door, climbed out, and started after her.
Now it was really coming down. He couldn't see her for the wall of flakes that pressed in around him. Snow in October. Man, oh man. What a freak, he thought.
He broke into a light jog so as to catch up to Val.
Cherchez la femme, Chris old boy. Cherchez la big-boobed fe -
He was twenty-five feet from the car when Val screamed. It was not the cry of a woman falling; it was a shriek of raw terror. The scream seemed almost to ricochet among the crystals of snow.
Chris decided to turn and run: Val could take care of herself.
But just then he slipped in the snow, skidded crashing into
Val, and the force of the collision knocked both of them to the ground.
Now the girl threw back her head and let out a second scream. Chris almost pissed himself. He took one look at the lines of horror etched into her face and that was enough. The youth scrambled around, clawed the snow, tried to gain his feet. He looked up, himself terrified—and that was when he saw what was hanging in the air.
There was a light at the foot of the totem pole ten feet off to his left. This light shone up to illuminate two vertical support struts that held an ornate crosspiece suspended above the ground. The totem—a Dogfish Burial Pole—was fifteen feet high. The crosspiece was carved with a figurehead from an Indian myth. Hanging between the struts was the body of a woman. Her hands had been nailed to the crosspiece and her head had been cut off. The carved face of the Dogpole appeared to take its place.
Chris' mouth dropped open, but he managed to stifle a scream.
Then he noticed that the body was wearing a nurse's whites. The garment had been torn down the front, revealing a strip of naked flesh from the neck to the hair of the crotch. Blood was trickling down this strip, down the legs, dripping off the feet dangling eight feet up from the ground. The pool of blood at the base of the totem measured four feet across.
"Oh my Jesus," Chris said.
Then he turned away and threw up into his hand.
Call to Duty
2:19 a.m.
The call clocked into the VPD at 2:19 that morning. The telephone call shouldn't have come through to the Vancouver Police at all, but the dispatcher didn't catch the error. He had spent the previous evening drinking at the Police Athletic Club and even now his head felt as though the iron ball of a wrecking crane was demolishing it piece by piece. At the mention of the words dead body, however, he sat up straight at the switchboard and pushed the headphones to his ears.
"Where's this body?" the dispatcher demanded, a whisky growl to his voice.
"Man, it's hangin' from a totem pole. And it doesn't have a head!"
"The totems in the Park?"
"I said a totem pole, didn't I?"
"Who's calling?" the dispatcher inquired of the nervous and jumpy voice at the end of the line.
"Chris. Chris Seaton."
"Well, hang on, Chris, while I patch this through. I'll get back to you." The dispatcher disconnected the line and then threw a toggle switch to feed into the street patrols. "We've got a possible 212. Stanley Park. Brockton Point totem poles. Code 4 response." Then he switched back to Chris.
"Okay, Mr. Seaton. Full name and date of birth." The dispatcher picked up his pen and quickly began to write.
2:20 a.m.
Within a minute of the emergency broadcast hitting the police radio band the first blue and white car from the street patrol of the Vancouver Police Department tore into Stanley Park, its tires squealing off the Causeway and then skidding in the snow. The moment the patrol car hit the park, the cop riding shotgun kicked in the siren and started the wigwag lights Blue, then red, blue, then red. reflected off the snow. It took no more than three minutes for the car to reach Brockton Point, and its totem poles.
Even before the car had stopped moving the officer riding shotgun was out the door and running. The driver quickly followed twenty feet behind him. Fifteen seconds later they found the totem
Now it was really coming down. He couldn't see her for the wall of flakes that pressed in around him. Snow in October. Man, oh man. What a freak, he thought.
He broke into a light jog so as to catch up to Val.
Cherchez la femme, Chris old boy. Cherchez la big-boobed fe -
He was twenty-five feet from the car when Val screamed. It was not the cry of a woman falling; it was a shriek of raw terror. The scream seemed almost to ricochet among the crystals of snow.
Chris decided to turn and run: Val could take care of herself.
But just then he slipped in the snow, skidded crashing into
Val, and the force of the collision knocked both of them to the ground.
Now the girl threw back her head and let out a second scream. Chris almost pissed himself. He took one look at the lines of horror etched into her face and that was enough. The youth scrambled around, clawed the snow, tried to gain his feet. He looked up, himself terrified—and that was when he saw what was hanging in the air.
There was a light at the foot of the totem pole ten feet off to his left. This light shone up to illuminate two vertical support struts that held an ornate crosspiece suspended above the ground. The totem—a Dogfish Burial Pole—was fifteen feet high. The crosspiece was carved with a figurehead from an Indian myth. Hanging between the struts was the body of a woman. Her hands had been nailed to the crosspiece and her head had been cut off. The carved face of the Dogpole appeared to take its place.
Chris' mouth dropped open, but he managed to stifle a scream.
Then he noticed that the body was wearing a nurse's whites. The garment had been torn down the front, revealing a strip of naked flesh from the neck to the hair of the crotch. Blood was trickling down this strip, down the legs, dripping off the feet dangling eight feet up from the ground. The pool of blood at the base of the totem measured four feet across.
"Oh my Jesus," Chris said.
Then he turned away and threw up into his hand.
Call to Duty
2:19 a.m.
The call clocked into the VPD at 2:19 that morning. The telephone call shouldn't have come through to the Vancouver Police at all, but the dispatcher didn't catch the error. He had spent the previous evening drinking at the Police Athletic Club and even now his head felt as though the iron ball of a wrecking crane was demolishing it piece by piece. At the mention of the words dead body, however, he sat up straight at the switchboard and pushed the headphones to his ears.
"Where's this body?" the dispatcher demanded, a whisky growl to his voice.
"Man, it's hangin' from a totem pole. And it doesn't have a head!"
"The totems in the Park?"
"I said a totem pole, didn't I?"
"Who's calling?" the dispatcher inquired of the nervous and jumpy voice at the end of the line.
"Chris. Chris Seaton."
"Well, hang on, Chris, while I patch this through. I'll get back to you." The dispatcher disconnected the line and then threw a toggle switch to feed into the street patrols. "We've got a possible 212. Stanley Park. Brockton Point totem poles. Code 4 response." Then he switched back to Chris.
"Okay, Mr. Seaton. Full name and date of birth." The dispatcher picked up his pen and quickly began to write.
2:20 a.m.
Within a minute of the emergency broadcast hitting the police radio band the first blue and white car from the street patrol of the Vancouver Police Department tore into Stanley Park, its tires squealing off the Causeway and then skidding in the snow. The moment the patrol car hit the park, the cop riding shotgun kicked in the siren and started the wigwag lights Blue, then red, blue, then red. reflected off the snow. It took no more than three minutes for the car to reach Brockton Point, and its totem poles.
Even before the car had stopped moving the officer riding shotgun was out the door and running. The driver quickly followed twenty feet behind him. Fifteen seconds later they found the totem
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