The Killing Hour

  He’d seen the mill in action when he was younger. Watched workers attack tree trunks with gas-powered chain saws. No one wore protective eye gear. Few bothered with hard hats. Men strode around in loose flannel shirts, the excess material just waiting to get caught beneath the right hungry blade.

  Coffee cups were tossed straight to the ground. Crumpled-up Coke cans formed an expanse of mini landmines. Old saw blades were yanked off the equipment and carelessly tossed aside. Walk around unaware and scratch up your pant leg. Walk around too unaware, and lose a limb.

  That’s the kind of place this was. And the mountains of sawdust had yet to spontaneously combust. Once that happened, there would be no hope for anything around here. Or anyone.

  The stupid fucks. They destroyed the land, then called it quits, and had the gall to think that made things right.

  The man got out of his van, reenergized by his outrage, and the bugs instantly swarmed his face. Mosquitoes, yellow flies, tiny gnats. They came en masse, attracted by the smell of fresh blood and salty sweat. The man waved his hand around his head but knew it was useless. Dusk was the hour for mosquitoes. And also for the brown bats, which were already swooping overhead and preparing to feast.

  In the back of the van, the girl didn’t stir. He’d administered 3.5 mg of Ativan four hours ago. She should be out for another two hours, if not four. That was important for the journey ahead.

  First, he took care of himself. He donned a pair of blue coveralls. The material was a synthetic, thin but rubbery to the touch. As a general rule, he scorned unnatural fibers, but it was unavoidable here. The latest water test he’d done had revealed a pH level of 2.5; in other words, this water was so acidic, it would literally eat away cotton and peel away skin. Synthetic suit, it was.

  Over his coveralls, the man donned a pair of canvas boots, then a thick pair of gloves. Around his waist went his care pack—extra water, saltine crackers, waterproof matches, a Swiss army knife, a handheld LED light, a compass, one extra loop of nylon rope, and two extra clamps.

  Next, moving quickly, he turned his attention to the girl. This one was a brunette, not that it really mattered to him. She wore some kind of skimpy, yellow-flowered dress that did little to cover her long, tanned limbs. She looked like a runner, or some kind of athlete. Maybe that would help her in the days to come. Maybe it wouldn’t.

  He gritted his teeth, bent down, and hefted her unconscious form up over his shoulder. His arms screamed while his back groaned. She was not a heavy girl, but he was not a big man, and his body was already fatigued by forty-eight hours of intensive effort. Then he was standing, and the worst of the strain was over.

  She got a suit of her own. For the entry. He dressed her the same way one might attend a doll. Flopping each limb into place. Tucking feet and hands where appropriate. Snapping the suit up tight.

  Then he strapped her to the body board. At the last minute, he remembered her purse and the jug of water. Then he remembered her face, how close it would be to the acidic sludge, and pulled the hood as tightly as he could over her face.

  He stood and the world went black.

  What? Where? He needed to . . . He must . . .

  He was standing in an old sawmill. He had a girl with him. He was outside his van.

  The world spun again, black void threatening as he wobbled a little on his feet and clutched frantically at his temples. What? Where? He needed to . . . He must . . .

  He was standing in an old sawmill. That’s right. He had a girl with him . . . He rubbed his temples harder, trying to hold it together through a fresh burst of pain. Concentrate, man, focus. He was outside his van; he was wearing blue coveralls. He had his survival pack. The body board was already loaded with water; the girl was strapped on. Everything was all set.

  Except that confused him even more. Why couldn’t he remember getting it all set? What had happened?

  The black holes, he realized faintly. They came more and more frequently these days. The future and the past, both slipping through his fingers with frightening speed. He was an educated man. Someone who prided himself on intelligence, strength, and control. But he, too, was part of nature’s web. And nothing lived forever. Everything of beauty died.

  Lately, he’d been dreaming so often of the flames.

  The man reached down, attached his line to the body board, swung the rope over his shoulder and started to pull.

  Seventeen minutes later, he had arrived at the opening of a small hole in the ground. Not many people would notice it, just another sinkhole in a state whose limestone foundation was more hole-riddled than Swiss cheese. This opening was special, though. The man had known it since his youth, and understood even back then its full potential.

  First he had to fasten his rope around the thick trunk of a nearby tree, forming a rough belay. He stationed his feet for balance, then used the rope to carefully lower the body board down through the hole deep into the bowels of the earth. Ten minutes later, he heard the small splash of the board landing. He tied off one end of the rope around the tree, and rappelled down the other, also disappearing into the foul-smelling earth. He landed standing upright in knee-deep water. Fading light forty feet above. Endless darkness all around.

  Most people never looked past the sawmill above. They didn’t understand that in Virginia, there was often a whole other ecosystem far below.

  He turned on his headlight, identified the cavern’s narrow passageway to his right, and got on his hands and knees to crawl. The girl floated after him, the board’s rope tied once more to the belt at his waist.

  Within minutes the passageway shrank. He extended his narrow frame, body flattening carefully into the oily stream of rancid water. He was protected in synthetic shrink-wrap; he still swore he could feel the water lapping away at his skin, sluicing off his cells, eroding him down to his very bones. Soon the water would get into his brain, and then he would have no hope left. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

  The smells were richer now. The stifling decay of layers and layers of bat guano, now melted into an oozing morass that squished around his hands and knees. The sharp, pungent odor of sewage and waste. The deeper, more menacing smell of death.

  He moved slowly, feeling his way even with the light. Bats startled easily and you didn’t need a panicked, rabid creature flying at your face. Ditto the raccoons, though he’d be surprised if any of them could survive this passageway anymore. Most of what had once lived here had probably died years ago.

  Now there was just this rancid water, corroding away the last of the limestone walls and spreading its slow, insidious death.

  The body board bobbed along behind him, bumping him from time to time in the rear. And then, just when the ceiling was shrinking dangerously low, forcing his face closer and closer to that putrid water, the tunnel ended. The room opened up, and he and the girl spilled out into a vast, expansive cavern.

  The man shot immediately to his feet, embarrassed by his own need to stand, but doing it nonetheless. He compulsively took giant gulps of air, his need for oxygen outweighing his apprehension of the smell. He looked down, and was genuinely surprised by how badly his hands were shaking.

  He should be stronger than this. He should be tougher. Forty-eight hours without sleep, even he was starting to go.

  He wasted another thirty seconds regaining his composure, then belatedly went to work on the rope at his waist. He was here, the worst of it was over, and he was aware once again of just how fast the clock was ticking.

  He fetched the girl from the mini-stretcher. He laid her out on a ledge away from the dark running stream, and quickly stripped the coveralls from her body. Purse went beside her. Bottle of water as well.

  Forty feet above, an eight-inch-diameter pipe formed a makeshift skylight in the ceiling. When daylight came, she would be greeted by a narrow shaft of light. He thought that gave her a sporting chance.

  He retied the board to his waist, and ready now for his exit, gave the brunette one last glance.


  She was propped up near a small pool of water. This water wasn’t polluted like the stream. Not yet. It was replenished from the rain and put up a better fight.

  This water rippled and surged with the promise of life. Things moved beneath the pitch-black surface. Things that lived and breathed and fought. Things that bit. Some things that slithered. And many things that wouldn’t care for intruders in their home.

  The girl was moaning again.

  The man bent over. “Shhhh,” he whispered in her ear. “You don’t want to wake up just yet.”

  The water surged again. The man turned his back on the girl and left.

  CHAPTER 15

  Quantico, Virginia

  9:28 P.M.

  Temperature: 91 degrees

  “SHE DOESN’T LOOK VERY GOOD,” RAINIE SAID.

  “I know.”

  “What the hell happened to her eye? It looks like she’s gone ten rounds with Tyson.”

  “Shotgun training would be my guess.”

  “She’s definitely lost weight.”

  “It’s not supposed to be easy.”

  “But you’re worried about her. Come on, Quince. Give up the ghost. You’d like to go punch Watson’s lights out. Pretty please. I’ll hold him down for you.”

  Quincy sighed. He finally put down the case file he was reading—the homicide notes from the Georgia case years ago. These were just summary documents, of course. The original detective reports, evidence sheets, and activity logs probably took up enough boxes to fill a small family room. They both hated working off case summary reports—almost by definition, the documents were filled with erroneous assumptions and conclusions. Here, however, they had to make do.

  The page Quincy currently had open was labeled “Profile: Atlanta Case #832.” Rainie’s hands itched reflexively. GBI’s profile of the Eco-Killer, no doubt. She’d like to read that report herself, particularly after listening to that Georgian cop’s take on things. But Quincy had grabbed the file first. He’d probably read it long into the night, pinching the bridge of his nose in that gesture which meant he was thinking too hard and giving himself a headache.

  “If I say anything, she’ll just get angry,” he said now.

  “That’s because she’s your daughter.”

  “Exactly. And my daughter hates for me to be involved in her life. My daughter believes pigs will fly before she’ll accept help from me.”

  Rainie frowned at him. She was sitting Indian-style in the middle of the orange-covered bed. This was only her fourth time at Quantico and the place never failed to intimidate the crap out of her. The grounds practically screamed reputable-law-enforcement-agents-only. Even though she and Quincy had been together for six years, they were still given separate rooms—they were unmarried, you know, and the Academy did have its sense of propriety.

  Rainie knew the way the world worked. She would never have been allowed through those hallowed gates if she hadn’t had Quincy to vouch for her. Not way back when, and not now. Thus, she could understand some of Kimberly’s issues, having taken the long route to elite law enforcement herself.

  “I don’t think she’s going to make it,” Rainie said flatly. “She looks too haggard around the eyes. Like a dog that’s been beat too many times.”

  “The training pushes you. It’s meant to test your level of endurance.”

  “Oh, bullshit! You think Kimberly lacks endurance? My God, she held up even after a madman killed Bethie. She remained functional and alert when that same madman came after her. I was with her, remember. Kimberly has plenty of endurance. She doesn’t need a bunch of numbnuts in suits to prove otherwise.”

  “I don’t think Watson would care to be labeled a numbnut.”

  “Oh, now you’re just pissing me off.”

  “Apparently.” Quincy threw up his hands. He’d discarded his suit jacket after their meeting with Watson and Kaplan. Sequestered in his room, he’d even gone so far as to roll up the cuffs of his white dress shirt and loosen his tie. He still looked like an FBI agent, and Rainie had the overwhelming compulsion to fight with him, if only to mess him up a little. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Stop being an agent.”

  “I am not an agent!”

  “Oh, for the love of God. There is no agent more agent than you. I swear you have pin-striped ties encrypted into your DNA. When you die, the coffin is going to read Property of the FBI.”

  “Did you just think that up off the top of your head?”

  “Yep, I’m on a roll. No changing the subject. Kimberly’s in trouble. You’ve seen her, and you’ve seen how Watson is treating her. It’s only a matter of time before things come to a head.”

  “Rainie . . . Not that you’re going to want to hear this, but Watson is an experienced Academy supervisor. Maybe he has a point.”

  “What? Are you fucking mad?”

  Quincy sighed deeply. “She disobeyed orders. Even if she had good reasons, she still disobeyed orders. Kimberly is a new agent. This is the life she chose, and the whole beginning of her career is going to be defined by doing what she’s told. If she can’t do that, maybe the FBI isn’t the right organization for her.”

  “She found a body. When you were training here, how many bodies did you find? Uh huh. That’s what I thought. She has the right to be a little rattled.”

  “Rainie, look at these crime-scene photos. You tell me. Who does this girl look like?”

  Rainie grudgingly turned her gaze to the photos, currently spread out on the foot of the bed. “Mandy,” she said without hesitation.

  Quincy nodded somberly. “Of course she looks like Mandy. It’s the first thing I noticed and the first thing you noticed. Yet Kimberly hasn’t mentioned anything about it.”

  “If she so much as whispers that the victim reminds her of her dead sister, they’ll cart her out of here in a straitjacket for sure.”

  “And yet the victim must remind her of her sister. Isn’t that the whole point?”

  Rainie scowled. He was leading her down some psychobabble trail. She could feel the trap closing in. “You’re working the case,” she countered.

  “I’ve worked over three hundred homicides. I’ve had a bit more time to develop objectivity about these things.”

  “But you saw the resemblance.”

  “I did.”

  “Does it bother you, Quincy?”

  “What? That a victim should look so much like Mandy, or that Mandy is still gone, and I never did a damn thing to help her?” His question was harsh. Rainie took that as an invitation to slide off the bed. He stiffened when she first touched his shoulders. She expected that. After all these years, they each still had their barriers and self-defenses. It didn’t used to bother her so much. But lately it had been making her sad.

  “You hurt for her,” she whispered.

  “For Kimberly? Of course I do. She’s picked a hard path. It’s just sometimes . . .” He blew out a breath.

  “Go on.”

  “Kimberly wants to be tough. She wants to be strong. I understand that. After everything that happened to her, a desire for some level of invincibility is natural. And yet . . . does shooting a gun make you omnipotent, Rainie? Does pushing yourself to run six miles every day mean you’ll never be a victim? Does engaging in every kind of physical combat imaginable mean you’ll never lose?” He didn’t wait for her answer; none was necessary. “Kimberly seems to honestly believe that if she can become an FBI agent, no one will ever hurt her again. Oh God, Rainie, it is so damn hard to watch your child repeat your own mistake.”

  Rainie slid her arms around his shoulder. She leaned her head against Quincy’s chest. Then, because there were no words to comfort him, she went to the one topic that was always safe. Work. Dead bodies. A good, intriguing homicide case.

  “Do you think the Georgian hunk is right?” she asked.

  “The Georgian hunk?”

  “I’m only thinking of Kimberly. I’m very altruistic that way. So, you grabbed
the case file first. What do you think of his allegation that the Georgian Eco-Killer is now hunting Virginian prey?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Quincy said reluctantly. His hand came up and rested on the back of her neck. After another moment, he stroked her hair. She closed her eyes, and thought for a moment that things might be all right.

  “The Eco-Killer is an interesting case, remarkable almost more for what the investigators don’t know about the killer than for what they do. For example, seven homicides later, the investigators have recovered no murder weapon, identified no primary murder scene, and not recovered a single bit of trace evidence such as hair, fiber, blood, or semen. In fact, the killer seems to have spent only the barest amount of time with each of the victims, limiting the opportunity for evidence transfer. He simply strikes, kills, and runs.”

  “An efficiency freak.”

  Quincy shrugged. “Most killers are driven by blood lust. They don’t just want to kill, they want to savor their victim’s pain and suffering. In contrast, this is the coldest string of murders I’ve ever seen. The UNSUB has little apparent interest in violence and yet, he is extraordinarily deadly.”

  “He’s into gamesmanship,” Rainie thought out loud. “For him the sport isn’t the kill, but setting up the bodies, and establishing his riddles. Then he writes his notes, ensuring he’ll receive credit for his crime.”

  “He writes the notes,” Quincy agreed. “Giving his game an environmental slant. Now, do we believe this man really cares about the environment, or is this yet another aspect of his game? I don’t know enough yet, but I’m fairly certain that even the notes are just another type of prop. The man is setting a stage. He is like the great Oz, hiding behind a curtain and pulling all the strings. But to what end? What does he really want—and what does he really get—out of doing all this? I don’t have that answer yet.”