Part 9 (1/2)

Three hours sleep. 4.00 am until 7.00 am. I had a nightmare about Andy chasing me through the woods. (d.a.m.n him for coming back into my dreams!) He was wielding a scalpel and I was wearing my father's police uniform again. I couldn't run fast enough. I woke up before he caught me. No devil this time.

She went to close the book and then opened it again and scribbled one last comment:

I feel like h.e.l.l.

She flipped it closed and rubbed her eyes.

d.a.m.n. I really do feel like h.e.l.l. How much longer can this go on?

In Makedde's research on sleep disorders she had discovered that one common recommendation was to keep a diary of sleeping patterns, and so each morning for the past week, Mak had dutifully scribbled down details of her sleep, or lack of it. Looking at it now, it made depressing reading. As she sat in bed contemplating her nightmares, she wondered sceptically whether a psychiatrist could really shed any new light on her problems. How? What would Ann make of her diary? Mak was well aware that her nightmares were the abstract manifestations of the trauma she had experienced in her recent past. But so what? It seemed unlikely that there would be any benefit in having a qualified expert point out the obvious.

Mak swung her legs out of bed and hopped up. She shook herself from head to toe in a half-hearted attempt to shake off the bad night, then slipped on a pair of fuzzy bed slippers and wrapped a thick white robe around her naked body. Her preference for sleeping in her birthday suit had little to do with Marilyn Monroe's famous comments, and everything to do with Makedde's own tendency to be an overactive sleeper, twisting PJ's, slips, boxer shorts, or whatever else she happened to be wearing around her while she slept. That is, when she did sleep. On more than one occasion she had woken up struggling for air with a T-s.h.i.+rt wrapped tightly around her neck and the bedsheets and duvet tossed on the floor on opposite sides of the room.

Robe-wrapped and vertical, Mak shuffled over to her computer.

”Welcome to AOL Canada,” came the chirpy greeting as she logged on. ”You have mail.” Her saturnine mood lifted slightly, and the corners of her mouth curled into a sleepy grin. She had checked her mail a couple of times the night before but there was nothing there. Well, at least nothing interesting. She was kind of hoping to discover a little email from a certain young man.

Hmmm...Word of the Day. Some mail from the Forensic Psychology list. Aha...What's this? An email from one ”BlakeR”. Subject line: ”A question”.

Bingo!

Hi Makedde,

It was nice meeting you today. I found the conference interesting, but of course you were a highlight. I won't be able to go tomorrow...

d.a.m.n.

But I was wondering if we could perhaps catch up for dinner afterwards?

Yes!

I hope you don't think me too forward. Send me an email, or better yet, give me a call.

She re-read his email. Twice. He must have sent it after she logged off at 1.00 am. Perhaps he was a night owl as well? She checked the time logged on the correspondence. Yup, 1.16 in the morning. That's pretty late.

Roy Blake.

Yes, she was intrigued. But a fully-fledged date? It would have been better if he was just coming to the conference and they could chat a bit without any of the ”date” formality. She hadn't been on a proper date in how long? A year? Well, not counting that disaster with Henry. But that didn't really qualify. She had left before the appetiser arrived.

She went to the kitchen and put on a pot of water, and then distractedly went about making a cup of coffee.

Mak found herself smiling as she considered her reply. She sat down at the desk, and sipped her drink. She was actually contemplating seeing Roy. Which was weird. But how to go about it?

Hi Roy,

Thanks for your message. It was nice meeting you, too. I must thank you for saving me from Professor Gosper and my bubblegum. :-) Thanks for your offer. Perhaps we could meet up for a quick coffee or a drink instead? Around eight would probably work for me, otherwise we could catch up sometime on the weekend. Give me a call.

She typed in her number, and was about to press ”send” when a feeling of doubt overtook her. This guy is a stranger, Mak. Do you really want to give him your number? Do you really want to meet him somewhere alone?

Makedde recognised that her fear was a little irrational. She wouldn't be alone at all. She would be on familiar territory if she chose the bar or cafe, and she could excuse herself after a single beverage if need be. It was safe. Besides, he was a security guard... well, not that that really meant anything, but he did work on campus at least. Mak pressed ”send” before she scared herself out of it, and then it was gone, despatched into cybers.p.a.ce.

At ten minutes to nine, Makedde arrived at the Graduate Center Ballroom at UBC and glanced around the gathering crowd. No Roy, just as he'd said in his email.

Good. No distractions, she told herself.

Professor Gosper was nowhere in sight, so she could relax. Makedde noticed there were considerably fewer people attending the second day of the conference. Either that or they were all late. Dr Hare had pulled a huge crowd of curious university students that first day, but only the more hard-core attendees had stayed on. There would probably be more people in the afternoon for the talk from the FBI agent on crime scene a.n.a.lysis and how that relates to the clinical construct of psychopathy. It sounded like an interesting lecture, and Mak was sure that any mention of the FBI would result in a standing room only situation. That was the X-Files for you.

The thought of the FBI steered Mak back to Quantico and to Andy Flynn, again. Since his call she'd had trouble getting him out of her head.

Should I try to call him back?

After what had happened in Sydney, whether she liked it or not, Andy Flynn was a part of her life. She didn't love him-or at least that was what she kept telling herself-but the experience they'd shared had forged a difficult bond between them, and like the branding of a red-hot poker, the events had marked them forever. But that wasn't love. That wasn't any reason to regret that he was so far away.

No, I won't try to track him down, Makedde decided.

Let it be. Move on, Makedde. Move on.

A bitter lump formed in her throat, and she ignored it. She had a big day ahead of her.

CHAPTER 18.

Andy Flynn arrived at the sprawling UBC campus just before 9.00 am. He parked his rental sedan, placed the ticket on the dash and began his walk to Crescent Road and the building that housed the Graduate Center Ballroom. He had left Dr Bob Harris at the hotel to recover from the flight the night before. Although the Profiler needed to catch up on lost sleep, he would most likely have launched straight into work mode the moment he woke up, looking over the files the RCMP had given him the night before.