blood-taker, Matisak.
The case had become required reading at the FBI Academy, not only for the do's but for the don'ts. Dr. Coran had messed up royally, by what he'd heard. She'd gone after this guy Matisak on her own. She was lucky to be alive. Some army personnel guy that'd gone along with her hadn't been so fortunate.
Rychman wondered which was worse, Matisak, the blood-drinking vampire killer, or the Claw, who took delight in rending the flesh and feeding off parts of the body. He knew which man's victims suffered longer.
It was late and he was tired when he turned out the light and rolled over, his mind swimming with the next day's agenda, all the hundreds of administrative jobs that needed to be done to pull his task force properly together. One thing was lacking for certain, he told himself, and that was a sense of teamwork and camaraderie, something he must instill in all of the divergent cops from across the city who were working on the case. But how? They seemed at such odds with each other, little wonder it was taking them so long to pull together.
Ovid's house was beginning to smell like a hospital ward, what with all the disinfectant and formaldehyde. Ovid had put up whole organs in jars all around the house. He sometimes wondered what his mother would have made of his and the Claw's collection.
She most certainly would not approve; she'd be disgusted by the sight-and odor-of his things, and the idea he would consume them. She would order him to stop what he was doing, and she would fight the Claw and likely be killed by the Claw, if it came to that.
Sometimes Ovid awoke in the night to find the Claw standing over him, staring, as if considering the possibility of opening Ovid up, turning him into just another of his victims. Ovid was terrified of the Claw at times. He did what the Claw told him to do out of fear as much as any sense of loyalty or purpose, although he had tried desperately to understand the purpose of the Claw.
The Claw came and went from Ovid's place in the night. He often wanted one of the treasures they'd taken from their victims. Ovid had eyes put up like pickles, a pair of kidneys, a human heart, and the Claw wanted to add to their collection.
The Claw was like a spirit, the way he moved in and out of the shadows, disappearing into the night mist. It was almost as if he came with his own thick fog, the kind you heard about in England, as thick as soup, floating about him. His features were always cloaked and indistinct. Sometimes he just came for one of the jars, taking it off with him. Other times, like tonight, he ordered Ovid up and dressed. While Ovid was dressing, he disappeared, only to reappear again, telling Ovid he had a prize for him. Ovid went downstairs to the living room and found a rolled carpet in the center of the floor with a bloodied body inside.
“ What the hell's this? You can't bring one of your kills into my house. This is crazy!”
“ You're going to help me get rid of it, Ovid, now. But first, I want you to take a good look at the face.”
With that the Claw tore open the carpet, revealing the bloody, eyeless corpse. The body was that of an elderly, white-haired woman, and the Claw turned up the face so Ovid could see it clearly in the dim light.
“ Hold on, ohhh, no, ohhh no! You've gone too far this time, dammit, too far,” cried Ovid. “It's Mrs. Phillips. You killed Mrs. Phillips!”
“ A present for you, Ovid.”
“ What? A present?”
“ It's clear enough, Ovid. Or do I have to spell it out? You can't be so thick. I can kill anyone, including you, with this!” He held up his powerful claw and it glinted in the moonlight filtering in from outside.
Ovid got the message loud and clear: the Claw had killed all on his own, without Ovid's help. It was a demonstration of the fact the Claw did not need him, and that the Claw could easily implicate him to the authorities by destroying his neighbors! Mrs. Phillips was one of his goddamned neighbors!
He had angered the Claw the night before when he had shown him the poem he had written in the Claw's honor. Ovid had pleaded that he be allowed to send it to the Times. The Claw had said nothing, but in the depth of his silence, Ovid felt his hopes decrease while his fears increased. Then in a rage, the Claw had cried out that he wanted every scrap of the poem destroyed, calling Ovid a moron and an idiot, and his poem stupid. “Destroy it all!” he had shouted as he ripped apart the papers in his hands. “I want every draft, every copy burned, do you understand? And do not go out of this house until I return.”
Now he had returned but he was not alone. He had Mrs. Phillips with him. It was a clear indication that he could just as easily destroy Ovid as anyone, and that the Claw could carry on his work alone if need be.
The familiar leathery old face of Mrs. Phillips, who had been his mother's companion, and lately his own, made Ovid's stomach turn. She was eviscerated like the others, except there was more. Her skull was cracked open like a melon and her brain had been removed. Undoubtedly it had been consumed by the Claw's insatiable cannibalistic urges. Mrs. Phillips' grimacing face indicated her tortured death had been prolonged. The Claw had not been kind to her. She had lived a block over. They used to sit together on the same park bench feeding the pigeons and talking about his mother. Mrs. Phillips remembered her fondly.
The memory made Ovid shudder, a quaking panic rippling through him until suddenly the Claw grabbed him and shook him, tearing the flesh of his arm as he did so.
“ Put what's left of her in the car.”
He did as he was told, taking Mrs. Phillips' remains out to the little sedan that Leon Helfer used to get to work. Leon, not feeling as strong as Ovid, lifted both rug and old woman into his arms and stumbled out the back way, presumably the way that the Claw had entered with the body in tow. In the darkened garage, he popped the trunk, part of his mind questioning why it was that the Claw always insisted on using Leon's car, Leon's house and now one of Leon's neighbors as a victim! It was like waving a flag to tell everyone that he, Leon Helfer, was Ovid, the accomplice to the awful and deadly Claw. He wondered privately if he dared cut a deal with the authorities to save himself before it was too late, but he instantly feared the thought, because he believed that the Claw, if not distracted, could read his mind.
He stuffed the rug and body deep into the trunk, knowing it would be the devil to get it all out again. Suddenly the Claw said in his ear, “Now, go get some of those Hefty bags, Ovid, and let's go.”
Ovid saw that the Claw had already carried out two of the jars with organs of earlier victims swimming in the soup of the preservatives. “Where're we going?”
“ I have a little surprise for you.”
“ Another one?”
“ Even better. Hurry, do as I say… hurry.”
Leon Helfer was no longer there; it was just Ovid and the Claw. Ovid returned to Leon's house, found the bags and returned, sliding into the car alongside the dark shadow of the Claw.
“ Where're we going?”
“ Hunting.”
“ But we've… I mean, you've already got the old woman tonight.”
“ And now I want a young one! Just drive! Will you?”
“ Which way?”
“ We're going to Scarsdale.”
“ Scarsdale?”
“ A lovely name when you think of it… scars… dale, Scarsdale. Where better to scar someone?” The Claw's laughter filled the dark car, and Mrs. Phillips' body thumped behind them with each bump in the alleyway as they ventured forth for Scarsdale.
“ What're we going to do with the old woman's body?”
“ We'll find a suitable use for it, dear Ovid.”
And they did, later.
Ovid, home again, thought of the awful chance he had taken, the terrible fear welling up inside him, threatening to crush him. If the Claw should find out-and he would, he must. He found out everything. So why did Ovid do such a foolish thing?
They had driven to Scarsdale as the Claw had ordered. The Claw seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go. They pulled into a secreted backyard, where the Claw ordered Ovid to take Mrs. Phillips' body from the trunk, rug and all, and to follow him around to the front and up the steps to the door. The Claw rang the bell as if on a normal visit. A young, dark-haired woman answered, and while she was no great beauty, she excited Ovid's interest. She was the picture of surprise on seeing the Claw. The Claw, whom she seemed to know, grabbed the rug Mrs. Phillips was wrapped in and said, “Here is that Oriental rug I promised you, Catherine.”
