"Mock the Devil If You Will"
May. 13th, 2022 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Mock the Devil If You Dare"
3/24-3/30/1994
I.
Without touching the wrought iron handrail, Jeremy Bane trotted to the bottom of the eighty steps to the outside gazebo. In his late thirties, he was in peak condition, lean and muscular at six feet and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Dressed all in black as usual including his trademark turtleneck and sport jacket, he looked even thinner than he was. Reaching the bottom step, he stepped onto the paved platform that held an elegant marble gazebo with a gorgeous view of the Hudson River one hundred feet further down.
This late in March, all of the snow was gone except in shaded areas. The wooded slopes leading down to the river were green and alive in the afternoon sun. The air was crisp and fresh. All of this was unfortunately lost on Bane, who was such a city boy that he hardly noticed the stunning vista. Beneath heavy black brows, the pale grey eyes were alert and grim. The old man who had been relaxing on a bench within the gazebo gingerly rose to greet him.
"Ah, Mr Bane!" said Wellman Van Etten. "So good of you to come all the way up here." Van Etten was seventy, Bane knew, but slim and well-preserved. In his tailored dark blue suit and red tie, he leaned a bit on an elegant ebony cane with a silver cap. Van Etten's crisp white hair came down in a sharp widow's peak and his deepset green eyes were bright over a hawklike predatory nose. The hand he offered for Bane to shake a warm dry clasp.
"It's time we met anyway," said the Dire Wolf. "I read your book on serial killers almost without stopping. You really seem to be able to get into their heads."
"Thank you again. SINISTER COMPULSION took years to write. Please, have a seat. My legs are bothering me for some reason today." Van Etten lowered himself to the bench which ran around the inside the gazebo and gestured for Bane to sit where they could both watch the Hudson sparkling in the sunlight. "That's better. I'm gratified you found my book worth reading. From what I understand, you have had considerable experience with serial killers yourself."
"I've nabbed a few," the Dire Wolf admitted. He was watching a hawk circling high overhead. "Of course, I'm not much for theory. I don't have a Masters in Criminology the way you do, Mr Van Etten."
A thin hand waved dismissingly. "I'd be happy if you called me Wellman and I could address you as Jeremy. We are colleagues in a way. You have quite the record for someone so young. Samhain, Golgora, Seneca. the Slaughterman... I'd include Seth Petrov in your catches but he doesn't fit the criteria for a genuine serial killer. Wicked though he may be."
Bane regarded the old man thoughtfully. "Right now, I'm interested in the three murders that have taken place since February. This is confidential, but the State District Attorney asked me to investigate... unofficially and off the record. Local newspapers and TV stations are really playing up the killings. The public is getting worked up, which is why the guys in charge called me."
"Yes, yes," Van Etten said. His hands had wrinkles on the back but the fingers were not gnarled as yet. "Of course, I have been following the details. The victims don't seem to have anything in common. A gastric surgeon, a chef at the Culinary Institute and a retarded man who was working cleaning yards. Excuse me, we don't say 'retarded' anymore, do we? Well, whatever the accepted description is. Aside from them all living within the general area, one might think the murders are unrelated."
"I think there IS something linking them, we just haven't spotted it yet. And we need to figure it out before someone else gets it." Bane turned those pale eyes on Van Etten as if memorizing every detail of the man's appearance. "You were an expert on Roland, weren't you? He's worked in the Hyde Park area."
"Oh, Roland. Heavens. That fiend has not been heard from in well over a year," Van Etten sighed. "From what I've gathered, though, Roland did not have the characteristics of a serial killer. Not in a clinical sense. His killings seemed to be coldly determined to help attain a position within organized crime. Many of the men he murdered later turned out to be mob lawyers or smugglers or enforcers, mostly further south in the Newburgh area. I don't see where this has the Roland stamp on it."
"He did claim a huge number of victims, though," Bane insisted. "There were three incidents of mass slaughter with more than a dozen men dead... and these were not harmless civilians but hardened gunmen who were armed and ready for him. I thought a few times of getting on Roland's trail myself."
"You might have had your hands full. With all due respect, young man, I know you are a formidable opponent. But Roland... dear me, he's spoken of as if he were a genuine devil. His weapon of choice seems to be only a sword blade of some sort and yet he has taken on a roomful of gangsters holding semi-automatics. Maybe it's best that he seems to be dead or retired."
Bane repressed a snort. Keeping up polite chat was a strain for his blunt nature at the best of times. "We'd find out. I still want to close the file on Roland one way or another. But you don't think he's behind these recent killings?"
"I find it very doubtful. Shall we meet for dinner tomorrow evening, Jeremy? Say, at eight? I'm expecting a few friends and we can discuss developments further." Van Etten pried himself up from the bench, leaning on his cane and holding the railing of the gazebo with his free hand. "My cook has mentioned veal and he has never disappointed."
"All right. Thanks." The Dire Wolf glanced up at the hundred-year-old mansion atop the hill. He had thought at first it was a resort of some sort. "Thanks. I'll be back. Are you going to have trouble getting up all those steps, sir?"
Van Etten sighed. "Honestly, that's why I'll wait until you're gone before I begin my own ascent. I have to pause and rest a few times on the way up. Old age is a thief, Jeremy. It steals from your body without your even realizing it at first."
Heading for the bottommost step, Bane paused and turned his head back over one shoulder to scrutinize his host. "If not Roland, is there someone else you suspect is our killer?"
"Oh yes. I'm torn between acute interest and genuine fear at the thought, but there is one notorious predator who seems a likely candidate. A more vile brute than even Roland. I believe you've already clashed with him more than once."
A hard edge came into the Dire Wolf's voice. "SAMHAIN...."
II.
The medication seemed to do nothing. Neither did the frequent attempts at naps during the day, where he lay miserable on his bed with a washcloth over his eyes to blot out the light. Billy was still groggy and lethargic all day and night, aching to be either fully asleep or fully awake but instead stumbling around in a dim twilight fog. When he did fall asleep, it was without warning. For a few seconds or up to an hour, he just dropped off wherever he was and passed into deep slumber despite any attempts to roust him.
Billy Campbell had not dared to drive for weeks, and he wondered if paying off his car was worth it anymore. Maybe he would have to rely on asking his cousin Alan to drive him around or keep using taxis as he had been doing. The first disability check had arrived and it was pitiful. He wouldn't be able to keep this house on it, even cutting all expenses, and he had twenty years to go before he qualified for Social Security.
Sunk in immense depression, he glanced up to see the TV was still on with the sound muted, and regular programs had given way to half-hour informercials selling junk. Billy stretched out his wrist and saw his watch read 3:21. AM, of course, but what did it matter to him? He thought of making a sandwich but he wasn't hungry and it seemed like such an effort when he was bone-deep weary like this.
Now he thought he understood why old people sometimes wished for death. Just to get it all over with. Was this all he had to look forward to? He kept reading articles about promising new treatments for narcolepsy but these miracle cures never seemed to quite pan out.
A vast yawn came up from the bottom of his lungs and he stretched his mouth open until his jaws cracked. He had already rejected the idea of suicide. It just wasn't his nature, part of him thought that some form of deliverance would have to come.
...Where was that cold air coming from? Billy sat up on his couch and twisted around. Had he left the back door not quite closed so that the wind had swung it open? There was a definite draft. He stretched and braced his arms to push himself up. Maybe some fresh air would help, though. With a shock of the unexpected, Billy felt a strong hand clamp down from behind over his mouth. He was shoved down again. Heart pounding, he reached up to try to pray the hand away but something hard smacked down on the top of his head with brutal force. The pain was all he could think about.
The man behind him came around into view without releasing his grip on Billy's mouth. He was a thin, ominous figure in a snug dark red jumpsuit complete with gloves that showed not a bit of skin. The intruder was wearing a full-head mask with only two white slits for eyes... and, strangest of all, the mask had large demonic ears that rose to sharp points almost up at the crown.
In his other hand, the masked man brandished a black walking stick with an eight-inch stainless steel blade protruding from its end. The monster twirled the weapon insolently, holding Billy helpless with just that powerful grip and with the implied threat of that gleaming blade.
Despite his panic, his racing heartbeat, Billy remembered where he had heard a description of such a bizarre figure. A sole survivor of a gangland massacre, badly hacked but still alive for the next day, had told the police what Roland looked like. This was Roland! Here, holding him down and waving the infamous sword blade right near his face.
"I've read your file," said the notorious killer in a mellow, cultured voice. "How very unfortunate your life has been, my boy, but we all have to play the cards we're dealt." With that, he thrust the sword blade forward to sink inches deep in Billy Campbell's chest. There was a single convulsion from the dying man. Roland removed his hand an instant before bright arterial blood spouted from Billy's open mouth.
"Oh, that was uncalled for," the killer chuckled. "Did you decide in your final moment that you might at least make a mess on my suit? How spiteful. Tut, tut." Roland slid the sword blade out and cleaned it throughly on Billy's T-shirt. He took his time and examined it under the light on the end table before twisting the cap on the end so that the blade retracted out of sight.
"All too easy," the masked murderer said out loud. He twirled the black cane and tucked it up under one arm with a flourish. "Still, it had to be done. Rest well...Sleepy."
III.
Just before noon the next day, Bane was being escorted back to his car by Police Detective Grierson and a uniformed officer. The small red brick house at the end of South Willow Lane was closed off with the usual yellow tape bearing black-lettered warnings, and a squad car discouraged any approach by curious citizens. For the past forty minutes, the Dire Wolf had been allowed to stand just inside the crime scene, looking but warned not to touch anything. Billy Campbell's body had been taken away in an ambulance and the forensic team had taken enough samples and photographs to keep them busy. Bane had simply stood and looked around and thought.
Walking up to where his dark green Mustang was parked at the curb, the Dire Wolf swung around to look back at the house. "William John Campbell, age forty-three, good job with the Highway Department but out on disability because of narcolepsy. Never married, no children, he did have an ex-girlfriend who had lived with him for years but she's in Ohio now..."
"Yeah," said the Detective quietly. "I met Billy a few times. I didn't know him well, but he seemed like a mild, inoffensive guy who always talked about local bands. Here he is, found by his cousin when he didn't answer the phone all morning."
Bane's pale eyes were narrowed and introspective. "Narcolepsy, eh? I understand that's a rare medical condition. Evidently, it was bad enough that he couldn't work."
Grierson folded his arm arms across a barrel chest and nodded. "Awful to have, from what I can see, Billy might just fall asleep wherever he was, even on a busy sidewalk or behind the wheel. But at the same time he couldn't get a decent's night sleep to save him life. He was always just drowsy."
"I see," Bane said distractedly. As always, he was wearing what amounted to his uniform in the Midnight War, black slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket. Even in the noon sunlight, there was something ominous about him. "Thank you for your co-operation, Detective. I'm sure you didn't enjoy being told that a PI from Manhattan like me was being brought in to poke around."
"Aw hell," shrugged Grierson. "The Chief gave us a briefing about you. To be honest, I've heard stories about you for years. You're not one of those so-called experts who gets in the way and tries to take all the credit. Anyone who can tackle freaks like Golgora or Seneca is okay in my book."
"I do my best," Bane replied. He placed a hand on the fender of his Mustang, readying to swing around to the driver's side but paused. "All of the earlier victims had medical problems, right? One had brain damage from a childhood fever and one had developed COPD from a lifetime of smoking?"
"That's right," Grierson said. "Good old Jim Hurst was simple, folks let him do odd jobs like yard work so he felt useful. He was harmless enough but once he started chatting, it was hard to get away from him. Dr Benjamin Vernon was a surgeon specializing in feet, reconstructive work mostly. He was getting to the point with his breathing where he needed oxygen at night but, like you said, he'd been a two-pack-a-day man most of his life."
"Third one, the student at the Culinary Institute?"
"Yeah, Rachel Stoudemire, only twenty years old. The investigation showed she had bad allergies, hay fever so severe she had missed too many classes. She was on the edge of being dismissed from the Institute. That poor girl, clubbed over the head in the driveway of her parent's house one night..."
"And now this victim, with that narcolepsy condition...."
"We've thought of that," Detective Grierson admitted. "Of course, you always look for common factors in any series of homicides and these three sure don't seem to have anything else tying them together. They never even met, as far as we can find, shared no acquaintances, didn't even shop at the same supermarkets."
Bane crossed around and opened his driver's side door, watching the traffic rush by as if expecting an ambush at any second. A life in the Midnight War had left him constantly wary. "I'll be looking into all this, but I've been told to be discreet. Hyde Park is a quiet town and the Town Supervisor doesn't relish an uproar about a serial killer loose. He's unhappy there has been this much of an uproar. I'll be in touch, Detective."
"You do that," Grierson said. With an upraised hand in a sort of polite quasi-salute, he swung around back toward the crime scene with the officer following him. Bane eased out onto Willow Lane, swung left at the next intersection and headed back to where he had been staying.
From what he could see, Hyde Park was a rather ritzy upper-class town. He had gone past the Franklin Roosevelt Historic Site on his way up Route 9 from New York City, and he knew the Vanderbilt estate was nearby, as well as a dozen other near-palaces from the multi-millionaires of a century earlier. Every house he drove past was impressive and every lawn immaculately tended behind their low stone walls. Even the shops and restaurants in the center of town looked dignified and expensive.
Yet, in two months, there had been these four violent deaths, all unexplained and leaving the possibility of more impending. Bane pulled into the parking lot of a Walgreens Pharmacy, turned off his engine and sank deeply into thought. He pictured a map of the area and drew mental lines between the places where the murders had occured. He redrew the lines in different ways but saw no discernible pattern connectin them. He thought about the dates, but there was no help there either. The killings did not take place on the same day of the week or the same phase of the moon or with a set period between them.
As far as the police could determine, there was no sexual element involved. The bodies had been left unmolested after death. No trophies had been taken, no locks of hair or underwear and even personal possessions. All of these omissions meant that they were not dealing with a typical serial killer.
Bane did not realize how fiercely he was scowling as he sat behind the wheel. In his experience, the chronic killers who acted without obsessive compulsion were incredibly dangerous because they were hard to predict. He had only known a few. Samhain came to mind first, of course, but he wanted to know more about Roland. Bane had never crossed paths with the 'Devil of the Valley,' and he needed to learn more about the man.
Then there was Wellman Van Etten. Something about that old man...
Unclipping the Link from his belt, the Dire Wolf patched into regular phone systems and called a number he knew well down in Manhattan. An instant later, a raspy voice answered "Citywide Investigations, how can we help you?"
"Artie? It's me."
"OH hi, Mr Bane! What's up?" asked Artie Rosen, with the sound of rustling papers in the background as he apparently was getting settled.
"I'm up in Hyde Park, investigating those murders we talked about. There was a fourth one last night." Bane filled Artie in on the details, trusting the veteran detective to maintain their long-established arrangement of secrecy.
"I'm on the other line," came Sam's voice with its strong Brooklyn accent.
When he had both cousins up to date, Bane asked, "I understood you boys just finished a blackmail case?"
"Yeah, it was lucrative but boring," said Artie. "The suspect confessed everything as soon as a cop showed up in his office. Guy simply did not have the right temprament for crime. So... we're both available if you need anything, Mr Bane?"
"Glad to hear that. Listen, I want to put both of you on a case with the usual fee and expense account. Dig up whatever you can about a bird named Wellman Van Etten. I know he managed real estate holdings in all Five Boroughs before moving West to be a writer. Look for any pieces that stick up out of the jigsaw puzzle, as you usually describe it. And get back to me."
"We're on it as of this minute, sir," Sam's voice broke in. "That name sure sounds familiar. He comes from one of those rich rich rich families, I believe."
"Fine," Bane said. "But listen. Artie, Sam... be armed and on your toes. There have been four murders so far and I'm not sure what connection Van Etten has with them, if any. Act as if you can expect Samhain to pop up at any second."
"Samhain..! Jeez, Jeremy," Artie gulped. "Every time I hear that name, I need clean underwear."
"Be careful. Don't take unnecessary chances if you think you're getting into a dangerous spot," the Dire Wolf said. "I want information to work with, but it's not worth your lives. Understood?"
"You got it. We'll be checking in as soon as we dig up dirt."
"Thanks." Bane broke the connection and leaned back in the driver seat, then lapsed back into motionless brooding. He hated the feeling that he was overlooking something that would clear everything up....
IV.
Much of the previous day had been spent at Town Hall, discussing the crimes with those officers were were available and then poring over the reports in a closed conference room. Even though he was not allowed to make copies or even take notes, the fact that Bane was given permission to read the crime scene reports at all was remarkable. It was only his history of capturing the most formidable murderer of recent times that led to him receiving such unprecedented cooperation. He did not know it, but the Governor's office had phoned the Town Supervisor and directed that the Dire Wolf be helped as much as possible.
By four, he thanked everyone and was back on the road. Odd as it sounded, he found it suggestive that each victim had been killed in a different way. Clubbed over the head, drowned in a sink, strangled with a television cord and now, the latest one, stabbed through the chest. The variety of the methods convinced Bane that there was a single killer at work, trying to make it seem as if the murders had been done by different people.
Samhain was like that, Bane remembered. The unkillable killer liked to try bizarre and colorful methods on his victims. Samhain was not driven by some deep compulsion, he simply enjoyed murder for its own sake and saw it as a game where he sometimes deliberately left clues just bold enough for the police to notice. It was only this most recent crime, the death of the man with narcolepsy, that the weapon used had been a thin long blade which was a Roland trademark but that could be coincidence. It wasn't a rare choice of weapon. The rest of these killings had nothing in common with the usual Roland modus.
When he had arrived the previous morning, Bane had checked into the WEISHAUPT, an imposing hotel in the center of town. He had been fortunate enough to find a suite available on the second floor; although he did not mention it at the desk of course, he wanted to be sure he could climb out a window and drop to the parking lot within reach of his car. This was a reason he normally stayed at cheap motels located on the highway, but in this case he had felt it was important to be at a central point of the activity. As he approached the WEISHAUPT, the Dire Wolf happened to spot an upscale men's shop and mentally cursed. He had not forgotten dinner with Wellman Van Etten that evening, but he had only packed his usual outfits of black turtleneck and sport jackets. Bane found a parking spot nearby and went in.
The next hour was painfully expensive as Bane was fitted for a suit of conservative cut with a vest, white silk shirt and thin black tie. He was thin enough that no real alterations were necessary, although the tailors there tried to talk him into having the suit recut for him. There wasn't enough time for that, he insisted, and changed back into his regular clothes to take the suit with him. At his suite at the WEISHAUPT, the Dire Wolf reflected sourly that he was spending more than usual on this case. Not that it mattered. Bane didn't live like a millionaire but he was one; Kenneth Dred had left him a fortune and, over the years, Bane had added to it with loot claimed from fallen enemies. He could have purchased the WEISHAUPT if he had wanted to, but the poverty of his early years kept him grounded to where he seldom indulged in any luxuries.
In his rooms, the Dire Wolf glanced again at his watch. This sort of thing ate into time that should be spent investigating. After jamming rubber wedges in the door and the windows to ensure no one was going to sneak in with a pass key, Bane stripped down, took a steaming hot shower and shaved closely. Roughly drying himself with a towel, he was a startling sight with zero body fight and long sleek muscles that stood out with sharp definition. He looked like a marathon runner. Bane tugged on what seemed to be a tight bodysuit of dark silk but which was actually flexible Trom armor which could deflect high-powered rifle fire. The armor had saved his life many times over the years.
The matched silver daggers were strapped to his forearms. He never let them get out reach if he could help it. Bane would give up everything else he owned the world, the building on 38th Street, the CORBY helicopters, Hawk Island, everything, before he could part with those daggers. The blades were Ensalir, pure silver ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin. Few creatures of the night could survive their edge. Now, putting on the black dress slacks, white shirt and vest, Bane frowned as he debated how many gadgets he could take with him.
His normal outfits had more than a dozen concealed pockets and slits in which he usually carried a variety of useful gimmicks. But this suit was not like that. The Dire Wolf thought it over. He clipped the Link to his belt; to a civilian, the advanced device would look like some sort of pager. His keys and ID billfold and wallet were normal enough. But he saw no way he could carry the dazzler grenades or the anesthetic darts or the lockpick tools without being obvious. One or two of the gadgets were tiny enough that he could conceal them, like the flexible hacksaw blade that he fastened on the underside of the jacket's lapel, but most of his arsenal would have to be left behind.
Without hesitation, he threaded the holster for his gun through his belt so it rested at his left side. He examined the long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 thoroughly under a desk light, worked the mechanism, verified the hammer was resting on an empty chamber and slid it into the holster. It might show a little as he moved around, but then he WAS a licensed PI who might be expected to go armed and he did have a concealed carry permit. Bane had no intention of leaving the weapon behind, tonight might be a desperate confrontation with a dangerous adversary. Putting on the highly polish dress shoes which pinched, the Dire Wolf scowled at himself in the full-length mirror by the door to the hall.
Just as he kicked away the rubber wedge and reached for the doorknob, the Link beeped twice. He took the call eagerly, "Yeah? Artie? Sam?"
"It's Sam, Mr Bane," rasped the familiar voice. "We been diggin' all day separately and we're combining what we found now. That IS Wellman Van Etten there in Hyde Park. He was living in California the past thirty years after a family feud but four years ago, he came back to claim the estate after the only other living relative crossed over. Everything we found backs up Van Etten. He's seventy-one with a knee replacement scheduled for this summer. Never goes anywhere without a cane. Van Etten is known to be, I quote, 'an acerbic wit who punctures the pomposity of his class,' whatever that means. He's got a good reputation as an expert of serial killers past and present, been on a few TV shows and such."
"Thanks," Bane said. "Any connection with Samhain?"
"Nah, just a single chapter on that monster in one book. Van Etten seems to sorta admire Roland, though... he's written tons about Roland with barely-hidden admiration. Calls him 'the answer to society's approval for slackness.' Oh, one funny thing. When Van Etten was supposed to move back to the family estate, he disappeared for two days. Just showed up late and dismissed any questions. That mean anything?"
"It might," answered the Dire Wolf quietly. "Do me a favor, Sam. I want you and Artie to stay on the job. Keep digging. Start with the assumption that Van Etten has some deep dark secret and you just have to find it. Okay?"
"Sure thing, Mr Bane. I wanna ask, though, what's with all the mentions of Samhain?! That damn name makes me shiver like I got ice water poured down my back."
Bane tried to soften his tone. "I don't know for sure that Samhain is involved in these killings but they sure seem to fit his usual MO. Murders where the victims have something in common that's not immediately obvious, teasing the police.. and me. In any case, you're a hundred miles south of here and if anyone gets to tackle Samhain, I'll be the lucky one."
"Yeah, well...." the older detective's voice trailed off. "Honestly, if anybody can smack that maniac around, Mr Bane, it's you. Be careful, please!"
"Don't worry, I'll be on my toes. Report back if you two find anything else, Sam." Bane broke off the connection, returned the Link to his belt and went out the door into the maroon-carpeted hallway. The prospect of facing a dinner party crammed with rich snobs alarmed him more than busting up a secret cult of warlocks or warren of ghouls would have.
V.
It was one of the more uncomfortable evenings Bane could remember getting through. In a high-ceilinged dining room with dark mahogany walls, under a gleaming crystal chandelier ablaze with twenty lights, he sat at a table so long that he could barely make out what was going on at the other end. The fine china plates and bowls were filled by silent servants in old-fashioned livery. At least the food was plentiful, Bane had to admit. The enhanced metabolism which gave him his extra speed also kept him constantly ravenous. He took advantage of the situation to leave no scrap uneaten. The servants didn't even blink but simply kept bringing him more. After some soup, garlic bread and large salad with freshly made dressing, the main entree was Veal Involtini with Prosciutto and Parmesan. Trying to be fair, Bane admitted it was certainly better than the cold ham and cheese subs he usually scarfed down on the run.
The Dire Wolf found himself down toward the far end of the table, seated between a quiet old dowager who chewed every mouthful thoroughly and washed every mouthful down with a generous swig of the chablis. She had barely spoken to him, but the guest on his right was more interesting. Colonel Oliver Sweeney had said he was retired and seemed intensely interested in the series of murders that had been going on in the area. What was more, he was remarkably well informed. Everything he said about Samhain and other infamous killers was accurate as far as Bane could tell.
At the far end of the table, immaculate in a tailored dinner jacket and black tie, Wellman Van Etten was evidently making remarks that caused his nearby guests to explode in laughter every few minutes. Bane had barely gotten to say hello to his host before everyone had been seated and the dinner launched underway. He watched Van Etten critically. For someone seventy-one and afflicted with arthritis, the man certainly seemed relaxed and pain-free. Aside from wincing as he sat down, Van Etten handled his cutlery with ease.
The Colonel to his right was going on about the famous 'theme killings' which Samhain had committed. There had been the so-called 'White House murders' where Samhain had chosen as victims men with the same last names as less well-known US Presidents like Buchanan, Hayes and Fillmore. When Bane asked him about the current sequence, Colonel Sweeney laughed and said any dwarfs in the area should be alert.
At that moment, Van Etten rose, propping himself up with one hand on the arm of his handcarved oak chair, and made a short speech about how pleasant a time he was having. He proposed a toast to long life and happiness. Some fool cried out "To our wives and sweetehearts--and may they never meet!" There was a polite ripple of amusement, and everyone raised their wine glasses.
As the moment passed, Bane suddenly saw the light. At that point, the servants were removing the plates and bringing in dishes of home-made ice cream with hot fudge sauce and melon slices. Bane pushed his chair back, muttered polite phrases to the guests on either side of him, and strode quickly from the room. He caught a brief glimpse of Wellman Van Etten watching him leave and the old man's face had an expression of sardonic glee for some reason. No time for that now.
In the front hall, two footmen held the door for him. One began to ask if anything was the matter but the Dire Wolf was already trotting across the paved drive to where his Mustang had been parked by a valet. As he dove in behind the wheel and rushed away toward the main highway, he thought he had been casually given a key to what had been puzzling him.
As he rushed back toward the WEISHAUPT, Bane unclipped his Link from his belt and patched into the Verizon network. This was years before cell phones became common, and there was no law about speaking into a device while driving. He rousted Sam and Artie at their apartment in Queens. At nine-fifteen, both men were still up.
"Yeah, hi, Mr Bane," came Artie's voice. "What's up?"
"I need the name of the Seven Dwarfs right away."
"Wait, what? Are you feeling okay, sir?"
"This is serious, Artie. Give me the names."
"You never seen SNOW WHITE--?"
"No!" snapped the Dire Wolf. "I don't watch movies or TV. You guys know that about me. Come on, give me the names."
"Sure. Let's see, there's Doc. Dopey. Sneezy. Bashful. How many is that?"
"Four," said Bane.
"Ummm. Sleepy. Oh, Grumpy, the one who was always mad. One more. Wait. Happy, he's the one I could never remember."
Bane repeated, "Doc, Dope, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, Grumpy and Happy. Seven. Thanks, Artie."
"So what exactly made you think of this, Mr Bane?"
"It's the key to Samhain's killings. Think about it. Thanks." Bane clicked off and returned the Link to his belt. Part of his mind caught suspicion about how he had just happened to be seated next to a guest who had given him the needed clue. Was Colonel Sweeney a stooge working for someone? Who? Samhain wouldn't want his game given away. Who else was in this game? Maybe Van Etten was playing mind tricks, giving Bane an obvious target to chase but why would he want that?
Tearing along south, the Dire Wolf reflected sourly on the many blind spots in his knowledge. He had always been too restless to sit through a single movie or watch a TV episode. His mind was just too keyed up all the time. In the same way, he never read fiction. Many references baffled him that anyone else would catch immediately. The murders were tied to these so-called Seven Dwarf. 'Doc' was the surgeon, 'Sneezy' was the coed with allergies and 'Dopey' had been the brain-damaged man. Last night, the man with narcolepsy had been slaughtered because he fit the tag 'Sleepy.'
That left three. Three more victims who didn't even know they were being set up to die.
Just outside Poughkeepsie, Bane skidded into the parking lot of the Vassar Brothers Medical Center. It was well after visiting hours so he rushed through the Emergency Room doors. For the next two hours, Bane made an unbearable nuisance of himself. Bulldozing all resistance by sheer force of personality and urgency, showing his credentials with both the DOJ's Mandate and the FBI's Department 21 Black, he interrogated and harassed doctors and nurses. Against all protocols, he browbeat them into looking up records. He forced them to dig in their own memories, tired and overworked as they were. Bane had a confident, assertive personality that tended to simply take over in most situations and he applied it to the fullest now.
Eventually, he dragged from them a few names of patients with severe conditions that might possibly match what he was looking for. At this point, the police had been called but the officers were conflicted between enforcing hospital policy and their own orders to cooperate with this strange investigator from the city. They had even phoned the local FBI office and were surprised to be receive instructions from a director in Washington to help Bane within reason. When Bane was satisfied, he gruffly thanked everyone and raced back out into the parking lot. The hospital staff buzzed with speculation and outrage for weeks afterward.
Back on the street, the Dire Wolf sped back in the direction from which he had come. His mind was racing to digest all the information he had just wrested from the hospital staff. There were three possible targets for the killer, Bane had to decide which was most likely. He wished Sam and Artie were up here on the case. Needing a few minutes to think, he pulled over on a dark side street. It was almost midnight. At times like this, he really missed his KDF team. More and more, he had been considering recruiting new members and starting a Second Team. But there was no time for that now.
Finally, Bane decided he had to go with his instincts. Blake Whitcomb, the woman with severe social anxiety, fit the role most clearly and she lived closest of the three. The other two resided almost an hour away and Bane thought Samhain would want to keep his activities in a tight pattern for the added drama. He had studied maps of the area before driving up here the day before and he knew where Blue Jay Lane was. The Dire Wolf made two right turns and headed away from Poughkeepsie back toward the town of Hyde Park itself. He thought about stopping at his hotel to get the rest of his gear but all of his instincts warned him that time was short.
Blue Jay Lane turned out to be a country road lined with forest on both sides, houses being spaced well apart. When he saw the number 1187 and the name WHITCOMB on a black mailbox by the side of the road, Bane pulled over and shut the engine off. He got out and stalked through the gloom toward a cottage that seemed too small to hold more than four rooms. It was close to the road, with no driveway. No lights were on. Parked on a beaten earth area next to the cottage was a white Ford with the front passenger fender a different color, indicating repairs on a collison had not gotten too far. As he approached silently, every sense alert, Bane felt his sense for danger screaming at its highest pitch. He drew his revolver, thumbed off the safety and approached the scene with the gun held pointing down at the ground in front of him. This was extremely rare for him because his faith in his reflexes and fighting skills was normally unshakeable. But he had also learned to listen to his instincts.
The front door was ajar. Bane's night vision had kicked in by now, sharper than an average person's because of his tagra tea diet. As he neared the door, scanning in all directions visually, the Dire Wolf froze and slowed his breathing to a minimum. After a minute, his hearing stepped up to increased sharpness. This was one of the earliest Kumundu techniques he had learned. Nothing. No breathing in the immediate vicinity, no faint creak of floor under weight, no almost inaudible rasp of cloth against cloth.
Samhain had never been known to set traps. It was just not in his nature. When he did reveal himself, to Bane or to the police, it was always as a dramatic flourish from a distance at which he could easily escape. The Dire Wolf moved closer to the door and made out the outline of a woman lying face down just within. He could see the long curly hair which matched the description he had gotten of Blake Whitcomb. Her acute anxiety forced her to stay within her house for weeks at a time. Just going to the post office in her car reportedly left her frazzled for a week. Bane placed one foot up on the sill, certain that the woman was already dead but feeling obligated to verify it. He dropped down to one knee and pressed two fingers to her neck. No pulse but the flesh was still warm. If he had gotten here just a little bit earlier...
Fighting down a growing anger, Bane straightened up again. He had reached behind him to holster his gun as he heard a sharp click overhead. In that tiny fraction of a second, the Dire Wolf dove headlong for the open door faster than a real wolf could have but he was still caught by the explosion.
VI.
It seemed like ages but it could have only been a few minutes before he struggled back up to full consciousness. The enhanced healing from fifteen years on the Tel Shai diet of tagra tea had kept him from going into shock. Despite the sharp pain and the even stronger outrage, Bane began to realize that he was lying face down under something heavy. Rubble. Yes, the debris from the cottage was piled on top of him from the shoulders down. Only his head and his right arm were free.
With remarkable clarity of thought under the circumstances, Bane wiggled his toes and flexed his left hand as much as he could. It hurt, but the sensation itself meant he was intact and there was no obvious spinal injury. Breathing was an effort, not because of internal damage but simply from the weight of all the broken plaster and wooden beams on top of him. His nostrils were clogged with dried blood and he had to breathe through his open mouth.
All this appraisal went on in an instant as an automatic procedure from his training. The Dire Wolf raised his head as much as he could. Parked in the road not far away, a car was running with its headlights shining on the wreckage of the cottage from an angle. Standing in front of him, one foot tucked behind the other and leaning insolently on a slim ebony cane, a slender man in a tight jumpsuit leered down at him. The full-head mask had only two eyes showing, but the pointed ears up near the top of the skull gave the figure a demonic silhouette. As Bane watched in helpless rage, the man shifted his weight, twirled the cane and tucked it delicately up under one arm.
Roland. Of course. The Dire Wolf exerted enormous self-control and managed to say, "So that's five of the Seven Dwarfs. You'll have trouble picking someone to represent Happy as a medical condition."
Genuine laughter bubbled from the satanic figure. "Oh, VERY good. If you could only see your face, Dire Wolf. It's priceless. Well, making allowances for all the blood and dirt. Truth be told, it adds to my satisfaction that you survived the blast. I had to trigger it from so far away that you wouldn't detect my presence. I missed seeing your expression when you realized you had been snookered into sticking your head directly between the jaws of the trap!"
"First, you killed the real Wendell Van Etten," Bane managed to say. "Back in California. You came here posing as him. None of the staff had known him, they'd all been replaced over the years. Maybe they'd seen photos of him with the family."
"So true," Roland said. He leaned forward on the cane and cocked his head. "Do go on."
"You did a good job with the wig and the make-up. Collodion for the wrinkles, I think. It's old-fashioned but works well at close range. Your acting was fine when it came to getting up, walking, being slightly bent and all that. But your gestures were sometimes just too quick and flexible for someone supposed to be seventy-one."
"Now I am not quite as disappointed in you as I had been," Roland chuckled. "Yes, I am twenty-eight and rather spry. I expect to only pose as Van Etten another year or so. The masquerade will start growing wearisome. By then, of course, most of his funds will be resting safely in my Cayman Islands account. It will be time to move on."
The masked killer twisted the silver cap of his cane and twelve inches of flat sharp-edged steel slid out with a click. "Shall I let you in on a little secret? The most satisfying moment of this game? It's the look on the victim's face when they realize that they are actually going to die. No artist could capture that poignant moment. Sadly, I don't think you'll go along with it and share that delight for me. You're too damn stoic, and besides, the light is rather poor."
It was only the second time in a violent career that Jeremy Bane knew he had no tricks up his sleeve. He couldn't reach any of the gimmicks or weapons in his suit. He had no way to get free in time to defend himself. For once, he didn't have anything he could say to buy time or to at least make a verbal jab back at Roland. Even in the final moments of expecting to die, his mind was working furiously at coming up with some ruse or strategy but nothing was there.
"At least do me the courtesy of seeming frightened," Roland laughed. He drew the sword cane up behind his right ear, preparing to plunge its point into Bane's neck. "You look as if you're doing a difficult math problem--URK!"
In an flash, the cane had been wrenched from behind out of Roland's grasp and its long blade slid cleanly through his back to emerge from the middle of his chest covered with blood. One terribly strong hand had clamped down on his left shoulder to hold him motionless.
Feeling his body grow chill and his vision getting dim, the masked man sagged to his knees and was spun around to stare up at a tall stranger in proper evening clothes. The newcomer had a handsome movie star-quality face, with thick black hair and a flash of perfect teeth in chiseled features. He held Roland up to prevent him from falling to the grass completely.
"Mock the Devil if you dare," purred Samhain.
"No..." came the almost inaudible reply. A gout of dark blood poured from under the red cloth mask.
The immortal killer allowed his latest victim to collapse in a heap. "Not the first time some upstart has presumed to blame their inept attempts at the highest art on me." He moved closer to where Bane was glaring up at him. "I dare say the truth has finally dawned on you about earlier this evening, my old friend?"
"You were Colonel Sweeney. At the dinner. You knew so many details of different murder sprees, things that had never been made public!" Speaking like that set Bane into a coughing jag and he could not stop immediately.
"Yes indeed," said Samhain. "Don't fret, the genuine Colonel is alive at a rehab center in Virginia for alcoholim. I had been planning on usurping his name and face for some time." Samhain glanced up and down the road. "Tonight's window of opportunity is closing, Jeremy. At any moment, an ambulance or a volunteer fireman or some crude policeman will arrive to spoil our little tryst. I believe I shall be going now. Your own demise will come soon enough, never fear."
As Samhain turned on his heel, he paused and glanced back over one shoulder. "Maybe it's giving mere flattery, but I find you much more entertaining than that amateur in the devil mask. Roland, indeed." He strode away and was gone into the night just as the red and blue flashing lights roared up along the road toward the scene.
7/25/2017
3/24-3/30/1994
I.
Without touching the wrought iron handrail, Jeremy Bane trotted to the bottom of the eighty steps to the outside gazebo. In his late thirties, he was in peak condition, lean and muscular at six feet and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Dressed all in black as usual including his trademark turtleneck and sport jacket, he looked even thinner than he was. Reaching the bottom step, he stepped onto the paved platform that held an elegant marble gazebo with a gorgeous view of the Hudson River one hundred feet further down.
This late in March, all of the snow was gone except in shaded areas. The wooded slopes leading down to the river were green and alive in the afternoon sun. The air was crisp and fresh. All of this was unfortunately lost on Bane, who was such a city boy that he hardly noticed the stunning vista. Beneath heavy black brows, the pale grey eyes were alert and grim. The old man who had been relaxing on a bench within the gazebo gingerly rose to greet him.
"Ah, Mr Bane!" said Wellman Van Etten. "So good of you to come all the way up here." Van Etten was seventy, Bane knew, but slim and well-preserved. In his tailored dark blue suit and red tie, he leaned a bit on an elegant ebony cane with a silver cap. Van Etten's crisp white hair came down in a sharp widow's peak and his deepset green eyes were bright over a hawklike predatory nose. The hand he offered for Bane to shake a warm dry clasp.
"It's time we met anyway," said the Dire Wolf. "I read your book on serial killers almost without stopping. You really seem to be able to get into their heads."
"Thank you again. SINISTER COMPULSION took years to write. Please, have a seat. My legs are bothering me for some reason today." Van Etten lowered himself to the bench which ran around the inside the gazebo and gestured for Bane to sit where they could both watch the Hudson sparkling in the sunlight. "That's better. I'm gratified you found my book worth reading. From what I understand, you have had considerable experience with serial killers yourself."
"I've nabbed a few," the Dire Wolf admitted. He was watching a hawk circling high overhead. "Of course, I'm not much for theory. I don't have a Masters in Criminology the way you do, Mr Van Etten."
A thin hand waved dismissingly. "I'd be happy if you called me Wellman and I could address you as Jeremy. We are colleagues in a way. You have quite the record for someone so young. Samhain, Golgora, Seneca. the Slaughterman... I'd include Seth Petrov in your catches but he doesn't fit the criteria for a genuine serial killer. Wicked though he may be."
Bane regarded the old man thoughtfully. "Right now, I'm interested in the three murders that have taken place since February. This is confidential, but the State District Attorney asked me to investigate... unofficially and off the record. Local newspapers and TV stations are really playing up the killings. The public is getting worked up, which is why the guys in charge called me."
"Yes, yes," Van Etten said. His hands had wrinkles on the back but the fingers were not gnarled as yet. "Of course, I have been following the details. The victims don't seem to have anything in common. A gastric surgeon, a chef at the Culinary Institute and a retarded man who was working cleaning yards. Excuse me, we don't say 'retarded' anymore, do we? Well, whatever the accepted description is. Aside from them all living within the general area, one might think the murders are unrelated."
"I think there IS something linking them, we just haven't spotted it yet. And we need to figure it out before someone else gets it." Bane turned those pale eyes on Van Etten as if memorizing every detail of the man's appearance. "You were an expert on Roland, weren't you? He's worked in the Hyde Park area."
"Oh, Roland. Heavens. That fiend has not been heard from in well over a year," Van Etten sighed. "From what I've gathered, though, Roland did not have the characteristics of a serial killer. Not in a clinical sense. His killings seemed to be coldly determined to help attain a position within organized crime. Many of the men he murdered later turned out to be mob lawyers or smugglers or enforcers, mostly further south in the Newburgh area. I don't see where this has the Roland stamp on it."
"He did claim a huge number of victims, though," Bane insisted. "There were three incidents of mass slaughter with more than a dozen men dead... and these were not harmless civilians but hardened gunmen who were armed and ready for him. I thought a few times of getting on Roland's trail myself."
"You might have had your hands full. With all due respect, young man, I know you are a formidable opponent. But Roland... dear me, he's spoken of as if he were a genuine devil. His weapon of choice seems to be only a sword blade of some sort and yet he has taken on a roomful of gangsters holding semi-automatics. Maybe it's best that he seems to be dead or retired."
Bane repressed a snort. Keeping up polite chat was a strain for his blunt nature at the best of times. "We'd find out. I still want to close the file on Roland one way or another. But you don't think he's behind these recent killings?"
"I find it very doubtful. Shall we meet for dinner tomorrow evening, Jeremy? Say, at eight? I'm expecting a few friends and we can discuss developments further." Van Etten pried himself up from the bench, leaning on his cane and holding the railing of the gazebo with his free hand. "My cook has mentioned veal and he has never disappointed."
"All right. Thanks." The Dire Wolf glanced up at the hundred-year-old mansion atop the hill. He had thought at first it was a resort of some sort. "Thanks. I'll be back. Are you going to have trouble getting up all those steps, sir?"
Van Etten sighed. "Honestly, that's why I'll wait until you're gone before I begin my own ascent. I have to pause and rest a few times on the way up. Old age is a thief, Jeremy. It steals from your body without your even realizing it at first."
Heading for the bottommost step, Bane paused and turned his head back over one shoulder to scrutinize his host. "If not Roland, is there someone else you suspect is our killer?"
"Oh yes. I'm torn between acute interest and genuine fear at the thought, but there is one notorious predator who seems a likely candidate. A more vile brute than even Roland. I believe you've already clashed with him more than once."
A hard edge came into the Dire Wolf's voice. "SAMHAIN...."
II.
The medication seemed to do nothing. Neither did the frequent attempts at naps during the day, where he lay miserable on his bed with a washcloth over his eyes to blot out the light. Billy was still groggy and lethargic all day and night, aching to be either fully asleep or fully awake but instead stumbling around in a dim twilight fog. When he did fall asleep, it was without warning. For a few seconds or up to an hour, he just dropped off wherever he was and passed into deep slumber despite any attempts to roust him.
Billy Campbell had not dared to drive for weeks, and he wondered if paying off his car was worth it anymore. Maybe he would have to rely on asking his cousin Alan to drive him around or keep using taxis as he had been doing. The first disability check had arrived and it was pitiful. He wouldn't be able to keep this house on it, even cutting all expenses, and he had twenty years to go before he qualified for Social Security.
Sunk in immense depression, he glanced up to see the TV was still on with the sound muted, and regular programs had given way to half-hour informercials selling junk. Billy stretched out his wrist and saw his watch read 3:21. AM, of course, but what did it matter to him? He thought of making a sandwich but he wasn't hungry and it seemed like such an effort when he was bone-deep weary like this.
Now he thought he understood why old people sometimes wished for death. Just to get it all over with. Was this all he had to look forward to? He kept reading articles about promising new treatments for narcolepsy but these miracle cures never seemed to quite pan out.
A vast yawn came up from the bottom of his lungs and he stretched his mouth open until his jaws cracked. He had already rejected the idea of suicide. It just wasn't his nature, part of him thought that some form of deliverance would have to come.
...Where was that cold air coming from? Billy sat up on his couch and twisted around. Had he left the back door not quite closed so that the wind had swung it open? There was a definite draft. He stretched and braced his arms to push himself up. Maybe some fresh air would help, though. With a shock of the unexpected, Billy felt a strong hand clamp down from behind over his mouth. He was shoved down again. Heart pounding, he reached up to try to pray the hand away but something hard smacked down on the top of his head with brutal force. The pain was all he could think about.
The man behind him came around into view without releasing his grip on Billy's mouth. He was a thin, ominous figure in a snug dark red jumpsuit complete with gloves that showed not a bit of skin. The intruder was wearing a full-head mask with only two white slits for eyes... and, strangest of all, the mask had large demonic ears that rose to sharp points almost up at the crown.
In his other hand, the masked man brandished a black walking stick with an eight-inch stainless steel blade protruding from its end. The monster twirled the weapon insolently, holding Billy helpless with just that powerful grip and with the implied threat of that gleaming blade.
Despite his panic, his racing heartbeat, Billy remembered where he had heard a description of such a bizarre figure. A sole survivor of a gangland massacre, badly hacked but still alive for the next day, had told the police what Roland looked like. This was Roland! Here, holding him down and waving the infamous sword blade right near his face.
"I've read your file," said the notorious killer in a mellow, cultured voice. "How very unfortunate your life has been, my boy, but we all have to play the cards we're dealt." With that, he thrust the sword blade forward to sink inches deep in Billy Campbell's chest. There was a single convulsion from the dying man. Roland removed his hand an instant before bright arterial blood spouted from Billy's open mouth.
"Oh, that was uncalled for," the killer chuckled. "Did you decide in your final moment that you might at least make a mess on my suit? How spiteful. Tut, tut." Roland slid the sword blade out and cleaned it throughly on Billy's T-shirt. He took his time and examined it under the light on the end table before twisting the cap on the end so that the blade retracted out of sight.
"All too easy," the masked murderer said out loud. He twirled the black cane and tucked it up under one arm with a flourish. "Still, it had to be done. Rest well...Sleepy."
III.
Just before noon the next day, Bane was being escorted back to his car by Police Detective Grierson and a uniformed officer. The small red brick house at the end of South Willow Lane was closed off with the usual yellow tape bearing black-lettered warnings, and a squad car discouraged any approach by curious citizens. For the past forty minutes, the Dire Wolf had been allowed to stand just inside the crime scene, looking but warned not to touch anything. Billy Campbell's body had been taken away in an ambulance and the forensic team had taken enough samples and photographs to keep them busy. Bane had simply stood and looked around and thought.
Walking up to where his dark green Mustang was parked at the curb, the Dire Wolf swung around to look back at the house. "William John Campbell, age forty-three, good job with the Highway Department but out on disability because of narcolepsy. Never married, no children, he did have an ex-girlfriend who had lived with him for years but she's in Ohio now..."
"Yeah," said the Detective quietly. "I met Billy a few times. I didn't know him well, but he seemed like a mild, inoffensive guy who always talked about local bands. Here he is, found by his cousin when he didn't answer the phone all morning."
Bane's pale eyes were narrowed and introspective. "Narcolepsy, eh? I understand that's a rare medical condition. Evidently, it was bad enough that he couldn't work."
Grierson folded his arm arms across a barrel chest and nodded. "Awful to have, from what I can see, Billy might just fall asleep wherever he was, even on a busy sidewalk or behind the wheel. But at the same time he couldn't get a decent's night sleep to save him life. He was always just drowsy."
"I see," Bane said distractedly. As always, he was wearing what amounted to his uniform in the Midnight War, black slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket. Even in the noon sunlight, there was something ominous about him. "Thank you for your co-operation, Detective. I'm sure you didn't enjoy being told that a PI from Manhattan like me was being brought in to poke around."
"Aw hell," shrugged Grierson. "The Chief gave us a briefing about you. To be honest, I've heard stories about you for years. You're not one of those so-called experts who gets in the way and tries to take all the credit. Anyone who can tackle freaks like Golgora or Seneca is okay in my book."
"I do my best," Bane replied. He placed a hand on the fender of his Mustang, readying to swing around to the driver's side but paused. "All of the earlier victims had medical problems, right? One had brain damage from a childhood fever and one had developed COPD from a lifetime of smoking?"
"That's right," Grierson said. "Good old Jim Hurst was simple, folks let him do odd jobs like yard work so he felt useful. He was harmless enough but once he started chatting, it was hard to get away from him. Dr Benjamin Vernon was a surgeon specializing in feet, reconstructive work mostly. He was getting to the point with his breathing where he needed oxygen at night but, like you said, he'd been a two-pack-a-day man most of his life."
"Third one, the student at the Culinary Institute?"
"Yeah, Rachel Stoudemire, only twenty years old. The investigation showed she had bad allergies, hay fever so severe she had missed too many classes. She was on the edge of being dismissed from the Institute. That poor girl, clubbed over the head in the driveway of her parent's house one night..."
"And now this victim, with that narcolepsy condition...."
"We've thought of that," Detective Grierson admitted. "Of course, you always look for common factors in any series of homicides and these three sure don't seem to have anything else tying them together. They never even met, as far as we can find, shared no acquaintances, didn't even shop at the same supermarkets."
Bane crossed around and opened his driver's side door, watching the traffic rush by as if expecting an ambush at any second. A life in the Midnight War had left him constantly wary. "I'll be looking into all this, but I've been told to be discreet. Hyde Park is a quiet town and the Town Supervisor doesn't relish an uproar about a serial killer loose. He's unhappy there has been this much of an uproar. I'll be in touch, Detective."
"You do that," Grierson said. With an upraised hand in a sort of polite quasi-salute, he swung around back toward the crime scene with the officer following him. Bane eased out onto Willow Lane, swung left at the next intersection and headed back to where he had been staying.
From what he could see, Hyde Park was a rather ritzy upper-class town. He had gone past the Franklin Roosevelt Historic Site on his way up Route 9 from New York City, and he knew the Vanderbilt estate was nearby, as well as a dozen other near-palaces from the multi-millionaires of a century earlier. Every house he drove past was impressive and every lawn immaculately tended behind their low stone walls. Even the shops and restaurants in the center of town looked dignified and expensive.
Yet, in two months, there had been these four violent deaths, all unexplained and leaving the possibility of more impending. Bane pulled into the parking lot of a Walgreens Pharmacy, turned off his engine and sank deeply into thought. He pictured a map of the area and drew mental lines between the places where the murders had occured. He redrew the lines in different ways but saw no discernible pattern connectin them. He thought about the dates, but there was no help there either. The killings did not take place on the same day of the week or the same phase of the moon or with a set period between them.
As far as the police could determine, there was no sexual element involved. The bodies had been left unmolested after death. No trophies had been taken, no locks of hair or underwear and even personal possessions. All of these omissions meant that they were not dealing with a typical serial killer.
Bane did not realize how fiercely he was scowling as he sat behind the wheel. In his experience, the chronic killers who acted without obsessive compulsion were incredibly dangerous because they were hard to predict. He had only known a few. Samhain came to mind first, of course, but he wanted to know more about Roland. Bane had never crossed paths with the 'Devil of the Valley,' and he needed to learn more about the man.
Then there was Wellman Van Etten. Something about that old man...
Unclipping the Link from his belt, the Dire Wolf patched into regular phone systems and called a number he knew well down in Manhattan. An instant later, a raspy voice answered "Citywide Investigations, how can we help you?"
"Artie? It's me."
"OH hi, Mr Bane! What's up?" asked Artie Rosen, with the sound of rustling papers in the background as he apparently was getting settled.
"I'm up in Hyde Park, investigating those murders we talked about. There was a fourth one last night." Bane filled Artie in on the details, trusting the veteran detective to maintain their long-established arrangement of secrecy.
"I'm on the other line," came Sam's voice with its strong Brooklyn accent.
When he had both cousins up to date, Bane asked, "I understood you boys just finished a blackmail case?"
"Yeah, it was lucrative but boring," said Artie. "The suspect confessed everything as soon as a cop showed up in his office. Guy simply did not have the right temprament for crime. So... we're both available if you need anything, Mr Bane?"
"Glad to hear that. Listen, I want to put both of you on a case with the usual fee and expense account. Dig up whatever you can about a bird named Wellman Van Etten. I know he managed real estate holdings in all Five Boroughs before moving West to be a writer. Look for any pieces that stick up out of the jigsaw puzzle, as you usually describe it. And get back to me."
"We're on it as of this minute, sir," Sam's voice broke in. "That name sure sounds familiar. He comes from one of those rich rich rich families, I believe."
"Fine," Bane said. "But listen. Artie, Sam... be armed and on your toes. There have been four murders so far and I'm not sure what connection Van Etten has with them, if any. Act as if you can expect Samhain to pop up at any second."
"Samhain..! Jeez, Jeremy," Artie gulped. "Every time I hear that name, I need clean underwear."
"Be careful. Don't take unnecessary chances if you think you're getting into a dangerous spot," the Dire Wolf said. "I want information to work with, but it's not worth your lives. Understood?"
"You got it. We'll be checking in as soon as we dig up dirt."
"Thanks." Bane broke the connection and leaned back in the driver seat, then lapsed back into motionless brooding. He hated the feeling that he was overlooking something that would clear everything up....
IV.
Much of the previous day had been spent at Town Hall, discussing the crimes with those officers were were available and then poring over the reports in a closed conference room. Even though he was not allowed to make copies or even take notes, the fact that Bane was given permission to read the crime scene reports at all was remarkable. It was only his history of capturing the most formidable murderer of recent times that led to him receiving such unprecedented cooperation. He did not know it, but the Governor's office had phoned the Town Supervisor and directed that the Dire Wolf be helped as much as possible.
By four, he thanked everyone and was back on the road. Odd as it sounded, he found it suggestive that each victim had been killed in a different way. Clubbed over the head, drowned in a sink, strangled with a television cord and now, the latest one, stabbed through the chest. The variety of the methods convinced Bane that there was a single killer at work, trying to make it seem as if the murders had been done by different people.
Samhain was like that, Bane remembered. The unkillable killer liked to try bizarre and colorful methods on his victims. Samhain was not driven by some deep compulsion, he simply enjoyed murder for its own sake and saw it as a game where he sometimes deliberately left clues just bold enough for the police to notice. It was only this most recent crime, the death of the man with narcolepsy, that the weapon used had been a thin long blade which was a Roland trademark but that could be coincidence. It wasn't a rare choice of weapon. The rest of these killings had nothing in common with the usual Roland modus.
When he had arrived the previous morning, Bane had checked into the WEISHAUPT, an imposing hotel in the center of town. He had been fortunate enough to find a suite available on the second floor; although he did not mention it at the desk of course, he wanted to be sure he could climb out a window and drop to the parking lot within reach of his car. This was a reason he normally stayed at cheap motels located on the highway, but in this case he had felt it was important to be at a central point of the activity. As he approached the WEISHAUPT, the Dire Wolf happened to spot an upscale men's shop and mentally cursed. He had not forgotten dinner with Wellman Van Etten that evening, but he had only packed his usual outfits of black turtleneck and sport jackets. Bane found a parking spot nearby and went in.
The next hour was painfully expensive as Bane was fitted for a suit of conservative cut with a vest, white silk shirt and thin black tie. He was thin enough that no real alterations were necessary, although the tailors there tried to talk him into having the suit recut for him. There wasn't enough time for that, he insisted, and changed back into his regular clothes to take the suit with him. At his suite at the WEISHAUPT, the Dire Wolf reflected sourly that he was spending more than usual on this case. Not that it mattered. Bane didn't live like a millionaire but he was one; Kenneth Dred had left him a fortune and, over the years, Bane had added to it with loot claimed from fallen enemies. He could have purchased the WEISHAUPT if he had wanted to, but the poverty of his early years kept him grounded to where he seldom indulged in any luxuries.
In his rooms, the Dire Wolf glanced again at his watch. This sort of thing ate into time that should be spent investigating. After jamming rubber wedges in the door and the windows to ensure no one was going to sneak in with a pass key, Bane stripped down, took a steaming hot shower and shaved closely. Roughly drying himself with a towel, he was a startling sight with zero body fight and long sleek muscles that stood out with sharp definition. He looked like a marathon runner. Bane tugged on what seemed to be a tight bodysuit of dark silk but which was actually flexible Trom armor which could deflect high-powered rifle fire. The armor had saved his life many times over the years.
The matched silver daggers were strapped to his forearms. He never let them get out reach if he could help it. Bane would give up everything else he owned the world, the building on 38th Street, the CORBY helicopters, Hawk Island, everything, before he could part with those daggers. The blades were Ensalir, pure silver ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin. Few creatures of the night could survive their edge. Now, putting on the black dress slacks, white shirt and vest, Bane frowned as he debated how many gadgets he could take with him.
His normal outfits had more than a dozen concealed pockets and slits in which he usually carried a variety of useful gimmicks. But this suit was not like that. The Dire Wolf thought it over. He clipped the Link to his belt; to a civilian, the advanced device would look like some sort of pager. His keys and ID billfold and wallet were normal enough. But he saw no way he could carry the dazzler grenades or the anesthetic darts or the lockpick tools without being obvious. One or two of the gadgets were tiny enough that he could conceal them, like the flexible hacksaw blade that he fastened on the underside of the jacket's lapel, but most of his arsenal would have to be left behind.
Without hesitation, he threaded the holster for his gun through his belt so it rested at his left side. He examined the long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 thoroughly under a desk light, worked the mechanism, verified the hammer was resting on an empty chamber and slid it into the holster. It might show a little as he moved around, but then he WAS a licensed PI who might be expected to go armed and he did have a concealed carry permit. Bane had no intention of leaving the weapon behind, tonight might be a desperate confrontation with a dangerous adversary. Putting on the highly polish dress shoes which pinched, the Dire Wolf scowled at himself in the full-length mirror by the door to the hall.
Just as he kicked away the rubber wedge and reached for the doorknob, the Link beeped twice. He took the call eagerly, "Yeah? Artie? Sam?"
"It's Sam, Mr Bane," rasped the familiar voice. "We been diggin' all day separately and we're combining what we found now. That IS Wellman Van Etten there in Hyde Park. He was living in California the past thirty years after a family feud but four years ago, he came back to claim the estate after the only other living relative crossed over. Everything we found backs up Van Etten. He's seventy-one with a knee replacement scheduled for this summer. Never goes anywhere without a cane. Van Etten is known to be, I quote, 'an acerbic wit who punctures the pomposity of his class,' whatever that means. He's got a good reputation as an expert of serial killers past and present, been on a few TV shows and such."
"Thanks," Bane said. "Any connection with Samhain?"
"Nah, just a single chapter on that monster in one book. Van Etten seems to sorta admire Roland, though... he's written tons about Roland with barely-hidden admiration. Calls him 'the answer to society's approval for slackness.' Oh, one funny thing. When Van Etten was supposed to move back to the family estate, he disappeared for two days. Just showed up late and dismissed any questions. That mean anything?"
"It might," answered the Dire Wolf quietly. "Do me a favor, Sam. I want you and Artie to stay on the job. Keep digging. Start with the assumption that Van Etten has some deep dark secret and you just have to find it. Okay?"
"Sure thing, Mr Bane. I wanna ask, though, what's with all the mentions of Samhain?! That damn name makes me shiver like I got ice water poured down my back."
Bane tried to soften his tone. "I don't know for sure that Samhain is involved in these killings but they sure seem to fit his usual MO. Murders where the victims have something in common that's not immediately obvious, teasing the police.. and me. In any case, you're a hundred miles south of here and if anyone gets to tackle Samhain, I'll be the lucky one."
"Yeah, well...." the older detective's voice trailed off. "Honestly, if anybody can smack that maniac around, Mr Bane, it's you. Be careful, please!"
"Don't worry, I'll be on my toes. Report back if you two find anything else, Sam." Bane broke off the connection, returned the Link to his belt and went out the door into the maroon-carpeted hallway. The prospect of facing a dinner party crammed with rich snobs alarmed him more than busting up a secret cult of warlocks or warren of ghouls would have.
V.
It was one of the more uncomfortable evenings Bane could remember getting through. In a high-ceilinged dining room with dark mahogany walls, under a gleaming crystal chandelier ablaze with twenty lights, he sat at a table so long that he could barely make out what was going on at the other end. The fine china plates and bowls were filled by silent servants in old-fashioned livery. At least the food was plentiful, Bane had to admit. The enhanced metabolism which gave him his extra speed also kept him constantly ravenous. He took advantage of the situation to leave no scrap uneaten. The servants didn't even blink but simply kept bringing him more. After some soup, garlic bread and large salad with freshly made dressing, the main entree was Veal Involtini with Prosciutto and Parmesan. Trying to be fair, Bane admitted it was certainly better than the cold ham and cheese subs he usually scarfed down on the run.
The Dire Wolf found himself down toward the far end of the table, seated between a quiet old dowager who chewed every mouthful thoroughly and washed every mouthful down with a generous swig of the chablis. She had barely spoken to him, but the guest on his right was more interesting. Colonel Oliver Sweeney had said he was retired and seemed intensely interested in the series of murders that had been going on in the area. What was more, he was remarkably well informed. Everything he said about Samhain and other infamous killers was accurate as far as Bane could tell.
At the far end of the table, immaculate in a tailored dinner jacket and black tie, Wellman Van Etten was evidently making remarks that caused his nearby guests to explode in laughter every few minutes. Bane had barely gotten to say hello to his host before everyone had been seated and the dinner launched underway. He watched Van Etten critically. For someone seventy-one and afflicted with arthritis, the man certainly seemed relaxed and pain-free. Aside from wincing as he sat down, Van Etten handled his cutlery with ease.
The Colonel to his right was going on about the famous 'theme killings' which Samhain had committed. There had been the so-called 'White House murders' where Samhain had chosen as victims men with the same last names as less well-known US Presidents like Buchanan, Hayes and Fillmore. When Bane asked him about the current sequence, Colonel Sweeney laughed and said any dwarfs in the area should be alert.
At that moment, Van Etten rose, propping himself up with one hand on the arm of his handcarved oak chair, and made a short speech about how pleasant a time he was having. He proposed a toast to long life and happiness. Some fool cried out "To our wives and sweetehearts--and may they never meet!" There was a polite ripple of amusement, and everyone raised their wine glasses.
As the moment passed, Bane suddenly saw the light. At that point, the servants were removing the plates and bringing in dishes of home-made ice cream with hot fudge sauce and melon slices. Bane pushed his chair back, muttered polite phrases to the guests on either side of him, and strode quickly from the room. He caught a brief glimpse of Wellman Van Etten watching him leave and the old man's face had an expression of sardonic glee for some reason. No time for that now.
In the front hall, two footmen held the door for him. One began to ask if anything was the matter but the Dire Wolf was already trotting across the paved drive to where his Mustang had been parked by a valet. As he dove in behind the wheel and rushed away toward the main highway, he thought he had been casually given a key to what had been puzzling him.
As he rushed back toward the WEISHAUPT, Bane unclipped his Link from his belt and patched into the Verizon network. This was years before cell phones became common, and there was no law about speaking into a device while driving. He rousted Sam and Artie at their apartment in Queens. At nine-fifteen, both men were still up.
"Yeah, hi, Mr Bane," came Artie's voice. "What's up?"
"I need the name of the Seven Dwarfs right away."
"Wait, what? Are you feeling okay, sir?"
"This is serious, Artie. Give me the names."
"You never seen SNOW WHITE--?"
"No!" snapped the Dire Wolf. "I don't watch movies or TV. You guys know that about me. Come on, give me the names."
"Sure. Let's see, there's Doc. Dopey. Sneezy. Bashful. How many is that?"
"Four," said Bane.
"Ummm. Sleepy. Oh, Grumpy, the one who was always mad. One more. Wait. Happy, he's the one I could never remember."
Bane repeated, "Doc, Dope, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, Grumpy and Happy. Seven. Thanks, Artie."
"So what exactly made you think of this, Mr Bane?"
"It's the key to Samhain's killings. Think about it. Thanks." Bane clicked off and returned the Link to his belt. Part of his mind caught suspicion about how he had just happened to be seated next to a guest who had given him the needed clue. Was Colonel Sweeney a stooge working for someone? Who? Samhain wouldn't want his game given away. Who else was in this game? Maybe Van Etten was playing mind tricks, giving Bane an obvious target to chase but why would he want that?
Tearing along south, the Dire Wolf reflected sourly on the many blind spots in his knowledge. He had always been too restless to sit through a single movie or watch a TV episode. His mind was just too keyed up all the time. In the same way, he never read fiction. Many references baffled him that anyone else would catch immediately. The murders were tied to these so-called Seven Dwarf. 'Doc' was the surgeon, 'Sneezy' was the coed with allergies and 'Dopey' had been the brain-damaged man. Last night, the man with narcolepsy had been slaughtered because he fit the tag 'Sleepy.'
That left three. Three more victims who didn't even know they were being set up to die.
Just outside Poughkeepsie, Bane skidded into the parking lot of the Vassar Brothers Medical Center. It was well after visiting hours so he rushed through the Emergency Room doors. For the next two hours, Bane made an unbearable nuisance of himself. Bulldozing all resistance by sheer force of personality and urgency, showing his credentials with both the DOJ's Mandate and the FBI's Department 21 Black, he interrogated and harassed doctors and nurses. Against all protocols, he browbeat them into looking up records. He forced them to dig in their own memories, tired and overworked as they were. Bane had a confident, assertive personality that tended to simply take over in most situations and he applied it to the fullest now.
Eventually, he dragged from them a few names of patients with severe conditions that might possibly match what he was looking for. At this point, the police had been called but the officers were conflicted between enforcing hospital policy and their own orders to cooperate with this strange investigator from the city. They had even phoned the local FBI office and were surprised to be receive instructions from a director in Washington to help Bane within reason. When Bane was satisfied, he gruffly thanked everyone and raced back out into the parking lot. The hospital staff buzzed with speculation and outrage for weeks afterward.
Back on the street, the Dire Wolf sped back in the direction from which he had come. His mind was racing to digest all the information he had just wrested from the hospital staff. There were three possible targets for the killer, Bane had to decide which was most likely. He wished Sam and Artie were up here on the case. Needing a few minutes to think, he pulled over on a dark side street. It was almost midnight. At times like this, he really missed his KDF team. More and more, he had been considering recruiting new members and starting a Second Team. But there was no time for that now.
Finally, Bane decided he had to go with his instincts. Blake Whitcomb, the woman with severe social anxiety, fit the role most clearly and she lived closest of the three. The other two resided almost an hour away and Bane thought Samhain would want to keep his activities in a tight pattern for the added drama. He had studied maps of the area before driving up here the day before and he knew where Blue Jay Lane was. The Dire Wolf made two right turns and headed away from Poughkeepsie back toward the town of Hyde Park itself. He thought about stopping at his hotel to get the rest of his gear but all of his instincts warned him that time was short.
Blue Jay Lane turned out to be a country road lined with forest on both sides, houses being spaced well apart. When he saw the number 1187 and the name WHITCOMB on a black mailbox by the side of the road, Bane pulled over and shut the engine off. He got out and stalked through the gloom toward a cottage that seemed too small to hold more than four rooms. It was close to the road, with no driveway. No lights were on. Parked on a beaten earth area next to the cottage was a white Ford with the front passenger fender a different color, indicating repairs on a collison had not gotten too far. As he approached silently, every sense alert, Bane felt his sense for danger screaming at its highest pitch. He drew his revolver, thumbed off the safety and approached the scene with the gun held pointing down at the ground in front of him. This was extremely rare for him because his faith in his reflexes and fighting skills was normally unshakeable. But he had also learned to listen to his instincts.
The front door was ajar. Bane's night vision had kicked in by now, sharper than an average person's because of his tagra tea diet. As he neared the door, scanning in all directions visually, the Dire Wolf froze and slowed his breathing to a minimum. After a minute, his hearing stepped up to increased sharpness. This was one of the earliest Kumundu techniques he had learned. Nothing. No breathing in the immediate vicinity, no faint creak of floor under weight, no almost inaudible rasp of cloth against cloth.
Samhain had never been known to set traps. It was just not in his nature. When he did reveal himself, to Bane or to the police, it was always as a dramatic flourish from a distance at which he could easily escape. The Dire Wolf moved closer to the door and made out the outline of a woman lying face down just within. He could see the long curly hair which matched the description he had gotten of Blake Whitcomb. Her acute anxiety forced her to stay within her house for weeks at a time. Just going to the post office in her car reportedly left her frazzled for a week. Bane placed one foot up on the sill, certain that the woman was already dead but feeling obligated to verify it. He dropped down to one knee and pressed two fingers to her neck. No pulse but the flesh was still warm. If he had gotten here just a little bit earlier...
Fighting down a growing anger, Bane straightened up again. He had reached behind him to holster his gun as he heard a sharp click overhead. In that tiny fraction of a second, the Dire Wolf dove headlong for the open door faster than a real wolf could have but he was still caught by the explosion.
VI.
It seemed like ages but it could have only been a few minutes before he struggled back up to full consciousness. The enhanced healing from fifteen years on the Tel Shai diet of tagra tea had kept him from going into shock. Despite the sharp pain and the even stronger outrage, Bane began to realize that he was lying face down under something heavy. Rubble. Yes, the debris from the cottage was piled on top of him from the shoulders down. Only his head and his right arm were free.
With remarkable clarity of thought under the circumstances, Bane wiggled his toes and flexed his left hand as much as he could. It hurt, but the sensation itself meant he was intact and there was no obvious spinal injury. Breathing was an effort, not because of internal damage but simply from the weight of all the broken plaster and wooden beams on top of him. His nostrils were clogged with dried blood and he had to breathe through his open mouth.
All this appraisal went on in an instant as an automatic procedure from his training. The Dire Wolf raised his head as much as he could. Parked in the road not far away, a car was running with its headlights shining on the wreckage of the cottage from an angle. Standing in front of him, one foot tucked behind the other and leaning insolently on a slim ebony cane, a slender man in a tight jumpsuit leered down at him. The full-head mask had only two eyes showing, but the pointed ears up near the top of the skull gave the figure a demonic silhouette. As Bane watched in helpless rage, the man shifted his weight, twirled the cane and tucked it delicately up under one arm.
Roland. Of course. The Dire Wolf exerted enormous self-control and managed to say, "So that's five of the Seven Dwarfs. You'll have trouble picking someone to represent Happy as a medical condition."
Genuine laughter bubbled from the satanic figure. "Oh, VERY good. If you could only see your face, Dire Wolf. It's priceless. Well, making allowances for all the blood and dirt. Truth be told, it adds to my satisfaction that you survived the blast. I had to trigger it from so far away that you wouldn't detect my presence. I missed seeing your expression when you realized you had been snookered into sticking your head directly between the jaws of the trap!"
"First, you killed the real Wendell Van Etten," Bane managed to say. "Back in California. You came here posing as him. None of the staff had known him, they'd all been replaced over the years. Maybe they'd seen photos of him with the family."
"So true," Roland said. He leaned forward on the cane and cocked his head. "Do go on."
"You did a good job with the wig and the make-up. Collodion for the wrinkles, I think. It's old-fashioned but works well at close range. Your acting was fine when it came to getting up, walking, being slightly bent and all that. But your gestures were sometimes just too quick and flexible for someone supposed to be seventy-one."
"Now I am not quite as disappointed in you as I had been," Roland chuckled. "Yes, I am twenty-eight and rather spry. I expect to only pose as Van Etten another year or so. The masquerade will start growing wearisome. By then, of course, most of his funds will be resting safely in my Cayman Islands account. It will be time to move on."
The masked killer twisted the silver cap of his cane and twelve inches of flat sharp-edged steel slid out with a click. "Shall I let you in on a little secret? The most satisfying moment of this game? It's the look on the victim's face when they realize that they are actually going to die. No artist could capture that poignant moment. Sadly, I don't think you'll go along with it and share that delight for me. You're too damn stoic, and besides, the light is rather poor."
It was only the second time in a violent career that Jeremy Bane knew he had no tricks up his sleeve. He couldn't reach any of the gimmicks or weapons in his suit. He had no way to get free in time to defend himself. For once, he didn't have anything he could say to buy time or to at least make a verbal jab back at Roland. Even in the final moments of expecting to die, his mind was working furiously at coming up with some ruse or strategy but nothing was there.
"At least do me the courtesy of seeming frightened," Roland laughed. He drew the sword cane up behind his right ear, preparing to plunge its point into Bane's neck. "You look as if you're doing a difficult math problem--URK!"
In an flash, the cane had been wrenched from behind out of Roland's grasp and its long blade slid cleanly through his back to emerge from the middle of his chest covered with blood. One terribly strong hand had clamped down on his left shoulder to hold him motionless.
Feeling his body grow chill and his vision getting dim, the masked man sagged to his knees and was spun around to stare up at a tall stranger in proper evening clothes. The newcomer had a handsome movie star-quality face, with thick black hair and a flash of perfect teeth in chiseled features. He held Roland up to prevent him from falling to the grass completely.
"Mock the Devil if you dare," purred Samhain.
"No..." came the almost inaudible reply. A gout of dark blood poured from under the red cloth mask.
The immortal killer allowed his latest victim to collapse in a heap. "Not the first time some upstart has presumed to blame their inept attempts at the highest art on me." He moved closer to where Bane was glaring up at him. "I dare say the truth has finally dawned on you about earlier this evening, my old friend?"
"You were Colonel Sweeney. At the dinner. You knew so many details of different murder sprees, things that had never been made public!" Speaking like that set Bane into a coughing jag and he could not stop immediately.
"Yes indeed," said Samhain. "Don't fret, the genuine Colonel is alive at a rehab center in Virginia for alcoholim. I had been planning on usurping his name and face for some time." Samhain glanced up and down the road. "Tonight's window of opportunity is closing, Jeremy. At any moment, an ambulance or a volunteer fireman or some crude policeman will arrive to spoil our little tryst. I believe I shall be going now. Your own demise will come soon enough, never fear."
As Samhain turned on his heel, he paused and glanced back over one shoulder. "Maybe it's giving mere flattery, but I find you much more entertaining than that amateur in the devil mask. Roland, indeed." He strode away and was gone into the night just as the red and blue flashing lights roared up along the road toward the scene.
7/25/2017
