Free Creepers by David Morrell Page A

it to halt his forward roll. Willie held tight until he stopped; then he turned and stared into the darkness, trying to discern what had stopped him.
    At first it looked like a pile of rags. Or a collection of shopping bags carried around by the crazies in the street. On closer inspection, Willie saw it was a body--a crumpled-up body with its head tucked down, knees drawn up to its chest in a gruesome imitation of a fetus. Willie's mouth filled with salty bile. He swallowed to keep back the fear. The body was clad in a Dogs of Hell jacket. And Willie knew that he'd found Ted Slade.
    "Don't move, you shithead," the cop screamed as he ground to a halt just behind Willie. "I'm gonna bust your ass, you crazy nigger." The cop's hateful eyes followed Willie's stare to the body by the tracks. "What the hell is that?"
    He stepped forward, but Willie caught him by the ankle and stopped him. "Stay away, you. That's one of my men."
    "What the hell are you talking about?" The cop kicked Willie's hand away.
    "I'm Willie Hoyte and that's one of my Dogs of Hell." He dragged himself up to face the cop. "I come down here lookin' for him. And now I found him."
    "You stay right there, mister," the cop commanded. He stepped around Willie and went to the body. He stared down at it a moment, deciding his next move; then, with the tip of his shoe angled under the corpse's elbow, he tipped it to its side. Rigor mortis had long since set in, and the body retained its infantile position as it rocked onto its back. The cop pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone it directly at Ted Slade's head; then he looked away in disgust and turned oft the light. But not fast enough. Not before Willie saw his friend and began screaming.
    Ted Slade's face was gone.

    September 5
    Wednesday

    Chapter 4
    Corelli's footsteps made dull, thudding sounds as he walked mechanically down the subterranean corridor of New York Mercy Hospital toward its morgue. He remembered those lifeless footsteps; it could have been five years before, when he'd come here to identify Jean's body. The presence of Death in this part of the hospital, its absolute supremacy over the living, pulled any joy from anyone who entered the precincts. Voices grew muted, smiles quivered on nervous lips, then faded, and gestures became self-conscious.
    That was how it seemed to Corelli, at any rate. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he'd already lost too much down here to react any other way. One thing was for sure: he hated being here.
    The report of Willie Hoyte's arrest and the discovery of Slade's body was filed while Corelli was off-duty the night before. He hadn't read it until that morning, but five minutes later he was out of the office and on his way uptown to talk to a Mercy Hospital pathologist about Slade. Quinn was covering at the office for Frank, but it was no good this time. Dolchik was downtown on some official business, and the minute he got back and discovered Corelli was AWOL again, the shit would hit the fan.
    In the meantime, Corelli returned the missing-persons file--after making a copy--and now had a couple of hours' leeway before the captain's return to do some investigating on his own. Hoyte's statement last night indicated that Slade had disappeared into the subway two, three days before. At least he seemed convinced that's where he'd gone. Corelli knew this might just be coincidence, but his gut feeling was that the late Mr. Ted Slade was the most recent victim of the same person or persons who had grabbed Lisa Hill. And Penny Comstock.
    Corelli sharply turned a corner and was confronted with an unmarked gray door at the end of the corridor. He fought the urge to turn and run out of the hospital without looking back; but the only indication of his emotional turmoil was a tenseness of the muscles along his jaw. Coolheadedness in a crisis was one of the traits that made Frank Corelli a good cop. He paused a minute, then opened the door. He was immediately assailed by a sickly-sweet