Even at a distance, Scarlett and Spann could see into the red maw of the cleaved belly where glossy tubular glands and bulgy membranes slid about, the entrails still palpitating. The screams of the animal were now climbing to a terrible pitch. It was like a wild cry that burst up and out until something in the tortured throat tore, and the wail trailed away to the hiss of a hoarse whisper.
The zombi reached into the cavity and pulled out the animal's guts. Then slowly the Undead creature began to drape the ropes of steaming intestine across the upturned faces of the voodoo dancers circled on the ground around the scaffold.
"Damballah," someone whispered, barely audibly.
Rick Scarlett felt light-headed. Nearby a fly buzzed, its sound a little too loud.
The goat jerked and died.
As the stretched-out dancers covered with gore now began to writhe in ecstasy, the two cops turned and looked toward the tomb.
Only then did they realize that John Lincoln Hardy had disappeared. With the bag over one shoulder, he had been swallowed into the grave of night like a stone sucked into quicksand.
Rick Scarlett tapped Katherine Spann on the shoulder.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," he whispered into her ear.
Less than a minute later, they too were gone.
10:35 a.m.
Banks of cloud swept north from the Gulf and the tropics. When the ball of the storm finally cracked open, a white flash of wavering light filled the horizon, showing up each leaf, each twig, each bough on the trees in stark black relief. An emphatic crash of thunder followed shortly after. As the storm drew closer to Moisant Field each lightning blitz was yellower than the last, each volley of thunder succeeding it at shorter intervals. Ultimately the brilliance and the noise met in one consummate explosion right above their heads — and the rain came down. The hood of the police car rumbled like a roll of military drums. For Scarlett and Spann the downpour made them both feel right at home.
Ten minutes later the rain stopped and Ernie Hodge, head ducked, lumbered out through the Air Express door of the cargo building.
The sudden calm was deceiving, however. For no sooner had the NOPD detective opened the rear door of the car than a wind almost tore it off its hinges. High above, the trees sighed and swayed and moaned.
"Je-sus Ke-rist!" Hodge exclaimed, yanking the handle shut. "What are we in for anyway, some sort o' typhoon?"
The rain began again.
"Why don't you fly anyway?" Luke Wentworth said. He sounded like he meant it.
"What's the situation?" Spann asked of Hodge.
"They're booked in, all right. Same flight as you guys, if the plane flies. Once you get to Seattle, they take a different route. They're not going to Vancouver."
"Where are they being shipped?"
"Spokane, Washington. According to the bill of lading."
The woman looked at Scarlett; Scarlett shrugged his shoulders.
"You're sure that's the package?"
"Says right on it; voodoo masks. Just how many shipments like that do you think they got on board? Of course it's the package."
"Okay," Spann said.
"If you think there's drugs hidden in them masks, why don't we scoop it right here? Drugs in a case smell as high as a bayou outhouse."
"No way," the woman said. "This is not a drug bust. It's a murder investigation. The masks stay put. Right, Luke?"
Wentworth didn't turn from looking out the window. Hf was still wearing his glasses though it was dark as sin outside. "It's your case," he said. And then the wind died down.
John Jefferson said: "You two had better get into the terminal. Otherwise the masks will fly and we'll still be yakking."
He put the car in gear and they all drove away. Ten minutes later they pulled up in front of the entrance to Eastern Airlines. They shook hands all round, just as they did on arriving. Then the two Canadians climbed out into a dying rain.
Just before she closed the door Spann turned to Wentworth. "Does it always rain like this down here?" she asked the FBI man.
"Sometimes," Wentworth said, not turning from the window.
"Too bad," Spann said. "I hate rain."
The last thing she saw as she closed the door was John Jefferson Jr., smiling.
The Ritual of Blood
Vancouver, British Columbia
Wednesday, November 10th, 10:25 a.m.
He could feel the pressure building. And he did not feel well at all.
Since 4:45 in the morning DeClercq had been working at breakneck speed. His greenhouse at home was now littered with books and files and a videotape machine. He had spent the hours before dawn reviewing every memo, interview, police report, picture and note of importance. Around him his roses were dying. Those which bloomed in the autumn — Erfurt and Eternal Flame and Ferdinand Pichard and Golden Wings — were showing the signs of neglect in their petals scattered about the floor.
At six he had left the house and driven down to Headquarters. The past hour and a half had been spent on the phone. First he had heard from Victoria where the A-G was calmly wondering, "Just what the fuck's going on?" The Mayor of Vancouver had called to say that she was sick and tired of questions and henceforth would be directing all press inquiries to him. Then Chartrand had phoned from Ottawa to see how he was doing. It seems the Opposition in the House of Commons had been giving the Government a rather rough time, so the Minister responsible was putting pressure on him.
"Men and equipment, Robert. Requisition whatever you need."
The work and the politics, however, were not what was bothering him. For though he was careful not to vocalize his fear, DeClercq was almost certain that soon the Headhunter would strike again. If his previous pattern set the pace he had already waited too long. The thought terrified the Superintendent no matter how calm he tried to be. For if a riot had followed the last killing, what would come this time. Go on, admit it,his mind said. You're afraid of another taunt!
Robert DeClercq sat at his desk and opened another file.
The case was turning bad. To start with the sweep and its aftermath had become a paper chase. Not one of the sex offenders picked up had in any way panned out. Matthew Paul Pitt was still their best suspect, yet Special O after several days had nothing to report. Pitt spent each day and every night front row center in the strip clubs. During the day he slept in the bushes of Stanley Park.
Equally disturbing, John Lincoln Hardy had disappeared. It had been two days since Spann and Scarlett had returned from New Orleans. DeClercq had read their report on the voodoo ceremony and the follow-up memos again and again. The Squad knew that Hardy had returned to Canada by a flight from the USA into Calgary, Alberta. They knew that the parcel of masks had gone to Spokane, Washington. But Hardy had somehow slipped away and vanished into thin air. Now all they could do was wait.
DeClercq was almost tempted to throw the entire investigation on to the cases of Pitt and Hardy. In other words to make the same mistake that the British had over the alleged Yorkshire Ripper tape. But he resisted the temptation, knowing full well that it was born out of desperation.
God! DeClercq thought. Why did I ever take on this case?
Then he remembered Janie. Why, oh why, he asked himself, was she always in his mind? At least when he was writing, the more he went into history the more he forgot the past.
He pushed the thought aside violently and tried to concentrate on the case. When he made a note he noticed that his handwriting was degenerating. That his hands were shaking. Suddenly he felt very tired. He shook himself sharply and looked at the corkboard.