the tree.

I am not my father's son. And thank you, Jesus, for that. But I'll be seeing you soon, Pop. Maybe the devil will bunk us together. For all time. We'll talk.

He cracked his thick knuckles and dreamed of such an encounter as the afternoon receded into night. The night when he'd be on the move. To his shortcut. To his last target. And then the big curtain would come down on the Eddie Lee Battle Show. There'd be no encore. He was getting tired.Good-bye, everybody, it was cool while it lasted.

Just one more to go… Or maybe more? Yes, maybe more. What did it matter after all?

CHAPTER 92

THE SMALL BUILDING HOUSING THE Wrightsburg Gazette was dark and empty at this hour of the night. There was no alarm system and no night watchman either, for what was there to steal from the venerable but money-losing Gazette other than paper? Cash was tight at the daily publication, and the owner didn't like to waste it on protecting things he believed didn't need it.

The back door's simple lock turned and then opened, and Eddie moved inside, shutting the door behind him. He shot across to the small room at the back of the printing area. He pushed open the door to this windowless section, shone his light around at the flat file cabinets stacked one on top of the other and started reading the labels on the fronts.

He found the one he wanted, opened it, lifted out the spool of old-fashioned microfiche and went to one of the terminals that lined the outside ring of the room. He sat down, inserted the spool into the reader, clicked on the light behind the screen and turned on the machine. He knew the date he was looking for, and he quickly found the story he wanted. Of course, it all fit now, all the things he'd heard over the last few years, the little clues here and there. Another thought struck him as he remembered something Chip Bailey had once told him. It had happened before, not in this country, but in another.

Yes, now it all makes perfect sense.

He removed the spool and replaced it in the file cabinet. He was about to leave but paused, thinking something over, finally breaking into a smile. Why not? He picked up a Sharpie pen from a holder on one of the tables and went over to the wall. He wrote the four letters large on the concrete wall. They couldn't very well miss it, could they? Not that they'd have any clue what it actually meant. He wanted to get there first after all. They could come and pick up the pieces after it was all over.

He admired his handiwork for a moment and then slipped back out. His truck was parked about a mile off, on a dirt road that he very much doubted the police would be covering. He kept to the wood line as he made his way back.

Chip Bailey sat up in bed, confused for a moment, then realized what the noise was. It was his cell phone ringing. He groped around, found the light in his small motel room and clicked on the phone. It was Chief Williams; his message was terse but drove from him thoughts of sleep.

Someone had just broken into the Wrightsburg Gazette. The description of the person fit Eddie Battle. They were locking down the entire area. Bailey was dressed in a minute, put on his belt clip and slipped his gun inside. He ran to his car and jumped in.

The knife hit him in the chest with such force that the hilt smacked into Bailey's sternum. The dying FBI agent tried to look around, to see who'd just killed him, but the blade had nearly severed his heart in two. He slumped back against the seat, his head tilted to one side.

Eddie rose up from the backseat and let go of the knife. He'd passed by the motel on his way back to his truck. Seeing Bailey's car in the parking lot, he'd thought it appropriate to pay back his old friend for "saving him" all those years ago. He might not get another chance. He'd dialed Bailey's cell phone, a number well known to him, from a pay phone. He'd imitated Williams just well enough that the groggy FBI agent would not have picked up on the difference.

Well, that inattention to detail had certainly cost him.

Sorry, Chip, you snooze you lose. And you weren't that good of an agent anyway. Pretty damn inept and pompous actually. And you wanted to be my stepfather so badly. Those big bucks are quite the attraction, aren't they, old Chip? Old buddy. Old pal.

Eddie climbed out of the car. He made it to his truck in half an hour, keeping well out of sight of the roads. It was now time to sleep and prepare. And then to act on the information he'd obtained tonight.

His shortcut to determine the identity of the person who'd killed his father had worked to perfection. He just hoped the "execution" on the other end would be as flawless.

"It was his knife," Williams told King and Michelle at the Battles' house. "His prints were on it. Eddie's not trying to hide that he did it. Hell, he's probably proud of it."

Chip Bailey's body had been found the following morning by one of his men. The death of the veteran FBI agent had staggered everyone.

"Pretty damn ballsy for Eddie to come out of hiding to take out Chip like that," said King.

"I'm not sure that's the only reason he came out," replied the police chief. "You two better come with me."