"Edward, I'm not selling anything. I'm trying to catch a killer. DeClercq's the best we've got."
"So he still works the case. Put someone else in charge." "I can't do that." "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to." For a moment there was a silence on the phone. "What does that mean, Edward?"
"It means that something must be seen to be done. That we must look like we're going forward." "And what are you suggesting?" "That you personally take charge." Again there was silence. Chartrand looked out the window at the hospital across the street. He reached for a cigarette. Finally he stated: "Do I have any choice?" "Just in the timing."
"Then give me at least a day and a half to get matters organized."
"Too long. The case is just too hot." "One day then. There's a lot to do before the press comes down."
"All right. One day. But not a second longer." "One day. But Edward ..."
"Sorry, Francois. But that's the way it goes. This fellow DeClercq. The PM wants him pulled."
After Chartrand hung up the telephone he lit the cigarette. And as he did so he thought:Robert, old friend. I do hope you're relaxing. One day is all you've got.
3:20 p.m.
DeClercq had neither shaved nor had he eaten.
He walked over to the liquor cabinet and opened one of the doors. Most of the bottles that it contained were nearly full, a testimonial to how little he and Genevieve drank. At the back of the bottom shelf there was a bottle of Camus Napoleon
Cognac. He removed the bottle and found a glass and then went down to the sea.
Drink in hand he sat there, thinking of his daughter.
3:35 p.m.
"Still nothing?" Scarlett asked.
"Nothing," Tipple said.
The van was parked so that its rear doors could not be seen from the recording studio half a block down the street. Scarlett had come down a side street that met 12th Avenue in a T. When he climbed into the rear of the truck he saw Katherine Spann asleep on a cot behind the driver's seat.
"What gives with Rackstraw?" Scarlett asked.
Just then a tall black man about thirty years of age walked out the front door of the studio. Tipple picked up some binoculars from the dash. As he watched, the man stopped on the pavement in front of the building, put one index finger to his left nostril to breathe in sharply a couple of times, then walked to a blue Corvette and drove away.
"They were in there all night recording, and then half of the day. You should have heard the racket," the Corporal said.
"Who's in there now?"
"Just Rackstraw, I guess." Tipple punched a button and flicked a toggle switch. A speaker in the van cut in and Spann stirred on the cot. They could hear the sound of someone humming to himself.
"How does the bug transmit?" Scarlett asked.
"Radio wave hookup. All the room bugs feed into a small transmitter attached to the left side of the building and buried behind an evergreen bush. It's protected from the rain by the eaves above."
As he spoke it had suddenly started to pour, the force of the drops hitting the roof of the van rapidly building up sound. Water ran in rivulets, then streams, then a steady sheet across the tarmac of 12th Avenue.
Scarlett said: "Why don't you go home and catch some shuteye, Bill? I'll take it from here."
Tipple nodded. "Anything important and I want to know. Make sure I'm in for the kill."
"For sure," the other man said, and the Corporal moved to the back. He opened the rear doors of the van and jumped out onto the street.
4:45 p.m.
"Fuck this noise," Rick Scarlett said.
He removed his Smith and Wesson .38 from its holster and flipped open the cylinder. He checked the action, and that it was loaded, then snapped it shut. They were both now sitting in the front of the van.
"What's eating you?" Katherine Spann asked.
"I don't like farting around. And I don't like being conned."
"So spit it out," she said.
"Look, I know Hardy's the Headhunter and so do you. Rackstraw knows where he is. Yet while we sit around here with our thumbs stuck up our asses waiting for Rackstraw to lead us to Hardy. Hardy could be out there somewhere hacking off a head. Okay, I played it your way and we got in touch with Tipple. Now I'm going to play it mine."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning make that fucker talk."
"Uh uh," Spann said. "That could be professional suicide."
"Hardy's screwed us. Rackstraw's screwed us. Wentworth's screwed us. And I've had enough."
"Rick, we're both frustrated. But you know what Chartrand said after the McDonald Report came down? What you're suggesting could cost us our jobs. Plus a criminal charge as well."
"If you can't take the heat, woman, stay out of the kitchen. You stay here."
Scarlett climbed out into the rain and began to cross the street.
Katherine Spann followed.
4:48 p.m.
No sooner had Genevieve closed the door than she remembered the seminar. She walked to the phone in the living room and dialed the number of the student who was to host it. No one was home.
Earlier that afternoon, Genevieve DeClercq had decided to cancel this evening's class and had made up her mind to spend the time with her husband. Dead-tired from her night without sleep she had nevertheless spent the afternoon down at the public library reading up on police techniques in criminal investigation. This knowledge had now been combined with what she had learned at brunch this morning, and the woman felt ready to discuss the case with Robert. Bounce, she thought with a weak smile,that's what they call it. Bounce is cop vernacular for a brainstorm session.
But Robert was not at home.
A little surprised and a little worried the woman searched the greenhouse and the rest of their home. She noticed that nothing had been changed or moved since this morning: all the files on the Headhunter case were just as she had left them.
Good,she thought, that means Robert has not been working. Thank God he's taken a rest.
Her concern was heightened, however, by the fact that there was no note. He always left her a message if he was going out. Then she remembered that his car was parked at the top of the driveway, so he couldn't have gone very far. Eventually she crossed through the greenhouse and, with her shoulders hunched against the rain, went down to the sea.
But Robert wasn't there.
And neither was their boat.
4:52 p.m.
Rick Scarlett reached behind the evergreen bush and found the radio transmitter. He flicked the switch on the side that cut the power off. Then he returned to where Spann was standing and the two of them moved toward the studio door.
With what Rick Scarlett had in mind. Big Brother should not be listening.
And definitely not recording.
.38
4:59 p.m.
Steve Rackstraw was sitting in front of a mixing-board with a large pair of headphones over his ears, humming inaudibly to himself. Around him there were lights and dials and recording-level meters. The studio itself was not very large. One side was reserved for technicians, the other half for musicians. A booth in the far corner set the drummer off by himself.
Right now—except for Rackstraw—the studio was empty. Not aware that Spann and Scarlett had jimmied the front door with a piece of celluloid, he removed a small silver coke-spoon shaped like a bone from his pocket and dipped it into a glassine envelope filled with white powder. Scarlett waited till the man had finished his snort before he stepped out into the open.
Rackstraw dropped the coke-spoon the second he saw the man. He ripped the headphones from his head.
"Well if it isn't Sergeant Preston and his sidekick, Dickless Tracy. You got a warrant?" he asked, recovering quickly.
"No," Scarlett said.
"Then get the hell outa here, before I call my lawyer."
Scarlett crossed over to the man and seized the glassine envelope. "You were going to produce Hardy," he said.
"Get out."
"Get out, I said."
"Blow it out your ass!"
Rackstraw reached for a telephone, but stopped the moment that Scarlett put the .38 to his head. The spreading effect of the cocaine helped him visualize a third eye in his face.
"Get up!" Scarlett ordered.
"Hey, man. Take it easy. What sort of shit is this?"
"Get up," Scarlett repeated, and with his other hand he jerked the man to his feet. "Now downstairs."
"Just keep cool," Rackstraw said, his voice beginning to falter and paranoia in his eyes. The sour smell of fear was starting to seep from his pores. His glance darted to Spann as if for an explanation. "Why downstairs? What are you planning to do?"
"If you don't get moving," Scarlett said, "I'm going to ventilate your head right here and now. Move!"
"Better do as he says," Spann said with a shrug. Her eyes never left Scarlett, nor his finger on the trigger.
"But why downstairs?" the man asked again.
"So the shots won't be heard."
As Rackstraw's mouth dropped open in disbelief, Scarlett struck out with the pistol and hit one of his front teeth. With a crack the enamel shattered. The man's lip split and blood began to fill his mouth. "Are you crazy?" he shrieked.
As Scarlett cocked the pistol, Rackstraw moved toward the door. The two cops watched him open it and followed him downstairs. Spann Was very concerned. She was about to speak when Scarlett turned around and said: "Cover this asshole."
For a moment she hesitated, then took out her revolver. She stood on the bottom step and held the gun on Rackstraw. It was dark in the cellar, only the light from one bare bulb casting long black shadows out to the walls of the basement. Scarlett tapped the bulb to start it swinging, then opened the cylinder of his Smith and Wesson and pumped all six bullets out into his palm. Holding the empty pistol out, he said to Rackstraw: "Take it."
The man shook his head. "Look, I don't know where Hardy is. I swear to . . ."
Scarlett kneed him in the groin, sinking him to the floor.
"Take it!"
"No!"
Spann cocked her pistol, the snap of the hammer audible all around the room. When Scarlett reached out for her gun, Rackstraw took the empty pistol as if to head him off.
"Now look at the serial number," he ordered.
Still doubled over from the blow to his groin, the frightened man moved the gun in his hand to look for the stamp on the metal when Scarlett lashed out suddenly and wrenched the .38 from his grip. A shiver of fright, surprise and the spread of the coke rattled through Rackstraw's body. One by one Scarlett put the bullets back in his gun.
"Oh, Jesus. All right. Hardy's in LA. I'll give you the address. It's ..."
"Too late," Scarlett said, and he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the man by his shirt. With his right thumb he cocked the pistol, then placed the steel of the muzzle directly between Rackstraw's eyes.
Like a puppet show, shadows danced about the cellar. Outside they could hear the rush of the water and two of the basement walls were cracked so rain trickled in. It pooled on the floor.
"You said you'd find Hardy," Scarlett said, "and then you went and fucked me. Nobody does that. We know about the drugs coming in and the voodoo in New Orleans. We know Helen Grabowski was killed by Hardy, and so were all the others. We don't have Hardy, but we've got you. So try this for a theory.
"The US police arrested two cousins for the Hillside Strangler's rampage in Los Angeles. And now that's happened here.
"We can prove you're tied to Hardy and that Hardy is the killer. We think you killed them too. A joint sexual crime.
"We just came here to speak to you and suddenly you jumped me. Guilt I suppose. We fought for my gun which you tried to seize and in the struggle I killed you. Your prints on the metal will show that for a fact. Everyone will say the cocaine pushed you over the line. My partner here and I will be the heroes of the day. You won't be around to refute us.
"Now run for the door behind you and see how far you get."
With a shove Rick Scarlett pushed Rackstraw away.
As he raised the pistol to aim and shoot, Spann cried out: "No, don't!"
"Back off!" the male cop hissed.
"Oh, Jesus, no, don't shoot, don't shoot," the man on the floor screamed. "Hardy's in town. Hardy's in town. I'll tell you where he is!"
"Where?" Scarlett asked.
And Rackstraw told him.
Five minutes later the three of them walked out into the rain.
As the handcuffed man was climbing into the rear of the van, Rick Scarlett stopped him and whispered in his ear:
"We're going to put you somewhere until we check this out. You fuck me around and I'll be coming for your balls. Then I'm going to kill you." Rackstraw believed him.
Far from the Shore
5:13 p.m.
The thread was red serge, just as he had suspected. But what did the other fact mean? Avacomovitch had finished with the laser scatter technique. It had been two days since he had slept and his body cried out for sleep. His mind had begun to blur. Though he needed to talk to Robert DeClercq, that would have to wait. Perhaps he'd understand it all after a night of rest. Tomorrow might bring perspective.
If that's red serge,the scientist thought, from an RCMP tunic, then the tunic that that thread comes from is more than fifty years old.
Avacomovitch went home.
5:21 p.m.
She saw the boat approaching, hugging the jagged shore.
She stood alone on the miniature dock, waiting for him in the rain.
5:22 p.m.
"Do you want to get the warrant or the tools?" Rick Scarlett asked.
"The tools," the woman replied.
"Okay, drop me off at Headquarters and you take Rackstraw out to the Pen and have him put on ice. I want him totally isolated and incommunicado. Have them book him for now on PPT cocaine. I'll phone Tipple and have him do a stakeout till we arrive. I'll get the warrant and meet you there sharp at ten. Got it?"
"Got it," she said.
After Spann had dropped him off Scarlett smiled to himself. Yes, he thought smugly, I'm taking back control. That's how it ought to be.
He went inside and phoned Bill Tipple at home.
"Hello," the Corporal answered, his voice thick with sleep.
"It's Rick, Bill. Get up. We've found John Lincoln Hardy."
"You mean you got him in your hands?"
"No, but we know where he is."
"Then let's get a warrant."
"I'm just about to do that. Will you go watch the place till we get there at ten?"
"Give me the address."
Scarlett gave it to him.
"How'd you find him?" Tipple asked.
"Rackstraw told me."
"Oh, I see," the Corporal said. "Well just don't tell me why he told you. I don't want to know."
They both hung up.
5:27 p.m.
Robert DeClercq had been drinking.
As he climbed out of the small boat with his wife helping him onto the dock, the man tripped on a loose board and fell down on his hands and knees. The empty bottle of Camus cognac which he had in one hand rolled over to stop at Genevieve's feet. She crouched down to look at both the bottle and her husband.
"Robert DeClercq, I do believe you're drunk," she said.
"Was drunk, Genny. Now I'm just high."
She picked up the bottle. "Well at least it's a high-class binge."
DeGercq sat down on the dock in the pouring rain and looked out across the sea. All he could see was gray, the downpour like a curtain.
"Let's go up to the house," she said, "and settle in for the night. I want to talk to you about your case."
"Screw the case," DeClercq said. "I've got the day off."
Genevieve stared at him in wonder. She had never before seen him this way.
"Don't you have a seminar tonight?" the Superintendent asked.
"I'm goi
ng to cancel it."
"Why?"
"To be at home with you." "Well, I wish you wouldn't." The man turned to look at her. "Would you do that for me? Would you please go to that class?"
"Will you tell me why?"
DeClercq looked at the bottle in her hand and then looked away, once more out to sea.
"Well. Genny, do you recall telling me I hold myself too tight. Well that tightness is my cell, it's the dungeon of my guilt.
"This afternoon I took the boat and that bottle and just drifted along the coast, measuring the distance to shore. It's been a long time since I've done that—shared my own company with a bottle. And I'm finally thinking things out.
"If it hadn't turned dark I wouldn't be back yet because I still have some distance to go. But if I get just a bit more time to myself, just some more time to examine this dungeon of mine and how I built it, then I believe I'll find a way out."
She didn't say anything at first, but watched this man she loved so much just sitting in the pouring rain. He had his legs curled up and his chin on his knees and his arms wrapped around his shins. Finally she sighed a long sigh and said: "How long do you want?"
"Will you give me till twelve o'clock?"
"Yes," Genevieve said.
6:55 p.m.
"What time is the seminar?" he asked.
"Seven-thirty," she said.
"Where is it?"
"In North Vancouver. Just off the Upper Levels Highway."
"What's it about?"
"I haven't decided yet." Then Genevieve's eyes fell upon the open book on the living room coffee table. She walked over and picked up Albert Camus' The Fall."Do you mind if I take this?" she asked. "I'll find a topic in here."
"By all means," DeClercq said. "Perhaps you should look at I, I, I—the extension of the self. Or at The Little-ease—the dungeon of man's guilt."
For a moment Genevieve watched him with sadness in her eyes. Again she wished with all her heart that she could give him a child. For she knew that when Janie had died, a part of Robert had died with her too. Sometimes just the fact that she would never have a son or daughter affected her as well. It was almost as though the future could hold no hope, as though without the innocence of childhood the cancer of experience would eat up all that ever had been.
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