The bartender pointed back toward the entrance, barely raising his eyes from the mug he was polishing. She thanked him politely-with no obvious accent-and off she went.

The Hunter followed her, moving across the room quietly, one hand in his pocket and his head slightly slumped as if he were tired. He stuck close to the wall, inconspicuous.

The restrooms were in the direction of the phones, and he knew he would be able to hear the young woman's conversation if he listened through the men's room door. When he rounded the corner he raised his eyes ever so briefly and caught a glimpse of the bank of phones and the woman dialling. He entered the men's, which thankfully was empty. Good. He held his hands against the inside of the door, his ear flat against the hollow imitation wood panel.

"Brian? Brian, if you're there, pick up," he heard her say. "Pick up, please." Pause. "Pleeease." Pause. "Look, I'm at the pub. Where are you? Brian, I-" She stopped mid-sentence and let out a frustrated huff. The Hunter peeked around the door to see what she would do next. The girl hung up the receiver and fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for change. She had to pull up her jacket to get at her back pocket, and he caught a flash of pale skin. The girl found a quarter and redialled.

"Brian, it's Debbie again..." She stole a look at her watch and threw her hand in the air when she saw the time. "It's eight-forty already. I don't know how long I'll stick around, but..." She trailed off. "Just get here."

The Hunter waited until she hung up and quickly stepped out behind her.

"Hey, Debbie? I thought that was you..."

Many hours later, Debbie Melmeth woke to an unsettling quiet. It was so quiet she felt as though she had drowned and was tangled in weeds, wrapped up and trapped underwater in a freezing lake.

Nothing.

A breath.

It was her own breathing and it was ragged. She opened her mouth to see if water would come in. It didn't. She hadn't drowned. She wasn't dead.

She rolled her head to the side and tried to keep her eyes open. She was disoriented. Everything felt terribly wrong, and she didn't know why. The silence around her was disturbingly foreign. Even so, as she struggled back into consciousness, her ears began to pick up sounds. They were small, mysterious sounds, but they were something.

Debbie wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. She felt dizzy and drunk. She remembered that Brian hadn't been at the bar. She had called him and he wasn't home. But there was a charming man there. He spoke to her. She must have drunk a lot after that. Did he buy her drinks? Something was wrong. Her inebriated mind could not fully comprehend her circ.u.mstances, but she knew something was definitely wrong.

She tried to relax and concentrate on her breathing. She didn't know how long she stayed that way, listening to her own breathing, her mind spinning slowly in circles, taking in her body's confused signals, before she heard a new sound.

Clink.

Clink-clink.

It seemed to be coming from another room.

Her eyes did not want to focus, but she could make out that she was sitting in a chair in some kind of dimly lit room. It smelled odd, unfamiliar.

She heard the clinking again and fought a wave of nausea. She felt the urge to laugh, but a great blanket of blackness leapt up inside her and shut off the lights. Unconsciousness stopped her short.

Some time later, she tried to speak. She knew someone was there, someone who would know what was wrong with her, someone with answers, and she tried to ask, "What am I doing here?" It took all her effort to form the sentence, but still, the result was little more than a slurred string of incoherent vowels and consonants.

"Whhaaaayeee?"

Unintentionally, she laughed out loud. Her own ridiculous attempt at language seemed funny for a moment. But this wasn't funny. Nothing about it was funny. Why the laughter? Shut up and concentrate. She couldn't move her arms or legs-Why in G.o.d's name can't I move my arms and legs?-and it seemed to Debbie that her mind had failed her. It had turned to jelly. She had never been drunk like this before. How could she have let this happen? She couldn't even move her limbs! It was as if she were glued to the chair.

She tried to look down. Her vision was blurry-not working right at all-and now she could see why she was unable to move. Her ankles were secured to the chair with some sort of metal cuffs. It felt like her wrists-which she could not see because they were secured behind her back-were also handcuffed.

Someone had done this, and they were not far away. She had no concept of who or when or why, or even how close they were, but she sensed a presence and she tried talking to them again, this time more loudly.

"Whaaaaaaaa haa...?" She stopped and tried again, confused at her inability to speak properly. What is going on? She tried again and it came out as, "Waaa waaa yaaaadee!"

She attempted to take in her surroundings, and that's when she first saw the animals. They were everywhere-bears, cougars, wolves, foxes, elk, deer. They were looking at her, staring at her, terrifyingly real. This can't be real. It can't be. But it was all she could see.

Debbie wanted to shield her face from their tearing claws and jagged teeth. She wanted to protect herself. The animals were coming at her from all directions and she panicked. She struggled in her binds and screamed. The room spun into a dizzy blur, the hard wooden floor leaping up to strike her in the face. She found herself on her side, her cheek pressed against the wood, her body heavy and awkward, folded onto itself.

She heard thunderous footsteps rushing towards her, making the floor rumble. Someone was approaching and she tried to speak but her mouth was squashed against the floor. Her lips moved uselessly, and with one eye straining upwards, she saw that a man was leaning down. Then she was off the floor, pulled right into the air, chair and all, and shoved back into place. The animal faces were again snarling all around her, and now a human face joined them, a man standing over her. She was seeing double, now quadruple, now double again.

And then she recognised him. It was the man who had offered her a drink, only he wasn't wearing his gla.s.ses any more. He had done this to her. He had trapped her. She wanted to scream but what came out of her mouth was a distorted giggle, a hopeless, drug-induced giggle that was as far from joy as terror could be.

CHAPTER 9.

Grant Wilson didn't like horses. He'd even had his leg reset when he was little to prove to his father, also an RCMP officer, just how much he didn't like horses. The family nag, Daisy, had once thrown him about ten feet in the air and he'd landed in a tree.

But this didn't matter because, generally speaking, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police spent little time "mounted". There was the odd occasion-the famous "Musical Ride" when the Queen came to town, for example-but he didn't have anything to do with that. Nope, they had police cruisers now instead of those tall unpredictable bucking creatures, and in this part of Canada the jurisdiction of the RCMP went well beyond the reach of horses.

Grant was in the woods at the Nahatlatch River looking for clues. It was freezing, and he walked through the woods in his parka and layers of uniform, battling a deep, gnawing chill in his bones-and in his mind.

This was where the girl's body had been dumped. The spot was still lit up for the Forensic Team. She had been a real mess, just as Mike had said. The animals had got to her, they suggested. The area where she was found had already been gone over with a finetooth comb several times, and now the search was moving wider. And, like a fool, Grant had been roped into helping. He should really have been home with his wife. She needed him. d.a.m.n. He pulled his thoughts away from his ailing wife and focused on the job at hand.

They were finishing up the autopsy right now back in the city. She was a young girl, a teenager. That didn't sit easy with Grant. He thought of his own daughter, and he didn't like thinking about Cherrie while he was walking through the woods trying to find a murder weapon.

He didn't like that one bit. Once in a while they had to deal with an ill-fated hunter or two out here. They'd had a couple of bear attacks and a shooting accident as well. But nothing like this. Not that he could recall, anyway. That girl had no reason to be out here alone.

Grant didn't know if his body could take the chill much longer. It was getting late. They would have to pick it up in the morning. He spun around and headed in Mike's direction, sweeping the flashlight back and forth in front of himself as he walked. The forest floor was uneven and thick with exposed roots and ground-covering plants. He made his way into one of the clearings and looked around. Corporal Michael Rose was talking with one of the constables. He was using his hands a lot as he spoke. Mike looked up immediately when his friend approached. He ended his conversation and walked over.

"We should pack it in soon, eh?" he said.

"Yeah," Grant replied. "You took the words right out of my mouth. We'll make everyone sick if we keep 'em out here."

"Tomorrow when it's light we'll get a search team together and take them through the steps."

"Yeah."

Loud barking grabbed their attention, and they swivelled their heads around simultaneously, looking for the source. A voice broke through the darkness, and a flashlight flickered through the trees far ahead.

"Sarge!"

Grant started running and Mike was right beside him.

It was Symmons. He was with one of the dog handlers a ways back from the river. "We got bones here!" he cried. "We got bones!"

Bones? Mike and Grant exchanged looks as they ran. It could be something else...a deer perhaps? That was more likely. But the interminable barking continued at a terrible pitch. The dog was really worked up.

"Human?" Grant asked as they emerged through the trees.

"Hang on...I think so. Ella's going totally ape," Symmons said. He was breathless, even though Mike and Grant were the ones who had done all the running.

Ella kept barking and barking, circling the spot and barking some more.

"Good girl, good girl, Ella," the dog handler said, calming the animal down. "Such a gooood girl!" He turned to them. "Yup, she's definitely got something here."

A large bone stuck up through the forest floor a few paces away, stripped of flesh. It could have been anything. Grant felt a little disappointed after running all the way over. And a bit relieved, too.

A couple of members of the Forensic Team had followed them in. "Let's take a look," one of them said, and they brushed past.

"You know it could just be a-" Mike started to say, but he stopped short. Someone flashed a light across the area to the side of the bone Grant had initially seen, and that's when it became obvious that there was more, what looked like a whole ribcage was poking up through the dirt and the ferns, and it was definitely human. That is, unless the local deer had taken up wearing shirts.

"Let's get the lights in here!" one of the team called out. "Looks like we've got a second body."

CHAPTER 10.

It was evening, and at last Makedde was feeling relaxed. She was curled up on the couch in her modest Vancouver apartment with an out-of-print copy of Psychopathy-Theory and Research by Dr Robert D Hare.

What more could a girl want?

She wanted to scrub up on the subject before the psychopathy conference the next day. The 1970 book was older than she was, but she thought that it would provide an interesting background to the cutting-edge research she would be hearing about during the conference in the days to follow. She was already quite familiar with Hervey Cleckley's Mask of Sanity and she had read Dr Hare's cla.s.sic, Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us, a few times over, but in recent months her appet.i.te for information on the subject had been insatiable.

...During periods of relaxation and painful stimulation, the pattern of adrenergic (sympathetic) and cholinergic (parasympathetic) activity is the same for neurotic subjects as it is for normal ones...

A half-eaten bowl of pasta sat on the coffee table beside her.

However, following the termination of the stimulation, the autonomic activity of the normal subjects...

The phone rang, breaking her concentration. Makedde reached across and picked it up without taking her eyes from the page. She was pretty sure she knew who it would be.

"How's it going, Dad?" she said.

"Fine. And you?"

"Fine as well, thanks," she replied, and read another line.

Experiments recently reviewed by Malmo (1966) are consistent with Rubin's hypothesis...

"How've you been feeling?" her father asked.

The relevance of Rubin's theory to psychopathy is that some of the characteristics of the psychopath are more or less opposite to those of the neurotic...

"Have you been sleeping?" he went on, his voice a little louder this time, indicating that he knew she wasn't giving him her full attention. She took her eyes off the page.

"Hmmm, sleep?" Mak furrowed her brow and looked to the ceiling, making a show of racking her brain even though the only audience she had for her little performance was her house plants. "Oh. Oh, that. Overrated."

"Makedde-"

She held the phone from her ear as he raised his voice, and with the other hand marked her page and lowered the book into her lap.

"Dad," she finally said. "Calm down. I'm fine. I'm sleeping fine." A lie.

"Who do you think you're kidding?" her father said. "Ann thinks she can help you. She knows all about that stuff. She said she would be very happy to talk to you about it, or perhaps recommend someone."

"Oh really?"

"I think you should take her up on it," he said.