“Two minutes—” he glanced at the bartender, “—and we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m just going to the restroom.” Cam tried to circle around him, but he stopped her with a firm grip on her shoulder and leaned close to her ear.
“Don’t wander off.” His voice was low and hypnotic, his eyes fixed on hers. She didn’t like the heat his touch spread to parts of her body that should have been stone cold. Some of the other patrons watched them speculatively. The warm, smoke-filled bar felt suddenly claustrophobic, and Cam’s cheeks burned.
“I’m not a kid.”
But he wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was smiling at Vikki. Cam pulled out of his grasp and walked away, irritated that her friend was already laughing at something he said in that rich, smooth accent of his.
It was belittling to recognize the green-eyed monster jumping up and down like a big fat frog in her head. She headed out of the main bar and down the narrow corridor toward the washroom. Men fell for Vikki like dominoes in an earthquake, but jealous was not the sort of person Cam wanted to be. Unfortunately she wasn’t the sort of woman to settle for second best either, which left her a little short on dates lately.
A single naked bulb lit the corridor, highlighting the rough timber floor stained various shades of brown. Every time she raised her foot, the soles of her boots stuck slightly and made a noise like sticky-tape being stretched off a roll. Yuck. She didn’t want to think about the origin of those brown stains.
A corkboard on the wall covered in flyers and notices advertised everything from snowmobile and guide services to local Inuit and Innu handicrafts. Cam passed the gents’, heard the flush of a cistern and hurried because she didn’t want to meet whoever was in there when she was alone. Farther along the hallway, she pushed open the heavy door into the ladies’ room and stopped dead.
Although it was still daylight outside, it was impenetrably dark inside. She tried to hold her breath as she groped for the light switch, her hands scrambling over the cheap paneling in short frantic swipes. The floor was tacky, water hissed through pipes in the background, and the smell…Dear God. She found the switch, and the fluorescent tube flickered and spat until it finally settled on a sullen half glow. She hurried into the second cubicle, noticing the first door was shut.
When she was done, she came out of the stall, pumped soap into her hands and held them under the tap. The fine hairs on her nape vibrated with apprehension. Why is that first stall closed? There was no movement within, and chills crept over her skin. The place stank badly enough that she didn’t want to spend any longer than necessary here, but still she hesitated.
A bag was propped against the bottom of the door, suggesting someone might actually be in there. Was someone sleeping off a drinking binge? Alcohol was a huge problem in some of these remote communities.
“Hey, do you need any help?” she called, trying to make her voice bright and cheery. She ended up sounding weird.
There was no reply. What if they were sick? Alcohol poisoning? Influenza? Diabetic coma? Approaching the door, Cam rapped her knuckles on the chipboard. No response, but the door creaked slightly.
“Hello?” She raised her voice. “Do you need any help?” Still no answer. No sound at all except the hiss of pipes and wasp-like buzz of the light. Maybe there wasn’t anyone there, just a bag of stuff on the floor.
She hesitated. She should just walk away.
Unlike most public restrooms, there were no gaps between the door and the walls. Chewing her bottom lip, Cam decided to risk a swift peek beneath the door. If the person was drunk they might be a little annoyed to be spied on. If they were ill, they’d be grateful. She crouched down and peered awkwardly under the door, past the bag.
A young woman sat on the toilet, fully clothed, her head resting against the bare wooden wall, long raven hair spilling in a tangled heap around her shoulders. Mouth stretched wide, throat slit, exposing the blue-white gleam of cartilage, cuprous blood drenching the front of her sweatshirt.
Dead. Definitely dead.
Cam’s stomach coiled into a thousand snakes. She stumbled away, wanting to yell for help even though the woman was long past saving. Blindly she ran, yanking open the door then slamming into a chest that brought her up short and hard.
***
“Easy.” Daniel held tight to the woman who quivered in his grasp. “What’s the problem?”
The Doc wrapped her arms around his waist in a vise-grip and buried her nose next to his heart. It felt odd, holding someone like this. So odd that for a brief moment he allowed the contact and squeezed her back, experiencing a weird flutter inside his chest.
“There’s a d-d-dead woman.”
He maneuvered her back into the restroom, propped her against a sink, untangling her fingers from their death grip across his spine. He needed to assess the situation but he hesitated when he saw the expression on the Doc’s face—he’d forgotten what true innocence looked like.
Huge sea-green eyes rose to meet his. She pointed at the cubicle door. The only unknown in the room.
Whoa, that smell…blood and bowels and violent death. He checked beneath the stall, careful not to touch anything because he did not want to get on the radar of a criminal investigation. Sylvie Watson. Throat cut. Dead as a doornail. It felt like one of his more vivid flashbacks, but without the pounding heart or cold sweat.
Poor Sylvie.
Daniel swore.
He looked at the Doc. She was shaking violently, her hand covering her mouth as if fighting the urge to throw up.
“D-did you know her?” she asked.
He didn’t know anyone. Not anymore. And they didn’t know him. That was the way he liked it.
“Her name was Sylvie Watson.” He waited for some form of emotion—sadness, regret, guilt—but all he got was numbness. Death didn’t feel real anymore. Maybe the problem was that death had never felt real.
The sound of the Doc’s breathing was harsh, matching the hiss of the light strip above his head. The nearest she’d been to a dead body was probably curled up on the sofa watching CSI. Her chest hitched repeatedly as she started to hyperventilate. Shit. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk away, leave her and her friend to maneuver this minefield on their own. He didn’t want to rescue her. He didn’t save people. Not anymore.
But these women were his job, and his job was the only thing that stopped him from stepping out of an aircraft at ten thousand feet without a chute.
“We have to call the cops.” Her voice was hoarse with strain.
“We’ll radio RCMP from the aircraft.”
“We can’t just leave her here!” she shrieked.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard enough that her gaze snapped to his. Close protection training kicking in after a two-year void. “She’s dead and I have no clue who killed her.” He hated the way his instincts took over. A cop would have protected the scene but he wasn’t a cop. “They could be in the bar just waiting to pick out their next victim.”
Her face lost the last vestige of color.
“Let’s get you to the ship.” He took her arm, pushed her out the door and down the corridor so fast she tripped and he had to catch her under the arms to support her. “Stay here.” He left her by the door. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Frenchmans Bight when the Mounties discovered this mess. He’d had enough notoriety to last him ten lifetimes.
The Doc clung to the doorjamb while he marched over and hoisted her rucksack onto his back.
“Time to go,” he told the blonde. He glanced around the bar, looking for anyone paying them too much attention. But no one was giving themselves away except Dwight glaring at him with his usual bulldog scowl.
Daniel had already squared his tab with the barman. He gave the guy a nod, and he knew he should tell him about Sylvie. But his priority, whether he liked it or not, was getting these two women out of harm’s way. He turned and headed to where the Doc was still hanging onto the doorframe like a drunk on a rou
gh sea.
She was shaking uncontrollably, so he put his arm around her waist and half carried her out of the bar. She wasn’t delicate or weak, thank God. She felt strong and supple beneath his fingers, but she was in danger of slipping into a state of shock that would slow him down. He wasn’t being nice. He was being efficient.
Moving fast, he propelled her over the wooden boardwalks and scanned the nearby black spruce forest. If the killer wasn’t in the bar, he was in those woods watching the action. Awareness prickled as unseen eyes followed their progress.
Chapter Two
Ready for All, Yielding for None
2nd Battalion, 7th Marines
Daniel quick-marched the Doc to the landing pads on the outskirts of the mining camp. The blonde was right behind them, heels tapping, mouth bitching every step of the way. She wouldn’t last a week in Labrador’s bug-infested country. He glanced down at her high-heeled open-toed sandals. Make that five days.
He let go of the Doc’s arm and shoved her rucksack into the outer compartment of the blue-and-red Bell 206B. Blood and death. His gut cramped. Jesus, he thought he’d left all that behind years ago.
“What’s going on?” Vikki swatted a mosquito that had landed on the exposed skin of her arm.
“There was a dead woman in the restroom.” The Doc sobbed and covered her mouth with her hand. “Murdered.” She swallowed repeatedly, looking as if she was going to hurl.
Great.
“Are you kidding me?” Vikki gasped.
Yeah. Big fucking joke.
Her eyes were wide with curiosity. “How do you know she was murdered?”
“From the extra smile on her face,” he cut in. “Get in the machine.” He loaded the suitcase into the backseat. He’d already packed as much of their equipment as the helicopter could carry before he’d gone to the bar to fetch them. The rest could wait until tomorrow. His intuition screamed to get them out of there, ASAP.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the cops?” Vikki asked, looking nervous.
“You want to wait for the Mounties to turn up?” he bit out impatiently. “Because that means we’re stuck here all night. We’re not allowed to fly after dark, and there’s only a thirty-minute window left before sunset.”
They all turned toward the temporary huts and cabins. The bar, a former trading post and the only permanent building in the makeshift mining town, was roughly constructed and desperately in need of new shingles. Sinister shadows gave the shanty town an even grimmer aspect. He’d rather take his chances with the wolves than with Dwight Wineberg’s cronies. He pointed at the bar. “Any one of those guys could have slit her throat—or they could all be involved.”
The Doc’s eyes flashed.
“Do you really want to wait for law enforcement?” he pushed.
She bit her lower lip, looked back at him, then shook her head.
Good choice. Not that he’d have stayed anyway, but people needed the illusion of control.
Vikki was already climbing into the back of the chopper, her lean body put together with all the lush curves of a Playboy Bunny. Pity he didn’t have time to stand back and enjoy the view. He turned to the Doc. “If you’re going to puke, do it now, not inside the aircraft.”
Vivid anger widened her eyes. She swallowed and angled her chin. Her skin was pasty, tinged with gray, a sheen of sweat riding her brow. He fought the urge to comfort her. He didn’t have time, and the itch at the back of his neck was so intense, he couldn’t ignore it—all those years of training kicking in after a twenty-three-month void.
The Doc moved to follow her assistant but he tapped her arm, quickly dropping his hand. “Front seat.” He nodded to the passenger side. He wanted her where he could see her. She looked shocky and the last thing he needed was an emergency run to the clinic in Nain—the nearest community of any size.
He shut the compartment doors and grabbed a blanket off the backseat. The blonde crossed her skinny legs and adjusted the harness across her chest with a saucy wiggle of her hips. If he hadn’t been in a hurry, with the image of a dead woman stuck in his brain, he might have adjusted that seatbelt for her. Instead, he passed her a pair of green ear protectors and she slipped them on, holding his gaze with a look that burned across his groin like the stroke of a hand.
Christ. He shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t had sex in weeks and he didn’t want to think about what had happened to the last woman he’d slept with. Sweat prickled across his skin and he wiped his brow. What he really needed was a beer.
Tough shit, Danny boy. Get on with the job.
Voices from the past echoed through his mind as he closed the rear door and moved to the front. Doc Young still hadn’t put on her harness, she just sat there staring into space. He’d seen that look before, the civilian version of the thousand-yard stare, where mind and emotion revisited the dark places. He stood on the runner and leaned over, grabbed the strap, pulled it tight across the Doc’s chest and pretended those weren’t breasts beneath his fingers. He looked up and found her watching him with jewel-bright eyes.
“I can do it.” Her fingers fumbled with his, but he shook her off.
“It’ll be quicker if you just let me finish.” He softened the words with a smile.
He pulled the ear protectors off a hook, leaning heavily against the Doc’s thigh, pretending not to notice the way her cheeks glowed at the proximity. He was intimately aware of the way their breath mingled in the rapidly cooling air. At least she didn’t have that glassy-eyed stare anymore. Gently he placed the cups over her ears and made sure she was secure, then he covered her lap with the blanket.
A whiskey jack burst out of the nearby forest in a scream of feathers as Daniel stood back and closed the door. He squinted, trying to penetrate the dense spruce, but saw nothing except thickening shadow. He walked around the machine, doing a quick visual on the outer skin of the aircraft and climbed in. Checked the doors were closed. Then he started her up. Throttle closed, all switches in pre-start position. Battery on. He felt exposed, vulnerable sitting out here on the landing site. But they weren’t in a war zone, just a small mining community where a woman had been brutally slain.
Check fuel load.
He’d refueled on the way over, which was why he’d been delayed. All good. Boost pumps, check fuel pressure. The routine settled him. He lived to fly. He pressed the start button. The temperature rose as he opened the throttle. And while he was waiting, he radioed the closest RCMP detail on the emergency channel.
“Nain RCMP, this is Bell Foxtrot Delta Charlie Tango, over.”
“Foxtrot Delta Charlie Tango, Nain RCMP, over.”
“Nain RCMP, Delta Charlie Tango. There is a dead woman in the bathroom stalls of Bear’s Bar, Frenchmans Bight. Over.”
The comms crackled with urgent static. “Charlie Tango. Repeat, over.”
“Charlie Tango. I’m reporting a dead body at Bear’s Bar, Frenchmans Bight. Acknowledge, over.” He turned on the generator and the navigational instruments spooled up.
“What is your position, Charlie Tango? Over.” The dispatcher was Tina something. He frowned, but couldn’t remember her surname. She was kablunângajuit—half white, half Inuit. Nice girl, married to a local trader named Ollie.
Daniel brought the engines up to operating speed. “Charlie Tango, I’m currently five miles northwest of Frenchmans Bight. The woman who discovered the body went into shock at the scene and I’m flying her to the Imaviaq to be checked out. Over.”
“Charlie Tango. Roger that.”
The Doc cocked her head to one side to look at him, her face half-hidden by the bill of that cap. She’d caught him bending the truth and didn’t approve.
He did a thorough visual check of the uncontrolled airspace before taking off. He didn’t announce his intentions because he didn’t want the RCMP to catch him in a lie. He rose into the air, exhilaration punching his gut as he flew. There was nothing like flying. Nothing else had ever satisfied this one corner of his soul.
He flew fast and low over valleys strewn with massive boulders and ribboned with silver streams. It was beautiful land. Unspoiled. Untouched. Almost uninhabited. The irony that the mining operation would change all that wasn’t lost on him and he told himself not to care.
The radio squawked. “Foxtrot Delta Charlie Tango, Nain RCMP. We’ll need to interview you and the woman who found the body as soon as possible. Over.”
Daniel keyed the radio. “Charlie Tango. Roger that. The lady’s name is Dr. Cameran Young. We’re both quartered on the Imaviaq and will await your instruction. Over and out.” He snapped off the radio.
The ship was a retired coastguard icebreaker, refitted as a research vessel. It was prime accommodation for bush work. He looked at the Doc and she gave him a wobbly smile.
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” she said.
Her eyes shone and dimples made a brief appearance. Despite the utter lack of makeup and the lingering trace of shock, she was beautiful.
Shit.
He gave her his trademark grin. “Anyway, we’re the only ones we know who didn’t murder Sylvie Watson.”
Her brows slid together, a tiny crinkle denting her forehead, no doubt recalling Sylvie’s blood-soaked corpse. Then she opened her mouth as though she was going to say something but changed her mind.
“What?” he asked impatiently, knowing he wasn’t going to like what she had to say, but unable to keep his mouth shut.
“How do I know you didn’t kill her?” Her words sliced like razorblades across his skin and he flinched.
Murderer. Assassin. The taunts and accusations from the British media flashed through his mind, and for a moment he couldn’t see where he was going. He blinked rapidly to clear his focus. This was why he preferred numbness over feeling; this was why he did not get involved. The breath in his lungs struggled to get past the wave of anger that locked down his teeth. Heat surged through his body and evaporated off his skin like steam. He forced himself to breathe tactically because being accused of murder shouldn’t be a problem.
Edge of Survival Page 2
