Red Snow

by Michael Slade

  Idiot!

  Seconds count.

  Professional that he was, Ice Ax sharpened his focus. Gunfire from the driveway told him that battle raged on. The dog was still in the throes of a knife fight with the Swede, and he wouldn’t be able to get from there to here before Ice Ax cleaved Katt’s skull. Time was too short and the distance too long.

  Lacking the strength needed to cock the bow a second time, the teen discarded the weapon and tried to scale the tree. Her only escape was up.

  Like the Finn, Ice Ax had swept back the hood of his parka. But he’d kept on his night-vision goggles, and they exposed the teen as starkly as high noon.

  Ice Ax grabbed Katt’s leg before she could climb out of reach. Her boots slipped off the ladder rungs, and she fell to the ground at the mercenary’s feet in a cloud of snow. With the hammer raised to strike, he tore the toque off her head and aimed for the part in her hair. Before he could slam down the weapon, however, the blades of a double guillotine got the drop on him.

  Up in the treehouse, Becky had removed her razor-sharp ice skates from her bag. Wearing them on her fists like boxing gloves, she stood so her legs straddled the trapdoor. As Ice Ax hovered over Katt, ready to strike, Becky jumped into the opening and rode her skates down like guillotine blades slicing into the neck of a French king.

  Thud, thud.

  The blades shaved both sides of Ice Ax’s skull and sheared off his ears. They sundered the strap of the night-vision goggles, releasing them from his face. Sinking into his shoulders, they severed arteries and veins, which spewed like a fireboat welcoming an ocean liner to its harbor.

  With a quick, sharp gasp, Ice Ax buckled to his knees. Just before he lost consciousness, the soldier of fortune saw Becky somersault off his head.

  How foolish to underestimate the daughter of a cop.

  Going for the Gold

  Robert rarely packed a gun, but he was packing now. The chief had returned to the El Dorado Resort to find the doors of the Gilded Man locked. The barkeeps had moved over to the ballroom to mix drinks at the “Going for the Gold” event. Niles Hawksworth darted in and out, fretting over every detail as a long line of jumpy patrons inched forward to clear the improvised security detail at the ballroom doors. With luck, that would unearth either Mephisto or the device he intended to use to disperse his supervirus. But Robert was doubtful. This megalomaniac was far too devious to leave anything to chance, and the security detail—a pair of hotel employees—was more for show than safety.

  So where was the superbug hidden?

  The chief was about to jump the queue by flashing his regimental badge when a call buzzed his phone. For privacy, he retreated to a corner of the lobby and pressed Talk.

  “Got something,” Ghost Keeper said. “One of the names from Jessica’s contact list is a man who stood trial for extortion.”

  “Who was he extorting?”

  “A pharmaceutical giant got threatened with product tampering. A payment was made, and this guy was picked up during the exchange, but he slipped through a legal loophole.”

  “How much was the payoff?”

  “Half a million dollars.”

  “Where?”

  “New York City.”

  “What’s he doing in Whistler?”

  “No idea. Skiing?”

  “Extortion fits Mephisto’s psychology. That’s not a lot of money, but smaller amounts are more likely to be paid.”

  “Here’s the mug shot.”

  A face appeared on the screen of the chief’s cellphone. It occurred to him that this was the ideal situation for a virtual lineup. In his palm was a digital witness with the suspect’s face in its memory. And there at the ballroom doors stood a lineup of possible matches. If he could spot the suspect without the suspect knowing he’d been spotted, they’d have a chance to stop him before he could do what he planned to do.

  * * *

  The journey back was easier than the journey coming. The snowfall was lighter, so Zinc could actually see. With Becky sandwiched between him and Katt, he followed his earlier tracks back along the creek from Gill’s chalet and through the golf course to the highway. Dane was left behind—with Napoleon as backup—to wait for Jackie, who had finally managed to commandeer a car, and an ambulance.

  The inspector kept the chief informed of their progress through the plug in Robert’s ear.

  * * *

  Mephisto fingered his facial scars as he watched DeClercq. If Gill and Nick had provided an accurate description of the man who’d held them captive on Ebbtide Island, the chief would never connect that face with this.

  Slowly, the lineup was moving through security and into the ballroom beyond. As soon as the room was full, Mephisto would release his plague and plunge the world into a new dark age. No matter how hard they tried, the Horsemen would not be able to stuff that viral genie back in its bottle.

  * * *

  The Mountie walked to the front of the line and flashed his badge as if to jump the queue into the ballroom. Then, for all lined up to see, he pretended to answer his cell. The phantom caller must have made the chief change his mind, for he turned and walked along the line, as if heading for the lobby. The suspect’s mug shot was stored in his mind for comparison, but you’d never guess it from how he nonchalantly scanned the queue.

  It wasn’t hard to spot him.

  The scar on his lip matched that in the photo.

  Got you, Robert thought.

  * * *

  DeClercq seized Hawksworth by the arm as he rushed through the lobby.

  “I need your help.”

  “Good Lord, man. Can’t you see I’m trying to put on a memorable event? I have no time to waste.”

  Prat, thought the chief. “Are you going to force me to shut you down?” he asked. “I will if you push me.”

  Hawksworth sighed. “What now?”

  “See that man lined up ten people back from the ballroom doors? Sporting a leather jacket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell your security people to note everything he’s carrying. I want an immediate report.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. And be discreet.”

  * * *

  After the suspect entered the ballroom, the chief strode to the front of the line and questioned one of the security men.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Nothing but his wallet, his keys, and some coins.”

  Stepping inside “Going for the Gold,” Robert assessed the venue. The device must already be in place, he realized. If I were Mephisto, what would I do?

  It irked him to see the Olympic spirit so poisoned by politics. If it wasn’t Hitler using the games to showcase his theory of Aryan superiority, it was two medalists giving a black power salute on the podium in 1968. If it wasn’t more than sixty nations boycotting the 1980 Moscow games to protest Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan, it was fourteen socialist countries boycotting the 1984 Los Angeles games in a Cold War quid pro quo.

  Capitalism versus Communism.

  Ah yes, the Olympic spirit.

  Germany was banned for ten years after the First World War. The Japanese and the Germans were personae non gratae in London in 1948 because of the Second World War. Apartheid saw South Africa shunned from 1960 to 1988, and thirty-odd African nations left the Montreal games in 1976 because New Zealand’s rugby team had toured South Africa. China boycotted the Melbourne games in 1956 because Taiwan was recognized by the International Olympic Committee.

  The worst political act, of course, was 1972’s massacre of eleven Israeli athletes by Palestinian terrorists at the Munich games. And now, Mephisto was out to trump even that through the most horrific political atrocity of all.

  But how? wondered DeClercq.

  “We’ll be there in minutes,” Zinc reported through the plug in the chief’s ear.

  As he gazed around the ballroom, now about three-quarters full, he tried to pick out the athletes. Most were easy to recognize from their strut and sw
agger. Somewhere, he’d read that athletes are hard-wired to show pride—by puffing out their chests, tilting back their heads, and throwing their arms in the air. If you have success, others must know. “Look at me,” the body gloats. “I’m powerful.”

  Was this not the perfect arena for the megalomaniacal Mephisto?

  Cower in awe, jocks.

  Look at me!

  I’m the god who sits atop Mount Olympus!

  The bar stretched along the wall opposite the doors. It was dominated by a pyramid built from cans of Coke, one of the sponsors of the games. The suspect and the chief joined parallel queues.

  With so many bartenders, the lines moved fast. Robert glimpsed Karen shaking a martini. Even Niles Hawksworth was serving the thirsty. His self-appointed job was to transfer cans of Coke from the pyramid to the barkeeps.

  “We’re outside,” Zinc reported through Robert’s earplug.

  Jesus Christ!

  The answer came to him like a clock striking the hour.

  Mephisto was the player on the other side.

  Of all the symbols recognized around the world, the Mounties’ scarlet tunic was number two.

  It beat the Golden Arches, but it couldn’t trump number one.

  Coca-Cola!

  Coke vs. the Mounties.

  If that didn’t appeal to Mephisto’s warped psychology, what would? The irony was that Coke itself had provided the clue that told the chief where the contagion lurked.

  The suspect in the leather jacket had reached the bar. Because he was in the last line along that flank, he could charge past the serving counter, grab the can of Coke, pop the pull tab, and release the supervirus—Fssssst—into the room before anyone even knew what had happened.

  “What’ll you have to drink, sir?” Hawksworth asked. Like a jack-of-all-trades, the hospitality manager was now doubling as a barkeep.

  “Rum and Coke,” said the suspect.

  “It’s on the house, thanks to Coke,” said Hawksworth.

  Robert’s hand closed on his gun. “You!” snapped the Mountie.

  The suspect turned. “Me?”

  “Yes. Freeze where you are.”

  The suspect frowned.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw the hospitality manager reach for the Coke can.

  What the … ?

  His thought was broken by the sound of Becky’s voice.

  “That’s him!” said the girl, pointing. “That’s Mephisto!”

  Morph

  The mutant Frankenvirus had come out of the Soviet Vektor lab during the Cold War. With Communism and capitalism engaged in worldwide struggle, it must have seemed deliciously ironic to Russian warmongers to export death in the Trojan horse of recycled Coke cans, the universal symbol of American capitalism.

  When Mephisto’s first battle with DeClercq had sent his boat to the bottom of the sea around the San Juan Islands, the watertight case containing the trio of deadly Coke cans went with it. But during the years it had lain submerged in Davy Jones’s locker, Coca-Cola had designed a new Coke can.

  Rebranding was common in commercial markets.

  Mephisto’s original plot must have been to stash the tampered cans in a pyramid of identical Cokes. Each can popped would have been another spin of the roulette wheel, and as the pyramid shrank, the odds of drawing the “dead man’s hand” would have increased.

  When Coke supplied “the real thing” for tonight’s event, though, the glitch became evident. The mismatched cans scotched plan A but spawned plan B. Now, the plague-infected can could be plucked from the pyramid at a moment’s notice by the psycho himself.

  And that’s what Mephisto was doing.

  Standing in the queue next to the suspect, Robert had noticed the anomaly in the pyramid of cans. No way would a sophisticated company like Coca-Cola make an error like that at a sponsorship event. And that’s when it had hit him. What better means of transporting an airborne contagion than an aerosol can?

  But Robert was still focused on the suspect with the harelip from Jessica’s contact list. His fear was that his quarry would lunge to the pyramid and pluck one of the incongruous Cokes. Only when he saw Hawksworth reach for the tampered can—Why that can when it wasn’t the nearest at hand?—did he catch his mistake.

  “That’s him!” said Becky, pointing. “That’s Mephisto!”

  Zinc and Katt had entered the ballroom with Becky hidden safely behind them. Approaching the bar, they’d parted so she could step into the gap and point out the man whose voice she recognized from her ordeal on his San Juan island.

  Robert swung his pistol to follow her finger.

  Hawksworth had the tampered Coke in one hand. Before he could move to pop the pull tab, he found himself staring down the muzzle of the Mountie’s gun.

  “Move a muscle,” Robert warned, “and I’ll fire.”

  * * *

  Careful not to get between the muzzle and Mephisto, Zinc moved swiftly to remove the deadly can from Niles Hawksworth’s hand before he cuffed him, cautioned him, and hauled him away. Robert took custody of the Coke from the inspector and pulled the other two suspect cans from the dwindling mountain of the real thing.

  The chief commandeered the hospitality manager’s office for his interrogation. As he paused at the threshold, he studied the man sitting on the chair facing the desk, his wrists locked together around the stiff wooden back. It was disconcerting how this chameleon had sucked him in.

  The chief had often wondered what this face-off would be like. If Jack the Ripper had been caught, would he hold the same fascination he does today? No. Unmasking a monster cuts him down to size. And Mephisto had always seemed a bit like an overblown villain in a superhero comic. When he was captured, the chief had expected him to be nondescript, a psychotic with delusions of grandeur.

  But he wasn’t.

  From the moment they’d first engaged, Hawksworth had been in the chief’s face. How clever to have had Jessica telephone his office and demand to speak to him, making his assistant a witness to the suggestion that he call Special X. By the time the chief had arrived, the hospitality manager was in a fit. All he could talk about was his precious event and how it had to go ahead.

  Every element of the plot revolved around this hotel. Its pub was the beheaded snowboarder’s favorite watering hole. That fact was certain to draw Nick to Jessica, who then had only to entice him upstairs to set Mephisto’s plan in motion. They must have somehow gleaned from Nick that Becky was coming to Whistler, which explained the attack at Alpha Lake. And of course, Hawksworth had been present for Robert’s call to Gill and, under the guise of supplying a medical man, had provided the man who killed her.

  But Hawksworth had no more substance than skin sloughed off a snake. Already, Mephisto was morphing into another self. It was as if the lights had gone down on the closing night of a play, and the star was already rehearsing his next role.

  Robert repressed an urge to beat the madman to a pulp. He approached and positioned another chair facing his. Sitting down, he told Mephisto his rights. Then he asked, “Have you anything to say?”

  “You must be gloating.”

  “Over what?”

  “The mess you made of my face. I used to be handsome. Now I’m nothing but scars.”

  “Scars?”

  “You’re mocking me. It’s because of you that a plastic surgeon carved me up. I no longer recognize myself when I look in a mirror.”

  “Do you have anything else to say?”

  “Yes. This won’t be over till I have my pound of flesh.”

  “It’s over now.”

  “Not till I eat your heart.”

  At first, it seemed odd to DeClercq that a megalomaniac would be obsessed with facial scars that weren’t, in fact, there. Then it began to dawn on him what had happened. According to the psych profile, Mephisto suffered from narcissistic personality disorder. An overwhelming trauma in his boyhood had induced an inferiority complex so severe that it had turned him into a holl
ow man, destroying his sense of self-worth. Then his mind had overcompensated by creating an all-powerful personality to take the place of the one that had been erased.

  Mephisto.

  You can’t get more powerful than that.

  Not unless you’re God.

  From chronic inferiority to overblown superego, Mephisto had morphed from one extreme to another. His sense of self-importance, his preoccupation with fantasies of limitless power, his lack of empathy—all were symptoms of malignant narcissism.

  But of course, this was a false front, just as the seemingly solid rock face looming above the Sea to Sky Highway masks the fractured bedrock behind. And with a strong enough quake, all false fronts will crumble.

  In Mephisto’s case, that quake was plastic surgery.

  In the past, Mephisto had assumed various roles and inhabited them completely. The delusions morphed, but the face at the center did not. His mistake was in changing his physical appearance to fool those who could identify him.

  Nick.

  Gill.

  And Becky.

  Now, when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see himself. Instead, some scarred interloper glared back from the glass. No matter how good it was, this new face had to be flawed, since it had replaced his perfect one.

  Mephisto was plagued by body dysmorphic disorder, an obsessive preoccupation with imagined, or minor, defects in one’s physical features. The chief knew enough about it to pick up the signs. The illness shared symptoms with eating disorders caused by body-image distortion. Mephisto was like those young women who starve themselves into looking like death-camp inmates because they think they’re fat. There’s a puzzling disparity between the inner and the outer selves.

  Whatever Mephisto saw in the mirror, it wasn’t the face DeClercq saw before him. When he viewed his reflection, his psychological scars came to the surface. He could function normally for a while, but eventually, his disorder compelled him to glance in a mirror, a window, or a glass door to see if the monster in his mind was on the loose.

  And it always was.