Primal Scream (18 page)

"Do you still have your bear?" Katt asked, poking Pinky.

"No, I lost it somewhere along the way."

"How did Jane die?"

Katt's question burst in like an anarchist with a bomb. In all the time she'd lived with him, she'd never broached the topic. Perhaps because she, too, had been kidnapped as a child. Perhaps because she sensed the past hurt him deep inside. Whatever the reason, this morning curiosity "killed" Katt.

He took a deep breath and exorcised slowly.

"You've studied the Quebec independence movement in school. Its violent zenith was the October Crisis of 1970. The FLQ—the Front de Liberation du Quebec—was a terrorist group composed of cells. One cell kidnapped British diplomat James Cross, and another cell murdered Labor Minister Pierre Laporte. I was the Mountie who located both cells."

"How?" said Katt.

"Informants," he replied. "The independence issue splits family ties. I took down the Liberation cell for executing Laporte. The Chenier cell released Cross and fled to Cuba. Two weeks after the crisis, while I was in Ottawa, a gang of punks launched a vendetta against my Montreal home. Kate was gunned down at the door, and Jane was abducted from bed. Someone wrenched Pinky from her and tossed the bear aside."

A crash from the kitchen.

Catnip was cooking breakfast?

"I was banned from the manhunt because of personal involvement. One of my informants tipped me to a cabin in the woods. I took the crossbow now on the wall of my bedroom and drove north to the Laurentians to get Jane back."

"By yourself?"

"I didn't trust anyone else. Independence emotions split cops, too."

"You found her?"

"Yes, in the cabin. The punks had argued over what to do with Jane, and the faction that won had broken her neck before I arrived."

"What became of them?"

"They paid," he said bluntly. "My one regret is I didn't bury Pinky with Jane. He was my closest link to her, so I kept him for myself. The irony is, I left her alone in the dark."

Catnip shot up the hall from the kitchen and took the corner too fast. The kitten pinwheeled and bounced off the waterfront wall. Gunning the engine spun its claws.

Katt cuddled Scratch Bear and murmured in its ear, "She was lucky to have you. I never had a father. And I don't have a bear."

"Jane chose Pinky," Robert said. "That's why that bear looks brand-new. If you want him, Scratch Bear is yours."

The Cheshire Katt grin.

"I'll love him to death," she said.

A shiver shook Robert.

The premonition dream?

Catnip shot toward them with leaps and bounds. The Headhunter file scattered farther in the rambunctious kitten's wake. Screeching to a halt, the terror let out a meow, decided he was tuckered, and crashed beside the dog.

Dog, kid, and grown-up breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Prozac might work," said Katt.

While she banged pots and pans in the kitchen to rustle up breakfast, he got down on his hands and knees to gather up the far-flung contents of the file. A case as complex as this one drew reams of paper, especially if different police jurisdictions were involved. Since the voice in his mind insisted a detail from back then had new meaning now, last night De-Clercq had reread the once active part of the file, ignoring those documents entered after John Lincoln Hardy had been shot. Truth was, given the booze, pills, and gun he had put in his mouth, he had not read the postoperative stuff which closed out the file. How could what he hadn't read then vex his mind now?

The rambunctious cat had uncovered an envelope in the postoperative pile.

The return address in the upper corner caught the Mountie's eye:

Detective Al Flood

Major Crimes Squad

Vancouver Police Department

123 Main Street 

Vancouver, British Columbia

The Vancouver Police Department policed the heart of the city.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police policed most of the province.

Flood was the VPD liaison who had worked with the Mounties' Headhunter Squad.

Flood was also the cop who was shot to death with Robert's second wife.

Robert opened the envelope and dumped its contents out on the floor.

Inside was a memo handwritten by Flood:

On Saturday, November 13, 1982, at 9:41 p.m., this was hand-delivered to the VPD. A cab driver (report on file) went into McDonald's for a cup of coffee and came out to find it left on his car seat. No ID on who put it there. The roll of film and originals are still with the lab.

November 13 was the night John Lincoln Hardy was shot.

November 13 was the night Robert attempted his suicide. November 13 was the night the Headhunter dragnet ended.

Everything filed after that was postoperative and new to DeClercq. While he was recuperating from mental breakdown, others had closed the file.

Clipped to Flood's memo was a copy of the envelope left in the cab. FOR THE POLICE, it read. Under that was the Headhunter's taunt pasted together from newspaper cuttings. As with the Polaroids, the taunt was aimed at DeClercq. SAY UNCLE, ROBERT. HAVEN'T YOU HAD E
NOUGH! PS YOU DEVELOP THIS ONE.
Under that was a print developed from a negative.

The heads in the Polaroids had been those of Liese Greiner, the skeleton on the hill; Helen Grabowski, the floater in the river; Joanna Portman, the nursel nailed to the totem pole; and Anna Rose, the nun. The head in this print was that of Natasha Wilkes, the; waylaid skier. Each Polaroid had shown the woman's head stuck on a stake against a white backdrop. Each Polaroid had cropped the stake halfway down the pole, which hid the base.

This print was different.

Shot from farther back.

It showed the head.

It showed the stake.

And it showed the pail of sand in which the stake was mounted.

The Headhunter returned with his trophy, thought DeClercq. He shoveled a pail full of sand, then carried it and the head inside. There he placed the bucket front of a pinned-up sheet, stuck a pole into the and rammed the head down on top. Then he snapped this photo as a taunt.

Why did he switch from Polaroid to regular film? Did he know we were tracking those who bought Polaroid supplies?

The Mountie studied the print.

The face of Natasha Wilkes was frozen in a rictus of terror. Her skin was stretched tight, and her rolled-up eyes bulged. Her black hair was matted in hanks and strands. Her swollen tongue stuck from her mouth open in a scream. Her nostrils flared to let out trickles : of blood. Shreds of skin from her neck curled around the pole like worms.

"Breakfast!" Katt called from the kitchen.

DeClercq's eyes slid down the pole to the pail of sand.

Mixed with the sand was something else.

Maple leaves.

Richmond, British Columbia

Wind off the river whipped flying snow through the bare limbs of the maple trees to build white pyramids up the dyke. The storm swallowed up the Jeep parked on the levee and obliterated tracks from it to a padlocked gate in a spiked fence around the maple garden in front of the Quonset hut on the slough. The hut being smaller than the concrete bunker under it, the vanishing tracks angled around the perimeter to a door over the quagmire out back. A padlock secured the windowless hut in which subterranean stairs descended into the bunker. From one step to the next dripped a trail of blood. Halfway down the stairwell, a bolted door sealed off the underground dungeon surrounding the realm of madness the Headhunter called home.

When psychosis was florid, the psycho came home to Mother.

Like tonight.

Now.

Candle pots slung in macrame webbings burned in the stygian dark. The webbings dangled from chains fastened to the ceiling. Black smudge curled from candle wicks protected by small glass umbrellas from blood draining out of the heads. The blood collected on the floor. The heads hung suspended at eye level by the ceiling chains hooked in their hair. The candles highlighted the heads from below, smearing yellow up the chins and under the noses, then up the brows above the eyes. Shadows masked other features, sinking sightless gazes into fathomless pits, and blackening mouths, cheeks, and foreheads to crowns. Strands of hair glistened above like spun gold, while drops the color of molten gold dripped from neck stumps.

A single set of footsteps echoed around the vault as Sparky and Mother splashed from one dead head to the next.

"Delicious, child. A good night's hunt. I love how this one bit through his tongue. See how the tip hangs by a thread from his lip?"

"His lips aren't as pink as yours, Mommy."

"And this one. Beautiful. Take in the fright. Note how facing imminent death turned the roots of his hair stark white."

"His hair isn't black like yours, Mommy."

"
Hush, child. Forget the past. Let it be. Mother's waiting in the flesh to satisfy your needs. You have no need for the tzantzas in the box. Their lips and black hair are merely substitutes. Now that you have me, what need have you for them? Did you not stroke my hairin town tonight?"

"Yes," replied the solitary voice in the dungeon vault.

"And did you not kiss my lips with the passion you fought in New Orleans?"

"Yes."

"And was that dungeon not as secure as the House of Pain and here?"

"Yes."

"And was the glow of the torchlight not as gold as this?"

"Yes."

"And did the light not wink at you from the erotic rings?"

"Yes."

"And did you not bury yourself in me?"

"Yes."

"And did I not exorcise dread from Ecuador?"

"Yes."

"And did it not feel good to scream and scream and scream?"

"Yes."

"A primal scream to sunder the knots twisting you up inside?"

"Yes."

"And do you not find the talking cure binds you to me?"

"Yes."

"And does love for me instead of hate not make you feel better?"

"Yes."

"And do you not find the tighter we are, the safer you feel?"

"Yes."

"And is Mother's love and protection not all you ever wanted?" "Yes." "And do you not see your hate for me was the flip side of love? 'I do. I love you, Mommy. Mommy, you fucking cunt.''

"Yes."

"And did I not say, 'Let it out, Sparky. Scream and scream and scream. Are you your father's spawn? Or do you belong to me? If you're mine, prove it tonight in blood?"

"Yes."

"And have you not proved your love for me in blood four-fold? Bringing me your father's head to taunt and humiliate?"

"These aren't Daddy's head."

"Nor are the tzantzas in the box mine. Black hair and pierced lips made them me. And shrinking me down to size vented your hate."

"Why hate Daddy?"

"Because he abused me. And that abuse made me hurt you."

"Abused you how?"

"He used me, Sparky. He made my body his spittoon. Like my father did in France. 'Shhh, Suzannah. Come in here, cherie. Now let me take off your frills so Papa can love you.' That's why Mama shipped me off and how I met your father. He caged me in the cold and dressed me like a whore, then sat by the fire ogling me. I like you cold. It makes your nipples hard. Now turn around. Bend over. And spread it wide. Good girl, Suzannah. Get your master hard. The bigger s and harder I get, the more you'll love it. "

"Why hurt me?"

"To get back at him. Look in a mirror, Sparky. Do you not see his genes?"

"I'm sorry, Mommy."

"So am I, child. He hurt me. So I hurt you. So you hurt me. Why should he slip scot-free from the vicious circle he began? He hurt me. So I hurt you. So you hurt him. You rape him, and kill him, and cut off his head. He's any man turned around so you can't see his face. Just as any woman with black hair was me. In this light they're all your father's head. See how plump this one hangs like ripe fruit? Pluck the fruit, Sparky, and dry it for me. Grape to raisin. Plum to prune. Shrink your father down to size. The smaller and limper you make him, the more I'll love you."

Sparky unhooked the head from its chain.

The psycho carried the bleeding trophy to the next room.

A candlestick burned within.

Candle glow gilded grinning teeth.

Sand bubbled in a hot pot.

A brazier burnished the
tzantza
box.

By the box were artist's tools.

A scalpel to remove the skin from the skull.

Needle and thread to sew the skin into a pouch.

A scoop to fill the pouch with hot sand.

Thongs to stitch the eyes shut and lace the mouth.

Rings like those through Mother's lips.

Mother's lips . . .

The kiss of death.