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  Rushing back downtown, Dyer used his siren. Grant sounded as if he really needed him, and it had come as a surprise that Grant was still in the city. The story Dyer had told him about the pregnant woman must've done it. That, and maybe Peggy Carson.

  Grant was outside the station house waving him down when Dyer drove in. Peggy Carson and her partner were in a heated discussion not far from Grant, Peggy no doubt already sick to death of desk duty and the depression that hung over her since Dave Park's death. Dyer drove direct to Dean, who got in, saying, “Frank, we may've just stumbled onto the identity and location of the Scalpers—at least one of them."

  Peggy was now within earshot. Overhearing, she said, “I want a piece of this."

  "Peggy,” Dean said, “this could be—"

  "No more dangerous than trying to sleep at night. I'm in, Dyer, you've got to let me in."

  Dyer said, “She's proved herself to me."

  "We don't really have time to argue the point,” replied Dean. “All right."

  "My partner, too. We'll back you up. Where's the location?"

  "At 611 Church, apartment 3C, Dr. Hamel's place."

  Dyer's mouth dropped. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  "The bastard,” said Peggy. “We're right behind you."

  "No sirens, Peggy. We don't as yet have a warrant."

  "Gotcha."

  The two squad cars, one unmarked, made their way to Hamel's apartment complex. Dean wondered what they might find.

  Dean explained to Dyer about the rural box number. Dyer knew the Wekiva area and said he liked to hunt at the reserve there. When they got to Hamel's apartment, no one answered their knock. Reaching into his breast pocket, Dyer pulled forth a set of tools, indicating to Dean that if he was willing, Dyer could get him inside. Dean mulled it over. With no sign of Sid, and with the growing conviction that the apartment was kept for appearance sake only, he gave Dyer the go-ahead.

  Peggy and her partner waited back. Dean and Dyer returned to them shaking their heads. “Nothing,” said Dyer.

  "Place doesn't even look as if it's been lived in,” added Dean.

  "A front, maybe,” suggested Peggy.

  Dyer nodded. “If Hamel's what you say he is, that might fit. Let's get out to Wekiva and locate the second house, if there is a house attached to this box number of yours."

  They started out. There was still no sign of Sid, no word, and it was nearing 6 P.M. On the way to Wekiva, Dyer asked to be patched through to authorities there, and he got a Sgt. Joseph Staubb, who was excited at the prospect of helping Orlando with such a big case. “Anything, anything we can do—''

  Dyer read the box number to him. “Can you shake loose your postmaster? Get some kind of street number to go with this? It could be vital"

  "No problem. Don't worry!"

  "We need the info immediately—we're on our way to your office."

  "Don't worry—we'll get a fix on the location to that box."

  "Thanks, Staubb. Over."

  "Just hope it's not a postal box,” said Dyer.

  Dean didn't want to consider the possibility of yet another dead end. As if the thought were a gremlin come to haunt him, the radio crackled anew and it was Staubb already.

  "One question for you all, Lt. Dyer."

  "Yeah, shoot"

  "You do have a warrant, sir?"

  "It will be forthcoming."

  "Sticky about warrants over this way since the Pattison thing,” he said blankly. “Best have it before—"

  "We'll have it.” Dean wished he could be sure of it.

  Sid Corman couldn't find her honor, Judge Karen Markham. He went to her courtroom but it was empty, a single bailiff picking up the day's notes, books, and paraphernalia. He sought her in her chambers, but again had no Luck. Finally, he asked the bailiff.

  "She's gone to her dentist."

  "It's important I see her, urgent, a matter of—"

  "I know, life and death.” The bailiff was dry and calm, a thick-set man with large eyes, a depressed chin, and heavy bags under his eyes.

  "I'm the coroner, Dr. Corman, and I need a search warrant to stop a pair of mass murderers. Now do you think you could get her on the phone and back here?"

  "For that?"

  "Yes, damn you!"

  "Oh, all right. But she's not going to like it."

  "Tell her I twisted your arm!"

  Sid thought about his reputation and his standing. It had fallen off considerably, and how much one might attribute to the careful work of Dr. Benjamin I. Hamel, one might only guess. Dean had likely uncovered only the tip of the iceberg. Sid thought about his grueling job. The pressure, especially at times like this, could be devastating to one's peace of mind.

  Sid knew that his job was on the line. With a search warrant, he was sure he'd be vindicated. Without it, he would continue steadily downhill. Sid recalled what had initially gotten Dean thinking that Park was the killer—the connection to Vietnam. Now he recalled with a chill that Hamel had once told him that he'd been in Vietnam. Why that fact had escaped notice before, Sid didn't know.

  The rash of killings in the Michigan north woods between 1979 and 1983 could have been the work of Hamel and his strange partner. Hamel had come on in the department here in 1986.

  A routine call to Hamel's office had told Sid that the good doctor was out. He was out a lot, Sid thought now, recalling times in the past when he'd tried to get the man.

  The bailiff returned with a dour expression. “Sorry, Dr. Corman. She's under the drill."

  "Damn! People are waiting."

  "Sorry."

  Sid started out, but the bailiff stopped him. “Judge O'Dell's in his chambers, I think."

  "O'Dell...” Sid knew he'd be impossible, but he had to try. “O'Dell—thanks.” O'Dell was a hippie in the sixties and he didn't believe in busting into anyone's home at any time for any reason. For Sid to convince him, he'd have to be at his most persuasive, and he'd have to bring evidence—lots of evidence. He returned to the lab for an arsenal of papers and tests, and he was prepared to lie to Judge O'Dell that one of the strands of hair they'd used had been taken from a brush used by Ben Hamel. That ought to get the judge's attention.

  "G'luck, doctor,” the pudgy bailiff had wished him when he'd left the courtroom, but Sid knew he needed more than luck.

  All this time Hamel had gone on and on about a weak person being led by the nose by a stronger personality, and all along it had been Hamel leading this poor, misbegotten dwarf into murder, multiple murder and the destruction of an unborn child. Sid wondered how many times this sick duo had played over the helpless victims of their combined madness.

  He knew he must not let Dean down. He knew he must play his part in bringing an end to Hamel's multiple murders, murders committed since ... since the death of his own parents by scalping ... since his first double murder back in Montana. Dean, too, must by now have come to the same startling conclusion.

  It was near dark again, the time when Van grew in strength and power over all things, including Ian. No matter that Ian did so much work, no matter that it was Ian who located the women and set up the victims. It was Van who had brought up the demonic powers that now engulfed their souls and protected them from all harm, both past and present, and surely in the future. It was his gifts, his knowledge, his liason with the dark beings that kept Ian from remembering Montana, or recalling having taken the hatchet to his unsuspecting father first, his sleeping mother second. It was Van who had instructed him and guided his hand. Ian had let Van escape and helped him to the top, expecting his brother to do as he said, scamper to the woods to live freely like the animals in the books Ian had stolen and given to Van in his cellar prison.

  But Van had a hypnotic eye that set Ian in motion, guiding him to do what he did to his mother and father. He was filled with a venomous hatred for them both, and given what they'd done to him, Ian, even at a young age, felt he must devote himself to Van or face a similar fate to that of his parents.
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  People came to see their parents, and they took Ian away while Van hid in the deep woods and foothills. But Ian, the authorities believing him in a state of traumatic shock, never forgot that his brother was still alive and waiting for his return. And return he did, many years later, with a large bag of scalps, just as Van had foretold. Then as now, Ian knew how and where to procure the scalps Van insisted on having.

  He was supposed to die in the cellar.

  Ian's parents tried to kill him there.

  They withheld food for days, weeks. He learned from the powers in the dark to feed himself. He survived.

  They injected him with something that was supposed to end his life, but he somehow miraculously survived.

  Ian slipped down to him, unafraid, pitying Van, who was without a name, without a bed, without light, locked away and chained to a wall, given a cat bed to sleep in. To remain alive, he ate his own dung, and talked of a special day, a day when all would come right.

  When he began growing the hair—uncontrollably, Ian had thought—he explained that beneath them, there in the cellar, lurked creatures that came up through the cracks and grew within him after he ingested them, and these now emerged as hairs on his body. He predicted that once his entire body was covered in hair, each hair would leap from its base and become a full-blown demonic force to wreak havoc on all that shunned Van.

  The first evidence of the truth of this dark prophecy came to Ian one night in his night-blackened room, the demon telling him to ready the ax, to take it to the cellar and release Van.

  That had been many years ago, and yet it seemed only yesterday.

  Wise demonic voices say only fools rush in, and so Hamel waited outside, like a puppy dog, like a trained seal ... waited long and hard and patiently until it had become absurd, wondering how much longer, until longer had stretched into night, hours of night. Several times he stormed into the back bedroom and parted the clothes in the closet and almost, almost pounded open the hidden door, but something stopped him ... Respect. Respect and fear.

  Tonight, his head aching, every muscle strained to the limit, Dr. Benjamin Ian Hamel raised his cognac glass to his lips and sipped. In the sparsely furnished old house, he'd rented for several years now, the cognac was one of the few pleasantries he indulged in, save that which he lived for, his little brother and those powerful forces guiding him, those that had brought Van back to life and given him, along with his hair-covered body, incredible strength and sense of purpose ... all the things lacking in Ian himself.

  "Dr. Benjamin Ian Hamel,” he said to his dusky reflection in a mirror in the dimly lit room where he paced. “Not a killer, really, not in the usual sense of the word,” he told himself. It was for a higher purpose, his purpose ... for the hand that guided him, there in the dark before his fire, in the secret room.

  But the doctor was getting impatient. He wanted to pick up something and throw it through a window. Van was an ungrateful little bastard, after all. All this time alone in there, with the results of their work, him talking with the master, him getting all the credit, while Ian waited outside like some attendant. All this time ... since they'd taken the scalp and other parts from Mrs. Jimenez's lifeless body, Van, alone, had been in there with it, not allowing Ian entry.

  Each time Ian had so much as nudged the door silently open to have a peek, Van gave out with a banshee howl, that wretched, horrendous sizzle following it, like an enormous viper were circling about the dark room.

  But the time Van was taking wasn't good. It didn't bode well. It had never taken this much time before ... never. Of course, he was giddy at having the long-trailing scalp, caressing it, coddling it to his hairy self, and they had never tried this sort of magic before. It was a hunt of a new and different kind, and it made Ian wonder if early men, like bears, did not, on occasion, eat their young.

  Ian had begun to think Van's new broth just another failure, which meant Ian must procure yet another scalping victim, unless the dark beings could think of some more atrocious sacrifice they must make to become worthy subjects. Ian still believed an innocent child's scalp a good idea.

  Ian went to the panel at the back wall of the closet and gave a tentative push that caused a squealing creak. He wanted just to peek inside, but this was impossible without giving himself away to Van. But this time there was no angry squeal or growl of disgust, only a soft, melodic voice saving, “Brother, enter ... enter...."

  He sounded and looked exhausted, sweat glistening on his few bare patches, including his scalp. Beside him on the floor was a lump of fetal flesh cut from the dead woman. He had a large, bubbling pot over the fire and an empty bowl on his small table, but Ian could see that mostly he had just lain with it, covering his rotund bald spot, blubbering, begging the process to work, both of them feeling it might be their last chance.

  "Have you eaten enough?” Ian asked.

  "Four bowls full should be enough!"

  "More, then!"

  "No, it's no longer fresh ... the hair's power has left it. It's like someone somewhere has put a counter-spell on it, Ian.” The dwarf was crying. “Ian, Ian?"

  "Yes?” Ian's heart bled for the little man.

  "I ... help me ... help find another."

  "We will ... we will.” Ian could not, dared not say no. What might happen if it came to that? Would Van destroy Ian, stew up his flesh and hair for mustard plasters to lay across his cranium?

  "Take me to the place where babies are ... I want another baby ... a live one this time."

  Ian recalled the same plea made a hundred times over, except now the watchword was “baby.” “All right ... all right."

  Van dressed in his cloak and sandals, going through the secret closet door that effectively hid his small and comforting little room from the rest of the house and the world. They passed into the kitchen. He found a stool and opened a cabinet where some seven knives hung on hooks. He spent awhile selecting just the right one for this night's work, then he took some time to decide on a second dagger, an ancient scimitar, this one ... very special, as it belonged in his father's collection in Montana.

  "What's taking so long in here?” asked Ian, coming back into the kitchen, dressed in his clean knit shirt and sweater and fine, plaid dress slacks, ready to make the trip to Mercy Hospital for another go-round.

  Van was ever so eager for it all.

  FOURTEEN

  Outside Hamel's house, in the dark, pulled off the road, Dean, Dyer, Peggy, and her partner sat in waiting along with Sgt. Staubb. They still had no warrant, and seeing the lights and movement about the house, they stayed well back. Locating the place was no easy task. Staubb had had to find an old mail-delivery man who knew of the cabin at the end of this dirt road to which even the U.S. Mail did not go, since it was too far off the beaten path. This was the house that belonged to the box number at the post office where Hamel picked up what little mail he got. According to the single postal employee at the country post office, there was very little mail, in any case.

  Hamel's house was surrounded by forest, and it backed against the publicly held Wekiva preserve, which had, at least as far as Dean could tell, been left to return to its natural state. Palmetto bush lined every exit, and moss-covered trees created a canopy over the back road.

  "Are we just going to sit here?” It was Peggy's voice coming over the radio to Dyer and Dean. “I say we get in close, and see what we're looking at."

  Staubb came on over his box, clearly in charge here. It was his area, his play. “We might get our units out of sight,” he suggested. “I mean, if we're spotted too soon, before that warrant gets here ... evidence you're seeking could be destroyed in the meantime."

  "What do you suggest?” asked Dean, sending his own message.

  "There was a little section six or ten yards behind us where I think the units ought to back off the road."

  "He's right, Dr. Grant,” said Dyer. “If Hamel decides suddenly to come out, and if he spots us..."

  "Let's do it."r />
  "Where's Sid Corman?” asked Peggy in exasperation.

  Dean was wondering the same thing. Quietly, the motors kept to a mild hum, the headlights out, all three units backed toward the space off the dirt road Staubb led them to. Waiting while the killers were within their grasp was like restraining the vengeance of God, Dean thought, so hard for mortals like him and Dyer and Peggy, in particular.

  In place now, they sat in the dark, listening to crickets and cidadas and for the sound of an approaching vehicle that might be Sid.

  "Heads up! Something happening at the house!” said Peggy's young partner, Mark Williams.

  Dyer snatched a pair of binoculars. Squinting, he tried desperately to see what was going on. “See anything?” asked Dean. Lights had gone out at the house.

  "No dwarfs, if that's what you mean ... but that's Hamel, and he's going to the garage."

  The garage was a shack, and now Dean heard the doors being opened. “Can I have a look?"

  Dean peered through the binoculars through the pane in front of him, finding it difficult to focus, but once he did, he saw that Hamel had pulled the doors wide to reveal a Mercedes behind them. He read off the first three numbers on the plates before it backed from his view and tore out of the yard and straight down the road toward them. Dean imagined Hamel could see them all as they stared at him from their poor hiding place; but no, he sped by, giving them no notice whatever. Dean saw no sign of a dwarf on the seat beside Hamel. It was too damned dark.

  "God, they're going after another victim,” said Dean.

  Dyer got on the horn and put out a a coded APB on the car, giving the first three numbers of the plates. It would be picked up and shadowed at the very least, he assured Dean.

  "What do we do?” asked Peggy over the radio, “Just let him go?"

  "I'll put a man on him,” said Staubb. “He won't get lost."