Hour Game

He checked Junior's pulse to ensure there was none, then sat there for five more minutes and checked it again. Subtle changes in the body upon death were well known to him, and satisfyingly, they were all taking place here. The man was gone. He reached over and gingerly raised Junior's left hand. He pulled out the watch stem and set it precisely to five o'clock-the same reading the impostor had set Bobby Battle's watch to. This would send a clear message to the police and to the impostor. He wanted them both to be informed. Instead of propping up the arm, he laid the hand back down and then pulled a black marker out from Junior's tool belt and drew an arrow on the plywood floor pointing directly to the watch. Lastly, he removed Junior's big belt buckle with a NASCAR logo and slipped it into his pocket.

The sound startled him badly until he realized what it was. Junior's cell phone was buzzing. It had fallen off in the fight. He looked at the screen. The caller ID showed that home was calling. Well, they could call all they wanted. Junior was never going home again.

He stood on shaky legs, looked down at the man with the tourniquet noose around his neck and then at the clown mask next to him, and his mouth eased into a smile. Once more for justice, he said to himself. He didn't intend to pray over Junior's body. With a swipe of his foot he turned off the battery-powered generator, and the area was plunged into darkness; the dead man disappeared as though by magic.

The next sound he heard shook him to his core.

It was the sound of an approaching car. He raced to the cutout of one of the front windows. Headlights were slicing through the darkness, coming right at him.

CHAPTER 42

KING AND MICHELLE CLIMBED out of the Lexus and looked around. They'd switched vehicles at King's houseboat because one of Michelle's truck headlights was out. King pulled out a flashlight, but its thin beam did little damage against the darkness.

"His truck's here," said Michelle as she tapped the side of the battered pickup crammed with tools and construction supplies in the bed.

"Junior!" King cried out. "It's Sean King. We want to talk to you."

Michelle cupped her hands around her mouth. "Junior! Junior Deaver!"

They looked at each other.

"Maybe he's in the house."

"What, working in the pitch-dark?" said King.

"In the basement maybe and we can't see the light from here."

"Okay, so I guess we go in."

"Do you have another flashlight in your car?"

"No, but maybe Junior has one in his truck."

They looked and found one on the floorboard. Now twin beams moved through the dark.

They entered the front door and looked around.

"Junior," called out King again.

They swept the room with their lights. Over in one corner a big tarp was covering what looked to be a pile of drywall. All around were stacked wood and other building materials, tools, buckets, and bags of cement, a real mess.

"Hey, this looks just like your house," said King.

"Boy, you're in fine form today. Look, the basement steps are over here."

Michelle called down the stairs. There was no answer.

"Do you think he's hurt himself?" she said.

King looked around. "This is beginning to look a little weird," he said quietly. "Why don't you…?"

Michelle already had her gun out. They went cautiously down the stairs.

In the far corner of the basement was a stack of cans. They looked behind this. Nothing. The HVAC system was in another corner of the basement. They shone their light on the mass of metal but again saw nothing.

Behind one of the large heating ducts in a space the light had missed, the man in the hood watched as they headed back upstairs. He slowly eased out of his hiding place.

Upstairs King and Michelle looked around more thoroughly. Michelle saw it first.

"Oh, no!" she hissed. She grabbed King's hand and pulled him toward her.

"Blood," she whispered in his ear, and then pointed her light at the floor. The crimson spatters were clearly visible. Their lights followed the trail to its source: the tarp.

They crept forward, careful not to step in the spatters. King knelt, lifted up the tarp, and they saw it was Junior. King quickly felt for a pulse and found none.

"Damn it! He's dead." He shone his light around. "Oh, shit!"

"What!"

"He's got a noose tourniquet around his neck."

"Don't tell me…"

King pulled back the tarp some more and shone his light down the dead man's arm. "And his watch is set to five, and there's a black arrow drawn on the floor pointing right to it."

Michelle directed her light to Junior's features. "He hasn't been dead long, Sean."

"I know; he's still warm." King froze. "What was that?"

Michelle looked behind her, her light making arcs through the darkness. "What?"

"I thought I heard footsteps."

"I didn't hear anything-" Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the red laser dot appear on King's head. Its meaning was crystal clear to the firearm-savvy Maxwell. "Sean, don't move," she said hoarsely. "You're red-lighted."