Ripper

by Michael Slade

Chan’s great-great-grandfather had worked the Cariboo mines, emigrating to Canada in 1859. Not once in five generations had the family left B.C., until joining The Mounted took Eric to Hong Kong.

  When China reopened to tourists in 1979, Chan convinced his daughter Peggy, then eighteen, to undertake a pilgrimage back to her roots. He thought the family too Western, and not Chinese enough. Peggy embarked on the journey to please her dad.

  From Canton, she took the train west to Kunming, then through Hunan and Guangxi toward Guizhou, hunting a part of China tourists had yet to see. Find somewhere untainted by the West, Chan had said, then imagine what it was like s before the gunboats arrived. She sat in the swaying railcar, Walkman clamped to her ears, listening to Bruce Springsteen as the rural farms slipped by. After Guiyang she ate some fruit, which gave her diarrhea.

  Most of that afternoon was spent in the railcar’s toilet, a shit-spattered hole open to the tracks. One attack came on so fast she almost didn’t make it, a desperate dash during which the stereo fell to the floor. With no time to stop, she left the Walkman behind, and when she returned it was gone.

  Sign language and faltering Cantonese apprised the ticket-taker of her plight. He joined Peggy in a search of the train. Two cars forward they found the amazed thief, a senile old man in peasant’s rags stroking his dangling mustache. Wide-eyed, he sat bolt upright for all to see, marveling at The Boss’s Born to Run. The ticket-taker ripped the Walkman, from his ears.

  The train pulled into the next station as Peggy returned to her seat. No doubt the old man had heard the Walkman playing on the floor, and unable to find its owner had toyed it with curiosity. Smiling, Peggy decided to find him and let him listen for a while. Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the window.

  The old man stood shaking on the platform outside, flanked by members of the Gong An Ju. The Public Security cops wore green with peaked army caps, yellow headbands distinguishing them from the Red Army. One cop stepped back as the other drew his gun. Peggy screamed “No!” as the old man was shot through the head. Blood spattered the window, then one cop waved, pleased to be of service to China’s new friends. The train pulled out of the station as Peggy began to shake.

  Chan met his daughter at the airport and drove her home. Not a word was spoken along the way. Then came the nightmares, insomnia, and depression, followed by attempted suicide. First Peggy was in therapy, then in Riverview. Each weekend, Eric and his wife visited her there.

  Mindhunting killers took a psychic toll.

  Penance for the mind Chan lost in China.

  Outside, the storm was worse than when DeClercq arrived. Umbrellas flapped and turned inside out. Newshounds armed with mikes and feminist placard wavers flirted with each other, slaves to the hungry maw of network TV. The media maelstrom grew as women wearing yellow arm bands climbed from cars parading up and down Heather Street. Many of the placards had seen service before, their slogans generic so they could be recycled in other marches. Printed and chanted, the slogans were:

  Yes means yes, NO means no,

  However we dress, Wherever we go.

  Being a woman means being afraid.

  The bogeyMAN is a reality.

  Patriarchal power is the root of the problem.

  Men learn to hate women from pornography.

  Remember the Montreal Massacre.

  Take back the night.

  Justified anger. Laudable aims. But in the end the marchers would accomplish nothing. For there were demons out there who would never give up the night.

  SÉANCE WITH A KILLER

  3:12 P.M.

  He knocked on the door and waited.

  The house was a tree-embowered bungalow in Kerrisdale, a quaint and affluent, fuddy-duddy part of the city. The rain had washed the last tenacious leaves from maples and chestnuts in the yard, spreading a soggy red and yellow carpet across the lawn. Eventually there was sound inside like a mouse in the pantry, then, hooked with a burglar chain, the door opened a crack.

  “Miss Franklen?” the Mountie said. “Chief Superintendent DeClercq.”

  A twinkling eye and crinkled smile appeared beside the jamb, then the door swung wide and a dwarf-sized woman exclaimed excitedly, “Oh do come in, Chief Superintendent! Do come in!”

  DeClercq stepped into the hall.

  Elvira Franklen reminded him of that little swamp creature Yoda in the Star Wars films. She was an octogenarian, lively for four-score years, with bulgy blue eyes sparkling with mischief in a creased, rouged face. Her hair was combed down Caesarlike in a snow-white bowl and she wore a frumpy wool suit with a brooch at her throat. When she spoke, her voice was brittle and squeaky.

  “Sorry to be inhospitable, but one must be careful,” she said. “So many break-ins and home invasions, what’s a body to do? It makes one pine for the days of the gallows and the lash.”

  “Does it?” DeClercq said.

  “When I was a girl—that was during the Great War, you know—I’d play for hours in the woods and swamps around here. I doubt the thought molester ever crossed my mother’s mind, and kids were still doing the same in the 1950s. Now every paper carries a story of someone snatched off the street or another child found murdered in the bushes.”

  Something brushed DeClercq’s leg, catching his attention.

  “Shoo, Poirot. Scat, Maigret.” The old woman clapped her hands. “You must own a dog,” she said as both cats scampered away.

  “Napoleon,” DeClercq said. “He’s my German shepherd.”

  “Expect Dalgleish and Morse to sniff-test you, too. Miss Marple will stay on her cushion and watch you instead.”

  She led him down a hallway of dark oiled wood and snug alcoves stocked with Royal Doulton figurines. “My brother was a prison guard,” Franklen said, “back when jails were jails and women weren’t afraid. Anyone charged with rape or molestation was given the whip: a paddle, you know, with suction holes that ripped the skin from his back. In the thirty-five years Jim was a guard, only one man—a masochist—was charged with the same offense as that for which he was once lashed. In those days “Spare the rod and spoil the child” had a second meaning.”

  “My, my,” DeClercq said. “Who’d expect such retribution from a sweet and genteel lady?”

  When Franklen smiled her face cracked into a thousand pieces. “Don’t underestimate the resolve of Gray Power,” she said. “At page 438 of Dame Agatha Christie’s Autobiography, she suggests we use such people as human guinea pigs in research experiments. Tea, Chief Superintendent?”

  Ushered into the living room where he was left alone to wait while Franklen was in the kitchen, DeClercq wondered if she was playing with him. PD. James slyly wrapped in Mickey Spillane.

  The parlor was as crammed and cluttered as Holmes’s and Watson’s study. The sofa and overstuffed armchairs had doilies of Belgian lace, one with a cushion on which sat a suspicious Siamese cat. The overmantel and several tables scattered about the room displayed a complete collection of Coronation mugs, including one for Edward VIII who was never crowned. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth commanded the far wall, beneath which hung separate photos of the Prince and Princess of Wales. From marks on the wallpaper Robert deduced the pictures of Charles and Diana had recently been moved farther apart. What held his attention, however, was the gallery facing French doors that led to an English garden. Seventy-four headshots, all autographed.

  “Very impressive,” DeClercq said when Franklen returned. He helped her wheel in a tea trolley spread with fine bone china, a silver pot in a crocheted cozy, and enough Eccles cakes, scones, and crumpets to feed Special X.

  “The one of Conan Doyle is my favorite. He signed it just before his death in 1930. Dame Agatha autographed hers when I had tea at Greenway in Devon. Of the moderns, I’m partial to Dick Francis and Ed McBain. I’m thinking of buying a dozen more cats and naming them after the Boys of the 87th Precinct.”

  DeClercq sat down beside Miss Marple, a feline Joan Hickson.

  “The Queen
drinks Poonakandy. Will that do?” Franklen asked. She passed the Mountie a delicate forget-me-not cup. Nodding, he munched a blueberry scone with clotted cream.

  “So?” the old lady said. “Whom have you chosen for me?”

  “Inspector Zinc Chandler,” DeClercq replied.

  Pleased, Franklen put down her cup and rubbed her hands. “What a surprise! A high rank when I expected a Corporal. The guests will certainly have their work cut out to win the money.”

  “Money?” DeClercq said.

  “Fifty thousand dollars. Did you not get my letter detailing what’s occurred?”

  “I’ve been out of town. It must be on my desk.”

  “For goodness sake,” Franklen said, pushing the trolley at him. “Gorge yourself while I explain the luck we’ve had. When the auxiliary planned the auction to aid the hospital, I hoped my Mystery Weekend would fetch a thousand dollars. Imagine my joy when an unknown bidder offered one hundred thousand dollars and sent us a bank draft the following day.”

  Morse or Dalgleish jumped into Robert’s lap. He tried to feed the tabby a nibble of scone, but not content the animal pawed off a larger chunk.

  “Shoo, Morse,” Franklen said, ready to clap her hands.

  “That’s okay,” DeClercq said. “I like cats.”

  “Since 1930 I’ve written hundreds of interactive mysteries, but none that prompted a response like this. Do you remember The Millionaire? John Beresford Tipton?”

  DeClercq laughed. “That goes back to what? Fifty-four?”

  “Each week a different person inherited a million dollars out of thin air. None of them discovered whom their benefactor was, nor did the TV audience see his face. Well, here it seems we have the same whodunit. My plot was purchased for all that money and I don’t know whom by. All I have is a set of instructions directing what I must do. Intriguing, don’t you think?”

  DeClercq sensed Franklen was overjoyed. No doubt the setup was a mystery-lover’s dream. “So where does the fifty thousand dollars fit in?”

  “I’ve been sent a list of “sleuths.” All are West Coast thriller writers from Alaska to California. I’m to offer each the chance to match wits with a real detective for that prize, and our benefactor will pay their way to Vancouver. If Inspector Chandler solves the puzzle, Children’s Hospital gets an additional fifty thousand instead. I do hope he’s good.”

  Now Morse, Dalgleish, and Miss Marple were all on the couch. Poirot entered, tail high, intent on joining them. Hammett and Sayers grinned from the gallery at Robert’s predicament.

  “Friday afternoon we meet at the floatplane dock in Coal Harbour,” Franklen said. “Our destination is an island off the coast, but which island none of us will know until we land. All but one of the writers on the list accepted. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m sure a good time will be had by all. What sort of plot have you concocted?”

  Franklen rubbed her hands again, a sign she was excited. “I call it Shivers, Shudders, and Shakes: Séance with a Killer. A friend of mine will be the victim, and one of the guests—who only I know—has agreed to be the culprit. The others are looking for motive, means, and opportunity. My, you are popular. Here comes Maigret.”

  Poor Napoleon, Robert thought. I’ll have to burn these clothes.

  Ten minutes later, DeClercq was at the door. As he raised his collar in preparation to face the rain, Franklen cocked her head and said, “I was once involved in a real case, Chief Superintendent. We ought to discuss it when you have more lime. Did you know I was deputized by the detective killed with your second wife?”

  DeClercq’s mind flashed on the Headhunter case. That bastard, he thought.

  “Sure you won’t stay for another cup of tea?”

  FOREIGN LEGION

  Reno, Nevada

  3:45 P.M.

  If ever there was a hitman’s town, it’s Reno, Nevada.

  A desert wind clouded the sun as the afternoon flight from Vancouver through San Jose landed at Cannon International Airport. Shoes brushed by the tumbling debris of a throw-away culture, slot machines jangling in the terminal at his back, the only Canadian with no luggage hailed a cab. “Where to?” the cabbie asked, trip sheet in hand. “South Virginia, near the courts,” said the fare.

  Reno is surrounded by rolling humps with lots of brown. Lonely Peavine Mountain squats to the northwest, flanked by the backside of the Sierras and the Virginia Hills. The town lay spread across the meadows like some cheap, garish, neon-painted whore. The cab dropped the fare high on one scabby thigh, just below the gambling maw where losers got fucked.

  Shoulders hunched and collar up against the chill wind, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, Skull walked from the courts toward the Eureka Hotel. He passed the Virginian, Cal-Neva, and Harrah’s, while muscle trucks and boom cars prowled the main drag. In front of Eddie’s Fabulous ‘50s Casino and Diner, a vet in combat fatigues slumped on the trash bin. Now and then, Skull glanced back to see if he was followed.

  Bible on the sidewalk, mouth an evangelist’s grin, a longhair near the Horseshoe shouted, “Calling Jesus!” Split by a waterfall of cascading lights, the mural fronting Harolds showed a ring of covered wagons protecting stalwart pioneers, with pesky Indians on the bluff above. Dedicated in all humility to those who blazed the trail, it bragged, prompting Skull to mutter, “Yeah, sure.” The doors of the Nugget were open so the slots jingled outside, a mechanical voice barking, “More jackpots per square foot than any other casino.” A sidewalk sign boasted HOME OF THE AWESOME 1/2 POUND HOT DOG. This side of the railway tracks a sign arched over the street: RENO THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD. Beyond it, Skull ducked into the Eureka.

  The main-floor casino was beer bellies and bogus blondes. The showroom on the mezzanine was tit-jobs and cigars. Many had carcinogenic skin ruined by the sun. Amid clanging bells and flashing lights and payoffs to shills, zombi-addicts and grannies lost at keno, black jack, and roulette. Skull took the escalator up to the hotel.

  The room reserved for “Buzz Browne” was on the sixteenth floor. Nevada chic, it overlooked the gaudy strip below. A king-size bed on a dais angled from one corner, inviting studs and babes to perform on the sheeted stage. A Jacuzzi big enough for eight bubbled near the bar, backed by a mirror in case the best crotch-shot was from behind. Skull lounged on the bed until the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Code word?”

  “Psalm 69.”

  “Were you followed?”

  “Uh uh.”

  “My conclusion, too. In this business, you can’t be too safe.”

  “Now what?”

  “See the door opposite the bed? Shove your half of the hundred into the next suite.”

  Skull crossed the room and did as he was told.

  “Next?”

  “Pull the middle pillow slip over your head. You’ll find eyeholes on the underside.”

  Dumping out the pillow, Skull donned the mask.

  “Done.”

  “Okay, back to the same door. Open it wide and lock both hands behind your head.”

  No sooner had Skull cracked the door than a Bowie knife jabbed his belly. The man in the next suite wore a similar mask, making this look like a gathering of the Klan. He held the blade edge-up in the proper manner, ready to thrust and rip Skull open if he so much as blinked.

  “Got the money?”

  “I brought diamonds instead.”

  “Fifty K’s worth?”

  “Double that. If you did the job right, there’s another mission.”

  The knifeman motioned toward his bed. On it were both halves of the hundred-dollar bill and a folded copy of Foreign Legion magazine. The magazine contained the ad Skull had used last month, on top of which lay a videocassette. The ad read:

  Mercenary. Vietnam vet. Action in Africa.

  Available for missions, no questions asked.

  Half up front, half on completion.

  Tortured in Angola, secrecy guaranteed.
<
br />   Write “Corkscrew,” Box 106,

  Rattlesnake, Nevada.

  “What do I call you?” Corkscrew asked.

  “Skull,” the Canadian said.

  “Why’d you front the money without meeting me?”

  “In this business, you can’t be too safe.”

  “And if I ripped you off?”

  “Then you’d be out fifty grand and I’d find someone else.”

  “Play it,” the American said, indicating the tape. He’d hooked a VCR up to the TV.

  The tape was shot with a camcorder mounted on a tripod. On-screen, the image tilted with the rocking of a boat off Barbados. Sam Lord’s Castle, where the pirate had kept his wife imprisoned in a cage, throwing her scraps to amuse his guests, loomed beyond the porthole used as a backdrop. This side of the porthole, a man sat in a chair, bound, gagged, and terrified by the vise fitted over his head. Soon the palms beyond Cobblers Reef passed by, trees in which Lord’s slaves had hung night lanterns to lure ships approaching Bridgetown onto the coral so he could loot their cargoes. This side of the porthole, a gloved hand turned the vise.

  The vise plates were flat against the bald man’s ears, the mechanism crowning his pate like stereo headphones. Once, twice, three times, the vise handle turned, while Beachy Head, Crane Beach, and Foul Bay slipped by. First the skin around his compressed ears tore, welling blood from the lacerations. His head began to flatten, though not that much, as his pleading eyes bulged from their sockets. Slowly the pressure increased through five more turns, until his face split down the middle, fracturing his jaw. Blood gushed from his nose as St. Martin’s came into view, then like an erupting volcano, his skull sutures sprung. The head didn’t explode, it collapsed in on itself, squashing the crumpled face in a black-holed scream. Brain tissue squeezed from each orifice us the screen went fuzzy gray.

  “Nice work,” Skull said, gleefully clapping his hands.

  “How’d he fuck you over?” Corkscrew asked.