The Killing Hour (5 page)

CHAPTER 4

Stafford, Virginia
9:34
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 89 degrees

“
WHAT
’
S UP, SUGAR?
You seem restless tonight.”

“Can’t stand the heat.”

“That’s a strange comment coming from a man who lives in Hotlanta.”

“I keep meaning to move.”

Genny, a tight-bodied redhead with a well-weathered face but genuinely kind eyes, gazed at him speculatively through the blue haze of the smoky bar.

“How long have you lived in Georgia, Mac?” she asked over the din.

“Since I was a gleam in my daddy’s eye.”

She smiled, shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Then you won’t ever move, sugar. Take it from me. You’re a Georgian. Stick a fork in you, you’re done.”

“You just say that because you’re a Texan.”

“Since I was a gleam in my great-great-great-grandpappy’s eyes. Yanks move around, honey. We Southerners take root.”

GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack acknowledged the point with a smile. His gaze was on the front door of the crowded bar again. He was watching the people walk in, unconsciously seeking out young girls traveling in pairs. He should know better. On days like this, when the temperature topped ninety, he didn’t.

“Sugar?” Genny said again.

He caught himself, turned back to her, and managed a rueful grin. “Sorry. I swear to you my mother raised me better than this.”

“Then we’ll never let her know. Your meeting didn’t go well today, did it?”

“How did you—”

“I’m a police officer, too, Mac. Don’t dismiss me just because I’m pretty and got a great set of boobs.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, then dug around in her purse until she found a fresh cigarette. He held up a light and she smiled her gratitude, though the lines were a bit tighter around her eyes. For a minute, neither one of them said a word.

The bar was hopping tonight, flesh pressed against flesh, with more people still pouring through the doors. Half of them, of course, were their fellow National Academy classmates—detectives, sheriffs, and even some military police enrolled in Quantico’s eleven-week course. Still, Mac wouldn’t have expected the bar to be this busy on a Tuesday night. People were fleeing their homes, probably trying to escape the heat.

He and Genny had arrived three hours ago, early enough to stake out hard-to-find seats. Generally the National Academy students didn’t leave Quantico much. People hung out in the Boardroom after hours, drinking beer, swapping war stories, and by one or two in the morning, praying that their livers wouldn’t fail them now. The big joke was that the program had to end week eleven, because no one’s kidneys could survive week twelve.

People were restless tonight, though. The unbearable heat and humidity had started moving in on Sunday, and reportedly were working their way to a Friday crescendo. Walking outside was like slogging through a pile of wet towels. In five minutes your T-shirt was plastered to your torso. In ten minutes, your shorts were glued to your thighs. Inside seemed little better, with the Academy’s archaic air-conditioning system groaning mightily just to cool things to eighty-five.

People started bailing from Quantico shortly after six, desperate for any sort of distraction. Genny and Mac had followed shortly thereafter.

They’d met the first week of training, eight weeks ago. Southerners had to stick together, Genny had teased him, especially in a class overrun with fast-talking Yanks. Her gaze, however, had been on his broad chest when she’d said this. Mac had merely grinned.

At the age of thirty-six, he’d figured out by now that he was a good-looking guy—six two, black hair, blue eyes, and deeply tanned skin from a lifetime spent running, cycling, fishing, hunting, hiking, canoeing, etc. You name it, he did it and he had a younger sister and nine cousins who accompanied him all the way. You could get into a lot of trouble in a state as diverse as Georgia, and the McCormacks prided themselves on learning each lesson the hard way.

The end result was a leanly muscled physique that seemed to appeal to women of all ages. Mac did his best to bear this hardship stoically. It helped a great deal that he was fond of women. A little
too
fond, according to his exasperated mother, who was dead-set on gaining a daughter-in-law and oodles of grandkids. Maybe someday, he supposed. At the moment, however, Mac was completely wedded to his job, and days like this, boy, didn’t he know it.

His gaze returned to the doorway. Two young girls walked in, followed by another two. All were chatting happily. He wondered if they would leave that way. Together, alone, with newly met lovers, without. Which way would be safer? Man, he hated nights like this.

“You gotta let it go,” Genny said.

“Let what go?”

“Whatever’s putting lines on that handsome face.”

Mac tore his gaze away from the door for the second time. He regarded Genny wryly, then picked up his beer and spun it between his fingers. “You ever have one of those cases?”

“The kind that gets beneath your skin, jumps into your brain and haunts your dreams, until five, six, ten, twenty years later you still sometimes wake up screaming? No, sugar, I wouldn’t know a thing about that.” She stubbed out her cigarette, then reached in her purse for another.

“Sugar,” Mac mocked gently, “you’re lying through your teeth.” He held up a lighter again and watched how her blue eyes appraised him even as she leaned toward his hands and accepted the flame.

She sat back. She inhaled. She exhaled. She said abruptly, “All right, pretty boy. There’s no dealing with you tonight, so you might as well tell me about your meeting.”

“It never happened,” he said readily.

“Blew you off?”

“For bigger fish. According to Dr. Ennunzio, it’s now all terrorism all the time.”

“Versus your five-year-old case,” she filled in for him.

He grinned crookedly, leaned back, and spread out his darkly bronzed hands. “I have seven dead girls, Genny. Seven little girls who never made it home to their families. It’s not their fault they were murdered by a plain-vanilla serial killer and not some imported terrorist threat.”

“Battle of the budgets.”

“Absolutely. The Behavioral Science Unit has only one forensic linguist—Dr. Ennunzio—but the nation has thousands of whackos writing threats. Apparently, letters to the editor are low on the list of priorities. Of course, in my world, these letters are about the only damn lead we have left. National Academy prestige aside, my department didn’t send me here for continued education. I’m supposed to meet this man. Get his expert input on the only decent lead we have left. I go back to my department without so much as saying boo to the fine doctor, and I can kiss my ass good-bye.”

“You don’t care about your ass.”

“It would be easier if I did,” Mac said, with his first trace of seriousness all night.

“You ask anyone else in the BSU for help?”

“I’ve asked anyone who’ll give me the time of day in the hall for help. Hell, Genny, I’m not proud. I just
want
this guy.”

“You could go independent.”

“Been there, done that. Got us nowhere.”

Genny considered this while taking another drag from her cigarette. Despite what she might think, Mac hadn’t let the great set of boobs fool him. Genny was a sheriff. Ran her own twelve-man office. In Texas, where girls were still encouraged to become cheerleaders or, better yet, Miss America. In other words, Genny was tough. And smart. And experienced. She probably had
many
of those cases that got under an investigator’s skin. And given how hot it had become outside, how hot it would be by the end of the week, Mac would appreciate any insight she could give him.

“It’s been three years,” she said at last. “That’s a long time for a serial predator. Maybe your guy wound up in jail on some other charge. It’s been known to happen.”

“Could be,” Mac acknowledged, though his tone said he wasn’t convinced.

She accepted that with a nod. “Well, how about this, big boy? Maybe he’s dead.”

“Hallelujah and praise the Lord,” Mac agreed. His voice still lacked conviction. Six months ago he’d been working on buying into that theory. Hell, he’d been looking forward to embracing that theory. Violent felons often led violent lives and came to violent ends. All the better for the taxpayers, as far as Mac was concerned.

But then, six months ago, one single letter in the mail . . .

Funny the things that could rock your world. Funny the things that could take a three-year-old frustrated task force and launch it from low-burn, cooling their heels, to high-octane, move, now, now, now in twenty-four hours or less. But he couldn’t mention these things to Genny. These were details told only on a need-to-know basis.

Like why he really wanted to talk to Dr. Ennunzio. Or why he was really in the great state of Virginia.

Almost on cue, he felt the vibration at his waist. He looked down at his beeper, the sense of foreboding already gathering low in his belly. Ten numbers stared back up at him. Atlanta area code. And the other numbers . . .

Damn!

“I gotta go,” he said, bolting to his feet.

“She that good-looking?” Genny drawled.

“Honey, I’m not that lucky tonight.”

He threw thirty bucks on the table, enough to cover his drinks and hers. “You got a ride?” His voice was curt, the question unconscionably rude, and they both knew it.

“No man’s that hard to replace.”

“You cut me deep, Genny.”

She smiled, her gaze lingering on his tall athletic build, her eyes sadder than she intended. “Sugar, I don’t cut you at all.”

Mac, however, was already striding out the door.

Outside, the heat smacked the grin off of Mac’s face. Merry blue eyes immediately turned dark, his expression went from teasing to grim. It had been four weeks since he’d last received a call. He’d been beginning to wonder if that was it.

GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack flipped open his cell phone and furiously started dialing.

The person picked up after the first ring. “You are not even trying,” an eerily distorted voice echoed in his ears. Male, female—hell, it could’ve been Mickey Mouse.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mac replied tightly. He stopped in the Virginia parking lot, looking around the dark, empty space. The phone number always read Atlanta, but lately Mac had begun wondering about that. All a person had to do was use a cell phone with a Georgia number, then he could call from anywhere with the same effect.

“He’s closer than you think.”

“Then maybe you should stop speaking in riddles and tell me the truth.” Mac turned right, then left. Nothing.

“I mailed you the truth,” the disembodied voice intoned.

“You sent me a riddle. I deal in information, buddy, not childish games.”

“You deal in death.”

“You’re not doing much better. Come on. It’s been six months. Let’s end this dance and get down to some business. You must want something. I know I want something. What do you say?”

The voice fell silent for a moment. Mac wondered if he’d finally shamed the caller, then in the next instant he worried that he’d pissed off the man/woman/mouse. His grip tightened on his phone, pressing it against the curve of his ear. He couldn’t afford to lose this call. Damn, he hated this.

Six months ago, Mac had received the first “letter” in the mail. It was a newspaper clipping really, of a letter to the editor of the
Virginian-Pilot
. And the one short paragraph was horribly, hauntingly similar to other editorial notes, now three years past: planet dying . . . animals weeping . . . rivers screaming . . . can’t you hear it? heat kills . . .

Three years later, the beast was stirring again. Mac didn’t know what had happened in between, but he and his task force were very truly frightened about what might happen next.

“It’s getting hot,” the voice singsonged now.

Mac looked around the darkness frantically. No one. Nothing. Dammit! “Who are you?” he tried. “Come on, buddy, speak to me.”

“He’s closer than you think.”

“Then give me a name. I’ll go get him and no one will be hurt.” He changed tack. “Are you scared? Are you frightened of him? Because trust me, we can protect you.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt them. I don’t think he can help himself.”

“If he’s someone you care about, if you’re worried for his safety, don’t be. We have procedures for this kind of arrest, we’ll take appropriate measures. Come on, this guy has killed seven girls. Give me his name. Let me solve this problem for you. You’re doing the right thing.”

“I don’t have all the answers,” the voice said, and for a moment, it sounded so plaintive, Mac nearly believed it. And then, “You should’ve caught him three years ago, Special Agent. Why, oh, why didn’t you guys catch him?”

“Work with us and we’ll get him now.”

“Too late,” the caller said. “He never could stand the heat.”

The connection broke. Mac was left in the middle of the parking lot, gripping his impossibly tiny phone and cursing a blue streak. He punched send again. The number rang and rang and rang, but the person didn’t pick up and wouldn’t until Mac was contacted again.

“Damn,” Mac said again. Then, “Damn, damn, damn.”

He found his rental car. Inside, it was approximately two hundred degrees. He slid into the seat, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, then banged his head against the hard plastic three times. Six phone calls now and he was no closer to knowing a single goddamn thing. And time was running out. Mac had known it, had been feeling it, since the mercury had started rising on Sunday.

Tomorrow Mac would check in with his Atlanta office, report the latest call. The task force could review, rework, reanalyze . . . and wait. After all this time, that’s about all they had left—the wait.

Mac pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. Exhaled deeply. He was thinking of Nora Ray Watts again. The way her face had lit up like the sun when she had stepped from the rescue chopper and spotted her parents standing just outside of the rotor wash. The way her expression had faltered, then collapsed thirty seconds later after she’d excitedly, innocently asked, “Where is Mary Lynn?”