Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [58]
She left the room, too. She took her knife and disappeared down the hall.
Outside it was hot. The dark, oppressive heat greeted her like a wall. Ten P.M. and still this unbearably sticky. Tomorrow would be punishing for sure.
She slogged forward, feeling blotches of dark gray sweat bloom across the front of her T-shirt, while more moisture began trailing down the small of her back. Her breath came out in shallow pants, her lungs laboring to find oxygen in air that was 90 percent water.
She could still hear fading laughter. She turned away from it and headed toward the welcoming dark of the firing range. No one came out here this time of night. Well, almost no one.
The thought came only briefly, and then she knew just how much trouble she was in.
“Been waitin’ for you,” Special Agent Mac McCormack drawled softly, pushing away from the entrance to the range.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t like to disappoint a pretty girl.”
“Did you bring a shotgun? Well then, too bad.”
He merely grinned at her, his teeth a flash of white in the dark. “I thought you’d spend more time with your father.”
“Can’t. He’s working the case and I’m not allowed.”
“Being family doesn’t entitle you to some perks?”
“You mean like a sneak peek of homicide photos? I think not. My father is a professional. He takes his job seriously.”
“Now, how many years of therapy has it taken you to say that in such a calm, clear voice?”
“More than most suspect,” she admitted grudgingly.
“Come on, sugar. Let’s take a seat.” He headed out into the green field of the range without looking back. It amazed her how easy it was to follow him.
The grass was nice. Soft beneath her battered body. Cool against her bare, sweat-slicked legs. She lay back, with her knees pointed at the sky and her short, serrated hunting knife snug against the inside of her left leg. Mac lay down beside her. Close. His shoulder brushing hers. She found his proximity faintly shocking, but she didn’t move away.
He’d showered since their meeting with Kaplan and Watson. He smelled like soap and some kind of spicy men’s aftershave. She imagined that his hair was probably still damp. For that matter, his cheeks had appeared freshly shaven when he’d walked through the glow cast by the streetlight. Had he cleaned up for her? Would it matter if he had?
She liked the smell of his soap, she decided, and left it at that.
“Stars are out,” he said conversationally.
“They do that at night.”
“You noticed? Here I thought you driven new agent types were too busy for those kinds of things.”
“In personal combat training, we get to spend a lot of time on our backs. It helps.”
He reached over and brushed her cheek. The contact was so unexpected, she flinched.
“A blade of grass,” he said calmly. “Stuck to your cheek. Don’t worry, honey. I’m not gonna attack you. I know you’re armed.”
“And if I wasn’t?”
“Why then, I’d roll you right here and now, of course. Being a testosterone-bound male who’s prone to that kind of brutish behavior.”
“I don’t mean it that way.”
“You don’t like touching much, do you? I mean, biting, flipping and beating the bejesus out of me aside.”
“I’m not . . . used to it. My family was never very demonstrative.”
He seemed to consider that. “If you don’t mind me saying, your father seems wound a bit tight.”
“My father is wound way tight. And my mother came from an upper-class family. As you can imagine, holidays were a gay, frolicking time in our home. You wouldn’t believe the boisterous outbreaks.”
“My family’s loud,” he volunteered casually. “Not big, but definitely demonstrative. My father still grabs my mother around the waist and tries to lure her into dark corners. As an adult, I appreciate their relationship. As a kid . . . Hell, we were scared to death not to announce ourselves before walking down a darkened hall.”
Kimberly smiled faintly. “You got an education?”
“Heavens, yes. It’s sweet, though, I suppose. My father’s a civil engineer who designs roads for the state. My mother teaches high school English. Who would’ve thought they