Tonight, his head aching, every muscle strained to the limit, Dr. Benjamin Ian Hamel raised his cognac glass to his lips and sipped. In the sparsely furnished old house, he'd rented for several years now, the cognac was one of the few pleasantries he indulged in, save that which he lived for, his little brother and those powerful forces guiding him, those that had brought Van back to life and given him, along with his hair-covered body, incredible strength and sense of purpose ... all the things lacking in Ian himself.
'Dr. Benjamin Ian Hamel,” he said to his dusky reflection in a mirror in the dimly lit room where he paced. “Not a killer, really, not in the usual sense of the word,” he told himself. It was for a higher purpose,
But the doctor was getting impatient. He wanted to pick up something and throw it through a window. Van was an ungrateful little bastard, after all. All this time alone in there, with the results of
Each time Ian had so much as nudged the door silently open to have a peek, Van gave out with a banshee howl, that wretched, horrendous sizzle following it, like an enormous viper were circling about the dark room.
But the time Van was taking wasn't good. It didn't bode well. It had never taken this much time before ... never. Of course, he was giddy at having the long-trailing scalp, caressing it, coddling it to his hairy self, and they had never tried this sort of magic before. It was a hunt of a new and different kind, and it made Ian wonder if early men, like bears, did not, on occasion, eat their young.
Ian had begun to think Van's new broth just another failure, which meant Ian must procure yet another scalping victim, unless the dark beings could think of some more atrocious sacrifice they must make to become worthy subjects. Ian still believed an innocent child's scalp a good idea.
Ian went to the panel at the back wall of the closet and gave a tentative push that caused a squealing creak. He wanted just to peek inside, but this was impossible without giving himself away to Van. But this time there was no angry squeal or growl of disgust, only a soft, melodic voice saving, “Brother, enter ... enter....'
He sounded and looked exhausted, sweat glistening on his few bare patches, including his scalp. Beside him on the floor was a lump of fetal flesh cut from the dead woman. He had a large, bubbling pot over the fire and an empty bowl on his small table, but Ian could see that mostly he had just lain with it, covering his rotund bald spot, blubbering, begging the process to work, both of them feeling it might be their last chance.
'Have you eaten enough?” Ian asked.
'Four bowls full should be enough!'
'More, then!'
'No, it's no longer fresh ... the hair's power has left it. It's like someone somewhere has put a counter-spell on it, Ian.” The dwarf was crying. “Ian, Ian?'
'Yes?” Ian's heart bled for the little man.
'I ... help me ... help find another.'
'We will ... we will.” Ian could not, dared not say no. What might happen if it came to that? Would Van destroy Ian, stew up his flesh and hair for mustard plasters to lay across his cranium?
'Take me to the place where babies are ... I want another baby ... a live one this time.'
Ian recalled the same plea made a hundred times over, except now the watchword was “baby.” “All right ... all right.'
Van dressed in his cloak and sandals, going through the secret closet door that effectively hid his small and comforting little room from the rest of the house and the world. They passed into the kitchen. He found a stool and opened a cabinet where some seven knives hung on hooks. He spent awhile selecting just the right one for this night's work, then he took some time to decide on a second dagger, an ancient scimitar, this one ... very special, as it belonged in his father's collection in Montana.
'What's taking so long in here?” asked Ian, coming back into the kitchen, dressed in his clean knit shirt and sweater and fine, plaid dress slacks, ready to make the trip to Mercy Hospital for another go-round.
Van was ever so eager for it all.
FOURTEEN
Outside Hamel's house, in the dark, pulled off the road, Dean, Dyer, Peggy, and her partner sat in waiting along with Sgt. Staubb. They still had no warrant, and seeing the lights and movement about the house, they stayed well back. Locating the place was no easy task. Staubb had had to find an old mail-delivery man who knew of the cabin at the end of this dirt road to which even the U.S. Mail did not go, since it was too far off the beaten path. This was the house that belonged to the box number at the post office where Hamel picked up what little mail he got. According to the single postal employee at the country post office, there was very little mail, in any case.
Hamel's house was surrounded by forest, and it backed against the publicly held Wekiva preserve, which had, at least as far as Dean could tell, been left to return to its natural state. Palmetto bush lined every exit, and moss- covered trees created a canopy over the back road.
'Are we just going to sit here?” It was Peggy's voice coming over the radio to Dyer and Dean. “I say we get in close, and see what we're looking at.'
Staubb came on over his box, clearly in charge here. It was his area, his play. “We might get our units out of sight,” he suggested. “I mean, if we're spotted too soon, before that warrant gets here ... evidence you're seeking could be destroyed in the meantime.'
'What do you suggest?” asked Dean, sending his own message.
'There was a little section six or ten yards behind us where I think the units ought to back off the road.'
'He's right, Dr. Grant,” said Dyer. “If Hamel decides suddenly to come out, and if he spots us...'
'Let's do it.'
'Where's Sid Corman?” asked Peggy in exasperation.
Dean was wondering the same thing. Quietly, the motors kept to a mild hum, the headlights out, all three units backed toward the space off the dirt road Staubb led them to. Waiting while the killers were within their grasp was like restraining the vengeance of God, Dean thought, so hard for mortals like him and Dyer and Peggy, in particular.
In place now, they sat in the dark, listening to crickets and cidadas and for the sound of an approaching vehicle that might be Sid.
'Heads up! Something happening at the house!” said Peggy's young partner, Mark Williams.
Dyer snatched a pair of binoculars. Squinting, he tried desperately to see what was going on. “See anything?” asked Dean. Lights had gone out at the house.
'No dwarfs, if that's what you mean ... but that's Hamel, and he's going to the garage.'
The garage was a shack, and now Dean heard the doors being opened. “Can I have a look?'
Dean peered through the binoculars through the pane in front of him, finding it difficult to focus, but once he did, he saw that Hamel had pulled the doors wide to reveal a Mercedes behind them. He read off the first three numbers on the plates before it backed from his view and tore out of the yard and straight down the road toward them. Dean imagined Hamel could see them all as they stared at him from their poor hiding place; but no, he sped by, giving them no notice whatever. Dean saw no sign of a dwarf on the seat beside Hamel. It was too damned dark.
'God, they're going after another victim,” said Dean.
Dyer got on the horn and put out a a coded APB on the car, giving the first three numbers of the plates. It would be picked up and shadowed at the very least, he assured Dean.
'What do we do?” asked Peggy over the radio, “Just let him go?'
'I'll put a man on him,” said Staubb. “He won't get lost.'
'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?'
