Maid of the Mist (17 page)

They came off the bridge and raced on through the town and out past the university before turning on to the Tuscorora Reservation. As they entered the gates a palpable air of relaxation descended on the little convoy. Lelewala was helped up on to a seat, Corrigan and Pongo were left where they were. The masks came off and the Indians began to talk excitedly among themselves. Corrigan couldn't make any sense of it.

Tarriha pulled the lead vehicle into a parking space in front of an elongated wooden shack and jumped out, already barking commands as the other vehicles drew up. Corrigan was pulled out, followed by Pongo then Lelewala. As he stepped down Corrigan recognized one of the Indians as Barry Lightfoot, his acquaintance from the Egg Scramblers; Lightfoot saw him too, but averted his eyes quickly and turned away. There was a little gasp from Lelewala. Corrigan turned as the first of the dead hoods was dumped on the ground. Two more followed, like sacks of potatoes. It was too dark to see their faces. One of the Indians took hold of Corrigan's good arm and led him towards the wooden shack. Lelewala followed.

Siren wailing, Stirling roared into the forecourt of the Rainbow Apartments. Madeline had called in a blind panic from a callbox several blocks away, screaming and crying. They picked her up, calmed her down and left her in Whiskey Nick's with a whisky.

There were three other cop cars already in the car park. A gaggle of locals stood on the opposite sidewalk. James Morton sat beside him, looking pensive. As he pulled up Stirling saw Chief of Police Dunbar emerge from one of the apartments, talking animatedly to another officer. Glass glinted on the walkway.

'What'll I say?' Morton asked.

'Stay in the car. Don't say anything.'

'They're bound to ask.'

'Say you're my cousin. From New York.'

'That sounds dumb.'

'I know. Feel free to come up with something better.'

Stirling crossed the gravel towards Dunbar. Morton got out and sat on the bonnet. As Stirling stepped on to the walkway he saw that the wooden slats outside the door were stained black. He stopped, ran his foot over the deck like a bull ready to charge.

'What's up?' he asked.

Turner, another of Dunbar's blow-ins from Toronto, looked suspiciously across the car park at Morton.

'About an hour ago the manager heard gunshots,' Dunbar said. 'Locked herself in the back room, didn't come out until she'd counted to forty thousand.' He thumbed back. 'There are bullet holes in the back wall. Forensics are digging them out.'

Stirling shook his head. 'Any idea who . . . ?'

'Your friend Corrigan moved in this afternoon.'

'Corrigan?'
He did his best to sound surprised. 'Jesus. Is he . . . ?'

'Come on through.' Dunbar turned and led him into the apartment. There were scene-of-crime people at work. The bed was made but creased. There was a half-empty bottle of vodka on top of the television and black plastic bags stuffed with Corrigan's possessions lay on the floor.

'I heard he got kicked out of his apartment,' Stirling said.

Beside the TV there was a small table, two chairs and a
Niagara Falls Visitors' Guide.
On top of the guide sat a human scalp. Blood from it had seeped into the guide, dyeing the pages red.

'Shit,' said Stirling.

'Shit indeed,' said Dunbar.

Stirling bent to examine it. It looked as if somebody had taken a hammer to a huge black spider. 'It's not Corrigan's,' Stirling said.

'I know,' Dunbar said. 'But doesn't it suggest something to you?'

'Somebody's got a sore head.'

'Indians,' Turner said.

'Indians
take
scalps, surely? They don't leave them.'

'Maybe real ones do,' Dunbar said. 'Somebody masquerading as an Indian mightn't.'

'Gretchin Solyakhov,' said Turner.

'Corrigan checked in with a woman this afternoon,' Dunbar said. 'Now they've both skipped and there's a scalp sitting here. That's another murder they're tied in to. I want them picked up, and I want them picked up
now.'
Dunbar shook his head. 'I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt before, but this time I'm going to bury him.'

They walked back outside. Morton was off the bonnet now and kneeling in the middle of the car park examining the gravel. His finger hovered an inch off the ground, tracing the outline of something. Stirling tried to ignore him, but Turner nodded across. 'Who's your friend?'

'Cousin,' said Stirling.

'Is he a cop?' Turner asked.

'Yup,' said Stirling. 'Up from New York.'

Turner glanced at Dunbar.

'Traffic cop,' said Stirling.

Morton looked round for the first time. 'Sorry,' he said, 'lost a contact lens.' He stood up and kicked at the gravel. 'Shit,' he said, 'like looking for a contact lens in a shit load of gravel.'

He walked across to them, still shaking his head.

'So,' Turner said as Morton joined them, 'how's the traffic in New York?'

'Busy,' said Morton.

Driving back to Whiskey Nick's to pick up Madeline, Stirling said: 'What'd you find in the gravel?'

Morton looked at him. 'Nothing.'

'You were looking at something when we came out.'

'I was looking for my contact lens.'

'Seriously?'

'Seriously.'

'Oh. Right.'

The Long House was dark and smoky. At the far end of the hall the Indians were already ordering drinks from a bar. Barry Lightfoot was putting quarters into a slot machine. Corrigan, Pongo and Lelewala were ushered into chairs set about a pine table. The bleeding in Corrigan's arm had not stopped. A medicine man Tarriha introduced as Doc arrived after five minutes, puffed with running. He was a thin man in his late fifties; he wore bifocals and a floral waistcoat and he smelt of whisky. He began to dab at the bullet hole with what looked like an old dishcloth. 'Exactly where did you do your training?' Corrigan asked warily.

Doc smiled, revealing a mouthful of imperfect teeth. 'Right here. My father taught me everything I know, and his father taught him, and before that his father taught him. It goes on like that, right back to long ago.' Then he crinkled his brow and said: 'I'll be back in five minutes. Need some special medicine for that.' He hurried away.

Lelewala was looking about the walls of the Long House. They were adorned with masks and drums and dresses and tomahawks and murals. She was entranced. And so was Corrigan. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. Her hair. Her face. Her eyes.

Pongo removed a small compact from inside his jacket and examined himself, before starting to fix his hair.
Pongo and Lelewala. In bed. Screwing.

Tarriha raised a hand. 'Do you recognize this place, Lelewala?' he asked.

Lelewala nodded vaguely, her eyes never leaving the walls. 'It is very old . . . I think.'

Tarriha nodded sagely. 'Nineteen fifties. We're gonna knock it down and build something doesn't leak. Just as soon as the government comes through with a grant.'

'I thought. . .'

'Yeah, you been here before.'

She was confused. Her eyes flitted from the wall to the bar. 'I remember . . . dancing . . .' Her eyes settled on Corrigan. A shiver went up his back 'Sahonwadi . . .' she said softly.

Corrigan shook his head helplessly.

'Our wedding dance . . . ?' she asked.

Tarriha lifted a bony finger and pointed up the hall to the bar. 'No,' he said,
'his
wedding dance.'

Standing holding a beer glass and grinning sheepishly at them over its rim was a porky, balding Indian with a thin and fresh scar running down one side of his face.

'I don't understand . . .' Lelewala began. Then stopped. She raised a hand to her face and began to trace the outline of his scar on her own pale skin. 'I don't . . .'

'You cut him, OK,' Tarriha said.

'Me? I didn't . . .'

Tarriha looked back to the bar. Then he smiled kindly at Lelewala. 'You were here last week,' the old Indian said. 'Walter Running Bear's stag party. We hired you as an exotic dancer. Stripper. Popov brought you.'

'Popov?'

Tarriha nodded. 'Gavril. Gavril Popov? You remember none of this?'

She shook her head vaguely.

'Walter, as normal a guy as you would hope to meet. Works as an accountant at the Niagara casino. Lovely wife, though she nearly wasn't, after you got your claws into him. You strip good, big crowd, love it, only Walter has a lot of whisky, all of them do, very drunk, thinks he's Crazy Horse. He wanted to fuck you after the show, but you weren't interested. They tried to talk him out of it, but he came at you, ripped your clothes, tried to . . . well, you cut him pretty bad. You got crazy yourself; we felt pretty bad. Gave you one of our old ceremonial dresses to wear. Worth a goddamn fortune. Popov pretty damn angry you don't fuck, I tell you. Throws you in the goddamn Niagara.'

'I don't remember any of this.' She slumped down against Pongo.

Pongo made a face and pushed her away. 'I don't know what fucking drugs you're all on,' he whined, 'but I'll have to be going home soon. My father will be expecting me.'

'The Old Cripple,' said Corrigan.

Pongo gave a little shrug.

Tarriha ignored him. He was looking at Corrigan. 'Tell me,' he said softly, 'what you know about the Ga-go-sa, or in your tongue, the False Faces?'

'Nothing,' said Corrigan. He was tired and he was confused. Lelewala shook her head, although it barely moved. The Long Room had grown quieter. Some of the drinkers had drifted off, others had settled into a poker game. But they were seated close to the only door and Corrigan noted that there was always one of them with his eyes on Lelewala.

Tarriha took a long gulp of his beer, then settled into his chair. Corrigan could feel another story coming on.

Tarriha fixed his eyes firmly on Lelewala. 'We, the People of the Five Nations, of the Tuscorora Iroquois,' he began, 'have always believed in the existence of the Ga-go-sa, the False Faces. They are demons without bodies, simply faces, hideous faces, so demoniacal as to paralyse all who behold them. They have the power to send plagues and pestilence among men, and to devour bodies. To this day we believe implicitly in the existence of these demons.' He paused, his eyes pinholes, probing for a response, but there was nothing, only a blank gaze. He licked his lips, took another drink. 'Upon this belief was founded a secret organization called the Falseface band, to appease these demons and to arrest pestilence and disease. The members of the band wore masks of equally hideous appearance. They were all males, save for one, who was a female and called Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-nas-tase-ta, or the keeper of the Falsefaces . . .'

Corrigan raised a tired eyebrow. 'You're not suggesting that. . .'

'Listen to me. Like so many things, the Falseface band has fallen on easy times. My people are not rich like other Americans, but they do not starve. They do not have to hunt to survive. They have grown fat and soft like the white man, present company excepted. And instead of keeping the old traditions alive, the Falsefaces have become. . .' and his lip curled up and sharp yellowed teeth glared out '. . .
a social organization.
They dance. They play poker. They put on their Falsefaces and they talk about hockey and mortgages and airbags.'

'Like masons,' said Corrigan, 'without the hockey and airbags.'

Tarriha nodded gravely. 'Their low point, and their turning point, was the attack on this woman, a dancer, an
erotic
dancer. For many years there has been no mistress of the Falsefaces. But when this dancer's dress was ripped, she was given instead to wear a dress not worn for more than fifty years, not worn since the last Ho-nun-nas-tase-ta died. I saw that it was given and tried to prevent it, but I am old and sad and I have given up fighting. I thought, let it go; it does no good here.

'But when you brought the dress to the casino, told me that there was a crazy woman who had nearly drowned in the Niagara, I had to find out more. And when I talked to her she talked to me in a language that has not been spoken in such a way for many, many years, and told me things that had not been spoken of for many, many years.'

Lelewala was looking at the ground.

'What're you saying?' Corrigan said.

'That something happened when she was thrown into the river. The river recognized the mistress of the Falseface band and summoned the spirit of Lelewala, and the spirit of Lelewala swam into her and has now returned among us to fight the great evil that is coming.'

Tarriha sat back, his eyes darting from Corrigan to Lelewala and back. 'And with her return to us comes inspiration and leadership and power. Now the Falsefaces are a true band of warriors again, sworn to protect Lelewala, sworn to strike fear into all those who would seek to harm her. Every one of them will lay down his life for her.'

Corrigan took a sip from his bottle. 'Even Walter Running Bear?'

'Even Walter Running Bear,' said Tarriha. Then added, 'Especially Walter Running Bear.'

Doc reappeared suddenly at Corrigan's side. 'Sorry,' he said, 'took me a while to find . . .'

He delved into a cloth bag that hung at his waist and removed a fistful of what looked to Corrigan like dead leaves that had lain in a drain for six months. Doc smiled reassuringly. 'Old Indian cure,' he said. 'My father taught me this, and his father before him, and before that his father, and beyond that it gets pretty damn hazy. Tomorrow morning you'll wake up . . . well tomorrow morning you'll wake up, which you might not if you lose any more blood and I don't do anything about it.'

'I really would prefer a second op . . .' Corrigan began, but before he could finish Doc had slapped the dank muck against his arm. Corrigan let out a shout and tried to pull away but Doc had clamped the arm tight between his left arm and his chest.

'There now,' Doc said, pushing the mush deep into the wound, 'just let that seep in a bit and you'll be good as new.'

Corrigan just managed to get to his feet, but he couldn't free himself. He swayed. Suddenly his legs would no longer hold him. He tried to say something, but the words would not come. He saw Lelewala looking concerned, Tarriha smiling confidently. Pongo was ignoring him completely; instead, he stared at Lelewala with a new light in his eyes.