Split by Tara Moss

cascading over smooth round stones calmed the busy minds of weary passengers.
    The RCMP had come with a favour to ask of Dr Harris, and as they walked past the cool flowing waters, the carved welcome figures and the slowly spinning baggage carousel, words were exchanged in an urgent hush. Sergeant Wilson painted a dark picture. The dead bodies of two missing UBC students, Susan Walker and Petra Wallace, had been discovered, and the unidentified skeletal remainsof another victim had been found near their shallow graves.
    When Wilson had spoken to Dr Hare, a consultant with the RCMP, he had recommended that they approach the visiting Profiler.
    Wilson believed that this was the work of a serial killer.

CHAPTER 15
    Dead animal eyes stared down at Debbie Melmeth.
    She sat vulnerable and exposed in the middle of a strange room, secured to a chair and surrounded by a plethora of unfriendly heads. Apart from the animals, Debbie was alone. She was hungry and afraid, and she prayed that someone would help her. She knew her captor would not. She’d begged and pleaded with him, but he gave nothing away, just stared at her with a half-smile.
    Hunger and the dull ache of her body distracted her. She ran her tongue along her lips in an attempt to wet them, but her tongue had no moisture to offer. Time seemed to have stopped.
    Since she had been confined to this horrible place—over a period of a couple of days was her best guess—the man had fed her some potato chips and occasionally made her drink beer. That was it. She hated beer, really hated it. Especially now. But it seemed that her captor lived on the stuff. He had taken to periodically walkingaround the room, pacing with an open bottle in his hand, staring at her. Very occasionally he would talk nonsense at her, but wouldn’t respond to her attempts at conversation. He did not acknowledge her pleas. He would just pace and drink and pace some more, and sometimes even walk up to her unexpectedly, open her mouth with his brutish hands and pour the beer down her throat, ignoring her feeble protests. When he did this, he just stared at her blankly while she gagged and spluttered and tried to swallow. And then he would disappear again.
    Debbie tried to figure out what was going on. She couldn’t remember how she got there. She was calling Brian from the bar, and then what? She could not recall what happened after that. She only remembered the strange comings and goings of her captor.
    Debbie was a smart girl. Surely there was some way she could get herself out of there? If she paid close enough attention and used her head there must be a way. If only she could figure out what he wanted and why. What made this man come and go? What were the times of the day? That part was almost impossible to know. There was no clock in the room, nor was any visible when the door opened into the rest of the house. There were no windows she could see to gauge the light outside.
    A noise snapped her out of her ruminations. She heard movement, and footsteps on the hardwood floor. The man emerged through the darkeneddoorway, and although he had made countless such entrances in the past couple of days, her heart still froze at the sight of him.
    He walked right up to her, stopping only a foot away. Debbie waited. She could smell him. He loomed over her and stared at her. The naked globe that hung from the ceiling threw light across him as he stood, leaving her in his shadow, her eye line positioned at hip level. She continued to wait for his cue. It was a game and she didn’t know how to play. She didn’t know the rules…or the aim.
    Debbie couldn’t move away, couldn’t fight. She had been through it over and over in her head. Should she spit on him, just for the brief satisfaction of rebellion? Even if she wanted to her mouth was probably too dry. Was there something she could say? Something she could try? In Hollywood movies the main characters always came up with the most ingenious means of