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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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Hour Game
by David Baldacci |
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Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Copies There are about three hundred good
pages to read in David Baldacci’s new book, Hour Game.
Out of 450 pages, that’s not so bad. Baldacci reprises characters Sean King
and Michelle Maxwell, so fans will enjoy the familiarity of these characters.
The pacing of the plot starts briskly, but stalls in the middle of the book,
and it takes some extra reading energy to get over the lethargy of some of
the copycat crimes committed. Fewer murders and fewer characters might have
improved Hour Game.
Here’s
an excerpt, all of Chapter 16, pp.
66-71: Remmy Remmy apparently read her thoughts because
she said, “This house has been a work in progress for decades. Many of our
friends have several beautiful estates around the world, but this is the
only one Bobby and I ever wanted. It’s something of a
mishmash at times, and some hallways just stop at a wall, but I” —she
corrected herself instantly— “we love it.” They arrived at a door that Remmy opened and ushered them through. It was a large and nicely furnished
room, painted in comfortable colors, with a row of windows. One of those
windows looked new. Remmy pointed to it. “That’s where he got
in. The police said he used a crowbar. They finally gave me the okay to have
everything fixed.” King stared down at a cracked picture
frame that was on one of the nightstands. The glass had been pulled out. He
picked it up. “What happened to this?” Remmy scowled. “That picture was on a table
over by the window. It was broken when Junior came through there. I haven’t
had it repaired yet.” King and Michelle looked at the drawing
of a young boy inside the broken frame. The drawing was ripped right down the
middle. “Who is it?” asked King. “It’s a drawing of Bobby Jr. I’ll never
forgive Junior for destroying it.” King put the picture down. “I
understand there was some sort of hidden drawer in your closet?” Remmy nodded and motioned for them to
follow. Her closet had elaborate mahogany built-ins throughout, and clothes,
bags, shoes, hats and other accessories were arranged in precise order. King looked at the meticulous display
with unabashed admiration. He kept his own possessions in perfect order, a
fact well known to Michelle. His expression of unmitigated delight clearly
registered with her, for while Remmy wasn’t
looking, Michelle tapped King on the arm, gave an orgasmic shudder and then
pantomimed having an after-sex cigarette. “Where was the hidden drawer, if you
don’t mind my asking?” said King after he finished scowling at his partner. Remmy pulled one drawer out slightly and
then tapped on the front of a flat piece of wood right below it. This popped
open, revealing a small space about eighteen inches across and two feet deep.
“A false front,” explained Remmy. “Looks like a
piece of filler wood, but pulling out the drawer above primes a lever in the
false front. Then tapping on the right upper corner of the false front
triggers that lever, and it opens.” King examined the mechanism closely.
“Pretty clever.” “Always wanted a secret drawer in my
closet,” said Remmy. “Ever since I was a little
girl.” “But the person who robbed you didn’t
know how to open it?” said Michelle. “Junior Deaver
didn’t know how to
open it,” she corrected. “Just about every drawer in here was clawed and
busted up. Cost me a pretty penny to fix it. I’ll be taking that out of
Junior’s hide in civil court. Be sure and tell Harry that.” “But how did anyone other than you even
know there was a secret drawer in here?” Michelle wanted to know. “Over the years I might have let that
fact slip. I didn’t think anything of it, because we have at least what I thought
was a first-rate security system.” “And was the system on?” asked King. “Yes, only there are no motion
detectors on the third floor and the windows up here aren’t wired either. The
system was put in years ago after a near tragedy. I guess the philosophy back
then was that second-story men don’t venture to the third floor,” she added
in disgust. “What near tragedy?” asked King. Remmy turned to him. “My
son Eddie was kidnapped.” “I never heard about that,” he said. “It happened
over twenty years ago, while he was still in college.” “But everything turned
out all right obviously,” said King. “Yes, thank God. We didn’t even have to
pay the five-million-dollar ransom.” “Why not?” asked Michelle. “The FBI tracked down the kidnapper and
killed him in a shoot-out. In fact, Chip Bailey, the FBI agent who rescued
Eddie and killed the kidnapper, lives near here. He still works for the FBI,
over in King said, “So no one was here when the
burglary happened?” Remmy sat on the edge of the
large canopied bed, drumming her long, slender fingers against the carved
bedpost. “ “So you stay in the house by yourself?”
asked Michelle. “Bobby and me!” she said defiantly. “Our children are raised.
We’ve done more than our share of giving friends and relatives a place to
stay in our time. More often than not, this big old house was full over the
years. Now it’s just our home.” “But the night of the burglary the
house was empty,” said King. “I understand you were at the hospital
with Bobby?” “That’s right, at Wrightsburg
General.” “But we were told you didn’t arrive
back here until around five A.M.,” said Michelle. “Those are pretty
long visiting hours.” “I slept there in a private room down
the hall from him that the hoepital provided,”
explained Remmy. “That was pretty accommodating of
them,” said Michelle. “Our name’s on the building, sweetie,” Remmy said in a falsely polite tone. In a far more blunt
voice she added, “Frankly, for fifteen million dollars, I thought it was the
least they could do.” “Oh,” said Michelle sheepishly. “The police told me all the evidence
leads to Junior, including his fingerprints.” “But he was doing work here,” said
King. “That could account for the print.” “They found it on the outside of one of
the panes of the busted window.” She added, “I hired Junior to work in my
bedroom, not outside my damn window.” “And I understand that things were
stolen from Bobby’s closet as well.” “It was broken into.” “And what was taken?” asked Michelle. “Come on, you can see for yourself.” She led them out of her room and down
the hall, where she opened another door. They found themselves in a room that
reeked of cigar and pipe smoke. It was an intensively masculine room,
Michelle noted. A shotgun rack hung over the fireplace, although there was no
weapon on it. A pair of antique swords hung on another wall. They were
crossed one over the other, forming a large X. There were several oil
paintings of splendid horses. A pipe rack stood against one corner with a
number of well-chewed pipes hanging from it. In another corner was a
campaign desk and chair. The bed was small, and the nightstand next to it
was stacked with magazines on fishing, hunting and science. One entire wall
was devoted to photos of Bobby Battle. He was a tall, thick-chested man with dark, wavy hair and features seemingly
cast in iron. In most of the photos he was either fishing or hunting, but
there was one of him jumping out of a plane and another where he was piloting
a chopper. Remmy waved her hand in front of her nose.
“I’m sorry for the smell. We’ve aired it out for days, and the smell’s still
there. It must be in the carpet and furniture by now. Bobby loves his pipes
and cigars.” As Michelle looked around at Robert E.
Lee Battle’s lair, images of the man seemed to flow to her apart from the
photos: a bear of a man who lived life hard and took no prisoners. That such
a man was lying now in a coma with bleak prospects of ever coming back made
her very depressed, even though she’d never met him and was disgusted by his
womanizing reputation. Michelle pointed to several photos of “Some of Bobby’s employees. He was an engineerturne businessman. Holds over a hundred patents.
Looking at this room, you might think my husband was all play and no work,
but Bobby is, above all else, a hard worker. The things he invented, they all
made money.” “When did you two meet?” asked
Michelle. She added quickly, “I know it’s a personal questions but he seems
such a fascinating man.” Remmy actually smiled at this. “He walked
into my daddy’s clothing store in “Quite the whirlwind,” said King. “He was ten years older than me. When
we got married, he hadn’t made much money, but he had the brains to and the
drive. He was special. And yet he wanted me.” This last part was said
with surprising humility. “Well, it’s not like you weren’t quite
a catch,” said King sincerely. “I suppose I was one of the very few to stand
up to him. Oh, we had our peaks and our valleys like most folks,” she added
quietly. Remmy opened a door and motioned them in.
“Bobby’s closet.” The space was far smaller than his wife’s closet but was
still elaborately built out. Remmy pushed back some pants hanging on rods
and pointed to the side of one of the cabinets where a panel of wood had been
broken out. “There’s a secret cupboard there, about
the same size as the one in my room. One of the drawers in this large cabinet
doesn’t go all the way back, you see. It’s pretty clever, because from the
front it’s almost impossible to judge how deep the drawers are. And you can’t
see the little keyhole on the side unless you’re looking for it. I’ve been in
here a million times, and I never noticed it.” King shot her a glance. “So you didn’t
know Bobby had a secret drawer?” Remmy looked like a woman who’d realized far
too late that she’d said far too much. “No, I didn’t,” she said. “What was stolen?” “What does it matter?” she snapped. “I
know what was stolen out of mine.” “Remmy, you
mean you don’t know what Bobby kept in there?” asked King. She didn’t answer for a long moment.
When she did, her tone was far more subdued. “No, I don’t.” Baldacci wastes words on unnecessary
exposition, and his dialogue gets boring in too many places. Plot lovers will
enjoy Hour
Game, provided you can get over the sluggish parts. Steve Hopkins,
March 23, 2005 |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Hour
Game.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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