Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

Billy nodded. “I buried the vacuum bag in the yard and here I am, Athanatos the Eternal the Second. You see, nobody even knew I existed. Dad kept me in the attic like I was a spare or something. I sure watched a lot of television.” He gave Bullock a respectful look. “Hearts of Scarlet is my favorite show,” he said, naming the popular dramatization of Mountie exploits which was Bullock’s favorite, too. “Well,” continued Billy, “I’m sure taking over at a bad time. The formula’s finally run out. That was ink in the hypodermic. And in the pound cake, too.”

“You can’t just whip up another batch?”

“The formula went down with The Sea Monoceros in the Arctic years ago. That’s why I need you. Dad made a deal with Lady Chin-Chin who owns Cathay Salvage to raise it. With what we collected today I’ve got the five million up-front money she demanded. She’s on site waiting for it right now, barges, diving bell, and all.”

As Bullock wondered whether Lady Chin-Chin got her name because she was convivial or because she was overweight, something occurred to him. Gesturing around with his chin he asked, “If The Sea Monoceros sank, what’s this?”

“A plywood mock-up,” laughed Billy. “Dad built it here inside his RV to intimidate his friends in high places when he got them here for a little pituitary work. That dive back there was part of the drill. It’s where the road goes under the railway tracks.” As if on cue, The Sea Monoceros made a sharp turn and came to a stop. “We’re home,” he said. “Quick, pretend you’re asleep. And moan a bit. The crew could turn mean if they learn the formula’s run out. Dad promised them twenty-five years’ worth for serving him for ten. That ten years runs out at midnight.”

“Now take the fog-making machine back to the rental place,” ordered Billy as the sailors set Bullock and the gurney down on the cellar floor. “We’ll meet back here tonight for your payoff.” The crew pounded back up the steps to the outside.

“We’d better get these straps off me,” ordered Bullock.

Billy pulled the string on an overhead bulb, sending a ball of light bouncing around the cellar. “First the grand tour,” he said, reaching down to release a lock so he could turn the top of the gurney any way he wished. “Here’s where Dad tried to reconstruct the formula.” He pointed Bullock toward the workbench with its flasks, coils, and test tubes. “The peacock broth was easy. It was the seventeen rare herbs and spices he never got right again.”

Billy turned the gurney again. “And over there in the corner’s the old coal bin. Listen. Hear that noise? We’ve got rats. But more about them later. Notice the thick stone walls. You could scream your lungs out and never be heard.” The effect of Billy’s evil laughter was weakened somewhat when his voice broke and trailed off reedily. “Hey,” he shouted, spinning the gurney hard, “great idea for a Canadian game show. Spin the Mountie.”

Bullock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Was that it? Did Billy mean to transport him like this to some tundra outpost and use him as a rallying point for Northern malcontents, Anglophone and Francophone extremists, members of the dreaded Front Populate Sociopathique, hopheads from United Empire Loyalist assassin squads? Was he to be some hellish Wheel of Fortune with a beautiful Indian maiden in lavish wampum posting letters of the alphabet up on a board until they spelled out slogans like “Don’t Trust Anyone Below the Tree Line” guaranteed to send the crowd off on some holy war, a jihad against civilized Canada?

When the gurney stopped spinning, Bullock opened his eyes again. Billy was up on a chair, taking bundles of bank notes from a hiding place among the rafters and stuffing them into a duffel bag.

“I’ll give it to you straight,” he said. “Lady Chin-Chin’s people scare the hell out of me. Dad had them over to the house once with me watching through the banister up to the second floor. Talk about your tough customers. We had your refugees from the slums of Glasgow, your China Sea mutineers, even a father-son team of renegade Inuits exiled from their people for cannibal leanings. That crew did a real job on the beer and pizza, let me tell you.

“Hey, sure, I’ve got Dad’s evil laugh down pretty good. But sometimes, like you just heard, my voice goes squeaky on me. Try facing down a slew of China Sea mutineers with a laugh like that. But a Mountie could ramrod the whole outfit real easy. We’ll do thirdsies on the profits from the formula, you, me, and Lady Chin-Chin. My Dad’s thing was a big power trip. When he said jump, he wanted the whole world to jump. Me? Hey, I’m just a kid. All I want is whatever I want, whenever I want it. A thirdsy’s plenty for me.” Billy jumped down from the chair. “Is it a deal?”

“What if I say no?” asked Bullock.