The Killing Hour

  The key was to marshal her resources and use them sparingly.

  She also had to get out of the sun. Find someplace shady and relatively cool for the day. Then she could make her escape at night.

  She remembered the weather forecast now. Hot, working toward even hotter. Probably breaking triple digits by the end of the week. Not much time, especially if she was already feeling this exhausted.

  She had to get moving. Get out of this pit, or die here.

  Tina wasn’t ready to die yet.

  She used her fingers on her puffy eyelids, prying open the painful, swollen flesh. Some kind of thick liquid drained down her face. She held her eyelids open resolutely, permitting only a few short blinks.

  In the beginning, nothing. And then . . . the goo cleared from her eyes and the world slowly came into focus. Bright, harsh, punishing.

  Tina inspected her surroundings. Below her was some kind of thick, wet muck. Above her, fifteen to twenty feet overhead, was the mouth of the pit. And beyond that? She had no idea. She could see no signs of bushes, trees, or shrubs. Whatever was up there, however, it surely had to be better than what was down here.

  She turned her inspection to the walls. Standing carefully on the edge of the boulder, she counted to three, then let her upper body fall forward. Her red, inflamed hands hit the surface hard. She felt a moment of stunning, cracking pain. Then she was there, feet on the boulder, the rest of her leaning against the side of the pit.

  The side was cooler than she would’ve thought. Wet with something she didn’t understand. Slippery. Like a rock covered with algae or mold. Tina wanted to yank back her hand in revulsion. Instead, she forced her fingers to spread, feeling around for handholds.

  Not rock, she determined after a moment. The rough texture was too consistent, without any protruding knobs or zigzagging crevices. It was gravelly, lightly scraping her palms. Concrete, she realized abruptly. Oh my God, she was in a man-made pit. The son of a bitch had dropped her into his own homemade hell!

  Did that mean she was in a backyard? Her thoughts raced. Maybe some kind of residential area? If she could just climb up, then, find some way to the surface . . .

  But if she was in a populated area, why hadn’t someone responded to her screams? And what about the muck? That oozy, swampy mud, teeming with things she didn’t want to know . . .

  He probably had a place out in the country, or deep in the woods. Someplace far from civilization, where no one would ever be the wiser. That would make more sense, given his penchant for kidnapping young women.

  But still, if she could climb out . . . Once on the surface she could run, hide, find a road, follow a stream. Even if she was deep in the middle of nowhere, up top she had a chance. It was more than she could say down here.

  She resumed scouring the bumpy walls with her hands. Faster now. More determined. A moment later, she found it. A vine. Then another, and another. Some kind of invasive species, either seeking the mud or trying to escape. It didn’t matter to her.

  Tina wrapped three vines around her hand and gave them an experimental tug. They seemed strong and resilient. Maybe she could use them. Balance her feet against the wall and use the vines to pull her way up. Why not? She’d seen it dozens of times on TV.

  Fired with purpose now, she got serious. She pushed herself back onto her rocky perch and examined her worldly goods. She needed her purse; it had food and who knows what else might come in handy. Easy enough. She slung it over her shoulder and tried not to wince as the leather rubbed against her sunburned flesh. The water was trickier. It didn’t fit in her purse and she didn’t think she could grip a gallon jug and the vines in the same hand.

  Briefly, she considered drinking all of it. Why not? It would feel so good going down her throat. Wonderful and wet. And she was making a break for it. Escaping from this hell. If she got on top, she wouldn’t need supplies anymore, would she?

  Of course, she had no way of knowing that. She didn’t even know what was up there. No, no more drinking. The water needed to go with her. Even if it was heavy and hot to the touch. It was the only supply she had.

  Her dress. The material was thin and wispy. She could tear it into strips and use them to tie the jug to her purse. She reached down with both hands and yanked at her hem. The material immediately slid undamaged from her grip. Her fingers were swollen and refused to cooperate. She tried again and again, panting hard, working herself into a frenzy.

  The damn material refused to tear. She needed scissors. Of all the things not to have in her purse.

  She bit back a sob. Feeling defeated again as the mosquitoes welcomed her stillness by once more resuming to feed. She had to move, she had to do something!

  Her bra. She could take that off and loop it through the gallon jug with the shoulder straps serving as a handle. Or better yet, she could wrap the bra around her purse strap and let the water hang from her purse. Then her hands would be free for climbing. Perfect.

  She lifted the hem of her sundress and peeled it from her skin. The flies and mosquitoes instantly got excited. Fresh, white flesh. New, unbloodied areas. She tried not to think about it as she worked on removing her sweat-soaked bra. The nylon fabric was sticky to the touch. She grimaced and finally got it off with a sigh.

  It seemed pure cruelty to yank on her dripping, stinky dress. It felt so much better to be naked in this heat, no uncomfortable fabric rubbing her raw, salty skin. The faintest of breezes wafting against her breasts, her back . . .

  She gritted her teeth, and forced her dress back on, the fabric rolling and twisting uncooperatively as she wiggled. For one moment, her foot slipped on the rock. She teetered precariously, looking down at the oozing mud. She dropped down on the rock and held on tight.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. Oh, she wanted done with this. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her mother. She wanted a wonderful Minnesotan winter, when she could run outside and fling herself into the deep white snow. She remembered how the flakes tasted on the tip of her tongue. The sensation of fresh ice crystals melting in her mouth. The delicate tickle of more flakes feathering across her eyelashes.

  Was she crying now? It was so hard to know with all the sweat on her face and the flies encrusting the corners of her eyes.

  “I love you, Ma,” Tina whispered. And then she had to break off the thought before she definitely wept.

  She looped her bra around the jug handle, fastened it around her purse and pushed it behind herself. The dragging weight of it was awkward, and the water sloshed up dangerously close to the uncapped top, but it was the best she could do. She had her supplies. Next.

  She balanced on the rock, then grimly fell forward against the wall. Her hands scraped against the surface, catching her weight. Then she searched for vines. She found six. She wrapped three around each hand, feeling them bite into her sunburned hands. Time to grin and bear it.

  Tina stepped out of her highly impractical shoes. One last deep breath. The sun beating down on her head. The sweat rolling down her cheeks. The bugs buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

  Tina pulled on the vines with both arms while simultaneously throwing her right foot at the wall. Her toes scrabbled for traction against the algae-slick surface, found a drier patch and dug in. On the count of three, she heaved up with her arms.

  And simultaneously felt the vines give way. She was falling back, her leg already kicking back, trying to find her rocky perch. The water gallon jug swung wildly, further upsetting her balance. She wasn’t going to make it, she was going to fall into the stinking muck.

  Tina pushed desperately with her hands, releasing her panicked grip on the vines. She went careening back onto her rock. Windmilling, twisting, then suddenly, gratefully, collapsing down onto the stable surface. The water, water, water. Her hands frantically found the jug, still magically upright and holding the last of her precious supply.

  She was back on her rock, she had some water, she was safe.

  The vines collapsed into the muc
k below. As they did so, she noticed their edges. Cut clean halfway through. And then came the fluttering piece of white paper, as if loosened by the turbulence above.

  Tina reached up a tired hand and felt the paper fall into her palm.

  She drew it toward her.

  It read: HEAT KILLS.

  “You son of a bitch,” Tina tried to scream, but her throat was too dry, the words coming out as a mere whisper. She licked her lips. It did no good. She hung her head tiredly, and felt the last of her strength leach from her body.

  She needed more food. She needed more water. She needed a break from this desperate heat if she was ever going to survive. And now the bugs were back, the mosquitoes, the yellow flies, feasting, feasting, feasting.

  “I’m not going to die here,” she muttered resolutely, trying to summon some force of will. “Dammit, I won’t do it.”

  But if she couldn’t make it up out of the pit . . .

  Very slowly, Tina’s gaze went to the thick, slithering muck.

  CHAPTER 25

  Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

  4:25 P.M.

  Temperature: 99 degrees

  “THE SEARCH AREA HAS BEEN DIVIDED into ten different sections. Each team of two should analyze their section on the map, then work it in the standard grid pattern. In the good news department, since the hiker has been missing for only twenty-four hours, she shouldn’t have wandered beyond a thirty-mile radius, giving us a fairly contained target for search. In the bad news department, this thirty-mile radius contains some of the harshest, steepest terrain in the entire park. Here’s what you need to know:

  “One, lost hikers inevitably head down. They’re tired, they’re fatigued and once they lose their sense of direction, they’ll head down the mountain even when help lies just twenty feet away over the next hill. Two, hikers will also gravitate toward the sound of running water. Everyone knows how important water is, especially someone who is disoriented. If there is water in your section of the grid, check the areas around the streams carefully and follow them for as long as you can. Three, once off the groomed hiking trails, this is rough country. The underbrush is thick, the footing treacherous. Be on the lookout for upturned rocks, broken branches, and trampled underbrush. If this woman is still on the trails, chances are someone would’ve seen her by now. So most likely she’s in the wild and we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

  Kathy Levine paused for a moment, gazing out somberly over the group of twenty search-and-rescue volunteers now gathered at Big Meadows Lodge. “It’s hot out, people. Yeah, no kidding, you’re thinking. But I mean it. In this kind of heat index, dehydration is a constant threat. The rule of thumb is that two quarts of water a day keeps dehydration away. Unfortunately, in these conditions your body can easily lose a quart of water per hour through your lungs and pores, so two quarts isn’t going to cut it. Frankly, each person should carry two gallons of water, but since that weight would be prohibitive, we’re requiring each rescue team to carry either water tablets or a water purification system. Then you can refill your water supply at the various streams you encounter along the way. Don’t drink untreated stream water. Sure, the water looks clear and pretty up here, but most of it is contaminated by Giardia lamblia—a parasite which is guaranteed to give you a bad case of the seven-day trots. Drink often, but drink smart.

  “Now, assuming that you stay properly hydrated, don’t slip down a steep hillside, or stumble upon a sleeping bear, there are a few final things to keep in mind. For example, rattlesnakes. We have plenty. Every now and then, you’ll come to a clear meadow with a pile of rocks from an old landslide. Looks like a terrific place to sit down. Don’t. The snakes think so, too, and most of those rocks are their homes. Let’s not argue with them. Second, we have hornets. They like to build nests in old hollows in the ground or in rotten logs. If you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. If you step into a nest, however . . . might I recommend not running back to your partner. You’ll only drag him into the mess and one of you will need to be able to hike back for help. Finally, we have stinging nettles. If you haven’t ever seen one, they are about thigh-high with broad green leaves. If you boil them, they actually make a pretty good green to go with dinner. Walk into them, however, and welcome to nature’s version of fiberglass. The prickers get immediately under the skin and emit a poison that remains long after the thistles are gone. It takes a good thirty to sixty minutes for the inflammation to subside and by then, you’ll have renounced everything you once held dear.

  “This park is beautiful. I’ve walked almost every inch of it in the last five years and I can’t think of a more beautiful spot on earth. But nature also commands respect. We need to be focused. We need to move fast. But in these conditions, I also need each and every one of you to always be using your head. Our goal is to find one person, not lose any more. Any questions?” Levine paused. There were none. “Good,” she said crisply. “Let’s move. We have only four and a half hours of daylight left.”

  The group broke up, people finding their search partners and heading out of the lodge. Everyone had received their assignment, and most seemed to understand the drill. Mac and Kimberly were probably the biggest rookies of the bunch and Mac had done his fair share of search-and-rescue work by now. Kimberly, he could tell, was more uncomfortable. She had the gear, she had the fitness. But by her own admission, she’d never spent much time in the woods.

  If what Kathy Levine had said was correct, this was going to be quite an adventure.

  “What do you think she meant by the hornets?” Kimberly said now as they trudged out of the wonderfully air-conditioned lodge into the searing heat. “If the hornets build their nests in the ground and we’re walking on the ground, how are we supposed to avoid them?”

  “Look where you step,” Mac said. He stopped, held up the map they’d been given, and worked on orienting it to their surroundings. They were officially Search Team D, assigned to search the three square miles of, logically enough, Search Area D.

  “But if I’m looking at the ground, how am I supposed to look for a lost woman or broken branches or whatever?”

  “It’s just like driving. You look ahead ten feet to know what’s coming, then gaze around all you want, then scope out the next ten feet. Look, glance, look, glance, look, glance. Okay, according to the map, we enter the trailhead there.”

  “I thought we weren’t on a trail. Levine said we were in the ‘rough country’—whatever the hell that means.”

  “We are,” Mac said patiently. “But the first quarter of a mile is on a trail. Then we veer off into the wild underbelly of the beast.”

  “How will we know which way to go?”

  “We chart and map usin’ compass points. It’ll be slow, but thorough.”

  Kimberly barely nodded. She was gazing nervously at the dark forest before them, carpeted in nine shades of green. Mac saw beauty. Kimberly, however, obviously saw something worse.

  “Tell me again how often you’ve done this,” she whispered.

  “I assisted with two of the search operations in Georgia.”

  “You said people got hurt.”

  “Yep.”

  “You said he sets up scenarios like this, just to torture us.”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s a real son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Kimberly nodded. She squared her shoulders, her chin coming up in that set he already knew so well. “All right,” she said stiffly. “We’re going to find this girl, we’re going to save the day, and then we’re going to walk out of this park so we can nail the bastard. Deal?”

  “You are a woman after my own heart,” Mac said soberly.

  They pushed ahead into the thick, dark woods.

  Footing was easy on the dirt trail. Steep, but manageable, with rocky ledges and worn tree roots forming a natural cascade of stairs. Shady, with the dense canopy of trees blocking out the sun. The heat and humidity, however, were har
der to escape. Mac was already short of breath, his lungs laboring as they headed down the path. Within minutes, his face was drenched in sweat, and he could feel moisture beading uncomfortably between his shoulder blades, where his backpack pressed against his shirt. The sun was bad, but the humidity was their true enemy. It turned the high mountain woods from a shady reprieve to a steaming jungle where each footstep required hard physical effort and four hours of intense hiking would be about three hours too much.

  Both Mac and Kimberly had changed clothes for the operation. Kimberly now wore khaki shorts and a short-sleeved cotton T-shirt, the casual outfit of an amateur day hiker. More experienced, Mac had donned nylon shorts and a quick-drying nylon top. As he began to sweat, the synthetic material wicked the moisture away from his body, allowing him a small degree of comfort. Kimberly’s cotton T-shirt, on the other hand, was already plastered against her body. Soon, the shirt, as well as her shorts, would start to chafe her skin painfully. He wondered if she would complain, but already figured she wouldn’t.

  “Do you think she’s still alive?” Kimberly asked tersely. Her breath also came out in short pants, but she was matching stride with stride. When called upon to perform, the lady didn’t disappoint.

  “I read a study once of search-and-rescue operations,” Mac replied. “Of the fatalities, seventy-five percent died in the first forty-eight hours. Assuming this girl was abandoned yesterday, that gives us another twenty-four hours to find her.”

  “What,” pant, pant, “generally kills” pant, pant, “lost people?”

  “Hypothermia. Or on a day like this, heatstroke. Basically, it’s exposure that does a person in. Here’s a fact for you: Did you know that children under the age of six have the highest survival rate when lost in the woods?”