The Killing Hour

  “But we don’t have a source,” Mac reminded him curtly. “That’s the whole damn point. This sample is what we’ve been given, the source is what we gotta find. Come on, surely there’s something you can do.”

  Mac stared at the man with mute appeal. After another moment, Knowles caved with a sigh. “It won’t be accurate,” he warned.

  “At this point, we’ll take an educated guess.”

  “I don’t know if I’d even call it that.” But Knowles was fingering the glass tube bearing their precious sample. “You’re sure you don’t have more? I’d prefer about forty milliliters.”

  “The best I could do would be six more drops.”

  Knowles blinked. “Damn, whoever gave you this was definitely feeling stingy.”

  “He likes a challenge.”

  “No kidding. I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me anything more about this case.”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah well, never hurts to ask.” Knowles sighed again, sat up in his chair and stared intently at the sample. “Okay. It’s possible to test for salinity. We just need enough water to cover the end of the probe. I could do pH, which also uses a meter. Of course, the probe on the pH meter can deposit a tiny amount of potassium chloride in a sample, raising the electrical conductivity and screwing the salinity test . . . So we do salinity first, I guess, then examine pH. As for mineral testing . . . Hell, I don’t know if any of our test equipment is even calibrated for a sample this small. Bacteria tests . . . You have to run the water through a sieve, not sure that would do much here. Same with testing for plant matter.” He looked up. “Salinity and pH it is then, though I’m telling you now, the sample size is too limited, the methodology flawed, and all the results will be too relative to draw any sort of accurate conclusions. Other than that, what the hell, I’m game. I’ve never worked a murder case before.”

  “Any information is helpful,” Mac said grimly.

  Knowles opened a drawer. He pulled out a small plastic box with a well-worn label that read Field Kit. He popped open the container and started pulling out handheld meters complete with long metal probes. “Salinity first,” he murmured to himself, fiddled around, then stuck the probe in the water.

  He didn’t say anything right away. Just grunted a few times.

  “What does a salinity test measure?” Kimberly asked. “If it’s freshwater or salt water?”

  “It can.” Knowles glanced up at her. “Basically, I’m measuring the amount of microsiemens per centimeter in the water, which gives me an idea of the dissolved content. Water on its own has no electrical conductivity. But water that has a lot of salt or other dissolved minerals in it will have a higher level of conductivity. More microsiemens per centimeter. So, in a roundabout way, we’re trying to tell where this water has been.”

  He looked at the meter, then pulled the probe from the sample. “All right. According to my handy dandy salinity meter, this water has a reading of fifteen thousand microsiemens per centimeter. So, bearing in mind all my earlier caveats, what does that tell us?”

  They all looked at him blankly, and he generously filled in. “The water has good conductivity. Not high enough to be salt water, but there’s a fair amount of dissolved content in this sample. Maybe minerals or ions. Something that conducts electricity better than water alone.”

  “The water is contaminated?” Mac asked hesitantly.

  “The water is high in dissolved content,” Knowles reiterated stubbornly. “At this moment, we can’t conclude anything more than that. Now, the logical thing would be to run tests for various minerals, which might answer your question. But we can’t do that, so let’s try pH.”

  He set aside the first meter and inserted a second. He watched the meter, then frowned at it, then pulled out the tip and muttered, “Goddamn probe. Hang on a sec.”

  He wiped the tip. Blew on the tip. Then gave the whole thing a small whack with his hand. With a grunt of satisfaction, he finally returned the probe to the water. The second time didn’t make him any happier.

  “Well, shit on a stick, this is no good.”

  “What’s wrong?” Kimberly asked.

  “Sample must be too small for the probe, or my meter’s out of whack. To believe this thing, the pH is three-point-eight, and that just ain’t happening.”

  This time, he banged the probe twice against the desk. Then he tried again.

  “What does three-point-eight mean?” Mac asked.

  “Acidic. Very acidic. Eat-holes-in-your-clothes level of acidic. Basic is a perfect seven-point-oh. Most fish and algae need at least six-point-five to survive; snails, clams, and mussels require seven-point-oh; while insects, suckers, and carp can go as low as six. So when we’re testing ponds and streams with any sort of aquatic life, generally we’re at least in the sixes. Now, in Virginia, rainfall has a pH of four-point-two to four-point-five, so pure rainwater would test low, but we know this isn’t pure rainwater thanks to the salinity test. Three-point-eight,” he was still shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

  He glanced at the meter again, gave a final growl of disgust, and yanked out the probe.

  “What’s it saying?” Mac asked intently.

  “Same garbage as before, three-point-eight. I’m sorry, but the sample has got to be too small. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re three for three.” Kimberly spoke up quietly. “Three tests, three similar results. Maybe the water is that acidic.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense, especially when you consider that any pH reading we’re getting now is actually higher than the original pH at the source. Frankly, we just don’t see pH readings below four-point-five. It doesn’t happen. Well, except maybe in cases of acid mine drainage.”

  Mac straightened immediately. “Tell us about acid mine drainage.”

  “Not much to tell. Water spills out of the mine or goes through tailings of the mine, getting contaminated as it goes. The pH ends up extremely low, possibly in the twos.”

  “And that would be extremely rare? Something unusual in this state?”

  Knowles gave Mac a look. “Buddy, there aren’t many places in the world that have pH readings in the twos, let alone in the state of Virginia.”

  “Where is this mine?” Kimberly said urgently.

  “You mean mines, s as in plural, as in coal mines. We’re loaded with them.”

  “Where?”

  “Southwestern Virginia mostly. There’s a good seven counties, I think.” Knowles was looking at Ray for confirmation. “Let’s see . . . Dickenson, Lee, Russell, Scott. Hell, I’m never going to be able to do this off the top of my head; let me look ’em up.” He pushed back toward his filing cabinet, gave Ray’s legs a prodding shove, then rifled through some manila files.

  “How big is the area?” Kimberly pressed him.

  Knowles shrugged, then looked again at Ray. “Most of the southwestern corner of the state,” Ray offered up. “It’s not small, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But the water probably came from there,” Mac asserted.

  “I will not say that,” Knowles warned him. “Sample too small, results too subjective, too many variables beyond my control.”

  “But it is a strong possibility.”

  “If you accept that reading of three-point-eight to be correct, then yes, a mine would be a good place to look for this kind of contaminated water supply. The only other possible theory . . .” He stopped, chewed on his lower lip. “It’s gotta be contamination of some kind,” he muttered at last. “That’s the only thing that could reduce the pH level so dramatically. Now, it could be from a mine. It could also be pollution from organic wastes. Basically, a large dose of biodegradable organic material gets in the water. Bacteria feed off the waste, bacterial population explodes, and now the bacteria consume oxygen faster than the algae or aquatic plants can replace it. Badda bing, badda boom: anything that needs oxygen to live—say, fish, insects, plants—dies, and anaerobic bacteria take over the water source;
they’re about the only thing that can live at pH that low.”

  “But you can’t test it for bacteria, can you?” Kimberly quizzed him.

  “Nah, sample’s too small.”

  “Is . . . is there anything else you can do?”

  “Well, I could try testing for minerals. We got a guy around here who’s been squeezing water out of core samples going back thousands of years and running that stuff through the equipment. I know those water samples have gotta be small, but he’s gotten some results. I don’t know how good—”

  “We’ll take anything,” Mac interrupted him.

  “It’s very important,” Kimberly reiterated. “We need to narrow down this water to the smallest geographic region possible. Seven counties is a start, but seven miles would be better.”

  “Seven miles huh?” Knowles gave her a doubtful look. “Even if I did get lucky and identify a bunch of minerals . . . Well,” he caught himself. “Then again, there are some key physiographic differences among the mine counties. A lot of sandstone and shale in some areas. Karst in others. So mineral results might help. Not seven miles, mind you, but I might be able to get you down to a county or two. I guess we’ll find out.”

  “How long?” Mac pressed him.

  “First I’m going to have to talk to the guy, figure out how to set up the equipment . . . I’d say give me a couple of days.”

  “I’ll give you two hours.”

  “Say what?”

  “Listen to me. Two women are missing. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours now, and one woman is somewhere around that water. We either find her soon, or it won’t much matter anymore.”

  Knowles’s mouth was ajar. He looked pale and troubled at the news, then glanced at the tiny sample with a fresh distrust. “All right,” he said abruptly. “Give me two hours.”

  “One last item.” Mac’s attention went to Ray Lee Chee. “We have one more sample we need tested. Problem is, we don’t know what it is.”

  He held out the glass vial bearing the residue from the second victim’s hair. Ray took it first, then handed it over to Knowles. Neither man knew what it was, but decided a palynologist would be their best bet—an expert in pollen. And they were in luck. One of the best in the state, Lloyd Armitage, was due in this afternoon for a team meeting.

  “Anything else?” Ray asked.

  “Rice,” Kimberly said. “Uncooked long grain. Does that mean anything to either of you?”

  That brought a fresh round of bemused looks. Knowles confessed he was a pasta man. Ray Lee Chee said he’d always hated to cook. But hey, they’d ask around.

  And that was that. Knowles would attempt to test their water for mineral samples; Ray would inquire about rice; and Mac and Kimberly would hit the road.

  “The leaf was easier,” Kimberly said shortly, as they walked down the hall.

  “That was probably the point.” Mac pushed through the exterior door and led them back into the wall of heat. He glanced at his watch and Kimberly caught the gesture.

  “Time?”

  “Yep.” They got into his car and headed for the airport.

  CHAPTER 34

  Richmond, Virginia

  10:34 A.M.

  Temperature: 94 degrees

  KIMBERLY’S FIRST GLIMPSE OF NORA RAY WATTS was not what she had expected. In her mind, she had pictured a young, deeply traumatized girl. Head bowed, shoulders hunched. She would wear nondescript clothes, trying desperately to blend in, while her furtive gaze would dash around the crowded airport, already seeking the source of some unnamed threat.

  They’d handle the girl with kid gloves. Buy her a Coke, pick her brain for what she claimed to know about the Eco-Killer, then send her back to the relative safety of Atlanta. That’s how these things were done, and frankly, they didn’t have time to dick around.

  Nora Ray Watts, however, had another plan in mind.

  She strode down the middle of the airport terminal, with an old flowered bag slung over her shoulder. Her head was up, her shoulders square. She wore a pair of slim-fitting jeans, a wispy blue shirt over a white tank top, and a pair of heavy-duty hiking boots. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she hadn’t a shred of makeup on her face. She headed straight for them, and the other travelers immediately gave way.

  Kimberly had two impressions at once. A young girl, grown up too fast, and a remote woman who now existed as an island in the sea of humanity. Then Kimberly wondered, with almost a sense of panic, if that’s what people saw when they peered into her own face.

  Nora Ray walked up and Kimberly looked away.

  “Special Agent McCormack,” she said gravely and shook Mac’s outstretched hand.

  He introduced Kimberly, and Nora Ray took her hand as well. The girl’s grip was firm, but quick. Someone who didn’t like touching.

  “How was the flight?” Mac asked.

  “Fine.”

  “How are your parents?”

  “Fine.”

  “Uh huh. And what kind of story did you feed them about today?”

  Nora Ray brought her chin up. “I told them I was going to spend a few days with an old college classmate in Atlanta. My father was happy I was going to see a friend. My mother was busy watching Family Ties.”

  “Lying’s not good for the soul, little girl.”

  “No. And neither is fear. Shall we?”

  She headed toward the food court, while Mac arched a brow.

  “She’s not your typical victim,” Kimberly murmured as they fell in step behind the girl. Mac merely shrugged.

  “She has a good family. Least she did before this.”

  In the food court, Mac and Kimberly got large cups of bitter coffee. Nora Ray purchased a soda and a banana muffin, which she then proceeded to pick at with her fingers as they sat at a small plastic table.

  Mac didn’t ask anything right away. Kimberly, too, took her time. Sipping the foul-tasting brew, looking around the Richmond airport as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Nothing better to do than sit around in air-conditioned glory. Nothing more urgent today than getting that perfect cup of coffee. If only her heart hadn’t been beating so hard in her chest. If only they all hadn’t been so unbearably aware of the fleeting nature of time.

  “I want to help,” Nora Ray said abruptly. She’d finished destroying her muffin, and now she looked at them with a nervous, shaky expression. Closer to the young girl again, not so much the remote woman.

  “My boss tells me you know something about the current situation,” Mac said neutrally.

  “He’s at it again. Taking girls. Two are dead, aren’t they?”

  “How do you know that, honey?”

  “Because I do.”

  “He call you?”

  “No.”

  “Send you letters?”

  “No.” She stiffened her spine. Her voice grew stubborn. “You answer my question first. Are two more girls dead? Is he doing it again?”

  Mac was silent, letting the moment drag out. Nora Ray’s fingers returned to the bits of her muffin. She kneaded them back together, then tore them apart into a fresh round of small, doughy balls. But the girl was good. She outlasted both of them.

  “Yeah,” Mac said tersely. “Yeah, he’s killing again.”

  The fire left her all at once. Nora Ray’s shoulders slumped, her hands fell heavily on the table. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to know, I wanted to believe it was only a dream. But in my heart . . . In my heart I always knew. Poor girls. They never stood a chance.”

  Mac leaned forward. He folded his arms on the table and studied her intently. “Nora Ray, you have to start talking. How do you know these things?”

  “You won’t laugh?”

  “After the last thirty-six hours, I don’t have the strength left in me to smile.”

  Nora Ray’s gaze flickered to Kimberly.

  “I’m even more tired than he is,” Kimberly told her. “So your secret’s safe with us.”

  “I dre
amt them.”

  “You dreamt them?”

  “I dream of my sister all the time, you know. I never tell people. It would only upset them. But for years I’ve watched Mary Lynn. She’s happy, I think. Wherever she is, there are fields and horses and plenty of sunshine. She doesn’t see me; I don’t know if I exist in her place. But I get to see her, from time to time, and I think she’s doing all right. But then, a few days ago, another girl appeared. And last night, a second girl joined her on the fence. I think they’re still figuring out that they’re dead.”

  Mac’s expression had gone blank. He rubbed one large hand over his face, then did it again and again. He doesn’t know what to do, Kimberly realized. He doesn’t know what to say. However either one of them had imagined this conversation going, this wasn’t it.

  “Are these girls aware of you?” Kimberly asked at last. “Do they talk to you?”

  “Yes. One of them has a younger sister. She wanted to know if her sister would also dream about her at night.”

  “Can you describe the girls?”

  Nora Ray rattled off two descriptions. They weren’t exactly right, but neither were they wrong. A blonde, a brunette. People who claimed to have psychic ability often relied on generic descriptions to get your own imagination to fill in the blanks. Kimberly was feeling tired again.

  “Do you see the man?” Mac asked Nora Ray sharply.

  “No.”

  “You just dream of the girls?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac spread his hands. “Nora Ray, I don’t see how that helps us.”

  “I don’t either,” she admitted, her tone suddenly sodden and on the edge of tears. “But it’s something, isn’t it? I have a connection. Some kind of . . . I don’t know what! But I’m seeing these girls. I know they died! I know they’re hurt and confused and angry as hell at this man for what he did to them. Maybe I can use that. Maybe I can ask them more questions, get information on the killer, find out where he lives. I don’t know. But it’s something! I know it’s something!”

  Her voice broke off raggedly. Her hands were now compulsively mashing muffin bits into the tabletop. She squished the soft dough harder and harder with her thumbs. It appeared to be her last link to sanity.