But it wasn't the sight of the eight shrunken heads that filled her with shock.
It was the dull black gleaming object lying in front of them on the bed.
Part three
DEATH RATTLE
Ambush
6:15 p.m.
"They're gone! My God, they're gone!"
"Easy, Sparky. Easy."
"Somebody knows! Can't you see I'm fucked?"
"And I said take it easy. Panic never helps."
"Ah God, Mommy. This is it. I'm finished!"
"Cut the bullshit, Sparky. Let's think this through."
"Daddy, where are you? Help me, Daddy! Please!"
Back and forth, back and forth, Sparky paced the room. Leaning against one concrete wall was an antique full-length mirror. Candlelit, the mirror reflected Sparky pacing in distortion. The figure that appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared on the glass surface was wearing the tattered Scarlet Tunic of an RCMP Corporal.
Crunchh! There was the sound of plastic cracking underfoot.
"What was that?"
"I've no idea."
'"Well, go on. Take a look."
Sparky picked up the candlestick and bent down toward the floor. Broken plastic shards winked back at the flame.
In ever wider arcs, Sparky swept the candlestick back and forth across the concrete.
Then something blinked. Another reflection, over against the wall.
Extending the light in that direction Sparky saw the broken flashlight lying in the comer. Sparky set down the candlestick and picked up the electric torch.
"Well, what is it?"
"A flashlight. I guess I stepped on it and broke it."
"But we don't use a flashlight. You stroke my hair by candlelight. That's what we've always done."
"I know."
"Whoever took my heads away also dropped that thing".
"I know."
"Cut the bullshit babble, Sparky. Think, Sparky. Who?"
"I don't have to think, Mother. I already know!"
It had been a sudden thought, an off-the-wall connection, but now the tension screwed up another notch. Sparky looked at the words stamped into the plastic handle: VANCOUVER POLICE DEPARTMENT.
"Oh, God," Sparky whimpered, slumping down to the floor. "Now I'm really fucked. Everyone will know."
"So that's our thief? That city bull? The one asking all the questions?''
"Yes," Sparky nodded. "It's all gone down the drain."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Just do what must be done."
'Mother, don't you see, there's nothing we can do. They're gone!"
"Oh shut up, child. What the hell do you mean, nothing we can do? My heads are out there somewhere in some stranger's filthy hands. My hair, my beautiful long black hair is under some alien touch. I want my heads back. And I want them back tonight!"
"But how. Mother? How?"
"Our cop will have a list of all the bulls on the Headhunter Squad. Names, addresses, telephone numbers: our cop will still have that. The city bull was part of the Squad — VPD liaison. Now take that bloody rag off and put on your own red serge. We've got work to do. I don't know why you insist on wearing your father's uniform. It makes me seething mad. He's dead, Sparky. He's gone."
"No, you're wrong. He's not dead. He's hiding here inside."
"He's dead, fool. We killed him. You saw him die out in the Arctic snow."
"I didn't kill him! You did. God, I was only two years old!"
"You were there, Sparky. You're a witness and a party. You saw him puke his guts out when the poison got him. You saw me chop a hole in the ice and push his body through. You saw it all and you didn't stop it. That makes you guilty too.''
"But I was only two!"
""SHUT UP, you sniveling piece of shit! You sound more like your father every frigging day. Is that what you want? To be just like him?"
Sparky began to cry, great body-racking sobs and tears that fell like West Coast rain. "You can't talk like that! My Daddy's still alive!"
"Look at you. You're just like him. Quivering mush inside. He was hung up on his old man, just the way that you are. Wanted to he just like him and carry on tradition. Thin red line and 'get your man' and all that Mountie crap. Do you think his father, if alive, would have given a fuck? The old man cared so much for him he refused to pass on his name. Is your last name Blake? So don't make me laugh. Your father was a bastard in every sense of the word.''
"Mommy, why do you hate me? I was only two."
"Look at yourself in the mirror, Sparky. Can't you see the reason? How much you look like him? I never wanted you, you were his idea. All you mean to me is a link to get back at him!
"Do you know what he made me do? Each night up in the Arctic? He made me dress up like a whore and traipse around before him. I'd stand there in the freezing cold while he looked me over like some piece of meat. I like to sec you cold,' he'd say. It makes your nipples hard. Now turn around Bend over. And roll your panties down That's the way Suzannah, get your husband hard. The bigger and harder Alfred gets, the more you're going to like it.'
"God, I hated him. He was like my father. 'Shhh, Suzannah Come in here, cherie. Don't let your mother know. That's my girl. Now take off your pants. Let Pappa see what you've got.' "
"Ah, go away. Mother! Leave me alone!"
"You'll never get rid of me, Sparky. I'm inside your head. You think that rag of a uniform gives you some protection. You think you want to be Alfred's child? You want to worship him? Go fuck yourself, Sparky. You know I always win. You were trained forever down in that dungeon in New Orleans. And you'll pay for what your father did anytime I want."
Suddenly Sparky's lips wrenched back in a grimace of teeth-clenching agony. Pain like splintering shards of shrapnel ripped through Sparky's head. Sparky's mind screamed but not an utterance came out.
Sparky leaped up off the floor and with stunning force heaved the candlestick at the image in the mirror. The glass shattered and a shower of fragments rained down. The room went dark as Sparky fell among the pieces.
Pain settled in. Then after a moment's silence Susnnah's voice came again."Stand up, Sparky. You're going to do as I say?"
"Yes."
''I killed your father, but you have harbored his murderess for all these years in your mind?"
"Yes."
"So you are as guilty as I?"
"Yes."
"And you're going to follow orders?"
"Yes."
"Like all the other times?"
"Yes."
"I want our cop to find that prick and get back my heads."
"Yes."
' 'Find that city bull.''
"Yes."
"Kill, Sparky, kill."
7:19 p.m.
It had all been rather easy, really.
Sparky had gone upstairs to the Quonset hut, unlocking the door at the top of the steps that led up from the bomb shelter. Removing the tattered uniform with its streaks of dried blood, its tarnished buttons, its torn red fabric now more than fifty years old, the killer had quickly redressed in modem red serge. An odor of rotten fish and cooked meat from the upper room clung to the material, but once outside, the wind blowing in from the mouth of the river would soon dissipate any lingering smell. It was the second time within an hour that Sparky had put on the uniform. The uniform was The Royal Canadian Mounted Police Full Review Order of Dress. Now to go find Flood.