Churko and a team are on the way, and have asked me to stand by my phone.
1 There is such a gap in his life that I almost wish he had made the connection he was seeking, even if he was forced to modify his high aspirations for his father.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At midnight, I’m numbly listening to my pounding heart, reliving the horrors of the night, worse than all my nightmares.
There is no good starting point, Allis, so I’ll begin where I left off: the beginning of the November night …
I was on the office balcony with James, sipping tea and watching the city light up. The phone rang. “Inspector Churko,” said James. “He wants you to haul ass to Grouse Mountain immediatement.”
Churko’s urgent barks over a balky connection made for a distorted picture: “Who’s got a flashlight? I’m in snow up to my asshole.” Indistinct words, shouts, then he returned to the phone. “They turned the lights out, can’t see a fucking thing from down here. I don’t know what they done to them, maybe nothing, we hope. You read me?”
Was he talking to me? No – I’d been patched into a call to headquarters. An answering voice: “Okay, Inspector, we read. We have Dr. Dare.”
I announced myself, asked Churko to back up and slow down. His briefing was peppered with disruptions.
“We got a crisis, Doc … Get a light on the house, see if anyone’s moving … They got hostages, Mrs. Moore, her kids. They got a gun, and they ain’t afraid to fire it, a warning shot, when one of the guys tried to go up there … Where are those jokers from E-Response? I only got five people up here, it’s a trek in … What about the chopper?”
“No chance with this weather. We got a mobile unit on its way on a snowcat from the ski lodge. Dr. Dare, there’s a driver coming for you – can you meet him outside?”
Seconds later, I was in a squad car, on a light-flashing, siren-sounding dash across Lion’s Gate to North Vancouver.
The woman detective who was my escort told me that Churko’s squad had arrived at the chalet an hour ago, by commandeered Ski-Doos. No lights were on, but a porch window was broken, and smoke was coming from the chimney. An attempt to approach was deterred by the warning shot and a shouted threat from Grundy: “Back off! Or no one’s coming out of here alive! “That’s when Churko was patched in to me.
After a long climb up Capilano Road, my driver pulled into the parking area below the gondola. Police were scrambling about, hauling equipment. The glow from lamps on the lift towers traced a route up into the distant gloom. Members of the SWAT team, in their Darth Vader outfits, scrambled onto a car and rose into the darkness.
I hadn’t given any thought to the final stages of this journey. The prospect of entering one of those closed cages added more fuel to my anxiety about the three hostages, about the role Churko intended me to play.
My escort pulled me by the elbow. “For Christ’s sake, let’s go.”
I took her arm. “Little nervous about heights.”
Soon after we boarded the next carriage, the earth disappeared and we were swallowed in mist and whipping snowflakes. A tower approached, but its light illumined only a dense white blur. Finally, we rose above the fog, and the lodge came into view, lights blazing, figures moving about. I stepped off the platform and gracelessly slid down an embankment. Vancouver was somewhere below us, glowing from beneath the clouds.
Soon, I was grasping my chauffeur about her waist, on a Ski-Doo, racing up the twists of a trail in the conifer forest. We pulled in among other such vehicles, a snowcat, a melee of law enforcers, video cameras, a grunting generator, spotlights shining on a substantial home set precariously on a ledge: wide decks, two storeys and a loft. The lights raking the building didn’t penetrate heavy curtains, no persons were in view within.
Churko, smoking furiously, told me that shouted communications had continued with Grundy, who had devised a plan to escape with Lyall by helicopter. The three hostages would accompany them, at gunpoint. They would transfer to a small plane equipped with parachutes. This scheme was “non-negotiable.”
While Churko and Grundy were talking, an officer had made his way behind the house, keeping a cautious distance. Equipped with a night-vision scope, he made unobstructed sightings through a tall uncurtained window, saw human shapes on the main floor, two sitting, one standing, two others by the railing of the loft.
Churko had obtained the house plans from the owner, and I asked to see them: the building was an aerie, the only entrance by the deck on the second floor, the living area. From there, one staircase led to the loft, windowless but with an interior balcony, another to bedrooms on the ground level, which sat on a rock dropping fifty metres along a sheer face.
“Got any ideas, Doc?”
“I’m going to try to get in.”
I felt nothing else would work: I would have to get close to the two men, close enough to smell their desperation, assess their resolve, use whatever skills hadn’t deserted me. I had to get face to face – my last conversation with Grundy had been adjourned too quickly, and I hadn’t spent all my ammunition.
“Fat chance of that,” Churko said.
“If there’s anyone Grundy wants up close and unarmed, it’s me.” You ‘re next. I know where you live. I ventured closer to the house. “Bob, Lyall – can you hear me? This is Timothy Dare.”
Grundy called back: “Too late for crisis counselling, Doc. It’s gone beyond talk.” A pause. “Right?”
This was directed to Lyall, who responded faintly: “That’s right.” I picked up the clearing of a constricted throat.
“Bob, there’s some important stuff we didn’t get around to dealing with last time. I have an interesting theory about your tensions, your headaches, I figured out how to cure them.”
“I’m not interested in your theories.”
That was untruthful. Grundy is too absorbed with himself.
“What do you say I wander up there, Bob? Because it’s not something we want to talk about in public.” I sense a terror lurking within him. He had stilled Dr. Wiseman’s tongue, and I had to be prepared to face a similar risk.
A minute passed before he made a response, so likely he’d been conferring with Lyall.
“Hey, Dr. Dare!”
“Yes, Bob.”
“This is the picture. I got a sweet little sixteen name of – what’s your name again, honey? – name of Ginger, sitting right in front of me. I don’t want to harm this girl – really, I like her, the whole family – and all goes well, nobody gets hurt.”
“I want to help you out of this, Bob. I’m worried that we’re going to have the press here soon. I’d like to talk to you first, before they start asking about you.”
Another long period of silence. Then he called, “Okay, but take off your clothes.”
There were further shouted instructions: he wanted the police to train a light on me until I reached the house. I urged, without effect, that I be allowed to wear my briefs.
“You got something to hide, Doc? Hey, Lyall, maybe he’s ashamed of it. Don’t worry, Ginger’s seen it before, haven’t you, honey?”
A sharper, uglier edge to his voice. I felt a touch of nausea at his obscene insinuations. I realized I could botch this, I wasn’t confident I could talk them down or predict their reactions.
Churko was looking at me with amazement. He gripped my hand, wished me luck.
I stripped naked, then braved a chilly slog up a poorly beaten path. The climb was steep, and by the time I reached the deck perspiration had frozen on my skin. The door was locked, and I rapped on it. No immediate response. I’d been played the fool, this was an exercise in humiliation.
I moved nearer the broken porch window, felt heat from within. The curtain moved.
Lyall’s voice: “Yeah, he’s alone.”
“Okay, Churko, now I want that light off!” Grundy called.
When all was plunged into darkness, the door opened. I half-expected to be attacked, thrown to the floor, but I was neither helped nor hindered
. “Take three steps and stop,” said Grundy, in front of me, not far away. The door clicked shut – Lyall was close behind, I could smell his anxious heat.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, human shadows formed, the dim outlines of furniture, dying embers behind the fireglass pane of an air-tight stove. Nearby were the stairways, wide steps descending, narrow slats up to the loft. From its landing came a soft glow – a night light, battery-powered.
“Gladys Moore – can you speak to me?” I said.
“I’m up here,” came a soft, frightened voice.
“Your girls?”
“Colette is with me. Ginger is with them.”
“Ginger, speak to me.”
“I’m here. I’m scared, but I’m okay.” Strained, trying to be brave.
“Okay, no more talking,” Grundy said. “Stay still where I can see you.”
As my eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light, I could make out Grundy leaning back in a reclining chair. Ginger was only a few feet away, upright on a sofa. I could hear Lyall shuffling about behind me.
I might have asked for a towel, to dry and cover myself, but I sensed they’d deny me that, they wanted me vulnerable. The room was warm enough, the air-tight still generating heat, though it had been unattended for a long while. There was also an unlit fireplace opposite, stacks of wood and kindling.
“Lyall, check around his ass to see if he’s wired.”
“You do it.”
A hint of rebellion. Lyall was in far deeper than he’d intended. He’d gone along with the murders, as long as only gay men were targeted. Women were different, girls especially. He’d been fond of his sisters, he wasn’t as disordered as Grundy, just enough to put him under his sway. At the nub of his pathology was anger, hatred of his father, even of himself.
Grundy made no motion to rise. “Maybe Ginger would like to do it. How about it, honey?”
“You’re sick,” said Ginger. She was a brave girl. I’d seen her photograph, pretty, in the bloom of youth.
“Cut it, Bob,” Lyall said. “I mean it.”
This friction must have been going on for some time, the monster’s two heads disjoining. Lyall was no longer behind me, but in dim view, arms folded, defiant.
“As long as you know there’s a loaded revolver in my hand, Doc. Okay, Lyall, maybe you can be helpful by stoking up the fire. Dr. Dare is cold. You can see him shivering. Not because he’s scared. You’re not scared, are you, Doc?”
“Yeah, but I’m more concerned about the women. Let them go, Bob. I’m your insurance. I’ll do what I can to help you get away. You can take me with you on the plane.”
“I prefer the company of women. I don’t think you’re going to make the flight, Doc.”
“Let’s think about it, Bob,” said Lyall. He was at the open door of the air-tight, refuelling it with kindling and wood.
“The way I’m thinking is if we make an example of the good doctor, his friends down below will know we’re very, very serious. Rid the world of another faggot. You’re inclined that way, aren’t you, Doc? Use the back door once in a while?”
There was enough strain in Grundy’s voice to suggest this was surface swagger. He wanted to spin out this chance to humiliate me.
“Let’s talk about you, Bob.”
“Yeah, right, you have some theory about me. Don’t tell me – you discovered I’ve an antisocial personality disorder.”
“More interesting than that, Bob.”
“Well, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I do,” said Lyall.
The fire had caught but did little to warm my clammy skin. I couldn’t believe I was hearing my voice speak with tones so calm and detached. This was a very risky game, but they had to be driven further apart.
“I got a better idea, Lyall. Let’s have the doc analyze you. Let’s figure out why you’ve turned into a wimp.”
“I’d like to know what happened,” Lyall said softly. “I’d like to know how everything got screwed up like this.”
I could see the log walls now, the beams of unmilled cedar, the loft, Gladys and Colette looking over the railing. All the windows were draped but the tall ones facing the back. Churko must have his sharpshooters out there by now, and I was worried they might not notice Ginger on the couch, her back to them.
“You swore by your blood,” Grundy said softly, with menace. “Soldiers of God, together forever.” He was in clearer outline now, holding the revolver with two hands, pointing it somewhere between Ginger’s head and my navel. Tension rose from him, like heat.
Lyall was still by the stove, his face sober and drawn in the flickering light. “We were just going to make a statement. You said we’d stop. After one. Then after three. The last one wasn’t even a fag.”
“They want us to think that.”
The killing of the student had clearly disturbed Lyall. This bickering was likely the aftermath of a quarrel, maybe several over the last couple of days. Lyall wanted no more killing, but he didn’t have the gun.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s talk about you, Lyall.”
“Yeah, let’s hear about the wuss. Take the couch, snuggle up with Ginger.”
Lyall didn’t move. The two men seemed tired, close to exhaustion. They’d have agreed to take turns napping, but both may have stayed awake last night, in mutual distrust.
“You have a sister almost exactly Ginger’s age, Lyall. Two other sisters. It’s never easy being the only boy in such a family, too much is expected of you. Especially from a hard-driving father. He’s a manly guy, isn’t he, Lyall?”
“He’s a tough dude.”
“Likes to drink beer and watch the Canucks. Cracks the occasional joke about queers over the dinner table. Dislikes liberals, called them pansies. But, hell, so what? – millions hold those views. He gave you tough love, but he was proud of you, determined to make you a man. You told him you wanted to be a cop, you knew that would please him. That’s the gist of it, right?”
“So far.”
“The only son … That’s hard enough, but in your case it was a burden.”
No interruptions from Grundy. He sat forward, interested, this was in his field of study, there’d been truth in his claim to want to understand the warped mind – even if only to disguise his better. I hadn’t moved but was keeping spring in my knees in case I had to.
“So much expected of you. So much you couldn’t deliver.”
Lyall had gone to the side of the tall window, was taking a careful peek outside. He’d begun to fidget, shifting his shoulders, smoothing his hair, a narcissistic compulsiveness. “What’s that mean?”
“I want to help you through this, Lyall. I want to make you feel better about yourself. You liked your sisters, but otherwise you didn’t care much for the company of girls. They didn’t attract you sexually, and you couldn’t understand that, you’re athletic, a virile guy, not like the others, the limp wrists you were taught to disdain.”
A silence set in, broken only by Lyall clearing his throat, until there came another threat from Grundy, in a raspy voice. “Want me to plug him, Lyall? He’s calling you a closet queen.” A derisory laugh, he was scornful of my analysis, contemptuous at the game I was playing: a crafty scheme to unnerve his partner.
“Lots of famous athletes are gay, Lyall. Artists, entrepreneurs, scientists. Leonardo da Vinci was gay. In the real world, it’s no big deal.”
I couldn’t make out Lyall’s eyes, but I sensed he was looking at me intently, rigid musculature, a man poised, on the edge of the unknown. My first clue had come at The Tides, the kiss he blew to Jossie and Grundy from the window. Not to Jossie, just Grundy. It wasn’t a woman he desired as they made the beast with three backs.
“We are what nature makes us, Lyall. Or God, if you prefer. There’s no shame in that. These are more enlightened times than those your father knew.”
He slumped – it was if the air was hissing out of him. Had catharsis come, was this deflation the manifestation o
f it? No, something else was going on, because, incredibly, he giggled. “Do go on.” A different voice, lilting. “He’s such a bitch.” I was stunned. This wasn’t Lyall performing some sexist mimicry. This sounded like a dissociated personality.
Grundy wasn’t getting it, was chuckling, relieved now – good old Lyall was giving me the gears.
“It’s good to be free of him, isn’t it?” I said.
“I mean, he’s a bore – if you only knew. He doesn’t let me come out very often, so thank you.”
“Nice pickle he’s got you in.”
“I would just like to forget the whole thing – everything’s so intense. Bob, darling, do put down that gun.”
I couldn’t guess what Ginger and her mother and sister were making of this, but Grundy was laughing. “I’ve seen him do his fruit fly act a hundred times, and I still bust a gut.”
Lyall moved toward me with a tight gait, as if in high heels. “You are such a skinny wretch. Let’s find something to cover you. Bob, we simply have to come up with another plan. I am not going to live off the land like some Indian.” He sighed, went to a bedroom nearby, returned with a wool blanket.
“Put that down,” Grundy said. “He’s fine the way he is.”
“Oh, are you enjoying the view? Do you have a hard-on for him, darling? You’ve been ogling him.” He threw the blanket; I caught it but didn’t wrap myself in it, merely held it in front of me. Though Lyall was acting the jealous mistress, I was unsure if they’d had sex together – in the absence of a woman to make it seem vaguely acceptable. Grundy was too deep in denial. Lyall, too, had blocked his attraction for other men, buried it deep within, but it had found an aquifer to the surface, was bubbling out as a second personality.
“How do you feel about Bob right now, Lyall – do I call you Lyall?”
“Oh, I’ve tried other names – they never work. And I don’t care what you call Bob, he’s my sweetie.”
“You like him a lot.”
“My pet bunny.”
“Okay, cut it out now.” Grundy had begun to show confusion. He cradled the revolver in his right hand, wiped his forehead with the other.
Mind Games Page 28
