Edge of Survival Read online

  George shrieked as Daniel sliced open the other side of the waders. Cam tried to crawl up the bank, but she kept slipping in the mud. Daniel hauled her out one-handed, like a sack of grain.

  “Thanks.”

  “Here’s your hat, Dr. Young.” With a smile, Tommy held out the sodden Florida Panthers cap. Suddenly the kid looked excited and motivated. Go figure.

  She took the cap and wrung it out. “Thanks, and call me Cam.” Her teeth chattered. George was shivering, too. Daniel managed to get the guy’s waders off and threw the ruined green rubber beside the equipment coolers. Then he gently removed George’s sock.

  Cam blew out a sigh of relief when she saw his foot. The joint looked puffy and swollen, the skin reddened, but no obvious bleeding or jagged bone poking through flesh. But the foot rested at an unnatural angle that made her stomach squirm.

  “Can you wiggle your toes?” Daniel asked.

  George nodded and twitched his toes, letting out a terrific groan as he did so.

  “Pass me that rucksack,” Daniel told the kid, who once again jumped to obey orders. He slid the pack under George’s leg.

  “You got any cardboard I can use for a splint?” Daniel’s focus was one-hundred percent on the injured man, and his confidence and calm under pressure reassured her.

  She raced over and opened the coolers she used to haul her equipment.

  “And a towel or something to pad it,” he called.

  Cam grabbed a box that contained her cleanup kit and dumped the contents inside the cooler. She pulled out a foam pad she used to cushion fish during surgery. As they hadn’t done any tagging yet, it was clean. Some people might call that fortuitous.

  Daniel manipulated the foam around the leg and ankle, followed by the cardboard, and positioned it beneath George’s injured foot.

  “Hold this.”

  Both she and Tommy supported the cardboard splint around the leg while Daniel secured it with duct tape. “Tommy, get on the blower and request a helicopter ride back to the ship for you, Vikki and Katie.”

  “Why can’t I go with you?” Tommy coupled his whine with a resentful glare in Cam’s direction.

  “I’m taking George and the Doc to Nain—”

  “Why her? I can help—”

  “Non-negotiable, Tommy,” Daniel told the kid, who stomped off.

  “He can go—” Cam interrupted.

  “I was on my way over to get you anyway. The RCMP want to question us both about the body you found yesterday. We’ll drop George at the clinic and circle back to Frenchmans Bight. May as well get it over with.”

  Crap. He made it sound as though she’d discovered poor dead Sylvie on purpose, when she’d rather have peed her pants than go in that restroom if she’d known what was waiting for her. Cam didn’t want to waste time talking to the police because she didn’t know anything. The char run only lasted a few weeks, and so far she’d caught nada.

  Shame filled her.

  Sylvie Watson had been murdered and deserved her respect despite the inconvenience to her schedule. What sort of person put her career before catching a killer?

  Daniel helped George to stand. “Sorry, mate, this is going to hurt.” Then he bent and hoisted George in a fireman’s lift over one shoulder. He marched over the soggy, uneven terrain back to the helicopter as George cried out with pain.

  Cam ran over and grabbed her fanny pack and daypack with her emergency supplies. “Don’t leave any equipment behind!” she called to her crew, who were standing around looking miserable and pissed.

  “We’ve got it.” Vikki popped a stick of gum in her mouth and sat back to chew. “You watch out for the freak flying the helicopter because, personally, I’d rather take my chances in the wilderness with a knife-wielding maniac.”

  ***

  Dwight Wineberg crouched behind a tree on top of a nearby hill and watched through binoculars. They had a new drill rig in operation on the next ridge and he’d spotted the eco-freaks when he’d been dropped off earlier. The interfering bitches were making his life harder than it should be and threatening men’s jobs.

  He sniggered as George Mitchell fell in, laughed aloud as the women clambered over the rocks to rescue him. The bitch in the baseball cap looked like a drowned rat by the time she pulled George’s foot free. A strange delight uncurled in his belly, and a snort came out his nose when the old bastard dragged his crooked ankle up the riverbank. Dwight’s adjustments to the fence were working nicely.

  Maybe they’d be gone soon.

  The brunette had looked pretty shook up when she’d left the bar yesterday—not surprising, considering Sylvie had been in there decomposing. He smiled. Pity that prick of a pilot had turned up, else he might have followed her into the can and shaken her up a bit more. But it was just as well—he didn’t want his name coming up on a police report.

  Thank fuck, he always wore a condom.

  He spat out a bug that had crawled into his mouth. Dwight had never liked Sylvie. She had a tongue that could strip skin from flesh, so he usually put her mouth to better use. He’d seen her kid getting an eyeful once, but he hadn’t told her. She’d been too drunk to notice, and the nipper might as well know his mother was a whore.

  Not anymore though. Pity. They were short of beavers around here.

  The blonde sat on a rock, looking pissed. She was something else, like something out of a movie, and he knew exactly what kind of movie she’d star in if he was directin’. He licked his lips as his blood began to stir. Man, he’d like some of that.

  The buzz of the radio sent a shock straight to his heart and he grabbed his chest, cutting off the noise.

  Dammit, he didn’t have time to worry about women. He had a mine to open, men relying on him. He knew how desperate some of their families were. He’d lived it and hated it. He slipped down the rock on the opposite side of the ridge, swearing as the thick tangle of tamarack scratched him.

  Those women were in his way. He’d be damned if some overeducated dickheads would delay his mine. He had to get rid of them. Between Sylvie Watson’s corpse and a little bit of well-timed sabotage, how hard could it be?

  ***

  Daniel walked into Bear’s Bar, where laptops and law enforcement personnel had replaced the beer jugs and roughnecks. He rested his shoulder against the jamb.

  The Doc was leaning over a table as she recounted the details of how she found the body to an officer—she was so animated she used her hands as much as her mouth.

  He’d made a brief stop at the ship so she and George could pick up dry clothes, but her hair was still damp, and mad curls sprang around that cute Sunday-school-teacher face. Her skin was so pale, her freckles jumped out at him across the room.

  Shit.

  He didn’t like the way he reacted to her, especially after he’d found out she had diabetes—as though he should be constantly watching out for her. No way, no how. Getting involved was not in his arsenal of personality traits because, these days, he was barely able to look after himself.

  “Daniel Fox?”

  He pushed himself away from the doorframe and looked up to see a RCMP Constable approaching him. “Yep.”

  “We need to take your fingerprints and a voluntary DNA sample.”

  Daniel tried not to let the words affect him. He wanted Sylvie’s killer caught just as much as everyone else. But he hated being placed under suspicion and doubt, when he’d spent most of his adult life willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect innocents. Of course, given one reporter’s assassination of his last mission, most people might think he was more likely to mutilate innocents in their beds.

  “Fine.” He headed over to the bar where they had some sort of station set up. He could feel the Doc’s eyes bore holes in him as he crossed the room. What was she telling the bald guy? That he’d admitted he’d used his knife for more than chopping apples?

  How can one human being kill another?

  The memory of her words brought him out in a cold sweat because
killing had always come easily to him when sanctioned by Queen and Country. He’d never questioned it. Not the role he played, not the bad guys he’d killed. But civilians dying—now that was something else entirely. Memories of the cameraman lying on the floor with that small perfect hole in his forehead swam through Daniel’s mind like a movie he couldn’t switch off and couldn’t look away from. His throat felt sore from suppressing the constant onslaught of emotion. He wanted to stuff his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking, but didn’t have that luxury as an officer took his fingers. The whisky behind the bar sang his name. If he wasn’t on the clock, he’d have sunk a quart.

  “Nervous?” The officer asked as he rolled Daniel’s fingertips expertly across a digital screen.

  Daniel held the man’s gaze. “Only of you boys cocking it up.”

  “If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Daniel laughed without humor.

  The officer used a cotton swab to scrape the inside of Daniel’s cheek. It took all of thirty seconds to get his DNA and fingerprints into the system. Waste of time, but what the hell. As long as it eliminated him from inquiries, Daniel didn’t care. He followed the officer over to where the Doc sat.

  “Staff Sergeant Kershaw, this is Daniel Fox, the helicopter pilot, here for interview,” the officer said to the bald guy.

  Kershaw twisted around and looked Daniel up and down with the sort of sweeping gaze that reminded him of his former commanding officer—the gaze looked casual but filtered details with the efficiency of activated carbon.

  Kershaw turned back to the Doc. “Thanks, Dr. Young. You can wait outside.”

  Daniel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’ve got to be kidding?” The Doc was pale and her hands were shaking, and even though he wanted to chew up the words he spat them out anyway. “A woman had her throat cut in this bar yesterday and you’re just letting her—” he jerked his head at Cam, unable to say her name, “—wander around out there alone?”

  He sat on the bench, effectively trapping her. He pressed his fingers to her forehead but she jerked back with a scowl. “Did you get enough to drink?” he asked. “You feel hot.”

  “I’m fine.” She batted his hand away when he tried to touch her again.

  “Did you eat?” He looked at Kershaw. “I don’t want her passing out on my watch.”

  Kershaw was staring at him with curiosity in his warm brown eyes. Cam’s condition freaked Daniel out, and he didn’t know why. Except, he did. She had a vulnerability, a weakness, that could prove fatal. When she was flying with him, Cameran Young became his responsibility. Some days it didn’t matter how far you ran, other people’s problems still fucked you up.

  “Did you check your blood sugar?”

  She pressed her lips together and glanced under her lashes at Officer Kershaw, indicating that she hadn’t wanted to bring up her condition during her police interview. Jeez Louise. Talk about stubborn.

  “Do it.” Daniel set his teeth against the unexpected surge of irritation. “She’s diabetic,” he explained.

  He geared up to argue with the woman, but she surprised him by narrowing those super-green eyes and taking something out of her backpack. He didn’t know what it was until a small prick of blood bloomed on her finger. She got out a strip of paper and ran her gaze over the men.

  “You don’t need to watch,” she said.

  The RCMP Constable coughed and moved away but Daniel and Officer Kershaw followed the strip into the pink meter she pulled out, and waited for the beep.

  “Eighty-one,” she said and shoved everything back into her pack.

  “Is that good or bad?” the cop asked.

  “It’s fine. I have my lunch in here.” She tapped her bag. “I’ll just go—”

  “She can sit here and eat, right? I have to fly her back after we’re done anyway.” Daniel rested his hands on the tabletop, holding the cop’s gaze.

  “We don’t usually interview people together, Mr. Fox.” Staff Sergeant Kershaw twirled a pen between his fingers.

  “You have to excuse my mother, Staff Sergeant. She isn’t usually such a worrier…” Cam shifted as if to get up. Daniel didn’t move. If she wanted out, she’d have to climb over him.

  Kershaw grinned and something feral unwound in Daniel’s gut.

  “You want to play hide-and-go-seek with the sick bastard who sliced Sylvie, you go right ahead. But I don’t have time to search for you when I’m done.” It came out louder than he’d intended, and the ensuing silence echoed around the room.

  Everyone stared. Self-disgust wound its toxic way through his intestines and made his stomach cramp.

  “You can stay for now, Dr. Young.” Kershaw’s voice was calm and reassuring, immediately diffusing the tension.

  Daniel figured the guy would be a brilliant hostage negotiator ’cause nothing seemed to faze the sonofabitch. Kershaw turned to a fresh page in his notebook. The apprehension that had grabbed Daniel by the throat eased back a little as everyone went back about their business.

  “Talk me through what happened when you got here yesterday.”

  Cam filled a syringe and turned slightly away as she injected herself in the stomach. Daniel winced in sympathy. Kershaw glanced over too, his eyebrows knitted.

  “I arrived around 2100 hours. I gassed up on the way over and loaded some equipment down at the helo pad.” Daniel didn’t mention the beer the bartender supplied him on the sly. “I walked in here, found the Doc and her assistant sitting at that table over there talking to Dwight Wineberg, the foreman.” He pointed to the center of the room. “Then Doc went to the bathroom and a few minutes later I followed her.”

  “Why?”

  Daniel frowned. Why? He hadn’t thought about why. Instinct? And look where it had gotten him. In-fucking-volved. He shrugged. “I was ready to leave. She was taking too long.”

  “You got a protective streak, Mr. Fox?”

  In a former life. “Maybe I was hoping to get lucky.” Daniel slouched against the bench, holding the man’s gaze with a belligerent stare. The Doc stiffened as she bit into her whole-grain lunch.

  “You left the other woman alone in the bar?”

  Daniel nodded. “The place was busy and I figured Vikki Salinger could handle herself. Anyway, I knew I’d only be a minute.” He rolled a heavy shoulder.

  “You make a habit of rescuing women?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Daniel shut down his smile. Rescuing women had gotten him into this whole bloody mess in the first place. He wondered if Kershaw already knew that and was playing with him. Daniel’s company personnel file sat in front of the cop but that contained sweet FA.

  “That’s not what I heard.” The cop paused and pinned him with eyes that saw more than Daniel wanted him to see. “In fact I heard you’re pretty unpopular hereabouts because you make a habit of rescuing women.”

  Daniel suddenly understood the line of questioning. “You are kidding me.” He laughed. “Maisy?”

  “I didn’t get her name in my report. Just the fact you broke someone’s nose for giving a girl a harmless kiss.”

  Daniel’s lip drew back as anger heated his blood. “Some prick cornered her in the freezer and put his hand up her skirt.”

  “Maybe she wanted his hand up her skirt?”

  Daniel tapped his fingers on the table, unintentionally matching the beat of his heart. “Maisy has the mental age of a twelve-year-old, and that might be stretching it.” Maisy was the KP on the ship. A local girl from Nain who was getting some work experience for the summer. Daniel figured that shouldn’t include being assaulted in a walk-in freezer. He’d made it clear to the sailor what would happen if anyone touched her again. He hadn’t made any friends that day, but he didn’t need friends. “I did what anyone would have done.”

  “Not everyone agrees.”

  The Doc watched them with vivid eyes.

  “People who think raping a mentally chal
lenged girl is acceptable can go fuck themselves.” His language slipped back to army basics. The Doc’s mouth dropped open and he sighed. Miss Pollyanna Inc.

  Kershaw ignored his invective. “So you went looking for Dr. Young and then what happened?”

  “I found her racing out of the bathroom like her ass was on fire.” He frowned. The memory of that brief embrace still disconcerted him. “We went back inside. I checked the stall and saw Sylvie…and then the Doc—” he nodded awkwardly at Cam because he’d rather smoke Semtex than deal with a woman like her, “—looked like she was going to faint so we got the hell out.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Did you inform the barkeep he had a body in the restroom?”

  “I thought about it,” he admitted. “But I figured calling the cops was the best thing I could do, otherwise everyone in the place would be filing through the back checking her out.” Her. He cleared his throat. “Sylvie.”

  The miners were a rough bunch. They weren’t all bad, but it was hard, lonely graft and sometimes men forgot they were supposed to be civilized. Having spent more than a decade in the army, Daniel understood that better than most. He also knew more than one person in this camp was capable of slitting Sylvie’s throat.

  “You knew the victim?”

  He held the cop’s gaze. Figured the truth couldn’t hurt. “We had sex once.”

  The Doc crunched her granola bar.

  Kershaw raised his brows, his eyes as warm and intent as an Alsatian’s. “You were a client?”

  “No.” Tired, Daniel wiped a hand over his face. They’d both been shit-faced—hell, he didn’t remember what happened last night, let alone six weeks ago. “We hooked up in the bar in Nain my first day here. I crashed at her place.” He shrugged. He was sorry she was dead, but he hadn’t had anything to do with killing her.

  “You ever have sex with the victim in the restroom here at the bar?”

  “No.”