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"Where the hell's Sid with that warrant?” Dean wondered aloud.

  "On his way. Why don't we just go ahead?"

  "Not without the paperwork,” complained Staubb. “I can't let you do that."

  "Suppose this guy's out for more blood, another child yet to be born tonight, Staubb?” argued Dyer.

  Staubb looked into Dean's eyes. “You think that's a possibility, Dr. Grant?"

  "A very real one, yes."

  "You sure your man's on the way with a signed and sealed search warrant, you sure?"

  "Yes,” said Dyer.

  "We're certain of it."

  Staubb considered his situation and his options a good deal longer before giving the word, but finally he gave in. “Do her."

  The cars moved in, the headlights turning the old place into an eerie, haunted house. It was built low to the ground, but up on cinder blocks, and Dyer spoke of growing up in a house a lot like it, spoke of playing as a child beneath it. This made Dean think of the dwarf and wonder if he ever “played” here. There was a large, squeaking, wraparound porch in need of repair. Part of it was screened in against insects. A peeling green paint outlined every window and doorway, contrasting with a long-ago faded white which had become gray. Overhead, as Staubb had indicated earlier, a chimney fire sent up spirals of the strangest smelling smoke.

  "What the hell is that smell?” Staubb asked several times.

  The house was rambling. This they could see from the outside. Staubb, a meticulous and careful lawman, had gotten a set of keys to the house from the local Century 21 office, where he had learned the house was leased to Dr. Hamel. They had no trouble with the locks, and this surprised Dyer and Dean.

  Entering, they found a light switch, but the lamp that went on barely lit the room, sending deep and scurrying shadows in all directions. There was a brown wash to the entire interior. It was fairly clean for a man living alone. The floors were clear of dust, clothing, and tossed newspapers, and tabletops were equally clean. If they hadn't seen Hamel leave in his Mercedes, they would not have known he was using the place.

  Peggy grabbed ahold of Dean's hand. “There's something eerie about this place. Feel it?"

  Dean felt something, but he wasn't sure what—not just yet, anyway.

  They had to proceed single-file down a hall off which stood several equally unused bedrooms. The kitchen at the very end had a door going to the empty, silent back yard. Except for a few crumbs and palmetto bugs rolling, the kitchen, too, was clean and in order—no dust, but looking as if it were never used. Nothing was out of its place save for a step stool.

  "Something's strange,” said Dyer.

  "What's that?” asked Staubb.

  "Where's that smoke coming from, outside?"

  "Don't see it coming from in here,” said Dean.

  "There was a fireplace in the kitchen and in one of the bedrooms,” said Staubb.

  "But no fire in either one,” said Peggy.

  "Hell, it's got to be here somewhere,” said Staubb.

  "Start looking for a false wall, gentlemen,” instructed Dean. Peggy joined in the search, snatching a flashlight from her belt. The silence that descended on the house as they shuffled about was complete and utterly disquieting to the soul. Dean felt entombed, as if they were on the brink of some discovery he'd rather not find. But he was so certain that Hamel was their man, and seeing him pull off in a Mercedes only added to that belief. He couldn't believe he'd been so blind to the truth for so long.

  Peggy had wandered off in another direction, and Dean, determining that he'd entered the wrong room, turned to see her standing in the doorway, shaking.

  "Someone's ... something outside, Dean,” she whispered. “I heard a noise. I think he's come back."

  Dean went toward the front with her, his flashlight off. In the dark, with the others searching the house, Peggy might've imagined the noise, but there was no sense taking any chances. Dean slipped quietly past her and went toward the doorway. Then he heard it, the footsteps of someone on the creaky old porch.

  Dean whipped out the .38 he didn't like to carry and preferred never to use, indicating to Peggy that she was to remain silent and to warn the others. She tiptoed toward the back of the house to do so when suddenly the front door creaked open.

  Dean leveled his gun at the man's head and cocked it, freezing the figure in the dark before it said, “Jesus, Dean, is that you?"

  "Shit, Sid, why're you lurking around?"

  "I saw the cars outside, but it was so quiet in here, I thought he'd gotten you all."

  "Do you have the warrant?"

  "Yes, right here."

  "Great."

  "Doesn't look like much here anyway."

  "Back here!” shouted Dyer, apparently before Peggy could warn him of the supposed intruder.

  Dean and Sid rushed to join the others. In the larger bedroom, along a wall where a chimney stood, Dyer had touched the chimney to find the stones warm. “There's two sides to this chimney. We've got to go through the wall here."

  "Where's Staubb, where's Staubb?” asked Dean, looking around in the dark, not seeing him.

  Staubb half-stumbled into the room. “I ... I found it ... God, think I'm going to be sick."

  Staubb rushed for the rear of the house and emptied his stomach, retching several times before he could straighten up and return. Peggy guided the others to where she had seen Staubb earlier, and they found the open closet door and the false wall. It opened inward on a dingy little room that looked like a cave. Peggy's flash went ahead of them, and in its glow Dean caught snatches of what it was that made the big sergeant gag. The walls were lined with hair patches and scalps, some strung together. A dwarfed set of furniture gave the room an unreal appearance, and over the embers of the fire, in a large black kettle, something smouldered and lightly bubbled. Dean somehow knew that Staubb, his flashlight in hand, had entered and looked too closely at what was circling about that kettle. It made Dean's stomach churn, made his mind race back to a whirlpool in Chicago where an old woman and an old man had been drowned for the sake of a pervert's idea of glory. It didn't take Dean's imagination to know what was in the bubbling water. He held Peggy back from the room, telling her to remain outside.

  "Dyer and I'll take it from here. Sid, I left my valise outside on the porch ... will you, please...?"

  Sid, shaken, staring into the bowels of the lair, didn't readily answer. Instead, he repeatedly said, “We were right about Hamel, Dean ... right ... right."

  Staubb heard the request for the bag and went for it.

  "Jesus,” said Dyer, “we got enough here to hang Hamel ten times over."

  "But he won't hang,” said Peggy.

  Dyer and Dean looked at her.

  "She's right,” said Sid.

  "He'll be declared mentally incompetent. He'll be put in a mental hospital for the criminally insane."

  "He is insane,” said Dean firmly. “Our job is to prove him guilty, and get him off the streets, put him and—"

  "Look at this, Dean,” said Dyer, who had begun to dig around in the little room and light candles that sat about the tables. Dean stared at a baggy but tiny set of clothes hanging from a hanger. “The dwarf,” Dyer said.

  "Looks like a little kid's clothes."

  "Then there really are two of them,” said Dyer.

  "I told you it was a dwarf,” said Peggy.

  "The brother,” said Dean suddenly, a flash of insight hitting him.

  "The what?” asked Dyer.

  "Hamel's brother?” asked Sid.

  "Bennimin had a twin brother, Sid."

  "Yes, but he died at birth, remember?"

  "One thing you can't count on, Sid, is old medical records made out in little hamlets. Suppose the dwarf is the brother that was supposed to have died?"

  "But they were twins."

  "All the more reason for this warped and perverted idea they have, and how they work so much ... in concert."

  "But twins?"

  "Yes. On
e was deformed at birth, his growth stunted, his existence kept a secret from the world at large, apparently, since the authorities, after the death of the parents took only one boy into custody."

  "Sounds crazy..."

  "Yeah, just crazy enough to be true,” said Dean, still mulling over the possibilities.

  "Where the hell's the dwarf now?"

  "With his brother, and if they're together, they're on a hunt. We've got to find and stop them!"

  "I'm gonna call in some more units down here,” said Staubb, “in case he decides to come back."

  "Do that, and Sid,” said Dean, “pack all this evidence up neat and proper."

  "Whoa, where are you going, Dean?"

  "Dyer and me are going to Mercy Hospital. Dyer told me that Dr. Hamel's been on call at the hospital for several years. He may be on his way back there to lure another woman into that alley for his brother."

  "For his brother? Dean, Hamel's the killer here, Hamel."

  "Look at this place, Sid,” said Dean, pointing to the dwarf's quarters. “Everything about this house tells us one thing—the bloody dwarf's in charge here, not the brother. The dwarf is the strong personality, and Hamel, or Bennimin, is the weaker personality, led to his actions by this—this.” Again Dean opened his palm to the stench-filled room.

  Peggy Carson stopped Dean and Dyer at the door. “I want in on this, to see it through."

  "To kill Hamel, that's what you want, Peggy,” said Dean.

  "Is that so awful?"

  "He's a sick man, Peggy."

  "He should be put out of his misery, then."

  "Along with this dwarf-brother,” agreed Dyer.

  Dean stared at the two cops, seeing they were determined. “We've got to do this by the book, if we possibly can. You see that, don't you."

  "All right,” said Peggy, “if we possibly can."

  FIFTEEN

  The squad car carrying Dean, Dyer, and Peggy Carson raced from Hamel's wooded lot for the highway, sending up a dust cloud behind them. Dyer, once on the pavement, flicked on the siren. The car careened onto a second street, wound to another, and was suddenly on the interstate for the quickest route back to the city. In the distance, Dean thought he saw the shimmering windows of a new downtown building, but on nearing this, it turned out to be another large hotel on the strip just outside Disney World. Downtown buildings were so low to the ground, it was hard to tell precisely how far away they might be. All Dean knew was that there simply was no skyline, as in Chicago.

  The drive back was like a scene from a western, Dean thought, seeing Peggy check each of her weapons and then the shotgun braced beneath the dash. Dean had taken a back seat, knowing it was time he stepped back to allow the police the next move. Dyer, too, checked his .38 with his free hand. The clip flipped onto his lap. Peggy took it from him and closed the clip, returning the weapon to him. Maybe they were right, a quick and efficient end to a madman might very well be preferred by everyone—not least of all, the survivors of the crimes. Dean recalled how he'd felt on seeing the first scalping victim, and believing he'd seen the worst, on then being treated to the horror of the pregnant woman robbed of her unborn child, and finally what lay atop the bubbling water in the dwarf's room.

  "I want that fucking dwarf,” said Peggy.

  "I want Hamel,” replied Dyer.

  "Remember, these are sick men,” said Dean uselessly. In fact, his saying so probably told the cops that if the killers were taken alive, they'd likely be imprisoned in a mental facility, and to a cop's way of thinking, that was no justice at all.

  "Just stay clear when the shooting starts, Dean,” Peggy told him.

  Dean felt his own .38 at his breast, but said nothing.

  The city lights came into view, and soon they were exiting the interstate for a road lined with fast-food joints and car dealerships, the siren blaring, the lights flashing, people staring after them.

  In five minutes they were within sight of Mercy, and Dyer cut the lights and siren, slowing and cruising. Another unit passed them. An APB had been put out on Hamel and his car. Dyer waved down another unit and rolled down his window to ask if anything was known. The lights at Mercy showed the hospital sign in disrepair, some people lighting up cigarettes beneath. Peggy stared down an alleyway on their left, trying to part the sea of darkness with her stare. Dean saw only the dimly lit face of the officer in the unit as its window came down slowly in response to Dyer's waving hand. Then Dean saw the hat brim of the other officer and the lapel of a neat sport coat and half-wondered about it when suddenly an explosion in front of his eyes made them close and his mind reel as parts of Dyer's skull showered him where he sat. All in an instant the horn was blowing, the car heading for a flight of stone steps, Peggy screaming and fighting with both the wheel and Dyer's bloody form. Dean saw the other squad car racing off at top speed.

  The car jolted to a stop that sent Dean forward into the seat bloodied by Dyer's blown-away face. Peggy screamed again, crying, an angry edge to her tears as she shouted, “Bastard! The bastard."

  It had been a miracle Peggy hadn't been killed along with Dyer. Dean reached way over the body and snatched open the car door, allowing Dyer's body to spill out. Peggy had managed to slip the gearshift into Park, but the horn blared on, stuck.

  It had all happened so fast. “I thought it all a mistake that,” said Peggy, making no sense. “Knew it ... felt it..."

  "Easy, Peggy,” Dean called over to her from where he was, on his knees over Dyer, whose heart was still pumping.

  "Dyer's dead now,” said Peggy. “Damn ... damn!"

  Another squad car rushed in, the siren whirling down, and it made both Dean and Peggy jump, thinking it was Hamel returned to finish what he'd started. But Peggy recognized the two men who dropped to their knees behind the doors and shouted, “Drop it! Carson? That you?"

  Dean and Peggy breathed in relief, Dean shouting, “We need to get this man to emergency! It's Frank Dyer!"

  "Jesus!” moaned one of the other officers, seeing what little remained of the side of Dyer's face.

  "Too late,” said Dean quietly.

  "What? What?” asked Peggy coming around.

  "Frank's ... he's dead, Peggy."

  She buckled, caught at the last moment by one of the other policemen.

  "What the hell happened? What happened?” shouted the other cop hysterically.

  "Police, we thought it was,” said Dean, “he's somehow gotten hold of a squad car."

  "You get the number?"

  "No ... it happened so fast."

  "Let's get Carson over to the hospital. She's got a nasty gash over her eye."

  Dean realized for the first time how badly hurt Peggy was. She must have slammed into the dash when he hit the seat ahead of him.

  Dean's mind raced ahead of Hamel. Where would he go now? Dean tried desperately to think like him, to second-guess him, but in doing so, he must more likely second-guess Hamel's deformed brother, the twin that had supposedly died so many years ago.

  "You're bleeding, too, Dr. Grant,” said one of the policemen. A crowd had gathered round to watch now, some pointing at Dyer.

  "Cover him up, will you?” said Dean, taking off his coat for the purpose. “Dean lifted Dyer's .38, got to his feet in a daze, and put the gun into his belt. He then put out his hands for Peggy. “I'll take her across to the hospital."

  But medical personnel from the E.R. had rushed to them now, and they took charge, forcing Dean, too, onto a stretcher.

  "I'm all right, damn it,” complained Dean, knowing his heart was racing, knowing he could black out any moment, trying to remember something vital, something he must pass along to ... to whom? Dean felt the welcome of a shutdown of all his senses come over him and it was too inviting to say no to. He was faint one minute, and then everything went black.

  Dr. Benjamin Ian Hamel and his brother moved steadily down Interstate 4, Van wanting to go home, saying it was necessary, that there were important momentos they must p
ack if they must leave as Ian said they must.

  "Damn it, there'll be more cops there!"

  "How? How did they know, Ian?"

  "It's that bastard Grant. He put it together somehow.'

  "I thought all was safe after Park was killed. You said—"

  "I know what I said, damn it, but ... but Grant just wouldn't let it go."

  "He'll follow us ... like Park before him."

  "Maybe..."

  "He will,” said Ian emphatically. “He will ... unless we can stop him somehow, tonight."

  The police band was running and the chatter became of interest to Ian, who shushed Van. "Listen."

  "Repeating, officer down, location Mercy Hospital, another officer hurt."

  "Grant was in the back seat of that car,” said Ian.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I saw him."

  "Then he's back there at the hospital. We could sneak back, and if we could get—"

  "No, no, they're all looking for me. I'd be spotted in a moment, arrested ... and then..."

  "What then?"

  "We go home, like you said. If Grant's at Mercy, I've got a fair idea where Sid Corman is, and if we have Corman, Grant is sure to follow."

  "Ian, what about the baby, the new baby?"

  "It will have to wait! The whole city's looking for us."

  "I hate this Grant ... I hate him."

  "You'll get your chance at him."

  "Goody."

  "We've got to take his friend alive, Van."

  "Why alive?"

  "So Grant will do exactly as we say."

  Van looked across at Ian, the determination on his brother's features reassuring him. All these years Ian had taken care of him, helped him, made amends for eleven years of torture that he alone endured physically while Ian, upstairs in a comfortable bed, sleeping with the lights on, endured the mental anguish of Van's plight, since they were connected.

  In fact, they were so connected that Ian felt the creature's anguish and pain. Ian, even as an infant, knew—had always known—that he had a secret other self locked away, mistreated and detested by his mother and father. He saw images vague but real of his other self there in the dark basement. He knew that Van—as his parents spoke of the other in hushed tones—was denied even the barest of animal needs. He was Ian, and Ian was he, but they could not understand this. They set about a course of torture and abuse bent on allowing Ian's second self to die once they were told, and it was then that Van's consuming hatred of their parents consumed Ian as well until together they exploded in a killing rage.