Part 8 (1/2)

Mak had a lot of reasons to listen.

”Why was that professor hanging around waiting for you to come out, anyway?” Roy asked. ”I a.s.sume that's what he was doing?” He bit into his Inari. He choked for a moment and his face started to go red.

”Are you okay?”

He fanned his face and then reached for the water. ”Wow, that's hot.”

Did he think it was avocado instead of wasabi? It occurred to her that he may have copied her sus.h.i.+ order without having eaten it before. She thought everyone in Vancouver ate sus.h.i.+ these days.

”It's a long story. He seems to find me a little too interesting for some reason,” she said.

”Now, I can understand that,” he said and smiled, his cheeks flushed.

Lunchbreak flew past and their conversation became deeper and more relaxed as the minutes ticked by. Mak noticed that he kept the rest of the wasabi far from his food. Afterwards, she excused herself to sit alone through the afternoon sessions. She wanted her s.p.a.ce, and she didn't want to seem too eager. But she was certainly aware of his presence on the other side of the conference room. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that she was still interested in Roy Blake after he opened his mouth.

Karen Hughen, with her dreadlocks and her pale smiling face, came quietly over and sat in an empty chair beside Makedde midway through the first lecture. She was a former study partner, and the two were friends.

”He was cute,” Karen said under her breath.

”Oh, you were watching all that, were you?”

Neither girl turned their head to look at each other. They both kept their eyes on the speaker, whispering like a couple of naughty conspirators.

”Did he get your number?”

Mak smiled to herself, still not turning her head.

”This is the new millennium, Karen,” Mak said. ”I gave him my email address.”

CHAPTER 14.

It was 8.02 pm when the Air Canada Boeing 747 began its slow descent into Vancouver International Airport. The trip from Quantico had been rough, particularly leaving the rainy Los Angeles Airport a few hours earlier, and Detective Andy Flynn felt like he had travelled much more than the mere width of the North American continent that day. He felt like he had circ.u.mnavigated the globe.

The plane banked left and moved in a tight arc through the dark sky, the ma.s.sive wing outside Andy's window tipping down to reveal the top of Grouse Mountain, lit up and floating magically above the city like Lando Calrissian's Cloud City in Star Wars.

Thrilled with the view, Andy looked to Dr Harris across the aisle from him, only to find his mentor asleep, eyes closed and head hanging to one side. Bob's tie was loosened and crooked and his slack jaw gave the impression that he might be trying to eat the knot. Andy resisted the urge to gently nudge him back into the waking world. He knew that Bob was overworked and could use every minute of rest.

They sped above the city heading south-west to the airport, the engines roared on their descent, and within minutes they touched down, b.u.mping along the runway, the flaps on the wing outside Andy's window jutting upwards and straining in the air current. The aircraft shuddered and complained as it slowed to taxi towards the gate, and finally it was still.

Andy exercised a touch of definance by standing up and stretching before the seatbelt sign was switched off. The rest of the pa.s.sengers followed suit, and Dr Harris came back to life as well, as if some mysterious force had flicked his ”On” switch. He stood up and grabbed his things out of the overhead compartment as if he were fresh out of a ten-hour sleep on a plush Sealy, not snoozing for half an hour crammed into a rigid airplane seat. This was not the first occasion when Andy had noticed the Profiler's uncanny ability to bounce back from all kinds of physical and mental unpleasantness. He felt sure that Bob could sleep on a hard wooden floor and not get a crick in his neck, despite his age.

The two didn't need to talk; they simply nodded at each other and followed the other pa.s.sengers up the aisle and off the plane. Dr Harris lugged his briefcase and laptop along with him, containing the all-important Powerpoint presentation for the next day. Andy carried only his simple overnight bag and a crinkled newspaper. He was glad he hadn't brought a lot of work to do on the plane. He probably wouldn't have touched it anyway. His mind was not particularly focused on work. He was tired, but more than that, he was distracted by his close proximity to Mak.

Andy watched his feet move over the carpet beneath him as they exited the ramp and emerged from the gate. It was only when he heard Dr Harris's name being called that he looked up. To Andy's surprise, he found that two stocky men dressed in business suits were waiting for them.

”Dr Harris?” the shorter of the two repeated in the same melodious Canadian accent.

The man stepped forward and his eyes flickered back and forth between them, searching for recognition. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and he looked to be quite strong. He had a thick knotted neck and a wide, faded scar visible across his nose that brought to mind a teenage bar brawl, or perhaps a school hockey game gone awry. This was Canada, after all. His partner was slightly taller and a fair few years younger, but shared his muscular build.

”I'm Dr Harris,” Bob said, raising a hand and stopping a few feet from the man. Andy noted his hesitation. He didn't seem to be expecting the welcome wagon either.

”I'm Sergeant Wilson. This is Corporal Rose.” The man with the scar extended his hand and Bob shook it. ”We're with the local RCMP. Can we speak?”

At that point they both turned and looked at Andy. It wasn't a friendly look.

”He's alright,” Bob a.s.sured them.

”I'm Detective Andrew Flynn of the New South Wales Police Force,” Andy cut in, moving forward to join them. ”In Australia.”

”You're sure a long way from home,” Corporal Rose, the taller, younger one said. Andy didn't like his tone.

”Detective Flynn has been studying with me at the Behavioural Sciences Unit at Quantico,” Bob said.

The men looked Andy up and down one more time, and then focused their attention on Dr Harris.

”So, how can I help you, gentlemen?” Bob asked.

The four men walked slowly along the long concourse towards the baggage claim, past the Coast Salish Spindle Whorl carved of red cedar, and down the steps suspended over a beautiful waterfall, where the soothing sounds of water cascading over smooth round stones calmed the busy minds of weary pa.s.sengers.

The RCMP had come with a favour to ask of Dr Harris, and as they walked past the cool flowing waters, the carved welcome figures and the slowly spinning baggage carousel, words were exchanged in an urgent hush. Sergeant Wilson painted a dark picture. The dead bodies of two missing UBC students, Susan Walker and Petra Wallace, had been discovered, and the unidentified skeletal remains of another victim had been found near their shallow graves.

When Wilson had spoken to Dr Hare, a consultant with the RCMP, he had recommended that they approach the visiting Profiler.

Wilson believed that this was the work of a serial killer.

CHAPTER 15.

Dead animal eyes stared down at Debbie Melmeth.

She sat vulnerable and exposed in the middle of a strange room, secured to a chair and surrounded by a plethora of unfriendly heads. Apart from the animals, Debbie was alone. She was hungry and afraid, and she prayed that someone would help her. She knew her captor would not. She'd begged and pleaded with him, but he gave nothing away, just stared at her with a half-smile.

Hunger and the dull ache of her body distracted her. She ran her tongue along her lips in an attempt to wet them, but her tongue had no moisture to offer. Time seemed to have stopped.

Since she had been confined to this horrible place-over a period of a couple of days was her best guess-the man had fed her some potato chips and occasionally made her drink beer. That was it. She hated beer, really hated it. Especially now. But it seemed that her captor lived on the stuff. He had taken to periodically walking around the room, pacing with an open bottle in his hand, staring at her. Very occasionally he would talk nonsense at her, but wouldn't respond to her attempts at conversation. He did not acknowledge her pleas. He would just pace and drink and pace some more, and sometimes even walk up to her unexpectedly, open her mouth with his brutish hands and pour the beer down her throat, ignoring her feeble protests. When he did this, he just stared at her blankly while she gagged and spluttered and tried to swallow. And then he would disappear again.