then right again on Cecil Green Park Drive, it skirted the School of Social Work and the Alumni Association. Finally, engulfed by fog that scaled the cliffs to smother the point, the makeshift meat wagon parked in the faculty lot.
Killing the engine and fog lights, Skull climbed in back.
Chloe and Zoe lay side by side under a roofing tarp, their skinned faces staring up like ivory death's-heads. The cross-bones painted on their chests had warped as gravity flattened and sagged their breasts. Baited fishhooks jabbed Chloe's torso, while Zoe had a narrow zigzag ladder down her front.
"Hurry," Crossbones whispered from the passenger's seat.
Gripping her hair, Skull doubled Zoe like a jackknife. With one gloved hand he held a butcher's hook to the nape of her neck while the mallet in his other hand drove it home. Yanking the rope attached to the hook, he secured the spike deep in her brain.
"See anything?" Skull asked.
"Just fog," replied Crossbones.
"Keep a sharp lookout. And honk if anyone comes."
Opening the side panel, Skull stepped out. Mist seeped into the van to shroud the hookers. Skull wore a white parka with a white hood. On his upper lip was a fake mustache. Tucked in his pocket was a Beretta .40 semiautomatic. He looked like the Grim Reaper once he raised the hood.
Looping the hook's coiled rope over one shoulder, Skull hefted Zoe's corpse from the van. Crossbones heard him grunt under the dead weight, watching through the passenger's window as killer and victim were swallowed by the fog.
Ten minutes later, Skull returned unburdened. He climbed into the driver's seat and switched on the motor. "One down, one to go," he said, pulling out of the lot.
"You're sure you got the right pole?" Crossbones asked.
"Positive. I checked the photo archives of The Sun. The Headhunter nailed her to the Dogfish crosspiece."
Off Cecil Green, the van turned right toward Wreck Beach.
7:01 A.M.
John Doe—his real name—made a living from postcards and advertisements. He'd awakened at six A.M. to check the weather outside against the forecast in The Sun. Another front of rain clouds threatened from the west, their vanguard drizzle gathered in the fog, while to the east it was clear. Doe anticipated dawn would offer mystic shots so he drove to UBC and parked at the Museum of Anthropology. Millions of tourists visit the West Coast every year and most consider totem poles the essence of this city. As Doe gathered his equipment from the Mazda's trunk, a plane— DeClercq's flight to New York—took off from Sea Island across the Fraser River.
The sun would rise in forty-eight minutes.
Tripod over his shoulder, Pentax case in hand, Doe descended fifteen steps and rounded the museum. Out back the cliff dropped vertically to Tower Beach, the ledge between the precipice and glass-faced museum an outdoor totem exhibit. In the center of the ledge was a grassy knoll flanked by a Kwakiutl memorial pole. Topping the pole was Hoxhok, the cannibal bird, symbol of Baxbakualanuxiwae, the cannibal god, He-Who-Is-First-To-Eat-Man-At-The-Mouth-Of-The-River. Through the dark, with only a flashlight to guide his way, Doe walked the gravel path between the Haida mortuary house he came to shoot and the blackened eye of the museum. Atop the knoll he busied himself assembling his camera.
Dawn smudged the east.
Behind him, down a grassy track that followed the cliff, nestled the faculty parking lot at the foot of Cecil Green. There, four hours ago, Crossbones had watched Skull unload Zoe's corpse. To Doe's right, beyond the drop, Point Atkinson lighthouse winked across the onyx bay. Ahead, licked by tongues of mist wavering like ghostly flames, loomed the mortuary house beside the square museum. It hunched like a demon cowering in fear of dawn.
Finger on the shutter, eye to the camera, Doe waited patiently as pale light tiptoed across the murky bluff.
Stunned, he missed the shot.
The mortuary house was backed by dripping trees. Its tall,
Killing the engine and fog lights, Skull climbed in back.
Chloe and Zoe lay side by side under a roofing tarp, their skinned faces staring up like ivory death's-heads. The cross-bones painted on their chests had warped as gravity flattened and sagged their breasts. Baited fishhooks jabbed Chloe's torso, while Zoe had a narrow zigzag ladder down her front.
"Hurry," Crossbones whispered from the passenger's seat.
Gripping her hair, Skull doubled Zoe like a jackknife. With one gloved hand he held a butcher's hook to the nape of her neck while the mallet in his other hand drove it home. Yanking the rope attached to the hook, he secured the spike deep in her brain.
"See anything?" Skull asked.
"Just fog," replied Crossbones.
"Keep a sharp lookout. And honk if anyone comes."
Opening the side panel, Skull stepped out. Mist seeped into the van to shroud the hookers. Skull wore a white parka with a white hood. On his upper lip was a fake mustache. Tucked in his pocket was a Beretta .40 semiautomatic. He looked like the Grim Reaper once he raised the hood.
Looping the hook's coiled rope over one shoulder, Skull hefted Zoe's corpse from the van. Crossbones heard him grunt under the dead weight, watching through the passenger's window as killer and victim were swallowed by the fog.
Ten minutes later, Skull returned unburdened. He climbed into the driver's seat and switched on the motor. "One down, one to go," he said, pulling out of the lot.
"You're sure you got the right pole?" Crossbones asked.
"Positive. I checked the photo archives of The Sun. The Headhunter nailed her to the Dogfish crosspiece."
Off Cecil Green, the van turned right toward Wreck Beach.
7:01 A.M.
John Doe—his real name—made a living from postcards and advertisements. He'd awakened at six A.M. to check the weather outside against the forecast in The Sun. Another front of rain clouds threatened from the west, their vanguard drizzle gathered in the fog, while to the east it was clear. Doe anticipated dawn would offer mystic shots so he drove to UBC and parked at the Museum of Anthropology. Millions of tourists visit the West Coast every year and most consider totem poles the essence of this city. As Doe gathered his equipment from the Mazda's trunk, a plane— DeClercq's flight to New York—took off from Sea Island across the Fraser River.
The sun would rise in forty-eight minutes.
Tripod over his shoulder, Pentax case in hand, Doe descended fifteen steps and rounded the museum. Out back the cliff dropped vertically to Tower Beach, the ledge between the precipice and glass-faced museum an outdoor totem exhibit. In the center of the ledge was a grassy knoll flanked by a Kwakiutl memorial pole. Topping the pole was Hoxhok, the cannibal bird, symbol of Baxbakualanuxiwae, the cannibal god, He-Who-Is-First-To-Eat-Man-At-The-Mouth-Of-The-River. Through the dark, with only a flashlight to guide his way, Doe walked the gravel path between the Haida mortuary house he came to shoot and the blackened eye of the museum. Atop the knoll he busied himself assembling his camera.
Dawn smudged the east.
Behind him, down a grassy track that followed the cliff, nestled the faculty parking lot at the foot of Cecil Green. There, four hours ago, Crossbones had watched Skull unload Zoe's corpse. To Doe's right, beyond the drop, Point Atkinson lighthouse winked across the onyx bay. Ahead, licked by tongues of mist wavering like ghostly flames, loomed the mortuary house beside the square museum. It hunched like a demon cowering in fear of dawn.
Finger on the shutter, eye to the camera, Doe waited patiently as pale light tiptoed across the murky bluff.
Stunned, he missed the shot.
The mortuary house was backed by dripping trees. Its tall,
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