by Lisa Gardner
Mac reached over and took her hand. After another moment, she squeezed his fingers with her own.
“I could sure use some coffee,” he said. “About four gallons.”
“I could use a vacation. About four decades.”
“How about a nice cool shower?”
“How about air-conditioning?”
“Fresh clothes.”
“A soft bed.”
“A giant platter of buttermilk biscuits smothered in gravy.”
“A pitcher of ice water, topped with sliced lemon.”
She sighed. He followed suit.
“We’re not going to bed anytime soon, are we?” she asked quietly.
“Doesn’t look it.”
“What happened?”
“Not sure. Your father showed up, said an official FBI case team had arrived and that we were no longer invited to the party. Damn those Feds.”
“They pulled Dad and Rainie off the case?” Kimberly was incredulous.
“Not yet. The fact that they both turned off their cell phones and made a quick getaway probably helped. But it looks like the Feds are trying to reinvent the wheel again, and even your father knows better. We worked with Kathy Levine to identify which items might be clues on the victim’s body, then we took half the evidence. And now, just for the record, I believe we’re officially AWOL. Did you really want to be an FBI agent, Kimberly? ’Cause after this …”
“Fuck the FBI. Now tell me the plan.”
“We work with your father and Rainie. We see if we can’t find the remaining two girls. Then we track down the son of a bitch who did this, and nail him to the wall.”
“That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all night.”
“Well,” he said modestly. “I do try.”
Shortly, Quincy’s car turned in at one of the scenic vistas, and Mac followed suit. Given the hour, no other cars were around, and they were far enough off Skyline Drive to be invisible from the road. They all got out of the two vehicles and congregated around the hood of Mac’s rental car.
The night still felt hot and heavy. Crickets buzzed and frogs croaked, but even those sounds were curiously subdued, as if everything were hushed and waiting. There should be heat lightning and thunder. There should be an impressive July thunderstorm, bringing cleansing rain and cooler temperatures. Instead, the heat wave pressed down on them, blanketing the world in stifling humidity and silencing half the creatures of the night.
Quincy had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. “So we have three possible clues,” he said by way of starting things off. “A vial of liquid, rice, and some kind of dust from the victim’s hair. Any ideas?”
“Rice?” Kimberly asked sharply.
“Uncooked, white, long grain,” Mac informed her. “At least that was Levine’s best guess.”
Kimberly shook her head. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“He likes to make it harder,” Mac said quietly. “Welcome to the rules of the game.”
“How far away do you think the other two victims are?” Rainie spoke up. “If he’s taken multiple victims, maybe the first victim speaks for all three. He’s only one man after all, working with a limited amount of time to set this up.”
Mac shrugged. “I can’t be sure of this new format, of course. In Georgia, he definitely moved around a lot. We started at a state park famous for its granite gorge, then moved to cotton fields, then the banks of the Savannah River, and finally to the salt marshes on the coast. Four clearly diverse regions of the state. Here, however, you’re right—he has some practical issues involved in placing bodies all over the state, particularly in twenty-four hours or less.”
“The logistics of hauling multiple bodies are complicated,” Quincy commented.
“Vehicle of choice is probably a cargo van. Gives him a place to stash kidnapped women, inject poison in their veins, and then haul them around. In this case, he’d also need plenty of room, given four victims.”
“How did he manage to snatch four women at once?” Kimberly murmured. “You’d think at least one of them would put up a fight?”
“I doubt they had a chance. His favorite method of ambush is using a dart gun. He closes in on the car, darts the women with fast-acting ketamine, and they’re drifting off to la-la land before anyone can protest. If another car drives by, he can pose as the designated driver with four passed-out passengers. Then, once the coast is clear, he loads the women into his van, ramps up the ketamine to keep them unconscious for as long as he needs, and he sets off for stage two of his master plan. He’s not a flashy killer, but he certainly gets the job done.”
They all nodded morosely. Yes, the man certainly got the job done.
“Rainie said you got a call again,” Quincy said to Mac.
“At the scene. Caller swears he’s not actually the killer, though. He got mad when I accused him of the crimes, swore he was just trying to help, and said he was sorry more girls had died. Not that he volunteered his name or the killer’s name, mind you, but he still swears he’s a stand-up guy.”
“The caller’s lying,” Quincy said flatly.
“You think?”
“Consider the timing of both your recent calls. First one comes the night before the first victim is found—incidentally, right around the same time the killer must have been plotting his ambush, if he had not already taken the four girls. Then the second call comes tonight, when you’re at the scene of the second victim. I believe that is what Special Agent Kaplan would consider a suspicious coincidence.”
“You think the Eco-Killer’s close?” Mac asked sharply.
“Killers like to watch. Why should this UNSUB be different? He’s left a trail of breadcrumbs for us. Perhaps he also likes to note our progress.” Quincy sighed, then squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Earlier, you said the GBI attempted several times to find the Eco-Killer. You tried tracing the drugs that were used. You did the standard victim profiling, you looked at veterinarians, campers, hikers, birdwatchers, all sorts of outdoorsmen.”
“Yes.”
“And you created a profile. It describes the killer as being male, white, above-average intelligence, but probably stuck in a menial job. Travels often, has limited social skills and is prone to fits of rage when frustrated.”
“That’s what the expert told us.”
“Two things strike me,” Quincy said. “One, I think the killer is even smarter than you think. By definition, his game forces your immediate attention and resources on finding the second victim—instead of pursuing him.”
“Well, in the beginning, sure—”
“A trail grows cold, Mac. Every detective knows that. The more time has passed, the more difficult it is to find a suspect.”
Mac nodded his head more grudgingly. “Yeah, okay.”
“And second, we now know something very interesting that you didn’t know before.”
“Which is?”
“The man has access to the Marine base at Quantico. That narrows our suspect pool down to a relatively small group of people within the state of Virginia. And that’s a lead we shouldn’t squander.”
“You think a Marine or an FBI agent did this?” Mac asked with a frown.
Quincy had a faraway look in his eye. “I don’t know yet. But the emphasis on Quantico, the phone calls to you … There’s something significant there. I just can’t see it yet. Can you write down the conversation you had tonight? Word for word, all of the caller’s comments? Dr. Ennunzio will want to see it.”
“You think he’ll still help us?” Kimberly spoke up.
“You assume he knows we’ve been taken off the case.” Quincy shrugged. “He’s a backroom academic; field agents never think to keep those kinds informed. They live in their world, the BSU lives in its own. Besides, we’re going to need Dr. Ennunzio. So far, those letters and phone calls are the only direct link we have to the Eco-Killer. And that’s important. If we’re going to break this pattern, we must identify th
e UNSUB. Otherwise, we’re only ever treating the symptoms, not the disease.”
“You’re not going to abandon the other two girls?” Mac asked sharply.
“I am,” Quincy said calmly. “But you’re not.”
“Divide and conquer?” Rainie spoke up.
“Exactly. Mac and Kimberly, you work on finding the girls. Rainie and I will continue our pursuit of the man himself.”
“That could be dangerous,” Mac said quietly.
Quincy merely smiled. “That’s why I’m taking Rainie with me. Let him just dare to tangle with her.”
“Amen,” Rainie said soberly.
“We could try the USGS again,” Kimberly said. “Bring them the samples we have. I’m not sure what to make of the rice, but a hydrologist is a good start for the fluid.”
Mac nodded thoughtfully. “They might know something about the rice. Maybe it’s like the Hawaii connection. Wouldn’t mean anything to a layman, but to the proper expert …”
“Where are those offices?” Quincy asked.
“Richmond.”
“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 had 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.