CHAPTER 1

THE MAN IN THE RAIN SLICKER WALKED slightly bent over, his
breathing labored and his body sweaty. The extra weight he was
bearing, though not all that substantial, was awkwardly placed, and
the terrain was uneven. It was never an easy thing to tote a dead
body through the woods in the middle of the night. He shifted the
corpse to his left shoulder and trudged on. The soles of his shoes
bore no distinguishing marks; not that it would have mattered,
since the rain quickly washed away any traces of footprints. He'd
checked the forecast; the rain was why he was here. The inclement
weather was the best friend he could ask for.

Aside from the dead body draped over his sturdy shoulder, the man
was also remarkable for the black hood he wore, on which was
stitched an esoteric symbol that ran down the length of the cloth.
It was a circle with a crosshairs through its middle. Probably
instantly recognizable to anyone over the age of fifty, the logo
once inspired a dread that had significantly eroded with time. It
didn't matter that no one "alive" would see him wearing the hood;
he took grim satisfaction in its lethal symbolism.

Within ten minutes he'd reached the location he'd carefully
selected on an earlier visit, and laid the body down with a
reverence that belied the violent manner in which the person had
died. He took a deep breath and held it as he undid the telephone
wire holding the bundle closed, and unwrapped the plastic. She was
young with features that had been attractive two days prior; the
woman was not much to look at now. The soft blond hair fell away
from the greenish-tinged skin, revealing closed eyes and bloated
cheeks. Had the eyes been open, they might have still held the
startled gaze of the deceased as she endured her own murder, an
experience replicated roughly thirty thousand times each year in
America.

He slid the plastic all the way free and laid the woman on her
back. Then he let out his breath, fought the urge to retch caused
by the stench of the body, and sucked in another lungful of air.
Using one of his gloved hands and his light, he searched for and
found the small, forked branch that he'd earlier placed in the
bramble nearby. He used this to support the woman's forearm, which
he'd positioned such that it was pointing to the sky. The body's
rigor mortis, though rapidly fading, had made the task difficult,
but he was strong and had finally levered the stiffened limb to the
correct angle. He took the watch out of his pocket, checked with
his flashlight to make sure it was set properly, and placed it
around the dead woman's wrist.

Though far from a religious man, he knelt over the body and
muttered a brief prayer, cupping his hand over his mouth and nose
as he did so.

"You weren't directly responsible, but you were all I had. You
didn't die in vain. And I believe you're actually better off."
Did he really believe what he had just said? Maybe not. Maybe it
didn't matter.

He looked at the dead woman's face, studying her features
scrupulously as though a scientist observing a particularly
fascinating experiment. He had never killed another person before.
He'd made it quick and, he hoped, painless. In the dull, misty
night the woman seemed surrounded by a yellowish glow, as though
she'd already become a spirit.

He drew farther back and examined the area all around, checking for
any extraneous items that might lead to evidence against him. He
discovered only a piece of cloth from his hood that had caught on a
bush near where the body lay. Careless, you can't afford
that. He placed it in his pocket. He spent several more minutes
looking for other such items nearing microscopic size.

In the world of criminal investigation it was these forensic
"no-see-ums" that did one in. A single drop of blood, semen or
saliva, a smudge of fingerprint, a hair follicle with a bit of
DNA-littered root attached, and the police could be reading you
your rights while prosecutors circled hungrily nearby.
Unfortunately, even full awareness of that reality offered little
protection. Every criminal, no matter how careful, left potentially
incriminating material at the crime scene. Thus, he'd taken great
care to have no direct physical contact with the dead woman as
though she were an infectious agent that could cause a fatal
disease.

He rolled up the plastic and pocketed the telephone cord, checked
the watch once more and then slowly made his way back to his
car.

Behind him lay the dead woman, her hand upraised to the watery
heavens. Her watch was slightly luminous in the dark and made a
dull beacon for her new resting place. She wouldn't remain
undiscovered for long. Dead bodies aboveground rarely did, even in
places as isolated as this.

As he drove off, the hooded man used his finger to trace the symbol
on his hood, making the sign of the cross at the same time. The
crosshairs symbol also appeared on the face of the watch he'd
placed on the dead woman's wrist. That should certainly get a
rise out of them. He took a breath full of excitement as well
as dread. For years he had imagined that this day would never come.
For years his courage had faltered. Now that the first step had
been taken, he felt a great sense of empowerment and
liberation.

He shifted into third gear and sped up, his tires grabbing the
slicked roadway and holding firm as the darkness swallowed up the
lights of his blue VW. He wanted to get to where he was going as
fast as possible.

He had a letter to write.

Excerpted from HOUR GAME © Copyright 2004 by Columbus
Rose, Ltd. Reprinted with permission by Warner Vision, an imprint
of Time Warner Bookmark. All rights reserved.