Primal Scream (26 page)

Shortly after, the first white arrived.

Winterman Snow was thinking of Nekt as he stalked through the woods, quiver of arrows on his back and the compound bow in his hand.

Nekt was the last great warrior of his people.

It angered him that a white man's bullet had ended the myth.

There were no myths after the white man came. Just sorrow and suffering. But here in the woods and moonlight he sensed the spirit of Nekt.

Nekt was him.

On the hunt.

West Vancouver

"Is this the Forbidden City?"

"It is," Katt said, rushing from the living room to greet him at the door. "And what do we have for the empress to feast on tonight?"

DeClercq passed her the bag of take-out Cantonese food. "Spring rolls with plum sauce. Lettuce wraps with Peking duck. Sweet-and-sour pineapple pork. This-and-that chow mein."

"Yum," said Katt, free hand rubbing her tummy.

"Green tea's in the bag," said DeClercq. "Steep it and find some chopsticks, then serve the food. I hear nature calling me."

Katt dropped to her knees to kowtow before him on the hall floor. "Yes, Great Eunuch. Your humble servant obeys."

Sniffing the food at his level, Catnip scampered from the kitchen.

No sign of Napoleon, man's best friend.

Lyrics sung to the tune of "How Can I Have Spring Fever," Katt broke into song without the inspiration of a boom box and shower. "How can I eat spring rolls when it isn't even spring" warbled down the hall after him. Robert angled left toward the bathroom for a purge and ablution.

In he went and closed the door.

He unbuckled and dropped his pants. As he sat down on the toilet, again he noticed the scratched seat.

Scratch Bear. Now Scratch Cat. Have I been cursed?
he wondered.

Some read the paper while they wait for the purge. Others scribble dirty ditties on the wall. But here was a thinking man who used the time for thought. Today the question pondered was:
Why does every modern film have a toilet scene, yet characters in books never go to the John?
Were moviemakers anal fixates and authors anal retentives? Or was it the influence of Alfred Hitchcock on the former?

Hitchcock, he'd read somewhere, had been obsessed with toilets and toilet humor. To get around the Hollywood Production Code, he masked the flushing of a toilet in an early film, and later detailed the action and sound of one in
Psycho
. His ultimate gift of refinement for friends was a
noiseless
toilet. Hitchcock was known for his practical jokes. He once bet a prop man a week's salary that he'd be too afraid to spend the night alone chained to a camera in the dark studio. The fool took the bet and was given a flask of brandy to help pass the time, which the director had secretly spiked with a strong laxative. The film crew arrived the following morning to find the wretch weeping miserably in a pool of diarrhea.

Hardy, har, har.

Is toilet humor a side effect of creating psycho thrillers?

You think too much
, thought DeClercq.

The cry of pain torn from him was proportional to the number of hairs torn from his bottom when he stood up. The toilet seat wasn't scratched; it was cracked. When he sat down, adding weight, the crack spread to welcome the hairs of his butt, and when he stood up the crack closed, gripping them like tweezers. The cheek of his ass felt as if the lord high torturer had just torn a strip of Scotch tape off his fanny, taking a buttock with it. His hands shot to his derriere, which burned as if on fire, his legs high-stepping as he ran on the spot, until the pants looped around his ankles brought him down.

"Bob, are you having a heart attack?" Katt called through the door.

"Worse," he bellowed. "I've permanently flayed my bum."

The toilet seat bristled with his erstwhile hairs. He jacked up his pants, flushed the commode, washed his hands, and opened the door. At his feet, gazing up,
was another Hitchcockian theme. Catnip.
The Wrong Cat
.
The innocent accused.

"Why don't Americans use 'bum'?" Katt asked. "Mom thought I was talking about a derelict instead of my rear."

"Americans speak a foreign language, not English," he said. "It all goes back to a wordsmith named Webster, I believe. But enough of the wonders of lexicon. Food's getting cold. Let's eat."

"I'll find a pillow for your seat."

After dinner, Katt did the dishes while he sat in the Watson chair and leafed through a book. On his way home from Headquarters, Robert had stopped at Van-Dusen Botanical Gardens at Oak and Thirty-seventh. The leafless maples in the gardens were no help to him, but the librarian lent him the book in his lap
. Trees in Britain, Europe, and North America
by Roger Phillips. He found what he required on page 45.

A half hour later, Katt disturbed his work. She was dressed for a rehearsal of the school play
, Bye-Bye Birdie
, graced by her warbling voice. On a tray with a single cup and a teapot in a cozy, milk and a dispenser of Equal on the side, she served him his fortune cookie from the Chinese food.

"What did yours say?"

She passed him the strip of paper with her fortune printed in red:

YOU SHALL KNOW GOOD FORTUNE IN THE VERY NEAR FUTURE
.

"Boring, huh? Why don't fortune cookies have more oomph?" Katt asked.

"You'd prefer:
You're going to die a long, lonely, painful death?"

"I'd prefer:
The man of your dreams is waiting for you at school."

"Don't keep him waiting."

Robert cracked his fortune cookie as Katt vanished down the hall. "You don't want to know what it says?" he yelled after her. The front door closed on an impish giggle. He read the fortune penned in red on the strip of paper:

NEW BUM HAIR WILL BE BESTOWED UPON YOU.

He blinked.

Then he shook his head.

Then he laughed out loud.

You little monkey. Tweezers? he thought. How long did it take to work the real fortune out of the cookie, then substitute your handwritten hoax without breaking it?

He stored the gag in his wallet as a visual punchline to the joke for when he regaled her mom with it on her return from Boston.

Katt
, he thought.
What would I do without you?

He'd find out when the psycho got her.

*
*
*

The Child is father of the Man,
Wordsworth wrote, so tonight the child returned to the man, who kneeled on the floor in front of the hearth, arranging photos the way he once had moved lead soldiers about, piece by related piece to form a battle plan.

He dealt the first picture faceup like a playing card. It was the taunt Flood had received from the cabbie: the night Hardy died. The shot of Natasha Wilkes' head mounted on a stake stuck in a bucket of sand mixed with maple leaves.

The taunt Flood entered in the closed-out file.

The taunt Flood enlarged and mounted on the wall at home.

Maple leaves.

Magnifying glass in hand and bum in the air, the Mountie got down on his elbows and knees like the Great Detective himself. Beside the photo of the head lay the book on trees. DeClercq bounced the magnifier back and forth.

Elvira
, he thought.

For what he confirmed was the leaves in the sand were from two species of maple. Those with classic deep lobes were big leaf maple, like the illustration in the top row of leaves on page 45. The big leaf maple,
acer macrophyllum
, is native to western North America. Those with less distinctive lobes were sycamore maple, like the illustration in the third row. The sycamore maple,
acer pseudoplatanus
, is native to Europe and western Asia.

The big leaf grows here.

The sycamore doesn't.

Unless someone transplants the Eurasian tree.

Like the tree that shed the leaves in the Headhunter's taunt.

History takes time to develop perspective. History is like the Academy awards. Voted Best Picture of 1941 was
How Green Was My Valley
, but hindsight reveals the Oscar belonged to
Citizen Kane
. As cop and historian, DeClercq knew only passing time fit disparate pieces into a whole. Only now did he grasp the significance of what Elvira Franklen, the city's greenest thumb, told him a few years ago during the Ripper case.

About Flood.

And maple leaves.

His mind flashed back . . .

Her house was a tree-embowered bungalow in Kerrisdale, an affluent and fuddy-duddy part of the city. The rain had washed the last tenacious leaves from maples and chestnuts in the yard, scattering a soggy red and yellow carpet across the lawn. The dwarf-sized woman who answered the door reminded him of Yoda in the Star Wars films. A lively octogenarian, with bulgy blue eyes sparkling with mischief in a creased, rouged face, her hair was combed down Caesar-like in a snow-white bowl, and she wore a frumpy wool suit with a broach clasped at the throat.

"Oh,
do
come in, Chief Superintendent. Do come in," she enthused.

As he stepped into the hall, something brushed his leg.

"Shoo, Poirot! Scat, Maigret!" Elvira clapped her hands. "You must own a dog," she said as both felines scampered away.

"Napoleon. My German shepherd."

"Thank goodness!" Elvira sighed with mock relief. "With everyone downsizing these days, I feared you'd say Chihuahua.

"Two cats?" he asked.

"Five," she answered.

"Expect Dalgleish and Morse to sniff-test you, too. Miss Marple will stay aloof and watch you from her cushion."

She led him down a hallway of dark oiled wood and snug alcoves crammed with Royal Doulton figurines. The parlor they entered was as cluttered as the study at 221B Baker Street. Left alone while Franklen scurried off to the kitchen, the Mountie surveyed the Victoria and Albert Museum she called home. overstuffed sofa and armchairs had doilies of Belgian lace, one with a cushion on which lounged a suspiciousl Siamese cat. The overmantel and several tables placed around the parlor displayed a complete set of coronation mugs, even one for Edward VIII, who was never crowned. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth commanded the far wall. Beneath it hung separate pictures of the Prince and Princess of Wales. Marks on the wallpaper indicated the photos of Charles and Diana had recently been moved apart to reflect the state of their marriage. What held his attention, however, was the gallery opposite French doors that led to an English garden. Seventy-four head shots, personally autographed.

"The one of Conan Doyle is my favorite," Franklen said, wheeling in a tea trolley with enough fattening goodies to clog his arteries. "He signed it just before his death in 1930. Dame Agatha gave me hers ovefc tea at Greenway. Of the moderns, I adore Dick Francis and Ed McBain. I may buy a dozen more cats and name them after the boys of the 87th Precinct."

Sayers, Van Dine, Queen, Hammett, Gardner, Stout, Carr, Chandler, Simenon, MacDonald, and Macdonald ... He scanned her rogues gallery of the criminal elite. "Very impressive," he said.

The mystery maven's smile cracked her face into a thousand pieces. She served Poonakandy in forget-me-not cups. DeClercq munched a blueberry scone smothered with clotted cream. Morse or Dalgleish jumped into his lap. He fed the tabby a nibble, but not content, the animal pawed off a chunk.

Not only was Elvira the city's greenest thumb, but she was also the country's foremost reviewer of crime fiction. Since the 1930s she had written hundreds of interactive whodunits. Months ago she'd asked DeClercq to provide a "real sleuth" for a Mystery Weekend to be auctioned off hi aid of Children's Hospital. Promising to do so brought him here.

This visit would lead to the carnival of carnage on Deadman's Island.

Eleven grisly deaths.

Who could have foreseen?

And what changes that bloodbath had brought to so many lives.

Zinc met Alex.

Katt entered Robert's life.

And Elvira got to solve life's greatest mystery.

But that later.

This was before.

After tea she gave him a guided tour of her home, tut-tutting protestations he had to return to work, all too true, what with a psycho having hung a woman with a skinned face from Lynn Canyon Bridge. The rear windows of the house overlooked what would rival Kew Gardens in spring, but hibernated now. The back room shelved more books than the Library of Congress: all spine chillers, judging from their lurid spines. A door off it entered a chamber cluttered with pamphlets and magazines piled on the floor, tables spread with faded yellow newspaper clippings, cubbyholes stuffed with mimeographed sheets, and framed certificates crammed into vacant patches on the walls. Everywhere were large-paged books of pressed flowers and leaves sandwiched between layers of ironed wax paper.

"I've been president of twenty-four horticultural societies," she said. "You're looking at the gardening history of the Northwest. When I die, Vancouver Public Library inherits."

"Historian to historian, it looks like a thorough job. But duty calls, and I must go. Crime waits for no man, Miss Franklen."

Reluctant to let her "real sleuth" go, she stalked him like a shadow, first to the parlor to retrieve his overcoat, then up the hall while he pulled it on, then to the front door as he flipped the collar up against the rain.
Will she slide the bolt
, he wondered
, to bar
my way?

"I, too, was once involved in a real case, Chief Superintendent. I was deputized
by the detective killed
with your wife. Sure you won't stay for another cup of tea?"

"Flood?" he said.

"Detective Almore Flood.
What's up, doc?
I teased him. Get it? Elmer Fudd?"

"When was this?"

"December 1982. The month after the Headhunte
r
was shot."

The last thing DeClercq wished to discuss was that bastard Flood and a case which had nothing to do with him. He listened halfheartedly while Franklen rattled on, waiting to escape.

"He came to me with a most intriguing puzzle," she said. "A body caked with dirt and leaves and wrapped in a plastic sheet was dumped in the city. The killing, he explained, happened elsewhere. The leaves were a mix of two types of maple. Big leaf maple, which is native to British Columbia, and sycamore maple, native to Europe and Asia. Find where a sycamore was transplanted here, and we might pinpoint where the man was killed. It took us weeks to search my records.
The Arborist
, June 1931 to September 1952
The Horticulturalist's Digest
from 1923 on. Finally we found the location in the July 1955
Pacific Planter
. Shall I show you the article on the bomb shelter?"

"Yes," said DeClercq. "But another time. Give me a rain check until you return from the Mystery Weekend. I look forward to hearing how good a sleuth Inspector Chandler is."

So he escaped; Elvira died; and the rain check was never cashed.

Until now.

The flashback faded.