and quivering and offered it according to seniority to the members of the Cannibal Cult who were present. In memory of the episode, a rock on the beach was subsequently carved into a likeness of the mask of Baxbakualanuxsiwae, He-who-is-first-to-eat-Man-at-the-mouth-of-the-River. Baxbakualanuxsiwae — the Cannibal God — was said to live in a spirit house high up on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains where day and night blood- red smoke billowed out from the chimney of his home.
'There's then a whole list here of evidence collected from other whites who confirm the practice.
'When Hamatsas were interviewed it was noted that their teeth were rotting away. This was from filing them sharper in order to better deal with their food.
'Do you think it possible that Hamatsa is being used as a modern terrorist tactic?'
'I don't know what I think right now, but stranger things have happened,' DeClercq said.
'Don't I know it. I can think of four examples of cannibalism — or close to it — in the annals of abnormal psychology. Fish in New York. Gein in Wisconsin. Kemper in California. And maybe Nelson here in BC.'
'So maybe I'm not off base.'
'Maybe not. But I hope so. 'Cause if you're right this killer is restricting his diet to brains.'
'For now I'd settle for
'Well,' Genevieve said, 'who knows what the future holds? Perhaps you'll only find the answer in the lair of Baxbakualanuxsiwae himself. Maybe the truth is hidden high in the Rocky Mountains.'
10:07 a.m.
Robert DeClercq was smiling when he hung up the phone.
The Superintendent stood up and crossed over to the window. DeClercq glanced at his wristwatch, then removed his uniform jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. As he was heading for the door his eyes fell once more on the blowup of Joanna Portman's body nailed to the burial pole. His impression was that the carved Dogfish face was laughing at whoever was looking.
And in that instant he remembered another laugh many years ago. He recalled a shack in the wilderness in the northern part of Quebec, where a child lay on a cot in death, its head twisted at too sharp an angle. He had felt the knife pierce his abdomen but knew it didn't matter. All that concerned him was the fact that his hands were closing rapidly around the laughing man's neck, squeezing the very life out of him and choking, crushing, annihilating that black laugh from his throat.
Even after the man was dead, the Superintendent could hear it.
Black laughter.
Axe-Man
New Orleans, Louisiana, 1957
The man with the briefcase chained to his wrist was thinking about his rabbit.
He sat on a chair to one side of the dance floor, watching all the pompous people in their ties and evening gowns oozing etiquette and snobbery, only half aware of the pageantry of the 'Rex Ball' that was now in full swing around him.
At 12:41 he glanced at his watch and felt a chill of excitement. Then the thrill made him remember.
He recalled how as a young boy he so loved to climb into his mother's lap and nuzzle his face between her soft warm breasts. How she would lock him tenderly in her arms, at the same time kissing him, then press him against her so tightly that it almost hurt. Sometimes his mother would take a nap on a very hot afternoon, sitting him on the bed as she removed her clothes, letting him lie beside her with his body nestled to hers. On those days she would dab the perfume that he liked so much on the secret parts of her body and he would lie in that hot room almost drunk on the fragrance of her skin.
That, of course, was only if his father wasn't home.
For his father abhorred coddling. 'I'll raise no Mama's boy!' he'd shout every time he caught them. And that happened often.
On those occasions when his father surprised them, his mother would act as if she were suddenly angry with him and push him violently away. Grabbing her hairbrush from the dresser, she would lock his head firmly between her legs and bend over his back to smack his buttocks till he screamed.
Crying he would desperately try to straighten up, but he never could. For his neck would merely slip up her thighs and hit her body above. And strangely at that moment her perfume was twice as strong.
'Give him a tanning,' his father would shout, grinning at the performance. 'Show me I'm wrong in thinking that you spoil him too much.'
Then — except for one occasion — it would always end the same. He'd be sent to his room to 'smarten up,' and as the hours ticked away, utterly confused by the chaos of his feelings, he'd sit on the floor and have a talk with Freddie.
Freddie was his rabbit.
The one occasion that was different was what he remembered now. Again his father had come home, and again he'd had the spanking. Once more he was in his room talking softly to Freddie. Then the rabbit's ears jerked up at the sound of his mother's scream.
On that day he had run to the door, his heart in his throat, flagrantly transgressing his parent's sternest warning. 'And don't you dare leave your room until you get permission.' The warning didn't matter. His mother was being hurt.
He was five years old.
Even now the man could vividly recall what the boy saw in that room. For his mother's hands were tied to the headboard of the bed. She was dressed in underwear, her body shining with sweat. Her pants were torn and she was moaning as his father moved up and down between her thrashing legs. Then his mother screamed again — and the boy rushed in to save her.
He began to hit his father, who wrenched around in surprise. 'What are you doing here?' the man shouted, his face livid with rage.
'Get out!' his mother cried, her reaction shocking him.
Then his father leaped off the bed and grabbed him by the arm. His 'thing' was pointing at the boy as he shoved him out the door.
'I hate you. Daddy,' the boy said, surprising himself when he heard the words come out of his mouth. And that was his mistake.
For a moment his father said nothing as his eyes narrowed to slits. Then he dragged his son to the kitchen where he removed a butcher knife from the drawer. Together, the boy struggling, they both approached his room.
That night the boy spent locked up in his room. For hours he cried, shaking and sobbing as he desperately tried to put the animal back together. For his father had cut off Freddie's head, forcing the boy to watch. Then after a while he gave up. He spent the remaining dark hours gently stroking both of the pieces on the floor. In the morning his mother came once more to take him in her arms. 'I'll replace him,' she said.
The man looked at his watch. It was now 12:49. Time to go. He found the Men's Room, where he waited till he was alone. Then he removed the mask from his jacket and adjusted it over his face.
Two minutes later, he opened the exit door.
For an entire year this man had waited for the excitement of tonight. Now his anticipation was almost at an end.
Tonight — at least for a while — he knew he would forget.
Suzannah walked over to a cabinet near the rack. She opened two leaded glass panels and removed a tray from inside. The tray contained ten eight-inch needles, each one shining silver-gold in the firelight. Then she placed the needles in a medical sterilizer that was housed in the lower cupboard. Her words, silken, vicious, washed through Crystal's drugged mind. The girl didn't know what they meant, but she knew they sprang from a hatred
