Headhunter Read online

  "For what? Their deaths? Your life? The hand that Fate has dealt you? Robert, you've got to learn to be easier on yourself. It wasn't your fault!"

  "Wasn't it, Genny? I think it was. If I hadn't been a cop it never would have happened."

  "If you hadn't been a cop you'd have never got backstage. And you never would have met her. And if you hadn't met her, you would never have had the child and all the joy she gave you. It may have been a short time, but Robert, it was worth it. I know that. And you know it too. Besides, if you hadn't been a cop I'd never have met you either. Then where would I be? Can you give me an answer?"

  "You wouldn't be with a man who can't forget the past."

  "I wouldn't be with you, love. And that's all that matters." Then ever so softly—was it spoken?—she whispered to the fire: "Oh God, I'd give my very life to bear you another child."

  "I know," he said gently, and took her in his arms.

  For a long time they sat there just looking at the embers. Red, orange, yellow sparks danced hotly before their eyes.

  "Genny," he said finally. "This isn't fair for you."

  She turned around and looked at him, frowning, and said: "Don't you think that I'm the one to decide what's fair for me?"

  "Of course. It's just that . .

  "It's just that you think you're using up my youth. You think, cheri,that I have a world of experience before me, a world that if I don't taste now, I'll live to regret later. You are deeply worried that you're using me as a crutch. You think that to be fair to me, to give me the sort of love that I need, you must forget Kate and Jane. That you can't seem to do, so you think you're unfair. Have I got it right?"

  She reached out and touched his face and warmed him with her eyes. "Believe me, Robert, it's good for me for you to remember them. Please try to see you and me from my point of view. I've never met a man or woman who could find total satisfaction—physical, mental, emotional—with just one other person. The odds are stacked against it: we all develop in different ways. Yet all of us seem to want that. To find somebody special in a relationship or marriage. Then later we're disillusioned and we look for someone else—maybe for a sexual fling or maybe just to talk. Even those who never break away, it doesn't stop them thinking.

  "Well I think I'm different.

  "I was so lucky to come of age within the women's movement. I could seize a freedom that no one before me had. And seize it I did. Job. Men in numbers. And lots of self-esteem.

  "The job and the equality, those I'll never give up. But the men became a bummer. Indiscriminate fucking makes for a female or male slut. The benefit of my freedom was I got that out of my system. Men for me are easy. I've always been lucky that way—and maybe that's why I know in my heart that I only want one guy. That's just the way it is, Robert. And baby, I want you."

  She cast him the slightest trace of a very wicked smile.

  Then without another word she slowly extricated herself from his arms. He remembered her standing up before him by the dim light of the fire, remembered thinking in earnest Genny, I'm blind compared to you,remembered the way she straightened her back and planted her feet apart, reaching for the top button of her blouse, pausing for one long erotic moment before she let it . . .

  "I think I've found what you're talking about," said Genevieve, excited, on the other end of the phone. "The ritual of Hamatsa. Will you just listen to this!"

  Robert DeClercq moved his notepad into place.

  "It seems that just over a hundred and twenty years ago, cannibalism was general among the Kwakiutl Indians. Two fellows named Hunt and Moffat brought back firsthand accounts of the custom. Sometimes they said slaves were killed for the benefit of the Hamatsa. At other times the Hamatsa were content merely to rip mouthfuls of flesh from the chests and upper arms of their own tribesmen.

  "It would appear that the Hamatsa held a special privileged position within the group. They were literally licensed cannibals.

  "Hunt and Moffat swear they saw the following near Prince Rupert. A Kwakiutl shot and wounded a runaway slave who collapsed near the water's edge. Immediately he was set upon by a group including Hamatsas. They watched the Kwakiutl cut the slave to pieces with knives while the Hamatsas squatted in a circle crying: 'Hap! Hap! Hap!' According to Hunt and Moffat, who were helpless to intervene, the Indians snatched up the flesh still warm and quivering and offered it according to seniority to the members of the Cannibal Cult who were present. In memory of the episode, a rock on the beach was subsequently carved into a likeness of the mask of Baxbakualanuxsiwae, He-who-is-first-to-eat-Man-at-the-mouth-of-the-River. Baxbakualanuxsiwae—the Cannibal God—was said to live in a spirit house high up on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains where day and night blood-red smoke billowed out from the chimney of his home.

  "There's then a whole list here of evidence collected from other whites who confirm the practice.

  "When Hamatsas were interviewed it was noted that their teeth were rotting away. This was from filing them sharper in order to better deal with their food.

  "Do you think it possible that Hamatsa is being used asa modern terrorist tactic?"

  "I don't know what I think right now, but stranger things have happened," DeClercq said.

  "Don't I know it. I can think of four examples of cannibalism—or close to it—in the annals of abnormal psychology. Fish in New York. Gein in Wisconsin. Kemper in California. And maybe Nelson here in BC."

  "So maybe I'm not off base."

  "Maybe not. But I hope so. 'Cause if you're right this killer is restricting his diet to brains."

  "For now I'd settle for any Indian who popped up in the case."

  "Well," Genevieve said, "who knows what the future holds? Perhaps you'll only find the answer in the lair of Baxbakualanuxsiwae himself. Maybe the truth is hidden high in the Rocky Mountains."

  10:07 a.m.

  Robert DeClercq was smiling when he hung up the phone.

  The Superintendent stood up and crossed over to the window. DeClercq glanced at his wristwatch, then removed his uniform jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. As he was heading for the door his eyes fell once more on the blowup of Joanna Portman's body nailed to the burial pole. His impression was that the carved Dogfish face was laughing at whoever was looking.

  And in that instant he remembered another laugh many years ago. He recalled a shack in the wilderness in the northern part of Quebec, where a child lay on a cot in death, its head twisted at too sharp an angle. He had felt the knife pierce his abdomen but knew it didn't matter. All that concerned him was the fact that his hands were closing rapidly around the laughing man's neck, squeezing the very life out of him and choking, crushing, annihilating that black laugh from his throat.

  Even after the man was dead, the Superintendent could hear it.

  Black laughter.

  Axe-Man

  New Orleans, Louisiana, 1957

  The man with the briefcase chained to his wrist was thinking about his rabbit.

  He sat on a chair to one side of the dance floor, watching all the pompous people in their ties and evening gowns oozing etiquette and snobbery, only half aware of the pageantry of the "Rex Ball" that was now in full swing around him.

  At 12:41 he glanced at his watch and felt a chill of excitement. Then the thrill made him remember.

  He recalled how as a young boy he so loved to climb into his mother's lap and nuzzle his face between her soft warm breasts. How she would lock him tenderly in her arms, at the same time kissing him, then press him against her so tightly that it almost hurt. Sometimes his mother would take a nap on a very hot afternoon, sitting him on the bed as she removed her clothes, letting him lie beside her with his body nestled to hers. On those days she would dab the perfume that he liked so much on the secret parts of her body and he would lie in that hot room almost drunk on the fragrance of her skin.

  That, of course, was only if his father wasn't home.

  For his father abhorred coddling. "I'll raise no Ma
ma's boy!" he'd shout every time he caught them. And that happened often.

  On those occasions when his father surprised them, his mother would act as if she were suddenly angry with him and push him violently away. Grabbing her hairbrush from the dresser, she would lock his head firmly between her legs and bend over his back to smack his buttocks till he screamed.

  Crying he would desperately try to straighten up, but he never could. For his neck would merely slip up her thighs and hit her body above. And strangely at that moment her perfume was twice as strong.

  "Give him a tanning," his father would shout, grinning at the performance. "Show me I'm wrong in thinking that you spoil him too much."

  Then—except for one occasion—it would always end the same. He'd be sent to his room to "smarten up," and as the hours ticked away, utterly confused by the chaos of his feelings, he'd sit on the floor and have a talk with Freddie.

  Freddie was his rabbit.

  The one occasion that was different was what he remembered now. Again his father had come home, and again he'd had the spanking. Once more he was in his room talking softly to Freddie. Then the rabbit's ears jerked up at the sound of his mother's scream.

  On that day he had run to the door, his heart in his throat, flagrantly transgressing his parent's sternest warning. "And don't you dare leave your room until you get permission." The warning didn't matter. His mother was being hurt.

  He was five years old.

  Even now the man could vividly recall what the boy saw in that room. For his mother's hands were tied to the headboard of the bed. She was dressed in underwear, her body shining with sweat. Her pants were torn and she was moaning as his father moved up and down between her thrashing legs. Then his mother screamed again—and the boy rushed in to save her.

  He began to hit his father, who wrenched around in surprise. "What are you doing here?" the man shouted, his face livid with rage.

  "Get out!" his mother cried, her reaction shocking him.

  Then his father leaped off the bed and grabbed him by the arm. His "thing" was pointing at the boy as he shoved him out the door.

  "I hate you. Daddy," the boy said, surprising himself when he heard the words come out of his mouth. And that was his mistake.

  For a moment his father said nothing as his eyes narrowed to slits. Then he dragged his son to the kitchen where he removed a butcher knife from the drawer. Together, the boy struggling, they both approached his room.

  Poor Freddie, the man thought, recalling that look in his rabbit's eyes. He knew before it happened.

  That night the boy spent locked up in his room. For hours he cried, shaking and sobbing as he desperately tried to put the animal back together. For his father had cut off Freddie's head, forcing the boy to watch. Then after a while he gave up. He spent the remaining dark hours gently stroking both of the pieces on the floor. In the morning his mother came once more to take him in her arms. "I'll replace him," she said.

  The man looked at his watch. It was now 12:49. Time to go. He found the Men's Room, where he waited till he was alone. Then he removed the mask from his jacket and adjusted it over his face.

  Two minutes later, he opened the exit door.

  For an entire year this man had waited for the excitement of tonight. Now his anticipation was almost at an end.

  Tonight—at least for a while—he knew he would forget.

  Suzannah walked over to a cabinet near the rack. She opened two leaded glass panels and removed a tray from inside. The tray contained ten eight-inch needles, each one shining silver-gold in the firelight. Then she placed the needles in a medical sterilizer that was housed in the lower cupboard. Her words, silken, vicious, washed through Crystal's drugged mind. The girl didn't know what they meant, but she knew they sprang from a hatred deeper than any she could imagine.

  Suzannah walked over to the wall of whips and took two of them down. She carried them back to the girl.

  "This, sweetheart, is a Scottish tawse, about seventy years old. You'll note that it is a tailed strap with a fire-hardened tip. The tip bites like an adder at the end of a cut.

  "This other one is an English birch—the closest you'll find to poetry in all these flogging instruments."

  Suzannah handed the tawse to Crystal and stepped back several paces.

  "Have you ever been to the circus?" she slyly asked the girl.

  "Yes."

  "Well then you know how they train lions?"

  "Uh, huh."

  "Well, love, you can train a man the same way."

  With a pirouette, the woman spun around in a circle and lashed out with the birch. She hit the tawse in Crystal's hand and sent it spinning like a pinwheel to clatter on the floor.

  Then in one fluid motion Suzannah danced before the rack, slowly, methodically, rhythmically beating the wood with the whip. Crystal stared aghast, for with each relentless stroke the woman's lips grew thinner and drew back from her teeth. Her nostrils flared. Her breath came in gasps. And dust exploded in the anxious air.

  Then suddenly in midstroke, Suzannah stopped.

  "Men are such donkeys," she said with a hiss. "They think themselves superior to their own psychology."

  Crystal backed away.

  "They are no more than animals, just programed machines— and sex is the clockwork which winds up their psyches."

  Suzannah hung the whips back on the wall. Slyly she smiled. "In my house, Crystal, in this room—and as long as he's got the money—give me a naughty little boy and tailored punishment is what he gets. Behind the mask of Mardi Gras, Jekyll really can turn the guilt of Hyde loose."

  "And just where do I fit in?" Crystal asked dryly.

  "You're my assistant."

  "Assistant! What do you need me for?"

  "To answer that, sweetheart, I must tell you about our guest."

  It was his mother who had first told him about the Axe-Man of New Orleans. That was shortly before she died.

  He had later found out that the Axe-Man had killed six people and injured several others during a brief reign of terror at the end of the First World War. Each victim was selected at random, access gained to each dwelling house by chiseling through the back door. Once inside, the killer had chopped his victims up with a long-handled axe. The axe, as a calling-card, was invariably left at the scene.

  The Axe-Man was never caught.

  His mother had told him none of this. The job of the Axe-Man, she had said, was to hunt for those young boys who did not love their mother. He would hack them up and then devour the pieces. His mother had told him this when they were both in bed.

  The man now came out through the main door of the Municipal Auditorium, away from the Mardi Gras Ball. For a minute he stood in St. Peter Street, scowling at all the drunken fools staggering all around. Then a black girl dressed in sequins stumbled and bumped against him. She smiled and mumbled " 'scuse me' and quickly passed on.

  "Slut!" the man spat after her.

  He watched the woman walk away in the direction of St. Louis Cemetery, his mind recalling painfully the black girl who had been in the street the night his mother died. That girl was not from the neighborhood; he had never seen her before. Just a passerby. Hurrying down the sidewalk. With tears in his eyes and a choked voice he had begged her to run for the doctor. He had pointed up the street toward the doctor's office. Then taking the steps three at a time, he had scrambled back upstairs.

  His mother was bleeding profusely. Her skin was as pale as tissue paper and her tongue was flicking wildly between her pearl-white teeth. Oh God, what teeth she had—the straight-est he'd ever seen. And now he remembered those happy days, sitting in his mother's lap, listening to the words of love humming from her mouth.

  The man turned left on Bourbon Street, glancing at his watch.

  Why does it still bother me when I did nothing wrong? Why? the man thought.

  For if only that girl had done as he'd asked, his mother would still be alive. And then he'd still have her love. Eight y
ears old was far too young for a boy to lose his mother.

  Perhaps I blame myself,he thought,for hating the child inside her. But I never, never, never meant for her to die.

  No, the blame falls on the nigger. And now she has to die. For if she had only fetched the doctor, the death of the unborn child would not have taken my mother.

  The man stopped walking abruptly, for he'd reached the mouth of the alley.

  Nonchalantly he paused and lit a cigarette. The smoke felt good as the nicotine played with his nerves. He waited for a break in the crowd, then he darted down the passage.

  Crouching down, he reached out and groped behind a trashcan. It was still there, exactly where he'd left it before attending the ball. Removing it, hefting it, he placed it under the jacket of his formal evening clothes. Then he stood up swiftly and returned to Bourbon Street. At the next corner he turned right and made for the French Quarter.

  As he walked it felt good, the object hanging in the sling beneath his left armpit. For even through his ruffled shirt, the metal of the axe-head was cool against his heart.

  Flying Patrols

  Vancouver, British Columbia, 1982

  Sunday, October 31st, 10:15 a.m.

  "Good morning. My name is Robert DeClercq. I hold the rank of Superintendent. I have been assigned command of this investigation."

  As he spoke, beginning slowly, getting the feel of once more addressing a task force of officers, DeClercq stood erect with his hands behind his back at the front of the room and moved his gaze from face to face connecting with the eyes. The parade room, like everything else at Headhunter Headquarters, was still under construction, and those who had been unable to find an empty folding chair sat on the top of piles of lumber or leaned against the walls. There were more than seventy officers in the room, two thirds of them dressed in the brown serge working uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the others in plain clothes. Approximately one fifth were women—a change which had come over the Force since DeClercq had retired. It occurred to him now that for its next edition Men Who Wore the Tunic,his first book, would require a change of title.