Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

Mostly, however, Kimberly was aware of the danger. Piles of dried leaves bunched at the base of trees and made the perfect home for sleeping snakes. Predatory vines, the same thickness as her arm, bound trees in tight, suffocating coils. Then there were clearings, sections of the swamp that had been logged out decades ago, and now just worn, rounded tree stumps dotted the shadowed landscape like endless rows of miniature gravestones. The ground would be softer there, marshy and popping as toads and salamanders leapt out of their hiding places to escape the encroaching footsteps.

Things moved in the dark recesses of the swamp. Things Kimberly never saw but felt like whispers in the wind. Deer, bear, bobcat? She couldn’t be sure. She just knew she jumped at the random, distant noises and was aware of the hair rising at the nape of her neck.

It had to be over a hundred degrees out. And still she battled a chill.

Mac led their little party. Then came Kimberly, then Ennunzio. Mac was trying to work a rough grid, sweeping between two unpaved roads. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Thickets and dense trees often made passage impossible, however, so they started having to veer a little more to the right, then a little more to the left. They had to take this detour and then that detour. Mac had a compass. Maybe he knew where they were. From what Kimberly could tell, however, the swamp now owned them. They walked where it let them, passed where it let them pass. And increasingly, that path was taking them to a dark, decaying place, where the tree branches grew denser, and they had to round their shoulders to fit through the tight, cramped spaces.

They didn’t speak much. They slogged their way through the hot, wet vines, searching for signs of broken twigs, scuffed ground, or bruised vegetation that might indicate recent human passage. They took turns issuing single blasts on their whistles or calling out Tina Krahn’s name. Then they heaved themselves over giant, lightning-felled trees. Or wriggled between particularly large boulders. Or hacked their way futilely through dense, prickly thickets.

While they downed more and more of their precious supply of water. While their breathing became hard and panting, and their footsteps grew unsteady, and their arms started to tremble visibly from the heat.

Kimberly’s mouth had gone dry, a sure sign she wasn’t drinking enough water. She found herself stumbling more, having to catch herself on tree limbs and tangled brush. The sweat stung her eyes. The yellow flies constantly swarmed her face, trying to feast on the corners of her mouth or the tender flesh behind her ears.

She didn’t even know how long they had been hiking anymore. It seemed as if she’d been in the steaming jungle forever, pushing her way through thick, wet leaves only to encounter another choking eternity of vines, briers, and bushes.

Then, all of a sudden, Mac held up his hand.

“Did you hear that?” he asked sharply.

Kimberly stopped, drew in a ragged gasp of air, and strained to hear: There, for just an instant. A voice in the wind.

Mac turned, his sweat-covered face at once triumphant and intent.

“Where is that coming from?”

“Over there!” Kimberly cried, pointing to her right.

“No, I think it’s more like over there,” Mac said, pointing straight ahead. He frowned. “Damn trees; they’re distorting the sound.”

“Well, somewhere off in that direction.”

“Let’s go!”

Then, a new and sudden realization sucked the last of the moisture from Kimberly’s mouth. “Mac,” she said sharply. “Where is Ennunzio?”

Richmond, Virginia

11:41 A . M .

Temperature: 101 degrees

“I’M TELLING YOU, THE FOURTH GIRL, Tina Krahn, has been abandoned somewhere in the Dismal Swamp.”

“And I’m telling you, you have absolutely no authority in this case.”

“I know I have no authority!” Quincy started yelling, caught the outburst, and bitterly swallowed it back down. He had arrived at the FBI’s Richmond field office just thirty minutes ago, seeking a meeting with Special Agent Harkoos. Harkoos wouldn’t grant him permission to come to his office, but instead had grudgingly agreed to meet with him in a downstairs alcove. The blatant lack of courtesy was not lost on Quincy. “I’m not seeking authority,” Quincy tried again. “I’m seeking help for a missing person.”

“You tampered with evidence,” Harkoos growled.

“I arrived late at the scene, the USGS personnel had already started analyzing data, and there was nothing I could do.”

“You could’ve forced them away until the real professionals arrived.”

“They are experts in the field-”

“They are not trained forensic technicians-”

“They’ve identified three different sites!” Quincy was yelling again and about to start swearing, too. Really, the last twenty-four hours had been a banner day of emotional outbursts for him. He forced himself to take another deep breath. Time for logic, diplomacy, and calm rationality. Failing that, he’d have to kill the son of a bitch. “We need your help,” he insisted.

“You fucked this case.”

“This case was already fucked. Four girls missing, three now dead. Agent, we have one last shot at doing this right. One girl, in the middle of a hundred-thousand-acre swamp. Call in the rescue teams, find that girl, get the headlines. It really is that simple.”

Special Agent Harkoos scowled. “I don’t like you,” he said, but his voice had lost its vehemence. Quincy had spoken the truth, and it was hard to argue with headlines. “You have behaved in an unorthodox manner which has put prosecuting this case in jeopardy,” Harkoos grumbled. “Don’t think I’m going to forget that.”

“Call in the rescue teams, find that girl, get the headlines,” Quincy repeated.

“The Dismal Swamp, huh? Is it as bad as its name sounds?”

“Most likely, yes.”

“Shit.” Harkoos dug out his cell phone. “Your people had better be right.”

“My people,” Quincy said tersely, “haven’t been wrong yet.”

Quincy had no sooner left the building to rejoin Rainie and Nora Ray at the car when his cell phone rang. It was Kaplan, calling from Quantico.

“Do you have Ennunzio in custody?” the special agent demanded to know.

“It’s not him,” Quincy said. “Try his brother.”

“Brother?”

“According to Ennunzio, his older brother murdered their mom thirty years ago. Burned her to death. Ennunzio hasn’t seen him since, but his brother once left a note at their parents’ grave, bearing the same message as the notes now sent by the Eco-Killer.”

“Quincy, according to Ennunzio’s personnel records, he doesn’t have a brother.”

Quincy drew up short, frowning now as he stood beside Rainie. “Maybe he doesn’t consider him family anymore. It’s been thirty years. Their last time together was hardly a Kodak moment.”

There was a pause. “I don’t like this,” Kaplan said. “Something’s wrong. Look, I was calling because I just got off the phone with Ennunzio’s secretary. Turns out, two years ago, he took a three-month leave of absence to have major surgery. The doctors removed a tumor in his brain. According to his secretary, Ennunzio started complaining of headaches again six months ago. She’s been really worried about him.”

“A tumor…”

“Now, you’re the expert, but brain tumors can impact behavior, correct? Particularly ones growing in the right place…”

“The limbic system,” Quincy murmured, closing his eyes and thinking fast. “In cases of brain trauma or tumors, you often see a marked change in behavior in the subject-increased irascibility, we call it. Normally mild-mannered people become violent, aggressive, use foul language.”