It was Joeri, grinning at him. He was holding onto the girl, Emma, who had an expression of despair on her face. Doc forced himself to speak. His voice was a feeble rasp. “Watch out for the —”
“Mosquitoes,” said Joeri. “I know, I’ve been briefed.”
“Let me go, please,” said Emma.
“Don’t make any trouble,” said Joeri. “Or you’ll get the taser, like your friend got.”
Doc sat up and saw that Bobby was lying in a sprawled mass on the road. He looked at Joeri who winked and used his free hand to hold up the black and yellow electroshock weapon he’d evidently used to such good effect. “I had to go a few rounds with the giant first, before I could use this little beauty. The bastard is a prize fighter. His fists are deadly weapons.” Joeri was panting with exertion — or perhaps excitement.
“How did you know where I was?” said Doc. His voice sounded a little more human now.
“Your mother told me. She said that since Benadir wasn’t around, I should watch your back.”
Doc nodded, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. He looked at Emma. “You’re going to have to come with us. It’s not safe here.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” begged the girl.
“No one’s going to hurt you,” said Doc wearily. “Get her in the car, would you?”
“Sure,” said Joeri. “Now come along like a good girl.”
Doc looked at the big man lying in the road. “And then come back and help me with him.”
“Him?”
“We can’t just leave him here,” said Doc.
“Okay, I guess. But we’re putting him in the trunk.” Joeri looked at Emma. “If you make trouble you go in the trunk, too.” As Joeri put her in the car, Doc dug out his phone and called Dr Flowers. He briefed her as succinctly as he could on the situation at the gas station.
“It seems the disease process is accelerating,” said Doc. “These people dropped where they were stung.”
“We’ll have to organise some kind of quarantine of the area.”
“You’re going to need roadblocks,” said Doc.
“Leave it to me,” said Dr Flowers.
Doc hung up, then found himself wondering what kind of roadblock could stop a mosquito. Joeri came back from the car and helped Doc carry the inert, immense weight of the unconscious Bobby to the Audi and roll it into the trunk. They’d just closed the lid on the slumbering giant when Joeri abruptly slapped himself on his forehead.
He stared at Doc.
There, between his eyes was a splotch of blood where the mosquito had bitten him.
“Get in the car,” said Doc. “We’ve got to get to the hospital.”
12: Native Arts
A large red welt formed on Joeri’s forehead as they drove back towards the hospital. But he didn’t succumb to paralysis — and he certainly didn’t lose his voice. For the first few minutes of the drive he complained vociferously about having to leave his motorbike behind. “Don’t worry,” said Doc. “We’ll go back and get it when it’s safe.”
Whenever that would be.
Then suddenly Joeri snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have a little surprise for you.” He grinned at Doc. He looked grotesque, with the red swelling on his forehead, grinning like a hyena. “You didn’t think I’d done enough on my undercover mission, did you?”
Doc glanced at the rear view mirror and looked at the girl, Emma, in the backseat. She looked deeply scared and utterly baffled in equal measure. Then he turned to look at Joeri’s happily leering face with the livid lesion glowing red above his eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” said Doc gently. For all he knew, Joeri was going to drop dead before they could get to the hospital.
“Ah, but I did worry about it, man. After our little chat at the jail I knew I had to do something to impress you, so I did.” He reached inside his leather jacket and took something out. He held his hand towards Doc. Doc glanced away from the road for a moment. He had just turned off Duke Point Highway and was now speeding along Island Highway, towards Nanaimo.
Joeri was holding a syringe.
“What’s that?” said Doc.
“I told you that the bad guys were being inoculated with injections? Well, I got hold of some of the stuff they’re being injected with.”
*
When they got to the Chase River Medical Centre Dr Flowers was waiting for them. With admirable efficiency she dealt with Emma, Bobby and Joeri — she didn’t even bat an eyelash when Bobby was lifted out of the trunk.
Emma was sent to wait in the hospital canteen while her parents were called to come and collect her. Bobby was taken to the emergency room where he could continue to groggily surface to consciousness. Joeri, still very much awake and babbling in his normal manner, was taken to the isolation ward for observation.
Then Eva Flowers filled Doc in on developments. “We’ve discovered why there is loss of speech in the early stages of the disease process. There’s some sort of fungoid growth on the vocal chords.”
“So the mosquito is passing on a kind of fungus?”
“A parasitic fungus, yes,” said Dr Flowers. “That’s our current theory. We don’t know anything about its life cycle yet.”
“Except it’s becoming more virulent and people are going into paralysis and coma almost as soon as they’re bitten.”
“Evidently, yes.” Dr Flowers explained to Doc the emergency measures being taken to isolated the section of Cedar Road where he’d witnessed the outbreak.
“That’s all very well,” said Doc. “But what we really need to do is address the problem of the mosquitoes.”
Dr Flowers nodded. “I know what you’re going to suggest. Mass spraying of pesticides. Fumigation.”
“That’s right,” said Doc. “Preferably from a plane.”
“Unfortunately there’s a complete embargo on any kind of pesticide spraying around here. The wildlife lobby managed to achieve that. Normally I’d be entirely in favour of it. But in this case…”
“But this is an emergency,” said Doc.
Dr Flowers shrugged. “Even so.”
“Isn’t there any way around the embargo?”
“Only through a legislative change, and that would probably involve not only local politics, but provincial ones too, and that…”
“Will take time,” said Doc.
“Yes.”
“So forget about spraying.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Dr Flowers. “For now.”
*
Doc wandered around the parking lot outside the medical centre. He made some phone calls. He got voicemail when he called Benadir, and he left a message, bringing her up to date. “The next move is to check out this Raymond guy, the native artist. He’s connected to too many of the victims for it to be a coincidence. I’ll let you know what he has to say once I’ve spoken to him. Call me when you land.”
Doc put his phone away and went inside to check on Joeri.
Joeri was sitting with his shirt off. He was cheerful, smiling as Dr Flowers examined him, happy to be showing off his muscles to a young woman. Flowers looked up at Doc as he came in.
“He’s got the characteristic swelling at the site of the sting, but none of the other signs of the condition — and they certainly would have arisen by now.” She patted Joeri on the shoulder. “It looks like you’re in the clear.”
Doc grabbed Joeri’s arm. “He’s the exact opposite of that,” he said. “Put on your shirt, Joeri. You’re going back to jail.”
*
Inspector Hestings seemed delighted to welcome Joeri back to his cell. Doc left him there, yelling and protesting his innocence. “You’re making a big mistake, peg-leg!” Doc walked back out into the evening light. Dr Flowers was waiting for him outside the Police Operations Building.
“Do you really think Joeri is working for the bad guys?” she said.
Doc nodded. “They’re the ones who’ve been inoculated against the condition. How else would you explain him getting
stung by one of the mosquitoes carrying this infection and not developing the illness?”
Dr Flowers shrugged. “Natural immunity?”
Doc grinned. “You really think so?”
“It’s possible.” They climbed into the Audi together and Doc started the engine.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t be at the hospital?”
“I had someone take over for the rest of my shift.” She looked at him. “Anyway, I don’t think you’d get too far with Raymond without me. He’s kind of a suspicious guy. Doesn’t like strangers. But I’m a regular customer.”
“Okay,” said Doc. He reached down to put the car in gear, then stopped. Instead he put his hand in his pocket and took out the syringe Joeri had given him. He told Dr Flowers what it was — or at least what Joeri claimed it to be.
“The question is: do we keep it with us in case of emergencies. Or do we leave it at your lab so your people can analyse it?”
Doc and Flowers looked at each other for a moment. And then they both spoke simultaneously.
“Analyse it.”
*
They dropped the syringe off at the medical centre and then headed for Black Creek, where Raymond the artist lived in a native settlement. As they drove, Dr Flowers briefed him.
“We talk about First Nation’s bands,” she said, giving him a fleeting look from the passenger seat. “These aren’t groups of musicians, you understand.”
Doc smiled. “I got that.”
“Anyway, always bands, not tribes. And never, whatever you do, talk about ‘Indian tribes’. You have to call them First Nation. Quite understandably they hate to be called aboriginal or indigenous or native. And most especially Indians.”
“Okay, said Doc. “So what’s the name of this First Nation group we’re going to visit.”
“The Black Creek Indian Band.”
“I thought they didn’t like to be called Indians.”
Dr Flowers grinned. “It’s complicated. Anyway, the First Nation people of Vancouver Island can be divided into three bands, those who speak the Quogoulth or Fort Rupert language, those who speak Kowitchan or Thongeith and those who speak the Aht language. I like Aht best because it’s the shortest name.”
“Where did you learn all this?” said Doc. “Are you taught it in schools?”
“A certain amount. By I’ve taken a particular interest because I love the art so much. One of the best books is still a nineteenth century volume called The West Coast Indians in Vancouver Island by Gilbert Malcom Sproat Esquire.”
“Gilbert Malcom Sproat?” said Doc.
“Esquire.”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?”
“I’d never do such a thing.”
It was over an hour’s drive along Highway 19, past rolling green farmland, through Parksville, Cumberland and Courtenay. When they reached the Black Creek Indian settlement it proved to be a compound beside the water. To Doc the place had a military look, with a high wire fence separating it from the road. There was even a watchtower by the main gate.
But the gate was open and the tower was empty.
They drove in. The place consisted of homes laid out on a neat grid of streets. The houses were all bungalows or trailers that had been made into permanent dwellings. There were neat little flowerbeds, a community centre and a local shop with a ‘Closed’ sign in the window. But there was nothing emphatically ethnic about the place. Doc didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Perhaps a totem pole? Anyway, there was nothing like that.
He was impressed by the cars, though. They were all expensive makes and all the latest models. It was as if someone had emptied a car show room and distributed its contents among the modest dwellings.
There were no people, however.
“It looks completely deserted,” said Dr Flowers. “I wonder what’s going on?”
She guided him to Raymond Maple’s house. Here at last was some distinctive decoration for Doc — a row of elaborately carved bird masks in striking shades of yellow and red hanging from the low eaves of the bungalow. But no Raymond. The doorbell rang in the empty house. They peered through the windows. The place was quiet and dusty and empty.
“I know,” said Dr Flowers. “Let’s go and see Harrison. He’s the leader here.”
“So, he’s like the chief of the Indian tribe?”
Dr Flowers chuckled. “You just watch it, buster.”
Harrison the leader’s house was large rambling structure that looked out on the water. There was a wooden dock with some aluminium canoes drawn up beside it. There was also a blue and white seaplane tethered to the dock, bobbing peacefully on the luminous water. It was a beautiful spot.
The house had a wide veranda extending across the entire front of it. Doc followed Dr Flowers up the steps and waited as she rang the bell. There was no response. “This is odd,” said Dr Flowers. She tried the door. It was open, and they went in.
The veranda was warm after a long day of sunlight and it smelled intensely of stale cigarette smoke. It was a long, narrow room furnished with wicker chairs and a wicker sofa, decorated with the heads of deer mounted on the walls. The eyes of the dead deer stared at them glassily. The most unusual piece of furniture was a large old-fashioned brass ashtray on a floor stand that was brimming with a vast heap of cigarette butts. There was also a gun rack with a number of hunting rifles and shotguns on it, and a shelf stacked with boxes of cartridges. “They don’t seem too concerned about weapon security,” observed Doc.
“I wonder where everyone is?” said Dr Flowers.
A sudden humming noise drew Doc’s attention to several long white chest freezers that ran almost the entire length of the inner wall. Doc stepped over and put his hand on one. He could feel the faint chill rising from deep inside.
“Would you like some deer meat?” said a voice.
Doc and Flowers turned to see that the inner door of the veranda, the one leading to the house, had opened and a small man was standing in it, smoking a cigarette. He had silver hair and wore jeans, t-shirt, sneakers and a tweed jacket. He stepped into the veranda, smiling. Two more men emerged from the shadows of the house behind him. They were both young, and both very large.
One wore a hockey jersey, the other a green baseball cap.
The little man was shaking hands with Dr Flowers. “Doc Palfrey,” she said, “this is Harrison.”
“Welcome,” said Harrison, taking Doc’s hand and giving it a firm shake.
All three men had the same dark eyes, high cheekbones and deep skin tone. But only the hockey player wore his black hair in what Doc thought of as a classic First Nation manner — long and parted in the middle. Harrison’s was cropped close to his skull, and the other big man’s, concealed under his baseball cap; remained an enigma.
“You sure you don’t want some deer meat?” said Harrison. He patted the big freezer Doc had been examining. “We’ve got plenty.”
Doc smiled. “No thanks. The reason we’re here —”
“I know why you’re here,” said Harrison. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and gestured with it to the other men. They stepped forward and suddenly the hockey player was holding a pistol to Doc’s head and Green Baseball Cap was holding one to Eva Flower’s head.
“If you move,” said Harrison, “we’ll kill Dr Flowers first.”
13: Dynamite
One part of Doc’s mind was numb with shock. Another part identified the pistol held to his head as a Walther 9mm just like the one he’d picked up from the gunman at the hospital. That weapon was now stuck down the waist of Doc’s jean at the small of his back, concealed under a loose flowing shirt.
Not concealed well enough, evidently, because Harrison stepped forward and pulled the gun out from under Doc’s shirt. He stood there looking at them with the Walther in one hand and his cigarette in the other.
“Harrison, what are you doing?” said Eva Flowers.
“Sorry about this Dr Flowers,” said the man. “Really sorry tha
t you’re here.” He did sound genuinely sorry. “If only you two could have stayed away for a couple more hours, we would have been gone and we wouldn’t have had to do any of this.”
“Do any of what?” said Flowers. “What’s going on? Where is everyone?”
“They’ve already dispersed,” said Harrison. “For the big day that’s coming.”
Doc didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t understand any of this,” said Dr Flowers. “But whatever you’re up to, Harrison, we’re not interested. We just wanted to see Raymond.”
Harrison puffed on his cigarette. “Raymond’s got nothing to do with any of this,” he said. “His only connection was an accident. It seems that his workshop was accidentally contaminated with the spores.”
“What spores?” said Doc.
Harrison smiled at him. “Why, the spores that the mosquitoes carry, which trigger the infection. You know, paralysis, coma, all that.”
“Harrison, I can’t believe you have anything to do with this,” said Eva.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Doctor. But we have everything to do with it. Not poor old Raymond, though. He had no idea that his art objects were carrying the spores to his customers.” Harrison shrugged. “Not that it matters much in the great scheme of things. Those folk would probably have ended up infected one way or another. By the mosquitoes or by the spores.” He smiled at Doc. “They just got a special sneak preview.”
“You hired Professor Rondivallo to do this?” said Doc.
“You sound surprised, Englishman. Why shouldn’t we hire him? We have the money. You’d be amazed how much money we have, what with the revenue sharing from natural resources and the new casino and all.” He made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a smoker’s cough.
“If you have so much money, then what do you want?” said Doc. “Why are you doing it?”
“Why are we doing it? Let’s go outside and I’ll show you.” Harrison peered at the cigarette in his hand, now almost smoked down to the filter, and stubbed it out in the brimming ashtray. As he did so, the big mound of butts shifted and Doc noticed an odd flash of colour among them. But he didn’t have time to think about it because the gun was pressed hard in the back of his head as the hockey player urged him out the door of the balcony.
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