Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

Kaplan shifted uneasily. “Didn’t come up.”

“You have a murder on the base, and you don’t think to mention that you have an abnormally high number of eighteen-to-thirty-five-year-old males engaged in transient, menial labor, in other words, men who fit the murderer’s profile, passing through these gates?”

Now even the two Marine sentries were regarding Kaplan with interest. “Each and every person who receives authorization to enter this base must first pass security clearance,” Kaplan replied evenly. “Yeah, I got a list of the names, and yeah, my people have been reviewing them. But we don’t allow people with records on this base period-not as personnel, not as contractors, not as guests, and not as students. So it’s a clean list.”

“That’s wonderful,” Quincy said crisply. “Except for one thing, Special Agent Kaplan. Our UNSUB doesn’t have a record-he hasn’t been caught yet!”

Kaplan’s face blazed red. He was definitely aware of the two sentries watching him, and he was definitely aware of Quincy’s growing fury. But still he didn’t back down. “We pulled the list. We analyzed the names. No one has a history of violence or a record of assault. In other words, there is nothing to indicate any one of those contractors should be pursued as a suspect. Unless, excuse me, you want me to start attacking any guy who drives a cargo van.”

“It would be a start.”

“It would be half the list!”

“Yes, but then how many of those people once lived in Georgia!”

Kaplan drew up short, blinked, and Quincy finally nodded in grim satisfaction. “A simple credit report, Special Agent. That’s all you have to do. It’ll give you previous addresses and we can identify anyone who also has ties to Georgia. And then we’d have a suspect list. Don’t you think?”

“It… but… well… Yeah, okay.”

“There are two more girls out there,” Quincy said quietly. “And this UNSUB has gotten away with this for far too long.”

“You don’t know that he’s really a member of the construction crews,” Kaplan said stubbornly.

“No, but we should at least be asking these questions. You can’t let the UNSUB control the game. Take it from me,” Quincy’s gaze had taken on a faraway look. “You have to take control, or you will lose. With these kinds of predators, it’s all about gamesmanship. Winner takes all.”

“I’ll put my people on the list,” Kaplan said. “Give us a few hours. Where will you be?”

“At the BSU, talking to Dr. Ennunzio.”

“Has he learned anything from the ad?”

“I don’t know. But let’s hope he’s been lucky. Because the rest of us certainly haven’t.”

Virginia

11:34 A . M .

Temperature: 97 degrees

TINA HAD GONE NATIVE. Mud streaked her arms, her legs, her pretty green sundress. She had stinking ooze coating her face and neck, primordial slime squishing between her toes. Now she picked up another sticky handful and smeared it across her chest.

She remembered reading a book in high school, Lord of the Flies . According to one of the notations in the handy yellow Cliffs Notes, Lord of the Flies was really about a wet dream. Tina hadn’t gotten that part. Mostly she remembered the stranded kids turning into little savages, first taking on wild boars, then taking on one another. The book possessed a fearful edgy quality that was also definitely sexy. So maybe it was about wet dreams after all. She couldn’t tell if the guys in her class had read it with any more enthusiasm than they’d read the other literary classics.

But that wasn’t really the point. The point was that Tina Krahn, knocked-up college student and madman’s current plaything, was finally getting a real-life lesson in literature. Who said high school didn’t teach you anything?

She started mucking up first thing this morning, the sun already climbing in the sky and threatening to fry her like a bug caught in the glare of a magnifying glass. The mud stank to high heaven, but it sure did feel good against her flesh. It went on cool and thick, coating her festering skin with a thick layer of protection not even the damn mosquitoes could penetrate. It filled her nostrils with a putrid, musky smell. And it made her head practically swim with relief.

The mud liked her. The mud would save her. The mud was her friend. Now she stared at the bubbling, popping mess and she wondered why she didn’t eat a handful as well. Her water was gone. Crackers, too. Her stomach had a too-tight, pained feeling, like she was on the verge of the world’s worst menstrual cramps. The baby was probably leaving her. She had been a bad mother, and now the baby wanted the mud, too.

Was she crying? It was so hard to tell, with the heavy weight of drying filth on her cheeks.

The mud was wet. It would feel so good sliding down her parched, ravenous throat. It would fill her stomach with a heavy, rotten mass. She could stop digesting her stomach lining, and dine on dirt instead.

It would be so easy. Pick up another oozing handful. Slide it past her lips.

Delirious, the voice in the back of her brain whispered. The heat and dehydration had finally taken their toll. She had chills even in the burning heat. The world swam uneasily every time she moved. Sometimes she found herself laughing, though she didn’t know why. Sometimes she sat and sobbed, though at least that made some kind of sense.

The sores on her arms and legs had started moving this morning. She had squeezed one scabbed-over mass between her fingers, then watched in horror as four white maggots popped out. Her flesh was rotting. The bugs had already moved in to dine. It wouldn’t be much longer for her now.

She dreamt of water, of ice-cold streams rippling over her skin. She dreamt of nice restaurants with white linen tablecloths, where four tuxedoed waiters brought her an endless supply of frosty water glasses, filled to the brim. She would dine on seared steak and twice-baked potatoes covered in melted cheese. She would eat marinated artichoke hearts straight from the container, until olive oil dribbled down her chin.

She dreamt of a pale yellow nursery and a fuzzy head nestled at her breast.

She dreamt of her mother, attending her funeral and standing alone next to her grave.

If she closed her eyes, she could return to the world of her dreams. Let the maggots have her flesh. Let her body sink into the mud. Maybe when the end came, she wouldn’t even know anymore. She would just slide away, taking her baby with her.

Tina’s eyes popped open. She forced her head up. Struggled to her feet. The world spun again, and she leaned against the boulder.

No eating mud! No caving in. She was Tina Krahn and she was made of sterner stuff.

Her breath came out in feeble gasps, her chest heaving with effort to inhale the overheated, muggy air. She staggered toward one vine-covered wall, watching a snake dart out of her way, hissing at her as it passed. Then she was braced against the wall, the vines cool against her muddy cheek.

Her fingers patted the structure as if it were a good dog. Funny, the surface over here didn’t feel like rough cement. In fact…

Tina pushed herself back. Her eyelids were terribly swollen; it was so hard to see… She forced them wide with all of her might, while simultaneously pushing back the vines. Wood. This part of the rectangular pit was held up by wood. Railroad ties or something like that. Old, peeling railroad ties that were already rotting with age.

Frantically, she dug her fingers into one visible hole. She tugged hard, and felt the meat of the lumber start to give way. She needed more strength. Something harder, a tool.

A rock.