Red Snow

by Michael Slade

  Christ, what a stench!

  One corner of the basement had been converted into a “tiger cage” like those found on Con Son Island, off the coast of Vietnam. Built by French colonialists, the pens were later used by South Vietnamese torturers to break political prisoners. This cage was a concrete container, five feet wide, nine feet long, and six feet high. Steps led to a mesh catwalk that doubled as a roof. The stench—now recognizable as the smell of decaying human flesh—came from the cage.

  The first cop down to the cellar followed his flashlight beam up the steps to the grate. Straddling the bars, he shone his torch into the dark, dirty, hot, humid pit—and illuminated the remains of a decomposing female on the floor. A matted tangle of hair adhered to her scalp, but the flesh of her face had been gnawed away. The ghastly skull, with its toothy grin, glared up at the cop. The rest of the corpse was a bloody mush of half-chewed organs and jutting bones, as if a scavenging jackal had been chased away from its meal.

  Obviously, the madman’s wife hadn’t escaped from her husband’s abuse after all.

  The spooked cop jerked, rattling the grate, when something down there moved. His flashlight beam swarmed with flies as it slid along a chain bolted to the floor. At the end of the chain was a shackle clamped around the ankle of a naked, gore-smeared boy. The cowering child was curled up in a ball, his skin pocked with cigarette burns. To survive, he had been reduced to feasting off his mother.

  The army dog tags around the boy’s neck were strung with a dozen Vietnamese ears.

  * * *

  The child psychologists assessing the traumatized orphan were dismayed by how serene the boy became after he was released from the tiger cage. It was as if his every memory from before that moment had been erased. He was a walking example of tabula rasa: the theory that individuals are born with no built-in mental content, and that knowledge is built up gradually from life experiences. In the boy’s case, however, the blank slate dated not from birth but from the day he was freed from the cage.

  “Imagine a stage that hides a chamber of horrors,” said one of the shrinks. “The boy has no recollection of what happened to him. He’s like an actor who’s forgotten what the stage hides, so he’s fooling both himself and his audience.”

  To this day, Mephisto still lived on that stage.

  And when he looked in the mirror, he had no memory of that tiger cage buried in a corner of his mind.

  Blowgun

  Standing in the snowdrifts outside the makeshift morgue, Joseph Avacomovitch was in his element. The forensic scientist had an impossible crime to challenge his brain, and solving it would help Robert DeClercq, the man who, more than anyone else, had helped Joe adapt after he defected.

  “Gill and Pekka were the only ones who crossed this yard. No one stepped in their tracks or marked the snow in any way. Both victims were stabbed in the back while standing, then pitched forward, the way I found them. A single wound to the top of his spine either paralyzed the Finn or killed him instantly. Gill was stabbed three times in the back with the ice pick that’s still in her heart. Do you agree that’s what happened?”

  “Yes,” said Robert. “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “We’re missing something.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So first things first,” said Joe. “We know the killer brought three things with him—or her.”

  “Or they. There could be more than one.”

  “The ice pick,” said the Russian, indicating the handle that jutted from Gill’s back.

  “The ski pole,” added the Mountie, glancing in the direction of the morgue.

  “And the severed head. Before we do anything else—including moving Gill and Pekka—let’s examine the hardware the killer left behind for clues.”

  Gill’s wound had frozen around the ice pick, so the investigators removed the spike from her heart with difficulty. Then they retraced their steps to the edge of the yard. There, Joe pulled the ski pole—with the head still mounted on top—from the ground. Having wrapped the head in a plastic bag, he trailed the chief through the rear entrance to the morgue. Pausing in the hall that linked the front and back doors, Joe held the pole like a spear, then gave the bagged head a twist to try separating it from the handle.

  Shewww …

  A streak shot past Robert’s ear and pierced the wall to his left in a spew of plaster. It took a moment for Joe to grasp that he had almost skewered his friend.

  The chief glanced over his shoulder and asked, “Is this the missing piece?”

  The ski pole was more like a headhunter’s blowgun. Instead of blowing in one end to propel a dart, though, you activated a compressed-air mechanism hidden within the hollow metal shaft. Twisting the handle—as Joe had done—shot a projectile down the tube and out a hole at the tip. The spike jutting from the wall behind the chief had a taut nylon line leading back to the blowgun, like the tether on an underwater spear gun.

  “Check it for blood,” said the Russian.

  The Mountie advanced to examine the projectile in the wall. The metal was streaked red. “Affirmative,” said the chief.

  “Let’s see what happens in reverse,” said Joe. “Better move along the hall in case there’s any backlash.”

  Robert stepped toward the front door.

  When Joe turned the head back to where it had been, the line whipped back into the shaft, yanking the ice pick with it. It reminded him of a tape measure retracting or a fly-fisherman backhanding a cast.

  Now, except for the grisly trophy on the handle, the ski pole looked like any other on the slopes.

  “You’re right,” said Joe as the chief closed the gap between them. “There were two killers: Pekka and the phantom. The phantom must have been lurking along the path that skirts the side of the trauma center.”

  Robert picked up the narrative, as was their style. The friends had worked as a team on numerous murder cases. “After moving into position near the back door, he or she aimed the blowgun at the Finn’s spine.”

  Joe nodded.

  “Meanwhile, as Gill and Pekka reached a point halfway across the yard, the Finn stabbed her three times in rapid succession. He left the ice pick stuck in her heart as Gill pitched forward into the snow.”

  Robert flinched but quickly recovered. To quell his emotions, he focused on the puzzle. “That’s when the phantom took Pekka by surprise,” he said. “Gill’s killer didn’t know that he was marked for death, too.”

  “The phantom fired the blowgun as Pekka stood over Gill’s body.” The Russian’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of the chase. “The spike stabbed him at the base of his skull. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it’s poisoned with curare. As the pick got yanked back by its tether line, the Finn pitched forward beside Gill. The second killer left no footprints, and if blood was cast off as the spike recoiled, the snowfall soon covered it.”

  “Leaving the ski pole behind as a mount for the head is the sort of arrogant taunt Mephisto favors,” said the chief. “He feeds off our stumbling over how smart he is.”

  “So where do we go from here?” asked Joe.

  “The first thing we need to know is how Nick died. Zinc Chandler—my second-in-command—is hoping to flush out the woman who gave Nick the room key. I don’t want him falling prey to the same outcome.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Joe.

  “I can’t leave you here alone with who knows how many psychos on the loose.”

  “If I was a target, would they not have killed me by now?”

  “I don’t know, Joe. I really don’t like the idea of leaving you without protection. But this manpower shortage has us in a bind. There’s literally no one to spare.”

  “Robert, I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “Okay. But I’ll get you some help as soon as I can. And I don’t want to leave Gill and Pekka’s bodies out there any longer than—”

  The chief stopped talking.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the Russi
an.

  “It’s clear from how this scheme has unfolded so far that Mephisto’s henchmen are armed with all kinds of high-tech gadgets.” The chief was thinking aloud.

  “And?” Joe pressed.

  “Just before the girls left for the safe house, a skier fell down, out of sight, at the Rover’s front bumper.”

  Crossbow

  “Hi.”

  “It’s your dad.”

  “I guessed that from the caller ID,” said Katt, laughing.

  “Are you settled in?”

  “It’s cold as hell in here. No, wait a sec. Make that cold as the last ice age.”

  “Build a fire in the wood-burning stove.”

  “That’s what Rachel’s doing.”

  “You’ll soon warm up. That stove pumps out enough heat to thaw Gill’s entire chalet.”

  “Wish we had electricity so I could crank on the sauna. I’m living in the stone age. All these kerosene lamps and flashlights will ruin my eyes.”

  “Is Becky near you?”

  “Yes, we’re coloring. Zinc stuck her skates in her backpack, so the book’s a little wet. Luckily, it’s colored pencils, not crayons.”

  “Tell her you’re going to the bathroom. I’ll wait till you’ve closed the door.”

  Katt’s voice was muffled as she covered the phone. Then Robert heard her footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. He imagined her chasing her flashlight beam down the hall. Soon, she came back on.

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this,” Robert replied. “Gill’s dead.”

  There was a stunned silence on the line. Then he heard a sharp intake of breath and a choked sob. “Oh no, Daddy!” Katt gasped. “It can’t be!”

  Not since the day he had lost Jane all those years ago had someone called him “Daddy.” Suddenly, tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Leave the bathroom and climb to the upper landing. You’ll find the main bedroom at the head of the stairs. Listen closely as you go. Gill was killed by Mephisto. So were Nick and Jenna. I suspect he’s trying to eliminate everyone who can identify him. I don’t want to frighten you, but you need to know the danger. The only eyewitness left is Becky Bond. Backup is coming. Rachel and Rick will guard you until it arrives, but I want you—”

  “Napoleon,” Katt interjected. “I’ve got him.”

  “He’ll protect you with his life. You know that. He saved me from death, remember? Police dogs don’t come any better.” He paused while Katt opened the door to the bedroom. “You said you wanted to be a Mountie, right? Well, here’s your induction.”

  “I’m ready,” said Katt.

  “There’s a secret panel beside the bed. See the knot in the wood to the left of the headboard? Push it.”

  * * *

  As soon as he hung up, the chief swapped his cellphone for his police radio. He broadcast a call for Dane, Jackie, Rachel, and Rick to switch to an alternative channel for a secure conversation. All four Mounties wore belt radios with shoulder mikes, so they complied instantly.

  “Dane, Jackie, where are you?”

  “I’m at the three bridges, Chief. What a mess,” replied Dane. “The carnage is horrific.”

  “Jackie?”

  “Opposite end, Chief. The bloodshed’s not as bad, but the toppled hydro towers are sparking like fireworks.”

  “Listen up. We have a crisis situation. I suspect Mephisto will go after Becky. Rachel and Rick, there may have been a GPS tracker under the bumper of the Rover. If so, Mephisto’s henchmen know where you are. Dane and Jackie, do you know where Gill’s chalet is?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Get over there as fast as you can. Rick?”

  “Chief?”

  “Check the Rover. But don’t take any chances. We can’t afford to lose you. If there’s no tracker, this could be a false alarm. But if there is, destroy it before the goons close in.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Be careful. These guys are pros.”

  * * *

  Gill’s bedroom was walled with wooden panels sectioned like chessboard squares. The paintings on the walls were reproductions of Emily Carr’s evocative totem poles. Very West Coast.

  Pressing the knot beside the headboard released a panel, swinging it open like a wall safe. Robert DeClercq was an expert bowman, and the woods out back of Gill’s chalet were ideal for target practice. To hide his crossbow from those who might break in, the chief stored it behind the wall.

  The device Katt had pulled from the recess was a shrunken bow across the snout of a rifle stock. The stirrup attached to the nose was for the bowman’s foot when he cocked the weapon. There was a scope mounted above the trigger. Unfortunately, the nook hid nothing to fire. As an extra precaution, Robert had decided not to store the “arrows” there.

  “It’s William Tell,” Rachel said as Katt came down the stairs carrying the crossbow.

  A fire was crackling in the wood-burning stove. If not for the fact they were probably surrounded by several paid assassins, this would have been a rustic, cozy scene fit for a travel brochure.

  “Cock this for me?” Katt asked Rick. She had nowhere near the strength to arm the weapon.

  The corporal was gearing up to venture outside. He set down his shotgun and took the crossbow. Standing it up, he stuck the toe of his boot into the stirrup, then tugged the bowstring up to the trigger like a weightlifter curling a barbell.

  Becky glanced up from her coloring book. “You need arrows,” she said.

  “You’re holding one in your hand,” replied Katt.

  Honey Trap

  They met outside the door to the Gilded Man. Mephisto passed Scarlett a wooden case designed for a fountain pen. Both wore gloves so as not to leave fingerprints.

  “Careful,” warned Mephisto. “It’s loaded and ready to squirt. This dose of curare would kill Godzilla.”

  Scarlett opened the case to admire the syringe within. Nestled in a bed of satin, the spike was sheathed in a plastic cap and the plunger was primed to push.

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll bait the honey trap.”

  “Stopwatch called. The other traps are set. It won’t be long before we hear the crack of breaking bones.”

  “Music to my ears.”

  “You’re my kind of gal.”

  * * *

  Up in room 412 of the El Dorado Resort, Zinc Chandler sat waiting for the witching hour. He’d repositioned an armchair so he could gaze out at the snow.

  Snow, snow, fast-falling snow …

  Snow on the rooftops …

  Snow on the streets below …

  He wondered if he’d ever find a woman to replace Alex Hunt. On stormy days like this, they used to settle in beside a roaring fire and watch a double bill of DVDs. Hitchcock films, for instance. Or back-to-back film noirs. Or All the President’s Men and Linda Lovelace in Deep Throat. There was always a connection. His picks one week, hers the next. Before long, the connection was as tricky to guess as the ending of a locked-room mystery. The Maltese Falcon and The Vikings, in which Tony Curtis releases his pet falcon to tear out Kirk Douglas’s eye.

  “No fair,” Zinc complained. “I thought it was a hawk.”

  “Bullshit,” Alex said. “You were raised on a farm. No way do you confuse birds of prey.”

  Eventually, a game of hangman had cost him her love. Like DeClercq, Zinc had learned the hard way that some crazies couldn’t resist taunting the Horsemen. One of those madmen had challenged him to a game of hangman, with Alex playing the condemned.

  She died at the end of a rope.

  A fitting term for the current state of Zinc’s sex life was “uncomplicated.” He and a woman he’d met during a case would set the date for their trysts a year in advance, linking up somewhere hot for even hotter sex. For three weeks, each would escape from the reality of a lifestyle to which the other would never adapt. They’d swim in a turquoise lagoon and snorkel around the reef, sun themselves on a golden beach devoid of other peop
le, take a walk along the surf beneath a dome of stars, and then screw themselves silly until it was time to fall asleep.

  It wasn’t love.

  But it was carefree, and sometimes that’s enough.

  As Zinc checked the time on his watch—it was five o’clock—a memory from their recent tryst on Aitutaki brought a smile to his face. They’d traveled from one island to another by single-engine plane. Including the pilot, there were six passengers aboard. Zinc’s date was up front in the empty copilot’s seat. Just after takeoff, as the plane was in a climb out over the Pacific, the hatch on one of the luggage compartments in the wings flipped open. The top suitcase popped, releasing its contents and plastering panties all over the cockpit windshield. Its airflow disturbed, the plane lurched sideways in a sharp dive.

  “Hang on,” yelled the pilot, trying to level the plane. He managed to pull them out of a crash just in time, then circled back to the airport from which they’d departed.

  The passengers deplaned while the latch was fixed. Sitting on the grass, sipping fruit juice, Zinc sighed deeply and said, “It can’t get worse than that.”

  “It could have been a lot worse,” his date countered.

  “How so?”

  “The underwear could have been mine.”

  A diet of film noirs teaches you to beware of femmes fatales. The sobering lesson here was that Nick had let down his guard, and that had cost him his life. Hopefully, the honey trap Zinc had set with his business card in the Gilded Man would prove too alluring for Nick’s killer to resist. The trick for Zinc was to make sure he didn’t get himself killed in the act of trying to nab her. That would be a whole lot easier if he knew the means of Nick’s death.

  Operating on the theory that forewarned is forearmed, he fished in his pocket for the number Karen had passed him earlier in the bar and punched it into his cellphone.

  “Hello?” the barkeep answered, pushing the receiver to her ear to overcome the background noise.

  “It’s Zinc Chandler.”