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Authors: Toni Anderson
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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
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
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