Twilight saw Nick 10,000 feet up in the ''House of the Sun," watching dawn break over the rim of Haleakala Crater, to creep down into the volcano's deep throat of silverswords and cinder cones. Daylight saw him back at Napili Bay, jogging his five miles before the scorch began, running by golf course after golf course footing Pineapple Hill, to justify a breakfast of macadamia nut pancakes at the Gazebo.
Cooled by the shade of monkeypods, coco palms, and wili wili trees, Nick's garden apartment overlooked the foaming surf.
He unpacked the urn from his suitcase.
Then he walked up the beach.
Kapalua takes its name from the ancient Hawaiians. Kapalua means "arms embracing the sea." Rugged crags of lava rock reached out into the blue to form Kapalua and adjacent Napili bays, Kapalua the best snorkeling cove on Maui, colorful clumps of coral alive with even more colorful fish. Halfway across the eight-mile strait to Molokai, a humpback whale breached as Nick stood out at the tip of the arm dividing the bays. The distant shoe-shaped island forged by two volcanoes gathered mist from the horizon to hide its jumbled peaks. There at Kalawao Cove in 1866. lepers were dumped without shelter, food, or hope, until the "Martyr of Molokai" landed in 1873, and sacrificed his life to their disease to redeem them to God.
Mom told him that story when he'd asked about the picture.
The picture in the attic above her desk.
The desk where she sat at the end of each month to juggle their dwindling funds.
"That's where I'd like to be redeemed when I die," she'd said.
Near as he could tell, the photo was taken here.
Around the tip of the point and a glassy tide pool at his feet, incoming waves tumbled left to Napili and right to Kapalua. The sun behind cast his shadowy image across the ocean mirror. Leaning over the tide pool, he cracked the lid of the urn as the sea sprayed him. Arms
out, he sprinkled Mom's ashes onto the pool, and tapped what remained in the jar into his right hand, as if to hold her one last time, before he spread his fingers to give her up to the tide.
Before him lay the primal womb from which we all evolved.
Mom's ashes grayed the surface of his shadowed reflection.
The hands of the silhouette reached for him like a black twin.
BLOOD TIES
Vancouver
Friday, December 31, 1993
Deputy Commissioner Chan, sitting in his office at 37th and Heather, phoned Chief Superintendent DeClercq, sitting in his office at 33rd and Heather, and asked him to be at the Lab in-between at 4:30 sharp.
The last time DeClercq walked to Biology Section's Examination Room on the second floor of the Lab, Colin Wood had told him, "I should have everything humming within six weeks." Only three weeks had passed, but tests were humming now.
Deoxyribonucleic acid—DNA—determines how hereditary traits are passed on. The DNA in each cell of an individual carries the genetic code for building that human. Each cell's nucleus has 46 chromosomes composed of coiled DNA. A DNA sequence on a chromosome that encodes a particular inherited trait is a gene. One hundred thousand genes make up a complete genetic code. Uncoiled, the DNA in each human cell is six feet long. Since only identical twins have the same genetic code, only one person in the world has that DNA.
The DNA typing procedure used by the RCMP has four steps. Three weeks back, after he'd tested the stain
on Nick's tunic for blood, Toop had cut a dime-size piece from the cuff to stuff in the Eppendorf handed to Wood. Wood had carried the plastic tube along with samples of Dora's blood around the glass bisecting the room to the analytical half.
There he'd begun testing.
Step One saw the sample in each tube digested with proteolytic enzymes, centrifuged and washed to extract pure DNA. From the fume hood where this occurred, Wood carried the tubes to the left side of the lab where the DNA in each was digested with Haelll. This "restriction enzyme" scans DNA for sequences it recognizes and cuts the strands at those sites. Different people's DNA cuts at different places, producing different combinations of fragment lengths.
Step Two saw the lengths sorted by a method called electrophoresis. Agarose is a jelly with pores through which DNA lengths can pass. The tubes of cut-up samples to be matched are loaded into slots at the "origin end" of a slab of gel. Like a racetrack, the slots feed parallel lanes. When electrical current is applied across the gel, the samples migrate through the slab away from the origin end. The smaller the fragment, the faster it migrates, so when the electrical current stops, the DNA pieces in each lane halt in separate bands.
Step Three saw the fragment bands transferred from this gel slab to a nylon membrane by Southern blotting. From the Examination Room, Wood carried the membrane to the radioactive Hot Room. There, placed in a bottlelike tube and bathed with "probe," the membrane stewed in a Robbins incubator. A DNA probe is a short piece of DNA tagged with a radioactive label. The genetic sequence of the probe seeks out and only binds to complementary sequences on the membrane fragments. Once this binding was done, Wood washed excess probe off the membrane and overlaid it with a sheet of X-ray film. He then stored both layers in a freezer at -70 degrees C. There, radiation from the probe-marked bands registered bar codes on the X-ray film. Since the bands to which a probe binds vary from person to person, each bar code is a "genetic fingerprint."
Running the film through a processor produced this autoradiogram, which—at 4:30 on New Year's Eve—
Wood and Toop laid before Chan, DeClercq, Tipple, and Kidd, gathered in the Lab:
1 23456789 10 11
!-. i i i
* -* t t
l i H
"The DNA 'fingerprinted' on this autorad is a polymorphic area on Chromosome five. By polymorphic I mean it varies from person to person," said Wood. "Lanes one, five, nine, and eleven contain Molecular Weight Markers. Markers are DNA fragments of known size. Marker lanes are rulers we use to measure the size of unknown DNA fragments. Lanes two, three, and four contain internal controls to make sure the gel has run properly. Two is the Male Cell Line, three is the Female Cell Line, four is the Blood Internal Standard. The lanes with known DNA samples are six, seven, and eight. The bands differ because the samples came from different people. Lane six contains the sample of Dora Craven's blood from the autopsy."
Wood paused while all eyes focused on Lane six.
"Lane ten contains questioned blood taken from the cuff of Corporal Craven's Red Serge tunic. The match is obvious."
Wood placed four more autoradiograms on the table.
After the first autorad, he'd stripped the membrane in hot water to remove the probe before repeating the test with a different one. All five probes had matched Lanes six and ten.
Step Four saw the autorads go to Toop for computer work. A computer scanned the bar codes to determine the size of each band. The probability of two samples both binding for that probe at that point was statistically known, so multiplying the chance of each autorad having a match by the chances of the other four—1/50 x 1/9 x 1/8 and so on—produced the probability of Lanes six and ten matching on all five autorads.
"One in one hundred billion," said Toop. 'The odds the DNA in the blood on the cuff didn't come from Dora are one in one hundred billion."
"Could your tests be wrong?" asked Chan.
"Nothing in science is ever black and white," said Wood. "Every new test developed goes through an initial stage of exaggerated infallibility, followed closely by doubt. The scientific basis for DNA typing is sound. It will withstand those skeptics who question its forensic use. The areas ripe for attack are laboratory error and faulty statistics. Were samples mixed up so they tested in the wrong lanes? Did sloppy continuity contaminate a sample? Are the population databases random enough so the statistical odds aren't biased? However, I know the importance of this test to the Force, and guarantee the blood on the cuff given to me matches blood taken from Dora at the autopsy."
"What about twins?" asked DeClercq.
"Twins,
" said Wood. "The one exception. Since they split from the same fertilized egg, identical twins do have the same DNA."
"Which means they produce the same autorads?"
"Yes," agreed Wood.
DeClercq was about to leave the Lab when Wood took him aside.
"I also have results from the kidnapping case," he said.
HAPPY NEW YEAR
West Vancouver
Six o'clock. News time. The close of another year.
Click!
". . . from Los Angeles. This was the year of gangsta rap, the violence-soaked subgenre of hip-hop that's now its prevalent form. Snoop Doggy Dogg, the current hot artist, is touted as the first to have his debut album Doggy Style enter the Billboard charts at number one, following such gangsta successes as Dr. Dre, Eazy-E, Spice I, and Ice Cube. Dogg could make history as the only artist charged with murder while number one . . m "
Click!
". . . a black community leader in Montreal has urged subway riders to be on guard against possible racist attacks after two men tried to push a black woman onto subway tracks. Police say those involved may be skinheads. Earlier, black groups received anonymous calls and letters warning of revenge after an immigrant from Chad fatally pushed a white Quebecer into the path of an oncoming train . . ."
Click!
". . . in emotional rallies reflecting South Africa's deep ethnic and racial divides, three factions in the bitter battle for political power celebrated conflicting holidays December sixteenth to honor anniversaries soaked in the nation's blood. Threats were loudest from twelve thousand white Afrikaners circling a sandstone monolith outside Pretoria to mark the 1838 Battle of Blood River where several hundred Boer guns mowed down thousands of spear-chucking Zulus. In the seething black township of Soweto close to Johannesburg, ten thousand supporters of the African National Congress party cheered and danced as Nelson Mandela reviewed the guerrilla army he formed thirty-two years ago to fight white apartheid laws. Mean-
while, in the rival black KwaZulu tribal homeland of Natal Zulu Inkatha militants mobilized for election violence to come . . ."
The front door opened.
"I'm home," Katt called from the hall.
Click! The TV screen went black as Robert punched the remote.
"Prepare to be scared . . ." Katt's voice coming down the hall, bleeding into the spooky fanfare of a cheesy B horror film.
A black Ride snowboard, held in front, served as a masking cape.
Between it and the woolen toque glared squinty evil eyes.
Flourishing the booted board bared crooked vampire fangs.
Lipstick down her chin was dribbled blood.
"Not bad, huh?"
"You're sniffing rubber cement?"
"Au contraire, Bob. We wimmin just liberated drama class. The play committee met up Grouse today. Combined a little boarding with our Christmas hols assignment. Wally—Mr. Walmsley to you—told us to decide— or he would—who plays whom in Dracula this March. Apres-ski in the Grouse Nest, I queried why some guy should have the preordained right—"
"Your vocabulary's growing."
"I sleep in a library."
"Skillful interweaving of French. I'll have you bilingual soon."
"Bob, this is a saga of dramatic import. Pfeiffer. Foster. Streep. Madonna. All the great thespians may have to clear the way for me."
"Lay on, Macduff/'
"I questioned why some guy should have the preordained right to suck my neck while I cowered or fainted in a see-through nightie. I demanded we vote on reversing gender roles. Unfortunately, Kirk Mitchell"— Katt cracked a wicked grin—"had to leave for his hot date with Pam Brodie. He's gonna be pissed to learn his lust cost the male vote. Now I'm Countess. Jenny's Renfield. And the costume committee is sewing scant p.j.'s for hickey fodder guys."
"Kirk Mitchell? Isn't he the muffin you're sharking?"
"The very same."
"And Pam Brodie? Is she—"
"Trash, Bob. Loose trash."
"How'd that come about?"
"You mean why am I spending New Year's with you instead of in Kirk's arms?"
"Sort of."
"Social machinations, Bob. The etiquette of men. I was about to ask Kirk out, when Wade—he's this sexist dork with an Elle Macpherson calendar in his locker— asked me to the Led Zeppelin party at Whistler."
"Led Zeppelin's playing a ski bash at Whistler!"
"Drugs, Bob. Come on. You're a cop. I'm sure Kirk heard Wade asked me out, and since both play basketball on the school team, and I told Wade I already had plans to wash my hair, Kirk could hardly go out with me and still—"
"To the Zeppelin party?"
"Of course not. I planned to lure him down Lover's Lane. So he asked Pam, who incidentally—"
"Loose trash, I hear?"
Katt hissed and flicked her tongue like Anthony Hopkins. "One bite." She wiggled her fingers beside her eyes. "One look ... we vampires are hypnotists . . . and p.j. Kirk is MINE!"
"Sharked by jaws," said DeClercq. "I don't think I want you sucking blood from a guy who fools around with loose trash."
"Hey, I'll swallow a condom. . . ."
Katt sniffed the air. "Something's amiss. I don't smell moussaka cooking. I don't see The Big Sleep and The Maltese Falcon by the VCR."
"Held up at work. Change of plans. We're going to La Cucina."
"New Year's Eve? We'll never get in."
"We're regulars. They'll water the soup. We'll sit in the parking lot. But first we have to talk."
DeClercq sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. Laying down the snowboard, Katt shed her wet parka to curl up next to him. Sweat and flying snow had plastered curls to her brow. Her cheeks were rosy from mountain exercise. "Is this a Father Knows Best
chat?" she inquired. "If so, you need a Perry Como sweater."
"Katt," he said gently. "I'm not your father."
"Teaboy, you're better than any father to me."
"There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just get it out. Luna Darke wasn't your mother."
A furrow creased the space between Katt's cobalt eyes, deepening as the words sank in. "You're saying I'm adopted?"
He eased his arm around her. "You were kidnapped, Katt." The jolt that galvanized her muscles matched the electric chair. He tightened his hold. "In 1978, a newborn baby girl was snatched in Boston. The real mother has searched for her child ever since. For reasons we'll discuss later, I suspected that baby was you. I had the Lab compare your blood with DNA from Boston. Your real mom's name is Corrine Baxter. I'll be calling her."
"Is it the money?"
"Huh?"
"I cost too much?"
"Katt—"
"You can have it. Everything in the trust. Every goddamn cent from selling the Bowen house. I don't need to go to college. I don't need—"
He pulled away and gripped her shoulders with both hands. Her eyes were unfocused, staring through him, as her mind flailed like a punch-drunk boxer.
"After all I've done to make you love me? I won't leave here to live with some stranger. I won't go back East and down to the States. I'm Canadian. You can't force me!"
"Katt, you're American, and the decision's not up to me. I have to do what's morally right." Rising from the sofa, he fetched the framed photo of Jane from the mantel. The four-year-old sat laughing in a pile of red-gold-brown-orange-amber maple leaves, head thrown back so her hair caught a glint of sun. "I feel what your mom's gone through because I went through it with Jane. Fifteen years of torture searching for you. You're not an object. You have a say. So you and your mom will have to work it—"
Katt stood up.
"Come on, dog. Let's go for a walk."
He watched them from the Greenhouse with a punctured heart, Napoleon bounding down the beach toward Lighthouse Park, two black silhouettes against the onyx bay, Katt kicking stones like asteroids across the pinpricks of far Point Grey.
Happy New Year, he thought.
Vancouv
er
Avoid alcohol, the doc had warned, so Zinc filled a champagne flute with mineral water for himself, then uncorked a half bottle of Veuve Clicquot for her. Bang! the cork popped like a mortar shell, while fizz bubbled from the neck over his hand.
"What shall we toast?" Alex asked, serving steamy bowls of cioppino by candlelight.
'To the success of your book in the New Year," he said, crossing the hall carpet to the hardwood floor of the dining room.
"Any comment from DeClercq?"
"He's a busy man. Losing both Eric and Jack weeks ago left him shorthanded. He promised he'd read it, so we'll hear soon.
"Happy New Year," Alex said, hand reaching out for the flute. A spark of static electricity passed between them, causing her to flinch. The glass slipped from her fingers, crashed to the floor, and broke.
"I hope this isn't an omen of what's to come." She sighed.
It was.
Cloverdale
Which is the saddest song? "Old Shep" by Elvis? Or "Raggedy Ann" by Little Jimmy Dickens?
This was the calm before the storm at The Moaning Steer, unhappy hour for drowning the cares of the last twelve months, before the country-rock band Road Apples began at nine to see in the New Year. The newspaper on the table rehashed newsworthy events of 1993, including the shooting of the innocent Somali boy by
"that racist cop," according to black comment. The photo beside the print caught Wayne Tarr.
Tarr sat slumped at his usual table downing shooters of Scotch, as Little Jimmy cried his heart out from the jukebox. While the Mountie suspended by Chan stared at brands in the wood under the empty glasses, a bottle of Glenlivet descended miraculously to one side, before a pile of CDs followed. From the CD covers, angry black men posing in-your-face scowls glared hatefully up from the raps at Tarr.
The Slicker sat down, cracked open the bottle, and filled the empty glasses.
"Happy Fuckin' New Year," said Tarr, snapping back a shot.
"Unhappy Fuckin' New Year," he added, snapping back a shot.
kW Did you mean what you suggested the first time we drank?"
Evil Eye Page 20
