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  They ate for a few minutes in silence, but Mak sensed that there was a question her father wanted to ask. It made her tense. Finally she took the bull by the horns and asked, “What’s up?”

  “I was talking with a friend of mine recently about the way people react to stress, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and so on…we saw a lot of it in the police force…”

  Oh, here we go.

  “Yes, I’m familiar with it. And?”

  “And, Makedde, I’m worried. I was wondering if you had considered seeing someone about the incident in Sydney?”

  The “incident in Sydney”. That’s how everyone referred to it.

  “Considered seeing someone? I believe ‘psychological therapy’ is the term you’re looking for.”

  “Just to talk it out with someone. Someone unbiased and experienced in these areas. You said yourself that you probably should.” The furrow in his brow formed twin exclamation marks and his eyes were filled with real concern.

  “That was an off-hand comment I made a year ago, but I didn’t end up needing therapy, and I still don’t. Nothing has changed. I’m fine. There’s no need to worry, Dad. I assure you, I’m totally fine.” She looked at the food cooling on her plate. “I just can’t see the point of rehashing all that stuff unnecessarily, especially now. I went over it with the police God knows how many times. Besides, there was that counsellor in Sydney as you may recall. I talked about it with her. That was enough…”

  Her appetite performed a Houdini and she was left staring at a dinner of half-eaten dead flesh. From the recesses of her memory she got a flash of a mutilated corpse and immediately felt the hot sensation that precedes a fever. She blinked the vision away and concentrated on sipping from her glass of water. The glass felt refreshingly cold against her fingertips and the water she poured down her throat settled her down. Her right big toe began to tingle, exactly where the microsurgeon had sewn it back on. She ignored it.

  “Mak, you talked with that counsellor for a whole hour.”

  That was true.

  She changed her focus, pushing any thoughts of Sydney back into a dark box and slamming the lid shut.

  “Who is this friend of yours you were talking to about this stuff?”

  Les Vanderwall caught his daughter’s eye and held it. “Don’t worry, I’m not using you as some kind of conversation piece. Remember how I told you I ran into that lady in the Starbucks on Robson several months back? Dr Ann Morgan? Was married to Sergeant Morgan with the Vancouver PD?”

  Mak recalled some mention of the chance meeting early in the spring. Her father was visiting Mak in Vancouver at the time and had been wandering around the shops on Robson Street killing time while she finished up a fashion shoot. He recognised Dr Morgan in the coffee line. They had met before at a reception she attended with her husband. She’d heard about Jane Vanderwall’s death and sent a card. They struck up a conversation.

  Mak had met the husband, Sergeant Morgan, once, perhaps twice. Never much liked him, though. “Was married to”…hmmm. Interesting choice of words.

  “Anyway, I was talking with her the other day,” he went on. “She’s visiting some friends on the island at the moment. Ann has some idea of your situation. No specifics, of course…”

  Makedde felt her throat tighten. Her temporal artery pulsed. “And what precisely would she know about my situation, specific or otherwise?” she asked. “What is my situation, exactly?” She knew she sounded defensive, but didn’t care.

  “Dr Morgan is involved in this sort of area,” he said in a cautious, soothing tone. “She’s a psychiatrist. I may have mentioned it before.”

  He hadn’t. In fact, this was the first time Makedde had ever heard her father talk about any psychiatrist in a particularly positive light. Many in the police force, particularly the older generation of officers, tended to view psychiatrists and psychologists with suspicion. The cynics regarded them as the thorns in their sides who would excuse criminals on the grounds of legal insanity or diminished responsibility.

  Her father had protested when she announced her desire to pursue psychology as a career. Was he now suggesting that his own daughter ought to be seeing a shrink? If that were true, times had certainly changed. It threw her for a loop.

  “Don’t tell me you think I need to see a psychiatrist, of all things? Next you’ll be saying I should be on antidepressants.” She spat the words out. Mak felt that many psychiatric drugs were over-prescribed because of the influence of pushy drug companies. Her father knew very well about her reservations.

  “Just relax. No one’s talking about drugs. You’ve been under a lot of stress with your thesis and everything. You’re not sleeping properly. Don’t think I can’t tell.”

  That stung. He could see right through her petty protests. She couldn’t keep anything from him. She fought the urge to push her plate away and leave the table. Instead, she pursed her lips, staring again at her half-eaten meal. Her father meant well. In fact, if anything, he was too well-meaning sometimes.

  And besides, he was right.

  “Just think about it. It might help to see someone.”

  Mak knew he was waiting for a response but she simply stared at her glass of water. A bead of moisture rolled off the lip, trickled down the length of the glass and stained the tablecloth with a small damp dot.

  “Just think about it,” he repeated.

  She didn’t say anything.

  He changed the subject, knowing he’d hit his mark. He had her thinking about it.

  “Theresa and Ben will be coming over for dinner tomorrow with little Breanna.”

  “Oh?” she managed. Oh joy.

  “I hope you’ll stick around this time. You and your sister haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  That was also true.

  “And Ann might swing by at some point. It’d be nice if you were here to meet her.”

  If this is a set-up, I’ll snap.

  Makedde nodded and said nothing. If her dad had a new friend who wanted to visit, that was great. It was more than great, actually. But if he was meddling with her life again, and he had a shrink that wanted to corner her, that was a different matter altogether.

  Mak reached for her glass and brought it to her lips. She sipped while he ate. She thought about how, after so many years of travel, being close to home seemed to both comfort her and give her an odd feeling of claustrophobia.

  He’s right, you know. You’re starting to slip.

  “By the way,” her father said, “you got a call this evening.”

  “Mmm?” Mak mumbled. She was thankful he wasn’t commenting on her lack of appetite.

  “It was Detective Flynn.”

  Suddenly Makedde couldn’t breathe. After a moment she somehow managed to say, “Oh,” in a reasonably steady voice. She paled and then her fair complexion turned the colour of fresh beets.

  Her father pretended not to notice. He scooped up more potato covered in copious amounts of butter and salt, placed it in his mouth and proceeded to masticate with irritating leisure. Instead of offering further explanation, he used the salad tongs to lift some salad out of the bowl and onto his plate.

  “Really? Andy?” she said. “Well…well, that’s um…interesting.”

  He stabbed some lettuce with his fork and brought it to his mouth. He chewed. It sounded crispy.

  “What did he say?”

  Her father took a sip of Diet Coke. The ice cubes clinked in his glass. She hated it when he did this.

  “For God’s sake, what did he say? Was it about the trial?” Makedde blurted out.

  “No. He didn’t say much about anything. Just asked for you. He was calling from Quantico.” He put the last forkful of salad into his mouth and chewed it slowly.

  “Quantico? As in the FBI Academy, Quantico?”

  “Yup.”

  Silence.

  “He said he’d probably try again tomorrow,” her father added.

  Now she was the one to fork food int
o her mouth. The remains of her meal were cold but she scarcely noticed. She silently chewed, failing to taste anything as her mind ticked over furiously.

  She couldn’t sleep that night. And by morning she had counted every point of stucco on the ceiling of her childhood bedroom.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was morning, and the Hunter watched dead leaves and pine needles float down the Nahatlatch River. He was listening for sounds beyond the steady flow of the water. The air was still damp, rocks were slippery, and the tall trees flanking the river on both sides disappeared into clouds of mist as they rose high up above the forest floor.

  A heavy overnight rain had left everything wet, making the long drive from Squamish treacherous in parts, but the rough roads were familiar to him and he managed them well. Now he was near the Fraser River between Lytton and Boston Bar, an area for which he felt a special affinity. When he was a child, his father had taken him and his brother to this secluded and untouched wilderness. And now, on this damp morning, the fog seemed almost a part of him as he stood and listened, this quiet place sharing his dark secrets, a mute witness to his power.

  He listened and waited. It was true that he was not always a patient man, but he could be when he wanted to, when it counted, and here in this damp place there was no rush.

  Snap!

  There was movement several yards away, coming from the trees. The Hunter sprang to life, crossed the slippery rocks carefully, moved away from the river and approached the edge of the woods, a safe distance from the source of the sound. He took shelter behind the large, upturned roots of a fallen pine tree, and waited.

  His patience was rewarded. Before long a beautiful beast emerged, at first testing the open air timidly, then stepping straight into the clearing. It negotiated the uneven ground on thin, graceful legs, moving with footsteps delicate for its size. The Hunter admired the long cinnamon face and head, the thin, forward sweeping antlers. It was a fine white-tailed buck.

  The deer moved away from the edge of the thicket, looking from side to side with large, dark eyes, like a child checking before crossing a road. Slowly it ventured towards the water’s edge for a morning drink. Normally it would repeat the ritual in the late afternoon. But not today. The impressive rack would be a fine addition to the wall of the Hunter’s den.

  He waited for the deer to move fully into the clearing, considering how he could best ready his weapon so as not to alarm the sensitive animal. The deer moved forward a few paces, its long leaf-shaped tail raised to flash a white underside and rump. The Hunter watched its ginger movements with fading patience.

  He wanted to kill.

  Stealthily, he readied his shot.

  He stood perfectly still, his feet shoulder-width apart with his left arm supporting the 270 Winchester. His right hand pressed the butt of the weapon firmly against his shoulder. His jaw flexed. Firing an accurate shot while standing requires a good deal of control, and the Hunter was a master at regulating his breathing and the delicate art of the trigger squeeze. He was confident. He was ready. He carefully lined up his shot; the deer’s long, sloping neck in his sights. He caressed the trigger slowly, lovingly, feeling the power of death in his grasp. Slowly, he squeezed…

  The animal turned its head. It snorted with alarm as if it knew what was coming, as if the grim reaper had tapped it on the shoulder.

  You’re mine…

  Bang!

  The startled deer fled back towards the edge of the forest with great undulating leaps, its broad white tail flagging. Gritting his teeth hard, the Hunter slid back the bolt and aimed slightly ahead of the quick beast for a second shot.

  The animal screamed. The bullet pierced its neck and its huge, dark eyes rolled back to look in the direction of its executioner. The Hunter saw in those eyes a glimpse of wild, unbridled fear and the dumb shock of violence. It thrilled him. The once graceful creature stumbled to and fro on the wet rocks, its back legs seizing and its front legs reaching out, flailing uselessly. Its head hit the rocks when it fell.

  The bag limit for Section 3 of the Southern Interior region was only one white-tailed buck. They were not as common near the Nahatlatch as they were near the Peace River.

  This kill only added to the Hunter’s reasons for believing that he was the finest and most accomplished hunter who had ever lived.

  On the way back to his truck, he passed an area of nondescript undergrowth and slowed to consider the spot for a second. Looking at the unremarkable tangle of ferns and leaves he felt a rush of adrenalin a bit like the one he felt when he had killed the deer. An observer might have noted a subtle change in the tilt of his head, the slightly smug expression on his face. But it would have taken very keen eyes indeed to spot that the area of undergrowth he was looking at had been recently disturbed.

  A young woman’s body lay rotting beneath the earthy blanket. She’d said her name was Susan. She had not lied. The papers called her Susan Walker and her pleading mother had called her “my baby” on the news.

  Satisfied, the Hunter moved past the shallow grave. He held himself tall and proud.

  It was hunting season and the hunting was good.

  CHAPTER 5

  The phone rang several times on Saturday and each time Makedde jumped, nervously eavesdropping on her father’s conversations until she was satisfied it wasn’t Andy Flynn.

  He didn’t call. Then again, Mak didn’t know what she would have done if he actually had. She wasn’t ready to speak to him again, but her curiosity urged her otherwise.

  What is he up to at Quantico? Why is he calling?

  At three o’clock Makedde’s father received a call from Theresa. She was coming over with her husband, Ben, and their little baby, Breanna, in less than an hour. Although she’d been pre-warned about the visit, Mak wasn’t really in the mood for her sister. When she overheard the call she promptly disappeared into her father’s study and buried her head in The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders and kept her nose in the book until well after she heard the doorbell ring thirty minutes later.

  “Makedde? Mak?” Her father punctuated his call with a round of soft knocking on the study door.

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  The door creaked open.

  “Your sister is here with Ben and Breanna. Come on out and say hello.” He looked at her with bewilderment as she sat hunched over the thick textbook.

  “Okay,” she said and bookmarked her spot. “Sorry, I’ll be just a sec.” When she made motions to get up, he spun around and returned to his younger visiting daughter, whispering, “Bookworm…” or something similar under his breath.

  It wasn’t that Makedde didn’t love her sister. She did. It was just that Theresa had the knack of irritating her at times—and Mak didn’t have much tolerance for any kind of irritation these days. She wasn’t sure if it was more from lack of sleep or overload of premenstrual hormones. It could be risky to have a visit from Theresa when she was like this. She didn’t want to react badly.

  Andy’s mysterious call hadn’t exactly helped Makedde’s mood, or her sleeping either. That man was trouble, and she knew it. She wondered for a moment whether her problem was lack of sex. No, that was the kind of ridiculous statement that her friend Jaqui Reeves would make.

  You’re fine. You’ve just got PMS and a thesis to complete.

  She shook any thoughts of Andy out of her head and walked down the carpeted hallway.

  At five foot ten, Theresa was a couple of inches shorter than Mak, exactly the height their mother had been. Theresa was twenty-three, the younger daughter by three years. Her pretty face was a slightly paler, rounder version of Makedde’s, and it rarely saw make-up. Her dark-blonde hair was naturally straight, and she had it cut in a neat bob just above her shoulders.

  Theresa was always conservatively groomed and though no one in their family was particularly religious, she always looked ready for the pews. Mak rather thought she enjoyed being prissy. She wore a cotton shirt buttoned up one from the t
op, and a pair of Eddie Bauer slacks. She was the one who bought their father the pair he wore.

  Her husband Ben was a nice-guy accountant who was born on the island and would die on the island. No threat of unpredictability. He was the same height as his wife, and his unlined face looked even younger than his twenty-six years. He wore a baby-blue plaid shirt, the kind that Makedde imagined yuppie lumberjacks would wear. It was also from Eddie Bauer. His hair was brown. She suspected he used Brylcreem to make it so smooth. Mak wanted to mess it up. Just a few strands would do.

  Yikes. What’s got into me?

  Hugs all round. Mak felt stiff and formal. She was worried about being so negative. What exactly was her problem? Was it that her sister seemed so damn rational and perfect in their father’s eyes? Married, with child. More often than not their father was worried about Mak, not happy for her, whereas Theresa was always the stable one. Predictable. Makedde was what one might politely refer to as “feisty”. Always flying off somewhere. Always getting into trouble.

  Theresa and her family made their way into the living room with Dad at their heels. Mak followed a fair distance behind, still trying to psyche herself up for the visit.

  Would she ever find herself wandering into that living room with her own baby and husband, and her father smiling like a schoolboy at the sight of it all? Not anytime soon, it seemed.

  Back when Mak was twenty, the family had encouraged her to marry a local boy named George Purdy. When she found out he had cheated on her, Mak dumped him and flipped his engagement ring into a bagful of milk cartons and baked beans in the Safeway supermarket checkout.

  They were forty-five minutes into baby pictures before Theresa started in. That was almost forty-five minutes longer than usual.