The Killing Hour (6 page)

And then her voice with that impossible reedy wail, over and over again. “No, no, no. Oh God, please
no.
”

Her father had tried to prop her up. Nora Ray sank down on the tarmac, curling up beneath her army blanket as if that could protect her from the truth. Her parents finally collapsed with her, a huddle of green grief that would never know an end.

They won that day. They lost that day.

And now?

It was hot, it was late. And a man was writing letters to the editor once again.

Go home, little girls. Lock the doors. Turn out the lights. Don’t end up like Nora Ray Watts, who ran out with her younger sister for a little ice cream one night and ended up abandoned in a desolate part of the coast, frantically burying herself deeper into the muck, while the fiddler crabs nibbled on her toes, the razor clams slashed open her palms, and the scavengers began to circle overhead.

CHAPTER 5

Fredericksburg, Virginia
10:34
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 89 degrees

“
I
’
M READY,
” Tina said two inches from Betsy’s ear. In the pounding noise of the jam-packed bar, her roommate didn’t seem to hear her. They were outside Fredericksburg, at a little hole-in-the-wall joint favored by college students, biker gangs, and really loud Western bands. Even on a Tuesday night, the place was jamming, the people so thick and the bass so loud Tina didn’t know how the roof stayed on over their heads.

“I’m ready,” Tina tried again, shouting louder. This time, Betsy at least turned toward her.

“What?” Betsy yelled.

“Time . . . to . . . go . . .
home,
” Tina hollered back.

“Bathroom?”

“
HOME
!”

“Oooooh.” Her roommate finally got it. She looked at Tina more closely and her brown eyes instantly softened with concern. “You okay?”

“Hot!”

“No kidding.”

“Not feeling . . . so well.” Actually, she was feeling horrible. Her long blond hair had come untangled from its knot and was plastered against her neck. Sweat trickled down the small of her back, over her butt, and all the way down her legs. The air was too heavy. She kept trying to draw deep, gulping breaths, but she still wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She thought she might be sick.

“Let me tell the others,” Betsy said immediately, and headed out to the jostling dance floor, where Viv and Karen were lost amid the sea of people.

Tina closed her eyes and promised herself she would not projectile vomit in the middle of a crowded bar.

Fifteen minutes later, they had pushed their way outside and were walking toward Betsy’s Saab, Viv and Karen bringing up the rear. Tina put her hand against her face. Her forehead felt feverish to her.

“Are you going to make it?” Betsy asked her. After screaming to be heard in the bar, her voice cracked three decibels too loud in the parking lot’s total silence. They all winced.

“I don’t know.”

“Girl, you had better tell me if you’re going to be sick,” Betsy warned seriously. “I’ll hold your head over the toilet, but I draw the line at puking in my car.”

Tina smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

“I could go get you some club soda,” Karen offered from behind her.

“Maybe we should just wait a minute,” Viv said. She, Karen, and Betsy all drew up short.

Tina, however, had already climbed into Betsy’s Saab. “I just want to go home,” she murmured quietly. “Please, let’s go home.”

She closed her eyes as her head fell back against the seat. With her eyes closed, her head felt better. Her hands settled upon her stomach. The music faded away. Tina let herself drift off to desperately needed sleep.

It seemed to her that they had no sooner left the parking lot than she was awakened by a savage jerk.

“What the—” Her head popped up. The car lurched again and she grabbed the dash.

“Back tire,” Betsy said in disgust. “I think I got a flat.”

The car lurched right and that was enough for Tina. “Betsy,” she said tightly. “Pull over.
Now!
”

“Got it!” Betsy jerked the car onto the right-hand shoulder of the road. Tina fumbled with the clasp of her seat belt, then fumbled with the door. She got out of the car and sprinted down the embankment into the nearby woods. She got her head down just in time.

Oh, this was not fun. Not fun at all. She heaved up two cranberry and tonics, then the pasta she’d had for dinner, then anything else she’d ever eaten for the last twenty years. She stood there, hands braced upon her thighs as she dry-heaved.

I’m going to die, she thought. I was bad and now I’m being punished and my mom was right all along. There is no way in the world I’m going to be able to take this. Oh God, I want to go home.

Maybe she cried. Maybe she was just sweating harder. With her head between her knees, it was hard to be sure.

But slowly her stomach relented. The cramping eased, the worst of the nausea passed. She staggered upright, put her face up to the sky, and thought she’d kill for an ice-cold shower right about now. No such luck. They were in the middle of nowhere outside of Fredericksburg. She’d just have to wait.

She sighed. And then for the first time, she heard the noise. A non-Betsy noise. A non-girls-out-on-the-town noise. It sounded high, short, metallic. Like the slide of a rifle, ratcheting back.

Tina slowly turned toward the road. In the hot, humid dark, she was no longer alone.

Kimberly never even heard a noise. She was an FBI trainee, for God’s sake. A woman experienced with crime and paranoid to boot. She still never heard a thing.

She stood alone at the Academy’s outdoor firing range, surrounded by 385 acres of darkness with only a small Mag flashlight. In her hands, she held an empty shotgun.

It was late. The new agents, the Marines, hell, even the National Academy “students” had long since gone to bed. The stadium lights were extinguished. The distant bank of towering trees formed an ominous barrier between her and civilization. Then there were the giant steel sidewalls, designed to segregate the various firing ranges while stopping high-velocity bullets.

No lights. No sounds. Just the unnatural hush of a night so hot and humid not even the squirrels stirred from their trees.

She was tired. That was her best excuse. She’d run, she’d pumped iron, she’d walked, she’d studied, then she’d downed three gallons of water and two PowerBars and headed out here. Her legs were shaky. Her arm muscles trembled with fatigue.

She hefted the empty shotgun to her shoulder, and went through the rhythms of firing over and over again.

Place butt firmly against right shoulder to absorb the recoil. Plant feet hip-width apart, loose in the knees. Lean slightly forward into the shot. At the last minute, as your right finger squeezes the trigger, pull forward with your left hand as if the gun were a broom handle you were trying to tear in half. Hope against hope you don’t fall once more on your ass. Or smash your shoulder. Or shatter your cheek.

Live ammunition was limited to supervised drills, so Kimberly had no real way of knowing how she was doing. Still, lots of the new agents came out after hours to go through the motions. The more times you handled a weapon, the more comfortable it felt in your hands.

If you did it enough times, maybe it would become instinctive. And if it became instinctive, maybe you’d survive the next firearms test.

She leaned into her next practice “shot.” Went a little too far, and her rubbery legs wobbled dangerously. She reached out a hand, had just caught herself, and then, in the pitch darkness beside her, she heard a man say, “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Kimberly acted on instinct. She whirled, spotted the hulking, threatening form, and whipped the empty shotgun at the man’s face. Then she ran.

A grunt. Surprise. Pain. She didn’t wait to find out. The hour was late, the surroundings remote, and she knew too well that some predators preferred it if you screamed.

Footsteps. Hard and fast behind her. In her initial panic, Kimberly had sprinted toward the trees. Bad idea. Trees were dark, and far from help. She needed to cut back toward the Academy buildings, back toward lights, population, and the FBI police. The man was already gaining on her.

Kimberly took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding, her lungs screaming. Her body was too abused for this kind of business. Good news, adrenaline was a powerful drug.

She focused on the footsteps behind her, trying to separate their staccato beat from her heart’s frantic hammering. He was gaining. Fast. Of course. He was bigger and stronger than her. At the end of the day, the men always were.

Fuck him.

She homed in on his rhythm, timed it with her own. One, two, three—

The man’s hand snaked out for her left wrist. Kimberly suddenly planted her foot, pirouetted right. He overshot her completely. And she took off at warp nine for the lights.

“Jesus!” she heard the man swear.

It made her smile. Grim and fierce. Then the footsteps were behind her again.

Is this how her mother had felt? She had fought bitterly to the end. Her father had tried to protect Kimberly from the details, but a year later, on her own, Kimberly had looked up all the articles in the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. HIGH SOCIETY HOUSE OF HORRORS, the first banner headline had declared. Then it had gone on to describe the trail of blood that ran from room to room.

Had her mother known then that the man had already killed Mandy? Had she guessed that he would come after Kimberly next? Or had she simply realized, in those last desperate minutes, that beneath the silk and pearls she was an animal, too? And all animals, even the lowliest field mice, fight to live in the end.

The footsteps had closed in on her again. The lights were too far away. She wasn’t going to make it. It amazed her how coolly she accepted this fact.

Time’s up, Kimberly. No actors here. No paint guns, no bulletproof vests. She had one last ploy.

She counted his footsteps. Timed his approach. And then, in the next heartbeat, as he was upon her, his giant form swooping down on her own, she dropped to the ground and curled her arms protectively over her head.

She saw the man’s face, faintly caught by the distant lights. His eyes went wide. He tried to draw up short, his arms flailing wildly. He made one last desperate move, careening left to spin around her.

Kimberly adroitly stuck out her leg. And he went flat on his face on the ground.

Ten seconds later, she flipped him over on his back, dropped down on his chest and placed the silver blade of her serrated hunting knife against his dark throat.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.

The man started to laugh.

“Betsy?” Tina called nervously. No answer. “Bets?”

Still nothing. And then it hit Tina, the second thing that was wrong. There were no other sounds. Shouldn’t she be hearing car doors opening or closing? Or even Betsy heaving as she dragged the spare to the ground? Surely there should be some noise. Other cars. Crickets. The wind in the trees.

But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. The night had gone completely, deathly still.

“This isn’t funny anymore,” Tina said weakly.

Then she heard a twig snap. And then she saw his face.

Pale, somber, maybe even gentle above the black collar of his turtleneck. How in the world could someone wear a turtleneck in this heat? Tina thought.

Then, he hefted up the rifle and leveled it against his shoulder.

Tina stopped thinking. She bolted for the trees.

“Stop laughing. Why are you laughing? Hey, stop!”

The man laughed harder, a steady ripple of spasms moving down his large frame and tossing her from side to side as easily as if she were a small boat caught in a rough wake. “Toppled by a woman,” he gasped with an unmistakable Southern accent. “Oh, please, honey . . . don’t tell my sister.”

His sister? What the hell?

“All right. That’s it. Move one more muscle and I will slit your throat.” Kimberly must’ve sounded more impressive this time. The man finally stopped laughing. That was better. “Name?” she asked crisply.

“Special Agent Michael McCormack. But you can call me Mac.”

Kimberly’s eyes widened. She had a sudden bad feeling. “FBI?” she whispered. Oh no, she’d taken out a fellow agent. Probably her future boss. She wondered who would make the call to her father.
“You know, Quincy old fellow, you were a star among stars here at the Bureau; but I’m afraid your daughter is just too, er,
freaky
for us.”

“Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” the man drawled. “State police. We’ve always had a soft spot for the Bureau, though, so we stole your titles.”

“You little—” She was so angry she couldn’t think of a word. She whacked his shoulder with her left hand, then remembered, oh yeah, she had a knife. “You’re with the National Academy,” she accused him, in the same tone of voice others used for addressing vermin.

“And you’re a new agent . . . obviously.”

“Hey, I still have a knife at your throat, mister!”

“I know.” He frowned at her, his easy tone throwing her for another loop. Was it her imagination, or had he just shifted to get more comfortable beneath her? “Why are you carrying a knife?”

“They took away my Glock,” she said without thinking.

“Of course.” He nodded as if she were a very wise person, instead of a highly paranoid aspiring federal agent. “If I might ask a personal question, ma’am. Umm, where do you hide the blade?”

“I beg your pardon!” She could definitely feel his gaze on her body now, and she immediately blushed. It was hot. She’d been working out . . . So the nylon shorts and thin blue T-shirt didn’t cover much. She was training after hours, for God’s sake, not preparing for an interview. Besides, it was amazing the things you could strap to the inside of your thigh.

“Why did you chase me?” she demanded, pressing the tip of her knife deeper against his throat.

“Why did you run?”

She scowled, pursed her lips, then tried another tack. “What are you doing out here?”

“Saw the light. Thought I’d better investigate.”

“Ah ha! So I’m not the only one who’s paranoid.”

“That’s true, ma’am. It would appear that we’re both equally paranoid. I can’t stand the heat. What’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story!”

“Fair enough. You’re the one with the knife after all.”

He fell silent and seemed to be waiting for her to do something. Which was an interesting point. What was she going to do now? New Agent Kimberly Quincy has just made her first apprehension. Unfortunately, he was a fellow law enforcement officer whose title was already bigger than hers.

Damn. Double damn. God, she was tired.

All at once, the last of the adrenaline left her, and her body, pushed too hard too fast, simply collapsed. She slid off the man’s chest and let her aching limbs sprawl in the relative comfort of the thick green grass.