The Mak Collection (61 page)

She hadn’t answered his question, so he went on.
“It was simple, really. A couple of drinks and they come willingly. You women are all the same.”

“You mean a couple of Roofies, and they come,” she said.

He squinted at her.

It was easy to get Rohypnol. She’d seen the reports splashed across the news, linked to assaults on campus where women would wake up in strange locations, unable to recall how they got there. It was too easy—slipped into a drink, Rohypnol is odourless, colourless and tasteless. It could take effect in minutes and often the victim suffered amnesia afterwards.

“Rohypnol is not much of a challenge,” Makedde spat at him. “It would be a bit like shooting bunnies in a barrel, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ve got a mouth on you, girl.”

“I’m sure you’re sportsmanlike,”
Yeah, like Robert Hansen was sportsmanlike.
“So surely you wouldn’t just shoot a drugged-up lady in the back, would you?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re right. That would be most unsportsmanlike. No, I like to even up the game. I like a challenge. I’m fair. You’ll see.”

What does that mean?

“How many women did you bring here?” she asked.

“Enough to know you’re nothing special. Sit tight now,” he said with mock politeness. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Connor Morgan parked in the driveway beside his mother’s midnight-blue BMW and slammed the door. Her car was a bit conservative and hardly the latest model, but it beat the hell out of his old junker, that was for sure. His Corolla was loud, ugly and puke-orange—not quite the canary-yellow Alfa Romeo Spider in the poster on the back of his attic door.

Connor was determined to get his beloved Spider once Dirty Pistol went platinum with their first album. His dad had laughed when he told him that. He’d said he could buy him the latest BMW while he was at it. Connor thought he probably wanted that car just to show up Mom.

No sign of any flash new vehicles so far, though. His insurance cost more than his orange Corolla. He felt sure he would tell this story when he was a megastar and people would laugh. Dirty Pistol had the potential to be big. He believed that. He just had to
convince Jake to stop writing the lyrics. His best friend was a good singer, but his writing was shit.

Connor hopped up the front steps two by two and opened the door, thinking only of his hunger and that yellow Alfa Romeo Spider. The door was often unlocked, and this time was no exception.

“Mom…I’m—” he began as he stepped inside. “Mom? Oh my God, Mom!”

His mother was lying in a viscid mess of blood and shattered glass on the floor in the living room, the telephone receiver in her right hand, the cord wrapped around her forearm. For a moment he thought she had fallen off a chair and hit her head, and a painting had somehow fallen, the glass shattering around her. But that didn’t make any sense. Panicked, he looked around the room. The place was completely trashed. He noticed that the chair he thought she may have fallen off was actually tied to her back. What the hell? He saw drag marks along the floor. Someone had come in and ransacked the place! Someone had tied up his mother! Was she dead? Had someone murdered his mom?

“Mom! Oh my God, Mom, are you okay?” he cried. Connor’s voice was high-pitched and shaky. He checked for breathing and then wasn’t sure if he was detecting any. His hands were trembling too hard to check her pulse properly. He didn’t know what he should do. The technique for mouth-to-mouth, the Heimlich manoeuvre and what to do in case of an
earthquake all flashed across his thoughts, all useless. Then he thought of 911. In times like this you were supposed to dial 911.

“Mom,” he said again. “Mom, can you hear me? What happened?”

Then he could hear a faint woman’s voice. But it was not his mother responding.

The voice was coming from the telephone.

Connor pulled the phone out of his mother’s bloody hand. When he tried to lift it, the cord was caught around her arm and she shifted weakly on the floor.

She is alive…Thank God…

Connor knew he might start hyperventilating if he wasn’t careful. He needed to remain calm. He lay on his side next to his mother on the floor, holding her hand in one of his, the other hand bringing the receiver to his ear. His mother’s hand was cool as he held it.

“Hello?” he said into the mouthpiece.

“This is 911 Emergency. Who am I speaking to?”

“Connor Morgan. My name is Connor Morgan and my mother is dying beside me.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know what else to do, and then it came to him. “My mother is bleeding to death,” he said, looking at the blood on his hands. “I think she has been stabbed or shot or something. We need an ambulance right away!” He gave the address to the Emergency operator and she assured
him that an ambulance had been despatched a few minutes earlier, and would already be on its way.

The front door was wide open, and Connor turned to see the Emergency paramedics rush in. He had only ever seen such a thing on television. He sat up with his mouth wide open as they attended to his mother.

“We have a pulse! We have a pulse!” one of them said.

It was the best thing Connor Morgan had ever heard.

Makedde Vanderwall closed her eyes tight and imagined the freedom of running around Elk Lake near her father’s home, just as she had done not so many nights previously. She could feel the wind in her hair, see the dark woods and the shimmering reflection of the lake at night, smell the moss and the trees, feel the rush of adrenalin through her body. Freedom.

When she opened her eyes again she was still imprisoned in the trophy room.

He has me trapped like one of these pitiful animals.

She tried to remain calm, tried to convince herself that she would survive. There was a way out. There
had
to be a way out. All she had to do was to figure out how.

He said he was not expecting this…he had not been expecting to see her at Ann’s house. So perhaps he didn’t want to do this to her? Perhaps he was only after Ann? Perhaps she could talk him out of it?

Damn. Why did I have to go out with him? Why did I have to reject him like that, and create this hatred?

It was easier to think rationally when he was not in the room, but she had to try and remain calm when he returned. She had to. What little control she had at this point was in her own mind and her words, and she had to use those tools if she hoped to escape.

Physically she was doing alright. The cut above her eyebrow had stopped bleeding. The right side of her face was throbbing from being hit during the battle back at Ann’s house, but Mak didn’t think it was that serious. She could still run, she could still punch, she could still kick. And she planned to.

But even if I can escape this chair, where do I go? How do I protect myself?

She looked around the room for a possible weapon. A pen on the table—useless. There might be knives in the kitchen, if she got that far. But her captor had a gun. She would be no match for him if she simply fought. She would have to get out when he wasn’t looking, or she would have to manipulate him into getting her outside, where she could run and hide in the dark.

And then what? Wait to be hunted down in the forest by a psychopath? Wait to freeze to death?

Ann’s words came back to her…haunting her now in this horrible predicament—

Be careful what you wish for.

Connor held his mother’s hand in the ambulance all the way to Vancouver General Hospital. He prayed that she would live, and he made a pact that if she did, he would move back in with her again—even if she wouldn’t let him play his drums after nine. He knew she wanted him there, especially since Emily had moved in with her boyfriend, Alex. Yes, if his mother lived he would move back in, and he would protect her, and he would tell her that he loved her and that he had forgiven her for splitting with Dad. And he would mean it.

Connor even promised that he would keep his room clean, and he would do the dishes, just like she always told him to.

And I’ll find the assholes who did this and Dad and I will beat them to a pulp…

When he arrived at the hospital he quickly found a phone and called his father. But Sergeant Tony Morgan was on duty and Connor could only leave a
message on his pager. He left a quick explanation and the number of the hospital. The next person he wanted to call was Jake.

“Hi, it’s Con—”

“Do you have any idea how late it is?”

It was Jake’s mom.

“Mrs Webster, I’m really sorry for calling so late, but—”

“Damn right, you’re sorry. I didn’t ask you to pack it up tonight just so you could wake me up an hour later!”

Jake had mentioned that she was getting a little testy about the noise. They might not be able to jam there any more.

“I’m sorry to get you up, but my mom is in the hospital and I—”

“Ann’s in the hospital?” Her voice changed completely. “Oh…”

“She was attacked. I found her. It’s serious.”

When he finally got through to his friend, it took him about ten minutes to convince him that he was serious. By the time Jake figured out that he wasn’t just telling a story, he felt really guilty, and so did his mother.

After calling his father and Jake, the next person Connor phoned was Les Vanderwall. He knew his mother would want it that way.

Roy Blake opened his eyes.

He was in a darkened room, the only light coming in under the hall door. He was fully dressed, lying on a bed with a warm blanket thrown over him. He even had his shoes on.

What the…?

He was disoriented, but as his blurry eyes adjusted and his senses returned to him, Roy realised he was in his brother’s bedroom. He felt horrible, groggy, it was as if he were experiencing the world’s worst hangover.

Roy groaned and struggled to sit up. His head spun, sending a kaleidoscope of colours across his eyes. When the nauseating rush passed, he reached beside him and fumbled around the bedside table to find the switch for the tiny lamp. He recognised Danny’s chest of drawers, the heap of dirty clothes in the corner, the movie posters,
Rambo, Predator
, the original
Halloween
and a dog-eared poster of
The Deer Hunter
that Roy himself had given him. His brother’s prize caribou
rack was mounted on the wall over the bed, straight above his head.

It was well after midnight.

My God! I’ve been out for hours.

Roy couldn’t remember having been that tired. In fact, he couldn’t remember lying down at all. Why would he be sleeping, fully dressed, on his brother’s bed, instead of on the pull-out hideabed in the den where he always stayed when he visited?

Slowly, he shifted his long legs over the end of the bed and let his shoes touch the floor. He pushed himself forward and attempted to stand, but his efforts were met with an even more formidable head-rush. He fell backwards onto the soft bed, and stayed there.

God, I feel so drunk. What have I been into?

Roy decided to lie still on the bed until he felt a little better. He rubbed his scratchy eyes, and when he opened them again, he noticed something dangling above him. There was something hanging from the antlers mounted on the wall. He reached up and touched the dangling gold with his fingertip, and it slipped off and landed beside him on the bed.

Roy stared at it, mouth agape.

A heart-shaped locket.

It was a gold locket, just like the one on the front page of the newspaper hanging around the neck of the murdered girl—the girl who was found at the Nahatlatch by some hunters.

Roy stared at the locket in horror.

“So he is at the cabin without any supervision?” Dr Morgan had said in that suspicious tone.

My God, what has my brother done?

Gradually, Ann became aware of her surroundings. She did not recognise anyone, or anything, but she realised that there was someone leaning over her with a mint-green smock on. A doctor. He was looking at her intensely. Their eyes met, and he turned away.

A hospital. I am in the hospital.

At first she thought she might have had a car crash. She thought of all the warnings she’d had about not having an airbag in her BMW. Had she crashed her car? No. No. Something else had happened. Something at home.

She felt terrible, and worse than the physical pain she felt was a gnawing dread that she could not place. There was something she desperately needed to recall. Someone was in danger. Who?

“Doctor…” she began, but her voice would not cooperate.

He leaned over her again. There were other faces around him now. “Don’t try to speak,” he said.

A flood of memories rushed into her mind. The filing cabinet. The name “Blake”. Makedde…

Makedde.

Have they found Makedde?

She remembered the struggle. She remembered the sound of breaking glass, the gun blast, the jolt of pain. The blood.

“Makedde…”

“Shhh. Don’t speak. Just relax. Relax. You’re going to be okay,” the doctor said.

“But…”

Her body wanted to drift away and she needed to stay with it, to keep alert, to think.

“Just relax.”

Somewhere in the background came a voice. “We need to calm her down…”

“Makedde was…” she tried again, but they weren’t listening.

She barely felt the needle go in.

What have you done, my brother? What have you done?

If Danny had got himself into trouble, it was Roy’s fault. He should have taken care of his brother like he promised Mom. It was his fault for bringing him out here, and setting him up at the cabin where he thought he wouldn’t hurt anyone, where he was away from the prying eyes of specialists and shrinks. Here at the cabin, where he could indulge his love of hunting.