Bed of Nails (10 page)

Coquitlam

April 11 (Seventeen months later)

A few miles northeast from Colony Farm—where the Ripper was safely confined in Room 13—loomed the social and architectural anachronism of Minnekhada Lodge.
Minnekhada
was the Sioux word for “beside running waters,” and the name was brought to the West Coast in 1904 when Harry L. Jenkins left the United States to make his fortune as a lumber baron in what were then the untamed wilds of British Columbia. His 1,650-acre Coquitlam farm—nestled between the heights of Burke Mountain and the marsh flats of the Pitt River—faced a panorama of natural splendor that stretched across the Fraser River valley to the snowy cone of Mount Baker, seventy miles to the south in Washington State. In 1932, the farm passed to another lumber magnate, a man who would four years later become the king’s lieutenant governor here in Lotusland. To reflect his royal position, Eric Hamber built Minnekhada Lodge. Conceived as a stately British home rusticated by the realities of a besieging wilderness, the house was fashioned as a Tudor-style Scottish hunting lodge that lorded over the countryside from a commanding knoll.

A pair of Celtic towers thirteen feet in height flanked the gateway to the lodge on Oliver Road. The drive up the knoll passed to the right of a turquoise swimming pool, then looped behind the manor to a courtyard plaza. A statue of Pan playing his flute graced the fountain in front of the main door. That door opened into an entrance hall with a floor checkered by black and white tiles. The banquet room beyond was a double-storied vault. The redbrick fireplace just left of the entry faced Dutch doors and windows that opened on the veranda. Spindled oak staircases ascended both sides of the room to balconies beneath the arched trusses and cedar beams of the dormered Jacobean roof. The master bedroom was tucked beyond one balcony, and off the other, the lodge boasted a genuine royal suite.

A steady stream of royalty—including the Queen—had partied and slept beneath the roof of Minnekhada Lodge. Lord Tweedsmuir and his sons had played polo on the manicured lawns out by the stables. Hunting parties had ventured out onto Addington Marsh to blast shotgun pellets at the waterfowl while drinks were served from a nearby cabin, extending bar service into the wilds. Returning victorious to this banquet room, the royals would swap their deerstalker caps and tweeds for black ties and fancy gowns aglitter with jewels. Served by cooks and maids in starched uniforms, they would dine on the game they had bagged while a pet monkey fetched them bananas from a fruit bowl in the center of the table.

Seeing how Her Majesty the Queen was still commander-in-chief of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, what better site could the Mounties of Special X have chosen for tonight’s regimental dinner than Minnekhada Lodge?

God save the Queen.

Time, they say, heals all wounds. That’s the optimist’s point of view. A pessimist will tell you that time inflicts wounds, too … and the past year and a half had not been kind to Zinc Chandler.

Emotionally and physically, Zinc was a wounded soul. Losing the love of his life to death had hollowed out his heart to leave him empty and alone. At one point, he had teetered on the edge of suicide, and he might have eaten his gun if not for a fortuitous call to duty from Insp. Bob “Ghost Keeper” George and Sgt. Ed “Mad Dog” Rabidowski. That call had ultimately flown the three of them to Ebbtide Island on a rescue mission. In the pyrotechnics that followed, the RCMP helicopter had crashed into the sea, knocking Zinc out when his head hit the fuselage. That downing had concussed his already injured brain and seen him hospitalized, spending weeks convalescing from the blow. Tonight’s festivities marked his return to red serge, but though this dinner had been organized to honor the heroic three, as far as Zinc’s zest for life was concerned, he too had passed away.

Going through the motions.

The wheeze of the bagpipes filling with air should have quickened his heartbeat with joyful anticipation. The drone pipes filled the entrance hall of Minnekhada Lodge with bass a moment before the tartan-draped Mountie began to finger the melody pipe in a stirring Scottish march to lead the thin red line of Horsemen to the head table. In the aftermath of a hard-fought battle, Scottish Highlanders would hold a regimental dinner at which their commanders were piped in to prove they had survived the conflict. As the last vestige of the British colonial army, the redcoats of the Royal Mounted retain that tradition, so as the banquet hall resounded with the bagpipes’ tunes of glory, C/Supt. Robert DeClercq—the host of the dinner—followed by Dep. Comm. Eric Chan, head of the Mounties in B.C. and the Yukon, then Insp. Zinc Chandler, Insp. Bob George, and Sgt. Ed Rabidowski—the heroic three—were led single file through the entry door into the vaulted room.

Except for the violin (and perhaps the saxophone), no instrument makes the human heart soar quite like the heavenly shrill of the bagpipes. It used to be that Zinc was moved to almost religious euphoria by the glory of this magic—for was there any greater affirmation of what it means to have a righteous soul than the sound of “Amazing Grace” brought to life by the piper?—but since the day that tune was played at Alex Hunt’s memorial, the soaring of bagpipes had left him flat.

Going through the motions.

This hollow shell of a man.

Tonight, the redbrick fireplace was ornamented by a big stuffed bison head that had been removed from the stairwell that climbed to DeClercq’s office on the top floor of Special X. Bordered by RCMP flags and red-and-blue banners, the hearth emitted a cheerful glow that burnished the rustic wood decor with coppery tints. The wail of the pipes echoed down from the shadowy peak as the procession to the head table doubled back and forth among the ranks of red serge. The banquet room was arranged to reflect a barracks mess, with the head table along the side wall to the right of the hearth and the rank and file of the Mounted facing them. Every diner in this hall but one had endured six months of rigorous training at Depot Division in Regina, Saskatchewan. Regimental dinners reinforced the camaraderie that glued them into the Force. Sure, there were other police forces around the world, but all cops knew
this
tradition was as good as it gets.

The thin red line.

They always get their man.

So why did Zinc feel so emotionally detached?

Who were all these people?

Nick Craven, Rachel Kidd, Rick Scarlett, Rusty Lewis—the gang was all here, but they seemed no more to Zinc than faces in a crowd. The procession reached the head table and two drams of Scotch were poured, then DeClercq locked arms with the Highlander to snap back both single malts in the time-revered tradition of “paying the piper.” Parallel lines of red serge took their seats at the long tables, at which point it was time for another amazing grace. Zinc impressed himself that he got through the delivery of “grace before meat” without shaking his fist at God in anger for what He … She … It—whatever—had done to Alex.

You celestial psycho, he thought.

Satan damn You.

Burn in hell, God.

The first plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was handed to the deputy commissioner. Mounted protocol demands that the commanding officer at a regimental dinner personally serve the most junior member present at the feast. To applause from comrades seated around the honored constable, Deputy Commissioner Chan carried the serving from the head table to place it before a Native rookie sitting at the rear.

Zinc’s sense of detachment grew with each wave of alcohol. What had begun with hard spirits served before dinner continued with multiple bottles of wine uncorked throughout the meal. The overhead lights were dimmed as a lively dessert—mincemeat with blue brandy flames dancing a jig on top—was carried in ceremoniously and portioned out with vanilla ice cream or custard to cool it down. The head wound he had suffered in Hong Kong had put an end to Zinc’s drinking—instead, he took Dilantin to ward off epileptic fits—so by the time port was being decanted for the “loyal toast,” the inspector found himself surrounded by faces flushed as red as the sea of scarlet tunics.

It’s no fun to be sober in a crowd of drunks.

As host, DeClercq was called on to test the “potability” of the ruby red, a ritual he performed with the panache of a natural showman. A barely perceptible nod of his head acknowledged the quality of the elixir, then a bottle was passed from hand to hand along each table. By tradition, port bottles are never set down.

Glasses filled, the redcoats rose to their feet. As six bars of “God Save the Queen” were played, Bob George raised his glass.

“The Queen!” the Cree declared.

“The Queen!” the ranks responded.

Coffee and cigars were passed around to end the formalities. High spirits reigned as the group broke down into small conversational circles. A regimental dinner is for members only. No spouses, significant others, or hangers-on attend. There are, however, exceptions to every rule, and because Mad Dog Rabidowski was the hero of heroes tonight, someone on the planning committee had taken it upon himself to invite Ed’s wife, Brittany Starr.

Brittany, the ex-stripper.

And ex-hooker.

Hemingway hero that he was, Mad Dog fell into that category once known as the man’s man. With the brow of a Neanderthal and testosterone seething in his muscles, Ed seeped the musky smell of maleness from every pore. In a world of equal opportunity, Brittany Starr would qualify as the woman’s woman. With breasts out to there and a waist in to here, with bleached blonde hair and a skintight gown scooped toward her navel, the ex-ecdysiast belonged on every pinup calendar in every grease monkey’s shop from Coquitlam to Timbuktu. This, however, was a room in which all the other women had battled sexists in the Force for the right to dress like men. Having won that war, they were tonight all cinched into high-collared, straight-cut jackets and, from the look in their collective glare, were not impressed to have this creature in their midst. Especially not when Mad Dog gallantly offered his wife a phallic cigar, and Brit nibbled off the tip with her sexy mouth, then proceeded to lubricate the rolled tobacco leaf with her lips and tongue in a manner that had every male within reach offering her a light.

It’s a funny ol’ world.

“‘Hello? Is this the RCMP?’” Nick Craven held his good hand up to his ear like a phantom phone, his pinky finger the mouthpiece and his thumb the receiver.

“‘Yes,’” the corporal answered himself, mimicking the dispatcher. “‘How can we help you, sir?’

“‘I’m calling about my neighbor Joe Fitzpatrick. He’s hiding bags of pot in his woodshed.’”

“I’ve heard this one,” Mad Dog said.

“Shush, Ed,” chided Brit.

Nick pressed on with his joke.

“The next day, the drug squad raids Joe’s house. Members search the shed where he stores his firewood. They find nothing. Using axes”—Nick swung his arms as if chopping wood—“they bust open and split up every log round in the place. Again, the narcs find nothing. So, frustrated, they leave.

“Ring,”
said Nick, trilling his tongue. “Joe answers the phone in his house.

“‘Hey, Joe, did the Mounties come?’ the snitch asks.

“‘Yeah, they just left.’

“‘Did they chop your firewood?’

“‘Every stick.’

“‘Happy birthday, buddy.’”

Barks of boozy laughter punctuated the joke. Though an anchor of depression weighed him down, Zinc managed to muster up a weak smile for Nick.

Brit blew a smoke ring up to form a halo above her blonde head. “Whaddaya say, boys? Do you want to hear the one about the Mountie who stops the dumb blonde for speeding?”

Judging from the size of the circle of men coalescing around Brit, a lot of those present did want to hear—and watch—the ex-stripper tell a funny. In fact, they’d probably stick around if all she did was read stock quotes.

“‘I pulled you over for speeding, ma’am,’ the Mountie says. ‘May I see your driver’s license?’

“‘License?’ replies the blonde, revealing how dumb she is.

“‘It’s usually in your wallet,’ the Mountie says.

“A lot of searching later, the blonde finds her license.

“‘Next, I need your registration,’ the Mountie says.

“‘Registration?’ says the blonde, proving she’s really dumb.

“‘It’s usually in the glove compartment,’ says the Mountie.

“After a lot of fumbling, she finally finds the registration.

“The Mountie takes the documents back to his car, where he calls dispatch to check her out. A moment or two later, a voice comes over the line. ‘Um, by any chance is she driving a red sports car?’

“‘Yes,’ replies the Mountie.

“‘Is she a drop-dead gorgeous blonde?’ asks dispatch.

“When the Mountie confirms she is, the voice over the radio says, ‘Trust me, here’s what you do …’

“The Mountie strolls back to the sports car and hands the blonde her papers. Then he drops his pants like the dispatcher advised and waits to see what happens. The blonde looks down, shakes her head and rolls her eyes.”