Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  West of the Coquitlam River is the City of Coquitlam. East of the Coquitlam River is the City of Port Coquitlam. The flatlands on both banks are Colony Farm. Colony Farm climbs the slope to Mary Hill Road, the upper side of which was recently denuded of trees when it was

  ravished by gang housing known as Citadel Heights. Hugging the Colony Farm curb was an old peaked pioneer home, in front of which Rachel Kidd parked by two patrol cars with red-and-blue wigwags flashing.

  A female constable left the porch to brief Kidd by the driver's door.

  'The house is locked, Corporal. Front and back. No sign of forced entry we can find."

  "Did you break in?"

  "No. Looked in the kitchen window. You can see the body on the floor by the sink. Her skull's crushed. No way she isn't dead."

  "Possible the killer's still inside?"

  "Maybe. The porch angles around three sides of the house. I've been at this corner watching two walls. Constable Stekl's kitty-corner, eyeing the other two. No sounds from within."

  "Ident's coming," Kidd said. "Stay where you were and let's keep it sealed. Who responded first? You or Stekl?"

  "Stekl," the patrol cop replied.

  From Mary Hill Road to the front porch was perhaps fifty feet. The green-and-white house was single-story with an attic peak, built on a stone foundation with no cellar. The windows flanking the front door were dark, but light glowed from the kitchen at back. The porch rounded the left side of the house, where the constable stopped while Kidd pressed on. Her view ahead was down the hill across the Coquitlam River bisecting Colony Farm, the Lougheed Highway off to the right by Riverview Hospital, FPI off to the left by the junction of the rivers, and connecting them Colony Farm Road lined with flashing police cars like those parked here. Between this house and the crime scene where Bert and Ernie were murdered stretched a mile of misty murky muddy marsh.

  "Don't shoot," Kidd said, rounding the rear, where another constable stood by the far shadowed corner. "No sign of anyone inside?"

  "Nothing," said Stekl.

  The back door was solid wood, cat scratched below but with no jimmy marks. The window to the right threw j light onto the porch, and looked into a kitchen as cozy !

  as could be. A cast-iron stove squatted beside a modern range, with a basket of wood ready to feed the firebox. Against the far wall separating the kitchen from the front parlor stood a Formica table under a fading photo of a girl feeding pigs. Crumpled between this table and the sink beneath the window through which Kidd peered, the body of a woman lay blood-pooled on the floor, face twisted sideways to expose the back of her head smashed in like a soft-boiled egg.

  "You first on the scene?"

  "Yeah," Stekl replied.

  "Anyone hanging about?"

  "Not a soul."

  "Who called it in?"

  "Woman named Parker. Lives in the house across the road."

  "Speak to her?"

  "Yeah. She knows the victim well. Says Dora Craven lived here thirty-five vears."

  "By herself?"

  "Seventeen years. Before that, eighteen years with her son."

  "One kid?"

  "Yep."

  "Better check him out."

  "I doubt he'll be a suspect," the constable said. "Dora Craven's son is Corporal Nick Craven of Special X."

  BLACK & WHITE

  Jack MacDougall viewed the Mounted as his Canadian clan. Just as the tartan he donned to pipe in Chan symbolized his Highland heritage, so Red Serge proclaimed his allegiance here. For him the camaraderie in this room was as good as it gets. The cheerful copper glow of the fire burnished the rustic wood decor as Members flushed by spirits and wine swapped tales of skirmishes along the thin red line. Once the DC and MacDougall had

  "paid the piper" by downing a dram, "Grace Before Meat" was said by Inspector Zinc Chandler, followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding from the two large gas ovens with bread warmers in the lodge kitchen. Tradition held the commanding officer personally serve the most junior Member, so Chan carried a plate from the head table and placed it before a constable just weeks out of training at Regina's Depot Division. The lights were dimmed when dessert was brought in, mincemeat haloed by blue brandy flames, and cooled with custard or vanilla ice cream. A bottle of port was served to De-Clercq as impromptu host for his okay on potability, a ritual he performed with flourish and a nod of his head. The bottle sent to each table was passed to the left, hand to hand for custom was it must not touch down. Glasses filled, six bars of "God Save the Queen" were played, then Jack MacDougall gave the Loyal Toast.

  "The Queen!" replied the Force, glasses high.

  Jack took advantage of the coffee and cigars break to change his tartan for Red Serge. Having piped Chan in as a Scot, he'd pipe him out as a Redcoat. Spindled oak staircases bordered the room, climbing to balconies on either side, off which were the former bedrooms. The second lieutenant governor's second wife had a yen for pink, so she had redone the royal and master suites in that shade, using the same color scheme in the dog's room.

  Poor pup.

  Shaking his head at this damage done to the masculine character of the lodge, Jack changed in one of the upstairs rooms and was ready to descend when his beeper buzzed.

  The message was to call Coquitlam OCC.

  Nick Craven was razzing the Mad Dog about Brittany Starr, probing what happened after they Code three'd to the strip bar, when MacDougall tapped him on the back and said, "Got a moment?"

  "Sir?"

  "Follow me."

  The inspector led the corporal to a side room and shut the door. "Brace yourself," he warned. "I have bad news. There's no easy way to break this. Your mother is dead."

  Nick flinched as if he'd been jabbed in the heart. At first his throat was so dry he couldn't get out the word. "How?" he asked.

  "Murder," said Jack. "A blow to the back of her head. She didn't see it coming and died instantly. Get your coat and we'll drive there."

  Suddenly the confines of the room closed in, as if somehow the space had shrunk to half its size, shoving details at Nick's face. The picture of Lord Tweedsmuir playing polo on the manicured grass near Minnekhada's stables. The eagle-feathered headdress in a glass case, given to the second lieutenant governor when he became honorary Chief "Red Cloud" of the Kootenay Indians. The decoys, dog and horse figurines, antique shotguns, and prints of hunting scenes . . .

  "Nick," Jack said. "Get your coat."

  "Don't have one," he replied, coming around. "Left it at Mom's so she could work on the stain. Spilled tea at my birthday party."

  "Today's your birthday?"

  "Right," he said bitterly. "Surprise present, huh? Some asshole bludgeons my mom."

  "When was the party?"

  "Late this afternoon. Tea for two, Mom and me, for her to give me my present. Dutiful son. Big obligation. Rushing to party here. So focused on leaving, I didn't remove my coat. Sip sip. Thanks, Mom. Quick in and out. More haste, less speed, I dropped my teacup. Afraid the tea soaking through would stain my Red Serge. Clean it, Mom. Bye bye. Jesus Christ!"

  "Beating yourself up won't help her. What time did you leave?" MacDougall asked, switching from friend to cop.

  "Close to five. I was here for cocktails at five-thirty."

  "How close?"

  "Five, ten minutes after."

  "Have you met Rachel Kidd?"

  "Coquitlam Burglary? No, but I hear she's dynamite in looks."

  "Kidd's promoted corporal, Coquitlam GIS. She took the call. Her case. Better speak to her. Except for the killer, you may be the last to see your mom alive. Come on."

  They exited from the side room to six bars of the RCMP Regimental March, leading to the junior Member who Chan served giving the Corps Toast to the Force. While waiting in the entrance hall for Jack to inform the DC and DeClercq of the crime, Nick counted black-and-white-checkered tiles on the floor.

  Chessboard, he thought.

  The main door of Minnekhada Lodge faced north. Th
e paved courtyard outside was hemmed in on the right by a rocky outcrop and graced on the left by a fountain with a statue of Pan playing the flute. A path curved by the carriage house to the parking lot, hidden by cedars and dark with shadows. They drove north out of the lot, then looped south, descending the knoll past the lodge and swimming pool to the driveway gate with thirteen-foot Celtic towers beside Oliver Road. On a clear day there would be a panoramic vista across the Pitt River and Fraser Valley to Mount Baker seventy miles south in Washington state.

  Out the gate, Jack turned right along bumpy Oliver Road. Buck brush and a ditch edged the lodge side, with cars unable to find space in the lot parked single file along the marsh shoulder. The Mounties passed the black Ford, but neither cop saw Evil Eye duck out of view, or heard the African voice from the box crying for Redcoat blood.

  From Minnekhada, they angled southwest across the rural stretch between the Pitt and Coquitlam rivers, en route to the corner where the latter joined the Fraser by Mary Hill.

  "My mother died in May," Jack said. He glanced at Nick, lost in thought on the passenger's side. "Anything is better than slow, painful cancer. Your dad was a Member who died young, I recall from your file."

  "Shot himself with his service revolver the night I was born."

  "Your mom dying removes the buffer of immortality. Same with me."

  "I don't understand," Nick said as they approached Lincoln Park.

  "As long as one parent remains alive, we're secure in the belief a generation stands between us and death.

  EVIL EYE 35

  When we lose that buffer, the loss is immense. Not only do we snap the anchor to our youth, and suffer in most cases the end of undying love, but now we're facing the Reaper sharpening his scythe."

  "Did you bury or cremate your mom?"

  "Buried her in the heather and played the pipes by her grave."

  "What'd you play?"

  " 'Amazing Grace.' My favorite tune. Only song that comes close is 4 Danny Boy.' "

  "Ask a favor?"

  "Sure."

  "Play the pipes for my mom?"

  "Name the place. Name the time. In sunshine or in shadow, I'll be there."

  Mary Hill Road was sealed at both ends by flashing police cars. The cop blocking the Pitt River Road junction waved them through. Clustered by the curb in front of Dora Craven's home were several patrol vehicles with an Ident Section van summoned from the crime scene down on Colony Farm Road. Corporal Kidd approached when Jack and Nick parked behind. The Mounties shook hands by the front fender.

  "Where is she?" Craven asked.

  "In the kitchen."

  As Nick moved toward the porch, Rachel touched his arm. "I sympathize with you," she said, "and don't mean to be cruel, but this is my case and it will be done by the book. No one but me enters the house until Ident is through, and that may take until tomorrow morning. You don't want to see her like this."

  "How do you know it's her?"

  "White female. Late fifties. Washing dishes in the kitchen. Your mom lived alone in the house, so that's a start. The victim has two moles on the back of her left hand and a cameo ring."

  "It's her." Nick sighed.

  "What happened?" Jack asked. "Got a theory?"

  "About ten after five, two sheriff's deputies had their skulls crushed by a psych escapee down on Colony Farm. This house backs on that murder scene. John Doe—we don't know who he is—fled this way, but Dog Services lost his trail at the Coquitlam River. Near the

  time he escaped, this victim on his flight path was bludgeoned in her home. The time, location, MO, and psych profile match."

  "Fill in the time frame, Nick," MacDougall said.

  "I came by at four-thirty so Mom could give me my birthday present. I left sometime between five p.m. and ten after."

  "Front or back?"

  "Let myself out the front. The door locked behind me when it shut. Mom worked up at Riverview for thirty-five years. She spooked me with warnings about nuts on the run. As a kid, I imagined them skulking in the bush outside my room. I made sure she was locked in whenever I left."

  "Both doors were locked but not bolted when I got here," said Kidd. "Ident used a skeleton key to let us in. There's no sign of forced entry anywhere. If it was John Doe, how'd he get in?"

  "Mom would never open the door to a stranger after dark," Nick emphasized.

  "No sign of sexual assault and her purse has money in it. Easily fenced valuables weren't stolen. Was she expecting someone?"

  "No. She'd mention it."

  "What was she doing when you arrived?"

  "Dicing vegetables for supper."

  "And when you left?"

  ''Removing a tea stain from my overcoat."

  "You ate with her?"

  "Just a cup of tea. She baked a pumpkin pie as my birthday cake. I never liked cake. I promised I'd come by tomorrow for a piece." Nick glanced away. "All that effort and I left her with an untouched pie. I didn't want to spoil my appetite."

  "Perhaps someone unexpected dropped by?"

  "Like who?" asked Nick.

  "A relative?"

  "My dad shot himself the day I was born. Mom and I left Alberta for B.C. the following month. Her parents died in a car crash when she was sixteen and Mom was an only child. She took a job in the Riverview laundry and leased this house. To make ends meet, she sewed dresses on consignment at night. The laundry quickly

  killed her looks and Mom never remarried. Eventually she purchased this house. Our last relative died last month. My dad's younger sister—my Aunt Eleanor—fell down the stairs in the house where I was born. Now Mom's dead, so I'm the only 'relative' alive."

  •What about friends?"

  "Mom wasn't the drop-in-unannounced kind. Enjoyed her own company and privacy. Her friends would know she was having tea for two with me."

  "Any problems? Enemies?"

  "None." Nick said. kk Mom was the best mother a boy ever had. Since she retired in June, she's been sewing teddy bears for Somali kids."

  'Thanks for being so frank." Kidd said. "I've got the picture. The focus will be on John Doe. not wasting time. But rest assured I'll follow up every promising lead."

  "Let's leave her to do her job, Nick," MacDougall suggested. "We all have a second family in the Force. The camaraderie at Minnekhada Lodge will take your mind off this."

  "I'm okay, Inspector. I need some space to grieve. I think I'll go down and help the searchers on Colony Farm."

  "Here," Kidd said. "Take my flashlight."

  MacDougall left the corporals face to face on the curb. As he opened the driver's door to get in, he eyed them together over the car roof. Black and white were the same age. Black and white were the same height. The sardonic moon grinned down from above and behind Nick's head. Face-on, the pallid glow lightened Kidd's African features. Turned away, Nick's British face was darkened by shadow. Though races apart, under this wan moon they might be twins.

  Jack did a U-turn and vanished up the road.

  "I hear you just got your hooks. Congratulations." said Nick.

  "Thanks. But don't worry. I'll bounce the case off Staff Sergeant Tipple."

  "American, aren't you?"

  "Once upon a time." Rachel frowned. "Is that cause for concern?"

  "Indirectly. When'd you leave?"

  "At eighteen. For SFU."

  "Remember this is Canada, not the States. 'Fruit of the Poisoned Tree' is much weaker here."

  "Spit it out, Nick. What's bothering you?"

  "I hope you're not tainted by the American Bill of Rights? Promise me, whatever it takes, you'll nail who killed my mom. Whatever it takes. Understand? Use your brain. No candy-assed Charter of Rights and Freedoms bullshit."

  In the shadow of the moon, Rachel saw black tears well from his eyes.

  "Promise," Nick said.

  "I promise," she replied.

  COP KILLER

  When Jack MacDougall returned alone to Minnekhada Lodge, the Ford was still parked on O
liver Road and the Rorke's Drift box remained on the passenger's seat, but Evil Eye no longer lurked inside the car. Turning left between the high Celtic towers of the driveway gate, he drove the police car up the moonlit knoll, Scotch mist from Addington Marsh now creeping up the hill, Scottish hunting lodge crowning the slope, reminding him of the Western Isles and misty lochs of his youth. Here could be Dunollie Castle, thirteenth-century seat of the MacDougall Lords of Lorn, who once owned a third of Scotland. Here could be the wild Pass of Brander, where Robert Bruce routed the Clan MacDougall in 1308. Here could be the MacDougall Isles of Coll, Tiree, and Mull, the "Mull of Kintyre" of McCartney's tune and David Balfour's voyage in Stevenson's Kidnapped. Ahead could be the MacDougall hearth calling him home, home to the pipes and heather of a Scottish grave.

  Looping around behind the lodge, MacDougall parked the car in the isolated lot, then stepped out into the chilly embrace of night. A robust man forced to endure the elements in public school, a Scottish keep of sooty

  stone, cold showers, thick porridge, and welts from the cane, he paused by the car, shut his eyes, and inhaled a deep breath, slowly sucking winter mist into his barrel chest, a bracer to whet his palate for the peaty burn of single malt drams waiting in the lodge. A hardy man whose first posting was north of the Arctic Circle, the inspector wore no coat over his Red Serge, now dyed the color of clotting blood by tall cedars masking the thin lunar grin.

  From the tree shadows, a phantom emerged to stalk the Mountie across the dark lot.

  Jack heard a Steller's jay take flight from one of the cedars.

  Jack heard hearty laughter from the lodge down the path.

  Behind him, Jack heard footsteps closing fast, but before he could turn to see who was there, a Zulu knobker-rie smashed the back of his head, driving bone splinters into his brain.