THE CUTTING EDGE

By Don Atkinson





Wendell Baxter loved knives. Probably that was why he was so good at servicing them. He'd begun collecting them soon after he began his sharpening business. He sent for several mail order catalogues and all the money he could spare after purchasing his few meager necessities went to enlarging his collection. The walls of his small shack were lined with knives. There were machetes, Bowie-knives, sabres, daggers, fish knives, hunting knives, stilettos, switch-blades and bayonets as well as several types of standard kitchen knives. Baxter spent all his spare time polishing and sharpening his knives and it made him feel good just to sit and look at their gleaming beauty.

Baxter's love affair with knives had begun when he was in the place. Once they learned he was good at sharpening them he got to work on all the kitchen knives. Oh, they always had some big guy sitting with him while he worked, but he didn't mind. Afraid he would hurt himself, they said. But they didn't fool him--they were worried that he might hurt the others. And all because of what he had done to her--which actually wasn't his doing at all.

Baxter had spent five years in the place. They'd sent him there after the court judged him unfit to stand trial for killing his wife with a machete. They didn't seem to understand that it hadn't been his idea to do it. But he'd gone along with them, had been cooperative at all times and they said he'd responded remarkably well to therapy. So he'd eventually found himself in front of a panel of experts, which is what they'd called themselves, who told him he was cured.

Then they'd let him leave the place and he'd drifted into Pine Ridge, where he'd set up housekeeping in an abandoned shack down be the river and started his knife-sharpening business.

He'd quickly earned the reputation as an expert in his field and his business grew. And he was finally accepted in the town. The sight of this strange man in the wrinkled black suit, with long hair and full beard spilling out from beneath the wide-brimmed, black fedora, trundling his push-cart along Pine Ridge's streets had ceased to arouse interest. Wendell Baxter was happy.

* * *

What a goddam drag, thought Constable Duncan Stroud, as he sipped his coffee. It was fifteen minutes before he was due to go off duty and he had decided to have one more cup--his tenth of the night. If this was any indication of what life was going to be like in Pine Ridge, his stint could not end soon enough. His posting was to be for three months while Constable Harry Kroeker was undergoing forensic training at the Regina Academy. On Kroeker's return Stroud was to go on to the city of North Vancouver, a transfer he was looking forward to. He would get some top-notch police work there--not the chickenshit stuff he was finding on Pine Ridge's night shift. This was a real grind.

Pine Ridge was a two-member detachment, with Corporal Jack Dresser, the non-commissioned officer in-charge, taking the six-in-the-morning to six-in-the-evening shift and Stroud filling in the remaining twelve hours. Pine Ridge was a quiet, pleasant town, but law enforcement was limited to traffic violations, the odd drunk-and-disorderly, some petty theft and, once in a while, a break and enter. Not the place for an ambitious young cop to make a reputation for himself. And Stroud was ambitious. He intended to get out of uniform as quickly as possible and into the Criminal Investigation Branch--the CIB. That's where the action was.

He picked up his bill and sauntered over to the waitress behind the till. She was tallying up her night's work. A middle-aged woman, whose husband had run out on her, forcing her into a labour force she was ill-equipped for, she found herself working nights in a hash joint.

"Calling it a night, Dunc?" she said as she gave him his change.

"That's right, Doreen," Stroud yawned. "It's straight to the sack for me." Then he gave her a sly look. "Care to join me?"

The woman raised an eyebrow and grinned. "You'd be no match for me, Sonny."

Stroud laughed. "You're probably right, Doreen--especially the way I feel right now. See you tonight."

"Sure thing, Duncan. Sleep tight."

* * *

Wendell Baxter's perfect world had begun to take on a worrisome note lately. The voices were beginning to whisper to him again, the same voices that had got him into trouble before. He had to ignore them, though, because he sure didn't want to find himself back in the place--the drugs and the electric shocks--he shuddered thinking about it.

He could handle the regular voices--the whispering ones. Oh, they bothered him all right--nearly drove him crazy. But they never could agree on what they wanted him to do. Yes, he could handled them. But when the booming voice of God tells you to do something, you do it!

And that's what had happened that morning seven years ago. As he lay in bed, after the whisperers had kept him awake all night, a clear voice screamed at him to destroy the woman lying beside him, because she was Satan's disciple. He knew it was God, all right. No one else could sound like that. Actually, he was surprised the woman didn't hear, but she kept on sleeping.

He got up quietly, went downstairs and out to his tool shed where he found the machete he used to cut weeds along the fence. When he returned to the bedroom, the evil woman was still asleep. He knew he had to destroy her before she woke, or she might be too powerful for him. So, following God's orders, he smote her many times as quickly as he could.

When he was in the place, they had tried to convince him it was his wife he had killed. He'd finally gone along with them, because he'd begun to realize that's what he had to do if he ever wanted to get out of there. But he'd always known it was God's enemy he had destroyed. That was why God had not bothered him since. He just hoped God would not single him out to destroy any more of His enemies. Surely He could find someone else next time around, he thought, as he finished polishing an eight-inch stiletto.

Returning the weapon to its resting place on the wall, Wendell poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and filled a bowl with cornflakes and milk. Time to get to work. He felt much better, having got a good night's sleep. If only they would always leave him alone at night. He didn't mind talking to them during the day while walking along with his cart, but at night--well, he needed his sleep. He raised a spoonful of cornflakes to his mouth and paused.

Have a good day, the voice whispered. Wendell smiled.

* * *

Constable Duncan Stroud drove the patrol car back to the detachment and, since the corporal had not yet arrived, locked it and placed the keys on their hook inside the office. Late again! Oh well, rank hath its privilege, he told himself as he set off on foot towards the room in the Powell residence that was his temporary home. The sun was climbing over the mountains to the east announcing the arrival of another glorious day. He would grab five or six hours of shut-eye then go down to the river and see if he could lure a salmon onto his hook.

* * *

Wendell Baxter was not having a good day. Oh, business was good--that wasn't the problem. It was the voices. Not confining themselves to the moments when he was alone with his cart, they'd started interrupting him while he was talking to his customers. And that was bad. He had learned in the place not to let on that they were speaking to him, but it was terrible difficult when they spoke at the same time as his customers. He had trouble concentrating and was afraid his customers were beginning to notice he was not alone.

"But Mr. Baxter..." This customer was obviously going to be a problem.

"My husband says this carving knife is worse than before you sharpened it."

"Sorry, ma'am," Baxter sounded as regretful as he could, "I'll just have to do it again." Stupid--not your fault--husband screwed it up--fat cow--who does she think--take the damn knife--stick it into her--get out of here--bitch--"Shut up," he screamed. "I can't hear you all at once!"

The customer backed away, surprise, then fear spreading over her features as she looked into Wendell Baxter's eyes. "No thanks," it came out as a squeak. "It's good enough, I'll just take it as it is."

She hurried away, leaving Baxter alone with his internal cacophony.

* * *

RCMP Constable Duncan Stroud lay on the warm bank of the Fraser River, looking at the speckled sky through the overhanging branches. This was the life. Perhaps detachment routine might not be all that bad. Did he really need action? promotion?...danger?

Danger. Stroud thought about that for a moment. It was something people in his profession always carried with them, like their warrants of appointment and badges, yet like the warrants, never a part of conscious thought. Often they were even unaware of danger until it was too late. Or they just got lucky. Like he had.

It was two years ago that he'd picked up the hitchhiker.

"Jump in--where are you going?"

"Winnipeg."

"I can take you as far as Kamsack."

After several miles of idle chatter, "What do you do in Kamsack?"

"RCMP. Just returning from a weekend's leave in Prince Albert."

Silence for some time, then, "You don't have any idea who I am, do you?"

"No. Should I?"

"Haven't you seen any bulletins in the last couple of days?"

"As I said, I've been on leave."

Long sigh of resignation, "I escaped from the P.A. Pen yesterday, and have been regretting it ever since. When you told me what you did, I realized your picking me up was not fortuitous--it was pre-ordained. Could you take me back, please?"

"Sure thing. What were you in for?"

"Murder--and oh, you'd better take this," he said, handing over a loaded 8mm automatic pistol.

Constable Duncan Stroud had received a commendation for arresting, singlehanded, an armed and dangerous escaped murderer.

Have I used up my luck? Stroud wondered. He considered the plight of those poor bastards who simply walk over to a car to check the driver's identification and get blown away. Or the officer who answers the call to a scene of domestic violence and gets stabbed by the woman who called in the complaint.

Stroud shook his head to remove the thoughts. What place had such thinking in these idyllic surroundings? Even if he hadn't caught any salmon, it was still a perfect day. He rose, collected his gear and set off to get ready for the night shift.

* * *

As he hurried away from the dissatisfied customer Wendell Baxter could not restrain himself. He had to get the voices under control. He begged them, cajoled them, ordered them to be quiet. As he ran down the street, pushing his cart, people stopped to stare and children ran away from him. To his sudden dismay he realized he was speaking aloud to the voices, and clamped his mouth firmly shut. But he knew it was too late, so headed for home as fast as he could move the cart in front of him. He must be alone with them, so he could get them under control.

As he turned down the dirt road leading to his shack he glanced over his shoulder and to his horror saw a crowd of people running along behind him--in fact gaining on him, for they didn't have carts to push. He also noticed a young man nearing his shack, approaching from the river, a tackle box in one hand and a fishing rod in the other. With an extra spurt Baxter reached the shack and vanished inside, leaving his cart outdoors. The voices were by then a roaring gabble, and he screamed for them to shut up as he closed the door. The young man stopped in his tracks, staring after him. As the crowd arrived, one of the lead men recognized the young man. "It's the Mountie," he yelled to the others.

"What's going on?" Stroud wanted to know.

"It's him," the same man gasped, out of breath. "He's crazy."

"Who is he? What did he do?" Stroud demanded.

"Old Man Baxter, he started screaming at a woman, then took off down here," the man replied, seemingly indignant at being asked such a ridiculous question.

"Did he touch her in any way?" Stroud persisted.

"No--I don't think so."

"Did he take anything from her?"

Some of the people began looking at their feet. "Well ...no," their spokesman was uncomfortable now.

"Did he do anything illegal to anyone?" Stroud's frustration was beginning to show.

"He must have, or why was he running away?" was the sullen response.

"Look, ladies and gentlemen, might it not be possible the poor fellow was running because he was being chased? Now please go on home, all of you. I'll have a talk with him."

But inside the shack things had got completely out of hand. The voices had been silenced all right--silenced by Him. His clear, powerful voice cut right through the babble, drowning it out. I created you in My image, the voice thundered. Remove your clothes and present yourself to those outside as I created you. They shall not be able to look upon you and they shall be dispersed.

Wendell Baxter, fruit farmer, wife slayer, ex-Esondale patient, knife servicer and servant of God, quickly shed his clothing and stepped out to confront his tormentors.

He was greeted by gasps of both titillation and horror.

"I am the resurrection and the light," were the words that came from Wendell Baxter's lips.

Some titters from the crowd--otherwise, silence.

But Baxter pressed on, "My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant."

Duncan Stroud put down his equipment, then stepped forward and identified himself. "Sorry, Mr. Baxter," he said. "It seems you weren't doing anything illegal until now, but presenting yourself in public without clothes is illegal. You'll have to come with me to the detachment office."

With a tremendous act of will Wendell Baxter pushed God's voice back into his head so he could deal with the policeman. The place had taught him how to handle officials--you simply had to show them you sympathize with their problems and be cooperative. He smiled pleasantly and said, "Of course, Officer. Just let me go in and put some clothes on."

Stroud knew he had better not allow Baxter out of his sight. "By all means," he agreed, "we can't parade around like that, can we? I'll just step inside with you, if you don't mind."

Then God's voice broke free and thundered, This vile being is not Satin's disciple, it is Lucifer himself. Then the voice told Baxter what he must do.

The sun was disappearing over the mountain range to the west as Constable Duncan Stroud followed Wendell Baxter into the shack, closing the door behind him...Often they were even unaware of danger until it was too late...