Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2)

“It’s pretty sick if you ask me,” said Michelle. She was still frowning as she settled behind the wheel. “Do you know you have to be twenty-one to watch strippers, but you only have to be eighteen to be

one? How does that make sense?”

King lowered himself into the passenger seat. “Granted it’s ridiculous and degrading. Is that why you’re in such a bad mood?”

“No! The legendary Aphrodisiac was a complete waste of time, that’s why.”

“How can you say that? Not only did you get a job offer as a pole dancer, which could actually come in handy when our firm’s going through the inevitable lean times, but you also might have a real friend in Heidi.”

A second later King was rubbing his arm where she’d slugged him. “Damn, that really hurt, Michelle,” he complained.

“And it’ll hurt even more if you keep it up.”

CHAPTER

41

JUNIOR DEAVER STEPPED

outside his half-built house and looked at the dark sky. The man was tired, having worked all day on other people’s jobs before heading here to drive nails into shingles and plywood. He’d finished right before the light was gone, and then worked some on the inside. They were all looking forward to getting out of the cramped trailer.

However, the upcoming criminal trial was weighing heavily on his mind. Lulu never stopped talking about it. Could be the ruin of all our dreams, she kept saying. What if Mrs. Battle sued them? It would all be over. Then his mother-in-law would start in, and once started, Priscilla Oxley never shut up. Junior had experienced many lows in life. This one ranked right up there with the worst.

He thought about Remmy Battle’s offer. If only he had something to give her. It pissed him off that no one seemed to believe him. Yet with all the evidence stacked against him he could understand how the woman thought he was guilty.

As he munched on a sandwich and sipped a beer he’d pulled from his cooler, he mulled over some things in his head. He could end this thing right now if he wanted—just tell the truth of what he’d been doing that night—but he’d rather go to jail. He just couldn’t do that to Lulu. It’d been stupid, really stupid. But he couldn’t take it back now.

He finished his sandwich. His cell phone was vibrating with a box full of messages. He hated the damn thing; everybody wanted something right now. He checked the list of calls. One had him puzzled: Sean King. Wonder what he wants, Junior thought. Well, it would have to wait.

He went back inside. It was almost eight o’clock, definitely time to call it a day. He’d been up since four in the morning. His back was killing him from climbing up and down the ladder with the shingles. He was getting too old for this kind of labor. Yet he expected to be doing it until he dropped. What else was there for a guy like him?

The blow came from directly behind him, actually cracking his skull and staggering the big man. Junior clutched his head and in the same motion wheeled around. Through the blood pouring down his face he saw the black hood coming at him, shovel upraised. He managed to block the blow with his forearm, though it shattered it. He fell back, yelling from the pain. As he lay on the cold wooden floor, he saw the shovel coming at him again. He managed to swing out his right leg and knocked the person’s feet out from under him.

The man landed hard but sprang back up. Junior sat back on his butt, holding his broken arm. His big belly heaving, he kept kicking at his attacker, trying to keep him back as he scuffled away. His sandwich and beer came back up on him, covering the wooden subfloor with vomit. He managed to half raise himself, but another blow caught him across the back, and he went down again.

Junior Deaver was over six-four and weighed about 270 pounds. If he could just get in one shot on his smaller opponent, he knew things could change quickly. He’d kill the son of a bitch. Considering how badly he was already injured, Junior figured he had only one chance at this. Having been in his share of bar fights, he had some experience to draw on. He plotted to sucker his attacker in.

He knelt down, his head almost touching the floor, as though helpless. When he saw the shovel rise, he shot forward and hit his attacker directly in the gut, carrying them both across the room, where they crashed through a wall of studs.

They both hit the floor and sprawled away from each other. Junior tried to hold on to the smaller man, but the pains in his arm and shoulder were too intense. And blood was leaching through the fissure in his skull, putting pressure on his brain and causing his motor skills to rapidly deteriorate. Junior struggled to reach his feet, but the other man was quicker. He rolled away, picked up a piece of one of the broken studs and repeatedly beat Junior over the head with it, his blows becoming harder and more savage; the two-by-four splintered, popping out bent nails, and finally split in half. Junior moaned, went down, rolled over and didn’t get back up. His belly heaving, blood flowing from multiple head wounds, he just lay there, his eyes closed.

The man in the hood approached cautiously, wary of another trick. He first cursed Junior and then himself for having so underestimated his target. He was sure a direct blow from a shovel to the back of the head would have felled the man. He calmed, cleared his head, told himself he had to finish the job. So get on with it.

His own stomach heaving, his throat cottony and a swell of lactic acid in his muscles making him dizzy, he knelt next to Junior and slipped the rounded piece of wood and length of rope out of his coat. He placed the tourniquet over Junior’s head, settled it around his thick neck and slowly started to tighten until he could hear Junior gurgling for air. He kept turning it steadily, keeping constant pressure. A few minutes later the big belly heaved once more and then stopped.

The man let go of the wood and sat back on his haunches. He felt his shoulder where the impact with Junior and the studs had done him injury. He could live with that. Far more problematic was that the fight had put potential evidence in play. Using Junior’s generator light, he methodically examined himself. He was covered in the man’s blood, retch and mucus. Fortunately, he was wearing his hood, gloves and long sleeves because even one pulled-out hair with DNA root attached from his head or arms could prove a forensic nightmare for him.

He scoured the area and then the dead man for anything that would give him away to the likes of Sylvia Diaz. He spent much time probing under Junior’s fingernails for any telltale human debris that might have ended up there. Finally comfortable that he hadn’t left significant traces of himself lying around, he pulled the clown mask from his other coat pocket and placed it next to the body. It had crumpled upon Junior’s impact with him, but even so, the police could hardly miss the intended meaning.

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.