Free Bed of Nails by Michael Slade Page A

vu.”
    “I’ll say.”
    “It reminds me of the Ripper.”
    The chief finished perusing the report from Internal that lay on his desk—searching for signs that witch hunters were out to crucify Zinc, DeClercq’s second-in-command—then he pushed back his chair to join Chandler at the Wall. The chair was an antique from the early days of the Force, high-backed with a barley-sugar frame and the bison-head crest of the Mounties carved as a crown. A portrait titled Last Great Council of the West hung behind the desk. Guarded by the Mounted Police, their hands on their swords, the pith-helmeted governor general, the Marquess of Lorne, sat in regal splendor beneath an awning at Blackfoot Crossing in 1881, a tribe of feathered Indians squatting at his feet. In recent years, the Force had changed to embrace both founding myths. Now there were whole detachments of Native officers, and DeClercq’s third-in-command was a full-blooded Plains Cree.
    The modern Mounties stood side by side in front of the juxtaposed pinups. Way back in 1921, this heritage building—once known as the Heather Stables—had been a barracks for 200 redcoats and 140 horses. Befitting its royal pedigree, DeClercq’s office gazed out across a vast expanse of green lawn at Queen Elizabeth Park on the crest of Little Mountain. The morning sun beaming through the front windows highlighted the bloodshed in the photo of the dangling victim so that it glared as red as a Horseman’s scarlet tunic.
    “Quad superius,” Chandler said as he tapped the tarot card.
    “As above,” DeClercq translated.
    “Sicut inferius,” said the inspector, sliding his finger across to the crime-scene photo.
    “So below,” the chief translated. “You even remember the Latin?”
    “For the past two days, Alex and I have rehashed the Ripper case. And I reread Deadman’s Island, her account of our ordeal.”
    Mentioning Alex, the Ripper, and Deadman’s Island flashed Zinc’s memory back. Etched in his mind as vividly as if it were this instant in time was the first glimpse he had caught of Alexis Hunt. The floatplane was rocking at the dock in Vancouver’s harbor. All but one of the crime writers invited to a mystery weekend at an as-yet-undisclosed location were aboard. The event had been auctioned off to aid Children’s Hospital. The secret benefactor who had outbid all rivals had challenged the sleuths to match wits with a “real cop” for a $50,000 prize. If the cop won, the prize would also go to charity, so C/Supt. Robert DeClercq of Special X had been asked to provide a good detective for a good cause. Zinc Chandler had mostly recovered from a bullet to his head, but he was still suspended from active duty until the aftermath of the Cutthroat fiasco was sorted out, so that’s how he found himself seated among the slew of writers in the floatplane.
    A Mickey Mouse assignment.
    Or so he had thought.
    Barely discernible through the rain was the city’s downtown core. Huddled like an urchin at its feet was the shack of Thunderbird Charters. From the hut to the floatplane out on the water stretched a gangway and the heaving pier. The woman sea-legging down the gangplanks struggled against the Pacific squall, suitcase in one hand, umbrella in the opposite fighting the wind to block the slanted rain. Her black coat flapped about her like Batman’s cape, revealing a black pinch-waisted jacket and black jeans tucked into black cowboy boots. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and clipped with silver heart-shaped barrettes, but wayward strands dancing about her face masked her features. Only as she climbed up into the plane did Zinc grasp her beauty: eyes as azure as South Seas lagoons, delicate bone structure around a most kissable mouth, with the grace of a ballerina in every move. It was the cliché of love at first sight, and Zinc’s heart was gone.
    It still was.
    Their destination had turned out to be the hellhole of Deadman’s Island. Their secret