Scalpers

They hugged one another more closely, each exhausted, fed, and needing rest and time. They must allow the Dark One to cultivate his crop, must allow His sway over their sleeping forms, their sleeping minds. And they must allow for time, an important ingredient in the magic, time to allow the Dark Way to bear fruit, or to fail again.

As they rested, the rejuvenating powers of the elixir, combining with the strength given them by their god, would carry them onward. Ian dreamed of babies in the womb, of children with downy, peach-fuzz hair like that on the earlobes of young girls. Yes, that thrown into the cauldron might work. He must suggest it, he thought, dreaming now, asleep, wondering if babies as yet unborn had dreams.

Ian fitfully groped in the dark for his scalpel, for looming over him was a large, beautiful head of hair, a scalp so enormous it blotted him out. He gasped and raised his scalpel to slash at it. But it was no use, for He was a dream ... it was all a dream now.

He knew he was sleeping, yet his mind raced with the new idea, the new hope that could so stir him that he felt his brother, too, was dreaming the same dream. Shared dream ... shared faith. They were of one mind, and perhaps should always have been of one body. Maybe ... just maybe, a child's hair, innocent and unblemished ... maybe this was called for? Maybe even the fetal down of an unborn child in the soup? It seemed worth a try.

They had brought the black woman's scalp, filled as it was with power and energy, to their lair, and like cavemen of eons past, they cured the scalp, fascinated at every step of the process, from boiling it to placing it over the drying fire and finally stretching it on the rack made from the same rings little children used for their embroidery.

Embroidery was what they were doing, an embroidery of a very special nature, an embroidery which paid homage to the dark gods that had for all these years sustained them as brothers, and the dark powers that had allowed little Van to survive the molestation of his very soul by those who had had a hand in bringing him into this world.

Ian thought long and often on that fact, that if his mother had not had Ian, she would not have had Van, either. They were inextricably linked from the womb, but was it a womb shared by a curse or a blessing? Once that pact was made, the only source of comfort and solace left open to Van, deep in the darkness of that cellar for all those years, was to turn to the dark powers flooding his genes. It was all that nourished his soul. For within the folds of his wrinkled and hairy skin, beneath the odor and ghastly face and twisted limbs, there was a human soul. Denied by God and circumstance and parents, he had turned to another god: Satan.

Ian had never known Satan in the way Van did. Ian gave Van a name for his benefactor, but Ian could never directly speak with the Dark Lord. Ian hadn't been handfed by the dark creatures that provided Van with sinew and muscle and the blood of rats to feed on. Over the years Satan had wrapped Van in layer upon layer of disease and disfigurement and hair ... lots of hair. He had grown into an apeman.

Ian had read about other human beings down through the ages that had hair the full length of their bodies, most becoming sideshow attractions at carnivals, but he had not known until Van explained it to him that his condition was loosed on him from hell, not to plague Van, but to begin to wreak immutable power in the world of flesh.

Once each and every demon from the underworld had been given birth through the body of the hairy dwarf, the world would see a new order of being created.

Van would act as a sort of Adam for the underworld. The legions fed hungrily on the DNA of fibrous hair from all ages, sexes, races, meaning to fulfill the dream of a god, the dream of Satan, a dream told Van when he was just a boy, before he had language or complete understanding of his reason for being.

The remote house and even the fireplace had been rebuilt to accommodate Van's needs. There were no neighbors to complain of odors rising from the chimney or to snoop about, and they had a swampy marsh for a backyard, to discard anything that might go rancid. The place was so featureless, the lot so abandoned, that no one ever visited. It was perfect for the work this Christmas season.

Dean said goodbye to Peggy Carson in the homicide division of police headquarters where Park and Dyer had readied a lineup for Peggy, a lineup of dwarfs none of which remotely resembled what she said she'd seen that night in the alley. One of the little men had hairy arms, but that was as close as they came to Peggy's description of the molesting midget.

Dean found Sid in his lab, working away. He had a scowl on his face, and Dean wondered if it were meant for him. Apparently Sid had put a stop to Hodges’ plans, but it was certain he remained suspect so far as Hodges and the D.A. were concerned.

'Where the hell have you been?” Sid was angry. “I could have used your help today.'

'You got the injunction, Sid, and you've managed to postpone the hanging, and you did it all on your own.'

'Thank God Karen was in her chambers.'

'So. Anything new?'

'We're running atomic tests on the hair strands, as you suggested, but tell me again why we should send part of our meager sample to Sybil in Chicago.'

'Backup, Sid, pure and simple. And good sense, especially now, with people questioning your work.'

'And what about people questioning my past, people poking into my life back in Akron?'

Dean dropped his gaze, trying to find words to explain. “Look, Sid, you haven't exactly been honest with me.'

'So where are we now, Dean? Even? Well, even stinks.'

Sid had undoubtedly heard from a friend in Akron that police in Chicago were running a check on his Akron past. “I had to know if there'd been any similar deaths in Ohio, Sid, when you were coroner.'

'Well, your bloodhounds found squat, my friend. I've never in my life worked on a corpse missing a scalp until now.'

'Good,” Dean said quietly. “Then maybe we can go on from here. No more lies between us, what do you say?'

Sid Corman's blue-gray eyes seemed solemn. Dean knew he wouldn't be forgiven soon, but he also felt justified in his background check on Sid. Even if Sid was a friend, Dean hadn't seen him in years.

'Are you staying on?” Sid asked tentatively.

'You know I will.'

'Then let's get to work.'

'You got it. You know, you weren't the only one I asked to have checked out.'

'Who else—Hodges?'

'Park and Dyer.'

'Really? Why them?'

'I don't know, but Park in particular has a disturbing way about him. He's a vet, too.'

'What's this vet shit? We're both vets ourselves.'

'I know, but he was in Vietnam.'

'And that makes him a killer?'

'Not at all ... but it conditions some men to murder.'

Sid nodded and suddenly cried out, “Oh, Lt. Park!'

Park was in the doorway and Dean had no idea how long he'd been standing there holding the door open, listening. “You could be right, Dr. Grant,” said Park, his steely eyes pinning Dean in place. “You ever hear the story of the scavengers over in Nam? Guys who scavenged the bodies of the dead—even their own—you know, for coin and cigarettes and gold teeth?'

'Can't say I have.'

'A lot of true tales of horror come out of Nam, gentlemen. Anyway, a couple of guys in my outfit told a chilling tale one night we were on patrol, a tale about finding some bodies on a battlefield scalped—scalped clean of their hair, just as if some crazed Indian had done it.'

Sid exchanged a look with Dean. “Could be our man,” suggested Dean.

Park took a long time answering, leaning against the doorjamb now, “Maybe ... maybe not. Maybe the guys in Nam are not the same guys here, maybe one's too short ever to have been in Nam. There are lots of maybes. And maybe the Nam story was bullshit I never saw it, the scalping. But stories went around, rumors that this guy had a