Split (13 page)

By the third day of the conference Makedde had a lot of things on her mind, not least of which involved two men and the relentless worsening of her insomnia. She was seriously considering calling Ann.

Things had certainly gone well with Roy Blake the night before, but that hadn’t helped her sleep. She stopped drinking after the chocolate martini so there was no hangover to worry about, but she wasn’t nearly drunk enough to enjoy an alcohol-aided slumber. She’d had the usual nightmare—her father’s uniform, her mother dead.

Roy Blake.

She had half expected an email from him in the morning and she felt a little disappointed when she didn’t find one. This feeling vanished though when she almost fell over a large bundle of pristine, cellophane-wrapped, long-stemmed red roses that had been left on the front steps of her flat.

Thanks for the lovely company,
the card said—
Roy.

That felt pretty good—flattering, definitely, and a great distraction from the other male who had recently flown back into her life. She had to do her best not to start thinking about
him
again, just because he was in town. He wasn’t there to see her, after all. It was business. And there was no way they could be together.

The schedule on the third day of the psychopathy conference had been interesting, but it wasn’t a patch on the presentations given by Dr Hare or the Profiler, Dr Harris, on the first two days. Andy wasn’t there, or if he was, he was being elusive. Mak tried to convince herself that she was glad of it, but she wasn’t. What was he up to in Vancouver? She felt sure he wasn’t just sightseeing.

Stop it. Stop thinking about him.

Her answering machine was flashing when she got home, and she hoped it was Roy.

It was.

“Hi, Mak. Thanks for a lovely evening. Perhaps we can do it again sometime? Soon?”

She breathed a sigh of relief.
Yes, that would be nice.
Next message.

“Hi, Mak.”
It was her father’s familiar voice.
“You’ve had a couple of calls over here…”

That could only mean one thing. The only people that would be calling for her at her father’s home on
the island were the Tax Department and Andy Flynn. It was not tax time.

”…from Andy. He called for you twice today. He seems quite eager to get hold of you. He left his number at the Renaissance Hotel in downtown Vancouver…”

Oh, bloody hell. Don’t give me his number!

Her father carefully said the phone number twice and finished off by saying,
“If you want my advice, you should probably just call him and get it over with. Otherwise I’ll end up becoming your social secretary.”

Cheeky, Dad. Cheeky.

Now her own father was encouraging her to call him. She had a decision to make.

Makedde had to play the message again to get the hotel phone number right. Despite her father’s slow and careful recitation, she had tried to block the digits out of her mind the first two times. She jotted the number down on a piece of scrap paper.
Should I?
She dialled.

One ring. “Flynn,” was his greeting.

She was caught off guard. Somehow she hadn’t expected him to be there. “Ahh, Andy. Hi. It’s Makedde.”

“Makedde! Hello. Thanks for calling.” The tone of his voice seemed so grateful for her call that she found herself feeling guilty for ever having considered doing otherwise.

“How’s it going?” Mak asked. She didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh, pretty good.”

“You weren’t at the conference today,” she said.

“No.” Pause. “Makedde, I’d like the chance to talk with you at some point. As soon as possible, actually.”

“Um…”
How do I respond to that?
“Sure.” It was the polite thing to do, probably also the right thing to do, but Makedde wasn’t ready to spend time alone with Andy just yet. “Yeah, that’d be nice,” she went on. “It’d be good to catch up.”

“Okay. Well…what are you doing tonight?”

Tonight!

“Um, I don’t think—” she began.

He jumped straight in with an apology. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re really busy—”

“That’s alright. You don’t have to apologise or anything. It’s just late notice, that’s all.”

“Of course it is. It’s just that…” He paused. “There is something I need to talk with you about…in person.”

His voice gave her a chill, or maybe it was the words themselves that reminded her of a time when she had begun to suspect him of the most heinous crime. Then suddenly he was at her door, unannounced, pleading to talk with her…”There’s something I need to talk with you about…in person.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “But that sounds a little cryptic.” She let out a short, nervous laugh, and when her laugh was not returned she fell silent.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

That’s the way it would have to be. She would have to talk it out with him and deal with it once and for all.

“I’ll speak to you soon, then,” she said and hung up.

She closed her eyes. Her mind was overwhelmed with a sudden flood of unwanted thoughts—thoughts about Andy, how powerful her attraction to him had been, making love with him in her apartment in Bondi, the candles burning to the floor—and then later, his face peeking through her door from behind the security chain, alcohol on his breath—“Makedde, you have to believe me…”—and the way he had looked at her when she was in the hospital, mute and full of stitches, her jaw wired shut.

Makedde decided to try to clear her mind by reading the dictionary. She pulled the great Collins Dictionary out, a full four inches thick and as heavy as a bowling ball. She flipped it open indiscriminately and found herself looking at the M’s “mitrailleuse” to “mixed”. This was a pastime she periodically enjoyed, but had never tried to explain to anyone else. She loved words and to her the dictionary was rich with expression, but unfortunately it held no interest for her tonight. She put it down and then started re-reading some of the paper, “Juror Sensitivity to Eyewitness Identification Evidence”, Cutler, B.L., Penrod, S.D., & Dexter, H.R. (1990). That wasn’t any more engrossing. Her thoughts continually wandered back to Andy.

There is something I need to talk with you about…in person.

Bloody hell. What does that mean? What does he want from me? Why now?

Makedde walked straight to the bathroom sink, brushed and flossed, and scrubbed her face clean until it was pink and glossy. She was determined to switch her brain off and get some rest. When she slipped into bed it was only nine-thirty.

But she couldn’t sleep. Again.

Big surprise, Mak. Big bloody surprise.

It wasn’t nightmares that were the problem this time. It was Andy Flynn.

For over an hour she lay in bed staring at the ceiling and willing herself to sleep, but she could not quiet her mind. A loud argument was going on inside her head, heated and drawn out, shouting back and forth between the left and right hemispheres of her brain. Her emotions and her logic carried out a battle while she lay silent under her bed-sheets in the dark.

Damn him,
she thought.
Why of all the men in the world do I have to be hung-up on this guy? Why? This is so stupid.

Makedde felt a strong urge to see him,
now
. She wanted to throw some clothes on and march right down to the Renaissance Hotel.

She knew she shouldn’t do that.

Makedde had many months ago decided that Andy Flynn was a negative influence in her life. She knew he was bad for her. It wasn’t that he was a bad person. He wasn’t bad at all. He was a nice enough guy, and that seemed to make her dilemma worse. The problem was that Andy only seemed to appear in times of trouble, and he did not make those times better, he made them worse. Nice guy or not, she knew that. And yet…

And yet it was so much easier to dislike him when there were continents between them. Now he was near, impossible to ignore, and she was going to pieces.

My father is right. I have to stay away from him. Those miles of distance were there for a reason.

An hour later Makedde entered the Harbourside Renaissance Hotel on West Hastings Street. She had bolted out of bed, thrown on some clothes and a bit of make-up and driven herself over. She feared something like that would happen. She knew her weaknesses too well.

She had rationalised her actions like a student with a Masters in Selfdelusion and had convinced herself that she just wanted to talk to Andy and find out what was going on. He had something important to tell her, and she needed to know what it was. It was that simple. Perhaps she’d find that they would chat for a while and it would demystify everything. Then that
would be it. She would know. Finally she would have peace. She would sleep better than she had since his first phone call from Quantico. Hell, she would probably sleep better than she had since they’d met.

Makedde walked up to the reception desk.

“Excuse me. Hello.”

The young receptionist looked up. She had a sweet cherub-like face, and Mak couldn’t help noticing she was growing out a really bad perm. The young woman’s brown hair was shiny and straight until it reached the level of her ears, and then it exploded into fuzzy curls. Mak’s eyes were drawn to it in a way that made her wonder if she had been a hair stylist in a past life.

“Good evening. How may I help you?”

“Could you call one of your guests, please? The name is Flynn. Andrew Flynn. Room three-thirty. I also wanted to make sure that he hasn’t ordered an early wake-up or something. I don’t want to disturb him.”

“Certainly, just one moment, please.”

Mak looked up at the wall clock behind reception. It was just after eleven. That wasn’t too bad. Andy was a bit of a night owl, like she was. If she knew anything about him at all he wouldn’t be heading for bed for some time, and nor would he mind her dropping by. And besides, he had said to call him anytime. It was just that she happened to be calling from the hotel lobby. A small issue, really.

“Ahh, Flynn. Yes. If you would like to use the white phone over to my left, you can dial zero three three zero and you will be put directly through to his room. He hasn’t put in a wake-up call.”

“Thanks for that.”

Makedde made her way over to the phone, dialled and heard it ring in Andy’s room. She had to admit it was a bit weird. At first she wasn’t going to speak to him at all, and now this. She knew that it wouldn’t be a stretch to suggest that her insomnia might be affecting her decision-making processes.

No answer.

“If you would like to leave a voice mail message for room three three zero—”
the answering service told her.

She hung up.
Damn.

Makedde walked back to the desk.

“Your friend wasn’t answering?” the young lady asked.

My friend.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Would you like me to leave a message?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait for him for a few minutes perhaps, seeing as I’m already here.”

“Please make yourself comfortable,” she said and pointed in the direction of the waiting area.

Makedde sat down in an armchair in a far corner of the hotel lobby while she decided what to do next. She was sure she would see him tonight. From her vantage point, she had a good view of the sliding doors that
opened onto the street and the elevators that led to hundreds of guestrooms, as well as the hotel’s front reception desk. There were some ersatz fern-like plants around the armchair, and when she sat back, they offered a hint of camouflage.

For a moment she felt like a private investigator performing surveillance, a parallel she found amusing. Some part of her relished the thought of surprising him this way, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he had surprised her?

Makedde waited, half-heartedly reading through the
Vancouver Province
for the second time that day, and after only five minutes, a familiar silhouette grabbed her attention. She sat upright. A man had entered the lobby—a tall man in a dark suit, his posture slightly hunched with fatigue. He had short hair, very short at the sides—a cop haircut. She hadn’t seen the face, but she was sure it was him.

I knew he wouldn’t be far.

A sickly delirium sent a rush of blood to her head. She suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable in her clothes.

Andy.

Her heart pounded.

He walked up to the reception desk, said something to the clerk, and she gave him a room key. Mak noticed there was no nod in her direction from the cherub-faced clerk, but she instinctively stood up and took a step forward.

Then he turned around.

Wrong man.

Mak sank back into her seat behind the plastic fern, but she’d already caught the stranger’s eye. He had probably felt her eyes on him before he even turned. The man smiled at her from across the lobby, and Mak responded with a cool nod. She looked down at her newspaper again, heart still rushing, now more with embarrassment than anticipation.

Oh, no.

He was walking towards her.

“Good evening,” the man said as he approached. He had a French-Canadian accent. She noted his rough skin, and the smell of cheap cologne. His eyes were friendly as they regarded her, but she returned his salutation with polite reserve. She didn’t want to be bothered if she could avoid it.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

Makedde delivered a smile. “Yes, I am, thank you.” She offered a polite and dismissive smile, and pretended to be absorbed in her paper.

She felt his eyes on her for what seemed like far too long, and then he said, “Well, good evening.”

“Yup. You too. Bye.” She didn’t look up for fear that it might encourage him.

When he was a safe distance away, she glanced around the lobby. Still empty. Well, if Andy wasn’t answering his phone, where was he? She felt stupid sitting there—really, really stupid. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get out. Makedde stood and crossed
the room, and just as she turned to pass the reception desk and make her way out, she spotted a familiar face.