Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [54]
He should be stronger than this. He should be tougher. Forty-eight hours without sleep, even he was starting to go.
He wasted another thirty seconds regaining his composure, then belatedly went to work on the rope at his waist. He was here, the worst of it was over, and he was aware once again of just how fast the clock was ticking.
He fetched the girl from the mini-stretcher. He laid her out on a ledge away from the dark running stream, and quickly stripped the coveralls from her body. Purse went beside her. Bottle of water as well.
Forty feet above, an eight-inch-diameter pipe formed a makeshift skylight in the ceiling. When daylight came, she would be greeted by a narrow shaft of light. He thought that gave her a sporting chance.
He retied the board to his waist, and ready now for his exit, gave the brunette one last glance.
She was propped up near a small pool of water. This water wasn’t polluted like the stream. Not yet. It was replenished from the rain and put up a better fight.
This water rippled and surged with the promise of life. Things moved beneath the pitch-black surface. Things that lived and breathed and fought. Things that bit. Some things that slithered. And many things that wouldn’t care for intruders in their home.
The girl was moaning again.
The man bent over. “Shhhh,” he whispered in her ear. “You don’t want to wake up just yet.”
The water surged again. The man turned his back on the girl and left.
CHAPTER 15
Quantico, Virginia
9:28 P.M.
Temperature: 91 degrees
“SHE DOESN’T LOOK VERY GOOD,” RAINIE SAID.
“I know.”
“What the hell happened to her eye? It looks like she’s gone ten rounds with Tyson.”
“Shotgun training would be my guess.”
“She’s definitely lost weight.”
“It’s not supposed to be easy.”
“But you’re worried about her. Come on, Quince. Give up the ghost. You’d like to go punch Watson’s lights out. Pretty please. I’ll hold him down for you.”
Quincy sighed. He finally put down the case file he was reading—the homicide notes from the Georgia case years ago. These were just summary documents, of course. The original detective reports, evidence sheets, and activity logs probably took up enough boxes to fill a small family room. They both hated working off case summary reports—almost by definition, the documents were filled with erroneous assumptions and conclusions. Here, however, they had to make do.
The page Quincy currently had open was labeled “Profile: Atlanta Case #832.” Rainie’s hands itched reflexively. GBI’s profile of the Eco-Killer, no doubt. She’d like to read that report herself, particularly after listening to that Georgian cop’s take on things. But Quincy had grabbed the file first. He’d probably read it long into the night, pinching the bridge of his nose in that gesture which meant he was thinking too hard and giving himself a headache.
“If I say anything, she’ll just get angry,” he said now.
“That’s because she’s your daughter.”
“Exactly. And my daughter hates for me to be involved in her life. My daughter believes pigs will fly before she’ll accept help from me.”
Rainie frowned at him. She was sitting Indian-style in the middle of the orange-covered bed. This was only her fourth time at Quantico and the place never failed to intimidate the crap out of her. The grounds practically screamed reputable-law-enforcement-agents-only. Even though she and Quincy had been together for six years, they were still given separate rooms—they were unmarried, you know, and the Academy did have its sense of propriety.
Rainie knew the way the world worked. She would never have been allowed through those hallowed gates if she hadn’t had Quincy to vouch for her. Not way back when, and not now. Thus, she could understand some of Kimberly’s issues, having taken the long route to elite law enforcement