Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  The Zed seesawed on the edge of the excavated pit.

  "Don't breathe, Sue."

  "What kind of food do you like?" he asked. "Japanese/' she replied. "Then Japanese it is," he said. "And I know a good place," she added. He was a rookie Member from Peace River, Alberta, recently posted to the Deas Island Freeway Patrol. His eyes were on the tempura and teriyaki side of the menu when she lightly touched his hand and said, "It's nice to date a man not a wuss when it comes to sushi."

  Today, his bowels were feeling a little insecure, what with all that raw fish worming its way through his virgin digestive tract, so after lurking near the John over a cup of coffee, he tossed the car keys to Sam and asked the gas jockey to fill 'er up while he was in the toilet for a purge.

  When he finally came out and walked to the pumps, drizzle graying the intersection of Number 5 Road and the Steveston Highway, dripping off the Chevron sign on the southwest corner, Sam told him, "Ben, your radio's gone wild." In his initial rush for security, the sushi king had left his portable radio behind on the seat of the patrol car.

  As Constable Ben Roszmann neared the driver's side door to check it out, he heard Zinc Chandler say, "Lost the Corvette in an accident at Shell and the Steveston Highway."

  "Jeez, look at that guy go," Sam, standing at the pumps, said to Ben, who turned in time to see the black Vette streak by.

  "Code five. Members down," dispatch repeated.

  Adrenaline pumping, Roszmann jumped into his car, cranked the ignition, then roared off in hot pursuit so fast the nozzle still pumping gas was yanked from the fuel tank.

  Beyond Number 5 Road, the Steveston Highway forked in two. Route 99 South to Seattle branched right. Route 99 North to Vancouver lay ahead, the Corvette crossing 99 on the Steveston overpass, before squealing around a cloverleaf underneath the overpass to enter the freeway extending Interstate 5 north of the U.S./Canada border toward Vancouver.

  Vancouver City Center 19 kilometers read the passing sign. A concrete barrier divided traffic going south from these three lanes. Engine revved to 70, 80, 90 miles an hour, Schreck weaved left and right through the slower cars.

  In the rearview mirror, keeping pace and beginning to gain, a cop car with siren wailing and red-blue wigwags flashing was hot on his tail.

  The driver was a skeleton.

  The car was made of bones.

  It wasn't a club, but a .357 slug would smash the Bone cop's skull.

  The Mounted Police have substituted horsepower for horse power. Roszmann at the wheel, the car chasing the Corvette was a Camaro Z-28 specially souped up for the Force with a 5.8-liter, 300-horsepower Corvette engine, and tires a foot-wide rated at 240K an hour. Scorching by civilian cars on the road, it slopped gas as they pulled over to clear the way.

  "Charlie four. I got him. North on Ninety-nine. Under Blundell overpass, heading for Westminster Highway."

  "Ten-four, Charlie four," the dispatcher said. "The watch commander is plugged in. Report, all those in position to intercept."

  "Bravo nine, Dispatch. North on Ninety-nine, just beyond Westminster overpass."

  "Do you have a spike belt?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Then lay it down fast with flares and cones."

  "Delta three, Dispatch." A French Canadian voice. "I'm east on Westminster Highway, passing Number Four Road. ETA Ninety-nine at intercept."

  "Ten-four, Delta three. The watch commander is in control. Charlie four. Chevron called. You're leaking gas. The next fill wait till the cap's back on. Delta three,

  proceed over Ninety-nine on Westminster overpass and turn right down Exit Thirty-six against traffic. U-turn north on Ninety-nine to relieve Charlie four as Primary Pursuit. Charlie four, break off and plug the hole. We don't want Ninety-nine a blazing inferno. Bravo nine, yank the spike belt as soon as the subject is crippled, then follow Delta three as Secondary Backup/'

  Eyes squinting hard to peer through the windshield streaked with drizzle, Roszmann could just see Westminster Highway.

  Beyond the tunnel formed by the overpass, Bravo 9 lit the first red flare.

  The constable in Bravo 9 skidded to a halt on the shoulder of Highway 99 and scrambled out. Removing the Hollow Spike Strip from the trunk, he darted across the freeway and laid it down as best he could, the belt too short to cover three lanes. The large hollow spikes set in an aluminum backing angled south toward the oncoming Corvette. As the car ran over it, the tires would blow. The constable would then yank the belt to free pursuing Members, who'd have no trouble taking down the Corvette clanking on its rims.

  As the Corvette sped toward the spikes, he ignited the first flare.

  Die Strassensperre, thought Schreck.

  To avoid what he thought was a roadblock, the madman left the freeway by Exit 36, down which against the traffic Delta 3 was ordered to go. The Corvette ignored the red light at the top of the ramp, and wrenched left across the Westminster overpass, then left again on the far side of Highway 99 to zoom down the access ramp to 99 South.

  Having U-turned from north to south. Schreck fled back the way he came.

  "'He's going south on Ninety-nine," Roszmann reported, as he shot up Exit 36 toward the four-car collision under the light, caused when the Corvette ran the signal. "'Got to break off. I'm corralled/'

  'Ten-four/' said the dispatcher. "Plug that tank."

  "Bravo nine, Dispatch. He missed the spike belt. And I can't get across the barrier."

  "I got him," Delta 3 said, the accent French. "He cut across in front of me just before Westminster overpass. I'm on the ramp heading south and going to chomp his ass."

  "Ten-four, Delta three. Take Primary Pursuit. Call out the coordinates for intercept."

  Flatlands whipped by on both sides at 100 miles an hour. The Corvette shot under the Steveston Highway overpass and into the George Massey Tunnel under the South Arm of the Fraser River. The sign said Use Lights, Remove Sunglasses Thru Tunnel. Schreck did neither as the Corvette weaved wildly down into the narrow passage lit by yellow lights. Thum-thum . . . thum-thum . . . thum-thum . . . was the thrum as it traversed rubber pegs dividing both lanes, striking the walls on either side to throw back sparks, causing another collision as it ascended the up-curve toward the river's south bank, which blocked the tunnel to cut off Delta 3. The engine howled deafeningly in the close confines, drowning the hum of tires burning rubber up the incline, a square of light appearing ahead, then suddenly shafts of daylight rained down through the concrete rafters above, seconds before Schreck emerged to cross Deas Slough, with boats rocking on the gray waters to his right, under an eagle winging in the sky, while he hooted in triumph over die KnochenpolizeL

  The Corvette streaked toward Canada's border with the United States.

  Hot pursuit across the border by the police of one country into the territory of the other to apprehend a fugitive is not authorized by law. So now a sergeant in Richmond OCC was on the phone to the U.S. Border Patrol and Washington State Police. 'Time is tight so I'll cut to the chase. Coming toward you at a hundred miles an hour is a black Corvette, plate YNZ 101, driven by a cop killer named Giinter Schreck. Possibly armed and dangerous as can be, he'll see you as skeletons who must

  ibe rammed and crushed. He's killed police in Germany and just attacked us in an attempted mass slaughter. His estimated time of arrival at Douglas Crossing is only minutes from now."

  TAKEDOWN

  Ghost Keeper to natives, Staff Sergeant Bob George was a full-blooded Plains Cree from Duck Lake, Saskatchewan. Though not descended from one of the West Coast totem tribes, he was a medicine man strengthened by his spirit quest as a boy, when he was sent alone into the wilds to learn who he was. As such, he was veteran of many a sweat, and so this morning found himself in a sweat lodge off a foggy inlet up the coast, surrounded by peaks soaring on three sides, a place sacred to natives and as close to "Heaven' 1 as you'll find on Earth. With him were troubled Indian kids sent here by tribal elders to rediscover the magic known before wh
ite colonization.

  But Ghost Keeper was Staff Sergeant Bob George of the Mounted, too, veteran of the Ghoul, Cutthroat, and Ripper cases, and Jack MacDougall had been a friend who helped him up the ranks. So after the sweat at sunrise, this hefty man with black hair, bronze skin, and wide cheekbones had donned Red Serge to sail on the Lindsay for the funeral.

  The RCMP names its boats for past commissioners— Lindsay was CO from 1967 to '69—and this was a fifty-eight-foot Class I catamaran capable of thirty-six knots . . . but not in fog. Fog hazed Georgia Strait south from the inlet to Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal where George had parked his Jeep, and caused him to miss the funeral. As he was driving east along the causeway from the docks offshore to the Mainland, George turned on his police radio and heard: "Charlie four. I got him. North on Ninety-nine. Under Blundell overpass, heading for Westminster Highway." That meant

  the chase going on across the Fraser to his left was retreating north away from him toward Vancouver and the North Shore Mountains beyond. The sea to either side was choppy and gray, the bluff ahead to the right misty gray with rain, the snow cone of Mount Baker in Washington state behind shrouded out today. A sign arching over the causeway read use of seat belts is compulsory in British Columbia. Over that flew a blue heron.

  The flatlands of the Delta were losing ground to monstrous housing, but here horses in a paddock snorted plumes in the cold air while munching bales of hay, and Lombardy poplars planted long ago as windbreaks still stood tall. Over the Southern railway tracks flanked by power lines, the road ran straight as an arrow ahead to Ladner, originally Ladner's Landing after two American brothers who struck it rich in the gold rush, bypassing the Hanging Judge's noose to marry twin sisters instead and pioneer the Delta. As he passed a Jiffy John beside a slough, stuck in the middle of nowhere as near as he could tell, George heard: "He's going south on Ninety-nine. Got to break off. I'm corralled."

  The Cree's pulse quickened.

  He's coming this way.

  The pace was slower through Ladner, farmers poking along in pickup trucks while the municipal hall, courthouse, and hospital went by, the light at Ladner Trunk Road almost catching him, but then George broke out and stepped on it.

  "Delta three. Accident. The tunnel's blocked and so am I. Cancel pursuit from this side," the French Canadian said.

  George grabbed the mike and radioed in. "Dispatch, Staff Sergeant George. I'm off duty in my car—a white Jeep with plate ZYZ 223—on Highway Seventeen East. Intercept with subject dead ahead."

  "Ten-four, Staff," the dispatcher said. "Hang on while Tach One checks for backup."

  For policing, every city and district in B.C. has the option of contracting with the Mounties or setting up its own force. Delta elected the latter, so clearing the tunnel

  meant the chase passed to the Delta Police. But this was Schreck, Members were down, and George was the spearhead channeled into Richmond OCC.

  'This is the watch commander. Hear me, Staff?''

  "Ten-four," replied George. The watch commander on the air was rare indeed.

  "Tach One"—radio channel 43-Vancouver out of HQ to blanket the Lower Mainland—"reports Member backup too far away. Delta Police will Secondary. See them in your mirror?"

  "Ten-four. Wigwags back by Crescent Slough/'

  Highway 99 came into sight ahead, traffic emerging from the tunnel moving left to right. Signs were coming thick and fast to fork Highway 17 . . . 600 Meters to Hope, Seattle . . . River Road, Richmond, Vancouver with an arrow pointing straight across the overpass . . . 99 South Hope, Seattle on-ramp curving right. . . .

  The watch commander: "The intercept is cop killer Gunter Shreck. Are you armed?"

  "Affirmative. I'm in uniform."

  The watch commander: "Sidearm unsnapped and prepared?"

  George cinched the seat belt tight as could be, and pulled the leather flap loose from the holster with his right hand, exposing the butt of the Smith, its lanyard snaking up to circle his neck.

  "Ten-four," he said.

  The watch commander: "The Corvette's registered to a known drug dealer and probably stolen. The subject is possibly armed from the same source. The windows of the Corvette are bullet-proof glass. If the window lowers, assume he's going to fire. You have the eyeball. You're number one. Use extreme caution. If you see a gun, take him out/'

  Suddenly there it was, streaking from the left, a black Corvette zooming out of the tunnel and aiming for the States, going at least 100 miles an hour toward the Highway 17 overpass as George entered the on-ramp to 99 South, centrifugal force pulling the Jeep as he wheeled around the curve. "I got him," George said, glancing to the left as his boot slammed the gas pedal to the floor to pick up speed. "I got him," George repeated, locking his trajectory on a collision course with the Corvette

  now barreling under the 17 overpass. "Takedown!" George said, pumping himself as the on-ramp became Highway 99, the white dividing markers gone as his speed hit ninety miles an hour, Corvette and Jeep grinding together at an acute angle as George whispered something else lost in the crunch of metal on metal but picked up by the mike. . . .

  The tension in Richmond OCC was palpable. All they had was the open channel feeding George's voice. "I got him . . ." Intercept. This was it! "I got him . . ." Repeated as the speaker pulled them like a magnet. "Takedown ..." No turning back. The die was cast. Then just before the ramming, "All my relations . . ."

  "What the hell does that mean?" asked the dispatcher.

  The watch commander shrugged. "Must be some sort of native thing."

  . . . boats rocking on the gray waters to his right, under j an eagle winging in the sky, while he hooted in triumph ! over die Knochenpolizei.

  The Corvette zipped past River Road Exit 29, closing on the turnoff to Highway 17 and the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal, Schreck glancing west at the wigwags of approaching Delta cops.

  The Corvette shot under the overpass as his finger pushed a button to lower the bullet-proof window on the passenger's side. Wind whooshed by the car and tickled the stubble on his shaved skinhead. If the Bone Police tried to box him in, he'd be ready to blast apart their skulls.

  BAAANGGGGG!

  A white Jeep rammed the front of the Corvette, its fender slamming his fender at an angle, metal crumpling and crushing like two accordions joining together, Jeep jumping the right side of the Corvette off the road so both vehicles fused window to window, this flying wedge hurtling into a demolition alley three lanes wide, with concrete barriers along both shoulders. Tortured tires peeled rubber as smoke streamed behind. Sparks iew when the force of the Jeep scraped the Corvette along

  the barrier dividing traffic north and south. V-joined like Siamese twins, both cars bounced right to veer across the three lanes toward the opposite barrier.

  Schreck yanked the .357 Python from his pants, and swept the muzzle of the Mag around toward the skeleton in the other car. This Bone cop in Red Serge with a red skull had feathers sticking from the zigzags where his head plates fused.

  "Untermensch!" Schreck shrieked.

  And opened fire.

  But this "subhuman" had talents sorely lacking in "the master race/' He didn't need a spyglass to see the world in front of him, and he didn't need a compass to tell him where he was, and he didn't need an Elmer Fudd hat with earflaps tied up to know he was a hunter. All he needed was him.

  Before he saw the muzzle, George saw the open window—// the window lowers, assume he's going to fire — so the Mountie released the seat belt and threw himself sideways a moment before his window exploded to shower him with glass.

  The uniform may be snazzy, but it wasn't fashioned for show, every piece of it serving a practical purpose as well. The lanyard was security like a child's mitten string, so in the heat of battle, the gun was always at hand.

  As he ducked sideways, George wrenched the lanyard to jerk his sidearm free, grabbing the Smith in midair with his left hand. He didn't need his eyes to pinpoint Schreck's position. The Cree's in
ternal compass had a fix on him. All that periscoped up to brave the line of fire was his fist with the .38.

  Bam! George fired.

  The muzzle swung a degree left.

  Bam! George fired.

  The muzzle swung two degrees right.

  Bam! George fired.

  The muzzle swung four degrees left.

  Bam! George fired.

  The muzzle swung six degrees right.

  Bam! George fired.

  Then, because this was the you-or-me shot and only one man was coming out alive, the Mountie popped up and Bam! fired again.

  The flying wedge slammed the barrier to the right, dumping George onto the floor as the cars veered to the left again, slamming the central barrier to bounce back to the right where this barrier ended and grass along a hedge began. The interlocked wrecks plowed turf past an old farmhouse beyond, snapping a dont litter sign like a toothpick, before churning to a halt under white

  ROCK 27, SEATTLE 202.

  Delta Police cars screeched up behind.

  Delta cops jumped out, sidearms drawn.

  Schreck was slumped over the steering wheel of the Corvette, three red holes in the right side of his head and the left side blown away to splatter his brains all over the bullet-proof glass behind.

  The watch commander, short of breath but trying to play it straight: "Confirm all weapons are secure and all Members safe."

  Silence.

  The watch commander: "Confirm all weapons—"

  "Fuck," said George. "I thought I was dead."

  The watch commander: "I will take that as a confirmation."

  HUMAN ASH

  Maui, Hawaii

  Nick arrived at his apartment hotel on Napili Bay to find a message waiting from DeClercq:

  Schreck was killed this morning in a shootout with us. A search for evidence to link him to the murder of your mom is underway. The DNA test on your tunic should be done by the end of the month. Until then, "Get away from it all."

  Friday, December 10, 1993