by Jen Doyle
On that particular day she hadn’t given a shit that Ian was her superior officer, nor had she been put off by what she’d walked in on. She hadn’t even been intimidated by the woman morphing into a vampire in front of her. She’d just dragged Ian out of the bed, thrown him up against the wall, and then whirled around and staked the woman flying at her. After giving an all clear to the rest of the squad and shutting down her comm, Abby had looked at Ian with a wicked grin.
‘Why, Lieutenant Fox,’ she’d said, taking in every bit of the scene. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’
After cleaning the blood off his neck, she’d gotten him dressed and waited until he could walk again—the recovery time had been getting longer and longer by that point. Still getting her feet wet on the whole Army medicine thing, she’d insisted he be checked out by the other medic, and then, when the guy suspiciously asked how Ian had lost so much blood, she’d just answered, ‘It’s a jungle out there, Doc. Shit happens.’
She’d never judged him, never made him feel like he had to explain; but she’d never allowed him to make excuses, either. She’d just given him support he hadn’t deserved and strength he’d refused to admit he needed as he struggled to come to terms with everything that had happened since that Halloween night when his whole world had fallen apart around him. It was how he had fallen for Abby so quickly and so hard. He’d just been so screwed up at the time that he hadn’t even realized what was happening.
No, Ian thought, admitting defeat and closing the file on his lap. He had known, he’d just had no intention of letting Abby in on the secret; not after swearing he’d never get attached to anyone again.
Not after what had happened with Lyndsey.
Sighing, he put the file back into the box and then loaded the rest back in, too. He thought about just stretching out on the floor and sleeping here—he wasn’t entirely sure of the reaction he’d get from Lyndsey at this point and, honestly, wouldn’t blame her if she was pissed. She sure as hell didn’t deserve having to put up with him when he was in this kind of a mood.
But he needed her. He needed to touch her. To be reminded of the light she brought into his life after so many years of darkness. So he restacked the boxes, turned off the lights, and went back to the bed.
She turned and looked at him as he lay down.
Yeah. He should have known she wouldn’t have just let it go and gone back to sleep.
His body reacted before his brain did, his hand already in her hair before he realized there were tears in her eyes. Goddamn it. “Lyn…”
“I know how hard this must all be for you. How badly it must have hurt to be there for Annika today and the strength to give her what you gave her.” She reached her hand out, her thumb running over his bottom lip and nearly taking every shred of his composure with it. And that was before she said, “Let me be that for you. Let me love you.”
He hadn’t wanted to fall for her again—not like this. He hadn’t wanted to let his guard down.
Yeah, he’d thought what he’d felt for her all those years ago was love. But it was nothing like what he felt for her here, right now, guilt be damned. He was kissing her before she drew her next breath. Rolling her on her back. Surging up over her, his mouth never leaving hers. Her hands went up to his shoulders, trailed down his chest, and were then pushing his sweats down over his hips frantically enough to show that her desperation to affirm at least that one connection between them was as strong as his. Within seconds he was deep inside her, so damn glad nothing had to come between them thanks to her IUD. Holding her tightly as she met his every move with one of her own.
When she pushed him to his back and put her mouth to the scars on his throat, he only barely managed to hold on until she shuddered and cried out. He lasted all of two seconds after that, his hands tightening on her hips as he came.
It was a few minutes before either of them spoke, with her breaking the silence by saying, “Well, that was—”
“Fast?”
Her head came up and she smiled down at him. “Not at all the way I intended that to go, I was going to say. But I’m not complaining.” She laid her head back down on his chest and wrapped her arm around him. “Now go to sleep.”
As if her words were all he’d needed, his brain finally shut down and the next thing he knew, she was shaking him awake and the sunlight was streaming through the window.
“Yes, Tommy,” she was saying into her phone. “I promise. Fifteen minutes.”
Ian rolled over to look at the clock and, holy shit, he hadn’t slept this late in…maybe ever. After the quickest shower on record, a granola bar from the hotel’s store and a surprisingly decent cup of coffee Catalano shoved into his hand when they met down in the lobby, they headed to the garage. And half an hour later, Ian pulled into a parking space a few blocks down from the police station, eager to get this interview started.
He was feeling pretty optimistic, he had to admit, even more so given that neither Lyndsey nor Tom seemed to have any problem with him taking the lead to start with. Not that he should have had to fight for it; after all, despite the political maneuverings that had made access difficult, the whole reason the Task Force was here in the first place was because the police chief had reached out to Ian and Matt directly a couple of months before. At the same time, Ian had been in enough situations where egos didn’t allow for common sense to take precedence. He hadn’t really had any concerns about Lyndsey in that regard, but Tom Catalano was a complete unknown. So far, so good.
It was especially good because Ian had no interest in killing his good mood with a turf war. Yes, yesterday had been draining; conversations like that always were. But being with Lyndsey made everything that much better. And the nightmares he’d expected—the dreams of Abby, that were no longer a nightly occurrence but that still tended to hit after days like yesterday—hadn’t come.
“We good to go?”
Catalano. Ian supposed it was nice the man asked considering mind-reading was one of his skills. Ian had honed skills of his own over the years that allowed him to block out the various demons, both literal and figurative, attempting to invade his mind. But he was going to trust that this new thing he had with Lyndsey wasn’t something he had to run from, and, by extension, he was going with the leap of faith he could trust Catalano not to take too many liberties.
With a look in the rear view mirror, Ian met the other man’s eyes. Nodding, Ian said, “I’m good. Let’s do it.”
The squad room they entered, although it certainly had its share of scruffy characters and dirty coffee cups, didn’t seem quite as dingy as Ian was used to seeing—the junkies were more like actors playing a part than anyone actually addicted to drugs; the Styrofoam cups seemed whiter than his Grandma Lucy’s wedding china. Even the lieutenant had an air of refinedness about him, despite his way of announcing visitors: turning his head to his open office door and roaring, “Barnes! Reid! Get your asses in here!” He gestured for Ian, Lyndsey, and Tom to take the empty chairs across from his desk. “So you’re the spook squad.”
It wasn’t the preferred name, but yeah, it was an apt description. Ian smiled as he sat down. “How’d you hear about us?”
The man shrugged, making an attempt at nonchalance. “A friend of mine works up on Cape Breton. Said you helped him out a few years back.”
Yep. A nasty nest of vampires. “Beautiful country up there.”
“Yes, it is. More so now thanks to you guys,” the lieutenant answered. He picked up a pencil and stared at it. “I’ve got about six months left here. If you can work the same magic as you did up there, I can retire a happy man. Thought it was worth a shot at least.”
Ian didn’t try to fill the pause that followed. Thankfully, both Lyndsey and Tom were quiet as well because this was a key moment and could go either way. Choice A: questions and speculation about the various possibilities; discussion about the existence of demons and ghosts. Or Choice B: a deliberate decision to leave it alone; to stay in as mu
ch ignorance as the situation allowed.
Ian never tried to steer the conversation in one direction or the other. He had a response either way and, in his experience, the more comfortable the person was in this highly uncomfortable arena, the better it went all around. The lieutenant seemed to favor the ignorance route, muttering something about being able to face his grandkids when they asked about monsters.
Tell me about it.
“Lieutenant?”
Ian turned to see a man standing in the doorway. He was pretty young; had that tired look about him, though. Bringing up the rear was a woman who looked a few years older, just as tired.
The lieutenant swiveled in his chair. “Barnes, Reid—this is Lieutenant Colonel Ian Fox, Ms. Lyndsey Daniels, and Mr. Thomas Catalano. They’re the people the Minister’s office said would be coming over today.” Then the lieutenant dismissed them all with a wave, saying to the inspectors, “Show them a good time.”
As they walked through the squad room, the man said, “Call me Paul; this is Melissa. There’s a coffee shop down the street. That’s probably the best place to talk.”
That wasn’t really a surprise, nor did it seem odd that neither of the detectives would meet Ian’s eye. It was pretty much par for the course. Regardless of whether the path chosen was ignorance or interest, it was often accompanied by disbelief, hostility, or a combination of both. There hadn’t been much of an issue at the meetings last week or even the day before because those discussions focused largely on logistics, not on the possible causes of the deaths. Once you started talking to people about the real reasons the team had been called in, however, things got tricky.
Choosing a table in the back corner, Ian waited until everyone had their drinks and was sitting down before saying, “I’m guessing you haven’t been getting much support from the rest of the department.”
The inspectors exchanged a quick glance before Paul slowly said, “You could say that.”
Tom took a sip of coffee and added, “It’s very possible this is just your average psycho, you know. Happens all the time.”
Another look between the inspectors. Though they obviously weren’t quite ready to share, Ian could tell from the nervous foot tapping and the napkin tearing-upping that they only needed a little nudge. “The most important thing right now is to forget what your head is telling you and go with your gut. If your gut is saying this all makes sense to you—that this is just some random crazy—then we’re out of here. No harm done. But if this whole thing creeps you out, then we can help.”
There was a minute or two in which no one said anything. Ian sat back in his seat and drank some coffee, knowing that saying anything else would only hurt the cause; Catalano, he knew, as a former detective was doing the same. It was Lyndsey whose ongoing quiet continued to surprise him, as did her willingness to let him and Catalano run the show. And watching her drink her latte and lick the whipped cream off her upper lip wasn’t exactly a hardship.
Melissa was the one who finally broke the silence. “Do you really believe in all this stuff? Ghosts and evil spirits?” Her words were tinged with disbelief, which wasn’t too shocking even though the transcripts indicated she was the one who had put the idea forward in the first place, most likely as a joke.
“It’s not a matter of belief,” Ian said. “It is what it is.”
“Well,” Paul finally said, after a few more moments pause, “my gut tells me that something really weird is going on.”
Ian nodded and sat back in his chair. That was more like it. He looked at Melissa.
She shrugged. “Definitely different than anything I’ve worked on before.”
Good. That would make things a hell of a lot easier. “So how did you two catch this assignment? Quetico isn’t exactly within Ottawa city limits.” It was a good thousand miles away, to be precise; on the complete other end of the province.
“Province-wide inter-agency task force.” Paul stared at his coffee, still not overly into sharing. “Parks, police, tribal councils; a few others. Six of the victims are from Ottawa, so we were asked to help out.”
“He was asked to help out,” Melissa corrected, smiling. “I just had the bad fortune to be partnered with him.”
Lyndsey leaned forward, just barely catching herself as she hit the cusp of appearing too eager. She sat back again. “What made you say you thought this was some kind of spirit?”
The woman glanced at her partner before answering Lyndsey’s question. “Frustration, mostly.”
Paul laughed. “Missy reads a little too much Stephen King.”
Melissa glared at him. “I didn’t even think before saying it. It just came out. But then the guy just clammed up. Wouldn’t say another word.”
“This was one of the guides?” Catalano asked, leaning forward but, unlike Lyndsey, in a completely unhurrying way. Lyndsey, seeing Catalano take up her line of questioning, went back to licking whipped cream.
Melissa nodded. “The Lac La Croix Guides.” Unlike the others, she hadn’t touched her coffee. “There’s been a special agreement with the Lac La Croix First Nation since the early nineties—they’re the only ones allowed motorboat access in the Park.”
Right. Ian remembered that from the files. Motorboat access to the area was severely restricted, with the guides being the only ones who had any permissions at all. “Did you show the guides the drawings? Could they identify the pictures?”
“Of course we showed them.” Paul sounded like he’d answered that question a couple dozen times already. “And no, they couldn’t identify anything.”
“Or wouldn’t,” Melissa added.
Yeah. That was more what Ian was thinking. “Did anything strike you as unusual in the interviews? Something that wouldn’t have made it into the transcripts?”
Like, say, a billion butterflies passing by?
“You mean, apart from the fact that this whole thing is unusual?” Paul asked. For the first time, he actually seemed interested in the conversation. “Not really. Unless you count the fact that until this case I’d never been sworn at in Ojibwe.”
Lyndsey, who had just started to take another sip of coffee, paused mid-way to her mouth. “Ojibwe?”
Ha. Knew she hadn’t really been concentrating on the background files.
Paul didn’t seem to care that Lyndsey hadn’t done her homework. “Lac La Croix First Nation is part of the Saulteaux First Nation band government; they’re a branch of the Ojibwe nations. You might also hear them referred to as Anishinaabe, but that’s not really accurate. Anishinaabe encompasses a much larger group of tribes.” Then he leaned forward, a little too friendly-like, and smiled indulgently.
Knowing it was far too jeuvenile to get territorial and put his arm across the back of Lyndsey’s chair, Ian still couldn’t help but frown.
Paul, displaying some of the skills that had gotten him promoted to inspector at such an early age, got the hint. He sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. “At least, I’m assuming that’s what they were speaking. It all sounded the same to me.”
More into her whipped cream than any of the attention she was getting, Lyndsey asked, “All?”
“Seven out of seven guides we talked to said the same thing,” Melissa said, clearly enjoying Paul’s discomfort.
Ian leaned forward. “Do you remember what they said? Specifically?”
“Why? Can you translate?” Paul said, laughing.
The guy really wanted to have a pissing contest? Ian was fluent in eighteen languages and had passable knowledge of another forty-three. Within the team’s leadership alone they could cover two hundred more. He had no worries whatsoever as far as a translation was concerned. “I’ll find someone who can.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t even begin to tell you. But it’s on the tapes.”
“You still have the tapes?” Ian snapped. No one had mentioned the recordings were still available.
So what if Monica hadn’t mentioned the existence of the tapes
? So what if Paul thought Lyndsey was cute?
So the fuck what if Annika’s words on the phone last night had sent chills up his spine? Butterflies, for Christ’s sake.
“Sure,” Melissa answered. “Shouldn’t take too long to have copies made if you want.”
Ian nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Paul stretched his arms out and cracked his knuckles. “What happens now? You shadow us? Stick with us until we figure out what’s doing this?”
Not quite, but Ian decided not to answer Paul’s questions. Catalano, on the same wavelength, took the conversation in a different direction. “Why’d you turn the tape back on in Annika Willett’s interview?”
Paul glanced at Melissa before answering.
“They deal with ghosts, Paul.” Melissa rolled her eyes. “I think they’d get what it means to follow a hunch.”
For the first time, Paul seemed truly unsure of himself. Unsure enough to actually look Ian and then Catalano in the eye. Only for a second, maybe; long enough, though, for Ian to see that he was, well, maybe not scared, but definitely creeped out. “It doesn’t make much sense.”
Yep. Ian almost sighed. “Butterflies.”
All signs of cockiness gone, Paul’s mouth dropped open. “Um, yeah. How do you know that?”
Ignoring Paul’s question, Ian answered, “What about them?”
“Just that…” Paul laughed self-consciously. “Just that several people mentioned them.”
