Scalpers

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.

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.