“What time do they open?”
“Eight A.M.”
Quincy glanced at his watch. “Well, good news, everyone. We can all grab a few hours’ sleep after all.”
They drove out of the park. They found a chain motel in one of the nearby towns and booked three rooms. Quincy and Rainie disappeared into their tiny quarters. Mac went into his. Kimberly went into hers.
The furniture was sparse and dingy. The bed was covered by a faded blue comforter and already had a crater in the middle from one too many guests. The air was motel air, stale, reeking of old cigarettes mixed with undertones of Windex.
It was a room. It had a bed. She could sleep.
Kimberly cranked the air-conditioning. She stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes, climbed into the shower and scrubbed her battered body. She shampooed her hair again and again, while trying to forget the rocks, the snakes, that poor girl’s torturous death. She scrubbed and scrubbed. And she knew then that it would never be enough.
She was thinking of Mandy again. And of her mother. And of the girl found at Quantico. And of Vivienne Benson. Except the victims got all tangled in her mind. And sometimes the body in the Quantico woods bore Mandy’s face, and sometimes the girl in the rocks was actually Kimberly in disguise, and sometimes her mother was fleeing through the woods, trying to escape the Eco-Killer, when she had already been butchered by a madman six years before.
An investigator should have objectivity. An investigator should be dispassionate.
Kimberly finally got out of the shower. She pulled on a T-shirt. She used the dingy towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. And then she regarded her reflection. Pale, bruised face. Sunken cheeks. Bloodless lips. Oversized blue eyes.
Jesus. She looked too scared to be herself.
She almost lost it again. Her hands gripped the edge of the washbasin tightly. She sank her teeth in her lower lip and fought bitterly for some trace of sanity.
All of her life, she’d been focused. Shooting guns, reading homicide textbooks. She had genuinely found crime fascinating, sought it out as her father’s daughter. All cases were puzzles to be solved. She wanted the challenge. Wear a badge. Save the world. Always be the one in control.
Tough, cool-as-a-cucumber Kimberly. She now felt her own mortality as a hollow spot deep in her stomach. And she knew she wasn’t so tough anymore.
Twenty-six years old, all the defenses had finally been stripped away. Now here she was. A young, overwhelmed woman, who couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and had a fear of snakes. Save the world? She couldn’t even save herself.
She should just quit, let her father, Rainie, and Mac go at it alone. She’d already bailed from the Academy. What would it matter if she simply disappeared now? She could spend the rest of her life curled up in a closet, hands clasped around her knees. Who could blame her? She’d already lost half of her family, and almost been killed twice. If anyone was entitled to a nervous breakdown, surely it was Kimberly.
But then she started thinking of the two missing girls again. Mac had told her their names. Karen Clarence. Tina Krahn. Two young college students who’d simply wanted to hang out with friends on a hot Tuesday night.
Karen Clarence. Tina Krahn. Someone had to find them. Someone had to do something. And maybe she was her father’s daughter after all, because she couldn’t just walk away. She could quit the Academy, but she could not quit this case.
A knock sounded on the door. Kimberly’s gaze came up slowly. She knew who had to be standing there. She should ignore him. She was already walking across the room.
She opened the door. Mac had obviously used the past thirty minutes to shower and shave.
“Hey,” he said softly, and strode into her room.
“Mac, I’m too tired—”
“I know. I am, too.” He took her arm and led her over to the bed. She followed only grudgingly. Maybe she did like the smell of his soap, but she also wished desperately to just be alone.
“Have I mentioned yet that I don’t sleep well in strange motel rooms?” he asked.
“No.”
“Have I mentioned that I think you look really good wearing just a T-shirt?”
“No.”
“Have I mentioned how good I look wearing nothing at all?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a shame, because it’s all true. But you’re tired and I’m tired, so this is all we’re gonna do tonight.” He sat on the bed and tried to pull her down with him. She, however, dug in her heels.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
He didn’t force the issue. Instead, he reached up a large hand, and cradled her cheek. His blue eyes weren’t laughing anymore. Instead, he studied her intently, his eyes dark, his expression somber. When he looked at her like this, she could barely breathe.
“You scared me tonight,” he told her quietly. “When you were up on those rocks, surrounded by all those snakes, you scared me.”
“I scared me, too.”
“Do you think I’m toying with you, Kimberly?”
“I don’t know.”
“It bothers you, that I can flirt, that I can smile.”
“Sometimes.”
“Earnest Kimberly.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “You are honestly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I don’t know how to tell you that without you thinking it’s just some kind of line.”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Would you like to hit me?” he murmured. “Would you like to yell and scream at the world, or maybe hurl your knife? I don’t mind it when you’re angry, honey. Anything’s better than seeing you sad.”
That did it. She sank down on the bed beside him, feeling something big and brittle give way in the middle of her chest. Was this weakening? Was this succumbing? She didn’t know anymore. She didn’t care. Suddenly, she wanted to press her head against the broad expanse of his chest. She wanted to wrap her arms tightly around his lean waist. She wanted his warmth all around her, his arms holding her close. She wanted his body above her body, demanding and taking and conquering. She wanted something fierce and fast, where she didn’t have to think and didn’t have to feel. She could simply be.
She would blame him for it all in the morning.
Her head came up. She brushed her lips over his, feeling his breath tickle her cheek and, being rewarded, his tremor. She kissed his jaw. Smooth. Square. She followed its line to his throat, where she could see his pulse pounding. His hands were on her waist, not moving. But she could feel his tension now, his body hard and tightly leashed with his effort at control.
She caught the fragrance of his soap again. Then the trace of the mint on his breath. The spicy tones of his aftershave on his freshly razored cheek. She faltered again. The elements were personal, powerful. Things he had done just for her that had no place in raw, meaningless sex.
She was going to cry again. Oh God, she hated this hard lump in her chest. She didn’t want to be this creature anymore. She wanted to return to cold, logical Kimberly. Anything had to be better than to be this weepy all the time. Anything had to be better than to feel this much pain.
Mac’s hands had moved. Now, they found her hair, gently feathering it back. Now his fingers ran from her temples all the way down to the taut lines of her neck.
“Shhh,” he murmured. “Shhh,” though she wasn’t aware she’d ever made a sound.
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You just need sleep, honey. It’ll be better in the morning. Everything’s better in the morning.”
Mac pulled her down beside him. She fell without protest, feeling his arousal press hard against her hip. Now he would do something, she thought. But he didn’t. He merely tucked her into the curve of his body, his chest hot against her back, his arms like steel bands around her waist.
“I don’t like strange motel rooms, either,” she said abruptly, and could almost see his grin against her hair. Then in another minute, she could tell he h
ad drifted off.
Kimberly closed her eyes. She curled her fingers around Mac’s arms. She slept the best she had in years.
CHAPTER 32
Front Royal, Virginia
6:19 A.M.
Temperature: 88 degrees
MAC WOKE FIRST, the tinny bleat of his cell phone penetrating his deep slumber. He had a moment of disorientation, trying to place the dimly lit room with its sagging bed and stale-smelling air. Then he registered Kimberly, still curled up soft and snug in the crook of his arm, and the rest of the evening came back to him.
He moved quickly now, not wanting to wake her. He slid his right arm from beneath her head, felt the resulting tingle shoot up from his elbow as various nerve endings fired to life, and swallowed a rueful curse. He shook out his hand, realizing now he didn’t know where his phone was. He had a vague memory of throwing it across the room during the night. Frankly, given his recent treatment of his phone, it was a miracle it was working at all.
He dropped to the floor, scrambling on all fours until he finally came up with the palm-sized object. He flipped it open, just as it was ringing for the fourth time.
“Special Agent McCormack here.” He glanced at the bed. Kimberly still hadn’t stirred.
“Took you long enough,” a distinctly male voice said.
Mac relaxed immediately. No more distorted voices to mess with his head. This was simply his boss, Special Agent in Charge Lee Grogen. “Been a long night,” Mac replied.
“Successful?”
“Not especially.” Mac filled in the details of the past twelve hours. Grogen listened without interruption.
“It’s definitely him then?”
“No doubt in my mind. Of course, for an official opinion you’d have to consult the Feds. They probably think it’s a terrorist act.”
“You sound bitter, Mac.”
“Three hours of sleep will do that to a guy. Now, best we can tell, we got two more girls out there. Pardon my French, but fuck the Feds. I have some leads, and I’m goin’ after them.”
“And I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. In fact, I’m going to pretend we’re talking about fishing.” Grogen sighed. “Officially speaking, Mac, there’s nothing I can offer you. My boss can press their boss for cooperation, but given that it’s the feebies . . .”
“We’re frozen out.”
“Probably. At least they’ll refer to us one day—at the press conference when they announce their big catch, we’ll be the local yokels who had a shot at the guy the first time around and couldn’t get the job done. You know the drill.”
“I can’t give up,” Mac said quietly.
“Don’t let me come between a man and some fishing,” Grogen said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We have another complication.”
“Uh oh.” Mac rubbed his hand over his face. He was already tired again and so far he’d only been awake ten minutes. “What’s up?”
“Nora Ray Watts.”
“Huh?”
“She called me in the middle of the night. She wants to talk to you. She claims she has information about the case and she’ll only give it to you, in person. Mac, she knew two girls were dead.”
“Has there been something in the papers?”
“Not a peep. Mac, I didn’t even know two girls were dead until ten minutes ago when I called you. Frankly, I’m a little freaked out.”
“He’s contacted her,” Mac murmured.
“It’s possible.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Writing his letters isn’t enough anymore. Calling me is probably just frustrating him. Hell, I hope so. So now he’s contacting a past victim . . . Son of a bitch!”
“What do you want to do?”
“I can’t go back to Atlanta. I don’t have time.”
“I told Nora Ray you were out of town.”
“And?”
“And she said she would come to you. In all honesty, Mac, I think that’s what she wants.”
Mac blinked his eyes, dumbfounded. After everything Nora Ray had been through. To drag her back into this mess. A civilian. A victim. “No,” he said gruffly.
His supervisor was quiet.
“No way,” Mac said again. “She doesn’t deserve this. He messed with her life once already. Now it’s time for her to be free of him, to heal and be with her family. Hell, to forget this ever happened.”
“I don’t think that’s working for her.”
“I can’t protect her, Lee! I don’t know where this guy is, I don’t know where he’s gonna strike next. It’s a long story, but I’ve been working with a former FBI profiler, and he thinks the killer may be keeping tabs on us.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
“Damn right!”
“And if she still wants to come?”
“She’s a fool!”
“Mac, if she knows something, if she has a lead . . .”
Mac hung his head. He raked his hand through his hair. God, there were times he hated his job. “I can meet her at the airport in Richmond,” he said at last. “Sooner versus later. Day’s young and a lot can happen yet.”
“I’ll be in touch. And Mac—good luck fishing.”
Mac flipped his phone shut. He rested his forehead against the cool silver shape. What a mess. He should go back to bed. Or at the very least, crawl back into a shower. When he got up the second time, maybe this day would make more sense.
But the fuzz was already clearing. He was thinking of water and rice, and obscure clues that had to lead to real and terrible places. They had been lucky to sleep at all last night. God knows when they’d sleep again.
He rose and crossed to the bed. Kimberly’s arms were wrapped around her waist, her body held tightly together, as if she were protecting herself even when asleep. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. He touched the curve of her jaw with his thumb, then feathered back her short, dusty-blond hair. She didn’t stir.
She looked more vulnerable in sleep, her fine features delicate and even a trace fragile. He didn’t let the image fool him. A guy could spend years just working on learning the curve of her smile. And still, one day, she’d walk out the door and never look back. Probably think she’d done him a favor.
In her world, guys like him didn’t fall for girls like her. Funny, ’cause in his world, he was already long gone.
He stroked his fingers down her arm and her eyes finally fluttered open.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.
“Did someone else die?”
“Not if we keep moving.”
Kimberly sat up and, without another word, headed for the bathroom. He lay down on the bed and placed his hand on the spot still warm from the heat of her body. He could hear the sound of running water now, the rattle of old, rusty pipes. He thought again of yesterday, and the sight of Kimberly surrounded by dozens of rattlesnakes.
“I’m going to take better care of you,” he vowed in the quiet of the room.
But he already wondered where the day would lead, and if that promise could be kept.
CHAPTER 33
Richmond, Virginia
8:08 A.M.
Temperature: 88 degrees
“SURE AS HELL LOOKS LIKE WATER TO ME.”
Kimberly sighed with relief, while Mac visibly sagged against the wall of the tiny office. Neither of them had realized just how tensely they’d been awaiting that news until USGS hydrologist Brian Knowles had delivered it.
“Could it be holy water?” Kimberly asked.
Knowles shot her a look. “I don’t exactly have a test for that. I’m just a mere government employee, you know, not the Pope.”
“But can you help them out?” Ray Lee Chee prodded him. He’d personally brought Mac and Kimberly to Knowles’s office just ten minutes earlier. Now he was perched on the edge of a gunmetal-gray filing cabinet, swinging his feet rhythmically.
Mac spoke up. “We’d like to be able to test the sample. Ideally, we
need to trace it to a source such as a specific pond or stream or watering hole. Can you do that?”
Knowles yawned, rolled out one sleepy shoulder and seemed to consider it. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, a good-looking guy with a thick head of woolly brown hair and the world’s rattiest jeans. Like Ray Lee Chee, he appeared remarkably fit. Unlike the geographer, however, mornings weren’t his thing. Brian Knowles looked as tired as Kimberly felt.
“Well,” he said shortly, “we can test a water sample for all sorts of things: pH, dissolved oxygen, temperature, turbidity, salinity, nitrogen, ammonia, arsenic, bacteria . . . Then there’s water hardness, tests for various inorganic constituents such as iron, manganese, and sulfates, as well as tests for various water pollutants. So testing, yeah, we can do that.”
“Good, good,” Mac said encouragingly.
“Just one hitch, though.” Knowles spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “We’re not out in the field, and you can’t do squat with six drops of water.”
Mac raised a startled brow. He glanced at Kimberly, who shrugged. “At least we brought you water,” she commented. “We only gave Ray a picture of a leaf.”
“Damn right. And I did good,” Ray boasted. “So don’t you ruin our track record now, Knowles. We keep this up, and maybe we can get our own TV show. You know, Law and Order: U.S. Geological Survey Unit. Think of the chicks, Brian. Think of the chicks.”
Knowles, however, didn’t appear convinced. He leaned back in his desk chair and locked his hands behind his head. “Look, I’m just being practical here. To get accurate results from any sort of water test, you need to be at the source, looking at the sample in situ. The minute you bottled up this water, a couple of things happened. One, you changed the temperature. Two, you removed it from its oxygen source, rendering a test for diffused oxygen useless. Three, the pH is going up from off-gas. Four, you may have contaminated the sample from the container itself, and five . . . Well, hell, I can’t think of five at the moment, but let’s just agree it’s not good. Whatever I do to this sucker, the results are about as meaningful as a sixth toe—gives you something to look at, but doesn’t do a damn thing.”