"They were Sid's."
"Honest mistake,” said Sid.
Hodges bit off the end of a cigar, spat the nub into a trash container, and slowly lit up before responding. “Sid, I think you've got a right to know this. The D.A.'s over at your lab right now, confiscating everything that has the remotest bearing on this case, and soon—very soon, my friend—you will be indicted on charges of negligence, if not outright fraud."
"That's nonsense!” shouted Dean. “What proof do you have that Sid Corman is capable of—"
"Where were you between the hours of three and four this morning, Dr. Corman?” asked Hodges.
"Christ, I was home, in bed with my wife."
"That's not what your wife tells us."
"You bastard."
"Maybe,” replied Hodges, “but a bastard that will see you hang,"
Dyer left without a glance at Sid or Dean. Sid looked into Dean's eyes. “I swear, Dean, this is a set-up. It's got to be."
"I know that ... I know."
"You believe me, don't, you?"
"Yes, I do.” But Dean thought of his call to Sybil and the favor he'd asked of Carl Prather—to check on Sid's last place of employment in Dayton, Ohio, to determine if any similar deaths had occurred in the area at any time since the Korean War.
The idea that Sid could possibly have had anything to do with murder of such a hideous nature didn't sit well with Dean, yet there had been repeated incidents of failure on his part to uncover the killer. There had been the scissors, and the fact that the killer was using a scalpel, the tool of a professional man. Still, it was all quite circumstantial, and until Dean could match the hair he had lifted from Sid's desk against the hair back at the lab, he couldn't know for certain. And now, with the D.A. moving in to confiscate the entire lot, he might never get the chance.
"We've got to get a court injunction against the D.A.'s office coming in and disrupting our work, Sid,” Dean told him.
"You think that's possible?"
"You know any judges well?"
Sid breathed deeply and nodded. “Yeah, as matter of fact, the same judge that's my alibi for last night, Judge Karen Stuart."
An affair, Dean realized. Sid was having an affair with a courtroom judge. “Do it, Sid, or we're sunk."
With Sid going after an injunction, Dean decided it was time he talked to Peggy Carson. He waited for an all-clear before returning to her room. On entering he found her foraging in the closet for her clothes, her backside showing through the open hospital gown. Hearing Dean come in, she jumped and turned, clearly embarrassed.
"Oh, it's you,” she said, remembering his face. “Who are you?"
Dean introduced himself and watched her eyes light up with some recognition.
"Oh, yeah, really? I read about you. You're the guy—the doctor in Chicago who caught up with that weirdo who was parading around as a priest and drowning people in holy water, right?"
"Close enough, yes. Officer Carson—"
"Peggy, please."
He nodded and smiled, “Peggy, do you need help escaping?"
She returned his smile. “You can sweet-talk me anytime, Dr. Grant."
"Go ahead, get dressed. I'll see that the coast is clear.” It was obvious that with or without Dean's help, Peggy Carson wasn't about to remain in a hospital bed. He may as well do what he could to help, and in the process, he might get to know whether she was capable of knowing what she'd seen and experienced in that alleyway where they'd found her bleeding from a nasty head wound, which—if Grant got his way—she would soon be allowing him to probe.
Grant found the nearest stairwell, then returned to the room to find Peggy ready for escape. He coached her momentarily at the door.
"Walk down the hall as if you own the hospital, and talk calmly."
"You're so kine to come a-visitin’ wid mama, Dean,” Peggy said as they passed a nurse and an orderly going in the other direction. “S'long's we got support from our friends,” she droned on, “cain't nothin’ hurt us ... that and the Lord's will."
"That's the truth, Sister Jones."
They reached the stairwell, tsking repeatedly and shaking her head. "Jones? You couldn't come up with something a little more original than Jones?"
"I see why they made you an undercover cop,” he replied. “You were excellent."
"Thank you,” she answered.
"Once we get outside and into a cab, where do you propose going?"
"To the squad room downtown. I've got a lot of loose ends."
The only thing that might give her away as a patient was the bandage over her forehead, but she had wrapped a scarf about it, making it look like part of her dress. Dean found her filled with an impatient, strong inner force, and somehow she reminded him of Jackie before the awful ordeal that had so changed her.
"I suppose you want to ask me a lot of questions, but I'm not in the mood, believe me, to be ridiculed anymore. I know what I saw."
"I believe you do."
She looked at him as if for the first time. “Good. That makes one smart white man."
He laughed heartily at this. “I'll take that as a compliment."
"For you, but not for your race."
"Have you had lunch?"
"Are you kidding? It's up there.” She pointed in the direction of the room she'd just escaped from. “Wasn't nothing but juice and toast, anyway."
"Hungry?"
"You buying?"
"Yes."
"I know a place near the station."
"Fine, you name it."
"Rosie O'Grady's."
"You are hungry."
"Very.” Her smile was wide and energetic. Her mouth constantly reshaped itself, even when she was not speaking. Dean found her a hyperactive spirit of the best sort, and he guessed that despite all that had occurred to her, she loved her work and would be back at it within a day, if not sooner.
Dean flagged a cab and they were on their way.
"You know, they say there's no such thing as a free lunch, Dr. Grant."
"Please, call me Dean."
"And when a high mucky-muck like you asks somebody like me to call them by their first name, I know I'm paying. What is it you want to know?"
"Just exactly what you told Chief Hodges—no more, no less."
"You couldn't get that from the Chief?"
"Not without editorials,"
"Oh, yeah, Hamel. I don't like shrinks, as a rule, and he hasn't changed that for me one bit."
Dean considered this. “I suppose he's doing his job, as he sees it."
"Yeah—by calling me a liar."
"I don't think he meant—"
"Let's call a spade a spade, huh, doc?"
"All right, here's a spade for a spade—"
"Shoot."
"You'd be a very attractive—no, beautiful—girl if you'd only lighten up a little. Just because you're a policewoman doesn't mean you have to be tough twenty-four hours a day.” Damn it, Dean instantly cursed himself, for blurting out his thoughts. “Peggy—Officer Carson—look,” he said quickly. “I'm sorry. I had no business saying that. I was completely out of line, and—"
"No, you weren't,” she replied.
"What?"
"You're right ... about me, I mean. It's just that ... well, sometimes being a policewoman is difficult, and being a black policewoman is the pits. I have gone a bit overboard. Damn, I hate the gung-ho type, too, but working vice turns you into one of the enemy."
"Yeah, I know that feeling."
"You've worked vice?"
He laughed. “Not exactly, but sometimes I have these strange, overpowering emotions that turn me inside out and I wonder if I'm much above the people I help put away."
She nodded and slid a hand over his. “Yeah ... yeah."
Dean was surprised at her touch, and equally surprised at the sudden desire he felt for her as she moved closer to him. He hadn't shivered with emotion like this since he was a teenager. Still, Dean found himself resisting, pullin
g back, afraid of what was happening, knowing it could only lead to complications neither of them needed right now.
Sensing his reluctance, she said, “Your wife, huh?"
"How'd you guess?"
"It doesn't take a mind reader, Dr. Grant."
"I suppose you think I'm square, old-fashioned?"
"Shut up,” she said, covering his lips with her own when in a moment's hesitation Dean failed to pull away. She gave the cabbie a different address—her apartment. “I know a more private place where we can talk,” she said, her voice silky.
Dean could not deny that he wanted her, that every fiber of his being had been aroused by her the moment he'd surprised her in the hospital room. And it had been months now since he and Jackie had made love. Still, he fought for words to stem the tide. “But you're hungry, and I promised—"
She pressed her fragrant fingers to his lips. “Sex helps keep me on my diet. Call it body chemistry, Doctor."
Grant caught the cabbie eyeing them in the rearview mirror. Without further argument, Dean went with her. Soon they were stepping out of the cab and into her tastefully decorated apartment, down the length of a hallway and into her bedroom.
Part of Dean willingly and appreciatively put away the many badges that labeled him, the badges of policeman, doctor, and husband, allowing himself to experience fully the feelings that took his mind and heart and refashioned them under Peggy Carson's gentle touch.
She knew how to undress a man.
She knew how to touch and caress, and how to make him feel his emotions to depths he had thought long since calcified. And for what seemed a long time, he lay there reveling in her powerful hold over him, delighting in the transformation she had so calmly and suddenly made of Dr. Dean Grant. For a time he was transported to a place which was no place, a time which was no time, a world made up completely of nerve and impulse and fragrance and soft sound, all culminating in passion.
Then, somehow finding the strength within himself to combat his own weakness, he stopped her, got up from the bed, and began to dress, and silently she accepted this as if it were completely normal, completely all right. She asked for no explanation; she simply understood. “You know what I feared most when I was lying there in the hospital, coming around,” she said to him when she'd dressed and followed him into the living room.
"What's that?"
"That I'd been so disfigured, no man would ever look at me again."
He shook his head, “No, you'll never have that problem."
She laughed, pouring them each a drink. “I can't always wear this damned turban."
"Why not? It gives you mystery."
"You make me laugh, doctor. I like you."
"After what I just did to you?"
"You enjoyed yourself ... and so did I. No harm done."
Dean's brow creased in concentration.
"Have I upset you?” she asked.
"No, no, it's just ... I was thinking of my wife, Jackie. She went through a similar experience as your own, perhaps much worse. In Chicago last summer, my wife was almost drowned by a maniacal killer. You seem so strong. But she ... she hasn't been the same since."
"I see ... I'm sorry."
Dean glanced over at the clock, amazed that the entire day was practically gone. It was nearing four. “Christ, it's late, and you never did eat."
"Oh, yes I did,” she said coyly, bringing a smile to Dean's lips. “Besides, I've got plenty in the refrigerator."
He rose up on his feet and glanced about the living room, done in pale colors, beiges, whites. “You like white things, don't you?"
"Only some, and believe me, I'm very selective. I picked you, didn't I, Dr. Dean Grant? I like you for some reason I haven't figured out just yet ... but I will."
"I owe you a meal,” he said. “What about tonight?"
"No, I'm on desk duty tonight."
"Back to work, already?"
"I intend to jump right back in. Got it set with my partner and my captain. Work, my friend, like life, goes on."
"Which reminds me, I should check in with Dr. Corman."
"Don't worry about Sid Corman. The word is, he's okay, and downtown they say he's a shoe-in for an injunction, anytime he wants it."
Somehow Dean knew Sid would have the ear of the judge. “That's good news."
"Second-best thing that's happened all day, huh?"
Dean kissed Peggy in response, and said, “I've got to check in with Sid."
"I don't believe for a minute that our own city coroner has anything to do with scalping."
"What did you see in that alley the night you were knifed, Peggy?” Dean asked.
"Nothing of the guy that grabbed me from behind, but I could tell he was about a head taller than me. The other man was a dwarf, a curled-up dwarf."
"Curled-up?"
"Yeah, all balled up inside himself, somehow, you know—everything going inward, like ... like he was bowlegged, and his walk—it was like his feet were pegs."
Dean recalled the strange footprint taken in the park by Dyer.
"What is it?” she asked.
"Nothing ... go on."
"Well, that's it."
"What was this little man wearing?"
She frowned. “Strange clothes, really ... a vest over a heavy ... I don't know ... woolen thing that stuck out from his pants. His shoes were weird, too, like old, but it was too dark and I only got a glance at them before the other one grabbed ahold of me."
"Anything else?"
"Hair."
"Hair?"
"The little man was bald, but his hands and face were real hairy. It felt like a gorilla had a hold on me when he touched me."
"The little man grabbed onto you?"
"After I was cut and bleeding."
"You didn't just pass out when you were cut?"
"It was strange, because the cut, I don't know when it happened. I didn't feel the cut, only the blood running into my eyes from it. I was keyed up, and concentrating on firing off as many rounds as I could. He had ahold of my arms, but I just tightened my grip on my gun."
That was it, all that Peggy could recall before blacking out. Dean had to ask her the tough question now.
"Peggy, this is going to seem strange, and if it ... well, if it bothers you too much, then I won't ask ... but,” Dean began tentatively.
"Yes?"
"The wound."
"What about it?"
"I have reason to believe it was done with a scalpel. Very likely why you failed to feel the swift cut."
"I see."
"What I need to ask is, can I see it?"
This was hard for her. She hadn't wanted anyone to see it. All the time they'd made love, she had kept the bandage tied with the scarf, a surprisingly erotic touch as far as Dean was concerned. She was vain about her beautiful appearance.
"It could help us catch this madman. I wouldn't ask, if—"
"I understand ... at least I'm not on a slab downtown with you—” She let the thought drop.
Dean said, “I'm sorry. If there were any other way...."
"All right. You're the doctor."
She sat down, and Dean did a purely visual examination. He didn't need instruments to measure the forehead cut; his experienced eye could make a fair estimate of its depth. The gash was not so ugly as he'd expected, and he told her as much. “In fact, it's so thin and neat, anyone not knowing it was a wound might take it for a deep wrinkle."
"God forbid,” she said aloud, but Dean's words gave her courage and she got up from the bed and went to the mirror to examine the slash herself. Iodine had reddened the area, and the stitches looked ugly, but Dean was right. The cut itself was a neat parting of the epidermal layer, and when healed, would likely show no thick scar tissue. She'd been extremely lucky.
"What do you think about the cut?” she asked.
Dean placed a hand on hers. “You're going to be as pretty as ever, Peggy."
"I don't mean that. Is it the Scalper, or
a copycat?"
"One and the same. The neatness of the incision, even in the heat of a fight, with your gun going off in his ears.... Yeah, it's the same guy, all right."
"You learned a lot from me today, didn't you, Dr. Grant?"
Dean bent to kiss her again, saying, “Yes—maybe more than I should have."
"My father always said you can never have too much of a good thing—knowledge,” she teased.
Dean went to the phone, asking if he could call a cab. “I've got my car in the garage downstairs,” she told him. “We're both going downtown. If you'll wait, I'll just be a few minutes getting dressed."
She rushed to do so, and when she returned, she was in her patrolwomen's uniform. It looked great on her. “No undercover work for a while,” she explained.” It was the one argument I couldn't win."
Dean laughed as they walked to the car.
SEVEN
The recent scalps were suspended on a thick, fire-blackened lug pole that Van had set into the old fireplace. Also dangling from it was a large black kettle in which other, older scalps were lovingly placed and stewed. Pubic hair, armpit hair, and droplets of skin and hunks of fat were tossed in. When called for, freshly clipped nails taken from scalping victims were added.
Steam rising from the brew was occasionally caught by holding a clear jar over the cauldron, condensation from off the soupy surface collected droplet by droplet. The special vapor provided a decidedly unholy water for anointment at the outset of the ritual feeding. Van used a small scepter, stolen by Ian from a church many years before, to toss the human dew.
Van and Ian lived more for this moment than for the scalpings, for it was as He had said. The potions and elixers and nourishment they took from the boiling cauldron gave them unlimited power and abilities over others. Through the union of Van's knowledge of darkness and Ian's ability to live in two worlds, to be in a position to influence adversaries who vowed to stop them, and to continue to lure such catches as the last one into the net ... these works were remarkable and good. By their deeds Ian and Van had pleased the Dark One now dwelling in their hearts and growing stronger there through each grim scalping.
Van had savage eyes. His little body was covered with hair, his features masked by the long, coarse strands, each one of which would in time become a full-blown demonic force, the legions of which were daily being released into this world through him. He had a double row of teeth, like that of a dolphin, and the extra teeth forced his jaw out, gorilla-like. His every movement, his every word held Ian in captive wonder; it was almost hypnotic. His mind kept Ian in tow.
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