The Killing Hour

  “Things are heating up,” Rainie told him. “We found another victim late last night. Everything matches the Eco-Killer’s MO. Except this time he kidnapped four girls at once. Which means two more are out there, and if we’re going to break this thing, we need to move fast.”

  “Damn,” Ennunzio said tiredly. “After meeting with you guys, I was hoping . . . Well, what do you need from me?”

  “Any luck with the newspaper ad?” Quincy asked.

  “I sent the paper out to the lab, so I don’t have results yet. Given that the ad was delivered already typeset inside an envelope with a computer-generated label, there’s no handwriting to analyze. Perhaps we’ll get lucky with paper choice and ink. As for the text, I don’t have anything new to say. Author is most likely male and of above-average intelligence. I repeat the theory that we might be dealing with someone who is somehow mentally incapacitated. Maybe suffering from paranoia or otherwise impaired. Ritual is obviously extremely important to him. The process of killing is as satisfying as the killing itself. You know the rest of that as well as I do.” Ennunzio looked at Quincy. “He’ll never stop unless someone makes him.”

  Quincy nodded his head. The news discouraged him more than it should and abruptly he was tired of everything. Worrying about Kimberly. Worrying about Rainie. And wondering what it meant when talk of babies scared him more than talk of psychopaths.

  “Special Agent McCormack received another call,” Quincy said. “He was going to write down the conversation, but with everything that’s happened, I don’t think he’s had the time.”

  “When was he contacted?”

  “Late last night. When he was at the crime scene.”

  Ennunzio immediately looked troubled. “I don’t like that.”

  “The UNSUB has a keen knack for timing.”

  “You think he’s watching.”

  “As you said, he likes the process. For him, it’s as important as the kill itself. We have a new theory.” Quincy was watching Ennunzio’s face very closely. “The UNSUB most likely uses a cargo van as his kill vehicle. We understand from Special Agent Kaplan that there is an unusually high number of vans coming and going off the base these days—they belong to various contractors doing construction work on the property.”

  Ennunzio squeezed his eyes shut. He was already nodding. “That would fit.”

  “Kaplan is now examining the list of workers for anyone with a previous address in Georgia. That may give us a name, but I think it’s too late.”

  Ennunzio opened his eyes, staring at them both sharply.

  “The UNSUB wanted Quantico, the UNSUB got Quantico, and now he doesn’t need it anymore,” Quincy continued. “The action is out in the field, and I think that’s where we’re going to have to go if we’re to have any chance of finding him. So, Doctor, what do you know that you’re not telling us yet?”

  The forensic linguist appeared genuinely startled, then wary, then carefully composed. “I don’t know why you say that.”

  “You’re taking a lot of interest in this case.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “You’ve gone out of your way to focus on the caller, when in fact, you deal with notes.”

  “Linguistics is linguistics.”

  “We’re accepting all theories,” Quincy tried one last time. “Even the fuzzy, half-baked ones.”

  Ennunzio finally hesitated. “I don’t know. There’s just something about this . . . A feeling I get on occasion. But feelings are not facts, and in my line of work I should know better.”

  “Would it make a difference,” Rainie said, “if we told you we had three more clues?”

  “What are they?”

  “Water. Some kind of residue. And some uncooked rice. We believe we can trace the water and residue. We haven’t a clue about the rice.”

  Ennunzio was gazing at them now with a curious smile on his face. “Rice?”

  “Uncooked long grain. What about it?”

  “You said he favors dangerous terrain, correct? Unpopulated areas where there is little risk of his victims being found by accident? Oh, he is good, very, very good. . . .”

  “What the hell do you know, Ennunzio?”

  “I know I used to be a caver in my younger days. And now I know your UNSUB was, as well. Quick, we need to make a call!”

  CHAPTER 38

  Virginia

  3:12 P.M.

  Temperature: 101 degrees

  THE SUN WAS HIGH IN THE SKY. It baked Tina’s little pit, until the mud flaked off her body to reveal tantalizing slices of burnt, festering skin, and the mosquitoes had themselves some lunch. Tina didn’t care anymore. She barely felt the pain.

  No more sweat. She didn’t even have to pee and it had easily been over twelve hours. Nope, not even the tiniest drop of water could be squeezed from her body. Dehydration definitely severe now. She worked at her task, covered in goose bumps and shivering again and again from some deep, unnatural chill.

  Rocks didn’t work. Too large and bulky for prying away rotting wood. She’d remembered her purse and feverishly dumped out the contents in a jumbled pile on the center of the boulder. A metal nail file. Much better.

  Now she gouged out slices of old railroad ties, desperately crafting footholds and handholds while the mosquitoes buzzed her face, the yellow flies bit her shoulders, and the world spun round and round and round.

  Nail file dropped. She slithered to the ground. Panting hard. Her hand trembled. It took so much effort just to locate the file in the mud. Oh looky, another snake.

  She would like to close her eyes now. She would like to sink back into the comforting stink of the muck. She would feel it slide across her hair, her cheek, her throat. She would part her lips and let it into her mouth.

  Fight or die, fight or die, fight or die. It was all up to her, and it was getting so hard to know the difference.

  Tina retrieved the nail file. She went back to work on the railroad ties, while the sun burned white-hot overhead.

  “Where am I going? Right turn? Okay, now what? Wait, wait, you said right. No, you said left. Damn, give me a sec.” Mac slammed the brakes, threw his rental car in reverse and jolted backward thirty feet on the old dirt road. Sitting beside him, Kimberly was trying desperately to find their location on a Virginia state map. Most of these old logging roads didn’t seem to show up, however, and now he had Ray Lee Chee trying to guide him by cell phone over terrain that was as spotty as the phone connection.

  “What? Say that again? Yeah, but I’m only hearing every fourth word. Bats? What’s this about bats?”

  “Cavers . . . rescue team . . . bats . . . on cars,” Ray said.

  “A batmobile?” Mac said, just as Kimberly yelled, “Look out!” He glanced up in time to see the giant tree fallen smack across the middle of the road.

  He hit the brakes. In the backseat, Nora Ray went, “Oooomph.”

  “Everyone okay?”

  Kimberly looked at Nora Ray, Nora Ray looked at Kimberly. Simultaneously, they both nodded. Mac gave up on the road for a second, and returned his attention to the cell phone.

  “Ray, how close are we?”

  “. . . two . . . three . . . zzz.”

  “Miles?”

  “Miles,” Ray confirmed.

  All right, forget the damn car, they could walk. “How’s the team coming?” Mac asked. Ray was under strict orders to assemble the best people he could find for a down-and-dirty field team. Brian Knowles, the hydrologist, and Lloyd Armitage, the palynologist, were already on board. Now Ray was trying to round up a forensic geologist and a karst botanist. In theory, by the time Mac, Kimberly, and Nora Ray magically found and rescued victim number three, Ray’s team would have arrived, ready to analyze the next round of clues and pinpoint victim number four. It was late in the game, but they were preparing to make up for lost time.

  “Bats . . . cavers . . .” Ray said again.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Karst . . . volunteers . . .
bats . . .”

  “You have volunteer bats?”

  “Search-and-rescue!” Ray exploded. “Cavern!”

  “A volunteer group for search-and-rescue. Oh, in the cave!” Mac hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Kimberly had searched the various county names combined with rice, and lo and behold, up had come an article on the Orndorff’s Cavern. Apparently, it was home to an endangered isopod, a tiny white crustacean that’s approximately a fourth of an inch long. To make a long story short, some politician had wanted to build an airport in the area, environmentalists had tried to block it using the Endangered Species Act, and the politician had replied that no way in damn hell would progress be halted by a grain of rice. And now the Orndorff’s Cavern isopod had a cool nickname among karst specialists.

  So they had a location. If they could find it, and if they could get the girl back out.

  “Water . . . dangerous,” Ray was saying on the other end of the phone. “Entrance difficult . . . Ropes . . . coveralls . . . lights.”

  “We need special equipment to access the cave,” Mac translated. “Okay, so when will the search-and-rescue team arrive?”

  “Making calls . . . different locations . . . Bats . . . on cars.”

  “Their cars will have bats?”

  “Stickers!”

  “Gotcha.”

  Mac popped open his car door and got out to survey the fallen tree. Kimberly was already out and walking its length. She glanced up at his approach and grimly shook her head. He saw her point. The tree trunk was a good three feet in diameter. It would take a four-wheel-drive vehicle, a chain saw, and a winch to move this sucker now. No way was it happening with a guy, two girls, and a Camry.

  “We made the left turn,” Mac said into the phone. “What do we do next?” This time he couldn’t make out Ray’s reply at all. Something about “smell the fungus.” Mac looked around sourly. They were in the middle of soaring woods, deep into the heart of nowhere. Since turning off Interstate 81 forty minutes ago, they’d drifted into the westernmost part of the state, a thin peninsula wedged between Kentucky and North Carolina. Nothing around here but trees, fields, and double-wides. Last building they’d seen was a decrepit gas station fifteen miles back. It looked like it hadn’t pumped a drop since 1968. Before that had been half a dozen mobile homes and one tiny Baptist church. Lloyd Armitage hadn’t been kidding. Whatever better days had come to this part of the state had departed a long time ago.

  Now it was strictly backwoods country, and Mac’s cell phone reception would not be getting better anytime soon.

  “I’ll try you again at the scene,” Mac said. Ray made some kind of reply, but Mac still couldn’t hear him and finally snapped his phone shut.

  “What do we do?” Nora Ray asked him.

  “Now, we walk.”

  Actually, first they assembled gear. True to her word, Nora Ray had come prepared. From her travel bag, she pulled out a modest daypack, complete with dried food, first-aid kit, compass, Swiss army knife, and water filtration system. She also had waterproof matches and a small flashlight. She loaded up her gear; Kimberly and Mac attended to their own.

  They had three gallons of water left. Mac thought of the condition the girl would probably be in, unglued his shirt from his torso for the fourth time in the last five minutes, and stuck all three gallons in his backpack. The weight was considerable, the nylon pack feeling like a son of a bitch as it dragged against his shoulders and pressed his shirt against his overheated skin.

  Kimberly came over, removed one of the gallon jugs and stuck it in her own backpack. “Don’t be an idiot,” she told him, then hefted on her pack and clipped it around her hips.

  “At least the trees are providing shade,” Mac said.

  “Now if only they’d soak up the wet. How far?”

  “Couple of miles. I think.”

  Kimberly glanced at her watch again. “We’d better get moving.” She sneaked a peek at Nora Ray, and Mac could read her thoughts. How hard could the civilian push it? They’d soon find out.

  It was a surreal hike, Mac thought later. Moving down a thickly shaded logging road in the middle of a blistering afternoon. The sun seemed to chase them, peeking in and out of the trees as it dodged their footsteps and seared them with unrelenting beams of light.

  Bugs came out in force. Mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. Some kind of obnoxious fly with a vicious little bite. They were batting at their faces before they’d gone fifteen feet. At thirty feet, they stopped and got out the cans of bug repellent. A quarter of a mile later, they stopped again and sprayed each other down as if the stuff were gallons of cheap perfume.

  It didn’t make a difference. The flies swarmed, the sun burned and the humidity covered their bodies in never-ending rivulets of sweat. No one spoke. They just put one foot in front of the other and focused on walking.

  Forty minutes later, Mac smelled it first. “What the hell is that?”

  “Deet,” Kimberly said grimly. “Or sweat. Take your pick.”

  “No, no, it’s worse than that.”

  Nora Ray stopped. “It’s like something rotten,” she said. “Almost like . . . sewage.”

  Mac suddenly got it. What Ray Lee Chee had been trying to tell him on the phone. Smell the fungus. He picked up the pace. “Come on,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  He started jogging now, Kimberly and Nora Ray hastily following suit. They crested the small rise of the hill, came down the other side, and then abruptly drew up short.

  “Holy shit,” Mac said.

  “B-grade horror movie,” Nora Ray murmured.

  And Kimberly just shook her head.

  Quincy was getting frustrated. He’d tried Kimberly’s cell phone three or four times without success. Now he turned back to Ennunzio and Rainie.

  “Do you know where this cave is?” he asked Ennunzio.

  “Absolutely. It’s in Lee County, a good three or four hours from here. But you can’t just crash into this cavern as if it’s one of the tourist hot spots from the Shenandoah Valley. To access Orndorff’s Cavern, you need serious gear.”

  “Fine. Get the gear, then take us.”

  Ennunzio was silent for a moment. “Perhaps it’s time to let the official case team know what’s going on.”

  “Really? What do you think they’ll do first, Doctor? Rescue the victim? Or call you in for a three-hour interview to corroborate every last detail of your story?”

  The linguist saw his point. “I’ll get my gear.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Hell if I know. Some kind of cavern entrance. Maybe amid a pile of rocks, or a sinkhole at the base of a tree. I’ve never done any spelunking. Then again, how hard can it be to find the entrance to a cave?”

  Pretty hard, it turned out. Mac had already been running around the sawmill for a good fifteen minutes. So had Kimberly and Nora Ray. They were probably all being stupid. The smell was the first kicker. The foul odor rose so thick in the heavy, humid air it stung their eyes and burned their throats. Mac was now holding an old T-shirt over his mouth, but even that didn’t make much difference.

  Next to the smell was the intense wall of heat rising from the same sky-high pile of sawdust. None of them had even recognized the wood residue at first. It had looked like a pile of white sand, or maybe dirt covered in snow. Ten minutes ago, Kimberly had gotten close enough to discern the truth. Fungus. The entire stinking, rotten pile was covered in some kind of fungus.

  When Brian Knowles had guessed their water sample came from a site in crisis, he hadn’t been kidding.

  Now Mac leapt belatedly over one abandoned blade saw. He wove in and out of long, shed-style buildings with busted-out windows and sagging roof beams. The old conveyors still gleamed darkly in the shadows, complete with nasty-looking pikes used for skewering the wood as it was brought before the blade.

  Litter covered the ground. Crumpled-up soda cans, discarded Styrofoam cups. Mac found a pile of old gasoline containers, probab
ly used to fill up the handheld chain saws. He found another pile of old fluorescent lights. A faint popping sound was emitted from the debris field as some of the glass exploded from the heat of the sun.

  He’d never seen anything like it. Strings of rusted barbed wire clawed at his legs. Abandoned saw blades lay hidden in the overgrown weeds, waiting to do far, far worse. This place was straight out of an environmentalist’s nightmare. He was 100 percent sure their third girl had to be around here somewhere.

  Kimberly came staggering around one of the broken-down sheds. She had tears streaming down her face from the stench. “Any luck?”

  Mac shook his head.

  She nodded and went careening on by, still looking for some hint of an underground cavern.

  He came upon Nora Ray soon afterward. She’d stopped running around and was now standing in one place, her eyes closed, her hands spread by her sides.

  “See anything?” he asked brusquely.

  “No.” She opened her eyes and seemed embarrassed to find him there. “I don’t know . . . It’s not like I’m a psychic or anything. I just have these dreams so I thought maybe if I closed my eyes . . .”

  “Anything that works.”

  “But it’s not working. Nothing’s working. And that’s so unbelievably frustrating. I mean, if she’s in a cavern, well then, aren’t we literally walking on top of her right now?”

  “It’s possible. Search-and-rescue isn’t easy, Nora Ray. The Coast Guard passed back and forth over your spot five times before seeing your red shirt.”

  “I was lucky.”

  “You were smart. You hung in there. You kept trying.”

  “Do you think this girl is smart?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m willing to settle for lucky if that gets her home.”

  Nora Ray nodded. She resumed walking and Mac zigzagged through another abandoned building. Already past four o’clock. His heart was beating too fast, his face felt dangerously hot to the touch. They were pushing too hard for the conditions. Raising their core body temperatures to dangerous levels and going too long between drinks. This was no way to manage a rescue operation and yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop.