“I don’t think so.” Golden was looking at the photos. “Although the extreme violence would indicate that might be a possibility, the condition of this body and the others makes me think they were strangers. And violence was transmuted.”
“Say again?” Gant said.
Golden looked up from the file. “Quite often when the killer knows the victim, even if the actual killing is violent, subsequent to the act, there is an attempt at psychological detachment from the act. Often in the form of the body being hidden or even just covered with a blanket.”
“All right,” Gant allowed. “I’ll go with you on that. Three killers. Who didn’t know their victims. Chose them because of their fathers or fiancé in the case of Svoboda.” He glanced up at the sky. “What about weather as I requested?” he asked Padgett. He could see Golden’s confused look at the question but he ignored her.
Padgett pulled out another folder. “For the location where Tracy Caulkins was left, there were only two instances of rain in the past three weeks since she was reported missing until her estimated time of death. A total of an eighth of an inch.”
Gant frowned. “That’s not enough water to sustain her that long.”
Padgett nodded. “I agree.”
“There was no sign she had any container to store some at the site, right?” Gant asked.
“None was found.”
“And the prediction for the southeast?” Gant asked.
“Some storm activity later this week covering most of the area.”
“So Emily can drink,” Golden said, finally catching on.
“Yeah,” Gant said, his mind on the fact that the Caulkins girl had not had enough rain to sustain her as long as she had lived. “So the Watcher gave Caulkins water.”
“’The Watcher’?” Padgett asked and Gant quickly filled him on the titles he had made up for the three targets.
Padgett nodded. “Someone had to have given Caulkins water and it most likely had to be this Watcher fellow. Anyone else would have freed her or reported it.”
Gant blinked as he suddenly realized what he’d been missing. “The Florabama.”
Golden turned to look at him. “Yes?”
Gant pointed straight up the shoreline. “We’re standing on the Florida-Alabama border. He reached out with his other hand and placed it on the PVC pipe. “Roberts was killed literally straddling the border.”
“That’s not coincidence,” Golden said, not quite a question, not quite a statement.
“No, it’s not.” Gant headed back toward the car. “I need to talk to Colonel Cranston again.” He looked at her. “And you need to update your database.”
Emily opened her eyes to darkness. How long ago the sun had set, she had no idea. She wished that she could have remained unconscious through the night as she tried to look around her. She could only make out a few stars through spaces in the oak tree’s branches and leaves above her head. All around was utter darkness. She was lying on her back and she slowly sat up, feeling the weight of the shackle on her leg.
She tried to remember the phase of the moon. A small thing, but something that was very important now. Her stomach rumbled and she felt a surge of bile come up her throat. She fought to keep from throwing up, knowing she had no water to wash the bitterness out of her mouth if she did.
She stretched her hands out, feeling the pain in her fingertips from the wire and that reminded her of failure.
She forced her mind away from that and cocked her head, listening.
Once more it struck her that she had never realized how noisy the woods were at night. There were the sounds of numerous crickets, birds and other small creatures — a veritable chorus all around her. As a cool breeze swept across her, Emily suddenly realized she didn’t have her shirt on. She quickly tugged it on. It bothered her that she had been half-naked for so long, and it bothered her even more that she had not noticed it. Just over twenty-four hours and she was already losing her veneer of civilization. She put her back to the tree and adjusted the heavy shackle around her ankle into the least painful arrangement.
She was thirsty.
She couldn’t hold it in denial. Her mouth was parched, her lips cracked. Her stomach was twisted in a painful knot. How long could one last without water? She couldn’t remember. She was sure she had heard it somewhere, from her father perhaps, or the Learning Channel, an arcane piece of knowledge that had not been significant enough at the time to remember. Now it was all consuming. Was it days or a week? Maybe two weeks?
Emily felt a surge of panic boil up from her stomach into her chest, causing her heart to race. Once more, the most important matter surged to the forefront of her mind: How long could she last here without water?
She tucked her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. As the sobs wracked her body, she rocked back and forth. She tried, time and time again, to regain control, but she couldn’t.
Not for a long time. And it bothered her that crying meant she was losing precious water, even in the smallest amount.
The thing that stopped her was the reality slowly seeping through her emotional pain, that everything had gone quiet. No insects. No birds. No small creatures.
The forest was completely silent.
Emily lifted her head and peered about, trying to penetrate the darkness. To no avail.
Even the breeze had stopped. Perfect stillness. Except a branch snapped somewhere, not far away. Emily felt her heart freeze. She was uncertain from which direction the sound had come.
There was the rustle of something moving through the underbrush and Emily’s head snapped to her left. It was behind her, on the other side of the tree. She reached down and grabbed the chain, pulling it as she tried to move counter-clockwise around the thick trunk so she could get a better angle on that direction. For about two feet the chain rotated, then it jammed on something and she couldn’t move any further. She leaned sideways, trying to pierce the darkness with her eyes.
To no avail.
Emily realized she wasn’t breathing, so intent was she on listening. She swallowed and took a shallow breath, but then couldn’t control her lungs, gasping for oxygen in a spasm of need and panic.
Something was coming, even through her panic, she could hear it. Emily screamed, surprising herself with the surge of anger.
“Get away from me! Get away!”
There was a low growl and Emily pressed back away from it, as far as the chain would allow. “Get away!”
The Sniper was watching the wild dog through a thermal scope, the animal a bright red glow as it approached the tree. He had seen wild dogs in the area during his reconnaissance and knew they were a potential problem. All the more reason for his surveillance.
He centered the reticules on the dog’s head, then changed his mind and lowered the muzzle of the rifle slightly. He exhaled, emptying his lungs, feeling the rhythm of his heart. The dog was picking up speed, charging toward the tree and the girl.
He fired, the suppressor keeping the sound of the round leaving the barrel to a low cough, the specially loaded subsonic round not breaking the sound barrier as it sped down range. The round creased across the dog’s back, leaving a quarter inch furrow.
The dog yelped and spun about, galloping madly for the safety of the trees.
Emily heard the yelp and then she braced herself until she realized whatever creature was out there was going away. It crashed through the underbrush on the far side of the clearing. Emily’s breathing slowly returned to normal as did the sounds of the forest. She curled into a ball, arms locked around her knees and sobbed, adding her cries to those of the creatures around her as the forest resumed its normal chorus.