Icy needles of rain pricked his face as Ethan Manning cautiously descended the embankment above Nova Scotia’s Shubenacadie River. Nature had carved the slope steep. The downpour had slicked it to treacherous. Around midnight the heavens had opened up in a driving torrent that showed no signs of abating five hours later. That would also play hell with the evidence, a thought even more troubling.

“Is there an easier way down?” Fellow Mountie Nyle Samuels’s voice sounded from above him.

“Well, I’m not going to carry you.” His booted foot slipped then, and Ethan swore, almost landing on his ass. He managed to right himself, barely, retaining his grip on his Maglite. Its beam stabbed ineffectually at the heavy cloak of pre-dawn darkness. Pinpoints of light clustered in a tight knot two hundred feet below. He just needed to focus on joining the others without breaking his neck.

An avalanche of mud slid down behind him and Ethan nearly lost his balance again. “Dammit, move over a few feet. You’re right on top of me.”

Nyle’s voice sounded again, this time nearer. “But if I go down at least you’ll break my fall.”

Ethan gave a grim smile, one that quickly flickered out as he drew closer to the riverbank. Angry rainclouds scudded across the dark sky like battling warheads. Snippets of conversation drifted from the cluster of law enforcement below. Canopies had been erected, surrounded by four LED spotlights, their combined glow forming a dim oasis of light in the curtain of rain. Reaching the bottom, he heard a muttered obscenity behind him and nimbly jumped aside to avoid being bowled over as Nyle slid and rolled the remaining distance down the slope.

He switched his beam to the other agent’s face. “I see you found the elevator.”

“Shit.” Nyle unfolded himself and stood, twisting around to gauge the damage. “I’m covered with mud, aren’t I?”

Ethan played his flashlight over the man’s navy rain poncho and pants, which were fully coated with the reddish-brown clay soil of the area. “Nah. Clean as a whistle.”

“Dammit.”

A figure peeled away from the tight group to approach them, flashlight in hand. “I’m Robert Treelor, RCMP, Halifax H division. You Manning and Samuels?”

Ethan’s credentials hung from a lanyard around his neck, and he lifted them for the man to inspect. “I’m Manning. What do you have?”

His earlier flicker of humor had vanished, replaced by a sense of foreboding that had knotted his gut the moment the call had come in a few hours ago. The details that had been provided were compelling enough to have Ethan leaving the other three members of his team in New Brunswick and catching a red-eye flight to examine the scene. He was hoping this visit would be a wasted trip. But Treelor’s demeanor did little to lessen his trepidation.

“The body was found by a local fisherman. Constable Benton was first on the scene. He brought in provincial RCMP officer Shel Nolte.” The man nodded toward the cluster of figures standing in a tight group outside the tarp. “When he saw the condition of the corpse, Nolte rang up divisional headquarters, and we reached out to you. Helluva thing. Don’t mind saying I haven’t seen anything quite like it.” The slanting rain poured off the man’s slicker, forming a pool around his shoes. “The forensic identification unit investigators haven’t come up with much.”

One of the investigators, outfitted in a white boller suit, nitrile gloves and booties, was crouched on the riverbank. In this weather, with the number of people already around the scene, Ethan figured it’d take a miracle to come up with a shred of evidence they could use. “The medical examiner is with the body.” Treelor led the way, skirting a spotlight to make a wide arc around the sagging police tape that had been strung on three sides to form an inner perimeter.

The ground there was a muddy swamp that sucked at Ethan’s boots with every step. It was training rather than hope that’d had him shoving disposable shoe covers in his pocket before leaving the car. In all likelihood, there was no scene to worry about preserving. Nature had made sure of that.

He followed the officer to the farthest of three canopies where a trio of people squatted on a soggy tarp spread next to a body. All were clad in matching navy windbreakers with Medical Examiner emblazoned on the backs. Another forensic ident tech was photographing the body. The woman in the center sent a look over her shoulder. Her gray hair was plastered to her head and her glasses had tiny rivulets of moisture tracing down them. “Mary McFarland, Hants County Medical Examiner. I understand you’re from RCMP national headquarters. Does federal have an interest in this victim?”

“Remains to be seen,” Ethan replied.

She made a nearly imperceptible gesture and the two assistants flanking her rose and parted to allow Ethan and Nyle to crouch beside the body. He noticed approvingly that the hands had already been bagged. Male, he ascertained at a glance. Dark hair. Forty to forty-five years old, just under six feet, one hundred eighty pounds. Two jagged bloody holes were all that remained of the eyes and the mouth had been sewn shut with what looked like black fishing line.

“Could still be copycat,” Nyle said in a low tone.

“Guess we’ll find out at the autopsy.” Ethan slanted a look at the ME. “Any idea about what was used to remove the eyes?”

Some in her position were maddeningly reticent, unwilling to tender any opinions until the body was back at the lab. McFarland was more forthcoming. “Not a knife,” she said with certainty. “Something rounded that had been sharpened.”

“Christ,” Nyle muttered. “Like a spoon?”

“Possibly. Or a melon scooper. Did the trick.” The two Mounties exchanged a glance. “If I’m going to lose this case tell me now before I haul him back to my morgue. Your other victims missing eyes?”

“No.” Ethan’s gaze traveled lower, lingered on the neat vertical stitching of the lips. “But the same job was done on the mouth.”

McFarland nodded and got to her feet. “Will you be using the ME in Burnside on the investigation?”

He nodded. It’d be most efficient to use the pathology building minutes away from the RCMP divisional headquarters in Halifax.

The woman reached inside her jacket for her cell. “I’ll give them a call and see how they want to handle the transport.”

“Appreciate it.”

Water streamed off the edge of the canvas and Ethan rose, giving a shake to dislodge the steady cascade running down the back of his neck. The woman withdrew to huddle under the far corner of the canopy as she made the call.

“If this is our guy, it’s only been eight days since the last victim in New Brunswick.” Nyle had resurrected a tissue from somewhere and was wiping ineffectually at the mud on his slicker as he spoke. “He’s never moved this fast before. When’s Gagnon coming through with the extra assistance?”

“Hopefully soon.” The new commissioner had made plenty of promises two weeks ago when it had become clear that the most notorious serial killer in the country was active again after a three-year hiatus. Ethan was hoping the commissioner moved swiftly. He could use a larger task force in the field and more resources. What form of aid he’d get, however, remained a mystery.

He continued studying the body. Almost imagined he saw movement behind the mouth, the slightest flutter. His gut clenched, and he found himself hoping that Nyle was right, and the perpetrator had merely borrowed a sensational detail from their case. Because otherwise it meant the offender they sought was escalating rapidly. Which made it impossible to predict how soon he’d strike again.

* * *

Ethan stared out the window of the terminal at the Halifax Stanfield International Airport, mentally willing the passengers to disembark from the plane more quickly. Puddles punctuated the pavement. The rain continued intermittently and the ground was saturated. Even when there was a pause in the precipitation the air was a sticky, sweaty fist of humidity.

The itinerary Dr. Hayden had sent them included a layover in Philly, turning the trip from DC into a four-and-a-half-hour flight. He glanced at his watch again. The autopsy had been scheduled for a half hour ago. He’d tried his best to get the ME to reschedule it, but hadn’t been able to sway the man. The recent victim had been wedged into the autopsy schedule as it was. Hopefully they’d get there in time for a verbal summary of the ME’s findings. If, that was, the passengers were ever allowed off the aircraft.

It took effort to tamp down the frustration that threatened to surge. Gagnon had made good on his promise, but his idea of assistance differed greatly from what Ethan had had in mind. Instead of more resources and manpower, he’d gotten an outside consultant. A forensic profiler with a highly specialized scientific expertise that was likely to have minimal impact on their case. He couldn’t have imagined a worse scenario if he’d tried.

“Talked to that buddy of mine from British Columbia that I told you about last night. The one who worked the Dr. Death case last year.” Nyle took a piece of gum out of his trouser pocket and thumbed the wrapper off before popping the gum into his mouth, and wadding the paper in his fingers. “Gagnon brought in an outside consultant from the States that time, too, and from the same agency as this one. Raiker Forensics. But they’re better known as—”

“The Mindhunters,” Ethan finished tersely. “I’m aware.” The issue he had with Gagnon’s decision had nothing to do with the reputation of the agency the consultant came from. The agency’s owner, Adam Raiker, was an ex-FBI profiler in the States who’d garnered near legendary status before he’d been captured and then escaped from the child killer he’d been trailing. The man had spent the last several years amassing a formidable group of experts in forensic specialties, and his private labs were said to be the best equipped in North America. Services with his company likely didn’t come cheap. Ethan wondered how much this consultant was costing the Force, and tried not to think about what sort of resources they could have added to the investigation for that price.

Seeming oblivious to his mood, Nyle continued. “My friend said the consultant was instrumental to them solving the thing. He was a doctor, used to be an ME before going to work for the Mindhunters.” There was more, but Ethan had stopped listening. He and Nyle had worked together before, and normally he overlooked the genial man’s penchant for chattiness because he was a damn fine investigator. Right now, though, Samuels’s words drifted by him as he shifted his attention from the plane to the trickle of passengers filing through the gate. Maybe he should catch a cab and head to the morgue himself. Conrad, the medical examiner, wasn’t the type to wait around. Samuels could grab a cab and follow later, with—

“Think that’s her?”

Ethan’s gaze arrowed to the woman who’d paused to speak to an airline attendant at the counter before heading their way.

A second ticked by. Two. Recognition flickered, followed by disbelief. It couldn’t be. There was no way.

Then a mule kick of certainty hit him squarely in the chest. He didn’t know how the hell it was possible, but there was no mistaking that Nordic blond hair, pulled back now in a businesslike twist at the base of her neck. As she drew closer he could see the contrast of those turquoise eyes against a creamy complexion that was no longer dusted with the freckles he used to count with the tip of his finger.

Dr. Alexa Hayden, their outside consultant. Shock held him frozen in place. Nyle headed toward the woman Ethan had once known as Alexa Grace Sellers Manning. Although he sincerely doubted that she’d kept his name for long after she’d left. A deluge of suppressed memories surged, threatening to swamp him. He battled them back, aided in part by the realization that there was no surprise mirrored in her expression. She’d known exactly who she’d be working with.

He was the one who’d walked into an emotional ambush.

The knowledge had the paralysis in his limbs dissipating and he caught up with Nyle. “Dr. Hayden?” At her nod, Nyle extended a hand. “RCMP officers Samuels and Manning. Welcome to Nova Scotia.”

“Welcome back.” Because he wasn’t sure it was a good idea at the moment to touch her, Ethan tucked his hands in his jacket pockets. “Dr. Hayden lived here for a while.”

Nyle’s head swiveled from Alexa to Ethan. “You two know each other?”

“I lived in a Truro for a time when I was growing up.” Her steady gaze revealed nothing as she surveyed him. “Ethan. You look well.”

And she looked… His fingers curled. Polished. Professional. As far removed as possible from the scared vulnerable teenager who’d once owned his heart. Before leaving it—and him—empty and aching.

“Been a long time.” The observation served as a warning to himself. He barely remembered the impulsive teenager he’d once been, ruled by hormones and quixotic ideals. And in this woman, he saw no trace of the skittish too-serious girl who’d once looked at him with forever in her eyes.

That was a lifetime ago. The two of them were ancient history. The bodies piling up in the case were the present. With an ease born of long practice, he shoved the memories aside. Deliberately, he turned. Skirting the roped areas directing lines, he headed toward the front of the Customs area. “We’ll expedite Customs and then head for the car. I’ve already arranged to have your luggage sent to the motel. If we hurry, we’ll make part of the autopsy for our most recent victim.”

And that postmortem had to be a helluva lot more compelling than conducting yet another on he and Lexie’s spectacularly failed marriage.

* * *

As they trooped into the autopsy suite, Dr. Isaac Conrad briefly looked up from his subject lying on the stainless-steel table before pointedly glancing from them to the clock on the wall. His fingers didn’t falter in their task of closing the Y cut on the corpse’s chest, using thread not unlike that still intact on its lips. “You’re just in time.” There was a female technician standing silently next to him, camera in hand.

Alexa left her laptop case by the door and trailed the two Mounties into the room. They’d all donned shoe covers, gowns and gloves, the garb accentuating the slightly alien feeling she’d had ever since the plane landed. Ethan had warned them that Conrad had a reputation for being a stickler about his domain, as well as being meticulous about his job.

Ethan. Her stomach clutched as he led them to ring the table and made introductions. The man she’d thought she’d never see again. She’d had since last night to deal with the shock of realizing that their paths were about to cross, despite all the odds against it. Different countries and professions should have insulated her from the possibility. Yet here she was. And from the forbidding expression on his face when he’d recognized her, he shared her dismay.

A familiar guilt had her palms dampening inside the gloves. “Dr. Hayden will be consulting on our investigation,” Ethan said, jolting her from her thoughts. “She joins us from Raiker Forensics in the States.”

Dr. Conrad’s brows rose at the mention of the company. “Welcome, Dr. Hayden. I’ve heard of your employer, of course. I had the pleasure of attending a symposium where a medical examiner from your agency was a speaker. Carstens, I believe his name was. It was quite illuminating. Are you in the medical field, as well?”

She shook her head. “My areas of expertise are forensic entomology and forensic psychology. But you’re correct, Finn Carstens is very gifted.”

“With two specialties to your credit, something tells me you’re just as talented.” He indicated the tall brown-haired woman standing beside him. “Reese Wilcox is one of our technicians. She’s taking care of the photo log for this autopsy.” He turned back toward the gurney. “Let’s get to the subject that brings you here, shall we? We have before us a male, likely early to mid-forties, in relatively good health. He ate approximately four hours before death, a cheeseburger, fries and beer. He’s minus his appendix and he’s suffered a few broken bones over the years, most notably three ribs, his nose and his left humerus.”

“We got a hit from the Regional Automated Fingerprint Identification Access System a couple of hours ago,” Ethan inserted. “Our victim is Felix Harold Simard, last known address in Montreal.” They had no idea yet what had brought the man to Nova Scotia, but Ethan had a request in for all transportation manifests into the province for the last two weeks. “I spoke to the detective who arrested him fourteen years ago. Simard was suspected of making and distributing snuff movies, where the female leads ended up violently murdered in the film. They weren’t able to get him on that, but his use of underage girls in his porn films netted him a seven-year stretch in Archambault.” He glanced at Alexa. “Detective Brighton also shared his aliases and known acquaintances.”

Dr. Conrad jotted the name on a form attached to a clipboard. “I assume family members have been notified?”

Ethan inclined his head.

Alexa’s gaze dropped to study the hands of the corpse. Big. Raw-boned with scarred knuckles. Simard might have worked in some sort of manual labor. Or had seen his share of fights.

“No signs of sexual assault?”

Dr. Conrad shook his head. In an aside Ethan told Alexa, “That’s been true of all the victims, male and female.”

She recalled reading that in the case summary on the plane ride. As a rule, she found sexual deviants less complicated to profile. Offenders like the one in this case were more challenging because the underlying motivation could be more difficult to nail down.

“Lacerations are visible on his wrists and ankles.” The ME pointed to the areas in turn.

“He was restrained,” she murmured.

“Definitely. By handcuffs or zip ties would be my guess, fastened tightly enough to cut into the skin. There are no defensive wounds, but he did suffer a contusion to the back of his head, severe enough that he might have lost consciousness. Although tests will confirm it, it appears his hands and fingers were thoroughly doused with bleach.” Conrad lifted one of the victim’s hands. The nails were cut painfully short.

“Oxygen bleach was used on the rest of the victims. What about his tox screen?”

Conrad’s brows drew together at Ethan’s question. Clearly, he was tiring of his narration being interrupted. “It will be several days before those results are in. There was, however, an injection site found on the left side of his neck.” The man lightly touched the area on the corpse. Alexa saw the two Mounties exchange a glance. The investigative summary had included the two most recent homicides in New Brunswick less than two weeks ago. The killer preyed primarily on men, but there had been some female victims, as well. All had suffered a blitzkrieg style of attack, had Scopolamine in their systems and cause of death—although undetermined—was thought to be asphyxiation. Her gaze fell to the stitching on the lips. The most chilling similarity in the cases.

“Traces of adhesive were found on his cheeks, and a few fibers in his mouth,” the ME went on. “Likely he was gagged and his mouth taped shut prior to death. His death would have been agonizing—his eyes were removed while he was still alive. From the progress of the clotting properties, it appears that happened hours after the contusion on his head.”

“The ME on scene thought the instrument used for that might have been a sharpened melon baller.”

Alexa’s normally strong stomach did a quick flip at Ethan’s comment. Conrad pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. “It’d be brutal, but effective. The muscles holding the eyeball in place needed to be severed, and the thinnest bones of the skull are right behind the eye socket. That said, they’re strong enough to withstand a scalpel or ice pick…but look for yourselves.”

She leaned forward simultaneously with the two men flanking her, thankful she’d remembered to dab Vicks VapoRub beneath her nostrils before entering the room. “See the uniform-sized holes through the eye sockets?” Conrad asked. “There are no repeated or tentative wounds. Just one hole, uniform in width, straight through to the brain.”

“A drill.” Nyle sounded as queasy as Alexa felt. “But he was dead by then, right? The removal of the eyeballs killed him?”

“No, indeed.” Conrad straightened from his position over the body. “There’s actually very little blood loss associated with enucleation—removal of the eyes. Most of that comes from the irritation to the eyelids. I opened the skull first. You can review the pictures if you care to. The cause of death was likely the long bit drill. It was used—for lack of a better phrase—to scramble the victim’s brain.”

Nothing in the files she’d reviewed on the plane had prepared her for such savagery. A glance at Nyle and Ethan’s faces told her that this was a new detail. At least Nyle’s shock was easily discerned. Ethan’s expression was closed. Inscrutable. With a jolt, she was reminded that as well as she’d known him as a teen, the man was a stranger to her. The thought shook her more than it should have.

“So…” She struggled to reroute her wayward thoughts, “the offender hasn’t used this technique before.” Ethan shook his head at her words, his gaze still trained on the victim’s empty eye sockets. It could mean the perpetrator was escalating, she mused. Or that the victim represented something personal to the suspect. This kind of brutality went hand in hand with rage, which could be fueled by revenge. Greed. Jealousy. But she was having a hard time reconciling what had been done to this victim with the suspect’s past attacks.

The ME took a small pair of scissors from the tray at his side. “I left this part until your arrival.” He bent over to delicately cut the stitches seaming the corpse’s lips. As if enjoying their rapt attention, he prolonged the act by pulling delicately at each freed stitch, laying the threads on a sterile cloth lining the tray to be examined later. The tech shot pictures of his actions. “Be sure and leave your email address. I’ll send you the tentative report and photo log as soon as the toxicology results are back.” He reached for a pair of forceps and pried open the mouth.

She leaned forward in anticipation as Conrad used a small penlight to peer into the cavity, his nose nearly touching the corpse’s chin as he peered inside the mouth. “Reese, I’ll want some pictures of this.”

Nyle stepped aside so the tech could move closer to snap photos as the medical examiner gently extracted something from the mouth of the victim and set it on a second sterilized cloth on the tray beside the gurney.

“Anisoptera.” Alexa stared at the dragonfly the ME extracted from the mouth of the victim. It was lifeless, its wings a brilliant blue with delicate shadings of green and violet. “May I?”

At Conrad’s nod, she rounded the gurney and, lifting the paper with the insect in her gloved hands, crossed to the magnifying glass sitting on the nearby counter. She peered closely at the item. “Rhyothemis fuliginosa,” she murmured. The vivid colored markings and the transparent tips on the front wings matched the photos in the file she’d read today. The terminal appendages identified it as male. According to the case summary, an identical insect had been left with each of the previous victims.

“You specialize in dragonflies?”

It was one of the few times Ethan had addressed her since she’d landed. “I read up on the case on the flight.”

“You were always a quick study.” She glanced over her shoulder to look at him then, and the slight smile on his lips was so familiar that for a moment she was transported back to the first time they’d met in the musty reading room in Colchester East-Hants Public Library.

He’d sprawled into a seat beside her, lifting the cover of the book in her hand to read the title. “You’re reading Voltaire…because you want to? Girl, you don’t look sick, but I’m thinking of calling a doctor.” The crooked smile that accompanied his words had sent her stomach into a slow roll, a corresponding heat sparking in her veins.

“There’s more here.” Conrad lifted something else from the mouth and set it on the tray. Ethan shifted his attention to the item the ME had discovered and just that easily the moment was broken.

Alexa hauled in a deep steadying gulp of air, one she immediately regretted. Quick shallow breaths were the rule at an autopsy. Even the Vicks didn’t kill the unmistakable odor of antiseptic layered over decomposition.

“The victims in New Brunswick had paper bags like that at the back of the mouth, too,” Nyle informed her helpfully.

She went to stand next to the ME to look at the object he’d removed. “A mini wax paper glassine bag,” she corrected absently, picking up a pair of tweezers on the tray to open it. “One of its uses is for insect samples.” She reached inside and withdrew one of the minute specks, and carried it back to the counter where a microscope sat beside the magnifying glass she’d just used. Putting the sample on a slide, she slid it beneath the instrument and adjusted the lens to examine it.

“I think I had a motel bed infested with those once,” Nyle observed, coming up to peer over her shoulder.

“It’s a bat bug. Although bed bugs and bat bugs are virtually identical, bat bugs have longer hairs on the upper covering of the thorax.” She frowned and stepped aside so Nyle could peer at the slide. “Only these last three recent victims have had a second sample inserted into their mouths?”

“It’s a new development.” Ethan’s mouth was a hard line in his face. “We haven’t figured out what it means.”

“It’s not unusual for an offender to adapt his MO as he evolves,” she mused, staring at the victim again. “But changing his signature is a bit more uncommon.”

“The killer has been inactive for three years,” Nyle put in. “The Force believed he was dead or in prison.”

“Until the New Brunswick homicides.” Her words weren’t a question.

Ethan nodded. “Simard is the first who had an identifiable manner of death. There are three other deviations noted with the newest victims. They were all tortured before they were killed. The timeline is escalating. And instead of just the dragonfly, he leaves behind a second insect sample.” His gaze was unwavering. “Guess you’ve already realized that you’re here to help us figure out what the killer is trying to tell us.”

She nodded, intrigued. Without a word, she crossed the room to retrieve the laptop she’d left near the door. Returning with it, she swiftly extracted her computer and set it on the counter and turned it on. Belatedly, she turned to Dr. Conrad. “I hope you don’t mind me using this area. I need to access a database to identify this particular species.”

The man inclined his head and reached for the oscillating saw. He began to cut precisely into the corpse’s skull, just below the hairline. Nyle, who appeared as garrulous as Ethan was taciturn, said, “You mean there’s more than one type of these buggers?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the whine of the power tool Conrad wielded.

“Several species, if I recall correctly. I just need to determine…” The thought trailed off, as she typed quickly, accessing the vast pictorial entomology database she’d been working on for Raiker’s labs. The murmur of voices behind her faded as she found the collection she was looking for and brought up the pictures of each to compare with the sample on the slide. After several minutes, the shrill sound of the saw fading away, she rejoined the officers, whose discussion had turned to details of the composition of the thread used on the victims.

“We’ll need to bag the stitches you removed so we can send them to the lab,” Ethan said as Conrad peeled back the skin of Simard’s face. “They can compare the thread used with the other…” His voice tapered off as he noticed her. “Did you identify the type of bug?”

“I did.” A faint frown marred her brow. “It’s an Afrocimex constrictus, an African bat bug. A parasite that feeds on Egyptian fruit bats.”

“What the heck is it doing in Nova Scotia?” Nyle asked.

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Alexa said slowly. “Your killer is using a dragonfly from Southeast Asia as his calling card and with this victim he’s added an insect indigenous to Africa. Both are illegal to bring into this country. He’s either smuggling them himself or buying them on the black market.”

Her gaze traveled past them, settled on the now faceless corpse, as if it could provide answers for the myriad questions its death raised. “As you know, serial crimes are all about the offender. To generalize a gender for now—it’s his wants, his needs. Victim selection, manner of death…and in this case the items he leaves behind.” She looked from Ethan to Nyle and back again. “The dragon fly is also about the offender. It tells us something about him or how he perceives his crimes. It goes to figure then that the second sample is all about the victim.”