Michael Slade - Headhunter

Halloween, of course, takes no account of science.

Halloween concerns itself with only evil forces.

And so it would this year.

At 6:15 p.m. a nun came out through the front door of the convent, past the shaded alcoves in the wood designed for contemplation, along one side of the shallow pond with its celestial reflections, and up the path to the main road where the North Vancouver bus was waiting.

Before this Halloween was over there would be another victim.

7:05 p.m.

The library was a dingy room on the main floor of the command building. Over the years it must have been used for some sort of storage, for all four walls were lined with shelves from the ground up to the ceiling. Several very large tables were scattered about the room and covering these were photostats of every available document on all three of the killings. Copies of the various photographs were in the process of reproduction, while every half hour additional material came in that had not been there before.

Scarlett and Spann sat at one of the tables working on all three files.

"When you get right down to it," the woman whispered, "there's really not much here."

"I was just thinking the same."

"This haystack will have to get bigger before we'll find the needle."

"Yeah."

"Want to get some supper?"

The man looked at his watch. "Actually I was thinking that it's time for me to leave."

"Oh, so you still go out Trick-or-Treating."

"No, it's my mother. She hasn't been very well. She lives in the East End and the street punks scare her. My sister and I go over every Halloween."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have been so flippant."

Rick Scarlett shrugged as if to say, It's what I expected. Out loud he said: "Where shall we go from here? We're going to have to come up with a line of investigation. This got us nowhere."

"Let's wait for a look at the pictures. Maybe there's something in them."

"I got a minute," Scarlett said. "Let's look at them now."

"Well, we can't do that, my good man, until they arrive, now can we?"

"Let's go up and take a look at the Superintendent's wall. He said his door was open. He's not going to object."

Three minutes later the two of them knocked on DeClercq's office door. When no one answered, Scarlett tried the handle. The door was unlocked. They entered the room and Spann switched on the lights.

As a result of the Superintendent's work during the day, the overview had exploded. Two whole walls were now covered with pinned-up pictures and reports and pages of notes. It was only a minute before Katherine Spann locked on one of the photos. She let out a low whistle then began reading the notes and reports and telexes tacked around the picture. Finally she turned to her partner and said: "Tomorrow we go downtown early and quaff a couple of beers."

"Great. We kick off by drinking on duty. Tell me lady, where'd you have in mind for this professional suicide?"

"Let's start with the Moonlight Arms."

"The heart of junk city. You got class. I like your debonair style."

"That, my good man, is where I once saw this dude. And perhaps we'll find him again."

Rick Scarlett followed her pointing finger to one of the photographs — the picture of John Lincoln Hardy, suspected pimp of Helen Grabowski.

8:17 p.m.

The black man stormed into the apartment with his face contorted by rage. He slammed the door behind him, the wood crashing against the jamb. She heard him wrench the lock viciously and the tumblers fall into place.

"Johnnie?" she asked vaguely, getting up off the couch.

He grabbed her by the hair. He was a strong man and it took but a single jerk to throw her across the room. Colliding with a table, she knocked a lamp to the floor. The bulb shattered, spewing glass shards everywhere. Then before she could try to gain her feet, the man pounced across the space between them and with one hand seized her face. He yanked her up toward him, and suddenly she was frightened. Very frightened indeed.

"Where is it?" the man hissed, spittle hitting her skin.

"I… I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you get smart with me, bitch!" It was almost a scream. "You know exactly what I mean!"

"Please Johnnie. Let go," she pleaded. "You're hurting…"

"Shut it, or I'll cut your throat! Do you hear me?"

Her eyes opened wide in terror, her mouth opened wide to scream. But she couldn't get the sound out because he tightened his grip on her cheeks.

"Now you listen to me!" His eyelids were practically squinted shut. "That ain't just any object. That ain't a piece of junk. It's my religion, woman. Now where the fuck is it?"

"Johnnie, pleeease," she gasped through the vice-tight grip of his fingers. "I was so sick. I tried but I, I couldn't take it. You just disappeared. You were gone so long. I thought I was gonna go era…"

"Where is it?" he spat out through his clenched teeth, and then he slapped her suddenly. "Where?" he repeated, and he hit her again. "Where?" This time the blow with his closed fist. "Where?" "Where?" " Where?"

"Oh God, I sold it! Please, not again!"

He let her go abruptly and she crumpled to the floor. For several long moments she lay there, sobbing to catch her breath. Then she heard a dull click that brought a knot to her stomach, and she jerked her head up sharply to find that he had switched a blade on her. She could see the light from the ceiling fixture dancing along its steel edge.

"Okay, baby." His eyes were tense, as though his head were hurting. "It's time for you and me to have a little talk. I really hate to do this."

8:21 p.m.

"Sparky."

"Shut up! Go away! Fuckin' leave me alone!"

"Sparky, now really, is that the way you talk to your mother?"

"You're dead and buried! Get lost! You can't be here!"

"Oh, but I am. I'm down here waiting. Come and stroke my hair.'' '"No!"

"Soft, soft, so soft — and how long and black it is. Black, black, black, child. Black as your heart."

"No! I'm not bad. It's you who torments me and makes me do awful things. Oh God, Mommy, why did you make me look?"

"Because I love you, Sparky. And because you needed the lesson. How can you have pleasure — unless you have pain?"

"But what you did to that man, and to Crystal. It was so mean. So very cruel."

"Oh, come now. And what about the hippie? What about what you did to that girl in Ecuador?"

"That wasn't me! That was you!"

"Sparky, please. I wasn't even there."

"Yes you were."

"No, not really. Only in your head."

"Well you can just fuck off! I won't do what you say!"

"Yes, you will. You'll do anything I ask."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No! No! N… AUUGGHHHH!"

Silence.

"Yes."

"Oh, please, Mommy, don't do that again! Please! Please! Please!"

"Come, come, Sparky. Dry those tears. Now let's hear your footsteps on the stairs. Come to me, child. Come and stroke my hair."

"I'm coming. I'm coming, Mommy. Oh God! Why'd you make me look!"

10:19 p.m.

The rain had begun at last.

Since morning dark clouds had hovered all along the western horizon far out at sea, kept at bay by a high pressure ridge along the spine of the mountains. But now the battle had been lost. First a light drizzle, then a shower, then a full downpour had taken over. The nun was soaked to the skin before she was ten feet from the bus stop.

It didn't bother her, this rain — to her it was Heaven's touch.

She came slowly down the slope of the path that wound through the convent gardens, past the reflecting pool now pockmarked by the raindrops, past the alcoves in the Garden of Christ where she often sat in thought. She was deep in thought now. Above her the moon, one day from full, was hidden behind the storm clouds.