Away from the glare of the burning roof, the stone kraal that formed the barricade along the far edge of the storehouse yard was dark with shadows. Soon a fight erupted along the outside wall of the cattle pen, which gradually forced whites back to the interior partition, and then back to the wall separating the kraal from the yard. During the struggle, a private felt someone clutching at his leg, and glanced down to find a black hand reaching out of the straw. A snake would not have shocked him more, so frantically he jabbed at the straw with his bayonet, each thrust wrenching a pitiful howl from beneath.
The Zulu breakthrough was thwarted by the redoubt. Manned by Commissary Dunne and two others, it offered a second line of fire all round. Kraal walls were high and hard to scale, so a Zulu no sooner showed his head above the interior partition than it was blown off. Shooting down this close from atop the redoubt, it was near impossible to miss.
The most vulnerable point was the northwest corner where the biscuit-box barricade met the mealie-bag wall
across the front of the yard. Shots from the wall could not reach under the rocky ledge on which it was raised, and with the abandoning of the rampart to the left when Redcoats retreated from no-man's-land, Zulus now crept under the ledge past that corner to enfilade the front breastworks. To meet this threat, Bromhead, Craven, and five others reinforced the northwest corner, exposed to cross fire from snipers who had come down from Shiy-ane Hill to shoot from the barricade at back and the front garden.
A bullet hit another defender in the chest and he dropped.
As stretcher-bearers evacuated him to the redoubt, yet another took a slug to the chest. He fell against the biscuit boxes, but kept hold of his rifle to remain at his post.
The next was shot through the skull, scattering his brains about the yard.
Scrambling over the front rampart, the Zulus were upon them, black on white and white on black hand to hand, totally different cultures brought together to kill, the warriors in each Zulu regiment out to prove a name: uThulwana "Dust-raisers," or iNdlondlo "Poisonous snakes," or uDloko "Savage," or iNdluyengwe "Leopard's lair"; the Redcoats of the Union Jack out to show their Colors, in praise of God, Queen, Country, and the White Man's Burden, having traveled a long way to impose Pax Britannica on ungrateful Africa, as clang! clashed both warrior cultures here in the northwest corner. A seven-foot iNdlondlo, his headband a ball of black widow-bird feathers with ostrich plumes flaring, crested the wall and hammered a knobkerrie down on a helmetless skull, just before Craven snapped off his lunger impaling the giant's chest. Despite the bayonet, the Zulu raised the club again, so the lance-sergeant shot him in the face. Before Craven could reload, an iNdluyengwe in leopardskins vaulted up onto the breastwork and pounced into the yard. He was about to assegai Bromhead when Craven presented the empty rifle point-blank at him. Thinking it was loaded, the Zulu jumped back over the wall without delivering his blow. Private Scanlon screamed as a spear rammed through his stomach, turning Craven's head toward this attacker, as a
uThulwana with a Brown Bess musket fired over the wall. Craven's shoulder blade was blown to pieces. He tried to keep his feet but couldn't and crumpled to his knees. The Zulu wrenched the spear from Scanlon and came for him. The assegai raised high to pin Craven to the dirt, suddenly the Zulu's face was gone as Bromhead whirled and blazed his revolver. Blood sprayed Craven from head to toe. Scanlon was gibbering, "Don't let them rip me!" Reverend Smith was cautioning, "Don't swear, boys, and shoot them!" A spear zipped past to impale someone. Bromhead said to Craven, "Sorry to see you down, mate," then helped him tuck his immovable arm into his waist belt and get to his feet. Loading his revolver, Bromhead gave it to Craven and took Scan-Ion's rifle for himself. Scanlon went on caterwauling, "Don't let them rip me!" Bromhead and Craven were now shooting side by side. Then Corporal Schiess, a Swiss NCO of the Natal Native Contingent, who had been wounded earlier by a slug that tore open his foot, left the safety of the biscuit boxes to hobble a few paces along the abandoned barricade to the left, hoping to get a gun on those under the breastwork ledge. As he craned over the barrier, his hat was blown off by a Zulu rifle from the other side. Schiess jumped up, spiked the gunman, shot the warrior next to him, bayoneted a third who came to their aid, then clambered back into the corner.
"Don't let them rip me!" Scanlon wailed.
"No one will torture you while I'm alive," assured Craven.
"It isn't torture. It's umnyama" said Schiess. He knew Zulu ways from the NNC.
"What's that?" Craven asked, firing Bromhead's gun at the regrouping enemy.
" 'Blackness,' " said Schiess, reloading his rifle. To illustrate, he touched one hand to his forehead and dropped it to touch his chest, then raised it to touch one shoulder and pulled it across to touch the other: a Sign of the Cross.
HELLO, GOOD-BYE
Vancouver
Thursday, December 9, 1993
"Hello."
"Corrine Baxter?"
"Yes, that's me."
Butterflies tickled his stomach as he spoke into the phone. "My name is Robert DeClercq. Chief superintendent with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Do you know Pete Trytko, a Boston private eye?"
Hesitation. "Yes. He disappeared."
"When was that?"
"A year ago. Somewhere out West. The Boston Police can tell you more than me."
"We found Trytko's body buried on a rural island off Vancouver. Your name's in his investigation notes. Were you a client?"
"Yes, for many years. I hired him to find my kidnapped daughter."
"That took him West?"
"If so, he didn't say. The police think he was too involved in a messy divorce. Pete snapped pictures of a husband in the wrong bed. The man responded by punching out his front teeth. Pete was a terrier, tenacious as they come. He dogged his quarry like a bloodhound after he got punched, unaware the man had links to the Mob. The police here think that's why Pete disappeared."
"How long were you a client?"
"Fourteen years."
"Long time."
"You have children?"
"She died," said DeClercq.
"I'm sorry. So you understand? Kathleen's my baby. I'll never give up."
"I know it hurts, but tell me how she was kidnapped."
"What happened to your daughter?"
"My job got her killed."
"No other kids?"
"A teenage ward. I'm her guardian."
"You're lucky. I can't have more. And single women don't top adoption lists."
"Your husband?"
"He left me. Said I was to blame. Remarried. Foui kids. I haven't seen him in years."
"The kidnapping?" Robert said gently. "How did it occur?"
"I was in the hospital after Kathleen's birth, nursing her when someone knocked on the door to my room ..."
Listening to Conine Baxter while he scanned Trytko's notes, Robert watched the crime play in his mind's eye.
Luna Darke, the "Erotic Witch*' ofCanLit circles, was a compulsive mother and an oversexed vamp. She was a woman men fucked on the sly but would never marry, afraid she'd boff their best friend as soon as their back was turned. As with most hypersexuals, the cause was child abuse: raped by her father before she was five. Her mother knew but cast a blind eye.
Darke — not her real name — was pregnant by thirteen. Over the next four years she had three kids. Her boyfriend was a vindictive man who caught her screwing around, the punishment being he disappeared with their family. Luna — not her real name either — hadn't seen them since. Later that year, an ectopic pregnancy left her barren. She suffered a nervous breakdown and had to be confined.
Nona Stone — Darke's real name — left the Maryland psych clinic in 1978. Hitching to Boston, she spent the next day stalking maternity wards, shopping during visiting hours for the perfect child, a cute-as-a-button baby girL Beads around the newborn's neck gave her the mother's name. Phoning the ward as a "relative" gleaned more information. Corrine was nursing the infant wh
en Nona appeared at the door.
"Mrs. Baxter?"
"Yes?"
"My name's Lenore Dodd."
"Are you a nurse?"
Nona smiled. "I'm studying nutrition. One of our assignments is to interview new mothers. Would you give me an hour once the baby's home?" She waved a research outline, complete with graphs and charts. "You might benefit from what I've learned."
Corrine nodded. "Give me a call."
Two weeks later, Notm phoned the Baxter home. Corrine, weary from walking her baby all night with a bout of colic, listened to suggestions for remedies. Within the hour, Nona was at her door.
Sipping tea in the kitchen, they talked about Pablum and Dr. Spock. When the baby cried in her crib, Corrine went to comfort her. Entering the nursery, she was struck on the back of the head, the blow stunning her long enough for Nona to tie her securely and stuff a gag in her mouth. Panic-stricken, she came around to find the imposter packing a bag with baby clothes, followed by the infant who was zippered in on top.
Baby and baby snatcher vanished out the door.
Hands still tied, Corrine ran crying to the next-door neighbor's for help. "She's taken my baby! She's taken my baby!" she mumbled through the gag. The street was deserted, the kidnapper gone.
The upshot was another mother lost her family.
Conine's precious baby.
Whom Luna raised as Katt.
"Might Trytko have tracked the kidnapper without telling you?"
"He might," Corrine said. "I paid him eighty thousand dollars over the years. If a lead beckoned when I was short of cash, he followed it, knowing I'd pay him later."
"Fair man."
"And dogged. That's why I stuck with him. If anyone could find Kathleen, it would be Pete. You have his notes. What do they—"
An audible intake of breath at the Boston end of the line.
"Oh, my God! You found her?"
"Probably. I think Trytko found her and that's why he died. His notebook states Nona Stone = Lenore Dodd = Luna Darke. He tracked Darke to the West Coast, where she'd married a Canadian for citizenship. Trytko's body was buried under her home. Darke raised
a daughter, now fifteen. There seems to be no record of the girl's birth."
"Is she okay?"
"Katt's safe and sound. Her supposed mother died a year ago."
"Katt? That's her name?"
"Short for Katarina. Or Kathleen," he added.
"Thank you," Conine choked, emotion drowning her voice. "I pray it's true. So many nights I've awakened from this dream."
"Our main concern," Robert said, "must be Katt. If she's your daughter, a month will tell. If not, I'm loath to shock her needlessly. This past year she's been through the mill. Can you wait a month, for Katt's sake?"
"A blood test?"
"By the DNA expert in our lab. Til need a blood sample to match with hers."
"It'll be hell, but I can wait. If the kidnapper's dead, where's Katt living?"
"With me," said DeClercq. "I'm her guardian."
PITCHFORK
Loners and groupies. The way Robert saw the world, those were the two subspecies of homo sapiens. Loners and groupies. The difference between the leopard and the cheetah.
The month was November, just before Thanksgiving. Corporal DeClercq was in New York for an extradition hearing. The play was Rosmersholme. Kate had the lead. He'd never forget the thrill that shivered through him that night, how Kate held the stage to rivet his attention, sitting anonymously in the crowd as she enslaved his heart,
A heavyset security guard blocked the door to backstage.
"Got a pass?"
"No."
"Then for you this isn't the way."
"Pass enough?" DeClercq bluffed, flashing a badge that meant nothing in the States.
What was a little fraud compared to love at first sight?
So there he was, heart in his throat and sweating under his arms, wandering backstage corridors searching for the dressing rooms, expecting arrest at any moment for his amorous deceit, asking the way until before he knew it he was at her door, and knocking without a damn thing to say. . . .
The month was March, just before Easter. Sergeant DeClercq was in London following a tip. If teddy bears it was to be, his kid would have the best teddy bear in Britain. Hamleys of Regent Street boasts six floors of toys, so rainy Monday morning found him alone with hundreds of bears, lining up thirty to inspect the troops, culling them one by one for the cutest, before adding thirty more to repeat the process. Content he had the bear of bears an hour later, he looked around for someone to pay.
"Over here, luv." A disembodied voice hidden by the till. "Five minutes more and I'd have called the police."
On his way out, a display case caught his eye. The Iron Duke faced Napoleon astride his horse as a hundred lead soldiers fought Waterloo. The price card in front read £23. Fifty bucks, he thought, converting money. He recalled the joy of lead soldiers in his youth. Boy or girl, his kid would know that joy. Flourishing his arm summoned the clerk. 'Twenty-three pounds. Steep price," he said. "They're hand-cast and hand-painted," said the clerk. "Then wrap 'em up." "Yes, sir. Which one do you want?"
The birth was a twenty-four-hour ordeal of induced labor, spinal anesthetic, and steel forceps. At four in the morning, Kate asleep and himself utterly exhausted, Robert leaned against the wall of the hospital, waiting for the elevator, nursery, the sign beside him advised. Next to a dark hall with a single window lit at the far end. Jane? he thought. Got to be. So he detoured toward the light.
Because the incubator was draped with plastic, all he saw at first was an amorphous form. Then he found a
clear hole for the nurse's glove, and kneeling, peered into the substitute womb. He glimpsed a hand with nails so small a microscope was needed, and then her angelic, cherubic face. . . .
He was gone.
A loner no more.
Kate's Aunt Paula sent a god-awful bear, synthetic pink fur with beady little eyes. Jane was home, in her crib, lying awake on her back. 'The Battle of the Bears in a blind test," Kate announced. In beside the infant went London teddy, Jane's face scrunching as stiff fur touched her cheek. "Daddy's Scratch Bear," dubbed Kate. In beside the infant went the pretender to the throne. Jane's face registered soft-caress contentment. "Pinky wins," Kate declared, and Scratch Bear was banished to the corner.
The October Crisis of 1970. British diplomat James Cross kidnapped by the Front de Liberation du Quebec, prior to the murder of Labour Minister Pierre Laporte. DeClercq the cop who located the Chenier and Liberation Cells, motivating a vendetta against his home. Machine pistols tore Kate apart at the door, then five-year-old Jane was abducted for revenge. The killers clashed over what to do with the child, so Robert found her with her neck broken in a backwoods shack.
He still had Pinky. Loved to death.
And Daddy's Scratch Bear. New as the day it was bought.
But he was alone again.
And now Katt.
DeClercq had come in early to phone Conine Baxter from work so Katt didn't overhear the call at home. The funeral parade for Jack MacDougall was in Richmond at eleven, so time to spare, he strolled up Heather Street to the Lab. The day was gray and overcast, matching his mood.
Buzzed in for vetting by Security just inside the door, he skirted the exhibit room where Nick's tunic had passed from Kidd to Toop, and climbed to the second floor, where Biology had its examination room.
The room was split in half by a glass fence. On the far side was the analytical lab, where men and women in white coats extracted DNA and prepared the geis. On
this side of the glass stood two large benches and a bio hood. Protection from infection, the hood was used to open vials of blood like those taken from Dora at the autopsy. On the near bench lay Nick's Red Serge. Since yesterday when he received the exhibit from Kidd, until he carried it here this morning, the tunic was in a locker to which Toop had the only key. Now he treated a bit of fabric from one of the
stains on the cuff with hemo-chromogen, a reagent that crystallizes if hemoglobin is present. Viewed under a microscope, the test proved positive for blood.
Next Toop cut a circle of cloth the size of a dime from the stained cuff and stuffed it in a plastic tube called an Eppendorf. From here on, all testing would be done in this tube by the Ottawa geneticist, Colin Wood. Toop summoned Wood from the analytical half of the room to pass the Eppendorf. DeClercq came in as they signed the Exhibit Transfer Receipt:
Just as the history of a city defines the city today, so DeClercq thought he grasped how these two came to join the ranks of loner sapiens. For he sensed both men were loners like himself.
Dermott Toop. Thirtysomething. Lowest on the totem pole of bigotry. Vancouver: a city of whites and Asians with few blacks. Shunned by two races if he was raised here. Tourists wondered why they never saw Asians and blacks together? Vancouver: racists rife throughout its history. Banning the Indian potlatch. Inciting riots in Chinatown. Turning away Sikhs on the Komogata Maru The British Properties covenants forbidding nonwhites
from buying in. The darker the color, the greater the bias. Had blood attracted Toop because all blood looks the same?
Colin Wood. History unknown. Transferred by Ottawa to organize DNA typing in this lab. Lean and pale, with dark hair and hooded eyes. Half his chin defaced by an ugly purple birthmark. Was he driven to genetics by the need to know what went genetically wrong? The biologist angled his head to offer his good profile when DeClercq approached.
Loners, for sure.
"Good morning, Dermott."
"Morning, Chief. Have you met Colin Wood?" asked Toop.
"By reputation, v ' DeClercq replied. "Welcome to 'E' Division/'
Eppendorf in one hand, Wood shook with the other. Toop saw DeClercq eyeing the exhibit and looked as if he feared the cop might grab both tube and tunic and dash from the Lab.
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