Edge of Survival (4 page)

The sun was barely up but sweat ran under his armpits. The caustic odor of his own dread smothered him. He was scared. His plans, his hopes could be destroyed, made worthless, by these goddamn sneaky little bastards.

Slowly, he steadied his breath. His heart stopped battering his chest, and the fresh breeze cooled his skin. He sat quietly and tried to absorb energy from the new day’s sun. He glanced left and spotted more tracks embedded in a damp patch of coarse earth. Timber wolves. Maybe those predators would do the job for him, but even they avoided the Evil One when possible.

He wiped his brow with an old handkerchief, calmer now. It was okay. No one knew. No one else cared. He’d set a trap. He was clever. He’d been hunting and trapping for decades—no way was some varmint going to get the better of him, not when he had so much to lose. He stood and picked up his gun. See if he could figure out where the creature denned up. Then he’d kill it.

He wasn’t looking forward to it. It was dangerous. He rested the barrel against his shoulder and wondered, not for the first time, why everything had to be so damn complicated.

***

Cam stabbed a 29-gauge needle into her thigh and injected long-acting insulin to provide a basal dose for the day. Her blood sugar control was tight—A1c’s ranging in the high 5s and low 6s. She was not going to let this condition beat her. She might die of heart disease, but not until she was eighty, thank you very much. She had plans, not least proving to her family she was just as capable of living her life as they were.

Sylvie Watson’s grisly corpse flashed through her mind and her stomach roiled.

All the planning in the world couldn’t save you from a blade across the jugular. With a shudder, Cam did up her pants and filled a syringe with short-acting insulin to take care of breakfast.

There was a knock on the door and before she could open her mouth to answer, Daniel Fox barged in.

“What the hell are you doing?” He grabbed her wrist and wrenched the syringe from her fingers.

Her jaw dropped. “What do you mean, what am I doing? What are
you
doing?” She lunged, but he held the needle against the ceiling, far above her head. “Give it back!” she gritted out, trying to keep the volume down because it was barely light outside.

Furious, she gripped his shoulder and danced on tiptoes, trying to reach her medication. They were pressed so tight together she could smell his toothpaste and feel the heat of his skin. His eyes held hers, angry; her nails punished his skin.

“I didn’t peg you for a junkie,” he said.

She forced herself to let go, to stand back and take a fortifying breath. “I was about to inject myself with insulin, you moron.”

“You’re diabetic?” He jerked back as though she was contagious.

“I have diabetes. You don’t call someone with cancer ‘cancerous,’ do you?” She moved closer again, trying to reach the syringe, but he quickly backed away. “You can’t catch it, numb nuts.”

Daniel ignored her, examined a vial of Humalog from the small beer fridge she’d shipped out with the heavier equipment last week. The first mate had helped her move the fridge from the laboratory last night.

She tried to squeeze between him and her stuff but this time he stayed put and it was like trying to move a brick wall. She set her jaw and narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t any of your business.”

“Not my business?” His nostrils flared. “Of all the reckless and irresponsible things to do.”

“This from the guy who last night demonstrated how to kill with minimum bloodshed and maximum pain?”

“Who’s going to fly you to hospital if you fall into a coma?” His lip curled. “I don’t want to have to save your ass every day.”

Cold rage curled her fists. His words stirred up all the prejudice and ignorance she’d grown up with, all the well-intentioned people who’d tried to protect her but ended up suffocating her in the process. “Nothing is going to happen to me that couldn’t happen to anyone else.”

The image of Sylvie Watson arced between them, and bitterness stirred in Cam’s chest.

“What the hell do you want me to do? Sit around waiting to die?” She was
not
defined by her disease. She was smart. She was logical. She was disciplined. She stabbed her fingers in the direction of her supplies. “I have everything I need. Insulin, needles, syringes, glucose tablets, candy, glucose meters, batteries, emergency glucagon kits, the lot.”

Glittering eyes told her he didn’t believe her. Or didn’t care.

She planted her hands on his chest and shoved. His irises flared in surprise, but he didn’t go anywhere.

“So far,” she pointed out, breathing hard and trying to rein in her temper, “the only thing that has happened to me has been
you
.” She held out her palm for the syringe he’d taken.

He caught her wrist and placed the hypodermic carefully in her hand. His fingers were warm as he folded hers over the cold plastic. “Despite what you might think, Doc, I’m not the most dangerous thing out here.”

Conscious of his watchful gaze, she turned away, hitched up her T-shirt and pinched the skin beside her belly button, injecting herself quickly and efficiently. Like it was no big deal. Like she enjoyed being a freak show.

His voice was gentle in the dawn shadows. “A million things can go wrong in a place as isolated as this.”

His concern disturbed her more than his manhandling. She didn’t like it. “A bit like flying, huh?”

He looked unimpressed with her argument and with her in general. She brushed past him to put the needle into the sharps tin. It was impossible to avoid such a large obdurate male in her tiny cabin so she didn’t bother trying. He was the one in her space anyway.

He turned back to her supplies and picked up two vials. “Why the different types of insulin?”

Most people didn’t think to ask. It irked her that he did. “They work at different rates,” she explained, grabbing a sweatshirt to ward off the sudden chill.

“And what’s this?” He pointed to one of the three emergency glucagon kits she’d packed, even though she’d never needed one in her life. But even she’d acknowledged she was hundreds of miles from the nearest hospital, and dying ranked dead last on her list of top one-thousand things to do.

“They’re like diabetic epi-pens, in case of coma.” She didn’t want to talk about her condition any longer. “Why are you here?”

His eyes flicked over the top bunk, and a wave of disappointment washed over her. He was looking for Vikki. Of course he was looking for Vikki. Wearily Cam sat on a chair by the door and pulled on her boots. “She’s not here. I thought she was with you.”

“Me?” His eyes were deep blue like the ocean and hid secrets just as effectively, but he didn’t fool her.

“Yes,
you
, Mr. Fox. I have diabetes, not terminal stupidity.”

“I never said you were stupid.” A small crease formed between his brows as he held her gaze.

“Just ‘reckless’ and ‘irresponsible,’ which seems like the pot calling the kettle black,” she muttered under her breath.

“Except I can go for days without shooting up.” He strode to the door just as she climbed to her feet and suddenly they found themselves staring at one another warily. His features were straight and even—except for the nose—his eyelashes long and thick. One vivid blue iris had a swatch of brown near the top, like a shadow, but the imperfection was a foil to all that rugged male beauty and just made him more handsome. His gaze drifted over her face and landed on her lips. She was pretty sure he did it by rote and not as a result of irresistible attraction.

He turned away, rested his hand on the doorknob, hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying, “Try not to trip over any dead bodies today.”

“Roger that.” She forced herself to sound chipper. “Try not to trip over your enormous ego on the way out.”

And as he walked away she swore she heard him laughing.

The smell was overpowering as decomposition progressed, and flies buzzed within the claustrophobic enclosure. The dead girl, Sylvie Watson, was propped ignominiously on top of the white porcelain toilet. Griff left the victim in the tender hands of the medical examiner, who was going about her business with meticulous care. He walked back into the bar, trying to get the odor out of his nostrils, knowing it was impossible.

“I want a list of everyone who was here yesterday afternoon,” Griff told the barkeep. “Everything you can remember. What time they arrived, what time they left. Whether they ever caused trouble or visited Sylvie Watson for business.”

“It’d be quicker telling you who wasn’t here and who didn’t…cause trouble.” The man’s Newfoundland accent sounded almost Irish but Griff was used to it after a decade on the Rock. The barman wiped a cloth over the countertop. “I didn’t even know she was in Frenchmans Bight, let alone in the bar. She must have come in the back way, but she never bought a drink and that ain’t like her.”

Griff turned to assess the situation. The local police force was small, only five fulltime officers, and didn’t have the manpower to run this investigation. They’d assigned him Constable McCoy and offered help with evidence collection, searches and interviewing witnesses. From the looks of the place and the delicacy of the situation, he was going to need all the help he could get.

The relative lack of blood told Griff this wasn’t the primary crime scene. The IDENT team had cordoned off the area that led to the woods behind the bar, but there were so many footprints, it was impossible to identify individual tracks. He needed to organize a search of the surrounding area, but given the manpower and limitless bush, he didn’t figure he was going to get lucky any time soon. He’d requested dogs but there’d been an earthquake in Mexico and most K9 SAR units had flown down to assist with the search for survivors.

The vic weighed a hundred pounds wet. If the killer was fit and strong he could have carried the body for quite a distance. But the girl’s father had reported his ATV missing, and Griff would bet his pension that was probably how the killer had transported her body. Which meant the primary crime scene could be anywhere in the twenty-odd miles between here and Nain.

They needed to find that vehicle.

They needed to search this camp.

Johnny Leland sat at a small table with his laptop, running names via the Canadian Police Information Center, CPIC, looking for criminal records. They’d requested a list of employees from the mine company and its subcontractors, which covered ninety-nine percent of personnel onsite. Griff still needed to interview the man and woman who’d found the body.

Constable McCoy appeared at his side. “The ME is ready to transport the body, sir.” She blushed every time she caught his eye, and the boys thought she had a crush on him. It was a better fantasy than the reality.

The IDENT team stood by, waiting to process the scene.

“Good job, Constable.” He guided her into a corner of the bar where they could talk privately. “You knew the victim?”

She nodded. Her skin was pale, and dark circles under her eyes emphasized a pair of almost colorless irises.

“Everyone knew Sylvie.” That was a telling statement. “It’s a small town and she had problems.”

“What sort of problems?”

“Drugs, alcoholism, prostitution.” McCoy jammed her fingers together “But she was trying to clean up her act because of her kid.”

She had a kid?
Jesus.

A headache began to pound his head. If it wasn’t for the sensitive nature of the proposed billion-dollar mine project, he wouldn’t even have been assigned this case. Prostitutes ranked low on the scales of justice. And an aboriginal prostitute…? The local police would have dealt with it whether they had the resources or not. But the federal government was bending over backward to please the Nunatsiavut government because no one wanted to risk them boycotting the mine deal. Lady Justice wasn’t always blind.

“Where’s the child now?”

“He’s with his grandparents in Nain. Sylvie lived with them—her father converted the space above their garage so she had a place of her own.”

“When was the last time they saw her?”

“Day before yesterday Sylvie and her mother went berry picking. Her mother said everything seemed good, better than good, because Sylvie wasn’t using and wasn’t drunk. But when they got up yesterday morning, Sylvie was gone and so was their ATV, sir.”

“Call me Griff.”

Her eyes slid away. “Yes, sir.”

He let it go. “What can you tell me about the family?”

She inched closer to his ear. Griff could smell the newness of her uniform.

“Sylvie’s mother takes care of the child. Her brothers and sisters moved away for school and never came back. The father spent the night in a cell once after a bar fight…”

“You think Sylvie’s father might have had something to do with her death?”

McCoy’s lips pulled into a grimace as she nodded. “It’s possible, but Roblin wouldn’t let me bring him in for questioning.”

“Your boss was right. The guy just lost his kid. If he didn’t kill her he’ll be devastated.”

She set her shoulders to argue but he carried on talking.

“I know the stats, McCoy, but let’s gather the evidence before we go making accusations. She was a prostitute—a high-risk profession.”

“It doesn’t make it right.” Her jaw was mutinous.

“I never said it was right,” he replied quietly. He didn’t have time to argue his methods or ethics. He wanted to get home so he could fail at his marriage some more.

A gurney started through the bar with a bone-rattling shake.

“Peshavaria,” Griff shouted. “I want you to accompany the body to Goose Bay and stay for the autopsy. Process any evidence and send it to the lab. Stay until it’s done.”

The ME came around the corner with a tired shuffle. “I’ll do the autopsy as soon as we get to the morgue.” She looked exhausted and pulled off her cap to reveal short-cropped silver hair.

Griff blinked. She wasn’t that old but her hair was completely silver, as if she’d been dipped in mercury. Well shit, he’d gone bald at thirty. Go figure. “Got anything for us, Doctor? Time of death?”

“
Livor mortis
suggests she’s been dead at least twelve hours. She’s still in full
rigor
and she was found at approximately 9 p.m. last night, which combined with body temp suggests TOD between noon and 6 p.m., yesterday. From the angle of the knife wound, you’re
probably
looking at a right-handed killer.”

“Sexual assault?”

“It’s too early to say for sure.” She had silver eyes too, and enough crinkles around her eyes to induce empathy.

“Thanks. Keep me posted, right?” He included Sergeant Peshavaria in that comment and nodded to the guy as he followed the ME out the door.

“Charlie Watson said he was home with his wife all day,” McCoy said quietly.

“Any reason to think he’s lying?” Griff asked, planting his hands on his hips.

McCoy hiked her trousers up skinny hips. There was no spare flesh to keep them up and they kept sliding down under the weight of her equipment belt. “No. But it only takes an hour with an ATV to get here from Nain, with plenty of bush in between to dispose of the murder weapon. You need to question him.”

Something about her lack of faith in his abilities made him smile. Most of his team treated him like God.

“This isn’t my first time out, Constable.” He held her gaze until she blinked. “Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing.”

She started to stammer an apology, but he didn’t have time.

“Trent. Johnny. Over here,” he called. “I want you on the ground looking for Sylvie Watson’s father’s ATV.” He cocked an eyebrow at Constable McCoy. “Who do we need to talk to to get permission to search the camp? Will we need warrants?”

“Dwight Wineberg, mine foreman.” She adjusted her cap. “They said they’d cooperate, sir.” Fierce color flagged her cheeks again. She reminded him of his fourteen-year-old daughter without the braces. Or the drama.

Griff beckoned his team closer and they formed a conspiratorial circle. “I want you to check all vehicles around here for any blood trace.”

“What type of vehicles?” Johnny asked in a low voice.

“Anything with wheels.”

“What about aircraft?” Trent Weston was a six-foot, six-inch ex-border patrol guard.

Griff shook his head. “I don’t see how someone could move a body from the landing area to here in broad daylight without being spotted.”

“A helicopter could have flown the other side of that ridge, dropped the body in the bush and then landed here.” Trent put in.

“But why bother?” Griff rubbed his ridged brow. “Why not dump her in the woods where the wildlife would take care of the evidence and we might never have found her?”

“They wanted her found,” McCoy stated with sudden insight.

They all nodded.

Griff didn’t like that potential twist to this case. Killers rarely wanted the body found unless they were trying to make a statement. And killers making a statement rarely stopped with one victim. A shout at the front door caught his attention.

McCoy checked her shoulder and then turned back. “Dwight Wineberg. Foreman at Harrison-Wolff Mining Company. He’s the guy in charge of Frenchmans Bight. Nothing happens around here that Dwight doesn’t know about.”

Griff nodded. “Bring him in, Constable. Get him to sign approval forms for the searches and then I’ll interview him.”

***

“This sucks.” Vikki had been in a pissy mood all morning, but now Cam was right there with her. It didn’t help that she’d given herself a headache by clamping down on asking questions about where Vikki had spent last night.

It was none of her business.

Cam stepped into the shallow water, slipping over boulders and skull-sized rocks toward the fish-trap in the center of the river.

Arctic char swam out of the river and into the sea when the ice melted in May. The fish fed in the sea and then swam back upriver to spawn in July and August the same year. Theoretically, Cam was supposed to be catching the ones heading back upriver to spawn. Unfortunately,
theoretical
was all she’d caught.

“George,” Cam shouted to George Mitchell, the mine company’s biologist, “the reason we don’t have any fish in the trap is there are holes in the counting fence.” She pointed to a broken strut that created a three-inch gap.

“That’s impossible…” George sloshed into the river to peer into the crystal-clear depths.

“Tell that to the fish,” Cam said as another teleost wiggled through the metal bars.

George was in his fifties, a tall gangly man who didn’t seem to know what to do with his arms. As a consultant with thirty years’ experience, he’d been responsible for the construction of the counting fence, but from the broken blood vessels on his nose, Cam suspected he spent more time researching the bottom of a whisky bottle.

She swatted a mosquito that tried to bite through her bug jacket. The air was thick with insects in this swampy expanse near the mouth of the river. The only things worse than the mosquitoes were the black flies that burrowed along fabric seams, hunting for exposed skin. She’d left the hood of her bug jacket unzipped. The mesh obscured her vision, and after finding Sylvie Watson yesterday she was too spooked to lose her peripheral vision. Plus, there were bears in this part of the wilderness, lots of bears, taking advantage of the short, sharp northern summer. Cam didn’t want to be surprised by five hundred pounds of
Ursus americanus
looking for a calorific boost.

Even smothered in DEET, she was conscious of the awful crawly sensation of insects biting her flesh.

The humidity not only popped sweat on her skin, it also turned her hair into steel wool. Tempers were as ragged as the fence. So far Cam hadn’t put her hands on a single fish, and her dreams of getting the project off to a speedy start were disappearing as fast as the char. She tried to wrestle another broken spike out of the fence, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Let me do it.” George grabbed it and wrenched the strut free. “There are more in a pile just over that hill.” He flapped his hand in the general direction of the swamp, but Cam was sick of people watching her do all the work.

“Great.” She tugged her ball cap low over her eyes and stood her ground in the thigh-deep water.

“Tommy!” With an impatient look, George shouted to one of the two assistants the mine company had provided, both summer students from Memorial University in St. John’s. “Go get us some of these, please.” He brandished the broken metal rod in the air but Tommy, an eighteen-year-old who wore the habitual expression of a vegetarian forced to eat liver, didn’t shift. Katie, the fifth person in their merry band of wildlife warriors, stood and clambered clumsily over the marshy grass while Tommy stared sullenly at his boots.

The little shit.

George was now examining each and every strut—something he should have done yesterday, or the day before, or even last frickin’ week. Cam took a few deep breaths through her nose. So far, according to Murphy’s Law, everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.

Katie stumbled back over the hill with a couple of new stakes. At least the girl showed some initiative.

“Bring them over here.” Cam gestured, determined to take control of this project and get it back on track.

George muttered as he found another broken strut. The fence shook as he wrenched the offending metal free, but then he cried out and fell back into the water and plunged beneath the surface.

Holy crap!

Cam’s heart banged into high gear. She rushed over and caught his grasping fingers, trying to haul his head above the water. In his panic he pulled her under, cold flashing across her skin as water filled her waders. Fifty pounds heavier, she clambered to her feet, yanking on George’s arm to try and jerk him upright. Vikki, bless her, had rushed into the river and was supporting George’s head above the water.

“My ankle! Oh God! I think it’s broken.” George’s skin was white, his fingernails biting into Cam’s wrists. His foot was trapped beneath a boulder and his face twisted in agony. His hip-waders had filled with water, and the current kept dragging him beneath the surface. Damn. The man could drown if they couldn’t get his foot free. No way Cam could cope with two dead people in two days.