The Killing Hour Read online

  “Of course I have class tomorrow. We weren’t planning on drinking ourselves silly, Ma.” In fact, Tina rarely drank anything stronger than ice tea. Not that her mom believed her. Tina had gone away to college—egads!—which Tina’s mother seemed to equate with choosing a life of sin. There was alcohol on college campuses, you know. And fornication.

  “I don’t know where we’re going, Ma. Just . . . out. It’s like . . . a gazillion degrees this week. We gotta find someplace with air-conditioning before we spontaneously combust.” Lord, did they.

  Her mother was instantly concerned. Tina held up a hand, trying to cut off the tirade before it got started.

  “No, I didn’t mean that literally. No, really, Ma, I’m all right. It’s just hot. I can handle some heat. But summer school is going great. Work is fine—”

  Her mother’s voice grew sharper.

  “I only work twenty hours a week. Of course I’m focusing on my studies. Really, honestly, everything’s fine. I swear it.” The last three words came out a smidgeon too high. Tina winced again. What was it with mothers and their internal radars? Tina should’ve quit while she was ahead. She grabbed another napkin and blotted her whole face. Now she was no longer sure if the moisture was solely from the heat, or from nerves.

  “No, I’m not seeing anyone.” That much was true.

  “We broke up, Ma. Last month. I told you about it.” Kind of.

  “No, I’m not pining away. I’m young, I’ll survive.” At least that’s what Betsy, Vivienne, and Karen told her.

  “Ma—” She couldn’t get in a word.

  “Ma—” Her mother was still going strong. Men are evil. Tina was too young to date. Now was the time to focus on school. And her family, of course. You must never forget your roots.

  “Ma—” Her mother was reaching her crescendo. Why don’t you just come home? You don’t come home enough. What are you, ashamed of me? There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary, you know. Not all young ladies get the wonderful opportunity to go off to college . . .

  “Ma! Listen, I gotta run.”

  Silence. Now she was in trouble. Worse than her mother’s lectures was her mother’s silence.

  “Betsy’s out in the car,” Tina tried. “But I love you, Ma. I’ll call you tomorrow night. I promise.”

  She wouldn’t. They both knew it.

  “Well, if anything, I’ll call you by the weekend.” That was more like it. On the other end of the phone, her mother sighed. Maybe she was mollified. Maybe she was still hurt. With her, it was always hard to know. Tina’s father had walked out when she was three. Her mother had been going at it alone ever since. And, yeah, she was bossy and anxious and downright dictatorial on occasion, but she also worked ferociously to get her only daughter into college.

  She tried hard, worked hard, loved hard. And Tina knew that more than anything in the world, her mother worried it still wouldn’t be enough.

  Tina cradled the phone closer to her damp ear. For a moment, in the silence, she was tempted. But then her mother sighed again, and the moment passed.

  “Love you,” Tina said, her voice softer than she intended. “Gotta run. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  Tina dropped the phone back on the receiver before she changed her mind, grabbed her oversized canvas bag and headed out the door. Outside, Betsy sat in her cute little Saab convertible, her face also shiny with sweat and gazing at her questioningly.

  “Ma,” Tina explained and plunked her bag in the backseat.

  “Oh. You didn’t . . .”

  “Not yet.”

  “Coward.”

  “Totally.” Tina didn’t bother opening the passenger-side door. Instead she perched her rump up on the edge of the car, then slid down into the deep, beige leather seat. Her long legs stuck up in the air. Ridiculously high brown cork sandals. Hot-pink toenails. A small red ladybug tattoo her mother didn’t know about yet.

  “Help me, I’m melting!” Tina told her friend in a dramatic voice as she threw the back of her hand against her forehead. Betsy finally smiled and put the car into gear.

  “Tomorrow it’s supposed to be even hotter. By Friday, we’ll probably break one hundred.”

  “God, just kill me now.” Tina straightened up, self-consciously checked the knot holding her heavy blond hair, and then fastened her seat belt. Ready for action. In spite of her lighthearted tone, however, her expression was too somber, the light gone out of her blue eyes and replaced now by four weeks of worry.

  “Hey, Tina,” Betsy said after a moment. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Tina forced herself to turn around. She picked up Betsy’s hand. “Buddy system?” she asked softly.

  Betsy smiled at her. “Always.”

  The sun setting was one of the most beautiful sights in the world to him. The sky glowed amber, rose, and peach, firing the horizon with dying embers of sunlight. Color washed across the clouds like strokes of an artist’s brush, feathering white cumulus billows with iridescent hues from gold to purple to finally—inevitably—black.

  He had always liked sunsets. He remembered his mother bringing him and his brother out to the front porch of the rickety shack every evening after dinner. They would lean against the railing and watch the sun sink behind the distant rim of mountains. No words were spoken. They learned the reverent hush at an early age.

  This was his mother’s moment, a form of religion for her. She would stand alone, in the western corner of the porch, watching the sun descend, and for a brief moment, the lines would soften in her face. Her lips would curve into a slight smile. Her shoulders would relax. The sun would slip beneath the horizon and his mother would sigh long and deep.

  Then the moment would end. His mother’s shoulders would return to bunched-up tension, the worry lines adding ten years to her face. She would usher them back into the house and return to her chores. He and his brother would do their best to help her, all of them careful not to make too much noise.

  It wasn’t until he was much older, nearly an adult, that the man wondered about these moments with his mom. What did it say about her life that she relaxed only when the sun eased down and signaled the end of the day? What did it mean that the only time she seemed happy was when daylight drew its last gasping breath?

  His mother had died before he could ask her these questions. Some things, he supposed, were for the best.

  The man walked back into his hotel room. Though he’d paid for the night, he planned on leaving in the next half hour. He wouldn’t miss this place. He didn’t like structures built out of cement, or mass-produced rooms with only one window. These were dead places, the modern-day version of tombs, and the fact that Americans were willing to pay good money to sleep in these cheaply constructed coffins defied his imagination.

  He worried sometimes that the very fakeness of a room like this, with its garish comforter, particle-board furniture, and carpet made with petroleum-based fibers would penetrate his skin, get into his bloodstream and he’d wake up one morning craving a Big Mac.

  The thought frightened him; he had to take a moment to draw deep breaths. Not a good idea. The air was foul, rank with fiberglass insulation and plastic ficus trees. He rubbed his temples furiously, and knew he needed to leave more quickly.

  His clothes were packed in his duffel bag. He had just one thing left to check.

  He wrapped his hand in one of the bathroom towels, reached with his covered hand beneath the bed, and slowly pulled out the brown attaché case. It looked like any other business briefcase. Maybe full of spreadsheets and pocket calculators and personal electronic devices. His, however, wasn’t.

  His carried a dart gun, currently broken down, but easy to reassemble in the field. He checked the inside pocket of the attaché case, pulled out the metal box, and counted the darts inside. One dozen hits, preloaded with five hundred and fifty milligrams of ketamine. He had prepared each dart just this morning.

  He returned the metal box and pulled out two rolls of duct tape, heav
y duty, followed by a plain brown paper bag filled with nails. Beside the duct tape and nails, he kept a small glass bottle of chloral hydrate. A backup drug, which thankfully he’d never had to use. Next to the chloral hydrate, he had a special insulated water bottle he’d been keeping in the minibar freezer until just fifteen minutes ago. The outside of the container froze, helping keep the contents cool. That was important. Ativan crystallized if not kept refrigerated.

  He felt the bottle again. It was ice cold. Good. This was his first time using this system and he was a little nervous. The plastic drinking bottle seemed to do the trick, though. The things you could buy for $4.99 from Wal-Mart.

  The man took a deep breath. He was trying to remember if he needed anything else. It had been a while. Truth be told, he was nervous. Lately, he’d been struggling a bit with dates. Things that happened a long time ago seemed bright as day, whereas yesterday’s events took on a hazy, dreamlike quality.

  Yesterday, when he had arrived here, three years ago blazed in his mind with vivid, Technicolor detail. This morning, however, things already started to fade and curl at the edges. He was worried that if he waited much longer, he’d lose the memories altogether. They’d disappear into the black void with his other thoughts, his nonflaming thoughts, and he’d be left sitting at the edges again, waiting helplessly for something, anything, to float to the top.

  Crackers. Saltines. And water. Gallon jugs. Several of them.

  That’s right, he had these things in the van. He’d gotten them yesterday, also from Wal-Mart, or maybe it had been Kmart—now see, that detail had disappeared, slipped into the pit, what was he supposed to do? Yesterday. He’d bought things. Supplies. At a very big store. Well, what could the name matter anyway? He’d paid cash, right? And burned the receipt?

  Of course he had. Even if his memory played tricks on him, it was no excuse for stupidity. His father had always been adamant on that point. The world was run by dumb-fuck idiots who couldn’t find their own assholes with a flashlight and two hands. His sons, on the other hand, must be better than that. Be strong. Stand tall. Take your punishment like a man.

  The man finished looking around. He was thinking of fire again, the heat of flames, but it was too soon so he let that thought go, willed it into the void, though he knew it would never stay. He had his travel bag; he had his attaché case. Other supplies in the van. Room already wiped down with ammonia and water. Leave no trace of prints.

  All right.

  Just one last item to grab. In the corner of the room, sitting on the horrible, fake carpet. A small rectangular aquarium covered in his own yellow faded sheet.

  The man slipped the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, followed by the strap for his attaché case. Then he used both arms to heft up the heavy glass aquarium. The sheet started to slip. From inside the yellow depths came an ominous rattle.

  “Shhhh,” he murmured. “Not yet, my love, not yet.”

  The man strode into the bloodred dusk, into the stifling, heavy heat. His brain fired to life. More pictures came to his mind. Black skirts, high heels, blond hair, blue eyes, red blouse, bound hands, dark hair, brown eyes, long legs, scratching nails, flashing white teeth.

  The man loaded up his van, got behind the wheel. At the last minute, his errant memory sparked and he patted his breast pocket. Yes, he had the ID badge as well. He pulled it out and inspected it one final time. The front of the plastic rectangle was simple enough. In white letters against the blue backdrop, the badge read: Visitor.

  He flipped the ID over. The back of the security card was definitely much more interesting. It read: Property of the FBI.

  The man clipped the ID badge to his collar. The sun sank, the sky turned from red to purple to black.

  “Clock ticking,” the man murmured. He started to drive.

  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. M
ac 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.”