The cocaine was only an afterthought.
There were two plastic bags, a half pound each, still sitting up on the highest shelf in the boathouse. The bags were buried back behind several cans of CIL Paint where they had been hidden the night that John Lincoln Hardy had died. The coke had gone missing when Sparky had B & E'd that shack on the mountainside in order to make the plant. That was half an hour before the flying patrol had gone in.
Originally Sparky had taken the coke as a source of ready cash. In Vancouver, should things ever get too hot, the wheels of the underground railway out are best greased with drugs. In Vancouver, if you have contacts and coke, you can get to Timbuktu with no questions asked. The drugs had seemed like a good idea — insurance, so to speak. But depending how things turned out tonight, there might be another use.
Sparky had taken down one of the bags and then had left the Quonset hut, locking it up tight.
Outside the wind had been freezing and it felt like it would snow. Winter had come at last.
The patrol car had been parked several blocks away, secreted in an old abandoned rundown garage used for camouflage. It was dangerous to bring the car out here in the first place, dangerous to walk the roads dressed up for the Red Serge Ball, but Mother had wanted her hair stroked so there was nothing else to do. Besides, it would be two hours before the Ball was well under way.
Sparky had found the Headhunter Squad list in the glove compartment of the car. On that list were Al Flood's name, address and phone number. That's how easy it was.
Thirty minutes later, it had started to snow. The wind was roaring through the apartment canyons of the city's West End, freezing the marrow and freezing the heart of anyone out on the street. White spilled from the sky. The faces of the buildings glowed with wary wakeful eyes. Sparky checked the apartment block numbers against the address on the list.
Al Flood's apartment was only a block away.
7:23 p.m.
"How do they do it?" Genevieve asked. "Shrink down a head like this?" She was holding one of the tzantzas in her hand.
"You mean, 'What do I know about death?' " Flood said, putting down his drink.
"Sort of," the woman replied, and she looked once more at the tzantza.
"The technique of shrinking heads was developed in Ecuador by the Jivaro Indians. Though it's now against the law, the practice still continues."
Genevieve DeClercq said: "There's a shrunken head in the Vancouver City Museum. I remember seeing it once."
Flood replied: "As a psychologist, don't you deal with 'headshrinkers' every day at work?" He cast her a watered-down smile.
"You mean: When you've got a problem with your head it's best to see a shrink! That's just gallows humor. I'm not always this macabre."
"Lucky you," Flood said. "I am. All the time. Anyway, once a Jivaro cuts off a head he puts it in a wicker basket and allows the blood to drain. The Indian then spreads banana leaves out in a small clearing and builds a fire over which a large clay pot is suspended. The pot is filled with water. Once the head is white from loss of blood it is removed from the basket and, held by the hair, immersed in the bubbling liquid for from fifteen to thirty minutes. When it's finally taken out, the skin is white as paper and it smells like cooked human flesh. The pot is then filled with sand and cooked up once more.
"Next a machete is used to make an incision from the top of the head vertically down to the base of the skull, ending at the neck. The skin and hair are carefully peeled back to expose the skull, which is skillfully removed.
"First the opening in the back of the head and both eyelids are sewn shut. Using an instrument shaped like a trowel, the shrinker begins to fill the hollow skin with hot sand from the pot. feeding it in through the open neck. After three or four minutes the skin is emptied and the process is repeated. Eventually the head is reduced to the size of an orange — except for the hair which doesn't shrink. The process therefore seems to accentuate its length."
Genevieve DeClercq slowly turned the miniature head around in her hand. "It's horrible, isn't it," she said, "to imagine who this woman was, and who she might have been? She could have been any woman in this city setting out on a normal day, going about her business just as she always had before. Then she gets picked at random — to end up like this!"
Al Flood walked over to stand at her side. "If you want to free her spirit, you unlace the mouth." He placed his left index finger on the tzantza's lips.
"By Jivaro tradition that's the last act they perform. Sewing the mouth shut brings the shrinking process to a close. The Indian takes a needle made from bone and stitches the lips together with a leather thong. He leaves several strips of fine cord dangling from the mouth. The Jivaro say this last act traps the victim's spirit. If the mouth were to remain open, the soul could slip away. It would then be free and would have a choice to make. Either haunt the shrinker. Or dissolve and rest in peace."
Genevieve looked once more at the head held in her palm. The Headhunter had pierced the lips with several small gold rings, and used a leather thong to connect the rings together. "I wonder why the killer went to all the extra trouble to do that with the mouth?" she asked. "That head I saw in the City Museum was finished just like you say, with the lips stitched together."
"Good question," Flood said. "I have no idea."
7:24 p.m.
Shrouded by the falling snow and keeping close to the building so as not to be seen. Sparky reached the front door of Al Flood's apartment. The patrol car was parked half a block away at the end of Lagoon Drive. It couldn't be seen from Flood's apartment. The front door was locked. An A. Flood was listed in Suite 404 on the face of the intercom.
Furtively,' Sparky ran around to the alley behind.
Al Flood's apartment block was divided into eight suites, two on each of four floors, each apartment fronting on Lagoon Drive with a view of Lost Lagoon and Stanley Park beyond. On a clear day, beyond that you could see the North Shore Mountains. Right now, with the snow, you couldn't see the park.
The building was much older than most of the high-rises that now cramp the West End of Vancouver. A zigzag iron lire escape snaked up the rear of Flood's apartment block connecting all four floors. Off the alley beneath the building was an underground parking lot. A concrete ramp sloped down to several parking stalls, each one lettered in white. A blue 1971 Volvo sedan with a dent in its right front fender stood in space number 404.
Sparky recorded the license number, then returned to the patrol car parked down the street.
Some 2,500 police units are linked to the Force computer system. Each police unit has a computer terminal attached to the dashboard of the car. The central computer holds every query for up to seventy-two hours.
Tonight it took the cruiser computer less than two minutes to check the vehicle registration for the license plate number, on the blue Volvo car. Sparky used the time to flip open the chamber of the RCMP standard issue Smith and Wesson.38 Social and check the mechanism. All six chambers were loaded. The gun was ready to fire