The mummy man shrieks once more as a part of his throat tears. Suzannah steps away and turns toward Sparky. "If only I'd had your father in a similar position."
Crystal is standing next to the child, crying in pain for there are welts on both her back and buttocks.
"Just one more," Suzannah says, moving toward the mummy. She stabs the final needle through his scrotum between his testicles.
"NOOOOOO!" the man screams and his muscles form a rictus of terror about his mouth.
The room is a large gray stone vault with an arched ceiling. There are several flambeaux burning in brackets on the walls. Crystal and Sparky are standing in front of the bloodstained rack. They are both naked now and they are both weeping silently. Their bodies are streaked with the sweat of fear for they are both afraid, very much afraid of this man who hangs from the ceiling. The axe which the man has brought with him tonight is leaning against one wall.
Wildly, screeching insanely, the mummy now begins to thrash and spin suspended from that meat hook in the ceiling. The man's penis is erect as white liquid squirts from the end. Then…craccck… craccck… craccck… the plaster of Paris starts to fall away. Chunks of it come raining down upon the flagstone floor. A choking mist of white powder now floats about the room. Then the man releases himself from the hook and tumbles to the floor, his penis still erect though pierced with fifteen shiny needles. As he reaches for the hatchet. Crystal begins to scream.
"You killed my mother," the man accuses, raising the axe in the air.
Terrified, Sparky is frantically looking around for a place to hide. Finally the child scrambles underneath the rack, crawling back as far as possible against the dungeon wall. Crystal is yelling in horror and now running around the room. From under here you can only see her shadow on the floor. The shadow is shaking violently. Then it stops. Then it's missing an arm.
The blade of the axe comes clanging down, striking one of the stones set into the floor. A chunk of rock goes spinning off trailing sparks behind.
"ARGH!" Crystal chokes out, more a gargle than a shriek. Then the severed arm hits the dungeon floor. It continues to quiver spasmodically for the nerves are not yet dead. The fingers close in a fist. From above a gout of arterial blood splashes down upon the stones.
Suzannah laughs suddenly. From this side of the room.
Crystal's shadow jumps once more and convulses about on the floor.
"You killed my mother, bitch!" the man snarls in a hiss.
Again the shadow of the axe strikes the image of Crystal. Then again. And again. In a steady rain of blows.
Amid the waterfall of blood there is the sound of bones cracking. Scattered chunks of flesh are plopping down on the stones. A wave of red washes in under the rack to inundate Sparky. Then the man falls down on his hands and knees, chopping in a frenzy at what remains of the girl. "Bitch!" he spits in counterpoint to each blow from the hatchet. "Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!"
By now Sparky is shaking totally out of control. Boots — black boots with red laces and six-inch spiked heels — come slowly across the floor to stand beside the rack. The tongue of a whip hangs down like a snake to curl in the pools of blood.
"Will you come out. Sparky my love? Or does Mama come in and get you?"
Sparky knows already the price of disobeying Mother. So slowly the child crawls out and looks up at Suzannah.
The woman now stands in her black leather corset cut low to show her breasts. Suzannah wears a garterbelt and blood-spattered nylons. A collar of leather and iron studs encircles her neck, while straps run down from the collar to where her nipples are rouged and exposed. Suzannah is dressed so that her crotch is bare, the light of the torches now glittering from the golden rings which pierce her labia, a thong of black leather criss-crossing the gold and lacing up her sex. Her head is bald.
"Sparky, are you your father's child? Or do you belong to me?" The voice of the woman is no more than a hoarse, throaty whisper.
Behind Suzannah, the girl once known as Crystal has now ceased to exist. Crystal is nothing more than very small pieces on the floor. The man with the axe begins to move the first piece toward his mouth.
"Show me you're mine," Suzannah says. "And no one's going to hurt you. Unlace me gently, Sparky. Then kiss your Mother's lips."
Abruptly Sparky starts to scream and weep out of control.
"DADDY. WHERE ARE YOU. DADDY! HELP ME, DADDY! PLEASE!
("i'm here, Sparky, i am you.")
8:05 p.m.
Al Flood heard the gasp of shock and the single word "Mommv?" but he could not place the direction. His head was spinning; his mind was growing darker by the second; the sound was no more than an echo. He dragged himself halfway out from under the table and part way into the aisle, but that was as far as he got. His strength had ebbed completely. He couldn't go on any further. Not one single inch.
End of the line, Al Flood thought. All aboard for the everafter.
Now suddenly a flash of red burst through the broken window. Then there was another and he knew the police had arrived. He heard footsteps running through the snow, but what did all this matter? Help had come too late. Al Flood was going to die.
One last look… at life, he thought…it's time to say… goodbye…
Then unable to raise his head from the floor, the dying man turned it sideways. All he could see was a costumed figure blocking the end of the aisle — that red-coated Scottish Highlander late of the Ross-shire Buffs.
So long, buddy, Al Flood thought, au revoir to the French Poilu…
Then in dull shock he realized that the Poilu wasn't there. Now what in hell could that mean, unless…
… unless the red-coated figure is not the Highlander!
Two feet were planted firmly upon the concrete floor. Blue showed below the waist, scarlet at the chest. Several buttons shone. Both arms were outstretched, steadying the pistol. The head was thrown back, the eyes gone dull, the brain running on instinct alone.
Then there was a whisper escaping from the mouth: "Daddy, where are you. Daddy! Help me, Daddy! Please!"
Somehow, from somewhere deep inside, Al Rood tapped a well of strength he never knew he had. With a push of effort, he raised the Smith and Wesson.
"For her," Flood said. And then he pulled the trigger.
Four shots rang out.
Ricochet
Christmas Day, 7:00 p.m.
He stood at the window, staring out, and watched the snow come down. Six floors below, the traffic along Burrard Street was almost at a standstill as cars skidded and lurched and struggled to move inches along the road. Across the way a snowplow was working the thoroughfare, piling up mounds of whiteness as its flashing amber light cut like staccato notes through the monochromatic hush. From far away came the sound of bells calling the faithful to worship, but the man who stood at the window did not feel a thing.
Robert DeClercq loathed hospitals and the memories they held.
Behind him, from the corridor beyond the open door, the newly-appointed Chief Superintendent could hear the hum of rubber wheels rolling across a tile floor, the vibration of metal on stainless steel, and — from somewhere off in some far room — a moan of forlorn resignation. The voices of nurses echoed down the hall just above a whisper.
Inside this room the only sound was the steady blip… blip… blip of an electronic heart monitor.
DeClercq turned from the window and walked over to the bed. There he turned a chair around and sat down with his arms and chin resting on its back. The person lying on the bed was now sound asleep. The smell of antiseptic agents crept up the policeman's nose. Audibly, he sighed.