The Killing Hour (15 page)

CHAPTER 18

Quantico, Virginia
5:36
A
.
M
.
Temperature: 84 degrees

QUINCY JERKED AWAKE TO THE SOUND
of the phone ringing. Instinct bred of so many other calls in the middle of so many other nights led him to reach automatically toward the nightstand. Then the ringing penetrated a second time, shrill and insistent, and he remembered that he was at the FBI Academy, staying in a dorm room, where the lone phone sat on the desk halfway across the room.

He moved quietly and quickly, but it was no longer necessary. Even as he cut off the third ring, Rainie was sitting up sleepily in the bed. Her long chestnut hair was tousled around her pale face, drawing attention to the striking angles of her cheeks and the long, bare column of her neck. God, she was lovely first thing in the morning. For that matter, she was lovely at the end of a long day. All these years later, day in, day out, she never failed to take his breath away.

He looked at her, and then, as happened too often these days, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He turned away, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

“Pierce Quincy.”

And then a moment later, “Are you sure? That’s not what I meant—
Kimberly . . . Well, if that’s what you want to do. Kimberly . . .” Big sigh again. The beginning of a headache already building in his temples. “You’re a grown adult, Kimberly. I respect that.”

It didn’t do him any good. His last surviving daughter had ended yesterday angry with him and had apparently started today even madder. She slammed down the phone. He returned his own receiver much more gently, trying not to notice how his hands shook. He had been trying to mend the bridge with his mercurial daughter for six years now. He hadn’t made much progress yet.

In the beginning, Quincy had thought Kimberly simply needed time. After the intense episode of what happened to their family, of course she harbored a great deal of rage. He had been an FBI agent, a trained professional, and still he’d done nothing to save Bethie and Amanda. If Kimberly hated him, he couldn’t blame her. For a long time, he had hated himself, too.

Now, however, as year advanced into year, and the raw ache of loss and failure began to subside, he wondered if it wasn’t something more insidious than that. He and his daughter had gone through a harrowing experience. They had joined forces to outwit a psychopath as he’d hunted them down one by one. That kind of experience changed people. Changed relationships.

And it built associations. Perhaps Kimberly simply couldn’t view him as a father anymore. A parent should be a safe harbor, a source of shelter amid turbulent times. Quincy was none of those things in his daughter’s eyes. In fact, his presence was probably a constant reminder that violence often struck close to home. That real monsters didn’t live under the bed. They could be very attractive, fully functioning members of society, and once they targeted you, not even a smart, strong, professionally trained father could make any difference.

It still amazed Quincy how easy it was to fail the ones you loved.

“Was that Kimberly?” Rainie asked from behind him. “What did she want?”

“She’s leaving the Academy this morning. She talked one of the counselors into giving her a leave of absence for emotional distress.”

“Kimberly?” Rainie’s voice was incredulous. “Kimberly, who would walk barefoot through fire before asking for a pair of shoes, let alone a fire extinguisher? No way.”

Quincy merely waited. It didn’t take long. Rainie had always been exceptionally bright. She got it in the next instant.

“She’s going to work the case!” she exclaimed suddenly. In contrast to his reaction, however, she threw back her head and laughed. “Well, what do you know. I told you the Georgian was a hunk!”

“If Supervisor Watson finds out,” Quincy said seriously, “her career will be over.”

“If Watson finds out, he’ll simply be mad he didn’t get to save the second girl first.” Rainie bounded out of bed. “Well, what do you want to do?”

“Work,” Quincy said flatly. “I want the ID on the victim.”

“Yes, sir!”

“And maybe,” he mused carefully, “it wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit to the forensic linguist, Dr. Ennunzio.”

Rainie regarded him in surprise. “Why, Pierce Quincy, are you beginning to believe in the Eco-Killer?”

“I don’t know. But I definitely think that my daughter is much too involved. Let’s work, Rainie. And let’s work fast.”

Kimberly and Mac drove toward Richmond mostly in silence. She learned that his taste in radio stations ran toward country music. In turn, she taught him that she didn’t function well without a morning cup of coffee.

They had taken his car; the rented Toyota Camry was nicer than her ancient Mazda. Mac had thrown a backpack filled with supplies into the trunk. Kimberly had added hiking boots and a duffel bag filled with her sparse collection of clothes.

She’d retrieved her gun first thing this morning, turning in the plastic Crayola along with her handcuffs. She signed a few forms, relinquished her ID, and that was that. She was officially on leave from the FBI Academy. For the first time since she was about nine years old, she was not actively aspiring to be a federal agent.

She should feel anxious, guilt-stricken, and horrified, she thought. So many years of her life she was suddenly throwing away on a whim. As if she ever did anything on a whim. As if her life had ever held a hint of the whimsical.

And yet, she didn’t feel horrible. No shortness of breath that would indicate an oncoming anxiety attack. No bunched muscles or pounding headache. In all honesty, she actually felt the lightest she had in weeks. Maybe, beneath her sleep-deprived haze, she was even a little giddy.

What that meant, she didn’t want to know.

They made good time getting to Richmond. Mac handed her a printed-out e-mail, and she navigated to the offices of the U.S. Geological Survey team, which were located in an office park north of the city. First glance wasn’t what Kimberly had expected. The office park, for one thing, was plunked down in the middle of suburban sprawl. They passed a community college, a housing development, and a local school. There were lovely sidewalks shaded by graceful trees, wide expanses of deep green yards, and brightly flowering pink and white crepe myrtle trees.

The USGS office building, too, was different from what she had pictured. One story of brick and glass. Newer. Lots of windows. Nicely landscaped with more crepe myrtle trees and God knows what kind of bushes. Definitely a far cry from the usual government décor of monochromatic malaise.

So a nice building in a nice place. Kimberly wondered if Mac knew that the FBI Richmond field office was literally right down the street.

She and Mac got out of the car, pushed their way through the heavy glass door and were immediately greeted by the waiting receptionist.

“Ray Lee Chee,” Mac said. The receptionist smiled at them brightly, then led the way.

“He’s a botanist?” Kimberly asked as she followed Mac down the wide, sunny hall.

“Geographer, actually.”

“What’s a geographer?”

“I think he works on maps.”

“You’re bringing our leaf to a
mapmaker
?”

“Genny knows him. He went to school with her brother or something like that. Apparently he has a background in botany and he said he could help.” Mac shrugged. “I have no jurisdiction; it’s not like I can order up any expert I want in the state.”

The receptionist had arrived at an interior office. She gestured to the partially opened door, then turned back down the hall, leaving Kimberly alone with Mac, already wondering if this wasn’t some kind of fool’s errand.

“Mr. Chee?” Mac asked, poking his head through the doorway. A short, well-built Asian man promptly fired back his desk chair and popped up to greet them.

“Oh God, don’t call me that. Ray, by all means, or I’ll keep looking around for my father.”

Ray pumped Mac’s hand vigorously, then greeted Kimberly with the same enthusiasm. The geographer was younger than Kimberly would’ve thought, and definitely not a dried-out academic. He sported khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt made out of one of those micro-fibers favored by hikers for wicking the sweat from their bodies.

Now, he gestured them into his paper-jammed office, then bounced back into his chair with about four times the necessary energy. His biceps bulged even when sitting and his hands were moving a mile a minute around his desk, looking for God knows what.

“So Genny said you needed my help,” Ray stated brightly.

“We’re trying to identify a leaf. I understand you have some experience in that sort of thing.”

“Spent my undergrad days studying botany,” Ray said, “before I moved into geography. For that matter, I also studied zoology and for a brief stint in time, auto mechanics. Seemed kind of funky at the time. On the other hand, when our truck gets stuck out in the field, everyone’s happy to have me along.” He turned toward Kimberly. “Do you talk?”

“Not before coffee.”

“You need some java? I brewed the world’s strongest batch in the kitchenette just half an hour ago. Stuff will knock the ZZZs right out of you, while putting some hair on your chest.” He held up both of his hands, which were trembling with caffeine jitters. “Want some?”

“Mmmm, I think I’ll wait.”

“Well, suit yourself, but after the first sixteen ounces or so, I’m telling you, it’s not so bad.” His dark gaze rebounded to Mac. “So where’s the leaf?”

“Actually, we brought you a picture.” Mac dug into his folder and pulled out the piece of paper.

“That’s all you got? A
picture
?”

“It’s a scanned image. Actual size. Front and back.” Ray kept staring at him and finally Mac shrugged ruefully. “Sorry, man. It’s all we got.”

“A real leaf would be better, you know. I mean,
much
better. What’s this for again?”

“It’s a piece of evidence in a case.”

“Like from a crime scene?” Ray’s face brightened. “If I ID this, can it be used to catch the bad guy or locate a corpse? Like they do on
CSI
?”

“Absolutely,” Mac assured him.

“Groovy.” Ray accepted the paper with more enthusiasm. “A picture is definitely tougher, but I like a challenge. Let’s see what you got.”

He took out a magnifying glass and studied the image for a second. “Well, let’s start with the basics. It’s an angiosperm—to you, a broadleaf tree. Given the oval shape with pointed tip and coarse-tooth margins, it’s most likely from the
Betula
family—some kind of birch.” He looked up. “Where did you find this again?”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment further on that subject.”

Ray resumed staring at the picture. He frowned. “This is really all you’ve got? No bark, no flowers, no twig?”

“That’s it.”

“Well, then you also like a challenge.” Ray’s desk chair shot back. He jerked to a stop in front of the bookshelf across the way and rapidly skimmed titles. His fingers settled on a big volume labeled
Gray’s Manual of Botany
. “In the good news/bad news department, birch is one of the larger tree families, with a number of species commonly found here in Virginia. If you’re into history, the old Appalachian mountaineers used to make birch beer from the sap of black birch trees, which tastes a bit like wintergreen. They came close to harvesting all of the black birches in the mountains to make the stuff, then synthetic wintergreen oil was developed, and the mountaineers moved on to making moonshine. All’s well that ends well, you know.”

He shot back to his desk, propelling his chair as easily as a small automobile, while his fingers rapidly flipped through the thick index guide. Peering over his shoulder, Kimberly saw page after page of tree leaves, all richly photographed and documented with lists of words that appeared to be in Latin. Definitely not a light summer read.

“Okay, for starters we have
Betula lenta,
otherwise known as black birch, sweet birch, or cherry birch. Its leaves are approximately three to four inches long. Your picture is closer to two and a half inches long, but maybe our leaf isn’t mature yet, so that’s a possibility.”

“Where are black birches found?” Mac asked.

“Oh, a little bit of everywhere. You can find them in the mountains of the western half of the state, or around parts of Chesapeake Bay close to streams. Does that work?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mac said. Now, he was also frowning. “Other options?”

“The
Betula lutea,
or yellow birch, which is found generally higher up in the mountains than the black birch. It’s a significantly larger tree, however, growing up to eighty feet with five-inch leaves, so I’m going to guess that it’s too big to be our suspect here. Let’s see . . .” Ray rapidly flipped through the book.

“Okay, consider
Betula papyrifera,
or paper birch. Leaves also grow three inches in length, which is closer in size. It’s also found in the mountains, generally in clear-cut or burned-out areas. Then there’s
Betula nigra,
or river birch, which is found in low elevations along waterways or around streams, ponds, lakes, etc. It’s also a smaller birch with leaves two to three inches long. So that’s a possibility.” He looked up at them sharply. “You don’t have any catkins?”

“Cat what?”

“The flowers that are generally found with the leaves. In birches, they resemble long, conelike structures, dangling down from amid the leaves. Flower size varies dramatically, which would help narrow the scope. Better yet, would be a twig with bark. As you can guess from the names, black versus yellow versus paper, one of the key distinguishing features of birch is the color of the tree’s bark.”

“I only have a leaf,” Mac said, then muttered under his breath, “because our guy also likes a challenge.” He turned toward Kimberly, the tension building in his shoulders.

“He wouldn’t use something common,” she said quietly. “No compass, remember? So this time, the clues must narrow down a region. Or it’s really not that much of a game.”

“Good point.” Mac turned back toward the geographer. “You said birches are commonly found in Virginia. Are there any that
aren’t
common? Maybe a type that is rare or endangered?”