The Killing Hour (21 page)

The girl had probably run again. Tripped. Fallen. Maybe gone headfirst into a poison ivy patch or into a hornets’ nest. And what would have happened to her then? Stung, terrorized, half-dressed, and lost in the dark?

She’d seek water, anything to cool her wounds. And because whatever lurked in the streams had to be less dangerous than the creatures that stalked the woods.

Kimberly halted abruptly, holding up a hand. “Do you hear it?” she asked Mac sharply.

“Water,” Mac agreed. From his backpack, he retrieved his map. “There’s a stream directly to the west.”

“We should follow it. That’s what Levine said, right? Hikers are drawn to water.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Kimberly stepped left . . .

And her foot went totally out from under her. One moment she was on solid ground. The next, her leg shot out and she went careening butt-first down the slippery slope of grass. Her hip bounded over a rock. Her thigh scraped by a fallen log. Desperately she tried to get her hands beneath her, while vaguely she was aware of Mac shouting her name behind her.

“Kimberly!!!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh.” Thump. Thunk. Another dead log reared up ahead, and she slammed into it with all the grace of a rhino. Stars burst in front of her eyes. A buzzing roared through her ears. She was acutely aware of the rusty taste of blood in her mouth where she had bitten her tongue. And then, all at once, her body caught fire.

“Shit. Damn. Oh, what the hell!” She was on her feet, slapping at her arms and legs. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, like a million little fire ants biting her skin again and again and again. She bolted out of the weeds and went scrambling back up the hillside, grabbing at tree limbs with her hands while churning up the grass with her feet.

She made it fifteen feet back up and not a single inch of it helped. Her skin burned. Her blood roared. She watched helplessly as her body suddenly bloomed with a bright red rash.

Mac finally came crashing to a halt in front of her. “Don’t scratch, don’t scratch, don’t scratch.”

“What the hell is it?” she cried frantically.

“Congratulations, honey, I think you just found the stinging nettles.”

CHAPTER 26

Quantico, Virginia
8:05
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 98 degrees

“
SO WHAT DO WE HAVE?
” Quincy asked. It was after eight o’clock now. He, Rainie, Special Agent Kaplan, and Supervisor Watson had taken over an unused classroom for their ad hoc meeting. No one looked particularly cheerful. For one thing, half of them were still wrung out from working the crime scene in this heat. For another, they had nothing to show for their fourteen-hour day.

“I think we still have to look harder at McCormack,” Kaplan insisted. “In this business, you know there is no such thing as coincidence. And him being here at the same time one of his old cases heats up . . . That’s too much coincidence for me.”

“It was not coincidental, it was planned.” Rainie spoke up in exasperation. Her opinion on this matter was clear, and now she shook her head in disgust at Kaplan. “You spoke to his boss. You know what McCormack said was true.”

“People cover for their own.”

“So the entire GBI is in on the crime? We’ve simply gone from coincidence to conspiracy theory.”

Quincy held up his hand, attempting to cut off this argument before it got going. Again. “What about the ad?” he asked Kaplan.

“According to the Public Affairs Officer, the ad arrived yesterday, with instructions to run in today’s paper. The
Quantico Sentry
, however, is a weekly paper. Next edition doesn’t come out until this Friday. Besides, the officer didn’t like the look of the ad. Seemed like code to him, maybe something drug related, so he passed it my way.”

Kaplan pushed a photocopy of the ad in question across the table. It was a small, two-by-two-inch box, outlined with a black border and containing one block of text. The text read: Dear Editor, Clock ticking . . . planet dying . . . animals weeping . . . rivers screaming. Can’t you hear it? Heat kills . . .

“Why an ad?” Watson spoke up.

“
Quantico Sentry
doesn’t do letters to the editor.”

“What are the rules for ad submissions?” Quincy asked.

Kaplan shrugged. “The newspaper is a civilian enterprise, published in cooperation with the Public Affairs Office here on the base, so it covers anything topical to the area. Lots of local merchants advertise, charities reach out, services for military personnel, etc. It’s no different really from any other small, regional paper. Ads must be submitted typeset and with a payment. Otherwise, you’re pretty much good to go.”

“So our guy took the time to learn the submission requirements for an ad, but still didn’t realize the paper wouldn’t print it today?” Watson asked skeptically. “Doesn’t seem too bright to me.”

“He got what he wanted,” Quincy said. “It’s the next day, and we’re reading his message.”

“Pure chance,” Watson said dismissively.

“No. This man does everything with a purpose.
Quantico Sentry
is the Corps’ oldest newspaper. It’s part of their tradition and pride. Putting his message in this paper is the same as dumping a body on the base. He’s bringing his crime close to home. He’s demanding our attention.”

“It fits the pattern,” Rainie said. “So far we have the same MO as with the Eco-Killer, and now we have the letter too. I’d say the next step is pretty obvious.”

“And what would that be?” Watson asked.

“Call McCormack! Get him back in on this thing. He knows this guy better than we do. And, since there’s probably another girl out there, maybe we ought to get some experts looking once more at the body, let alone those little details like the rattlesnake, leaf, and rock. Come on. As the ad says, the clock is ticking, and we’ve already wasted the entire day.”

“I sent them to the lab,” Kaplan said quietly.

“You did what?” Rainie asked incredulously.

“I sent the rock, the leaf, and, well, the various snake bits to the Norfolk crime lab.”

“And what the hell is a crime lab going to do with them? Dust them for prints?”

“It’s not a bad idea—”

“It’s a fucking horrible idea! Weren’t you listening to McCormack before? We’ve got to find the
girl!
”

“Hey!” Quincy’s hand was up again, his voice loud and commanding across the table. Not that it did much good. Rainie was already half out of her chair, her hands fisted. And Kaplan appeared just as eager for a battle. It had been a long day. Hot, tiring, wearing. The kind of conditions that led to an increase in bar brawls, let alone a deterioration of cooperation in multi-jurisdictional homicide cases.

“We need to proceed along two tracks,” Quincy continued firmly. “So shut up, sit down, and pay attention. Rainie’s correct—we need to move quickly.”

Rainie slowly sank back down into her chair. Kaplan, too, grudgingly gave him his attention.

“One, let’s assume that perhaps this man is the Eco-Killer. Ep, ep, ep!” Kaplan was already opening his mouth to protest. Quincy gave him the same withering look he’d once used on junior agents, and the NCIS agent shut right up. “While we cannot be one hundred percent certain of this, the fact remains that we have a homicide that fits a pattern previously seen in Georgia. Given the similarities, we need to consider that another woman has also been abducted. If so, according to what happened in Georgia, we need to start approaching the evidence we’ve found on the body as pieces of a geographic puzzle.” He looked at Kaplan.

“I can arrange for some experts in botany, biology, and geology to look at what we have,” the special agent said grudgingly.

“Quickly,” Rainie spoke up.

Kaplan gave her a look. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rainie merely smiled at him.

Quincy took a deep breath. “Two,” he said, “we need to explore some broader avenues. While I’ve read summaries of the Georgia case notes, it seems clear to me that they’ve never come close to knowing much about the killer. They generated a profile and a list of suppositions, none of which has ever been proven either way. I think we should start clean-slate, generating our own impressions based on
this
crime. For example, why plant the body on Quantico grounds? That seems clearly like a man who is making a statement against authority. He feels so invincible, he can operate even within the heart of America’s elite law enforcement agency. Then we have the UNSUB’s various letters to the editor, as well as his phone calls to Special Agent McCormack. Again this raises several questions. Is this an UNSUB seeking to reassert his feelings of power and control? Or is this a conflicted man, who is reaching out to law enforcement in the dim hope that he will be caught? Also, is the anonymous caller really our UNSUB, or someone else entirely?

“And there is a third motive we should also contemplate. That this killer’s game is not targeted at either the Marines or the FBI, but rather, at Special Agent McCormack specifically.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Kaplan grumbled.

Quincy gave the man his cool, hard stare. “Assume for a moment that the anonymous caller is the UNSUB. Through his comments, he brought Special Agent McCormack to Virginia. It stands to reason, then, that the UNSUB already had a plan of attack in mind for this area. And furthermore, as part of this plan, he knew of Special Agent McCormack’s whereabouts and thus made sure to start the game here. The ad in the
Quantico Sentry
would fit this pattern. As of Friday, the paper would be distributed all over the base. Surely McCormack would get the hint.”

Rainie appeared troubled. “That’s getting out there,” she said quietly.

“True. Killers rarely target a specific member of law enforcement. But stranger things have happened, and as the lead officer, McCormack was the most visible member of the Georgia task force. If the UNSUB
were
going to identify with a specific target, McCormack would be the logical one.”

“So we have two options,” Rainie murmured. “A garden-variety psychopath trying to mess with McCormack’s head. Or a more troubled, guilt-stricken nut who’s still murdering girls, but showing signs of remorse. Why doesn’t either one of these theories help me sleep better at night?”

“Because either way, the man is deadly.” Quincy turned toward Kaplan. “I assume you sent out the ad to the
Quantico Sentry
to be analyzed?”

“Tried,” Kaplan said. “Not much to work with. Stamp and envelope are both self-adhesive, so no saliva. Latent found no prints on the paper, and the ad was typeset, so no handwriting.”

“What about form of payment?”

“Cash. You’re not supposed to send it through the mail, but apparently our killer is a trusting soul.”

“Postmark?”

“Stafford.”

“The town next door?”

“Yeah, sent yesterday. Local job all the way. Guy’s in the area to murder a woman, might as well send his note, too.”

Quincy raised a brow. “He’s smart. Done his homework. Well, stationery is a good place to start. Dr. Ennunzio said that Georgia had sent him one original letter to the editor. I’d like you to turn over this ad to him as well. Perhaps that gives him two data points to consider.”

Kaplan had to think about it. “He can have it for a week,” he conceded at last. “Then I want it back at my lab.”

“Your cooperation is duly noted,” Quincy assured him.

There was a knock on the door. Quincy thinned his lips, frustrated by the intrusion when they were finally getting somewhere, but Kaplan was already climbing to his feet. “Probably one of my agents,” he said by way of explanation. “I told him I’d be around here.”

He opened the classroom door, and sure enough, a younger buzz-cut man entered the room. The agent was holding a piece of paper and his body practically thrummed with excitement.

“I thought you’d want to see this right away,” the younger officer said immediately.

Kaplan took the paper, glanced at it, then looked up sharply. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, sir. Got it confirmed fifteen minutes ago.”

“What?” Rainie was asking. Even Watson strained in his chair. Kaplan turned back to them slowly.

“We got an ID on the girl,” he said, and his gaze went to Quincy. “It’s not just like Georgia after all. Sweet Jesus, this is much, much worse.”

“Water break.”

“Soon.”

“Kimberly, water break.”

“I want to see what’s around the next corner—”

“Honey, stop and drink some water, or I will tackle you.”

Kimberly scowled at him. Mac’s face remained resolute. He’d halted ten feet back, at a boulder jutting out from the stream they were following down the steep slope.

After three hours of hard hiking, half of her body was covered in a bright red rash—poison ivy, stinging nettles, take your pick. Her T-shirt was sweated through. Her shorts were drenched. Even her socks squished as she walked. Then there was the sodden skullcap that now passed as her hair.

In contrast, Mac stood with one knee bent comfortably on a large boulder. His damp gray nylon shirt molded his impressive chest. His short dark hair was slicked back to better highlight his bronzed, chiseled face. He wasn’t breathing hard. He didn’t have a scratch on him. Three hours of brutal trekking later, the man looked like a damn L.L.Bean cover model.

“Bite me,” Kimberly said, but she finally stopped and grudgingly dug out her water bottle. The water was tepid and tasted of plastic. It still felt good going down her throat. She was hot. Her chest heaved. Her legs trembled. She’d had easier times on the Marines’ obstacle course.

“At least the heat keeps the ticks down,” Mac said conversationally.

“What?”

“The ticks. They don’t like it when it’s this hot. Now if it were spring or fall . . .”

Kimberly gazed down frantically at her bare legs. Beneath the red rash, were any of her freckles moving? Blood-sucking parasites, that ought to top off the day . . . Then she registered the underlying humor in Mac’s voice and looked up suspiciously.

“You’re living dangerously,” she growled.

He merely grinned. “Are you thinking of going for your knife? I’ve been waitin’ all day.”

“Not to put a damper on your male fantasies, but I’m sorry I wore the knife. It’s rubbing off all the skin on my thigh and damn near killing me.”

“Would you like to remove it? I could assist.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

She turned away from him, swiping a hand through her short-cropped hair. Her palm came back wet and salty, disgusting even her. She must look like a wreck. And still he flirted with her. The man was insane.

Her gaze went to the sun. From this vantage point, she could just see it sinking low in the sky. Funny, it was easy to lose track of night around here. The trees already cast so much of the landscape into shadow, and it wasn’t as if the temperature was magically cooling down. But the sun was definitely retreating, the hour growing late.

“Not much time,” she murmured.

“No,” he agreed, his voice now as somber as her own.

“We should get going.” She bent to put her water bottle away. He stepped toward her and halted her hand with his own.

“You need to drink more.”

“I just had water!”

“You’re not drinking enough. You’ve only gone through a quart. You heard Kathy Levine. In these conditions you’re probably sweating through at least that much an hour. Drink, Kimberly. It’s important.”

His fingers were still on her arm. Not gripping, certainly not bruising. She felt his touch anyway, more than she should. His fingertips were callused. His palm was damp, probably as sweaty as the rest of him, as the rest of her. She still didn’t move away.

And for the first time . . .

She thought about moving closer. She thought about kissing him. He was the kind of man who would be very good at kissing. She imagined he would be slow and thorough. Kissing for him would be like flirting, a fun bit of foreplay he’d been practicing for most of his life.

And for her?

It would be desperate. She knew that without having to think why. It would be need and hope and anger. It would be a vain attempt to leave behind her own body, to break free of the relentless anxiety that shadowed every step she took. To forget for a moment that a young woman was lost out here, and she was trying so hard, but maybe she still wasn’t good enough. She hadn’t saved her sister. She hadn’t saved her mother. Why did she think this time would be different?