The Killing Hour (4 page)

And you didn’t just use a handgun.

Kimberly got her first experience with an M-16 rifle. Then she fired over a thousand rounds from a Remington Model 870 shotgun with a recoil that nearly crushed her right cheek and shattered her shoulder. Then she expelled over a hundred rounds from a Heckler & Koch MP5/10 submachine gun, though that at least had been kind of fun.

Now they had Hogan’s Alley, where they practiced elaborate scenarios and only the actors actually knew what was going to happen next. Kimberly’s traditional anxiety dreams—leaving the house naked, suddenly being in a classroom taking a pop quiz—had once been in black and white. Since Hogan’s Alley, they had taken on vivid, violent color. Hot-pink classrooms, mustard-yellow streets. Pop quizzes splashed with purple and green paint. Herself running, running, running down long endless tunnels of exploding orange, pink, purple, blue, yellow, black, and green.

She awoke some nights biting back weary screams. Other nights, she simply lay there and felt her right shoulder throb. Sometimes, she could tell that Lucy was awake, too. They didn’t talk those nights. They just lay in the dark, and gave each other the space to hurt.

Then at six
A
.
M
. they both got up and went through it all over again.

Nine weeks down, seven to go. Show no weakness. Give no quarter. Endure.

Kimberly wanted so desperately to make it. She was strong Kimberly, with cool blue eyes just like her father’s. She was smart Kimberly, with her B.A. in psychology at twenty-one and her master’s in criminology at twenty-two. She was driven Kimberly, determined to get on with her life even after what happened to her mother and sister.

She was infamous Kimberly, the youngest member of her class and the one everyone whispered about in the halls.
You know who her father is, don’t you? What a shame about her family. I heard the killer nearly got her, too. She gunned him down in cold blood . . .

Kimberly’s classmates took lots of notes in their eagerly awaited profiling class. Kimberly took none at all.

She arrived downstairs. Up ahead in the hall, she could see a cluster of green shirts chatting and laughing—National Academy students, done for the day and no doubt heading to the Boardroom for cold beer. Then came the cluster of blue shirts, talking up a storm. Fellow new-agent trainees, also done for the day, and now off to grab a quick bite in the cafeteria before hitting the books, or the PT course, or the gym. Maybe they were mentoring each other, swapping a former lawyer’s legal expertise for a former Marine’s firearms training. New agents were always willing to help one another. If you let them.

Kimberly pushed her way through the outside doors. The heat slammed into her like a blow. She made a beeline for the relative shade of the Academy’s wooded PT course and started running.

Pain, Agony, Hurt, the signs read on the trees next to the path. Suck it in. Love it!

“I do, I do,” Kimberly gasped.

Her aching body protested. Her chest tightened with pain. She kept on running. When all else failed, keep moving. One foot in front of another. New pain layering on top of the old.

Kimberly knew this lesson well. She had learned it six years ago, when her sister was dead, her mother was murdered and she stood in a Portland, Oregon, hotel room with the barrel of a gun pressed against her forehead like a lover’s kiss.

CHAPTER 3

Fredericksburg, Virginia
6:45
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 92 degrees

TWENTY-YEAR-OLD TINA KRAHN
had just stepped out the front door of her stifling hot apartment when the phone rang. Tina sighed, doubled back into the kitchen and answered with an impatient hello while using her other hand to wipe the sweat from the back of her neck. God, this heat was unbearable. The humidity level had picked up on Sunday, and hadn’t done a thing to improve since. Now, fresh out of the shower, Tina’s thin green sundress was already plastered to her body, while she could feel fresh dewdrops of moisture trickle stickily down between her breasts.

She and her roommate Betsy had agreed half an hour ago to go anyplace with air-conditioning. Betsy had made it to the car. Tina had made it to the door, and now this.

Her mother was on the other end of the line. Tina promptly winced.

“Hey, Ma,” she tried with forced enthusiasm. “How are you?” Her gaze went to the front door. She willed Betsy to reappear so she could signal she needed a minute longer. No such luck. Tina tapped her foot anxiously and was happy her mother was a thousand miles away in Minnesota, and couldn’t see her guilty expression.

“Well, actually I’m running out the door. Yeah, it’s Tuesday. Just the time zones are different, Ma, not the days.” That earned her a sharp rebuke. She grabbed a napkin from the kitchen table, swiped it across her forehead, then shook her head when it immediately became soaking wet. She patted her upper lip.

“Of course I have class tomorrow. We weren’t planning on drinking ourselves silly, Ma.” In fact, Tina rarely drank anything stronger than ice tea. Not that her mom believed her. Tina had gone away to college—egads!—which Tina’s mother seemed to equate with choosing a life of sin. There was alcohol on college campuses, you know. And fornication.

“I don’t know where we’re going, Ma. Just . . . out. It’s like . . . a gazillion degrees this week. We gotta find someplace with air-conditioning before we spontaneously combust.” Lord, did they.

Her mother was instantly concerned. Tina held up a hand, trying to cut off the tirade before it got started.

“No, I didn’t mean that literally. No, really, Ma, I’m all right. It’s just hot. I can handle some heat. But summer school is going great. Work is fine—”

Her mother’s voice grew sharper.

“I only work twenty hours a week. Of course I’m focusing on my studies. Really, honestly, everything’s fine. I swear it.” The last three words came out a smidgeon too high. Tina winced again. What was it with mothers and their internal radars? Tina should’ve quit while she was ahead. She grabbed another napkin and blotted her whole face. Now she was no longer sure if the moisture was solely from the heat, or from nerves.

“No, I’m not seeing anyone.” That much was true.

“We broke up, Ma. Last month. I told you about it.” Kind of.

“No, I’m not pining away. I’m young, I’ll survive.” At least that’s what Betsy, Vivienne, and Karen told her.

“Ma—” She couldn’t get in a word.

“Ma—” Her mother was still going strong. Men are evil. Tina was too young to date. Now was the time to focus on school. And her family, of course. You must never forget your roots.

“Ma—” Her mother was reaching her crescendo. Why don’t you just come home? You don’t come home enough. What are you, ashamed of me? There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary, you know. Not all young ladies get the wonderful opportunity to go off to college . . .

“
Ma!
Listen, I gotta run.”

Silence. Now she was in trouble. Worse than her mother’s lectures was her mother’s silence.

“Betsy’s out in the car,” Tina tried. “But I love you, Ma. I’ll call you tomorrow night. I promise.”

She wouldn’t. They both knew it.

“Well, if anything, I’ll call you by the weekend.” That was more like it. On the other end of the phone, her mother sighed. Maybe she was mollified. Maybe she was still hurt. With her, it was always hard to know. Tina’s father had walked out when she was three. Her mother had been going at it alone ever since. And, yeah, she was bossy and anxious and downright dictatorial on occasion, but she also worked ferociously to get her only daughter into college.

She tried hard, worked hard, loved hard. And Tina knew that more than anything in the world, her mother worried it still wouldn’t be enough.

Tina cradled the phone closer to her damp ear. For a moment, in the silence, she was tempted. But then her mother sighed again, and the moment passed.

“Love you,” Tina said, her voice softer than she intended. “Gotta run. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

Tina dropped the phone back on the receiver before she changed her mind, grabbed her oversized canvas bag and headed out the door. Outside, Betsy sat in her cute little Saab convertible, her face also shiny with sweat and gazing at her questioningly.

“Ma,” Tina explained and plunked her bag in the backseat.

“Oh. You didn’t . . .”

“Not yet.”

“Coward.”

“Totally.” Tina didn’t bother opening the passenger-side door. Instead she perched her rump up on the edge of the car, then slid down into the deep, beige leather seat. Her long legs stuck up in the air. Ridiculously high brown cork sandals. Hot-pink toenails. A small red ladybug tattoo her mother didn’t know about yet.

“Help me, I’m melting!” Tina told her friend in a dramatic voice as she threw the back of her hand against her forehead. Betsy finally smiled and put the car into gear.

“Tomorrow it’s supposed to be even hotter. By Friday, we’ll probably break one hundred.”

“God, just kill me now.” Tina straightened up, self-consciously checked the knot holding her heavy blond hair, and then fastened her seat belt. Ready for action. In spite of her lighthearted tone, however, her expression was too somber, the light gone out of her blue eyes and replaced now by four weeks of worry.

“Hey, Tina,” Betsy said after a moment. “It’s going to be all right.”

Tina forced herself to turn around. She picked up Betsy’s hand. “Buddy system?” she asked softly.

Betsy smiled at her. “Always.”

The sun setting was one of the most beautiful sights in the world to him. The sky glowed amber, rose, and peach, firing the horizon with dying embers of sunlight. Color washed across the clouds like strokes of an artist’s brush, feathering white cumulus billows with iridescent hues from gold to purple to finally—inevitably—black.

He had always liked sunsets. He remembered his mother bringing him and his brother out to the front porch of the rickety shack every evening after dinner. They would lean against the railing and watch the sun sink behind the distant rim of mountains. No words were spoken. They learned the reverent hush at an early age.

This was his mother’s moment, a form of religion for her. She would stand alone, in the western corner of the porch, watching the sun descend, and for a brief moment, the lines would soften in her face. Her lips would curve into a slight smile. Her shoulders would relax. The sun would slip beneath the horizon and his mother would sigh long and deep.

Then the moment would end. His mother’s shoulders would return to bunched-up tension, the worry lines adding ten years to her face. She would usher them back into the house and return to her chores. He and his brother would do their best to help her, all of them careful not to make too much noise.

It wasn’t until he was much older, nearly an adult, that the man wondered about these moments with his mom. What did it say about her life that she relaxed only when the sun eased down and signaled the end of the day? What did it mean that the only time she seemed happy was when daylight drew its last gasping breath?

His mother had died before he could ask her these questions. Some things, he supposed, were for the best.

The man walked back into his hotel room. Though he’d paid for the night, he planned on leaving in the next half hour. He wouldn’t miss this place. He didn’t like structures built out of cement, or mass-produced rooms with only one window. These were dead places, the modern-day version of tombs, and the fact that Americans were willing to pay good money to sleep in these cheaply constructed coffins defied his imagination.

He worried sometimes that the very fakeness of a room like this, with its garish comforter, particle-board furniture, and carpet made with petroleum-based fibers would penetrate his skin, get into his bloodstream and he’d wake up one morning craving a Big Mac.

The thought frightened him; he had to take a moment to draw deep breaths. Not a good idea. The air was foul, rank with fiberglass insulation and plastic ficus trees. He rubbed his temples furiously, and knew he needed to leave more quickly.

His clothes were packed in his duffel bag. He had just one thing left to check.

He wrapped his hand in one of the bathroom towels, reached with his covered hand beneath the bed, and slowly pulled out the brown attaché case. It looked like any other business briefcase. Maybe full of spreadsheets and pocket calculators and personal electronic devices. His, however, wasn’t.

His carried a dart gun, currently broken down, but easy to reassemble in the field. He checked the inside pocket of the attaché case, pulled out the metal box, and counted the darts inside. One dozen hits, preloaded with five hundred and fifty milligrams of ketamine. He had prepared each dart just this morning.

He returned the metal box and pulled out two rolls of duct tape, heavy duty, followed by a plain brown paper bag filled with nails. Beside the duct tape and nails, he kept a small glass bottle of chloral hydrate. A backup drug, which thankfully he’d never had to use. Next to the chloral hydrate, he had a special insulated water bottle he’d been keeping in the minibar freezer until just fifteen minutes ago. The outside of the container froze, helping keep the contents cool. That was important. Ativan crystallized if not kept refrigerated.

He felt the bottle again. It was ice cold. Good. This was his first time using this system and he was a little nervous. The plastic drinking bottle seemed to do the trick, though. The things you could buy for $4.99 from Wal-Mart.

The man took a deep breath. He was trying to remember if he needed anything else. It had been a while. Truth be told, he was nervous. Lately, he’d been struggling a bit with dates. Things that happened a long time ago seemed bright as day, whereas yesterday’s events took on a hazy, dreamlike quality.

Yesterday, when he had arrived here, three years ago blazed in his mind with vivid, Technicolor detail. This morning, however, things already started to fade and curl at the edges. He was worried that if he waited much longer, he’d lose the memories altogether. They’d disappear into the black void with his other thoughts, his nonflaming thoughts, and he’d be left sitting at the edges again, waiting helplessly for something, anything, to float to the top.

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.