“I didn’t think of it. The brochure was something the ME’s assistant brought up in passing and I took it in kind. But then last night, I remembered what you said. That for some of the victims, the man put things in their purses—a business card, a cocktail napkin with a name. And that got me wondering.”
Mac slowly released her. “Anything else you remembered last night?”
“Yes. I remembered to strap on my knife.”
He grinned. “Where is it this time? Ankle? Inside of a thigh? I swear it’s the first thing I thought when I saw you this morning. So few clothes and yet somewhere on that lean little body, I know there rests a three-inch blade. I swear, honey, I never met a woman who could make a man think of knives quite the way you do.”
Mac leaned a little closer. He smelled of soap again. Clean, strong. Kimberly instantly took a small step back. Funny how it felt as if all the air had just been sucked from her lungs.
“If I’m a good boy,” Mac murmured softly, “do I get to search you later? Or would you prefer it if I were bad?”
“Hey. Hey, hey, hey.” Kimberly finally found her bearings, getting her hands up and placing them firmly between them. “I am not flirting with you!”
“Of course not.”
“Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not the type for a casual social gesture, Kimberly. I know that. Nah, with you, I imagine it would be very serious.” He nodded at her, his blue eyes suddenly somber and affecting her far more strongly than any of his teasing ever had. Then he was straightening up and turning back toward the hall. “So where’s that geologist?”
He strode forward, and Kimberly had to scramble to follow suit.
Five minutes later Mac rapped on a closed door bearing the nameplate Jennifer York. The door almost immediately opened up.
“Yes?” a young woman asked. Like Ray Lee Chee, she was dressed casually—khaki shorts, white scooped-collar shirt, and heavy-duty hiking boots.
Mac flashed a smile, and went to work. “Jennifer York, I presume? Special Agent Mac McCormack, ma’am. And this here is . . . Special Investigator Quincy. We were just asking your associate Ray Lee Chee some questions relevant to a case, and he highly recommended you as an expert in the field of geology.”
The woman blinked her eyes a few times. Her gaze had started on Mac’s face, but now had drifted to the broad expanse of his chest. “Special Agent? As in police?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re working on a special situation, a kidnapping, if you will. We have a few items from the scene—tree leaves, rocks, etc.—that we need to identify to help find the victim. Could we take a moment of your time? It sure would be a big help.”
Mac gave the woman one last charming smile, and she practically tripped over herself getting the door all the way open and inviting Mac inside. Briefly, she seemed to notice Kimberly was in tow, but then her gaze was all Mac all the time. Not that the man didn’t have a way with women.
Inside the office, Jennifer York’s workspace appeared very similar to Ray Lee Chee’s—a modest arrangement of overstuffed bookshelves, crammed filing cabinets, and a utilitarian desk. Now she stood with one hand lightly touching her desk and the other supporting her lower back, which she had arched in a not-so-subtle attempt to emphasize her breasts.
“So,” Kimberly spoke up curtly, finally earning York’s attention. “We were wondering if there is any connection between Hawaii and Virginia.”
“You mean the two states?”
“I believe they are states, yes. So are they related or what?”
The brunette stared at Kimberly a moment longer, then abruptly abandoned her feline pose, and took a seat in her desk chair. Now that they were on the subject of work, her expression had grown serious.
“Actually, from a geologist’s perspective there is quite a connection. We often compare the Blue Ridge Mountains in Shenandoah National Park with the Hawaiian Islands—both were partially formed by flows of basaltic lava. Essentially, one billion years ago, what we now call the Blue Ridge Mountains were actually the Grenville Mountains, which we believe may have stretched from Newfoundland to Texas and may have reached as high as the present-day Himalayas. This mountain range eroded over time, however, until by six hundred million years ago it was little more than a series of rolling hills. Then, however, we had the Catoctin volcanics.”
“A volcano?” Mac asked with surprise. “In Virginia?”
“More or less. A large rift opened up in the valley and basaltic magma from the earth’s mantle seeped to the surface, flooding the valley and forming the Catoctin Formation, which you can view in the northern section of the park.”
“The Catoctin Formation still exists?” Mac asked. “And its geology is similar to Hawaii’s?”
“Yes, the Catoctin Formation still exists,” Jennifer said, flashing him a warm smile. “The geology, however, isn’t exact. The basalts in Hawaii are black, while the rocks in the Shenandoah National Park are dark green. Basically, a process called metamorphism caused the basalts in Shenandoah to recrystallize with new minerals, such as chlorite, epidote, and albite, which help give the rocks their greenish hue. In fact, we no longer call the rocks in Shenandoah basalts, but metabasalts, due to this alteration.”
Mac turned toward Kimberly. She could read the question in his eyes. The victim had been found holding a rock. Had it been greenish in color? She couldn’t remember. They hadn’t gotten a good look at it and it had been one of the first things NCIS investigators had taken away.
“Are metabasalts rare in the park?” Mac asked York.
“Not at all. You can view them as road outcroppings as you drive from the northern entrance of the park all the way to Thornton Gap, then there’s another good twenty-mile stretch from Stony Man to Swift Run Gap, then there’s more all the way to the southern point of the park.”
“Are there any kinds of rocks that are rare in the park?” Kimberly spoke up.
York had to think about it. “Well, the Shenandoah National Park actually involves three major types of bedrock. The metabasalts are found in the north and south, which we’ve discussed. But there are also siliciclasts, which are found in the southern section of the park or around Thornton Gap. Then we have the granites, which are in the central part of the park. The siliciclasts, which are sedimentary rocks containing abundant amounts of silica, probably have the smallest area of distribution. The granites probably have the most definable area, however, being bunched in the middle to north section of the park. Now, within each bedrock type, there are variances. For example, certain kinds of granites will have more of one mineral or another, depending on where they are found in the park. Same with the metabasalts and same with the siliciclasts.”
“Not all rocks are created equal?” Mac asked.
“Exactly.” She gave him another warm smile, a teacher bestowing praise on her favorite student. “Geologists analyze rocks all the time. Basically, you take a cross section of the rock sample and view it under a polarizing microscope. By breaking the rock down to its mineral components, you could pinpoint more precisely from where in the park it probably came. In some cases, in fact, the distribution range might be very small. Of course, we don’t have that kind of equipment here, but if you had a rock, I’d be happy to make a few phone calls . . .”
“We don’t exactly have a rock . . .”
She arched a brow. “No rock?”
“No.” He added helpfully, “But we do have a travel brochure for Hawaii.”
York blinked her eyes, obviously trying to follow that thought, then finally gave up. “Well, without an actual rock sample, I’m not sure what to tell you. Yes, there are lots of rocks in the Shenandoah National Park. And yes, some of them are similar to those found in Hawaii. But I don’t know how to break things down for you any more than that. The wilderness area of the Shenandoah National Park encompasses nearly eighty thousand acres, you know. That’s a lot of rock types and areas of geologic interest.”
“D
o you have a book or a rock guide we could take with us?” Kimberly asked. “You know, that way once we did have a sample, we could look up more information.”
“It wouldn’t be specific enough. With your naked eye, the best you would be able to determine was if the stone in question were basalt versus granite versus siliciclast. That would only cut your search area in half, leaving you with forty thousand acres. No, to truly analyze a rock, you need to be able to look at its mineral components through a microscope.”
“Do you have a microscope we could borrow?” Kimberly attempted weakly.
“They cost a couple pennies. I think the U.S. government might notice.”
“Darn government.”
“Get the rock,” York said. “Give me a call. I’d be very happy to help.” Her gaze was once more locked on Mac.
“We’ll try,” Mac said diligently, but Kimberly knew he was just being polite. They would never have access to the rock found in the victim’s hand; they were outsiders no longer privy to such helpful little tidbits as real evidence.
“One last question,” Kimberly said. “Are there rattlesnakes in the Shenandoah National Park?”
York appeared surprised. “More than a few. Why do you ask?”
“Just checking. Guess I better put on a thicker pair of boots.”
“Watch out for rocks,” York advised. “Rattlers like to curl up in the nooks and crannies between boulders. Or even sleep out on the sun-warmed surface once it’s dusk.”
“Got it.”
Mac shook the woman’s hand. York gave him a dazzling smile, while managing to once more arch her back. Kimberly engaged in a significantly stiffer handshake, which is apparently what happened when you didn’t have a Southern drawl—or Mac’s muscled chest.
They made their way back to the front door, where the blue sky already stretched bright and hot beyond the glass. “That wasn’t so good,” Mac said, pausing before the entranceway. He seemed to be bracing himself for leaving the cool comfort of air-conditioning behind and bursting once more into the heat.
“We have a start,” Kimberly said firmly. “All signs point to the Shenandoah National Park.”
“Yes, all eighty thousand acres. You’re right, we should find this girl in no time at all.” He shook his head in disgust. “We need choppers. Hell, we need search-and-rescue, the National Guard, and about half a dozen dogs. This poor woman . . .”
“I know,” Kimberly said quietly.
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it? A kidnap victim deserves all the help in the world. And instead . . .”
“She’s only going to get us.”
He nodded and the lines of frustration etched into his dark face almost made her reach out her hand. She wondered who that sort of unsolicited contact would shock more—her or him?
“We need supplies,” Mac said. “Then we’d better hit the road. It’s a long drive to Shenandoah, particularly when we don’t know where we’re going yet.”
“We’re going to find her,” Kimberly said.
“We need more information. Damn, why didn’t I just take that rock?”
“Because that would’ve been crossing the line. The leaf had already been mishandled by the ME. The rock, on the other hand . . .”
“Has been properly bagged and tagged and even now is wasting away in some crime lab,” Mac finished bitterly.
“We’re going to find her,” Kimberly said again.
He finally stilled in front of the glass door. His blue eyes were still dark, fired by frustration. For just a moment, however, the look on his face softened. “Earnest Kimberly,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“I hope you’re right.” He glanced at his watch. “Ten A.M.,” he said softly, then abruptly pushed through the heavy door. “And boy, is it getting hot.”
Tina woke up slowly, becoming aware of two things at once: a deep, wracking thirst that had left her tongue swollen and cottony in her mouth and the incessant sound of buzzing around her head.
She opened her eyes, but couldn’t see a thing through the thick tangle of blond hair, now glued uncomfortably to her sweat-slicked face. She roughly pushed back the long strands, only to encounter a fuzzy black haze. And then, abruptly, she knew what that buzzing was.
Tina leapt to her feet, already waving her arms frantically while a scream built in her throat. Mosquitoes. She was covered, head to toe, with hundreds of swarming, buzzing, biting mosquitoes.
Malaria, she thought instantly. The West Nile Virus. Hell, the bubonic plague, as far as she was concerned. She had never seen so many bugs, fluttering in her hair, sinking their hungry mouths into her skin. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Her feet landed in mud, her three-inch-high platform sandals immediately sinking into the watery marsh. She had a faint sensation of cool relief as the mud hit her toes, then she made the mistake of looking down and this time she did scream. Right there, slithering by her ankle in the muck, went a long black snake.
Tina scrambled quickly back onto the rock that had apparently been her perch. The mosquitoes swarmed hungrily. And now she could see other hunters as well. Yellow flies, gnats, buzzing creatures of all sorts and sizes. They swarmed her head and shoulders, seeking the unprotected skin of her throat, the corners of her mouth, and the whites of her eyes. Fresh welts rose on her ears, her eyelids, her cheeks. Her legs were covered in red marks, some still oozing fresh blood as more mosquitoes were drawn to the scent. She started clapping her hands. Then she slapped them against her entire body.
“Die, die, die,” she gasped. And they did. She felt plump, overfed bodies explode between her fingers, staining her palms with her own blood as she took out dozens. Then hundreds more insects swooped in to take their place, biting painfully at her tender skin.
She was crying now. She gasped for breath. Then in the middle of her frenzy, the inevitable happened. Her stomach rolled, she got down on her hands and knees, and then she vomited over the edge of the rock into the foul-smelling muck below.
Water. Green bile. Precious little food. Her stomach contracted anyway, her head dropping between her shoulders as she dry-heaved. The mosquitoes used the opportunity to swarm her shoulders, her elbows, her calves. She was being eaten alive, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to save herself.
Minutes passed. The knot eased in her stomach. The cramping nausea released its hold on her bowels. Shakily, she straightened, brushing back her long, sweaty hair, and feeling new welts already raise up on her ears.
The mosquitoes danced in front of her eyes, seeking skin. She batted them away, but her movements were already halfhearted, the actions of a woman who realized she was no match for the enemy. She could kill hundreds of insects. A thousand would simply take their place. Oh God . . .
Her throat burned. Her skin felt as if it were on fire. She raised her trembling hands to her face and saw that they were also covered in red, angry bites. Then her gaze went all the way up to white-hot sky, where the sun was already starting to blaze overhead. The dog crate was gone. Instead, from all appearances she had been cast into some kind of swampy pit, fodder for insects, snakes, and God knows what.
“Good news,” Tina whispered to herself. “He’s not a sexually deranged pervert after all.”
And then she started to laugh. And then she started to cry. And then she whispered in a voice probably heard only by the mosquitoes and snakes, “I’m so sorry, Ma. Oh God, somebody, get me out of here quick.”
CHAPTER 20
Quantico, Virginia
10:08 A.M.
Temperature: 91 degrees
AT EIGHT A.M., SPECIAL AGENT KAPLAN escorted Rainie and Quincy to the roped-off crime scene where the victim had been found yesterday morning. At eight-ten, Kaplan took off to attend to his own tasks for the day, leaving Rainie and Quincy alone. That was fine by Quincy. He liked to walk a scene unescorted, without the murmur of voices, incessant clicking of cameras, or the needling scratch of pencil on paper to divert his attention. Death inevitably took o
n a life of its own, and Quincy preferred the calm after the storm. When all the other investigators had left and he could be alone with his musings.
Rainie stood a good thirty feet away from him, walking soundlessly around the fringes of the forest. She was used to his ways by now, and worked as quietly as he did. They had been at this for two hours already, falling seamlessly into the usual grid pattern, slowly and methodically dissecting each inch of the roped-off area, and then, because even the best cops missed things, moving outside of the cordoned-off space, searching for what the others might have missed, for that one clue which would magically bring it all together. If such a thing really existed.
Underneath the relative shade of the thick oak trees, the heat hammered down on them relentlessly. They shared one bottle of water, then another, and were now almost done with the lukewarm third. Quincy’s white dress shirt, sharply pressed just this morning, was now plastered against his chest while thin trickles of sweat beaded down his face. His fingers left damp stains on his small notepad while his pencil slid wetly between his fingers.
It was a brutal morning, serving as a brutal start to what would be no doubt an extremely brutal day. Was this what the killer wanted? Overheated law enforcement officers struggling to function in damp, unbearable weather that glued their uniforms to their bodies and robbed them of breath? Some killers picked extremely harsh or disgusting places to dump bodies because they relished the thought of homicide detectives picking through Dumpsters or wading through swamps. First they humiliated the victims. Then they reveled in the thought of what they could do to the police.
Quincy stopped and turned once more, frowning in spite of himself. He wanted to know this space. He wanted to feel this space. He wanted a glimpse into why, of all places on this nearly four-hundred-acre base, had the killer dumped the body here.
The area was sheltered, the thick canopy of trees making the path invisible at night. The path itself was wide enough for a car, but four tires would have definitely left at least a faint impression and there was none. No, their unidentified subject—UNSUB—had selected a spot half a mile from the road. And then he’d walked that half mile in pitch-black night while staggering beneath the awkward weight of a hundred-and-ten-pound body. Surely there were dozens of spots more accessible and less physically demanding.