Split. Part 4

"Well, bye, Detective Flynn. Nice talking with you." Mak heard the phone click, then listened for a moment to make sure her sister was really off the line.

"Sorry about that."

"Oh, that's okay. Your sister seems nice."

"Yup." She leaned against the side of the desk and let her eyes wander around her father's study. A framed photo of his graduation from the academy was hung beside a plaque lauding outstanding service. Her mouth always curved into a lopsided grin at the sight of that photo. Her father looked so young and eager, his hair not yet grey, his face smooth and chiselled.

"My dad told me you called yesterday."

"Yeah, I did. You weren't in yet."

Yes, but how did you know I would be here? She knew the question would make her sound suspicious, so she didn't ask it aloud. Besides, it was probably just a lucky guess, right? He would know that she visited often, and he had her father's number. It was logical that he would call her father's place if he wanted to speak to her. But to speak to me about what?

Makedde turned her back to the wall of frames and plaques, and faced a shelf lined with dusty caps traded with police departments from all over the continent. She scanned the embroidered crests-Vancouver PD, Texas Polygraph Unit, Los Angeles Police Department SWAT Team, Federal Bureau of Investigation...

The phone line seemed to be quiet for an awfully long time.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" she finally said. "So, you're calling from Quantico. Must be pretty late in Virginia?"

"Yeah. Past eleven. As I was just telling your sister, I'm here doing some training."

"With the Behavioural Sciences Unit?"

"That's the one. The Police Commissioner has okayed a new Profiling Unit in New South Wales. World-cla.s.s technology. It'll be right up there with the best. Looks like I have a good chance of heading one of the divisions in the unit. Perhaps even heading the entire unit in the future."

For a split second she experienced an unexpected surge of anger, and knew that it was because she felt he was indirectly benefiting from the worst kind of tragedy and violence. But Mak knew it was unfair to feel that way and she pushed the thoughts aside.

"That's great," she responded.

The Australian accent. That voice. It triggered mixed emotions in her. She had fallen for him, but soon after mistrusted him, even feared him. He saved her life in Sydney and she hated being indebted. She couldn't shake that feeling every time she thought of him, and now, with his voice in her ear, her chest felt like it was filled with a swelling balloon, growing tighter with every breath. The fact that they had slept together made it even worse. Worse still was that she still thought about it.

"Look, I can't talk long. We're just having dinner," she blurted. She felt guilty about the way it sounded the instant she had said it, even though it was true.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll let you go."

"No, that's not necessary. I-"

"No, really, I'm sorry. Please get back to your family."

He had closed up like a clam. She knew from experience that he could do that.

Silence.

"Um...thanks for your call," she said.

"Take care."

"You, too. Bye."

Makedde hung up and stared at the phone. She was flushed. Her eyes stung. Did he just want to talk? Was there something he wanted to tell her? She fought a desperate urge to call him back. She sat in her father's chair and put her head in her hands. The last thing she needed was to start thinking about Andy Flynn again. She needed peace, and there was no peace to be found there.

Makedde thought her meal would be cold by the time she got back to the table, and it was.

Four sets of eyes stared expectantly at her as she sat down, but she said nothing. Theresa opened her mouth to speak, but something in Makedde's look stopped her before any sound came out. When she opened her mouth again it was to tell Ann all about Breanna.

That was good.

CHAPTER 6.

"Call for you, Sarge," came Constable Perry's voice, intruding into a rare moment of peace by way of the telephone intercom on the desk. "Line four."

Sergeant Grant Wilson of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police sighed and pushed his paperwork aside. "Yup, I'll take it," he said, unsure if Perry would hear that acknowledgment. He picked up the receiver and pressed the flashing b.u.t.ton that was fourth from the top on his far-too-sophisticated phone system. He preferred the old system. It was much simpler.

"Wilson," he said.

"Hi, Grant," came the familiar voice on the other end. "It's Mike."

He could tell that from the voice. "Hiya, Mike."

Corporal Michael Rose and he were mates from way back, despite the fact that Mike, at thirty-four, was ten years younger than Grant. They'd both done well with the RCMP. They lived in the same suburb and their wives were friends. The ladies kept themselves busy when they had to stay late, so it worked out well for everyone. Grant's daughter Cherrie even thought Mike was kind of cute, but that was fifteen year olds for you. Mike and he still lifted weights together three times a week, and Grant was proud that he still managed to out bench press his younger friend (by two and a half kilos) even if his own daughter thought he didn't look quite as good.

"So whaz up, Mike?" Grant asked.

"Oh geez. We've got a bit of a problem out here."

Grant raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" He leaned back in his chair and began clicking and un-clicking his pen. Amanda hated that, so he tried to remember not to do it at home. "Your brother get himself in trouble again?"

Click. Un-click.

Mike's brother, Evan, was a real handful. He'd probably have to arrest him some day.

Click. Un-click.

"No, nothing like that. We got a call to check on a report out Nahatlatch way. A couple of hunters said their dog started digging around in something that looked like a body buried under some shrubs. We kinda figured it was probably an animal of some sort, but nope, it's a person alright. A dead woman."

Click. Grant's hand stopped.

"A dead woman?"

"Yup. Looks that way."

Grant thought about that for a moment. "Well, you been out there?"

"I'm out there right now. I'm here with Symmons and Kent. Not too far from the river itself."

"How's it look to you?"

"Looks bad, Grant. I can't figure why she'd be way the h.e.l.l out here all by herself dressed like that."

"Dressed like what?"

"She's got on a sort of b.u.t.ton-up shirt of some kind and a skirt from what we can tell."

"A skirt?"

"Exactly. And them black nylon thingies. She's no lost hunter or whitewater kayaker or nothin', that's for sure."

Grant nodded. "Street girl, you reckon?"

"Nah, I didn't mean it to sound like that. Hard to tell, but it don't really look like that to me. Kinda conservative even with the skirt and all. More like a church girl or something."

"How long she been there?"

"Not long, they don't think. A couple of days or so. Pretty fresh. In bad shape, but fresh."

Grant tried not to think about that. "Okay, Mike, I'll come out your way. Be there in about an hour..."

CHAPTER 7.

Makedde Vanderwall always ran alone, and often after dark. Nothing could ever spook her enough to want to change that habit. She found beauty in darkness, in thunderstorms, and in those solo midnight runs.

But it drove her dad nuts.

Whenever she visited Vancouver Island, she always went for a jog around the nearby lakes. Her fastest time for the eleven-kilometre Elk and Beaver Lake track was forty-four minutes-not bad for someone who wasn't exactly pet.i.te, as the best medium to long distance runners always seemed to be.

During the day she often ran with her Discman playing, but when she ran at night she preferred the quiet, and the a.s.surance of a small canister of bear spray as a defence. The woods were dark at this hour, but rather than being frightening, Mak felt protected, as if the night itself were a great comfortable blanket. The sky was clear, the moon and the stars lit her way, and Makedde knew the track like the back of her hand. There were few fellow joggers at night and she preferred it that way. She hadn't come to the lake to socialise, or catch up with her island friends, she had come to run and to think.

Why did Andy call me?

Why is it that my sister and I aren't getting along? Is it my fault? Is it really that difficult?

Is Ann Morgan going to become Dad's girlfriend?

Ann seemed nice enough. And it had been almost two years since her mom died. Her dad was lonely. He would be so much happier with a girlfriend.

As Mak jogged she watched the still waters shimmering in the moonlight. Perhaps it was the time of year, but the sight of the bright orange moon hanging proudly in the sky above the lake brought to mind Halloween-that magical day she remembered so well.

Mom, leaning over me, waking me in the dark...

Her mother, Jane, had always fed Makedde and put her to bed early after school on October thirty-first. Mak would quickly fall into a deep sleep in the knowledge that when she woke up on what she believed was a new day, it would be Halloween-the day when there was no sun, and the ghouls and witches came out, smiling and ready to spook. It was a special day when all the chocolate malt b.a.l.l.s and jellybeans she could ever want would be happily donated to her pillowcase carry sack. It was a special day when she could pretend she was a ghoul herself, and wander from door to door with her parents and with little Theresa in tow, and be greeted by even stranger beings-vampires and werewolves and aliens who would smile and give her candy and show her tricks.

It was a magic day, and a day of night.

Back on the mainland, under the same bright moon, Sergeant Grant Wilson of the RCMP found himself in a different set of woods, contemplating the senseless murder of Susan Walker-a girl not much older than his own daughter, a girl who was afraid of the dark, and who, in the end, never stood a chance.

CHAPTER 8.

The Hunter sat quietly at a small table in the far corner of the student pub. He held a beer in one hand and a newspaper in the other, and his eyes watched every movement in the room.

It was a down-market sort of place, spa.r.s.ely lit and furnished with plain wooden chairs and tables and an uninspiring green and brown carpet. A long wooden bar stretched out to his left. It was a quiet night and all the accompanying stools were empty. He only had the fox-faced bartender for company. The young man was leaning against the counter, a bored kid slowly polishing a mug, the fuzz on his unshaven young face visible in patches.

This pub was a prime hunting ground during the right season. And that season was now. It was September, the beginning of a new semester, and that meant a fresh crop of targets-girls from all over the country and some from overseas-smart girls, students, each one a challenge, all trying to find their way around, looking for new friends, looking for action.

Perfect.

He studied a group of average-looking men and women playing pool at the other end of the room. They were all wearing the same sort of clothes-jeans teamed with sneakers or hiking boots. The Hunter had got his look just right and he blended in well. But none of the women interested him.

Patience.

The pub was taking a while to fill up, but that was fine. No need to panic yet. He preferred to arrive early, secure a good position and get a feel for the growing activity in the room. He could become invisible. And if he sensed any unwanted attention he could leave.

He was in control.

The Hunter was smart. He knew the importance of planning. He had plans that were fluid enough to adapt to any unwanted elements, and he only ever made his move if things were perfect. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. Of course, after the catch it was different. Once you had won, you could do what you wanted.

He had just about given up when a young woman entered and immediately caught his eye. Almost as if he had picked up on some kind of radar signal, he raised his head and there she was, moving towards the bartender-a brunette, fairly short and plain, but not unattractive. Her black, square-heeled leather boots were polished nicely, and she wore stretchy dark denim jeans with a grey fleece jacket. She looked like she might have a decent figure under all the clothes. The girl appeared a bit unsure of herself and her surroundings. A bit fl.u.s.tered. That interested him the most. He immediately pegged her as a new student starting her very first semester of university.

A possible mark.

He lifted his newspaper slightly to cover the lower half of his face and stared at the girl through non-prescription gla.s.ses. He watched her pause a few feet from the bar and look eagerly around the room, and he lowered his gaze to the paper when her eyes came his way. She took no notice of the bespectacled man in the corner, and continued to look around the room. At a glance he thought her eyes appeared red-rimmed and a little puffy.

After a moment, the girl approached the bored bartender and asked where the phones were. The Hunter thought that was an interesting question, considering she had just walked past a bank of them on the way in. Obviously she hadn't been paying much attention. She was preoccupied with something. Distressed.

He felt the adrenalin surge. Conditions seemed good.