Hour Game

He eyed her warily and then looked around as though he expected to see police officers swooping in to arrest him. His expression turned stubborn. "I don't see that we got anything to talk about. You already had me put in jail."

"But you're out now, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, but we had to put up bail. Almost broke us. We ain't got that kind of money."

"Come on now, Junior, your wife makes good money over at that club. I know that for a fact. My husband frequented the place. She probably earned a small fortune just off him."

"I don't know nothing about that."

She ignored this. "My dead husband."

"I heard," Junior mumbled in reply.

"He was murdered, you know," she said in an oddly flat tone.

"Heard that too."

"You get out of jail and then he ends up dead."

He looked at her wide-eyed. "Look, you ain't gonna pin that on me, lady."

"Oh, I'm sure you have an alibi."

"You bet I do."

"Good for you, but that's not why I'm here." She drew even closer and took off her glasses. Her eyes were red and puffy.

"So why are you here?" he asked.

"I want it back, Junior. I want it back now."

"Damn it, Mrs. Battle, I didn't take your wedding ring."

She suddenly shouted, "I could give a shit about the damn ring. I want the other things. You give them back to me. You give them back to me right now."

Junior slapped his thigh in frustration. "How many times do I have to say this? I don't have that stuff because I didn't break into your house."

"I'll pay you whatever you want," she persisted, ignoring his denial. She looked at the half-built house. "I'll pay for a first-rate crew to come here and finish this house for you. I'll double its size; give you a damn swimming pool, whatever you want." She drew right in front of him, one of her hands seizing his faded jean jacket in a very firm grip. "Whatever you or Lulu want I'll give you. But in return I want those things back. Just give them to me and all the charges go away, and you have yourself a really nice house. And you can keep the damn ring."

"Mrs. Battle, I-"

She slapped him across the face, stunning him into silence. He would have killed any man who did that to him. Yet he made no move to retaliate.

"But if you don't give them to me, I'll make you wish for twenty hard years in prison. You'll beg for that after I get through with you. I know people, Junior, don't think I don't. They'll come see you. You'll never forget their visit." She let go of his jacket. "I'll give you a little time to think about it, but not too much."

She turned to leave but then looked back at him. "One more thing, Junior. If you try to use any of it, in any way at all, or if you show it to another human being, I will come and see you myself. With a twelve-gauge shotgun that my daddy gave me right before he died. And I will blow your big, ugly head off your shoulders. Do you understand me, son?" This was all said in such a calm yet chilling tone that Junior could hear every one of his heartbeats smacking in his ears.

Remmy Battle didn't seem to think an answer to her question was necessary. She put her glasses back on, turned and left as quietly as she'd come.

Junior just stood there, his big belly heaving, and watched her go. He'd been in many a bar fight in his life against some very large men intent on doing him bodily harm; he'd even been cut up a few times. He'd been scared during those incidents. However, that was nothing compared with the terror he was feeling right now, for he had no doubt the crazy woman meant every word she'd just said.

CHAPTER 35

LATER THAT WEEK CHIP BAILEY of the FBI called an early morning meeting of all law enforcement personnel engaged in the search for the murderer or murderers of five people. It was held at the Wrightsburg Police headquarters, which King-who was in attendance along with Michelle, Todd Williams and assorted Virginia State Police and FBI folks-thought made a cheap-shot statement as to who was now running the show. The FBI, after all, was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. His resulting bad temper exhibited itself rather quickly.

"We have a profile," said Bailey as his assistant handed out folders to those situated around the table.

"Let me guess," said King. "Caucasian male in his twenties to thirties, at least a high school education and possibly even some college. I.Q. above average, but has trouble holding a job; firstborn to working-class parents, childhood trauma, dominant mother, possibly illegitimate, who showed interest in law enforcement and is a loner control freak who also expressed early enthusiasm for sadomasochistic pornography, voyeurism and torturing of small animals."

"Did you already get a copy of the report?" growled Bailey.

"No. But most of them say that or something pretty damn close."