There was nothing to put his finger on, other than perhaps a certain tone that came through in the Superintendent's voice, but the Commissioner was far too shrewd a leader not to know that every man at war has a breaking point. It was fair to say that the Force was now facing a challenge far out on its western flank that was quite unlike any war that it had ever fought before. The difference was that public hysteria was mounting at a mathematical rate. Chartrand was receiving reports. He knew that incidents of violence involving women in Vancouver were exploding in number, mostly over-reaction to minor situations. People were frightened. That fear was building every day the killer wasn't caught. And every day the pressure on DeClercq screwed up a notch.
Chartrand was worried that Robert DeClercq might be near that breaking point.
It had happened to the man who led the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper. It could easily happen in Vancouver.
What am I doing in Ottawa? the Commissioner asked himself. The true place of a General is with his men in the field.
Then Chartrand reached for a cigarette and knew he had made up his mind.
Tomorrow he'd go to Vancouver; tomorrow he'd meet with DeClercq. It was time to troop the colors. And to bring out the uniform.
Vancouver, British Columbia
Thursday, November 11th, 3:45 a.m.
"Sparky."
"Shut up! Go away! Fuckin' leave me alone!"
"Sparky, now really, is that the way you talk to your mother?"
"You're dead! Get lost! I know you can't be here!"
"Sparky, I'm waiting for you. Come down and stroke my hair.
"No!"
"Soft, soft, so soft — and how long and black it is. Black, black, black, child. Black as the time of night.
"Mother, why must you torment me? Why won't you leave me alone!"
"Because I love you, Sparky."
"No you don't. You make me do awful things."
"Sparky, how can we have pleasure — unless we also have pain?"
"Well, I won't do what you ask!"
"You'll do anything I say."
"No I won't."
"Yes you will."
"No I won't."
"Then I'll tell "
Silence.
"It makes no difference to me, Sparky. I'm well-hidden away. It's you who they'll cage like an animal. And you'll have no one to talk to. They'll all think you're weird."
"I'll find someone else."
"Bullshit, Sparky. You know that isn't possible. I've fixed you so that I will be the only lover you ever have."
"I hate you, Mother! You hear that? I hate, hate, hate… AUUGGHH!"
"Now will you do what I say?"
"Oh, please, no, no, no. Don't do that a… AUUGGHH!"
"Child, that one's just to make sure."
"Oh, please, please, please, it hurts too much. Don't do that again."
"Then come, child, come. Let's hear your footsteps on the stairs.
"I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm coming."
"Oh, Sparky. Please. What are those tears? Come downstairs and stroke my hair and let's feel good together. Tell me you love me, child."
"I do. I mean it. I love you. Mommy. Mommy, you fucking cunt!"
No, Sir, that thing in the Mask was never Dr. Jekyll
5:43 a.m.
By the time the sun came up that morning Natasha Wilkes was ready and waiting. With a cup of coffee in her hand, she watched from the cabin window as the orange rim of the solar crescent broke through the horizon. Then she buttoned up her parka, picked up her gloves, and walked outside into the mountain air.
Her cross-country skis were still leaning against the north wall of the log chalet where she had placed them the night before, but now they were coated with frost. For several minutes she worked at cleaning them off, then she stood up straight and stretched, her eyes scanning far down Seymour Mountain to the waking city below. Poor schmucks, Natasha thought, just another working day. Then she recalled that it was Remembrance Day and that no one would be at labor. The thought pissed her off. That meant people on the slopes.
At twenty-seven Natasha Wilkes was already established as the city's foremost movie critic. She held Fine Arts degrees from both London and New York. She went to work on an average day at four o'clock, sat in a theater for a couple of hours watching films, then went home to write her column and pack it in by ten. And if landing that job wasn't good enough, yesterday she had sold her first romantic novel.
Natasha Wilkes felt elated. Life was going well for her.
After using blue Swix wax on her Silva skis, she snapped the skis on to her feet. Though it was only November, already the mountain was covered with snow and was building up a good base — and that meant a super ski year. She pulled her toque down over her ears, fluffed her black hair on her shoulders, then gripping a bamboo pole in each gloved hand set off down the trail. At least for a while, she thought, I should have the mountain to myself.
By 6:25 that morning she had worked up a very good sweat. Natasha Wilkes was now standing on a small precipice about fifteen feet upslope from the Seymour River. The water below was rushing with run-off, crystal-clear and cold. Unhooking her pack and removing a thermos, the woman poured herself some hot chocolate.
At first she did not see the skier who had just come around a bend in the trail ahead. The steam was rising thick from her cup and the sight of Vancouver stretched out below was commanding her attention. When she did see the figure approaching her it was with a tinge of resentment. For when Natasha Wilkes skied in the mountains, she liked to be alone. Now there was a crowd.
The skier had first come into view thirty feet from Natasha. At fifteen feet Natasha noticed that the figure was all bundled up and wearing a full face mask. That seemed a little strange to her, for the season was not midwinter. And besides this was cross-country, not downhill. All she could see was a break for the mouth and two small holes for the eyes.
When the skier was seven yards away, Wilkes drained her cup.
At five yards distance she screwed the lid on the thermos.
At three she stashed the container back in her pack and went to zip it up.
Then she noticed that the tips of both pairs of skis were finger-locked together, yet still this person didn't make the slightest move to stop.
Asshole, Natasha Wilkes thought as they were face to face. Then she went to open her mouth and say, "Why don't you watch what you're doing?" But before she could get the words from her throat, the karate chop cut her down.
By the time that the woman stopped tumbling she was just three feet from the river.
Still dazed, her mind didn't register the knife cutting away the front of her pants.
11:10 a.m.
"Full dress parade!" Rick Scarlett exclaimed. "What the hell is that for?"
"Maybe 'cause it's Remembrance Day and the Force lost men in the wars. Or maybe it's 'cause the Commissioner is flying in this morning," William Tipple said.
"Just great," Spann said. "As if we've nothing else to do."
They were now sitting in the White Spot with a second cup of coffee. Finally they had connected, for yesterday when Scarlett and Spann had tried to find Tipple they had once again been told the man was out of town. He had been up in Kelowna giving evidence at a trial. "We've lost Hardy," Scarlett said abruptly. "Join the club," the Corporal said. "We've lost track of Rackstraw."