Ripper (27 page)

Eyes the hue of Caribbean lagoons.

Narrow, delicate chin around a kissable mouth.

Fine-boned nose just the right length.

But how she moved, this ballerina, was what captured him.

Grace under fire.

The quest of his dreams.

Zinc touched the indent in his forehead, subconsciously hiding it.

He wished—God how he wished—he was the man he once had been.

So he might stand a chance with her.

Not this cripple.

The only seat vacant was beside Lou Bolt. While the dock attendant stored her bag in back, the blonde climbed up into the plane and smiled at everyone. "Sorry I'm late, but cross-border shoppers clogged Peach Arch. I'm Alex Hunt," she said as the engines coughed to life.

Sitting, Alex turned to search for the buckle-half of her seat belt, a move that stretched her clothes tight around her lithe figure. The resulting wink that passed between two of the passengers flashed a genetic insight through Zinc's mind. Hive billion sex drives stalk this shrinking Earth, insatiable predators locked in a danse macabre that keeps us procreating, most aggressive, some repressed, the rest diseased or fucked-up in a mutant way, and all controlled by the irrational limbic core of our brain.

Lou Bolt gave Alex the once-over and groped his crotch.

Luna Darke ogled Alex's breasts.

Deadman's Island 

3:37
P.M.

Bleak was the word.

Forlorn, perhaps.

Beyond the mountain backbone of Vancouver Island; beyond Quatsino, Kyuquot, Nootka, and Clayoquot Sounds; beyond the ragged outer edge of Canada's West Coast; the unbridled Pacific crashed in from the Orient. Here, too, the land, the sea, and the sky were sullen gray with rain, cowering before a black armada gathering to the West, besieged by cumulonimbus galleons flying the Jolly Roger. Miles offshore where it would bear the brunt of the attack, a black hump broke from the sea like doomed Atlantis.

Bleak was the word.

Cursed, perhaps.

The plane creaked and groaned as it was buffeted by the gale. Approaching the hump from the southeast across Nootka Sound, the pilot circled the island in a sharp ear-popping descent. Deadman's Island was crescent-shaped, its blunted spear point a rugged bluff jabbing the furious sea, both barbs sloping east to cup Skeleton Cove. Deadman's Island was 600 acres of sparsely wooded land, the trees brave enough to root here bent by the lash of constant wind, with brooding Castle Crag surmounting the cliffed promontory. Captain Cook had passed this way in 1778 when he became the first European to set foot in B.C., but he'd shown the good sense to avoid the island and land at Friendly Cove. Beneath the morbid mansion crowning the broken precipice, the sea launched suicide runs against the lichened bluff, blowing spray like the huge gray whales that spouted offshore each spring. This time of year, the whales were gone and so were the otters that basked on the kelp bee clinging to the rocks, abandoning Deadman's Island to the cormorants nesting in the crumbling cliff-face, and furtive mammals scurrying from tree to tree, occasionally picked off by one of the bald eagles soaring overhead. Depending on the mood of the sea, there might be a beach at the foot of the cliff when the tide retreated.

Bleak was the word.

Damned, perhaps.

The waves assaulting Deadman's Island were five feet high, but Skeleton Cove was calm enough for the floatplane to land.
Bfoom . . . bfoom . . . bfoom
. . . the pontoons water-skied, then the aircraft taxied toward its rocking mate. The passengers from the earlier flight were now onshore, huddled together for protection from the relentless downpour, all eight male, with seven standing and one in a wheelchair. A boat from Tofino had shuttled them from the plane, as there was no permanent dock for the Grumman Goose to use. The boat was now fencing their luggage ashore.

Indian Island,
Zinc thought, remembering Agatha Christie. He'd seen the 1945 version of
And Then There Were None
when he was a kid with mumps.

Half an hour later, both planes took off, chased by the boat seeking shelter from the storm. Weather permitting, they'd return late Sunday morning. After the drone of the engines died, there was only Nature's raw voice.

"Well, well," Franklen said, gazing around. "The setting couldn't be better if I'd designed it myself."

"I hope there's electricity and hot water," said Yates.

"Let's hump the gear up to the Old Dark House," said! Bolt. "I don't know about you guys, but I could use a drink. Got a bottle of single malt Cragganmore in my duffel bag."

Zinc sighed.
Avoid alcohol and sleeplessness,
he thought.

"At least there's one sign of life . . . or death," said Darke. She pointed to a warning sign staked on the beach.

beware of attack dogs.

White on black.

Embellished with a skull & crossbones.

Owl Prowl

North Vancouver 

2:11
P.M.

From the Biological Sciences Building at UBC, Nick drove east to the downtown core, then through Stanley Park onto Lions Gate Bridge to reach the North Shore. He turned up Capilano Road, climbing Grouse Mountain, and past the Fish Hatchery downriver from Cleveland Dam found the gate that guarded the Capilano Watershed. Rain was bouncing inches off the ground as Nick got out of the car.

An hour ago, he had lunched with Sandra Wong and Marty Fink in the SUB cafeteria of the Student Union Building. The freshpersons around them were hyped by the prospect of exams, and Nick's hamburger tasted like the meat was camel dung. He was sure the coffee was drained from an oil pan.

"Comments from the peanut gallery are welcome," he said. "One of the killers we're hunting bagged a spotted owl. He tracked it by searching the forest floor for owl pellets, which he collected in his pocket as he went. The woods in question are one of the two North Shore watersheds. He later gutted the bagged owl with a taxidermy knife, and during the process lice stuck to the blade. When the knife was used to stab Brigid Marsh, the bugs were transferred to her wounds. That's why they were found at the autopsy."

The girl at the next table fondled her boyfriend's butt. Two Engineers in red jackets reading back issues of
The Red Rag
took a moment to strip her with their eyes.

"Yesterday, wearing the same coat," Nick continued, "the killer hung the second victim from the totem pole. Anxious to drive around the point to dump the third body, he reached for his car keys and snagged one of the pellets. Unnoticed, it fell to the foot of the totem where it was later found."

"Comment," Fink said, his arm shooting up like a student in class. "Both watersheds are off-bounds to the public. They're fenced in and secured by guarded gates. The GVRD religiously patrols all roads and trails, so hikers who wander in through the woods are quickly expelled. Repeat offenders are prosecuted. The Capilano and Seymour Watersheds cover twenty thousand hectares each. Search that large an area for owl pellets and you are going to get nabbed. Conclusion? The killer's owl prowl took place at night."

"How big's twenty thousand hectares?"

"About eighty square miles."

"Then how, pray tell, do you bag a spotted owl in the dark?"

"Sex," Fink said. "Owls locate sounds at night better than all other birds. They see more in the dark than humans do in daylight. If you want to bag an owl at night you imitate its call. Windless evenings are best for prowls since sound caries better and is easier to locate. Moonlight helps. Midwinter to spring—starting now—is the time owls are most vocal because they're establishing territory. Obtain a cassette of recorded hoots by a spotted owl, then enter an old-growth habitat and broadcast the tape. If a spotted owl's within earshot, it will return the call, throat puffing as it emits eerie, tremulous sounds. If the tape doesn't get a response, move and try again. An alternative method is imitating the owl's hoots yourself. The bird will fly close to investigate, expecting a mate or sexual adversary. It'll arrive noiselessly, but flashing a light will catch its orange-red eyeshine. That's when you shoot it with a camera or a gun.

"I told you there are only three or four spotted owls near here. All roost and hunt in the North Shore watersheds. If the lice in the wounds and the pellet found at the base of the totem came from one of the watershed owls, it's possible the poacher was seen by a GVRD guard."

So that's why Nick drove from UBC up Grouse Mountain to the gate that blocked public access to the Capilano Watershed.

Sloshing through the bouncing rain, he knocked on the guardhouse door.

"It's open," a gruff voice shouted from within.

The guardhouse was a single-story green-and-white shack to the left of the access road. The road was blocked by a chain with flapping pink streamers, while the crossing arm was raised like a black-and-yellow striped finger telling the storm "Up yours!" Right of the road, a lean-to sheltered the Forest Fire Hazard Warning sign. The graph along the bottom was graded
Very Low, Low, Moderate, High,
and
Extreme.
Some joker up to his ears in runoff had pushed the sliding arrow to the
Extreme
mark. Above the blocked road that vanished into waterlogged trees, the Grouse Mountain Skyride fed skiers to the clouds.

The white linoleum floor within led to a fridge, stove, sink, and small TV tuned to
I Love Lucy.
Against the window to the right overlooking the access road were a desk, metal cabinet, and radio phones by a speaker labeled
security
. The man with his feet up on the desk was drinking a mug of coffee. He wore a blue baseball cap with the GVRD crest, a navy blue sweater and navy blue pants over a potbelly, and the thickest pair of woolly socks Nick had ever seen. His jowly face combined the sad features of Droopy and Deputy Dawg. Craven and Chandler shared a trait essential for anyone keeping an eye on politics and groovy social trends: namely a firm grounding in the wisdom of cartoons.

Nick flashed the tin.

"Cup of coffee?" the guard asked, making no move to get it.

"No thanks," Nick said, saving him the strain.

"It's Starbucks Sulawesi. A man can't afford good coffee, it's time he topped himself."

"On second thought, where do I find a cup?"

"Far left cupboard. Bottom shelf."

The mugs were an exercise in gender-sensitive humor. The first was stenciled
In Her Teens,
the second
In Her Twenties,
etc. Moving up the scale, each stripper had saggier breasts.

"Busy day?" Nick asked, choosing a mug and filling it from the pot on the stove.

"The usual," the guard said, swiveling in his chair. "There'll be thirty-five in and out before the day is through. Parks Department. Weather Station. Water samplers. Seismic people. Chlorination mechanics. Our own boys. And logging crews. They all sign in," he added, tapping his clipboard chart.

"What if someone uninvited slips by you?"

"Chance of that is next to nil," the guard replied. "But hey, I'm human. Bears shit in the woods. I use the john."

"Like someone trying to bag a spotted owl?" said Nick.

"That why you're here? You found the car?"

"Getting close," Nick said, "so thought I'd hear it from you." He kept his interest muted: just two guys having a chat. Low-key always plumbed the important details. Play up your excitement and fantasy crept in. Limelight lures.

"Nothing more, really, than's in my report. A week ago, ten days, one of the Parks Department told me on the way out he'd heard a spotted owl in the woods. Said the hooting was two klicks up and east of the Cap Main line. My son was here so I had him watch the gate. If it was a spotted owl, shit would hit the fan. Logging's expanding in the shed and some folks want to stop it. Look what the bird's done to Oregon."

"What time was this?"

"Bit after eight."

"Date?"

"A week Wednesday.
Unsolved Mysteries
was on."

"You try to solve this one?"

"Bet your ass. No one's ever seen the Cap shed spotted owl. It's like Ogopogo and the Loch Ness Monster. Maybe it's here. Maybe not."

"Is it?" Nick asked.

"Not that night."

Deputy Dawg—his name was Floyd—led the Mountie to a map taped on the back of the door. The wall beside it was hooked with keys for the Fireshed and Mountain Highway Gate, and bracketed with a fire extinguisher and first-aid kit. The map was a topographical print marked with the various access roads throughout the watershed: Cap Main running north for twenty-five kilometers beside Capilano Lake, with branches forking from it like a tree.

"Two klicks up, I parked the truck near Grouse Creek. It flows west above the Skyride parking lot." Floyd pinpointed the location on the map. "Damn if I didn't hear the owl, so I hiked in, and there was this guy in a parka playing a spotted owl tape. He ran when I yelled." "Description?"

"Sorry. Didn't see his face. Just the blue parka with a hood."

"Then what?"

"I chased him. We're not allowed to arrest. And he lumped over the barbwire fence into the gondola lot. I got to the fence as he squealed away."

"Car?"

"Red. Toyota. Datsun. Some sorta Jap import. Can't tell those invaders apart. I always buy a Chev. Economy'd still be strong if everyone did the same."

Nick held his breath. "License plate?"

"As I said in my report, the light was poor. And the guy was leaving at quite a clip. My boss checked and found the plate was on a car visiting Disneyland that night. Guess I got it wrong."

"What'd you think you saw?"

Deputy Dawg checked a note taped to the desk. "B.C. plate. ZMY 353."

At Cleveland Dam, Cap Road became Nancy Greene Way, named for Canada's Olympic ski champ. Continuing up the mountain, Nick drove through Grouse Woods to the Skyride parking lot, advertised as
The Peak of Vancouver.
The gondola car coming down was covered with snow, an accurate weather report on what the storm was doing up top. Passing under the Skyride cables, he parked at the far edge of the lot beside the barbwire fence that sealed the watershed.