Scalpers

Debbie, it would only serve to get in his way, erode his concentration, taking with it all that rooted him to stand firm before this perverse picture of serenity.

The red-carpet treatment Sid had promised was red all right; red with murder and gore, and now suspicion. Who was on trial here, Sid, the two detectives? It didn't seem that Hodges was after Hamel—rather that these two men had worked out the game plan.

Dean had thought the reports he'd read on the plane most satisfactory; perhaps a bit brusque, given the situation of scalping, an oddity beyond words, yet Sid hadn't left anything out, had he? Or was it Park and Dyer who were getting a shellacking? Odd, how they did things in Orlando. But Dean's sudden involvement was all Sid's doing, and the damned fool hadn't been straight with him. Maybe he was hiding some secret or vital piece of information ... but why?

'We had all agreed, doctor,” began Hamel, a smile creasing his handsome, well-tanned face, “to allow you to do your own work in this case. Then we would tell you if Dr. Corman here had or had not overlooked evidence of a vital nature.'

Dean wondered if it were the paint the killer used. Then he wondered if it were a thousand other things Sid could have honestly overlooked. The situation was fraught with bad consequences.

'We will leave you to your work now, Dr. Grant,” said Hodges.

'Dr. Corman will assist you,” said Hamel, almost as an afterthought. “Perhaps he might learn something?'

The dig was not lost on Dean. He wondered for how long Sid and Hamel had been at each other's throats. Dean gave Sid a shake of the head as the others filed out. But true to their word, they didn't go far. In shifts, for the next twenty-four hours, one and sometimes two of them were staring from overhead like vultures as Dean worked. Vultures in search of what type of carion—incompetence, neglect, stupidity, or a simple cover-up?

TWO

NIGHTFALL

The direction she'd taken was not good, as it drove her deeper into the dark between the low-lying apartment buildings on Orlando's west side. Crime was high here, and Officer Peggy Carson knew the dangers that lurked in every shadow. But she had requested undercover work here because it was not unlike the frightful neighborhood she had grown up in as a child. If anything, she joined the police force to do what she might to counter the terrible loss of life and children in such squalor as this. Tonight, she had a tip on a drug dealer, whose apartment she'd had in her sights when from out of nowhere came a strange, shadowy figure that moved ghostlike through the back alleys of the sordid neighborhood. What struck her the most was the fact that the man looked, in the changing light of the street lamp, like he was white. In a black neighborhood of Orlando at this hour, that usually meant one thing.

Could he be the big bust she really wanted?

Peggy shored up her courage and tried to follow the elusive shape that flitted in and out of her vision, until she stood not knowing which way he had disappeared. Beside her the trash cans stood silent and smelly. Behind her was a wooden garage, nearly falling in with dry rot and age. To her left was the long tunnel of the alleyway, silent and gaping, like an enormous mouth. If she walked its length, she could be jumped from any direction. She could be raped—or murdered.

She really didn't want to do it. But she had no choice.

Bolstering her nerve, convinced that this was the only direction in which the suspect could have continued, she snatched out her service revolver and proceeded. This was the major problem with undercover work: she'd long since left the area she and her partner were supposed to be working, and they were not wired. She was effectively shut off, alone.

Rumor had it the last of the Scalper's victims, the redhead, had also been a policewoman, and she now guessed that the rumor was very likely true. If it could happen to a fellow officer, then why not her? Hell of a way to go, she thought, chilled by the recollection of the news accounts and insider descriptions detailed by insidious people like Mitch Tobin. Tobin was a macho cop with a redneck philosophy that said if you puked, you weren't good cop material. She hated the guy.

Now Raft, there was a good cop. Her partner, Mickey Raftlin, was called the Raft for his calm, easygoing ways. A no-nonsense guy, with no time for it from others, Raft just kind of floated to his own drummer. He was cool in his priest's outfit, with dark features, his mustache dangling to his chin on either side, and he made people believe in the Word if he had to take them down. He had the priest routine down great, and Peggy had learned a lot from her partner, but she knew she had plenty more to learn.

A rattle up ahead, slight but distinct, told her someone was there in the deep shadow, watching. It had to be her man, but she'd blown it. He was waiting to jump her, knowing he'd been followed. No way was he going to make a drop. She could only hope he was stupid or brash enough to have the stuff still on him.

'Okay, I got you locked on target, man!” she said firmly, a tinge of anger making the words bite. “Get your ass one step over here, now!'

From out of the shadow stepped a strange creature. A small boy? Gnome? Dwarf? Fat, grimy little hands balled into fists and raised overhead, pleading with an animal squeal of fear.

'What the hell,” she said more to herself than to anyone else. It was as if the tall man had transformed into something misshapen and ugly. Then she saw something in the little man's eye, a look that replaced the fear, and the eyes smiled wide with the gnome's grin. He was wearing a fanciful outfit, something out of Dickens’ England. “We've got you now,” squeaked the mousy little man just before she felt the powerful arms surround and engulf her.

She held fast to her revolver, held on for her life, squeezing the trigger. One shot was followed by another until her gun was empty and she lay half-unconscious, her face against the pavement, her forehead bleeding profusely. She felt her life waning, slowly running out to mix with the early afternoon rain. She felt detached, apart from her body, and she knew she was either going to vomit now or black out, and she wondered what Tobin would make of her death. He'd probably have something thoughtful to say to the squad room on that score, something about women shouldn't be in undercover work except in bed....

She thought, but could not be certain, that she heard people running. Running toward her or away, she didn't know. She distinctly heard people's voices, one man slapping his wife and telling her they weren't getting involved. Doors slammed. Lights went off. Then she blacked out, believing herself at the mercy of a knife-wielding midget and his powerful partner.

Two rejects from Barnum's, she wondered just before everything went black.

In her unconscious state, her mind replayed the night over eternally, and some portion of her brain became a chamber of horror, a hell in which the attack took place over and over in a continual, unending tragedy of events. She following him, stepping into his trap, calling out to a large, tall, dark-clad figure that had knowingly lured her here. In her nightmare, he took her flesh and scalp with ruthless and pleasing glee time and time again. In her nightmare, no one could help her. No one knew where she was and no one heard the shots, and those who did chose to ignore them ... all but the dwarf, who perched himself at the base of her neck and held her down for the knife-wielder to do his deadly work.

He hadn't seen the gun in her hand, so the gunshots came as a deafening and fearful surprise. Still, he had held onto her ferociously as she fought. Her gun empty, the other joined him and helped subdue her long enough for him to slash her across the forehead, but it was no good. The shots had people and sirens coming from all directions. They must disappear immediately, to leave their quarry until another time, perhaps.

He didn't even see the bloody gun until he'd grabbed hold of her. Then it was like having an angry mongoose by the tail. She spit and bit and squealed. Vile language spewed from her. And the little shit wasn't much better. He freaked, the gunblasts sending him clear down the alley. They were out of control and nothing had been accomplished.

He had held onto the woman for as long as possible. His blows to the back of the head had subdued her considerably, but the noise had been too much.

'Hold onto her, hold on,” he kept squealing, piglike. “I want that black scalp.'

'You shittin’ take it then,” he burst out, angry and upset.