All in all, she wasn’t enjoying the woods much. She supposed it should be beautiful, but to her it wasn’t. She felt the loneliness of this place, where the sound of your companion’s footsteps was swallowed up by moss-covered rocks, and even knowing there was another search party within three miles, she didn’t hear a peep. She felt the disorientation of the towering trees that blocked out the sun and made it difficult to get a sense of direction. The rough, undulating landscape meant they were often walking down to go up, or walking up to go down. Which way was north, south, east, west? Kimberly didn’t know anymore, and that left her feeling anxious in a way she couldn’t fully explain.

The immense size of the woods swallowed her up as effectively as any ocean. Now she was drowning in greenness, not sure how to get her head up, or which way to head for shore. She was a city girl who was way out of her league. And in a place like this, so much could go wrong without anyone ever finding your body.

She tried to focus on the missing woman to distract herself. If the girl had started the night at a bar, then she was probably wearing sandals. Had she gotten smart and ditched them right away? Kimberly had already slipped several times in hiking boots. Sandals would be impossible. Bare feet not great, but at least more manageable.

Where would she strike out for first? Head down is what Kathy Levine had said; lost hikers seek the easier path. In Kimberly’s mind, this path wasn’t that easy. Having to pick and choose for footing required slow, laborious work. Maybe it wasn’t as aerobic as hiking up, but the muscles in her legs and butt were already screaming while her heart beat furiously.

Would the girl try to seek shelter? Someplace she could stay cool and not wear herself out? Mac had implied that staying put was the key. Be calm, in control, don’t just wander around in a daze.

Kimberly looked around her, at the arching trees, the looming shadows, and the deep crevices with all their unknown inhabitants.

She bet the girl had started out at a dead run. She bet she’d torn through these bushes and trees, desperately seeking some sign of civilization. She’d probably screamed for hours, wearing herself hoarse with the need for human contact. And when night had fallen, when the woods had filled with the louder sounds of bigger beasts and buzzing insects…

The girl had probably run again. Tripped. Fallen. Maybe gone headfirst into a poison ivy patch or into a hornets’ nest. And what would have happened to her then? Stung, terrorized, half-dressed, and lost in the dark?

She’d seek water, anything to cool her wounds. And because whatever lurked in the streams had to be less dangerous than the creatures that stalked the woods.

Kimberly halted abruptly, holding up a hand. “Do you hear it?” she asked Mac sharply.

“Water,” Mac agreed. From his backpack, he retrieved his map. “There’s a stream directly to the west.”

“We should follow it. That’s what Levine said, right? Hikers are drawn to water.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Kimberly stepped left…

And her foot went totally out from under her. One moment she was on solid ground. The next, her leg shot out and she went careening butt-first down the slippery slope of grass. Her hip bounded over a rock. Her thigh scraped by a fallen log. Desperately she tried to get her hands beneath her, while vaguely she was aware of Mac shouting her name behind her.

“Kimberly!!!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh.” Thump. Thunk. Another dead log reared up ahead, and she slammed into it with all the grace of a rhino. Stars burst in front of her eyes. A buzzing roared through her ears. She was acutely aware of the rusty taste of blood in her mouth where she had bitten her tongue. And then, all at once, her body caught fire.

“Shit. Damn. Oh, what the hell!” She was on her feet, slapping at her arms and legs. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, like a million little fire ants biting her skin again and again and again. She bolted out of the weeds and went scrambling back up the hillside, grabbing at tree limbs with her hands while churning up the grass with her feet.

She made it fifteen feet back up and not a single inch of it helped. Her skin burned. Her blood roared. She watched helplessly as her body suddenly bloomed with a bright red rash.

Mac finally came crashing to a halt in front of her. “Don’t scratch, don’t scratch, don’t scratch.”

“What the hell is it?” she cried frantically.

“Congratulations, honey, I think you just found the stinging nettles.”

Quantico, Virginia

8:05 P . M .

Temperature: 98 degrees

“SO WHAT DO WE HAVE?” Quincy asked. It was after eight o’clock now. He, Rainie, Special Agent Kaplan, and Supervisor Watson had taken over an unused classroom for their ad hoc meeting. No one looked particularly cheerful. For one thing, half of them were still wrung out from working the crime scene in this heat. For another, they had nothing to show for their fourteen-hour day.

“I think we still have to look harder at McCormack,” Kaplan insisted. “In this business, you know there is no such thing as coincidence. And him being here at the same time one of his old cases heats up… That’s too much coincidence for me.”

“It was not coincidental, it was planned.” Rainie spoke up in exasperation. Her opinion on this matter was clear, and now she shook her head in disgust at Kaplan. “You spoke to his boss. You know what McCormack said was true.”

“People cover for their own.”

“So the entire GBI is in on the crime? We’ve simply gone from coincidence to conspiracy theory.”

Quincy held up his hand, attempting to cut off this argument before it got going. Again. “What about the ad?” he asked Kaplan.

“According to the Public Affairs Officer, the ad arrived yesterday, with instructions to run in today’s paper. The Quantico Sentry, however, is a weekly paper. Next edition doesn’t come out until this Friday. Besides, the officer didn’t like the look of the ad. Seemed like code to him, maybe something drug related, so he passed it my way.”

Kaplan pushed a photocopy of the ad in question across the table. It was a small, two-by-two-inch box, outlined with a black border and containing one block of text. The text read: Dear Editor, Clock ticking… planet dying… animals weeping… rivers screaming. Can’t you hear it? Heat kills…

“Why an ad?” Watson spoke up.

“Quantico Sentry doesn’t do letters to the editor.”

“What are the rules for ad submissions?” Quincy asked.

Kaplan shrugged. “The newspaper is a civilian enterprise, published in cooperation with the Public Affairs Office here on the base, so it covers anything topical to the area. Lots of local merchants advertise, charities reach out, services for military personnel, etc. It’s no different really from any other small, regional paper. Ads must be submitted typeset and with a payment. Otherwise, you’re pretty much good to go.”

“So our guy took the time to learn the submission requirements for an ad, but still didn’t realize the paper wouldn’t print it today?” Watson asked skeptically. “Doesn’t seem too bright to me.”

“He got what he wanted,” Quincy said. “It’s the next day, and we’re reading his message.”

“Pure chance,” Watson said dismissively.

“No. This man does everything with a purpose. Quantico Sentry is the Corps’ oldest newspaper. It’s part of their tradition and pride. Putting his message in this paper is the same as dumping a body on the base. He’s bringing his crime close to home. He’s demanding our attention.”

“It fits the pattern,” Rainie said. “So far we have the same MO as with the Eco-Killer, and now we have the letter too. I’d say the next step is pretty obvious.”