Split (4 page)

Mak waited. Her heart was beating way too fast. If it was Andy, she didn’t want to speak to him. Not now. Not with the whole family nearby…especially her sister, and her father’s guest.

“No, this isn’t Makedde. This is her sister, Theresa. Who is this?” Pause. “
Andrew Flynn
? Oh,
really
? I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective. Are you calling from Australia?”

Mak vaulted from her chair.

“The FBI Academy?
Reeeeeally
?” Theresa went on, her eyes bright with curiosity. She shifted her weight to one leg and put a hand on her hip, turning her back to the dining room.

Mak reached the kitchen and slid across the linoleum waving her hands to get her sister’s attention and mouthing the words, “I’m not here…I’m not here!”

“Oh, really? How
fascinating
…” Theresa heard her approach and shifted her weight back to the other leg, looking over her shoulder and ignoring her sister’s frantic sign language. “Uh-huh.” When Mak was close, Theresa said, “Oh, here she is now—”

She was smiling as she extended the phone. Mak thought it looked like a “fuck you” smile.

Mak stood back and shook her head.

After the receiver was suspended in the air for a while, Theresa brought the phone back to her lips and repeated, “Yup, Makedde’s right here, I’ll put her on.” She extended the phone again. The smile was really big now.

Smart ass.

“Uh, hi.”

“Makedde?” That familiar voice.

“Hi, Andy. How are you?”

The line wasn’t very clear.

“Good. How ya goin’?” The simple Aussie-ism pulled at her heartstrings.

“Fine, thanks.”
Well, not really.

Mak looked through the kitchen doorway into the dining room. Ann was the only one who was polite enough not to watch, everyone else was staring and Theresa was still standing in the kitchen, only a couple of feet away, watching intently.

“Just a second. I’ll switch phones,” she told Andy. “Can you hang this up for me when I get on the other phone?” she asked her sister, handing the receiver over. “I’ll just be a sec.”

Mak jogged down the hall to her father’s study and closed the door behind her. She took the call standing up, the cord twisted and stretched taut. She didn’t want to get too comfortable. By the time she picked it up, her sister was already having another conversation on the line.

“…Really? So how long are you there—” Theresa was saying.

“Thanks,” Mak said loudly. “I’ve got it now, thank you.”

“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-class 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.

“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 button 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 hell out here all by herself dressed like that.”

“Dressed like what?”

“She’s got on a sort of button-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…”

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 petite, 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 assurance 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 balls 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.

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, sparsely 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 flustered. 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 glasses. 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.

The bartender pointed back toward the entrance, barely raising his eyes from the mug he was polishing.
She thanked him politely—with no obvious accent—and off she went.

The Hunter followed her, moving across the room quietly, one hand in his pocket and his head slightly slumped as if he were tired. He stuck close to the wall, inconspicuous.

The restrooms were in the direction of the phones, and he knew he would be able to hear the young woman’s conversation if he listened through the men’s room door. When he rounded the corner he raised his eyes ever so briefly and caught a glimpse of the bank of phones and the woman dialling. He entered the men’s, which thankfully was empty. Good. He held his hands against the inside of the door, his ear flat against the hollow imitation wood panel.

“Brian? Brian, if you’re there, pick up,” he heard her say. “Pick up, please.” Pause. “
Pleeease
.” Pause. “Look, I’m at the pub. Where are you? Brian, I—” She stopped mid-sentence and let out a frustrated huff. The Hunter peeked around the door to see what she would do next. The girl hung up the receiver and fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for change. She had to pull up her jacket to get at her back pocket, and he caught a flash of pale skin. The girl found a quarter and redialled.

“Brian, it’s Debbie again…” She stole a look at her watch and threw her hand in the air when she saw the time. “It’s eight-forty already. I don’t know how long I’ll stick around, but…” She trailed off. “Just get here.”

The Hunter waited until she hung up and quickly stepped out behind her.

“Hey, Debbie? I thought that was you…”

Many hours later, Debbie Melmeth woke to an unsettling quiet. It was so quiet she felt as though she had drowned and was tangled in weeds, wrapped up and trapped underwater in a freezing lake.

Nothing.

A breath.

It was her own breathing and it was ragged. She opened her mouth to see if water would come in. It didn’t. She hadn’t drowned. She wasn’t dead.

She rolled her head to the side and tried to keep her eyes open. She was disoriented. Everything felt terribly wrong, and she didn’t know why. The silence around her was disturbingly foreign. Even so, as she struggled back into consciousness, her ears began to pick up sounds. They were small, mysterious sounds, but they were something.

Debbie wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She felt dizzy and drunk. She remembered that Brian hadn’t been at the bar. She had called him and he wasn’t home. But there was a charming man there. He spoke to her. She must have drunk a lot after that. Did he buy her drinks? Something was wrong. Her inebriated mind could not fully comprehend her circumstances, but she knew something was definitely wrong.

She tried to relax and concentrate on her breathing. She didn’t know how long she stayed that way, listening to her own breathing, her mind spinning slowly in circles, taking in her body’s confused signals, before she heard a new sound.

Clink.

Clink-clink.

It seemed to be coming from another room.

Her eyes did not want to focus, but she could make out that she was sitting in a chair in some kind of dimly lit room. It smelled odd, unfamiliar.

She heard the clinking again and fought a wave of nausea. She felt the urge to laugh, but a great blanket of blackness leapt up inside her and shut off the lights. Unconsciousness stopped her short.

Some time later, she tried to speak. She knew someone was there, someone who would know what was wrong with her, someone with answers, and she tried to ask, “What am I doing here?” It took all her effort to form the sentence, but still, the result was little more than a slurred string of incoherent vowels and consonants.

“Whhaaaayeee?”

Unintentionally, she laughed out loud. Her own ridiculous attempt at language seemed funny for a moment. But this wasn’t funny. Nothing about it was funny. Why the laughter? Shut up and concentrate.
She couldn’t move her arms or legs—
Why in God’s name can’t I move my arms and legs?
—and it seemed to Debbie that her mind had failed her. It had turned to jelly. She had never been drunk like this before. How could she have let this happen? She couldn’t even move her limbs! It was as if she were glued to the chair.

She tried to look down. Her vision was blurry—not working right at all—and now she could see why she was unable to move. Her ankles were secured to the chair with some sort of metal cuffs. It felt like her wrists—which she could not see because they were secured behind her back—were also handcuffed.

Someone had done this, and they were not far away. She had no concept of who or when or why, or even how close they were, but she sensed a presence and she tried talking to them again, this time more loudly.

“Whaaaaaaaa haa…?” She stopped and tried again, confused at her inability to speak properly.
What is going on?
She tried again and it came out as, “Waaa waaa yaaaadee!”

She attempted to take in her surroundings, and that’s when she first saw the animals. They were everywhere—bears, cougars, wolves, foxes, elk, deer. They were looking at her, staring at her, terrifyingly real.
This can’t be real. It can’t be.
But it was all she could see.

Debbie wanted to shield her face from their tearing claws and jagged teeth. She wanted to protect
herself. The animals were coming at her from all directions and she panicked. She struggled in her binds and screamed. The room spun into a dizzy blur, the hard wooden floor leaping up to strike her in the face. She found herself on her side, her cheek pressed against the wood, her body heavy and awkward, folded onto itself.

She heard thunderous footsteps rushing towards her, making the floor rumble. Someone was approaching and she tried to speak but her mouth was squashed against the floor. Her lips moved uselessly, and with one eye straining upwards, she saw that a man was leaning down. Then she was off the floor, pulled right into the air, chair and all, and shoved back into place. The animal faces were again snarling all around her, and now a human face joined them, a man standing over her. She was seeing double, now quadruple, now double again.

And then she recognised him. It was the man who had offered her a drink, only he wasn’t wearing his glasses any more. He had done this to her. He had trapped her. She wanted to scream but what came out of her mouth was a distorted giggle, a hopeless, drug-induced giggle that was as far from joy as terror could be.