"The Annoying Challenge of the Punster"
May. 15th, 2022 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Annoying Challenge of the Punster"
1/22-1/24/1993
I.
Jeremy Bane did not seem to even notice the sub-zero wind chill. At three-forty in the morning in late January, he got out of his Mustang and walked over to where Klein and two uniformed officers were waiting on the corner of Hart Street. Bane was wearing only a light topcoat over his sport jacket, unbuttoned, and a pair of thin black gloves. No scarf, no hat, no sign of discomfort.
In contrast, the policemen huddled around the abandoned cherry-red Carmen Ghia were bundled up until little showed except their eyes. Inspector Harold Klein in particular was hidden within a down-filled parka, wool gloves, a heavy wool hat pulled down over his ears and a scarf wrapped tightly around his face. "Goddamit, Bane, could you at least ACT human? It's ten below zero out here."
This produced no response from the Dire Wolf. He did not bother to explain that he had been on a Tagra tea regimen from Tel Shai for a dozen years. In addition to giving him enhanced healing ability and recovery from damage, Tagra gave Tel Shai knights high resistance to the elements. Bane in fact was barely aware of the bitter cold. He was surprised that Klein had brought the weather up.
Instead of mentioning any of this, the Dire Wolf simply walked up to the Carmen Ghia and peered closely at it from all angles. "I came as soon as I got your call, Inspector. What's this paper inside the windshield?"
"That's exactly what I thought you might be interested in," said Klein. "The driver was robbed at gunpoint and his keys were thrown down that storm drain over there. He's in custody right now, waiting for his lawyer."
Bane kept his voice as even and unreactive as usual. "The victim is under arrest?"
"Oh, we want to talk to him anyway about a hundred unrelated details. Leo Brueckner, sixty-three, on the surface a gem dealer for the Snyder Jewelry franchise but we've been watching him for a while. We're sure he was carrying a bag of uncut blue-white diamonds with him tonight to sell to someone from the United Arab Republic. And the diamonds themselves are illegal, those 'conflict diamonds' from South Africa."
Pressing up to the driver's side of the car, Bane had taken a powerful pencil flashlight and managed to read the yellow Post-It. "Hmm. That's a funny note."
"Yeah, it means one of the odder criminal masterminds is in the area. A tow truck is on the way to take this car to impound, where of course it will be taken apart and reassembled. But first," Klein told him slowly, "I thought you needed to see that note in its original location."
Bane came over to stand beside the inspector. Not too long ago, Klein had suspected Bane of being a violent menace to the citizens of New York. He had been doggedly trying to find some charge to lock Bane up on. Klein's attitude had changed completely after working with Bane capturing Samhain during the Astronomy Murders. Now the inspector regarded the Dire Wolf as a useful but unofficial loose cannon that could sometimes be pointed at killers too cunning or too dangerous to risk losing.
"That doesn't mean anything to me," the Dire Wolf said. "The note looks like a standard stick-up note you can buy in a million pharmacies and supermarkets. The block printing in ink disguises any handwriting traits. All it says is, 'The dog with no legs' and below that, 'THE PUNSTER' in capital letters. I'm blank. What's the deal?"
Gesturing to the two uniformed officers to stay by the car, Klein ushered Bane a few feet away, just enough that the cops could plausibly deny overhearing anything. "So. You never heard of the Punster?"
"Nope. Never."
Klein snorted and tugged his wool hat lower. "We gotta get inside. This is just ridiculous. Anyway, I guess maybe the Punster is kinda out of your area of interest. As far as we know, he has never killed anyone. The worst he's been implicated in is having two of his goons punch out a witness who was making a run for it. You mostly tackle killers and worse."
"True enough. He's a high-level thief, then?"
"Yeah." Klein broke off as a police tow truck arrived with red and blue lights alternating. He supervised the car being hooked up and taken away, then turned to the Dire Wolf. "Hang on a second. Wissock, Levin. Report back to precinct. Fill in your paperwork and go home. You're on overtime as it is."
"Lieutenant?" asked one of the cops dubiously, giving Bane a doubtful look.
"I'll be fine. I wanna ask this guy a few questions. You're dismissed." As the two men hurried to the cruiser parked just down the block, Klein shuddered, "Lord have mercy, let's get in your car. And turn the heat up."
As he got behind the wheel and started the engine, Bane complied by setting the heat to maximum. In a few seconds, the interior of the Mustang was pleasantly warm and dry.
"Aw, that's better," Klein said. "I'm just getting old for cold weather duty."
"Where are we going, inspector?"
"Tell ya what, howsabout doing a big loop? Head uptown for ten minutes, then come back here to my own car. By then I shoulda filled you in on this Punster freak."
II.
"I'll drive more carefully than usual," Bane said with the closest he came to deadpan humor.
"So here's the story." Klein yanked off the heavy wool hat to reveal curly black hair sprinkled liberally with white patches. "Whew. That's better. Okay, so the Punster's real name is Walter W. Walters. Before you ask, middle name was just an initial, it didn't stand for 'Walter' too.He was a child prodigy with a record-high IQ and a gift for languages. He was the sort who got accepted into college when he was twelve, you know?"
Sitting at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, the Dire Wolf made a non-commital grunt to show he was listening.
"Before he was twenty," Klein continued, "Walters had made over eleven million playing the stock market and investing in local business. Evidently he wasn't too attached to his family because he moved out on his eighteenth birthday and hasn't contacted his parents since. Now, here's the problem. Walters is super-smart but he also has some powerful compulsions he can't overcome. His food has to be prepared according to a long list of instructions, all his clothes are handmade and he can only sleep in a soundproofed chamber with a high oxygen content.'
As Klein paused for a comment, Bane obligingly said, "Guess genius carries a high price, eh?"
"Yeah. I actually have seen something like this before. One time I investigated a computer engineer who was being extorted, he was smarter than anyone else in his field but so damn crazy. All his furnishings had to be white so he could look for dirt. And Walters has that same sort of whackiness. He gave a few interviews which led to lawsuits because he thought the reporter was making fun of him."
By now, they had reached Columbus Circle and the Dire Wolf made two right turns and headed back the way they had come. "When did this 'Punster' stuff start?"
"That's what surprised everyone. Walters had a complete plan worked out beforehand. He transferred his property and holdings to different companies run by his stooges. He began liquidating huge amounts of cash. And one day his main office disappeared in a highly suspicious explosion and fire. Walter Walters wasn't there. He hasn't made an official public appearance since."
"This is getting strange," Bane said. "He didn't fake his death?"
"No. He just dropped off the radar. The FBI thinks he stashed millions of dollars at different locations around the country. They also think that twenty of the executives running the companies he left are really driving him all over when they're supposed to be on business trips."
Abruptly, Bane pulled into an empty spot and left the motor running. "I want to hear more. What about the crimes? What makes him a public enemy?
"Mind if I smoke?"
"Not in my car, inspector. I need my sense of smell. You can chew on one of your stogies if you want. What about the crimes? Come on already!"
That made Klein chortle in glee. "Getting interested? All right then. The Punster heists started a few weeks after he vanished. They've been going on ever since. Walters follows a strict pattern he set for himself. No killing, in fact as little rough stuff as possible. He robs three people on three successive nights. At each crime scene, the Punster leaves a note with one of the crazy little phrases that is actually a clue to the next robbery."
"What? He must be really demented. Why would he leave a clue? Why help the police trying to catch him?"
"Part of his compulsion," Klein shrugged. "Guess he can't help himself. And all the clues turn out to be fair. The law enforcement community expected him to be misleading us and sending us away from where he was gonna be. Nope. He plays fair from his point of view."
Bane turned the famous pale grey eyes on Klein. "That is the goofiest thing I've ever heard of. A crook leaving helpful clues for the cops. It's hard to believe."
"What really rubs it in is that so far, when the boys do figure out his deranged little hints, we're too late. He's on his way with whatever he set out to steal. And, I'm sure, he's laughing at us all the way." Klein tugged the wool hat back on before starting to get out of the car.
"Now I'm wondering what that meant," Bane admitted. "'Dog with no legs'... what the hell could that be about?"
The inspector reached over to clap the Dire Wolf on the shoulder a few times. "That was why I wanted you to see that note. I know you, buddy. You're gonna be working on that clue now."
As Klein got out and trudged over to where his own Plymouth sat, Bane angrily peeled out and shot down the street. He deliberately ran a stop sign at the next corner in a petty attempt to show his annoyance.
As he drove back to 38th Street, the Dire Wolf repeated out loud, "'Dog with no legs, dog with no legs.' Damn that Klein..."
III.
It was almost five, still hours from dawn this time of year, before Bane pulled into the dead-end alley on Lexington. At a signal from his dashboard, a steel panel slid up and he rolled carefully down a concrete ramp into the small garage under the KDF building. The other car was gone. Cindy was supposed to be back Monday. For the next few days, he was alone in the building.
As always, no matter how tired he might be, the Dire Wolf checked his car. The tires, the oil, the battery terminals. He took a roll of paper towels and wiped the windows inside and out. Just before he had pulled in, he had stopped at a gas station to make sure the tank was full. There was good reason why he lived like a firefighter always ready to take off. He had needed to instantly respond to many emergencies without warning in his career.
Leaving the garage, striding down the narrow walkway between the Vault and the arsenal, he emerged up through the back of a walk-in closet in the front hall. Bane hung up his topcoat with the gloves jammed into its pockets and crossed over to the open door of his office. He was tired but did not feel at all like trying to sleep.
To the right as one entered the office was a massive oak desk where he went to seat himself. On the wall behind him hung a hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937. Bane clicked on the reading lamp to his left and sat in silence. A television and radio were concealed behind cabinet doors nearby but he never had them on for entertainment. He leaned forward with his elbows on the green baize writing cover of the desk and turned that maddening phrase over in his mind.
'The Dog with no legs.' It didn't make sense as far as he could see. Bane knew he wasn't great with enigmatic puzzles. When it came to the actual fighting, to chasing someone or tackling a crowd of thugs in a narrow space, he was among the best there were. He had developed some skills as a detective through experience but he knew his limits.
Even now, ten years gone, he sometimes missed Michael Hawk. There had been a real manhunter. Hawk could glance at someone's hands or ask them one seemingly innocent question and rattle off a dozen facts about the person. But, despite Hawk's lessons, Bane did not have that deductive knack.
The Dire Wolf slumped without realizing it. So many of his friends were gone. Half his team had died that hellish night of the Final Halloween. Even Khang, who had seemed indestructible. Bane had decided then that they all had sacrificed enough and he had disbanded the KDF, setting the survivors free of their bonds to him.
Still turning that note phrase around in his head, Bane realized he could have benefitted from someone to work with on this. Why would a dog have no legs? Had someone cut the animal's legs off? Had the dog lost its legs to frostbite or injury? Despite a memory crowded with the gruesome details of thousands of crimes, Bane could not recall anyone ever doing such a thing.
Disgusted with his limitations and irritated at Inspector Harold Klein for dropping this riddle on him, Bane abruptly stood up. He turned off the lights and headed up the stairs to the third floor. When the KDF had been thriving, there were always four or five members staying here. Now, only he and Cindy remained in their adjoining rooms. Bane decided to get some sleep and let his subconscious work on the problem. He entered his rooms, emptied his pockets of the dozen weapons and gadgets he carried and slung his belt with the holstered Smith & Wesson 38 Special on the headboard of his bed.
The matched silver daggers in their sheaths were next. He unstrapped them from his forearms and tucked them carefully under his pillow with the hilts sticking out. They had been a present from Kenneth Dred, ands the silver blades had been ensorcelled by the immortal Elkdarin ages ago. Those daggers could never be replaced. He never let them out of immediate reach if he could help it.
Under his clothing, as always, he was wearing the flexible Trom armor that resembled dark silk but which would turn a rifle bullet. Bane went into the bathroom and took a steaming hot shower during which he turned the armor inside out and scrubbed it as well. Feeling clean and less annoyed, the Dire Wolf hung the armor up to air dry. He slid between the flannel sheets, rolled over onto his back and began the Tel Shai breathing patterns. He fell asleep within seconds.
By ten, Bane was up and dressed and making a breakfast two lumberjacks would have had difficulty finishing. His accelerated metabolism kept him ravenous and thin. He had the radio in the kitchen set to a local news station. Finally done, he scrubbed the frying pan and dishes before allowing himself to start thinking about that Punster business.
Going into the rec room, Bane felt another twinge about how empty and quiet it was. Cindy was right. It was time to start planning for a new KDF team. They had met enough adventurers in the Midnight War to gather five or six. What about Galvan? Or Samuel Watesa? Maybe Golden Jaguar? It seemed ridiculous to have this huge well-equipped fortess gathering dust with only himself and Cindy living here.
Digging in a cabinet, he found the battered Scrabble set and dumped its tiles onto the card table. Pulling a chair over, Bane set out tiles that read 'The Dog With No Legs' and put the rest away. He began rearranging the little wooden plaques to set what else could be spelled with them. 'Glen,' but he didn't know any Glen. Or 'Gwen' for that matter. "God,' 'goon,' 'logs,' 'whole'... Nothing seemed promising. An hour crawled by as the Dire Wolf searched for meaning where there seemed to be none.
Too bad. This had worked before, where a cryptic message had turned out to be an anangram or whatever they were called. Getting disgusted, he put the tiles away and returned the Scrabble box to the cabinet. Why had Klein thought he would be any use at a game like this? The Dire Wolf headed down the front hall and entered his office. He checked the fish tank with its bizarre creatures from Fanedral, making sure the water was the right temperature and was clear. Small bits of food flakes had to be sprinkled in. The big seahorse with fangs, the starfish with the single red eye in its center, the hermit crabs who were digging a tunnel between their two little pebble castles.. they all seemed healthy.
Before he got to his desk, the phone rang and he leaped for it. "Dire Wolf Agency."
"Hiya, Bane, getting anywhere?"
"Not at all," he admitted. "Inspector, what's going on at your end?"
"Eh, Brueckner's lawyer is trying offers for different deals. We want to see how much dirt they let slip. Our stoolies haven't been any help getting a lead on the Punster, though."
"I'll check some of my own sources. But honestly, inspector, this is not my best area. You need some deductive genius like Caleb Thorne."
"Like we could afford him!" laughed Klein before hanging up.
Bane replaced the receiver. He had decided not to sit behind the desk making phone calls all day. He did take a minute to listen to his messages but found nothing of immediate concern. The Dire Wolf unlocked the cabinet behind the desk, took out two thousand dollars in twenties and jotted it down in the ledger, then headed for the front door. As he left the building, he was shrugging into his topcoat.
The next few hours were spent prowling Times Square. During his career, Bane had saved many lives and kept many wrongly accused me out of prison. Instead of accepting rewards, though, he had asked instead that they keep an eye out for anything weird or seemingly inexplicable in the city. Many of his most crucial cases had begun with a tip from one of his network of observers.
IV.
A long and tedious afternoon followed. Bane went from smoke-filled back rooms of seedy bars to dank tenement apartments to luxury penthouses overlooking Central Park West to the offices of Columbia University professors. He had contacts in all levels of society, in the overlapping worlds of organized crime and the dread Midnight War. Often he left an unmentioned tip of a hundred or two hundred dollars to help those observers who were struggling. More than once, he had to sit through elaborate rituals of polite chat before getting to the real purpose of his visits.
But he did learn some interesting aspects of the case.
Career criminals who hired out their services really preferred working for the Punster than for other masterminds. Where someone like Samhain or Sepulcher might murder their own men for infractions or just on an insane whim, the Punster had never done that. Unlike Golgora or Seth Petrov, the Punster split the profits fairly with his employees and often distributed bonuses for successsful jobs that were particularly hazardous.
And the Punster was a genius in the textbook definition. His schemes were well-thought through and meticulous, he researched his targets and he had contingency plans if anything went wrong. The big disadvantage for his gangs was that he was never in continuous business. Two or three years might go by between his sequencew of heists. Crooks who signed up with the Punster had to have other steady employment during those dry spells.
By late afternoon, Bane had caught up with tons of Midnight War sightings and criminal gossip. Even if he had not been on a particular mission, he did this frequently to get informed about the shadowy world where he lived. By five, it was getting dark. Bane found himself near 50th Street and Eighth Avenue where he popped into a bar and grill.
As he devoured a hot roast beef sandwich with onion rings and was ready to order a second one, Bane had a quick thought about the Punster's clue. He was never sure afterwards what triggered the thought and figured something that someone had said in passing must have caused an association.
As he invariably did, the Dire Wolf had chosen a booth by the kitchen door and from which he could watch the door to the street. No one was paying attention to him. He unclipped the Link from his belt, patched into the standard telephone service and managed to reach Inspector Klein in his office. "Hi. Bane here. What's the situation?"
"Hiya, listen I only got a minute. Lemme be honest, the department is not putting as many men on this Punster clown as I would like. Seems like a power struggle going on in one of the big five crime families and there's been some shootings. Two innocent passers-by died. So that's where most of our manpower is being assigned."
"I think I have something on that damn clue you unloaded on me," Bane said. "The 'dog without legs' is a seal. Think about it. The way they bark. They are kind of like dogs but with flippers instead of legs."
Klein laughed. "I like it. It makes sense. And you know what, Officer Hopewell told me he took his family to the Bronx Zoo yesterday. Big excitement there is that the zoo has a rare pygmy seal. Guess it was recently discovered and scientists are giddy over a new species"
"The seal exhibit is open this time of year?"
"Sure. It's open year round. Those animals like cold weather. I think you might have something there, Mr Dire Wolf. I'll get two men assigned to watch that seal tonight. They won't like the duty but theirs is not to reason why."
Bane drained the last of his tumbler of iced tea. "I might be going there myself after dark. I don't know... I'm still puzzling over that clue. Maybe there's another answer so obvious I'm missing it."
"Well, keep racking your brains, buddy. I have to get back to finding where Junior Carlino is hiding and if he shot those civilians. Thanks for the tip."
After Klein broke the connection, Bane brought his plate up to the bar and ordered a second helping. He was always starving. As he waited for the sandwich, he stared out the big plate glass window at 8th Avenue and kept mulling over the bizarre idea of a criminal who felt compelled to provide clues. He figured some of it was mere ego. This Punster guy had such a high opinion of himself that he thought he could tease the cops with impunity and they still could not catch him. The Dire Wolf was unreasonably annoyed by the nerve of that crook.
Back on the streets, the Dire Wolf realized he had only been to the Bronx Zoo twice and both times in connection with desperate manhunts. He had never spent a day there checking out the exhibits. He vaguely remembered there was a sort of pool with rocks in the center on which sea lions sprawled and barked. That was about the extent of his memories about the place. He had not exactly led a fun-filled life in any way.
Back on 38th Street, Bane checked his messages. According to Kline's briefing, the Punster preferred to strike late in the evening but not the middle of the night. Usually he pulled his heists after ten PM but before two in the morning. The Dire Wolf paced his office with increasing agitation at the unhappy feeling he was going to be outwitted by this crook.
Only seven-thirty. Restless and troubled, Bane went up the stairs to the seventh floor and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. The KDF customized gym had a dozen Nautilus machines arranged in a row, but most of the floor space was taken up by thin hard mats for sparring. Early plans to install a pool had proved impractical. On the far wall was a door leading to the coed locker room and showers. Bane stripped quickly down, hanging his clothing in one of the lockers. He even wriggled out of the flexible Trom armor and hung up the silver daggers by their sheaths. His locker had a bundle of several plain white cotton T-shirts, shorts and socks, as well as plain sneakers.
Stripped down, Bane was a remarkable sight. He did not look like a weightlifter or even a boxer, but more like a sprinter. With almost zero body fat, his long hard muscles stood out dramatically under his skin. The Dire Wolf hopped up onto one of the treadmills, set it at a 45 degree angle and started at a brisk trot. After one minute, he brought the speed up to a full run.
The dog with no legs.. that phrase haunted him. He kept trying to come up with different interpretations but 'seal' rang so true he was sure that it was correct. One hour later, with his skin covered by a fine layer of sweat but breathing only slighter faster than before, he began a two-minute cool down at a walking pace. Located at various spots were antiseptic spray bottles and rags, and he wiped off the handles of the treadmill.
No, 'seal' was right. But maybe not the literal animal. What else? A seal as in a stamp of approval? The Great Seal of the United States.. was the Punster going to rob the Federal gold reserve down on Wall Street? Uncertainty ate away at him. Still craving exertion, Bane stepped out onto one of the mats. Feet together, fists at his waist, he bowed low to his Teacher Chael at Tel Shai.
His DohRa form had been created for him specifically by Chael to build on his strengths and work on his weak points. Over the years, the DohRa had been revised and expanded as Bane himself had developed. Starting with slow, stretching poses and stances, he moved into combination blows and kicks that came faster and faster. Soon he was whipping about in tight circles, striking and defending against imagined opponents. Thirty minutes sped by. Then, imperceptibly, the punches and blocks slowed again and he was assuming difficult stances that required both balance and flexibility. Now drenched in perspiration and breathing deeply but steadily, Bane bowed again to his Teacher. He felt as close to being at peace as he ever did.
While his body had been in motion, his mind had gone into blank timelessness. He felt rested mentally. Bane went into the locker room, endured a steaming shower and shaved while he was at it. Tossing the soggy shorts, socks and shirt into a hamper, he tugged on the Trom armor again. The silver daggers were strapped to his forearms again, and he got into the familiar black outfit. As he brushed his short black hair with his fingers, the Dire Wolf froze into position for an instant.
A man's name bobbed up from his subconscious. Of course! Now he thought he finally had the real answer. Bane hurtled down the stairs to the ground floor, snatched his topcoat as he passed and was heading for the underground garage in a blur.
V.
Over two hours passed before he reached the far end of Long Island. He had tried numerous times to reach Inspector Klein without success. Eventually he settled for leaving a message at the precinct house. Out by Schuyler Road, with the Sound visible nearby, Bane swung up by a low stone wall that encircled an estate he had read up on. His heart sank as he saw the ornate wrought iron gate had been left wide open. That was a bad sign.
Rolling slowly up the paved drive, the Dire Wolf reached inside his coat behind his left side and brought the Smith & Wesson out for readiness. He drove between flanking rows of meticulously trimmed trees and hedges before pulling over while he was still out of sight of the Garnett mansion. Locking the Mustang, fading into the bushes and loping noiselessly through the gloom, Bane kept the revolver aimed at the ground in front of him ready for use.
As the sprawling neo-Georgian building came into view, well lit from different angles by floodlamps, Bane came to a stop. One of Garnett's famous restored vintage autos was parking out in the open in front of the portico. It looked like a Duesenberg, but Bane was no expert on antique cars and realized he might be wrong.
Peter Garnett was the former Navy SEAL well known to the general public because he had written a glamorized novel about one of his missions, and it had been made into a TV-movie starring a popular action star. Garnett had been given an honorable discharge and three Purple Hearts to compensate for the leg injuries that would always trouble him. Wealthy enough to indulge any hobby, Garnett had begun restoring vintage autos and reselling them to collectors.
Bane had read about Garnett in several local newspapers. He crept up to the Duesenberg, spotting a yellow Post-It stuck under one of the windshield wipers. Oh, the Punster has definitely been here, he thought. The devious crook had meant this 'seal,' not the animal at the Bronx Zoo.
The Dire Wolf leaned forward over the car hood. In the uncertain light, the words on the note were hard to read but they seemed to say, 'Hunter with a belt.' Now what? What the hell could that mean? Although he knew he should not touch the evidence, but since he was wearing gloves and would not leave prints, Bane lifted the wiper with his free hand and picked up the note to get a better look.
As soon as he touched the wiper and heard the faintest click, years of experience sounded his mental alarms. Bane spun on one foot and leaped away from the car faster than any real wolf but the explosion still smashed him across the back like the impact of an unimaginably big hammer.
Even with the protection of the Trom armor under his clothes and with his abnormal resilience, Bane passed out. Vague sensations reached him from far away. It ached when he breathed. Cold gravel dug into his face. In another few seconds, consciousness returned to him with a jolt. Bane tried to bring his arms around under him to get up but he couldn't. His arms were held at the small of his back, restrained by something, and his legs were bent at the knees so his feet were connected to his wrists.
I must have been out of it for a few minutes, Bane thought sourly. Managing to lift his head, he saw a brilliantly polished pair of black dress shoes in front of his nose. Twisting his neck as high as it would go, all he could see were two thin legs draped in immaculate tweed.
"Good evening," said a smooth unemotional voice. "On reflection, I think I should have plied my trade in your territory earlier. You are quite stealthy. I was watching for your arrival and I still did not see you clearly until the blast."
"So," Bane replied, "'Hunter with a belt.' Umm, a pro wrestler with the championship belt?"
"Oh, very impressive," said the Punster. "Not the pathetic attempt at solving the clue, but simply that you are so calm. You show real presence of mind to make a remark like that under the circumstances."
Working with his fingers, Bane determined he was bound with ordinary clotheslines If he could get over on his back... To gain time, he said, "I thought you never killed anyone, Walters?"
"Give me some credit. I've done my homework. Poor old Harold Klein was certain to call you in after my first act and I was equally certain that you would be the one to arrive here. I know all about the famous Dire Wolf surviving everything from jumping off seven story buildings to swallowing a tumbler of cyanide. You bounce back from the most atrocious mistreatment, my friend. Are you really human?"
"So..." Bane stalled as he wriggled and managed to flop so that he turned over on his back. "You counted on me living through that blast. Kind of a shame to destroy a nice car like that." Now he could get a good look at his tormenter.
Walter W Walters was still remarkably young, barely thirty. He was of medium height but thin. The neatly tailored business suit and long cloth coat made him seem even more gaunt. The Punster had a classic nerd face, sunken cheeks and a prominent beaklike nose over thin lips. He was wearing old-fashioned black horn-rimmed glasses. The brown hair was combed straight back over a high forehead.
"I'm consoled by the five vintage cars my men are even now driving away on back roads. There are unscrupulous collectors who will pay millions even for items they cannot display publically. My own driver is waiting at the rear of the house for me, Dire Wolf. If you solve my little clue, perhaps we will meet again tomorrow."
"First, is Garnett all right?"
"Of course. My men have left him trussed much as you have been. This is an intellectual diversion for me, my friend, I dislike violence. I'll be going now."
Under his body, unseen by the Punster, Bane had managed to reach the top of one boot. In a slit in the outer edge, each of his boots held a single-edged razor blade. As he had done several times before, the Dire Wolf sliced through the cord tying his ankles together. Even with much practice, he gashed his fingers doing this but it was worth it.
As he felt sudden slack in the cord around his ankles, Bane said, "Tomorrow night you expect to rob some company named 'ORION SHIPPING' or something. Or you'll burgle a guy named O'Ryan. Am I right?"
Some hint of strain showed in Walter's voice. "Eh? What?"
"Yeah. I never got much formal education but even I know a few constellations. The guy with three stars for a belt. Orion the Hunter."
"Oh, this will never do." The Punster stamped a foot petulantly and scowled down at Bane. "This upsets my plan. I will have to create another crime now in a hurry. And I suppose I will have to mail a clue to you and the police. I hate this! It ruins the perefection of my game."
Getting braced, the Dire Wolf said, "I wouldn't worry about it. Tomorrow night, you'll be in jail." With the last word, Bane heaved up onto his feet, hands still tied behind him, and slammed a front snap kick into the pit of Walters' stomach. Every bit of air gushed out of the Punster's lungs as the man doubled up just in time to catch an upraised knee to the chin. From the limp way Walters collapsed with barely a groan, it seemed likely he would not be trying to run away any time soon.
From behind the mansion, a car started up. Bane saw headlights rushing away on a back road. There was no way he could cut his hands free and get back to his own car in time to catch the man. When Walters talked, the authorities would have to round up as many henchmen as they could.
Finding the dropped razor blade on the gravel, he sliced through the clothesline around his wrists. He had been too preoccupied to really notice before, but his back and shoulders were severely bruised from the blast and the back of his head ached horribly. That would ease up soon as his enhanced healing kicked in. Bane had a mild case of the shakes as he realized how close he had come to being killed earlier. If he had not jumped away from the car, if he had taken that explosion point blank, even the Tagra healing would not have been enough to keep him alive.
Spotting his revolver over by the wrecked Duesenberg, Bane limped over to retrieve it. He holstered the gun, took the Link from his pocket and called the local police. Where the hell was Klein, still watching the sea lions at the zoo? The town's chief of police knew Bane from previous encounters and guaranteed immediate response.
Bane moved his shoulders, feeling them loosen up. Next he needed to make sure Garnett was unharmed. He bent over and hauled Walters upright, supporting the dazed man with an iron grip on his arms. "Come on, mastermind, let's check out your victim. Let's go." Half dragging the groggy Punster, Bane added, "Didn't work out the way you planned, huh?"
Not completely coherent yet, gasping to take in breath, Walters said, "I didn't think...you'd know about Orion..."
Bane decided to rub it in. "Aw, I got it right away. It wasn't a hard clue."
9/20/2017
1/22-1/24/1993
I.
Jeremy Bane did not seem to even notice the sub-zero wind chill. At three-forty in the morning in late January, he got out of his Mustang and walked over to where Klein and two uniformed officers were waiting on the corner of Hart Street. Bane was wearing only a light topcoat over his sport jacket, unbuttoned, and a pair of thin black gloves. No scarf, no hat, no sign of discomfort.
In contrast, the policemen huddled around the abandoned cherry-red Carmen Ghia were bundled up until little showed except their eyes. Inspector Harold Klein in particular was hidden within a down-filled parka, wool gloves, a heavy wool hat pulled down over his ears and a scarf wrapped tightly around his face. "Goddamit, Bane, could you at least ACT human? It's ten below zero out here."
This produced no response from the Dire Wolf. He did not bother to explain that he had been on a Tagra tea regimen from Tel Shai for a dozen years. In addition to giving him enhanced healing ability and recovery from damage, Tagra gave Tel Shai knights high resistance to the elements. Bane in fact was barely aware of the bitter cold. He was surprised that Klein had brought the weather up.
Instead of mentioning any of this, the Dire Wolf simply walked up to the Carmen Ghia and peered closely at it from all angles. "I came as soon as I got your call, Inspector. What's this paper inside the windshield?"
"That's exactly what I thought you might be interested in," said Klein. "The driver was robbed at gunpoint and his keys were thrown down that storm drain over there. He's in custody right now, waiting for his lawyer."
Bane kept his voice as even and unreactive as usual. "The victim is under arrest?"
"Oh, we want to talk to him anyway about a hundred unrelated details. Leo Brueckner, sixty-three, on the surface a gem dealer for the Snyder Jewelry franchise but we've been watching him for a while. We're sure he was carrying a bag of uncut blue-white diamonds with him tonight to sell to someone from the United Arab Republic. And the diamonds themselves are illegal, those 'conflict diamonds' from South Africa."
Pressing up to the driver's side of the car, Bane had taken a powerful pencil flashlight and managed to read the yellow Post-It. "Hmm. That's a funny note."
"Yeah, it means one of the odder criminal masterminds is in the area. A tow truck is on the way to take this car to impound, where of course it will be taken apart and reassembled. But first," Klein told him slowly, "I thought you needed to see that note in its original location."
Bane came over to stand beside the inspector. Not too long ago, Klein had suspected Bane of being a violent menace to the citizens of New York. He had been doggedly trying to find some charge to lock Bane up on. Klein's attitude had changed completely after working with Bane capturing Samhain during the Astronomy Murders. Now the inspector regarded the Dire Wolf as a useful but unofficial loose cannon that could sometimes be pointed at killers too cunning or too dangerous to risk losing.
"That doesn't mean anything to me," the Dire Wolf said. "The note looks like a standard stick-up note you can buy in a million pharmacies and supermarkets. The block printing in ink disguises any handwriting traits. All it says is, 'The dog with no legs' and below that, 'THE PUNSTER' in capital letters. I'm blank. What's the deal?"
Gesturing to the two uniformed officers to stay by the car, Klein ushered Bane a few feet away, just enough that the cops could plausibly deny overhearing anything. "So. You never heard of the Punster?"
"Nope. Never."
Klein snorted and tugged his wool hat lower. "We gotta get inside. This is just ridiculous. Anyway, I guess maybe the Punster is kinda out of your area of interest. As far as we know, he has never killed anyone. The worst he's been implicated in is having two of his goons punch out a witness who was making a run for it. You mostly tackle killers and worse."
"True enough. He's a high-level thief, then?"
"Yeah." Klein broke off as a police tow truck arrived with red and blue lights alternating. He supervised the car being hooked up and taken away, then turned to the Dire Wolf. "Hang on a second. Wissock, Levin. Report back to precinct. Fill in your paperwork and go home. You're on overtime as it is."
"Lieutenant?" asked one of the cops dubiously, giving Bane a doubtful look.
"I'll be fine. I wanna ask this guy a few questions. You're dismissed." As the two men hurried to the cruiser parked just down the block, Klein shuddered, "Lord have mercy, let's get in your car. And turn the heat up."
As he got behind the wheel and started the engine, Bane complied by setting the heat to maximum. In a few seconds, the interior of the Mustang was pleasantly warm and dry.
"Aw, that's better," Klein said. "I'm just getting old for cold weather duty."
"Where are we going, inspector?"
"Tell ya what, howsabout doing a big loop? Head uptown for ten minutes, then come back here to my own car. By then I shoulda filled you in on this Punster freak."
II.
"I'll drive more carefully than usual," Bane said with the closest he came to deadpan humor.
"So here's the story." Klein yanked off the heavy wool hat to reveal curly black hair sprinkled liberally with white patches. "Whew. That's better. Okay, so the Punster's real name is Walter W. Walters. Before you ask, middle name was just an initial, it didn't stand for 'Walter' too.He was a child prodigy with a record-high IQ and a gift for languages. He was the sort who got accepted into college when he was twelve, you know?"
Sitting at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, the Dire Wolf made a non-commital grunt to show he was listening.
"Before he was twenty," Klein continued, "Walters had made over eleven million playing the stock market and investing in local business. Evidently he wasn't too attached to his family because he moved out on his eighteenth birthday and hasn't contacted his parents since. Now, here's the problem. Walters is super-smart but he also has some powerful compulsions he can't overcome. His food has to be prepared according to a long list of instructions, all his clothes are handmade and he can only sleep in a soundproofed chamber with a high oxygen content.'
As Klein paused for a comment, Bane obligingly said, "Guess genius carries a high price, eh?"
"Yeah. I actually have seen something like this before. One time I investigated a computer engineer who was being extorted, he was smarter than anyone else in his field but so damn crazy. All his furnishings had to be white so he could look for dirt. And Walters has that same sort of whackiness. He gave a few interviews which led to lawsuits because he thought the reporter was making fun of him."
By now, they had reached Columbus Circle and the Dire Wolf made two right turns and headed back the way they had come. "When did this 'Punster' stuff start?"
"That's what surprised everyone. Walters had a complete plan worked out beforehand. He transferred his property and holdings to different companies run by his stooges. He began liquidating huge amounts of cash. And one day his main office disappeared in a highly suspicious explosion and fire. Walter Walters wasn't there. He hasn't made an official public appearance since."
"This is getting strange," Bane said. "He didn't fake his death?"
"No. He just dropped off the radar. The FBI thinks he stashed millions of dollars at different locations around the country. They also think that twenty of the executives running the companies he left are really driving him all over when they're supposed to be on business trips."
Abruptly, Bane pulled into an empty spot and left the motor running. "I want to hear more. What about the crimes? What makes him a public enemy?
"Mind if I smoke?"
"Not in my car, inspector. I need my sense of smell. You can chew on one of your stogies if you want. What about the crimes? Come on already!"
That made Klein chortle in glee. "Getting interested? All right then. The Punster heists started a few weeks after he vanished. They've been going on ever since. Walters follows a strict pattern he set for himself. No killing, in fact as little rough stuff as possible. He robs three people on three successive nights. At each crime scene, the Punster leaves a note with one of the crazy little phrases that is actually a clue to the next robbery."
"What? He must be really demented. Why would he leave a clue? Why help the police trying to catch him?"
"Part of his compulsion," Klein shrugged. "Guess he can't help himself. And all the clues turn out to be fair. The law enforcement community expected him to be misleading us and sending us away from where he was gonna be. Nope. He plays fair from his point of view."
Bane turned the famous pale grey eyes on Klein. "That is the goofiest thing I've ever heard of. A crook leaving helpful clues for the cops. It's hard to believe."
"What really rubs it in is that so far, when the boys do figure out his deranged little hints, we're too late. He's on his way with whatever he set out to steal. And, I'm sure, he's laughing at us all the way." Klein tugged the wool hat back on before starting to get out of the car.
"Now I'm wondering what that meant," Bane admitted. "'Dog with no legs'... what the hell could that be about?"
The inspector reached over to clap the Dire Wolf on the shoulder a few times. "That was why I wanted you to see that note. I know you, buddy. You're gonna be working on that clue now."
As Klein got out and trudged over to where his own Plymouth sat, Bane angrily peeled out and shot down the street. He deliberately ran a stop sign at the next corner in a petty attempt to show his annoyance.
As he drove back to 38th Street, the Dire Wolf repeated out loud, "'Dog with no legs, dog with no legs.' Damn that Klein..."
III.
It was almost five, still hours from dawn this time of year, before Bane pulled into the dead-end alley on Lexington. At a signal from his dashboard, a steel panel slid up and he rolled carefully down a concrete ramp into the small garage under the KDF building. The other car was gone. Cindy was supposed to be back Monday. For the next few days, he was alone in the building.
As always, no matter how tired he might be, the Dire Wolf checked his car. The tires, the oil, the battery terminals. He took a roll of paper towels and wiped the windows inside and out. Just before he had pulled in, he had stopped at a gas station to make sure the tank was full. There was good reason why he lived like a firefighter always ready to take off. He had needed to instantly respond to many emergencies without warning in his career.
Leaving the garage, striding down the narrow walkway between the Vault and the arsenal, he emerged up through the back of a walk-in closet in the front hall. Bane hung up his topcoat with the gloves jammed into its pockets and crossed over to the open door of his office. He was tired but did not feel at all like trying to sleep.
To the right as one entered the office was a massive oak desk where he went to seat himself. On the wall behind him hung a hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937. Bane clicked on the reading lamp to his left and sat in silence. A television and radio were concealed behind cabinet doors nearby but he never had them on for entertainment. He leaned forward with his elbows on the green baize writing cover of the desk and turned that maddening phrase over in his mind.
'The Dog with no legs.' It didn't make sense as far as he could see. Bane knew he wasn't great with enigmatic puzzles. When it came to the actual fighting, to chasing someone or tackling a crowd of thugs in a narrow space, he was among the best there were. He had developed some skills as a detective through experience but he knew his limits.
Even now, ten years gone, he sometimes missed Michael Hawk. There had been a real manhunter. Hawk could glance at someone's hands or ask them one seemingly innocent question and rattle off a dozen facts about the person. But, despite Hawk's lessons, Bane did not have that deductive knack.
The Dire Wolf slumped without realizing it. So many of his friends were gone. Half his team had died that hellish night of the Final Halloween. Even Khang, who had seemed indestructible. Bane had decided then that they all had sacrificed enough and he had disbanded the KDF, setting the survivors free of their bonds to him.
Still turning that note phrase around in his head, Bane realized he could have benefitted from someone to work with on this. Why would a dog have no legs? Had someone cut the animal's legs off? Had the dog lost its legs to frostbite or injury? Despite a memory crowded with the gruesome details of thousands of crimes, Bane could not recall anyone ever doing such a thing.
Disgusted with his limitations and irritated at Inspector Harold Klein for dropping this riddle on him, Bane abruptly stood up. He turned off the lights and headed up the stairs to the third floor. When the KDF had been thriving, there were always four or five members staying here. Now, only he and Cindy remained in their adjoining rooms. Bane decided to get some sleep and let his subconscious work on the problem. He entered his rooms, emptied his pockets of the dozen weapons and gadgets he carried and slung his belt with the holstered Smith & Wesson 38 Special on the headboard of his bed.
The matched silver daggers in their sheaths were next. He unstrapped them from his forearms and tucked them carefully under his pillow with the hilts sticking out. They had been a present from Kenneth Dred, ands the silver blades had been ensorcelled by the immortal Elkdarin ages ago. Those daggers could never be replaced. He never let them out of immediate reach if he could help it.
Under his clothing, as always, he was wearing the flexible Trom armor that resembled dark silk but which would turn a rifle bullet. Bane went into the bathroom and took a steaming hot shower during which he turned the armor inside out and scrubbed it as well. Feeling clean and less annoyed, the Dire Wolf hung the armor up to air dry. He slid between the flannel sheets, rolled over onto his back and began the Tel Shai breathing patterns. He fell asleep within seconds.
By ten, Bane was up and dressed and making a breakfast two lumberjacks would have had difficulty finishing. His accelerated metabolism kept him ravenous and thin. He had the radio in the kitchen set to a local news station. Finally done, he scrubbed the frying pan and dishes before allowing himself to start thinking about that Punster business.
Going into the rec room, Bane felt another twinge about how empty and quiet it was. Cindy was right. It was time to start planning for a new KDF team. They had met enough adventurers in the Midnight War to gather five or six. What about Galvan? Or Samuel Watesa? Maybe Golden Jaguar? It seemed ridiculous to have this huge well-equipped fortess gathering dust with only himself and Cindy living here.
Digging in a cabinet, he found the battered Scrabble set and dumped its tiles onto the card table. Pulling a chair over, Bane set out tiles that read 'The Dog With No Legs' and put the rest away. He began rearranging the little wooden plaques to set what else could be spelled with them. 'Glen,' but he didn't know any Glen. Or 'Gwen' for that matter. "God,' 'goon,' 'logs,' 'whole'... Nothing seemed promising. An hour crawled by as the Dire Wolf searched for meaning where there seemed to be none.
Too bad. This had worked before, where a cryptic message had turned out to be an anangram or whatever they were called. Getting disgusted, he put the tiles away and returned the Scrabble box to the cabinet. Why had Klein thought he would be any use at a game like this? The Dire Wolf headed down the front hall and entered his office. He checked the fish tank with its bizarre creatures from Fanedral, making sure the water was the right temperature and was clear. Small bits of food flakes had to be sprinkled in. The big seahorse with fangs, the starfish with the single red eye in its center, the hermit crabs who were digging a tunnel between their two little pebble castles.. they all seemed healthy.
Before he got to his desk, the phone rang and he leaped for it. "Dire Wolf Agency."
"Hiya, Bane, getting anywhere?"
"Not at all," he admitted. "Inspector, what's going on at your end?"
"Eh, Brueckner's lawyer is trying offers for different deals. We want to see how much dirt they let slip. Our stoolies haven't been any help getting a lead on the Punster, though."
"I'll check some of my own sources. But honestly, inspector, this is not my best area. You need some deductive genius like Caleb Thorne."
"Like we could afford him!" laughed Klein before hanging up.
Bane replaced the receiver. He had decided not to sit behind the desk making phone calls all day. He did take a minute to listen to his messages but found nothing of immediate concern. The Dire Wolf unlocked the cabinet behind the desk, took out two thousand dollars in twenties and jotted it down in the ledger, then headed for the front door. As he left the building, he was shrugging into his topcoat.
The next few hours were spent prowling Times Square. During his career, Bane had saved many lives and kept many wrongly accused me out of prison. Instead of accepting rewards, though, he had asked instead that they keep an eye out for anything weird or seemingly inexplicable in the city. Many of his most crucial cases had begun with a tip from one of his network of observers.
IV.
A long and tedious afternoon followed. Bane went from smoke-filled back rooms of seedy bars to dank tenement apartments to luxury penthouses overlooking Central Park West to the offices of Columbia University professors. He had contacts in all levels of society, in the overlapping worlds of organized crime and the dread Midnight War. Often he left an unmentioned tip of a hundred or two hundred dollars to help those observers who were struggling. More than once, he had to sit through elaborate rituals of polite chat before getting to the real purpose of his visits.
But he did learn some interesting aspects of the case.
Career criminals who hired out their services really preferred working for the Punster than for other masterminds. Where someone like Samhain or Sepulcher might murder their own men for infractions or just on an insane whim, the Punster had never done that. Unlike Golgora or Seth Petrov, the Punster split the profits fairly with his employees and often distributed bonuses for successsful jobs that were particularly hazardous.
And the Punster was a genius in the textbook definition. His schemes were well-thought through and meticulous, he researched his targets and he had contingency plans if anything went wrong. The big disadvantage for his gangs was that he was never in continuous business. Two or three years might go by between his sequencew of heists. Crooks who signed up with the Punster had to have other steady employment during those dry spells.
By late afternoon, Bane had caught up with tons of Midnight War sightings and criminal gossip. Even if he had not been on a particular mission, he did this frequently to get informed about the shadowy world where he lived. By five, it was getting dark. Bane found himself near 50th Street and Eighth Avenue where he popped into a bar and grill.
As he devoured a hot roast beef sandwich with onion rings and was ready to order a second one, Bane had a quick thought about the Punster's clue. He was never sure afterwards what triggered the thought and figured something that someone had said in passing must have caused an association.
As he invariably did, the Dire Wolf had chosen a booth by the kitchen door and from which he could watch the door to the street. No one was paying attention to him. He unclipped the Link from his belt, patched into the standard telephone service and managed to reach Inspector Klein in his office. "Hi. Bane here. What's the situation?"
"Hiya, listen I only got a minute. Lemme be honest, the department is not putting as many men on this Punster clown as I would like. Seems like a power struggle going on in one of the big five crime families and there's been some shootings. Two innocent passers-by died. So that's where most of our manpower is being assigned."
"I think I have something on that damn clue you unloaded on me," Bane said. "The 'dog without legs' is a seal. Think about it. The way they bark. They are kind of like dogs but with flippers instead of legs."
Klein laughed. "I like it. It makes sense. And you know what, Officer Hopewell told me he took his family to the Bronx Zoo yesterday. Big excitement there is that the zoo has a rare pygmy seal. Guess it was recently discovered and scientists are giddy over a new species"
"The seal exhibit is open this time of year?"
"Sure. It's open year round. Those animals like cold weather. I think you might have something there, Mr Dire Wolf. I'll get two men assigned to watch that seal tonight. They won't like the duty but theirs is not to reason why."
Bane drained the last of his tumbler of iced tea. "I might be going there myself after dark. I don't know... I'm still puzzling over that clue. Maybe there's another answer so obvious I'm missing it."
"Well, keep racking your brains, buddy. I have to get back to finding where Junior Carlino is hiding and if he shot those civilians. Thanks for the tip."
After Klein broke the connection, Bane brought his plate up to the bar and ordered a second helping. He was always starving. As he waited for the sandwich, he stared out the big plate glass window at 8th Avenue and kept mulling over the bizarre idea of a criminal who felt compelled to provide clues. He figured some of it was mere ego. This Punster guy had such a high opinion of himself that he thought he could tease the cops with impunity and they still could not catch him. The Dire Wolf was unreasonably annoyed by the nerve of that crook.
Back on the streets, the Dire Wolf realized he had only been to the Bronx Zoo twice and both times in connection with desperate manhunts. He had never spent a day there checking out the exhibits. He vaguely remembered there was a sort of pool with rocks in the center on which sea lions sprawled and barked. That was about the extent of his memories about the place. He had not exactly led a fun-filled life in any way.
Back on 38th Street, Bane checked his messages. According to Kline's briefing, the Punster preferred to strike late in the evening but not the middle of the night. Usually he pulled his heists after ten PM but before two in the morning. The Dire Wolf paced his office with increasing agitation at the unhappy feeling he was going to be outwitted by this crook.
Only seven-thirty. Restless and troubled, Bane went up the stairs to the seventh floor and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. The KDF customized gym had a dozen Nautilus machines arranged in a row, but most of the floor space was taken up by thin hard mats for sparring. Early plans to install a pool had proved impractical. On the far wall was a door leading to the coed locker room and showers. Bane stripped quickly down, hanging his clothing in one of the lockers. He even wriggled out of the flexible Trom armor and hung up the silver daggers by their sheaths. His locker had a bundle of several plain white cotton T-shirts, shorts and socks, as well as plain sneakers.
Stripped down, Bane was a remarkable sight. He did not look like a weightlifter or even a boxer, but more like a sprinter. With almost zero body fat, his long hard muscles stood out dramatically under his skin. The Dire Wolf hopped up onto one of the treadmills, set it at a 45 degree angle and started at a brisk trot. After one minute, he brought the speed up to a full run.
The dog with no legs.. that phrase haunted him. He kept trying to come up with different interpretations but 'seal' rang so true he was sure that it was correct. One hour later, with his skin covered by a fine layer of sweat but breathing only slighter faster than before, he began a two-minute cool down at a walking pace. Located at various spots were antiseptic spray bottles and rags, and he wiped off the handles of the treadmill.
No, 'seal' was right. But maybe not the literal animal. What else? A seal as in a stamp of approval? The Great Seal of the United States.. was the Punster going to rob the Federal gold reserve down on Wall Street? Uncertainty ate away at him. Still craving exertion, Bane stepped out onto one of the mats. Feet together, fists at his waist, he bowed low to his Teacher Chael at Tel Shai.
His DohRa form had been created for him specifically by Chael to build on his strengths and work on his weak points. Over the years, the DohRa had been revised and expanded as Bane himself had developed. Starting with slow, stretching poses and stances, he moved into combination blows and kicks that came faster and faster. Soon he was whipping about in tight circles, striking and defending against imagined opponents. Thirty minutes sped by. Then, imperceptibly, the punches and blocks slowed again and he was assuming difficult stances that required both balance and flexibility. Now drenched in perspiration and breathing deeply but steadily, Bane bowed again to his Teacher. He felt as close to being at peace as he ever did.
While his body had been in motion, his mind had gone into blank timelessness. He felt rested mentally. Bane went into the locker room, endured a steaming shower and shaved while he was at it. Tossing the soggy shorts, socks and shirt into a hamper, he tugged on the Trom armor again. The silver daggers were strapped to his forearms again, and he got into the familiar black outfit. As he brushed his short black hair with his fingers, the Dire Wolf froze into position for an instant.
A man's name bobbed up from his subconscious. Of course! Now he thought he finally had the real answer. Bane hurtled down the stairs to the ground floor, snatched his topcoat as he passed and was heading for the underground garage in a blur.
V.
Over two hours passed before he reached the far end of Long Island. He had tried numerous times to reach Inspector Klein without success. Eventually he settled for leaving a message at the precinct house. Out by Schuyler Road, with the Sound visible nearby, Bane swung up by a low stone wall that encircled an estate he had read up on. His heart sank as he saw the ornate wrought iron gate had been left wide open. That was a bad sign.
Rolling slowly up the paved drive, the Dire Wolf reached inside his coat behind his left side and brought the Smith & Wesson out for readiness. He drove between flanking rows of meticulously trimmed trees and hedges before pulling over while he was still out of sight of the Garnett mansion. Locking the Mustang, fading into the bushes and loping noiselessly through the gloom, Bane kept the revolver aimed at the ground in front of him ready for use.
As the sprawling neo-Georgian building came into view, well lit from different angles by floodlamps, Bane came to a stop. One of Garnett's famous restored vintage autos was parking out in the open in front of the portico. It looked like a Duesenberg, but Bane was no expert on antique cars and realized he might be wrong.
Peter Garnett was the former Navy SEAL well known to the general public because he had written a glamorized novel about one of his missions, and it had been made into a TV-movie starring a popular action star. Garnett had been given an honorable discharge and three Purple Hearts to compensate for the leg injuries that would always trouble him. Wealthy enough to indulge any hobby, Garnett had begun restoring vintage autos and reselling them to collectors.
Bane had read about Garnett in several local newspapers. He crept up to the Duesenberg, spotting a yellow Post-It stuck under one of the windshield wipers. Oh, the Punster has definitely been here, he thought. The devious crook had meant this 'seal,' not the animal at the Bronx Zoo.
The Dire Wolf leaned forward over the car hood. In the uncertain light, the words on the note were hard to read but they seemed to say, 'Hunter with a belt.' Now what? What the hell could that mean? Although he knew he should not touch the evidence, but since he was wearing gloves and would not leave prints, Bane lifted the wiper with his free hand and picked up the note to get a better look.
As soon as he touched the wiper and heard the faintest click, years of experience sounded his mental alarms. Bane spun on one foot and leaped away from the car faster than any real wolf but the explosion still smashed him across the back like the impact of an unimaginably big hammer.
Even with the protection of the Trom armor under his clothes and with his abnormal resilience, Bane passed out. Vague sensations reached him from far away. It ached when he breathed. Cold gravel dug into his face. In another few seconds, consciousness returned to him with a jolt. Bane tried to bring his arms around under him to get up but he couldn't. His arms were held at the small of his back, restrained by something, and his legs were bent at the knees so his feet were connected to his wrists.
I must have been out of it for a few minutes, Bane thought sourly. Managing to lift his head, he saw a brilliantly polished pair of black dress shoes in front of his nose. Twisting his neck as high as it would go, all he could see were two thin legs draped in immaculate tweed.
"Good evening," said a smooth unemotional voice. "On reflection, I think I should have plied my trade in your territory earlier. You are quite stealthy. I was watching for your arrival and I still did not see you clearly until the blast."
"So," Bane replied, "'Hunter with a belt.' Umm, a pro wrestler with the championship belt?"
"Oh, very impressive," said the Punster. "Not the pathetic attempt at solving the clue, but simply that you are so calm. You show real presence of mind to make a remark like that under the circumstances."
Working with his fingers, Bane determined he was bound with ordinary clotheslines If he could get over on his back... To gain time, he said, "I thought you never killed anyone, Walters?"
"Give me some credit. I've done my homework. Poor old Harold Klein was certain to call you in after my first act and I was equally certain that you would be the one to arrive here. I know all about the famous Dire Wolf surviving everything from jumping off seven story buildings to swallowing a tumbler of cyanide. You bounce back from the most atrocious mistreatment, my friend. Are you really human?"
"So..." Bane stalled as he wriggled and managed to flop so that he turned over on his back. "You counted on me living through that blast. Kind of a shame to destroy a nice car like that." Now he could get a good look at his tormenter.
Walter W Walters was still remarkably young, barely thirty. He was of medium height but thin. The neatly tailored business suit and long cloth coat made him seem even more gaunt. The Punster had a classic nerd face, sunken cheeks and a prominent beaklike nose over thin lips. He was wearing old-fashioned black horn-rimmed glasses. The brown hair was combed straight back over a high forehead.
"I'm consoled by the five vintage cars my men are even now driving away on back roads. There are unscrupulous collectors who will pay millions even for items they cannot display publically. My own driver is waiting at the rear of the house for me, Dire Wolf. If you solve my little clue, perhaps we will meet again tomorrow."
"First, is Garnett all right?"
"Of course. My men have left him trussed much as you have been. This is an intellectual diversion for me, my friend, I dislike violence. I'll be going now."
Under his body, unseen by the Punster, Bane had managed to reach the top of one boot. In a slit in the outer edge, each of his boots held a single-edged razor blade. As he had done several times before, the Dire Wolf sliced through the cord tying his ankles together. Even with much practice, he gashed his fingers doing this but it was worth it.
As he felt sudden slack in the cord around his ankles, Bane said, "Tomorrow night you expect to rob some company named 'ORION SHIPPING' or something. Or you'll burgle a guy named O'Ryan. Am I right?"
Some hint of strain showed in Walter's voice. "Eh? What?"
"Yeah. I never got much formal education but even I know a few constellations. The guy with three stars for a belt. Orion the Hunter."
"Oh, this will never do." The Punster stamped a foot petulantly and scowled down at Bane. "This upsets my plan. I will have to create another crime now in a hurry. And I suppose I will have to mail a clue to you and the police. I hate this! It ruins the perefection of my game."
Getting braced, the Dire Wolf said, "I wouldn't worry about it. Tomorrow night, you'll be in jail." With the last word, Bane heaved up onto his feet, hands still tied behind him, and slammed a front snap kick into the pit of Walters' stomach. Every bit of air gushed out of the Punster's lungs as the man doubled up just in time to catch an upraised knee to the chin. From the limp way Walters collapsed with barely a groan, it seemed likely he would not be trying to run away any time soon.
From behind the mansion, a car started up. Bane saw headlights rushing away on a back road. There was no way he could cut his hands free and get back to his own car in time to catch the man. When Walters talked, the authorities would have to round up as many henchmen as they could.
Finding the dropped razor blade on the gravel, he sliced through the clothesline around his wrists. He had been too preoccupied to really notice before, but his back and shoulders were severely bruised from the blast and the back of his head ached horribly. That would ease up soon as his enhanced healing kicked in. Bane had a mild case of the shakes as he realized how close he had come to being killed earlier. If he had not jumped away from the car, if he had taken that explosion point blank, even the Tagra healing would not have been enough to keep him alive.
Spotting his revolver over by the wrecked Duesenberg, Bane limped over to retrieve it. He holstered the gun, took the Link from his pocket and called the local police. Where the hell was Klein, still watching the sea lions at the zoo? The town's chief of police knew Bane from previous encounters and guaranteed immediate response.
Bane moved his shoulders, feeling them loosen up. Next he needed to make sure Garnett was unharmed. He bent over and hauled Walters upright, supporting the dazed man with an iron grip on his arms. "Come on, mastermind, let's check out your victim. Let's go." Half dragging the groggy Punster, Bane added, "Didn't work out the way you planned, huh?"
Not completely coherent yet, gasping to take in breath, Walters said, "I didn't think...you'd know about Orion..."
Bane decided to rub it in. "Aw, I got it right away. It wasn't a hard clue."
9/20/2017
