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  Hamel had come uncomfortably close to revealing what secrets he held deep inside. Dean had no idea what they might be, however. “What about Park?” Dean asked. “Do you think a man like him could be controlled by another man?"

  "Frankly, if the circumstances were right, any one of us could fall under the spell of a cult leader, a powerful personality, a passionate lover—hell, no one's immune one-hundred-percent to the controlling influences of those around them. For instance, a man like you, you're married, aren't you, Dean?"

  "Yes, I am.” Dean thought of Jackie.

  "You love her, right? And out of love, you behave in socially acceptable ways, remembering sometimes to humble yourself before her—like when you forget a birthday card, right?"

  "I don't see where that—"

  "Multiply that feeling a thousandfold, Dean—do you mind if I call you Dean?"

  "No, that'd be fine—"

  "Benjamin, or Ben if you like."

  "Ben."

  "Anyway, imagine, if you can, Dean, someone coming along and sweeping you off your feet, just sweeping you right up and carrying you along, and effectively controlling you, even using you, say, for personal or sexual gain, or whatever it is they wish to get from you—money, or scalps—and hell, this control never stops, never ends, never slows down. In fact, you don't want it to, because you find comfort and love and security and all those good things in it. Maybe you find power, power you can't get anywhere else...."

  Hamel continued on in this vein, and as he spoke, Dean thought of how he himself had so recently been caught up for good or bad in the power of Peggy Carson, in the thrill of being with her. Hers was a dominant personality, an aggressive personality which, in careful doses, might be invigorating and take on the look of freedom and fun, but he could not imagine allowing her much further into his life, and certainly Dean knew he must himself be in control. Dean tried to imagine the weak personality Hamel described, the person who fed on being under another's control, lived for it and withered without it. He thought of all the millions of Americans who wanted others to tell them what to do from letters to Dear Hearts columns to the How-To books they bought and read, on everything from gold to finances to making love. The only people making a gain from this nation of sheep were the merchants and advertisers, so far as Dean could see.

  "Park,” continued Hamel, “most certainly. The macho front is often a giveaway to a weaker personality, a wall to hide behind which often crumbles when the person is alone with himself, or with a truly dominant personality or more powerful mind. Sometimes a latent homosexual lurks behind the façade, sometimes a secret drinker, sometimes a masturbator, but more often than not, a man who lives a double life, a man who might well enjoy being tied and beaten by a woman, say, or led into murdering others."

  Dean had heard similar ideas from Stephens on occasion. It seemed Hamel knew his stuff. But it was growing late, and Dean wanted to get back to the lab before he missed Sid altogether. He also wanted to know if Carl Prather or Sybil had tried to reach him regarding Park yet. “It has been most interesting, Ben."

  "Glad to spread it around,” replied Hamel, shaking Dean's hand. Do you play tennis?” he asked suddenly. “I'm getting a doubles match together for the weekend."

  "I play, yes—but I'm sorry, I'm really not up to it at the moment, thanks."

  "Pity. I'd like to see how you'd fare opposite me on the court."

  Dean smiled at this, finally regaining his hand from Hamel, whose grasp seemed suddenly like a caress. Was the man gay? After winning the little tug-of-war over the bill, Dean left hurriedly.

  Hamel watched him from the second-story perch as Dean moved with that purposeful walk of his, headed, no doubt, Hamel realized, back to his microscopes in the Municipal Building's labs.

  That is a determined man, Hamel told himself. Dedicated, sharp ... razor-sharp. “But I don't believe Park's your man, Dr. Grant,” Hamel said to himself, draining his wineglass.

  EIGHT

  It was getting late.

  Where in God's name was Hamel?

  Chief Hodges had seen him go out of the building with Grant, and he wondered what they had to talk about. But he knew ... he knew. It was the Scalper case, it was all anyone was talking about, and all anyone gave a shit about anymore.

  He was a lifer, his whole career given over to this job, his entire personal life as well. He'd built up an impressive record, a long and worthwhile record, a record any man would be proud of. He was honored at banquets and he had a room at home where the walls were literally lined with plaques.

  He was a success at his chosen profession, and he meant to go right on up the ladder, next stop—the commissioner's office.

  But did anyone trot out his successes, his record? Did anyone care to talk about it? No, all the press or anyone else wanted to talk about was the goddamned Scalper.

  Hodges had to get ahold of himself. He heard Hamel coming. He didn't want to give away the fact that he was on the edge, now, did he? Christ, he told himself, get on the couch. He did so and stretched out, feigning peace and indifference as Hamel entered his office, saying “Ready for your session, Chief?"

  Hodges lazily looked over his shoulder up at Dr. Hamel. “Oh, it's you, Doc ... must've dozed off. Long day, a rough one."

  "Then it should be easy to relax, Chief,” replied Hamel, pouring the Chief a glass of ice water and taking up his position across from him in his easy chair. “I'm sorry to be late, but I was held up by—"

  "Grant, I know ... I saw you two together."

  "He's an inquisitive man."

  "So I've noticed."

  "At the moment his questions seem to be centering on Lt. Park."

  "Park, huh? Did he...?"

  "No, he got nothing from me of a personal nature on Park, no more than he would from the elevator operator or a doorman. You mustn't worry, Jake, that anything between you and me goes outside this room. Trust me."

  "I do ... I just ... sometimes..."

  "Worry, yes, I know, and that's bad for you, Jake, very bad for those ulcers."

  Chief Jacob “Big Jake” Hodges had been an Orlando policeman since 1967. He had built a reputation on the backs of others, and getting near the top of the heap had cost him dearly. It had cost him his first wife and the kids of that marriage, a boy and a girl he never saw and seldom heard from, now that Doris had removed them to California. His career had cost him friendships, strong ties, meaningful ties that had nothing whatever to do with politics and back-scratching and ass-kissing, and finally, after all the sacrifices and losses, Jake Hodges was going to at last enjoy some of the benefits of the many and terrible sacrifices to his job. But that notion had been short-circuited by this crazed killer going about his city and making a mockery of his police force to the tune of several stories a day appearing in the papers. He wanted an end to it, and only one man seemed to understand that need.

  Hodges leaned back into the couch and continued to explain his problems to Dr. Hamel, who like any good psychiatrist, listened well and interrupted not at all, asking just the occasional leading question at the moment the Chief most needed it. Hamel was the only man, woman, or child Jake could truly confide in. He understood ... he really and truly felt and empathized with his superior, and he wanted absolutely nothing in return. Jake had tried talking to Hamel about more money, more prestige within the department. Anything he wanted, Jake wanted to provide, because Dr. Hamel had, after all, provided Jake so much in the way of peace of mind.

  At first Jake resisted the sessions when Dr. Hamel asked for his participation in the new program. Hamel wanted Jake to bare his soul in a group setting with other cops. He told Jake that if he were to act as an example to his men, a powerful man with hair on his chest, iron in his spine, and grit in his voice, the others would follow.

  "The men look to you for guidance and direction, Chief,” Hamel reassured him with comforting words again. “Hell, a man like you, a man who's come up through the ranks the hard way? That means the
world to them, and the compromise we worked out is having its effect on them, believe me."

  The compromise they had worked out was a simple exchange, Jake's wants for Dr. Hamel's needs. Jake would undergo therapy, but only like this, one-on-one; Hamel readily agreed, knowing such information was soon to be common knowledge in the department. Each man knew that Jake Hodges would then be setting the example Dr. Hamel wanted, at least close enough.

  A former beat cop in New Orleans thirty years ago, Hodges was, for all his faults, looked up to by the younger men, or so Hamel assured him again.

  Jake knew he came to Dr. Hamel to hear such assurances. He knew his ego needed to be bolstered, his position reaffirmed in endless repetition if he were to survive another day, another night of his present life.

  Married again, he saw no future for him and Sally. They could have no children. They were both too old, and Sally had drifted away, burying herself in her avocation, painting ... endlessly painting, fleeing into the seascapes she did, as bad as they were, losing herself in that other world of the canvas. Hodges told Hamel all about it, and Hamel understood, understood far more than Hodges had believed any other man could. Not that Hamel had admitted it in so many words, but somehow Jake knew, and he had made, for the first time in so many years, a new friend. Ben Hamel was closer in age to Jake than most of the people in the department, and Ben, too, must have had to make enormous sacrifices to get ahead. Not that he ever articulated those sacrifices in any specific terms, but speaking broadly, Ben knew exactly what Jake felt and why ... yes, why.

  No cabby, busboy, or bartender could do that—know why a man felt depressed enough to suck on the end of a loaded gun.

  "I know this Scalper case has your insides turned out, Chief,” Ben said to him now, “that your every nerve is feeling exposed now ... but you have to ride it out. A man like you, you can do it."

  "The more I think of it, the more I'd like to take Corman's neck in my hands and break it, snap him like a twig! He's making me look bad in front of my city, my department, and the Mayor."

  "But you don't know that he's guilty of anything more than excesses, the time away from the lab, a bit of fun with his judge, and it adds up to sloppy work."

  "I won't tolerate it, not in my department. Never have, never will."

  "The injunction hasn't helped your disposition."

  "I'm working on getting my own injunction that'll overrule his, and when I impound all that evidence, I'll call a press conference, let the people of Orlando decide what to do with Dr. Sydney Corman."

  "That's a big step, Chief."

  "Bold ... bold's the word ... like my old self."

  "Yes, you do like a fight."

  "Been a scrapper all my life."

  "Yes, I know."

  Jake laughed heartily at this, his thoughts on a childhood incident. Another thing he liked about Hamel. Somehow Hamel unlocked the memories of his rough upbringing, which his mind had trundled off to a secret place in his brain like a sad treasure chest to be buried forever within him. Somehow Hamel had found the ephemeral key that unlocked the amorphorous gate which held back both the horrors and the pathos of that childhood which, till now, was blanketed in darkness, kept even from the keeper.

  "What are you remembering?” asked Ben Hamel.

  Jake laughed lightly again. “A fight ... a fight with my father. He broke my rib."

  "Want to tell me about it?"

  Jake did. He wanted to tell Ben every detail.

  "Might be better than getting an ulcer over Sid Corman."

  Jake knew it was the truth. Telling Ben about the nightmare of lost childhood was somehow like a soothing balm these days. A few weeks ago, Jake Hodges would have denied the possibility. He had always hated dredging up the past before, but with Ben, it was a calm and cathartic journey, and he could remain at a safe distance and yet see, really see for the first time, that the terror of those days was not his fault, that the guilt he carried within himself for all these years could be vanquished.

  "Go on, Jake...” Hamel's voice was motherly and fatherly at once.

  Tearfully, Jacob Hodges began the horror story of his thirteenth birthday.

  Hamel sat back, breathed deeply, listening quietly. He was a good listener.

  But while listening, Ben Hamel allowed part of his mind to slip away, to the image of Dean Grant. He wondered what Grant's questions over dinner had been hiding, wondered what made Grant tick, and if soon Grant would not return to him with more questions: questions pertaining to Hamel's police patients, or patients he saw in his private practice.

  Grant might insist on Hamel's actually revealing privileged information, which Hamel would, of necessity, decline to do. Hamel might declare his confidentiality with his patients, the old but very real doctor-patient relationship. Then Grant would press him, asking him if he knew of any individual with a fetish that might turn him into a hatchet-wielding killer after skin and hair.

  Hodges here, for instance, spoke of his nasty father, whose back and chest were matted with ugly hair....

  Hamel could think of at least two other patients who had morbid fears and hangups which, in a pinch, might place them into the category of suspect. But Hamel's job was not to second-guess, judge, or condemn his own patients, and Grant would likely respect him a great deal more if he maintained the scruples he had come into the profession with. Besides, Hamel honestly did not think Hodges nor any of his patients was the killer, any more than he believed that Lt. Park was the killer.

  Van didn't know about Ian's idea. Ian wasn't supposed to get ideas; Van was—Van had told him so. They argued over whether Ian's dream about children with long-flowing hair had anything to do with the purposes of the Dark One, who had for all these years spoken only through Van. All day in the Florida heat, among the palmettos and moss-covered trees of the reserve bordering on the hidden little place Ian had rented for them, Van had wandered and sat and talked to himself and mulled over the questions.

  Van had been given a task to perform, and whether Ian helped or not, he must perform his work for the Dark One.

  Bugs and mites and ticks climbed over him as if he were a dog, nestling deep into his hair. Food for the demons, he thought, and moved on. Mosquitoes plagued him, but he had to work out his problems. Ian was beginning to think he could just do as he pleased, coming to him with this notion that the Dark One had gone to him—him—with a sign, telling Van that his plan of gaining a scalp from every nationality, every race, creed, and color was failing! How dare he suggest it? They were far from finished, and his pretty brother knew this, didn't he?

  Once again Ian had gone for the daylight hours to his job down in the city. Once again, as always, Van was left alone to wait and ponder, “Alone again, naturally,” as the song said.

  He'd have to put Ian in his place.

  He'd have to remind him how it used to be.

  He'd have to take down the long whip made of the coarsest hair and beat Ian again, beat Ian as their parents once beat Van, to put him in his place. It was what the Dark One ordered. There was no other way, and this was no time to be soft.

  Just then a lizard suctioned itself against the tree branch overhead. Van, feeling a pang of hunger and not knowing when he'd get back to the house, or even which direction he'd take to get there, eyed the lizard. Nice skin, he thought as his hand shot out in strike speed, trained to do so from infancy as a survival technique. He had the lizard in his grasp and wrenched it apart.

  Moving on through the marsh that turned quickly into swamp, trying to find his way but without especial concern, Van nibbled on the food find, careful to save the skin for tanning.

  One art he knew well, that—the art of tanning and curing a skin. He'd learned it from dusty books in the filthy cellar he'd called home for eleven years. He'd also learned taxidermy. Maybe he'd stuff the lizard. One day, if Ian wasn't good, he promised to stuff him. Pretty brothers could be a bothersome thing. Still Ian had provided for him, helped him all these years, and he h
ad returned from the war with all those scalps. Ian was the perfect balance, the lure, and Van was the trap. Like well-matched spiders, they worked together and all went smoothly until Ian started trying to run the show, lying about whispered messages direct from the Dark One, pretending to be clever, more clever than Van.

  After all, it had been Van who'd thought of just the right and fitting punishment for their parents, and it was Van who'd brought the Dark One from the lower levels below the cellar all those nights. He knew what his Lord wanted, not Ian.

  When Ian returned, he'd tell him so.

  There'd be an argument. Lately Ian argued everything. Lately Ian was beginning to sound like a broken record. How smart he was, he'd told Van, to shift the suspicion to the police themselves, and would soon believe the police were irresponsible and stupid and how he laughed at his own so-called achievement. Then, when he told Van about having telephoned the police not once, but twice, Van beat him unmercifully, making of his back a patchwork of blood and flesh.

  To this day Ian felt he'd done nothing wrong, that in fact, he had done a sensible thing. Telephoning the police twice!

  Regardless, Van knew that Ian was growing in self-importance with each kill. Ian wanted to take more credit. He wanted more ritual time, and to talk directly with the Dark One. So, having been barred this, he was now fantasizing it.

  Damn him, couldn't he understand that this was the one important thing in Van's entire, miserable existence? That his work with the overlord gave meaning to his wretched life? How often, how many ways did Van have to explain it to Ian? In the end, Van would become the Dark One, and through Van he would walk the earth as he had not done since the time of Christ.

  Another day and Dean got the distinct impression that Dr. Hamel was avoiding him, paying no heed to his repeated messages. Dean finally located Hamel at midday, but the psychiatrist begged off, saying he was between sessions and late. By the time Dean found him again, it was getting late, nearly five. Hamel was packing his valise, preparing to leave the small room adjoining the squad room where he held his group sessions.