Daniel raised one brow. It was obvious what Kershaw was doing. Inducing empathy. Trying to engage his emotions. Good luck with that.
“Maybe you couldn’t go after her because of the guilt,” the girl cop piped up.
Psych 101.
“You shot the man she loved and she said you almost shot her too…” The skinny chick hiked up her pants and rested her hands on her gun belt. She carried a Glock 17. He eyed it. He liked Glocks. “Maybe you figured you’d already caused her enough pain.”
He knew he shouldn’t speak but he opened his mouth anyway. He’d have failed Selection, but he was out of the army now.
That life was over.
“I don’t have anything to feel guilty about concerning that reporter.” And suddenly he knew it was true. “She dragged her husband into a hostile neighborhood and put them both in danger. I shot him protecting my squad, and if I had to make that choice over again with the information I had available to me at the time, I’d still have shot him.”
The weight lifted off his shoulders and he sat up straighter, feeling better about the shooting than he had in years. He was fed up carrying that woman’s shit around like a hunch on his back. “And yes, I did think about putting a bullet in her, because I knew she was going to ruin my army career and, more importantly, piss all over the Regiment’s reputation. And those men put their lives on the line for the likes of her every single day.” He held Kershaw’s eyes, seeing something like understanding pass through them. “But I did not shoot that reporter because I was trained to save civilian lives, not murder them.”
“So why’d you kill Sylvie?”
The cop might empathize with him, but he still had a job to do. These people were not his friends.
“I did not kill Sylvie Watson.” He looked them in the eye, one at a time.
“Maybe you don’t remember even doing it?”
Daniel laughed. “You want me to confess to something that I can’t remember doing? Is this how the Mounties get their man?”
Kershaw stretched out his legs. “I know plenty of vets have trouble with separating fantasy from reality.”
Daniel clammed up. No way was he admitting his PTSD to them. No way they’d pin this on him like he was some nutter who’d snapped.
“We interviewed one of your ex-lovers. We know you’re having issues.”
Daniel’s heart began to pound so hard his head hurt and a pulse throbbed in his temple. No. No. No. He would not be sent to jail for a murder he didn’t commit.
“She said you went crazy in the middle of the night,” Kershaw flicked the page. “‘Went psycho’ were her exact words.”
“Vikki Salinger was pissed because I didn’t fall at her feet, begging.”
“Why would you narrow it down to Vikki?”
It couldn’t be Cam, he wouldn’t believe it was Cam. Daniel narrowed his gaze, knowing he’d almost slipped up—that’s why you kept your mouth shut. “She’s the only woman I’ve slept with in Labrador who’s vindictive enough to make that sort of allegation.”
But what if Cam verified it? Even if she did, Daniel figured he hadn’t killed Sylvie and there was no proof that he had.
“Why did you dump Sylvie in the bar?” The girl cop—Constable Alice McCoy, he remembered now—strutted across the room and braced her hands on the table. “That’s something I don’t get.” Her eyes looked like colored ice. “Whether or not you killed her for thrills or by accident, why not dump her in the sea, or deep in the country where the wolves and bears would take care of the evidence?”
“She wasn’t killed in the bar?” He frowned. Thinking about it, there hadn’t been enough blood. But why would someone move the body to a place where it was more likely to be found? Some sicko doing it for kicks? His chest squeezed, thinking about Cam, and he shifted his feet beneath him. He had to get out of here.
“The log books say you worked all day, but I heard you’re a hell of a pilot. I bet you could have pulled it off.”
Was that supposed to be a compliment?
“So maybe you spot Sylvie when you’re flying, or perhaps you’d arranged a blow job in the bush?” The girl cop tried to look confident saying that, but he held her stare and she blushed. “What did you do? Land over the ridge, hump her, kill her, dump the body, then clean up and carry on as usual?”
He said nothing. She was fishing, but he wasn’t one of Cam’s char.
How long would that have taken? He tried to calculate in his head. He could make love to Cam all night long, but sex with Sylvie? Most of her customers didn’t often get the chance to be with a woman. It would take at least ten minutes for them to feel satisfied they’d gotten their money’s worth. And then the kill, letting her bleed out. Driving to the bar, setting her up in that stall, while making sure no one saw them. It would have taken an hour at least.
“There is no way I had time to do all that,” Daniel said. God, he was fed up of this. False accusations of murder had dogged his life ever since he’d done the right thing and saved that damned reporter. He should be on his way to Cam, taking her in his arms and promising never to let go—unless she wanted him to let go—and if she did, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do. But at least he’d know he’d tried to take that first step back toward reality.
Why would the killer dump Sylvie’s body at the bar? That part of the crime made absolutely no sense to him. He frowned and tapped the end of his finger against the fake-wood veneer of the table.
“To create more suspects,” Daniel said suddenly. “The killer dumped Sylvie in the bar to create more suspects.” He was excited. That was the only thing that made sense. Although he would still have gone for dumping the body deep in the interior.
Kershaw pushed up his eyebrows. “I figured the same thing.” He took out a photo of Sylvie smiling with her son, probably taken at her parents’ house, right here in Nain. Then he slid the matching crime scene photo across the table. “So why’d you do it, Danny?”
Daniel slammed his hand on the table and Constable McCoy jumped.
“I didn’t kill her. What is wrong with you people? You think I’m the only one who knows how to use a knife in these parts? No wonder you can’t solve this fucking case.”
Kershaw chewed his lip and nodded. “I think we’ve solved it, Danny. You just need to accept the truth.”
“You’re going to pin this on me?” Dread rushed through Daniel and he leaned forward as Kershaw pulled out another photograph, this one of a knife, and slapped it on the table.
“We found your prints all over the murder weapon, son. Why don’t you just tell us what happened.”
Daniel stabbed his finger on the image. “That’s not my knife. You took my knife when you arrested me earlier. That’s the knife one of Dwight Wineberg’s goons pulled on me that day we found the poached fish.” He stared hard at McCoy, wondering if this was a stitch-up.
“You never mentioned a knife at the time.” McCoy frowned at him. “How do you explain your prints on the handle?”
“Some big bastard pulled it on me. I disarmed him, but kept hold of the knife as insurance. I didn’t kill anyone, I just didn’t want to give it back until the cops arrived.” The irony. “I threw it down when I had the situation under control.”
“You mean when that lady biologist saved your ass with a shotgun.”
Daniel smiled at the memory but grew grim with worry. He checked the time. Was she back on the ship yet?
“What happened?”
Daniel filled him in on the details while McCoy paced impatiently.
McCoy pulled out a folder with all the photographs of the miners. “Which one pulled the knife on you?”
Daniel fingered the ugly bastard on the second page. Arnie Winters. “That’s your killer. Now I’m making a call—”
Kershaw nodded. “Who do you want to contact?”
McCoy checked some files and then hurried out of the room.
“The ship,” Daniel said, dialing. “Make sure Cam is safe on
board and that nasty fucker can’t get his hands on her.”
“You care about this girl?”
Daniel held Kershaw’s gaze as the call went through. None of his damn business.
Patrick answered on the fourth ring. “Imaviaq.”
“It’s Daniel. Can I speak to Cam?”
Patrick started swearing, and panic set fire to Daniel’s blood. “She’s missing, Daniel. I spoke to her when she reached the falls, but she never checked in again and she never turned up at the beach for pickup.”
Cam’s nose throbbed and her skull felt as delicate as fractured crystal. What the hell is going on? The smell of exhaust fumes choked her, and she was jostled in the air, her stomach in freefall. The noise was deafening. The pain in her face felt like she’d been hit with a brick. Even her teeth hurt. She squinted at the dark forest whipping past overhead. She was trussed up, knees to chest, bouncing up and down on the back of the cargo rack of the ATV. Her hands were bound.
What happened?
The air rushed over her, drawing gooseflesh over her skin. They went over a bump, and she banged her head on one of the metal bars. Ouch. Damn, she wasn’t wearing a helmet. She raised her head and recognized Tooly’s silhouette. And then she grimaced because the lack of a helmet was the least of her worries.
Tooly had killed the wolverine.
He’d knocked her out.
She tried to flex her fingers. The blood wasn’t flowing, and she couldn’t feel her fingers. Another rut and she went flying up in the air and landed hard. Damn, she was going to fall off!
Which was what she wanted, she realized. She didn’t give herself too much time to think about it. There was a bungee cord stretched over her. She pushed the hook with her knuckles even though the metal gouged her skin. It sprang loose. There was a second one and she shoved that one free too. Next rut they went over she pushed against the ATV and felt herself fly. The ATV carried on without her and she hit the ground, the impact smacking her knee, and she cried out.
Tooly must have felt the shift in weight of the machine or heard her cry out because the sound of the engine changed immediately. Winded, she managed to roll into the bush at the side of the track. The vehicle stopped, and then started to come back. She froze, praying he would carry on past her in the darkness, but he didn’t. The ATV stopped directly in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of the engine vibrating through the damp air.
“Why are you doing this? I tried to help you!” she yelled.
Tooly spat. “It is my land! You come here and say you want to help me? It is my land!”
“But the wolverine meant you could stay! You don’t have to leave—”
He laughed. “I don’t want to stay, you stupid woman. I want what everyone else has. To be rich. To be warm. To feel the sun in the winter.” He got off the machine and knelt beside her. She recognized her fanny pack strapped around his waist. He unzipped it and pulled out a vial of insulin and filled a syringe. He’d watched her do it many times.
Every fear of death coalesced into his black shadow. Heart exploding, she scrambled backward through the leaves and branches and mud. Rough fingers grabbed her ankle and pinched the skin, then he threw himself on top of her, winding her as she smashed against the ground. Branches scratched her face, rocks dug into her flesh. Her fingers found nothing but mud for purchase. He pinned her with his weight and lifted her shirt. Cold air hit her and she flinched and struggled as he thrust the needle deep into her flesh, injecting a full syringe into her hip.
“I haven’t eaten!” Oh God! Panic grabbed her throat. “You can’t do this to me! I’ll die.” Her voice echoed through the coming darkness. Horror. Fear. Terror. All those childhood nightmares grown up and intensified.
He eased his weight off and she rolled, trying to butt him with her head. He knocked her back. She cried out as he pressed down on her injured knee, sweat breaking out of every pore in her body.
Zeroing in on her weakness, he put one hand on her knee and squeezed. She gritted her teeth against the pain as he slowly inched up her shirt. A gnarled brown finger brushed her lacey bra, pulled back the material to unveil her breast. Her stomach roiled with disgust. She tried to pull away but he squeezed her kneecap again and her vision blurred red with pain. He flicked her nipple with his thumb and watched it pucker in the cold air. He did it again, his expression implacable as stone.
“Pretty.” He pulled her shirt back down and leaned back on his heels. “Pity.”
Bile moved up her trachea and back down, burning every inch. He wasn’t going to rape her. Please God. He wasn’t going to rape her. Then he began undoing the rope on her wrists and she didn’t know what to think.
“You killed Sylvie…” Her eyes went wide as events suddenly clicked into place. Oh my God. He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. She closed her mouth. Dammit, she shouldn’t have said anything. Her heart drummed crazily and even though it was almost dark now, his eyes glittered.
“She blackmailed me. The little bitch threatened to tell the authorities she’d seen the wolverine unless I shared my money with her, like she’d earned it.”
“So you killed her?” Her tone was incredulous.
“She should have shut her stupid mouth. And you should have minded your own business.”
Terror slammed Cam’s heart as he pulled out a big knife. The knife he’d butchered Sylvie with. She froze as he trailed the point from her stomach to her crotch with a considering look on his face. All the saliva in her mouth disappeared.
But her voice didn’t waver. “Don’t you think two murdered women will draw a bit too much attention to you?” Her throat was raw.
“Yes.” The old man flicked the knife under her chin and grinned his decayed smile. “Otherwise I’d make better use of that mouth of yours.”
“I’d bite it off first, you old bastard.”
He whacked her in the side of the head with the hilt of his knife and she fell back. He went back to work on the rope that tied her ankles. “So you have to die of natural causes. Of your own frail ignorance.”
And then she was free and she tried to climb to her feet, but her limbs weren’t working and she scrambled on the muddy ground. She dragged herself through the dirt and leaves on her damaged knees, desperate for escape.
He didn’t try to stop or follow her and she didn’t understand, but she kept crawling. A tree scratched her face, and the angry buzz of mosquitoes drilled her ear. And then she heard him call out in the darkness.
“Goodbye, Cameran Young. Have a nice death.” The ATV started up and the noise echoed and faded into the distance as he drove away. The fierce surge of triumph faded when she realized she was all alone in the vast wilderness, and the insulin had already gotten to work.
Daniel throbbed like fuck from being Tasered. He’d almost gotten out of the building when that goddamned Mountie had connected with his back and given him the longest five seconds of his life. Long enough to cuff him, drag his ass back here and lock him up in a holding cell. He’d had worse injuries but didn’t remember any of them hurting this much.
They’d given him a few hours to cool off but frustration scratched inside his skin with sharp insistent claws. Cam was in danger. He searched the room, but there was no window, no heating vent.
“Bloody hell.” He forced himself to slump on the bed. The mattress was as thin as a slice of bread and about as comfortable. There was a strong lemon antiseptic smell that didn’t quite disguise the hint of vomit.
Not how he’d figured he’d be spending his leave.
He made himself look like a defeated piece of shit. Not too difficult under the circumstances, but his brain was in overdrive waiting for the next opportunity. He should never have left Cam alone. Now she was lost in the woods—or worse.
He wouldn’t think about worse.
She was lost, her vehicle had blown a tire, or she’d gotten confused on the trails in the mist and was cold and wet and miserable. She would have taken food and insulin s
upplies, but what if she was wet and wearing the wrong gear? What if she broke an ankle and couldn’t walk? What if she fell into that pool by the falls and drowned? Or met an angry bear?
Shit. Fuck. Wank. Bollocks.
She could be dead by morning.
They’d handcuffed his wrists in front of him. Cam was out there alone and they’d Tasered him and put him in fucking handcuffs. Rage soldered muscle to bone. He had to force it out of his mind. He was waiting. He’d thought he’d forgotten all his old skills but they simmered just below the surface.
Footsteps.
Finally.
He closed his eyes. The key turned and in walked an old Inuk man with lines of grief etched deep into his face.
Who the hell?
Daniel spotted a gun in the old man’s hand and didn’t stop to think. He launched himself, blocked and jabbed the old guy in the eyes, before jamming his palms into the guy’s chin. The old man crumpled and spat out a tooth. Blood pooled on the linoleum. Who the hell was this? Where were the cops? Daniel heard another set of feet racing down the hall.
“Charlie!” And then a cop, the CO, if Daniel figured correctly, slid to a halt in the doorway, one hand fishing for his gun.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Daniel launched himself at the Mountie, a blitz of muscle memory and aggression that dropped the man to the floor before he could draw his weapon. Daniel placed two fingers on a pressure point and watched him slip into unconsciousness. He dragged the cop inside the cell and put the old man out too, playing for time. There was no sound from the front desk and Daniel rifled through the cop’s pockets, looking for the keys to the cuffs.
He maneuvered the old man onto the bed, stuffed a sock in his mouth and handcuffed his wrists behind his back, covering him with the blanket, tucking it in as securely as he could. The Mountie was coming around so Daniel administered the knock-out move again and gagged this guy more securely with the man’s black dress socks. Then he used the guy’s shoelaces and personal cuffs to truss him up like a Christmas Goose and dragged him behind the door, the spot least likely to be seen by the casual observer.
Edge of Survival Page 24
