Richmond, British Columbia

Wind off the river whipped flying snow through the bare limbs of the maple trees to build white pyramids up the dyke. The storm swallowed up the Jeep parked on the levee and obliterated tracks from it to a padlocked gate in a spiked fence around the maple garden in front of the Quonset hut on the slough. The hut being smaller than the concrete bunker under it, the vanishing tracks angled around the perimeter to a door over the quagmire out back. A padlock secured the windowless hut in which subterranean stairs descended into the bunker. From one step to the next dripped a trail of blood. Halfway down the stairwell, a bolted door sealed off the underground dungeon surrounding the realm of madness the Headhunter called home.

When psychosis was florid, the psycho came home to Mother.

Like tonight.

Now.

Candle pots slung in macrame webbings burned in the stygian dark. The webbings dangled from chains fastened to the ceiling. Black smudge curled from candle wicks protected by small glass umbrellas from blood draining out of the heads. The blood collected on the floor. The heads hung suspended at eye level by the ceiling chains hooked in their hair. The candles highlighted the heads from below, smearing yellow up the chins and under the noses, then up the brows above the eyes. Shadows masked other features, sinking sightless gazes into fathomless pits, and blackening mouths, cheeks, and foreheads to crowns. Strands of hair glistened above like spun gold, while drops the color of molten gold dripped from neck stumps.

A single set of footsteps echoed around the vault as Sparky and Mother splashed from one dead head to the next.

"Delicious, child. A good night's hunt. I love how this one bit through his tongue. See how the tip hangs by a thread from his lip?"

"His lips aren't as pink as yours, Mommy."

"And this one. Beautiful. Take in the fright. Note how facing imminent death turned the roots of his hair stark white."

"His hair isn't black like yours, Mommy."

"Hush, child. Forget the past. Let it be. Mother's waiting in the flesh to satisfy your needs. You have no need for the tzantzas in the box. Their lips and black hair are merely substitutes. Now that you have me, what need have you for them? Did you not stroke my hairin town tonight?"

"Yes," replied the solitary voice in the dungeon vault.

"And did you not kiss my lips with the passion you fought in New Orleans?"

"Yes."

"And was that dungeon not as secure as the House of Pain and here?"

"Yes."

"And was the glow of the torchlight not as gold as this?"

"Yes."

"And did the light not wink at you from the erotic rings?"

"Yes."

"And did you not bury yourself in me?"

"Yes."

"And did I not exorcise dread from Ecuador?"

"Yes."

"And did it not feel good to scream and scream and scream?"

"Yes."

"A primal scream to sunder the knots twisting you up inside?"

"Yes."

"And do you not find the talking cure binds you to me?"

"Yes."

"And does love for me instead of hate not make you feel better?"

"Yes."

"And do you not find the tighter we are, the safer you feel?"

"Yes."

"And is Mother's love and protection not all you ever wanted?" "Yes." "And do you not see your hate for me was the flip side of love? 'I do. I love you, Mommy. Mommy, you fucking cunt.''

"Yes."

"And did I not say, 'Let it out, Sparky. Scream and scream and scream. Are you your father's spawn? Or do you belong to me? If you're mine, prove it tonight in blood?"

"Yes."

"And have you not proved your love for me in blood four-fold? Bringing me your father's head to taunt and humiliate?"

"These aren't Daddy's head."

"Nor are the tzantzas in the box mine. Black hair and pierced lips made them me. And shrinking me down to size vented your hate."

"Why hate Daddy?"

"Because he abused me. And that abuse made me hurt you."

"Abused you how?"

"He used me, Sparky. He made my body his spittoon. Like my father did in France. 'Shhh, Suzannah. Come in here, cherie. Now let me take off your frills so Papa can love you.' That's why Mama shipped me off and how I met your father. He caged me in the cold and dressed me like a whore, then sat by the fire ogling me. I like you cold. It makes your nipples hard. Now turn around. Bend over. And spread it wide. Good girl, Suzannah. Get your master hard. The bigger s and harder I get, the more you'll love it. "

"Why hurt me?"

"To get back at him. Look in a mirror, Sparky. Do you not see his genes?"

"I'm sorry, Mommy."

"So am I, child. He hurt me. So I hurt you. So you hurt me. Why should he slip scot-free from the vicious circle he began? He hurt me. So I hurt you. So you hurt him. You rape him, and kill him, and cut off his head. He's any man turned around so you can't see his face. Just as any woman with black hair was me. In this light they're all your father's head. See how plump this one hangs like ripe fruit? Pluck the fruit, Sparky, and dry it for me. Grape to raisin. Plum to prune. Shrink your father down to size. The smaller and limper you make him, the more I'll love you."

Sparky unhooked the head from its chain.

The psycho carried the bleeding trophy to the next room.

A candlestick burned within.

Candle glow gilded grinning teeth.

Sand bubbled in a hot pot.

A brazier burnished the tzantza box.

By the box were artist's tools.

A scalpel to remove the skin from the skull.

Needle and thread to sew the skin into a pouch.

A scoop to fill the pouch with hot sand.

Thongs to stitch the eyes shut and lace the mouth.

Rings like those through Mother's lips.

Mother's lips . . .

The kiss of death.