Glaring up at the blonde girl, he huffed, long and hard. “Nice, Carly.”
“I thought something was wrong with you, Dylan. You’re welcome.”
Dylan scoffed and shook his head, and Gunnar noticed an odd expression come over Katy’s face; her eyes widened like she was shocked, while her mouth turned down in disgust. Deciding a little alpha-dogging might turn the young man around, Gunnar squatted down and looked him in the eye. “Rule number two—never, ever lie to a paramedic.”
“What’s rule number one?”
“Never put anything in your body that you bought off a guy named Stinky Joe.”
Dylan glanced at Gretchen, who probably seemed like the most sympathetic thus far, eyes round like he was pleading his case. “I thought I was buying Percocet.”
“You stupid shit,” Gretchen rasped. “How many did you take?”
“Two. I only took two.”
“You got any more?” Katy asked.
“I want to file assault charges against her,” he said, glaring at Katy.
“I’ll get right on that,” Paul drawled, “just as soon as I finish filling out paperwork on your illicit drug purchase.”
Dylan swallowed hard, then bit his lip and closed his eyes, clearly wishing to be anywhere else.
Katy nudged him. “Once again, you got any more pills?”
“In my pocket.”
Gunnar reached in the kid’s pants pocket and pulled out three more tablets, definitely not Percocet. He sighed and shook his head. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Wow,” Katy said. “Talk about arrested development. You have any health problems, Dylan?”
“No.”
“So, you’ve decided to destroy a perfectly healthy body with whatever crap you can find on the street?”
“My body, my choice,” he said with a smirk.
“Knock it off, dumbass,” Gretchen growled, just as Katy leaned forward, fist clenched.
“You want another chest treatment?”
Dylan stiffened. “You can’t do that.” He peered up at Gunnar. “Can she?”
Gunnar exhaled, nice and loud for effect. He sure as hell hoped he hadn’t been this clueless at nineteen. “She can, but she won’t, because she’s a professional, and because her main priority is seeing to your health, even though you don’t seem interested in preserving that for yourself.” He glanced at Katy at he spoke, thinking they might at least share a grin over the kid’s stupidity, but she glared at him instead.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t call you, remember?” the kid snapped.
“You’re a jerk, Dylan,” Carly called out from the doorway. “Next time, take your drugs at your own house.”
“Thatta girl, Carly. You tell him,” Gretchen said as she stood and headed for the door. “I’ll get the gurney, Chief.”
“Yeah, load him up,” Gunnar said, stepping back to make room.
“Load me up? What the hell? I’m fine.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake,” Katy hissed. She bent down, close to Dylan’s face. “You don’t even know what you took. Don’t you think you should go the hospital and see if there’s a problem?”
The kid drew back, clearly not sure what to make of Katy. “Wouldn’t I feel sick if there was a problem?”
“Not necessarily,” Jake said as he helped Gretchen get the gurney through the door. “Better safe than sorry, kid.”
“Fine,” Dylan huffed and gave an exaggerated eye roll.
“I need some air,” Katy said and pushed to a stand.
“We’re not finished here, MacBain.” Gunnar placed a careful hand on her arm. “Your participation is a requirement, not a suggestion.”
“Paul and Gretchen can handle it,” she said and shrugged away from his touch. “And didn’t I hear you say something about wanting to lend a hand?”
He pulled back like she’d bit him. For a second, he wondered if this call would have gone better if he hadn’t tagged along, but the frustration in her eyes told him otherwise. Katy had things to figure out, a good many of them, and as impossible as it felt for him to do so, if he wanted to keep life and limb safe, he best suck it up and get out of her way.
* * *
* * *
After the call, Katy found Gunnar by the fire pit, staring into the empty hood like a huge blaze crackled within. He looked a little sad, and somehow young, and for a split second she caught a glimpse of the boy he’d once been. Her heart squeezed, since she had no beef with that boy, and she felt pretty sure she’d triggered whatever sadness he struggled with. She slowed her steps, no longer quite sure what she wanted to say. A twig snapped beneath her boot, making them both startle.
“You need something?” Gunnar squinted up at her.
“Probably.”
“Do I need to make my question more specific?”
Katy shook her head. “I need to speak to you . . . officially. Do you want to go to your office?”
Gunnar looked over one shoulder and then the other. “This seems pretty private at the moment.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll be quick.”
As soon as she said that, though, the words turned to glue in her throat. Why had her life suddenly become this messy quagmire, a big, fat swamp of confusion between what she wanted and what she could actually handle? As if Gunnar’s face might hold the answer to that question, her eyes sought his, and she immediately wished they hadn’t. As the human embodiment of her quagmire, he was probably the very last person she needed to see right now.
Except that he was her boss. And she needed to quit her job. Which made him an impossible necessity.
“Is this what you call quick?”
His voice felt like a slap, but maybe one she needed. “Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”
“You were going to tell me something official.”
“Yes, I was.” She walked closer, sat down on a stump opposite his. “Consider this my resignation.”
He didn’t so much as blink, which both shocked and infuriated her. And then he didn’t speak for at least a minute, which took her from infuriated to incensed. Was that how he was going to play it, like he saw her coming all along?
She gave him her best glare. “Is silence what you call a response?”
Finally, he blinked. His mouth pressed itself into a thin, sad line. “A resignation isn’t really a conversation. What do you need from me?”
“Acknowledgment would be helpful. Not to mention polite.”
“Oh, are we being polite?”
“Are we not?”
Gunnar sighed, longer than she’d ever heard a person sigh. “Fine, MacBain. Resignation acknowledged.”
Oh, no he didn’t. No questions? No fight? Was she that irrelevant to the station and its operation? “Seriously?” she managed through her fury.
He blinked again, the motion slow, pained. “I think you’re making a mistake, but I accept that it’s yours to make. What else are you looking for from me?”
“You’re not even going to ask why?”
“Isn’t that for you to tell me? It’s a standard part of a resignation, as I understand it, but given our history, I’m not going to push.”
Katy sat up straight, her arms folding themselves across her chest like a shield. “I’m not quitting this job because of our history.”
Gunnar’s mouth twitched, the motion quick and slight, and he gave her a slow nod. “My mistake.”
“I mean, I’m resigning because of you, but not in the personal sense.”
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Katy jumped to her feet, body craving both fight and flight. “Okay, fine. Have it your way. You sit there like a bump on a stump, and I’ll say what needs to be said.” She paused, waited to see if he might answer the challenge in her words, then decid
ed not to give him the chance. “I’m not staying on a squad with a chief who doesn’t trust and support his crew.”
Gunnar cocked his head and studied her. “That’s simply not true.”
“It is from where I stand.”
“And how, exactly, did I not support you?”
“You’ve already forgotten today’s call?”
“No. In fact, I remember it very clearly, which is why I’m confused.”
“You hovered over me like I couldn’t be trusted to make the right decision, and you acted like I was an embarrassment.”
He pressed his fingers to his forehead. “You were very aggressive with the kid.”
“He was an idiot.”
“He was a patient. You lost your objectivity.”
“I’m allowed to have opinions. I can have strong feelings about a patient’s choices without compromising his health.”
Gunnar eyed her pointedly. “They taught you that in your paramedic training?”
“They don’t cover common sense in paramedic training. I would expect the chief to know that.”
His eyes narrowed, and every trace of the young boy she’d seen earlier disappeared. “You grew up pretty much getting your own way, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Spoiled. That’s your problem—well, one of them—you’re spoiled.” His face slipped into a deep scowl and he shook his head in disgust. “I shouldn’t have come looking for you in the first place.”
Katy’s mouth dropped open, and molten lava-level heat rushed through her body. Spoiled? Spoiled? Oh, that was rich. A wave of regret enveloped her, a wish that she’d never let him get close to her and, even more, that she hadn’t confided in him, hadn’t told him the secret she might never tell anyone again. And what did he mean about coming to look for her? She’d come to find him. She’d been the one to grab this particular bull by the horns.
Uncrossing her arms, she took a step away from the fire circle. “Clearly, you have no idea who I am or what’s going on here. Thanks for giving me even more reason to leave this job.”
The sadness filled his face again, like he struggled with his own version of regret. His lips parted, ready to say something, but then he pursed them and squinted up at her. After a few moments, he raised his right hand and gave her a quick, sharp salute. “Best of luck to you, MacBain. I hope you find what you need.”
Katy’s knees wobbled a little, made her wonder if she was really ready to walk. With one last look at Gunnar Wolfe, one last sweep of all she’d thought she wanted, she nodded and turned away. The relief she expected didn’t come, but she shrugged that worry off as well. Sometimes logic had to trump heart and gut, and right now, logic told her this was the only way.
Chapter Seventeen
Gunnar sat on his cabin steps staring out across Bottomless, hoping the moonlight dancing off the gentle swells of the incoming tide would settle his mood. In addition to feeling completely gobsmacked by the day’s unwanted drama, he once again struggled with his lack of patience. Although he could usually prod talent along to get what he wanted, apparently even gently nudging true genius was impossible; a lesson driven home the first time he’d interrupted Hanson’s train of thought about a month into their new business relationship two years ago, when he’d called to ask for information he’d requested two days prior and instead had gotten a twenty-minute tirade explaining exactly what he could do with his request.
But he’d asked Hanson for every last speck of dirt on Brandon Fontanne five freaking days ago. And having seen the kid break into a first-world government system in a matter of hours, how damn hard could it be to get inside a perverted, overhyped, sponsor-whoring mountain climber’s personal computer?
Of course, after today’s fiasco with Katy, including nearly blowing his cover and reason for coming to Spellbound Falls in the first place, he wasn’t sure why it mattered anymore, but he just couldn’t let the search go. Even if she never spoke to him again, he could seek some sort of justice on her behalf. His gut, which originally pushed him to find her, clearly still had its own agenda. Now he just needed to figure out what that was.
Gunnar stilled at the sound of the very ringtone he’d been waiting five days to hear. He stood and walked to his truck, got in, and calmly pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Brandon Fontanne,” Hanson began without preamble, his tone making the fine hairs on Gunnar’s neck raise, “is—was—on a personal mission . . . sort of a sordid competition with himself . . . to rack up as many . . .”
“As many what?” Gunnar growled when Hanson fell silent.
“Jesus, Wolfe, give me a minute. I just spent the last two days puking my guts out.”
From Hanson’s tone, he guessed it wasn’t from food poisoning. Gunnar inhaled deeply, held it to the count of eight, then slowly exhaled, trying to head off the rage he already felt building inside him. He almost didn’t need to hear anything else, as “sordid competition” and “rack up” pretty much said it all.
“Rape scenarios,” the kid whispered.
Gunnar stopped breathing altogether. Rage flashed blue-white, a lightning strike behind his eyes.
“Sometimes he used drugs to handle his victims, other times brute force. It seems to depend on the type of person chosen.”
“Type?”
“He selected some random characteristic, like age or ethnicity or profession,” Hanson whispered.
Gunnar groaned. “So, he—” He had to clear his throat. “Was he trying to see how many people he could rape in—what? A year?”
“He wasn’t going for numbers,” Hanson continued gutturally, “but . . . uniqueness.”
“Come again?”
A deep, steadying breath came over the line. “The agenda changed every time. Like I said, sometimes it was a particular ethnicity or specific age, or it took place on a specific day—stuff like that. Other times, he went for the most bizarre location or . . . circumstance. The victims could be male or female or even transgender,” Hanson rushed on thickly. “But it seems he never duplicated a scenario.”
“What was the agenda a couple of months ago?” Gunnar whispered to keep from roaring.
“Professions, starting with blue collar and working his way up.”
Gunnar said nothing when Hanson fell silent, because hell, he could barely breathe, much less talk. How high up the scale could a paramedic be?
“How long had this bastard been doing this?”
“Looks like he started six years ago, and based on his vlog posts, his numbers are at least in the mid double digits.”
“He actually recorded the details?”
“Well, yes, but on a strongly encrypted website on the Dark Net. I was able to hack into Fontanne’s laptop and cell phone within a couple of hours after you called, but while I was looking around in them, I saw signs he had a second unlisted and untraceable cell phone. So I spent two days finding it and then getting in, and that’s where I came across a link to the vlog website. But whoever runs the site apparently voided Fontanne’s link within hours of his death making the news, and it took me a whole day to find another way in.”
“I can’t believe the jackass would post something like that—” Gunnar suddenly stiffened. “Did he post pictures of his victims?”
There were several seconds of silence. “Ah, not anything identifiable, like no faces or even distinctive tattoos or birthmarks. I did see . . . there were photos of victims tied to beds and tables and . . . other places.” Another breath. “But most of the photos were of arms. It’s always the underside of a right forearm that has a small, freshly made . . . brand.”
Gunnar stopped breathing again. It wasn’t enough to just rape them? The fucking bastard branded his victims? On their forearms, where the victims would see it every day for the rest of their lives, he realized. “Holy hell,” he said, fighting to get ba
ck on firmer ground. “Do you know if it’s done the same way on people as it is on cattle?”
“I checked into it, and human body-branding is done fairly much the same way, and it’s actually starting to gain popularity as the new tattoo. He apparently branded his victim, snapped a photo, then immediately posted it to the site.”
“Did your research on body-branding show what it involves? The bastard would need something portable that would heat up easily and fairly fast.”
“All it takes is for the symbol to be carved into a small piece of metal. It could even be a piece of jewelry, like a ring. He’d only have to heat it up with a cigarette lighter.”
Gunnar closed his eyes on a silent curse, finding he was damn close to puking out his own guts. He’d dealt with any number of arrogant criminals, crazed terrorists, power-hungry idiots, and assholes in general, but none as sick as this bastard. No wonder Katy reacted so strongly to him managing the situation—meaning her—on the paramedic call. And then, to her way of thinking, he’d judged her, which had to have felt like a betrayal.
He sighed, overcome by the need to make things right on some level. “Can you do something to shut down, or better yet get rid of, that vlog site?”
“I’m already on it.”
“Can you find out who any of the victims are?”
“I tried, but no. For as arrogantly boastful as this guy seemed, he was very careful about posting anything that could identify him or his victims.”
Gunnar silently sighed, not sure what he would have done with that information anyway. At least those poor people had their privacy. And a guy like Hanson standing guard. “Good work, man,” he said, ending the call.
He gently set his phone on the truck’s console, scrubbed his face for a good five minutes trying to erase the images roaring through his mind, then closed his eyes and dropped his head to the steering wheel. Christ, what kind of sick, unconscionable freak made a sport of targeting specific people to rape? And think about all of those victims, right now walking around with the mark of their rapist on their forearms. Talk about scarred for life; could a brand be surgically removed? Chemically peeled? Or would it require a series of skin grafts? Then again, maybe it could be disguised with a tattoo, or the symbol could at least be altered with more branding.
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