The Killing Hour Read Online Free Page B

ordinary.
    Inside wasn’t much different. A serviceable, blue-gray carpet ran as far as the eye could see. Walls were painted bone-white. Furniture was sparse and functional—low-slung orange chairs, short, easily assembled oak tables and desks. The Academy had officially opened its doors in 1972, and the joke was the decorating hadn’t changed much since.
    The complex, however, was inviting. The Jefferson Dormitory, where visitors checked in, boasted beautiful wood trim as well as a glass-enclosed atrium, perfect for indoor barbecues. Over a dozen long, smoked-glass corridors connected each building and made it seem as if you were walking through the lush, green grounds, instead of remaining indoors. Courtyards popped up everywhere, complete with flowering trees, wrought-iron benches, and flagstone patios. On sunny days, trainees could race woodchucks, rabbits, and squirrels to class as the animals bounded across the rolling lawns. At dusk, the glowing amber eyes of deer, foxes, and raccoons appeared in the fringes of the forest, peering at the buildings with the same intensity the students used to stare back. One day, around week three, as Kimberly was strolling down a glass-enclosed corridor, she turned her head to admire a white flowering dogwood, and a thick black snake suddenly appeared among the branches and dropped to the patio below.
    In the good news department, she hadn’t screamed. One of her classmates, a former Navy man, however, had. Just startled, he told them all sheepishly. Honestly, just startled.
    Of course, they had all screamed a time or two since. The instructors would’ve been disappointed otherwise.
    Kimberly returned her attention to the full-length mirror, and the mess that was her body now reflected there. Her right shoulder was dark purple. Her left thigh yellow and green. Her rib cage was bruised, both her shins were black and blue, and the right side of her face—from yesterday’s shotgun training—looked like someone had gone after her with a meat mallet. She turned around and gazed at the fresh bruise already forming on her lower back. It would go nicely with the giant red mat burn running up the back of her right thigh.
    Nine weeks ago, her five-six frame had been one hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle and sinew. As a lifelong workout junkie, she’d been fit, trim, and ready to breeze through physical training. Armed with a master’s degree in criminology, shooting since she was twelve, and hanging out with FBI agents—basically her father—all of her life, she’d strode through the Academy’s broad glass doors like she owned the joint. Kimberly Quincy has arrived and she’s still pissed off about September 11. So all you bad people out there, drop your weapons and cower.
    That had been nine weeks ago. Now, on the other hand . . .
    She’d definitely lost badly needed weight. Her eyes held dark shadows, her cheeks were hollowed out, her limbs looked too thin to bear her own weight. She looked like a washed-out version of her former self. Bruises on the outside to match the bruises on the inside.
    She couldn’t stand the sight of her own body. She couldn’t seem to look away.
    Inside the bathroom, the water shut off with a rusty clank. Lucy would be out soon.
    Kimberly raised her hand to the mirror. She traced the line of her bruised shoulder, the glass cool and hard against her fingertips.
    And, unbidden, she remembered something she hadn’t thought of for six years now. Her mother, Elizabeth Quincy. Dark, softly curling brown hair, fine patrician features, her favorite ivory silk blouse. Her mother was smiling at her, looking troubled, looking sad, looking torn.
    “I just want you to be happy, Kimberly. Oh God, if only you weren’t so much like your father . . .”
    Kimberly’s fingers remained on the mirrored glass. She closed her eyes, however, for there were some things that even after all these years she still could not take.
    Another sound from the bathroom; Lucy