"Dead Man Singing"
May. 16th, 2022 02:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Dead Man Singing"
3/23-3/25/1984
I.
As the front doorbell rang, Cindy Brunner was already hurrying that way. She had picked up on the two minds approaching and was obviously excited. The little blonde was not much over five feet tall and just under a hundred pounds, and the plain white polo shirt and snug jeans she was wearing made her look even smaller. In her mid-twenties, she was in perfect condition, fit as any athlete and she trotted down the stairs and across the front hall with effortless ease. Despite the way her telepathic rapport had identified the two men outside, she still took a minute to open the concealed panel by the door and scan them with the sophisticated Trom sensors. All indicators came back negative. No weapons showed on the images more detailed than a CAT scan, no traces of explosives or poisons on the chemical analysis. The yellow letters on the monitor screen listed their height and weight and assorted physical traits, but at the bottom came the capital letters NO CRIMINAL RECORDS FOUND. That was what she really needed to see.
Opening the inner door, she grinned at the two middle-aged men in dark business suits standing in the tiny foyer. They looked very similar, stocky and average height, thinning hair slicked back, well-fed doughy faces with great anxiety in every line. One wore wire-rim glasses and the other had a prominent beaky nose, otherwise she would have had trouble giving descriptions that differentiated them. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said cheerfully.
"Ah, good morning," said the one with the glasses. He was holding a briefcase in one pudgy hand. "We have an appointment with Mr Bane."
"So you do. Please, come right in. My name is Cindy, I'm the other half of the Dire Wolf agency." As she spoke, she smoothly took in the surface details going through their minds. There was the momentary flash of attraction or lust as they saw the pretty young blonde, but that passed in an instant. Worry deeper and heavier than any sexual flare could overcome occupied their minds. She still smiled as she led them across the hall to the open office door.
"Jeremy, this is Winston Meyers. And this is Reggie Wilkins. Gentlemen, Jeremy Bane, the man you came to see."
Behind a desk that stood beneath a huge handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, the Dire Wolf rose to his feet and nodded politely. At almost thirty, Bane remained a gaunt six foot tall figure dressed always in black.. slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Beneath dark eyebrows glared a pair of cold grey eyes that took in his two visitors as if suspicious they were going to attack him at any second. "Please, take some seats and tell me what brings you here."
As the two men settled on plain wooden straightback chairs in front of that desk, Cindy pulled the one leatherbound chair in that office over so she was sitting at an angle facing both them and Bane. She seemed barely able to contain her excitement over something, like a teenager about to get great news.
Bane gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. He waited for the visitors to settle themselves, and the one with the glasses, Winston Meyers, began speaking.
"Mr Bane, we represent Apex Records. We distribute SCARAB albums and singles in America, and we handle much of their merchandise. Eight months ago, their album THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES was released. They should have been making progress on the follow-up double album their contract calls for but we have heard nothing." The man pushed his glasses back up on his nose and peered anxiously at the man behind the desk.
Raising one eyebrow, Bane asked, "So this SCARAB is a music group, I guess?"
"A music group?! They were the biggest band in pop history. They have had more Number Ones and sold out more arenas than everyone else combined! Each of the members has won a Grammy for solo albums since the band broke up. You never heard of SCARAB?" The second man, Wilkins, seemed personally hurt by the reaction. He added, "You've never listened to 'The Journey Home' or 'I'm Trying To Break Your Heart?'"
"No. Sorry. I don't listen to music." Bane seemed oblivious to the consternation he was causing. "Listen, I'm a licensed private detective. My special area is gruesome murders, serial killers, secret cults. What does it matter to me if a rock group is late making an album?"
"Excuse me," Cindy cut in. "Please understand, Jeremy is a bit single-minded. He knows everything about homicide in the New York area but he literally never listens to music or watches TV. He may not have ever heard of SCARAB but I am a huge huge fan! When they announced the split, I cried as if my dog had died. So. What's going on? I bought their reunion album like a million other people but what's the problem with the band now?"
Winston Meyers took in a deep breath and let it out as if feeling a great weight pressing him down. "It started with the reunion album. THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES. From the front and back cover to the lyrics in the songs, to the reclusive behavior of the band members... well, the rumor started that Sol is dead."
"Sol?" asked Bane with just a vague hint of amusement in his normally glum voice.
"Sol Connelly. The one who wrote most of the songs for the last album and who sang lead on most of them. Jan wrote and sang the rest, except for one each for Jorge and Winger. This was their custom so everyone in the band got at least some residuals as writers." Meyers opened his briefcase and took out an empty LP cover. "Here. This may explain."
Bane took the rectangular piece of cardboard and studied its glossy front. Elaborate bright red curling letters said SCARAB across the top, with THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES in royal blue immediately beneath it. The photo showed a rather plain apartment with late afternoon sunlight coming in a window without curtains. Two young men with long hair and droopy mustaches sat in overstuffed easy chairs turned to face a couch, while a third man stood behind that couch with a cloth cap in his hands. Stretched out on that couch, eyes closed and hands clasped at his waist, was fourth, clean-shaven man. The man on the couch wore a black suit and tie, the others were dressed in an assortment of colorful outfits including silk scarves, velvet jackets, fur vests and a leather cowboy hat.
Glancing up, the Dire Wolf shrugged. "Yeah, I can see why the rumor might start. The kid on the couch, right? He's dressed formally, laid out as if for burial. The guy behind him has taken his cap off in respect. There's a shovel in a corner. I see a few other details that would support the rumor. So. IS Sol dead?"
"Well... I would have said of course not, just a few days ago. But now I'm not sure. The band has not been seeing anyone other than their manager and studio producer. They haven't been seen in public for a month, not even by the wives two of them have. And there is this strange woman Dona Tarantella who has latched on to them. She seems to do all the interaction with the outside world for them."
Bane was starting to seem interested despite himself. "Have they acted like this before?"
"No. Never, they were always gregarious lads. Lots of chums, lots of groupies. This is not like them."
The Dire Wolf leaned forward. "It does sound like something fishy might be going on. But I can't accept this case, gentlemen. I don't know anything about music or rock stars. Really, I never heard of SCARAB until a few minutes ago. I can recommend other agencies that will get the job done, if you like."
Now Cindy reached over and tapped a slim finger on the desk. "Jeremy. I suggest you reconsider." Her mind reached out to contact his, sending a message of urgency and pleading. She caught his eyes, still smiling but with a certain desperation.
Bane blinked and stood up. "Excuse us a second." He headed for the hall, with Cindy right behind, closing the door behind them. Once out of hearing, he turned to her. "Okay, what's the deal, hon?"
"This is SO important to me. I LOVE that band! I have memorized every song. Sol was not my favorite, Winger is but even so, I cannot pass up a chance to meet them. Come on, Jeremy, cut me some slack." She stared up at him eagerly and there was nothing but honesty in her voice.
An exceedingly rare grin broke out on his face, making him look years younger. "Does it mean that much to you? Okay. We'll give it a try. Come on, let's tell them."
She gave him a fierce hug, burying her face in his neck. "Great. Great. If you said no, I was gonna take the case myself."
II.
Twenty minutes later, Bane had given Wilkins and Meyers a receipt for the standard thousand dollar retainer, assured the two men he would be investigating immediately and escorted them to the door. Back in the office, he then spent the next hour having Cindy explain every possible detail about SCARAB to him. Sol Connelly and Jan Buskirk were rivals for leadership of the band, each a prolific songwriter and guitarist. Jorge Garcia was younger, mostly an acoustic guitarist but late in the band's career he had started writing a few songs himself that were very promising. Don 'Winger' Jameson seemed content to just be the drummer, but he was married to a Hollywood starlet and had invested his earnings in real estate rather than blowing it on parties.
Nine years earlier, the band had gone through a bitter and well-publicized break-up. But, as time passed, the acrimony faded and after a few years of solo albums and concerts, they had met to discuss a one-time only new album together. THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES had been an unprecedented success, almost every song got airplay and sales set a new record. The band had announced they thought they had enough material to do a follow-up album and dropped teasing hints about a single live concert to be announced later that year.
Then, silence. Fans began spotting strange inferences in song lyrics and publicity photos that linked Sol with all sort of funeral customs, including some from other countries. One photo showed him with gold coins on his eyes, for example. The band had not addressed the rumours before going into seclusion but the fact that Sol's wife Louisa hadn't seen him face to face for a month did nothing to stop the speculation.
Bane tried to take it all in, but was having difficulty showing interest in the mystery. "Okay, you love these guys. On the reunion album, the one with all the death clues, did they sound the same? Do you think it's him singing?"
"Yes. Definitely. They were doing a lot of electronic effects. Very psychedelic. But to me, that's Sol Connelly. I know his voice. To be honest, I didn't like some of the songs, they were good but I was expecting all classics. The songs sounded, I dunno, like second-rate material. I was disappointed." Cindy had gone up to her room and come down with a cassette tape in a Walkman and now she handed it to Bane. The Dire Wolf put on the headphones, pressed play and started listening as he paced the room. He made it through three songs before he took it off and handed it back to her.
"I'm sorry," he said bluntly, "But I can't listen to music. It doesn't sink in. I think about everything else."
Cindy hit rewind and gave him a sad look. "Jeremy, you're the love of my life and the center of my world and all that. But sometimes I wonder about you. You never watch TV or go to the movies or read fiction. You can't hold still long enough to let a song sink in. I can't imagine being like that."
"I'm the way I am. You know I've had a hard life. Maybe my childhood left me too focussed on what's in front of me." He softened his tone and put his hands on her shoulders. "Anyway, you'll be the expert this time. Maybe this is actually your case. Next step logically is to go to their studio out on Long Island, right?"
"Yep. I can't wait. Hold on, let me put on something decent." She raced up the stairs as nimble as a deer. Bane walked back to the office to tidy up a bit. They were the only KDF members in the building at the moment. The others had scattered on other assignments or personal business. Ted Wright was on duty at his clinic next door and would be working a night shift at Metropolitan General that night, Leonard Slade and Stephen Weaver were in New Mexico at the HCE Project and Larry Taper was investigating a paranormal sighting in Florida. No one knew where Khang was. It had been less than a year since Michael Hawk had died and, although they had discussed admitting a new member to fill his spot, no one suitable had been found.
Bane left his office, which also served as the reception room for KDF cases. He had opened the Dire Wolf Agency not long after getting his PI license with Hawk's help, and it gave him assignments to work on when nothing Midnight War was going on that required the KDF's attention. So far he had handled a few murders, one kidnapping and the tracking down of notorious serial killer Samhain. It was a good arrangement, he hated inactivity.
He glanced up as Cindy came rushing down the stairs. She had changed to Navy blue slacks and matching short jacket, with a pale blue blouse and pearl earrings she seldom wore. Bane saw with a tinge of delight that she had taken a moment to brush her dark blonde hair out and to put on traces of make-up and even lipstick. Normally she didn't wear any of that. "All dolled up and ready to make a good impression," she announced.
"You look great," Bane told her. "I've got the address, it sounds about an hour drive from here. We'll take the Mustang." He opened the walk-in closet by the front door and they went through the panel in its back. Down steep concrete steps and then along a walkway that led to the small underground garage just large enough to hold two cars. "You want to drive?" he asked.
"Uh-uh," Cindy answered as she got in the passenger side. "I want to think over all the clues that Sol is dead. There was a song on that album, 'Early Mourning Light' that has a few puns that started the whole rumour. Come on, let's roll!"
Bane started up the car, drove up the ramp with its tight turn and the steel panel slid up automatically. They emerged from the dead-end ally onto Lexington Avenue and a chilly March morning. As he drove, the Dire Wolf reflected that this was not at all his usual case and although Cindy seemed ready to burst from excitement, he didn't care one or another what happened to any rock band. He settled back behind the wheel and tried to prepare himself for a boring drive and an unpromising case.
III.
At a few minutes past one, they turn off the highway just before the town of Flanders, onto an unmarked side road that wound through the woods for a half mile. There, out of sight from the highway, sat a long low building of white stone with two large picture windows and a flat roof. Five cars were parked in the paved lot, expensive vehicles ranging from a little red MG to a shiny black Lincoln Continental. There were no signs of any kind.
Bane slowed as they approached. Sitting beside the road was a wooden watchpost, in which sat an older man in a uniform of dark blue slacks and white shirt with the name of a security company over the breast pocket. The guard sat up on his stool as he heard the Mustang come near but he suddenly looked down and seemed preoccupied with something near his feet. He didn't even glance up as they drove past.
"Neat trick," said the Dire Wolf as he pulled his car up behind a gleaming silver BMW. "What did you do?"
"Nothing harmful. He just felt a sharp crawling sensation in both legs. It distracted him as we went by, he's fine." Cindy looked back. "The worst that might happen is that he might tell his doctor and get an exam."
Bane got out and glared around the parking lot suspiciously. His violent life had left him with a soldier's mentality where he constantly checked for possible traps and ambushes. But he was alive in large part because of this. "Check out these cars. Your Scarabs are doing all right."
"Aw, they're all multi-millionaires by now," she said. Coming over to stand next to him, Cindy went on in a low voice, "Can't you feel something wrong, Jeremy? Something in the air?"
"Yeah. I'm on edge. Gralic manifestation?"
"I think so. My powers feel numbed. Unreliable. Someone here has gralic abilities and they're interfering with my telepathy." She took him by the arm. "Maybe there's more to this case than we thought."
Bane nodded, his grey eyes moving restlessly over the area. "Let's investigate." He opened a metal door that had only the number 71 on it, and they entered a waiting room that held comfortable chairs, a table with magazines, a coffeemaker on a cabinet and a tray of assorted donuts and Danishes.
The hall beyond had two closed doors with frosted glass panels. One panel read in black letters, PRODUCER and the other said SOUND ENGINEERS. Beyond that was a pair of doors with the stylized symbols for men's and women's bathrooms. As they moved down that hall, Cindy whispered, "The interference is getting stronger,hon."
"I can sense something," he muttered. In front of them where the hall ended was a wide metal door with a horizontal push bar. Just over the door, a red light bulb was dark and the sign RECORDING- NO ADMITTANCE was off. Bane didn't hesitate. As always, he pushed the door open and walked in as if he belonged there, with Cindy right beside him.
They entered a big high-ceilinged room cluttered with recording equipment, folding chairs, styrofoam coffee cups everywhere and an assortment of musical instruments including a grand piano and two Indian sitars. Five people glanced up curiously from where they sat in a loose circle around a ceiling mike.
"Well then, what's all this?" said a man with a long brown beard and neat shoulder-length hair parted in the middle. He peered owlishly at them through round-framed glasses. "You blokes order anything?"
"Not me," said the man closest to him. He was the one who had been shown lying on the couch on the album cover. Today he was wearing white slacks with flared cuffs, a loose cotton shirt with bell sleeves and a red silk scarf around his neck. He cradled a Gibson in his arms as he smiled, mostly at Cindy.
The blonde telepath could not have grinned any wider without hurting herself. "You look just like your pictures. I'm sorry, that's so stupid a thing to say. Hello. Ah, Jeremy, take over?"
Dire Wolf stepped closer to the circle of musicians, evidently not impressed at all. "My name is Jeremy Bane, I'm a private investigator. I've been hired to basically see what you people are doing."
"Must be the money men from the record company," muttered Jan Buskirk, the one with the brown hair and glasses. He had a faint Dutch accent that sounded German. "They want hourly reports from us, the capitalist bloodsuckers."
Sitting on the floor beside Jan was a tiny woman with long frizzy black hair down to her waist. She stood up quickly, showing she was shorter even than Cindy, not even five feet, and thin to the point of seeming fragile. She was wearing a loose white dress that reached to the floor. "How did you get in here?" she demanded.
"No one stopped us," Bane said honestly.
"I want Wederman fired," the woman snapped angrily. "He's either sleeping or peeing behind a tree when he should have been on his post. Jan! I said he must be fired, right this minute."
"Yes, my love," mumbled Jan obediently. As he started to rise, Bane stopped him with an upraised hand. "Hold it. It's not his fault, we used a trick to get past him. The important thing is that if we can report you are well and working on the album, you'll be left alone. Sound like a plan?"
Sol stood up, leaning his guitar against his chair. He was a good-looking man about thirty, with a bland boyish face and big soulful eyes. "To be bloody honest, we're having a rough go. We haven't worked together for years and it's damned hard to get back in the groove."
"Our tastes have changed," muttered Jan. "I want to push the limits, make a statement, not keep beating the same dead horse musically."
"So we haven't gotten too far. This afternoon, we have a flight back to Britain. I have a farm in Scotland. We think a few days of just hanging out and getting pissed together and yakking will get us on the same wavelength again. Maybe not. Maybe Scarab is history."
"Well, I'VE got lots of ideas," said the third man sitting a bit farther back. "I've got a backlog of songs we could work on." Jorge Garcia looked vaguely Spanish, with glossy black hair and olive skin. He was wearing worn jeans, a flannel shirt and work boots, looking very blue collar. Like Sol, he was holding a guitar but an electric bass.
Jan rolled his eyes. "Yes, Jorge, we've discussed this. It's a double album, you'll get four songs. I dunno, maybe we should each just record our own songs separately and alternate them."
"Well, that wouldn't be SCARAB yer know?" put in Sol thoughtfully. "It'd be like our solo work."
Bane interrupted impatiently. "All right, my part here is done. Your four are alive and well and in the studio. Whether you make another album is up to you, I don't care. But I can report to my client and you'll be left alone."
"Sounds fair," Sol said agreeably. "Nothing personal about you coming here. You, miss, you're a fan of the group? Would you like a photograph with us?"
"Oh, I'd love one but it wouldn't be professional. I'm on duty. Still, it was nice to actually meet you guys. When I was seventeen, I tried to get backstage at your concert at Forest Hills. Almost made it," she giggled.
"I'm sure we would have had a very pleasant meeting," Sol told her as his eyes went up and down her. "But never too late."
"Enough of that," snapped Bane. "We're done here." He took Cindy lightly by one arm and started to leave the room but Dona Tarantella had moved closer. She was staring up at him with intense angry eyes.
"You are not ordinary people, either of you." She scowled, making her plain features even less appealing. "I know such things. You have walked in shadows, haven't you?"
"You might say that," Bane answered as he headed toward the door with Cindy in tow. As they left the studio, the little blonde waved cheerfully and sang out, "Byyye!"
Out in the hall, a paunchy man in a suit and tie, with his jacket over one arm, was walking down the hall. "Hello? What are you two doing here?"
"We're just leaving," Bane said, moving past him.
"Oh all right then." The man went into the studio agreeably enough.
As they headed out to the parking lot, Cindy was still ecstatic. "Jeremy Bane, don't tell me you are jealous of the SCARABs. Honestly."
He opened her door for her. "I think you weren't as observant as you usually are. Isn't Jorge Garcia left-handed?"
"Sure everyone knows.. hey. He was holding his guitar right-handed!"
Bane got in behind the wheel. "And the one with the glasses. Jan Buskirk. His hair is dyed. Black roots are showing. The Spanish one was trying to hide a Midlands accent. Something seemed off with all of them."
"Whoa. SCARAB have been fakes all along. They're all pretending to be what they're not, just to be more.. colorful?" She shook her head. "I knew most musicians put up an image for the public, but really, that's going too far."
"I think it's worse than that," Bane said. "That woman has minor gralic force. She was trying to probe us. I think she's more dangerous than she seems." He frowned and sped the car up. "We're getting the CORBY ready. I want us to check out that farm in Scotland before SCARAB gets there."
III.
Cold heavy rain poured down from a dark sky covered with unbroken clouds. The wind gusts hit thirty, but the CORBY flew as steady as if under perfect conditions. Solid black with no markings or external lights, the stealth copter descended from four thousand feet straight down to hover at treetop level. This was the Connelly farm, several hundred acres now laying fallow under Sol's new ownership. Some sheep and goats were penned in enclosures. Three houses stood at the highest point of the rocky ground, but two were just a barn and a servant's bungalow. The three-story manor house itself was a solid stone construction with a chimney at either end and an attached car canopy. No lights showed in the late afternoon gloom.
Moving the CORBY slowly forward, Jeremy Bane gazed down through the windscreen with its light enhancing system giving him a workable view of the terrain. It was not as clear as a sunny afternoon by any means, but he could see clearly enough to have recognized faces. In the silent craft, he circled the estate and searched for anything that seemed out of place. On the second circuit, he cut in thermal imaging and ground-piercing sensors to look deeper. There were a few anomalies. There, by that stand of wind-bent ancient trees, the ground showed different than its surroundings. And something about the barn didn't look right.
Sitting in the co-pilot seat, Cindy Brunner shrugged. "No Human minds. Some sheep, some goats, some chickens. I guess the servants are off tonight, Jer."
"Just as well," the Dire Wolf sat. Like her, he was wearing the full KDF field suit. Its waist-length jacket had an inner layer of the Trom armor and its many pockets were filled with ingenious gadgets and specialized weapons. They were both wearing the visored helmets as well. "I don't think anyone could spot us easily in this weather but just as well."
"Welcome to the Highlands," she said as if to herself. "Ah well. This farm was on the cover of Sol's first solo album, BACK TO BASICS. It had a picture of him herding a few sheep. What is that in the barn? I can't make it out."
"I'm going to land on the other side of those trees. I don't think the CORBY will be visible from the main house over there." Bane touched the control stick delicately and the Trom-built craft swung around and lowered itself to the sparse grass as lightly as a dragonfly alighting. The landing gear had extended and the CORBY settled to rest without a jar as the rotors slowed to a halt.
Bane turned to his lover and partner for the past four years. "Cin, listen. I think you're going to get bad news about your favorite band. I asked you if you wanted to stay back in Manhattan, but you assured me you're fine with whatever we turn up. You might find out things about your heroes you won't like. Are you going to be all right?"
She scoffed. "After all I've been through the past few years? I'm fine." She fastened the seal of her high jacket collar and thumbed the patch which slid her visor down to lock to the helmet's mandible. Now her voice came to Bane through the communications link in his own helmet. "These suits are great. We can walk through a hurricane and not get wet OR cold."
"I don't know how much time we have before the band gets here. We left New York late. I didn't expect to have to go chat with the DA all afternoon. What a nuisance." Bane popped up the pressurized hatch to his side and hopped down to the ground. As he sealed the craft and armed its alarms, Cindy came around to stand beside him. The wind was whipping the rain almost horizontal at this point, but the field suits had kept them comfortable under worse conditions. Deciding he didn't need to secure the CORBY to the ground, he started moving toward the main house in the darkness.
As they hiked through the downpour, Cindy adjusted her visor to more light enhancement. "Jeremy, have you ever been in Scotland before?"
"No. I was in London once or twice. And Mr Dred sent me to Wales to handle the Goliath Hounds on an early case." Bane hesitated. "There's the garage. Let's get a good look." He strode up to the structure, big enough to hold several cars comfortably. There was a padlock holding the door down. Kneeling, he got the lock open in just under a minute.
"Someone's been practicing," Cindy said.
"I took more lessons from that locksmith that Mike sent me to. Never know what skills you need in this game." He unlocked the wide door and slid it upward as he rose. They gazed inside the interior at a huge mass of twisted metal that made no sense at first. Separate parts leaned up against each other.
"What the..? Jeremy, it's a plane. Or it was. Man, it was totaled. This was the propellor?" She got closer and started inspecting it. "Looks like it caught on fire, too."
Watching her, Bane said quietly, "Do you think anyone inside had a chance?"
"No. Seriously? No." She spun to face him. "Oh, do you mean.. Sol really IS dead?"
"We'll know soon. I see headlights coming up the road." He lowered the garage door again and led her back toward where the cluster of old trees stood by an outcropping. "The dirt looks strange here."
"Yeah." She adjusted her helmet visor again. "I don't know. It seems like the ground has been disturbed, dug up recently. It doesn't match the surroundings yet. Wait. You think someone is buried here!"
"I have a suspicion," he said somberly. "That's the band now." He started walking briskly over to where a stretch limo had pulled up near the huge front door of the manor house, and figures bundled in heavy coats and hats were rushing inside. As the limo pulled over to park on the other side of the building, the last of the party entered the house. Standing in the cold rain, Bane and Cindy paused. Then he opened the door and walked in as if he had been invited.
In a cold front hall lit by a chandelier in the high ceiling, four men and a woman spun around in terror at the sight of two helmeted figures all in black coming in behind them.
"Cripes!" yelled Jan. "Whatever you want, we can work something out. No one has to get hurt."
"Enough people have already been hurt," Bane answered as he slid the visor open to reveal his face. The grey eyes were unfriendly. "I think we know just about everything. The crash. The reasons for all the clues about Sol's death." He glared at the tiny woman with long black frizzy hair, who stared back at him sullenly. "It was all your idea, right? The end of SCARAB meant the loss of millions to you. If you kept them going for another year or so, you would be set for life."
"You are trespassing. Our chaffeur will be here in a second. He knows karate." She sniffed. "Better leave now."
"We'll take our chances. So. Dona Tarantella, I did some research on you today. You started as a Santeria priestess but you were too ambitious for them. You wanted to be a millionaire. Your first husband died under unlikely circumstances, but no charges were filed-"
"Jan!" she barked. "Are you going to let him abuse me like this? Be a man."
The Dutch member of SCARAB stepped uncertainly forward, but something about the quiet confidence with which Bane awaited him made the man hesitate. "Ah. Henry should be here in a second. We pay him to be the bodyguard."
The Dire Wolf went on. "Not many people know the truth. The band's manager and studio producer. That's it. Not even the wives know yet. I find that mean, don't you think they deserve to know what happened?"
At that moment, a huge man in a chaffeur uniform complete with flap jacket and billed cap loomed up in the open doorway behind them. As she saw the man, Dona Tarantella shrieked, "Throw them out, Henry! They're threatening me!"
Bane said, "I like the way you give the orders for everyone." He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the big chaffeur. "Let it ride, Henry. We're here to resolve the sad situation."
"Sorry, mate, I got me orders." As the chaffeur clapped a big hand on Bane's shoulder, the Dire Wolf drove his elbow back into the man's diaphragm with stunning impact. The chaffeur sagged to his knees, gasping for breath and making wheezing noises.
"All right, we might as well wrap this up. We saw the disturbed ground by the trees. There are bodies buried there. I've seen enough fresh graves in my time to know. The police will dig them up. You guys have broken a dozen laws, from not reporting a death to mishandling a corpse to criminal impersonation. The trial is going to be the biggest sensation of the decade, I'm sure."
Unexpectedly, Sol started to sniffle and then broke into full all-out sobbing. "Thank God. I'm glad it'll be over, I'm glad."
"Shut up, you fool!" hissed Dona Tarantella.
"No. This has been breaking my heart. Those are my mates lying out without even a proper ceremony and three actors pretending to be them. Don't you know this is tearing me apart!" He raised his tearful face to Bane. "Call the CID, mister. Get them out here now, get this over with."
Cindy shook her head sadly, then unfastened her helmet and tugged it off. She seemed about to start crying herself. "I didn't want to believe it. But it's true. The rumors you were dead were to get public attention concentrated on you, so that no one would notice the differences in the others. Isn't that right?"
"Yes. Yes. They're stand-ins we had used before. They're well paid, believe me." Sol Connelly sniffed and wiped his running nose. "I wasn't on the private plane that night. Jan, Jorge, Winger, they all died instantly. I'm actually the one who's alive!"
11/19/2014
3/23-3/25/1984
I.
As the front doorbell rang, Cindy Brunner was already hurrying that way. She had picked up on the two minds approaching and was obviously excited. The little blonde was not much over five feet tall and just under a hundred pounds, and the plain white polo shirt and snug jeans she was wearing made her look even smaller. In her mid-twenties, she was in perfect condition, fit as any athlete and she trotted down the stairs and across the front hall with effortless ease. Despite the way her telepathic rapport had identified the two men outside, she still took a minute to open the concealed panel by the door and scan them with the sophisticated Trom sensors. All indicators came back negative. No weapons showed on the images more detailed than a CAT scan, no traces of explosives or poisons on the chemical analysis. The yellow letters on the monitor screen listed their height and weight and assorted physical traits, but at the bottom came the capital letters NO CRIMINAL RECORDS FOUND. That was what she really needed to see.
Opening the inner door, she grinned at the two middle-aged men in dark business suits standing in the tiny foyer. They looked very similar, stocky and average height, thinning hair slicked back, well-fed doughy faces with great anxiety in every line. One wore wire-rim glasses and the other had a prominent beaky nose, otherwise she would have had trouble giving descriptions that differentiated them. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said cheerfully.
"Ah, good morning," said the one with the glasses. He was holding a briefcase in one pudgy hand. "We have an appointment with Mr Bane."
"So you do. Please, come right in. My name is Cindy, I'm the other half of the Dire Wolf agency." As she spoke, she smoothly took in the surface details going through their minds. There was the momentary flash of attraction or lust as they saw the pretty young blonde, but that passed in an instant. Worry deeper and heavier than any sexual flare could overcome occupied their minds. She still smiled as she led them across the hall to the open office door.
"Jeremy, this is Winston Meyers. And this is Reggie Wilkins. Gentlemen, Jeremy Bane, the man you came to see."
Behind a desk that stood beneath a huge handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, the Dire Wolf rose to his feet and nodded politely. At almost thirty, Bane remained a gaunt six foot tall figure dressed always in black.. slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Beneath dark eyebrows glared a pair of cold grey eyes that took in his two visitors as if suspicious they were going to attack him at any second. "Please, take some seats and tell me what brings you here."
As the two men settled on plain wooden straightback chairs in front of that desk, Cindy pulled the one leatherbound chair in that office over so she was sitting at an angle facing both them and Bane. She seemed barely able to contain her excitement over something, like a teenager about to get great news.
Bane gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. He waited for the visitors to settle themselves, and the one with the glasses, Winston Meyers, began speaking.
"Mr Bane, we represent Apex Records. We distribute SCARAB albums and singles in America, and we handle much of their merchandise. Eight months ago, their album THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES was released. They should have been making progress on the follow-up double album their contract calls for but we have heard nothing." The man pushed his glasses back up on his nose and peered anxiously at the man behind the desk.
Raising one eyebrow, Bane asked, "So this SCARAB is a music group, I guess?"
"A music group?! They were the biggest band in pop history. They have had more Number Ones and sold out more arenas than everyone else combined! Each of the members has won a Grammy for solo albums since the band broke up. You never heard of SCARAB?" The second man, Wilkins, seemed personally hurt by the reaction. He added, "You've never listened to 'The Journey Home' or 'I'm Trying To Break Your Heart?'"
"No. Sorry. I don't listen to music." Bane seemed oblivious to the consternation he was causing. "Listen, I'm a licensed private detective. My special area is gruesome murders, serial killers, secret cults. What does it matter to me if a rock group is late making an album?"
"Excuse me," Cindy cut in. "Please understand, Jeremy is a bit single-minded. He knows everything about homicide in the New York area but he literally never listens to music or watches TV. He may not have ever heard of SCARAB but I am a huge huge fan! When they announced the split, I cried as if my dog had died. So. What's going on? I bought their reunion album like a million other people but what's the problem with the band now?"
Winston Meyers took in a deep breath and let it out as if feeling a great weight pressing him down. "It started with the reunion album. THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES. From the front and back cover to the lyrics in the songs, to the reclusive behavior of the band members... well, the rumor started that Sol is dead."
"Sol?" asked Bane with just a vague hint of amusement in his normally glum voice.
"Sol Connelly. The one who wrote most of the songs for the last album and who sang lead on most of them. Jan wrote and sang the rest, except for one each for Jorge and Winger. This was their custom so everyone in the band got at least some residuals as writers." Meyers opened his briefcase and took out an empty LP cover. "Here. This may explain."
Bane took the rectangular piece of cardboard and studied its glossy front. Elaborate bright red curling letters said SCARAB across the top, with THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES in royal blue immediately beneath it. The photo showed a rather plain apartment with late afternoon sunlight coming in a window without curtains. Two young men with long hair and droopy mustaches sat in overstuffed easy chairs turned to face a couch, while a third man stood behind that couch with a cloth cap in his hands. Stretched out on that couch, eyes closed and hands clasped at his waist, was fourth, clean-shaven man. The man on the couch wore a black suit and tie, the others were dressed in an assortment of colorful outfits including silk scarves, velvet jackets, fur vests and a leather cowboy hat.
Glancing up, the Dire Wolf shrugged. "Yeah, I can see why the rumor might start. The kid on the couch, right? He's dressed formally, laid out as if for burial. The guy behind him has taken his cap off in respect. There's a shovel in a corner. I see a few other details that would support the rumor. So. IS Sol dead?"
"Well... I would have said of course not, just a few days ago. But now I'm not sure. The band has not been seeing anyone other than their manager and studio producer. They haven't been seen in public for a month, not even by the wives two of them have. And there is this strange woman Dona Tarantella who has latched on to them. She seems to do all the interaction with the outside world for them."
Bane was starting to seem interested despite himself. "Have they acted like this before?"
"No. Never, they were always gregarious lads. Lots of chums, lots of groupies. This is not like them."
The Dire Wolf leaned forward. "It does sound like something fishy might be going on. But I can't accept this case, gentlemen. I don't know anything about music or rock stars. Really, I never heard of SCARAB until a few minutes ago. I can recommend other agencies that will get the job done, if you like."
Now Cindy reached over and tapped a slim finger on the desk. "Jeremy. I suggest you reconsider." Her mind reached out to contact his, sending a message of urgency and pleading. She caught his eyes, still smiling but with a certain desperation.
Bane blinked and stood up. "Excuse us a second." He headed for the hall, with Cindy right behind, closing the door behind them. Once out of hearing, he turned to her. "Okay, what's the deal, hon?"
"This is SO important to me. I LOVE that band! I have memorized every song. Sol was not my favorite, Winger is but even so, I cannot pass up a chance to meet them. Come on, Jeremy, cut me some slack." She stared up at him eagerly and there was nothing but honesty in her voice.
An exceedingly rare grin broke out on his face, making him look years younger. "Does it mean that much to you? Okay. We'll give it a try. Come on, let's tell them."
She gave him a fierce hug, burying her face in his neck. "Great. Great. If you said no, I was gonna take the case myself."
II.
Twenty minutes later, Bane had given Wilkins and Meyers a receipt for the standard thousand dollar retainer, assured the two men he would be investigating immediately and escorted them to the door. Back in the office, he then spent the next hour having Cindy explain every possible detail about SCARAB to him. Sol Connelly and Jan Buskirk were rivals for leadership of the band, each a prolific songwriter and guitarist. Jorge Garcia was younger, mostly an acoustic guitarist but late in the band's career he had started writing a few songs himself that were very promising. Don 'Winger' Jameson seemed content to just be the drummer, but he was married to a Hollywood starlet and had invested his earnings in real estate rather than blowing it on parties.
Nine years earlier, the band had gone through a bitter and well-publicized break-up. But, as time passed, the acrimony faded and after a few years of solo albums and concerts, they had met to discuss a one-time only new album together. THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES had been an unprecedented success, almost every song got airplay and sales set a new record. The band had announced they thought they had enough material to do a follow-up album and dropped teasing hints about a single live concert to be announced later that year.
Then, silence. Fans began spotting strange inferences in song lyrics and publicity photos that linked Sol with all sort of funeral customs, including some from other countries. One photo showed him with gold coins on his eyes, for example. The band had not addressed the rumours before going into seclusion but the fact that Sol's wife Louisa hadn't seen him face to face for a month did nothing to stop the speculation.
Bane tried to take it all in, but was having difficulty showing interest in the mystery. "Okay, you love these guys. On the reunion album, the one with all the death clues, did they sound the same? Do you think it's him singing?"
"Yes. Definitely. They were doing a lot of electronic effects. Very psychedelic. But to me, that's Sol Connelly. I know his voice. To be honest, I didn't like some of the songs, they were good but I was expecting all classics. The songs sounded, I dunno, like second-rate material. I was disappointed." Cindy had gone up to her room and come down with a cassette tape in a Walkman and now she handed it to Bane. The Dire Wolf put on the headphones, pressed play and started listening as he paced the room. He made it through three songs before he took it off and handed it back to her.
"I'm sorry," he said bluntly, "But I can't listen to music. It doesn't sink in. I think about everything else."
Cindy hit rewind and gave him a sad look. "Jeremy, you're the love of my life and the center of my world and all that. But sometimes I wonder about you. You never watch TV or go to the movies or read fiction. You can't hold still long enough to let a song sink in. I can't imagine being like that."
"I'm the way I am. You know I've had a hard life. Maybe my childhood left me too focussed on what's in front of me." He softened his tone and put his hands on her shoulders. "Anyway, you'll be the expert this time. Maybe this is actually your case. Next step logically is to go to their studio out on Long Island, right?"
"Yep. I can't wait. Hold on, let me put on something decent." She raced up the stairs as nimble as a deer. Bane walked back to the office to tidy up a bit. They were the only KDF members in the building at the moment. The others had scattered on other assignments or personal business. Ted Wright was on duty at his clinic next door and would be working a night shift at Metropolitan General that night, Leonard Slade and Stephen Weaver were in New Mexico at the HCE Project and Larry Taper was investigating a paranormal sighting in Florida. No one knew where Khang was. It had been less than a year since Michael Hawk had died and, although they had discussed admitting a new member to fill his spot, no one suitable had been found.
Bane left his office, which also served as the reception room for KDF cases. He had opened the Dire Wolf Agency not long after getting his PI license with Hawk's help, and it gave him assignments to work on when nothing Midnight War was going on that required the KDF's attention. So far he had handled a few murders, one kidnapping and the tracking down of notorious serial killer Samhain. It was a good arrangement, he hated inactivity.
He glanced up as Cindy came rushing down the stairs. She had changed to Navy blue slacks and matching short jacket, with a pale blue blouse and pearl earrings she seldom wore. Bane saw with a tinge of delight that she had taken a moment to brush her dark blonde hair out and to put on traces of make-up and even lipstick. Normally she didn't wear any of that. "All dolled up and ready to make a good impression," she announced.
"You look great," Bane told her. "I've got the address, it sounds about an hour drive from here. We'll take the Mustang." He opened the walk-in closet by the front door and they went through the panel in its back. Down steep concrete steps and then along a walkway that led to the small underground garage just large enough to hold two cars. "You want to drive?" he asked.
"Uh-uh," Cindy answered as she got in the passenger side. "I want to think over all the clues that Sol is dead. There was a song on that album, 'Early Mourning Light' that has a few puns that started the whole rumour. Come on, let's roll!"
Bane started up the car, drove up the ramp with its tight turn and the steel panel slid up automatically. They emerged from the dead-end ally onto Lexington Avenue and a chilly March morning. As he drove, the Dire Wolf reflected that this was not at all his usual case and although Cindy seemed ready to burst from excitement, he didn't care one or another what happened to any rock band. He settled back behind the wheel and tried to prepare himself for a boring drive and an unpromising case.
III.
At a few minutes past one, they turn off the highway just before the town of Flanders, onto an unmarked side road that wound through the woods for a half mile. There, out of sight from the highway, sat a long low building of white stone with two large picture windows and a flat roof. Five cars were parked in the paved lot, expensive vehicles ranging from a little red MG to a shiny black Lincoln Continental. There were no signs of any kind.
Bane slowed as they approached. Sitting beside the road was a wooden watchpost, in which sat an older man in a uniform of dark blue slacks and white shirt with the name of a security company over the breast pocket. The guard sat up on his stool as he heard the Mustang come near but he suddenly looked down and seemed preoccupied with something near his feet. He didn't even glance up as they drove past.
"Neat trick," said the Dire Wolf as he pulled his car up behind a gleaming silver BMW. "What did you do?"
"Nothing harmful. He just felt a sharp crawling sensation in both legs. It distracted him as we went by, he's fine." Cindy looked back. "The worst that might happen is that he might tell his doctor and get an exam."
Bane got out and glared around the parking lot suspiciously. His violent life had left him with a soldier's mentality where he constantly checked for possible traps and ambushes. But he was alive in large part because of this. "Check out these cars. Your Scarabs are doing all right."
"Aw, they're all multi-millionaires by now," she said. Coming over to stand next to him, Cindy went on in a low voice, "Can't you feel something wrong, Jeremy? Something in the air?"
"Yeah. I'm on edge. Gralic manifestation?"
"I think so. My powers feel numbed. Unreliable. Someone here has gralic abilities and they're interfering with my telepathy." She took him by the arm. "Maybe there's more to this case than we thought."
Bane nodded, his grey eyes moving restlessly over the area. "Let's investigate." He opened a metal door that had only the number 71 on it, and they entered a waiting room that held comfortable chairs, a table with magazines, a coffeemaker on a cabinet and a tray of assorted donuts and Danishes.
The hall beyond had two closed doors with frosted glass panels. One panel read in black letters, PRODUCER and the other said SOUND ENGINEERS. Beyond that was a pair of doors with the stylized symbols for men's and women's bathrooms. As they moved down that hall, Cindy whispered, "The interference is getting stronger,hon."
"I can sense something," he muttered. In front of them where the hall ended was a wide metal door with a horizontal push bar. Just over the door, a red light bulb was dark and the sign RECORDING- NO ADMITTANCE was off. Bane didn't hesitate. As always, he pushed the door open and walked in as if he belonged there, with Cindy right beside him.
They entered a big high-ceilinged room cluttered with recording equipment, folding chairs, styrofoam coffee cups everywhere and an assortment of musical instruments including a grand piano and two Indian sitars. Five people glanced up curiously from where they sat in a loose circle around a ceiling mike.
"Well then, what's all this?" said a man with a long brown beard and neat shoulder-length hair parted in the middle. He peered owlishly at them through round-framed glasses. "You blokes order anything?"
"Not me," said the man closest to him. He was the one who had been shown lying on the couch on the album cover. Today he was wearing white slacks with flared cuffs, a loose cotton shirt with bell sleeves and a red silk scarf around his neck. He cradled a Gibson in his arms as he smiled, mostly at Cindy.
The blonde telepath could not have grinned any wider without hurting herself. "You look just like your pictures. I'm sorry, that's so stupid a thing to say. Hello. Ah, Jeremy, take over?"
Dire Wolf stepped closer to the circle of musicians, evidently not impressed at all. "My name is Jeremy Bane, I'm a private investigator. I've been hired to basically see what you people are doing."
"Must be the money men from the record company," muttered Jan Buskirk, the one with the brown hair and glasses. He had a faint Dutch accent that sounded German. "They want hourly reports from us, the capitalist bloodsuckers."
Sitting on the floor beside Jan was a tiny woman with long frizzy black hair down to her waist. She stood up quickly, showing she was shorter even than Cindy, not even five feet, and thin to the point of seeming fragile. She was wearing a loose white dress that reached to the floor. "How did you get in here?" she demanded.
"No one stopped us," Bane said honestly.
"I want Wederman fired," the woman snapped angrily. "He's either sleeping or peeing behind a tree when he should have been on his post. Jan! I said he must be fired, right this minute."
"Yes, my love," mumbled Jan obediently. As he started to rise, Bane stopped him with an upraised hand. "Hold it. It's not his fault, we used a trick to get past him. The important thing is that if we can report you are well and working on the album, you'll be left alone. Sound like a plan?"
Sol stood up, leaning his guitar against his chair. He was a good-looking man about thirty, with a bland boyish face and big soulful eyes. "To be bloody honest, we're having a rough go. We haven't worked together for years and it's damned hard to get back in the groove."
"Our tastes have changed," muttered Jan. "I want to push the limits, make a statement, not keep beating the same dead horse musically."
"So we haven't gotten too far. This afternoon, we have a flight back to Britain. I have a farm in Scotland. We think a few days of just hanging out and getting pissed together and yakking will get us on the same wavelength again. Maybe not. Maybe Scarab is history."
"Well, I'VE got lots of ideas," said the third man sitting a bit farther back. "I've got a backlog of songs we could work on." Jorge Garcia looked vaguely Spanish, with glossy black hair and olive skin. He was wearing worn jeans, a flannel shirt and work boots, looking very blue collar. Like Sol, he was holding a guitar but an electric bass.
Jan rolled his eyes. "Yes, Jorge, we've discussed this. It's a double album, you'll get four songs. I dunno, maybe we should each just record our own songs separately and alternate them."
"Well, that wouldn't be SCARAB yer know?" put in Sol thoughtfully. "It'd be like our solo work."
Bane interrupted impatiently. "All right, my part here is done. Your four are alive and well and in the studio. Whether you make another album is up to you, I don't care. But I can report to my client and you'll be left alone."
"Sounds fair," Sol said agreeably. "Nothing personal about you coming here. You, miss, you're a fan of the group? Would you like a photograph with us?"
"Oh, I'd love one but it wouldn't be professional. I'm on duty. Still, it was nice to actually meet you guys. When I was seventeen, I tried to get backstage at your concert at Forest Hills. Almost made it," she giggled.
"I'm sure we would have had a very pleasant meeting," Sol told her as his eyes went up and down her. "But never too late."
"Enough of that," snapped Bane. "We're done here." He took Cindy lightly by one arm and started to leave the room but Dona Tarantella had moved closer. She was staring up at him with intense angry eyes.
"You are not ordinary people, either of you." She scowled, making her plain features even less appealing. "I know such things. You have walked in shadows, haven't you?"
"You might say that," Bane answered as he headed toward the door with Cindy in tow. As they left the studio, the little blonde waved cheerfully and sang out, "Byyye!"
Out in the hall, a paunchy man in a suit and tie, with his jacket over one arm, was walking down the hall. "Hello? What are you two doing here?"
"We're just leaving," Bane said, moving past him.
"Oh all right then." The man went into the studio agreeably enough.
As they headed out to the parking lot, Cindy was still ecstatic. "Jeremy Bane, don't tell me you are jealous of the SCARABs. Honestly."
He opened her door for her. "I think you weren't as observant as you usually are. Isn't Jorge Garcia left-handed?"
"Sure everyone knows.. hey. He was holding his guitar right-handed!"
Bane got in behind the wheel. "And the one with the glasses. Jan Buskirk. His hair is dyed. Black roots are showing. The Spanish one was trying to hide a Midlands accent. Something seemed off with all of them."
"Whoa. SCARAB have been fakes all along. They're all pretending to be what they're not, just to be more.. colorful?" She shook her head. "I knew most musicians put up an image for the public, but really, that's going too far."
"I think it's worse than that," Bane said. "That woman has minor gralic force. She was trying to probe us. I think she's more dangerous than she seems." He frowned and sped the car up. "We're getting the CORBY ready. I want us to check out that farm in Scotland before SCARAB gets there."
III.
Cold heavy rain poured down from a dark sky covered with unbroken clouds. The wind gusts hit thirty, but the CORBY flew as steady as if under perfect conditions. Solid black with no markings or external lights, the stealth copter descended from four thousand feet straight down to hover at treetop level. This was the Connelly farm, several hundred acres now laying fallow under Sol's new ownership. Some sheep and goats were penned in enclosures. Three houses stood at the highest point of the rocky ground, but two were just a barn and a servant's bungalow. The three-story manor house itself was a solid stone construction with a chimney at either end and an attached car canopy. No lights showed in the late afternoon gloom.
Moving the CORBY slowly forward, Jeremy Bane gazed down through the windscreen with its light enhancing system giving him a workable view of the terrain. It was not as clear as a sunny afternoon by any means, but he could see clearly enough to have recognized faces. In the silent craft, he circled the estate and searched for anything that seemed out of place. On the second circuit, he cut in thermal imaging and ground-piercing sensors to look deeper. There were a few anomalies. There, by that stand of wind-bent ancient trees, the ground showed different than its surroundings. And something about the barn didn't look right.
Sitting in the co-pilot seat, Cindy Brunner shrugged. "No Human minds. Some sheep, some goats, some chickens. I guess the servants are off tonight, Jer."
"Just as well," the Dire Wolf sat. Like her, he was wearing the full KDF field suit. Its waist-length jacket had an inner layer of the Trom armor and its many pockets were filled with ingenious gadgets and specialized weapons. They were both wearing the visored helmets as well. "I don't think anyone could spot us easily in this weather but just as well."
"Welcome to the Highlands," she said as if to herself. "Ah well. This farm was on the cover of Sol's first solo album, BACK TO BASICS. It had a picture of him herding a few sheep. What is that in the barn? I can't make it out."
"I'm going to land on the other side of those trees. I don't think the CORBY will be visible from the main house over there." Bane touched the control stick delicately and the Trom-built craft swung around and lowered itself to the sparse grass as lightly as a dragonfly alighting. The landing gear had extended and the CORBY settled to rest without a jar as the rotors slowed to a halt.
Bane turned to his lover and partner for the past four years. "Cin, listen. I think you're going to get bad news about your favorite band. I asked you if you wanted to stay back in Manhattan, but you assured me you're fine with whatever we turn up. You might find out things about your heroes you won't like. Are you going to be all right?"
She scoffed. "After all I've been through the past few years? I'm fine." She fastened the seal of her high jacket collar and thumbed the patch which slid her visor down to lock to the helmet's mandible. Now her voice came to Bane through the communications link in his own helmet. "These suits are great. We can walk through a hurricane and not get wet OR cold."
"I don't know how much time we have before the band gets here. We left New York late. I didn't expect to have to go chat with the DA all afternoon. What a nuisance." Bane popped up the pressurized hatch to his side and hopped down to the ground. As he sealed the craft and armed its alarms, Cindy came around to stand beside him. The wind was whipping the rain almost horizontal at this point, but the field suits had kept them comfortable under worse conditions. Deciding he didn't need to secure the CORBY to the ground, he started moving toward the main house in the darkness.
As they hiked through the downpour, Cindy adjusted her visor to more light enhancement. "Jeremy, have you ever been in Scotland before?"
"No. I was in London once or twice. And Mr Dred sent me to Wales to handle the Goliath Hounds on an early case." Bane hesitated. "There's the garage. Let's get a good look." He strode up to the structure, big enough to hold several cars comfortably. There was a padlock holding the door down. Kneeling, he got the lock open in just under a minute.
"Someone's been practicing," Cindy said.
"I took more lessons from that locksmith that Mike sent me to. Never know what skills you need in this game." He unlocked the wide door and slid it upward as he rose. They gazed inside the interior at a huge mass of twisted metal that made no sense at first. Separate parts leaned up against each other.
"What the..? Jeremy, it's a plane. Or it was. Man, it was totaled. This was the propellor?" She got closer and started inspecting it. "Looks like it caught on fire, too."
Watching her, Bane said quietly, "Do you think anyone inside had a chance?"
"No. Seriously? No." She spun to face him. "Oh, do you mean.. Sol really IS dead?"
"We'll know soon. I see headlights coming up the road." He lowered the garage door again and led her back toward where the cluster of old trees stood by an outcropping. "The dirt looks strange here."
"Yeah." She adjusted her helmet visor again. "I don't know. It seems like the ground has been disturbed, dug up recently. It doesn't match the surroundings yet. Wait. You think someone is buried here!"
"I have a suspicion," he said somberly. "That's the band now." He started walking briskly over to where a stretch limo had pulled up near the huge front door of the manor house, and figures bundled in heavy coats and hats were rushing inside. As the limo pulled over to park on the other side of the building, the last of the party entered the house. Standing in the cold rain, Bane and Cindy paused. Then he opened the door and walked in as if he had been invited.
In a cold front hall lit by a chandelier in the high ceiling, four men and a woman spun around in terror at the sight of two helmeted figures all in black coming in behind them.
"Cripes!" yelled Jan. "Whatever you want, we can work something out. No one has to get hurt."
"Enough people have already been hurt," Bane answered as he slid the visor open to reveal his face. The grey eyes were unfriendly. "I think we know just about everything. The crash. The reasons for all the clues about Sol's death." He glared at the tiny woman with long black frizzy hair, who stared back at him sullenly. "It was all your idea, right? The end of SCARAB meant the loss of millions to you. If you kept them going for another year or so, you would be set for life."
"You are trespassing. Our chaffeur will be here in a second. He knows karate." She sniffed. "Better leave now."
"We'll take our chances. So. Dona Tarantella, I did some research on you today. You started as a Santeria priestess but you were too ambitious for them. You wanted to be a millionaire. Your first husband died under unlikely circumstances, but no charges were filed-"
"Jan!" she barked. "Are you going to let him abuse me like this? Be a man."
The Dutch member of SCARAB stepped uncertainly forward, but something about the quiet confidence with which Bane awaited him made the man hesitate. "Ah. Henry should be here in a second. We pay him to be the bodyguard."
The Dire Wolf went on. "Not many people know the truth. The band's manager and studio producer. That's it. Not even the wives know yet. I find that mean, don't you think they deserve to know what happened?"
At that moment, a huge man in a chaffeur uniform complete with flap jacket and billed cap loomed up in the open doorway behind them. As she saw the man, Dona Tarantella shrieked, "Throw them out, Henry! They're threatening me!"
Bane said, "I like the way you give the orders for everyone." He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the big chaffeur. "Let it ride, Henry. We're here to resolve the sad situation."
"Sorry, mate, I got me orders." As the chaffeur clapped a big hand on Bane's shoulder, the Dire Wolf drove his elbow back into the man's diaphragm with stunning impact. The chaffeur sagged to his knees, gasping for breath and making wheezing noises.
"All right, we might as well wrap this up. We saw the disturbed ground by the trees. There are bodies buried there. I've seen enough fresh graves in my time to know. The police will dig them up. You guys have broken a dozen laws, from not reporting a death to mishandling a corpse to criminal impersonation. The trial is going to be the biggest sensation of the decade, I'm sure."
Unexpectedly, Sol started to sniffle and then broke into full all-out sobbing. "Thank God. I'm glad it'll be over, I'm glad."
"Shut up, you fool!" hissed Dona Tarantella.
"No. This has been breaking my heart. Those are my mates lying out without even a proper ceremony and three actors pretending to be them. Don't you know this is tearing me apart!" He raised his tearful face to Bane. "Call the CID, mister. Get them out here now, get this over with."
Cindy shook her head sadly, then unfastened her helmet and tugged it off. She seemed about to start crying herself. "I didn't want to believe it. But it's true. The rumors you were dead were to get public attention concentrated on you, so that no one would notice the differences in the others. Isn't that right?"
"Yes. Yes. They're stand-ins we had used before. They're well paid, believe me." Sol Connelly sniffed and wiped his running nose. "I wasn't on the private plane that night. Jan, Jorge, Winger, they all died instantly. I'm actually the one who's alive!"
11/19/2014
