Lisa Gardner: The killing hour

The students had their theories. The brightly exploding paint shells made getting hit all the more embarrassing. And the pain wasn’t something you forgot about anytime soon. As Steven, the class psychologist, dryly pointed out, the Hogan Alley live-action drills were basically classic shock therapy on a whole new scale.

“Shot out the tires,” Lehane said now.

“Yes, at least Kimberly eventually thought of that. Which brings us to the Deadly Deed of the Day.”

Watson’s gaze swung to Kimberly. She met his look, knew what it meant, and stuck her chin up.

“She abandoned the cover of her vehicle,” the first person said.

“Put down her weapon.”

“Went after one suspect before she finished securing the scene.”

“Stopped providing cover fire-”

“Got killed-”

“Maybe she missed her partner.”

Laughter. Kimberly shot the commentator a thanks-for-nothing glare. Whistler, a big burly former Marine-who sounded like he was whistling every time he breathed-smiled back. He’d won Deadly Deed of the Day yesterday when, during a bank robbery of the Bank of Hogan, he went to shoot a robber and hit the teller instead.

“I got a little lost in the moment,” Kimberly said curtly.

“You got killed,” Watson corrected flatly.

“Merely paralyzed!”

That earned her another droll look. “Secure the vehicle first. Control the situation. Then give pursuit.”

“He’d be gone-”

“But you would have the car, which is evidence, you’d have his cohorts to flip on him, and best of all, you’d still be alive. A bird in the hand, Kimberly. A bird in the hand.” Watson gave her one last stern look, then opened up his lecture to the rest of the class. “Remember, people, in the heat of the moment, you have to stay in control. That means falling back on your training and the endless drills we’re making you do here. Hogan’s Alley is about learning good judgment. Taking the high-risk shot in the middle of a bank holdup is not good judgment.” Whistler got a look. “And leaving the cover of your vehicle, and your fellow agents, to pursue one suspect on foot is not good judgment.” A fresh glance at Kimberly. Like she needed it.

“Remember your training. Be smart. Stay controlled. That will keep you alive.” He glanced at his watch, then clapped his hands. “All right, people, five o’clock, that’s a wrap. For God’s sake, go wash all that paint off. And remember, folks-as long as it remains this hot, drink plenty of water.”

Quantico, Virginia

5:22 P . M .

Temperature: 94 degrees

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Kimberly stood blessedly alone in her small Washington Hall dorm room. Given this afternoon’s debacle, she’d thought she’d have a good cry. She now discovered that as of week nine of the Academy’s sixteen-week program, she was officially too tired for tears.

Instead, she stood naked in the middle of the tiny dorm room. She was staring at her reflection in a full-length mirror, not quite believing what she saw.

The sound of running water came from her right; her roommate, Lucy, fresh off the PT course, was showering in the bathroom they shared with two other classmates. Behind her, came the sounds of gunfire and the occasional exploding artillery. The FBI Academy and National Academy classes were done for the day, but Quantico remained a busy place. The Marines conducted basic training just down the road. The DEA ran various exercises. At any given time on the sprawling 385-acre grounds, someone was probably shooting something.

When Kimberly had first arrived here back in May, first stepped off the Dafre shuttle bus, she’d inhaled the scent of cordite mixed with fresh-cut lawn and thought she’d never smelled anything quite so nice. The Academy seemed beautiful to her. And surprisingly inconspicuous. The sprawling collection of thirteen oversized beige brick buildings looked like any kind of 1970s institution. A community college maybe. Or government offices. The buildings were ordinary.

Inside wasn’t much different. A serviceable, blue-gray carpet ran as far as the eye could see. Walls were painted bone-white. Furniture was sparse and functional-low-slung orange chairs, short, easily assembled oak tables and desks. The Academy had officially opened its doors in 1972, and the joke was the decorating hadn’t changed much since.

The complex, however, was inviting. The Jefferson Dormitory, where visitors checked in, boasted beautiful wood trim as well as a glass-enclosed atrium, perfect for indoor barbecues. Over a dozen long, smoked-glass corridors connected each building and made it seem as if you were walking through the lush, green grounds, instead of remaining indoors. Courtyards popped up everywhere, complete with flowering trees, wrought-iron benches, and flagstone patios. On sunny days, trainees could race woodchucks, rabbits, and squirrels to class as the animals bounded across the rolling lawns. At dusk, the glowing amber eyes of deer, foxes, and raccoons appeared in the fringes of the forest, peering at the buildings with the same intensity the students used to stare back. One day, around week three, as Kimberly was strolling down a glass-enclosed corridor, she turned her head to admire a white flowering dogwood, and a thick black snake suddenly appeared among the branches and dropped to the patio below.

In the good news department, she hadn’t screamed. One of her classmates, a former Navy man, however, had. Just startled, he told them all sheepishly. Honestly, just startled.

Of course, they had all screamed a time or two since. The instructors would’ve been disappointed otherwise.

Kimberly returned her attention to the full-length mirror, and the mess that was her body now reflected there. Her right shoulder was dark purple. Her left thigh yellow and green. Her rib cage was bruised, both her shins were black and blue, and the right side of her face-from yesterday’s shotgun training-looked like someone had gone after her with a meat mallet. She turned around and gazed at the fresh bruise already forming on her lower back. It would go nicely with the giant red mat burn running up the back of her right thigh.

Nine weeks ago, her five-six frame had been one hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle and sinew. As a lifelong workout junkie, she’d been fit, trim, and ready to breeze through physical training. Armed with a master’s degree in criminology, shooting since she was twelve, and hanging out with FBI agents-basically her father-all of her life, she’d strode through the Academy’s broad glass doors like she owned the joint. Kimberly Quincy has arrived and she’s still pissed off about September 11. So all you bad people out there, drop your weapons and cower.

That had been nine weeks ago. Now, on the other hand…

She’d definitely lost badly needed weight. Her eyes held dark shadows, her cheeks were hollowed out, her limbs looked too thin to bear her own weight. She looked like a washed-out version of her former self. Bruises on the outside to match the bruises on the inside.

She couldn’t stand the sight of her own body. She couldn’t seem to look away.

Inside the bathroom, the water shut off with a rusty clank. Lucy would be out soon.

Kimberly raised her hand to the mirror. She traced the line of her bruised shoulder, the glass cool and hard against her fingertips.

And, unbidden, she remembered something she hadn’t thought of for six years now. Her mother, Elizabeth Quincy. Dark, softly curling brown hair, fine patrician features, her favorite ivory silk blouse. Her mother was smiling at her, looking troubled, looking sad, looking torn.

“I just want you to be happy, Kimberly. Oh God, if only you weren’t so much like your father…”