Primal Scream (3 page)

Katt on Flying to Paris

Cranky and impatient, the herd of passengers files through the doorway into the plane like grunting cattle into a slaughterhouse. Let's face it, there's no fun in a ten-hour plane ride to anywhere, not when your seat's in "economy" with a shrieking baby across the aisle and a five-year-old ants-in-his-pants seat kicker behind. I find my cramped cell, aptly labeled 13A, and open the overhead bin to take a knapsack to the face. No sooner am I seated than the captain speaks in the same voice I expect he'll use to say the last remaining engine just dropped off in flight: "Sorry for the delay, folks. A small mechanical check. We'll be underway soon, so sit back and enjoy the flight."

A small mechanical check of what?

I glance out the window.

Since when did they start flying two-engine planes for ten hours over the Arctic and the Atlantic Ocean in winter. . . ?

In Paris he had asked her what she wanted to see the most. "Sewers and
Katt
acombs." He'd led her around the Louvre for a little culture. Katt on Venus de Milo: "Just think how much more she'd be worth, Bob, if only the statue had arms." Katt on the sculpture of Romulus and Remus being suckled by the shewolf: "Lucky it was Romulus, not Remus, who founded Rome. Or it'd be called Reme." Passing Flemish paintings in the Richelieu Wing, he'd told her, "DeClercq's a Belgian form of the French Leclerc. DeClercqs were noted architects in the Flemish Renaissance and no doubt built some of the buildings in these paintings." Katt: "So why can't you hammer a nail without bashing your thumb?"

An artist on the bridge crossing the Seine to the Musee d'Orsay gave her his beret when she oohed and aahed over his work. For such a smart ass, she did ooze charm. The hat would join
a hundred
cha
peaux
in the Mad Hatter's bedroom back home.

"Manet," announced DeClercq, as they entered Salle 31 on the Musee's upper level of Impressionists' paintings.

"Yes, of course, Monet," echoed Katt, flamboyantly sweeping an arm around the art hung on the walls. "Such distinctive style. I'd know it anywhere."

"Monet's in the next room. This is Manet, Katt."

"That's what I said. Manet. Listen up, Bob."

The best french fries in Paris are served at Brasserie Balzar. "The Existentialists Camus and Sartre had their last argument here. Both got the Nobel prize, but Sartre turned it down."

"Which do you prefer, Bob?"

"Camus," said DeClercq.

"Sartre is better."

"No, Camus."

"Sartre."

"Camus."

"Sartre."

"Camus. What gives, Katt? You've read neither."

"No, but when I'm rich and famous, this brasserie will also be known for Katt and Bob's first argument on Existentialism."

"I thought you were joining the Mounted. You won't be rich and famous."

"I'll be writing best-sellers on the side. In fact, I'm plotting one now."

He wondered if it would be a farce about an ingenue loose in the City of Lights.

A three-hour train ride westward had brought them to Domfront. La Maison de la Resistance was owned by an American diplomat in Vancouver. Bounded by steep, narrow cobblestone street
s, this turn-of-the-century
maison de mai
tre
provided four stories of elegant motifs for them to explore. In the Puzzle Room (all names by Katt) they worked a two thousand-piece jigsaw. In Bob's News Room DeClercq savored his morning London
Times
. The Sunset Rooms were stacked one to a floor, up which they chased the bloody sun as it went down. With so many boudoirs, Katt passed each night in a different bed, and would spend tomorrow washing sheets. From here the pair had sallied forth to conquer Normandy, up to the Bayeux Tapestry, or across to Mont St. Michel, or hiking out into the countryside, a rural haven of farms, manors, towns, and tranquillity unchanged for centuries.

This
maison
took its name from the previous owner, Monsieur Andre Rougeyron, the former town mayor. During World War II he had distinguished himself as a hero of the French Resistance, hiding shot-down Allied airmen here in this house while a portion was commandeered as headquarters for the Nazis occupying Domfront. In 1944 he was arrested and sent to Buchenwald, shortly before the Allies stormed the beaches of Normandy to push back the Germans and create the "Liberty Way." Rougeyron won the Medal of Freedom from the U.S. Army and was awarded the OBE by King George VI.

With such heroics in this abode, DeClercq wondered if Katt was writing a novel of wartime suspense and adventure.

"So what's the plot?" he asked. The teenager tossed her pen in the air and caught it coming down. "Domfront's a gold mine of inspiration, Bob. Remember when I ordered
andouillette a la creme de moutarde
at Le Gourmet? The chef came out and warned me English people don't like that." She poked her belly as he had done. "It's made of guts. What's the word? Chitlins in the South?"

"Like Scots' haggis, reputation precedes it."

"That got me thinking, Bob, about the gourmet butchers scattered around town. There's a charcuterie down every medieval street. And that's how
The Mad Charcutier
came to mind."

"That's your title?"

"Catchy, eh? You got to know the market. Blood 'n' guts sells."

"I get this feeling the Tourist Office isn't going to like it."

Katt grinned. "They were the ones who gave me the next idea. You know how all their brochures contain the Legend of the Hanged Man? Jean Barbotte
? La Legende du Pendut
How's that ditty go?"

"Ah Domfront! . . . Ville de malheur!

"Arrive a midi, pendu a une heure!

"Ah Domfront! . . . Town of misfortune!

"Arrive at noon, hanged in an hour!"

"Poor Jean went to the gallows in December 1569. Now his descendant, Monsieur Lardons—"

"Mister Bacon Bits?"

"Bob, the name of a character should fit his role in the novel. He's the Mad Charcutier, who thinks he is possessed by the ghost of Jean. Each December, Monsieur Lardons stuffs special
andouilles
sausages for the town on the anniversary of Barbotte's hanging. And each year the day before, someone goes missing near the castle of Domfront."

In the gilded mirror across the room stood another DeClercq. Fifty-something, with dark, wavy hair graying at the temples, his aquiline nose suggesting arrogance he didn't have, a shadow of beard under the skin of his narrow jaw. Palms up, this twin mimicked a Gallic shrug of the shoulders that said,
Think of the money we could have saved by booking Katt on a trip through the morgue back home
. Downstairs in the Puzzle Room, the phone was ringing.

Out to the hall, and his back to the stained glass door in the foyer, Robert ran down the oak staircase to catch the seventh ring.

“Allo?”

"Chief? It's Zinc. Sorry to interrupt the close of your vacation, but I thought you should know something weird's happening here."

"Weird how?"

"You were mailed a shrunken head."

Vancouver Airport South

"The Mad Trapper of Rat River. Now, that was a bush hunt."

Rafe "Bush" Dodd was a rough, tough, gruff s.o.b. To Spann he looked like Lee Marvin on a bad day, hair cut short as if he cropped it himself, skin akin to leather from weather in the Yukon, stubble bristling from jowls and jaw. Despite the rain his eyes were hidden by aviator shades, under a baseball cap with the logo of the Canucks, but the tilt of his head told her every glance sideways was aimed at her breasts. Dodd's muscled chest filled out his sleeveless green down-filled vest, while street fighter's hands strained at the cuffs of his red checked lumberjack shirt. Bush was a macho man who wore his oily jeans tight over a groin bulge large enough to threaten both sexes.

"Strap in," he said as he revved up the engine and let go of the brakes to launch the Beaver down the runway and up toward the sky. Rain sprayed the cockpit and streaked along both sides as the buzz saw of the single prop assailed her ears, the Beaver skidding and bumping up through the turbulent air. As Sea Island disappeared below and the muddy Fraser River snaked from the inland valley ahead, Bush banked north and the smothering gray clouds swallowed them up.

The plane leveled out, and the buzz saw softened to a drone.

"You see that film?"

"What film?"

"Death Hunt
," replied Dodd.

"Doubt
it," Spann said. "Who'd it star?"

"Bronson and Marvin."

"You must be reading my mind."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Marvin. I was just thinking of him."

"He played the Mountie. Bronson the Mad Trapper. I was pissed no one big played Wop May."

To Spann, Hollywood didn't know jackshit about the Force. If it wasn't
Rose Marie
cradled in the Mountie's arms while he crooned "Indian Love Call" to her, it was the sickly sweet pap of li'l Shirley Temple in
Susannah of the Mounties
, or Texas Ranger Gary Cooper reining in to teach the
Northwest Mounted Police
how to ride their range, or Jack Nicholson stealing a detachment's horses while its Members sang in church in
Missouri Breaks
, or Kevin Costner as Eliot Ness and flatfooted Sean Connery giving a "Captain" of the Force—with a zillion-dollar budget, DePalma couldn't afford a phone call to be told there was no such rank?—a lesson in how to police. To Hollywood, dress an American in Red Serge and he became a Mountie, a game of the emperor's new clothes as bogus as English Shakespeareans thinking a Midatlantic accent passed them off as Yanks.

"I was born fifty years too late," said Dodd. "The Mad Trapper. The Lost Patrol. The Last Frontier. That's what I call action."

"Yeah," Spann agreed.

The Mad Trapper of Rat River was the stuff of legend. A short, wiry drifter about forty years old, Albert Johnson had rafted down the Peel River to Fort McPherson in the north in 1931. He purchased an arsenal of guns from the Hudson's Bay Company, then built himself a hermit's cabin near the Rat River. When local Indians complained of tampering with their traplines, Inspector Eames sent two constables mushing sixty-five miles by dog sled to search the cabin. Johnson refused to answer pounding on his door, so Constable King raised an ax to chop it in, and that's when a bullet ripped through the wood to hit the cop just below the heart. Constable McDowell blazed back with his revolver, then carried the wounded man to his sled and strapped him down.

Spann heard the crack of the whip in her mind, and felt the jerk as the exhausted dogs were urged to pull; then she was off with King on that grueling, heroic race of twenty hours across the Arctic hi bitterly cold, -42 degrees Celsius weather, to reach Aklavik's hospital in the nick of time.

Using the Voice of the Northern Lights to summon a posse, Eames trapped the trapper in his fort on January 10, 1932. Snow fell and wind tossed the spruce trees as Mounties circled the squat cabin with gun slits through its logs. A fifteen-hour firefight erupted during which the Force dynamited the blockhouse twice, but after the smoke cleared, Johnson was gone.

The fugitive slyly outfoxed his pursuers for weeks by tramping up creek beds so no snow would leave tracks, or by trudging in ever widening circles until he seemed to vanish, wearing his snowshoes backward to baffle the hunters. On January 30, smoke was noticed twisting up from a deep ravine, investigation of which led the cops to Johnson behind a fallen tree barricade. Twilight was upon them as the Mounties plowed through deep snow into the gorge, where a marksman's shot from Johnson dropped Constable Millen dead. By dawn next morning, the killer had escaped.

The manhunt in the Arctic caught the public's imagination. The Canadian press tagged Johnson as the "Mad Trapper," and millions more followed the chase over the new medium of radio. American newspapers had corned the motto and printed:
Will the Mounties get their man this time?
Inspector Eames was livid. Johnson had twice outwitted the Force, and by now could be anywhere along the Arctic Circle. By traveling solo and living off the land, the quarry, not the hunters, had logistics on his side.

That's when the call went out for Wop May.

Lieutenant Wilfred "Wop" May had earned his reputation flying Sopwith Camels in World War I, where he and Roy Brown, another Canuck, shot down and killed "Red Baron" Manfred von Richthofen. (You thought it was Snoopy?) He returned a hero to Edmonton in 1919 and began the first commercial bush operation in Canada, doing wing walking over rodeos for promotion. Eames asked May to track Johnson from the air, so on February 3, 1932, he pulled the starter of his Bellanca Pacemaker to whirl the propeller into a blur, easing the throttle ahead until the skis began to slide along the snowy runway, and he took off to bank north through a blizzard to rendezvous with the Mounted Police at the junction of the Rat and Peel rivers.

In her imagination, Spann sat in the seat beside Wop May. The plane flew low to crisscross the white waste as she tried to spot Johnson's tracks with field glasses. Then she saw them, almost eroded by snowdrifts, heading west toward the mountains dividing the Yukon from Alaska. It took weeks to follow the trail, as Johnson used caribou tracks to hide his own, but finally May spotted the Mad Trapper on the frozen Eagle River.

Police dogs barking, the Mounties closed in. Then-quarry shed his snowshoes and made for the bank, trying to claw his way up the steep slope. When Staff Sergeant Hersey of the Signals Corps neared, Johnson shot him in the lungs and one knee. The police fanned out along the riverbanks, and opened fire as Johnson struggled across the open ice. Burrowing into the snow with his pack for a rifle rest, he answered the Mounties' demands he give up by blazing back. Bullets ripped into his shoulders, hip, and legs; then he was killed by a shot which shattered his spine.

May landed the bush plane in a billow of snow and waded hip-deep to the body. The emaciated, twisted face was frozen in a grimace. The gaping mouth in a matted beard seemed to laugh at the police. A tin can tied about his neck held $2,410 in U.S. and Canadian bills, along with several gold teeth. Who Johnson was and where he hailed from remains a mystery, and the Mad Trapper secured the myth of the Mounted Police.

Yes
, thought Spann with a mental sigh.
Those were the days.

She glanced at Dodd and knew he yearned for such a hunt, too.

It occurred to Kathy she might have been too hard on Hollywood, for had she not cast Lee Marvin as Dodd, and nothing was more Canadian than fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants bush pilots.

The plane droned on.

The hunt for the Mad Trapper demonstrated the need for police air support, so that same year the RCMP used RCAF planes to arrest rumrunners smuggling booze to the States parched by Prohibition. Flying 3,600,000 miles a year, Air Services now owned twenty-eight aircraft coast to coast, but those in E Division were all requisitioned to fly emergency response teams from B.C. detachments north to reinforce the Mad Dog at Totem Lake. Bush Dodd's Beaver was chartered as backup because he knew the area better than anyone, so that's why Spann was now in the cockpit with him.

The white waste under the plane today was a sea of clouds, with mountain peaks jutting here and there like the tips of icebergs. Hidden below the surface were the Pacific and Kitimat ranges of the Coast Mountains, which hugged the ocean from Vancouver to Prince Rupert. Above Squamish and Anahim Lake and the Nechako, the flight to Kispiox took four hours plus before they broke through the clouds over Totem Lake.

"The frying pan beneath your seat. Pass it to me," said Dodd.

The pilot turned it upside down, then wedged it in under his ass.

"What's, that for?" asked Spann.

"Billy Bishop's trick." Bishop had been Canada's flying ace in World War I, with seventy-two shoot-downs to his credit. "We're coming in over the camp, and I don't want my balls shot off."

"What about me?"

"You got balls?" said Dodd.

Of all Canadian-built bush planes the De Havilland Beaver was the best. This all-metal, high-wing monoplane powered by a 450-h.p. Pratt & Whitney Wasp Jr. engine was used in sixty countries around the world. Its excellent short-field takeoff and landing got you into and out of the wildest, most dangerous spots on Earth. The Beaver descended sharply into the valley around the lake, Dodd zipping over the treetops to skim the snowy ice, intent on catching shadows cast by any snowdrifts, for hit one of them while landing and the plane could flip. Then up they zoomed over the tents on the northern shore, Spann gazing down on the tepee and snowed-in sundance circle below as the Beaver banked in a tight arc and flew over them again.
Bffum
. . .
bffum
. . .
bffum
. . . went both skis with retracted wheels, Dodd skipping the struts over the icy lake like stones to see if the skids behind turned dark from seeping water.

Like Wop May on the Eagle River, the Beaver skated to a halt near the lake's southern shore in a billow of powder crystals.

"The snowmobile in back. Help me unload it," said Dodd.

The spew from the landing settled, but the snowfall went on, the rain storm washing Vancouver freezing up here in the north, gaps between the fluffy flakes filled with eerie silence. A silence soon deafened by the noise pollution of an approaching motor.

The last dog patrol had been made in 1969 from Old Crow in the Yukon to Fort McPherson—where Johnson rafted—in the Northwest Territories. In the same way that cars replaced horse patrols in 1916, from 1955 on snowmobile patrols replaced dog sleds.

The Mountie coming toward the plane was Staff Sergeant Bob George, whose Indian name was Ghost Keeper. A full-blooded Plains Cree from Duck Lake, Saskatchewan, he was a native medicine man strengthened by his spirit quest as a boy when he was sent alone into the wilds to learn who he was. Though not descended from one of the West Coast tribes, he was veteran of many a sweat lodge held with troubled Indian kids sent to him by elders of the totem people to rediscover magic known before white colonization. Behind such conquest had come Residential Schools, run by churches for cultural genocide, and now the Force was closing in on nearly a hundred pedophiles who'd preyed on children seized from native families in the name of God.

George was on that task force.

Like Spann, he was bundled up in the Mounties' winter dress. A hefty man with black hair, bronze skin, and wide cheekbones, he wore a beaver-skin cap with ear flaps tied above, a navy fur-lined parka with a yellow bottom stripe, and whipcord trousers stuffed into sealskin mukluk boots. His gloves were thick and awkward, so in climbing off the snowmobile he merely banged palms with Spann and Dodd.

"Kathy."

"Sir."

"Bush."

"Bob."

Greetings completed.

He helped them lower the snowmobile from the plane and unload the other supplies in the hold. "Got a block of ice for you to fly back. Mad Dog used a blowtorch to cut the corpse from the freeze."

"How'd you get close?" Spann asked.

"Trust," said George. "We're in touch with them by radio phone. Two factions control the rebel camp. Their spiritual leader is Moses John. He had the vision which led to this, and erected the tepee and Sundance circle for spirit quests. The whole area is sacred to Gitxsan, But Totem Lake also has Picture Rock. The rock's carved with symbols from before whites arrived and an image of the first British ship."

"Is Moses John Gitxsan?"

"No," said George. "He—like me—is Plains Cree. That's why there's trust. My hunting the predators from the Residential Schools and taking down Gunter Schreck in the Africa case helps."

"What's the sundance doing out here?" asked Spann. "Didn't it originate on the Western Plains to celebrate the return of bison herds?"

"Since 1973 the sundance has spread through other native cultures. Here on the West Coast it celebrates the return of salmon and self-sacrifice."

"Nothing remains pure, eh?" said Spann. "The Force was a white male organization—until you and I crashed its ranks."

"You said
two
groups," Dodd cut in.

"The other faction in the camp is a doomsday cult. Ruby Ridge. Waco. Same mentality. Their leader took the name Grizzly. He's American. The rumor is he shot a FBI agent at the second Battle of Wounded Knee in 1973. The cu
lt links the sundance to surviv
alists. They think the world is headed for an apocalypse in the year 2000. The ones to survive will be those who embrace the Great Law and live off sacred land. Everyone else is owned by the New World Order: an octopus conspiracy of big business, government, and the police out to create a workforce of slaves and defang all opposition. Those who don't stand up for their rights will go to the slaughter as in Nazi Germany."