Robert Walker - Scalpers

No, she couldn't just go home to an empty house and stay wide-eyed for ten hours, staring at the ceiling. Neither sex nor food nor any other band-aid solution was workable any longer. Nothing could stop the hurt but vengeance, vengeance for all those who had agonizingly died at the hands of butchers working over them while they remained alive. After seeing, really seeing, the truth, there was now no varnishing it or hiding from it. If she didn't take action, another black child would be dead tonight.

She had prior knowledge of Park's address, an apartment building near the bustling intersection of 436 and Interstate 4. The apartment complex was laid out like a Holiday Inn, a low-lying, rambling structure, wrapped around by a twisting parking lot filled with cars of every size and make. One of them she passed looked like Park's. He must be here. A confrontation was quite likely.

She pulled up to his door quietly and parked. Unsure what her next move might be, she tucked the .45 into her belt at the spine and unlatched the holster on her hip to free up the .38, opting to leave the shotgun on its rack. In a moment she was at Park's door, trying to see through the curtains into the dark interior. When she drove up she'd thought there was a light on, but not now. She rapped once, twice, three times and got no answer. She could've been mistaken about the light, but maybe not She knocked loudly again.

When it was obvious no one was going to answer, she determined the direction of the manager's office. The easiest way to gain entry was to flash her badge and “badger” the night manager into opening Park's door. It would be illegal entry, and anything she might gain from the process would be inadmissible in a court of law, but she had to know if Grant was right about Park or not ... and if he was right, perhaps she'd find a way to bypass the courts.

She turned to see a woman in an agitated state coming toward her, asking, “Can I help you, officer? What's the problem?” Keys jangled from a loop in the woman's jeans. The night man had turned out to be a woman.

"I need a key to this unit."

"Is there something wrong?"

"Possibly—and possibly just a false alarm. Got a call about a disturbance."

"Not from me, you didn't.” She began to bang on the door without result, calling out, “Mr. Park? You in there?"

"Please ma'am, the key,” said Peggy, taking out her long-barreled .45 as it was beginning to irritate her back anyway. “Or do I blow off the lock?"

The woman's eyes grew fearful at the sight of the gun. “All right ... all right.” She unhinged the key for Peggy and backed off, asking, “You want I should call the owner ... or anyone?"

"Not at this time. It could be a false alarm, ma'am."

"I'm going back to the office,” she muttered. “No one inside there anyway."

Peggy wasn't so sure and she was sweating badly enough to tear away the bandage over her forehead, revealing the still healing and stitched scar put there by the scalper. She took a minute to return to the unit and snatch out the shotgun, just in case.

Had he seen her pull up? she wondered. Was he inside, pretending not to be? She imagined him pressed against the other side of the door. On entering, he planned to jump her.

"Lt. Park!” she said through the door, “Open up, it's ... it's Officer Carson. I have to talk to you."

Still no answer.

She listened for sounds, breathing, anything. Someone peeked out the door next to Park's, curious, taking a good, long look at Peggy, who by now knew that whatever went down, she was not going to get through it gracefully and unseen.

"I don't think he's in,” said the neighbor. “He's a cop, works a lot of hours ... guess you know that...."

"Yeah, well ... thank you, sir ... I do know that. Tell me, does he live alone?"

"Never seen a woman with him, if that's what you mean."

"Ever see a man with him?"

"Yeah, on occasion, but I never gave it much thought. Why you asking?"

"Ever see a dwarf or a midget with him?"

"Hey, I don't think he's that kinky.” The neighbor laughed and closed his door.

Peggy inserted the key, taking in a deep breath of air. The door cracked, and she saw only a gaping black hole before her, and inside that hole anything might lurk. She reached along the wall for the light switch, her hand shaky. She felt like a little girl again, sleeping just off the floor, afraid to let her hand over the edge of the bed for fear of a rat she'd once seen larking there. She expected a meat cleaver to take her hand off at the wrist if she didn't immediately withdraw it. Then her fingers found the switch and a light went on.

The room was thrown into a dreary, shadowy pall, the single lamp on the switch far in a corner and covered with a god-awful green shade. The wall paper was an ugly dark montage of blades of grass or leaves with an occasional pink flower. The carpet was an institutional green shag that looked infested. All in all, whatever Park was paying for the place, it wasn't worth it.

Peggy found another light switch and this brightened the room a bit more, and she saw that it was a single bedroom with a small fridge and stove perched on a linoleum section of floor. She imagined that Park ate out a lot. But she hadn't time for wondering, she knew. She must search the place as quickly and cleanly as possible and get the hell out.

She began with a suitcase that had been set aside, and she was a bit fearful of its contents. She'd seen the movie Magic, and more than anything the thought of dummies and dolls coming to life to kill people sent shivers up her spine. If the dwarf were just that, hell, he could very well be inside the damned suitcase. She knew her thoughts were childish, but she'd seen the hairy dwarf, and he, or it, had not looked quite human. She pulled back the lid slowly, cautiously, her sense of touch registering the fact long before her eyes that the case was completely empty. Park must then have placed his things into the drawers to her right.

Peggy began a search there, stopping when she came to a paper notebook with pockets crammed with newspaper clippings, stories of scalping murders which had taken place in Montana, Idaho, Iowa, and Michigan. Most of the stories were photocopies, except for the Michigan ones. Peggy unknowingly staggered to the bed and sat down, her eyes and mind entirely focused on the evidence against Park.

Her mind became like a vacuum, taking in all the photos and headlines at once. She did not hear the noise in the rooms on either side of her any longer. She didn't worry herself with the possibility that Park might enter at any moment. She didn't hear the soft step of a man in expensive loafers as he peered from the blackness of the bath not four feet away, holding his breath, nor the dwarf who stood on the body that lay prone in the tub.

The man in the tub had the dwarf's large hunting knife plunged in his heart. They'd done their work and had been getting ready to leave when Peggy Carson arrived. It was only through sheer luck, the dark carpeting and the shadows of the place that she had not seen the splat of blood where the pair of brothers had dispatched Lt. David Park. This killing was not for hair, or scalp, or skin. This one had been for safety's sake, because Park, above all others, had tenaciously chased them across the country, never giving up, like a hound on a scent. This plan had been hatched by Ian and approved by Van.

The unexpected entry of Peggy Carson posed a new wrinkle.

Ian saw that she was absorbed in what she was reading, material they must turn to their own use and benefit now.

He stepped out silently, in slow-motion time, realizing she was armed and dangerous, as she had proven before, realizing also that it would be a struggle to keep Van from slicing her forehead and scalp where Ian had begun before, that he would want to finish the job started. But Ian had a far more fetching and possibly rewarding plan for Peggy Carson and the police, a plan that would screen Ian and Van long enough to get the baby scalp that Ian wanted before they must rush from this area where too much of their activity had come to light.