Bed of Nails

by Michael Slade

  Glasses filled, the redcoats rose to their feet. As six bars of “God Save the Queen” were played, Bob George raised his glass.

  “The Queen!” the Cree declared.

  “The Queen!” the ranks responded.

  Coffee and cigars were passed around to end the formalities. High spirits reigned as the group broke down into small conversational circles. A regimental dinner is for members only. No spouses, significant others, or hangers-on attend. There are, however, exceptions to every rule, and because Mad Dog Rabidowski was the hero of heroes tonight, someone on the planning committee had taken it upon himself to invite Ed’s wife, Brittany Starr.

  Brittany, the ex-stripper.

  And ex-hooker.

  Hemingway hero that he was, Mad Dog fell into that category once known as the man’s man. With the brow of a Neanderthal and testosterone seething in his muscles, Ed seeped the musky smell of maleness from every pore. In a world of equal opportunity, Brittany Starr would qualify as the woman’s woman. With breasts out to there and a waist in to here, with bleached blonde hair and a skintight gown scooped toward her navel, the ex-ecdysiast belonged on every pinup calendar in every grease monkey’s shop from Coquitlam to Timbuktu. This, however, was a room in which all the other women had battled sexists in the Force for the right to dress like men. Having won that war, they were tonight all cinched into high-collared, straight-cut jackets and, from the look in their collective glare, were not impressed to have this creature in their midst. Especially not when Mad Dog gallantly offered his wife a phallic cigar, and Brit nibbled off the tip with her sexy mouth, then proceeded to lubricate the rolled tobacco leaf with her lips and tongue in a manner that had every male within reach offering her a light.

  It’s a funny ol’ world.

  “‘Hello? Is this the RCMP?’” Nick Craven held his good hand up to his ear like a phantom phone, his pinky finger the mouthpiece and his thumb the receiver.

  “‘Yes,’” the corporal answered himself, mimicking the dispatcher. “‘How can we help you, sir?’

  “‘I’m calling about my neighbor Joe Fitzpatrick. He’s hiding bags of pot in his woodshed.’”

  “I’ve heard this one,” Mad Dog said.

  “Shush, Ed,” chided Brit.

  Nick pressed on with his joke.

  “The next day, the drug squad raids Joe’s house. Members search the shed where he stores his firewood. They find nothing. Using axes”—Nick swung his arms as if chopping wood—“they bust open and split up every log round in the place. Again, the narcs find nothing. So, frustrated, they leave.

  “Ring,” said Nick, trilling his tongue. “Joe answers the phone in his house.

  “‘Hey, Joe, did the Mounties come?’ the snitch asks.

  “‘Yeah, they just left.’

  “‘Did they chop your firewood?’

  “‘Every stick.’

  “‘Happy birthday, buddy.’”

  Barks of boozy laughter punctuated the joke. Though an anchor of depression weighed him down, Zinc managed to muster up a weak smile for Nick.

  Brit blew a smoke ring up to form a halo above her blonde head. “Whaddaya say, boys? Do you want to hear the one about the Mountie who stops the dumb blonde for speeding?”

  Judging from the size of the circle of men coalescing around Brit, a lot of those present did want to hear—and watch—the ex-stripper tell a funny. In fact, they’d probably stick around if all she did was read stock quotes.

  “‘I pulled you over for speeding, ma’am,’ the Mountie says. ‘May I see your driver’s license?’

  “‘License?’ replies the blonde, revealing how dumb she is.

  “‘It’s usually in your wallet,’ the Mountie says.

  “A lot of searching later, the blonde finds her license.

  “‘Next, I need your registration,’ the Mountie says.

  “‘Registration?’ says the blonde, proving she’s really dumb.

  “‘It’s usually in the glove compartment,’ says the Mountie.

  “After a lot of fumbling, she finally finds the registration.

  “The Mountie takes the documents back to his car, where he calls dispatch to check her out. A moment or two later, a voice comes over the line. ‘Um, by any chance is she driving a red sports car?’

  “‘Yes,’ replies the Mountie.

  “‘Is she a drop-dead gorgeous blonde?’ asks dispatch.

  “When the Mountie confirms she is, the voice over the radio says, ‘Trust me, here’s what you do …’

  “The Mountie strolls back to the sports car and hands the blonde her papers. Then he drops his pants like the dispatcher advised and waits to see what happens. The blonde looks down, shakes her head and rolls her eyes.”

  Brit acted out the expression by way of illustration.

  “‘Oh, no!’ the blonde says. ‘Not another breathalyzer test!’”

  Rain hammered down on the striped awning above Zinc’s head, beating the canvas as if it were the skin of a kettledrum. The raucous laughter at his back beyond the Dutch doors indicated that Brit’s joke was a hit with the men. Zinc had slipped away before the punch line was delivered, and now he stood alone out on the veranda that overlooked the hazy Pitt River marshes at his feet. Minnekhada Regional Park, the land surrounding the lodge, provided sanctuary for beaver, bear, fox, deer, bullfrog, eagle, and Steller’s jay. If any of those backwoods denizens was eyeing the inspector through the scrim of silver slants, what it saw was the black silhouette of a man backlit by glowing windows.

  A door opened.

  The door closed.

  Now there were two silhouettes.

  Seen closer, both Mounties were decked out in the colorful mess kit of commissioned officers: a waist jacket of red serge over a blue vest, with a white pleated shirt and a black bow tie above blue trousers with a yellow side stripe and black congress boots with silver box spurs. A gold crown on Zinc’s epaulets signified his rank of inspector. The rank of the second Mountie had been raised to chief superintendent by the addition of two pips to the crown. Gold regimental crests sparkled on their lapels. Medals shone on their chests.

  “Dreaming of the South Pacific?”

  “No,” said Zinc.

  “Do you prefer rain?” asked DeClercq.

  “I prefer work.”

  “Plenty of that will be waiting when you get back. Decided where you’re going?”

  “No,” said Zinc.

  “Genny and I honeymooned in Western Samoa.”

  “There’s a big difference. Alex won’t be with me, Chief.”

  “I know. But you’d get away from it all, and you might meet someone new.”

  “All I’d do is think of her. That’s why I want to work.”

  “You need a rest.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Then what are you doing out here? The party going on in there is for Ghost Keeper, Mad Dog, and you.”

  “I need a breath of fresh air.”

  “You need more than that. I’ve had my eye on you. I don’t think you’re with us, Zinc. I’ve been where you are. I know what’s going on in your head. I lost two wives and a child to the job. I thought I’d go mad from grief. But look at me now. Gill Macbeth and I are seeing each other regularly, and I found a wonderful surrogate daughter in Katt. A break to get perspective is what you need.”

  “I’ve been shanghaied.”

  “Really? How?”

  “I woke up in the hospital after suffering a concussion, and what did I find all over the media? ‘Insp. Zinc Chandler is off to the tropics for a well-earned rest.’”

  “We discussed that before the chopper crashed.”

  “As I recall, the discussion was along these lines: ‘You can accept my advice as a friend and go willingly, or you can force me as your boss to order you onto a plane.’ The only choice I had was between the Caribbean or the South Seas.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “I don’t like being ordered around.”

&nb
sp; “Then you’re in the wrong job. Policing is about taking orders.”

  “Orders to work.”

  “And orders not to. A tragedy like losing Alex exacts a heavy toll. Some can bury themselves in work, but not you. Sleep and four caps of Dilantin a day protect you from epileptic fits. Who kept you in the Force after you got shot in the head? And after the Ripper stabbed you? Now I say it’s time for a rest, and you fight me?”

  “I can’t afford it, Chief.”

  “What? The money?”

  “My brother’s having trouble with the farm. I’ve been helping him out.”

  “Then it’s your lucky day. Gill Macbeth, as you know, has money to burn. Despite the helicopter crash, the three of you saved her life on Ebbtide Island. As thanks, she’s treating each of you to a vacation. Mad Dog and Ghost Keeper have graciously accepted. So, I’m sure, will you.”

  The chief left Zinc alone for five minutes for that breath of fresh air, on the understanding that he would join the others for the announcement of the beneficence of the pathologist Gill Macbeth. So there he stood, listening to the mournful tattoo of rain drumming down on the awning, gazing out into the inclement night that swallowed up Washington State, while—prompted by renewed laughter from the men surrounding Brit inside the lodge—he relived a memory of Alex from a year and a half ago. The recollection caused sorrow to gnaw at his hollow heart. Unknown to the inspector, at that very moment 150 miles away to the south, a scheme was unfolding so the Goth could eat the Mountie’s heart, too.

  TED BUNDY’S HOUSE

  Seattle, Washington

  Were it not for the constant rain, the population of the Pacific Northwest might rival California’s. For sure, the natural splendor of God’s country was in abundance here, but there is nothing like shitty weather to scare hordes of prospective settlers away. Too much rain was kosher as far as Detective Ralph Stein of Homicide was concerned, because fewer people milling around the city that Ralph called home, doing all sorts of atrocious things to each other, meant a shorter stack of murder cases piling up on his desk. There are, however, exceptions to every rule, including the one that says that constant rain helps squelch violent street crimes, and when it came to exceptions, the one that Ralph was responding to was shaping up as a doozie. It’s not every night you get called out to investigate a severed head found stuck on a stake up in the U District.

  Lake Union lies at the heart of Seattle. Montlake Cut, a ship canal, runs east to Lake Washington. The north bank of the cut is dotted mostly with marine businesses and academic facilities, for it marks the southern edge of the University District. This area used to be called Brooklyn way back when, but there was little future in that pilfered name, so once the University of Washington was founded here in 1895, Brooklyn became the name of the street one block west of University Way, and the campus and its surroundings became the U District, in student-speak. Today, the university—known as the U Dub in that same tongue—meshes with the surrounding neighborhood. Called the Ave by those attending the U Dub, the north-south artery of University Way is the hangout hub of the U District.

  In cop-speak—Stein’s lingo—this was the North Precinct.

  Beyond the rain-streaked windshield of the unmarked police car, Stein watched a string of coffeehouses, cinemas, book and record stores, pizzerias, pubs, fast-food joints and cheap ethnic restaurants, clothing stores, newsstands, panhandlers, and homeless people line the gutters of the Ave—exactly what you’d expect to see in a university district. To the west, between this main thoroughfare and the I-5 freeway north to Vancouver, most of the side streets were full of apartment buildings and old homes that had been converted into student flats. Such a street was Twelfth Avenue N.E., and as Ralph’s car approached the 4100 block, the red-and-blue wigwags that flashed on the roofs of the first-response vehicles cordoning off the crime scene dyed the rain snakes slithering down the glass in front of the detective’s eyes.

  Ralph parked outside the cordon and stepped out into the deluge.

  Popping his umbrella, he walked the rest of the way.

  Det. Ralph Stein was a big man. Big as in blubber, not in brawn. Ralph was married to a make-your-mouth-drool cook, so keeping his weight under control had always been a problem. A regimen of exercise had helped him battle the bulge, but then Ralph had suffered a crippling accident. Before going to work for the Halloween-night shift, he had scaled a ladder to clean his second-story eaves. Some of the slimy sludge he had plucked from the gutter had fouled the rung of the ladder a step down under his shoes, with the result that Ralph’s descent from on high had been swifter than planned. Two broken ankles had kept him in traction for weeks, and Ralph was damn lucky that he was able to walk again. But as for all that exercise that had kept down his weight … well, it had gone the way of all flesh. And where that flesh had gone was to Ralph’s ballooning waist.

  The blue guarding the barricade waved the homicide detective in. As Ralph splashed along the sidewalk toward a crowd of neighborhood gawkers watching a knot of cops huddled at one corner of a cream-colored two-story house close to the cross street, his ankles ached. The rain was pelting so hard on the umbrella over his head that mist came through the thin fabric to spray him anyway. On drenching nights like this, Ralph wished he were a gumshoe back in the forties. Gumshoes would, from the sound of the word, keep your feet dry. Combined with a waterproof trench coat and a wide-brimmed fedora … well, rain would be like water off a duck. Instead, Ralph felt like a sponge in his sopping pea jacket, soaked flannel slacks, and squishy loafers.

  Better yet, he decided, I wish I was that dog.

  The hound and his master had matching yellow slickers. The man could be a lobster catcher in from the East Coast. The pooch was a long-bodied basset hound with stubby legs and a drooping belly slung close to the waterlogged lawn. In a cute parody of the lobsterman, the dog was strapped into a miniature plastic hood and cape.

  Ralph was green with envy.

  The dog was dry.

  “I thought I owned a basset hound,” the lobsterman was telling a blue who was trying to record his statement in a soggy notebook protected by his doffed hat. The cop’s hair was plastered to his head. That was one of the drawbacks of being a uniform. Umbrellas weren’t issued as part of the standard equipment. Not that it made much difference from Ralph’s point of view. His bumbershoot was doing squat to keep him dry. “What I own instead in Murphy here,” the lobsterman said, “is a sleuth out to prove he’s a bloodhound.”

  Murphy barked, concurring.

  “Hound of the bloody Baskervilles, that’s what he is.”

  The blue kept scribbling.

  Was he actually taking that down?

  The cop had led man and dog away from the crowd of gawkers in front of the house to take his statement. Ralph reached them before he got to the crime scene. When he heard the blue ask, “How’d you find the head stuck on the stake, Mr. Gebhardt?” the detective stopped in his tracks to join the conversation.

  “I’m busy, Mac,” the blue said, waving the interloper away. “Wait your turn.”

  “The name’s Stein,” Ralph said.

  “Everyone’s Mac to me.”

  “Detective Stein,” Ralph emphasized. “You new to the job, Mac? I don’t recognize your surliness.”

  The young blue reacted as if the detective had put an electric cattle prod to the family jewels. “S-sorry, sir,” he stammered. “I thought you were …”

  Mr. Michelin? Ralph wondered with a wrathful scowl. His wife had called him that on that dark day when she made him swear solemnly on a plate of cheese blintzes to use her accursed calorie wheel to calculate the damage inherent in every blessed meal.

  The detective angled his umbrella to keep the rookie out in the rain, bequeathing his largesse—in Ralph’s case, a physical term—of shelter from the storm on the basset hound instead. “I’m taking over. Take notes, Mac.”

  The blue began scribbling as the image of a Big Mac popped into Ralph’s head.

/>   Food for thought.

  “Hello, Mr. Gebhardt. I’m Detective Stein. Fine dog you have in Murphy. Sherlock Hound. Let’s take it from the top. Where do you live, sir?”

  “Up the block,” Gebhardt said. “In the yellow house.”

  “Address?”

  He gave a number in the 4100s.

  “Telephone?”

  He gave that number too.

  “First name?”

  “Rufus.”

  “Thanks,” said Stein. “Now, what brought you and Murphy out on a night like this?”

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. I take Murphy for a walk every night.”

  The word “walk” registered with the basset hound, and it glanced up at Gebhardt expectantly.

  “That’s the W word in our house. Mention the W word in his presence and Murphy heads for the door.”

  “I see,” said Ralph. “Rain or shine?”

  “Or sleet. Or snow. Or hordes of locusts. Or volcanic eruptions of Mount St. Helens.”

  “Murph,” said Stein, addressing the hound, “it sounds like you’re a pest.”

  Murphy barked.

  “So tell me, sir, exactly how did your ‘bloodhound’ find the head?”

  “See that bush growing at the corner of that house?” Gebhardt turned and pointed through the downpour toward the knot of cops standing in the teeming rain. “You might say that bush is Murphy’s fire hydrant.”

  “It looks healthy.”

  “Fertilizer,” Gebhardt said.

  “So Murph wandered off to do his business, and you followed him to the john?”

  “No, I waited out here on the sidewalk for him to return, and when he began to howl like the bloodhound he thinks he is, I went over to see what was wrong. And there it was, behind that bush, stuck upside down on a stake driven into the ground.”