"Where's the term 'Zebra' from?" Genevieve asked.
"The police radio band used in the case."
"And you think Zodiac was a similar form of cult?"
"Yes, but he was never caught. He or they, that is."
"Isn't it 'they' if you're talking about a cult?"
"Not by my definition. A single killer may think that he's part of a group — even if the rest of the cult exists only in his head. Zodiac used to send messages to the police bearing an astrological sign and stating that when he died he'd be reborn in Paradise with all the people he had killed as his slaves."
"Sounds like 'Reverend' Jim Jones and his Guyana cult."
"Exactly. So what do you think?"
Again there was some silence, then Genevieve said: "I agree that the totem pole must have some form of meaning. I also agree that there could very easily be a radical fringe group within the Red Power movement. The fact the heads are missing is certainly bizarre. But don't you think that cannibalism is stretching it a bit?"
"Perhaps. But then there's a precedent in the Hamatsa. It all depends on just how weird this cult or killer is."
"Don't we have a book on that?"
"Yes, it's in the spare room bookcase. On the lower shelf."
"The title?"
"A History of the Potlatch."
"Hold on. I'll go and get it."
DeClercq heard Genevieve put down the phone, and her footsteps creak a floorboard. For several minutes he sat in his office with his eyes closed imagining the scene at his home. His wife would be dressed in one of four floor-length bathrobes. She'd have it belted at the waist and as she walked the slit front would reveal glimpses of her legs.
Over the years, Robert DeClercq had certainly enjoyed the show. For in her own way Genevieve was as much an actress as Kate had been.
Then the thought of Kate brought back the scene of that leaf-strewn, windswept graveyard. His eyes snapped open and he shook off a sudden chill.
During the early years of his second marriage DeClercq was always touched by guilt when he remembered his first family. Not an hour seemed to pass without a thought of Kate or Jane. Particularly Janie sitting on his knee. When the Superintendent remembered Kate, often as not his mind would return to that night in New York when he met her. The month had been November, just before Thanksgiving.
DeClercq had been in New York for an extradition hearing. An NYPD homicide cop, on learning that the Canadian Corporal enjoyed a night of theater, had offered to get him a scalped ticket for a revival play on Broadway. DeClercq had readily accepted.
The production was one of Rosmersholme,by Henrik Ibsen. Kate had played the lead.
Even today DeClercq could clearly recall the thrill, the tension, the erotic shiver that her acting had fired within him. She seemed to physically hold the stage and rivet his attention. Never before in all his life had he been stunned by such a feeling. It was strange and intangible. Just watching her seemed to fill his existence with meaning. He felt like a fool, sitting anonymously in that crowd and tumbling head over heels in love with this woman. What a wild, insane sensation.
Don't hold yourself too tight, was the thought that ran through his head. For once throw caution to the wind — go backstage and see her. Whatever have you got to lose? If you get the brush-off, you're going to recover. But if you don't try it.. My God, what an actress.
The security guard had stopped him at the door. "And just where do you think you're going, my friend?" the heavyset man had asked him.
"I was hoping to get backstage. Isn't this the way?"
"You got a pass to get there?"
"No."
"Then for you this is not the way."
It was only for a moment that DeClercq had hesitated. Then he'd reached into his pocket and flashed his Regimental Shield. "Is this pass enough?" Then leaning forward he had whispered, "Let's avoid a scene."
The guard had let him through.
Well, what's a little fraud in the name of love?he pondered. He certainly had no legitimate business backstage — why, ninety-nine percent of the males in the audience that night must have fallen in love — and his shield held no authority in the USA. Yet there he was wandering the corridors, searching out the dressing rooms, fearing exposure at any moment for his amorous deceit, his heart beating in his throat while sweat dripped from his armpits, asking someone for the way and then before he knew it, knocking on the door. It had suddenly occurred to him that he'd thought of nothing to say.
"You enter at your own risk," called a voice beyond the door. "Take warning, I'm not dressed."
And now here he was almost twenty-five years later, sitting at his desk and imagining another unattired wife.
Patterns, DeClercq thought. Then: Janie, how I miss you.
Again and again in those early days of his second marriage, the Superintendent had told himself that it was wrong and unhealthy to spend so much time in the past. Things happen. That's life. Or fate. Or God-knows-what. The living go on living. Sure they had been good times, but that part of life was over. Besides, think of her.
You're a lucky man, Robert DeClercq, who's acting like a fool. Few men are fortunate enough to find love once in their lives. And you've found it twice. Can't you get it through your head that any other man in your position would be down on his knees in prayer that Genevieve came along? Where would you be now had she not picked up the pieces?
But then he would think of Jane, and that toothless baby smile.
DeClercq had never seen Kate as happy as the day their daughter was born. In truth he had never been as happy himself. Then promoted to Sergeant within the RCMP, he had stood in that Montreal hospital room and watched his wife, hair matted and streaked with sweat, cradle the newborn infant lovingly in her arms. He had been overwhelmed by the sight of that shriveled-up, wrinkled prune. But a prune with such eyes.
Many years later that same image had been in his mind on a cold snowy night in December, when sitting in front of the embers of a rapidly dying fire, the wind of winter wailing along the coast of West Vancouver, Genevieve had touched his arm and crouched down to sit beside him. "You look troubled, Robert. Tell me what's the matter."
"Just thinking," he had said.
"About Kate or Jane?" she inquired.
"About Kate and Jane, I guess." He had poked at the fire.
"It wasn't your fault, Robert. I wish you'd remember that. I wish somehow I knew a way to lessen the hurt."
DeClercq had looked at her with veiled sadness in his eyes. "You do, Genny. I mean it. Every minute. Every day. I really don't know where I'd be without you. I love you and I need you — but still I feel this guilt."
"For what? Their deaths? Your life? The hand that Fate has dealt you? Robert, you've got to learn to be easier on yourself. It wasn't your fault!"
"Wasn't it, Genny? I think it was. If I hadn't been a cop it never would have happened."
"If you hadn't been a cop you'd have never got backstage. And you never would have met her. And if you hadn't met her, you would never have had the child and all the joy she gave you. It may have been a short time, but Robert, it was worth it. I know that. And you know it too. Besides, if you hadn't been a cop I'd never have met you either. Then where would I be? Can you give me an answer?"
"You wouldn't be with a man who can't forget the past."
"I wouldn't be with you, love. And that's all that matters." Then ever so softly — was it spoken? — she whispered to the fire: "Oh God, I'd give my very life to bear you another child."