Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

“Postmark?”

“Stafford.”

“The town next door?”

“Yeah, sent yesterday. Local job all the way. Guy’s in the area to murder a woman, might as well send his note, too.”

Quincy raised a brow. “He’s smart. Done his homework. Well, stationery is a good place to start. Dr. Ennunzio said that Georgia had sent him one original letter to the editor. I’d like you to turn over this ad to him as well. Perhaps that gives him two data points to consider.”

Kaplan had to think about it. “He can have it for a week,” he conceded at last. “Then I want it back at my lab.”

“Your cooperation is duly noted,” Quincy assured him.

There was a knock on the door. Quincy thinned his lips, frustrated by the intrusion when they were finally getting somewhere, but Kaplan was already climbing to his feet. “Probably one of my agents,” he said by way of explanation. “I told him I’d be around here.”

He opened the classroom door, and sure enough, a younger buzz-cut man entered the room. The agent was holding a piece of paper and his body practically thrummed with excitement.

“I thought you’d want to see this right away,” the younger officer said immediately.

Kaplan took the paper, glanced at it, then looked up sharply. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, sir. Got it confirmed fifteen minutes ago.”

“What?” Rainie was asking. Even Watson strained in his chair. Kaplan turned back to them slowly.

“We got an ID on the girl,” he said, and his gaze went to Quincy. “It’s not just like Georgia after all. Sweet Jesus, this is much, much worse.”

“Water break.”

“Soon.”

“Kimberly, water break.”

“I want to see what’s around the next corner-”

“Honey, stop and drink some water, or I will tackle you.”

Kimberly scowled at him. Mac’s face remained resolute. He’d halted ten feet back, at a boulder jutting out from the stream they were following down the steep slope.

After three hours of hard hiking, half of her body was covered in a bright red rash-poison ivy, stinging nettles, take your pick. Her T-shirt was sweated through. Her shorts were drenched. Even her socks squished as she walked. Then there was the sodden skullcap that now passed as her hair.

In contrast, Mac stood with one knee bent comfortably on a large boulder. His damp gray nylon shirt molded his impressive chest. His short dark hair was slicked back to better highlight his bronzed, chiseled face. He wasn’t breathing hard. He didn’t have a scratch on him. Three hours of brutal trekking later, the man looked like a damn L.L.Bean cover model.

“Bite me,” Kimberly said, but she finally stopped and grudgingly dug out her water bottle. The water was tepid and tasted of plastic. It still felt good going down her throat. She was hot. Her chest heaved. Her legs trembled. She’d had easier times on the Marines’ obstacle course.

“At least the heat keeps the ticks down,” Mac said conversationally.

“What?”

“The ticks. They don’t like it when it’s this hot. Now if it were spring or fall…”

Kimberly gazed down frantically at her bare legs. Beneath the red rash, were any of her freckles moving? Blood-sucking parasites, that ought to top off the day… Then she registered the underlying humor in Mac’s voice and looked up suspiciously.

“You’re living dangerously,” she growled.

He merely grinned. “Are you thinking of going for your knife? I’ve been waitin’ all day.”

“Not to put a damper on your male fantasies, but I’m sorry I wore the knife. It’s rubbing off all the skin on my thigh and damn near killing me.”

“Would you like to remove it? I could assist.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

She turned away from him, swiping a hand through her short-cropped hair. Her palm came back wet and salty, disgusting even her. She must look like a wreck. And still he flirted with her. The man was insane.

Her gaze went to the sun. From this vantage point, she could just see it sinking low in the sky. Funny, it was easy to lose track of night around here. The trees already cast so much of the landscape into shadow, and it wasn’t as if the temperature was magically cooling down. But the sun was definitely retreating, the hour growing late.

“Not much time,” she murmured.

“No,” he agreed, his voice now as somber as her own.

“We should get going.” She bent to put her water bottle away. He stepped toward her and halted her hand with his own.

“You need to drink more.”

“I just had water!”

“You’re not drinking enough. You’ve only gone through a quart. You heard Kathy Levine. In these conditions you’re probably sweating through at least that much an hour. Drink, Kimberly. It’s important.”

His fingers were still on her arm. Not gripping, certainly not bruising. She felt his touch anyway, more than she should. His fingertips were callused. His palm was damp, probably as sweaty as the rest of him, as the rest of her. She still didn’t move away.

And for the first time…

She thought about moving closer. She thought about kissing him. He was the kind of man who would be very good at kissing. She imagined he would be slow and thorough. Kissing for him would be like flirting, a fun bit of foreplay he’d been practicing for most of his life.

And for her?

It would be desperate. She knew that without having to think why. It would be need and hope and anger. It would be a vain attempt to leave behind her own body, to break free of the relentless anxiety that shadowed every step she took. To forget for a moment that a young woman was lost out here, and she was trying so hard, but maybe she still wasn’t good enough. She hadn’t saved her sister. She hadn’t saved her mother. Why did she think this time would be different?

She needed too much. She wanted too deeply. This man could laugh his way through life. While Kimberly would one day simply die trying.

Kimberly stepped away. After another moment, she brought her water bottle back up and took a long, deep swallow.

“Times like these,” she said after drinking, “you should be able to push yourself harder.”

Her tone was goading, but Mac merely arched a brow.

“You think I’m soft?”

She shrugged. “I think we’re running out of daylight. I think we should be moving more, and talking less.”

“Kimberly, what time is it?”

“A little after eight.”

“And where are we?”

“Somewhere in our three-mile grid, I guess.”

“Honey, we’ve been hiking down for three hours now. We’re about to go down more, because like you, I also want to see what’s around that next bend. Now, you want to tell me how we’re going to complete our three-hour hike down and magically make it back up to base camp in the one hour of daylight we have left?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“It can’t be done,” he said flatly. “Come dark, we’ll still be in these woods, plain and simple. Good news, according to my map, we’re close to a trail due west. I figure we finish off this section of the stream, leave a marker, then find the trail before dark. Footing there will be better, and we can use my flashlight to pick our way back up. That way, it’ll only be hard and dangerous, versus downright foolhardy. Don’t think I don’t know how to push the envelope, honey. I’ve just had a few more years to perfect the act than you.”

Kimberly studied him. Then, abruptly, she nodded. He was putting their lives at risk and, perversely, she liked him better for it.

“Good,” she said, and hefted her pack. She turned down the streambed, calling out casually over her shoulder, “Old fart.”