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Authors: Toni Anderson
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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
“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
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