Scalpers

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