The Killing Hour

  There was a green leaf caught in the girl’s tangled blond hair. The ME distractedly pulled it free and let it flutter away. He moved on to her hands, flung above her head. One was curled closed. Gently, he unrolled her fingers. Inside her grip, nestled against her palm, was a jagged green-gray rock.

  “Hey,” he called to the younger special agent. “Want to get a picture of this?”

  The kid obediently came over and snapped away. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. A rock of some kind. Going to bag and tag?”

  “Right.” The kid fetched an evidence container. He dropped the rock in and dutifully filled out the top form.

  “No obvious defensive wounds. Oh, here we go.” The ME’s gloved thumb moved up her left arm to a red, swollen patch high on her shoulder. “Injection mark. Just the faintest bruising, so it probably occurred right before death.”

  “Overdose?” the older agent asked with a frown.

  “Of some kind. An intramuscular injection isn’t very common for drugs; they’re generally administered intravenously.” The ME lifted the girl’s skirt again. He inspected the inside of her thighs, then moved down to between her toes. Finally, he inspected the webbing between her index finger and thumb. “No track marks. Whatever happened, she’s not a habitual user.”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “Possibly.”

  Older Special Agent sighed. “We’re going to need an ID right away. Can you print her here?”

  “I’d prefer to wait until the morgue, when we can test her hands for blood and skin samples. If you’re in a real hurry, though, you can always check her purse.”

  “What?”

  The ME smiled broadly, then took pity on the Naval cop. “Over there, on the rock outside the crime-scene tape. The black leather backpack thingy. My daughter has one just like it. It’s very hip.”

  “Of all the stupid, miserable, incompetent . . .” Older Special Agent wasn’t very happy. He got the kid to photograph the purse, then had two sentries expand the crime-scene perimeter to include the leather bag. Finally, with gloved hands, he retrieved the item. “Note that we need to take full inventory,” he instructed his assistant. “For now, however, we’ll detail the wallet.”

  The kid set down the camera and immediately took up paper and pencil.

  “Okay, here we go. Wallet, also black leather . . . Let’s see, it contains a grocery store card, a Petco card, a Blockbuster card, another grocery store card, and . . . no driver’s license. There’s thirty-three dollars in here, but no driver’s license, no credit cards, and for that matter, no kind of any card bearing a person’s name. What does that tell us?”

  “He doesn’t want us to know her ID,” the kid said eagerly.

  “Yeah.” Older Special Agent was frowning. “How about that? You know what? We’re missing something else. Keys.” He shook the bag, but there was no telltale jingle. “What kind of person doesn’t have keys?”

  “Maybe he’s a thief? He’s got her address from the license, plus the house keys . . . It’s not like she’s going to come home anytime soon.”

  “Possibly.” But the Naval officer was looking at the stitched-up mouth and frowning. From her vantage point behind a tree, Kimberly could read his thoughts: What kind of thief stitched up a woman’s mouth? For that matter, what kind of thief dumped a body in the middle of a Marine base?

  “I need to fetch paper bags for the hands,” the ME reported. “They’re back in my van.”

  “We’ll walk with you. I want to review a few more things.” The older Naval officer jerked his head toward his counterpart, and the younger man immediately fell into step. They headed off down the dirt path, leaving the sprawling corpse alone with the four sentries.

  Kimberly was just considering how to make a stealthy exit herself, when a strong hand snapped around her wrist. In the next instant, a second hand smothered her mouth. She didn’t bother with screaming; she bit him instead.

  “Damn,” a deep voice rumbled in her ear. “Do you ever talk first and shoot later? I keep running into you, I’m not gonna have any hide left.”

  Kimberly recognized the voice. She relaxed against his large body, but grudgingly. In return, he removed both hands.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, casting a furtive glance at the crime-scene attendants. She turned to face Special Agent McCormack and he frowned.

  “What happened to you?” He held up a silencing hand. “Wait, I don’t want to see the other guy.”

  Kimberly touched her face. For the first time she felt the zigzag welts creasing her nose and cheeks with flecks of dried blood. Her scramble through the woods had taken its toll after all. No wonder her supervisor had tried to send her to her room.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked again, voice low.

  “Heard a rumor. Decided to follow it up.” His gaze briefly skimmed down her body. “I heard a young new agent made the find. I take it you had the honors? Little ways off the PT course, don’t you think?”

  Kimberly simply glared at him. He shrugged and returned their attention to the crime scene.

  “I want that leaf,” his voice rumbled in her ear. “You see the one the ME pulled out of the victim’s hair—”

  “Not proper protocol.”

  “You tell him, honey. I want that leaf. And as long as you’re here, you might as well help me get it.”

  She jerked away from him. “I will not—”

  “Just distract the sentries. Strike up a conversation, bat those baby blues and in sixty seconds, I’ll be in and out.”

  Kimberly frowned at him. “You distract the guards, I’ll grab the leaf,” she said.

  He looked at her as if she were slightly slow. “Honey,” he drawled. “You’re a girl.”

  “So I can’t grab a leaf?” Her voice rose unconsciously.

  He covered her mouth with his palm again. “No, but you surely have a bit more natural appeal to young men than I do.” He glanced down the wooded path at the direction the ME and two Naval investigators had gone. “Come on, sugar. We don’t have the rest of our lives.”

  He’s an idiot, she thought. Sexist, too. But she nodded anyway. The ME had been grossly negligent to pull the leaf out of the girl’s hair, and it would be best if someone retrieved it.

  Mac motioned to the left pair of guards and how he wanted her to draw them to the front. Then he’d go in from the back.

  Thirty seconds later, taking a deep breath, Kimberly made a big production of walking from the woods right onto the dirt path. She made a sharp left and walked straight up to the pair of sentries.

  “I just need to see the body for a moment,” she said breezily.

  “This area is restricted, ma’am.” The first sentry spoke in clipped tones, his gaze fixed somewhere past her left ear.

  “Oh, I’m sure it is.” Kimberly waved her hand negligently and stepped forward.

  The young sentry made a discreet move left and without seeming to exert any real effort, blocked her path.

  “Excuse me,” Kimberly said firmly. “But I don’t think you understand. I have clearance. I’m part of the case. For heaven’s sake, I was the first officer at the scene.”

  The Marine frowned at her, unimpressed. The other pair of Marines had moved closer, obviously prepared to offer backup. Kimberly flashed them a sickeningly sweet smile. And watched as Special Agent McCormack eased into the clearing behind them.

  “Ma’am, I must ask you to depart,” the first sentry said.

  “Where’s the crime-scene log?” Kimberly asked. “Just get the log and I’ll show you where I’m signed in.”

  For the first time, the Marine hesitated. Kimberly’s instincts had been right. These guys were just foot soldiers. They knew nothing about investigative procedure, or law enforcement jurisdiction.

  “Seriously,” she pressed, taking another step closer and getting everyone antsy now. “I’m New Agent Kimberly Quincy. At approximately oh-eight twenty-two hundr
ed I found the victim and secured the scene for NCIS. Of course I want to follow up with this case.”

  Mac was halfway to the body now, moving with surprising stealth for a big guy.

  “Ma’am, this area belongs to the Marines. It is restricted to the Marines. Unless you are accompanied by the appropriate officer, you may not enter this area.”

  “Who’s the appropriate officer?”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Sir, I found that girl this morning. While I appreciate that you’re doing your job, I’m not leaving a poor young girl like that to a bunch of camo-clad men. She needs one of her own around. Simple as that.”

  The Marine glared at her. She’d definitely crossed some line in his mind over to wacky. He sighed and seemed to be struggling to find his patience.

  Mac was now at the area where they had both seen the leaf flutter to the ground. He was on his hands and knees, moving carefully. For the first time, Kimberly realized their problem. There were many dried-up leaves on the ground. Red, yellow, brown. What color had been in the girl’s hair? Oh God, she already didn’t remember.

  The backup sentries had edged closer. They had their hands on the stocks of their rifles. Kimberly brought up her chin and dared them to shoot her.

  “You need to leave,” the first sentry repeated.

  “No.”

  “Ma’am, you depart on your own or we will forcefully assist you.”

  Mac had a leaf now. He held it up, seemed to be frowning at it. Was he also wondering what color it should be? Could he remember?

  “Lay a hand on me and I will sue you for sexual harassment.”

  The Marine blinked. Kimberly blinked, too. Really, as threats went, that was a pretty good one. Even Mac had turned toward her and appeared sincerely impressed. The leaf in his hand was green. All at once, she relaxed. That made sense. The leaves already at the scene were old, from last fall. A green leaf, on the other hand, had probably been brought in with the body. He had done it. They had done it.

  The backup sentries were now right behind the first pair. All four sets of male gazes stared at her.

  “You need to leave,” the first Marine said again, but he no longer sounded as forceful.

  “I’m just trying to do right by her,” Kimberly said quietly.

  That seemed to disarm him further. His stare broke. He glanced down at the dirt path. And Kimberly found herself still talking.

  “I had a sister, you see. Not that much older than this girl here. One night, a guy got her drunk, tampered with her seat belt, and drove her straight into a telephone pole. Then he ran away, leaving her there all alone, her skull crushed against the windshield. She didn’t die right away, though. She lived for a while. I’ve always wondered . . . Did she feel the blood trickling down her face? Did she know how alone she was? The medics would never tell me, but I wonder if she cried, if she understood what was happening to her. That’s gotta be the worst thing in the world. To know that you’re dying, and nobody is coming to save you. Of course, you don’t have to worry about such things. You’re a Marine. Someone will always come for you. We can’t say the same, however, for the women of the world. I sure couldn’t say the same for my sister.”

  Now all the Marines were looking down. That was okay. Kimberly’s voice had gotten huskier than she intended. She was afraid of the expression that must be on her face.

  “You’re right,” she said abruptly. “I should go. I’ll come back later, when an investigating officer is here.”

  “That would be best, ma’am,” the Marine said. He still would not look her in the eye.

  “Thank you for your help.” She hesitated, then just couldn’t help herself. “Please take care of her for me.”

  Then Kimberly turned quickly, and before she did anything even more stupid, disappeared back down the path.

  Two minutes later, she felt Mac’s hand upon her arm. She took one look at his somber expression and knew he’d heard everything.

  “Did you get the leaf?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now would you like to tell me why you’re really here?”

  And Mac said, “Because all these years later, I’ve been waiting for him.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Quantico, Virginia

  12:33 P.M.

  Temperature: 95 degrees

  “IT STARTED IN NINETEEN NINETY-EIGHT. June fourth. Two college roommates went out to a tavern in Atlanta and never came home. Three days later, the first girl’s body was found near Interstate seventy-five just south of the city. Four months later, the second girl’s remains were found a hundred miles away in Tallulah Gorge State Park. Both girls were found fully clothed and with their purses; no signs of robbery or sexual assault.”

  Kimberly frowned. “That’s different.”

  Mac nodded at her. They were in a corner of the Crossroads Lounge, huddled over a small table, heads together and voices low. “Next year, nineteen ninety-nine. First heat wave of the year doesn’t hit until July. Two high school girls in Macon, Georgia, sneak into a local bar on July tenth. Never seen alive again. First girl’s body is found two days later, this time next to U.S. four forty-one, which happens to be near the Tallulah Gorge State Park. Second girl is found . . .”

  “Inside the gorge?” Kimberly tried gamely.

  “Nope. Burke County cotton field. One hundred and fifty miles away from the gorge. It’s the gorge that we searched, however, so nobody discovered her body until the cotton harvest in November.”

  “Wait a minute.” Kimberly held up a hand. “It takes all the way until November to find a girl’s body in a field?”

  “You’ve never been to Burke County. We’re talking eight hundred square miles of cotton. The kind of place where you can drive all day without ever hitting a paved road. There ain’t nothing out in Burke County.”

  “Except a dead body.” Kimberly leaned forward intently. “Both girls fully clothed again? No sign of sexual assault?”

  “The best we can tell,” Mac said. “It’s difficult with the second girl of each pair, given the condition of their bodies. But for the most part, yes, all four girls are found wearing their party clothes and looking relatively . . . peaceful.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “It varies. For the girls left next to roadways, an overdose of benzodiazepine, the prescription drug Ativan. He injects the lethal dose into their left shoulders.”

  “And the second girls?”

  “We don’t know. It looks like a fall may have been what killed Deanna Wilson. For Kasey Cooper, exposure, maybe, or dehydration.”

  “They were abandoned alive?”

  “It’s a theory.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked how he said that. “You said you found their purses. What about ID?”

  Mac’s turn to frown. He was obviously thinking of the girl they’d found that day, and the lack of ID in her wallet. “They did have their driver’s licenses,” he admitted. “IDing the bodies was never an issue. No keys, though. For that matter, no cars. We’ve never recovered a single vehicle.”

  “Really?” Kimberly’s scowl deepened. She was fascinated in spite of herself. “Okay, continue.”

  “Two thousand,” Mac said crisply, then promptly rolled his eyes. “Bad year, two thousand. Brutally hot summer, no rain. May twenty-ninth, we’re already in the mid-nineties. Two students from Augusta State University head to Savannah for a girls’ weekend. They never come home. Tuesday morning, a motorist finds the first girl’s body next to U.S. twenty-five in Waynesboro. Can you guess where Waynesboro is?”

  Kimberly thought about it a minute. “The cotton field place. Burke County?”

  He smiled, a flash of white against his dark skin. “You catch on quick. That’s one of the rules of the game, you see: the first body of the new pair is always left near the second girl of the last pair. Maybe he likes the continuity, or maybe he’s giving us a fighting chance at finding the second body in case we missed it the previous year.”
He paused for a second and eyed her appraisingly. “So for this new pair, where’s the second girl?”

  “Not in Burke County?”

  “You’re cheatin’.”

  “Well, he hasn’t repeated an area. So you can assume not the gorge and not a cotton field. Process of elimination.”

  “Georgia has nearly sixty thousand square miles of mountains, forests, coastline, swamplands, peach orchards, tobacco fields, and cities. You’re gonna need to eliminate more than that.”

  Kimberly acknowledged the point with a slight shrug. Unconsciously she worried her lower lip. “Well, you said it was a game. Does he leave you clues?”

  His answering smile was dazzling. “Yes, ma’am. Second rule of the game—for it to be competitive, you gotta leave clues. Let’s go back to the very first girl, found outside of Atlanta. Girl’s laid out next to a major interstate, remember? We have no signs of violence, no sexual assault, so that means no blood, no semen, none of the normal trace evidence you might expect to collect in a homicide case. But here’s something interesting. The body’s clean. Very clean. Almost as if someone has washed the victim’s legs, arms, and shoes. We not only lack hair and fiber, we can’t even find traces of spilled beer on her shoes or a stray peanut in her hair. It’s like the girl’s been . . . sanitized.”

  “All of her?” Kimberly asked sharply. “Then you can no longer be sure of lack of sexual assault.”

  Mac shook his head. “Not all of her. Just the parts . . . exposed. Hair, face, limbs. My best guess? He wipes them down with a sponge. It’s like . . . he’s wiping a slate clean. And then he starts his work.”

  “Oh my God,” Kimberly breathed. She was no longer sure she wanted to know what had happened next.

  “They’re a map,” Mac said quietly. “That’s why the first girl exists. That’s why she’s left next to a major road and easily found. Maybe why she gets a quick and relatively painless death. Because she doesn’t matter to him. She’s just a tool, a guide to where the real game is being played out.”

  Kimberly was leaning forward again. Her heart had started pounding, neurons firing to life in her brain. She could feel where this was headed now. Almost see the dark, twisted road open up before her. “What are the clues?”