"Will she be cut up again?" Mrs. Portman asked.
"Yes. There'll be another autopsy."
"Is that my daughter's picture on the wall beside me?"
DeClercq's gut turned. "Yes," he said. "I'm sorry. Perhaps we ought to . .
"It's all right. Superintendent. I'm not going to twist around. And I'm not going to cry. I've done enough of that to last me a lifetime. I was very angry at you people when my daughter's body was snatched off the train. But I'm not angry anymore. In fact I want you to have her remains if it will help you find her killer."
DeClercq found his throat dry when he tried to swallow.
"You see," Mrs. Portman continued, "I hope that one day very soon I can lay my whole daughter to rest. And I'll never be able to do that unless you find her head."
"We'll find her," the man said.
The woman looked up, holding back her tears. "There's something else," she said. "I believe my daughter had a boyfriend that no one knew about. She never mentioned it, and I never met the man. I think you should check it out."
"We will," DeClercq said quietly. "But what makes you think that?"
"A mother knows." she said.
The Superintendent used the intercom to call Inspector MacDougall. "Would you give us a statement?" he asked her.
"Certainly," she said. "You're French, aren't you?" she added. "Are you a Catholic?"
"Yes," DeClercq lied.
"So was I. Tell me, Superintendent, has your faith ever been shaken?"
"My daughter and wife were kidnapped and murdered twelve years ago."
The woman slowly nodded. "My father and my husband both died in a boating accident. For ten years I've run a Mission on skid road in Regina. I used to think God must be sad, looking down and seeing all that religion and so little Christianity. Do you know what I mean? Religion is just talking. The Christian work is doing."
Just then MacDougall entered the room and Mrs. Portman stood up.
"Well I don't believe that anymore," the sad woman said. "I no longer believe there is a God."
Neither do I, DeClercq thought, and he watched her walk out through the door.
While the Superintendent was talking to Mrs. Portman, Rabidowski and Scarlett and Lewis and Spann sat outside and brainstormed the case. Both flying patrols had staked out their course and were not afraid of pollution. Each told the other what they were doing and Rabidowski filled in the theories going around the main corps. Monica Macdonald was conspicuously absent. Dead beat, she was still out on the street following Matthew Paul Pitt.
When DeClercq finally ushered them in, the first thing he saw was the mask. Scarlett was holding the ebony carving gripped underneath one arm.
Thirty minutes later DeClercq sat back and digested what he had been told. He did not think much of Rabidowski's theory concerning the motorcycle club. While it was entirely possible that the rape murders were part of an initiation— several gangs throughout North America were known to demand a killing before a striker was admitted—and while the decapitations did fit in with the motif "Iron Skulls," DeClercq had been told that Special E Section had a spy within the gang. If that sort of trip were going down the RCMP would know.
Matthew Paul Pitt, on the other hand, was a very promising lead. The man was mentally ill; he was in the area now and could have been for the duration of the Headhunter killings; the US murders fitted. The real problem with the Australian was lack of evidence. They could bring him in like the others for questioning at the Pen, but gut reaction told DeClercq to play him another way. Give the man a little line and he might just lead them to a stash of heads. Was it worth the risk?
DeClercq looked at Rusty Lewis who was sitting beside Rabidowski. It was hard to believe that two men doing the same job could be so radically different, but then the Superintendent had chosen his team to cover every contingency. Balance was his buzz word. So whereas the Mad Dog was a superb marksman and a well-known rabble-rouser, Lewis was filled to the brim with steady common sense. If Lewis thought a suspect fit then the man was worth a hard look.
"Where's this fellow Pitt now?" the Superintendent asked.
"I don't know, sir, but I do know my partner is on his tail. I got a call from her in the middle of the night saying that she had spotted the guy in a place called the Pussycat Club. We've been trying to find him for a couple of days."
DeClercq glanced down at the twelve-page report sitting on his desk.
"Your outline convinces me. We'll call out Special O."
Then DeClercq turned to Spann and Scarlett. For the briefest of moments as he looked at the woman he found a strange thought intrude into his mind. Might Janie have grown up to be like this? he wondered. For DeClercq had handpicked this woman for the squad on the strength of her service record. She had distinguished herself by the cool way that she had handled her assignment in Iran. In addition, a number of other cases had shown she could take care of herself. There was something in this woman that given time would drive her up the ranks. DeClercq recognized the quality: he had had it once himself.
Rick Scarlett, on the other hand, was a different matter. He was just a little too sure of himself and that was dangerous in a cop: it made you tend to overlook things and unbending in compromise. On balance, however, the man did have a reputation for never giving up, and DeClercq knew that if a situation got really rough Scarlett would hold up morale. A good leader must know that a team has different parts.
At this moment the Superintendent was of the belief that Hardy was the best lead of all. Starting with nothing but a picture, Spann and Scarlett had connected him to Grabowski, the Moonlight Arms, and in some way the traffic of heroin; followed his footsteps through Tipple's wiretaps and made the hoodoo/voodoo connection; linked the voodoo element to a traffic in human skulls; found an ebony object perhaps in some way associated with Avacomovitch's finding of the splinter (though how he had no idea); and now were on to some sort of ritual or other act joined to New Orleans.
Not bad when you put it together, for two Constables working alone.
"I wish I could go with you," the Superintendent said.
"Sir?" Spann frowned.
"My forefathers were Cajuns who lived in the bayous of Terrebonne. Even my father lived down there for a while."
Rick Scarlett's face began to flush with excitement.
"That is what you came up here for, isn't it? In order to get my permission?"
"Yes, sir," Spann said.
"Well, you've got it. You two may go to New Orleans."
11:20 a.m.
It was Special O—short for Special Observation—that ended the rampage of murder by Clifford Robert Olson.
Like the SAS and the SBS in Great Britain, Special O has its secrets. Most Canadians in fact are not even aware that such a team exists—and Special O likes it that way. The ten men who make up its core group are experts in police surveillance. For these men terms like front tail, side tail, three-car plan, and flood pattern have rather special meaning. The techniques they employ were refined and tested by British, American and Israeli Intelligence—but of course the men at Special O have come up with a few of their own. Their daily stock in trade includes computers, "homers," satellite bounces, infrared cameras and gyroscopically-mounted binoculars. It is not uncommon for this team to send as many as one hundred disguised Members after a single suspect, and more if they think he needs it.
At 11:20 that morning Special O relieved a very tired Monica Macdonald and took up the tail of Matthew Paul Pitt.
Except for the RCMP itself, nobody knew they were there.
The Queen
New Orleans, Louisiana
Saturday, November 6th, 3:45 p.m.
"Ever been to New Orleans?" Katherine Spann asked.
"Just once, with my dad," Scarlett replied. "But that was long ago."
They had caught a flight on Air Canada to Seattle, connecting there with an Eastern Airlines run down the Mississippi by way of Atlanta, Georgia. Looking out the win
dow now as the aircraft began its final descent on to Moisant Field, Scarlett saw a landscape not unlike a huge lily pond. Almost half the land area of this city was located under water, and what kept the river from claiming the rest was a series of levees and pumping stations that diverted the seepage first into canals and then into Lake Pontchartrain.
The two men who met them inside the International Airport were different in the extreme. The Caucasian was named Luke Went worth and he was from the FBI. Wentworth was wearing a light blue pinstripe suit that probably cost in excess of a thousand dollars. His face was made up of sharp acute angles with a long thin jaw; his hair was short and brown and he was wearing those silver reflecting glasses that prevent others from seeing your eyes. For some reason Spann connected him with Paul Newman or Steve McQueen.
The black man, on the other hand, reminded her vaguely of a young Martin Luther King. His name was John Jefferson, Jr., and he was with the NOPD. "Welcome to N' Orleans," he said. His voice was like warm iron and he held out his hand.
The two Canadians nodded, and they shook hands with both men.
"I hear it rains a lot back where you come from," Luke Wentworth said.
"It does," Spann agreed.
"Too bad." the FBI man said. "I hate rain."
The moment they left the airport Scarlett and Spann broke into a sweat. The day was clear and bright, the air hot and humid with a heavy oppressiveness. Scarlett noticed a sheen of sweat on Wentworth's upper lip and that his throat had turned slightly pink. Jefferson, however, remained as cool as cool could be.
As they drove into the city Scarlett observed: "The heat must really get to people. You seem to have a lot of cemeteries."
"This is nothing," Jefferson said. "There are more than thirty of them up ahead in town. You'll find that N' Orleans cemeteries are more akin to cities of the dead than they are to graveyards. Most of all, the tombs are above ground because of the river seepage. In this town, believe me, it's hard to dig a dry hole. In the old days the colonials used to have architects design their graves. Many of the tombs look like narrow residences with rounded roofs and eaves. That's particularly true of St. Louis Number 1. It dates from the 1740s."
"Is that where Marie Laveau is buried?" Katherine Spann asked.
"Probably," Jefferson replied, "but there are those who say she's in an unmarked oven in St. Louis Number 2. You'll find red brick-dust cross marks in both places. The real site of her grave is certainly open to question."
'Who's Marie Laveau?" Rick Scarlett asked.
'Hey," Jefferson said, turning from the steering wheel and casting him a friendly frown. "I thought you two were interested in voodoo. That's what the telex said."
'We are." Spann replied with a tone of exasperation. "Don't mind my friend. He's just along to carry the bags."
Scarlett's face went red as he glared at the woman.
'Marie Laveau," Jefferson said, "is the name of New Orleans' great mulatto Voodoo Queen."
'Voodoo!" Wentworth said with a snort. "What a crock of shit.” This was his first comment since they left the airport. During the trip he had busied himself by staring out tin window at the Louisiana countryside. He obviously found babysitting visitors a bore.
"Well," John Jefferson, Jr., said, ignoring the man from the FBI, "if voodoo is the subject, then I'm your man. What do you want to know?"
"What's the practice like today?" Spann asked.
"Pretty watered down and far removed from its roots. Some say, however, that a few pure cults still exist. And of course Haiti's still going strong."
"Is there anything to it, John? You know what I mean?" This question by the woman surprised Rick Scarlett. Even Luke Wentworth turned his attention into the car.
"Let's put it this way," John Jefferson said. "I was raised in Philadelphia, okay? But I had this cousin who grew up in a small Mississippi town. I went to visit him one summer when I was eight or nine. It didn't take me too long to learn that within that community there were several hoodoo doctors and root workers on call. They looked like everyone else, but they sure had a lot of visitors. Especially on weekends there would be this steady stream of cars with out-of-state license plates pulling up to their doors.
"My grandmother lived in that town and some days a root doctor would sit with her up on the porch. My cousin and I'd be playing on the wooden steps below. You could tell when they were discussing a topic we weren't supposed to hear— 'cause mammy would lean over and spit on both of us.
"Even my old man, who was well-educated by standards set for blacks back then, respected those Southern beliefs."
Just ahead and to the right Spann could see the colossal Louisiana Superdome, a flying saucer come to earth.
"Haiti is real weird," John Jefferson continued. "At a crossroads late one night I actually saw two men, back-to-back like Siamese twins, one dressed in white, the other in black, just going round and round. Voodoo permeates the place like some religion of fear. The sorcerers—zobops, they're called—are organized in groups a bit like masons. They go out late in the evening, supposedly summoned by a drum that beats louder the further away it is. At crossroads they hold their ceremonies and that's where they make the zombi.The Haitians say if you see an empty car drive by then you know zobops are in it."
Wentworth took out a handkerchief and proceeded to blow his nose.
"On one of the Hardy wiretaps someone makes the statement '. . .the zombi walks.' Can you hazard a guess what it means?"
"Sure, but it's a long shot," Jefferson replied.
"Go on and shoot, my friend."
"Along comes one of these groups at night and it stops at a crossroads. In a ritual where blood is shed one of the members of the group calls out to the zombi,then digs him out of the ground.
"I don't suppose that you believe in the Undead any more than I do, so—"
"I don't," Katherine Spann said, casting a mock glance of paranoia over each of her shoulders, then grinning at Jefferson.
"—here is how they do it. Before the man who will become a zombi 'dies' he is fed a poison. It is usually curare. I he poisoned man is then buried on the same day. It's a hot country, remember? A pipe to provide oxygen is run from the buried coffin to the air above. The next night the zobops drive out to the graveyard crossroads in order to bring him 'alive.' Once he is summoned out of the ground, the zombi is given a drug to counteract the poison. When under the effect of curare,a man looks like he is dead. Under the antidote he becomes a catatonic, sort of like Frankenstein's monster. The zombi is then put in handcuffs and leg irons to stop him limning away—and lo and behold, the zobop has himself a slave.
"What better slave can there be than a dead man who follows your orders?"
'Is this what you Mounties do when you're tired of getting your man?" Luke Wentworth asked. "Go out and hunt zombis? Great police work that."
Spann thought: This guy's a first-class pain in the ass.
'In Haiti," she asked, "did you ever hear of a zombi actually killing anyone?"
I've been told they hack up several victims a year. But remember that zombis are catatonics: they have no adventures of their own. They must be urged on by a master to perform whatever deed they do. The zobop then waits safely for the zombi's return. Usually the zombi must bring back something In show that the job has been done."
Interesting," Spann said.
Tomorrow you tourists will want to drive out to Chalmette National Park," Luke Wentworth said. "It's just east of here "
"What's there?" Scarlett asked.
'That's the site of the famous Battle of New Orleans
That's where General Andy Jackson royally fucked the Redcoats right in the ass."
"Luke," Jefferson said, turning to the man. "Why don't you take your brilliant wit an' shove it where the sun don't shine."
Grinning, Luke Wentworth readjusted his shades.
"Anyway," Jefferson said. "Haiti's where it's at. And of course that's where the woman's from."
"Who?"
"Our latest Voodoo Queen."
"I don't get it," Spann said, puzzled by the comment.
"I don't either," Rick Scarlett added.
So for the second time during the trip, John Jefferson, Jr., turned away from the steering wheel and glanced into the back seat. "This man you're looking for," he said. "This John Lincoln Hardy. He was raised in the USA but his family's not from here. His stepmother arrived Stateside about three years ago from Haiti. Word along the grapevine says she's our new Voodoo Queen. I thought you two knew all this, what with the telex and all?"
"We didn't," Katherine Spann said.
Cops like hardware, the gadgets of the trade.
Of course now that they use computers, cops like software too.
The New Orleans Police Department was not to be outdone. Tonight they had laid on some Yankee technology—or Confederate if you prefer—to show the two Canadians the present state of the art.
"You got a pair of wheels each. Don't wreck 'em," Ernie Hodge said. "The electric teeth you'll find under the dash. The teeth are already sucked on to each eyeball frequency, so don't fiddle with 'em. Each bloodworm car's got an eyeball up its ass. If more than one fish swims out, make sure you're sucked onto his wavelength or you're gonna lose him. You both got that?"
"Got it," Spann said.
"Ditto," Scarlett replied.
Ernie Hodge had four chins and a face that Mad Dog Rabidowski would stamp with his beloved label:bum. When Hodge spoke—and he only talked in cop jargon—a ripple would start at his mouth and spread out from chin to chin While shaking hands he had told Rick Scarlett that Steiger got the role in In The Heat of the Night because he had turned it down. The Canadian almost believed him. He also believed that Hodge's ancestors had spent their sunny days whipping backs to make their slaves work hard before them cotton balls got rotten. For as Hodge put it: "We all like John Jefferson, Jr. That man is one smart coon."
Ernie Hodge, however, was also a skilled cop.
"Okay," the American said. "Let's set out the rules. Neither of you is heeled, right? We don't want US citizens stoppin' Canadian lead.
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