The Mak Collection (34 page)

Susan Walker had been missing for three weeks.

Fidelity.

Bravery.

Integrity.

The tall, fit, dark-haired man dressed in regulation cargo pants and a moss-green polonecked FBI shirt looked long and hard at the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation as he passed it for the umpteenth time. The crest, consisting of the scales of justice surrounded by a ring of thirteen stars, also adorned an embroidered patch on the man’s shirt.

Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity.

He knew the crest well, and the grounds on which he stood, but he was not a graduate of the Quantico Academy. The ID tags around his neck declared his standing. He was not an FBI agent, merely a guest—a member of an overseas law enforcement organisation in special training. He wasn’t one of them, a fact that was hard to forget in such a setting. But he had his allies and, fortunately, the strangers around him seemed to
find his Australian accent disarming. It somehow endeared him to the otherwise insular group. Although he sometimes lamented the fact that his nation was stamped with an unfair stereotype, at least it was a friendly one.

Detective Senior Sergeant Andrew Flynn of the New South Wales Police was there to learn how to better track serial killers—something for which he had a natural talent. This was both a blessing and a curse, but a talent that was in dire need. He had little choice but to hone it. And Quantico was the place to do it.

Not so long ago, he had cracked the most violent and prolific serial murder case Australia had ever witnessed. Worse than the infamous Granny Killings, or the Backpacker Murders. Worse than the recent Snowtown Killings, where a routine missing persons’ investigation had led to the discovery of several dismembered bodies in various states of decomposition. They had been neatly packed in oil drums in the sealed vault of a disused bank. A year ago Detective Flynn had caught the Stiletto Killer, a sadistic shoe fetishist who preyed on the attractive young women of Sydney, torturing and mutilating them.

The case had been complicated—and personal. Flynn’s big career break had come at a heavy price. A price he would not have been willing to pay if only he had known. The burden of guilt hung like a yoke around his neck, impossible to ignore and impossible
to forget. If only he had put the pieces together sooner, he told himself, lives could have been saved. Working that case had turned his own life upside down, and very nearly cost him his reputation as well. Plus there were other problems. The matter of a witness. A young woman. Beautiful. Clever. Irresistible.

Makedde.

He still thought about her—a lot. He had been lonely and stressed at the time, that much was true. But he had no excuse now.

Andy was so absorbed in his thoughts that he stopped looking where he was going, and that was dangerous on the deceptively quaint streets of Hogan’s Alley. Day or night, it didn’t pay to be preoccupied there. The moment Andy realised his lapse, he reminded himself to stay alert. Even at this hour, a tactical exercise could be underway.

He was right in the heart of Hogan, a short walk from the main FBI Academy building. It was dark and the buildings around him had lost the golden colour of the sunset. The sky was clear above, the first stars now visible. He heard the rustle of trees, and watched a red leaf fall at his feet. The northern summer was over and winter wasn’t far behind.

Andy peeked in the darkened windows of the Bank of Hogan, pressing his nose to the glass and cupping his hands around his eyes. He grinned for a moment, reflecting on its dubious title as the most robbed bank in America. But now the tellers were
gone. The bank was quiet. There were no robberies underway; no agents arresting stunt actors and wielding guns loaded with pellets of paint. Similarly, the Dogwood Inn was still. He could see that the door to Room 101 hung broken on its hinges from an earlier exercise. How many times had it been kicked in? But the motel was empty now. It held no terrorists, drug lords or fugitives tonight. The little town of Hogan was finished up for the day, the deli closed and the faux criminals had gone home for dinner.

Or was it? Andy heard the thunder of running feet, and turned to see a group of FBI agents approaching from one of the many wooded trails. Their blue shirts, barely visible in the low light, indicated that they were new recruits. The young men and women looked like carbon copies of each other as they filed past, their FBI identification tags swinging in time. They were dedicated, focused and fit—not yet jaded, not yet riddled with the guilt of the cases they hadn’t solved and the lives they hadn’t been able to save. Each one of them would have fought like hell for the privilege of being in that group. Each one of them would have secretly felt a long-awaited thrill entering the academy for the first time, passing under the sign stating: “Through these doors pass the finest professionals dedicated to the service of law enforcement.”

That’s what they wanted to be. The finest.

And that’s what Andy wanted to be too.

As he walked through the darkened Hogan streets, Andy Flynn was riddled with selfdoubt. But then again, at that moment he had good reason to be. He was about to do something foolish.

By 10.00 pm he was settled into his modest room, reclining on the bed. He looked at his bare feet hanging over the edge and noted they were not his best asset. Once, in a state of extreme passion, Makedde Vanderwall had kissed his toes. He never quite understood how she managed that, but he’d liked it. That woman was capable of all kinds of surprises.

Focus
…

The duvet was peeled back and he lay on top of the sheets dressed only in his boxer shorts. The room was cool, but he felt hot. A trace of perspiration beaded on his chest.

Mak.

Thankfully, he had managed to secure a separate dormitory room at Quantico this time around, and at this moment he was particularly grateful for it. It would have been embarrassing to have to ask another officer, or an agent, to leave the room while he made this call.

An overstuffed Filofax rested on his trim stomach. Mak had kissed that too, but it was best not to think about that now. He opened the address portion and
flipped to “V”, then closed his eyes for a moment and once again considered the wisdom of what he was doing.
Just call
. He propped the pages up and scanned the row of addresses. There she was. Second entry on the right-hand side.

Andy only had the number for her father’s place on Vancouver Island, but he knew she often spent her weekends there. Perhaps he’d be in luck. He rested the book in his lap and raised his index finger to the keypad on the phone, then hesitated.

Should I?

It had been almost a year since he’d last seen Makedde, and things had been messy. Although they’d spoken on the phone a couple of times at the beginning of the year, that was a far cry from seeing each other face to face. He wasn’t sure how she would react to the prospect of seeing him.

He knew he couldn’t put the call off any longer though. He would be attending a conference at the University of British Columbia in a couple of weeks. One of his mentors, Dr Bob Harris, a Profiler with the FBI, was flying up to do a presentation on psychopathy and crime scene analysis. He had invited Andy to come along. That was how he had first heard about it. The conference would also feature a talk from highly respected psychopath expert Dr Robert Hare, who was a Professor Emeritus at the university. The “Two Bobs” knew each other well.

The problem was that the University of British
Columbia also happened to be where Makedde Vanderwall was studying. Of course, this wasn’t really a problem as he saw it, but rather a good excuse to re-establish contact.

Until now, Andy had procrastinated over whether or not to tell Makedde about his visit, but the UBC conference was fast approaching. Mak had done her Masters in Forensic Psychology, and there was more than a good chance that she would be attending the conference herself. He knew it would not be considered appropriate to just show up and surprise her, so he thought he’d call first.

Although he was looking forward to the conference, for the most part it was likely to be material he’d heard before. He had attended Dr Hare’s guest lectures at Quantico and he was quite familiar with the profiling techniques his friend Dr Harris would present. The truth was, he wanted to see Makedde. Finally they were on the same continent. This was the closest to her that he had been for a long time, and as the distance between them shrank, his urge to see her had grown. If nothing else, seeing her again might get her out of his system. Perhaps seeing her would be a let-down, the spark gone.

Not likely.

His mind was suddenly filled with her, memories of Makedde grinning, playful and exciting. The weekend they spent together was impossible to forget—entwined in her bed, making love at all hours, lost in
ecstasy as the candles slowly burned to the floor. And then…

Then it all went wrong.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The phone emitted a rhythmic pulse.

Andy realised that his finger was still poised over the number pad. He shook his head, pulling back from that vivid memory and hung up the receiver.

He picked it up again.

Mak.

Hesitation.

Maybe I should cancel my spot at the conference and forget all about it?

Instead he dialled.

He was unsure of what exactly he should say to her if she answered.
Don’t mention anything at first about flying over for the conference,
he told himself,
just chat a bit, feel things out
. He eyed the entry in his Filofax, staring transfixed at her name.

Makedde Vanderwall—
her name, her photo, her vulnerable body in the hands of that sadistic bastard. I find her, blood everywhere, she’s bleeding on the bed, tied up and naked, and that bastard is grinning at me, he knows who I am, he taunts me and I aim and fire, tunnel vision, all I see is his perverted grin, everything else a blur, I aim for the heart, I pull the trigger, I shoot to kill, but…

“Hello?” A male voice.

“Uh—” Andy hesitated, restraining a jealous reflex. He wondered if the voice belonged to one of Makedde’s boyfriends. Did she have a boyfriend? Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“This is Andy Flynn calling, is Makedde Va—”

“Ahhh, Detective Flynn.”

“Mr Vanderwall?” It was her father.

Of course it’s her father, it’s his house, you fool.

“Hello, Mr Vanderwall. Please, just call me Andy, sir.”

“Call me Les.” There was a pause. “How are you?”

He’d almost forgotten that west-coast Canadian accent. It was quite different from the twang down in Virginia.

“I’m well, Les. Thank you.”

“Good.”

Another pause. That voice. Andy heard it for the first time in a hospital room in Sydney. He had met Les Vanderwall while Mak slept, bruised and full of stitches.

“It’s been a while,” Les said. Andy detected a tone of reserve.

“Yes, it has,” he replied awkwardly. The line was rough with static. And there was a delay that made the moment seem more uncomfortable than it really was. With all the technology at the FBI’s disposal, he would have thought the phone line would have been clearer.

“So, how have you been?” Andy said, trying not to ask for her right away.

“Very well, thanks. I suppose you want to talk to Mak?”

“Yes, if—”

“Well, she’s not around.” Andy’s heart sank. “I expect her soon, though. She’s coming across for the weekend.”

Good.
He didn’t have the number for her flat in Vancouver, and he wasn’t about to ask for it. He checked his watch. Just after ten o’clock in Virginia. That meant it would be seven in the evening on Vancouver Island. How late would she be arriving? What should he say now?

Makedde’s father beat him to it. “How’s the case coming along?”

“Well, it looks like it’ll take some time. There’s a lot of evidence to compile—”

“A lot of victims,” Les said.

Andy felt a familiar pang of guilt.

Yes, too many. Too many victims.

Les Vanderwall was a retired detective inspector, and as with most in his line of work, this new phase was, for all intents and purposes, a mere technicality. Andy knew that Les had done some digging around on his daughter’s behalf. He would have done the same thing if he were Makedde’s father. But he hadn’t wanted to talk about the Stiletto Murders with Les—not a good idea to discuss any case with a key witness’s father.

He is a victim’s father, Andy.

As soon as the thought came to him, Andy recalled Makedde’s voice, cracking with emotion. “I’m a survivor, Andy.
Not a victim.
Don’t
ever
call me a victim.”

An uncomfortable pause.

The crackle of the line.

“It’s in very capable hands,” Andy assured him.

“You aren’t handling it yourself?”

That was information Mr Vanderwall would already know. Andy was sure of it.

“I’m doing some training at the FBI Academy at the moment,” he said. “We’re putting together a new Profiling Unit in New South Wales.”

“Really?”

“I have a very good chance of heading one of the divisions in the unit.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Andy noted the lack of enthusiasm. “I will be involved in the trial, Mr Vanderwall. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll make sure your daughter’s treated with as much sensitivity as possible.”

Les didn’t respond. Courtrooms were not sensitive places. They both knew that.

“Well, I’ll tell Makedde you called,” Mr Vanderwall finally said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Les.”

“Of course. Thank you, Les. Perhaps I’ll try again sometime tomorrow.”

“I’ll let her know.”

Andy hung up and exhaled. He flopped back against the headrest and folded his arms, the Filofax still in his lap.

In the cold room he was slick with sweat.