Headhunter (43 page)

Still on his feet, still moving, Flood staggered off into the storm, leaving a trail of blood behind.

7:51 p.m.

Damn!
Sparky thought as the pistol clicked again. Then the lot was filled with roaring noise, explosion on explosion, and a slug whizzed by to the right. Ducking behind the Volvo, the killer tripped over the bag. The Adidas bag was on the ground beside the driver's door.

Sparky crouched low until the booming faded and died.

Reload first. Destroy the heads. Then blow that fucker away. No room for an error at this stage of the game.

Flipping open the cylinder and emptying the casings, Sparky fed the .38 six new cartridges.
That's it. All right. Fingers steady. Don't shake. Flick the weapon shut. Now you're ready to go.

At this very moment half the West End of Vancouver was probably phoning the VPD to say that World War III was on. Magnified by the cavern, the shots would travel far and wide. By now the VPD would be dispatching patrol cars and calling out the SWAT squad. There was not a second to lose: the heads had to go.

As luck would have it all eight heads were in the Adidas bag. So was Al Flood's diary. Sparky glanced quickly at one page.
"Why do human beings so fear a severed head?"
Sparky read.
"If this is everyman's general fear, why must I he plagued with it multiplied a thousand times?"
A flick through a couple more pages brought home to Sparky the diary's chilling implications, and what must be done.

Someone had left an oily rag on the floor after working on a car. Grabbing it quickly. Sparky soaked the cloth in crank-case oil now spreading out across the concrete from beneath the Volvo. Then grasping the Adidas bag, gun still in hand, the murderer ran up the ramp and out into the snow.

Flood was not around, neither right nor left.

Across the lane, embers glowed in the burning can.

Half expecting a .38 shot and still clutching the Adidas bag, Sparky skirted the alley and tossed the oil-soaked rag into the tin. It ignited at once. With a whoosh the flames shot up, dyeing the snowflakes orange. Holding the gym bag open with both hands Sparky shook the contents into the burning tin. The shrunken heads caught fire immediately amid the stench of burning hair. The skin ignited like paper. The lip rings turned red and glowed. And then the heads were gone. When the diary burst into flame, its pages curled like fingers as each sheet charred black and then crumbled, sifting down as ash.

Fuck you, Mother,
Sparky thought.
Burn, witch, burn.

Then with an intense feeling of satisfaction and newfound freedom, Sparky lifted the lid of a nearby garbage can and stuffed the Adidas bag inside. As soon as the lid was replaced it began to recollect snow.

Turning out into the alley, Sparky surveyed the ground. A second later, gun in hand, the killer set off to follow the trail of blood that the detective had left in the snow.

Okay, Mr. City Bull, now it's you and me.

Shootout

7:56 p.m.

Al Flood had never been shot before so he didn't know what to expect. It was true that he had heard from cops on the Squad who had received gunshot wounds and survived, and had also spoken to a few who had later died. One and all, they had informed him that you could tell if you would live or die from the thoughts that ran through your head. But that did not mean much. For as the man says:
you had to have been there, right?

Al Flood was there now—and he knew he was going to die.

So go on and die!
he thought.
What's so wrong with that? We all have to face this fear one day or another. Are you so afraid to die if your time has come?

No, Al Flood thought.
I'm not afraid to die.

There, he felt better for that. After all there are many more things in life far worse than death. Things like loneliness and not being loved, and he'd had his share of them. Yes, when you got right down to it death could be a blessing. A good, clean release. Perhaps his own salvation. Death was only bad when it hurt so much or took so long that it humiliated you.

Well, it sure the hell hurts,
Flood thought, and his head began to spin.

It had been a mistake—Flood knew that now—to have made for the loading bay. At the time he had made the decision, however, all that seemed important was to escape from the line of fire, to get away from the killer as quickly as possible. Turning into the loading bay off the alley had accomplished that. But it was a mistake all the same. For now Flood found himself trapped on his hands and knees in a dead-end alcove. He was cornered in a three-sided box no more than twelve feet wide, and for anyone looking in from the alley he was an open target. He was totally unprotected, with only three shots left. Once those rounds were gone he had no extra shells.

To make matters more precarious, dizziness was coming at him in nauseating waves. Here one moment . . . gone the next . . . then surging back again. At certain times he thought
that he could hear the wail of police sirens through the wall of snow, rising and falling, rising and falling, very far away.
It's foolish,
his mind told him,
to place any hope in that. Far, far better than most you know that this is a crime-plagued town. They're not even heading this way

Al Flood had collapsed on his stomach and was facing into the alcove with his back to the alley. He had not the energy to turn himself around, to at least face the direction from which an attack would come. Instead he let his head drop and his face fall into the snow.

Al Flood allowed his thoughts to lightly drift away.

The visions began with a man, an old man with a wrinkled face wearing wire-rim glasses, a man whose hair was sparse and swept back and graying at the temples, a man who smoked a cigarette below a thin moustache. The old man was sitting in the back of a sleigh, wrapped in a warm fur blanket. He was reading a newspaper. The paper was yellow and dog-eared, covered by snow. Al Flood recognized the man: he'd once read one of his books.

The man in the sleigh turned toward him and held out the yellow paper. In a voice thick with smoke he said: "It says here this snow is general throughout the entire province. It's falling further westward into the dark Pacific Ocean. It's falling on every peak and summit in the Rocky Mountains. It is falling also on that lonely mountain graveyard . . . lonely mountain graveyard . . . lonely, lonely graveyard ..."

And then the man was suddenly gone, obliterated completely by a rage of swirling snowflakes, disappearing beyond ii curtain of white that parted several seconds later to reveal a precipitous slope with banks of snow that lay thickly about a shattered fuselage and plane cockpit. This vision. Flood knew, was his father's grave.

Off in the distance beyond the slope he could also discern the angry black waves of an ocean pounding against a shore, throwing out spray to mix with the snow that tumbled down upon crooked crosses and headstones in a deserted, abandoned churchyard.

"What you see—" it was the old man's voice again "—is a Christian Indian graveyard, the West Coast of Vancouver Island. One of the graves has been redug and your brother is buried there."

Then once more Flood could just make out the sleigh within the blinding storm, only this time there was another figure standing behind the old man wrapped in the blanket. This second figure was a much larger individual, full-faced with a bushy beard and one hand on the shoulder of the older one in the sled.
They're friends,
Flood thought, comparing them.
An incongruity.

"Can you hear the snow," the old man asked, "falling, faintly falling through the Universe? The snow is falling, my son, on all the living and dead."

"She's dead," the big man stated, "but you are still alive. If you can do nothing for yourself, then do something for her. Each one does what he can. Take another look."

Then Al Flood saw the alley all white with its sheet of snow. He could see himself in the alcove, face down as flake by flake enveloped his prostrate form and buried him in a shroud. And he could watch as that same snow blew into the parking lot, its whiteness stained red in the pool of blood that spread out from Genevieve.

"Die for a reason," Hemingway said. "Don't throw your life away."

"Die for a cause," Joyce added. "Let's have one last fight for the dead."

And then they were gone, both of them, leaving nothing behind but the snow. Al Flood heard his breath come in gasps as phlegm caught in his throat.
Death rattle,
the man thought.
I guess my time is near.
"One more fight," he said: then slowly he found himself coming around and moving across the ground.

Now he was turning, cutting a ragged circle in the snow, endeavoring to gain a position from which he could make a stand. Inch by inch, like the hands of a clock, he rotated around.

Eight o'clock . . . nine o'clock . . . you're halfway there,
he thought.
Think of her . . . don't pass out .. . do what must be done . . .

And then he saw the window.

The window was set in the alcove wall now in front of him. It was long and narrow and two feet high, eight inches up from the ground. Though Flood had passed here countless times he had never seen it before. Whatever its use—perhaps as a light source for a building basement—it had not been opened in years. The windowpane was grimy and caked with layers of soot.

Flood used the butt of his .38 to smash through the glass and clear away the shards.

The pain was fierce, but he crawled in and fell eight feet down to the floor.

8:00 p.m.

Sparky heard the crash of glass and moved toward the alcove.

Easy. Take it very easy. Don't expose yourself.

Gun in hand, crouching low, Sparky peered around the corner just in time to see Al Flood's legs disappear in through the window.

The killer moved into the alcove, closing the gap between them.

8:01 p.m.

It was strange down here.

It was so eerie, so weird, so surreal, that at first Flood thought he had passed out again and that this was another vision. Who were all these people and what were they doing? Living in a madhouse?

For a moment the cop was certain that he had stepped back in time, that now he was a younger man lost on a carnival midway.

Was this some sort of nightmare? Was this what you saw when you died?

Mickey Mouse and Mortimer Snerd and the Count of Monte Cristo? The Connecticut Yankee, Marie Antoinette, the Last of the Mohicans? Alonzo from
The Tempest
leaning against the wall?

For there were costumes on tables and draped on the floor and hanging from the ceiling. Lurking in shadows about the room were men in uniform: a Russian Cossack of the Guard, a Sepoy of the Second Gurkhas, a Hussar, a Roman Centurion.

Between two tables and blocking the end of one aisle were a French
Poilu
in his
horizon bleu
greatcoat from the trenches of Verdun and a red-coated Scottish Highlander of the Ross shire Buffs, ostrich feathers in his bonnet and a goatskin sporran at his groin.

There were clowns with red noses, and Hamlet. There was the Scarlet Pimpernel.

There were Yoda and Punch and Judy and Azuncena from
II Trovatore.

Off in one corner by herself was Lady Livia from
Women Beware Women.

And everywhere that Al Flood looked there were Monster masks.

Each head was stuck on a hat hook that angled out from one of the walls. In his fall from the window Flood had knocked two of these masks to the ground. They now lay beside him: the face of Fu Manchu to his left, and to his right, Fredric March as Stevenson's Mr. Hyde. When Flood glanced up, the other heads still on the hooks were beginning to come alive.

That's it,
he thought.
You're going.
Then his mind was in a whirl.

"I'm Count Orlock," Max Schreck said, "from Murnau's
Nosferatu."

"And I'm the Frankenstein Monster," whispered Boris Karloff. Then the walls were rife with laughter.

Al Flood felt sick. Bile rose to his throat.

Think of her . . . forget them . . . just keep moving . . .

"He's moving," hissed Vincent Price with his face from
House of Wax.

"Out of sight, out of mind," screamed the Phantom of the Opera.

The Mummy did not say a thing.

Flood felt empty, drained, exhausted, as he crawled beneath the table spread with props. He could hear the sirens drawing near, close now, closer, but he was aware that they would never arrive in time. His chest was leaking blood in a trail smeared across the floor. "He's hiding in here," the blood mark said, pointing in his direction.

Flood put down his head.
Too late,
he thought as tears came welling to his eyes.
Sorry, Genny. I should have stayed back there in the alley. Should have given it all I had . . .

Have, you mean.

All right, have. What's the difference now?

Think of her.

I can't.

Fight for her.

I can't.

Die for her.

I can't.

Then die.

Yes. that I can do.

He hit the leg of another table with his shoulder and the table began to rock. Something above him was moving, rolling, now falling over the edge. Each time he took a breath there was a wheeze from his punctured lung. He felt himself slipping away—like snow must slip in the springtime from the slope of his father's grave—and he knew that whatever he had to do was never going to get done.

Something hit the floor to his left and rolled in his direction.

His eyes took a look.

And then he wanted to laugh.

God, how he wished he had the strength to laugh as loud as he could, just to go out laughing at this Joke we know as life.

Is this it!
Flood thought.
Is this my final vision!

Then the pod that looked like it belonged to
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
bumped against his gun and came rolling to a halt'.

Flood opened his mouth, thinking,
I'll damn well laugh if I want! Here's one for you, life! Here's how I go—

But he didn't laugh after all: his muscles froze instead.

For now there was another sound with him in this room. The sound of someone at the window through which he had come.

The sound of someone falling, feet on the floor, a body rolling, feet on the floor again.

Then came the sound of a .38, the unmistakable click as its hammer cocked.

8:03 p.m.

Sparky crouched among the theater costumes, taking in every sound.

The whistle of the wind blowing in through the shattered window. The rap of a pipe as it rattled deep within one of the walls. The wail of the police sirens less than a block away.

The hiss of Al Flood's wheezing lung near the center of the storage room.

Then like a cat ready to pounce. Sparky began to move.
Circle the room,
he killer thought,
and keep yourself down low. Use the figures for camouflage and come up from behind. Take him from the rear.

Furtively Sparky moved past the wrinkled, waited faces of a Witches' Sabbath, past an orange orangutang, past the Mummy of Kharis with its rotting bandages, its cracked and withered and dry facial skin, its one remaining eye.

Keep low. Keep listening. Keep moving. Keep circling behind.

Then suddenly both eyes of the Mummy snapped open, the bad one dripping blood.

Involuntarily, Sparky gasped.

"Did you really think you could kill me?"
a voice from the Mummy asked.

"Mommy?" Sparky whispered.

"Yes, child. I've come back."

8:04 p.m.

The mummy is hanging suspended from a meat hook in the ceiling. At least it looks like a mummy, this trussed up thing—except that both its arms are stretched out as if in crucifixion.

But for a number of holes the man inside is completely encased in bandages and plaster of Paris. There are four holes in the face-casting for his eyes, his nose and his mouth. There are two large holes in the body casing: one for the man's genitals and the other for his anus. The mummy is now swinging slightly to and fro in chains. An enamel tray sits on the floor below his dangling feet. This drip tray is filled with colors: yellow, white, red and brown. The mummy is screaming in terror as shrieks bounce wildly off the stone walls.

"Oh God! Woman,
please!
No! I'm so afraid of neeeeeedles!"

The scream, however, ends in a choke as the man's voice breaks and degenerates into gibberish. The man is blubbering now through the mouth hole in the plaster. His lips are moving continually, beseeching, yammering, but only whines come out. The man is also grinding his tongue between his teeth.