The Killing Hour (12 page)

“Four. Eight girls kidnapped. Seven dead.”

“So you got one back alive.”

“Nora Ray Watts. The last girl. We found her in time.”

“How?” Quincy spoke up.

Mac took a deep breath. His muscles were bunching again. He grimly fought his impatience down. “The man leaves clues on the first body. Evidence that, if you interpret correctly, will narrow down the location of the second girl.”

“What kind of clues?”

“Flora and fauna, soil, sediment, rocks, insects, snails, hell, whatever he can dream up. We didn’t understand the significance in the beginning. We bagged and tagged according to SOP, merrily trotted evidence off to the labs, and found only dead bodies after that. But hey, even we can be taught. By the fourth pair of kidnappings, we had a team of experienced specialists in place. Botanists, biologists, forensic geologists, you name it. Nora Ray had been traveling with her sister. Mary Lynn’s body was found with a substance on her shirt, samples of vegetation on her shoes and a foreign object down her throat.”

“Down her throat?” Kaplan spoke up sharply. Mac nodded his head. For the first time, the NCIS agent seemed to have gained real interest.

“The sediment on her shirt proved to be salt. The vegetation on her shoes was identified as
Spartina alterniflora
. Cord grass. And the biologist identified the foreign object as a marsh periwinkle shell. All three elements were consistent with what you would find in a salt marsh. We focused the search-and-rescue teams on the coast, and fifty-six hours later, a Coast Guard chopper spotted Nora Ray, frantically waving her bright red shirt.”

“She couldn’t help you identify the killer?” Rainie asked.

Mac shook his head. “Her last memory is of her tire going flat. The next she knew, she woke up ravenously thirsty in the middle of a damn marsh.”

“Was she drugged?” Watson interjected.

“Bruise still fading on her left thigh.”

“He ambushes them?”

“Our best guess—he scopes out bars. He looks for what he wants—young girls, no specific coloring required, traveling in pairs. I think he follows them to their car. While they get in, he drops a tack or two behind their back tire. Then he simply has to follow. Sooner or later the tire goes flat, he pulls over as if offering to help, and boom, he has them.”

“Sneaks up on them with a needle?” Watson asked skeptically.

“No. He nails them with a dart gun. Like the kind a big game hunter might use.”

In the quiet room came the unmistakable sound of sharply indrawn breaths. Mac regarded them all stonily. “You think we haven’t done our homework? For five years, we’ve been hunting this man. I can tell you his profile. I can tell you how he hunts his victims. I can tell you he doesn’t always get his way—after the fact, we learned about two different pairs of girls who got flat tires and had a man pull over behind them. They refused to roll down their windows, however, and they got to live another day.

“I can tell you that Mary Lynn, whose body we found the earliest, tested positive for a second drug—ketamine, which is used by vets and animal control officers for its quickly subduing effect. I can tell you ketamine is a controlled substance, but also readily available on the streets; kids use it in rave parties, calling it Kit Kat or Special K. I can tell you Ativan is also controlled, and also used by vets. But pursuing all vets got us nowhere. As did investigating members of various hunting groups, the Appalachian Mountain Club, or the Audubon Society.

“I can tell you the man is growing angrier. He went from striking once a year, which takes a tremendous amount of control in a serial killer, to striking twice in twelve weeks. And I can tell you the man’s game only gets tougher. The first time, if we’d been paying attention, one of the clues was a rare herb found only in a five-mile radius in all of Georgia. Identify that herb, and we would’ve gotten the girl for sure. The last time, for Nora Ray Watts, the clues only led us to salt marshes. There are nearly four hundred thousand acres of salt marshes in Georgia. Quite frankly, Nora Ray was the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“And yet you found her,” Kimberly said.

“She kept herself alive,” Mac replied tightly.

Quincy, however, was regarding him intently. “Four hundred thousand acres is not a feasible search area. A chopper could not pick out a lone girl when covering that kind of terrain. You knew something else.”

“I had a theory. Call it geographic profiling.”

“The victims were related somehow? Had areas of geography in common?”

“No. The bodies did. When you put them on the map and identified the direction in which they were facing—”

“He used them as compasses,” Quincy breathed.

“Maps. The guy sees the first girls as nothing but maps. So why not line up Mary Lynn’s body to point to her sister? She’s just a tool, after all. Anything for the sake of his game.”

“Jesus,” Rainie murmured. And all around the room, they were silent.

After a moment, Kaplan cleared his throat. “The victim this morning, she wasn’t aligned in any particular manner. In fact, her arms and legs were spread in four different directions.”

“I know.”

“It’s another inconsistency.”

“I know.”

“She did have a rock in her hand, though,” Kaplan was saying, his eyes appraising Mac. “And a snake in her mouth. Can’t say I’ve seen much of that.”

“She also had a leaf in her hair,” Mac said. “The ME pulled it out at the scene. I retrieved it later. I’ll fetch it when we’re done.”

“You’ve destroyed chain of custody,” Watson spoke up immediately.

“So paddle my behind. You want the leaf or not?”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Kaplan was saying, still looking troubled. “On the one hand, the snake. Seems to indicate something off the business-as-usual map. On the other hand, all you really have in common is a letter to the editor written six months ago. Otherwise . . . it’s been three years between bodies and this is the wrong state for your man. Could be related. Or your caller could just be some asshole jerking your chain, and this body a matter of chance. You got an equal shot of going either way.”

Around the room, others slowly started to nod. Watson, Quincy, Rainie. Only Kimberly remained apart. Mac was proud of her for that.

“I have a theory,” he said abruptly. They looked at him, and he took that as an invitation.

“When this man started in ’ninety-eight, the first clues were obvious and easy. He ramped up pressure from there. Clues which were more difficult to find. Conditions which were harsher for the victims. A rapid escalation in time. He anticipated our own learning curve and to keep his game competitive, he remained one step ahead.

“Until the year two thousand. When we finally, seven bodies later, got it right. We saved the girl. And he quit. Because we’d finally won the game.”

Mac looked at Quincy. “Serial killers don’t quit,” the profiler said obediently.

“Yeah, but they don’t always know that, do they?”

Quincy nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes they try. Bundy broke out of jail twice and both times he swore he’d stop attacking women. He’d quit, live a quiet life and get away scot-free. Except he couldn’t. He underestimated the physiological and emotional need he had to kill. In fact, the more he tried not to kill, the worse the compulsion became. Until he attacked five girls in a single night.”

“I think this guy tried to stop,” Mac said, watching as Rainie and Kaplan closed their eyes. “Except the compulsion, like you said, just grew and grew and grew. Until he had to start again . . .

“It’s not the old game,” Mac told them grimly. “We won the old game. So now it’s a new game. One where the victim’s limbs will no longer serve as compass points. One where the map contains a live, lethal rattlesnake. And one where the body is left outside the FBI Academy because what point is there to inventing a game if you can’t get the best to come out to play?

“In the year two thousand, this man killed three girls in twelve weeks. If this is the same man, if this is a new game, then whatever he’s doing now, I promise you, it’s going to be much, much worse. So sorry if I offend you ladies and gentlemen, but I can’t just stand around talking about this anymore. You don’t get to talk this case. You don’t get to write up detective activity reports or create timelines of events. From the second that first body is found, the clock starts ticking. Now, if you want to have any chance at finding the second victim alive, then believe you me, get off your butts and get to work. ’Cause there’s another girl out there, and I just hope to hell it’s not already too late.”

CHAPTER 14

Virginia
7:52
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 92 degrees

HE WAS GETTING TIRED NOW.
He’d been awake for close to forty-eight hours, and driving for a solid sixteen. The sun, bright and strong for most of the day, had helped keep him going. Daylight, however, was at long last beginning to fade. Behind him, the horizon was streaked with the vivid pinks and bright oranges of a dying sun. Ahead of him, in the thick wilderness into which he drove, the sun had already lost the war.

Darkness crowded under the thick canopy of trees. Shadows grew and lengthened, forming deep wells of black that swallowed up the world beyond sixty feet. Trees took on twisted, unnatural shapes, with leaves few and far between. Now, the landscape was interrupted only by double-wide trailers that squatted in the middle of fields, surrounded by the shells of burnt-out cars and old electrical appliances.

The man didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing his approach.

Kids didn’t play on these lawns. People didn’t sit out on these front porches. Here and there he saw lone bloodhounds, scrawny dogs with drooping faces and jutting hipbones, sitting dispirited on broken-down steps. Otherwise, only the steady line of road-killed possums marked his way.

Life still existed around here. Not everyone could afford to move. And some people simply got used to the smell that constantly permeated the air. A cross between rotten eggs and burning garbage. A heavy, acrid smell that made old folks gag while bringing tears to the eyes of strangers. A smell that made even the locals wonder if the high rate of cancer among their neighbors was really so random after all.

This place was still Virginia. But technically, most of the state would like to forget this place ever existed. Virginia was supposed to be beautiful, famous for its green mountain ranges and wonderful sandy beaches. Virginia is for lovers, the tourism board liked to declare. It wasn’t supposed to look like this.

The man took the right-hand fork in the road, leaving pavement behind and traveling on dirt. The van jostled and bounced noisily, the steering wheel jerking beneath his hands. He held it without much visible effort, though his muscles were tired and he still had several more rigorous hours to go. He would have some coffee after this. Take a minute to stretch out his arms and legs. Then there would be more work to do.

Life was about effort. Take your punishment like a man.

The thick canopy of trees gave way. His van suddenly burst into a clearing, where the dusky sky grew brighter and illuminated a scene straight out of a nightmare.

Yawning piles of sawdust stretched all the way up to the sky, still steaming from the compressed heat trapped in the middle and covered with a white film some people thought was dust, but was really a thin coating of fungus. To his left, ramshackle sheds with busted-out windows and teetering walls vainly attempted to shelter long conveyors lined with rusted belts and ending with giant saw blades. The teeth on the multiple blades appeared black in the fading light. Smeared with blood? Oil? It was anyone’s guess.

This place had finally been closed down a few years ago. Too late. Tucked away in this backwoods shithole, the mill had already spent twenty years polluting streams, killing off surface vegetation, and doing far greater damage beneath the earth.

He’d seen the mill in action when he was younger. Watched workers attack tree trunks with gas-powered chain saws. No one wore protective eye gear. Few bothered with hard hats. Men strode around in loose flannel shirts, the excess material just waiting to get caught beneath the right hungry blade.

Coffee cups were tossed straight to the ground. Crumpled-up Coke cans formed an expanse of mini landmines. Old saw blades were yanked off the equipment and carelessly tossed aside. Walk around unaware and scratch up your pant leg. Walk around too unaware, and lose a limb.

That’s the kind of place this was. And the mountains of sawdust had yet to spontaneously combust. Once that happened, there would be no hope for anything around here. Or anyone.

The stupid fucks. They destroyed the land, then called it quits, and had the gall to think that made things right.

The man got out of his van, reenergized by his outrage, and the bugs instantly swarmed his face. Mosquitoes, yellow flies, tiny gnats. They came en masse, attracted by the smell of fresh blood and salty sweat. The man waved his hand around his head but knew it was useless. Dusk was the hour for mosquitoes. And also for the brown bats, which were already swooping overhead and preparing to feast.

In the back of the van, the girl didn’t stir. He’d administered 3.5 mg of Ativan four hours ago. She should be out for another two hours, if not four. That was important for the journey ahead.

First, he took care of himself. He donned a pair of blue coveralls. The material was a synthetic, thin but rubbery to the touch. As a general rule, he scorned unnatural fibers, but it was unavoidable here. The latest water test he’d done had revealed a pH level of 2.5; in other words, this water was so acidic, it would literally eat away cotton and peel away skin. Synthetic suit, it was.

Over his coveralls, the man donned a pair of canvas boots, then a thick pair of gloves. Around his waist went his care pack—extra water, saltine crackers, waterproof matches, a Swiss army knife, a handheld LED light, a compass, one extra loop of nylon rope, and two extra clamps.

Next, moving quickly, he turned his attention to the girl. This one was a brunette, not that it really mattered to him. She wore some kind of skimpy, yellow-flowered dress that did little to cover her long, tanned limbs. She looked like a runner, or some kind of athlete. Maybe that would help her in the days to come. Maybe it wouldn’t.

He gritted his teeth, bent down, and hefted her unconscious form up over his shoulder. His arms screamed while his back groaned. She was not a heavy girl, but he was not a big man, and his body was already fatigued by forty-eight hours of intensive effort. Then he was standing, and the worst of the strain was over.

She got a suit of her own. For the entry. He dressed her the same way one might attend a doll. Flopping each limb into place. Tucking feet and hands where appropriate. Snapping the suit up tight.

Then he strapped her to the body board. At the last minute, he remembered her purse and the jug of water. Then he remembered her face, how close it would be to the acidic sludge, and pulled the hood as tightly as he could over her face.

He stood and the world went black.

What? Where? He needed to . . . He must . . .

He was standing in an old sawmill. He had a girl with him. He was outside his van.

The world spun again, black void threatening as he wobbled a little on his feet and clutched frantically at his temples. What? Where? He needed to . . . He must . . .

He was standing in an old sawmill. That’s right. He had a girl with him . . . He rubbed his temples harder, trying to hold it together through a fresh burst of pain. Concentrate, man, focus. He was outside his van; he was wearing blue coveralls. He had his survival pack. The body board was already loaded with water; the girl was strapped on. Everything was all set.

Except that confused him even more. Why couldn’t he remember getting it all set? What had happened?

The black holes, he realized faintly. They came more and more frequently these days. The future and the past, both slipping through his fingers with frightening speed. He was an educated man. Someone who prided himself on intelligence, strength, and control. But he, too, was part of nature’s web. And nothing lived forever. Everything of beauty died.

Lately, he’d been dreaming so often of the flames.

The man reached down, attached his line to the body board, swung the rope over his shoulder and started to pull.

Seventeen minutes later, he had arrived at the opening of a small hole in the ground. Not many people would notice it, just another sinkhole in a state whose limestone foundation was more hole-riddled than Swiss cheese. This opening was special, though. The man had known it since his youth, and understood even back then its full potential.

First he had to fasten his rope around the thick trunk of a nearby tree, forming a rough belay. He stationed his feet for balance, then used the rope to carefully lower the body board down through the hole deep into the bowels of the earth. Ten minutes later, he heard the small splash of the board landing. He tied off one end of the rope around the tree, and rappelled down the other, also disappearing into the foul-smelling earth. He landed standing upright in knee-deep water. Fading light forty feet above. Endless darkness all around.

Most people never looked past the sawmill above. They didn’t understand that in Virginia, there was often a whole other ecosystem far below.

He turned on his headlight, identified the cavern’s narrow passageway to his right, and got on his hands and knees to crawl. The girl floated after him, the board’s rope tied once more to the belt at his waist.

Within minutes the passageway shrank. He extended his narrow frame, body flattening carefully into the oily stream of rancid water. He was protected in synthetic shrink-wrap; he still swore he could feel the water lapping away at his skin, sluicing off his cells, eroding him down to his very bones. Soon the water would get into his brain, and then he would have no hope left. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

The smells were richer now. The stifling decay of layers and layers of bat guano, now melted into an oozing morass that squished around his hands and knees. The sharp, pungent odor of sewage and waste. The deeper, more menacing smell of death.

He moved slowly, feeling his way even with the light. Bats startled easily and you didn’t need a panicked, rabid creature flying at your face. Ditto the raccoons, though he’d be surprised if any of them could survive this passageway anymore. Most of what had once lived here had probably died years ago.

Now there was just this rancid water, corroding away the last of the limestone walls and spreading its slow, insidious death.

The body board bobbed along behind him, bumping him from time to time in the rear. And then, just when the ceiling was shrinking dangerously low, forcing his face closer and closer to that putrid water, the tunnel ended. The room opened up, and he and the girl spilled out into a vast, expansive cavern.

The man shot immediately to his feet, embarrassed by his own need to stand, but doing it nonetheless. He compulsively took giant gulps of air, his need for oxygen outweighing his apprehension of the smell. He looked down, and was genuinely surprised by how badly his hands were shaking.

He should be stronger than this. He should be tougher. Forty-eight hours without sleep, even he was starting to go.

He wasted another thirty seconds regaining his composure, then belatedly went to work on the rope at his waist. He was here, the worst of it was over, and he was aware once again of just how fast the clock was ticking.

He fetched the girl from the mini-stretcher. He laid her out on a ledge away from the dark running stream, and quickly stripped the coveralls from her body. Purse went beside her. Bottle of water as well.

Forty feet above, an eight-inch-diameter pipe formed a makeshift skylight in the ceiling. When daylight came, she would be greeted by a narrow shaft of light. He thought that gave her a sporting chance.

He retied the board to his waist, and ready now for his exit, gave the brunette one last glance.

She was propped up near a small pool of water. This water wasn’t polluted like the stream. Not yet. It was replenished from the rain and put up a better fight.

This water rippled and surged with the promise of life. Things moved beneath the pitch-black surface. Things that lived and breathed and fought. Things that bit. Some things that slithered. And many things that wouldn’t care for intruders in their home.

The girl was moaning again.

The man bent over. “Shhhh,” he whispered in her ear. “You don’t want to wake up just yet.”

The water surged again. The man turned his back on the girl and left.