Ian went to the panel at the back wall of the closet and gave a tentative push that caused a squealing creak. He wanted just to peek inside, but this was impossible without giving himself away to Van. But this time there was no angry squeal or growl of disgust, only a soft, melodic voice saving, “Brother, enter ... enter...."
He sounded and looked exhausted, sweat glistening on his few bare patches, including his scalp. Beside him on the floor was a lump of fetal flesh cut from the dead woman. He had a large, bubbling pot over the fire and an empty bowl on his small table, but Ian could see that mostly he had just lain with it, covering his rotund bald spot, blubbering, begging the process to work, both of them feeling it might be their last chance.
"Have you eaten enough?” Ian asked.
"Four bowls full should be enough!"
"More, then!"
"No, it's no longer fresh ... the hair's power has left it. It's like someone somewhere has put a counter-spell on it, Ian.” The dwarf was crying. “Ian, Ian?"
"Yes?” Ian's heart bled for the little man.
"I ... help me ... help find another."
"We will ... we will.” Ian could not, dared not say no. What might happen if it came to that? Would Van destroy Ian, stew up his flesh and hair for mustard plasters to lay across his cranium?
"Take me to the place where babies are ... I want another baby ... a live one this time."
Ian recalled the same plea made a hundred times over, except now the watchword was “baby.” “All right ... all right."
Van dressed in his cloak and sandals, going through the secret closet door that effectively hid his small and comforting little room from the rest of the house and the world. They passed into the kitchen. He found a stool and opened a cabinet where some seven knives hung on hooks. He spent awhile selecting just the right one for this night's work, then he took some time to decide on a second dagger, an ancient scimitar, this one ... very special, as it belonged in his father's collection in Montana.
"What's taking so long in here?” asked Ian, coming back into the kitchen, dressed in his clean knit shirt and sweater and fine, plaid dress slacks, ready to make the trip to Mercy Hospital for another go-round.
Van was ever so eager for it all.
FOURTEEN
Outside Hamel's house, in the dark, pulled off the road, Dean, Dyer, Peggy, and her partner sat in waiting along with Sgt. Staubb. They still had no warrant, and seeing the lights and movement about the house, they stayed well back. Locating the place was no easy task. Staubb had had to find an old mail-delivery man who knew of the cabin at the end of this dirt road to which even the U.S. Mail did not go, since it was too far off the beaten path. This was the house that belonged to the box number at the post office where Hamel picked up what little mail he got. According to the single postal employee at the country post office, there was very little mail, in any case.
Hamel's house was surrounded by forest, and it backed against the publicly held Wekiva preserve, which had, at least as far as Dean could tell, been left to return to its natural state. Palmetto bush lined every exit, and moss-covered trees created a canopy over the back road.
"Are we just going to sit here?” It was Peggy's voice coming over the radio to Dyer and Dean. “I say we get in close, and see what we're looking at."
Staubb came on over his box, clearly in charge here. It was his area, his play. “We might get our units out of sight,” he suggested. “I mean, if we're spotted too soon, before that warrant gets here ... evidence you're seeking could be destroyed in the meantime."
"What do you suggest?” asked Dean, sending his own message.
"There was a little section six or ten yards behind us where I think the units ought to back off the road."
"He's right, Dr. Grant,” said Dyer. “If Hamel decides suddenly to come out, and if he spots us..."
"Let's do it."
"Where's Sid Corman?” asked Peggy in exasperation.
Dean was wondering the same thing. Quietly, the motors kept to a mild hum, the headlights out, all three units backed toward the space off the dirt road Staubb led them to. Waiting while the killers were within their grasp was like restraining the vengeance of God, Dean thought, so hard for mortals like him and Dyer and Peggy, in particular.
In place now, they sat in the dark, listening to crickets and cidadas and for the sound of an approaching vehicle that might be Sid.
"Heads up! Something happening at the house!” said Peggy's young partner, Mark Williams.
Dyer snatched a pair of binoculars. Squinting, he tried desperately to see what was going on. “See anything?” asked Dean. Lights had gone out at the house.
"No dwarfs, if that's what you mean ... but that's Hamel, and he's going to the garage."
The garage was a shack, and now Dean heard the doors being opened. “Can I have a look?"
Dean peered through the binoculars through the pane in front of him, finding it difficult to focus, but once he did, he saw that Hamel had pulled the doors wide to reveal a Mercedes behind them. He read off the first three numbers on the plates before it backed from his view and tore out of the yard and straight down the road toward them. Dean imagined Hamel could see them all as they stared at him from their poor hiding place; but no, he sped by, giving them no notice whatever. Dean saw no sign of a dwarf on the seat beside Hamel. It was too damned dark.
"God, they're going after another victim,” said Dean.
Dyer got on the horn and put out a a coded APB on the car, giving the first three numbers of the plates. It would be picked up and shadowed at the very least, he assured Dean.
"What do we do?” asked Peggy over the radio, “Just let him go?"
"I'll put a man on him,” said Staubb. “He won't get lost."
"Where the hell's Sid with that warrant?” Dean wondered aloud.
"On his way. Why don't we just go ahead?"
"Not without the paperwork,” complained Staubb. “I can't let you do that."
"Suppose this guy's out for more blood, another child yet to be born tonight, Staubb?” argued Dyer.
Staubb looked into Dean's eyes. “You think that's a possibility, Dr. Grant?"
"A very real one, yes."
"You sure your man's on the way with a signed and sealed search warrant, you sure?"
"Yes,” said Dyer.
"We're certain of it."
Staubb considered his situation and his options a good deal longer before giving the word, but finally he gave in. “Do her."
The cars moved in, the headlights turning the old place into an eerie, haunted house. It was built low to the ground, but up on cinder blocks, and Dyer spoke of growing up in a house a lot like it, spoke of playing as a child beneath it. This made Dean think of the dwarf and wonder if he ever “played” here. There was a large, squeaking, wraparound porch in need of repair. Part of it was screened in against insects. A peeling green paint outlined every window and doorway, contrasting with a long-ago faded white which had become gray. Overhead, as Staubb had indicated earlier, a chimney fire sent up spirals of the strangest smelling smoke.
"What the hell is that smell?” Staubb asked several times.
The house was rambling. This they could see from the outside. Staubb, a meticulous and careful lawman, had gotten a set of keys to the house from the local Century 21 office, where he had learned the house was leased to Dr. Hamel. They had no trouble with the locks, and this surprised Dyer and Dean.
Entering, they found a light switch, but the lamp that went on barely lit the room, sending deep and scurrying shadows in all directions. There was a brown wash to the entire interior. It was fairly clean for a man living alone. The floors were clear of dust, clothing, and tossed newspapers, and tabletops were equally clean. If they hadn't seen Hamel leave in his Mercedes, they would not have known he was using the place.