Van's black robe, making him look like a creature somewhere between man and ape, had become a powerful symbol of the solemn occasion. It would soon be discarded and he would stand before the fire and cauldron and altar in full splendor, a mass of hair from face to foot. Only his scalp was bald, the pity being that this small portion of skin without hair kept Van in a state of incompleteness and impotence, as the Dark One could not blossom whole until Van was covered over completely with hair.
Van's lips thrust out now as he hummed the mantra he often used, a low, howling, doglike sound. The lips were huge and deformed and gaping, like the edges of a wound. The little nose was nonetheless too large for his face, with flat and flaring nostrils. His ears were strangely like cabbage leaves, and clumps of hair hung from the lobes like moss. Thick sideburns ran across his lower cheeks to merge into a heavy mustache. The brows were bushy, hiding the eyes. His large eyes were jaundiced and narrowed to pin-points of coal at the pupils. There was, Ian knew, an angry agony and hatred in their quiet centers, in the glazed, unwavering stare. Ian knew that Van hated all mankind, even Ian himself, and yet Ian understood and loved him all the same. It was a growing love, a love generated from guilt in the beginning, but now it was a love borne of admiration and respect, because little brother was doing it ... he was bringing evil into the world, he was carrying Him and a host of demons about in his thwarted body.
And they showed their growing approval in many ways.
The Dark One wanted Van's head. They wanted his entire body, including the cranium, for their plot, to grow in and out of his living cells and tissue, to penetrate the earthly plane. It was to this end that Van and Ian took scalps, fashioned the meals and soups and stews, and collected the DNA of others, for He and his legion partook of the meals too. And it was beginning to work. They both had seen signs of it, even on Ian's body, being prepared now for a second plot through which the demonic might plant seed, grow, and harvest in the physical world. Demons were just lost spirits, ghosts condemned to walk the earth without muscle or sinew, and he and Van were now providing them with what they needed.
"It's ready ... ready,” said Van, taking up the water steamed off the stew and sprinkling first himself and then Ian once more, giddy with excitement. Ian, too, was delighted in the black baptism, the reverse ritual that spat in the face of Christ. After all, the persecuted were now the persecutors, and the Anti-Christ had instructed them to rejoice in their debauchery.
"I feel them ... I feel them working through me."
"This time it will work,” Van assured Ian.
"Yes, yes ... yes."
He spooned out the soupy stew into deep bowls at the little table where Ian had to sit cross-legged to feed with the dwarf. “Wonderful,” he said, taking in great whiffs of the steam rising from the bowl.
Ian stirred the fatty chunks under the surface of the milk-gray mixture. They were like alchemists of old, searching for the formula for gold, except that their gold was everlasting life, via the power of the Dark Way. Ian could feel that power bursting at the confines of the little room where he was crouched, could feel it wanting to escape into the wider world, scratching to get out. Soon ... soon, Ian thought.
"Happy?” asked Van, who slowly disrobed, showing his hairy top first, then letting the robe slip away entirely.
Ian then stood and tore away his tie, shirt, and pants. Van examined him closely, touching, seeking for the new hairs that must be on his chest now, but looking disappointed. “You're coming along,” Van reassured his brother.
"Not fast enough,” Ian disagreed.
"Drink, eat, pray to Him who is our lord, seek Him in the flames there."
Ian did all these things, and when he finished, Van came to him with the freshly drying scalp, unable to wait any longer. “Put it on me,” he said.
Ian worked on the gooey gel that would attach the knatty, freshly taken scalp, and together they looked in the full-length mirror in the corner at their work. Ian, standing nude behind Van, had his face cut off by the mirror. Ian was tall at six-two, while his twin brother, under three-four, hardly reached the center line of the mirror. Their figures in the mirror seemed dark and smoke-like, ghostly even by the steady candle glow. They looked like Jack and the Giant, but in this case, little Jack was the creature. They looked like two people who had stepped out of time and come from the Dark Ages into the 1980s all of a sudden.
Little Van stood beneath Ian's armpit.
"It's got to work this time,” Van said.
"It will ... I just know it will."
"Come ... come to bed with me now,” he said.
They stepped to the bed in the corner and lay in one another's arms, Ian rubbing himself into the hair, trying desperately to gain strength from it. In their embrace, both began to cry.
"He is with you, Ian."
"I know ... I know...."
"And He commands we try again, forever if necessary."
"Yes, yes,” replied Ian, amazed at Van's strength. “Of course I understand, dear brother. The soft, down hair covering Van made Ian feel like a fetus.
"It'll come ... we will not always be weak."
"One day the world will be ours."
They hugged one another more closely, each exhausted, fed, and needing rest and time. They must allow the Dark One to cultivate his crop, must allow His sway over their sleeping forms, their sleeping minds. And they must allow for time, an important ingredient in the magic, time to allow the Dark Way to bear fruit, or to fail again.
As they rested, the rejuvenating powers of the elixir, combining with the strength given them by their god, would carry them onward. Ian dreamed of babies in the womb, of children with downy, peach-fuzz hair like that on the earlobes of young girls. Yes, that thrown into the cauldron might work. He must suggest it, he thought, dreaming now, asleep, wondering if babies as yet unborn had dreams.
Ian fitfully groped in the dark for his scalpel, for looming over him was a large, beautiful head of hair, a scalp so enormous it blotted him out. He gasped and raised his scalpel to slash at it. But it was no use, for He was a dream ... it was all a dream now.
He knew he was sleeping, yet his mind raced with the new idea, the new hope that could so stir him that he felt his brother, too, was dreaming the same dream. Shared dream ... shared faith. They were of one mind, and perhaps should always have been of one body. Maybe ... just maybe, a child's hair, innocent and unblemished ... maybe this was called for? Maybe even the fetal down of an unborn child in the soup? It seemed worth a try.
They had brought the black woman's scalp, filled as it was with power and energy, to their lair, and like cavemen of eons past, they cured the scalp, fascinated at every step of the process, from boiling it to placing it over the drying fire and finally stretching it on the rack made from the same rings little children used for their embroidery.
Embroidery was what they were doing, an embroidery of a very special nature, an embroidery which paid homage to the dark gods that had for all these years sustained them as brothers, and the dark powers that had allowed little Van to survive the molestation of his very soul by those who had had a hand in bringing him into this world.
Ian thought long and often on that fact, that if his mother had not had Ian, she would not have had Van, either. They were inextricably linked from the womb, but was it a womb shared by a curse or a blessing? Once that pact was made, the only source of comfort and solace left open to Van, deep in the darkness of that cellar for all those years, was to turn to the dark powers flooding his genes. It was all that nourished his soul. For within the folds of his wrinkled and hairy skin, beneath the odor and ghastly face and twisted limbs, there was a human soul. Denied by God and circumstance and parents, he had turned to another god: Satan.
Ian had never known Satan in the way Van did. Ian gave Van a name for his benefactor, but Ian could never directly speak with the Dark Lord. Ian hadn't been handfed by the dark creatures that provided Van with sinew and muscle and the blood of rats
to feed on. Over the years Satan had wrapped Van in layer upon layer of disease and disfigurement and hair ... lots of hair. He had grown into an apeman.
Ian had read about other human beings down through the ages that had hair the full length of their bodies, most becoming sideshow attractions at carnivals, but he had not known until Van explained it to him that his condition was loosed on him from hell, not to plague Van, but to begin to wreak immutable power in the world of flesh.
Once each and every demon from the underworld had been given birth through the body of the hairy dwarf, the world would see a new order of being created.
Van would act as a sort of Adam for the underworld. The legions fed hungrily on the DNA of fibrous hair from all ages, sexes, races, meaning to fulfill the dream of a god, the dream of Satan, a dream told Van when he was just a boy, before he had language or complete understanding of his reason for being.
The remote house and even the fireplace had been rebuilt to accommodate Van's needs. There were no neighbors to complain of odors rising from the chimney or to snoop about, and they had a swampy marsh for a backyard, to discard anything that might go rancid. The place was so featureless, the lot so abandoned, that no one ever visited. It was perfect for the work this Christmas season.
Dean said goodbye to Peggy Carson in the homicide division of police headquarters where Park and Dyer had readied a lineup for Peggy, a lineup of dwarfs none of which remotely resembled what she said she'd seen that night in the alley. One of the little men had hairy arms, but that was as close as they came to Peggy's description of the molesting midget.
Dean found Sid in his lab, working away. He had a scowl on his face, and Dean wondered if it were meant for him. Apparently Sid had put a stop to Hodges’ plans, but it was certain he remained suspect so far as Hodges and the D.A. were concerned.
"Where the hell have you been?” Sid was angry. “I could have used your help today."
"You got the injunction, Sid, and you've managed to postpone the hanging, and you did it all on your own."
"Thank God Karen was in her chambers."
"So. Anything new?"
"We're running atomic tests on the hair strands, as you suggested, but tell me again why we should send part of our meager sample to Sybil in Chicago."
"Backup, Sid, pure and simple. And good sense, especially now, with people questioning your work."
"And what about people questioning my past, people poking into my life back in Akron?"
Dean dropped his gaze, trying to find words to explain. “Look, Sid, you haven't exactly been honest with me."
"So where are we now, Dean? Even? Well, even stinks."
Sid had undoubtedly heard from a friend in Akron that police in Chicago were running a check on his Akron past. “I had to know if there'd been any similar deaths in Ohio, Sid, when you were coroner."
"Well, your bloodhounds found squat, my friend. I've never in my life worked on a corpse missing a scalp until now."
"Good,” Dean said quietly. “Then maybe we can go on from here. No more lies between us, what do you say?"
Sid Corman's blue-gray eyes seemed solemn. Dean knew he wouldn't be forgiven soon, but he also felt justified in his background check on Sid. Even if Sid was a friend, Dean hadn't seen him in years.
"Are you staying on?” Sid asked tentatively.
"You know I will."
"Then let's get to work."
"You got it. You know, you weren't the only one I asked to have checked out."
"Who else—Hodges?"
"Park and Dyer."
"Really? Why them?"
"I don't know, but Park in particular has a disturbing way about him. He's a vet, too."
"What's this vet shit? We're both vets ourselves."
"I know, but he was in Vietnam."
"And that makes him a killer?"
"Not at all ... but it conditions some men to murder."
Sid nodded and suddenly cried out, “Oh, Lt. Park!"
Park was in the doorway and Dean had no idea how long he'd been standing there holding the door open, listening. “You could be right, Dr. Grant,” said Park, his steely eyes pinning Dean in place. “You ever hear the story of the scavengers over in Nam? Guys who scavenged the bodies of the dead—even their own—you know, for coin and cigarettes and gold teeth?"
"Can't say I have."
"A lot of true tales of horror come out of Nam, gentlemen. Anyway, a couple of guys in my outfit told a chilling tale one night we were on patrol, a tale about finding some bodies on a battlefield scalped—scalped clean of their hair, just as if some crazed Indian had done it."
Sid exchanged a look with Dean. “Could be our man,” suggested Dean.
Park took a long time answering, leaning against the doorjamb now, “Maybe ... maybe not. Maybe the guys in Nam are not the same guys here, maybe one's too short ever to have been in Nam. There are lots of maybes. And maybe the Nam story was bullshit I never saw it, the scalping. But stories went around, rumors that this guy had a sackful of Vietcong scalps he'd taken. Then rumors about dead grunts, our boys, being scalped came down the line, and the officers put out the word it was a Vietcong bunch doing the scalping, not one of our men. But by then we all knew the score."
Dean regarded Park for a long time before asking, “What can we do for you, Lieutenant?"
"We need something to go on, Dyer and me. We've spent all day dragging in dwarfs and sex offenders of every size and shape, and we've got zilch. We need more from you, Doctor."
"We're not miracle workers here, Park,” said Sid.
"So someone else has to die so you can run more tests, and then it all goes around again?"
"Trust me,” said Dean, “Dr. Corman and I are doing everything within our power—"
"Sure, sure ... so I heard.” He glared at Dean. “So let me save you some time, Dr. Grant. The answer's yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I worked a case like this one before, in Michigan, in a woodsy little community called Seneca, where a handful of people one year started showing up dead—scalped."
"Why in hell didn't you say so? Those records need reviewing in light of these recent deaths."
"They are being reviewed ... by the police."
"When was the other rash of killings? How long ago?” asked Dean.
"Two years, three months, and fourteen days."
"Isn't it a little coincidental you showing up here just when there's another outbreak?” asked Sid.
"Not in the least. It was my case then, and it's my case now. I'm on special assignment, and believe me, as soon as I catch this bastard ... or bastards ... you'll see my ass on a 747 headed for home."
"Who knows about this? Hodges?"
"He alone, yes, if he's managed to keep it to himself. That was the deal when I came on."
Something didn't ring true, but Dean wasn't sure what. “Dyer—does he know all this?"
"He's just been briefed."
"I bet he shit tacks, too,” replied Sid.
"Had you followed the killer here?” asked Dean.
"Not exactly, no ... not until the first scalping occurred. More than a year has elapsed since the Seneca deaths."
"In Michigan, was anyone brought in for questioning? Were there any arrests?"
"Nothing that could stick ... a handful of young bucks from an Indian reservation not far away, but the arrests were foolish to begin with. This killer, whoever he is, has his own reasons for scalping."
"Well, we have a lot of work to do,” Sid said, returning to his lab work. Dean saw that Park was curious about what it was they were doing. “We're running sub-atomic tests on the suspect's hair to determine the intake of arsenic, lead, silica, and such."
"That tell you what sort of diet the guy has?"
"Right. So far, it's a fairly anemic diet ... thin on natural foods. It might tell us something about occupation, and perhaps any medication. For instance, if the guy is a candidate for cancer, or is a diabetic. The chief constituent
s of hair are carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, and sulfur. But trace elements are as variable as fingerprints. These elements can only be determined through atomic bombardment."
"I see.” Dean knew the detective did not see at all, but he nodded anyway.
"What do you do with the soil samples you took out at the park?” the lieutenant asked.
"Sid and I are used to pursuing every small scientific clue. We've been indoctrinated in the methods of seeking microtraces, which comes down to applying adhesive tape everywhere."
"Yeah, I saw you press tape into the girl's scarf and onto her bag, and even her shoes."
"Several mosslike particles of soiled vegetation were clinging to her things."
"Not moss, Dean,” said Sid. “While you were away, Tom Warner ran tests on your ‘moss.’ It was flecks of fat."
"Fat?"
"Yeah, pure fatty tissue ... human fatty tissue, the girl's own, dropping in flecks when they cut chunks from her."
"Christ,” said Park.
"Well, as for the soil samples taken from the girl's clothing and from the surrounding terrain, I sent samples of it to my lab in Chicago for examination,” explained Dean.
Park shook his head, “Why to another lab?"
"This process will determine if she was indeed murdered at the site, and not merely dumped there after the scalping, if the two samples correspond."
"But why to Chicago? Couldn't that have been done here?"
Sid stopped in his work to listen for this answer himself.
"I have a soil specialist in Chicago. Besides, it's best that we have two such tests conducted at two separate labs whenever possible."
Park nodded, understanding. “Isn't it strange the scalp taken is always in the range of nine inches by four? When I was a boy, I don't know, I always thought of scalps as circular. Now someone's teaching me different, that they can be diamond-shaped, triangular, square. Did you know that when a U.S. cavalry trooper on the plains in the 1800's found scalped bodies, their Indian scouts knew immediately which tribe was responsible?"
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