Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

Crackers. Saltines. And water. Gallon jugs. Several of them.

That’s right, he had these things in the van. He’d gotten them yesterday, also from Wal-Mart, or maybe it had been Kmart-now see, that detail had disappeared, slipped into the pit, what was he supposed to do? Yesterday. He’d bought things. Supplies. At a very big store. Well, what could the name matter anyway? He’d paid cash, right? And burned the receipt?

Of course he had. Even if his memory played tricks on him, it was no excuse for stupidity. His father had always been adamant on that point. The world was run by dumb-fuck idiots who couldn’t find their own assholes with a flashlight and two hands. His sons, on the other hand, must be better than that. Be strong. Stand tall. Take your punishment like a man.

The man finished looking around. He was thinking of fire again, the heat of flames, but it was too soon so he let that thought go, willed it into the void, though he knew it would never stay. He had his travel bag; he had his attaché case. Other supplies in the van. Room already wiped down with ammonia and water. Leave no trace of prints.

All right.

Just one last item to grab. In the corner of the room, sitting on the horrible, fake carpet. A small rectangular aquarium covered in his own yellow faded sheet.

The man slipped the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, followed by the strap for his attaché case. Then he used both arms to heft up the heavy glass aquarium. The sheet started to slip. From inside the yellow depths came an ominous rattle.

“Shhhh,” he murmured. “Not yet, my love, not yet.”

The man strode into the bloodred dusk, into the stifling, heavy heat. His brain fired to life. More pictures came to his mind. Black skirts, high heels, blond hair, blue eyes, red blouse, bound hands, dark hair, brown eyes, long legs, scratching nails, flashing white teeth.

The man loaded up his van, got behind the wheel. At the last minute, his errant memory sparked and he patted his breast pocket. Yes, he had the ID badge as well. He pulled it out and inspected it one final time. The front of the plastic rectangle was simple enough. In white letters against the blue backdrop, the badge read: Visitor.

He flipped the ID over. The back of the security card was definitely much more interesting. It read: Property of the FBI.

The man clipped the ID badge to his collar. The sun sank, the sky turned from red to purple to black.

“Clock ticking,” the man murmured. He started to drive.

Stafford , Virginia

9:34 P . M .

Temperature: 89 degrees

“WHAT’S UP, SUGAR? You seem restless tonight.”

“Can’t stand the heat.”

“That’s a strange comment coming from a man who lives in Hotlanta.”

“I keep meaning to move.”

Genny, a tight-bodied redhead with a well-weathered face but genuinely kind eyes, gazed at him speculatively through the blue haze of the smoky bar.

“How long have you lived in Georgia, Mac?” she asked over the din.

“Since I was a gleam in my daddy’s eye.”

She smiled, shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Then you won’t ever move, sugar. Take it from me. You’re a Georgian. Stick a fork in you, you’re done.”

“You just say that because you’re a Texan.”

“Since I was a gleam in my great-great-great-grandpappy’s eyes. Yanks move around, honey. We Southerners take root.”

GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack acknowledged the point with a smile. His gaze was on the front door of the crowded bar again. He was watching the people walk in, unconsciously seeking out young girls traveling in pairs. He should know better. On days like this, when the temperature topped ninety, he didn’t.

“Sugar?” Genny said again.

He caught himself, turned back to her, and managed a rueful grin. “Sorry. I swear to you my mother raised me better than this.”

“Then we’ll never let her know. Your meeting didn’t go well today, did it?”

“How did you-”

“I’m a police officer, too, Mac. Don’t dismiss me just because I’m pretty and got a great set of boobs.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, then dug around in her purse until she found a fresh cigarette. He held up a light and she smiled her gratitude, though the lines were a bit tighter around her eyes. For a minute, neither one of them said a word.

The bar was hopping tonight, flesh pressed against flesh, with more people still pouring through the doors. Half of them, of course, were their fellow National Academy classmates-detectives, sheriffs, and even some military police enrolled in Quantico ’s eleven-week course. Still, Mac wouldn’t have expected the bar to be this busy on a Tuesday night. People were fleeing their homes, probably trying to escape the heat.

He and Genny had arrived three hours ago, early enough to stake out hard-to-find seats. Generally the National Academy students didn’t leave Quantico much. People hung out in the Boardroom after hours, drinking beer, swapping war stories, and by one or two in the morning, praying that their livers wouldn’t fail them now. The big joke was that the program had to end week eleven, because no one’s kidneys could survive week twelve.

People were restless tonight, though. The unbearable heat and humidity had started moving in on Sunday, and reportedly were working their way to a Friday crescendo. Walking outside was like slogging through a pile of wet towels. In five minutes your T-shirt was plastered to your torso. In ten minutes, your shorts were glued to your thighs. Inside seemed little better, with the Academy’s archaic air-conditioning system groaning mightily just to cool things to eighty-five.

People started bailing from Quantico shortly after six, desperate for any sort of distraction. Genny and Mac had followed shortly thereafter.

They’d met the first week of training, eight weeks ago. Southerners had to stick together, Genny had teased him, especially in a class overrun with fast-talking Yanks. Her gaze, however, had been on his broad chest when she’d said this. Mac had merely grinned.

At the age of thirty-six, he’d figured out by now that he was a good-looking guy-six two, black hair, blue eyes, and deeply tanned skin from a lifetime spent running, cycling, fishing, hunting, hiking, canoeing, etc. You name it, he did it and he had a younger sister and nine cousins who accompanied him all the way. You could get into a lot of trouble in a state as diverse as Georgia, and the McCormacks prided themselves on learning each lesson the hard way.

The end result was a leanly muscled physique that seemed to appeal to women of all ages. Mac did his best to bear this hardship stoically. It helped a great deal that he was fond of women. A little too fond, according to his exasperated mother, who was dead-set on gaining a daughter-in-law and oodles of grandkids. Maybe someday, he supposed. At the moment, however, Mac was completely wedded to his job, and days like this, boy, didn’t he know it.

His gaze returned to the doorway. Two young girls walked in, followed by another two. All were chatting happily. He wondered if they would leave that way. Together, alone, with newly met lovers, without. Which way would be safer? Man, he hated nights like this.

“You gotta let it go,” Genny said.

“Let what go?”

“Whatever’s putting lines on that handsome face.”

Mac tore his gaze away from the door for the second time. He regarded Genny wryly, then picked up his beer and spun it between his fingers. “You ever have one of those cases?”

“The kind that gets beneath your skin, jumps into your brain and haunts your dreams, until five, six, ten, twenty years later you still sometimes wake up screaming? No, sugar, I wouldn’t know a thing about that.” She stubbed out her cigarette, then reached in her purse for another.