Hour Game

THE MESSAGE WAS SITTING ON Kyle's Jeep when he came down from his apartment. He opened the envelope and read the contents, a broad smile covering his face. It was from his prescription pill client, the crazy exhibitionist with a love for silenced weapons. She wanted to meet, at a local motel, very late that night. She had even included the room number. She apologized for what she'd done and wanted to make amends. She promised him five thousand dollars and, more intriguingly, consummation of what he'd expected to receive the last time. She wanted him, the letter said. She wanted him badly. He would never forget the experience. And she'd included another inducement: ten one-hundred-dollar bills. It was probably the very same cash she'd made him leave behind.

He put the money in his pocket, climbed into his Jeep and set off. His blackmail scheme hadn't paid off; he'd obviously been wrong about what he'd seen. But now this new opportunity had presented itself, and with the grand already in his pocket, how could he really lose? Okay, she probably wasn't playing with a full deck, but he didn't figure her for any more gun wielding. Why would she give him this much money if she didn't mean what she said? He would be very careful, but Kyle took this as perhaps the luckiest day of his life. And he told himself he'd be rough with her, as a little payback for scaring him so badly. He bet she liked it rough. Well, he'd give the bitch more than she bargained for. Big Kyle was on the warpath.

Michelle and Bailey watched through binoculars as the battle, or rather the series of skirmishes, took place all over the area: charges and countercharges and hand-to-hand fighting that looked incredibly realistic. Every time the cannon boomed Michelle jumped and Bailey laughed.

"Rookie," he said jokingly.

Columns of men in gray and butternut brown would pour out to be met by walls of their counterparts in blue. Even with all the smoke, shots, cannon fire, screams, confusion and rush of feet and smack of saber against saber everywhere, Michelle could easily see how the real thing would be far worse. At least no blood was pooling on the ground, no limbs were scattered around; there were no real sobs that heralded the dying gasps of the mortally wounded. The worst injury they'd observed was a sprained ankle.

Michelle became very alert when she saw Eddie and his ragtag company explode out of the woods shrieking the famous rebel yell. They were met by a volley of fire by their Union opponents, and half the men fell to the dirt, dead or dying. Eddie wasn't hit in the initial fire, and he and about a dozen of his men raced on. Eddie jumped the wooden breastworks and engaged in furious hand-to-hand combat with three Union soldiers, dropping two of them as Michelle looked on enthralled. He actually lifted one of the men up and threw him into a bush. As his soldiers were dropping all around him, Eddie pulled his saber and did some intricate swordplay with a Union captain, finally running him through.

So realistic was it all that when Eddie turned to seek out another foe and took a rifle round right in his gut, Michelle felt all her breath rush out. As Eddie dropped to the ground, she felt an almost overpowering urge to pull her own weapon, rush forward and shoot the man who'd just killed Eddie.

She turned and found Bailey's gaze on her. "I know. I felt the same way the first time I saw him get killed."

For a few minutes none of the men moved at all, and Michelle felt herself growing nervous. Then Eddie sat up, leaned over and spoke to the fallen man next to him, stood and walked over to join a relieved Michelle and Bailey.

He took off his hat, wiped his sweaty brow.

"That was absolutely amazing, Eddie," said Michelle.

"Aw, shucks, ma'am, you should've seen me at Gettysburg or Antietam. Now, there I was in fine form."

You looked pretty fine today, thought Michelle, and then she caught herself, King's remonstrations coming back to her: he was married. Even if his wife apparently didn't care for him, he was still married.

"How do you know who dies or not?" she asked.

"It's all pretty much planned out before. Most reenactments are held Friday to Sunday. On Friday people start gathering and the generals go around to everybody, tell them what they need, who's going to be where, who dies, who doesn't. A lot depends on who shows up and with what-horses, cannon, stuff like that. Most everybody here is experienced, so there's not much of a learning curve. And the fighting is choreographed, at least for the most part; but there's always some room for improvisation. The guy I picked up and dumped in the bush? That was a little payback on my part. The last battle the little shit smacked me in the head with his sword handle. Said it was an accident. I had a knot on my head for a week. So Iaccidentally picked him up and threw him into that thornbush."