"Just Another Crisis"
May. 15th, 2022 08:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Just Another Crisis"
11/3-11/9/1993
I.
Late on a winter day, when shadows stretched in elongated caricatures across the ground, a stocky man in a long white coat got out of his new Honda Accord and closed the door silently. By the side of the road was a phone booth next to a power pole. Harold Craft entered the booth, and as he pulled its folding door shut, the interior light went on. A directory was fastened by a thin chain to its metal shelf. Craft surveyed the area suspiciously and waited until a pick-up truck going by passed out of sight.
Harold Craft looked as if he would be near sixty, well-dressed in a tan suit with dark brown tie that matched his short hair and deepset eyes. Satisfied he was not being observed, he dug at the spine of the phone book until the back cover peeled apart and revealed an 4x5 sheet of stiff paper. Now he had to read quickly. As the specially treated paper was exposed to air, letters in bright blue ink appeared but he knew they would only be visible for under a minute.
ASSIGNMENT FOR S.I.G. AUTHORIZATION: DIADEM. SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO
ACCEPT, YOU ARE TO ARRANGE FOR JEREMY BANE AKA DIRE WOLF, 28 EAST
38TH STREET NYC NY TO BE DISGRACED AND HIS PI LICENSE REVOKED TO
END HIS VIGILANTE ACTIVITIES. USE ANY MEANS NECESSARY. GOOD LUCK.
Craft retained the message the first time he read it, he had twenty years of training in spytrade, but he went through it again just as the blue letters faded and were gone. There was no way to make the message reappear, but he carefully folded the paper into a tiny square and started chewing on it. After a few minutes of pretending to thumb through the phone book, he left the booth and returned to his car. A mile down the highway, Craft wound down the window and spat the gummy wad to the road. His mind was turning over a hundred possible plans and rejecting them one after the other.
An hour later, he was pulling up to the house on the hill overlooking the Palisades. His home was a quiet red brick structure with an attached two-car garage and a back yard that blended into woods. Driving up to the garage, he pressed a button on his dashboard and the reinforced steel door slid smoothly up to admit him. It lowered again automatically as he got out and went through a door into the kitchen of his home.
Harold Craft had a den, with comfortable easy chairs and reading tables. Bookshelves lined the walls except for the full stocked bar. He glanced longingly at the decanter of Hennessy but regretfully had to put business first. Tossing his topcoat over a table, he dropped down into an overstuffed chair and sighed. A notepad and pen were at hand and he settled back to go through names in his mind.
Nothing in that house, in his car or anywhere on the property, contained the words STRATEGIC INTERVENTION GROUP. Nowhere could the names or likenesses of any of the specialists under his command be found. The most patient search would find nothing to contradict the idea that Harold Craft had been a hard-working realtor who had been careful with his money and who had planned for an early retirement so he could quietly drink and read Mark Twain, Charles Dickens and Tolstoy the rest of his life. Even now, writing on his own notepad, Craft did not write any names down, merely numbers. He thought of the specialists he could recruit as One through Fourteen.
As he wrote down four numbers, Craft nodded with tentative satisfaction. He did not have to do any research on the target, the man Bane. He had received his regular briefings on any people with unusual abilities who might someday be of interest to the Mandate. With a slight surprise, Craft found he was excited at the idea of targeting Bane. If only to find out how many of the stories about him were true.
II.
Just before noon, Jeremy Bane folded the stacks of newspapers he had been studying and walked across his office to slap them down on top of the waist-high bookcase. Nothing. Many of his best Midnight War cases had started with an odd little story buried away in the back pages of a newspaper, but lately the strange underworld he moved in had been in a lull. Even the Dire Wolf Agency had gotten nothing but mundane possible assignments which he had turned down. He was not interested in following cheating spouses or watching employees who were stealing from the company. He operated his detective agency so he could track down serial killers and maniacs, but that territory was dry lately as well.
At forty, the Dire Wolf was a gaunt six-footer with restless energy that would not let him hold still for long. He was wearing what amounted to his uniform, the all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Bane's most notable feature were the pale grey eyes under black brows, eyes that were always wary and a little cold. Right now, he drummed his fingers impatiently on the bookcase and those eyes were openly angry. The past week had been wasted doing nothing. He couldn't stand inaction.
The doorbell rang and Bane swung around as if he had been stung by a hornet. He was out of the office and in the front hall in a blur, thumbing a button by the door. "Just a second," he announced. Sliding open a wooden panel, he revaled a large video monitor and its controls. He flicked it on to reveal the foyer just beyond the door to the his left, and pressed the button that unlocked and opened the outer door. "Please come in," he said, "I'll be with you in a second."
The foyer was just large enough to hold a bench, a coffee table with a few magazines and a lamp on a shelf. As the outer door closed again, a young blonde stood in the foyer and stared curiously at the oil portrait of Kenneth Dred on the wall to her left. While she was doing that, a barely audible series of buzzes and clicks sounded. She couldn't tell but she was being probed by Trom sensors to analyzed her with greater detail than the best MRI. Watching on the monitor, Bane got a few surprises that interested him.
The woman was not listed in any databanks he had covert access to, which included FBI and FDNY records. She was five feet seven inches, one hundred and fifteen pounds, biological age twenty-eight. The blonde hair was genuine, the dark blue eyes did not have contacts. Analysis showed she had unusually good muscle tone, her blood pressure and heartbeat were perfect. Maybe she was an athlete. That didn't explain the Beretta Brigadier strapped just above the small of her back.
Closing the panel, Bane decided to open the inner door. As she saw him, she gave him a smile he didn't return.
"Hello," she said in a mellow voice. She had the delicate sort of features that didn't need make-up. The clear skin had just the barest sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of the snub nose and the long eyelashes were natural. "I'm sorry I don't have an appointment..."
"That's all right," Bane said. "But I have to ask you to leave your pistol in the bench behind you. It'll be returned when you leave."
"Wait, what? I don't..."
"Those are the rules. Lift the lid of the bench and place your gun in there, or I won't let you in." There was no lightness in Bane's tone and she slowly complied. As she lowered the lid on the bench, the lock clicked. "How did you know?" she asked.
"Training," he answered, which was true enough. Even without the Trom sensors, he would have known by her balance and stride she was carrying a weapon. "Okay, come in and we can talk."
She started to take off her heavy parka and Bane had just enough courtesy to help her and hang it on one of a row of wall hooks. His manners had never been polished, despite Cindy's best efforts. As the young woman straightened her white blouse, it emphasized a slim figure and the snug Navy blue slacks helped as well.
Bane ushered her into his office, pulling out a straightback chair for her in front of his desk. While she settled herself, he circled around and took his seat behind the desk. On the wall behind him was a gorgeous hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937-- the year Kenneth Dred had bought this building.
"Let's start, then," he said bluntly. "Name?"
"Dana. Dana Chamberlain. I'm an X-Ray technician at Saint Remy's."
"And how do you know about me, Dana?"
"Really? I've heard stories about you all my life. Urban legends, my friends told me. They said you weren't real, you were just a sort of folklore, but I knew better. I think you're the only one who can help Dody."
She's not laying it on too thick, Bane decided. He automatically distrusted clients at first, but he grudgingly admitted that she was not pushing her looks, she just had them. And her voice was straightforward and level. Meeting her eyes, he asked, "Dody?"
"Dolores. My little sister, she's just twenty. Dody has always been playing with the occult, mostly to shock people. She was in a deathmetal band last summer. Then she got mixed up with this weirdo bunch out on Long Island, they call themselves 'the Willing Slaves of Hell.' I can't stand them. She hasn't been home in months, she keeps asking our parents for money so she can stay and quote find herself." Chamberlain raised and lowered her narrow shoulders. "I'm scared to go out there, to be honest. They are extremely creepy people."
"I've never heard of them," Bane admitted. "The Willing Slaves of Hell, not a group I'm familiar with. If they are just a fringe religious cult, they may not be in my area of interest. I deal with the genuine supernatural, to be honest."
"I.. I thought you could go out there and see what they're up to," she said, letting some pleading enter her voice. "I'm so worried. The last time I saw Dody, she was so thin and pale. I think they're keeping her there against her will!"
Bane did not comment. He was leaning forward, hands clasped on the desk, looking at her steadily. After a few more seconds, Dana blurted, "Are you afraid too?"
That did not provoke a reaction. Bane acted as if he hadn't heard her as he said, "Have you already gone to the police?"
"The police?" she snapped with growing irritation. "As if THEY are ever any help. They won't even go to the commune to talk to Dody. They just about laughed at me." She pushed her chair back, "I guess I'll have to risk it by myself, then. I bought that gun but I don't know how to use it-"
The Dire Wolf lifted a hand to disuade her from leaving. "Tell me more about these people. What do they look like? Do they have a leader?"
"The Willing Slaves of Hell? Yes, a man named Scarsella, Francis Scarsella."
Now Bane sat up and the grey eyes sparked with interest. "Him. That's a surprise. Tall thin man with long white hair? Deep voice?"
"Yes. Exactly. Do you know him?"
"Only by reputation but I'd like to meet him." Bane's voice had changed too, it had an ominous edge to it that wasn't there before. "I think I will investigate. My usual fee is a flat one thousand dollars, that gives me certain legal privileges when dealing with the police. Is that a problem?"
"No," Chamberlain answered promptly, digging in her small handbag for her checkbook and pen. "Not at all. To get Dody home safe, you can have every penny I own." She propped the checkbook on the arm of her chair. "Who do I make it out to?"
"Dire Wolf Agency." Bane had opened the center drawer out of his desk and taken out a huge red leather ledger. By the time she had written out her check, he had a receipt ready for her. They exchanged the slips of paper and put them away. Without realizing it, Bane automatically put her check in his inside jacket pocket so he would deposit it at his bank the next morning. Putting the ledger away, the Dire Wolf closed the drawer again and said, "I want to do a little research on these Willing Slaves of Hell before I go out there, but I should be on the scene later today. Give me a description of your sisterr."
"We don't look much alike. She takes after Dad's side of the family. Dody's maybe five foot four or so, a hundred and ten. Kind of delicate actually,like a poet or artist. That's why I worry about her. She has dark brown hair, curly, very nice hazel eyes. Is that enough?"
"That should do it. Give me the location of this commune where the cult lives. Got it. Come on, I'll give you your Beretta back but honestly, if you haven't received any training, put it away until you do. You're more likely to shoot yourself than any bad guys if you don't know what you're doing."
As he rose and came around the desk, Dana Chamberlain put a hand on his sleeve and looked up at him. "I really appreciate this, Mr Bane. I don't know what I would have tried if you had turned me down."
Bane led to her to the hall. "This is what I do. Here, take your gun. Is the safety on? Good. All right, I'll let you know soon what progress I make. Okay. Good afternoon." He closed the door on the lovely young blonde as if he couldn't wait to get rid of her.
III.
After she had left, Bane stood thinking for a moment in the front hall, then turned and sprinted up the wide staircase to the second floor. In the conference room, he dropped in the chair that faced the desktop on its own stand. This was no ordinary computer, but a sysem devised by the Trom who had called himself Leonard Slade and who had been a member of the KDF. After the death of Slade, Bane had been more careful than ever with the device because it could not be repaired or replaced by Human knowledge.
In a few minutes, he was in the records of the New York State Bureau of Motor Vehicles. He pulled up the driver's license for Dana Chamberlain. The ID photo matched the woman who had just been there to see him and the address was the same as what was on her check. The height and date of birth also seemed appropriate. Breaking one law after another, the Dire Wolf went through tax records and found that the property where she lived belonged to Richard and Sarah Chamberlain, their ages were what you might expect from her parents.
Bane then checked on Dody Chamberlain and found a person listed everywhere who matched what Dana had told him. She had graduated John Monroe High School two years earlier, worked eleven months at a deli before being fired and was not visible on public records after that.
There was nothing anywhere for 'The Willing Slaves of Hell.' The Dire Wolf erased his searches and shut down the computer. Somehow he was still not saisfied. He knew he was too suspicious to be practical sometimes, but his instincts were usually good. It seemed odd to him that no newspaper or magazines had mentioned a cult that had been active for at least a year but apparently they kept a low profile. There was no point in looking for a trail for Scarsella. The warlock had lived off the grid for years, not leaving any traces he could avoid. There were warrants out for his arrest in Italy, Corsica and France that Bane knew of, probably more.
Standing up and stretching, he wished Cindy were here to help clarify his doubts. She was always good at pointing out what he sometimes had realized only subconsciously, but she was at Tel Shai being trained by her Teacher. There seemed to be no reason to doubt Dana Chamberlain's story and he had always wanted to tackle Francis Scarsella anyway. Walking down the stairs to the first floor, he got his long cloth coat off the hook, pulled it on and got thin leather gloves from its pocket. As usual, he was wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and he carried his 38 Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip. The matched silver daggers were sheathed on his forearms under his sleeves, he seldom had them off except when showering or sleeping.
Bane went through the panel at the rear of the walk-in closet, down steep concrete steps and along a narrow walkway to the building's underground garage. It held two cars, and he headed for the 1998 black Buick Regal. He changed cars frequently, one of the few ways in which his wealth was evident as he casually traded in nearly new cars on a monthly basis. He liked the Buick well enough, but he was beginning to realize Ford Mustangs were his favorites. In the backseat was a knapsack he always kept packed with a change of clothing and extra equipment, and he rarely parked a car down here without a full gas tank and everything being checked.
Trying to put his strange apprehension aside, the Dire Wolf started up the big car and rolled up the wide ramp to street level. A steel shutter rose automatically and closed behind him as he made a sharp right turn into an alley and then out onto Lexington Avenue. He grimly focused his mind on the job at hand.
IV.
Waking up was taking forever. His head seemed wrapped in fog that made it so hard to think. Bane struggled, drew on his Tel Shai training and started taking deep slow breaths. Filling his lungs with air, exhaling fully, he forced oxygen into his system and slowly came back to awareness. He was sitting in a wooden chair in a warm room. What was wrong with him? He felt so sick and dizzy. Bane tried to sit up but fell back down in the chair.
His awareness came back, all in a flash as his eyes went into focus. He was in a shabby motel room. Five feet from him was a double bed on which a corpse sprawled. That got all his attention and cleared his head completely. A young white woman, matching the description Dana Chamberlain had given of her sister. Dody was naked from the waist up, a plaid denim shirt still attached to her with a cuff buttoned on her right wrist. In the center of her chest was a ragged bullet hole. Her eyes were open and seemed to be staring directly at Bane.
In another instant, the Dire Wolf saw his own revolver on the floor at his feet. Before he could react, the door to the room slammed inward and two uniformed officers were pointing their service revolvers directly at him. "Freeze! Don't move!" shouted one of them.
Bane did not reply. He felt he could get up now but he remained completely still. The situation had finally sunk in, he had fallen into the oldest trap in crime. Scarsella! How had he done it? How had he knocked Bane out? Drugs? Gralic magic?
Behind the two cops, the slight form of Inspector Klein shouldered its way in. He was wearing a white topcoat over a dark blue suit and tie, and As he took in the scene, the color left his weathered face in a rush.
"Inspector," said Bane. "I know this must look bad."
"BAD?! Bad doesn't start to cover it. We got a call from the phone booth outside this motel about a heated argument and a gunshot. I happened to be in the area finishing other business and I met these officers outside." Klein gestured for the cops to spread out and cover Bane from a wider angle. "There you sit, gun at your feet and a dead girl in front of you, no one else in the room."
The Dire Wolf seemed distracted not by the situation, but by a thought. "You just happened to be in the area? Someone knew that. They planned on you being within a minute's reach."
"Jeremy Bane, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.."
"I'll call the Taylor Worth Agency when I get a chance," Bane said with remarkable calmness. "Listen, Inspector, this is vital. My revolver was empty the last I remember. I can see the noses of bullets in the chambers from here. Have forensics be careful with those bullets."
Klein stepped closer, obviously as nervous as if approaching a cornered real wolf. "Listen, Bane, do you want to make a statement?"
"Not right now. I'm sorry, Klein, hopefully I can straighten this out." With that final word, the Dire Wolf was already halfway out of the room, stiff-arming both cops violently aside so that they fell to the floor and were disoriented for a second. Moving too quickly for the human eye to follow, he was outside and in the front seat of Klein's unmarked Chevy in a blur. The motor was still running, the keys in the ignition. Bane slammed the gas and peeled out onto what he recognized as the West Side Highway. He sped into the night and saw by the dashboard clock it was two-thirty in the morning.
Getting off at an exit and whipping south through Manhattan, Bane felt his mind racing. He had sworn years ago that he would never do what he had just done. Resisting arrest, assaulting two officers, grand theft auto of a car belonging to a police Inspector no less.... he was deeper in legal trouble than he had ever been. But that frame-up had the decisive snap of a deathtrap to him and he had felt his only chance was flight. It might turn out to be the worst mistake he had ever made.
When he got to Little Italy, he pulled over and left Klein' car near a fire hydrant not far from a subway entrance. Maybe that would mislead them. Before getting out, he turned his black coat inside out. It had been tailored to be reversable, its opposite lining was white. From a pocket, he pulled out a wool hat that was his usual black, but reversed to be bright red. It might change his appearance enough to get by for a few moments. Out in the night, walking briskly but not running, he swerved over to Mott Street. Traffic was scarce on this frigid December night far from dawn. He saw one patrol car roll by slowly, but he was out of their line of vision behind a sidewalk sale.
Bane unlocked a plain wooden door on the side of an ancient building which featured LUCKY DRAGON FURNITURE IMPORTANTS and moved quickly up a flight of stairs. On the second floor landing, the unmarked door to his right was his and he entered, closing it gratefully behind him and allowing himself a slow exhalation at temporary safety. He flipped the light switch on the wall to his right. Facing him was a single high-ceilinged room that was almost empty. It was freezing and he turned the thermostat up to 68 as he inspected the heavily curtained windows to find no sign of entry.
Against the wall to his right as he stood in the doorway was a broken-down couch piled with blankets and pillows. A radio sat on the floor in front of it. The opposite wall, across an expanse of empty wood floor, showed a closet, a sink with a mirror over it, and a toilet. Along the wall to his left were rows of canned and packaged food that needed no refrigeration, gallon jugs of water, and a crate of first aid supplies.
Bane tugged off his topcoat and dropped it on the couch. He had not been here for months, since he had brought more supplies and inspected the place. This was the second of his hideouts. The first had been up on 8th Avenue and 50th Street, a very similar set-up that had been compromised when he had been followed by Snake men. If this hideout became known to his enemies, he had already decided on the location of his next one.
The Dire Wolf did not enjoy coming to this place. It meant he had lost control of the situation and was desperate. Sourly, he took a deep drink from a water bottle and walked over to the bathroom. On the floor beneath the sink sat a leather briefcase that had been devised for him by the late Michael Hawk. It had been Hawk who had instructed Bane in the varoious tricks and ruses that make up disguises. Bane opened the briefcase and took out the upper shelf of paints and stains and dyes to reveal a compartment of colored contact lenses, false teeth, hairpieces and nose inserts. He hated this, but there was no choice.
Bane took off the heavy steel-capped boots, the slacks and turtleneck and jacket, folding them on the couch. Wearing the thin Trom armor which looked like wet silk and left only his feet, hands and head above the neck exposed, he adjusted the twin daggers sheathed to his forearms and left them on. If he was going to be searched that thoroughly, he would just have to fight his way out. The armor and the daggers gave him such an advantage he hated to leave them behind. Digging in the closet, he came out rubber with padding which he strapped around his middle to give the appearance of an extra forty pounds. Not too extreme. He pulled on a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans, then yanked the boots back on. Next came a plaid flannel shirt.
One reason he invariably wore the same black outfit year after year was that it fixed an image in people's minds. Any description given of him would inevitably mention the black turtleneck and sport jacket. Already he looked remarkably different. Propping the make-up kit on the sink, he snarled and took out of a pair of brown-tinted contact lenses, made sure they and his hands were clean, then popped them in. There were few things he hated more than wearing contact lenses, but those pale eyes were such a giveaway. Bane accepted the necessity and started working a solution into his black hair that left it a washed-out greying brown. He brushed it straight back. Now he was hardly recognizable to a casual glance. The Dire Wolf sorted through a tray of dentures and selected an upper plate which had one crooked tooth in front. He clipped the dentures over his own teeth, and this also changed the shape of his face enough.
Studying his reflection, he decided this was enough. He did not want to go overboard. He wasn't sure if he could fool someone observant like Inspector Klein, but he felt he would be able to move around in public without getting tackled by cops. Going over to his jacket, he took out the keys with the signal fob crafted for him by Trom Girl. The Link he decided he needed, even though it would be impossible to explain. But he had to leave the dozen other gadgets he normally carried hidden on him. He did pocket the Trom device which extended flexible metal tendrils to open locks, since it looked like a small pocketknife when closed. His own wallet would have to be left behind too. There were three prepared wallets on a shelf in the closet. He chose the one that belonged to "Phil Dunlop," a 60 year old truck driver who retired early with a bad back disability. There was driver's license, a couple hundred dollars, an ATM card for an account he kept current for "Dunlop," and the usual insurance and membership cards. He had learned how to set up these identities from Michael Hawk many years earlier.
Finally, he got a bulky red and blue winter coat from the closet and checked the 9mm Browning he kept in it. "Dunlop" had a concealed carry permit, worth the extra time to set up. A careful examination satisfied him that Browning was ready for use. He didn't put the coat on, though. It was five in the morning, pitch black out this time of year and, although he wanted urgently to get going, he knew he had to wait a few hours. The disguised Dire Wolf reached in his mouth to take the fake teeth out and put them aside. Getting some plastic utensils, he sat cross-legged on the floor and started eating a can of sliced pears, then some cold pork and beans. He never remembered to bring a microwave in here. Drinking from one of the gallon jugs of water, Bane went on to devour more canned food, a bag of trail mix and a sleeve of saltines.
Feeling a bit more prepared, he brushed his teeth at the sink, replaced the disguise upper plate and stretched out on the couch. Even though he was not sleepy in the least under the circumstances, Bane knew he might be on the go indefinitely once he stepped outside. Going into the Tel Shai breathing cycle, slowly and deeply, he cleared his mind and dropped off into a three hour nap.
V.
At a little after eight, he took a deep breath and sat up, completely refreshed. While asleep, his subconscious mind had sorted over events and he felt more confident tackling being on the run. He had prepared for this years ago, as he had prepared for nearly any contingency he could think might happen. Well, he was wanted by the police for charges of murder, resisting arrest, assaulting two officers and Grand Theft Auto. But surprisingly it didn't bother him. He had been dealing with extreme stress and danger on a daily basis all his life. This was just another crisis. Using the toilet, he washed up and examined his disguise again and was satisfied. Before leaving, he hid his regular clothes inside the couch, which he had rigged to have a back panel which closed with velcro.
On impulse, he took the check from Dana Chamberlain to be sure he remembered all the details correctly and got a jolt to find it blank. Not only was there no handwriting on it, the printed name and address were gone. It was just a rectangular piece of lilac-colored paper with lines for information to be added. He studied it thoughtfully. This was unexpected. No matter how closely he examined the check, he couldn't see any traces of ink. Whoever had done this was expert. It might be crucial. He tucked in the jacket pocket, sealed the couch up and stood frowning at it for a long moment.
He had to get going. Standing by the door, Bane slowed his breathing to a minimum and Tel Shai training enhanced his hearing after a minute. As far as he could tell, no one was outside. If he met someone, he would have to abandon the Phil Dunlop persona and develop a new one, which was considerable work. He stepped out on the landing, saw no one and trotted down the narrow steps to the street level. Quickly, he opened the door and started walking up Mott Street. There was the usual traffic and passers-by, no sign of police or anyone giving him a casual glance. He headed for the nearest subway entrance.
It wasn't until ten that the Bane was handed the keys to the Hyundai Sonata he had leased at Pickett Autos on 10th Avenue and 108th Street. He had taken the subway to Central Park and had gradually come to have confidence in the disguise. Patrol cars rolled slowly past but none of the officers seemed to single him out and he stayed well away from both his office and apartment on Third Avenue. He had picked up two newspapers while walking and found nothing about his case in either of them. This did not really surprise him, he had long ago realized how many mysteries never found their way to public attention.
Driving around town while he got used to the car, one part of his mind realized he didn't care for the way the Hyundai handled but mostly he was weighing where to start investigating. He had decided that Scarsella had used a Velkandu potion on him and not gralic magick. Scarsella was a vile old lecher and had done a lot of harm, but he had never shown any real powers. It was Bane's tagra diet that had enabled him to recover quickly, otherwise he would have been dazed and unable to escape when the police had arrived.
If he were free to operate openly, the first step would be going to the motel to question the employees and guests. Did the gunshot sound before or after the phone call? If the call was made from the booth on the walkway, did anyone look out and see who made it or see a car drive away? The police would know all this by now but he certainly couldn't ask them. Had the dead girl been identified as Dody Chamberlain? The body had matched the description but that wasn't certain enough.
The mysterious disappearing ink on Dana's check had already made him decide to investigate the Chamberlains. He had been framed and he suspected that Dana Chamberlain was in on it. Aside from little hints in the way she had acted in his office, that gimmicked check was not something just anyone could arrange. The CIA? The Mandate? Maybe Intercrime? Instead of going back out to confront Scarsella, he would investigate from the Chamberlain angle. Bane knew he would never be a first rate detective like Michael Hawk had been, he relied too much on hunches and his subconscious, but then his real value came when the action starting. He was a worldclass fighter much more than a deductive genius.
Leaving the Hyundai in a parking garage, Bane went to an Italian restaurant where he loitered over a huge meal. Finally, he headed back out and wandered around a bookstore until it was getting dark. He was eager to start but his work always went better at night and he was in a precarious situation to begin with. While he was thumbing through newspapers at a stand, a police car slowed and the cop in the passenger seat glanced at him but Bane managed to seem oblivious. The car pulled away again and he breathed easier. Buying a paper, he walked back to claim his car and begin the investigation in earnest.
Heading out to Queens, he found the Chamberlain's address was in the southern part of Forest Hills, near the Long Island Rail Road. It was an affluent neighborhood, with single-family homes separated from each other by sizable yards. He parked down the block from the Chamberlain house and gazed thoughtfully at it. It was a two-story white frame building with an attic and attached garage. The shrubbery was meticulously trimmed and there was a maple tree shading the house to the west. As he watched, a gleaming Audi backed out of the driveway and onto the street to drive away from where Bane was sitting.
The only light left on in the house was over the porch. This was too tempting. He felt certain it was a trap, that whoever was behind this knew he was out there, but even so he could not pass this opportunity. Traffic was light on the street as most people had gotten home from work and didn't linger outside in the cold. As a solitary Ford Explorer drove by, Bane got out of his car and walked briskly up the sidewalk and then up to the Chamberlain house as if he owned it. The Trom device opened the front door as quickly as if it had been unlocked and he stepped inside certain he had not been seen.
He was standing in a darkened living room with faint light from the curtained windows. Holding absolutely still and slowing his breath, he again enhanced his hearing until he suddenly could hear slow deep breathing from an adjoining room. Someone was asleep. In the gloom, he waited until his night vision kicked in and began to search the house without a light. Fifteen years of Kumundu training under Teacher Chael had left him at a point where it would take conscious effort for him to make noise when moving. If someone had been sitting in that room and listening, they likely would still have not heard Bane moving around.
Over the next twelve minutes, the Dire Wolf stalked through the house, touching nothing, gliding like his own shadow. At the end of that time, he was standing by the front door again and thinking over what he had discovered. There was no way a middle-aged couple lived in that house. No matter what real estate records or other documents might say, three young people had moved in only a day or two earlier. Two men, one woman. From the scent on a hairbrush in the bathroom, the woman was the same person who had presented herself as Dana Chamberlain but the two men were both healthy young adults. Judging by their clothing, they were a bit over six feet tall and medium in build. Food in the kitchen showed disciplined diets with no junk food or alcohol.
Bane decided there was no Chamberlain family. Not knowing when the two enemy in the Audi might return, he had to act fast. Going to the door of the bedroom where someone was sleeping, he opened the door just enough to pass through, took two quick steps and clamped his hands down on the sleeper in the double bed. One hand held the jaw tightly shut, the other pressed down on a subclavian nerve complex that caused agony in the chest which made breathing difficult. Instantly, the man convulsed and tried to sit up but settled down again as he made no progress against the strong hands pinning him down.
"I'm going to ease up on the pain," Bane said quietly. "That was very light pressure. Don't make any noise. Good." He let the man breathe normally, then pressed down again. The man twitched at the sensation that his chest was going to explode. Then Bane began questioning him in a rapid-fire sequence that gave the man no chance to think. The amount of pain varied according to whether Bane thought the answers were true or false. Despite every effort made by people throughout history, no one could resist real pain for long. Bane hated doing this, he normally would use a Trom-formulated truth serum but the situation was desparate.
Eight minutes later, he felt he had learned what was needed. He shifted his hands and squeezed both thumbs on very specific areas near the back of the neck, placing the man in a deep sleep that bordered on coma. This was risky, and he had only done it twice before, but he felt that since these people were trying to get him arrested for a murder they had comitted, he had no sympathy for them. As the man in the bed went limp, Bane checked that the pulse was strong and the breathing even. Most likely, the effect would wear off in a few hours but if not, medical attention would be needed.
Standing up, the Dire Wolf smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. Then he went out and waited in the living room, standing impatiently until he finally saw headlights outside. A woman's voice said something about how cold it was. He stood behind the door so that, when it opened and two people entered, he was not immediately visible. As Dana Chamberlain stepped inside and flipped the light switch, Bane seized the man who came in with her and decked him with a vicious left hook that sounded like a loud handclap, letting him fall heavily to the carpeting.
VI.
The woman who called herself Dana Chamberlain gave a squeak of surprise but her right hand was already at the small of her back when she saw the infinite black tunnel of a gun barrel inches from her eyes. No matter how experienced someone is, no matter how well trained, having a loaded gun pointed at your face commands your full attention. She froze as if paralyzed. Bane reached over with his free hand to close the door.
"Don't hurt me, please don't hurt me," she whined like a child. "There's money in the desk, I have jewelry, you can have it all, just please don't hurt me..."
"Drop the act," Bane said with deadly restraint. "I know everything... Jenna. Yes, Agent Jenna Bernard of Toronto, with four kills to your credit. Raise both hands and they'd better be empty."
She obeyed as slowly as possible. In her eyes, the Dire Wolf could see her trying to find an opening to escape or counter-attack. She had placed an expression of terror on her face but her eyes remained clear and calculating as she recognized him.
"You...." she whispered. "It's you, isn't it? Your hair and eyes are different colors, you have false teeth but now I know you. Bane!"
"Now listen," he said. "Daniel is incapacitated in the bedroom over there. Sam on the floor is not going to be stirring for a while. You are very close to being shot in the head at point blank range, so think carefully before you move. Do you understand, yes or no?"
"Yes."
"Good." The Dire Wolf slowly lowered the Browning until it was pointing between her feet, but his eyes remained cold and there was no bluff in his voice. "Who killed the girl in the motel room last night?"
She did not reply at once, but something in his absolute calm shook her. "She was nobody. An office worker. Expendable. She was chosen because it was her last day at the office before going to college."
"Who killed her?" he repeated in the same tone.
"I did.I shot her with your hand holding your gun. Daniel was outside, making the phone call and starting our car. I joined him and we left the scene. We passed the police coming from the opposite direction."
"Go on. Why did your organization do all this? Why frame me for murder?"
Again she hesitated but apparently she had some plan to stall as she continued talking. "Orders from upstairs. Sometimes you work with the Mandate but sometimes you refuse. You know too much not to be under full control. You're the proverbial loose cannon rolling on the deck."
Bane brought the gun barrel up a half inch and, despite her professionalism, Jenna caught her breath. "One last thing," he said. "Who is the head of your little unit?"
"Our control? Harold Craft. Knowing this is not going to do you any good, Mr Bane. You're one man against a shadow network with dozens of assassins. The best you can hope for is to be let yourself be arrested and go to prison. At least you'll be alive."
"Let me worry about that," he said. Bane did not mention that he had been recording her words in perfect clarity on the Link in his belt. It was not ironclad evidence but it would help. He knew the Mandate would want to ransom their agents to avoid public exposure, and that would give him some leverage. Keeping Jenna Bernard from being charged with murder despite her confession was within the Mandate's influence but it meant they would also let Bane off the hook and leave the crime officially unsolved. It was the best he could hope for.
Slowly and deliberately, the Dire Wolf lowered the hammer on the Browning and tucked it back in his belt. Seeing sudden hope flare up in Jenna Bernard's smoky blue eyes, he shook his head. "Oh no. You're still taking the fall." His backfist was so swift and so accurate that she never saw it. Her head snapped around as far as her neck would bend, she spun and fell in a heap.
"You deserved that much," he told the unhearing limp form on the floor. He examined the moaning man who was sprawled next to her and gave him a judicious rap on the base of the skull that was pulled just enough not to kill him. The man could expect headaches, nausea and possibly blurred vision for a few days, though. The Dire Wolf surveyed the scene, then went over to the bathroom and stuck his head under steaming hot water until the gray tint had left his hair. The tinted contact lenses and dentures were removed and tucked in a pocket, then he unstrapped the rubber padding from around his middle. This he wanted to stow in his car before the authorities arrived.
Taking out his Link, he patched into the phone network and called his contact number in the Mandate. "Listen," he said. "Authorization AGLET. Tell Harold Craft to get the wheels turning. I'm handing three of his agents over to the NYPD and charging them with the murder of that girl. Absolutely. You know who this is!"
Breaking the connection, Bane called Inspector Klein's office and fortunately caught him in. "I think you've been expecting to hear from me. I've nailed the three responsible for that girl's murder. Yes. I have a confession recorded from the one who actually pulled the trigger. Come and get them. I'll wait here." He gave the address and was about to hang up when Klein started yelling.
"You darn fool! If you had just come into custody, you would have been released. Forensics examined the bullets in your gun and it's not your fingerprints on them... it's prints of a woman. Not enough to clear you but enough to cause reasonable doubt."
"Good to hear," Bane said. "I'll be waiting here, Inspector. Come along yourself, I trust you more than some sergeant you might send."
VII.
For once, matters were not resolved quickly or without consequences. As part of the Justice Department, the Mandate did claim jurisdiction over the murder. The three agents captured by Bane were allegedly remanded for questioning in Washington DC and nothing further was heard of them. Harold Craft made no appearance and his name was not mentioned either on any documents or in conversation. As far as the world knew, the case of the anonymous girl found shot to death in a motel off the West Side Highway was never solved.
Bane found nothing about any cult called 'the Willing Slaves of Hell.' He was convinced there had never been such a sect and he found no evidence that Francis Scarsella was involved with any such group or even in the country at the time. How Bane had been ambushed and drugged was another mystery. His best guess was that he had walked into a room at the commune building, his last clear memory, and been exposed to a potent gas already in the air. But that was only a guess.
Inspector Klein declined to press charges for Bane stealing his car, claiming it was a private matter between them. The two uniformed officers who had been shoved aside also let the matter drop. The truth was they were among the percentage of police who secretly liked the way Bane cleared up extremely dangerous and difficult situations for them and wanted him to continue. It was safer for them. It allowed them to get on with what they considered their real job.
The charges of resisting arrest and flight to escape prosecution were automatic and could not be lightly dismissed, though. Bane endured a long uncomfortable day in the mayor's office with the District Attorney and two lawyers, as well as his own attorney Taylor Worth. A settlement was hammered out where he would not go to trial but his concealed carry permit and his Private Investigator license were both suspended for six months, after which he could apply for them again. The Dire Wolf accepted this grudgingly but comforted himself with the thought he would still be at large. He walked down the steps in front of City Hall with Taylor Worth still giving him a stern lecture.
"I can't believe how calmly you're taking all this!" she told him. "Mom told me how you loved unbearable tension and imminent disaster and peril of sudden death, but I thought she was exaggerating. I guess not. You're acting like this was a normal business day."
"I live like this all the time," he said. "It's just another crisis. Tomorrow will be a bigger one." Bane looked up at the sky and smiled at the thought it would be getting dark soon. The Midnight War never ended.
1/21/2015
11/3-11/9/1993
I.
Late on a winter day, when shadows stretched in elongated caricatures across the ground, a stocky man in a long white coat got out of his new Honda Accord and closed the door silently. By the side of the road was a phone booth next to a power pole. Harold Craft entered the booth, and as he pulled its folding door shut, the interior light went on. A directory was fastened by a thin chain to its metal shelf. Craft surveyed the area suspiciously and waited until a pick-up truck going by passed out of sight.
Harold Craft looked as if he would be near sixty, well-dressed in a tan suit with dark brown tie that matched his short hair and deepset eyes. Satisfied he was not being observed, he dug at the spine of the phone book until the back cover peeled apart and revealed an 4x5 sheet of stiff paper. Now he had to read quickly. As the specially treated paper was exposed to air, letters in bright blue ink appeared but he knew they would only be visible for under a minute.
ASSIGNMENT FOR S.I.G. AUTHORIZATION: DIADEM. SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO
ACCEPT, YOU ARE TO ARRANGE FOR JEREMY BANE AKA DIRE WOLF, 28 EAST
38TH STREET NYC NY TO BE DISGRACED AND HIS PI LICENSE REVOKED TO
END HIS VIGILANTE ACTIVITIES. USE ANY MEANS NECESSARY. GOOD LUCK.
Craft retained the message the first time he read it, he had twenty years of training in spytrade, but he went through it again just as the blue letters faded and were gone. There was no way to make the message reappear, but he carefully folded the paper into a tiny square and started chewing on it. After a few minutes of pretending to thumb through the phone book, he left the booth and returned to his car. A mile down the highway, Craft wound down the window and spat the gummy wad to the road. His mind was turning over a hundred possible plans and rejecting them one after the other.
An hour later, he was pulling up to the house on the hill overlooking the Palisades. His home was a quiet red brick structure with an attached two-car garage and a back yard that blended into woods. Driving up to the garage, he pressed a button on his dashboard and the reinforced steel door slid smoothly up to admit him. It lowered again automatically as he got out and went through a door into the kitchen of his home.
Harold Craft had a den, with comfortable easy chairs and reading tables. Bookshelves lined the walls except for the full stocked bar. He glanced longingly at the decanter of Hennessy but regretfully had to put business first. Tossing his topcoat over a table, he dropped down into an overstuffed chair and sighed. A notepad and pen were at hand and he settled back to go through names in his mind.
Nothing in that house, in his car or anywhere on the property, contained the words STRATEGIC INTERVENTION GROUP. Nowhere could the names or likenesses of any of the specialists under his command be found. The most patient search would find nothing to contradict the idea that Harold Craft had been a hard-working realtor who had been careful with his money and who had planned for an early retirement so he could quietly drink and read Mark Twain, Charles Dickens and Tolstoy the rest of his life. Even now, writing on his own notepad, Craft did not write any names down, merely numbers. He thought of the specialists he could recruit as One through Fourteen.
As he wrote down four numbers, Craft nodded with tentative satisfaction. He did not have to do any research on the target, the man Bane. He had received his regular briefings on any people with unusual abilities who might someday be of interest to the Mandate. With a slight surprise, Craft found he was excited at the idea of targeting Bane. If only to find out how many of the stories about him were true.
II.
Just before noon, Jeremy Bane folded the stacks of newspapers he had been studying and walked across his office to slap them down on top of the waist-high bookcase. Nothing. Many of his best Midnight War cases had started with an odd little story buried away in the back pages of a newspaper, but lately the strange underworld he moved in had been in a lull. Even the Dire Wolf Agency had gotten nothing but mundane possible assignments which he had turned down. He was not interested in following cheating spouses or watching employees who were stealing from the company. He operated his detective agency so he could track down serial killers and maniacs, but that territory was dry lately as well.
At forty, the Dire Wolf was a gaunt six-footer with restless energy that would not let him hold still for long. He was wearing what amounted to his uniform, the all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Bane's most notable feature were the pale grey eyes under black brows, eyes that were always wary and a little cold. Right now, he drummed his fingers impatiently on the bookcase and those eyes were openly angry. The past week had been wasted doing nothing. He couldn't stand inaction.
The doorbell rang and Bane swung around as if he had been stung by a hornet. He was out of the office and in the front hall in a blur, thumbing a button by the door. "Just a second," he announced. Sliding open a wooden panel, he revaled a large video monitor and its controls. He flicked it on to reveal the foyer just beyond the door to the his left, and pressed the button that unlocked and opened the outer door. "Please come in," he said, "I'll be with you in a second."
The foyer was just large enough to hold a bench, a coffee table with a few magazines and a lamp on a shelf. As the outer door closed again, a young blonde stood in the foyer and stared curiously at the oil portrait of Kenneth Dred on the wall to her left. While she was doing that, a barely audible series of buzzes and clicks sounded. She couldn't tell but she was being probed by Trom sensors to analyzed her with greater detail than the best MRI. Watching on the monitor, Bane got a few surprises that interested him.
The woman was not listed in any databanks he had covert access to, which included FBI and FDNY records. She was five feet seven inches, one hundred and fifteen pounds, biological age twenty-eight. The blonde hair was genuine, the dark blue eyes did not have contacts. Analysis showed she had unusually good muscle tone, her blood pressure and heartbeat were perfect. Maybe she was an athlete. That didn't explain the Beretta Brigadier strapped just above the small of her back.
Closing the panel, Bane decided to open the inner door. As she saw him, she gave him a smile he didn't return.
"Hello," she said in a mellow voice. She had the delicate sort of features that didn't need make-up. The clear skin had just the barest sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of the snub nose and the long eyelashes were natural. "I'm sorry I don't have an appointment..."
"That's all right," Bane said. "But I have to ask you to leave your pistol in the bench behind you. It'll be returned when you leave."
"Wait, what? I don't..."
"Those are the rules. Lift the lid of the bench and place your gun in there, or I won't let you in." There was no lightness in Bane's tone and she slowly complied. As she lowered the lid on the bench, the lock clicked. "How did you know?" she asked.
"Training," he answered, which was true enough. Even without the Trom sensors, he would have known by her balance and stride she was carrying a weapon. "Okay, come in and we can talk."
She started to take off her heavy parka and Bane had just enough courtesy to help her and hang it on one of a row of wall hooks. His manners had never been polished, despite Cindy's best efforts. As the young woman straightened her white blouse, it emphasized a slim figure and the snug Navy blue slacks helped as well.
Bane ushered her into his office, pulling out a straightback chair for her in front of his desk. While she settled herself, he circled around and took his seat behind the desk. On the wall behind him was a gorgeous hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937-- the year Kenneth Dred had bought this building.
"Let's start, then," he said bluntly. "Name?"
"Dana. Dana Chamberlain. I'm an X-Ray technician at Saint Remy's."
"And how do you know about me, Dana?"
"Really? I've heard stories about you all my life. Urban legends, my friends told me. They said you weren't real, you were just a sort of folklore, but I knew better. I think you're the only one who can help Dody."
She's not laying it on too thick, Bane decided. He automatically distrusted clients at first, but he grudgingly admitted that she was not pushing her looks, she just had them. And her voice was straightforward and level. Meeting her eyes, he asked, "Dody?"
"Dolores. My little sister, she's just twenty. Dody has always been playing with the occult, mostly to shock people. She was in a deathmetal band last summer. Then she got mixed up with this weirdo bunch out on Long Island, they call themselves 'the Willing Slaves of Hell.' I can't stand them. She hasn't been home in months, she keeps asking our parents for money so she can stay and quote find herself." Chamberlain raised and lowered her narrow shoulders. "I'm scared to go out there, to be honest. They are extremely creepy people."
"I've never heard of them," Bane admitted. "The Willing Slaves of Hell, not a group I'm familiar with. If they are just a fringe religious cult, they may not be in my area of interest. I deal with the genuine supernatural, to be honest."
"I.. I thought you could go out there and see what they're up to," she said, letting some pleading enter her voice. "I'm so worried. The last time I saw Dody, she was so thin and pale. I think they're keeping her there against her will!"
Bane did not comment. He was leaning forward, hands clasped on the desk, looking at her steadily. After a few more seconds, Dana blurted, "Are you afraid too?"
That did not provoke a reaction. Bane acted as if he hadn't heard her as he said, "Have you already gone to the police?"
"The police?" she snapped with growing irritation. "As if THEY are ever any help. They won't even go to the commune to talk to Dody. They just about laughed at me." She pushed her chair back, "I guess I'll have to risk it by myself, then. I bought that gun but I don't know how to use it-"
The Dire Wolf lifted a hand to disuade her from leaving. "Tell me more about these people. What do they look like? Do they have a leader?"
"The Willing Slaves of Hell? Yes, a man named Scarsella, Francis Scarsella."
Now Bane sat up and the grey eyes sparked with interest. "Him. That's a surprise. Tall thin man with long white hair? Deep voice?"
"Yes. Exactly. Do you know him?"
"Only by reputation but I'd like to meet him." Bane's voice had changed too, it had an ominous edge to it that wasn't there before. "I think I will investigate. My usual fee is a flat one thousand dollars, that gives me certain legal privileges when dealing with the police. Is that a problem?"
"No," Chamberlain answered promptly, digging in her small handbag for her checkbook and pen. "Not at all. To get Dody home safe, you can have every penny I own." She propped the checkbook on the arm of her chair. "Who do I make it out to?"
"Dire Wolf Agency." Bane had opened the center drawer out of his desk and taken out a huge red leather ledger. By the time she had written out her check, he had a receipt ready for her. They exchanged the slips of paper and put them away. Without realizing it, Bane automatically put her check in his inside jacket pocket so he would deposit it at his bank the next morning. Putting the ledger away, the Dire Wolf closed the drawer again and said, "I want to do a little research on these Willing Slaves of Hell before I go out there, but I should be on the scene later today. Give me a description of your sisterr."
"We don't look much alike. She takes after Dad's side of the family. Dody's maybe five foot four or so, a hundred and ten. Kind of delicate actually,like a poet or artist. That's why I worry about her. She has dark brown hair, curly, very nice hazel eyes. Is that enough?"
"That should do it. Give me the location of this commune where the cult lives. Got it. Come on, I'll give you your Beretta back but honestly, if you haven't received any training, put it away until you do. You're more likely to shoot yourself than any bad guys if you don't know what you're doing."
As he rose and came around the desk, Dana Chamberlain put a hand on his sleeve and looked up at him. "I really appreciate this, Mr Bane. I don't know what I would have tried if you had turned me down."
Bane led to her to the hall. "This is what I do. Here, take your gun. Is the safety on? Good. All right, I'll let you know soon what progress I make. Okay. Good afternoon." He closed the door on the lovely young blonde as if he couldn't wait to get rid of her.
III.
After she had left, Bane stood thinking for a moment in the front hall, then turned and sprinted up the wide staircase to the second floor. In the conference room, he dropped in the chair that faced the desktop on its own stand. This was no ordinary computer, but a sysem devised by the Trom who had called himself Leonard Slade and who had been a member of the KDF. After the death of Slade, Bane had been more careful than ever with the device because it could not be repaired or replaced by Human knowledge.
In a few minutes, he was in the records of the New York State Bureau of Motor Vehicles. He pulled up the driver's license for Dana Chamberlain. The ID photo matched the woman who had just been there to see him and the address was the same as what was on her check. The height and date of birth also seemed appropriate. Breaking one law after another, the Dire Wolf went through tax records and found that the property where she lived belonged to Richard and Sarah Chamberlain, their ages were what you might expect from her parents.
Bane then checked on Dody Chamberlain and found a person listed everywhere who matched what Dana had told him. She had graduated John Monroe High School two years earlier, worked eleven months at a deli before being fired and was not visible on public records after that.
There was nothing anywhere for 'The Willing Slaves of Hell.' The Dire Wolf erased his searches and shut down the computer. Somehow he was still not saisfied. He knew he was too suspicious to be practical sometimes, but his instincts were usually good. It seemed odd to him that no newspaper or magazines had mentioned a cult that had been active for at least a year but apparently they kept a low profile. There was no point in looking for a trail for Scarsella. The warlock had lived off the grid for years, not leaving any traces he could avoid. There were warrants out for his arrest in Italy, Corsica and France that Bane knew of, probably more.
Standing up and stretching, he wished Cindy were here to help clarify his doubts. She was always good at pointing out what he sometimes had realized only subconsciously, but she was at Tel Shai being trained by her Teacher. There seemed to be no reason to doubt Dana Chamberlain's story and he had always wanted to tackle Francis Scarsella anyway. Walking down the stairs to the first floor, he got his long cloth coat off the hook, pulled it on and got thin leather gloves from its pocket. As usual, he was wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and he carried his 38 Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip. The matched silver daggers were sheathed on his forearms under his sleeves, he seldom had them off except when showering or sleeping.
Bane went through the panel at the rear of the walk-in closet, down steep concrete steps and along a narrow walkway to the building's underground garage. It held two cars, and he headed for the 1998 black Buick Regal. He changed cars frequently, one of the few ways in which his wealth was evident as he casually traded in nearly new cars on a monthly basis. He liked the Buick well enough, but he was beginning to realize Ford Mustangs were his favorites. In the backseat was a knapsack he always kept packed with a change of clothing and extra equipment, and he rarely parked a car down here without a full gas tank and everything being checked.
Trying to put his strange apprehension aside, the Dire Wolf started up the big car and rolled up the wide ramp to street level. A steel shutter rose automatically and closed behind him as he made a sharp right turn into an alley and then out onto Lexington Avenue. He grimly focused his mind on the job at hand.
IV.
Waking up was taking forever. His head seemed wrapped in fog that made it so hard to think. Bane struggled, drew on his Tel Shai training and started taking deep slow breaths. Filling his lungs with air, exhaling fully, he forced oxygen into his system and slowly came back to awareness. He was sitting in a wooden chair in a warm room. What was wrong with him? He felt so sick and dizzy. Bane tried to sit up but fell back down in the chair.
His awareness came back, all in a flash as his eyes went into focus. He was in a shabby motel room. Five feet from him was a double bed on which a corpse sprawled. That got all his attention and cleared his head completely. A young white woman, matching the description Dana Chamberlain had given of her sister. Dody was naked from the waist up, a plaid denim shirt still attached to her with a cuff buttoned on her right wrist. In the center of her chest was a ragged bullet hole. Her eyes were open and seemed to be staring directly at Bane.
In another instant, the Dire Wolf saw his own revolver on the floor at his feet. Before he could react, the door to the room slammed inward and two uniformed officers were pointing their service revolvers directly at him. "Freeze! Don't move!" shouted one of them.
Bane did not reply. He felt he could get up now but he remained completely still. The situation had finally sunk in, he had fallen into the oldest trap in crime. Scarsella! How had he done it? How had he knocked Bane out? Drugs? Gralic magic?
Behind the two cops, the slight form of Inspector Klein shouldered its way in. He was wearing a white topcoat over a dark blue suit and tie, and As he took in the scene, the color left his weathered face in a rush.
"Inspector," said Bane. "I know this must look bad."
"BAD?! Bad doesn't start to cover it. We got a call from the phone booth outside this motel about a heated argument and a gunshot. I happened to be in the area finishing other business and I met these officers outside." Klein gestured for the cops to spread out and cover Bane from a wider angle. "There you sit, gun at your feet and a dead girl in front of you, no one else in the room."
The Dire Wolf seemed distracted not by the situation, but by a thought. "You just happened to be in the area? Someone knew that. They planned on you being within a minute's reach."
"Jeremy Bane, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.."
"I'll call the Taylor Worth Agency when I get a chance," Bane said with remarkable calmness. "Listen, Inspector, this is vital. My revolver was empty the last I remember. I can see the noses of bullets in the chambers from here. Have forensics be careful with those bullets."
Klein stepped closer, obviously as nervous as if approaching a cornered real wolf. "Listen, Bane, do you want to make a statement?"
"Not right now. I'm sorry, Klein, hopefully I can straighten this out." With that final word, the Dire Wolf was already halfway out of the room, stiff-arming both cops violently aside so that they fell to the floor and were disoriented for a second. Moving too quickly for the human eye to follow, he was outside and in the front seat of Klein's unmarked Chevy in a blur. The motor was still running, the keys in the ignition. Bane slammed the gas and peeled out onto what he recognized as the West Side Highway. He sped into the night and saw by the dashboard clock it was two-thirty in the morning.
Getting off at an exit and whipping south through Manhattan, Bane felt his mind racing. He had sworn years ago that he would never do what he had just done. Resisting arrest, assaulting two officers, grand theft auto of a car belonging to a police Inspector no less.... he was deeper in legal trouble than he had ever been. But that frame-up had the decisive snap of a deathtrap to him and he had felt his only chance was flight. It might turn out to be the worst mistake he had ever made.
When he got to Little Italy, he pulled over and left Klein' car near a fire hydrant not far from a subway entrance. Maybe that would mislead them. Before getting out, he turned his black coat inside out. It had been tailored to be reversable, its opposite lining was white. From a pocket, he pulled out a wool hat that was his usual black, but reversed to be bright red. It might change his appearance enough to get by for a few moments. Out in the night, walking briskly but not running, he swerved over to Mott Street. Traffic was scarce on this frigid December night far from dawn. He saw one patrol car roll by slowly, but he was out of their line of vision behind a sidewalk sale.
Bane unlocked a plain wooden door on the side of an ancient building which featured LUCKY DRAGON FURNITURE IMPORTANTS and moved quickly up a flight of stairs. On the second floor landing, the unmarked door to his right was his and he entered, closing it gratefully behind him and allowing himself a slow exhalation at temporary safety. He flipped the light switch on the wall to his right. Facing him was a single high-ceilinged room that was almost empty. It was freezing and he turned the thermostat up to 68 as he inspected the heavily curtained windows to find no sign of entry.
Against the wall to his right as he stood in the doorway was a broken-down couch piled with blankets and pillows. A radio sat on the floor in front of it. The opposite wall, across an expanse of empty wood floor, showed a closet, a sink with a mirror over it, and a toilet. Along the wall to his left were rows of canned and packaged food that needed no refrigeration, gallon jugs of water, and a crate of first aid supplies.
Bane tugged off his topcoat and dropped it on the couch. He had not been here for months, since he had brought more supplies and inspected the place. This was the second of his hideouts. The first had been up on 8th Avenue and 50th Street, a very similar set-up that had been compromised when he had been followed by Snake men. If this hideout became known to his enemies, he had already decided on the location of his next one.
The Dire Wolf did not enjoy coming to this place. It meant he had lost control of the situation and was desperate. Sourly, he took a deep drink from a water bottle and walked over to the bathroom. On the floor beneath the sink sat a leather briefcase that had been devised for him by the late Michael Hawk. It had been Hawk who had instructed Bane in the varoious tricks and ruses that make up disguises. Bane opened the briefcase and took out the upper shelf of paints and stains and dyes to reveal a compartment of colored contact lenses, false teeth, hairpieces and nose inserts. He hated this, but there was no choice.
Bane took off the heavy steel-capped boots, the slacks and turtleneck and jacket, folding them on the couch. Wearing the thin Trom armor which looked like wet silk and left only his feet, hands and head above the neck exposed, he adjusted the twin daggers sheathed to his forearms and left them on. If he was going to be searched that thoroughly, he would just have to fight his way out. The armor and the daggers gave him such an advantage he hated to leave them behind. Digging in the closet, he came out rubber with padding which he strapped around his middle to give the appearance of an extra forty pounds. Not too extreme. He pulled on a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans, then yanked the boots back on. Next came a plaid flannel shirt.
One reason he invariably wore the same black outfit year after year was that it fixed an image in people's minds. Any description given of him would inevitably mention the black turtleneck and sport jacket. Already he looked remarkably different. Propping the make-up kit on the sink, he snarled and took out of a pair of brown-tinted contact lenses, made sure they and his hands were clean, then popped them in. There were few things he hated more than wearing contact lenses, but those pale eyes were such a giveaway. Bane accepted the necessity and started working a solution into his black hair that left it a washed-out greying brown. He brushed it straight back. Now he was hardly recognizable to a casual glance. The Dire Wolf sorted through a tray of dentures and selected an upper plate which had one crooked tooth in front. He clipped the dentures over his own teeth, and this also changed the shape of his face enough.
Studying his reflection, he decided this was enough. He did not want to go overboard. He wasn't sure if he could fool someone observant like Inspector Klein, but he felt he would be able to move around in public without getting tackled by cops. Going over to his jacket, he took out the keys with the signal fob crafted for him by Trom Girl. The Link he decided he needed, even though it would be impossible to explain. But he had to leave the dozen other gadgets he normally carried hidden on him. He did pocket the Trom device which extended flexible metal tendrils to open locks, since it looked like a small pocketknife when closed. His own wallet would have to be left behind too. There were three prepared wallets on a shelf in the closet. He chose the one that belonged to "Phil Dunlop," a 60 year old truck driver who retired early with a bad back disability. There was driver's license, a couple hundred dollars, an ATM card for an account he kept current for "Dunlop," and the usual insurance and membership cards. He had learned how to set up these identities from Michael Hawk many years earlier.
Finally, he got a bulky red and blue winter coat from the closet and checked the 9mm Browning he kept in it. "Dunlop" had a concealed carry permit, worth the extra time to set up. A careful examination satisfied him that Browning was ready for use. He didn't put the coat on, though. It was five in the morning, pitch black out this time of year and, although he wanted urgently to get going, he knew he had to wait a few hours. The disguised Dire Wolf reached in his mouth to take the fake teeth out and put them aside. Getting some plastic utensils, he sat cross-legged on the floor and started eating a can of sliced pears, then some cold pork and beans. He never remembered to bring a microwave in here. Drinking from one of the gallon jugs of water, Bane went on to devour more canned food, a bag of trail mix and a sleeve of saltines.
Feeling a bit more prepared, he brushed his teeth at the sink, replaced the disguise upper plate and stretched out on the couch. Even though he was not sleepy in the least under the circumstances, Bane knew he might be on the go indefinitely once he stepped outside. Going into the Tel Shai breathing cycle, slowly and deeply, he cleared his mind and dropped off into a three hour nap.
V.
At a little after eight, he took a deep breath and sat up, completely refreshed. While asleep, his subconscious mind had sorted over events and he felt more confident tackling being on the run. He had prepared for this years ago, as he had prepared for nearly any contingency he could think might happen. Well, he was wanted by the police for charges of murder, resisting arrest, assaulting two officers and Grand Theft Auto. But surprisingly it didn't bother him. He had been dealing with extreme stress and danger on a daily basis all his life. This was just another crisis. Using the toilet, he washed up and examined his disguise again and was satisfied. Before leaving, he hid his regular clothes inside the couch, which he had rigged to have a back panel which closed with velcro.
On impulse, he took the check from Dana Chamberlain to be sure he remembered all the details correctly and got a jolt to find it blank. Not only was there no handwriting on it, the printed name and address were gone. It was just a rectangular piece of lilac-colored paper with lines for information to be added. He studied it thoughtfully. This was unexpected. No matter how closely he examined the check, he couldn't see any traces of ink. Whoever had done this was expert. It might be crucial. He tucked in the jacket pocket, sealed the couch up and stood frowning at it for a long moment.
He had to get going. Standing by the door, Bane slowed his breathing to a minimum and Tel Shai training enhanced his hearing after a minute. As far as he could tell, no one was outside. If he met someone, he would have to abandon the Phil Dunlop persona and develop a new one, which was considerable work. He stepped out on the landing, saw no one and trotted down the narrow steps to the street level. Quickly, he opened the door and started walking up Mott Street. There was the usual traffic and passers-by, no sign of police or anyone giving him a casual glance. He headed for the nearest subway entrance.
It wasn't until ten that the Bane was handed the keys to the Hyundai Sonata he had leased at Pickett Autos on 10th Avenue and 108th Street. He had taken the subway to Central Park and had gradually come to have confidence in the disguise. Patrol cars rolled slowly past but none of the officers seemed to single him out and he stayed well away from both his office and apartment on Third Avenue. He had picked up two newspapers while walking and found nothing about his case in either of them. This did not really surprise him, he had long ago realized how many mysteries never found their way to public attention.
Driving around town while he got used to the car, one part of his mind realized he didn't care for the way the Hyundai handled but mostly he was weighing where to start investigating. He had decided that Scarsella had used a Velkandu potion on him and not gralic magick. Scarsella was a vile old lecher and had done a lot of harm, but he had never shown any real powers. It was Bane's tagra diet that had enabled him to recover quickly, otherwise he would have been dazed and unable to escape when the police had arrived.
If he were free to operate openly, the first step would be going to the motel to question the employees and guests. Did the gunshot sound before or after the phone call? If the call was made from the booth on the walkway, did anyone look out and see who made it or see a car drive away? The police would know all this by now but he certainly couldn't ask them. Had the dead girl been identified as Dody Chamberlain? The body had matched the description but that wasn't certain enough.
The mysterious disappearing ink on Dana's check had already made him decide to investigate the Chamberlains. He had been framed and he suspected that Dana Chamberlain was in on it. Aside from little hints in the way she had acted in his office, that gimmicked check was not something just anyone could arrange. The CIA? The Mandate? Maybe Intercrime? Instead of going back out to confront Scarsella, he would investigate from the Chamberlain angle. Bane knew he would never be a first rate detective like Michael Hawk had been, he relied too much on hunches and his subconscious, but then his real value came when the action starting. He was a worldclass fighter much more than a deductive genius.
Leaving the Hyundai in a parking garage, Bane went to an Italian restaurant where he loitered over a huge meal. Finally, he headed back out and wandered around a bookstore until it was getting dark. He was eager to start but his work always went better at night and he was in a precarious situation to begin with. While he was thumbing through newspapers at a stand, a police car slowed and the cop in the passenger seat glanced at him but Bane managed to seem oblivious. The car pulled away again and he breathed easier. Buying a paper, he walked back to claim his car and begin the investigation in earnest.
Heading out to Queens, he found the Chamberlain's address was in the southern part of Forest Hills, near the Long Island Rail Road. It was an affluent neighborhood, with single-family homes separated from each other by sizable yards. He parked down the block from the Chamberlain house and gazed thoughtfully at it. It was a two-story white frame building with an attic and attached garage. The shrubbery was meticulously trimmed and there was a maple tree shading the house to the west. As he watched, a gleaming Audi backed out of the driveway and onto the street to drive away from where Bane was sitting.
The only light left on in the house was over the porch. This was too tempting. He felt certain it was a trap, that whoever was behind this knew he was out there, but even so he could not pass this opportunity. Traffic was light on the street as most people had gotten home from work and didn't linger outside in the cold. As a solitary Ford Explorer drove by, Bane got out of his car and walked briskly up the sidewalk and then up to the Chamberlain house as if he owned it. The Trom device opened the front door as quickly as if it had been unlocked and he stepped inside certain he had not been seen.
He was standing in a darkened living room with faint light from the curtained windows. Holding absolutely still and slowing his breath, he again enhanced his hearing until he suddenly could hear slow deep breathing from an adjoining room. Someone was asleep. In the gloom, he waited until his night vision kicked in and began to search the house without a light. Fifteen years of Kumundu training under Teacher Chael had left him at a point where it would take conscious effort for him to make noise when moving. If someone had been sitting in that room and listening, they likely would still have not heard Bane moving around.
Over the next twelve minutes, the Dire Wolf stalked through the house, touching nothing, gliding like his own shadow. At the end of that time, he was standing by the front door again and thinking over what he had discovered. There was no way a middle-aged couple lived in that house. No matter what real estate records or other documents might say, three young people had moved in only a day or two earlier. Two men, one woman. From the scent on a hairbrush in the bathroom, the woman was the same person who had presented herself as Dana Chamberlain but the two men were both healthy young adults. Judging by their clothing, they were a bit over six feet tall and medium in build. Food in the kitchen showed disciplined diets with no junk food or alcohol.
Bane decided there was no Chamberlain family. Not knowing when the two enemy in the Audi might return, he had to act fast. Going to the door of the bedroom where someone was sleeping, he opened the door just enough to pass through, took two quick steps and clamped his hands down on the sleeper in the double bed. One hand held the jaw tightly shut, the other pressed down on a subclavian nerve complex that caused agony in the chest which made breathing difficult. Instantly, the man convulsed and tried to sit up but settled down again as he made no progress against the strong hands pinning him down.
"I'm going to ease up on the pain," Bane said quietly. "That was very light pressure. Don't make any noise. Good." He let the man breathe normally, then pressed down again. The man twitched at the sensation that his chest was going to explode. Then Bane began questioning him in a rapid-fire sequence that gave the man no chance to think. The amount of pain varied according to whether Bane thought the answers were true or false. Despite every effort made by people throughout history, no one could resist real pain for long. Bane hated doing this, he normally would use a Trom-formulated truth serum but the situation was desparate.
Eight minutes later, he felt he had learned what was needed. He shifted his hands and squeezed both thumbs on very specific areas near the back of the neck, placing the man in a deep sleep that bordered on coma. This was risky, and he had only done it twice before, but he felt that since these people were trying to get him arrested for a murder they had comitted, he had no sympathy for them. As the man in the bed went limp, Bane checked that the pulse was strong and the breathing even. Most likely, the effect would wear off in a few hours but if not, medical attention would be needed.
Standing up, the Dire Wolf smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. Then he went out and waited in the living room, standing impatiently until he finally saw headlights outside. A woman's voice said something about how cold it was. He stood behind the door so that, when it opened and two people entered, he was not immediately visible. As Dana Chamberlain stepped inside and flipped the light switch, Bane seized the man who came in with her and decked him with a vicious left hook that sounded like a loud handclap, letting him fall heavily to the carpeting.
VI.
The woman who called herself Dana Chamberlain gave a squeak of surprise but her right hand was already at the small of her back when she saw the infinite black tunnel of a gun barrel inches from her eyes. No matter how experienced someone is, no matter how well trained, having a loaded gun pointed at your face commands your full attention. She froze as if paralyzed. Bane reached over with his free hand to close the door.
"Don't hurt me, please don't hurt me," she whined like a child. "There's money in the desk, I have jewelry, you can have it all, just please don't hurt me..."
"Drop the act," Bane said with deadly restraint. "I know everything... Jenna. Yes, Agent Jenna Bernard of Toronto, with four kills to your credit. Raise both hands and they'd better be empty."
She obeyed as slowly as possible. In her eyes, the Dire Wolf could see her trying to find an opening to escape or counter-attack. She had placed an expression of terror on her face but her eyes remained clear and calculating as she recognized him.
"You...." she whispered. "It's you, isn't it? Your hair and eyes are different colors, you have false teeth but now I know you. Bane!"
"Now listen," he said. "Daniel is incapacitated in the bedroom over there. Sam on the floor is not going to be stirring for a while. You are very close to being shot in the head at point blank range, so think carefully before you move. Do you understand, yes or no?"
"Yes."
"Good." The Dire Wolf slowly lowered the Browning until it was pointing between her feet, but his eyes remained cold and there was no bluff in his voice. "Who killed the girl in the motel room last night?"
She did not reply at once, but something in his absolute calm shook her. "She was nobody. An office worker. Expendable. She was chosen because it was her last day at the office before going to college."
"Who killed her?" he repeated in the same tone.
"I did.I shot her with your hand holding your gun. Daniel was outside, making the phone call and starting our car. I joined him and we left the scene. We passed the police coming from the opposite direction."
"Go on. Why did your organization do all this? Why frame me for murder?"
Again she hesitated but apparently she had some plan to stall as she continued talking. "Orders from upstairs. Sometimes you work with the Mandate but sometimes you refuse. You know too much not to be under full control. You're the proverbial loose cannon rolling on the deck."
Bane brought the gun barrel up a half inch and, despite her professionalism, Jenna caught her breath. "One last thing," he said. "Who is the head of your little unit?"
"Our control? Harold Craft. Knowing this is not going to do you any good, Mr Bane. You're one man against a shadow network with dozens of assassins. The best you can hope for is to be let yourself be arrested and go to prison. At least you'll be alive."
"Let me worry about that," he said. Bane did not mention that he had been recording her words in perfect clarity on the Link in his belt. It was not ironclad evidence but it would help. He knew the Mandate would want to ransom their agents to avoid public exposure, and that would give him some leverage. Keeping Jenna Bernard from being charged with murder despite her confession was within the Mandate's influence but it meant they would also let Bane off the hook and leave the crime officially unsolved. It was the best he could hope for.
Slowly and deliberately, the Dire Wolf lowered the hammer on the Browning and tucked it back in his belt. Seeing sudden hope flare up in Jenna Bernard's smoky blue eyes, he shook his head. "Oh no. You're still taking the fall." His backfist was so swift and so accurate that she never saw it. Her head snapped around as far as her neck would bend, she spun and fell in a heap.
"You deserved that much," he told the unhearing limp form on the floor. He examined the moaning man who was sprawled next to her and gave him a judicious rap on the base of the skull that was pulled just enough not to kill him. The man could expect headaches, nausea and possibly blurred vision for a few days, though. The Dire Wolf surveyed the scene, then went over to the bathroom and stuck his head under steaming hot water until the gray tint had left his hair. The tinted contact lenses and dentures were removed and tucked in a pocket, then he unstrapped the rubber padding from around his middle. This he wanted to stow in his car before the authorities arrived.
Taking out his Link, he patched into the phone network and called his contact number in the Mandate. "Listen," he said. "Authorization AGLET. Tell Harold Craft to get the wheels turning. I'm handing three of his agents over to the NYPD and charging them with the murder of that girl. Absolutely. You know who this is!"
Breaking the connection, Bane called Inspector Klein's office and fortunately caught him in. "I think you've been expecting to hear from me. I've nailed the three responsible for that girl's murder. Yes. I have a confession recorded from the one who actually pulled the trigger. Come and get them. I'll wait here." He gave the address and was about to hang up when Klein started yelling.
"You darn fool! If you had just come into custody, you would have been released. Forensics examined the bullets in your gun and it's not your fingerprints on them... it's prints of a woman. Not enough to clear you but enough to cause reasonable doubt."
"Good to hear," Bane said. "I'll be waiting here, Inspector. Come along yourself, I trust you more than some sergeant you might send."
VII.
For once, matters were not resolved quickly or without consequences. As part of the Justice Department, the Mandate did claim jurisdiction over the murder. The three agents captured by Bane were allegedly remanded for questioning in Washington DC and nothing further was heard of them. Harold Craft made no appearance and his name was not mentioned either on any documents or in conversation. As far as the world knew, the case of the anonymous girl found shot to death in a motel off the West Side Highway was never solved.
Bane found nothing about any cult called 'the Willing Slaves of Hell.' He was convinced there had never been such a sect and he found no evidence that Francis Scarsella was involved with any such group or even in the country at the time. How Bane had been ambushed and drugged was another mystery. His best guess was that he had walked into a room at the commune building, his last clear memory, and been exposed to a potent gas already in the air. But that was only a guess.
Inspector Klein declined to press charges for Bane stealing his car, claiming it was a private matter between them. The two uniformed officers who had been shoved aside also let the matter drop. The truth was they were among the percentage of police who secretly liked the way Bane cleared up extremely dangerous and difficult situations for them and wanted him to continue. It was safer for them. It allowed them to get on with what they considered their real job.
The charges of resisting arrest and flight to escape prosecution were automatic and could not be lightly dismissed, though. Bane endured a long uncomfortable day in the mayor's office with the District Attorney and two lawyers, as well as his own attorney Taylor Worth. A settlement was hammered out where he would not go to trial but his concealed carry permit and his Private Investigator license were both suspended for six months, after which he could apply for them again. The Dire Wolf accepted this grudgingly but comforted himself with the thought he would still be at large. He walked down the steps in front of City Hall with Taylor Worth still giving him a stern lecture.
"I can't believe how calmly you're taking all this!" she told him. "Mom told me how you loved unbearable tension and imminent disaster and peril of sudden death, but I thought she was exaggerating. I guess not. You're acting like this was a normal business day."
"I live like this all the time," he said. "It's just another crisis. Tomorrow will be a bigger one." Bane looked up at the sky and smiled at the thought it would be getting dark soon. The Midnight War never ended.
1/21/2015
