by Lisa Gardner
If they were curious about Mac’s absence, they didn’t say anything and Kimberly didn’t feel like talking about it. What was there to say, anyway? He was working late. Happened all the time.
“We went to the aquarium today.” Rainie spoke up in a determined voice. “What an amazing place. I particularly enjoyed petting the stingrays.”
“Uh-huh,” Kimberly said.
“Quincy, what about you? What did you enjoy most?”
Kimberly’s father blinked, a deer caught in headlights. “Ummm, the beluga whales.”
“Yes, they were also beautiful. And very playful. I had no idea!”
“Uh-huh,” Kimberly said again.
“So I’m thinking tomorrow we’ll visit the Coke museum. I never realized an entire state could worship soda pop until we arrived here. What do you think, Quincy?”
“Sounds like a plan.” He had picked up his wife’s forced enthusiasm.
Kimberly set down her fork. “Dad, what was Mom like when she was pregnant?”
That brought the conversation up short.
“What?” her father asked.
“Did she have morning sickness, blotchy skin, mood swings? Or was she one of those radiant pregnant women, all aglow with maternal anticipation? Maybe she knit booties, stenciled nursery walls, made list after list of potential baby names…”
“Your mother? Knitting?”
“Was she happy? Did you guys have Amanda’s birth all planned out? Mom would stay home, you would take a leave of absence. You’d decorate the nursery together, take turns rocking your bundle of joy.”
“Kimberly, in all honesty, that was over thirty years ago—”
“Well, you must remember something! Anything! Come on, Dad. I’d ask Mom directly, except, you know, she’s dead!”
Quincy fell silent. Kimberly blinked her eyes, ashamed by her own outburst, the emotion that had risen out of nowhere and now clogged her throat. She should apologize. Say something. But she couldn’t, because if she opened her mouth, she was going to burst into tears.
Her father drew in a breath. “I’m sorry, Kimberly,” he said quietly. “I know you have questions. And I would like to answer them, I would. But to tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about Mandy’s birth, or even your own. I think when your mother was pregnant with Amanda, I was working a string of bank robberies in the Midwest. Four men in an unmarked white cargo van. They liked to pistol-whip the tellers, even when the women were cooperating with their demands. I remember interviewing eyewitness after eyewitness, trying to get a feel for how the team operated. And I remember walking into the ninth bank and discovering that, this time, they had shot the teller between the eyes. Heather Norris was her name. Nineteen-year-old single mother. She had just started at the bank in order to earn enough money to go to college. Those were the things that made an impression on me. As for your mother and what she was going through…”
“She hated you,” Kimberly said quietly.
“Eventually, yes. And I would say, not without cause.”
“Did you hate her?”
“Never.”
“What about Mandy and me? Two more females interfering with your precious work?”
“You and Amanda are two of the best things that ever happened to me.” She saw him squeeze Rainie’s hand. It didn’t improve her mood.
“Oh sure, you say that now. But at the time, when you were working one hundred cases a year of murdered kids and mutilated women, each of them needing your complete focus, and there we were, demanding that you come home for dinner, attend the school play, watch our talent show. How could you not get frustrated? How could you not grow impatient with all our petty demands?”
“They were never petty.”
“But they were. They can be. How do you manage it all? How do you find enough time and energy? Enough love? How can you be all things to all people?”
Her father was silent for a moment. “Did you know your mother had a job before you girls were born?” he asked abruptly.
“She did?”
“Yes. She worked at an art gallery. Your mother had a master’s in fine art. She hoped to be a curator of a museum someday. That was her dream.”
“Then she got pregnant.”
“Things were different back then, Kimberly. Your mother and I had always assumed she would stay home with our children. It never occurred to us to do anything different. Though maybe, in hindsight, we should have.”
“Why do you say that?”
Her father shrugged, obviously choosing his next words with care. “Your mother was a bright, creative woman. While she loved you and your sister, life as a stay-at-home mom…It was hard for her. Not as fulfilling as she had hoped. And then, with me gone all the time…I think it was easier sometimes to blame me for her dissatisfaction. I loved my job. And she…didn’t.”
“Would you have let her go back to work?”
“I don’t know. She never asked. And I was never home long enough to realize how unhappy she was. Until, of course, it was too late.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Kimberly whispered, her hand curling over her belly. “I thought I did, but here I am, five months pregnant, and suddenly, I don’t understand anything anymore. How to be a wife, an agent, let alone a mom. I haven’t even had the baby yet, and I’m already terrible at this!”
“I wish there was something I could tell you, Kimberly. But life isn’t a one-size-fits-all model. These are the questions you should be asking. These are the concerns you and Mac will get to address. All I can say is that as a parent, I think I made every mistake a father could make, and I still wound up with a positively wonderful daughter.”
Kimberly shook her head. She knew he meant the words kindly. She wanted to accept them gracefully. But all she could wonder is if Mandy would say the same, and thoughts of her sister, dead by the age of twenty-three, simply broke her heart all over again.
Kimberly waited until bedtime to bring up the phone call. Five months ago, she would’ve mentioned a death threat to Mac. They both would’ve scoffed at it, having received their fair share. Now she didn’t think she could talk about it with Mac, so she told her father instead.
He approached it with his usual practicality. “What do you know about the caller?”
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense. Try harder. You’ve spoken to the person three times. Plenty of opportunities to learn.”
She remembered now: Her father was a hard-ass. “Umm, the caller has access to a computer and a credit card and is knowledgeable enough about the Internet to use call spoofing.”
“Okay.”
“Caller knows the FBI’s general information number; not that hard because it’s also in the phone book. But,” she considered now, “caller also knows my cell phone number, which is harder to get.”
“What else?”
“Caller sounds like a male, but that could be the result of voice distortion. I have the impression, however, that the caller is younger. Some of the expressions used, the general moodiness and anger. I’d guess adolescent.”
“Excellent.”
“There’s a slight regional accent, so I’d say he’s a local. Calls have happened during the evening, small hours of the morning, and now daytime. So someone with a flexible job or schedule, or perhaps no job at all.”
“Goes along with your theory of an adolescent.”
“Yes.”
“Motive? Why is the caller reaching out? Why you?”
She had to think about it. “At first, when the caller shared the Veronica Jones tape, I thought it was to help. A person, possibly a victim him-or herself, was trying to bring attention to what had happened so that Dinchara would be punished. The second call also sounded like a warning. Someone still trying to help. Also, we know someone close to Dinchara is delivering envelopes bearing the missing girls’ driver’s licenses, potential ‘trophies.’ It’s possible the caller is the one who made the deliveries, a first attempt at outreach that,
unfortunately, didn’t get the job done.”
“And today’s call?”
“Angry,” she said without hesitation. “The caller was pissed off. Like I’d personally failed him. Maybe because he’s made the effort but I haven’t magically come through with an arrest? I’m not sure. But tonight the tone had changed. I’m no longer his ally. I’ve become his target.”
Quincy’s face held a ghost of a smile. “That does sound like an adolescent.”
“Exactly!”
He paused thoughtfully. “Is it possible that your caller is still in contact with your UNSUB? Perhaps the UNSUB himself changed the dynamics of the relationship. You said the caller wants to ‘graduate.’ And to do that, he/she claims he has to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps because it is the UNSUB’s bidding? Which brings us to the next logical question: Why you? Is it because the caller was told specifically to kill Special Agent Kimberly Quincy? Or that he/she was told to kill a law enforcement officer? Or a woman?”
“Me specifically,” Kimberly replied slowly. “From the very beginning, the caller has known I was involved with the Dinchara case. So I don’t think he chose me at random. It’s because of my involvement in the case. That’s what put me on his or her radar screen.”
“Likely suspects?” her father quizzed.
“Ginny Jones. Knows my cell phone number, has met with me regarding the case, and knows what happened to both her mother and Tommy Mark Evans. And,” she added thoughtfully, “she has a good reason to be angry with me, considering what happened between her and Dinchara last night. Whatever problems Ginny hoped to solve by contacting law enforcement, I don’t think it’s worked out the way she planned.”
“But?”
Kimberly shrugged. “But why mess around with call spoofing? We’ve already met face-to-face. There’s nothing in the phone calls she couldn’t have told me in person.”
“Shy?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Scared?”
“I think it’s a bigger risk to be following up by phone, versus telling me everything when we’re in person. Then again, girl like her…Who the hell knows?”
“Do you think the caller was serious?” Quincy asked her quietly. “Do you feel your life is in jeopardy?”
She chewed her lower lip, unsure of how to answer. “It’s spooky to be threatened.”
“But do you feel your life is in jeopardy?”
“I’m not sure. There’s a big difference between preying on prostitutes and gunning for a fed. Then again, there’s gamesmanship here. Ginny…the caller…I feel like a pawn being moved around a board for reasons I can’t see. And that, more than anything, makes me nervous. Even if I’m not the main target, I could still wind up collateral damage.”
“You’ve filed a report with your supervisor?”
“Left him a memo with a copy of the tape tonight.”
“What do you think he’ll recommend?”
“I’m hoping like hell he’ll finally agree to form a task force,” she declared drily. “One thing the caller did drop was that he or she knows something about Tommy Mark Evans. And there’s an unsolved homicide, where, heavens to Betsy, we have a body. Maybe that will finally get the wheels churning, because God knows poor Ginny nearly got her face caved in for nothing. And I am pissed off about it!”
“That’s my girl,” Quincy told her.
That, more than anything, finally made her smile.
“I think Sal’s onto something,” she said seriously. “I think Dinchara has been preying on prostitutes. Ginny escaped. She was the lucky one. Now we need to do something about the other girls. I want to find them. I want to bring them home. And then, I want to nail Spideyman to the wall.”
“Given what you learned with the boot,” her father said, “I’d head to the woods. Bring some cadaver dogs.”
“Sure, seven hundred and fifty thousand acres. Couple of dogs will blow through that in a day.”
“You get your sarcasm from your mother’s side.”
“Don’t you wish. But hey, Harold has an old friend who is an arachnologist. He’s arranged for us to meet with her first thing in the morning. Normally I wouldn’t place a lot of weight on the analysis of molted spider skin, but given Dinchara’s predilections…”
“Can I attend?”
“Ah, Dad, and miss Coca-Cola World?”
Her father said seriously: “Please, I’m begging you.”
She stayed up after Rainie and Quincy retired, watching late-night TV in bed while waiting for Mac. At one a.m., she couldn’t take it anymore. She rubbed her lower back, regarded her slightly swollen feet, decided she had grown bigger since just yesterday and it was definitely time to sleep.
“Sweet dreams, Baby McCormack,” she whispered to her belly, turning off the light, dragging the covers up.
Sleep was not kind to her. She found herself running through a bloody house, which she dimly recognized from crime scene photos of her mother’s murder. She was desperate to find Bethie. She had to see her mother. There was so much she needed to say.
Except then she heard the wail of a baby and she knew it wasn’t her mother she had lost. She was racing to find her baby. Following the cries through the house. Following the blood trail.
Then, a ghostly white bassinet finally appearing in front of her…
“Shhhh,” Mac’s voice told her. “Shhh, you’re all right, Kimberly. It’s just a bad dream. It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”
She clung to him. Felt his arms go around her, tucking her against the solid warmth of his chest. Except she couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop trembling. Even in her husband’s arms, she didn’t feel safe.
The phone rang. Once, twice.
The third time, she finally managed to pull herself to the surface. The clock glowed five a.m. Mac was sleeping with his back to her. Her cell phone chimed again next to the bed. He stirred groggily as she snatched it up.
She checked the display screen, then put it to her ear.
“Don’t you ever sleep, Sal?”
“She’s gone,” he said flatly. “Jackie could never track her down last night. We finally stopped by first thing this morning. Apartment’s packed up and cleared out. Ginny Jones has disappeared.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Just as birds can be identified by their singing, so spiders can be sorted by their methods of killing.”
FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER, New Yorker, MARCH 5, 2007
“THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF POISONOUS SPIDERS IN the United States,” USDA arachnologist Carrie Crawford-Hale was explaining. “First is the Lactrodectus mactans or black widow, known for the bright red markings on her abdomen. Only the females bite, generally only when harassed. The second poisonous spider is the Loxosceles reclusa, or brown recluse, known for the violin-shaped marking on its back. Both males and females are equally toxic. Fortunately, they’re very shy, sedentary spiders who prefer to stay tucked behind woodpiles rather than intermingle with humans. Even then, there’s at least a dozen bites reported a year, some with serious consequences.”
“Define serious,” Sal spoke up. He stood close to the door and about as far away from Crawford-Hale and her microscope as he could get. A mounted scorpion was to his right; some kind of giant black beetle with enormous claws directly above his head. The GBI special agent looked tired, haggard, and nervous as hell.
In contrast, Kimberly was trying to figure out if it was polite to ask if she could peer through the microscope. She’d never seen molted spider skin at 10x magnification before. According to Harold, it was pretty cool.
Unfortunately, Crawford-Hale’s office was roughly the size of a janitor’s closet, already overflowing with equipment, filing cabinets, and jarred and mounted specimens. Harold and her family had had to wait outside. Shame, because Quincy probably would enjoy what the arachnologist had to say.
“The venom of the Loxosceles reclusa contains an enzyme
that necrotizes the flesh of the victim.” Crawford-Hale adjusted the microscope as she shifted from right to left. “To protect against the venom, the body walls off the arteries around the bite. The skin, starved of blood, begins to die, turning black and sloughing off. I’ve seen pictures of open wounds anywhere from the size of a quarter to a half dollar. In some cases, it’s a small reaction that clears up in weeks. Other times, an entire limb might swell up and it can take months, even a year, to fully recover. The variation seems to have to do more with the response from the victim’s own immune system than from the potency of the particular spider. Basically, some people are more sensitive than others.”
Sal appeared horrified. He’d already eaten this morning, judging by the smudge of ketchup on his dark gray lapel and the pervasive odor of hash browns coming from his suit. At the moment, however, it looked like breakfast wasn’t agreeing with him.
He shifted farther away from Crawford-Hale, shaking out both arms as if feeling something crawling up his skin. “How do you know how sensitive you are?”
“First time you get bit, you learn.” Crawford-Hale straightened up at the microscope. “I’m ninety percent certain this is a Loxosceles reclusa. You can still make out the upside-down violin shadowing the carapace; then there’s the light brown color, the thin, almost delicate body. A more definitive diagnostic feature is the eyes—brown recluses have a semicircular arrangement of six eyes in three groups of two, while most other spiders have eight eyes. I can’t make out that level of detail from this molting, but I’m still relatively confident in my classification.”
“Aren’t brown recluses common in Georgia?” Kimberly asked with a frown.
“Absolutely. The southern states, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma—we’re lousy with brown recluses. I got a case three months ago where a family reported an infestation. I collected three hundred specimens in the first three hours. Interestingly enough, no one in the family was ever bitten. Spiders really aren’t interested in taking on creatures that can squish them with one move of their big toe.