Out in the alley behind the boys the world was turning red. Night had come down and the snow was falling thickly, collecting on the ground. Across the lane a burning tin was spewing forth red sparks that lit up the snow. Damn, Sparky thought, crouching by the car. There was nothing to do but wait. Then kill the two boys as well.
7:46 p.m.
"I spend half my life in this elevator. It's the slowest one in town." Al Flood punched the button a third and fourth time, finally the doors closed and the elevator jerked. It took its time going down.
"Donny! Kevin!" a voice called from the alley. The two boys in the parking lot turned to look up the ramp. "Where the hell are you two? I said to watch this fire. Burning's against the law."
"Oh!" one lad said. "Now we're in for it!" "Down here. Mom!" yelled the other boy. The woman who appeared at the top of the ramp was heavy set and angry. Her hair was up in curlers and she was wrapped in a fake-fur coat.
"I thought I told you two to watch the tin till the fire died. Can't you do anything right? The house could have burned down while you were having fun."
"Ah, Mom," one boy said. "We can see it from here." "That's not the point, Kevin. If your father were alive you wouldn't act like this."
The taller boy bent down to pick up the skateboard. Single file they marched up the ramp and out into the snow.
"Leave the embers," the woman said. "Let's go inside." The three of them disappeared just as another noise filled the parking lot. It was the sound of muffled voices from beyond the elevator door. Pistol in hand. Sparky left the Volvo and moved into the shadow of a pillar fifteen feet away.
The elevator opened.
"This snow will slow us down," Genevieve DeClercq said. She stepped out in the open, followed by Al Flood.
7:48 p.m.
The passenger side of the Volvo was no more than eight inches away from one of the concrete pillars supporting the roof. A person would have to be Plastic Man to enter the car from that side. "A tight squeeze," Genevieve said as they approached the vehicle.
"You'll have to wait till I pull out or get in by the driver's side."
"I'll get in your side," she said as they reached the left front door.
Flood was unlocking the door when he noticed the marks and glove smudges on the hubcap of his car.
Vandals? he wondered, stepping forward toward the left front wheel.
"What's wrong?" Genevieve asked. "Is some — "
Fifteen feet away there was a flash of brilliant yellow from within the shadow cast by one of the pillars. Then a shocking explosion. Echoing wildly the sound of the blast boomed around the cavern. The bullet hit Flood in the side of the chest, spinning him back along the driver's door of the car. Blood spattered the roof of the Volvo as his left lung collapsed.
But wounded though he was, the cop reacted fast.
With his left arm extended, he pushed away from the side of the car with his right hand and gave Genevieve a hard shove to clear her out of the way. Then the muzzle flared yellow again. This time the thunderclap seemed even louder. It boomed in Al Flood's ears like a nuclear explosion. His head was going light.
Veering insanely off the chrome, the slug whacked home against the metal rim of the driver's door and ricocheted. Had Flood not moved a second earlier it would have ripped through his heart. Instead it struck Genevieve in the eye. The velocity of the shot slammed the lead through her brain. It bounced off the inside of her skull and blew out through the top of her head, opening her cranium in a shower of blood and bone.
Genevieve DeClercq was dead before she hit the ground.
Then the muzzle flared again. But by the time the third shot came, Al Flood was on his belly with the.38 in his fist. He was rolling underneath the Volvo when the bullet hit the concrete floor and deflected up under the car. A moment later crankcase oil spewed from the oil pan. Flood felt sick to his stomach, for out of the corner of his eye he saw Genevieve in her death throes. He knew that she was gone.
With his heart now beating frantically and pumping his blood away, he scanned the parking lot floor for any sign of the killer. Pinned beneath his car he was like a fish in a barrel; if the assassin bent down and saw him that would be it: a spray of shots along the floor and he would be gone too.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rolled out on the other side. He staggered to his feet. And then he began to run.
The fourth shot, triggered off in haste, missed him. He was still on his feet and moving as the bullet hit the concrete at the mouth of the ramp to his right. Flying pieces of soot-stained gray burst out into the snow.
When the fifth shot missed, Flood felt an adrenaline pump of hope that he'd get clean away.
Then the sixth shot hit him high in the back and knocked him to the ground. The slug tore through his shoulder in a line of searing pain. The force of the shot, like a sledgehammer, had knocked him face down in the snow that was blowing along the ramp.
Flood heard movement behind him. Footsteps light and swift across the concrete floor. A whisper in the cavern. The click of an empty pistol. A second click as the hammer once more hit a fired chamber. Then he rolled on his side, screaming out in agony, and pulled off three quick shots in succession.
As the slugs careened around in the lot, Al Flood struggled to his feet and stumbled out into the alley. Here the ground was now white with a thick blanket of snow.
Still on his feet, still moving, Flood staggered off into the storm, leaving a trail of blood behind.
7:51 p.m.
Damn! Sparky thought as the pistol clicked again. Then the lot was filled with roaring noise, explosion on explosion, and a slug whizzed by to the right. Ducking behind the Volvo, the killer tripped over the bag. The Adidas bag was on the ground beside the driver's door.
Sparky crouched low until the booming faded and died.
Reload first. Destroy the heads. Then blow that fucker away. No room for an error at this stage of the game.
Flipping open the cylinder and emptying the casings, Sparky fed the.38 six new cartridges. That's it. All right. Fingers steady. Don't shake. Flick the weapon shut. Now you're ready to go.
At this very moment half the West End of Vancouver was probably phoning the VPD to say that World War III was on. Magnified by the cavern, the shots would travel far and wide. By now the VPD would be dispatching patrol cars and calling out the SWAT squad. There was not a second to lose: the heads had to go.
As luck would have it all eight heads were in the Adidas bag. So was Al Flood's diary. Sparky glanced quickly at one page."Why do human beings so fear a severed head?" Sparky read. "If this is everyman's general fear, why must I he plagued with it multiplied a thousand times?" A flick through a couple more pages brought home to Sparky the diary's chilling implications, and what must be done.
Someone had left an oily rag on the floor after working on a car. Grabbing it quickly. Sparky soaked the cloth in crank-case oil now spreading out across the concrete from beneath the Volvo. Then grasping the Adidas bag, gun still in hand, the murderer ran up the ramp and out into the snow.
Flood was not around, neither right nor left.
Across the lane, embers glowed in the burning can.