Katherine Spann reached inside and removed four half-pound plastic bags of cocaine.
A key slipped into the lock of the front door. Orange light danced at the window.
Scarlett pulled out the second bag and reached for his gun. The.38 just cleared leather as Hardy opened the door.
"Freeze!" Scarlett ordered. "We're the police!"
In shock the man in the doorway stopped in his tracks. He held a coal-oil lamp out in his right hand, the light of the flame that licked within the glass chimney cavorting about the blank walls of the room.
Hardy looked at the.38 in Rick Scarlett's hand.
He glanced at Katherine Spann and his eyes took in the bags of cocaine.
"So you found the blow," he said.
"We found more than that," Scarlett replied. "Now put down the lamp. Easy. On the floor."
Hardy followed the order. Then as he was straightening up Scarlett put his gun on the floor, reached into the second bag, and from it removed a bowie knife and a Polaroid camera wrapped in another plastic bag. The knife was a foot long with a shallow crescent dipping from the back of the blade down to form a point. Except for a tiny nick in the steel, the cutting edge was honed sharp.
Hardy shook his head. "I never seen them things before," he said, looking straight at Scarlett.
"Then how 'bout this," the cop said. And he reached back into the bag and by the hair pulled out a human head.
"Jesus!" Hardy exclaimed.
His mouth dropped open and with a wild panic his eyes flicked from the head to the hole in the floor, from Rick Scarlett to Katherine Spann. Then he savagely kicked the lamp.
Spinning and spewing its oil, which became a pinwheel of squirting flame, the lamp flew across the room in Rick Scarlett's direction. With a scream the man covered his face and the severed head dropped to the floor. It rolled toward Katherine Spann who was trying to draw her gun.
With a whoosh the floor ignited along with Scarlett's arm. "I'm on fire!" the cop screamed, madly beating his flaming arm against his chest trying to fan out the blaze. At last in desperation he threw himself on to the floor, landing on top of both his gun and his arm where the floorboards had yet to ignite. His body smothered the fire.
Hardy lunged for the bowie knife now lying on the floor. Clutching it in one hand he took a swipe at Spann. Throwing herself away from him, the woman went sprawling back on the floorboards. With a crack she hit her head.
Scarlett was scrambling to his feet when Hardy swung again. This time the knife connected, slashing through the uniform and opening the flesh of the policeman's arm from the elbow to the wrist. Scarlett went down on his knees and Hardy was upon him.
"Don't!" Tipple yelled from the door, reaching for his gun but knowing he wouldn't make it in time.
With a full-arm slash, John Lincoln Hardy went for Rick Scarlett's throat just as Katherine Spann fired. She was now up on her knees. Her gun was in both hands.
The explosion was shocking within the small confines of the room.
As the muzzle flashed, the first bullet struck Hardy's neck, blowing out an exit wound the size of a golfball. The force of the slug sent him spinning and the knife slash missed by inches. Then Katherine Spann fired again and Hardy's head erupted. The lead took him just behind the left ear, ripping through his brain to blow out the front of his forehead in a shower of blood and gristle and bone. A third shot from the.38 hit him in the spine. His body crashed to the floor.
"Rick, grab the light stuff and get outside," Tipple ordered, as he came leaping through the flames. "Spann, get that head and the drugs and get the knife from that man. I'll take the body."
One minute later they were all outside as the fire consumed the cabin. Like a beacon, those flames on the mountainside could be seen for miles. Twenty minutes later the skies opened up and poured down to extinguish the embers.
In this city, it often rains.
Suicide
10:39 p.m.
Robert DeClercq had both cleaned and oiled his gun, then set it down on the desk in the greenhouse. Over the past hour and a half he had tidied up all the Headhunter files, taking them out and stacking them beside the front door entrance. That completed, he had written a long note to Commissioner Francois Chartrand outlining a few final thoughts on the course of the investigation, developing further one or two theories before he had signed off the letter by wishing the man good luck. He had written a note to Genevieve and tacked it to the greenhouse door.
The greenhouse was attached to the wall that made up the south side of the building. Though there were windows in the left half of the wall looking over the ocean, the right half that abutted the greenhouse was solid wood planking. A large oak door gave access, but other than that there was no other way to look into the glass outbuilding.
In the note to his wife Robert DeClercq had asked her to try and forgive him. He did not explain his actions, for she would understand. He simply said that he loved her, that he considered her the most unselfish individual that he had ever met, and he thanked her for the joy of their time together.
"I've gone to find Janie," he said in closing, "so please don't open the door. Just call the police and know that I have escaped from my dungeon."
As a final act of preparation, Robert DeClercq had brushed down his blue serge uniform and hung it on a hanger beside the files at the door. He had crossed to the liquor cabinet and consumed two swallows of brandy straight. Then picking up Janie's picture he had gone into the greenhouse.
He was just locking the door when he heard the noise that made him stop.
For someone had just come in through the front door.
When he looked back out into the living room, the Superintendent saw Genevieve running toward him. She had her arms outstretched and she was crying out through tears: "Oh, Robert, it was awful. Linda's been…"
And that was when he pushed her.
His hand connected with her chest, stopping her in her rush of anguish and suddenly sending her flying in the opposite direction.
"Goodbye, Genny," he said.
And he slammed the greenhouse door.
Genevieve looked up in wild amazement from where she was sprawled on the floor. She could not believe this was happening. What was going on?
First Linda, her student, had been killed after offering to go up to the car and retrieve the bottle of port.
Then the police had been called by some fellow out walking his dog and before she knew it the house was swarming with dozens of officers.
For an hour and a half she had tried to call home, only to hear from the operator that the line was out of order.
And now she had finally gotten away, had kindly been driven home by Joseph Avacomovitch who had asked to come in but who she had told she needed some time alone with her husband, and now this!
What is going on?she thought. I do not believe this night!
And then she saw it all. The room struck like a chime.
The telephone lying smashed against one wall.
The bottle of Scotch broken and spilled on the floor.
The files stacked beside the door and the hung-up uniform.
And then her eyes grew wide with terror as she came to realize that the uniform holster was open and its pistol was missing. He's going to kill himself, she thought — and then she started for the greenhouse door, knowing abruptly that it was a solid barrier of wood totally sealing him off, knowing also in that instant that in order to get to him she had to go right around the house. She knew that it was impossible for her to make it in time, but all the same that she had to give it a try. She scrambled in horror for the front door, fingers clawing at the wood, fingers slipping on the metal handle, wrenching it open wildly and running straight into another wall that was Joseph Avacomovitch.