THE TRICKSTER

by Muriel Gray

  Hunting Wolf laughed internally. This man’s command of their tongue was quite preposterous.

  “Sit down then, Henderson. You will not regain your breath by remaining on your feet.”

  The Reverend made a small and silly bow with his head and joined them in the shelter of a rock, where six of them were squatting in the snow. Despite being out of the wind, the temperature on the mountainside was unbearable. Henderson could never get used to this dry, biting cold, not after so many years in the wet and windy land where he grew to manhood.

  He looked at the six dark men, sitting calmly in the snow with nothing more than buckskin and wool to keep them warm, and wondered at their constitution.

  “And is there news from the man McEwan?”

  Hunting Wolf fixed him with his deep black eyes.

  “He big trouble with me. I no can tell him you think. He take rock tomorrow. Men come.”

  Hunting Wolf took time to decipher this jumble of words from the frowning Scot, then spoke slowly and as simply as he could to help this white man’s poor comprehension. It was like dealing with a child.

  “This is very bad, Henderson. You realize that we cannot allow the mountain to be opened. I have explained. We will remain here. You must tell him that. We will remain.”

  Henderson sighed, the cold hacking at him through his coat.

  “No more I do. Men with man McEwan. Danger for you. Please to come with me now.”

  Fishtail and Powderhand exchanged looks of mirth, silenced quickly by a glance from their chief.

  “I am sorry, Henderson. We will remain. There is more danger for you if we do not. If we let you open the mountain, you will all die. This way, we save many lives. Not merely our own.”

  Henderson looked deep into Hunting Wolf’s eyes.

  “You not change story? Trickster still?”

  It was Hunting Wolf’s turn to sigh.

  “Yes. The Trickster, Henderson. We have told you plainly, many times.”

  “Think you about Great Spirit I tell you. Good Lord Jesus Christ?”

  “Of course. We have thought a great deal about your spirit and His teachings, as you asked us to. We do not believe this.”

  Henderson looked as if he might cry.

  “Is truth. Is only truth. Jesus Christ your Great Spirit. He bring love to you. You have must to Him love. He save you. Save you from Trickster also. Trickster not true.”

  Powderhand gave a snort and crossed his arms beneath his blanket, fishing under one armpit for a mite he could feel shifting in the warmth.

  This time, he was not reprimanded by Hunting Wolf. Hunting Wolf was growing tired of the well-meaning foolish white man.

  “We thank you, Henderson, for your kindness and concern, but you must understand that we are well aware of what is and what is not true. You should explain these things we know to be true to the man McEwan again. We will remain.”

  The seven men squatted silently for a few minutes while Henderson wondered what he should do. He was a failure. A spectacular failure. Was God testing him? All he longed for in this life was to save more souls, gather more precious gifts for his Lord Jesus Christ. He knew he could save these people if they would just listen, just believe the words of joy he had to share with them. He’d learned the complex rudiments of Siouan, slowly and painfully from a logger in Montreal, in preparation for his task ahead. The task of bringing these people to Jesus.

  But he was failing. It was James Henderson at fault, not the natives. An English Catholic had saved an entire band of Blackfoot Indians a few hundred miles away, building a mission school and converting every last one to Christianity. The Catholics were good at it. They used the weapon of fear, something these natives seemed to understand.

  Henderson’s weapon of love was going nowhere.

  No, it was Henderson’s own fault that was condemning these people to Hell, and he was finding it hard to live with.

  Here he was, squatting on a mountain with six Indians, who not only refused to accept Christ as their savior, but also harbored some insane superstition that was bound to result in violence. It seemed he had lost the love of God.

  Hunting Wolf spoke first, breaking the silence above the soul-chilling howl of the blizzard.

  “You should go now, Henderson. Night is falling. There is nothing you can do.”

  Henderson looked tragic. “You pray with I?”

  The chief smiled and looked to his warriors. They returned his gaze impassively. He looked back at the minister, huddled in the snow. He was like a crow that had been broken and mashed against the rock, the dark fabric of his big coat spread crazily around him.

  Hunting Wolf spoke gently. “Can your prayers protect you? Do they have power against great and terrible evil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let us hear them, Henderson. We will join you.”

  James Henderson stood up, raised his right hand, held his coat shut with his left, and closed his eyes. He spoke in English this time. What did it matter if these men understood him or not? He was praying for them, not with them. It was all he could do.

  “Almighty Father…”

  11

  When Craig saw the guy that stepped out of the car, he’d been more than disappointed. Not in his whole term as staff sergeant in Silver had he ever had to call in forensics from Edmonton, and this small bald man in a suit jacket covered by a cheap nylon parka didn’t look much like the cavalry.

  That was six hours ago. Craig was going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Dr. Brenner had been working on Joe all day, talking into a tape recorder as he did so, and now he was standing in Craig’s office with a Styrofoam cup in one hand ready to pronounce sentence.

  Craig was calm as he offered the doctor a seat.

  Brenner ran a delicate hand over the pate of his bald head and sat down heavily in the chair by the window.

  “How’s it looking out there?”

  Brenner gesticulated with his coffee to the outside world behind him. Craig glanced out of the window.

  “It’s OK. Cold. What have you got for me?”

  “Time of death around eleven-thirty P.M. Cause of death, a violent blow to the head followed by lacerations to the chest. Further damage, probably after the initial blows, and due to the incisions, indicates massive loss of blood.”

  “Incisions.”

  “Incisions, Staff Sergeant. The cuts he made to get into the heart and remove the genitals.”

  Craig looked at him, unblinking, forcing himself to believe what he was hearing.

  “And the crash?”

  “Happened after death. The lesions and breakages incurred by impact with the falling truck all occurred after he died. The way the blood clots always reveals that. The truck must have been pushed over the edge by whoever carved him up.”

  The doctor drained his cup, and met Craig’s horror-filled gaze full-on.

  “What about the mutilation?”

  “Looks like the murderer had plenty of time on his hands. The heart was so tightly compacted up the anus, even with the tiny incision he made to get it in, it implies someone took great care to make sure it would stay there. The penis was torn off rather than cut, and it appears to have been in the mouth, although it had fallen out by the time you guys finished hauling the body up.”

  “How do you know it was in the mouth?”

  “His teeth closed on it. Left tissue inside. I reckon if you guys send a climber down there you’ll find his pecker where it fell.” Brenner stuck his nail into the Styrofoam cup, making a popping sound that delighted him sufficiently to make him do it again. “Yeah, it’s an X-rated one, all right.”

  Craig responded coldly. “When will the full report be ready for our inspection?”

  Brenner caught the coldness in his voice, and smiled. “The report will be ready soon as I get back to Edmonton to write it, but I’ll wager with a murder like this, you boys will be playing host to a bit of city help. Guess they’ll read it first. Tell you everything you need
to know.” He stood up to go.

  “Sit down, Doctor.”

  He continued to stand.

  “Until we hear who will formally head this investigation, I’m the officer in charge and the sole officer to whom you make your report. There are plenty of facilities here for you to have your taped report transcribed and printed out before you leave. Now, I understand you must be tired, so if you like we can arrange for some hotel accommodations for you while we organize the paperwork.”

  Brenner glared at Craig. “I was planning on getting back tonight, Staff Sergeant, if that’s OK with you.”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s not OK. Not until I know all the facts and can question you in detail about the autopsy. If that takes the rest of the week, then so be it.”

  “With all due respect, I work out of Edmonton. I’m not at your beck and call.”

  “In the time it takes you to get back to the city, Doctor, our murderer could be hundreds of miles from here. Even worse, he could still be here ready to strike again. I’m sure as a senior member of the Edmonton forensics team you hardly need me to remind you that police work is a race against the clock. Now, can I organize that hotel for you while you give your tape to Holly?”

  Brenner looked at Craig for a few seconds and smiled. “Very well, Staff Sergeant. I’ll just call my wife, then I’ll call my superior officer in Edmonton. Just to let him know what’s happening, of course. May I use your phone?”

  Craig waved a hand. Brenner came forward a pace and picked up the receiver and punched out the number.

  “By the way, I think you’ll find the murder weapon’s going to prove problematic.”

  “In what way?”

  “No traces to indicate any metal instrument whatsoever. There are usually telltale signs that can lead us to identify at least the nature of the weapon. You know, serrated or unserrated, steel or base metal and so on. Everything leaves minute particles behind. In this case, nothing. Yet the incisions were as fine as scalpel cuts… Barbara? It’s Larry.”

  Craig waited expectantly, until Brenner put his hand over the receiver and turned to face him. “May I?”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll be right outside.”

  Craig McGee closed the door on his own hessian-lined office and poured himself a drink from the water cooler. From the other side of the door came the sound of Brenner laughing on the phone.

  Craig McGee couldn’t phone home and laugh because there was no Mrs. McGee any more to pick up the phone and smile at the sound of his voice. The phone would ring alone and unanswered on the blue painted table by the front door, secure in its secret plastic knowledge that Sylvia wasn’t ever going to come running out from the kitchen again, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and pick it up. Why phone home when your wife is dead? Craig sometimes wondered why he went home at all. Everything there had her mark on it, her smell on it, her touch to it. Her absence mocked him, from the coffee jars full of shells she collected on holiday in Scotland, to the ridiculous carved magazine rack she bought at a charity sale. Sometimes he woke in the night and stretched out to touch her neck, only to find the empty strip of bed as cold as marble.

  He wondered if Brenner knew how lucky he was to be able to perform that simple but delicious act of phoning home.

  Staff Sergeant Craig McGee let his forehead rest against the wall above the cooler. He crushed the waxed paper cone in his hand and let it fall to the floor.

  “Don’t know why they don’t just send us out in a carton pulled by a sow. Be as much use as this heap of shit in the snow.”

  Constable Sonny Morris was not enjoying trying to control the Ford Crown Victoria in the thickening blizzard, and his partner Dan Small made a nasal sound in agreement. Highway patrol was a joke in conditions like these. They’d be lucky to find anyone moving, never mind speeding.

  “You got to drive fast to keep control. I keep telling you. Drive fast.”

  Sonny glanced sideways at Dan.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Sure. It works. You see, the slower you go the more traction you lose. Tried it last winter in my wife’s Honda. Got the thing all the way up to Ledmore in one go. Three feet of fresh fall, and I made it in one go. You have to drive fast.”

  The driver remained unimpressed, and maintained the stately twenty miles per hour that was taking them back to the detachment in Silver.

  “Like to have seen that.”

  “God’s truth. In one go.”

  “Nah. Not the driving bit. Just the fact you were in Moira’s Honda.”

  Dan squirmed.

  “Hey, come on. The pickup was bust. I had to get to Calgary. What was I goin’ to do? Walk?”

  “Better than being in Moira’s Honda.”

  Dan gave him the finger and was formulating a riposte when suddenly up ahead they saw the truck. A tear in the white curtain of snow revealed an eighteen-wheeler sitting in a viewpoint parking lot. By the depth of the snow on it, and the fact that no tracks led from the highway to its current position, it had been there a long time.

  Sonny brightened considerably, moving forward in his seat as though the action would turn the Crown Vic into a Land Cruiser.

  “Lookee here. Some roughneck’s sure going to be glad to see us.”

  They glided to a standstill behind the truck, and Sonny reached for his hat on the dash. Dan got on the radio. “Two Alpha Four Calgary. We’re ten-seven on the Trans-Canada, ‘bout two miles west of Silver. Over.”

  There was a crackle, a long pause and eventually a female voice. “Calgary Two Alpha Four. Read you. Over.”

  Sonny opened the car door to a flurry of huge snowflakes. Dan followed him from the passenger door, battling to open it against the wind.

  There was little sign of life from the truck, which sported a two-foot crown of undisturbed snow. The blizzard whipped mini-storms under its belly, blowing the snow out between the axles in random but concentrated blasts.

  Sonny approached the driver’s door and stepped up on the foot plate. The window was more ice than glass, impossible to see through. He shouted and tugged at the handle. Frozen. Dan walked around the front, kicking his way through a drift that had built up around the front wheels, while Sonny continued to tug uselessly at the handle.

  Fishing in his breast pocket, Dan found his lighter and put it to the handle of the passenger door. The ice gave way in ungracious rivulets, and when he pulled on the metal the door creaked open reluctantly.

  It had been a man. Now it was ice. The eyes were swollen horribly, the result of their moisture freezing and expanding, and they stared, boggling, out of the windshield into nothing. The tongue protruded like a gargoyle, long and pointed and white, and the hands still gripped the wheel as though this man of ice was shouting maniacally at a driver who’d just cut him off.

  Dan stared at it for a long time, his own mouth open, almost aping the frozen figure he beheld. Sonny, unable to open the driver door, joined Dan at his elbow.

  “God Almighty.”

  Dan stepped down, still staring at the nightmare, and let Sonny in. He climbed up and touched the figure gingerly with a gloved finger. It was hard as rock.

  Sonny looked around the cab. Full of snow. Snow on the floor, snow banked up on the seat against the door, snow in a cornice along the windshield. What the hell had this guy been doing?

  Why would you let the cab fill with snow, shut the doors, and then sit at the wheel until you froze to death? He cleared the dash with the back of his hand and found the driver’s ID.

  Ernie Legat. Fifty-five years old.

  He sighed and backed out of the cab. Poor Ernie. The guy must have planned it like this. Sonny had seen plenty creative suicides, but they never got any easier to deal with. Poor Ernie.

  12

  Keeping the yard from clogging with snow was impossible. That was probably why Wilber Stonerider had been given the task. Flakes the size of golf balls were driving through the chicken wire in the compound as though his shovel were their sole target. No big deal.
He would have a drink soon. He felt the half bottle of whiskey in his jacket pocket bumping against his thigh with every thrust of the shovel and let himself imagine the moment when he could slip behind one of the dismantled buses in the compound and take a long, delicious mouthful.

  The buses that ended up here were like sick animals. They stood passively inside the shed and out in the yard, waiting to be attended by the gang of mechanical surgeons who would strip back their bodywork and probe their insides. Wilber, meanwhile, got to sweep the yard. But then Wilber was not exactly a regular employee of Fox-Line Travel. Wilber was putting in some community service hours, penance for being drunk and disorderly in the Empire Hotel, where he managed to smash three chairs and assault a waitress called Candy.

  He’d figured this would be preferable to a couple of days in the slammer, but now, with the snow making his task Herculean, he wasn’t so sure. This time, he wished he’d taken the days in the slammer. You got food and sleep, and it was warm. Of course, there was no liquor or tobacco, and that was hard to go without for three days. He felt the bottle again on his leg and decided that he’d made the right choice. He ran his tongue over dry lips, catching a flake as it tried to fly into his mouth. Now was as good a time as any to step quietly behind the bus and have a small refreshment. He shoveled noisily toward the bus and slipped behind its great frozen flanks, out of sight of the open shed door. With his back to the chicken wire, he propped the shovel against the bus and fished in his light blue parka for the bottle. Even the warmth of his body hadn’t made any impression on the whiskey, and it was as cold as a beer straight from the refrigerator when he put it to his lips and threw his head back.

  “Tasty?”

  Wilber choked on the liquid burning down his throat and coughed like a consumptive. His blue eyes were streaming as he pirouetted around to see who had addressed him from the other side of the wire.

  A man, a man just like him, stood smiling from the sidewalk outside the compound, his eyes piercing Wilber like skewers.

  “What the fuck…”

  The man put one hand up to the wire, coiled his fingers through the diamond-shaped hole and with the other hand put a finger to his lips to make a hushing gesture, as if to a baby crying in its cot.