'But you knew I'd see the errors, and that I'd honestly say so.'
'That I did, and I also know you'll help me put this killer behind bars. And
Dean wondered about the last remark. Sid had spent a lifetime amassing a reputation, and no one spoke more fondly of his position than he did, Dean wondered just how far Sid was using him to repair the damage already done to his career. He likewise wondered how much Sid truly cared about the victims and potential victims he sought to help.
Such considerations aside, Dean was as anxious to see and speak with the sole survivor of the Scalper himself. A part of him was as calculating as Sid, certainly as curious and fascinated by the bizarre goings-on, about the psyche of such a perverse creature. A part of him wanted to do what he did best, and that was to put bad men behind bars.
'So many damned errors,” Ian moaned.
The dwarf snorted and blew his nose.
'She was ripe for the taking, if it hadn't been for—'
'I suppose you think it's my fault.'
'Did I say that?'
'Don't have to,” he replied from down around Ian's knees.
Having driven completely across town, they'd parked a few feet away and were now combing the downtown Lake Conway Park area for any chance encounter with fresh prey. It was way too late to go cruising singles bars, and Van didn't really want to sit in the car waiting. There was not much chance of a good evening.
'I'll tell you when to worry,” Van said in his distinct, gravelly voice. “You know what they say—worry only stresses you out, big brother.” Van was the name their parents had given him. It was the only thing they'd given Van. Their parents had no idea of the importance of their son, the power he would someday wield. Only Ian saw and understood the potential of the hairy little man born to them.
Superhuman, Van spoke directly to the forces behind life and death, light and darkness. He had friends in low places, indeed.
For most of his young life, Ian had watched the cruelty heaped upon Van by their parents; yet those years had been his brother's apprenticeship, when he had learned the dark and powerful crafts which gave strength and vigor to them both now, nourishing them far more than any parent might.
Early on Van was fond of pointing to his misshapen self, laughing, and with a wicked voice, saying, “Here but for the grace of Satan go I-an!'
Strangely, Van had garnered about him such force of character and strength that it often frightened Ian. He was ugly, yes—and deformed beyond anything normal—but his mind was quick; so quick, in fact that he spoke to the powers that kept him alive and nourished his existence in that stinking hole where they'd placed him, hiding him from the world, from themselves, keeping him chained like an animal. Perhaps Ian's parents had unknowingly played a part in his development for a greater reason which none could fathom. The gods work in mysterious ways....
'What do we do now? You're so smart,” said Ian.
Van shushed him, his attention on a park bench where someone appeared to be reclining. “All things come to those who wait.” Van's whisper was raspy.
'Yes, yes,” agreed Ian.
'Yes, yes,” repeated Van. “She's sleeping.'
'Soft-looking, much younger.'
'Black scalp's all we need to know.'
They'd been charged to locate and return with a black scalp from a female. Van had gotten the word. “This time, no mistakes,” said Van. “Wait until I'm in place in the tree.'
Ian, dressed in casual knit shirt and pants, eased toward their prey. He was tall and ruggedly handsome. He worked out at the gym, ran in this very park every morning, and played racquetball with co-workers by day. He made good money, plenty to pour into clothes for them both. Little brother's clothes, in fact, were custom-made, since he preferred a Dickensian appearance. While his clothes were of the best cloth and quality, sometimes Ian thought the style raggedy and antique-looking. But it was what Van was told to wear by them, the ones who spoke only to him. The only other clothes he ever wore were his robes, when summoning the powers to his side.
Ian realized the bulky clothes little brother wore also hid his malformed limbs, arthritic and emaciated, the club foot and tightly balled hands, not to mention his hairiness. He was covered with more hair than other men grew in a lifetime. He was born with hair all over him.
A cowl hood hid the fact that one eye was drooped and perched on the misshapen cheek, and that one ear was gone, bitten and shriveled from rat attacks when he was a mere child. The hood also hid his facial hair. Ian had read of diseases that caused unusual hair growth covering the entire body. His brother was as furry as a baboon, save for his bald head, where the skin shown in folds, was layered like that of a Shar-Pei dog.
Van was in position.
Ian stepped closer to the reclining girl, a runaway, by the looks of her, her large, oversized woman's handbag stuffed to bursting with her few possessions. Ian saw that she was indeed black. He felt reassured. They would have their black scalp after all, along with other choice selections. Already the thrill of the red hair now hanging on their wall was gone, cooled like sexual excitement after a climax.
Ian thought of all the countless scalps he had taken from people to appease Van and his insatiable gods; it was not dementia driving them, but an honest-to-God demon, an army of them, in fact, a legion bent on living out their hatred of mankind through Van. Ian had been told what to do by Van so as to prove himself worthy of the respect of the gods, who one day would speak to Ian, too. Van could make it happen with enough scalps.
Scalp-taking was pleasurable, besides. Van had always been right. In fact, it was what had gotten Ian through those awful years of separation from Van during the war, for always brother Van was close at hand, telling him what to do next: what to eat, when to get up, when to go to sleep, where to go, what to study, where to hunt, why they hunted, why they took the hair sometimes, the scalps of others. He knew so much, and Ian did, after all, owe him everything and could never repay him, not after saving him from a life of unimportance and boredom.
For the first eleven years of his life, Ian was kept away from Van, Van locked in a cellar below the house, deep in the remote woods where no one but the family knew. He was described as a demon, an evil and hideous monster, by Ian's parents, and Ian was beaten whenever he dared go near the sounds coming from below the house. But Ian managed to sneak down at times, and while shaking fearfully, he smuggled into his “retarded” little brother magazines and a special treat whenever possible. Ian felt the cruelty shown his brother as if it were shown to him; he felt the pangs and torture, and sometimes he was so carried away with empathy for Van that they seemed, the two of them, of one mind.
Deep within the ugly folds of Van's face, the eyes shone back at Ian and they were
The girl on the bench saw Ian standing over her and she suddenly sat upright, realizing her situation. “Whatcha want, Mister? A little fun? You got any money, ‘cause it'll costs you plenty.'
'Sure, sweet thing,” Ian said, pulling out a wad of bills. “How much do you think you're worth?'
'Go all night with you for...” she considered the wad of money ... “a hundred dollars.'
'A hundred? Come on, you're just a kid.'
'Some people like kids.'
Ian tried to remain calm. He knew the transaction of words and coin was necessary to get her from point A to point B. If she got skittish for any reason, things could go badly, and they'd had enough of that tonight “All right ... how about fifty.'
'Sixty-five.'
'Sixty.'
She looked at him as if she hadn't seen him before. “You're going to bust me, ain't you? You're a cop, ain't you?'
'Hell no, honey.” He tried to soothe her suspicion, but a look of panic flitted across her brow. She was pretty, her skin smooth. Too much deep red on her lips and the layers of three pairs of earrings gave the appearance of a Zulu girl, but the scalp, that above all was a beauty.
She began to move off and he cursed aloud. “Damn it, I just want a fast fix, honey, in the bushes over there. How about it? Sixty-five then ... sixty-five.” He pushed the cash at her.
