Fear sliced through her as she ran through the shallows. Visions of blood and Sylvie’s slashed neck flashed through her mind. Heart pounding, she raced, careening to a halt to climb out of the water onto the rocks at the top of the waterfall. Vikki, Tommy and Katie were just in front of her. She couldn’t see Tooly anywhere.
“What is it?” Cam yelled.
“Big effing bear.” Vikki glanced over. “Gimme the radio.”
Cam passed it across and peered over Tommy’s shoulder. A huge bear with massive haunches and dense black fur stuck a paw on top of one of her coolers and sniffed at the contents.
“Hey! That’s my equipment!” She retrieved the bear banger from her pocket. It was like a cap gun that shot out a flare and she loaded it up fast. “Where’s Tooly?” The breath rasped through Cam’s throat. She cocked the gun.
“He told us to get up here.” Vikki jabbed her finger straight down to a spot Cam couldn’t see. “He’s down there.”
About ten feet away from the behemoth bear.
Vikki relayed a message for help on the VHF FM radio.
Tommy glanced toward the pool at their backs. “We could jump in—”
“Bears can swim, idiot,” Vikki broke away from her radio call to veto that idea.
“And we’d drown wearing our waders,” Cam pointed out with a little more tact. They all simultaneously slid the braces off their shoulders.
Cam nudged forward, peering over the edge, relieved to see Tooly climbing the rocks toward them. She remembered all the furs strung outside his shack. The guy was probably used to dealing with predators, but she didn’t want anyone hurt on her watch, and he didn’t have any weapon on him beside the knife on his belt. The bear turned, a cute face and pale snout juxtaposed against lethal-looking two-inch incisors. He sniffed the air, stared at the old man and then jogged toward him.
“Fire the banger, Cam!” Vikki screamed, startling everyone, the bear included, who backed up a couple of steps, swinging his head from side to side. Cam met Tooly’s gaze peering over the top of the rock and the old man nodded.
Cam raised the revolver into the air and closed her eyes as she pulled the trigger. The percussion bounced off solid rock, and Tooly lurched up onto the boulder where they were all standing. Vikki stumbled back, knocking into her. Cam’s center of balance shifted, and she instinctively windmilled her arms in a desperate attempt to keep her footing. Tommy bumped her as he turned around to see what was going on. Just a whisper of contact, a brush of air, and her body drifted another centimeter from safety as she grasped vacant space. Her heart thundered. Time slowed. And she fell backward into the pool at the base of the falls.
The splash was enormous, but to her relief, she bobbed to the surface and floated. The bear circled back to poke at her coolers. Dammit, her receiver was in there!
“Shoo! Shoo bear!” It was hard to swim wearing the restrictive waders, but she managed a couple of strokes that made her muscles feel as if she’d been shot with an elephant tranquilizer. Despite the water temperature, sweat beaded her upper lip. She flailed her arms, kicking toward the closest rocks at the side of the falls, but the smooth walls gave her no purchase, and the spray made her boots begin to fill.
Crap. She clawed at the rock, her fingernails breaking as they found nothing to cling to. The roar of the falls blasted her ears. She spat out a mouthful of water in panic. She was going under!
Vikki screamed, trying to reach down to grab her. Oh God. She gasped, gagged, then stole another fast breath, blood banging through her ears. Her throat felt raw from holding back a scream. She tried to kick but the sheer weight of water dragged her down. Liquid crept over her nose and she lunged to take a final breath before she was pulled under.
***
“I know I said I’d be home tonight—” Griff clamped down on the rest of the sentence as his wife cut him off. He fused both hands around the handset, trying to temper the unhappiness and frustration that rushed through him. “Marcia, I’m sorry. This is just taking longer than I expected—”
He sat in Sergeant-in-Charge Percy Roblin’s office, which the guy had loaned him for the duration of the investigation. He was behind the man’s supersized desk, seated in his plush black leather chair. Johnny Leland glanced up from another desk they’d dragged in, where he was entering witness statements and cross-referencing databases, searching for potential links with other crimes.
Griff was hyperaware of Constable McCoy standing behind him, looking out the open window and pretending not to eavesdrop on a private conversation. He lowered his voice, trying to appease a woman who had long ago stopped being appeasable. “It’s probably going to be another couple of days. Ask Dr. Cahill to reschedule—”
He pulled the phone away from his ears as the volume on the other end of the line exploded and then went abruptly silent. He put the phone back in its cradle and wrapped both hands over his naked skull. Christ.
The silence was uncomfortable but Griff had stopped worrying about whether or not people knew he had marital problems. These days it felt less like marriage and more like war.
Peshavaria walked in carrying what Griff assumed was the autopsy report. “No drugs or alcohol found in the vic’s system, but there was evidence of long-term substance abuse. And from her medical records, she had a history of STDs but was currently free of infection.”
So much for trying to trace her customers through that angle.
“No latent prints on the body. Cause of death, exsanguination. Knife sliced the common carotid. The vic probably had sex not long before she was killed, some semen was recovered. Medical examiner said sex didn’t look forced but if someone held that knife to her throat…” Peshavaria shrugged an eloquent shoulder as his voice tailed off.
“Sylvie wouldn’t need a knife to her throat.” Roblin spoke from the doorway. He’d been surprisingly accommodating given they’d taken over his detachment. “That girl would climb aboard a dead man if it got her a drink or a fix.”
Images of Sylvie Watson were splashed across his desk, and the horror of that gaping neck wound hurt Griff more than his wife’s discontent. Sylvie Watson had been brutalized, her little boy had lost his mother, and her parents were swamped by grief. He’d made a promise to them, but he wasn’t getting anywhere.
“What have you got, McCoy?” He turned away from the images of death and stared at the bank of wildflowers behind the detachment building. It looked pretty, but the buzz of insects against the screen reminded him why he preferred the city.
She bit her lip and stepped forward to access Roblin’s PC. Her crooked incisor and absence of makeup made her look like a high-school student rather than a fellow officer. But she was hardworking and intelligent, which counted for far more in Griff’s book.
“I got passed around Whitehall for about an hour before I found someone in the British Ministry of Defense who was authorized to send me information on Daniel Fox.” She clicked on a file, and the hair on the back of his neck snapped to attention like the Maple Leaf flag in a force 10 gale.
Johnny Leland climbed to his feet and walked around to look at the screen and whistled. Everything was blacked out except name, rank and number, and a couple of gallantry awards including the Military Cross. Griff widened his eyes.
Daniel Fox was Returned to Unit shortly before he left the army two years ago.
“Is this guy a spy or what?”
“Reasons of national security was the spiel I was given.”
“I’d say the British authorities aren’t being very cooperative.” Griff leaned back in the chair and pursed his lips. “What would make a career soldier like Fox quit while he was at his peak? Medical reasons? That doesn’t make sense because he’s a helicopter pilot and you need a thorough physical to get your license.” Unless it was a psychological problem he’d been smart enough to hide.
Daniel Fox was a trained killer. The question was whether or not Fox had killed Sylvie Watson.
Constable McCoy brought up an internet b
rowser and typed in Daniel’s name along with SAS. She clicked the search button and Griff sat forward, narrowing his eyes at the screen. Whoa.
A front-page newspaper article came up with a picture of a heavily armed man carrying a kid over his shoulder and pointing a lethal-looking machinegun straight at the camera. Murderer was emblazoned in huge block letters.
“That our Daniel Fox, do you think?” Dried dust and blood caked the guy’s face.
They all leaned closer to the screen. Constable McCoy’s nose almost touched the monitor. “Yep.”
Griff exchanged a raised brow with Johnny. “You sound positive. How can you be so sure?”
McCoy gave a disbelieving huff of a laugh. “Are you kidding? Those eyes are imprinted on every woman in town.”
Johnny grinned. “You have a personal interest in this guy, McCoy?”
“No.” Fierce scarlet rushed up her neck and spread until her whole face glowed. “But I’m not blind, sir.”
Griff suppressed a smile. Finally, evidence she was as human as the rest of them.
The article lambasted Fox’s SAS team for the indiscriminate murder of civilians.
“I remember something about that now.” Johnny scrolled through the story. “They saved a hostage who turned around and said he wished they hadn’t bothered because of the number of hostile casualties inflicted.”
Griff winced. “That had to hurt.”
“Yeah, going into a terrorist hotspot to save some guy who turns out to be as grateful as dog shit.” Johnny stretched out his back and vertebrae clicked in quick succession. “And then he shot this cameraman because he thought the guy was carrying a grenade launcher. The cameraman was the reporter’s husband, and after the SAS rescued her, she annihilated the poor bastards in the press.”
“So Daniel Fox could be our man?” McCoy looked excited.
Griff shrugged one shoulder and pressed his lips together. “Could be, but it doesn’t feel right.”
“Why not?” McCoy watched him closely, eager to learn. It made him feel tired.
“Because that reporter was alive to tell her story and ruin his career. He had to know what he was risking by pulling her out of there.”
Johnny nodded. “He could have just shot her.”
“That’s right,” Griff said. “Johnny, see what else you can get on this guy. We’ll run DNA and fingerprints through the national databases in Ottawa as a priority and double-check his movements for the day of the murder. McCoy, you’re on that.”
“See the way he hovered over that cute little scientist yesterday?” Johnny whistled. He was typing information into his laptop at warp speed. “You think he might be a danger to anyone else?”
As in Do you think he’s a serial killer? Crap, that would be all Griff needed. A Special Forces soldier turned killer.
“We’ve got no motive and no evidence that ties him to the crime.” Griff mulled over the information. “He doesn’t feel right to me.”
“But what’s to stop him disappearing into the bush if it is him? I mean he’s got the training, right? That’s what those Special Forces guys do—survive in inhospitable regions without leaving a trace. Shouldn’t we at least pull him in?” McCoy asked.
“And tip him off when we can’t hold him? Then he might really disappear. No, leave him where he is for now and let’s follow the evidence.”
Alice McCoy’s neck had flushed a deep beetroot color that would have clashed with the red serge of her dress uniform had she been wearing it.
“Have we found the vehicle yet?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
“And no one admits to seeing Sylvie at the bar?”
“But they wouldn’t, would they?” McCoy crossed her arms.
“No. That would be too easy,” Griff agreed and looked away. “So we’ve got no witnesses, no vehicle, no primary crime scene, no murder weapon, no obvious sign of sexual assault and no motive.” He looked down at the photographs.
Why kill her? The usual motives were greed, revenge, jealousy, elimination, conviction, self-defense or simply the lust for killing.
Had Daniel Fox developed a lust for killing?
She was a drug addict…“Find out who her supplier was.” Drug dealers were a good bet for murder. They had a lot to lose. He exchanged a grimace with Johnny. “So far we have one brutalized woman, several hundred suspects, and enough evidence to tie up the lab for months.”
Retirement was looking better every day.
“I’ve got a couple of guys with priors,” Johnny Leland piped up.
“You questioned them all?”
“No red flags, except the pilot.”
“So, like I said, until we get DNA back we’ve got nothing.” Griff nodded, exhaustion eating into him. He needed to get home to his wife and kids. He wasn’t doing any good up here, but he was conflicted by the promise he’d made the Watsons. Damn. “Okay, we’ve done everything we can do onsite for now. Pack up, arrange transportation, and we’ll head home first thing tomorrow morning.”
McCoy’s jaw dropped.
“I’ll coordinate the investigation from Divisional HQ and return here if we get a lead.” Griff gathered up the file of papers he’d collected. “McCoy, you can continue to be my liaison, assuming your boss doesn’t object?” He looked up and exchanged a nod with Roblin. “Okay, let’s get as much done here as we can before the end of the day. Let’s find Sylvie Watson’s killer.”
***
An enormous black bear splashed across the Mitshishu Brook just below the falls and sprinted up a near-vertical scree slope to escape from the helicopter. Holy crap, that thing could shift.
Daniel looked at the biologists, expecting a hero’s welcome from the damsels in distress who’d sounded frantic on the radio. But they looked far from relieved. Something was wrong. Daniel’s senses went on high alert. Vikki was stripping off her clothes and no one was watching. Tommy was running toward him waving in excitement.
The Doc…
His heart slowed for two distinct beats before instinct screamed a warning.
Cameran Young was nowhere in sight.
Adrenaline whipped through his bloodstream even as he ignored the effects and regulated his breathing. He couldn’t afford to lose control. He landed the chopper, turned off the machine and unclipped his harness, then ran for the falls with the rotors still spinning. Vikki executed a perfect dive into the pool.
Tommy grabbed his arm, jabbering. “She’s in the water. She fell in the water and her waders filled and she sank—”
He grabbed the kid by a handful of shirt. “The Doc? The Doc is in the water?” Daniel yanked his shirt over his head and kicked off his boots. “How long?” He shucked his pants just as Vikki surfaced.
“I can’t find her!” she yelled and spluttered.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. How long had she been down? He grabbed his knife from his pants and ran full pelt up onto the rocks above the pool and dove straight into the water.
There was the shock of cold. Which was good for the Doc, but not so great for his fine motor skills. He kept descending, slicing deep into the pool that had been eroded by thousands of years of water versus bedrock. It was silent, except for the sound of his blood thrashing around his body as he searched for Cam.
How long had she been down?
Panic fluttered. He had to keep calm. Had to remember his training even though tactical breathing was a little difficult in this situation. It was dark under the water, with bright shafts of sunlight breaking through the surface like spotlights. Fish swam all around, unfazed by the human invasion.
Everything felt so violently alive—his senses sharpened, nerve endings stripped, survival skills on fire. His body was primed by sheer muscle memory and cognitive reflex. Even though worry for the Doc gripped his chest, he’d forgotten how good this felt. He’d forgotten how alive a body could be.
Then he spotted her. Motionless at the bottom of the pool except for her hair, which swirled around her like silk
, and he remembered something else. How dead a body could be. He kicked hard until he could grab hold of her.
Her eyes were open but she was unresponsive, unconscious. His heartbeat ratcheted up and blood pressure skyrocketed, compounded by lack of oxygen. He put the knife between his teeth and gripped her under the arms. She was rag-doll pliant. Dammit. His body went into overdrive. She was heavy with the waders, but he heaved her upward, every fiber straining with determination, knowing if he had to surface to grab air and leave her behind, she was dead.
She might already be dead…
Panic took control of his muscles and she almost slipped through his grasp. He caught a handful of T-shirt and jerked her closer. It didn’t matter how tight his chest felt or how badly his lungs hurt, he wasn’t letting go.
He burst through the surface and aimed for the shallows with a one-handed crawl. It wasn’t far and he climbed to his feet, lobbing his knife toward the bank.
“Vikki. I need help,” he shouted. She jumped back in and together they dragged Cam to the side of the stream.
“Is she breathing?” Vikki asked.
He put his ear to her lips. “No. Check for a pulse.” He tilted Cam’s jaw, closed her nose and pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were petal soft and morgue cold.
“I feel a pulse.” Vikki held Cam’s wrist in her fingers, her eyes wide with concern. “I think.”
A savage dread gripped Daniel as he blew into the Doc’s mouth again, and again, and again. Each time he watched her chest rise, but she wasn’t responding. Even though he was doing everything that needed to be done, nothing was working. He checked her pulse. It was faint and fluttery but there.
“Come on, Cam!” he yelled and slammed his fist against her sternum, furious with her, with himself and the whole damn world.
Edge of Survival Page 11
