Headhunter

different route. They're not going to Vancouver.'

'Where are they being shipped?'

'Spokane, Washington. According to the bill of lading.'

The woman looked at Scarlett; Scarlett shrugged his shoulders.

'You're sure that's the package?'

'Says right on it; voodoo masks. Just how many shipments like that do you think they got on board? Of course it's the package.'

'Okay,' Spann said.

'If you think there's drugs hidden in them masks, why don't we scoop it right here? Drugs in a case smell as high as a bayou outhouse.'

'No way,' the woman said. 'This is not a drug bust. It's a murder investigation. The masks stay put. Right, Luke?'

Wentworth didn't turn from looking out the window. Hf was still wearing his glasses though it was dark as sin outside. 'It's your case,' he said. And then the wind died down.

John Jefferson said: 'You two had better get into the terminal. Otherwise the masks will fly and we'll still be yakking.'

He put the car in gear and they all drove away. Ten minutes later they pulled up in front of the entrance to Eastern Airlines. They shook hands all round, just as they did on arriving. Then the two Canadians climbed out into a dying rain.

Just before she closed the door Spann turned to Wentworth. 'Does it always rain like this down here?' she asked the FBI man.

'Sometimes,' Wentworth said, not turning from the window.

'Too bad,' Spann said. 'I hate rain.'

The last thing she saw as she closed the door was John Jefferson Jr., smiling.

The Ritual of Blood

Vancouver, British Columbia

Wednesday, November 10th, 10:25 a.m.

He could feel the pressure building. And he did not feel well at all.

Since 4:45 in the morning DeClercq had been working at breakneck speed. His greenhouse at home was now littered with books and files and a videotape machine. He had spent the hours before dawn reviewing every memo, interview, police report, picture and note of importance. Around him his roses were dying. Those which bloomed in the autumn — Erfurt and Eternal Flame and Ferdinand Pichard and Golden Wings — were showing the signs of neglect in their petals scattered about the floor.

At six he had left the house and driven down to Headquarters. The past hour and a half had been spent on the phone. First he had heard from Victoria where the A-G was calmly wondering, 'Just what the fuck's going on?' The Mayor of Vancouver had called to say that she was sick and tired of questions and henceforth would be directing all press inquiries to him. Then Chartrand had phoned from Ottawa to see how he was doing. It seems the Opposition in the House of Commons had been giving the Government a rather rough time, so the Minister responsible was putting pressure on him.

'Men and equipment, Robert. Requisition whatever you need.'

The work and the politics, however, were not what was bothering him. For though he was careful not to vocalize his fear, DeClercq was almost certain that soon the Headhunter would strike again. If his previous pattern set the pace he had already waited too long. The thought terrified the Superintendent no matter how calm he tried to be. For if a riot had followed the last killing, what would come this time. Go on, admit it,his mind said. You're afraid of another taunt!

Robert DeClercq sat at his desk and opened another file.

The case was turning bad. To start with the sweep and its aftermath had become a paper chase. Not one of the sex offenders picked up had in any way panned out. Matthew Paul Pitt was still their best suspect, yet Special O after several days had nothing to report. Pitt spent each day and every night front row center in the strip clubs. During the day he slept in the bushes of Stanley Park.

Equally disturbing, John Lincoln Hardy had disappeared. It had been two days since Spann and Scarlett had returned from New Orleans. DeClercq had read their report on the voodoo ceremony and the follow-up memos again and again. The Squad knew that Hardy had returned to Canada by a flight from the USA into Calgary, Alberta. They knew that the parcel of masks had gone to Spokane, Washington. But Hardy had somehow slipped away and vanished into thin air. Now all they could do was wait.

DeClercq was almost tempted to throw the entire investigation on to the cases of Pitt and Hardy. In other words to make the same mistake that the British had over the alleged Yorkshire Ripper tape. But he resisted the temptation, knowing full well that it was born out of desperation.

God! DeClercq thought. Why did I ever take on this case?

Then he remembered Janie. Why, oh why, he asked himself, was she always in his mind? At least when he was writing, the more he went into history the more he forgot the past.

He pushed the thought aside violently and tried to concentrate on the case. When he made a note he noticed that his handwriting was degenerating. That his hands were shaking. Suddenly he felt very tired. He shook himself sharply and looked at the corkboard.

Then he opened a drawer and dug to the back where he had hidden his prescription for Benzedrine. He took another one.

11:41 a.m.

'Damn,' Rick Scarlett said. 'What a colossal fuck-up.'

He knew it had been a mistake and that it was a big one.

They figured the voodoo cult in New Orleans was centered around the Haitian matriarch, her two sons and their cousin. One of her sons was Rackstraw. now living in Vancouver; the other was the zobop who controlled the ceremony. John Lincoln Hardy, the cousin, was the white sheep of the family.

The voodoo cult in New Orleans was run to make some money. Like that of Marie Laveau so many years ago, it was based in the slums of the city where the most converts would be found. The group sold tricks and spells and dolls and operated the drugstore. Who knows, perhaps they had a chain of pharmacies all across the States.

As with all long-founded religions, there was a core of lunatics waiting for the Messiah. Now she had come from Haiti and they had gathered around. In exchange for the ceremonies to satisfy their blood-lust, the old crones supplied the voodoo masks which had probably been in their families for several generations.

The Wolf had remained in New Orleans to oversee the cult, but Rackstraw — the Fox, as he was known on the taps — had decided to set out on his own and for some reason chose Vancouver. Perhaps black competition was too tight in the States. Perhaps because his scams were doing well.

Rackstraw was into corporate fraud, land deceit, music industry kickbacks and now the traffic of cocaine. The co-caine was hidden in the masks and brought across the border, The drug was removed and dealt in Vancouver while the empty masks were recycled in the Voodoo Chile performance. Part of the drug sale profits no doubt went back south Of the border and into the hands of the zobop and Mama.

It was the theory of Spann and Scarlett that John Lincoln Hardy, the Weasel, had been making his living in New Orleans off the profits of prostitution. The taps seemed to how that he held his girls by a combination of drug addiction and a pervading fear of his 'hoodoo.'

As Spann said: 'After what we saw in New Orleans, that man could keep me in line too!'

Hardy had now for some reason also arrived in Vancouver. Perhaps Mama had sent him to learn a thing or two from her son From what they could tell, when Hardy hit town he was living the role of a lowlife, so perhaps