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  “What’s up?” asked his sergeant, Johnny Leland.

  Griff glanced sideways to see if that was some kind of smart-ass double entendre, but Johnny’s concern looked genuine.

  Griff grunted. “The usual.”

  “Marcia.” Johnny nodded shrewdly and his lip curled. “You should get the hell out of that marriage.”

  “That marriage has my kids in it,” Griff murmured, standing and holding his bag in front of his problem. He wasn’t abandoning his kids for anything.

  “You are a goddamned saint.” Johnny patted him on the back as they walked to the door of the aircraft.

  Griff grimaced. He was no saint. He was a man whose job regularly kept him away from his family. Whose wife had turned from a sweet girl who understood the importance of putting away bad guys into an embittered shrew who no longer gave a damn about killers just so long as they didn’t interfere with date night. And he understood her reasoning, he totally got it, but he could not let go of the gruesome reality of his job. He could not let go of the victims.

  He stood on the top of the steps looking out at the Labrador coast. Four-thirty a.m. Almost dawn this far north. A young officer stepped forward to take his bag but he shook his head. “I’ve got it, Constable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She was boyish looking with sharp, pointy features. One of her incisors was crooked and it made her look about twelve.

  “They hire you straight out of kindergarten?” He meant it as a compliment, but she bristled.

  “No, sir.” She was standing to full attention now.

  Political correctness was a pain in the ass. Don’t notice looks, don’t notice gender, don’t notice race—as if those things didn’t shape what you brought to the job. As if noticing details wasn’t part of his job. He sighed as he looked over the spread of houses nestled beneath the snug hills and mountains that surrounded this small coastal community. What did it feel like to live on the edge of nowhere? Of course, Marcia thought Newfoundland’s capital city was the edge of nowhere.

  “I’m twenty-five, sir.”

  A smile tugged his lips. Twenty-five had been a good age.

  Johnny Leland came down the steps behind him and gave the young officer a grin. “A rookie. This your first murder investigation, Constable?”

  “No, sir.” But her eyes said this wasn’t easy for her.

  Good. Griff didn’t relish working with rookies who were already immune to death. Johnny Leland opened his mouth to ask more questions. The guy would talk all day to a pretty woman but for once Griff pulled rank. “Take us to where we can drop our gear then we’ll head straight to the crime scene, Constable…?”

  “McCoy, sir.” She turned and started walking away at a brisk pace.

  Johnny and the rest of the team, Sergeants West and Peshavaria, and another three officers from the IDENT team went to grab their equipment. Griff had equipment of his own to deal with. This erection was pissing him off. Being manipulated by a shrink and his wife made him feel as if he’d lost control of his life and, dammit, he wanted that control back. He jogged after the young officer.

  “Medical examiner here yet?” he asked, catching up with McCoy on a gravel embankment.

  “Yes, sir. I sent her over on the chopper ten minutes ago. I’ll radio to make sure the pilot comes straight back to pick you up.”

  Good. He just needed sixty seconds of privacy to get his head in the game because no way in hell was he starting a murder investigation with concrete tackle.

  Constable McCoy braced her shoulders. “The victim is a local woman—”

  He held up one hand. “Hold it.” Her brows lowered and drew together, and he could tell she was upset with him cutting her off.

  How could he explain he didn’t want to hear about the victim in his current state? It felt disrespectful. But he could hardly tell her the truth, could he? He glanced toward the team, who were knee-deep in equipment. To hell with it.

  “Constable McCoy.” He lowered his voice and she met his gaze with a question in her eyes. “A few hours ago, I took a Viagra pill in the vain hope of making love to my wife.”

  Her eyes popped, and crimson spotted her cheeks. This whole episode could come back to bite him in the ass, but right now he didn’t care. Maybe if they suspended him for improper conduct he’d finally find the time to make his marriage work. “I’d appreciate some privacy to deal with the problem without every member of my team knowing I have ED.”

  Her mouth opened and closed without words.

  He smiled as if he hadn’t just told her his deepest, darkest secret. “So your orders are to take me to the barracks with a five-minute lead and then come back to pick up the rest of the team. Got that?”

  She nodded, rendered mute by talk of impotence. Jesus, he knew the feeling.

  “Let’s go.”

  She marched ahead of him and he shook his head as he followed her. This was the last time he took drugs of any kind. He’d rather dangle in the wind for eternity than go through this shit again. He eased into the RCMP crew cab and noticed McCoy’s hands shook as she started the engine. In the wing mirror Johnny Leland was staring after them with a frown, taking a quick step forward. “Get a move on, Constable.”

  She spun the tires when they took off and Griff held on. They sped down dirt roads, dust blowing up in their wake, local dogs barking and running after the SUV. Two minutes later they peeled up outside a neat row of townhouses.

  “I prepared the house on the far end for you and your team, sir.” McCoy pointed to the building as he undid his seatbelt. “It’s open,” she called as he got out. She gripped the steering wheel tight, a nervous set to her mouth. Maybe she thought he was going to force himself on her.

  “Can I do anything else for you, sir?”

  He raised one eyebrow and she looked stricken. Then he forced a smile and they both let out an uneasy breath.

  “You can keep my secret, Constable.” He pursed his lips, wishing he could change the fact that his wife hated him. “Apart from that? Go get the guys. I’ll see you in ten minutes at detachment HQ.” And he walked away, grateful to be alone.

  ***

  The thump of his heart was a slow, hard drum. There were a thousand ways to die. Some hurt. Some didn’t. These bastards were going to get a taste of some of the ways that did. His grip tightened on his weapon. No mercy. No negotiation. No begging for forgiveness.

  Silence saturated the predawn hour. Too early for prayer—or maybe too late. Time to say a personal hello to whichever god you worshipped. The measured pulse of his blood got faster, stronger, tapped his ribs. His breath rasped in his ears. He walked that corridor with his weapons raised, blood raging, looking for death. Excitement stirred along his arteries—danger, fear, anticipation—as potent as liquid amphetamine.

  Contact!

  Bullets bit chunks out of plaster and spat along the floor. A man wearing an Inter Milan soccer jersey fought back, but a bullet tore out his throat.

  He was the shadow of death. A woman with pretty black eyes turned toward him and he put a bullet in her head. Except it wasn’t a gun in her hand, it was a baby. Oh shit. Confusion ripped through him and his pulse exploded. He leaped to catch the baby before it hit the ground. He caught it, cradled it close to his body. The woman, now the journalist with green eyes and soft brown curly hair, reached out a hand for her child, but he pumped two bullets in her forehead.

  Daniel opened his eyes wide, his heart pounding like a pneumatic drill. Fuck. Sweat poured off his body, the inside of his mouth acrid as bile.

  “What is it?”

  The mumbled words penetrated his consciousness. A hand draped across his stomach, heavier than lead. Shit, he had company. Daniel jumped out of bed and grabbed Vikki’s clothes from the floor. He caught her hand and pulled her upright. “Out. Please. Now.”

  “What? Why? Is there a fire?” She squinted at him through bloodshot eyes as he dragged her to the door. “What are you doing?”

  His hands
were shaking. “Time to leave.”

  She swayed unsteadily on her feet. “Lemme get dressed.”

  Sweat bloomed all over his body as his blood pressure erupted and his skin felt like it was about to split. His fingers trembled so violently it took two attempts to grab the doorknob. Finally he managed to yank open the door.

  “What are you doing?” Vikki screeched and tried to scramble away.

  The corridor was empty so he pushed her out into the hall and dumped her clothes on the floor before slamming the door shut and locking it. Naked, he sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands. Great silent shudders ripped through him as he tried to breathe.

  “You sonofabitch! No one throws me out.” She hit the door with her fist. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life, fucking asshole.” And she kicked the base of the door hard enough to jar his spine.

  And still his head spun like a skydiver in freefall, and his throat constricted until he was strangling on his own panic. He crawled to the desk and pulled a paper bag from the bottom drawer, jammed it over his mouth and lay on the floor wanting to die.

  ***

  The man moved away from the river, following an ancient path through low spruce. He sat on a clump of cotton grass, the breath wheezing in and out of his chest in emphysemic pants. Goddamned skunk-rat was here all right. He’d found tracks and what was left of a rank-scented moose carcass. Sylvie hadn’t been lying when she’d tried to blackmail him. He took a moment to try to grasp what it meant.

  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.

  Chapter Four

  The Team Works The Royal Navy

  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.