Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [45]
The heat settled in on them, rolling in like a heavy blanket and pressing them deep into their chairs while their clothing glued to their skin. Mac used to not mind heat like this. It was perfect for sitting next to his parents’ pool. Put on a little Alan Jackson, drink a lot of homemade lemonade. And later, when dusk fell, watch the fireflies flicker and dart in the purple-tinged air.
He didn’t think of idyllic summer days anymore. Summer had become the enemy, when heat waves would roll in, and girls would no longer be safe, even when traveling in pairs.
He needed to call Atlanta. He needed to figure out how to best approach this Special Agent Kaplan. And then they were going to need resources. ASAP. The best experts they could find. A botanist, biologist, a forensic geologist, an entomologist, and God knows what other kind of ologists. Was there an expert on snakes? They should find someone who knew everything about rattlers and what it signified when one burst out of a dead girl’s mouth.
Then there was the rock, of course, which Mac hadn’t even gotten to see. And the leaf they’d recovered this morning, but he’d had no luck tracing. And that was just the clues/evidence he knew off the top of his head.
He needed the body, that was the deal. The clothes would be good to study as well. And her purse, her hair, her sandals. This guy liked to leave clues in the damnedest places, and it sounded like he was refining his technique all the time. A live rattlesnake crammed into a body . . .
Shit. Just plain . . . shit.
Nearby doors opened. Mac heard footsteps approach, then a shadow fell across their patio. A man stood in front of them. Mac didn’t recognize him, but he could tell from the look on Kimberly’s face that she did.
“Kimberly,” the man said quietly.
“Dad,” she said with equal reserve.
Mac’s eyebrows had just disappeared beneath his hairline when the man, older, trim, and very impressive looking in a deep gray suit, turned toward him.
“And you must be Special Agent McCormack. Pierce Quincy. Pleased to meet you.”
Mac accepted the man’s handshake. And then he knew. A funny grin came across his face. The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he heard a faint ringing in his ears. He had been so concerned that the NCIS had done nothing in the past eight hours. But, apparently, they had done something after all.
Pierce Quincy shouldn’t know his name. Former FBI Agent Pierce Quincy should have no reason to know anyone at the National Academy. Unless he had been explicitly told to look for Mac. And that could only mean . . .
“If you two would follow me, we need to have a meeting,” Quincy was saying in that carefully modulated voice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kimberly said tightly.
“I was invited.”
“I didn’t call you!”
“I would never presume that you did.”
“Dammit, did they tell you about the body?”
“Kimberly—”
“I am doing just fine!”
“Kim—”
“I don’t need help, especially from you!”
“K—”
“Turn around. Go home! If you love me at all, please for God’s sake just go away.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not!”
Pierce Quincy sighed heavily. He didn’t say anything right away. He simply reached out a hand and touched his daughter’s battered face. She flinched. And his arm instantly dropped back to his side, as if burned.
“We need to have a meeting,” Quincy said again, turning toward the front of the building. “If you’ll please just follow me.”
Mac finally rose. Kimberly much more grudgingly shoved back her chair. They both fell in step behind her father, Mac’s arm settling lightly around her waist.
“I think we’re in trouble,” Mac murmured in Kimberly’s ear.
And she said bitterly, “You have no idea.”
CHAPTER 13
Quantico, Virginia
5:44 P.M.
Temperature: 97 degrees
QUINCY LED THEM TO AN OFFICE in the main administrative wing. The sign on the door read Supervisor Mark Watson. Inside, the man in question was leaning against the edge of his desk, facing two guests. The first person Mac recognized as being the NCIS officer