Manhunter

“Not right now,” said Gabe, trying to control the rage mushrooming steadily through him. His short fuse, the murderous impulse that could fill him instantaneously, had become his weakness, a black cancer he couldn’t cut out. And he felt it now.

Taking life went against everything that had defined Gabe as an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police force. But if his corporal hadn’t arrived when he had the night Gabe had chased Steiger, Gabe knew he would have killed Steiger.

He’d have ripped out the bastard’s sick throat with his bare, bloodied hands.

And now he wished he had.

The violent strength that had coursed through Gabe’s veins that night had startled him. The sheer power was almost intoxicating.

Locking eyes with Steiger in the woods on that snowy night in Williams Lake just over a year ago had unearthed something dark and atavistic in Gabe.

Because he still wanted to kill him.

It was this that made him question whether he really was still fit to wear his red serge and carry a gun.

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” he said coolly without looking at Donovan. He didn’t want to talk to anybody right now. What he needed right now was to find his cabin, get out of his uniform, and find a television and a beer.

He cursed to himself.

They’d locked Steiger in prison, but Steiger had locked him in one, too. Now the bastard was free.

But Gabe was still trapped behind his own damn bars.

In the general store Silver bought rounds for her rifles, a new skinning knife, and she picked up the mail Edith Josie, the owner, was holding for Old Crow. She’d take it out to his camp in a day or so.

Old Crow was a Black Arrow elder and Silver’s tracking mentor. She had no idea how old he was—older than time, older than the river, Edith had told her. And Edith was no spring chicken herself.

Whatever his age, to Silver, Old Crow was eternal. A part of her felt he’d always be there for her and that she’d never stop learning from him. It was an education that had begun after her mother had died when Silver was nine. She stopped going to the small Black Arrow school, and her father had been too grief-stricken to make her do otherwise.

Her dad had eventually gotten done with mourning and shacked up with a cheechako nurse who took it upon herself to try and homeschool Silver. But during the summers of endless sun Silver would go prospecting in the wilds with her father.

And from time to time she and Finn, as everyone called her father, would run into Old Crow working his traplines, and they’d spend the night in his camp listening to his stories, their campfire shooting orange sparks into the pale sky.

Old Crow could paint pictures in the air with his gnarled brown hands. With a deft sweep of his arm he could show weather patterns, or the animation of a small forest animal. He could tell chapters of a lynx’s life from a single footprint in mud, even tell you how to find that lynx—just from the clues in that one track. To a young Silver he was fascinating, a wilderness detective, and she’d started following him around like a lost little bear cub soaking up any stray bit of information she could.

Old Crow had finally, officially, taken Silver under his wing, teaching her how to read the wilderness like an ordinary child might learn to read a book, but he never gave her the information straight. He’d point the way with a riddle, conning her into using her innate curiosity to unravel mysteries with her own effort and skill.

Her own discoveries had thrilled her, and in this way Silver had learned to speak another language, one written right into the fabric of nature. Over time she’d become one of the best trackers in the country, all because of Old Crow. And she’d learned everything else she’d needed to know about life from nature’s classroom.

But a good tracker never stops learning, and Silver still thoroughly enjoyed her visits to Old Crow’s camp where he lived up on a remote plateau in his teepee, in the old way.

She smiled inwardly as she thanked Edith, tucking his wad of mail into the leather pouch hanging from her shoulder. Old Crow might prefer living in the traditional way, but he still liked to get his mail from Whitehorse, via plane.

“Massi Cho,” she said in the Gwitchin language of the Black Arrow Nation. “Gwiinzii Edik’anaantii. Take good care of yourself, Edith.”

Edith smiled, her eyes disappearing into brown folds of skin behind her thick glasses as she waved Silver on.

Descending the stairs of the Northern Store, Silver whistled for her dogs as she swung her rifle to a more comfortable position at the centre of her back. But just as she was about to stride up Black Arrow Falls’ main road, she caught sight of the new cop standing on the detachment porch, the Canadian flag with its symbolic red maple leaf snapping up over his head against a clear violet sky.

Her heart fluttered awkwardly—and annoyingly—in her chest.

She should have kept right on walking, and she’d have been okay. But she felt him watching, and she made the mistake of looking up at him. Instantly she was snared by the intensity of his gaze.

Silver suddenly forgot how to breathe, a tumult growing inside her coupled with an overwhelming urge to flee. “Hey,” she said, stopping instead.

“Any word on that grizz?” His muscled arms braced wide and solid on his detachment banister as his eyes bored down into hers. The posture was proprietary, almost aggressive. Something seemed to have changed in him since she’d met him at the airstrip.

She squinted up at him, disadvantaged by the backlight of the evening sky.

“What about the grizz?” she asked.

“I hear he got a taste of human blood. Donovan tells me you’re hunting him.”

“The bear’s a she, not a he,” she said, her voice husky to her own ears. Damn, how could one man have an effect like this on her body, and so quickly? It was beyond her control. And Silver liked—needed—to be in control. “Besides, it’s not police business.”

“Sure it is.”

She bristled. “The other officers were content to let the conservation office handle this. And the CO contracted me to take care if it. So it’s my business.”

“I’m not the other cops, Silver.”

“Sergeant—” she stepped closer, which further disadvantaged her because now she had to angle her head to look up at him. “The sow was defending her dead cub’s body. She was stressed and threatened. Her attack was not predatory. It was in self-defense, so I let her be.” Even though she spoke softly, she made sure her words were delivered with authority. Whoever this Caruso was, she was not going to let him go after her bear. That really was her territory, and she couldn’t back down.

“She won’t become a problem?”

Me or the bear?

The way he said it, the way he was looking at her, she couldn’t be sure.

Silver repositioned her rifle and squared her shoulders. “The attack could affect her interaction with humans down the road, so, yes, she could become a problem, but we should give her the winter. Time has a strange way of healing things out here, Sergeant.”

His arms tensed, eyes narrowing sharply onto her.

She turned to go, finding her legs like water as she tried to walk up the road, feeling his eyes burning hot into her back.

“Any place a man can get beer round here?” he called out after her.

Silver stilled.

She turned slowly to face him, irony tempting the corners of her mouth into a wry smile. “This is a dry town, officer. I believe it’s your job to make sure it stays that way.”

“I hear the Old Moose Lodge is out of town limits, and it has a television. I need to watch the news tonight.”

She studied him, trying to weigh the paradox that was this man. “It’s a public place, Sergeant.” She hesitated. “But I’d leave that uniform at home if you plan on drinking in my bar. Wouldn’t want Chief Peters and the band council thinking you were officially trying to undermine his efforts to keep our people dry.”

Sergeant Gabe Caruso stared at her with a directness that sent another hot tingle into her belly. She turned quickly, calling her dogs to heel.

She concentrated on walking smoothly and calmly down the street. She felt anything but.

The cop was coming to her lodge. Tonight.

He was making her feel things she didn’t know she was capable of feeling anymore. That scared her. Because like Broken Claw, Silver was a bereft and wounded mother.

But unlike the grizzly, Silver had actually killed a man.

And if the cop found out, he had the power to put her away for it. For good.

Chapter 4

Gabe tucked his 9 mm into the back of his jeans under his leather bomber jacket and snagged his radio and flashlight off the table. Donovan was on call tonight, and Gabe hadn’t yet officially reported for duty, but he took the gear anyway.

He surveyed his tiny cabin for a moment before leaving—his new home for the next two years. It was small, built from thick-hewn logs, the decor utilitarian. A rough table and bench divided the living room from the tiny kitchen area where a woven rag mat rested in front of an old blackened Aga stove. His kitchen window afforded a view of Deer Lake, which was still as glass this evening, reflecting strands of violently pink cirrus in an otherwise pale Nordic sky.

In the living room a small couch faced a stone fireplace, and to its side hunkered one other chair, a great big wingback with stuffing straining to pop out the back. A small bedroom and bathroom led off the main area. His pine bed was covered with a patchwork quilt made by the wife of the corporal who’d been transferred south, a homey touch that seemed to underscore his loneliness.

He couldn’t expect more. He’d sold every last thing he and Gia had owned together. The memories stirred by their shared possessions had become unbearable.

He hadn’t accumulated anything new, either.

Gabe stepped out onto the porch, locked the door to his tiny log cabin, and stood for a moment, trying to ground himself, his breath misting in the rapidly cooling air.

The earth in front of his humble abode had been freshly tilled, a vegetable garden put to bed for the winter. Gabe could imagine the previous RCMP officer’s wife planting food for their table. He could picture the couple using the red canoe that had been pulled up onto the bank and tied under a trembling aspen down near the water. Crisp gold leaves covered the canoe now, a few left clinging at the topmost branches of the tree. One lost its grip and rustled softly to the ground as Gabe watched.

He jacked his shearling collar up around his neck, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and began the trudge to Old Moose Lodge, wondering how in hell he was actually going to survive six long snowbound months in that little wooden box on the lake, buried under drifts.

Who would care if he didn’t?

And he’d still have another winter to endure after this one coming. Where would they send him then?

There wasn’t even anywhere else he wanted to go.

Time stretched interminably before him as he crunched along the narrow rutted path, dense spruce and berry scrub closing in on either side, shadows dark in the undergrowth.

He could have taken the ATV, but the lodge was only about six miles from his new home, and he needed to do something physical, or he was going to go insane. But as he walked, a very real sense of being watched crept stealthily over his skin.

He stopped, listened. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but something didn’t feel right. A slight crunch in the woods sounded suddenly to his right.

He spun, pulse quickening.

Gabe concentrated on the ambient noise of the bush, trying to identify anomalies of sound. Then he heard it again—a crack. Sweat prickled across his brow.

Slowly drawing his weapon, he peered into the arachnid-like shadows of dry willow scrub, twilight toying with definition between shadow and form.

Something rustled sharply again in the dry leaves, and twigs crunched. His pulse kicked up, and his throat turned dry. He removed his flashlight with his free hand, directing the beam into the dense willows, the barrel of his weapon following.

His flashlight caught the quick glint of eyes, then the shape of a large animal seemed to quietly separate itself out from the background, and he found himself gazing into the liquid eyes of a doe, standing still as stone in the shadows.

Gabe’s breath whooshed out of him.

Laughing lightly, he reholstered his weapon. The deer skittered back into cover, white tail bobbing, and Gabe laughed again, running both hands over his hair, trembling slightly. He continued along the grassy track, a sudden lightness in his chest.

Yeah, he was still jumpy. But he hadn’t shot the damn deer. He still had the jockey of logic to control his quick impulse to shoot.

Looking into the big innocent brown eyes of that doe, feeling a rush of adrenaline in his body that wasn’t spawned by malicious human intent, had shifted something fundamental inside Gabe.

Maybe there was hope for him after all.

A split cedar fence lined the approach to the Old Moose Hunting Lodge, a large log structure that hunkered on the shores of the clearest aquamarine lake Gabe had ever seen, a few outbuildings standing off to the side.

A fish eagle circled up high, feathers ruffling on air currents as it craned its neck for prey. Small bats were beginning to flit after mosquitoes just above the water, competing with fish that sent concentric circles rippling through mercurial reflections as they broke the lake surface. The air was heavy and cool, redolent with the scent of pine and the spice of juniper.

Gabe stopped a moment to drink it all in.

Then he saw Silver, leading three horses to a paddock near the shore. There was a wild abandon in her stride, her heavy hair swaying across her back, and she was laughing as her dogs cavorted with a puppy at her side.

Everything inside Gabe quieted.

She looked so free.

It was clear she hadn’t realized he was there and that she was being watched. And with mild shock, Gabe realized he wanted to watch, quietly, without announcing his presence. There was something about the way she moved that grabbed him by the throat. He was jealous of her freedom, her spirit. It made him feel furtive. Hungry.

But she saw him, and stiffened instantly. He raised his hand to greet her, but she simply pointed toward the main building before continuing down to the paddock with her horses.

Gabe climbed the big log stairs onto a veranda that ran the length of the lodge. Massive bleached moose antlers hung over a heavy double door. He scuffed his boots on the mat and entered the lodge.

A fire crackled in the stone hearth, and two men and a woman chatted at the bar as an Indian barman with a sleek black ponytail down the centre of his back filled a bowl with peanuts. The television set was mounted behind him, a hockey game playing.

Gabe grabbed a stool and bellied up to the bar. He asked for a Molson, and if he could switch to the CBC news channel.

“You the new cop?” asked the barkeep as he slid a cold beer along the counter to Gabe. He was a young and strong man with copper skin and a small silver earring in his left ear.

“Sergeant Gabriel Caruso,” Gabe said, holding out his hand.

The trio at the other end of the bar glanced up. Gabe nodded at them, and they tipped their glasses slightly. Not exactly smiles of welcome, thought Gabe. It was the same with Silver. Beneath surface civility he could detect simmering hostility.

“Jake Onefeather,” said the barkeep as he flipped to the news channel and handed Gabe the remote.

There was a commercial on. Gabe checked his watch, and tensed. He’d made it just in time. The CBC news logo flashed across the screen, and he bumped up the volume, his mouth already dry, his pulse accelerating. He knew he’d see Steiger’s photo. And most likely his own.

And Gia’s.

If Tom was correct—that CBC had prepared a news feature—Gabe would likely see file footage from the RCMP funeral where thousands of mourners had come to pay their respects to his colleagues gunned down in the line of duty. Mounties from across the country had stood shoulder to shoulder in a sea of red serge far exceeding the capacity of the Notre Dame Basilica cathedral in Ottawa as the coffins were carried in—one of them holding the body of the woman he’d planned to marry.

The anchor began to speak. But before Gabe could catch a word, a soft and husky female voice brushed like velvet over his skin.

“You’d make a better impression visiting the chief and council than sitting here drinking beer on your first night, you know?” Silver said quietly as she came up behind him.

Abruptly, the competition for Gabe’s attention was cleft in two—the sensually beautiful tracker at his side and the image of Steiger’s rugged face filling the screen, pale ice-blue eyes staring coldly at the camera. Steiger’s hair was pale, too. Ash blond, shaved short and spiky. By contrast, his skin was olive-toned, his features angular, strong. Handsome, even. Almost mesmerizingly so. And the psychopath knew it.

Gabe’s heart began to thud. He felt dizzy. He held up his hand, quieting her, and he made the sound louder. Everyone in the bar looked up in surprise, then fell dead silent as they watched.

Silver stared at the screen in shock as the anchor announced the escape of the Bush Man, and then footage segued to file images of the dead Mounties, and Gabe—the cop who had led the Williams Lake takedown. The cop who had lost his fiancée to a monster.

As a tracker, Silver had been interested in Steiger’s story, in how the killer had managed to evade law enforcement for almost three years, but she hadn’t put two and two together with the new cop.

Her eyes shot to Gabe.

Suddenly he made sense. She now understood what she’d glimpsed in his eyes.

She’d been right. He was damaged goods. Badly damaged.

Silver listened to the news, but she watched him. She was a veteran observer of creatures, human and otherwise. She instinctively noted the way they moved, talked, how their emotions translated into body position, how it made them plant their feet, leave trace. It was in this way that she could often tell the prints of one villager from another without even analyzing why. And more often than not she could tell what they’d been doing, even thinking, at the time they’d left prints.

Right now, in his leather bomber jacket and faded jeans, Gabe Caruso didn’t look like a cop. His hair was roughed up, a five o’clock shadow darkened his angled jaw, and his neck muscles corded with aggression. Strong neck. Strong man. She liked what she saw—too much. And again she felt the disturbing warmth spread through her stomach. She didn’t feel safe around this man—not at all.

She swallowed the shimmer of anxiety in her chest and pulled up a stool beside him. Closer than was necessary, close enough to feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a desert tarmac. She noted the way he fisted the TV remote in one hand, knuckles white, his beer glass in the other. She thought he might just crush it and wondered if she should remove it or remind him that he was holding glass in his fist.

She slanted her eyes up to the television as another image of Gabe filled the screen. It was a shot taken a year ago of him standing alongside one of the coffins. Propped up by crutches he was dressed in formal RCMP red serge, Stetson at a slight angle atop short-shaved hair, no expression on his face. Just hollow, dark eyes.

The anchor reminded viewers of how the sergeant had pursued Steiger on a snowmobile, racing after him into the teeth of a blizzard on that fateful night. A gunfight and hand-to-hand combat had ensued, seriously injuring Gabe before he’d managed to subdue Steiger using a taser.

And given what they were saying on the news about Gabe having been a fast-climbing career cop who’d taken the sergeant’s job in Williams Lake to be with his now-deceased fiancée, Gabe must be seething about this Black Arrow Falls posting. It was a dead end for him.

Silver guessed everything that meant anything to Gabe lay in that coffin in that image. The news feature cut back to the presenter, and Silver felt anger burn through her veins. She knew what that kind of emptiness felt like.

Everything that had meant anything to her was buried under a small cairn of river rocks northwest of town, at Wolverine Gorge. Rocks she’d stacked with her own bloodied hands.

Silver was torn between resentment that the RCMP had sent them someone who didn’t want to be here and compassion for a man tormented over the loss of his fiancée and his career. His life. Black Arrow Falls deserved better treatment.

But so did Sergeant Gabriel Caruso.

The RCMP had clearly washed their hands of a dedicated cop, given the résumé they’d just flashed on screen. It sure didn’t endear the federal force further to Silver, but suddenly this man wasn’t overtly her enemy.

Or was he?

She slanted her eyes back to study his jagged profile. A man like him would now have something to prove. And if the big city homicide detective had nothing better to do in Black Arrow Falls, he just might go sifting through the cold case files.

He might come after her.

The news feature was over, but he sat staring blankly at the television screen. Silver didn’t know why she did it, but she reached over and quietly pried the remote from his clenched hand.

“They’re tracking him wrong,” she said as she bumped down the sound, and set the remote on the bar counter.

Gabe’s eyes whipped to hers. “What?”

“The Bush Man. They won’t get him like that.”

He leaned forward suddenly, intense interest narrowing his eyes, energy crackling around him. “Why do you say that?”

“They’re combat tracking. It’s how you chase down a fugitive on the run.”

“That’s what he is.”

“No,” she said softly. “That man is not a fugitive. He’s not running. He’s a predator. He’s hunting again.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s what natural-born predators do. They hunt. And when they’re injured and backed into a corner, they don’t flee. They just become more dangerous. They come at you—attack.”

A muscle began to pulse at his jaw. “And how would you track him?”

“The same way I track any animal predator.”

Gabe shook his head. “No. No way. Steiger is a borderline genius, a strategic combatant. This guy is not an animal. He’s a psychopath.”

“Which is exactly what makes him like an animal. A very smart and very dangerous one.”

Gabe swigged back the rest of his beer, plunked the glass down hard onto the counter, and surged to his feet. “Don’t kid yourself, Silver.” He pointed to the TV screen. “You could never track that man. Our force hunted him for months. I saw the profilers’ reports. I studied every goddamn word. I got inside his sick head.” His eyes bored down into hers, giving Silver that strange zing in the base of her spine again. “You’d be dead before you knew it. You may be a good tracker, Silver, but you’re no match for Kurtz Steiger. You’re not a man hunter.”

Her mouth flattened, and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to know anything about me, Sergeant,” she said very quietly as she got to her own feet, meeting his aggressive posture toe to toe, her pulse accelerating. “Do you even know where the word ‘game’ comes from?”

Uncertainty flickered briefly in his eyes. She held his gaze, well aware of what her blue-eyed stare could do to a man. “Some say,” she continued, “that it was derived from the ancient Greek word gamos, meaning a ‘marriage,’ or ‘joining,’ as in a special kindred relationship between hunter and prey. And yes, when I hunt, Detective, that’s my game. A relationship, an emotional connection with my quarry. It’s the way things are done out here. We are all connected. And it’s the same game Kurtz Steiger plays.”