Scalpers

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 pack 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.

Now a man named Grant was trying to hurt Van, and Ian wouldn't allow it, not ever.

Sid Corman knew why he was left with the results of the Scalpers’ work here in the den of perversion, surrounded by wall hangings of human hair, furniture covered in human skin, bedding stuffed with scalps. He knew now why Dean had to leave the cleanup to him. This was far worse than any floater case, far worse than anything in Sid's experience. The sour odors he could manage, and the sight of the walls and furniture he could stomach. Sid had never in all his entire professional life as a coroner felt so sickened as he did now. Never in all his time as a medic in Korea had he been made ill by the sight of a corpse with missing head, limbs, gaping holes. Nor had there ever been a diseased corpse that he could not deal with professionally, coolly, objectively. Not even a floater could cause Sid's strings to come apart. But this ... this diced-up floater was wholly different from anything he'd ever witnessed. This carnage and boiling of portions of Mrs. Jimenez and her fetus to feed the perversions of two distorted minds, this was more than any man should have to bear.

After some time in the hidden room, taking photos, collecting the necessary evidence, putting off the inevitable, Sid scooped out the remains still intact. He tried not to allow it, but jarring the mush got to him, and he threw up repeatedly on the hearth below the black cauldron, which remained scaldingly hot, the steam rising with the smoke of embers still red.

"You okay, Dr. Corman?” asked Mark Williams, Peggy Carson's partner, who along with Staubb had remained behind. The kid had rushed to the kitchen, found a cup, and brought Sid some water.

"Thanks, Williams."

Staubb was outside, preferring it that way. With a few other officers he'd called in, he was beating about the bushes, just in case the murderous little dwarf was out there somewhere watching the proceedings. Staubb, Sid had decided, had become spooked considerably, but Sid could understand why. Williams, normally a happy-go-lucky, bright-eyed kid, was currently somber, his face green, his eyes forlorn.

"I'm fine now ... I'll be okay,” replied Sid.

"Ain't nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed,” said Sid, taking a syringe and sucking up the residue left in a deep brown soup bowl on the little table. He then took forceps and lifted the bowl itself into a plastic bag.

"Why ... don't you take these bags carefully out to your squad car and ... put ‘em in the trunk,” said Sid, handing Williams some of the items he'd chosen to take downtown. Both men knew Sid was fighting down bile.

"Sure, sure ... no problem.” Williams rushed to it, knowing Sid wanted to be alone with his stomach. Williams plowed through the wooden-floored house noisily.

Sid controlled it, got hold of it, fought it back just long enough to allow Williams to return as he lost it again at the hearth, where now he was on his knees and bent over, pushing the vomit into the embers with a fireplace shovel.

Williams continued to make Sid uneasy. “Enough here to drive any man to his knees, turn you to religion,” muttered Williams. “My mother always says you got to have religion in your life to ... to fend off the bad times, she says, the real bad times ... calamities, but I don't reckon she meant anything like this, but she does worry ‘bout me all the time, being a cop.” The kid was going on out of nervous hysteria, Sid realized. He'd seen it before.

"Why don't you go on outside with Staubb, huh?"

"Sir?"

"Staubb may need your help outside."

"Yes sir, I'll check on that."

Williams was only too glad to return to the outdoors. Fifteen minutes later Staubb turned up, informing Sid that the woods around the house had been secured, and that nothing was found. He had his units returning to their normal duties.

Sid said a thank-you, but kept working.

"Me and the kid will be just outside. Give a holler if there's anything you need."

Sid got ahold of himself now and returned to the necessary work. He wanted to nail Benjamin I. Hamel to a cross, really crucify the bastard with every nail of evidence he could compile now, nail both him and his sick little accomplice.

Sid allowed his anger and hatred for what they had done to flood his mind. He would work better, faster, and more efficiently if he could hold that thought over those that made his stomach turn. “Going to nail the scum,” he repeated to himself in a kind of mantra as he completed his part in this nightmare.

Sgt. Joe Staubb, and Peggy's partner, Mark Williams, were having a smoke, even though Williams didn't smoke. Each man, the one in his second year and the other an old veteran of policing, had a case of shot nerves from what they'd seen deep inside the house. It dredged up in Staubb an old, forgotten line out of a poem or something he'd read somewhere, something to do with how when a man stared into the unknown, he could count on it staring back. Yeah, that was it, and he shared the thought with Williams, but Williams hadn't seen as much as Staubb—he'd remained away from that cauldron. All he'd seen was what was half-hidden by Sid Corman's broad shoulders. All the kid knew was that the coroner himself was losing it inside, and that told him to keep a safe distance if he wanted to “maintain."

Staubb, trying desperately to find something to laugh about, pointed to the brown-and-gold sign out front of the house and lightly chuckled, saying, “This place puts a whole new meaning to those real estate ads, don't it, Williams?"

Williams chewed on the inside of his mouth, tossed down the cigarette only half-burned, crushed it out, and said, “Over two million sold..."

Staubb smiled and added, “We're the neighborhood professionals."

Williams laughed, and Staubb, caught up in the macabre humor, now laughed with him, giving him a whack on the back.

Williams and Staubb felt a surge of manliness return to them, Staubb feeling it to his core, when each heard one of the radio units crackling to life out in the dark ahead of them.

"Yours or mine?” asked Williams.

"Yours."

"Be right back."

"Right"

Staubb knew from the little time he'd spent with young Williams that the kid would make a better-than-good cop if he stuck with it long enough. Most cops got out of it long before they gave themselves a real chance to gain a true understanding of police work. That it was, after all, public service work, seldom as glamorous as Hollywood portrayed it, or as gory and horrifying as tonight.

Staubb saw the lights in Williams’ unit come on as the kid settled in behind the wheel and snatched up the radio. Something seemed to agitate the kid, his relaxed posture going stiff, his free hand going to his face, rubbing it all about, as if concerned he'd forgotten to shave.

"Something up?” Staubb called to him as he neared the unit.

Williams stuck his head out through the open door. “Code 10 at Mercy Hospital ... just caught the tail end of it ... some kind of shootout."

Code 10 was the area call for “officer down.” Staubb's normally blustery face showed his concern. “You think it's a coincidence?"

"I don't know."

"Could be Dyer. See if you can get more info out of Dispatch, kid."

"Yes, sir."

But getting through was impossible. It was as if all hell had broken loose. The squawk box was filled with chatter of Chief Hodges having called an all-units in sector six—the Mercy Hospital area—to converge on the scene. A suspect in a double cop-killing had taken a unit numbered 11, shot and killed Frank Dyer, and was presumeably making an escape.

Airport, train, and bus terminals were being covered; highways leading in and out of the area were sealed off. But there was no information on Peggy or Dr. Grant.

Williams got out of the unit and walked back to the porch with Staubb, asking him what they ought to do now.

"Right now we wait for Dr. Corman to finish up his work inside. He's taking photos now, and then you're out of here. I'll call a couple of my men back here to housesit for the night."

"But maybe—"

"They wouldn't be stupid enough to come back here, not now,” said Staubb. “And if they do"—he patted his .38 Smith and Wesson—"we'll get ‘em. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Williams? Blow their heads off? Give you some satisfaction after all this shit. Now keep trying to get more information. I'll let Corman know what's up. Williams watched Staubb go back inside the house and he turned to the dark, facing the unit where he'd left the front door ajar. It was the only light for miles.

Williams felt a sensation akin to fear, a feeling of foreboding, a sincere and sickly notion that he was never going to see any other light in his life again, that this night was never going to end, that he and Staubb and all the others were somehow stopped in time—out of time—trapped in a ghoulish zone where cops and killers cohabited, feeding off one another for a thrill and a kick....

Silly, you're just being silly, he told himself. He returned to the unit, pleased to stand in the glow of the light in the cab. The surrounding darkness was like a wall creeping in at him. He shuddered involuntarily, and this made him clench his teeth in anger. He was angry at the men who could put such fear into him, angry at himself for allowing it. Staubb was right, it'd be so gratifying to put a bullet through the sons of bitches....

But for now, he'd better get back on the horn, find out what was going on; for now he needed to sit down under the light and feel safe again for a moment, gather up his nerve again, steady himself.

Get on inside, he said with a final look into the dark all around, thinking he'd heard some movement in the palmetto leaves on the other side of the unit. Wind ... rabbit ... armadillo, maybe, the woods in Florida were full of the things. Get into the unit and onto the box, he told himself again.

Williams did so, slipping into his front seat, leaving the door ajar, the light on in the cab. He picked up the receiver and was about to speak into it when suddenly he was grabbed around the neck and he felt something cold and whiplike slide easily across his neck, followed by a sudden, wet and warm rush over his Adam's apple. Suddenly he realized his throat had been cut.

His eyes saw something dark and hairy on his shoulders, humped over the seat, with enormous eyes and a slavering grin beneath an apelike jaw. Feeling fainter by the second, Williams ripped at his holstered gun only to find this idea hopelessly beyond him. He was unable to unlatch the snap, and even if he could, the weakness pouring into his limbs told him he'd be unable to lift the heavy pistol even if he could work his fingers round it. With his eyes now trained straight ahead on the unsuspecting Staubb, whose eyes were on the house, Williams tried desperately to put his weight against the horn, to warn Staubb, and that was his final thought, the world going completely dark as his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Williams’ body flinched and fell forward, hit the horn and made it blare, making Staubb jump and wheel, his gun in his hand. He called out to Williams again and again, seeing him under the light of the squad car, slumped over the wheel. Then the horn stopped and the kid's body melted from the car and lay on the ground, his neck crimson with blood.

Staubb's heart skipped a beat. Whoever got Williams was in the squad car, probably in the back seat. Staubb inched closer, his revolver trained on the back windows, his eyes trying desperately to see his enemy. “Come outa there, now! Hands up!” he cried.

But all was still. Staubb wheeled at the sound of a thrush that whizzed past and into the brush. He looked all about him, then trained his eyes on the car once more. As he got closer, he began to believe that it was empty, that whoever had slit Williams’ throat was gone. He whipped open the car door and saw the black-brown creature deep on the floorboard, an odd sound coming from it. Staubb realized it was the dwarf, and that he'd been here all along, watching the house, watching them, and waiting for a chance like this. Staubb cocked his weapon, wanting nothing more than to blow the bastard out of this world. He could do it without remorse after what he'd seen, and now Williams lay at his feet.

But the shot went astray with the sudden plunge of an enormous knife into Staubb's back, directly between the shoulder blades. Staubb's body slammed into the car. The big man thrashed about and put distance between himself and his attacker, but his gun had been lost, dropped with the nerve spasm sent through him with the blade that still protruded from his back. He looked into the eyes of a well-dressed, clean-shaven, handsome man his own height. His mind registered the fact it was Hamel. Staubb lunged at the man, his large hands wrapping about his neck, squeezing, turning into a vise. Hamel was going to die with him, Staubb told himself, determined to make it so. Somewhere behind and overhead, Staubb half-heard the screams and cries of the dwarf, who leaped from the top of the squad car onto Staubb's back, driving home yet another knife into the big policeman, this one going through his neck.

Staubb fell over the top of Hamel, holding onto the killer's throat as if it meant holding onto life. The breath stolen from Hamel was the breath that kept him going. But the bastard dwarf plunged his knife in and out again, twisting it until Staubb had nothing left to give. All his major arteries to and from the heart had been severed. Staubb died bloody atop Hamel, who was now gasping for air, the dwarf working to push the large body from his brother until he was free of the dead man.

Hamel choked and gasped and rubbed his neck as if to revive the bruised tissue on the outside with a laying-on of hands. The dwarf looked over the contusions with much attention and anguish, repeatedly asking Ian if he were all right.

Hamel staggered to his feet, saying, “We've got to take the other one, Corman—alive."

"Yes, I know ... and there he is."

Corman stood on the porch, having come out to see what the shot was all about. He stood there like a statue, his features in deep shadow. “Do you think he's armed?” asked the dwarf.

"Only one way to find out.” Ian stepped toward Sid Corman, who suddenly raced into the house and tried desperately to bolt the door and seal the house from entry.

"Remember the plan,” Ian said as they closed in on the house they knew so well, going for the root cellar stairs, which would lead up into the kitchen cupboard.

"I remember ... but if he doesn't cooperate, it's sssssssss!” He made a throat-cutting gesture. “Then we'll take his hair."

"We've got to make the plan work! If we fail, they will destroy your power, strip you of the hair, dissolve the dark energies."

He looked into Ian's eyes, deeply and long, shaking his head. “No, no, we cannot allow it. Do what you must, Ian, to stop them."

"Follow my plan to the letter. We must take Corman alive. He must stand trial as the Scalper."

He laughed raucously as they approached the cellar and lifted it, Ian begging for silence. “We must take him by surprise."

"Then we get Grant?"

"Then we get Grant."

Together the brothers went into the black hole in the earth. Quietly they made their way to the rickety old stairs and ascended cautiously, Ian in the lead.

Ian was getting more and more pushy ... more and more uppity, Van thought. When this was over, after they had found a new home place, he would teach Ian a good lesson, remind him who was who and what was what.

But for now, Ian was right. For the moment these two cursed doctors had to be shown what was what....