Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  Words have wings, thought DeClercq. "Settling in?" he asked.

  "Yes," Wood replied. "We're already doing tests. I should have everything humming within six weeks. I like it here/'

  "Must be satisfying to be involved in the greatest advance in crime detection since regular fingerprinting began in 1901."

  "Not at forensic conventions. The absence of a DNA warrant law in Canada astonishes Brits and Yanks. There is something wrong with a country that allows mandatory breath tests for drunk drivers but not involuntary gene tests for murder suspects. They howl when I relate what we have to do."

  DeClercq nodded. "Tiptoeing after suspects to pick up dirty condoms and snotty tissues. Scooping up urine after they take a piss. Depositing Playboy in a cell in hope the suspect'll masturbate so we can get his semen. Embarrassing, isn't it?"

  "Especially when the British are so advanced. Not only did they pioneer genetic fingerprinting; not only can they toss the gene net of a 'blooding' like in the Pitchfork case; and not only can they forcibly take DNA from

  suspects; but now they're developing the world's first nationwide DNA database. Around them, I feel like a hick."

  tw Mark my words," said DeClercq. 'Til change that. I've almost completed a survey of unsolved murders and unsolved rapes in which DNA was recovered at the scene, yet where suspects remain free to murder and rape again because we can't test them."

  "Politicians will shelve your survey."

  "It's not for them. The way to move our government is snitch to the media, then watch those at the trough run squealing for cover. Politicians are con artists at heart. So I police them."

  "Meanwhile," Wood said, "we sit on our thumbs." He swept his arm around the near-empty room. "All gussied up with nowhere to go."

  "Not exactly," said DeClercq. He passed the geneticist a brown paper bag. "I retrieved this tampon from a bathroom basket. Soon I'll have a DNA sample from her maybe-mother to match. I need you to prove or disprove kidnapping."

  KNOCHENPOLIZE!

  Richmond, British Columbia

  The coffin was draped with the Union Jack, for Jack was going home, home to the heather and a grave next to his mom. Because he held an officer's rank in the RCMP, his cloth cap was pinned to the flag at the head of the coffin, peak facing the foot. Below the cap, space was reserved for the ceremonial cushion, black velvet fringed with gold, bearing Jack's insignia: the orders, decorations, and medals he was entitled to wear on his uniform. The cushion now sat on the floor of the hearse next to the head of the coffin. Hilt at waist level so the blade ran down the center of the casket, Jack's sword sheathed in a metal scabbard with a gold knot was fas-

  tened to the flag. The wreath was sewn to the foot of the coffin when it was dressed by the Commander of the Bearer Party.

  The commander was DeClercq.

  Under a mourning sky of drizzling rain, the hearse turned right off Gilbert Road into Minoru Park. Cars parked on both sides ended at a great green playing field that stretched to high-rise apartment blocks beyond. The hearse turned left along a lane lined with maple trees, blazing in autumn but bare branches now. White letters— minoru chapel —carved in brown announced a cozy gardened church nestled in woods to the right. At the end of the maples, the lane angled right to four white posts that marked the front walk to the chapel door. Peaked, with stained-glass windows and its steeple on the left, Minoru Chapel dated from 1891. Minoru being a racehorse in Queen Victoria's stables, what better place for a Mountie's funeral? Beneath the somber steeple bell tolling bong . . . bong . . . bong . . . eight Pallbearers, four a side, lined the walk. Of equal rank to the deceased but never higher, they would escort but not help carry the coffin. All wore Red Serge Review Order of Dress, with Stetson, stripped Sam Browne, and medals displayed. Midway from elbow to shoulder on the left sleeve, each Pallbearer wore a black mourning band.

  The chaplain was at the curb to meet the hearse.

  . . . bong . . . bong . . . bong . . . the bell tolled on.

  The Bearer Party lined the laneway in front of the chapel, two ranks facing inward at right angles to the Pallbearer lines. As the hearse with Jack inside pulled up, it passed two Headdress Bearers, then the riderless charger, the Insignia Bearer, and the Commander of the Bearer Party, before it drove between the two ranks of Coffin Bearers, four each side. The Coffin Bearers, in Red Serge, wore sidearms supported by Sam Browne straps over the left shoulder, with lanyards from gun butts up to circle their necks. DeClercq, as officer in command, wore a sword slung from a frog and supported by a strap over the right shoulder. As it went by, he saluted the coffin. The hearse came to a halt just beyond this formation.

  . . . bong . . . bong . . . bong ... the bell ceased tolling.

  In the sudden silence, the horse neighed.

  After the chapel service, there would be a funeral procession to the airport, where Jack's coffin would be loaded onto an Air Canada flight to London, escorted by a Member in Red Serge. Presenting the flag to the next of kin is not Force tradition, for that's a custom born of the American Revolution, where folding the flag in a triangle symbolizes the tricorn hat of Revolutionaries. The protocol of a Regimental Funeral comes from British cavalry regiments. In the procession, the charger would be led by a constable immediately behind the Insignia Bearer, Zinc. As this was Jack's "last ride," his jackboots were reversed in the stirrups, heels to the front and left boot in the right stirrup, right boot in the left.

  The constable calmed the horse.

  Not only was the church filled with mourners, but Members and officers from other forces—municipal cops from areas not policed by the Mounties, with Washington cops and Special Agents from the FBI—overflowed into the gardens quadrangle left of the chapel, and into the small parking lot in front, so the only vehicle allowed here was the hearse. Other cars were parked back in the entrance lot or on Gilbert Road.

  The funeral director opened the rear door of the hearse. When DeClercq barked the order "Bearer Party . . . Change Formation . . . March," each Coffin Bearer took two steps forward, halted, then turned to form two files facing the casket. DeClercq moved into position along a center axis behind the files, followed by Chandler, then both Headdress Bearers side by side.

  "Remove Headdress."

  The Coffin Bearers removed their hats and tucked them under their outside arms. The Headdress Bearers advanced along both flanks, then walked back collecting and stacking hats. One took Chandler's. DeClercq would carry his own.

  "Collect Insignia."

  Zinc advanced to the rear of the hearse, marching between the Coffin Bearer files. Removing the ceremonial cushion from near the head of the coffin, he marched back to his position behind DeClercq.

  "Dress to Receive."

  The Coffin Bearers closed in to the bumper of the hearse.

  "Unload."

  The front two Coffin Bearers grasped the handles of the casket and carefully pulled it out headfirst. The coffin was drawn along the files until all eight had a secure grip on the casket's handles.

  "Dress ... to Advance."

  Coffin at the shoulder, the eight stepped several paces to the rear to swing the foot of the coffin about so they were now aligned facing the church. Off to the right on Gilbert Road beyond the Gateway Theater, the growl of a souped-up car gearing down could be heard. Tires squealed with torment.

  "Slow . . . March," ordered DeClercq.

  Leading with the inside foot to the coffin, left file Bearers stepped off on the right foot, right file on the left. The chaplain led the procession toward the chapel, the Bearers with the coffin passing between the two Pallbearer lines, both lines at attention. DeClercq followed Jack's coffin through the white posts and onto the walk, with Chandler and the two Headdress Bearers close behind. The charger and its constable would stay outside.

  The growling engine and squealing tires took another corner.

  Through the open door ahead, DeClercq glimpsed the chancel of the chapel. True to Force tradition, the pew front left w
as vacant for the Queen, should she wish to attend as honorary commissioner. Commissioner Fran-?ois Chartrand sat in the pew behind, Eric Chan to his left as deputy commissioner and commanding officer of "E" Division.

  The only warning was a black streak along the lane skirting the right side of the chapel from the entrance parking lot to the small lot in front where the hearse was parked. DeClercq caught the dark blur at the corner of his eye a moment before the Corvette skidded to veer sharply left through the dripping maples just short of where the lane turned in front of the chapel. The motor revved to a snarl as tires churned turf chunks from the soggy lawn, then like a panther in a leap, the Corvette gunned toward the procession.

  "Eyes right!" DeClercq shouted to those in harm's way, a second before the charging car rammed the Coffin Bearers.

  The Pallbearers hit from behind were thrown across the fenders like kills brought home from the woods by a victorious hunter. Two right file Bearers run over by the car were spit out behind with tire marks and broken bones. The coffin went flying before it crashed to the ground, splitting open so Jack's arm flopped out in the mud of a barren flower bed. The Corvette plowed through the stunned mourners beyond, hurtling down one side of the gardens quadrangle left of the church, fishtailing to wheel in a doughnut across the far end, skinny trees shorn off and grass gouged up, before swerving this way up the opposite side, careening right beside the church to complete the square.

  Carnage lay everywhere.

  Bordered by a rockery with rosebushes at the four corners, the quadrangle was a sunken garden into which mourners scrambled to escape from the Vette. A sundial at its center commemorated the twinning of Richmond and Pierrefonds, Quebec, on the 3rd of July, 1968. A wheelchair ramp breached the rockery, and down this came the bloodstreaked vehicle. Around and around it roared like a Cuisinart, cutting down people or grinding them along the rocks, before vrooming up the ramp like a Batmobile out of hell.

  DeClercq was waiting.

  The Order of Dress for an RCMP funeral is stripped Sam Browne, so Officers and Members alike were unarmed. American cops in Canada cannot pack guns, so they were unarmed, too. The only Mounties with side-arms were the Coffin Bearers, who for a funeral must wear the holster on the right side no matter how they're handed. It was from the Sam Browne of an unconscious Bearer that Chief Superintendent DeClercq drew the Smith & Wesson six-shot .38.

  He stood over Jack's broken coffin as the Corvette attacked, rumbling out of the sunken garden for another ramming run back across the body-strewn walkway to the chapel. Hunched over the wheel behind the snout of the muscle car, a skinhead with eyes brimming paranoia and hate spat the curse "Knochenpolizeil" at DeClercq, as closer and closer the face of death zoomed in. Schreck, he thought.

  Feet shoulder width apart for solid balance, body

  squarely facing the target, both arms stretched out and elbows locked, the Mountie gave both hands to the gun. Risky it was if the shots ricocheted, but a far greater risk was the killer car, so aiming at Schreck, DeClercq squeezed the trigger, one, two, three . . .

  Pingg . . . pingg . . . pingg . . . three slugs deflected off the windshield, for this was a drug pusher's car with bullet-proof glass.

  The car hit the coffin, which swung like a compass and knocked DeClercq off his feet. The Corvette's hood scooped under him and bounced him over the roof, where he landed in a mud bed. Back through the maples the way it came, the car turned left toward the entrance lot to escape. The hearse was mobbed by mourners using it for cover, bogging the only vehicle anywhere near to give chase.

  The Mounties may have moved away from their mounted tradition, but Chandler was raised as a farmboy in Rosetown, Saskatchewan, so riding was second nature to him. Grabbing the reins from the constable still trying to calm the horse, he kicked Jack's boot from the left stirrup and swung into the saddle.

  He gave the charger both spurs.

  At a full gallop along the lane lined with maples, Zinc saw the car screech right in the entrance lot just ahead. He cut the corner of Richmond Family Place, jumping the horse over obstacles in the way. Jogging left, then right, the car burst out onto Gilbert Road, the mounted Mountie thundering close behind. Across two lanes cleared of traffic for the Red Serge procession, the Corvette careened left in a skid and almost flipped, then Schreck put pedal to metal and accelerated south.

  When the demonic hot rodder looked in the rearview mirror, he saw a Redcoat skeleton mounted on a skeletal horse charging after him.

  'Ten-thirty-three! Members are down! Ten-thirty-three!"

  The call came into the Operations Communications Center of Richmond Detachment from the first Member at the scene to reach a radio. "Subject vehicle's a black Corvette, license YNZ 101! Heading north or south on Gilbert Road!"

  "Ten-four," said the dispatcher, breaking to broadcast an all-points alert.

  "It rammed the funeral at Minoru Chapel, Dispatch! We need all the Emerg we can get!"

  "Ten-four," she said, and asked the complaint taker at the next desk to call Richmond General. "Is the subject armed?"

  "Yeah, with a car! Whether he's got a weapon within, I don't know."

  "Code five." the dispatcher broadcasted, raising the takedown response to Use caution, operation may be dangerous.

  The radio room constable then summoned the watch commander.

  The last thing Cody's father said as he and Cody's mom were leaving to catch a flight to Cancun was "Drive the Zed and you're toast." The Nissan 300ZX was the old man's pride and joy, one of just 300 cars produced in a numbered edition in 1984 to celebrate Nissan's fiftieth anniversary. The Zed was silver with a black bottom and black leather seats, two stereo speakers stuffed inside the cushions so your ass could vibrate to music as you cruised along, turbocharged in front with a spoiler in the rear. The Zed was in the carport and there it would have stayed had Sweet Sue Prior not walked by the house in the rain. To Cody's loins, Sweet Sue was a bodacious babe, and word was she and Jess Brown were on the

  outs. So doubting his dad would notice a kilometer or two, he drove the Zed up the street parallel to Sue, the window down on the passenger's side.

  "Hi, Sue."

  'Hi, Cody."

  "You look wet."

  "Nice wheels."

  "Where ya goin?"

  "Richmond Center."

  So here he was driving south on Gilbert Road, Sue in the seat beside him sweet as could be, wondering how impressed she'd be by lunch at Burger King, Home of the Whopper, Cody's favorite meal, before whisking her back to his house, Home of the Real Whopper, ha, ha, ha, and there seducing her to the mellow strains of Meg-adeth, when suddenly a black Corvette screeched out of Minoru Park and almost creamed the Zed.

  "Wow!" said Sue.

  The sound of pounding hoofbeats turned Cody's head left. He knew the Mounties had suffered budget cutbacks recently, but only now did he realize how deep the cuts had been, for here was a Redcoat on horseback thumbing him over.

  "Wow!" said Sue.

  Cody's dad once told him if you're ever stopped by a cop, meet him outside like a gentleman and he may not write the ticket. So Cody stopped, got out, and reached for his wallet with his driver's license, only to have the cop hand him the reins and state, "I'm commandeering this car," before he climbed in and drove off with Sue.

  I'm toast, Cody thought.

  "What's your name?"

  "Sue."

  "And I'm Inspector Chandler. Sue, you're deputized into the Mounted Police. Now get on the cellular, call 911, and ask for Richmond Detachment."

  "Wow!" said Sue.

  Busy air.

  The call came into the OCC of Richmond Detachment as Mounties dashing from the chapel scrambled into cars

  and radioed in as they fanned out north and south along Gilbert Road.

  As Zinc had one hand on the wheel and one shifting gears, Sue held the phone to his head so he could speak and hear.

  "Black Corvette. Plate YNZ 101. Inspector Chandler in pursuit south on Gilbert R
oad. I'm driving a commandeered car, a silver Nissan 300ZX. As soon as a Member is in position, I'll break off. With me is a civilian named Sue. She'll call out our position for vectoring in."

  "Ten-four," said dispatch. "All Members clear the air. We have a car in position as Primary. Update where you are, Sue, You have the air."

  The Zed sped south toward the South Arm of the Fraser River.

  "Blundell Road . . . Francis Road, Hasty Market on the corner . . . Williams Road, light's turning . . . Oh shit, that was close! . . .

  Lane to lane, then back again, the Corvette snaked this way and that down Gilbert Road, the ZX on its tail several streets back, houses and three-story apartment blocks zipping by, with cars wrenched left and right to keep from being hit as they were cut off. The Steveston Highway marked the break between urban and rural Richmond. There, Schreck veered left in a suicidal skid and gunned east.

  The engine of the Vette gnarred while the muffler rapped. Slick sprayed out behind the wheels. The madman inside laughed his head off, spittle spotting the windshield and .357 Colt Python stuck down the front of his pants prodding his cock. City to the left, farms to the right, some with rundown farmhouse relics from pioneer days, plastic on the roof joining moss-covered shingles to keep out rain and birds.

  In the rearview mirror, the traffic light at Shell Road turned amber. . . .

  Then red.

  "Hang on, Sue!"

  When Zinc braked for the red light at Shell Road, the ZX hydroplaned on the slick and didn't respond, the cross-traffic beginning to cross in front of them, then a

  tire caught, the Zed spun, and he and Sue were hurled pinwheeling through plywood boarding around a building site. Mud spewed up like a twister as they tore across the lot, and finally came to a halt on the car's belly with both front wheels in the air overhanging a water-bottomed drop.