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.
The nun had spent the evening with an old woman who was living out her final days in a decaying house in the East End of Vancouver. Her hands gnarled with arthritis and her eyes clouded by cataracts, she could barely take care of herself yet she steadfastly refused to be warehoused in a hospital or a rest home. That tenacity had reminded the nun of when she herself was a child, when this strong woman, her surrogate mother, had helped convince her to take the Holy
Vows. It had hurt her tonight to sit in that room in that house in East Vancouver, and listen to the one whom she loved so now shake her fist at God.
So tonight especially the nun was looking forward to Mass.
It was with utter surprise that she felt the arm circle around her throat. Suddenly her breath was cut off and so was any scream. A hand seized her roughly, throwing her to the ground. The motions were swift; the person was strong; the force applied was brutal. The attacker abruptly let her go, then fell down upon her. Now a gloved hand was instantly clamped over her mouth.
The eyes of the nun opened wide when she heard the material ripping. Above her she saw a flash of blood-red color at the neck of the nylon jacket worn by her violator. The face was hidden behind a black nylon mask, the eyes leered out of two small incisions, and a third hole revealed lips pulled back in a snarl over bared white teeth. Then in utter horror she felt the hardness stab between her legs. The pressure. The entry. And realized. Oh My Lord, this is rape!
In that instant she thought of the Sister who had been attacked in New York City. The other Sisters raped and killed in El Salvador. How in the name of Mercy,she thought, can God let this happen!
Then there was a glint of light on steel.
And the knife slammed through her throat.
The Jack-o'-Lantern
Monday, November 1st, 1:03 a.m.
Robert DeClercq had seen more of death than was healthy for any man — no matter how professionally anesthetized his human sensibilities.
As with all men and women who deal daily with homicide, the Superintendent had been forced to take it in his stride and discover his own way to objectify this most subjective of human fears — the knowledge you're going to die. DeClercq had found it impossible to eschew all emotion. Nor was he able to develop a sense of gallows humor. In the end his mind reached a compromise with itself: reason was left to do its job hindered only by an accumulating overtone of sadness. Sadness about the loss.
For thirty years that technique had worked.
But it didn't work tonight.
It was the total outrage of what DeClercq saw that made the anger well up inside him.