The Mak Collection (38 page)

“Dressed like what?”

“She’s got on a sort of button-up shirt of some kind and a skirt from what we can tell.”

“A skirt?”

“Exactly. And them black nylon thingies. She’s no lost hunter or whitewater kayaker or nothin’, that’s for sure.”

Grant nodded. “Street girl, you reckon?”

“Nah, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. Hard to tell, but it don’t really look like that to me. Kinda conservative even with the skirt and all. More like a church girl or something.”

“How long she been there?”

“Not long, they don’t think. A couple of days or so. Pretty fresh. In bad shape, but fresh.”

Grant tried not to think about that. “Okay, Mike, I’ll come out your way. Be there in about an hour…”

Makedde Vanderwall always ran alone, and often after dark. Nothing could ever spook her enough to want to change that habit. She found beauty in darkness, in thunderstorms, and in those solo midnight runs.

But it drove her dad nuts.

Whenever she visited Vancouver Island, she always went for a jog around the nearby lakes. Her fastest time for the eleven-kilometre Elk and Beaver Lake track was forty-four minutes—not bad for someone who wasn’t exactly petite, as the best medium to long distance runners always seemed to be.

During the day she often ran with her Discman playing, but when she ran at night she preferred the quiet, and the assurance of a small canister of bear spray as a defence. The woods were dark at this hour, but rather than being frightening, Mak felt protected, as if the night itself were a great comfortable blanket. The sky was clear, the moon and the stars lit her way, and Makedde knew the track like the back of her
hand. There were few fellow joggers at night and she preferred it that way. She hadn’t come to the lake to socialise, or catch up with her island friends, she had come to run and to think.

Why did Andy call me?

Why is it that my sister and I aren’t getting along? Is it my fault? Is it really that difficult?

Is Ann Morgan going to become Dad’s girlfriend?

Ann seemed nice enough. And it had been almost two years since her mom died. Her dad was lonely. He would be so much happier with a girlfriend.

As Mak jogged she watched the still waters shimmering in the moonlight. Perhaps it was the time of year, but the sight of the bright orange moon hanging proudly in the sky above the lake brought to mind Halloween—that magical day she remembered so well.

Mom, leaning over me, waking me in the dark
…

Her mother, Jane, had always fed Makedde and put her to bed early after school on October thirty-first. Mak would quickly fall into a deep sleep in the knowledge that when she woke up on what she believed was a new day, it would be Halloween—the day when there was no sun, and the ghouls and witches came out, smiling and ready to spook. It was a special day when all the chocolate malt balls and jellybeans she could ever want would be happily donated to her pillowcase carry sack. It was a special day when she could pretend she was a ghoul herself, and wander from
door to door with her parents and with little Theresa in tow, and be greeted by even stranger beings—vampires and werewolves and aliens who would smile and give her candy and show her tricks.

It was a magic day, and a day of night.

Back on the mainland, under the same bright moon, Sergeant Grant Wilson of the RCMP found himself in a different set of woods, contemplating the senseless murder of Susan Walker—a girl not much older than his own daughter, a girl who was afraid of the dark, and who, in the end, never stood a chance.

The Hunter sat quietly at a small table in the far corner of the student pub. He held a beer in one hand and a newspaper in the other, and his eyes watched every movement in the room.

It was a down-market sort of place, sparsely lit and furnished with plain wooden chairs and tables and an uninspiring green and brown carpet. A long wooden bar stretched out to his left. It was a quiet night and all the accompanying stools were empty. He only had the fox-faced bartender for company. The young man was leaning against the counter, a bored kid slowly polishing a mug, the fuzz on his unshaven young face visible in patches.

This pub was a prime hunting ground during the right season. And that season was now. It was September, the beginning of a new semester, and that meant a fresh crop of targets—girls from all over the country and some from overseas—smart girls, students, each one a challenge, all trying to find
their way around, looking for new friends, looking for action.

Perfect.

He studied a group of average-looking men and women playing pool at the other end of the room. They were all wearing the same sort of clothes—jeans teamed with sneakers or hiking boots. The Hunter had got his look just right and he blended in well. But none of the women interested him.

Patience.

The pub was taking a while to fill up, but that was fine. No need to panic yet. He preferred to arrive early, secure a good position and get a feel for the growing activity in the room. He could become invisible. And if he sensed any unwanted attention he could leave.

He was in control.

The Hunter was smart. He knew the importance of planning. He had plans that were fluid enough to adapt to any unwanted elements, and he only ever made his move if things were perfect. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. Of course, after the catch it was different. Once you had won, you could do what you wanted.

He had just about given up when a young woman entered and immediately caught his eye. Almost as if he had picked up on some kind of radar signal, he raised his head and there she was, moving towards the bartender—a brunette, fairly short and plain, but not
unattractive. Her black, square-heeled leather boots were polished nicely, and she wore stretchy dark denim jeans with a grey fleece jacket. She looked like she might have a decent figure under all the clothes. The girl appeared a bit unsure of herself and her surroundings. A bit flustered. That interested him the most. He immediately pegged her as a new student starting her very first semester of university.

A possible mark.

He lifted his newspaper slightly to cover the lower half of his face and stared at the girl through non-prescription glasses. He watched her pause a few feet from the bar and look eagerly around the room, and he lowered his gaze to the paper when her eyes came his way. She took no notice of the bespectacled man in the corner, and continued to look around the room. At a glance he thought her eyes appeared red-rimmed and a little puffy.

After a moment, the girl approached the bored bartender and asked where the phones were. The Hunter thought that was an interesting question, considering she had just walked past a bank of them on the way in. Obviously she hadn’t been paying much attention. She was preoccupied with something. Distressed.

He felt the adrenalin surge. Conditions seemed good.

The bartender pointed back toward the entrance, barely raising his eyes from the mug he was polishing.
She thanked him politely—with no obvious accent—and off she went.

The Hunter followed her, moving across the room quietly, one hand in his pocket and his head slightly slumped as if he were tired. He stuck close to the wall, inconspicuous.

The restrooms were in the direction of the phones, and he knew he would be able to hear the young woman’s conversation if he listened through the men’s room door. When he rounded the corner he raised his eyes ever so briefly and caught a glimpse of the bank of phones and the woman dialling. He entered the men’s, which thankfully was empty. Good. He held his hands against the inside of the door, his ear flat against the hollow imitation wood panel.

“Brian? Brian, if you’re there, pick up,” he heard her say. “Pick up, please.” Pause. “
Pleeease
.” Pause. “Look, I’m at the pub. Where are you? Brian, I—” She stopped mid-sentence and let out a frustrated huff. The Hunter peeked around the door to see what she would do next. The girl hung up the receiver and fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for change. She had to pull up her jacket to get at her back pocket, and he caught a flash of pale skin. The girl found a quarter and redialled.

“Brian, it’s Debbie again…” She stole a look at her watch and threw her hand in the air when she saw the time. “It’s eight-forty already. I don’t know how long I’ll stick around, but…” She trailed off. “Just get here.”

The Hunter waited until she hung up and quickly stepped out behind her.

“Hey, Debbie? I thought that was you…”

Many hours later, Debbie Melmeth woke to an unsettling quiet. It was so quiet she felt as though she had drowned and was tangled in weeds, wrapped up and trapped underwater in a freezing lake.

Nothing.

A breath.

It was her own breathing and it was ragged. She opened her mouth to see if water would come in. It didn’t. She hadn’t drowned. She wasn’t dead.

She rolled her head to the side and tried to keep her eyes open. She was disoriented. Everything felt terribly wrong, and she didn’t know why. The silence around her was disturbingly foreign. Even so, as she struggled back into consciousness, her ears began to pick up sounds. They were small, mysterious sounds, but they were something.

Debbie wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She felt dizzy and drunk. She remembered that Brian hadn’t been at the bar. She had called him and he wasn’t home. But there was a charming man there. He spoke to her. She must have drunk a lot after that. Did he buy her drinks? Something was wrong. Her inebriated mind could not fully comprehend her circumstances, but she knew something was definitely wrong.

She tried to relax and concentrate on her breathing. She didn’t know how long she stayed that way, listening to her own breathing, her mind spinning slowly in circles, taking in her body’s confused signals, before she heard a new sound.

Clink.

Clink-clink.

It seemed to be coming from another room.

Her eyes did not want to focus, but she could make out that she was sitting in a chair in some kind of dimly lit room. It smelled odd, unfamiliar.

She heard the clinking again and fought a wave of nausea. She felt the urge to laugh, but a great blanket of blackness leapt up inside her and shut off the lights. Unconsciousness stopped her short.

Some time later, she tried to speak. She knew someone was there, someone who would know what was wrong with her, someone with answers, and she tried to ask, “What am I doing here?” It took all her effort to form the sentence, but still, the result was little more than a slurred string of incoherent vowels and consonants.

“Whhaaaayeee?”

Unintentionally, she laughed out loud. Her own ridiculous attempt at language seemed funny for a moment. But this wasn’t funny. Nothing about it was funny. Why the laughter? Shut up and concentrate.
She couldn’t move her arms or legs—
Why in God’s name can’t I move my arms and legs?
—and it seemed to Debbie that her mind had failed her. It had turned to jelly. She had never been drunk like this before. How could she have let this happen? She couldn’t even move her limbs! It was as if she were glued to the chair.

She tried to look down. Her vision was blurry—not working right at all—and now she could see why she was unable to move. Her ankles were secured to the chair with some sort of metal cuffs. It felt like her wrists—which she could not see because they were secured behind her back—were also handcuffed.

Someone had done this, and they were not far away. She had no concept of who or when or why, or even how close they were, but she sensed a presence and she tried talking to them again, this time more loudly.

“Whaaaaaaaa haa…?” She stopped and tried again, confused at her inability to speak properly.
What is going on?
She tried again and it came out as, “Waaa waaa yaaaadee!”

She attempted to take in her surroundings, and that’s when she first saw the animals. They were everywhere—bears, cougars, wolves, foxes, elk, deer. They were looking at her, staring at her, terrifyingly real.
This can’t be real. It can’t be.
But it was all she could see.

Debbie wanted to shield her face from their tearing claws and jagged teeth. She wanted to protect
herself. The animals were coming at her from all directions and she panicked. She struggled in her binds and screamed. The room spun into a dizzy blur, the hard wooden floor leaping up to strike her in the face. She found herself on her side, her cheek pressed against the wood, her body heavy and awkward, folded onto itself.

She heard thunderous footsteps rushing towards her, making the floor rumble. Someone was approaching and she tried to speak but her mouth was squashed against the floor. Her lips moved uselessly, and with one eye straining upwards, she saw that a man was leaning down. Then she was off the floor, pulled right into the air, chair and all, and shoved back into place. The animal faces were again snarling all around her, and now a human face joined them, a man standing over her. She was seeing double, now quadruple, now double again.

And then she recognised him. It was the man who had offered her a drink, only he wasn’t wearing his glasses any more. He had done this to her. He had trapped her. She wanted to scream but what came out of her mouth was a distorted giggle, a hopeless, drug-induced giggle that was as far from joy as terror could be.

Grant Wilson didn’t like horses. He’d even had his leg reset when he was little to prove to his father, also an RCMP officer, just how much he didn’t like horses. The family nag, Daisy, had once thrown him about ten feet in the air and he’d landed in a tree.

But this didn’t matter because, generally speaking, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police spent little time “mounted”. There was the odd occasion—the famous “Musical Ride” when the Queen came to town, for example—but he didn’t have anything to do with that. Nope, they had police cruisers now instead of those tall unpredictable bucking creatures, and in this part of Canada the jurisdiction of the RCMP went well beyond the reach of horses.