Headhunter

deeper than any she could imagine.

Suzannah walked over to the wall of whips and took two of them down. She carried them back to the girl.

'This, sweetheart, is a Scottish tawse, about seventy years old. You'll note that it is a tailed strap with a fire-hardened tip. The tip bites like an adder at the end of a cut.

'This other one is an English birch — the closest you'll find to poetry in all these flogging instruments.'

Suzannah handed the tawse to Crystal and stepped back several paces.

'Have you ever been to the circus?' she slyly asked the girl.

'Yes.'

'Well then you know how they train lions?'

'Uh, huh.'

'Well, love, you can train a man the same way.'

With a pirouette, the woman spun around in a circle and lashed out with the birch. She hit the tawse in Crystal's hand and sent it spinning like a pinwheel to clatter on the floor.

Then in one fluid motion Suzannah danced before the rack, slowly, methodically, rhythmically beating the wood with the whip. Crystal stared aghast, for with each relentless stroke the woman's lips grew thinner and drew back from her teeth. Her nostrils flared. Her breath came in gasps. And dust exploded in the anxious air.

Then suddenly in midstroke, Suzannah stopped.

'Men are such donkeys,' she said with a hiss. 'They think themselves superior to their own psychology.'

Crystal backed away.

'They are no more than animals, just programed machines — and sex is the clockwork which winds up their psyches.'

Suzannah hung the whips back on the wall. Slyly she smiled. 'In my house, Crystal, in this room — and as long as he's got the money — give me a naughty little boy and tailored punishment is what he gets. Behind the mask of Mardi Gras, Jekyll really can turn the guilt of Hyde loose.'

'And just where do I fit in?' Crystal asked dryly.

'You're my assistant.'

'Assistant! What do you need me for?'

'To answer that, sweetheart, I must tell you about our guest.'

It was his mother who had first told him about the Axe-Man of New Orleans. That was shortly before she died.

He had later found out that the Axe-Man had killed six people and injured several others during a brief reign of terror at the end of the First World War. Each victim was selected at random, access gained to each dwelling house by chiseling through the back door. Once inside, the killer had chopped his victims up with a long-handled axe. The axe, as a calling-card, was invariably left at the scene.

The Axe-Man was never caught.

His mother had told him none of this. The job of the Axe-Man, she had said, was to hunt for those young boys who did not love their mother. He would hack them up and then devour the pieces. His mother had told him this when they were both in bed.

The man now came out through the main door of the Municipal Auditorium, away from the Mardi Gras Ball. For a minute he stood in St. Peter Street, scowling at all the drunken fools staggering all around. Then a black girl dressed in sequins stumbled and bumped against him. She smiled and mumbled ' 'scuse me' and quickly passed on.

'Slut!' the man spat after her.

He watched the woman walk away in the direction of St. Louis Cemetery, his mind recalling painfully the black girl who had been in the street the night his mother died. That girl was not from the neighborhood; he had never seen her before. Just a passerby. Hurrying down the sidewalk. With tears in his eyes and a choked voice he had begged her to run for the doctor. He had pointed up the street toward the doctor's office. Then taking the steps three at a time, he had scrambled back upstairs.

His mother was bleeding profusely. Her skin was as pale as tissue paper and her tongue was flicking wildly between her pearl-white teeth. Oh God, what teeth she had — the straight-est he'd ever seen. And now he remembered those happy days, sitting in his mother's lap, listening to the words of love humming from her mouth.

The man turned left on Bourbon Street, glancing at his watch.

Why does it still bother me when I did nothing wrong? Why? the man thought.

For if only that girl had done as he'd asked, his mother would still be alive. And then he'd still have her love. Eight years old was far too young for a boy to lose his mother.

Perhaps I blame myself,he thought,for hating the child inside her. But I never, never, never meant for her to die.

No, the blame falls on the nigger. And now she has to die. For if she had only fetched the doctor, the death of the unborn child would not have taken my mother.

The man stopped walking abruptly, for he'd reached the mouth of the alley.

Nonchalantly he paused and lit a cigarette. The smoke felt good as the nicotine played with his nerves. He waited for a break in the crowd, then he darted down the passage.

Crouching down, he reached out and groped behind a trashcan. It was still there, exactly where he'd left it before attending the ball. Removing it, hefting it, he placed it under the jacket of his formal evening clothes. Then he stood up swiftly and returned to Bourbon Street. At the next corner he turned right and made for the French Quarter.

As he walked it felt good, the object hanging in the sling beneath his left armpit. For even through his ruffled shirt, the metal of the axe-head was cool against his heart.

Flying Patrols

Vancouver, British Columbia, 1982

Sunday, October 31st, 10:15 a.m.

'Good morning. My name is Robert DeClercq. I hold the rank of Superintendent. I have been assigned command of this investigation.'

As he spoke, beginning slowly, getting the feel of once more addressing a task force of officers, DeClercq stood erect with his hands behind his back at the front of the room and moved his gaze from face to face connecting with the eyes. The parade room, like everything else at Headhunter Headquarters, was still under construction, and those who had been unable to find an empty folding chair sat on the top of piles of lumber or leaned against the walls. There were more than seventy officers in the room, two thirds of them dressed in the brown serge working uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the others in plain clothes. Approximately one fifth were women — a change which had come over the Force since DeClercq had retired. It occurred to him now that for its next edition Men Who Wore the Tunic,his first book, would require a change of title.

'The task assigned to this squad is not an easy one,' he began. 'It would appear, from what we know at the moment, that the object of this manhunt is a random killer — an assassin in the purest sense who kills for the love of killing.' DeClercq caught Joseph Avacomovitch's expression of agreement, a brief nod from where the Russian stood at the back of the room.

'You men and women have been specially selected to spearhead this investigation. The purpose of this, our first briefing, is to discuss the operational structure under which this squad will be working. Basically it is this.

'Effective communication is the essence of any teamwork. I therefore hope that each of you will utilize every avenue of dialogue within this group without rank creating a barrier. The bulk of you have been assigned to the Central Corps or general investigative body of this dragnet. Attached to this core as adjuncts will be a Scientific