The Killing Hour Page 5

  “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 chopp
er 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?”

  And then her voice with that impossible reedy wail, over and over again. “No, no, no. Oh God, please no.”

  Her father had tried to prop her up. Nora Ray sank down on the tarmac, curling up beneath her army blanket as if that could protect her from the truth. Her parents finally collapsed with her, a huddle of green grief that would never know an end.

  They won that day. They lost that day.

  And now?

  It was hot, it was late. And a man was writing letters to the editor once again.

  Go home, little girls. Lock the doors. Turn out the lights. Don’t end up like Nora Ray Watts, who ran out with her younger sister for a little ice cream one night and ended up abandoned in a desolate part of the coast, frantically burying herself deeper into the muck, while the fiddler crabs nibbled on her toes, the razor clams slashed open her palms, and the scavengers began to circle overhead.

  CHAPTER 5

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  10:34 P.M.

  Temperature: 89 degrees

  “I’M READY,” Tina said two inches from Betsy’s ear. In the pounding noise of the jam-packed bar, her roommate didn’t seem to hear her. They were outside Fredericksburg, at a little hole-in-the-wall joint favored by college students, biker gangs, and really loud Western bands. Even on a Tuesday night, the place was jamming, the people so thick and the bass so loud Tina didn’t know how the roof stayed on over their heads.

  “I’m ready,” Tina tried again, shouting louder. This time, Betsy at least turned toward her.

  “What?” Betsy yelled.

  “Time . . . to . . . go . . . home,” Tina hollered back.

  “Bathroom?”

  “HOME!”

  “Oooooh.” Her roommate finally got it. She looked at Tina more closely and her brown eyes instantly softened with concern. “You okay?”

  “Hot!”

  “No kidding.”

  “Not feeling . . . so well.” Actually, she was feeling horrible. Her long blond hair had come untangled from its knot and was plastered against her neck. Sweat trickled down the small of her back, over her butt, and all the way down her legs. The air was too heavy. She kept trying to draw deep, gulping breaths, but she still wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She thought she might be sick.

  “Let me tell the others,” Betsy said immediately, and headed out to the jostling dance floor, where Viv and Karen were lost amid the sea of people.

  Tina closed her eyes and promised herself she would not projectile vomit in the middle of a crowded bar.

  Fifteen minutes later, they had pushed their way outside and were walking toward Betsy’s Saab, Viv and Karen bringing up the rear. Tina put her hand against her face. Her forehead felt feverish to her.

  “Are you going to make it?” Betsy asked her. After screaming to be heard in the bar, her voice cracked three decibels too loud in the parking lot’s total silence. They all winced.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Girl, you had better tell me if you’re going to be sick,” Betsy warned seriously. “I’ll hold your head over the toilet, but I draw the line at puking in my car.”

  Tina smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

  “I could go get you some club soda,” Karen offered from behind her.

  “Maybe we should just wait a minute,” Viv said. She, Karen, and Betsy all drew up short.

  Tina, however, had already climbed into Betsy’s Saab. “I just want to go home,” she murmured quietly. “Please, let’s go home.”

  She closed her eyes as her head fell back against the seat. With her eyes closed, her head felt better. Her hands settled upon her stomach. The music faded away. Tina let herself drift off to desperately needed sleep.

  It seemed to her that they had no sooner left the parking lot than she was awakened by a savage jerk.

  “What the—” Her head popped up. The car lurched again and she grabbed the dash.

  “Back tire,” Betsy said in disgust. “I think I got a flat.”

  The car lurched right and that was enough for Tina. “Betsy,” she said tightly. “Pull over. Now!”

  “Got it!” Betsy jerked the car onto the right-hand shoulder of the road. Tina fumbled with the clasp of her seat belt, then fumbled with the door. She got out of the car and sprinted down the embankment into the nearby woods. She got her head down just in time.

  Oh, this was not fun. Not fun at all. She heaved up two cranberry and tonics, then the pasta she’d had for dinner, then anything else she’d ever eaten for the last twenty years. She stood there, hands braced upon her thighs as she dry-heaved.

  I’m going to die, she thought. I was bad and now I’m being punished and my mom was right all along. There is no way in the world I’m going to be able to take this. Oh God, I want to go home.

  Maybe she cried. Maybe she was just sweating harder. With her head between her knees, it was hard to be sure.

  But slowly her stomach relented. The cramping eased, the worst of the nausea passed. She staggered upright, put her face up to the sky, and thought she’d kill for an ice-cold shower right about now. No such luck. They were in the middle of nowhere outside of Fredericksburg. She’d just have to wait.

  She sighed. And then for the first time, she heard the noise. A non-Betsy noise. A non-girls-out-on-the-town noise. It sounded high, short, metallic. Like the slide of a rifle, ratcheting back.

  Tina slowly turned toward the road. In the hot, humid dark, she was no longer alone.

  Kimberly never even heard a noise. She was an FBI trainee, for God’s sake. A woman experienced with crime and paranoid to boot. She still never heard a thing.

  She stood alone at the Academy’s outdoor firing range, surrounded by 385 acres of darkness with only a small Mag flashlight. In her hands, she held an empty shotgun.

  It was late. The new agents, the Marines, hell, even the National Academy “students” had long since gone to bed. The stadium lights were extinguished. The distant bank of towering trees formed an ominous barrier between her and civilization. Then there were the giant steel sidewalls, designed to segregate the various firing ranges while stopping high-velocity bullets.

  No lights. No sounds. Just the unnatural hush of a night so hot and humid not even the squirrels stirred from their trees.

  She was tired. That was her best excuse. She’d run, she’d pumped iron, she’d walked, she’d studied, then she’d downed three gallons of water and two PowerBars and headed out here. Her legs were shaky. Her arm muscles trembled with fatigue.

  She hefted the empty shotgun to her shoulder, and went through the rhythms of firing over and over again.

  Place butt firmly against right shoulder to absorb the recoil. Plant feet hip-width apart, loose in the knees. Lean slightly forward into the shot. At the last minute, as your right finger squeezes the trigger, pull forward with your left hand as if the gun were a broom handle you were trying to tear in half. Hope against hope you don’t fall once more on your ass. Or smash your shoulder. Or shatter your cheek.

  Live ammunition was limited to supervised drills, so Kimberly had no real way of knowing how she was doing. Still, lots of the new agents came out after hours to go through the motions. The more times you handled a weapon, the more comfortable it felt in your hands.

  If you did it enough times, maybe it would become instinctive. And if it became instinctive, maybe you’d survive the next firearms test.

  She leaned into her next practice “shot.” Went a little too far, and her rubbery legs wobbled dangerously. She reached out a hand, had just caught herself, and then, in the pitch darkness beside her, she heard a man say, “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  Kimberly acted on instinct. She whirled, spotted the hulking, threatening form, and whipped the empty shotgun at the man’s face. Then she ran.

  A grunt. Sur
prise. Pain. She didn’t wait to find out. The hour was late, the surroundings remote, and she knew too well that some predators preferred it if you screamed.

  Footsteps. Hard and fast behind her. In her initial panic, Kimberly had sprinted toward the trees. Bad idea. Trees were dark, and far from help. She needed to cut back toward the Academy buildings, back toward lights, population, and the FBI police. The man was already gaining on her.

  Kimberly took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding, her lungs screaming. Her body was too abused for this kind of business. Good news, adrenaline was a powerful drug.

  She focused on the footsteps behind her, trying to separate their staccato beat from her heart’s frantic hammering. He was gaining. Fast. Of course. He was bigger and stronger than her. At the end of the day, the men always were.

  Fuck him.

  She homed in on his rhythm, timed it with her own. One, two, three—

  The man’s hand snaked out for her left wrist. Kimberly suddenly planted her foot, pirouetted right. He overshot her completely. And she took off at warp nine for the lights.

  “Jesus!” she heard the man swear.

  It made her smile. Grim and fierce. Then the footsteps were behind her again.

  Is this how her mother had felt? She had fought bitterly to the end. Her father had tried to protect Kimberly from the details, but a year later, on her own, Kimberly had looked up all the articles in the Philadelphia Inquirer. HIGH SOCIETY HOUSE OF HORRORS, the first banner headline had declared. Then it had gone on to describe the trail of blood that ran from room to room.

  Had her mother known then that the man had already killed Mandy? Had she guessed that he would come after Kimberly next? Or had she simply realized, in those last desperate minutes, that beneath the silk and pearls she was an animal, too? And all animals, even the lowliest field mice, fight to live in the end.

  The footsteps had closed in on her again. The lights were too far away. She wasn’t going to make it. It amazed her how coolly she accepted this fact.