by Lisa Gardner
“No kidding,” Ray muttered darkly. He was already swatting at the air around his face. The first few mosquitoes had picked up their scent, and judging from the growing buzz in the air, the rest were on their way.
Ray and Brian dug in their packs for bug repellent, while the mood grew subdued. If the girl was in the wild lands of the swamp, then of course that’s where they would go. No one liked it, but no one was arguing it either.
“Look,” Kathy said tersely, “the biggest dangers today are dehydration and heatstroke. Everyone needs to be drinking at least one liter of water an hour. Filtered water is best, but in a pinch, you can drink the swamp water. It looks like something that’s been used to wash dirty socks, but the water is actually unusually pure, preserved by the tannic acids in the bark of the juniper, gum, and cypress trees. As a matter of fact, they used to fill barrels with this water for long sea voyages. The habitat and water have changed some since then, but given today’s temperatures …”
“Drink,” Mac said.
“Yes, drink a lot. Liquids are your friends. Now, assume for a moment that we get lucky and find Tina alive: First priority with anyone suffering severe heatstroke and dehydration is to reduce core body temperature. Douse her with water. Massage her limbs to increase circulation. Give her water, but also plenty of salty snacks, or better yet a saline solution. Don’t be surprised if she fights you. Victims of extreme heatstroke are often delusional and argumentative. She may be ranting and raving, she may seem perfectly lucid, then lash out at you the next instant. Don’t try to reason with her. Get her down, and get her hydrated as fast and efficiently as you can. She can blame you for the bruised jaw later if need be. Other questions?”
No one had any. The mosquitoes were arriving in force now, buzzing their eyes, their ears, their mouths. Ray and Brian took some halfhearted swipes at the winged insects with their hands. The mosquitoes didn’t seem to notice. They all doused with bug repellent. The mosquitoes didn’t seem to mind that either.
Last-minute check of gear now. Everyone had water, first-aid kits, and whistles. Everyone had a map and plenty of bug spray. That was it, then. They loaded their packs back into their vehicles. Ray opened the gate to the main road leading to Lake Drummond. And one by one, they drove into the swamp.
“Scary place,” Ennunzio murmured as the first dark, muddy canal appeared on their right and snaked ominously through the trees.
Mac and Kimberly didn’t say anything at all.
Things grow bigger in a swamp. Kimberly ducked her head for the fourth time, trying to wind her way through the thick woods of twisted cypress trees and gargantuan junipers. Tree trunks grew wider than the span of her arms. Some leaves were bigger than her head. In other places, tree limbs and vines were so grossly intertwined, she had to take off her backpack to squeeze through the narrow space left between.
Sun was a distant memory now, flickering in a tree canopy far above. Instead, she, Mac, and Ennunzio walked through a silent, boggy hush. The spongy ground absorbed the sound of their footsteps, while the rich scent of overripe vegetation filled their nostrils and made them want to gag.
On a different day, in different circumstances, she supposed she would’ve found the swamp beautiful. Bright orange flowers from the trumpet vines dappled the swamp floor. Gorgeous blue butterflies appeared in the beams of sunlight, playing tag among the trees. Dozens of green and gold dragonflies darted along their path, offering delicate flashes of color amid the deepening gloom.
Mostly, however, Kimberly was aware of the danger. Piles of dried leaves bunched at the base of trees and made the perfect home for sleeping snakes. Predatory vines, the same thickness as her arm, bound trees in tight, suffocating coils. Then there were clearings, sections of the swamp that had been logged out decades ago, and now just worn, rounded tree stumps dotted the shadowed landscape like endless rows of miniature gravestones. The ground would be softer there, marshy and popping as toads and salamanders leapt out of their hiding places to escape the encroaching footsteps.
Things moved in the dark recesses of the swamp. Things Kimberly never saw but felt like whispers in the wind. Deer, bear, bobcat? She couldn’t be sure. She just knew she jumped at the random, distant noises and was aware of the hair rising at the nape of her neck.
It had to be over a hundred degrees out. And still she battled a chill.
Mac led their little party. Then came Kimberly, then Ennunzio. Mac was trying to work a rough grid, sweeping between two unpaved roads. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Thickets and dense trees often made passage impossible, however, so they started having to veer a little more to the right, then a little more to the left. They had to take this detour and then that detour. Mac had a compass. Maybe he knew where they were. From what Kimberly could tell, however, the swamp now owned them. They walked where it let them, passed where it let them pass. And increasingly, that path was taking them to a dark, decaying place, where the tree branches grew denser, and they had to round their shoulders to fit through the tight, cramped spaces.
They didn’t speak much. They slogged their way through the hot, wet vines, searching for signs of broken twigs, scuffed ground, or bruised vegetation that might indicate recent human passage. They took turns issuing single blasts on their whistles or calling out Tina Krahn’s name. Then they heaved themselves over giant, lightning-felled trees. Or wriggled between particularly large boulders. Or hacked their way futilely through dense, prickly thickets.
While they downed more and more of their precious supply of water. While their breathing became hard and panting, and their footsteps grew unsteady, and their arms started to tremble visibly from the heat.
Kimberly’s mouth had gone dry, a sure sign she wasn’t drinking enough water. She found herself stumbling more, having to catch herself on tree limbs and tangled brush. The sweat stung her eyes. The yellow flies constantly swarmed her face, trying to feast on the corners of her mouth or the tender flesh behind her ears.
She didn’t even know how long they had been hiking anymore. It seemed as if she’d been in the steaming jungle forever, pushing her way through thick, wet leaves only to encounter another choking eternity of vines, briers, and bushes.
Then, all of a sudden, Mac held up his hand.
“Did you hear that?” he asked sharply.
Kimberly stopped, drew in a ragged gasp of air, and strained to hear: There, for just an instant. A voice in the wind.
Mac turned, his sweat-covered face at once triumphant and intent.
“Where is that coming from?”
“Over there!” Kimberly cried, pointing to her right.
“No, I think it’s more like over there,” Mac said, pointing straight ahead. He frowned. “Damn trees; they’re distorting the sound.”
“Well, somewhere off in that direction.”
“Let’s go!”
Then, a new and sudden realization sucked the last of the moisture from Kimberly’s mouth. “Mac,” she said sharply. “Where is Ennunzio?”
CHAPTER 46
Richmond, Virginia
11:41 A.M.
Temperature: 101 degrees
“I’m telling you, the fourth girl, Tina Krahn, has been abandoned somewhere in the Dismal Swamp.”
“And I’m telling you, you have absolutely no authority in this case.”
“I know I have no authority!” Quincy started yelling, caught the outburst, and bitterly swallowed it back down. He had arrived at the FBI’s Richmond field office just thirty minutes ago, seeking a meeting with Special Agent Harkoos. Harkoos wouldn’t grant him permission to come to his office, but instead had grudgingly agreed to meet with him in a downstairs alcove. The blatant lack of courtesy was not lost on Quincy. “I’m not seeking authority,” Quincy tried again. “I’m seeking help for a missing person.”
“You tampered with evidence,” Harkoos growled.
“I arrived late at the scene, the USGS personnel had already started analyzing data, and there was nothing I
could do.”
“You could’ve forced them away until the real professionals arrived.”
“They are experts in the field—”
“They are not trained forensic technicians—”
“They’ve identified three different sites!” Quincy was yelling again and about to start swearing, too. Really, the last twenty-four hours had been a banner day of emotional outbursts for him. He forced himself to take another deep breath. Time for logic, diplomacy, and calm rationality. Failing that, he’d have to kill the son of a bitch. “We need your help,” he insisted.
“You fucked this case.”
“This case was already fucked. Four girls missing, three now dead. Agent, we have one last shot at doing this right. One girl, in the middle of a hundred-thousand-acre swamp. Call in the rescue teams, find that girl, get the headlines. It really is that simple.”
Special Agent Harkoos scowled. “I don’t like you,” he said, but his voice had lost its vehemence. Quincy had spoken the truth, and it was hard to argue with headlines. “You have behaved in an unorthodox manner which has put prosecuting this case in jeopardy,” Harkoos grumbled. “Don’t think I’m going to forget that.”
“Call in the rescue teams, find that girl, get the headlines,” Quincy repeated.
“The Dismal Swamp, huh? Is it as bad as its name sounds?”
“Most likely, yes.”
“Shit.” Harkoos dug out his cell phone. “Your people had better be right.”
“My people,” Quincy said tersely, “haven’t been wrong yet.”
Quincy had no sooner left the building to rejoin Rainie and Nora Ray at the car when his cell phone rang. It was Kaplan, calling from Quantico.
“Do you have Ennunzio in custody?” the special agent demanded to know.
“It’s not him,” Quincy said. “Try his brother.”
“Brother?”
“According to Ennunzio, his older brother murdered their mom thirty years ago. Burned her to death. Ennunzio hasn’t seen him since, but his brother once left a note at their parents’ grave, bearing the same message as the notes now sent by the Eco-Killer.”
“Quincy, according to Ennunzio’s personnel records, he doesn’t have a brother.”
Quincy drew up short, frowning now as he stood beside Rainie. “Maybe he doesn’t consider him family anymore. It’s been thirty years. Their last time together was hardly a Kodak moment.”
There was a pause. “I don’t like this,” Kaplan said. “Something’s wrong. Look, I was calling because I just got off the phone with Ennunzio’s secretary. Turns out, two years ago, he took a three-month leave of absence to have major surgery. The doctors removed a tumor in his brain. According to his secretary, Ennunzio started complaining of headaches again six months ago. She’s been really worried about him.”
“A tumor …”
“Now, you’re the expert, but brain tumors can impact behavior, correct? Particularly ones growing in the right place …”
“The limbic system,” Quincy murmured, closing his eyes and thinking fast. “In cases of brain trauma or tumors, you often see a marked change in behavior in the subject—increased irascibility, we call it. Normally mild-mannered people become violent, aggressive, use foul language.”
“Maybe even go on a murder spree?”
“There have been some instances of mass murder,” Quincy replied. “But something this cold and calculated … Then again, a tumor might trigger psychotic episodes, paving the way. Special Agent, are you at a computer? Can you look up the name David Ennunzio for me? Search birth and death records, Lee County, Virginia.”
Rainie was watching him curiously now. Nora Ray as well. “Isn’t David Dr. Ennunzio’s first name?” Rainie whispered.
“That’s what we all assumed.”
“Assumed?” Her eyes widened and he knew she was getting it, too. Why should you never assume something when working an investigation? Because it made an ass out of you and me. Kaplan was already back on the line.
“According to the obits, David Joseph Ennunzio died July 14, 1972, at the age of thirteen. He was killed in a house fire along with his mother. They are survived by … Christ! Franklin George Ennunzio. Dr. Frank Ennunzio. Quincy, Ennunzio doesn’t have a brother.”
“He had a brother but he killed him. He killed his brother, his mother—hell, maybe he killed his father, too. Then he spent all these years covering it up and trying to forget. Until something else went even more wrong in his head.”
“You have to get him in custody now!” Kaplan shouted.
And Quincy whispered, “I can’t. He’s in the Dismal Swamp. With my daughter.”
The man knew what he must do. He was letting himself think again, remembering the old days and old ways. It hurt his head. Brought on raging bolts of pain. He staggered as he walked and clutched his temples.
But remembering brought him clarity, too. He thought of his mother, the look on her face as she lay so passively on the bed and watched him splatter lamp oil on the floor of their wooden shack. He thought of his younger brother, and how he’d cowered in the corner instead of bolting for safety.
No fighting from either of them. No protest. His father had beaten the resistance out of them over all those long, bloody years. Now, death came and they simply waited.
He had been weak thirty years ago. He had tossed the match, then outrun the flames. He had thought he would stay. He’d been so sure death was what he wanted, too. Then, at the last moment, he couldn’t do it. He’d broken from the fire’s mesmerizing spell. He had dashed out the door. He had heard his mother’s raw, angry screams. He had heard his brother’s last pitiful cries. Then he had run for the woods and begged the wilderness to save him.
Mother Nature was not that kind. He had been hungry and hot. He had spent weeks dazed and desperate with thirst. So finally he had emerged, walking into town, waiting to see what would happen next.
People had been kind. They fawned over him, hugged him, and fussed over this lone survivor of a tragic fate. How big and strong he must have been to survive in the woods all this time, they told him. What an amazing miracle he’d made it out of the house in time. God must surely favor him to show him such compassion.
They made him a hero; he was much too tired to protest.
But fire still found him in his dreams. He ignored it for years, wanting to be the proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes in a new and improved life. He worked hard and studied hard. He swore to himself he would do good. He would be good. As a child he had committed a horrible act. Now, as an adult, he would do better.
Maybe for a while it had worked. He’d been a good agent. He’d saved lives, worked important cases, advanced critical research. But then the pain started and the flames grew more mesmerizing in his dreams and he let the fire talk to him. He let it convince him to do things.
He had killed. Then he had begged the police to stop him. He had kidnapped girls. Then he’d left clues for someone else to save them. He hated himself; he serviced himself. He had sought redemption through work; he committed bigger sins in his personal life. In the end, he had been everything his family had raised him to be.
Everything of beauty betrayed you. Everything of beauty lied. All you could trust was the flame.
He ran around now, in the dark recesses of the swamp. He listened to the deer dash out of his way, the stealthy foxes race for cover. Somewhere in the leaves came an ominous rattle. He didn’t care anymore.
His head throbbed, his body begged for rest. While his hands played with matches, raking them across the sulfur strips and letting them fall with hissing crackles into the bog.
Some matches were immediately squelched by muddy water. Others found dry patches of leaves. Still others found the nice, slow-burning peat.
He ran by the pit. He thought he heard a sound far below.
He dropped in another match just for her.
Everything of beauty must die. Everything, everyone, and him.
Mac and
Kimberly were running now. They could hear frantic crashes in the underbrush, the pounding of footsteps that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Someone was here. Ennunzio? His brother? The swamp had suddenly come alive, and Kimberly had her Glock out, holding it desperately with sweat-slicked hands.
“To the right,” Mac said, low under his breath.
But almost immediately the sound came again, this time from their left.
“Woods are distorting it,” Kimberly panted.
“We can’t lose our bearings.”
“Too late.”
Kimberly’s cell phone vibrated on her hip. She snatched it with her left hand, still holding her gun in her right, and trying to look everywhere at once. The trees swirled darkly around her, the woods closing in.
“Where’s Ennunzio?” her father said in her ear.
“I don’t know.”
“There is no brother, Kimberly. He died thirty years ago in the fire. It’s Ennunzio. It sounds as if he may have a brain tumor and has now experienced a psychotic break. You must consider him armed and dangerous.”
“Dad,” Kimberly said softly. “I smell fire.”
Tina’s head came up sharply. Her eyes were swollen shut again; she couldn’t see, but her hearing was just fine. Noise. Lots of noise. Footsteps and panting and crackling underbrush. It was as if the swamp overhead had suddenly exploded with activity. Rescuers!
“Hello?” she tried weakly. Her voice came out as nothing more than a croak.
She swallowed, tried again, and got little better results.
Desperate now, she attempted to pull herself up. Her arms trembled violently, too exhausted to bear her weight. But then she heard a fresh pounding of footsteps and adrenaline surged through her veins. She heaved herself half upright, groping around vainly in the mud. Something squished between her fingers, something plopped by her hand.
She gave up on caution, and brought a big handful of muck to her mouth, sucking greedily at the mud. Moisture for her parched throat, lips. So close, so close, so close.