“It’s one possibility.”

“But if he’s nuts, how has he successfully eluded the police while kidnapping and killing eight women?”

“I didn’t say he was stupid,” Quincy countered mildly. “It’s possible that he’s still functional in many ways. People close to him, however, would know there was something ‘not right’ about him. He’s probably a loner and ill at ease with others. It could help explain why he has spent so much time outdoors, and also why he employs an ambush style of attack. A Ted Bundy-style killer would rely on his social skills to smooth-talk his way inside a prey’s defenses. This man knows he can’t.”

“This man builds elaborate riddles,” Rainie said flatly. “He targets strangers, communicates with the press, and plays games with the police. That sounds like a good old-fashioned organized psychopath to me.”

Kaplan held up a hand. “Okay, okay, okay. We’re getting a little off track here. This so-called Eco-Killer is Georgia’s problem. We’re here about Special Agent McCormack.”

“What about him?” Dr. Ennunzio asked with a frown.

“Do you think McCormack could’ve written these notes?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to give me something else he’s written. Why are you looking at Special Agent McCormack?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? I’ve been out of town at the conference. I haven’t even had time to clear all my voice mail yet.”

“A body was found yesterday,” Kaplan said curtly. “Of a young girl. On the Marine PT course. We have reason to believe McCormack might be involved.”

“There are elements of the case similar to the Eco-Killer,” Rainie added, ignoring Kaplan’s dark look. “Special Agent McCormack thinks the murder is the work of the Eco-Killer, starting over here in Virginia. Special Agent Kaplan thinks maybe McCormack is our guy, and merely staged the scene to match an old case.”

“A body was found here? At Quantico? Yesterday?” Ennunzio appeared dazed.

“You should leave the bomb shelter every once in a while,” Rainie told him.

“This is horrible!”

“I don’t think the young girl enjoyed it much, either.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Ennunzio was looking down at his notes wildly. “I did have a theory, one thing I was going to suggest to Special Agent McCormack if I ever got a chance. It was a long shot, but…”

“What?” Quincy asked intently. “Tell us.”

“Special Agent McCormack mentioned in passing that he’d started getting phone calls about the case. Some anonymous tipster trying to help them out. He believed it might be someone close to the killer, a family member or spouse. I had another idea. Given that the letters to the editor were so brief, and that most killers expand their communication over time…”

“Oh no,” Quincy said, closing his eyes and obviously tracking the thought. “If the UNSUB feels guilty, if he’s dissociating himself from the act…”

“I wanted Special Agent McCormack to either tape those calls, or write down the conversations verbatim the minute he hangs up the phone,” Ennunzio said grimly. “That way I could compare language from the caller with wording from the letters. You see, I don’t think he’s hearing from a family member. It’s possible… Special Agent McCormack may be hearing from the killer himself.”

Virginia

3:13 P . M .

Temperature: 98 degrees

TINA DREAMT OF FIRE. She was tied to a stake in the middle of a pile of kindling, feeling the flames wick up her legs while the gathered crowd cheered. “My baby,” she screamed at them. “Don’t hurt my baby!”

But no one cared. The people laughed. The fire lapped her flesh. Now it seared her fingers, starting at the tips and racing up to her elbows. Then her hair was ablaze, the flames licking her ears and singeing her eyelashes. The heat gathered and built, forcing its way into her mouth and searing her lungs. Her eyeballs melted. She felt them run down her face. Then the fire was inside her eye sockets, greedily devouring her flesh, while her brains began to boil and her face peeled back from her skull…

Tina awakened with a jolt. Her head flew up from the rock and she became aware of two things at once. Her eyes were swollen shut and her skin felt as if it were burning.

The mosquitoes still swarmed her head. Yellow flies, too. She batted at them feebly. She had no blood left. They should leave her alone and seek fresher prey, not some exhausted girl on the verge of dehydration. The bugs didn’t seem to care. She was bathed from head to toe in sweat, which apparently in the insect world made her a feast fit for kings.

Hot, so hot. The sun was directly overhead now. She could feel it beating down on her, burning her bite-sensitive skin and parching her lips. Her throat was swollen and dry. She could feel the skin on her arms and legs shrinking beneath the harsh glare and pulling uncomfortably at her joints. She was a piece of meat left too long in the sun. She was, quite literally, being cured into a piece of human jerky.

You have to move. You have to do something.

Tina had heard the voice before, in the back of her mind. In the beginning, it had given her hope. Now, it just filled her with despair. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t do anything. She was nothing but mosquito fodder and if she moved off this rock, then she’d be snake fodder, too. She was sure of it. Before her eyes had swollen shut from mosquito bites, she’d taken inventory as best she could. She was in some kind of open pit, with sides that stretched out ten to fifteen feet, while the broad mouth yawned twenty feet overhead at least. She had a rock. She had her purse. She had a one-gallon jug of water the son of a bitch had probably thrown in just to toy with her.

That was it. Pit, rock, water. Only other thing around was the foul-smelling muck that oozed out from under her rocky perch. And no way was she stepping off her boulder into that slime. She’d seen things move in the marsh around her. Dark, slimy things she was certain would love to feast on human flesh. Things that genuinely frightened her.

Drink.

Can’t. I won’t have water, and then I’ll die.

You are dying. Drink.

She groped around for the bottle of water. It too felt hot to the touch. She’d had a little when she’d first woken up, but then quickly recapped the precious supply. Her resources were limited. In her purse, she had a pack of gum and a package of six peanut-butter crackers. She also had a little Baggie filled with twelve saltines, the perks of being a pregnant woman.

Pregnant woman. She was supposed to be drinking at least eight glasses of water a day to help support the whole new infrastructure being built in her body. She should also be eating an extra three hundred calories a day, as well as getting plenty of rest. Nowhere in the preparing-for-parenthood book had it talked about surviving on three sips of water and a couple of crackers. How long could she go on like this? How long could her baby?

The thought both discouraged her and brought her strength. Her inner voice was right. She wasn’t going to make it on this godforsaken rock in this godforsaken pit. She was already dying. She might as well put up a fight.

Tina worked grimly with her swollen fingers at the plastic cap of the water jug. At the last minute, it popped off wildly and went soaring somewhere in the muck. No matter. She brought the jug to her lips and drank greedily. The water was hot and tasted of cooked plastic. She downed it gratefully, each giant gulp soothing her rusty throat. Second turned into wonderful, indulgent second. At the last minute, she tore the jug from her lips, gasping for breath and already desperate for more.

Her thirst felt like a separate beast, freshly awakened and now ravenous.