Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [111]
Mac reached over and took her hand. After another moment, she squeezed his fingers with her own.
“I could sure use some coffee,” he said. “About four gallons.”
“I could use a vacation. About four decades.”
“How about a nice cool shower?”
“How about air-conditioning?”
“Fresh clothes.”
“A soft bed.”
“A giant platter of buttermilk biscuits smothered in gravy.”
“A pitcher of ice water, topped with sliced lemon.”
She sighed. He followed suit.
“We’re not going to bed anytime soon, are we?” she asked quietly.
“Doesn’t look it.”
“What happened?”
“Not sure. Your father showed up, said an official FBI case team had arrived and that we were no longer invited to the party. Damn those Feds.”
“They pulled Dad and Rainie off the case?” Kimberly was incredulous.
“Not yet. The fact that they both turned off their cell phones and made a quick getaway probably helped. But it looks like the Feds are trying to reinvent the wheel again, and even your father knows better. We worked with Kathy Levine to identify which items might be clues on the victim’s body, then we took half the evidence. And now, just for the record, I believe we’re officially AWOL. Did you really want to be an FBI agent, Kimberly? ’Cause after this . . .”
“Fuck the FBI. Now tell me the plan.”
“We work with your father and Rainie. We see if we can’t find the remaining two girls. Then we track down the son of a bitch who did this, and nail him to the wall.”
“That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all night.”
“Well,” he said modestly. “I do try.”
Shortly, Quincy’s car turned in at one of the scenic vistas, and Mac followed suit. Given the hour, no other cars were around, and they were far enough off Skyline Drive to be invisible from the road. They all got out of the two vehicles and congregated around the hood of Mac’s rental car.
The night still felt hot and heavy. Crickets buzzed and frogs croaked, but even those sounds were curiously subdued, as if everything were hushed and waiting. There should be heat lightning and thunder. There should be an impressive July thunderstorm, bringing cleansing rain and cooler temperatures. Instead, the heat wave pressed down on them, blanketing the world in stifling humidity and silencing half the creatures of the night.
Quincy had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. “So we have three possible clues,” he said by way of starting things off. “A vial of liquid, rice, and some kind of dust from the victim’s hair. Any ideas?”
“Rice?” Kimberly asked sharply.
“Uncooked, white, long grain,” Mac informed her. “At least that was Levine’s best guess.”
Kimberly shook her head. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“He likes to make it harder,” Mac said quietly. “Welcome to the rules of the game.”
“How far away do you think the other two victims are?” Rainie spoke up. “If he’s taken multiple victims, maybe the first victim speaks for all three. He’s only one man after all, working with a limited amount of time to set this up.”
Mac shrugged. “I can’t be sure of this new format, of course. In Georgia, he definitely moved around a lot. We started at a state park famous for its granite gorge, then moved to cotton fields, then the banks of the Savannah River, and finally to the salt marshes on the coast. Four clearly diverse regions of the state. Here, however, you’re right—he has some practical issues involved in placing bodies all over the state, particularly in twenty-four hours or less.”
“The logistics of hauling multiple bodies are complicated,” Quincy commented.
“Vehicle of choice is probably a cargo van. Gives him a place to stash kidnapped women, inject poison in their veins, and then haul them around. In this case, he’d also need plenty of