Packing up, Bob secured the equipment in his Jeep, then joined rush-hour traffic into Vancouver to process the film in Photography Section at the Lab.
Every trial has a point of epiphany, that juncture where the fate of the accused is sealed, and Wilde knew by killer instinct this was it.
"Corporal Craven, can you tell the judge and jury how your mother's blood came to stain the cuff of your Red Serge tunic?" asked Knight.
The courtroom stirred as seconds ticked by with no answer from Nick.
Forked, Wilde thought. You don't know what to do. Either way, you lose a major piece on the board. Relate the truth and there goes the game. But you've got moral qualms about perjury. So matter what your answer, Vve got you. The jury sees guilt written all over your face.
Nick's eyes flicked to the rear of the court.
Wilde turned and saw DeClercq at the door.
"Corporal, did you hear the question?" Knight said tensely. "I repeat, can you tell the judge and jury how your mother's blood came to stain the cuff of your Red Serge tunic?"
The Mountie took a deep breath and turned to face the jury. Tongue licking his dry lips, Nick exhaled and said, "I—"
"With your indulgence, My Lady, might I have a moment with Mr. Wilde?"
The Crown counsel whirled with venom in his glare, wondering who the hell was to blame for this sabotage, knowing every millisecond counted here, the accused was coming off the ropes toward the knockout punch, and now some asshole was asking the judge . . .
The asshole was Del Van Eaton, the Regional Crown Counsel for the Eraser Region.
The man who hired W'ilde.
Wilde turned to Hatchett. "Order him to answer the question, My Lady."
Knight sensed Wilde's jugular was exposed. "Don't answer!" he snapped.
"My Lady?" said Van Eaton.
"Mr. Wilde, it may be important to your case. One minute. No more," Hatchett said.
The portly lawyer strode like a rampaging elephant to the rail separating the court from the gallery. Near the swing gate stood DeClercq, Van Eaton, Ghost Keeper, and Macbeth. Before Wilde could speak, DeClercq held up two photos. "The zigzag in the color print was left on Dora's scalp. It was impressed by the club that bludgeoned her. The zigzag in the black-and-white print was left on Tipple's scalp. You'll note by the rulers, both are the same scale. Compare the zigzags and there's no doubt Tipple was bludgeoned with the same club while Craven was in jail."
Ignoring DeClercq, Wilde turned to Van Eaton, who could shut down the trial. "Those letters Hunt says she saw don't exist, Del. Craven saved her on Deadman's Island, so she's paying him back. The book she's writing will sell bigger if he's acquitted because of her. I've got him, Del. Craven must have hired someone to use the club on Tipple. It's a trick. Don't fall for it." Wilde held a close-together thumb and forefinger up in front of his eye. "I'm a cunt's hair away from taking Craven down."
DeClercq was rarely a violent cop, but enough was enough. He grabbed Lyndon Wilde QC by the lapels of his silky robes and wrenched him around to face him man-to-man. "This isn't You versus Del. Nor You versus Craven. You've turned this into You versus Me. Nobody railroads one of my men. The letters Hunt says she saw are fact. She didn't stab her palm, slash her back, and hurl herself down an elevator shaft to sell books. You don't have the machine that typed the Mother letter, and you told this jury in opening the zigzag club was means. These photos put that club in another hand, and that means your case just collapsed. So either you step aside gracefully, or I take the stand in Craven's defense and expose you for the malicious prosecutor you are."
Hesitant whether to push it, Hatchett's left hand twitched near the panic button under her desk. Buzz and the least that would happen is sheriffs deputies would rush into court, the most a full-scale ERT assault if prearranged. Her quandary stemmed from who was involved in verbal fisticuffs: on one side, her champion,
Lyndon Wilde QC; and on the other, this senior Mountie and the Regional Crown.
"Mr. Wilde? Mr. Van Eaton? Do we have a problem in court
"No, My Lady/' replied Wilde's boss. The dismay on his face was that of Victor Frankenstein on seeing what he'd created. "You've spent too long in the arena," Van Eaton told Wilde. "Step aside, and get your priorities straight."
Opening the gate. Van Eaton usurped Wilde's place at the counsel table. "I hereby direct the clerk of the court to enter a stay of proceedings."
Blood pressure climbing to redden his face, Lyndon "Broompole" Wilde QC shot a look of pure malevolence at DeClercq as he subconsciously withdrew his pocket watch from his vest.
"The time is later than you think," said the chief superintendent.
The baleful look turned on Macbeth.
Gill didn't flinch.
"Checkmate," she said.
In the mid-1860s, what was the largest city north of San Francisco and west of Chicago? Raise your hands, all those who guessed Barkerville, the lure of American miners to central B.C., later known as Begbie's Hanging Ground.
The statue of the Hanging Judge in Begbie Square looked south across the plaza of the New Westminster Courts, over the roofs of the buildings along Columbia Street at the muddy Fraser River flowing left to right toward the sea. The media requested Nick pose with him, so as cameras clicked and camcorders whirled, he stood beside Begbie with his porkpie hat. When tabloids asked him to hold the end of a rope noosed around the judge's neck, he declined.
Like a receiving line, Members and court watchers approached to congratulate Nick. Only after that hubbub died did Gill join him. "Before he left, what'd Knight say?" she asked.
44 4 Now you can afford all the illusions you want.' "
44 He was worth the money."
44 But you saved me, Gill."
"No, DeClercq saved you. The Last Honest Man. I've booked a victory lunch at The Teahouse for noon, with a bottle of Dom I plan to watch you guzzle by yourself. I asked DeClercq and Alex to joi . . . Well, well, look who's coming."
Nick turned to see Rachel Kidd crossing the square from the Law Courts.
"I'll meet you by the parking lot," said Gill.
The women passed without speaking.
"Corporal Craven, may I have a word?"
The Mounties met by the legs of the Hanging Judge, who lorded over them on a pedestal like an orator on a Hyde Park soapbox.
"I thought you were guilty, and I was wrong. Never could I understand how a lawyer could defend someone he knew was guilty. Now I know. Because you never know. If it's any consolation, the price I'll pay for my mistake is being frozen out. Congratulations on your acquittal. I'm sorry. Forgive me?"
She held out her hand.
"I'll think about it," Nick said, turning his back on her and walking away.
SAFARIMAN
Africa
Saturday, March 5, 1994
A knock on the door of Room 406 awoke Zinc at just after five in the morning.
"Game drive, Mr. Chandler," a soft voice announced outside.
"Thanks. I'm up," Zinc called back, struggling out of bed.
He showered, shaved, got dressed, and popped a cap of Dilantin, then sweater around his shoulders made his way through predawn gray to the reception hall. While other guests sipped coffee with biscuits and talked in
foreign tongues, he checked the chalkboard to the right ol the entrance arch. Last night when the activity coordinator asked him what he wished to do today, he told her, "See big cats if Til be back by eight." The board said January would take him out alone.
Professional guide he may be, but January reminded Zinc of a New Orleans bluesman. His thinning hair was kinked with gray, as was the mottled beard on his pudgy chin, while he moved his bulky body with the fluid flow of a man who hears music in his mind.
"Mr. Chandler? January." Hearty shake of the hand.
"Call me Zinc."
"Mr. Zinc. Ready to go?"
"Lead on, Mr. January."
Until you see dawn in Africa you haven't seen dawn at all
. As the open four-wheel drive ventured into the wild, the east began to blush like a virgin groom. Rays of primrose backed the dark horizon, as star after star snuffed for the day. Banished, the pewter moon waxed wan. Soon bronze bars caged the blazing sky, from which the fiery face of Medusa glared, halo flames writhing about her head like snakes, one direct look sufficient to stone you blind.
"First safari?" January asked.
"Yep," said Zinc.
As he drove, January leaned out of the 4WD, eyes sweeping the ground for telltale spoor. Entering a thicket of mopane woods, the guide braked the Land Rover to a halt. "Leopard," he said, pointing near the wheel. Zinc saw cat's paws in the dust, and a drag mark to one side.
"The leopard hunts in darkness, so spotting it is rare. Nocturnal, it spends the day in its lair, often a branch high above the ground. This one dragged its prey there, away from other scavengers that might contest the kill."
"We follow it on foot?"
January grinned. "The first rule of game drives is stay in your seat. Bigger than the carnivores, we'll be left alone. Game walks have different rules. It's rare, but the leopard will eat man."
From the woods, they bounced across a grassy plain of dust where rainy season gullies were baked bone dry by the sun. Grunts and grumbles rumbled from the bil-
low to Zinc's left. A pair of eyes, then hundreds more, peered from the cloud, until he discerned the curved horns of Cape buffalo.
"Don't be fooled by how docile they look. Buffalo and hippo are the most dangerous pair in Africa. Rogue bulls and females with calves are aggressive. The horns of the male join atop the head. Eight hundred kilograms of ornery buffalo thundering at you should not be taken lightly."
January wheeled toward a water-hole pan. Everywhere Zinc glanced, game caught his eye. With white beards, shaggy manes, and clumsy gaits, a herd of wildebeests romped at the hole, snorting loudly, bucking, tossing and shaking their heads, running around in circles and rolling in the dirt. Zebra by the dozen joined the wildebeests. ''Like fingerprints, no two zebras are alike." Led by a male with lyre-shaped horns, a harem of impa-las crossed the pan, nearing the water hole as January tapped Zinc's arm.
"Cheetah," he said, pointing.
The Mountie focused binoculars on the outcrop. The cat used the high point as a lookout post. Spotted head with black "tear streaks" held high, sleek, streamlined body frozen motionless, it watched intently for cues of alertness from its prey. One impala saw the silhouette, and a moment later the entire herd turned. This staring contest lasted five minutes, until the impalas relaxed and the cheetah disappeared, Zinc disappointed: cheetah cheated.
January's eyes scanned the grass, his senses honed sharp as those on the hunt. Zinc saw nothing. Where was the cat? Then the impalas jumped ten feet into the air, exploding in all directions as they cried out in alarm, and he caught the blur—for a blur it was—that burst across the pan.
Everything about this cat was designed for speed. The rakish, loose-limbed body with a sway-backed racing frame. The small head, deep chest, and elastic backbone slung like a hammock between haunches. Standstill to seventy mph in seconds, the cheetah is the fastest animal on Earth. Impalas are swift and can leap thirty feet, but this cat closed the gap in a blink, covering the ground with amazing bounds, hind legs in front of forepaws for
the all-out sprint, long tail used as counterbalance to zigzag with its prey, closing, closing, closing for the kill, hot on the heels of a darting impala, lashing out with a flick of the paw to trip its quarry in a tumble of flying hooves. Jaws not strong enough for a crushing bite, the cheetah bit the antelope's throat, twisting the head to suffocate it.
"Whew," Zinc said.
Slowly, January drove toward the kill, braking the 4WD twenty feet shy.
The cat turned sphinxlike, its spotted bib red.
The impala twitched.
The killer began to eat.
"The cheetah's fast, but tires quickly," January said. "It can't sustain that speed for more than a few hundred meters. The catch is consumed immediately with no return to the kill. It eats on the run. Unlike other cats, the cheetah can't fully retract its claws, which are blunt and doglike for traction during a chase. Such claws are useless in a fight. Lacking the strength of a lion, the ferocity of a leopard, the bite of hyenas, a cheetah can't defend its hard-won meal against other predators. Watch."
Agate eyes burning, the cheetah sat erect.
Zinc followed the stare and saw three approaching lions.
The cheetah moaned.
The lions growled.
Then sulking, the cheetah gave up its kill without a fight.
"Lion takes from leopard. Lion takes from cheetah. Lion takes from wild dog," January said. "Leopard takes from cheetah. Leopard takes from wild dog. Wild dog takes from cheetah. So cheetah eats on the run. Hyenas take from a lioness, but not a male lion. That's why the lion is . . ."
"King of the Beasts," said Zinc.
Tingling ran up and down the Mountie's spine. His pulse quickened as the lions neared the kill. The male was nine feet from nose to tail, muscles rippling under the sleek tawny hide, body color an exact match for dry grass, shaggy mane so dark it was almost black, framing the face, covering the neck, extending down the belly, long and flowing below, balding on top. The grizzled,
battle-scarred face was frightening to behold, muzzle broad, jaw strong, mouth slack to reveal fearsome lower canines. Lordly swagger. One eye gone. Land Rover open. A mere leap for him. Them without a gun. Sardines in an open can.
Already black-backed jackals lurked nearby, while hooded vultures darkened the sky.
The large eyes of a lioness assessed Zinc's meaty shoulder. She licked her chops as sweat trickled under his arms.
1 'Are we safe?"
"Nervous?"
"Let's say it's a new experience, sitting here in the open with lions twenty feet away."
"Thirty years I've been a guide and never had vehicle trouble. But don't be tempted to step out around lions. Loud noise or sudden movement disturbs them. If you encounter a lion—especially a lioness—while on foot, whatever you do, don't turn and flee. Running triggers the impulse to give chase. Act like prey and you'll be treated like prey."
The pride of lions began to feed. Safaris aren't for vegetarians, thought Zinc. First the cats lapped up all the blood, some with such relish that hair was rubbed off in patches. The carcass was opened at the flank where thigh met belly, then the intestines were neatly pulled out.
"After disemboweling," January said, "they eat the liver, kidneys, heart, and internal organs. The stomach is spared and actually or symbolically buried. They eat the haunches, flanks, and breast next, devouring them in big chunks including skin. The bones of the brisket, ends of the ribs, and nose bones are eaten, too. Bigger bones aren't crushed or cracked. The head is stripped last, and often carried away."
Watching the lions disembowel the kill, Zinc wondered if lion hunters in ancient Zululand adopted this animality as a death ritual?
Was this the origin of umnyamal
The call came through exactly on time. A baboon on the veranda of Room 406 peered in the window as Zinc grabbed the phone. "Chandler?"
"Yea."
"The meet is on. Nigel will see you on his ground on his terms. Listen hard. Check out and have the lodge pack you food for two days. Then boat downstream about a mile. Watch the right bank for the buffalo graveyard. Have the boatman put you ashore. No tricks. Just you. I'll be watching. No phones where you're going. Nine-thirty sharp."
The line went dead.
Zinc subtracted ten hours from his watch. Ten p.m. Friday night in Vancouver, he thought. Dialing Special X, he reached DeClercq in his office.
"Working late?"
"Tipple's dead. Clubbed and disemboweled. Whoever did it cut out his heart. Murdered in the parking lot under Nick's trial."
-When
"Yesterday. During court. Parking attendant found him late last night. Zigzag on his skull matched Nic
k's mom. Nick's acquitted."
"Serial cop killer?"
"How does Dora fit? Cop killer, yes. But something else."
"Nick's twin?"
"Got to be. Only jigsaw piece."
"Reason I called is I'm meeting Hammond."
"When and where?"
"Don't know. Probably in the bush. Very cloak and dagger. Still poaching. I guess."
"Feel safe?"
"Safe enough. Just witnessed a cheetah kill, so I feel very alive. If Hammond's the key, someone's got to meet him. Can't have his kid kill another Member, or go for Alex again."
"Be careful."
"If I don't call by Tuesday—Monday, your time—send the cavalry."
Africa.
Fantasy and reality.
Zinc Chandler in his teens had read Conrad's Heart of Darkness. He had sailed with Marlow up a mighty big
river . . . resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land . . . Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings . . . The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. ...
This was nothing like that.
The Mosi-oa-Tunya was docked by the bank, left and down from the game lodge pool. It once plied the waters of the Zambezi above the Falls, and looked enough like the African Queen that Zinc could imagine Bogart and Hepburn onboard. Lined beside the barge were several metal boats, flat-bottomed with outboards astern. The boatman who took him downriver was a black youth with so much cool he would probably thrive on the streets of New York.
Down the lazy river by the old game lodge . . . Zinc suppressed the urge to break into song. The flood plain of the Caprivi Strip with its sunny grasslands induced in him the same sense of freedom as the vast prairie of his youth. Clouds flat-bottomed like the boat drifted across the sky, trailing shadows and reflections on the blue, blue water. Basking on the sandy banks were monitor lizards and crocodiles.
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