"It's going to be hell getting him back to the lab,” said Sid.
"To hell with the lab, Sid,” said Dean, “this is fieldwork. You men, turn the animal onto its stomach."
"What the hell's he doing, Captain?” asked a confused officer.
"Cutting the thing open to see if the gator got more'n a dog."
Dean's scalpel slit the outer layers of the underbelly of the animal. A second, deeper slit caused the beast to pop open like a ripe watermelon, and the odors drove even Dean to take a step back. Covering their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs, the two pathologists began another cut into the stomach lining and esophagus and all that lay in between. With ungloved hands they probed and began to pull forth large, undigested remnants of Queenie.
The dog man was going berserk behind them, calling Dean a ghoul. He was restrained by the others.
After ten minutes, Dean, his hands bloody, stood up. Sid went to the river's edge to throw water on his face. “Nothing human inside this animal, Captain ... not a single bite."
"Gators travel in packs,” said the Captain. “Another one must've gotten our man and was gone before we got here. Hell, you got the torn clothes, the blood! Take it back to your lab and see if it ain't human blood or the dog's ... just see."
"Even if it is human, Captain ... it's not good enough."
"Well, it is for me. We're satisfied, just like the damned flies are satisfied,” said the captain, pointing to the gator carcass. It was already infested with insects. “Come on, Stewart, gather up your remainin’ dogs. The County'll pay for Queenie. Come on, all of you men ... we're going home."
Dean stared out into the blank, empty, uncaring swampland ahead of him. Somewhere out there right now the evil could he staring back at him ... or it could've been swallowed whole by this guy's mate, Dean thought again with a glance at the dead gator. Maybe, if, likely, possible ... all the qualifiers ... was that how it would now end, after all he and Sid, Peggy, and the others had lived through, after the long trail of dead bodies that had brought him to this time and place?
"Come on, Dean ... come away,” said Sid. “Get the blood off you. Let's cross back."
Dean looked into his friend's clear, watery eyes and saw a tired man still fighting down pain. “Yeah, let's get back to city streets and congestion. You can keep this wildlife refuge business for stronger men than me."
"Are you satifed the little creep is really dead?"
"No ... not really."
"Me either."
"We'll test the cloak for human blood."
"It'll only prove he cut himself with that damned knife of his."
"We may never know, Sid."
"Unless one day somewhere we read about a brutal scalping murder...."
They crossed the river, lagging behind the cops, Dean supporting Sid. “Right,” agreed Dean sadly. “Could go crazy waiting for that one."
"God, Dean, those two bastards were really sick."
Behind them Dean heard the sound of sparrows flittering about and a strange cackling bird, which sounded like a cross between a jay and a crow, his cry a staccato. He heard fish, probably mullet, jumping, and he heard small, furry animals leaping from tree to tree, some on the ground. Then came a sudden snap of a twig, a sound usually made by the human animal. It made him wheel and stare once more into the dense green forests of pines, oak, and palms fighting for space at the river's edge. But he could see nothing remotely human in the landscape.
Sid tugged at his friend. “It's over, Dean ... the dogs ran him up on a gator and that's that."
"Yeah, sure ... I can believe that."
"To sleep at night, we both have to."
"A sobering thought. Let's get the hell out of these woods."
And so they did, returning to the house where the killers had feasted on death.
EPILOGUE
Some weeks later, Dean was back at his own lab in Chicago working on more routine matters when a package arrived from Florida. It had the rubber stamp of Sid's lab in the upper left-hand corner, and Dean ripped the small package open hastily, curious. He and Jackie had just finished opening Christmas packages a few days before, on New Year's Day, holding the celebration they'd missed on December 25 until then. Dean wondered if Sid was now playing Santa Claus. “Some sand, no doubt,” Dean told Sybil as she looked on. Sybil had done an excellent job of maintaining the pathology lab in Dean's absence, and Dean had spent the day alternately telling her so and filling her in on all the details of the scalping case in Orlando. Unlike Jackie, she was fascinated with all the gory details.
Dean lifted from the unwrapped box a small book, aged and crumbling, no thicker than the end of Dean's thumb, the pages a brownish-yellow. It seemed ready to fall apart. A note fell from the box as Dean slipped the delicate book from it. “What the hell is this?” he wondered aloud.
Sybil snatched up the note and handed it to her boss. “What's it say?"
Dean read it aloud. "Dean, thought you might like to see this. It was found beneath some boards in the old house the Bennimin boys used here in Florida as their headquarters. Light reading. When're you coming to Florida with Jackie just for the sights? Don't be a stranger." It was signed, "Sid."
Dean saw there was no title on the worn cloth cover, and he believed, from the look of it, that the title had simply worn away. Though he opened the cover carefully, pages pulled off the binding, breaking even with his light touch. He saw inside the title: Treatment, Curing and Preserving of Tissues.
It was an ancient textbook on taxidermy, used by the dwarf as a guide to his hideous taxidermy.
The book was so old that its author filled the pages with questionable, personal asides on skin and hair, speaking of hair as the source of vital strength and magic power, “for the life principle resides therein."
"Jesus," moaned Dean.
"What is it?"
"Listen to this,” said Dean, reading aloud: “Hair belongs to the element of earth, as it is a tangible; to the element of water, since it is free and flowing; to the element of fire, since it is fed from the furnace of the brain; and from the element of air, since it is light and can be blown by the wind."
"That's ... crazy."
"To you and me, yes ... but the way it reads to a madman? Ian Bennimin and his deformed twin, looking for answers? Apparently, there was more method to their madness than we knew."
"Method?"
"Listen to this. It—hair—is animal, since other animals also have hair; it is special to humans, since no animal has hair quite like a man's; it is vegetable, since it is parasitic, like a plant. Hair is both living, since it grows, and dead, since it is without sensibility. As such, it forms a link between this world and the next. It has its own life ... it grows more rapidly than anything else and continues to grow after the death of the body."
Dean thought of all the mythical and magical religions and superstitions surrounding hair, from the tonsure of monks to young virgins having to shave their heads in order to symbolically give their heads over to deities.
"God, I sure hope that alligator really did get this creep,” said Sybil.
"You and me both ... you and me both,” agreed Dean, putting down the book, feeling strange just holding it. Yet he was drawn back to it all day long.
Sybil began to regard him. It was that same look she'd shown when he'd first suspected wrongdoing in a little girl's “accidental” drowning in a Gary, Indiana quarry so many months ago. She looked at him as if he was not only strange, but unstable as well, and he didn't like the reaction he was getting from her. Yet the book drew him to it like a magnet.