Split (2 page)

Fidelity.

Bravery.

Integrity.

The tall, fit, dark-haired man dressed in regulation cargo pants and a moss-green polonecked FBI shirt looked long and hard at the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation as he passed it for the umpteenth time. The crest, consisting of the scales of justice surrounded by a ring of thirteen stars, also adorned an embroidered patch on the man’s shirt.

Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity.

He knew the crest well, and the grounds on which he stood, but he was not a graduate of the Quantico Academy. The ID tags around his neck declared his standing. He was not an FBI agent, merely a guest—a member of an overseas law enforcement organisation in special training. He wasn’t one of them, a fact that was hard to forget in such a setting. But he had his allies and, fortunately, the strangers around him seemed to
find his Australian accent disarming. It somehow endeared him to the otherwise insular group. Although he sometimes lamented the fact that his nation was stamped with an unfair stereotype, at least it was a friendly one.

Detective Senior Sergeant Andrew Flynn of the New South Wales Police was there to learn how to better track serial killers—something for which he had a natural talent. This was both a blessing and a curse, but a talent that was in dire need. He had little choice but to hone it. And Quantico was the place to do it.

Not so long ago, he had cracked the most violent and prolific serial murder case Australia had ever witnessed. Worse than the infamous Granny Killings, or the Backpacker Murders. Worse than the recent Snowtown Killings, where a routine missing persons’ investigation had led to the discovery of several dismembered bodies in various states of decomposition. They had been neatly packed in oil drums in the sealed vault of a disused bank. A year ago Detective Flynn had caught the Stiletto Killer, a sadistic shoe fetishist who preyed on the attractive young women of Sydney, torturing and mutilating them.

The case had been complicated—and personal. Flynn’s big career break had come at a heavy price. A price he would not have been willing to pay if only he had known. The burden of guilt hung like a yoke around his neck, impossible to ignore and impossible
to forget. If only he had put the pieces together sooner, he told himself, lives could have been saved. Working that case had turned his own life upside down, and very nearly cost him his reputation as well. Plus there were other problems. The matter of a witness. A young woman. Beautiful. Clever. Irresistible.

Makedde.

He still thought about her—a lot. He had been lonely and stressed at the time, that much was true. But he had no excuse now.

Andy was so absorbed in his thoughts that he stopped looking where he was going, and that was dangerous on the deceptively quaint streets of Hogan’s Alley. Day or night, it didn’t pay to be preoccupied there. The moment Andy realised his lapse, he reminded himself to stay alert. Even at this hour, a tactical exercise could be underway.

He was right in the heart of Hogan, a short walk from the main FBI Academy building. It was dark and the buildings around him had lost the golden colour of the sunset. The sky was clear above, the first stars now visible. He heard the rustle of trees, and watched a red leaf fall at his feet. The northern summer was over and winter wasn’t far behind.

Andy peeked in the darkened windows of the Bank of Hogan, pressing his nose to the glass and cupping his hands around his eyes. He grinned for a moment, reflecting on its dubious title as the most robbed bank in America. But now the tellers were
gone. The bank was quiet. There were no robberies underway; no agents arresting stunt actors and wielding guns loaded with pellets of paint. Similarly, the Dogwood Inn was still. He could see that the door to Room 101 hung broken on its hinges from an earlier exercise. How many times had it been kicked in? But the motel was empty now. It held no terrorists, drug lords or fugitives tonight. The little town of Hogan was finished up for the day, the deli closed and the faux criminals had gone home for dinner.

Or was it? Andy heard the thunder of running feet, and turned to see a group of FBI agents approaching from one of the many wooded trails. Their blue shirts, barely visible in the low light, indicated that they were new recruits. The young men and women looked like carbon copies of each other as they filed past, their FBI identification tags swinging in time. They were dedicated, focused and fit—not yet jaded, not yet riddled with the guilt of the cases they hadn’t solved and the lives they hadn’t been able to save. Each one of them would have fought like hell for the privilege of being in that group. Each one of them would have secretly felt a long-awaited thrill entering the academy for the first time, passing under the sign stating: “Through these doors pass the finest professionals dedicated to the service of law enforcement.”

That’s what they wanted to be. The finest.

And that’s what Andy wanted to be too.

As he walked through the darkened Hogan streets, Andy Flynn was riddled with selfdoubt. But then again, at that moment he had good reason to be. He was about to do something foolish.

By 10.00 pm he was settled into his modest room, reclining on the bed. He looked at his bare feet hanging over the edge and noted they were not his best asset. Once, in a state of extreme passion, Makedde Vanderwall had kissed his toes. He never quite understood how she managed that, but he’d liked it. That woman was capable of all kinds of surprises.

Focus
…

The duvet was peeled back and he lay on top of the sheets dressed only in his boxer shorts. The room was cool, but he felt hot. A trace of perspiration beaded on his chest.

Mak.

Thankfully, he had managed to secure a separate dormitory room at Quantico this time around, and at this moment he was particularly grateful for it. It would have been embarrassing to have to ask another officer, or an agent, to leave the room while he made this call.

An overstuffed Filofax rested on his trim stomach. Mak had kissed that too, but it was best not to think about that now. He opened the address portion and
flipped to “V”, then closed his eyes for a moment and once again considered the wisdom of what he was doing.
Just call
. He propped the pages up and scanned the row of addresses. There she was. Second entry on the right-hand side.

Andy only had the number for her father’s place on Vancouver Island, but he knew she often spent her weekends there. Perhaps he’d be in luck. He rested the book in his lap and raised his index finger to the keypad on the phone, then hesitated.

Should I?

It had been almost a year since he’d last seen Makedde, and things had been messy. Although they’d spoken on the phone a couple of times at the beginning of the year, that was a far cry from seeing each other face to face. He wasn’t sure how she would react to the prospect of seeing him.

He knew he couldn’t put the call off any longer though. He would be attending a conference at the University of British Columbia in a couple of weeks. One of his mentors, Dr Bob Harris, a Profiler with the FBI, was flying up to do a presentation on psychopathy and crime scene analysis. He had invited Andy to come along. That was how he had first heard about it. The conference would also feature a talk from highly respected psychopath expert Dr Robert Hare, who was a Professor Emeritus at the university. The “Two Bobs” knew each other well.

The problem was that the University of British
Columbia also happened to be where Makedde Vanderwall was studying. Of course, this wasn’t really a problem as he saw it, but rather a good excuse to re-establish contact.

Until now, Andy had procrastinated over whether or not to tell Makedde about his visit, but the UBC conference was fast approaching. Mak had done her Masters in Forensic Psychology, and there was more than a good chance that she would be attending the conference herself. He knew it would not be considered appropriate to just show up and surprise her, so he thought he’d call first.

Although he was looking forward to the conference, for the most part it was likely to be material he’d heard before. He had attended Dr Hare’s guest lectures at Quantico and he was quite familiar with the profiling techniques his friend Dr Harris would present. The truth was, he wanted to see Makedde. Finally they were on the same continent. This was the closest to her that he had been for a long time, and as the distance between them shrank, his urge to see her had grown. If nothing else, seeing her again might get her out of his system. Perhaps seeing her would be a let-down, the spark gone.

Not likely.

His mind was suddenly filled with her, memories of Makedde grinning, playful and exciting. The weekend they spent together was impossible to forget—entwined in her bed, making love at all hours, lost in
ecstasy as the candles slowly burned to the floor. And then…

Then it all went wrong.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The phone emitted a rhythmic pulse.

Andy realised that his finger was still poised over the number pad. He shook his head, pulling back from that vivid memory and hung up the receiver.

He picked it up again.

Mak.

Hesitation.

Maybe I should cancel my spot at the conference and forget all about it?

Instead he dialled.

He was unsure of what exactly he should say to her if she answered.
Don’t mention anything at first about flying over for the conference,
he told himself,
just chat a bit, feel things out
. He eyed the entry in his Filofax, staring transfixed at her name.

Makedde Vanderwall—
her name, her photo, her vulnerable body in the hands of that sadistic bastard. I find her, blood everywhere, she’s bleeding on the bed, tied up and naked, and that bastard is grinning at me, he knows who I am, he taunts me and I aim and fire, tunnel vision, all I see is his perverted grin, everything else a blur, I aim for the heart, I pull the trigger, I shoot to kill, but…

“Hello?” A male voice.

“Uh—” Andy hesitated, restraining a jealous reflex. He wondered if the voice belonged to one of Makedde’s boyfriends. Did she have a boyfriend? Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“This is Andy Flynn calling, is Makedde Va—”

“Ahhh, Detective Flynn.”

“Mr Vanderwall?” It was her father.

Of course it’s her father, it’s his house, you fool.

“Hello, Mr Vanderwall. Please, just call me Andy, sir.”

“Call me Les.” There was a pause. “How are you?”

He’d almost forgotten that west-coast Canadian accent. It was quite different from the twang down in Virginia.

“I’m well, Les. Thank you.”

“Good.”

Another pause. That voice. Andy heard it for the first time in a hospital room in Sydney. He had met Les Vanderwall while Mak slept, bruised and full of stitches.

“It’s been a while,” Les said. Andy detected a tone of reserve.

“Yes, it has,” he replied awkwardly. The line was rough with static. And there was a delay that made the moment seem more uncomfortable than it really was. With all the technology at the FBI’s disposal, he would have thought the phone line would have been clearer.

“So, how have you been?” Andy said, trying not to ask for her right away.

“Very well, thanks. I suppose you want to talk to Mak?”

“Yes, if—”

“Well, she’s not around.” Andy’s heart sank. “I expect her soon, though. She’s coming across for the weekend.”

Good.
He didn’t have the number for her flat in Vancouver, and he wasn’t about to ask for it. He checked his watch. Just after ten o’clock in Virginia. That meant it would be seven in the evening on Vancouver Island. How late would she be arriving? What should he say now?

Makedde’s father beat him to it. “How’s the case coming along?”

“Well, it looks like it’ll take some time. There’s a lot of evidence to compile—”

“A lot of victims,” Les said.

Andy felt a familiar pang of guilt.

Yes, too many. Too many victims.

Les Vanderwall was a retired detective inspector, and as with most in his line of work, this new phase was, for all intents and purposes, a mere technicality. Andy knew that Les had done some digging around on his daughter’s behalf. He would have done the same thing if he were Makedde’s father. But he hadn’t wanted to talk about the Stiletto Murders with Les—not a good idea to discuss any case with a key witness’s father.

He is a victim’s father, Andy.

As soon as the thought came to him, Andy recalled Makedde’s voice, cracking with emotion. “I’m a survivor, Andy.
Not a victim.
Don’t
ever
call me a victim.”

An uncomfortable pause.

The crackle of the line.

“It’s in very capable hands,” Andy assured him.

“You aren’t handling it yourself?”

That was information Mr Vanderwall would already know. Andy was sure of it.

“I’m doing some training at the FBI Academy at the moment,” he said. “We’re putting together a new Profiling Unit in New South Wales.”

“Really?”

“I have a very good chance of heading one of the divisions in the unit.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Andy noted the lack of enthusiasm. “I will be involved in the trial, Mr Vanderwall. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll make sure your daughter’s treated with as much sensitivity as possible.”

Les didn’t respond. Courtrooms were not sensitive places. They both knew that.

“Well, I’ll tell Makedde you called,” Mr Vanderwall finally said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Les.”

“Of course. Thank you, Les. Perhaps I’ll try again sometime tomorrow.”

“I’ll let her know.”

Andy hung up and exhaled. He flopped back against the headrest and folded his arms, the Filofax still in his lap.

In the cold room he was slick with sweat.

The Pat Bay Highway was dark, the trees on the roadside silhouetted against the night sky. Makedde drove fast from Swartz Bay, white lines flashing by her on both sides, the remaining ferry traffic dotting the road behind her in a moving sea of headlights. Zhora, her turquoise 1969 Dodge Dart Swinger, needed a little prompting to get above eighty, but once she was there, she hummed along with the best of them.

Makedde felt that vehicles, especially older ones, deserved names. Before her Dart she’d had a Volkswagen Bug named Bette Davis. She had chosen the name of her current car as a reference to the ill-fated Nexus 6 Replicant in one of her favourite films. “She’s trained for an off-world Kick Murder Squad,” Bladerunner had said of her. “Talk about beauty and the beast…she’s
both
.” That was Zhora the Replicant. Zhora the car on the other hand was a temperamental, two-door, hardtop classic, with an original slant-six engine and leather bench seats—another kind of
beauty and the beast. She was a rare find in original, though not perfect, condition. One day Makedde planned to fix her up and maybe sell her to a Dart collector, but that day didn’t look like it was coming soon. There was still too much to do.

In the past year she had learnt all about the inner workings of cars. Unlike some of her other resolutions—learning to fence, speak Mandarin, juggle—she had reason to make it a top priority. Never again would she rely on someone else to fix her problems. Never again would she find herself caught out with a bonnet up and no idea of what she was looking at.

Mak negotiated Zhora through the residential suburb of Victoria and turned into Tiffany Street. At the end of the block, she pulled up at a two-storey Tudor-style house, similar in design to many in the area.

Her father’s house.

It used to be the family home. The home of Les and Jane Vanderwall and their two daughters, Theresa and Makedde. A family. Now its sole occupant was a widowed retiree, growing old alone.

The lights were on in the house when she pulled up. Almost every light, in fact. Despite the knowledge that her father had been very frugal with electricity when she was growing up, she was sure he was the only one in the house tonight. Makedde suspected this new habit was a way of coping with the loneliness of the place—lights on, the TV talking softly in another
room. She remembered the time she discovered the radio left on in her mother’s workroom downstairs, and she realised for the first time that the wooden easel was still sitting out—her mother’s painting of the sandpipers on the beach, forever unfinished.

Makedde parked Zhora in the driveway—her father’s white Lancer was tucked away out of sight in the garage—and made her way around to the trunk to fish out her overnight bag. A thin line of rust marred the turquoise paint near the rear fender. She looked at it and frowned.

Must fix that.

With her bag in tow and two heavy psychology textbooks under one arm, she walked through the front door her father had left unlocked for her. The warm smell of potatoes and hot butter greeted her as she entered. She heard the crackle of something frying on the stove.

“Hey, Dad!” she called in a loud voice. She put down her things and kicked her Blundstones off on the landing, leaving them in a heap beside some other, more neatly placed shoes.
Not enough shoes,
she thought. Three pairs in a neat row, all for the same two feet.

Her dad appeared at the top of the stairs wearing tan Eddie Bauer slacks and a Roots sweatshirt. The words “ROOTS CANADA” were written across it in big letters with the clothing label’s crest of a beaver sitting beneath them. She once wore a Roots shirt in
Australia, before it was pointed out to her that “root” has a very different meaning down-under. And as for the beaver…

“It’s almost nine. You haven’t had dinner yet?” she asked. He usually ate before seven.

“I thought I’d wait. Have you eaten?”

“Well, not really.” She padded up the carpeted stairs in stockinged feet and met him at the top with a big hug. “The BC ferries don’t really have that whole food thing down pat, I don’t think. Spew with a view.” “Oh, Makedde, it’s not that bad,” he said, ever the diplomat.

“The buffet’s okay, I suppose.” Mak looked at her father. At six foot two, he was slightly taller than his leggy eldest daughter. He was still handsome in his mid-fifties, and had every single hair left on his head—and the silver-grey colour it had turned over the years seemed to suit his striking, Paul Newman-like eyes. He seemed thinner every time she saw him though, and that worried her. He’d been losing weight since her mother died.

They ate dinner at the small round table in the kitchen, leaving the dining room to continue its task of collecting dust. He’d fixed a garlicky iceberg lettuce Caesar salad and a plate of potatoes and sausage. His cooking had slowly improved over the past year. The sausage actually tasted pretty good, which reminded Mak of how far she had strayed from her teenage vegetarian model days.

“How have you been? You look a little tired,” he said.

She looked up from her food. “I’ve been fine. Studying a lot. Oh, by the way, I’ve got another shoot next week. Department store catalogue crap, but they’re using a good photographer. Should pay the bills.” “That’s good. You better get some sleep before then. You look pretty worn-out.”

Oh, thanks.

“Please, stop with the compliments, you’re embarrassing me,” she said. “I’m fine, Dad. The shoot today was just a bit of a drag, that’s all. It was for a billboard, but still…‘Last shot, last shot…’ If I hear that once more I think I’ll scream.”

He looked at her fixedly.

“I’m
fine
,” she repeated. She hoped he wouldn’t start on the whole “insomnia thing” again.

“Hmmm,” her father mumbled, sounding unconvinced. He brought a forkful of potato to his mouth and stared through the placemat as he chewed. Something was on his mind. Les Vanderwall rarely made such observations as light conversation. It wasn’t his style. Perhaps it was because he had conducted too many interrogations, but the ex-detective inspector had a knack for pointed statements and loaded questions. As casual as he made it sound, the topic was not about to go away without being discussed further.

They ate for a few minutes in silence, but Mak sensed that there was a question her father wanted to
ask. It made her tense. Finally she took the bull by the horns and asked, “What’s up?”

“I was talking with a friend of mine recently about the way people react to stress, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and so on…we saw a lot of it in the police force…”

Oh, here we go.

“Yes, I’m familiar with it. And?”

“And, Makedde, I’m worried. I was wondering if you had considered seeing someone about the incident in Sydney?”

The “incident in Sydney”. That’s how everyone referred to it.

“Considered seeing someone? I believe ‘psychological therapy’ is the term you’re looking for.”

“Just to talk it out with someone. Someone unbiased and experienced in these areas. You said yourself that you probably should.” The furrow in his brow formed twin exclamation marks and his eyes were filled with real concern.

“That was an off-hand comment I made a year ago, but I didn’t end up needing therapy, and I still don’t. Nothing has changed. I’m fine. There’s no need to worry, Dad. I assure you, I’m totally fine.” She looked at the food cooling on her plate. “I just can’t see the point of rehashing all that stuff unnecessarily, especially now. I went over it with the police God knows how many times. Besides, there was that
counsellor in Sydney as you may recall. I talked about it with her. That was enough…”

Her appetite performed a Houdini and she was left staring at a dinner of half-eaten dead flesh. From the recesses of her memory she got a flash of a mutilated corpse and immediately felt the hot sensation that precedes a fever. She blinked the vision away and concentrated on sipping from her glass of water. The glass felt refreshingly cold against her fingertips and the water she poured down her throat settled her down. Her right big toe began to tingle, exactly where the microsurgeon had sewn it back on. She ignored it.

“Mak, you talked with that counsellor for a whole hour.”

That was true.

She changed her focus, pushing any thoughts of Sydney back into a dark box and slamming the lid shut.

“Who is this friend of yours you were talking to about this stuff?”

Les Vanderwall caught his daughter’s eye and held it. “Don’t worry, I’m not using you as some kind of conversation piece. Remember how I told you I ran into that lady in the Starbucks on Robson several months back? Dr Ann Morgan? Was married to Sergeant Morgan with the Vancouver PD?”

Mak recalled some mention of the chance meeting early in the spring. Her father was visiting Mak in Vancouver at the time and had been
wandering around the shops on Robson Street killing time while she finished up a fashion shoot. He recognised Dr Morgan in the coffee line. They had met before at a reception she attended with her husband. She’d heard about Jane Vanderwall’s death and sent a card. They struck up a conversation.

Mak had met the husband, Sergeant Morgan, once, perhaps twice. Never much liked him, though.
“Was married to”…hmmm. Interesting choice of words.

“Anyway, I was talking with her the other day,” he went on. “She’s visiting some friends on the island at the moment. Ann has some idea of your situation. No specifics, of course…”

Makedde felt her throat tighten. Her temporal artery pulsed. “And what precisely would she know about my situation, specific or otherwise?” she asked. “What
is
my situation, exactly?” She knew she sounded defensive, but didn’t care.

“Dr Morgan is involved in this sort of area,” he said in a cautious, soothing tone. “She’s a psychiatrist. I may have mentioned it before.”

He hadn’t. In fact, this was the first time Makedde had ever heard her father talk about any psychiatrist in a particularly positive light. Many in the police force, particularly the older generation of officers, tended to view psychiatrists and psychologists with suspicion. The cynics regarded them as the thorns in their sides who would excuse criminals on the grounds of legal insanity or diminished responsibility.

Her father had protested when she announced her desire to pursue psychology as a career. Was he now suggesting that his own daughter ought to be seeing a shrink? If that were true, times had certainly changed. It threw her for a loop.

“Don’t tell me you think I need to see a psychiatrist, of all things? Next you’ll be saying I should be on antidepressants.” She spat the words out. Mak felt that many psychiatric drugs were over-prescribed because of the influence of pushy drug companies. Her father knew very well about her reservations.

“Just relax. No one’s talking about drugs. You’ve been under a lot of stress with your thesis and everything. You’re not sleeping properly. Don’t think I can’t tell.”

That stung. He could see right through her petty protests. She couldn’t keep anything from him. She fought the urge to push her plate away and leave the table. Instead, she pursed her lips, staring again at her half-eaten meal. Her father meant well. In fact, if anything, he was too well-meaning sometimes.

And besides, he was right.

“Just think about it. It might help to see someone.”

Mak knew he was waiting for a response but she simply stared at her glass of water. A bead of moisture rolled off the lip, trickled down the length of the glass and stained the tablecloth with a small damp dot.

“Just think about it,” he repeated.

She didn’t say anything.

He changed the subject, knowing he’d hit his mark. He had her thinking about it.

“Theresa and Ben will be coming over for dinner tomorrow with little Breanna.”

“Oh?” she managed.
Oh joy.

“I hope you’ll stick around this time. You and your sister haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

That was also true.

“And Ann might swing by at some point. It’d be nice if you were here to meet her.”

If this is a set-up, I’ll snap.

Makedde nodded and said nothing. If her dad had a new friend who wanted to visit, that was great. It was more than great, actually. But if he was meddling with her life again, and he had a shrink that wanted to corner her, that was a different matter altogether.

Mak reached for her glass and brought it to her lips. She sipped while he ate. She thought about how, after so many years of travel, being close to home seemed to both comfort her and give her an odd feeling of claustrophobia.

He’s right, you know. You’re starting to slip.

“By the way,” her father said, “you got a call this evening.”

“Mmm?” Mak mumbled. She was thankful he wasn’t commenting on her lack of appetite.

“It was Detective Flynn.”

Suddenly Makedde couldn’t breathe. After a moment she somehow managed to say, “Oh,” in a reasonably steady voice. She paled and then her fair complexion turned the colour of fresh beets.

Her father pretended not to notice. He scooped up more potato covered in copious amounts of butter and salt, placed it in his mouth and proceeded to masticate with irritating leisure. Instead of offering further explanation, he used the salad tongs to lift some salad out of the bowl and onto his plate.

“Really? Andy?” she said. “Well…well, that’s um…interesting.”

He stabbed some lettuce with his fork and brought it to his mouth. He chewed. It sounded crispy.

“What did he say?”

Her father took a sip of Diet Coke. The ice cubes clinked in his glass. She hated it when he did this.

“For God’s sake, what did he say? Was it about the trial?” Makedde blurted out.

“No. He didn’t say much about anything. Just asked for you. He was calling from Quantico.” He put the last forkful of salad into his mouth and chewed it slowly.

“Quantico? As in the FBI Academy, Quantico?”

“Yup.”

Silence.

“He said he’d probably try again tomorrow,” her father added.

Now she was the one to fork food into her mouth. The remains of her meal were cold but she
scarcely noticed. She silently chewed, failing to taste anything as her mind ticked over furiously.