“How boring,” Katt pronounced, and she began to reshape the lower leg of one man into a peg, adding the dough she’d removed to a lump on his shoulder.
“Who’s that?” DeClercq asked while she squeezed icing from the tip of a pastry bag.
“Long John Silver. See the parrot?”
Next, she used a rolling pin to flatten the legs of another gingerbread man into a skirt, then she cut off his head and tucked it into the crook of one arm.
“Marie Antoinette,” she explained, icing the gown with ruffles fit for a queen.
Not to be outdone, DeClercq trimmed dough from the sides of one gingerbread man and added it to the torso of another.
“Jack Sprat and his wife?” guessed Katt.
“No. Elvis in the early years and final Vegas days.”
Slathering a gingerbread man from head to foot with icing, Katt used the knife tip to groove bandage lines. “The Mummy,” she declared.
“I’ll see your mummy and raise you this.” DeClercq kneaded the leftover dough into a ball, then flattened it into a big circle with the rolling pin. Raisins were gobbled-up victims peering out of the brown ooze. “The Blob,” he announced.
In the end, Katt had fostered his redemption. It used to be that he gazed into the bathroom mirror and watched a ravaged man emerge from the shaving cream. Life with Katt, however, rejuvenated him, and soon the face DeClercq saw each morning seemed to shed years, as if he were actually turning back the hands of time.
Then he learned that Katt’s mom wasn’t actually her mom. In fact, Luna Darke had kidnapped her as a baby, and the teen’s birth mother was very much alive. DeClercq had uncovered the secret and could have kept it to himself, but having endured the loss of Jane, he knew he couldn’t foist that torment on another human being. So he had let her go, and Katt was now living in England, where her mother, a Bostonian, had found work.
“How’s your mom?” the Mountie asked, wheeling her suitcase through the airport from the arrivals hall to the exit for the parking lot.
“She met a man. I think she’s in love! That’s why I called you. My Christmas gift to her is no me.”
“Lucky me. And what’s with calling me Dad? Didn’t it used to be Bob?”
“‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child,’” the teenager quoted. “‘But when I became a woman, I put away childish things.’”
“A little education is a dangerous thing.” DeClercq rolled his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I now realize that you’re a better father than any bio-dad could be.”
“How much do you want?”
“Millions,” Katt said, laughing.
They crossed the road between the terminal and the parking lot. Katt was on the lookout for his Benz—the car she had dubbed the “old-fogey-mobile”—so her eyebrows rose when they approached a brand-new, metallic red 350Z.
“Uh-oh! Midlife crisis?” she asked.
“It’s a birthday present from Gill.”
“The shame of it,” Katt moaned, burying her face in the crook of her arm. “Dad’s a kept man.”
“I prefer to view it as Dad’s got a rich girlfriend.”
“Can I drive?”
“Well …”
“Driving on the left has vastly improved my skill.”
Sighing, he tossed her the key.
It was an hour-long trip from the airport—on an island in the mouth of the Fraser River—through the high-rise canyons of the downtown core to DeClercq’s waterfront home on Burrard Inlet. Katt was a better driver—or so he thought, until she slammed on the brakes so hard that dear old Dad would have smashed through the windshield if not for his seatbelt.
Screeeech!
Standing bewildered in the headlight beams on the road in front of the car was a small, scruffy white cat. Katt gave it a short honk, but the animal didn’t move. She gave it a flick of the high beams, but the feline didn’t blink. Finally, she put the car in neutral, yanked on the handbrake, activated the hazard lights, and left it blocking traffic.
From the passenger’s seat, DeClercq watched Katt crouch down in the glare and talk to the cat. When waving her hands before its eyes elicited no response, she bundled the feline up in her arms and carried it back to the car.
“I think it’s blind,” she said on climbing in.
DeClercq knew this was one of those “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do” moments. He found himself eyeing his reflection in the glass: a middle-aged cop with dark, wavy hair silvering at the temples and eyes jaded from having seen too much death and cruelty on the job. The face in the windshield was watching to see how he would react.
“Poor little waif,” said Katt.
Any ordinary cat a moral man could just shoo off the road. “Shoo, shoo, kitty. Go fend for yourself.” But a blind cat, that was a test of ethics. If he abandoned the waif by the side of the road, it would most likely be crushed by the next car along. If he took it to the SPCA, kitty would probably get the needle. Either course of action would haunt him later.
No, fate had placed this cat in front of his car, and the best dad in the world had only one choice.
The same choice he’d made with another waif.
“Okay, we’ll take it home—”
“Hooray!” said Katt.
“—for now,” he added quickly. “Tomorrow, we’ll board it at the vet’s, and we won’t make a final decision until we get back. Agreed?”
“Get back from where?” the teenager asked, combing the cat with her fingers.
Why do I get the feeling my household just grew by one? wondered the Mountie, gazing at the vacant eyes as the cat began to purr.
“Whistler,” he said. “Come morning, I’m taking you with me on a working holiday. While I review security measures for the Olympics with Zinc and Nick, you can ski the slopes with Gill.” He looked over at Katt and her new charge. “I’m thinking of popping the question.”
“A rich stepmom! I won the lottery. How much will I inherit?”
Winter Heat
Whistler
The Blonde? The Redhead? Or the Raven?
In the end, curiosity got the better of him. He had to know which snow bunny had slipped him that key while he was drinking in the Gilded Man.
Nick’s relationships with women were a shambles. His love affair with Gill Macbeth had not survived after he’d caused the shipwreck that had made her miscarry. Gill had moved on to a future with Nick’s boss, Robert DeClercq, while Nick had lost a hand and an ear to a megalomaniac. That torture had brought him romance with Jenna Bond, a sheriff’s deputy in Washington State. But now that romance was foundering on the reef of irreconcilable differences. Jenna planned to run for sheriff south of the border, to fill the boots of her father, a legendary lawman of the San Juan Islands. Nick’s family history was in the Mounted Police, and his disability had forced him to fight hard to keep his job. With a stretch of ocean between them and the ferry times a logistical nightmare, their ardor had chilled.
It was bad enough that long-distance love had claimed two more casualties, but Jenna’s six-year-old daughter was caught in the middle. Becky had embraced Nick as a surrogate for the dead father she had never known. Nick feared it would tear the child apart to have him abandon her, too.
What a vise!
The stress had the corporal yearning for some form of escape—a night of respite from all commitment that would hold his guilt at bay. That’s why Nick found himself riding this elevator up to the eighth floor.
Cherchez la femme, old boy.
If not for the booze, he might have sniffed the danger. After all, it was a femme fatale who had caused his mutilations, by luring him into a trap for Mephisto and cutting him apart to force the cops of Special X to find the Silver Skull, a relic rumored to reveal the secret behind Stonehenge.
But this was Whistler, the mecca of casual sex, where high-rolling jetsetters from around the shrinking globe gathered t
o get royally fucked.
So why not Nick?
A roll in the hay would do him a world of good in his depressed frame of mind. But would the farmer’s daughter turn out to be the Blonde, the Redhead, or the Raven?
Hey, this was Whistler!
Maybe he was destined for a three-on-one.
Just kidding.
What decent guy would desire that?
Whistling, Nick used the electronic key to pop the door. Reaching into the dark, he flicked on the lights. The room could have been any one of a million in North America, with its queen-size bed, two night tables, armchair, writing desk, TV stand, and luggage rack. All that indicated this was a ski resort was the wooden door leading to a sauna off the bathroom.
Nick glanced around.
There seemed to be no one home.
The cell in his pocket buzzed.
“Craven,” he answered.
“Hi. It’s Jenna. Is now convenient to talk?”
“Sure.”
“Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“You bet. I promised Becky I’d teach her how to ski.”
“Do you know what you’re going to say to her about our break-up? She’ll take it hard.”
“I’ll tell her the truth, as gently as I can. And if it’s okay with you, I’ll add that she can always call on me as her friend. This is about me and you, not me and her. Neither of us can abandon our life and be who we want to be. But that doesn’t mean I won’t love her from now on.”
“Expect tears.”
“I will.” Nick had a lump in his throat.
“We’ll catch the early ferry and get there about noon. Where should we meet?”
“Have Becky bring her skates. Alpha Lake is frozen over. You’ll see it on the road in to Whistler. I’ll find you there and take you to the cabin.”
“See you then,” Jenna said, ringing off.
Suddenly, Nick was aware of how hot it was. His forehead beaded with sweat, and his clothes were plastered to his body. The blast from the sauna felt as searing as the heat from Death Valley. He turned to see a naked woman standing in the doorframe, her skin trickling perspiration.
Well, well, he thought.
“Girlfriend troubles?” she asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“You look hot.”
“I am.”
“You dropped your room key in the bar. I thought I should bring it up.”
“Close the drapes, lock the doors, strip off your clothes, and come on in,” she said, crooking her finger at Nick. “I’ll teach you the meaning of winter heat.”
Venus Flytrap
It was a sultry night in Laurel Canyon. The actress Grace Kelly stood in her bedroom with the lights on. The curtains were open, the blinds were up. As if she had just returned from a night on the town, she removed her hat and slipped off her gloves. Slowly, she slid the straps of her evening gown from her shoulders, then let the clingy crepe de Chine drop and pool around her high heels. A flick of her fingers unsnapped her bra, and she stepped out of her lace panties and—pausing to turn the tables on the master of suspense—snuffed the lights.
Across Laurel Canyon, a mile away, Alfred Hitchcock sat with his eye glued to a powerful telescope and watched the star whose Hollywood career he’d made strip for him. The scene was straight out of Rear Window, their second film together, in which James Stewart, immobilized by a leg cast, spies on his neighbors to keep from getting bored. Scopophilia, sexual gratification through gazing, was one of Hitchcock’s many kinks, and Kelly’s striptease was intended solely for him.
The man who had told Mephisto that story was the plastic surgeon who’d botched the work on his face, turning him from a notably handsome man into a deformed freak. The doctor had paid for his bungling with an operation of his own. By the time Mephisto was finished with his scalpel, the rejuvenator of aging Hollywood stars was unrecognizable as a human being.
That, however, was nothing but foreplay compared to the vengeance Mephisto would wreak on Special X. He’d planned out every moment of the revenge he intended to exact on those who had foiled him in the past.
First up was Craven.
Beheading Boomer was a calculated gamble. Craven had returned to Special X for the Olympics. Because he was recognized as the best skier among Whistler’s Mounties, the odds were good he’d be called to the murder scene. Boomer’s link to the Gilded Man would lead the corporal to Scarlett. And Scarlett would finish what Mephisto had started by taking Craven’s hand and ear.
Now, the gamble was about to pay off.
No need for plan B.
This megalomaniac left little to chance.
So here he sat, like Hitchcock had across Laurel Canyon, with his eye to a telescope, spying at the darkened window of room 807 in the El Dorado Resort. Suddenly, the black square lit up, and there was Nick Craven framed by the open door, his hand on the light switch. Mephisto watched his prey answer a cellphone and carry on a conversation while the door swung shut. No sooner did the cop ring off than he turned his head and spoke to someone hidden from sight. Then he walked to the window and drew the drapes.
No matter.
Mephisto wasn’t James Stewart.
There was no need for him to wonder what was afoot.
He knew what was going on behind those blinds.
Mephisto strode to his terrarium of Venus flytraps. Each one was a starburst of heart-shaped leaves tipped with yawning jaws. They were like human hands, the open palms and curving fingers poised to clap. Each red palm oozed a line of sweet nectar droplets along the base of the fingers. At the moment, a beetle had crawled up one leaf and was feasting on the honey.
Brush …
The bug’s leg tripped a trigger hair inside the trap.
Touch it again, Mephisto thought.
Brush …
That did it!
The trap snapped shut, the fingers locking like crossed swords to clamp the beetle in both palms. A leg stuck out, flailing to free itself. But the Venus flytrap squeezed tighter, and there was no escape.
The bug was Nick.
And soon he would be clamped in a similar trap behind the closed drapes.
Along the wall were several bear traps, one with open jaws. In outline, the large steel frames resembled the flytraps on the windowsill. Mephisto enjoyed imagining the damage the bear traps would do. Reaching for a broom handle leaning against the wall, he rammed it down on the trigger mechanism that sprang the leg-hold jaws.
Snap …
Crack …
Splinter …
Slivers burst out in all directions as the metal teeth clanged together, smashing the wooden pole like they would human bones.
Mephisto could hear the screams.
And see the pain twisting the features of his prey into masks of agony.
Yes, he thought. These will do.
He walked into the kitchen to fetch the cans of spray paint he had used to finish off the shrunken head. Then, after bundling up against the cold and hiding his disfigured face, he left the chalet to trudge down to the El Dorado Resort.
The madman had another trap to set.
From Russia, with Hate
Vancouver
It wasn’t hard to spot him.
Gill Macbeth stood behind the waist-high barrier outside the arrivals hall at the Sea Island airport—no more than a couple of feet from where DeClercq had waited earlier that day—and scanned the passengers exiting the customs area. The moment she spied a giant in a Russian fur hat with the earflaps tied at the crown, she knew this was her man. Gill tailed him along the barrier until it ended.
“Dr. Avacomovitch, I presume?”
“Dr. Macbeth?” he replied, taking the hand Gill offered for a gentlemanly kiss.
“My, my. You must teach Robert that.”
“Would you prefer my bear hug?” the Russian asked.
The pathologist took in his girth—as massive as an old-fashioned, w
ood-staved beer barrel—and smiled. “I’d like to keep my skeleton intact.”
Even with his hat doffed, Avacomovitch towered over Gill, and his slicked-back white pompadour added inches to his height. Luckily, he tended to stoop, which helped shrink him down to the size of most people, but even so he barely fitted into Macbeth’s BMW.
“How kind of you to greet me.”
“Robert sends his regrets. His daughter, Katt, arrived on a flight from London earlier today. They have a lot of catching up to do, and she hasn’t seen her dog and cat for a long time. He thought it unfair to make her spend hours waiting at the airport.”
“I could have taken a taxi, Dr. Macbeth.”
“Call me Gill.”
“I’m Joseph. Joe.”
“It’s the least I can do. If not for you, Robert says he would have blown his brains out.”
The forensic scientist shook his head. “Those were ugly times. You had to have seen Robert with Jane to truly understand. How he loved that baby girl!”
Both were silent as Gill eased her car out of the parking garage and began to follow the same route to the North Shore that Robert and Katt had taken earlier in the day.
“When I defected to the West from the Soviet Union,” Joe said, breaking the silence, “I knew no one here. I chose to resettle in Canada because it reminded me of home. The Mounties offered me a job because of my forensic work in Russia.”
“I hear you’re the best.”
“I’m fortunate some governments think so,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “When the Mounties employed me, the first friend I made was Robert. Many a night, back when he was zooming up the ranks as a homicide detective, he and his wife entertained me in Montreal. We’d talk for hours, sipping cognac in front of the fire, with Jane asleep in his lap.”
Red Snow Page 4