Sid, his legs free, had worked his way closer to the fire and the pot. Now, suddenly and viciously, he kicked the lug pole free, sending the scalding, putrid stew over the hairy animal at the hearth, making it squeal in pain. Suddenly it snatched up its brother's scalp and raced madly for safety, disappearing. The dwarf was badly scalded, and Sid, too, had been burned by the water. But Sid ignored his own pain as Dean freed him from his bonds. Dean was angry with himself for not having killed the ugly, hairy thing when he'd had the chance. His moment's hestitation had now allowed the gnome to disappear again, this time out of the room and down the corridor, a final door slamming deep within. Dean breathed a little better and helped Sid from his remaining bonds.
"I thought the bastard had you,” gasped Sid. “You're bleeding like a pig, Dean!"
Sid worked to tie off the arm, the worst of the wounds the dagger-wielding little creep had inflicted.
"Where do you suppose that thing is now?” Sid asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"You think you can walk?"
Dazed, Dean wasn't sure. “Maybe we should wait for sunrise."
"Maybe we ought to get in one of those cars outside and get the hell out of here."
"Run off by a dwarf, you and me? Two big-deal guys like us?"
"I think we've both had enough heroics for one night. Besides, there's another one lurking somewhere."
"Hamel? No, he's dead ... I found him in the kitchen."
"Oh, yeah, now I remember—I got him in the head with a kitchen knife just before I blacked out."
"And his brother took his goddamned scalp."
"He what?"
"That ugly gnome took Hamel's scalp."
Sid shook his head. “Good God, Dean!"
"Exactly. That's why we've got to see this thing through, see this ... this creature dead. It's not human."
"All right, but we stay together. I don't care how short that guy is, he's bloody strong—and dangerous."
"There should be backup units coming."
"Did you ask for bloodhounds and helicopters? He's very likely deep in the wildlife preserve by now. It's all swamp, marsh, and palmetto bush, very hard to maneuver even by daylight ... not to mention wild things like cottonmouths and alligators."
"Maybe we'd better wait, then."
"Be wise to, but that'd be out of character for you, wouldn't it, Dean?"
"How's the leg?” Dean asked. Sid tied off a second bandage for him.
"I think the bleeding's stopped. You were damned lucky."
"How is your leg?"
"Burned both ankles, as a matter of fact, but I'm trying not to think about it"
"You burned him pretty good, too,"
"Think it'll slow the little bastard?"
"It might. Come on."
Getting through the long house and to the outside was scary in itself. Dean felt like a little figure in a video game, afraid of opening the next door, or stepping through, knowing that the killer could be waiting at every turn. But they got to the porch without incident. Down the dusty road came the glare of successive headlights, reinforcements. Over the siren noise, Dean heard something like a chicken scratch, and he suddenly jumped down from the porch and stared up to the darkened roof, half-expecting the creature to leap at him again. But it didn't come; nothing was up there.
Where had the noise come from?
Sid raced to meet the others, waving at them. Dean had another thought as the cars, their headlights flooding the yard now, showed some streaks coming up through the cracks on the porch from beneath.
He was there, under the house. Dean just knew it. But to catch the animal, everyone must somehow be alerted.
They needed to fan out. Dean tried to convey this message to the noisy, gung-ho policemen jumping from their units.
"The suspect's a dwarf,” Sid told them as Dean indicated the underside of the house, pointing, unsure whether or not the gnome had caught on to their next move.
Cautiously, after having had a full look at Staubb and Williams, and with jokes to one another about midgets and little people, the cops fanned out, trying to circle the rambling, L-shaped house. Not six feet off were the woods.
Flashlights streaked into the underside of the house and suddenly a shot rang out on the far side. Dean heard the sounds of running feet and rushed to where the gunshot had been fired. A policeman named Mike had filled a stray dog with buckshot, the animal still thrashing until another officer put it out of its misery.
"There! Over there!” shouted another cop, hearing something moving off through the bush.
The chase was on, Dean armed now with a 12-gauge shotgun, Sid beside him with Staubb's .38, everyone fanning out, trying to ensnare the killer in a human net.
"He's armed and dangerous,” Dean told the men.
"Armed with what?"
"So far as we know, only a knife, but it's his weapon of choice."
"Hear that, men?"
Up and down the line, the word was passed as the manhunt moved into the dark woods.
"Going to send two of my men back to make a call for dogs,” said the officer in charge, Staubb's superior. “We ain't letting this bastard get away."
"You better tell your men to shoot at anything that moves out there, Captain,” said Sid. “This guy will look like a wild boar out here, he's that hairy and little."
"I'll pass that along."
Sid's warning went down the line. The two cops were sent back in a team for the dogs. It would be well into daylight the next time they saw Hamel's little brother.
Aching from his wounds, the one in his arm in particular, Dean found he could not recall a time in his life when the morning's first light had ever meant so much. The dogs and additional men had arrived, and finding the scent of the killer from some discarded clothing in his hovel, the search was resumed. The man most knowledgeable about the dogs was given the go-ahead to let them loose, come what may, after Dean and Sid together had recalled the events of the night, explaining how they had cornered the last member of the so-called Scalping Crew.
"It's a certainty that this little man has lived off the land before,” finished Dean, recalling the years he'd lived alone at that Montana homestead while his brother was placed in county home. Sid reminded Dean that the dwarf also had had to fend for himself the entire time his brother was in Vietnam.
"So,” continued Dean, “this killer could live out there in your swampland for any number of years, unless he's rooted out now."
"Nothin’ could survive out there,” said one man.
"Not for long,” agreed a second officer.
"Dogs'll get ‘em,” said the dog man.
Dean realized they didn't truly understand what they were dealing with. Finding this pervert in the dense marsh of Wekiva had led them to the banks of the Wekiva River, along which some homes stood, the property of people who were carrying on a running battle with Orange County to remain in the preserve. Dean knew that every man, woman, and child in the preserve was now in danger, and that it had been a good move to send deputies to every house to issue warnings. But this weakened the number in the central posse, and it also divided them into dangerously small satellite groups. Everyone present had seen what the dwarf had done to Mark Williams and Joe Staubb.
For over an hour now the dogs had been running far and wide, baying, going in a southeasterly direction and then cutting back northerly, coming closer to the camp again, as if confused and circling—or had the dwarf circled back? This was the running argument among the men as the sound of the dogs increased, nearing, closer still.
"Just like a ‘coon hunt,” said the dog man, grinning wide, a two-day-old growth of hair on his face. “Don't worry, my dogs have run men before ... no problem."
"Why've they turned back?” asked Sid, his legs propped over a log, the scalded ankles causing him great pain.