As time advanced toward the hours of the next day, Alex combed diligently through the files, tracking Dora struggling to make ends meet, imagining Nick growing up as his mom grew old, but for thirty-odd years there was nothing more concerning the Rorke's Drift trophy box or Sacred Heart "placement." Finally, she reached the last file, November 1993.
A rare letter from Eleanor to Dora:
Sister Superior just phoned to say the placed twin has returned. She revealed nothing about us, which led to a threat I don't have your unlisted number, so this letter. Do you release Sister Superior from her vow of silence?
Removing the placed twin letter, Alex refiled the file and closed the cabinet. It was almost midnight by her watch. Lantern knifing the darkness, she picked her way through the rubble toward the stairs, her footsteps echoing down the hollow hall, then up the spiral staircase to the second floor. Here peeled paint and grilled moonlight led to the exit. Unlocking the steel door and pulling it open, Alex stepped into midnight and turned to lock up, then jumped when fleet sneakers ran up the steps behind her.
Before she could react, a bayonet pinned her hand holding the letters to the door.
The lantern tumbled down the steps and smashed to extinguish the beam. A glove clamped over Hunt's mouth to muffle her yelp of pain. When the lunger yanked free from her pinned palm, the letters found in Dora's files fluttered to the ground. At the corner of her eye, Alex caught a black mask within a black hood, madness in the pupils glaring from moonlit whites. Adrenaline powering her with do-or-die strength, Hunt lurched back as hard as she could and kicked her attacker's leg, sending him or her or it stumbling down the steps. She wrenched the key from the lock and shouldered in the door, intent on seeking asylum from the insane by locking herself alone in the insane asylum, but fumbling fingers dropped the key, which clanged down the steps, bouncing between the feet of the psycho lunging up.
The stench of fear met the stench of madness halfway.
Shoving the door behind her, Alex dashed into West Lawn. Ahead across the tiled floor she fled for marble stairs. The door crashed open a moment later, the black silhouette stark against moonlight behind, and Evil Eye followed close on her heels. One two three . . . she veered left to scramble up fifteen steps, a barred window on the landing overlooking a court outside, then one two
three . . . she reversed and ran up seven more steps. Now on the third floor, the psycho a breath behind, a slash of the bayonet slitting across the back of her parka, her heart in her throat as she sprinted down the corridor jogging right, her mental compass flummoxed by twists and turns in the maze, room after room after room flashing by on both sides, moonlight paling as darker then darker then darker grew the hall, glass splintering underfoot along shit scrawled large on the wall, until a swipe from the lunger slashed hair from her head as its tip drew blood from her neck.
A recurring nightmare in her past was fleeing down a hall, with something monstrous—she dared not look— gnashing fangs behind. A door ahead beckoned, reach it and she was safe, her hand extending in slow motion to touch the knob, then like a poorly spliced film missing frames, she was back down the hall with the door ahead, having lost precious ground that the demon behind had gained.
That was bad.
This was worse.
The set director of Psychotic had vandalized West Lawn, painting the peeling plaster with tormented self-portraits, reminding Alex of the wretches she'd encountered this morning, shuffling around the asylum grounds with nowhere to go, many with cigarettes in hand but no matches, begging one by one for a light when she parked by East Lawn to question the food line. The faces along the hall grew grimmer as the moonlight waned, misshapen heads and wonky eyes and throwback devolution, the last figure squatting with knees drawn up and head laying on its side, eyes aligned vertically with the sword rammed down into his ear, the hilt a Christian crucifix with Jesus on the cross.
Save me, Alex prayed.
Bursting upon the spiral staircase winding up and down, not a hint of light below to guide her way, crash into something and the blade would spear her back, Alex corkscrewed clockwise up the most filmed stairs in B.C. So many patients had hurled themselves down the well in the early days that blacksmiths sealed this drop inside a wrought-iron cage, so walls to the left, bars to the right, up, up, up she went. Eleven steps, turn . . .
eleven steps, turn ... the bayonet slashing behind, shredding her parka and slitting her jeans, a few cuts drawing blood. Eleven steps, turn . . . eleven steps, turn . . . until she hit the top.
Sprinting back the way she came two stories below, Alex passed toilet stalls without toilets in rooms with bashed-in doors, linoleum turning to wooden slats that creaked and heaved as she trampled, moonbeams spilling through dormers left and right, luring her to dead ends should she alter course. There must be stairs, must be stairs descending soon, she thought. Stairs to the exit open to the night . . .
Alex tripped.
The shadow of the psycho pounced onto Hunt. Splinters drove through her gloves to pierce both palms when she hit the floor and skidded. The bayonet's shadow warned it was coming down, so Alex rolled a jiffy before the blade stabbed the slat under her head. On hands and knees she crabbed around a pillar supporting the roof, a scramble of ring-around-a-rosy with Evil Eye behind, ignoring the pain that seared from her wound to grasp a grating half wrenched from a dormer to yard herself back on her feet. Releasing the grill, the bars intercepted the lunger in a stab, steel upon steel clanging like dueling swords.
Yanking open a fire door led to another hall, Alex moving so fast she missed the stairs to her left, so on she ran through squares of moonlight down the corridor, the dreamscape of the asylum grounds flitting below to her right, conical shrubs pruned to perfection awash in lunar glow, vast lawns with skeletal trees sloping to Colony Farm. The dormers cast a shadow chase across the rubbled floor, nooks and crannies echoing the footfalls behind, the psycho gaining as Alex ran through an open frame, wires dangling from the door like snakes trapped in a box. God!, the stairs within were blocked by crisscrossed timbers, the lunger slashing as she entered the dark unknown, dodging right to escape the blade raking her shoulder, left hand hooking to swing her around the corner ahead, then suddenly there was no floor beneath her feet.
Alex found asylum by plunging down a wedged-open elevator shaft.
CHARTER OF RIGHTS
New Westminster Thursday, March 3, 1994
Like Hanging Judge Begbie in Colonial days, Morgan Hatchett was on a crusade to thwart ''American rowdies/' Few of those she loathed were American in fact, but all were infected with the "American disease." For what she saw south of the border was a country of cities, towns, streets, school yards, parks, and even backyards stalked by Bill of Rights predators, perverts, and punks. Bleak House court cases ground on for years as Bill of Rights nitpickers pretended pinhead legal points were of life-or-death importance. And now—God Save the Queen—the disease was rampant here. What happened to the good old days of British law when crime charged in March, tried in April, appealed in May, ended on the gallows or with hard time in June? What the people wanted was a Charter of Responsibilities, not the Charter of Rights based on the U.S. Bill of Rights that pinko Trudeau yoked on the courts in 1982. For with that abortion came "American disease," the deadly symptom of which was scum whining, "Gimme my Rights!"
True, the deadly Cutter-Hatchett One-Two Punch could bloody the Charter in the Court of Appeal, but it was a liberal—Elizabeth Toussaint—determining who tried what below. When Toussaint was appointed to the Supreme Court of Canada, Hatchett lobbied Ottawa for the vacant administrative job. No sooner was The Hatchet ensconced as the Chief Justice of the trial court than every important Charter case was channeled to the right wing or usurped by herself. With her in control at this level, Charter Rights were doomed. With Cutter to stack his Court and back her on appeal, Charter Rights were doomed there, too. That left the Supreme Court of Canada to take the heat . . . freeing a man who
&
nbsp; dragged a sixty-five-year-old woman from a wheelchair and raped her because he was too drunk to form criminal intent . . . freeing a man because police took a DNA sample from one rape and used it in another . . . Yes, in these scarlet robes she'd hold a thin red line . . . until public outrage forced the SCC to buckle.
The battle was hand-to-hand.
"Section 8 of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms," Knight said, reading from the blue Revised Statutes of Canada in both hands, "Everyone has the right to be secure against unreasonable search or seizure." The book dropped with a thud. "Semayne's Case, 1604," he argued, grabbing the dustiest legal volume Nick had ever seen, "77 English Reports, page 194: That the house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defense against injury and violence, as for his repose . . ."
"We're not in law school, Mr. Knight."
"Perhaps you should be, Judge."
"I'm warning you! For the last time!"
The book dropped with a thump onto the Charter as Knight snatched a dustier volume. "Entick v. Carrington in 1765 . . ."
"Not so fast, Counsel. Back to Semayne's Case." In front of her to be read through glasses perched on the tip of her nose was the judgment she'd already written prior to legal argument. "In all cases when the King is party, the Sheriff (if the doors be not open) may break the party's house, either to arrest him, or to do other execution of the K.'s process, if otherwise he cannot enter." Whipping off her glasses, Hatchett wagged them at Knight. "Limitation, Counsel, that's what concerns us here."
"Concerns you, not me," Knight snapped back. "That case firmly enunciated the principle that 'a man's home is his castle,' and not even the King himself had right to invade its sanctity without authority of a judicial warrant. That's what K. 's process means. Corporal Kidd had no warrant to enter my client's home, so even without the Charter, I should win this point. And I want it on record you're reading from reasons you've already prepared."
"One more comment like that and you show causs for contempt. I'm reading from questions to clarify a
major point in this case. The issue raised by Corporal Kidd's seizure of the accused's tunic from his home without a warrant concerns police authority to enter a private dwelling in exigent circumstances to prevent evidence being destroyed."
"Exigent circumstances are not a limitation on the law in Semayne's Case. Colet v. The Queen, 1981 Supreme Court Re—"
"Shut up. I'm speaking. Under the common law, situations of urgency will always permit police entry, as in the case of hot pursuit, or of a person in danger of death, or to prevent evidence being destroyed. Nothing in the Charter extinguishes that. Had Corporal Kidd not seized the tunic it would have gone to the cleaners and we would not be here. All the accused lost was a chance to cripple this case."
"He wasn't even home! What the accused lost—what we all lose by this intrusion—is the security guaranteed by the common law and the Charter that police will not invade our homes. That's the fundamental precept of a free society."
"No, Mr. Knight. Order and crime prevention is the precept. If we can't walk every street in this city, we aren't free."
"The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States reads: The right of the people to be secure in their —"
"The land of circus trials? Don't waste my time. I find I'm none the wiser after reading American Law."
"None the wiser perhaps, Judge, but so much better informed."
"That's it!" Hatchett stormed, throwing down her pen. "Apologize for your behavior, or show cause why I shouldn't hold you in contempt."
"Apologize?" said Knight. "Here's my apology. Your ladyship is right, and I am wrong as your ladyship usually is."
"You're saying I'm usually wrong! Court Reporter, read that back!"
The reporter cleared his throat. "Your ladyship is right, and I am wrong as your ladyship usually is," he quoted.
"It's on record, Counsel. I cite your apology as the contempt/'
"Mr. Reporter," Knight replied with a gotcha grin. "Be sure you put a comma between the words 'wrong' and 'as.' "
That was earlier in the trial, but this was now.
Nick's Red Serge tunic with blood on the cuff was ruled admissible as evidence, a foregone conclusion before the trial began, with lengthy reasons damaging the Charter to follow.
The tunic before the jury, Lyndon Wilde QC called the last witness for the prosecution.
"The Crown calls Colin Wood," he said, and checked his pocket watch against the clock high on the wall behind the dock.
MALARIA PILLS
Thursday, January 20, 1994
Hissing . . .
Bubbling . . .
Breathing . . .
. . . blip . . . blip . . . blip . . .
Zinc was back up The Peak in that hospital room in Hong Kong, recuperating from surgery to mend his brain. Intensive Care Unit sounds were old friends of his, the hissing and breathing from an oxygen mask, the bubbling of a suction tube hooked in a mouth, the .. . blip . . . blip . . . blip ... of a cardiac monitor tracking heartbeats. The bed was similar to his: wraparound curtain, emergency button, and overhead poles with nutrient bags dangling snakelike tubes. The only difference was the patient in the bed.
Alex lay in a coma in the ICU of Royal Columbian Hospital, her leg fractured in two places and her palm punctured. Other cuts and bruises traumatized her body.
Tuesday morning, a yardman had found a throat-cut woman stabbed twice in the abdomen hidden near the old bakery behind West Lawn. Following a trail of blood into the asylum, Coquitlam Members were led to an elevator shaft wedged open for filming. Shining a flashlight down two stories revealed Alex crumpled on top of the elevator stopped at the third floor. Zinc was on the next flight back from Ottawa.
A CAT scan revealed no injury to her brain. It was dangerous to anesthetize her in a coma, so operating on the broken leg was postponed. Doctors set the fractures and put her in traction. For two nights, Zinc sat vigil by her bed, and here DeClercq found him nodding off in a chair.
-Zinc?"
"Uh?"
"Morning. Time to go home. Til see you're called if Alex comes to."
The inspector rubbed his eyes and washed his hand down his face.
"I'm sorry," said the chief superintendent. "I was daft to suggest an irregular' do our job."
"We both thought it a good idea, and so did Alex. The fault lies with the asshole who stabbed her at West Lawn."
"Docs still noncommittal?''
"Last I heard. She may be out for weeks or she may come around today."
"The wound through her palm approximates the width of the bayonet in The Times. Tool Marks gauged the blade from the standard diameter of the Victoria Cross in the photo."
"How'd Chan react?"
"The gloves are off. Alex being American involves Special X. We're free to investigate any connections to Nick's case."
"Speak to Wilde?"
"His reply was 'So what? West Lawn housed hundreds of madmen over the years. Someone drawn to the building by psychosis took umbrage at burglars inside his former home.' "
"The man's deadly."
"That's why we like him appointed to prosecute."
"Anything in Dora's files?"
"Nothing about the trophy box or possible twin. I culled them myself."
On the bed, Alex stirred and one eye blinked open. Galvanized, the Mounties leaned toward her. Through the oxygen mask and around the suction tube, Alex muttered, ". .. twin . . ."
They sat on either side of the bed and listened to her story, about finding Flora, then finding the files, then finding the letters. . . .
Nigel Hammond, writing from London, on January 28, 1956: "Saw box in The Times'" mumbled Alex. "Traveling to Lethbridge, first week in March, to buy Zulu bones, /ztf-something. Can't remember. Ted in Arctic. Only Dora home."
Eleanor Craven, Ted's sister, writing to Dora from Medicine Hat, January 1957: "Sister Superior of Sacred Heart vows placement has sanctity of con
fession. A nun she knew as a child."
Eleanor, from Medicine Hat, November 1993: "Sister Superior phoned to say 'placed twin' back. Vow resulted in threat."
That off her chest, Hunt breathed a sigh of relief and fatigue. Zinc clutched her hand when she closed her eyes. "One question," said DeClercq, "and we're through for today. What do you recall about the person chasing you?"
"Black mask. Black hood. Rest a blur. Afraid if I looked back I'd trip over rubble. Maybe Flora saw something. Ask her."
Now was not the time for guilt over Flora's death, so both cops said nothing and got up to leave. DeClercq withdrew a colored cardboard cutout from his pocket. He held it up for Alex to see and said, "Katt forged this for you."
The cardboard medal he placed on her pillow bore a cross pattee with the Royal Crest over a scrolled "For Valor."
The Mounties stood bathed in sun beside Chandler's Ford, halfway between where Dora died and where her
son would stand trial. The glare off the river was blinding so they faced away.
'The killer took the letters. They weren't found," said DeClercq. "He jumped Flora coming out and she told him about the files. By culling the files, Alex cleaned them and brought him the evidence."
"Him or her," Chandler clarified. "What will Wilde say?"
" 'That's what trials are for,' " answered DeClercq. "Nick saved Alex from the cliff on Deadman's Island. My bet is Wilde'll think she's paying him back. We use the man because he's tough and loves to win. Unfortunately, this time he's on their side/'
"Their side is our side."
"Welcome to Wonderland, Alice."
"Sacred Heart and Nigel Hammond. Two new leads. We need something concrete Wilde can't explain. Which lead is mine?"
"Hammond," said DeClercq. "Failed Catholic though I am, I know the byways of the Church. Nick is the only birth registered to Dora. Every province, territory, or northern state's been checked. Adoptions in the fifties were unregulated and loose. Baby on the doorstep. Homes for unwed mothers. Daughters sent out of town. Scandals hushed up. Anonymous placement of the twin would not be hard. Every city with a cathedral has a Sacred Heart. My gut says the one we want lost its Sister Superior in November/*
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