With his pipe drawing nicely, Numcamais said, “Back about a hundred years ago, an American museum was interested in getting west-coast Native stuff. George Hunt did some collecting for them—totem poles, baskets, argillite carvings, the usual. But Hunt knew about something special. It was a whaler’s shrine up Mowachaht way, hidden away in the woods on an island near Nootka Sound. It wasn’t in a cave like this one. It was inside a cedar lodge, but it had 50 or 60 carved wooden figures, same as ours.
“Hunt made a deal to sell the shrine to his museum pals, but local Indians got wind of this. Big trouble. Rival chieftains claimed ownership of that shrine. Hunt ended up paying the chieftains $250 each—big money back then. The Mowachahts gave up their claim and Hunt and his helpers dismantled the whole outfit and moved it off site in one night. When the shrine reached New York, every artifact went straight into storage.”
“Makes you wonder why they took it in the first place,” I said.
The chief ‘s pipe had gone out and he’d stopped listening to me. His heart soul took the pipe and dropped it into the fire. A little cloud of bright sparks leapt above the flames as the chief’s heart soul stood up, straightened itself out and got into its coffin.
It was very pretty, the way Chief Numcamais’s heart soul laid itself nicely down and folded its arms across its chest and closed its eyes on this world. His life soul was departing for the unknown. I didn’t have the courage to watch it go, so I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to know what kind of creatures were coming to take it to the unknown world.
I did know that in the beginning of time there were beings with human and animal qualities. That age ended when the Transformer changed certain living beings into stone, others into salmon or elk or worms. Some beings became fully human and were taught how to behave properly. Some early beings became two-headed snakes and crocodiles. I was thinking of these things when an elk the size of a locomotive came crashing into the back of the cave. It had antlers like leaf-denuded oak trees. Shaking its head, it demolished the cedar house, scattered stalactites and whalebones like chaff, then turned to face me. Flames shot from the elk’s nose and scorched my face …
≈ ≈ ≈
I woke up feeling dizzy.
The chief was smiling at me. “Powerful, them mushrooms?”
“You better believe it. I was hallucinating like crazy.”
Numcamais stood up slowly. I helped him across to his coffin and got him settled inside it, for real this time.
Looking up at me he said, “This whaling shrine has lasted 200 years, maybe more. Pretty soon, I guess, thieves will find it and take it away to sell to the highest bidder. It’s time we hid the place permanently.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“Blow it up.” The chief was very tired and his voice was low now. I leaned forward. He said, “It’s all set, Silas. The charge is laid. All you’ve got to do is start a timer, then clear out.”
His eyes closed. I kissed his forehead.
The chief had laid his improvised explosive device near the cave’s underwater entrance. Its main ingredients were sacks of nitrate fertilizer and buckets of diesel oil. Its detonator was wired to a five-dollar alarm clock. It was the kind of explosive we use for blasting stumps. I figured out how this one worked, then went back to the coffin.
The chief was dead. I put the coffin lid in place and sat beside it for a while.
I set the alarm to go off after 20 minutes and flicked the switch. If things went right, I’d be outside the cave and well away before the explosion.
I started to climb out of the cave and was 10 feet up the rope when it snapped. I landed awkwardly, banging my head, and felt dizzy for a minute. But I wasn’t dizzy enough to forget about that timer ticking away nearby. There was no way up, but there was still one way out. I quickly sealed my cellphone in the zip-lock bag that had held my sandwich, put it in my pocket and, fully dressed, swam out of the cave.
When I surfaced, shivering, and hauled myself onto the beach, I saw the aluminum runabout grounded 10 feet away. Mo Dillon and two young men were poking around at the base of the cliffs with long fibreglass fishing rods. The sudden appearance of a human being, rising from the sea like a seal, had startled them. I tried to run, but they recovered fast and tackled me. It was three against one. I didn’t struggle.
His small black eyes showing amusement, Dillon said, “Fuck a duck. So we meet again, Siwash. I thought we might.”
Frigid blasts blew in from the sea.
Dillon said, “Remember that time I busted Barnickle’s nose?”
“Yeah, Mo. I remember.”
“Busted Barnickle’s nose and broke the principal’s arm. But that’s nothing compared to what you’ll get if you don’t help me out.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know exactly where the whaling shrine is,” Dillon said. “Where exactly.”
“Over there. I just left it,” I said, inclining my head. “It’s inside a cave with an underwater entrance.”
“Perfect,” Dillon said. “So the question now is, what’re we gonna do with you?”
“Whatever you do, you’ve got to do it someplace else. This beach is going to be—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dillon interrupted. Scowling, he reached down and picked up a smooth rock the size of a tennis ball. I watched him toss it idly from hand to hand.
“We’ve been expecting you to find this place,” I said.
“Oh? And what makes you so fucking smart?”
“The word was all over town that somebody was looking for a whaling shrine.”
Dillon stopped throwing the rock and held it in one hand.
I said hurriedly, “Look, Mo. I’m levelling with you. There’s an explosive set to go off inside that cave. When it does, it’ll block the entrance. Go inside, and you’ll die.”
“Right.” Dillon swore softly beneath his breath and said, “The shrine. It’s in a big cave?”
“Pretty big. Size of a large house, I guess.”
“Is it dark in there?”
“There’s a bit of natural light. Right now there’s a small fire going.”
“Good,” Dillon said. “A nice fire to warm ourselves by.”
“Tell me something, Mo. Now that you’ve found the shrine, what’re you gonna do with it?”
“Sell the fucker,” Dillon said. “Ship it south.”
One of the young men laughed. I shot him a quick look, then turned back to face Dillon just in time to catch a glimpse of the rock in his hand before he swung it at my skull. I tried to ride with the blow. Light danced inside my head and everything outside my head blurred. I was falling to my knees when Dillon hit me again. I was probably only unconscious for a minute or two, but when I came to, I was in the boat, tied to a seat. In my wet clothes I was very, very cold. Dillon was standing on the beach, grinning, enjoying my obvious discomfort.
Teeth chattering, I tried again to reason. “Don’t do it, Mo, it’s rigged to blow any minute.”
“Fucking idiot,” he said, and he walked off toward the cliff.
I concentrated on trying to release myself. Mo Dillon dived into the water first, followed by one of his sidekicks. The remaining man was shifting his weight from foot to foot, like a child overdue for a trip to the bathroom. He came over to me. “All this shit about explosives,” he said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“Didn’t I see you hanging around the Gorge dig once, Alex?”
Instead of answering, he turned and walked back toward the foot of the cliff.
“Come back,” I shouted, struggling to free myself from the ropes. “We’re running out of time.”
I was still working on the knots when I heard the explosion. Ten thousand tons of loose earth, trees and rocks started to slide down the cliff. I watched it bury Alex and roll toward me in an inexorable wave.
≈ ≈ ≈
“How the hell did I get here?” I asked. I was lying in a hospital bed. Bernie Tapp was at the foot of the bed, watching me. He was unshaven, bleary-eyed. A nurse was in the room, examining my chart. I felt pretty good except for a mean headache.
“What do you mean, how did you get here? The coast guard rescued you from a beach up near Sombrio. They said you were raving, incoherent, ” Bernie said. “You’re in the General. Don’t you remember anything?”
What I recalled was waking up on the beach some time after the explosion, half-buried in sand. When I opened my eyes the only living thing I saw was a black cormorant, standing on a massive rock drying its armpits. There was no sign of the aluminum boat, although I was still tethered to one of its wooden seats. It took me awhile to free myself. When I finally succeeded, I took off my clothes, squeezed out most of the moisture and put them back on again. I found my cellphone in my pocket and prayed that it would work this time. It did. I used it to call for help.
“What happened to the guys from that runabout?” I asked Bernie.
He and the nurse exchanged glances.
“Post-traumatic stress. It does funny things to people sometimes,” she said reassuringly. “He’ll be all right.”
Bernie cleared his throat and said, “Sorry, pal. You’re the only person the coast guard took off the beach. They never said anything about other guys to me.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m obviously very confused.”
“They think an unexploded mine went off—one of those ones that drifted across the Pacific during the Second World War. It’s happened before.”
“That’d explain it,” I said. “An unexploded mine fits the facts perfectly.”
I was feeling better every minute.
Then Bernie asked the inevitable question. “What were you doing on that beach in the first place?”
“Can’t remember,” I said. “It’s a complete blur.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I was resting at home the next evening when somebody outside started screaming. The noise was coming from the beach. We had been expecting those screams for days. There was no visible moon, but every light was on in the village. People were running from houses and campers and tents, forming excited lines from the water’s edge to the door of our longhouse. A spirit quester—or his ghost—was arriving from the unknown world. Now our great Winter Ceremony could begin in earnest. I climbed onto the roof of my cabin for a perfect view. The beach was lit with bonfires and searchlights. Warriors in Thunderbird and Raven masks guarded the naked man designated to be the spirit quester’s next meal. Old Mary Cooke was standing by to ensure that the spirit quester followed protocol.
I recognized the spirit quester as Johnny Grant, Chief Alphonse’s grandson. The 20-year-old came trotting toward us along the shore, wolf skins dangling from his shoulders.
Singers chanted: “Biter-Me man fell on the leg. Biter-Me man fell on the arm.”
Yelling, Johnny Grant leapt upon the naked man. Wolf men pounced upon Johnny before he bit too deeply. Half-naked girls lured Johnny inside the longhouse.
Drummers had taken up the dancers’ rhythmic chant. Soon the whole village was singing.
Ba Ta Ma Fe Oh La.
Ba Ta Ma Fe Oh Aa.
Inside the longhouse, Old Mary Cooke was ministering to the Bitten Man, sucking ghosts from his soul through a hollow bone. Further ceremonies would take place after Johnny Grant had been prepared for the next stage of his hamatsa journey, a procedure that might take hours or days.
I came down from the roof and went inside to clean up. Towelling myself dry by my nice warm wood stove, I thought about Bernie. I realized I had to see him again, clear up a few more loose ends up for the record. Let Bernie take the credit. He was ambitious, and my prospects for promotion were nil, whatever I did.
I dressed warmly and went out. It was dark behind my house—kids had busted the halogen light where I parked my MG. I had those youngsters and their slingshots to thank for several sets of barked shins. I needed to talk to them about it sometime. I had one foot inside my car when I heard a familiar voice behind. “Going somewhere?”
When my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see who had spoken, my heart lurched and the hair on my neck rose.
Very, very slowly I withdrew my foot from the car. The tiny, white-haired woman in a ratty fur coat and tinted glasses was aiming an automatic pistol at my face. We stared at each other, six feet apart. For a long beat I could not trust myself to speak. My mouth was dry. I figured death was moments away. I had to say the right thing, and suddenly I knew what the right thing was. “Hello, Mrs. Tranter,” I whispered.
Her serious expression faded and she smiled. In a clipped English accent she said, “We’ll take my car, Sergeant. You drive.”
≈ ≈ ≈
I drove the Monte Carlo into the driveway of the house on Gladstone Avenue and parked. The psychopath who had shared the drive with me directed me out of the car and into the house.
I stood in the living room, seeing again those cheap area rugs and the leather recliner angled toward a big plasma-screen TV. She was leaning against the door, grinning. Intense heat radiated from the gas fireplace. I wanted to ask her if I could take my raincoat off, but I didn’t trust myself to speak. She still held the pistol in one hand, her finger curled around its trigger, ready to contract—but not quite yet. With her free hand she reached up slowly and removed her white wig and dark glasses. I was looking, finally, at Ellen Lemieux.
“I fooled you, didn’t I?” she laughed. “I fooled everybody!” Still laughing, she unbuttoned her fur coat and let it fall from her shoulders to the floor. She was wearing a fringed black miniskirt. I forced my glance away from her beautiful legs and away from her dark unblinking eyes.
“I did fool you, didn’t I? Tell me that I fooled you.” She had a plaintive tone, and the phony stage English had been replaced with her natural Nimpkish accent.
“It was brilliant,” I said. “You fooled Lofthouse. You fooled everyone.”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed, eagerly leaning forward, “but I fooled you most of all, didn’t I?”
My subservient nods fed her vanity. She slipped more deeply into her natural way of speaking. “But you knew some things, right? A few little details?”
I told her what she wanted to hear. “I was lucky. I found things out by accident.”
I was lying. I blamed myself for being blind and stupid. If I’d been smarter, I might have saved my own skin, as well as Sammy’s and Grace’s.
But she was talking again. “Lennie Jim, the fool who tried to kill you in the parking lot. I suppose he put you wise, gave you some tip-off, right?”
“Yes. He was the one. Lennie tipped me off.”
“But the disguise, the disguise I wore when I pretended to be Mrs. Tranter and signed her will, that was a good one. That was fantastic, right?”
“Yes. That fooled me completely.”
“I fooled you all.” Her mouth opened and her glance slid away as she relived some delicious memory. Contemptuously she said, “Me and Lennie killed Mrs. Tranter, then we took care of Isaac Schwartz. We killed them both. It was so easy for me.”
“You had me fooled.”
“Sure, because I’m clever, see? Always the clever one. When I found out Mrs. Tranter was worth big money, I made myself cozy with her. She told me that the old German, this Isaac Schwartz guy, was being a nuisance, blackmailing her. I killed him after I found out he had no money of his own.
“When the time was right, Lennie and me killed Mrs. Trantertoo. Then I pretended to be Mrs. Tranter and tricked Sammy Lofthouse into making a new will in my favour. Nobody suspected a thing!” She began to giggle. The hand holding the pistol fell to her side.
I said, “Just to satisfy my curiosity, how did you find out that Mrs. Tranter was really Lady Baineston?”
“From when I was nursing old lady Micklethwaite. When she knew she was dying she started babbling, told me everything.”
&nb
sp; “And Sammy Lofthouse. What happened to him?”
“Oh that was another great idea,” she said, eager to boast. “Me and Lennie. We kidnapped Mrs. Tranter and kept her here in this house for a while, until we took her to the Red Barn Hotel. Lofthouse was supposed to go there to meet her and find her body. But the cops got there first.”
Ellen licked her lips and raised her gun hand again. “When the police wanted Lofthouse to identify the old woman at the morgue—that’s when something went wrong. He saw that that dead woman was a lot taller than me—too tall. Lofthouse knew I wasn’t dead.”
She was gazing at the floor. I was wondering whether to make a snatch for the gun when she looked up. “Lofthouse was dumb, but he was smarter than you. At least he knew the difference between me and the woman in the morgue.”
“The woman I saw at the hotel was face down over a bathtub. The difference in height between you two wasn’t that obvious,” I told her.
“It was obvious to Lofthouse. He saw the tall woman in the morgue and smelled a rat. He came to see me, trying to get things straight. Right away I killed him. Later, when we heard that Richard Hendrix was arrested in Campbell River, me and Lennie took Lofthouse’s body up there and left it in a snowbank.”
“You and Sammy. Were you having an affair?”
Instead of answering, she drew her head back and laughed.
Ellen’s scheme was undeniably brilliant. How many deaths was she responsible for?
“I suppose Grace Sleight had to die, too,” I said. “Grace was the only person left alive, except me, who could ever testify that there was a fake Mrs. Tranter.”
Ellen pointed the pistol toward a door and said, “That way to the basement, mister. You and me, we’re gonna take a little walk down there.” She grinned crookedly. “There’s something in the freezer I want you to see. Open that door and start down, real slow. No funny stuff. You’ve been a good boy so far.”
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