The Killing Hour (26 page)

“You scared me tonight,” he told her quietly. “When you were up on those rocks, surrounded by all those snakes, you scared me.”

“I scared me, too.”

“Do you think I’m toying with you, Kimberly?”

“I don’t know.”

“It bothers you, that I can flirt, that I can smile.”

“Sometimes.”

“Earnest Kimberly.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “You are honestly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I don’t know how to tell you that without you thinking it’s just some kind of line.”

She closed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“Would you like to hit me?” he murmured. “Would you like to yell and scream at the world, or maybe hurl your knife? I don’t mind it when you’re angry, honey. Anything’s better than seeing you sad.”

That did it. She sank down on the bed beside him, feeling something big and brittle give way in the middle of her chest. Was this weakening? Was this succumbing? She didn’t know anymore. She didn’t care. Suddenly, she wanted to press her head against the broad expanse of his chest. She wanted to wrap her arms tightly around his lean waist. She wanted his warmth all around her, his arms holding her close. She wanted his body above her body, demanding and taking and conquering. She wanted something fierce and fast, where she didn’t have to think and didn’t have to feel. She could simply be.

She would blame him for it all in the morning.

Her head came up. She brushed her lips over his, feeling his breath tickle her cheek and, being rewarded, his tremor. She kissed his jaw. Smooth. Square. She followed its line to his throat, where she could see his pulse pounding. His hands were on her waist, not moving. But she could feel his tension now, his body hard and tightly leashed with his effort at control.

She caught the fragrance of his soap again. Then the trace of the mint on his breath. The spicy tones of his aftershave on his freshly razored cheek. She faltered again. The elements were personal, powerful. Things he had done just for her that had no place in raw, meaningless sex.

She was going to cry again. Oh God, she hated this hard lump in her chest. She didn’t want to be this creature anymore. She wanted to return to cold, logical Kimberly. Anything had to be better than to be this weepy all the time. Anything had to be better than to feel this much pain.

Mac’s hands had moved. Now, they found her hair, gently feathering it back. Now his fingers ran from her temples all the way down to the taut lines of her neck.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Shhh,” though she wasn’t aware she’d ever made a sound.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You just need sleep, honey. It’ll be better in the morning. Everything’s better in the morning.”

Mac pulled her down beside him. She fell without protest, feeling his arousal press hard against her hip. Now he would do something, she thought. But he didn’t. He merely tucked her into the curve of his body, his chest hot against her back, his arms like steel bands around her waist.

“I don’t like strange motel rooms, either,” she said abruptly, and could almost see his grin against her hair. Then in another minute, she could tell he had drifted off.

Kimberly closed her eyes. She curled her fingers around Mac’s arms. She slept the best she had in years.

CHAPTER 32

Front Royal, Virginia
6:19
A
.
M
.
Temperature: 88 degrees

MAC WOKE FIRST,
the tinny bleat of his cell phone penetrating his deep slumber. He had a moment of disorientation, trying to place the dimly lit room with its sagging bed and stale-smelling air. Then he registered Kimberly, still curled up soft and snug in the crook of his arm, and the rest of the evening came back to him.

He moved quickly now, not wanting to wake her. He slid his right arm from beneath her head, felt the resulting tingle shoot up from his elbow as various nerve endings fired to life, and swallowed a rueful curse. He shook out his hand, realizing now he didn’t know where his phone was. He had a vague memory of throwing it across the room during the night. Frankly, given his recent treatment of his phone, it was a miracle it was working at all.

He dropped to the floor, scrambling on all fours until he finally came up with the palm-sized object. He flipped it open, just as it was ringing for the fourth time.

“Special Agent McCormack here.” He glanced at the bed. Kimberly still hadn’t stirred.

“Took you long enough,” a distinctly male voice said.

Mac relaxed immediately. No more distorted voices to mess with his head. This was simply his boss, Special Agent in Charge Lee Grogen. “Been a long night,” Mac replied.

“Successful?”

“Not especially.” Mac filled in the details of the past twelve hours. Grogen listened without interruption.

“It’s definitely him then?”

“No doubt in my mind. Of course, for an official opinion you’d have to consult the Feds. They probably think it’s a terrorist act.”

“You sound bitter, Mac.”

“Three hours of sleep will do that to a guy. Now, best we can tell, we got two more girls out there. Pardon my French, but fuck the Feds. I have some leads, and I’m goin’ after them.”

“And I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. In fact, I’m going to pretend we’re talking about fishing.” Grogen sighed. “Officially speaking, Mac, there’s nothing I can offer you. My boss can press their boss for cooperation, but given that it’s the feebies . . .”

“We’re frozen out.”

“Probably. At least they’ll refer to us one day—at the press conference when they announce their big catch, we’ll be the local yokels who had a shot at the guy the first time around and couldn’t get the job done. You know the drill.”

“I can’t give up,” Mac said quietly.

“Don’t let me come between a man and some fishing,” Grogen said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“We have another complication.”

“Uh oh.” Mac rubbed his hand over his face. He was already tired again and so far he’d only been awake ten minutes. “What’s up?”

“Nora Ray Watts.”

“Huh?”

“She called me in the middle of the night. She wants to talk to you. She claims she has information about the case and she’ll only give it to you, in person. Mac, she knew two girls were dead.”

“Has there been something in the papers?”

“Not a peep. Mac,
I
didn’t even know two girls were dead until ten minutes ago when I called you. Frankly, I’m a little freaked out.”

“He’s contacted her,” Mac murmured.

“It’s possible.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Writing his letters isn’t enough anymore. Calling me is probably just frustrating him. Hell, I hope so. So now he’s contacting a past victim . . . Son of a bitch!”

“What do you want to do?”

“I can’t go back to Atlanta. I don’t have time.”

“I told Nora Ray you were out of town.”

“And?”

“And she said she would come to you. In all honesty, Mac, I think that’s what she wants.”

Mac blinked his eyes, dumbfounded. After everything Nora Ray had been through. To drag her back into this mess. A civilian. A victim. “No,” he said gruffly.

His supervisor was quiet.

“No way,” Mac said again. “She doesn’t deserve this. He messed with her life once already. Now it’s time for her to be free of him, to heal and be with her family. Hell, to forget this ever happened.”

“I don’t think that’s working for her.”

“I can’t protect her, Lee! I don’t know where this guy is, I don’t know where he’s gonna strike next. It’s a long story, but I’ve been working with a former FBI profiler, and he thinks the killer may be keeping tabs on us.”

“I’ll tell her that.”

“Damn right!”

“And if she still wants to come?”

“She’s a fool!”

“Mac, if she knows something, if she has a lead . . .”

Mac hung his head. He raked his hand through his hair. God, there were times he hated his job. “I can meet her at the airport in Richmond,” he said at last. “Sooner versus later. Day’s young and a lot can happen yet.”

“I’ll be in touch. And Mac—good luck fishing.”

Mac flipped his phone shut. He rested his forehead against the cool silver shape. What a mess. He should go back to bed. Or at the very least, crawl back into a shower. When he got up the second time, maybe this day would make more sense.

But the fuzz was already clearing. He was thinking of water and rice, and obscure clues that had to lead to real and terrible places. They had been lucky to sleep at all last night. God knows when they’d sleep again.

He rose and crossed to the bed. Kimberly’s arms were wrapped around her waist, her body held tightly together, as if she were protecting herself even when asleep. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. He touched the curve of her jaw with his thumb, then feathered back her short, dusty-blond hair. She didn’t stir.

She looked more vulnerable in sleep, her fine features delicate and even a trace fragile. He didn’t let the image fool him. A guy could spend years just working on learning the curve of her smile. And still, one day, she’d walk out the door and never look back. Probably think she’d done him a favor.

In her world, guys like him didn’t fall for girls like her. Funny, ’cause in his world, he was already long gone.

He stroked his fingers down her arm and her eyes finally fluttered open.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Did someone else die?”

“Not if we keep moving.”

Kimberly sat up and, without another word, headed for the bathroom. He lay down on the bed and placed his hand on the spot still warm from the heat of her body. He could hear the sound of running water now, the rattle of old, rusty pipes. He thought again of yesterday, and the sight of Kimberly surrounded by dozens of rattlesnakes.

“I’m going to take better care of you,” he vowed in the quiet of the room.

But he already wondered where the day would lead, and if that promise could be kept.

CHAPTER 33

Richmond, Virginia
8:08
A
.
M
.
Temperature: 88 degrees

“
SURE AS HELL LOOKS LIKE WATER TO ME.
”

Kimberly sighed with relief, while Mac visibly sagged against the wall of the tiny office. Neither of them had realized just how tensely they’d been awaiting that news until USGS hydrologist Brian Knowles had delivered it.

“Could it be holy water?” Kimberly asked.

Knowles shot her a look. “I don’t exactly have a test for that. I’m just a mere government employee, you know, not the Pope.”

“But can you help them out?” Ray Lee Chee prodded him. He’d personally brought Mac and Kimberly to Knowles’s office just ten minutes earlier. Now he was perched on the edge of a gunmetal-gray filing cabinet, swinging his feet rhythmically.

Mac spoke up. “We’d like to be able to test the sample. Ideally, we need to trace it to a source such as a specific pond or stream or watering hole. Can you do that?”

Knowles yawned, rolled out one sleepy shoulder and seemed to consider it. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, a good-looking guy with a thick head of woolly brown hair and the world’s rattiest jeans. Like Ray Lee Chee, he appeared remarkably fit. Unlike the geographer, however, mornings weren’t his thing. Brian Knowles looked as tired as Kimberly felt.

“Well,” he said shortly, “we can test a water sample for all sorts of things: pH, dissolved oxygen, temperature, turbidity, salinity, nitrogen, ammonia, arsenic, bacteria . . . Then there’s water hardness, tests for various inorganic constituents such as iron, manganese, and sulfates, as well as tests for various water pollutants. So testing, yeah, we can do that.”

“Good, good,” Mac said encouragingly.

“Just one hitch, though.” Knowles spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “We’re not out in the field, and you can’t do squat with six drops of water.”

Mac raised a startled brow. He glanced at Kimberly, who shrugged. “At least we brought you water,” she commented. “We only gave Ray a picture of a leaf.”

“Damn right. And I did good,” Ray boasted. “So don’t you ruin our track record now, Knowles. We keep this up, and maybe we can get our own TV show. You know,
Law and Order: U.S. Geological Survey Unit
. Think of the chicks, Brian. Think of the chicks.”

Knowles, however, didn’t appear convinced. He leaned back in his desk chair and locked his hands behind his head. “Look, I’m just being practical here. To get accurate results from any sort of water test, you need to be at the source, looking at the sample
in situ
. The minute you bottled up this water, a couple of things happened. One, you changed the temperature. Two, you removed it from its oxygen source, rendering a test for diffused oxygen useless. Three, the pH is going up from off-gas. Four, you may have contaminated the sample from the container itself, and five . . . Well, hell, I can’t think of five at the moment, but let’s just agree it’s not good. Whatever I do to this sucker, the results are about as meaningful as a sixth toe—gives you something to look at, but doesn’t do a damn thing.”

“But we don’t have a source,” Mac reminded him curtly. “That’s the whole damn point. This sample is what we’ve been given, the source is what we gotta find. Come on, surely there’s something you can do.”

Mac stared at the man with mute appeal. After another moment, Knowles caved with a sigh. “It won’t be accurate,” he warned.

“At this point, we’ll take an educated guess.”

“I don’t know if I’d even call it that.” But Knowles was fingering the glass tube bearing their precious sample. “You’re sure you don’t have more? I’d prefer about forty milliliters.”

“The best I could do would be six more drops.”

Knowles blinked. “Damn, whoever gave you this was definitely feeling stingy.”

“He likes a challenge.”

“No kidding. I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me anything more about this case.”

“Nope.”

“Ah well, never hurts to ask.” Knowles sighed again, sat up in his chair and stared intently at the sample. “Okay. It’s possible to test for salinity. We just need enough water to cover the end of the probe. I could do pH, which also uses a meter. Of course, the probe on the pH meter can deposit a tiny amount of potassium chloride in a sample, raising the electrical conductivity and screwing the salinity test . . . So we do salinity first, I guess, then examine pH. As for mineral testing . . . Hell, I don’t know if any of our test equipment is even calibrated for a sample this small. Bacteria tests . . . You have to run the water through a sieve, not sure that would do much here. Same with testing for plant matter.” He looked up. “Salinity and pH it is then, though I’m telling you now, the sample size is too limited, the methodology flawed, and all the results will be too relative to draw any sort of accurate conclusions. Other than that, what the hell, I’m game. I’ve never worked a murder case before.”

“Any information is helpful,” Mac said grimly.

Knowles opened a drawer. He pulled out a small plastic box with a well-worn label that read Field Kit. He popped open the container and started pulling out handheld meters complete with long metal probes. “Salinity first,” he murmured to himself, fiddled around, then stuck the probe in the water.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just grunted a few times.

“What does a salinity test measure?” Kimberly asked. “If it’s freshwater or salt water?”

“It can.” Knowles glanced up at her. “Basically, I’m measuring the amount of microsiemens per centimeter in the water, which gives me an idea of the dissolved content. Water on its own has no electrical conductivity. But water that has a lot of salt or other dissolved minerals in it will have a higher level of conductivity. More microsiemens per centimeter. So, in a roundabout way, we’re trying to tell where this water has been.”

He looked at the meter, then pulled the probe from the sample. “All right. According to my handy dandy salinity meter, this water has a reading of fifteen thousand microsiemens per centimeter. So, bearing in mind all my earlier caveats, what does that tell us?”

They all looked at him blankly, and he generously filled in. “The water has good conductivity. Not high enough to be salt water, but there’s a fair amount of dissolved content in this sample. Maybe minerals or ions. Something that conducts electricity better than water alone.”

“The water is contaminated?” Mac asked hesitantly.

“The water is high in dissolved content,” Knowles reiterated stubbornly. “At this moment, we can’t conclude anything more than that. Now, the logical thing would be to run tests for various minerals, which might answer your question. But we can’t do that, so let’s try pH.”

He set aside the first meter and inserted a second. He watched the meter, then frowned at it, then pulled out the tip and muttered, “Goddamn probe. Hang on a sec.”

He wiped the tip. Blew on the tip. Then gave the whole thing a small whack with his hand. With a grunt of satisfaction, he finally returned the probe to the water. The second time didn’t make him any happier.

“Well, shit on a stick, this is no good.”

“What’s wrong?” Kimberly asked.

“Sample must be too small for the probe, or my meter’s out of whack. To believe this thing, the pH is three-point-eight, and that just ain’t happening.”

This time, he banged the probe twice against the desk. Then he tried again.

“What does three-point-eight mean?” Mac asked.

“Acidic. Very acidic. Eat-holes-in-your-clothes level of acidic. Basic is a perfect seven-point-oh. Most fish and algae need at least six-point-five to survive; snails, clams, and mussels require seven-point-oh; while insects, suckers, and carp can go as low as six. So when we’re testing ponds and streams with any sort of aquatic life, generally we’re at least in the sixes. Now, in Virginia, rainfall has a pH of four-point-two to four-point-five, so pure rainwater would test low, but we know this isn’t pure rainwater thanks to the salinity test. Three-point-eight,” he was still shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

He glanced at the meter again, gave a final growl of disgust, and yanked out the probe.

“What’s it saying?” Mac asked intently.

“Same garbage as before, three-point-eight. I’m sorry, but the sample has got to be too small. That’s all there is to it.”

“You’re three for three.” Kimberly spoke up quietly. “Three tests, three similar results. Maybe the water
is
that acidic.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, especially when you consider that any pH reading we’re getting now is actually
higher
than the original pH at the source. Frankly, we just don’t see pH readings below four-point-five. It doesn’t happen. Well, except maybe in cases of acid mine drainage.”

Mac straightened immediately. “Tell us about acid mine drainage.”

“Not much to tell. Water spills out of the mine or goes through tailings of the mine, getting contaminated as it goes. The pH ends up extremely low, possibly in the twos.”

“And that would be extremely rare? Something unusual in this state?”

Knowles gave Mac a look. “Buddy, there aren’t many places in the
world
that have pH readings in the twos, let alone in the state of Virginia.”

“Where is this mine?” Kimberly said urgently.

“You mean mines,
s
as in plural, as in coal mines. We’re loaded with them.”

“Where?”

“Southwestern Virginia mostly. There’s a good seven counties, I think.” Knowles was looking at Ray for confirmation. “Let’s see . . . Dickenson, Lee, Russell, Scott. Hell, I’m never going to be able to do this off the top of my head; let me look ’em up.” He pushed back toward his filing cabinet, gave Ray’s legs a prodding shove, then rifled through some manila files.

“How big is the area?” Kimberly pressed him.

Knowles shrugged, then looked again at Ray. “Most of the southwestern corner of the state,” Ray offered up. “It’s not small, if that’s what you mean.”

“But the water probably came from there,” Mac asserted.

“I will not say that,” Knowles warned him. “Sample too small, results too subjective, too many variables beyond my control.”

“But it is a strong possibility.”

“
If
you accept that reading of three-point-eight to be correct, then
yes,
a mine would be a good place to look for this kind of contaminated water supply. The only other possible theory . . .” He stopped, chewed on his lower lip. “It’s gotta be contamination of some kind,” he muttered at last. “That’s the only
thing that could reduce the pH level so dramatically. Now, it could be from a mine. It could also be pollution from organic wastes. Basically, a large dose of biodegradable organic material gets in the water. Bacteria feed off the waste, bacterial population explodes, and now the bacteria consume oxygen faster than the algae or aquatic plants can replace it.
Badda bing, badda boom:
anything that needs oxygen to live—say, fish, insects, plants—dies, and anaerobic bacteria take over the water source; they’re about the only thing that can live at pH that low.”

“But you can’t test it for bacteria, can you?” Kimberly quizzed him.

“Nah, sample’s too small.”

“Is . . . is there anything else you can do?”

“Well, I could
try
testing for minerals. We got a guy around here who’s been squeezing water out of core samples going back thousands of years and running that stuff through the equipment. I know those water samples have gotta be small, but he’s gotten some results. I don’t know how good—”

“We’ll take anything,” Mac interrupted him.

“It’s very important,” Kimberly reiterated. “We need to narrow down this water to the smallest geographic region possible. Seven counties is a start, but seven miles would be better.”

“Seven miles huh?” Knowles gave her a doubtful look. “Even if I did get lucky and identify a bunch of minerals . . . Well,” he caught himself. “Then again, there are some key physiographic differences among the mine counties. A lot of sandstone and shale in some areas. Karst in others. So mineral results might help. Not seven miles, mind you, but I might be able to get you down to a county or two. I guess we’ll find out.”

“How long?” Mac pressed him.

“First I’m going to have to talk to the guy, figure out how to set up the
equipment . . . I’d say give me a couple of days.”

“I’ll give you two hours.”

“Say what?”

“Listen to me. Two women are missing. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours now, and one woman is somewhere around that water. We either find her soon, or it won’t much matter anymore.”

Knowles’s mouth was ajar. He looked pale and troubled at the news, then glanced at the tiny sample with a fresh distrust. “All right,” he said abruptly. “Give me two hours.”

“One last item.” Mac’s attention went to Ray Lee Chee. “We have one more sample we need tested. Problem is, we don’t know what it is.”

He held out the glass vial bearing the residue from the second victim’s hair. Ray took it first, then handed it over to Knowles. Neither man knew what it was, but decided a palynologist would be their best bet—an expert in pollen. And they were in luck. One of the best in the state, Lloyd Armitage, was due in this afternoon for a team meeting.

“Anything else?” Ray asked.

“Rice,” Kimberly said. “Uncooked long grain. Does that mean anything to either of you?”

That brought a fresh round of bemused looks. Knowles confessed he was a pasta man. Ray Lee Chee said he’d always hated to cook. But hey, they’d ask around.

And that was that. Knowles would attempt to test their water for mineral samples; Ray would inquire about rice; and Mac and Kimberly would hit the road.

“The leaf was easier,” Kimberly said shortly, as they walked down the hall.

“That was probably the point.” Mac pushed through the exterior door and led them back into the wall of heat. He glanced at his watch and Kimberly caught the gesture.

“Time?”

“Yep.” They got into his car and headed for the airport.