Primal Scream

by Michael Slade

  Craven seated beside him at his office desk, Lewis booted up the ViCLAS computer and clicked the mouse on the Maplnfo icon. Opening a work space, he asked for a map of central Vancouver. The screen developed an image from seven overlaid maps: cosmetic layer or foundation; BCPLACES from the gazetteer; ADDRESS to pinpoint street locations; SWRIVER for creeks and shorelines; LMROAD to add highways and trains; municipal boundaries; and then attributes like Indian reserves.

  Nick was glad this wasn't a Rorschach test.

  Stanley Park and Point Grey looked like penises to him.

  "You're looking down on the city from forty kilometers up," said Lewis.

  "Zoom in on the North Shore from Lions Gate Bridge to Second Narrows."

  "There," said Lewis. "Now you're looking down from four Ks up."

  The image showed North Vancouver's shore along the inner harbor. Craven fed Lewis the addresses of victims in the court case twenty-five years ago, and where Wren had been living then. Lewis entered some location queries to add pins for the homes of the six victims and a star for Wren's anchor point. He labeled Lions Gate Bridge, Lonsdale Avenue (the main street with Nick's home), and inserted a compass.

  "Why no buffer zone between the star and eastern pin?" said Nick.

  "A pedophile is a driven man. Wren was overpowered by compulsion to molest the kids near his home even if it chanced arrest."

  "I'll find them first."

  "The ugly thing about sex crimes is how stigma and guilt attach to the victim. Sometimes the innocent will shed the name connected to what they see as their dirty self. Before you waste time chasing the shadow, I'd fax a request to Gazette records to check if the name was changed."

  "I'll do that," said Nick.

  On the Hunt

  Totem Lake

  The Mad Dog was a man struggling to overcome his ists. The Mad Dog was sexist, but he respected Spann. Not only was she a broad who understood guns, for they had once had a battle of knowledge and she had won, but Kathy had scaled the ladder of ranks from the same rung as him, him having it easy because he fit the past, her having it hard because she didn't, and look where Spann was now. Because he was the Mad Dog, he bonded with her in his own way, by asking her to stand with him when he hitched with Brit. A bonus was he would be the envy of all the guys, flanked by the two best sets of knockers you ever saw.

  His kind of wedding.

  Hefner style.

  The Mad Dog was racist, but he cottoned to George. Not only was Ghost Keeper as good a tracker as him, but he had been shut out of climbing the ranks from within, a "special" constable in the 3(b) Program for reserves, and through sheer ability had forced the Force to bring him in before it was ready. Because he was the Mad Dog, he bonded with the Cree in his own way, by turning to him now and saying . . .

  "Wanna go hunting with me?"

  George was stunned.

  They stood in the light of a rising moon near Zulu base, and watched as caged dogs were unloaded from Bush Dodd's plane. The same way motor vehicles replaced the silent horse, snowmobiles phased out the silent dog patrol, gone but not forgotten by Yukon throwbacks like the Mad Dog. If the rebels sought to smuggle weapons in through the bush tonight, would it not be Keystone Kops to buzz around on snowmobiles, here we come, ready or not?

  So voila.

  "Where'd you get them?" Chandler asked.

  "Friend of mine. Races them in Alaska competition every year."

  "How many you bring in?"

  "Two sleds. Seven dogs each."

  The sleds unloaded from the hold behind the sling seat in back of the plane were adapted toboggans. Sleds with runners were useless in deep drifts unless a trail was already broken. Edged with metal strips to hold the course and prevent slipping, these sleds, fashioned from parallel slats of hardwood, had been steamed and bent in front like runners. The flat bottoms got rid of rocker effect. Uprights, a top rail, and handlebars meant they could be driven standing up. The chain fastened to drag in a loop under each bottom would retard speed and act as a brake.

  "Well?" said the Mad Dog.

  "Let's do it," said the Cree.

  For George the patrol would have a dual goal, for it was in the forest south of the plateau where Flint died and north of Totem Lake where Vanderkop was killed that winter had compelled them to abandon tracking Winterman Snow.

  A half hour later, the Mounties were ready. White parkas and white accessories camouflaged both men. Each sled was stocked with light provisions for swift speed: a medical kit, and treats for the dogs, and an array of weapons.

  "Okay," said Chandler. "Here's the plan."

  Huddling in a circle by the unhitched sleds, Dodd pooling a flashlight for them to see, they watched Zinc carve an oval with a stick in the snow, then punch an indent up top. "Totem Lake, and the rebel camp. We have the lake covered by sharpshooters with night sights, so any smuggling that way we'll pick off." He drew a west-to-east arc north of the camp. "Here's the blind spot to patrol. Sweep high and you will cross any tracks coming down. Find some, you follow. If not, sweep back closer to the camp, tightening the arc with each pass. For the final patrol, sweep high to the plateau where Flint was shot, and there you'll be waiting, Dodd, to pick them up."

  The pilot nodded.

  "See you there," he said.

  Then off he flew to retrieve his snowmobile, which winging in the dog sleds had forced him to leave behind in Alaska.

  To benefit from enthusiasm and minimize frustrated excitement, which leads to fights and chewing the line, dogs aren't harnessed until it's time to depart. Once a skill in every Mountie's repertoire, this was the first time Chandler had seen hitching performed. The tow-lines were laid out so each leader's harness and tug rope was in front, followed by sections for three pulling pairs. The trains were anchored to poles back of the sleds by ropes extending under the slats. Hitching in pairs with a single dog leading gives the best results: freedom of motion and minimum difficulty with corners. The Mad Dog and the Cree brought their leaders out first, each dog gripped by the collar as it left the cage so front legs could be lifted if either tried to turn its master into a sled. Footing on ice is insecure, and many a man has been dragged by the chain.

  Live and learn.

  Vising the dog between his knees at the flanks hold it securely while the harness was slipped over its head, each man pulled the neck strap through the collar and fastened the belly band, then snapped on the chain as the dog was released. The leader held the line taut while the others were brought out singly and harnessed front to rear. Tug ropes fastened to towlines, each man climbed on back of his sled to release the anchor rope, freeing the team to jump into its collars and dash the patrol away.

  Zinc hoped to hear a hearty "Mush!" as they were off.

  But the start command is "All right!"

  Idaho hunter Jed Vanderkop had actually been no hunter at all. He had been one of several American militia members who hoped to set up a heavily armed training camp in the wilds of B.C., far away from the watchful eyes of FBI and U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents. So last month he and his cousin Vern had driven through Smithers hi a truck with Idaho plates, turning northeast from Mosquito Flats on a road that made only local maps, to lose themselves and their smuggled arms in backwoods north of Blunt Mountain and west of Natlan Peak, above the Shegunia River, which flowed when thawed into Totem Lake. There they camouflaged the truck in a cleft of rock, where Jed set up camp to guard the cache until spring training while his cousin Vern snowmobiled out.

  Jed the Survivalist.

  Who didn't survive.

  For though not actually a hunter, Jed went hunting one day, and had the misfortune to get bagged downriver by Winterman Snow, who stripped him, raped him, chased him naked west to Totem Lake, and dropped him with an arrow by the falls. Jed left here for the happy hunting ground (reported missing by his mom, who thought he was hunting in Canada), but the cache of smuggled arms was still around. The thought of arming "red niggers" would incens
e the militia, even though they, too, feared the New World Order, but cousin Vern—not a member—saw it as a chance to make a buck, so he sold to supporters of the rebels.

  Quite a few bucks, actually.

  C.O.D.

  The deal was he would deliver the arms to a party of Doomsdayers from the camp, the meet set for tonight a mile up the Shegunia River. The rebels would haul the cache back to camp, and Vern would be off to drive the truck to Smithers for payoff so he could haul his cash down south. That's why Vern and his buddy Bo were here on the frozen river, snowshoeing under a hunter's moon, hugging woods on the bank so the shadows of the trees would mask them to spotter planes should one pass overhead.

  Ropes over their shoulders, both gunrunners lugged sleds.

  Under tarps on the sleds hid a military arsenal of illegal guns, explosive shells, and survival gear. A .50-caliber Barrett semiautomatic long-range rifle used by the U.S. Army to pierce armored vehicles and blow up mines, penetrating plating the 5.56mm or 7.62mm can't punch through, destroying 500-pound bombs at a distance of 500 yards. Eight army-issue cases of ammunition: 500 shells for the air-cooled infantry-support gun, shotgun shells that spray steel darts, shells that splash high-temperature metals that ignite everything in their way, and high-octane fuel for flame throwers. Chemical suits and gas masks and bulletproof armor. Mortars, and best of all ...

  A surface-to-air hand-held Stinger missile.

  Gitxsan oral history describes a string of wars in 1600 or 1700 that culminated in the epic adventures of Nekt. A band of Haidas from the Queen Charlotte Islands raided a Gitxsan eulachon fishing camp at the mouth of the Nass River, and carried off a beautiful young woman of high rank from Kispiox named Lu-traisuh. She became the wife of Qawaek, the Haida chief, and gave birth to two sons her husband smothered by blocking their mouths with his tongue. He feared the boys might later avenge the murders of their uncles in the abduction. Lutraisuh deceived her husband concerning the sex of their third child, saying he was a girl to spare his life. Killing her husband, she cut off his head and escaped by night in a canoe, her child kept quiet in the bow by suckling on the tongue protruding from his father's mouth. Nekt—which means "tongue-licked"—grew into a strong man with one ambition: to punish the wrongs he and his mother had suffered. He made a coat of armor from grizzly bear skin reinforced inside with a coat of pitch and flakes of slate, then began his career as a raider of Coast and Nass settlements. He wanders through legends of the Nisga'a, Tsimshian, and Haida nations as well as those of the Gitxsan. Thanks to bearskin armor and the magic "strike-but-once club" in his front paw, he was seen by his enemies as the Medeek, a mythic grizzly bear whose attacks can't be resisted. Expanding Gitxsan territory, he soon controlled all trade in metal and weapons. Nekt built his ta'awdzep fort on a pyramid hill at Kitwanga. To protect this stronghold against surprise attack, he raised a fence of logs around its five Houses, with a trapdoor covered by deer hooves that rattled when they were moved. One night his enemies tried to scale the slope to the fort. Nekt released logs that rolled down and crushed them. Later, his enemies massed to defeat him, and legend goes Nekt was wounded by a bullet from the first white man's gun up from the coast, as he was donning his grizzly bear armor for an expedition. Then he was clubbed to death.

  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.

  Maple Leaves

  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, K
att 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.