by Tara Moss
That’s what they wanted to be. The finest.
And that’s what Andy wanted to be too.
As he walked through the darkened Hogan streets, Andy Flynn was riddled with selfdoubt. But then again, at that moment he had good reason to be. He was about to do something foolish.
By 10.00 pm he was settled into his modest room, reclining on the bed. He looked at his bare feet hanging over the edge and noted they were not his best asset. Once, in a state of extreme passion, Makedde Vanderwall had kissed his toes. He never quite understood how she managed that, but he’d liked it. That woman was capable of all kinds of surprises.
Focus…
The duvet was peeled back and he lay on top of the sheets dressed only in his boxer shorts. The room was cool, but he felt hot. A trace of perspiration beaded on his chest.
Mak.
Thankfully, he had managed to secure a separate dormitory room at Quantico this time around, and at this moment he was particularly grateful for it. It would have been embarrassing to have to ask another officer, or an agent, to leave the room while he made this call.
An overstuffed Filofax rested on his trim stomach. Mak had kissed that too, but it was best not to think about that now. He opened the address portion and flipped to “V”, then closed his eyes for a moment and once again considered the wisdom of what he was doing. Just call. He propped the pages up and scanned the row of addresses. There she was. Second entry on the right-hand side.
Andy only had the number for her father’s place on Vancouver Island, but he knew she often spent her weekends there. Perhaps he’d be in luck. He rested the book in his lap and raised his index finger to the keypad on the phone, then hesitated.
Should I?
It had been almost a year since he’d last seen Makedde, and things had been messy. Although they’d spoken on the phone a couple of times at the beginning of the year, that was a far cry from seeing each other face to face. He wasn’t sure how she would react to the prospect of seeing him.
He knew he couldn’t put the call off any longer though. He would be attending a conference at the University of British Columbia in a couple of weeks. One of his mentors, Dr Bob Harris, a Profiler with the FBI, was flying up to do a presentation on psychopathy and crime scene analysis. He had invited Andy to come along. That was how he had first heard about it. The conference would also feature a talk from highly respected psychopath expert Dr Robert Hare, who was a Professor Emeritus at the university. The “Two Bobs” knew each other well.
The problem was that the University of British Columbia also happened to be where Makedde Vanderwall was studying. Of course, this wasn’t really a problem as he saw it, but rather a good excuse to re-establish contact.
Until now, Andy had procrastinated over whether or not to tell Makedde about his visit, but the UBC conference was fast approaching. Mak had done her Masters in Forensic Psychology, and there was more than a good chance that she would be attending the conference herself. He knew it would not be considered appropriate to just show up and surprise her, so he thought he’d call first.
Although he was looking forward to the conference, for the most part it was likely to be material he’d heard before. He had attended Dr Hare’s guest lectures at Quantico and he was quite familiar with the profiling techniques his friend Dr Harris would present. The truth was, he wanted to see Makedde. Finally they were on the same continent. This was the closest to her that he had been for a long time, and as the distance between them shrank, his urge to see her had grown. If nothing else, seeing her again might get her out of his system. Perhaps seeing her would be a let-down, the spark gone.
Not likely.
His mind was suddenly filled with her, memories of Makedde grinning, playful and exciting. The weekend they spent together was impossible to forget—entwined in her bed, making love at all hours, lost in ecstasy as the candles slowly burned to the floor. And then…
Then it all went wrong.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The phone emitted a rhythmic pulse.
Andy realised that his finger was still poised over the number pad. He shook his head, pulling back from that vivid memory and hung up the receiver.
He picked it up again.
Mak.
Hesitation.
Maybe I should cancel my spot at the conference and forget all about it?
Instead he dialled.
He was unsure of what exactly he should say to her if she answered. Don’t mention anything at first about flying over for the conference, he told himself, just chat a bit, feel things out. He eyed the entry in his Filofax, staring transfixed at her name.
Makedde Vanderwall—her name, her photo, her vulnerable body in the hands of that sadistic bastard. I find her, blood everywhere, she’s bleeding on the bed, tied up and naked, and that bastard is grinning at me, he knows who I am, he taunts me and I aim and fire, tunnel vision, all I see is his perverted grin, everything else a blur, I aim for the heart, I pull the trigger, I shoot to kill, but…
“Hello?” A male voice.
“Uh—” Andy hesitated, restraining a jealous reflex. He wondered if the voice belonged to one of Makedde’s boyfriends. Did she have a boyfriend? Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“This is Andy Flynn calling, is Makedde Va—”
“Ahhh, Detective Flynn.”
“Mr Vanderwall?” It was her father.
Of course it’s her father, it’s his house, you fool.
“Hello, Mr Vanderwall. Please, just call me Andy, sir.”
“Call me Les.” There was a pause. “How are you?”
He’d almost forgotten that west-coast Canadian accent. It was quite different from the twang down in Virginia.
“I’m well, Les. Thank you.”
“Good.”
Another pause. That voice. Andy heard it for the first time in a hospital room in Sydney. He had met Les Vanderwall while Mak slept, bruised and full of stitches.
“It’s been a while,” Les said. Andy detected a tone of reserve.
“Yes, it has,” he replied awkwardly. The line was rough with static. And there was a delay that made the moment seem more uncomfortable than it really was. With all the technology at the FBI’s disposal, he would have thought the phone line would have been clearer.
“So, how have you been?” Andy said, trying not to ask for her right away.
“Very well, thanks. I suppose you want to talk to Mak?”
“Yes, if—”
“Well, she’s not around.” Andy’s heart sank. “I expect her soon, though. She’s coming across for the weekend.”
Good. He didn’t have the number for her flat in Vancouver, and he wasn’t about to ask for it. He checked his watch. Just after ten o’clock in Virginia. That meant it would be seven in the evening on Vancouver Island. How late would she be arriving? What should he say now?
Makedde’s father beat him to it. “How’s the case coming along?”
“Well, it looks like it’ll take some time. There’s a lot of evidence to compile—”
“A lot of victims,” Les said.
Andy felt a familiar pang of guilt.
Yes, too many. Too many victims.
Les Vanderwall was a retired detective inspector, and as with most in his line of work, this new phase was, for all intents and purposes, a mere technicality. Andy knew that Les had done some digging around on his daughter’s behalf. He would have done the same thing if he were Makedde’s father. But he hadn’t wanted to talk about the Stiletto Murders with Les—not a good idea to discuss any case with a key witness’s father.
He is a victim’s father, Andy.
As soon as the thought came to him, Andy recalled Makedde’s voice, cracking with emotion. “I’m a survivor, Andy. Not a victim. Don’t ever call me a victim.”
An uncomfortable pause.
The crackle of the line.
“It’s in very capable hands,” Andy assured him.
“You aren’t handling it yourself?”
That was information Mr Vanderwall would already know. Andy was sure of it.
“I’m doing some training at the FBI Academy at the moment,” he said. “We’re putting together a new Profiling Unit in New South Wales.”
“Really?”
“I have a very good chance of heading one of the divisions in the unit.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Andy noted the lack of enthusiasm. “I will be involved in the trial, Mr Vanderwall. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll make sure your daughter’s treated with as much sensitivity as possible.”
Les didn’t respond. Courtrooms were not sensitive places. They both knew that.
“Well, I’ll tell Makedde you called,” Mr Vanderwall finally said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Les.”
“Of course. Thank you, Les. Perhaps I’ll try again sometime tomorrow.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Andy hung up and exhaled. He flopped back against the headrest and folded his arms, the Filofax still in his lap.
In the cold room he was slick with sweat.
CHAPTER 3
The Pat Bay Highway was dark, the trees on the roadside silhouetted against the night sky. Makedde drove fast from Swartz Bay, white lines flashing by her on both sides, the remaining ferry traffic dotting the road behind her in a moving sea of headlights. Zhora, her turquoise 1969 Dodge Dart Swinger, needed a little prompting to get above eighty, but once she was there, she hummed along with the best of them.
Makedde felt that vehicles, especially older ones, deserved names. Before her Dart she’d had a Volkswagen Bug named Bette Davis. She had chosen the name of her current car as a reference to the ill-fated Nexus 6 Replicant in one of her favourite films. “She’s trained for an off-world Kick Murder Squad,” Bladerunner had said of her. “Talk about beauty and the beast…she’s both.” That was Zhora the Replicant. Zhora the car on the other hand was a temperamental, two-door, hardtop classic, with an original slant-six engine and leather bench seats—another kind of beauty and the beast. She was a rare find in original, though not perfect, condition. One day Makedde planned to fix her up and maybe sell her to a Dart collector, but that day didn’t look like it was coming soon. There was still too much to do.
In the past year she had learnt all about the inner workings of cars. Unlike some of her other resolutions—learning to fence, speak Mandarin, juggle—she had reason to make it a top priority. Never again would she rely on someone else to fix her problems. Never again would she find herself caught out with a bonnet up and no idea of what she was looking at.
Mak negotiated Zhora through the residential suburb of Victoria and turned into Tiffany Street. At the end of the block, she pulled up at a two-storey Tudor-style house, similar in design to many in the area.
Her father’s house.
It used to be the family home. The home of Les and Jane Vanderwall and their two daughters, Theresa and Makedde. A family. Now its sole occupant was a widowed retiree, growing old alone.
The lights were on in the house when she pulled up. Almost every light, in fact. Despite the knowledge that her father had been very frugal with electricity when she was growing up, she was sure he was the only one in the house tonight. Makedde suspected this new habit was a way of coping with the loneliness of the place—lights on, the TV talking softly in another room. She remembered the time she discovered the radio left on in her mother’s workroom downstairs, and she realised for the first time that the wooden easel was still sitting out—her mother’s painting of the sandpipers on the beach, forever unfinished.
Makedde parked Zhora in the driveway—her father’s white Lancer was tucked away out of sight in the garage—and made her way around to the trunk to fish out her overnight bag. A thin line of rust marred the turquoise paint near the rear fender. She looked at it and frowned.
Must fix that.
With her bag in tow and two heavy psychology textbooks under one arm, she walked through the front door her father had left unlocked for her. The warm smell of potatoes and hot butter greeted her as she entered. She heard the crackle of something frying on the stove.
“Hey, Dad!” she called in a loud voice. She put down her things and kicked her Blundstones off on the landing, leaving them in a heap beside some other, more neatly placed shoes. Not enough shoes, she thought. Three pairs in a neat row, all for the same two feet.
Her dad appeared at the top of the stairs wearing tan Eddie Bauer slacks and a Roots sweatshirt. The words “ROOTS CANADA” were written across it in big letters with the clothing label’s crest of a beaver sitting beneath them. She once wore a Roots shirt in Australia, before it was pointed out to her that “root” has a very different meaning down-under. And as for the beaver…
“It’s almost nine. You haven’t had dinner yet?” she asked. He usually ate before seven.
“I thought I’d wait. Have you eaten?”
“Well, not really.” She padded up the carpeted stairs in stockinged feet and met him at the top with a big hug. “The BC ferries don’t really have that whole food thing down pat, I don’t think. Spew with a view.” “Oh, Makedde, it’s not that bad,” he said, ever the diplomat.
“The buffet’s okay, I suppose.” Mak looked at her father. At six foot two, he was slightly taller than his leggy eldest daughter. He was still handsome in his mid-fifties, and had every single hair left on his head—and the silver-grey colour it had turned over the years seemed to suit his striking, Paul Newman-like eyes. He seemed thinner every time she saw him though, and that worried her. He’d been losing weight since her mother died.
They ate dinner at the small round table in the kitchen, leaving the dining room to continue its task of collecting dust. He’d fixed a garlicky iceberg lettuce Caesar salad and a plate of potatoes and sausage. His cooking had slowly improved over the past year. The sausage actually tasted pretty good, which reminded Mak of how far she had strayed from her teenage vegetarian model days.
“How have you been? You look a little tired,” he said.
She looked up from her food. “I’ve been fine. Studying a lot. Oh, by the way, I’ve got another shoot next week. Department store catalogue crap, but they’re using a good photographer. Should pay the bills.” “That’s good. You better get some sleep before then. You look pretty worn-out.”
Oh, thanks.
“Please, stop with the compliments, you’re embarrassing me,” she said. “I’m fine, Dad. The shoot today was just a bit of a drag, that’s all. It was for a billboard, but still…‘Last shot, last shot…’ If I hear that once more I think I’ll scream.”
He looked at her fixedly.
“I’m fine,” she repeated. She hoped he wouldn’t start on the whole “insomnia thing” again.
“Hmmm,” her father mumbled, sounding unconvinced. He brought a forkful of potato to his mouth and stared through the placemat as he chewed. Something was on his mind. Les Vanderwall rarely made such observations as light conversation. It wasn’t his style. Perhaps it was because he had conducted too many interrogations, but the ex-detective inspector had a knack for pointed statements and loaded questions. As casual as he made it sound, the topic was not about to go away without being discussed further.
They ate for a few minutes in silence, but Mak sensed that there was a question her father wanted to ask. It made her tense. Finally she took the bull by the horns and asked, “What’s up?”
“I was talking with a friend of mine recently about the way people react to stress, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and so on…we saw a lot of it in the police force…”
Oh, here we go.
“Yes, I’m familiar with it. And?”
“And, Makedde, I’m worried. I was wondering if you had considered seeing someone about the incident in Sydney?”
The “incident in Sydney”. That’s how everyone referred to it.
“Considered seeing someo
ne? I believe ‘psychological therapy’ is the term you’re looking for.”
“Just to talk it out with someone. Someone unbiased and experienced in these areas. You said yourself that you probably should.” The furrow in his brow formed twin exclamation marks and his eyes were filled with real concern.
“That was an off-hand comment I made a year ago, but I didn’t end up needing therapy, and I still don’t. Nothing has changed. I’m fine. There’s no need to worry, Dad. I assure you, I’m totally fine.” She looked at the food cooling on her plate. “I just can’t see the point of rehashing all that stuff unnecessarily, especially now. I went over it with the police God knows how many times. Besides, there was that counsellor in Sydney as you may recall. I talked about it with her. That was enough…”
Her appetite performed a Houdini and she was left staring at a dinner of half-eaten dead flesh. From the recesses of her memory she got a flash of a mutilated corpse and immediately felt the hot sensation that precedes a fever. She blinked the vision away and concentrated on sipping from her glass of water. The glass felt refreshingly cold against her fingertips and the water she poured down her throat settled her down. Her right big toe began to tingle, exactly where the microsurgeon had sewn it back on. She ignored it.
“Mak, you talked with that counsellor for a whole hour.”
That was true.
She changed her focus, pushing any thoughts of Sydney back into a dark box and slamming the lid shut.