"Whatever Happened To the Green Devil?"
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dochermes"Whatever Happened To the Green Devil?"
3/22-3/29/2005
I.
March 25, 1945
Late at night through a deserted back area on Long Island's easternmost end, a white delivery van wheeled along at reckless sped along rain-slicked roads. Both sides of the van had VAN ETTEN'S FARMS painted in swirling red letters with the stylized outline of a chicken and a pyramid of eggs depicted. Each week, the van was repainted. Previously, it had read ISLAND FURNITURE REPAIR and before that, QUICK-FIX PLUMBING AND HEATING. New plates went on more often than that.
At the wheel was the colorful figure of Victory Eagle and next to him, one elbow out of the passenger window, sat the Green Devil. It was the first time they had met. Both were used to operating solo but orders from the War Department had been persuasive.
"This is not half bad," Green Devil said, pulling her arm back in and turning the crank to raise the window. "Both our motorcycles fit in the rear and we can check out the area without being obvious. I should buy something similar, maybe a panel truck. Not that I could afford it..."
"Yes. Well, we are amazingly conspicuous in these ridiculous costumes," grumbled the Victory Eagle. He was a tall, remarkably athletic man whose impressive physique was concealed by a tight silk outfit of bright blue pullover shirt and tights. Red leather gloves and boots, as well as a wide belt of red leather, added another primary color. All but the lower half of his face beneath the nose was concealed by a snug blue hood with two eye holes and a small white eagle symbol like the NRA emblem. Across the muscular chest was emblazoned a much larger three-quarter view version of the eagle in flight, its wings spread and its talons clenched as ready to strike. The red, white and blue motif was appropriate.
Seeing how Green Devil was checking him out, Victory Eagle flashed a Hollywood-perfect array of chalk-white teeth. With that smile and the square chin and straight nose, what showed under the mask seemed to indicate quite a handsome specimen. "This wasn't my idea. Apparently, mystery-men in flamboyant uniforms are all the rage these days. I was happy as a spy smasher in regular duds."
"I feel a bit drab next to you," she admitted. She was a slender, supple figure all in dark colors. The tight pants and snug short leather jacket were midnight green, while the high boots and cuff-length gloves were black, as was the white-outlined symbol of a trident on the back of her jacket. The young woman had on a green motorcycle helmet with short curved horns of hard steel fastened up by its temples. As she had been riding along, Green Devil had eventually unfastened the strap under her chin and tugged the helmet off. To Eagle's obvious disappointment, underneath the helmet was a black silk bandana which had been fashioned into a mask.
From under the back of the bandana, strands of brick-red hair, fine-textured, had escaped to trail down her neck. Kelly O'Connor was wearing dark lipstick which helped conceal the full contours of her lips, but that snub upturned nose and the brilliant green eyes still showed.
Getting a good look at her as they rolled past a corner street lamp, Victory Eagle laughed. "A bit Irish, eh?"
"Astounding! Eh, not much deduction required for that, Eagle. I worked up this get-up mostly because I was inspired by the other heroes I read about in the newspapers. Mark Drum, Sulak, the Sting and his Dragon of Midnight pal, but especially the Sceptre. She's a hot number all right, taking out one Axis spy ring after another."
"I met the Sceptre not long ago," Eagle said. "I asked her why she hasn't given that weapon to the government so it could be mass-produced. If each of our soldiers was carrying a Sceptre, we'd be strolling through Berlin and Tokyo today. But she said it could not be duplicated and efforts to do so had only resulted in explosions that killed everyone nearby."
"Too bad," sighed Green Devil. "Still, we do what we can with what we have. Hey! Here's the crossroads Major Duberson told us about. Quarreyville Road."
"We turn left here," the Eagle agreed as he eased the van off the narrow back road, up under a pair of elms "Three miles to the target. Maybe here is a good place to switch to our bikes."
"Yeah, that works," Green Devil said. She was wiping the face plate of her helmet with a soft cloth. She lowered it over her head and fastened the strap again. "The Major thinks tonight's job is as important as opening the Second Front, but he over reacts to everything."
When he got out of the van, Victory Eagle did not seem at all silly in the colorful outfit. He was such an imposing specimen and he felt himself so straight and confidently that the bright blue and red outfit seemed normal. From behind the driver's seat, he fetched a leather belt with a flap holster which held an Army Colt .45 automatic and he buckled this on. The belt had a few slits on its inner surface to hold keys and other small items, since the Eagle costume had no pockets.
The two vigilantes worked together to open the rear of the van and lower a sturdy board down to reach the ground at a shallow angle. Vaulting nimbly up into the interior, Green Devil untied the straps which had been securing her bike and started it up. She rode a Triumph from England, imported before the war, with a pair of saddle bags in which she kept civilian clothing, a first aid kit, some useful tools and personal items. She had painted the Triumph a slightly brighter green than her costume, still very hard to see in poor light, with the trident symbol emblazoned on the gas tank. There was not enough room to turn her bike around inside the van, so she backed down the ramp gingerly before feeling stable on level ground.
The Eagle's motorcycle was half again larger, a specially modified Harley-Davidson with a storage bin on the back and with a headlight twice as powerful as the normal model. The body had been painted a brilliant red, white and blue to continue his motif. In front of the handlebars was an oval windscreen of dense plexiglass which, although he didn't mention it, was bullet-resistant if not completely safe against high-powered rifle fire.
"Nice toy," muttered Kelly to herself. "Maybe I should sell out to the government, too." As the powerful Harley revved up and tore away, she gunned her Triumph and stayed right behind him. Another exciting adventure of our daring heroine, she thought, using a radio announcer's voice in her imagination, not suspecting it would be the final exploit of the Green Devil.
II.
March 22, 2005
At ten that morning, Jeremy Bane left his office and waited in the lobby where he could watch the traffic on Third Avenue. To his left, one of that nurses at the EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic gave him a cheerful wave and he waved back. He had certainly sent some business their way since his DIRE WOLF agency had opened in this building. At forty-eight, Bane remained as lean and energetic as ever. Except for a few grey hair scattered here and there, and the beginning of crow's-feet at the corners of his pale grey eyes, he seemed to be the same Dire wolf he had been when he had first entered the Midnight War at not even twenty-one.
As always wearing his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he wondered what this case would be about. When the voice of a decidedly elderly woman had phoned him the previous afternoon, Bane had been clear that his agency specialized in crimes of violence and the unexplained. The caller had replied that was exactly why she had come to him and asked for an appointment. Bane had heard genuine emotion in that voice as well as determination, and he had agreed.
He saw the double glass doors to the street hiss open automatically as a woman in a wheelchair was brought in by a nurse. In an instant, all his training took over and he determined that there was no possible threat here. Their body language, facial expressions, even the way their clothing hung, told him they would be harmless. He calculated the woman in the wheelchair was in her late seventies or early eighties, frail and bony, with hands curled by arthritis. She was bundled up in a winter coat with a scarf and wool cap even thought it was a pleasant Spring day. Pushing the wheelchair was a heavyset black woman in pastel scrubs and a thin sweater across her shoulders. The nurse had a sweet, thoughtful face under processed hair that gleamed in the morning light and she manuevered her patient's chair carefully.
Bane stepped forward to meet them, not offering a hand because it might embarrass her at not being able to shake. Instead, he said, "Good morning, I think you ladies are looking for me?"
"Mr Bane, right? Jeremy Bane?" asked the old woman. Her face had reduced to sharp angles under pale skin, with a prominent nose and hazel eyes which peered up at him without eyeglasses. Her voice did sound old, but it was clear and decisive. "Yes. I spoke with you yesterday. I'm Rosalind O'Connor." She tilted her head back to indicate the nurse behind her. "Naomi has been taking care of me the past year. I'm afraid I drive the poor woman crazy."
"No, no," Naomi protested with a laugh. "You are no trouble at all, Mizz O'Connor."
"Let's go in my office and you can explain what brings you to me." Bane was on his best behavior that morning. Curt by nature, learning courtesy with clients had been a long process for him and his manners still often slipped. He led the two women past the wide staircase that led up to the second floor. The side of that staircase made a short hall of the opposing wall, and here was a plain wooden door with a bronze plaque that read simply, DIRE WOLF AGENCY. He had left the door unlocked. In through the tiny waiting room, the three of them went into his office itself.
To the right as one entered was a solid oak desk with a swivel chair behind it and several straightback wooden chairs arranged facing it. The far wall ahead had a long picture window, now with heavy curtains drawn, and a black leather couch under that window. To the left was only a waist-high bookcases with reference works on law and an untidy mass of newspapers. There were two narrow doors, one for a closet and one for the bathroom. Aside from that, the office was remarkably uncluttered and free of ornamentation. No framed photographs, no hanging plants. In the ceiling overhead was a dome light with subdued wattage.
Clearing a space for Mrs O'Connor's wheelchair and placing a visitor chair for Naomi, Bane saw that they were settled before circling the desk to drop down into his own chair. "Let me start by saying, this is not really your standard investigative agency," he said.
"Oh, I've heard all about you," the old lady interrupted. "What native New Yorker doesn't know about the Dire Wolf? Not that the newspapers or the TV stations ever mention you, but we know you protect the living against those things who come out on dark side streets in the middle of the night, things that have no business in this world."
Bane did not argue. "What is it that brings you to me, then?"
"It was almost exactly sixty years ago today that my niece was last seen by anyone," she said slowly. "My sister's only child, Kelly Marie O'Connor. On that day, I was younger than she was. Mr Bane, it's family knowledge that Kelly played a dangerous game. There were more Axis spy rings and saboteurs and sympathizers in the New York area than the history books mention. Kelly had more courage than sense, God rest her. We knew she was out fighting the enemy agents somehow but we never spoke of it to her."
Seeing that both women were watching him expectantly, Bane tried to say something relevant. "I know that was an era of mystery men and women risking their lives. Some of them wore disguises. Mark Drum. The Blur. The Sceptre. It was a time when ordinary people stepped up to defend their country no matter what the risk."
Mrs O'Connor could not hold back a sigh. "Have you ever heard of the Green Devil?"
"Hmm. Not much, to be honest. I found a few references to her here and there. She was a vigilante who brought down several mobsters working with Fifth Column agents and she did catch a female Japanese agent named Sakura, 'Cherry Blossom.' As I recall, her real name was never revealed. Green Devil was last reported toward the end of the war... wait."
"Yes, Mr Bane. The Green Devil dropped out of sight at the same time that my niece vanished. Sixty years ago!"
III.
March 25, 1945
The ride that night behind Victory Eagle had provided some of the most satisfying moments Kelly had enjoyed in months. All the fear and strain of maintaining her double life, meeting informers in foul alleyways, facing men determined to kill her, telling lies and wondering whose lies she was being fooled by... all that fell away she sped on her Triumph along that dirt road. But it had to end too soon. The war could not be kept at bay. The Eagle slowed by a crossroads, turned off his engine and rolled his Harley off the shoulder. A hand-painted wooden sign had a pointing arrow, BELLAMY MACHINE PARTS.
The Green Devil pulled her smaller bike up alongside her new partner but kept the engine running. The familiar tension was building in her chest like an exciting electric charge, but she kept her voice light, "Once more into the valley of death..." she said.
"Our briefing said that tonight is the last night we can catch the rats here," replied the Victory Eagle. He gave her a puzzled look. "Wait, you're not armed?"
"Aw, I just slap their bullets back at them. Serves 'em right," she said. "Tell you what. I like the direct approach. Howzabout I cruise up to the door and lay on the charm while you tiptoe around back and tackle the ungodly Huns from behind?"
"Sounds like as good a plan as any," the colorful figure answered. He checked his sidearm and holstered it again. "Give me five minutes before you head out. When they think they're only dealing with you, I'll give them a surprise they'll take to their graves!" He gave a short barking laugh before galloping off into the darkness down the dirt road.
The guy was sure in great shape, Kelly thought, he could probably pass Jesse Owens on the straightaway. But something about that last comment rubbed her the wrong way. She didn't like the Victory Eagle at all and she couldn't have put her finger on what unsettled her. The laugh had been a tad too gleeful mentioning graves. Pulling back the cuff on her leather jacket, the Green Devil checked her watch. Another few minutes.
As she waited, Kelly wondered if Glenda was bored at work, pulling the swing shift at the factory in Queens. What a good roommate that girl was, minding her own business and pulling her share. Kelly was always half dead during the day at her own job at the jewelry shop but luckily Old Man Fletcher didn't care as long as she came in and ran the register. This double life, out all night chasing crooks and spies and then punching in at work in the morning was going to grind her down, she thought. But no time for feeling sorry for herself, a lot of people were working harder than she was tonight and giving everything they had. Sometimes she thought about what was going on in the Pacific, in Europe, and she only felt she needed to be doing more.
Time to do or die, she thought. Kelly revved the motor and peeled out, heading down the road full tilt. There was that pounding in her chest, the tingling through every vein as adrenalin kicked in. Ahead was the darkened hulk of a brick building with only two windows lit on the ground floor. Before the parking lot was a sentry post no larger than a phone booth. As she hurtled toward the post, a man in dark blue pants and shirt with a holstered pistol at his side hopped out. "Hey, what the hayll...?"
Snapping down the kickstand as she hopped off, Green Devil sang out, "I'm here on official super-hero business."
"What? Are you crazy?"
"Everyone keeps saying so," she answered, marching straight toward him. The slender body in the snug leather outfit struck many men as being sexy but it didn't seem to be distracting this guy. Maybe she should wear a long blonde wig to complete the effect, she thought.
"Now look here, missy," the big man said, one hand dropping to his side. He needed a shave and his shoes were scuffed and unpolished, cues to her that this was really a mug posing as a security guard. "This is posted Private Property. Stop right there. I'm warning you, not another step."
Kelly O'Connor deliberately raised a foot and stamped it down three inches closer to the man.
The guard drew and fired without another word. Something difficult to follow happened in the next instant. The Green Devil swung her open hand, palm out, in a counter-clockwise circle, and there was a smack as the bullet went into the trunk of a nearby tree. It certainly seemed as if she had slapped the .38 slug aside like a tennis ball someone had tossed at her.
"Huh? That's impossible!" he yelled.
"Everyone keeps telling me that, too," Kelly said. She sprang forward, planting her weight and snapped out a left jab that connected perfectly to the guard's chin. She was cheating a bit because under her gloves were molded lead knuckle bars that gave her punches unexpected bite. The man's knees sagged and his eyes rolled up. Green Devil drew her other arm back and threw a right hook that had everything she could put in it and, since he was wide open, her fist cracked against the side of his jaw as if she were using a ball-peen hammer. He fell heavily onto his back.
Kelly kicked the revolver far off to one side and laughed. "The Green Devil strikes again!" She had discovered this strange ability as a child and had kept it to herself because she was afraid it would make her seem weird and creepy. By the time she was twenty, she had nearly forgotten about it. But a few years earlier, during an argument in a bar, a drunk woman had yanked a dart from its target board and lobbed it at her face. Kelly had easily deflected the dart without conscious thought and she realized she had a wild talent. Experimenting had proven that she could redirect any object moving at her, including rifle bullets, and she had seized on the chance to be a mystery woman.
Lights were blinking on in the nearby factory, including a blinding one over the front door, and voices could be heard yelling. The joint was going to be jumping now, she thought. One word stood out from the uproar, 'Schnell!' and that was all she needed to go into high gear. The double metal doors slammed open and two men in work clothes stampeded through, both waving handguns. Armed goons in a machine shop that's not even open this late, she gleefully reflected. I'm on the right trail.
In no mood for diplomacy, the Green Devil lowered her helmeted head and charged right at the pair. Both gunmen immediately began shooting at her. Kelly let her body take over, acting on reflex as both gloved hands whipped in tight circles. Bullets whined and ricocheted wildly in all directions. Her palms stung only slightly. She had no idea what was really happening during this phenomenon but her mind tapped the transcendental gralic force used by mystics and sorcerers, focusing it into shields over her hands. It was the gralir which allow this feat. Kelly knew nothing about magick. As far as she could tell, she was simply swatting bullets out of the air like flies and loving it.
As it happened, one of the slugs dove in through a gunman's open mouth and exited the top of his skull in a geyser of bone fragments and blood. The man next to him gasped, tried one more shot and Kelly met it straight on with her open palm. By chance, since she had no control over the deflection, that bullet reversed itself and thumped deep into the gunman's chest right in the sternum. He wheezed and sagged to the steps in front of the doors.
Striding insolently up to the two men, Kelly announced, "And THAT is why you don't use poor widdle girls for target practice." She leaned forward and examined the one who was still alive. "Oh, this looks bad, pal. Missed the heart but I think you nicked your own lung. Quick medical attention might still save you, though."
>"Ungueher..."< he gasped.
"Watch your language there, Heinzie," she said. Some of the lilt in her voice evaporated as she saw he was going fast. There was a rattling in the throat and then the man's head flopped to one side. Kelly stood up. Death wasn't something she had gotten jaded about, but she did hate Nazis with zeal. When she thought about what they were doing.... The Green Devil rose and marched through the open doors of the machine shop with what she hoped was righteous anger.
She rushed through a shabby reception room with a couch, a few chairs and a cigarette machine. In one corner sat a desk holding two telephones and a stack of binders, with a cheap pin-up calendar taped up. On the opposite wall, a metal door stood open to reveal an office. Kelly slowed and approached more cautiously, open hands up by her sides. The light was on in that office and a radio was softly playing classical music. What was going on here? The Green Devil stepped up to the office door, ready to poke her head in but she froze as something jabbed against the back of her neck.
"Don't move," hissed an oddly-accented voice." That's it. Stay just the way you are." The low voice pressed the object harder to her neck. "I saw your little circus trick out there, liebchen, but it will of no use be to you in here."
"Steady there, buddy," she said, holding as motionless as possible. "You've got the advantage."
As if to reinforce her words, a strong hand shoved her into the office and she stepped quickly to keep from stumbling. Waiting inside were two more thugs. These were tall, clean-cut men with blond crewcuts and startling pale blue eyes. Pure Aryan types, she thought with grim amusement. "Hey, why aren't healthy young boys like you in the Army?"
"In our own way, we are," said one of them. The two of them were holding .38 revolvers and they stepped a few feet away from each other to watch her more effectively. At the same time, the man who had been behind her came around into view. Kelly's heart almost stopped.
Tall and lanky, wearing a dark brown jumpsuit and polished riding boots, this man had a gunbelt with a long commando knife sheathed at the left hip. He holstered his Luger as he saw the other two spies had Kelly covered. Emblazoned on the chest of that jumpsuit was a white circle with a bold red swastika in its center. Kelly was shocked that anyone, even an enemy agent, would dare show that hated symbol on US soil. Even that was not the worst. It was the man's hideous face that gripped the Green Devil in chilling terror.
A hairless skull covered with taut yellowish skin, the man had a heavy brow ledge overshadowing deep brown eyes that hinted at real madness. There were no external ears, the nose was a mere stub and the wide mouth showed crooked teeth as he leered at the young women. "Good evening. Perhaps you have heard of me?" he asked in a bizarre accent. "The Fuehrer calls me Herr Totenkoph, the Death's Head. I have heard my own men refer to me as Skull-Face. It doesn't matter. To members of my own Race, I appear quite normal. You Humans look grotesque to me."
"A Nekrosan..." whispered Kelly. "Here? In America?"
"Ah, you know a little of the Midnight War, then? Yes. I am a Nekrosan from Perjena. My real name does not matter. And you, the Green Devil? ARE you a devil?"
"I'm an all-American girl, born and bred in the USA! And my kind isn't scared by an ugly face," she shot back.
"Good, good." Death's-Head stepped back and folded thin arms across his chest. "You have much better reasons to be scared..."
IV.
March 25, 2005
Over two hours after they had entered the lobby, Mrs O'Connor and Naomi rode away in a private company's medical transport van. Bane stood with folded arms and watched the taillights disappear around the intersection before going back to his office. His head was packed with information. He had quizzed the old woman on every possible detail regarding Kelly O'Connor's life... where and when she had been born and gone to school, all about her various jobs and her roommate, anything known about her love life and even her political beliefs, on and on. He had not taken notes. Long years as a detective had given him a memory which could repeat hours of conversation verbatim even weeks later.
Returning to his office, he did not sit behind the desk again but wandered around the big room as he thought, hands clasped behind his back. From everything he had been told, he felt he would have liked Kelly O'Connor if somehow they could have met. Her biggest flaws seemed to have been a quick temper and a tendency to throw common sense aside when she was worked up. It seemed clear that her parents had suspected she was the Green Devil to the point of covering for her activities from the police, but both Thomas and Bridgit O'Connor were long dead and couldn't offer any information. If the investigation went on long enough, he might see if the parents had left letters or diaries which might be still in existence.
The Dire Wolf pulled the curtain aside and gazed out at Third Avenue. His own instincts told him that he would only get any useful information by digging into Kelly's team-ups with other costumed vigilantes of her era. During the war years, Manhattan and a few other cities saw a craze of civilians putting on wild outfits to fight both crime and espionage. Evidently, the flamboyant visuals and the local triumphs had cheered the public up and helped boost morale. Bane had been told that Kelly O'Connor had worked with Mark Drum, the Sting, the Victory Eagle, Vulcan and possibly the team of Archangels. All long dead or at least missing for decades.
Very little had ever been confirmed about those dozen or so 'mystery men' who had amazed New York City so long ago. There were others, like the Sceptre and Lion Man, that Bane had researched himself and learned much of their secrets because their talismans were still potent and still in use. Most of those heroes remained only names. A few yellowed newspaper clippings, some creased and faded photos snapped as the heroes had tried to hurry away without being identified. He needed to learn more.
He was locking up his office and striding through the lobby before he realized he had made a decision. The biggest repository of Midnight War lore was only a few minutes away. Outside, a beautiful sunny afternoon greeted him but he seldom noticed the weather. Bane moved north for six blocks as a pace barely short of a jog, then swung to his left along 38th Street. At the corner of Lexington Avenue, he stopped and looked up at the ten-story white stone building that had been the center of his life for so long. It sank in sometimes how much secret history was tied up in this structure.
As he placed his foot on the bottom step, a buzzer sounded over the massive front door with its plaque 'KDF - 28 E. 38TH ST' and a voice chirped through the intercom, "Heyyyyy, captain! Come on in! Great to seeya!"
Unicorn, of course, he thought. The front door had unlocked itself but he still had to wait in the tiny vestibule while Trom sensors verified his identity. This was mandatory procedure. In that minute, he looked up at the oil painting of Kenneth Dred and suddenly he reflected again that Dred had been active in the 1930s and 1940s with the very mystery men who were so intriguing Bane right now. The Dire Wolf could not remember his mentor ever mentioning those years much.
Grabbing him by an arm and yanking him bodily inside was a beautiful platinum-blonde in her early twenties, not much over five feet tall and barely one hundred pounds. For once, the Unicorn was not dressed all in white. She was wearing plain black canvas sneakers, remarkably snug shorts that were Navy blue and a dark grey T-shirt with big sweat stains over most of its surface. A rough white towel was draped around her neck.
"Working out?" he asked as she dragged him across the front hall into the office.
"Oooh, I can tell you're a detective," she laughed. "Yes. Practicing my DohRa form. Teacher Chael said he was going to make it tougher because I've been doing it too easily lately. Captain! Whatcha doing here? Have you come to visit your favorite Tel Shai knight, that would be me of course?"
Despite himself, Bane could not keep from smiling at her. Ashley Whitaker had that effect. "Well, to some extent. But unfortunately, I'm also here for some research."
"Oh. Business, huh? Tell me all about it." She started wiping at her face and neck with the damp towel as she listened. Bane explained he had taken a new client and he wanted to learn more about some Midnight War fighters from World War II.
"Really. Heck, that was a thousand years ago. Not even my mom was around back then. I guess you need to dig around in the conference room, then." Moving again, she took him by one hand and trotted up the wide staircase to the second floor to the room where so many battles had been planned, so many tough decisions made.
Here under subdued recessed lighting was the long oak table with twelve chairs spaced around it, in which generations of knights had taken their places. The row of green metal filing cabinets still stood along one wall, as well as the communications center with its five-foot-wide monitor screen. As Bane and Ashley entered, the room's sole occupant put down a tool with wire-thin filaments which which she had been adjusting the innards of an electronic device. She stood up and greeted Bane with a raised hand in an informal wave.
Megan Salenger was a few years older than Ashley, a little more solid in build and with dark tousled hair over an inquisitive foxlike face. She was also much more sedate and restrained in manner. A Human orphan reared by the emotionless Trom, Megan had been raised to be a world class genius in a dozen demanding fields but her tutors had failed in removing all feeling from her make-up. She was still entirely Human in heart. "Captain. It's good to see you again, I assume Unicorn has been giving you unrequested agitation?"
Bane had to laugh at that completely serious statement. "You two. Megan, I have a client and I need to find information about some of the so-called mystery men of the 1940s. In particular, the Green Devil and the Victory Eagle. I figured this was the best place to start."
"It is indeed," said the Trom Girl. She went to the head of the conference table and unlocked a deep drawer to bring out a leather-bound book thicker than a Manhattan telephone directory. Smiling her subdued little smile, Megan placed the book on the table and gestured for Bane to take a seat there. "I think we both know this is this best source to consult first."
"Just what I was thinking," Bane responded. He seated himself and examined the book respectfully. FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE, compiled over a fifty year period by Kenneth Dred himself, handwritten entries with annotations and marginal notes in tiny legible script. This was the only copy, although the pages had been scanned and were waiting to be permanently available in the KDF computer records. Bane carefully opened the front cover and looked down at the first page. There was no index or table of contents, but the entries had been arranged and rearranged into topics.
"Ho-ho, I've seen that expression before on his face," Unicorn said. "We've lost him. You know what, I definitely stink. You can almost see the little wavy lines coming up off me. I'll be back after a steaming hot shower." The little blonde spun on one heel and raced out of the room as if a fire alarm had sounded.
At the other end of the table, the Trom Girl had opened three laptops and was beginning separate searches on each. "Captain, if I may interrupt?"
"Hmm? Oh sure, Megan. What?"
"I am going to penetrate official records. The New York City Police Department, FBI Department 21 Black, the Pentagon Official Secrets Archive, the Mandate's sources, Internal Revenue Service, maybe the NEW YORK TIMES morgue as well. This will take a while to accomplish without being detected."
Bane glanced over at her. "Don't get caught, Megan. We don't want to have to visit you in prison," he said before diving back into the mesmerizing pages of the invaluable book left by the man he most respected.
Twenty minutes passed in silence except for the faint turning of pages and the soft click of keyboards. Eventually, Ashley returned in a white pullover and ratty old jeans, with her gleaming hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was carrying a stack of a dozen ancient books she had located somewhere in the endless shelves which lined the halls of every floor of that building. To her credit, Unicorn did not make a sound but settled in at the table and started digging through the books with her perfect little face screwed up in severe concentration so she looked about eleven years old. The afternoon crawled by.
When the old landline phone on the wall rang, all three of the gave violent starts. Unicorn was closest. She was up out of her chair quick as a chipmunk and snatching up the receiver. "Hello. Kenneth Dred Foundation. Hi, Sheng! How're things in Juneau? Well, no KIDDING it's cold, I think we could have guessed that..."
Bane glanced up at the wall clock and was amazed to see it was four-thirty-five. They had become more absorbed in their research than he would have guessed.
Looking over her shoulder at the table, Ashley sang, "Sheng says hi to everyone. Their mission is a dud so far. Sable says if the Wendigo doesn't show by tomorrow morning, they're heading back. Say, Jeremy, you want to talk to her? Sheng, put Sabes on, will you?"
Bane got up to take the phone. He and Sable filled each other in on their respective activities and agreed it seemed as if nothing monumental was in the immediate future. After a few pleasantries, they broke the connection.
When she saw the Dire Wolf coming back to the table, Megan allowed herself the slightest pout of disappointment. "There seems to have been a paper file on Victory Eagle in the Mandate's archives, but it was removed at some point. Everything else is mere publicity fluff from the War Department, which later became your Department of Defense."
"That might still be a clue," Bane said. "Maybe the Eagle's file wasn't destroyed but taken away by someone. Ashley, you find anything?"
"Aw, mere crumbs," Unicorn admitted. "There was one mention in a book on military scandals about 'the disastrous Victory Eagle project.' And Green Devil is described as a security risk from the start, so the author is hinting that she was told to step down. I don't THINK so. That girl was feisty."
With obvious reluctance, the Dire Wolf returned FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE to the deep bottom drawer of the table and heard the lock click. "The funny thing is, now I'm sure there's something to it. All the other mystery men either revealed who they were after the war or some substantial information was confirmed about them. To see VIctory Eagle erased from the record like this strikes me as suspicious."
Megan Salenger was starting clean-up and erasure procedures on her laptops. Her face was always sober but now her expression had settled into outright gloom. "I regret not being able to uncover useful information, captain. Sorry."
"You know..." Unicorn offered tentatively, "Jeremy, you do have a lot of shady contacts. The criminal underworld, secret societies, the Midnight War, even those spooks in espionage that you can't trust to tell you what day of the week it is. You remember a few years ago when we tackled that mess with the Peacemonger? Your bad-ass Mandate pal?"
The Dire Wolf blinked. "I wasn't thinking of him, but Ashley, you may be pointing me in the right direction. If anyone knows where forgotten bodies are buried, Colonel Tom Shackle is the one."
V.
March 25, 1945
"Oh, I have no illusions about loyalty," Death's-Head said. He circled around the Green Devil, checking her out from different angles as she held her tongue with difficulty. "As long as gold bricks are supplied and I have a free hand, yes I will work for Herr Hitler a while longer. But the war in Europe is as good as lost. Anyone with a brain can see that, and I must set myself up to thrive in the new world which will be following."
"So you're not much of a Nazi, then?"
"Heh. Hardly." The skull-faced man dug in a flap pocket of his jumpsuit for a cigarette and tucked its end in a slim ebony holder before allowing one of thugs to light it for him. "Your Human civilizations rise and fall. They are flowers which bloom and fade, but our realm Perjena has deep roots. We Nekrosim have endured since the Darthan Age three hundred centuries ago."
Taking a chance as the grotesque saboteur turned his attention away to flick ashes, Kelly shifted her weight evenly to both feet and lowered her hands a bare inch. The gunmen were not keeping their full focus on her either. It was hard for them not to keep staring at the fleshless face of a Nekrosan. "So, what's your plan?" she asked. "After the Allies win in another year or three, they're not going to welcome the services of a former Nazi terrorist and mass-murdered... especially one with your mug."
"Oh, I have given the future some thought," Death's-Head replied. "Schnitzer, go outside and check on the sentry. Secure the grounds. I understand the scandalous Green Devil operates alone, but it is better to be sure." He turned that face of skin-covered bone toward Kelly again. "As for you, co-operate. Come quietly and stretch out your remaining minutes as best you can."
"Words to live by," she replied, lowering her hands as the Death's-Head ushered her out of the office and down a narrow hallway. Two thugs escorted them with their guns at the ready. Kelly knew she could deflect bullets with her special ability but that didn't mean she was eager to try it. There was always a chance of a slug getting past her defenses, especially at point blank range like this.
They marched silently through a dim maze of machinery, toolbenches, bins of metal parts and general debris. After a lengthy hike through the main factory, the skull-faced man unlocked another door and flicked on the lights in a high-ceiling storeroom.
Here were piles of automobile tires stacked ten feet high. Here were burlap sacks of white sugar and of coffee beans, boxes of chocolates, crates of nylon stockings. All had once been commonplace but rationing had made them valuable rarities. This stockpile of restricted items was worth more than money could measure because there was no substitute for them.
"The Black Market..." Kelly said in an awed voice. "Holy cow."
"A lucrative pursuit indeed," commented the Nekrosan. He was standing much too close to the Green Devil, his vile breath in her ear. "But you must realize this is not merely a way to make money, no no. It is a means to corrupt those in power. Judges, police, leaders of industry, all will compromise themselves for these objects. Does your wife complain she had no nylons? Would you craze a juicy steak on Sunday night? Are your car tires bald and unsafe on rainy nights? Come to Death's-Head and ease your distress."
The skull-faced man unleashed a long torrent of hollow ghoulish laughter that echoed through the cavernous storeroom. Kelly noticed the uncomfortable expressions on the gunmen's faces and decided they were not wild about working for this monster.
"Geeze, I gotta hand it to you, handsome." The Green Devil had placed her hands on her hips, ogling some of these items as if she herself was deeply tempted. "You know your business. This is some racket."
"Oh, this is only the beginning," the fiend chuckled. "After the war, I will simply move to other supplies which are hard to obtain. Drugs. Stolen goods. Sex slaves. Perhaps gambling as well. The weakness of Humans is my great joy."
Kelly was taken off-guard by the Death's-Head quick movements as he yanked her right wrist to him and snapped a handcuff around its wrist, then fastened the other cuff to the solid steel pipe of a display rack holding boxes of mixed nuts. The Green Devil jerked her arm but the pipe was secure and she cursed her inattention.
Trying to delay what the monster had planned next, she said, "You're building an empire based on greed and corruption, aren't you? You'll get in now and beat the regular mobsters to the game when peace is achieved."
"True, true," the fiend said. He unfastened the flap holster on his belt and drew the 9mm Parabellum, checking its safety. "I will be the King of Crime in this city, perhaps the entire State. I will meet as an equal with governors and congressmen of this hopeless country. How my family back in Perjena will be honored by the wealth I send home. Then, perhaps, someday even our Empress may feel her throne slip away from beneath her...."
His reverie was cut short as one of the gunmen appeared in the doorway. "Boss! Boss! Both of our boys are dead. Hoffman bled out before I got there and Uhl was shot through the chest. It was this animal next to you who killed them."
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," Kelly protested. "They shot at me. Their own bullets came back to take 'em. Those guys blew out their own candles if you ask me!"
As she yelled, the guard in the door was roughly swung around by a powerful red-gloved hand which seized his shoulder and turned him into a vicious uppercut which broke his jaw. The agonized man was flung halfway across the storeroom to land in a heap at the Nekrosan monster's boots. Everyone swung around as the Victory Eagle made one of his unmistakable dramatic entrances. The costumed spybuster drove a hooking punch deep into the next man's stomach, doubling him up and tossing him aside. But quick as he was, the Eagle faced an experienced killer who was already holding his Luger at the ready.
The Death's-Head extended his arm full length and snapped off three shots that were deafening in the enclosed space. All three bullets slammed into the hero's chest, two high by the heart and one further down by the rib cage. The white eagle symbol vanished in a gout of bright arterial blood as he collapsed to the bare concrete floor.
Kelly O'Connor's lips moved but no sound came out. In that split-second of silence following the gunfire, she felt her own heartbeat pounding painfully in her chest.
But miraculously, the muscular form convulsed and leaped back up onto its feet. There was no bulletproof vest in the world that could explain the heavy bleeding from the chest which had stopped even as the Victory Eagle sprang at the remaining gunmen. He drove one directly into the wall with bone-breaking impact, then wheeled to crash an overhand right to the face that hurled the remaining thug to the floor. Still in one motion, the Eagle grasped dazed spy behind him and crunched the man's head against the rough stone wall with a crack of the skull collapsing.
Moving past the dead men, the Victory Eagle straightened up. Through the shredded material of his shirt, skin showed intact and unbroken under the fresh blood. For once, that famous mask showed why it was such a potent symbol. Furious blue eyes and a mouth tight with anger were all that showed of the face of this strange vigilante.
During the brief carnage, Death's-Head had moved behind the handcuffed Green Devil and was pressing the muzzle of his gun to her chest. The skull-faced man studied the spybuster stalking closer, drawing almost within reach. He said quietly, "Don't I know you?"
"No," answered the Eagle. "I'm just one more anonymous soldier in a terrible war."
"That voice? Yes, I recognize it. And who else disregards bullet holes as if they were bee stings? Yes, I remember you, my old rival."
"Watch your next words carefully," came the answer in an iron-hard voice very different from the heroic bass tone heard earlier. "You have not yet forfeited your life, Morgil."
"Ho, ho, so you know my name, eh?" laughed the monster. "I cannot return the courtesy, but I do know the name you are feared and hated under! We will meet again."
Belying those words, the Nekrosan blasted four more shots from his 9mm at point-blank range. The Victory Eagle's face disappeared in a geyser of blood and bone chips as he reeled backwards to hit the floor with a thud.
"That ought to keep even you out of my way," Death's-Head snorted as he ejected the magazine from the butt of his pistol.
VI.
March 27, 2005
"It took me two days to set up this meeting," Jeremy Bane said. He accepted the comfortable easy chair and looked around the den more slowly than his initial recon glance. All dark polished wood and tan leather furniture, several shelves of history books and scattered magazines, a gigantic TV screen and an old-fashioned stereo, all were reassuring in their solidity. The room smelled vaguely but not unpleasantly of cigar smoke. On a low table between Bane and his host was an already open bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses.
Settling into the chair facing his guest, Colonel Tom Shackle did not try to conceal the twinge of pain. He had been limping visibly when he had greeted Bane, and there were new lined of grief etched into the square face. Inside, Shackle kept his dark glasses on and the scar strands extending below those glasses explained why he kept his left eye concealed.
"It's only been a few years since we last met," the Dire Wolf said. "You've been busy."
"Here, help yourself." Shackle got himself a shot of the drink and tossed it back. "I know it doesn't effect you -- you've got that damn healing juju that protects you from its effects-- but it's poison I enjoy."
Bane obligingly took a drink, curious because he had forgotten its flavor. Alcohol was indeed wasted on him. Decades on the Tagra tea had boosted his healing factor to the extent he might as well be drinking distilled water. But he might as well be polite. "Thanks for agreeing to see me, colonel."
"Hell, I do owe you a couple of favors. The Peacemonger. The Witness Wiper. Even the time you exposed that double agent that STIGMA had spent eight years establishing in my department." He took one more sample of the Jack Daniels and tightened the cap on the bottle. "So go ahead and tell me what's eating you."
Bane related the events of the past few days and how he had turned up a few tantalizing hints but nothing substantial to work on. "That's as far as I've gotten, colonel. I don't feel like I've even caught a glimpse of the answer."
"Hmm. Let me get some cards on the table, Bane. It's no secret that you and your Tel Shai team have gotten your hands on a lot of classified material over the years. Above TOP SECRET in fact. The brass at the CIA and the DOJ hate it but never even mention it because they're too ashamed. How do you guys do it?"
"We're unusual people, colonel. You've been with the Mandate half your life," Bane said. "Admit it, you've seen the supernatural. You've seen things that can not be explained."
Stalling to gather his thoughts, Colonel Shackle took a thin black cigar from the breast pocket of his conservative dark blue suit, sniffed it but then made no effort to light the thing. "Yep," he said finally. "I'd deny it in front of a Congressional committee with all the lights and cameras on me. But I've seen monsters. I've seen people fly and throw flames from their palms and I've seen people walk through solid walls like ghosts. Goddam, I've seen you yourself catch a knife someone threw at you and you threw it right back to kill him... without getting a nick."
Bane allowed himself the faintest possible smile. It took people years before they could read his minimal expression. "So the word is that you're being edged away from field work and being asked to correct all the mistakes in the Mandate archives. Is that close?"
"Some might say so," Shackle grudgingly replied.
"Colonel," the Dire Wolf continued, "My impression is that you know more of the secret history of the world than all the consultants and experts that the Mandate calls in when they're stuck. I want to talk about a few of the so-called 'mystery men' of the 1940s."
"Oh, those jokers. Idle playboys and newspaper reporters and cops in their off duty hours, all climbing into circus outfits and chasing Nazi spies. Bunch of damn fools. Still," he admitted, "Some of them did good work. Mark Drum was valuable. That racketeer called the Sting sure seemed to bust a lot of spy rings, and even the Sceptre nailed some big name mobsters. What did you want to talk about?"
"The Victory Eagle."
Unexpectedly, Colonel Shackle struggled to his feet and tugged down his suit jacket. "I need to start packing my suitcase, son. They're sending a car to drive me to the airport. I hate going to DC, it's a nest of snakes all wriggling over each other, but duty is duty."
Bane rose as well, keeping disappointment out of his voice. "So you're leaving town?"
"Yep. Not that I want to. My flight is at six. Maybe I'll be back in a week, maybe not. Give me a call at the end of the month, I guess."
"All right. Well, I appreciate your seeing me at all. Just getting your address was a project."
Shackle limped over to the nearby bookcase and rested a big hand near a bronze bust of Benjamin Franklin. "The only President who was never President," he chuckled. The colonel tapped the top of the metal head several times and his voice changed slightly as he said, "Wish I could point you in the right direction, Bane... oh, hell. Jeremy. We've known each other longer enough for first names."
Extending his hand to receive a firm dry handshake, the Dire Wolf nodded. "Fine with me, Tom. I can see myself out. Thanks for everything."
As he headed back to his chair, the Mandate's former top agent sighed with the melancholy of late middle age. "I'm sure you'll turn up what you need. Call me."
VII.
March 25, 1945
As a young girl, Kelly had devoured her father's collection of pulp thrillers and old issues of POLICE GAZETTE. This not only explained where she had formed her unrealistic concepts about crime-fighting, it was where she got the idea to hide useful items on her person. In tiny pockets she had sewn herself on the inner lining of her jacket were a cigarette lighter, a couple of skeleton keys, a folding knife, a compass and some bandages . But her most prized item had cost her every cent she could save up. As soon as Death's-Head had stepped around in front of her, she had pulled a narrow flexible strip from inside her left jacket cuff. It was a steel sawblade coated with diamond dust she had gathered at the jewelry shop where she worked. With infinite care, she began wearing away at a link of the handcuff holding her to the metal pipe. Just one broken link, that was all she asked...
Even as the Victory Eagle had stormed into the storeroom, been shot and gotten up again and then been shot once more, her hands kept working automatically at sawing through the tiny link. She was barely aware of continuing this as she watched the gruesome fate of her new colleague. Her heart had never beat so fast in her life.
The Death's-Head prodded the Eagle's body with a toe and made a satisfied grunt. "Too bad. But because of you two fools, I have lost some useful assistants tonight...." He heard a faint clink behind him and wheeled about just as Kelly tugged open the sawed-through link and hopped away from the rack with the cuffs themselves still on her wrists like bracelets.
"Still one bullet left," the Nekrosan spat. He snapped off a final shot without even taking careful aim but firing at a freed Green Devil was a serious error. Her right arm whirled in a counter-clockwise arc and the slug glanced off her open palm to slice deeply across Morgil's throat. The bullet twanged as it ricocheted one more time off a wall.
Trying to catch her breath, Kelly O'Connor slowly felt her mind clear from all the excitement. Everyone was dead. Everyone in that storeroom had been killed in the past few minutes except for her, and her own survival had been a close call. Feeling her knees get wobbly, the Green Devil plopped down to sit on the floor and she unfastened the strap under her chin. Getting her motorcycle helmet off and some deep slow intakes of air helped.
The skull-faced man was lying on his back and his hand slid down off his chest but he was no longer alive. One severed end of the windpipe clearly showed in his wound. Kelly managed to get up on her feet again, feeling calmer. What to do next? A phone? Yes, there had to be a phone here. She would call the number the Major had given her and the government would send people here to take care of this. G-Men, the Secret Service, it didn't matter to her. She needed to make that call and then get on her bike and get home as quick as possible. Maybe it was time to pack away the Green Devil outfit for a while.
A row of brown cardboard boxes on a shelf caught her eye. Butter. Real butter, not that awful margarine dyed yellow. She was so tempted to load up some of this loot in her bike's saddlebags. Chocolate, a couple pair of nylons, some actual coffee. Who would ever know? More, who would ever care if she claimed a reward for once. This stuff would likely end up going to some government big shots for their use anyway....
The Victory Eagle groaned and sat up.
That was too much to handle. Kelly felt sure she was losing her mind. He couldn't be alive. It was impossible, she had to get out of here! But her feet wouldn't obey and she stood motionless as the costumed man got to his hands and knees and then upright. The Eagle wiped with gloved hands at his face to get some of the still-wet blood off and then he stretched luxuriantly. All of his mask had been blown away by the bullets and he discarded the shredded cloth.
The face revealed was quite handsome, almost a matinee idol type, with thick wavy black hair, clean-cut features and clear bright blue eyes. He seemed oddly sad to find Kelly staring at his exposed features. "You see, you are not the only one with a special gift."
"It's unbelievable," she said. The Green Devil came closer. "Not a mark on you. Hah, sure beats my puny little ability. How is this possible?"
"The official story is that I'm the only survivor of an Army project testing new treatments to help wounded soldiers," he replied absently." He gazed down at the corpse of the Nekrosan. "Poor old Morgil. He looks about the same dead or alive, to be honest."
"Hey, I have a question," Kelly said. "You knew his real name. And he seemed to know who you really are. What's the scoop?"
The Victory Eagle flashed perfect teeth in a winning smile. "First, let's get those cuffs off you, Devil. Here, hold up your hands."
Kelly O'Connor moved in closer. Instead of helping her, the Victory Eagle seized her by the throat and drove his commando knife to the hilt up under her left breast. "Sorry, darling," he continued in the same conversational tone, "But I can't have you describing me."
VIII.
March 29, 2005
Sitting on a wooden bench at the PEACEFUL VALLEY cemetery, Jeremy Bane watched from a distance as Mrs O'Connor sat in front of a marble wall of niches holding small bronze urns. Standing behind the wheelchair, the nurse Naomi rested a comforting hand on the old woman's shoulder. They had been there for a while but he was in no hurry.
The same night he had visited Colonel Shackle, Bane had gone back to the redwood cabin in the mountains and deftly broken in. Sure enough, the bronze bust of Franklin swiveled up to reveal a latch. In a concealed compartment had been a thick sheaf of official papers in an unmarked manila envelope. After memorizing the relevant ones, he had restored everything as he had found it and hope left the cabin as unaffected by his presence as he could. Good old Colonel Shackle, making a point of tapping that bust and saying he hoped Bane found what he was looking for. The old rogue, still breaking rules whenever he disagreed with them.
But today, after he had brought Mrs O'Connor and the nurse here, Bane still had not told them what he had learned. He wasn't going to. He listened to a breeze in the elms and watched yellow sunbeams slant down, thinking things over. Maybe he would enter the story into the book FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE, slipping a note in his own handwriting between the pages that Kenneth Dred had left. There would other heroes after he and the new KDF team had passed on. Someone someday might need to know what had happened to the Green Devil. Sitting in a cemetery brought out reflections like that.
When Mrs O'Connor called over to him, the Dire Wolf rose and went to stand beside them. He had to choose his words carefully. In the third row of niches from ground level, a bronze container was inscribed 'Here Rests A Soul Known Only To God, March 1945.' Most people who chanced to see that would likely conclude that the urn contained the ashes of an unidentified soldier.
"I'm sorry I can't tell you any more, ma'am," he said after further silence.
"That's all right, young man," she said. "You're positive about identifying her, though?"
"Yes. Nook 153, March 1945. All I found out is that Kelly died after bringing down a dangerous Axis agent. She was doing what she thought was right, what she wanted to do more than anything in the world."
"We should all be able to say the same when our time comes," the old woman said. "I feel better. A little, anyway. Ready to go, Naomi?"
"You needn't rush on my account," said the nurse gently. "Take as much time as you need."
"No, I'm very tired. Mr Bane, I did give you a retainer when you started, but we haven't discussed your actual fee."
The Dire Wolf stared at the urn, seemingly distracted but he replied, "I'm not charging a fee, Mrs O'Connor. It's my way of paying respects to a real hero. I'm glad to have brought some closure."
"Very well. I understand how you feel, I think. Let's go home, Naomi."
"I'm going to stay here a few minutes," Bane said and watched them head down the long walkways toward the parking lot. He turned back to all that remained of Kelly O'Connor. It wouldn't have done the old woman any favor to explain that her niece had been murdered by Samhain, the unkillable killer. Samhain, who could recover from nearly total bodily destruction and who had left victims across the entire nation for almost a century. Bane had clashed with Samhain half a dozen times but had never been able to get rid of the monster with finality. Only five months earlier, Samhain had been destroyed once and for all by Unicorn, of all people.
He had read in the documents how Samhain had concocted a plausible cover identity and gone to the War Department to volunteer. Why had he created the Victory Eagle identity? Why pose as a patriotic symbol when he was still murdering innocent people left and right? A twisted sense of humor? No one would ever know. Eventually he had given himself away and the public was told that Victory Eagle had died during the liberation of Berlin. In fact, Samhain had gone on for decades more as the world's worst serial killer, difficult to catch and impossible to cage.
Well, he was gone now, Bane thought. Samhain seemed as much a part of the past, already fading into history, as the Green Devil herself was.
He couldn't think of anything profound to say and he didn't want to touch the urn. Bane bowed his head respectfully, turned and started walking back to his car.
11/20/2000 - Rev. 12/13/2018
3/22-3/29/2005
I.
March 25, 1945
Late at night through a deserted back area on Long Island's easternmost end, a white delivery van wheeled along at reckless sped along rain-slicked roads. Both sides of the van had VAN ETTEN'S FARMS painted in swirling red letters with the stylized outline of a chicken and a pyramid of eggs depicted. Each week, the van was repainted. Previously, it had read ISLAND FURNITURE REPAIR and before that, QUICK-FIX PLUMBING AND HEATING. New plates went on more often than that.
At the wheel was the colorful figure of Victory Eagle and next to him, one elbow out of the passenger window, sat the Green Devil. It was the first time they had met. Both were used to operating solo but orders from the War Department had been persuasive.
"This is not half bad," Green Devil said, pulling her arm back in and turning the crank to raise the window. "Both our motorcycles fit in the rear and we can check out the area without being obvious. I should buy something similar, maybe a panel truck. Not that I could afford it..."
"Yes. Well, we are amazingly conspicuous in these ridiculous costumes," grumbled the Victory Eagle. He was a tall, remarkably athletic man whose impressive physique was concealed by a tight silk outfit of bright blue pullover shirt and tights. Red leather gloves and boots, as well as a wide belt of red leather, added another primary color. All but the lower half of his face beneath the nose was concealed by a snug blue hood with two eye holes and a small white eagle symbol like the NRA emblem. Across the muscular chest was emblazoned a much larger three-quarter view version of the eagle in flight, its wings spread and its talons clenched as ready to strike. The red, white and blue motif was appropriate.
Seeing how Green Devil was checking him out, Victory Eagle flashed a Hollywood-perfect array of chalk-white teeth. With that smile and the square chin and straight nose, what showed under the mask seemed to indicate quite a handsome specimen. "This wasn't my idea. Apparently, mystery-men in flamboyant uniforms are all the rage these days. I was happy as a spy smasher in regular duds."
"I feel a bit drab next to you," she admitted. She was a slender, supple figure all in dark colors. The tight pants and snug short leather jacket were midnight green, while the high boots and cuff-length gloves were black, as was the white-outlined symbol of a trident on the back of her jacket. The young woman had on a green motorcycle helmet with short curved horns of hard steel fastened up by its temples. As she had been riding along, Green Devil had eventually unfastened the strap under her chin and tugged the helmet off. To Eagle's obvious disappointment, underneath the helmet was a black silk bandana which had been fashioned into a mask.
From under the back of the bandana, strands of brick-red hair, fine-textured, had escaped to trail down her neck. Kelly O'Connor was wearing dark lipstick which helped conceal the full contours of her lips, but that snub upturned nose and the brilliant green eyes still showed.
Getting a good look at her as they rolled past a corner street lamp, Victory Eagle laughed. "A bit Irish, eh?"
"Astounding! Eh, not much deduction required for that, Eagle. I worked up this get-up mostly because I was inspired by the other heroes I read about in the newspapers. Mark Drum, Sulak, the Sting and his Dragon of Midnight pal, but especially the Sceptre. She's a hot number all right, taking out one Axis spy ring after another."
"I met the Sceptre not long ago," Eagle said. "I asked her why she hasn't given that weapon to the government so it could be mass-produced. If each of our soldiers was carrying a Sceptre, we'd be strolling through Berlin and Tokyo today. But she said it could not be duplicated and efforts to do so had only resulted in explosions that killed everyone nearby."
"Too bad," sighed Green Devil. "Still, we do what we can with what we have. Hey! Here's the crossroads Major Duberson told us about. Quarreyville Road."
"We turn left here," the Eagle agreed as he eased the van off the narrow back road, up under a pair of elms "Three miles to the target. Maybe here is a good place to switch to our bikes."
"Yeah, that works," Green Devil said. She was wiping the face plate of her helmet with a soft cloth. She lowered it over her head and fastened the strap again. "The Major thinks tonight's job is as important as opening the Second Front, but he over reacts to everything."
When he got out of the van, Victory Eagle did not seem at all silly in the colorful outfit. He was such an imposing specimen and he felt himself so straight and confidently that the bright blue and red outfit seemed normal. From behind the driver's seat, he fetched a leather belt with a flap holster which held an Army Colt .45 automatic and he buckled this on. The belt had a few slits on its inner surface to hold keys and other small items, since the Eagle costume had no pockets.
The two vigilantes worked together to open the rear of the van and lower a sturdy board down to reach the ground at a shallow angle. Vaulting nimbly up into the interior, Green Devil untied the straps which had been securing her bike and started it up. She rode a Triumph from England, imported before the war, with a pair of saddle bags in which she kept civilian clothing, a first aid kit, some useful tools and personal items. She had painted the Triumph a slightly brighter green than her costume, still very hard to see in poor light, with the trident symbol emblazoned on the gas tank. There was not enough room to turn her bike around inside the van, so she backed down the ramp gingerly before feeling stable on level ground.
The Eagle's motorcycle was half again larger, a specially modified Harley-Davidson with a storage bin on the back and with a headlight twice as powerful as the normal model. The body had been painted a brilliant red, white and blue to continue his motif. In front of the handlebars was an oval windscreen of dense plexiglass which, although he didn't mention it, was bullet-resistant if not completely safe against high-powered rifle fire.
"Nice toy," muttered Kelly to herself. "Maybe I should sell out to the government, too." As the powerful Harley revved up and tore away, she gunned her Triumph and stayed right behind him. Another exciting adventure of our daring heroine, she thought, using a radio announcer's voice in her imagination, not suspecting it would be the final exploit of the Green Devil.
II.
March 22, 2005
At ten that morning, Jeremy Bane left his office and waited in the lobby where he could watch the traffic on Third Avenue. To his left, one of that nurses at the EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic gave him a cheerful wave and he waved back. He had certainly sent some business their way since his DIRE WOLF agency had opened in this building. At forty-eight, Bane remained as lean and energetic as ever. Except for a few grey hair scattered here and there, and the beginning of crow's-feet at the corners of his pale grey eyes, he seemed to be the same Dire wolf he had been when he had first entered the Midnight War at not even twenty-one.
As always wearing his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he wondered what this case would be about. When the voice of a decidedly elderly woman had phoned him the previous afternoon, Bane had been clear that his agency specialized in crimes of violence and the unexplained. The caller had replied that was exactly why she had come to him and asked for an appointment. Bane had heard genuine emotion in that voice as well as determination, and he had agreed.
He saw the double glass doors to the street hiss open automatically as a woman in a wheelchair was brought in by a nurse. In an instant, all his training took over and he determined that there was no possible threat here. Their body language, facial expressions, even the way their clothing hung, told him they would be harmless. He calculated the woman in the wheelchair was in her late seventies or early eighties, frail and bony, with hands curled by arthritis. She was bundled up in a winter coat with a scarf and wool cap even thought it was a pleasant Spring day. Pushing the wheelchair was a heavyset black woman in pastel scrubs and a thin sweater across her shoulders. The nurse had a sweet, thoughtful face under processed hair that gleamed in the morning light and she manuevered her patient's chair carefully.
Bane stepped forward to meet them, not offering a hand because it might embarrass her at not being able to shake. Instead, he said, "Good morning, I think you ladies are looking for me?"
"Mr Bane, right? Jeremy Bane?" asked the old woman. Her face had reduced to sharp angles under pale skin, with a prominent nose and hazel eyes which peered up at him without eyeglasses. Her voice did sound old, but it was clear and decisive. "Yes. I spoke with you yesterday. I'm Rosalind O'Connor." She tilted her head back to indicate the nurse behind her. "Naomi has been taking care of me the past year. I'm afraid I drive the poor woman crazy."
"No, no," Naomi protested with a laugh. "You are no trouble at all, Mizz O'Connor."
"Let's go in my office and you can explain what brings you to me." Bane was on his best behavior that morning. Curt by nature, learning courtesy with clients had been a long process for him and his manners still often slipped. He led the two women past the wide staircase that led up to the second floor. The side of that staircase made a short hall of the opposing wall, and here was a plain wooden door with a bronze plaque that read simply, DIRE WOLF AGENCY. He had left the door unlocked. In through the tiny waiting room, the three of them went into his office itself.
To the right as one entered was a solid oak desk with a swivel chair behind it and several straightback wooden chairs arranged facing it. The far wall ahead had a long picture window, now with heavy curtains drawn, and a black leather couch under that window. To the left was only a waist-high bookcases with reference works on law and an untidy mass of newspapers. There were two narrow doors, one for a closet and one for the bathroom. Aside from that, the office was remarkably uncluttered and free of ornamentation. No framed photographs, no hanging plants. In the ceiling overhead was a dome light with subdued wattage.
Clearing a space for Mrs O'Connor's wheelchair and placing a visitor chair for Naomi, Bane saw that they were settled before circling the desk to drop down into his own chair. "Let me start by saying, this is not really your standard investigative agency," he said.
"Oh, I've heard all about you," the old lady interrupted. "What native New Yorker doesn't know about the Dire Wolf? Not that the newspapers or the TV stations ever mention you, but we know you protect the living against those things who come out on dark side streets in the middle of the night, things that have no business in this world."
Bane did not argue. "What is it that brings you to me, then?"
"It was almost exactly sixty years ago today that my niece was last seen by anyone," she said slowly. "My sister's only child, Kelly Marie O'Connor. On that day, I was younger than she was. Mr Bane, it's family knowledge that Kelly played a dangerous game. There were more Axis spy rings and saboteurs and sympathizers in the New York area than the history books mention. Kelly had more courage than sense, God rest her. We knew she was out fighting the enemy agents somehow but we never spoke of it to her."
Seeing that both women were watching him expectantly, Bane tried to say something relevant. "I know that was an era of mystery men and women risking their lives. Some of them wore disguises. Mark Drum. The Blur. The Sceptre. It was a time when ordinary people stepped up to defend their country no matter what the risk."
Mrs O'Connor could not hold back a sigh. "Have you ever heard of the Green Devil?"
"Hmm. Not much, to be honest. I found a few references to her here and there. She was a vigilante who brought down several mobsters working with Fifth Column agents and she did catch a female Japanese agent named Sakura, 'Cherry Blossom.' As I recall, her real name was never revealed. Green Devil was last reported toward the end of the war... wait."
"Yes, Mr Bane. The Green Devil dropped out of sight at the same time that my niece vanished. Sixty years ago!"
III.
March 25, 1945
The ride that night behind Victory Eagle had provided some of the most satisfying moments Kelly had enjoyed in months. All the fear and strain of maintaining her double life, meeting informers in foul alleyways, facing men determined to kill her, telling lies and wondering whose lies she was being fooled by... all that fell away she sped on her Triumph along that dirt road. But it had to end too soon. The war could not be kept at bay. The Eagle slowed by a crossroads, turned off his engine and rolled his Harley off the shoulder. A hand-painted wooden sign had a pointing arrow, BELLAMY MACHINE PARTS.
The Green Devil pulled her smaller bike up alongside her new partner but kept the engine running. The familiar tension was building in her chest like an exciting electric charge, but she kept her voice light, "Once more into the valley of death..." she said.
"Our briefing said that tonight is the last night we can catch the rats here," replied the Victory Eagle. He gave her a puzzled look. "Wait, you're not armed?"
"Aw, I just slap their bullets back at them. Serves 'em right," she said. "Tell you what. I like the direct approach. Howzabout I cruise up to the door and lay on the charm while you tiptoe around back and tackle the ungodly Huns from behind?"
"Sounds like as good a plan as any," the colorful figure answered. He checked his sidearm and holstered it again. "Give me five minutes before you head out. When they think they're only dealing with you, I'll give them a surprise they'll take to their graves!" He gave a short barking laugh before galloping off into the darkness down the dirt road.
The guy was sure in great shape, Kelly thought, he could probably pass Jesse Owens on the straightaway. But something about that last comment rubbed her the wrong way. She didn't like the Victory Eagle at all and she couldn't have put her finger on what unsettled her. The laugh had been a tad too gleeful mentioning graves. Pulling back the cuff on her leather jacket, the Green Devil checked her watch. Another few minutes.
As she waited, Kelly wondered if Glenda was bored at work, pulling the swing shift at the factory in Queens. What a good roommate that girl was, minding her own business and pulling her share. Kelly was always half dead during the day at her own job at the jewelry shop but luckily Old Man Fletcher didn't care as long as she came in and ran the register. This double life, out all night chasing crooks and spies and then punching in at work in the morning was going to grind her down, she thought. But no time for feeling sorry for herself, a lot of people were working harder than she was tonight and giving everything they had. Sometimes she thought about what was going on in the Pacific, in Europe, and she only felt she needed to be doing more.
Time to do or die, she thought. Kelly revved the motor and peeled out, heading down the road full tilt. There was that pounding in her chest, the tingling through every vein as adrenalin kicked in. Ahead was the darkened hulk of a brick building with only two windows lit on the ground floor. Before the parking lot was a sentry post no larger than a phone booth. As she hurtled toward the post, a man in dark blue pants and shirt with a holstered pistol at his side hopped out. "Hey, what the hayll...?"
Snapping down the kickstand as she hopped off, Green Devil sang out, "I'm here on official super-hero business."
"What? Are you crazy?"
"Everyone keeps saying so," she answered, marching straight toward him. The slender body in the snug leather outfit struck many men as being sexy but it didn't seem to be distracting this guy. Maybe she should wear a long blonde wig to complete the effect, she thought.
"Now look here, missy," the big man said, one hand dropping to his side. He needed a shave and his shoes were scuffed and unpolished, cues to her that this was really a mug posing as a security guard. "This is posted Private Property. Stop right there. I'm warning you, not another step."
Kelly O'Connor deliberately raised a foot and stamped it down three inches closer to the man.
The guard drew and fired without another word. Something difficult to follow happened in the next instant. The Green Devil swung her open hand, palm out, in a counter-clockwise circle, and there was a smack as the bullet went into the trunk of a nearby tree. It certainly seemed as if she had slapped the .38 slug aside like a tennis ball someone had tossed at her.
"Huh? That's impossible!" he yelled.
"Everyone keeps telling me that, too," Kelly said. She sprang forward, planting her weight and snapped out a left jab that connected perfectly to the guard's chin. She was cheating a bit because under her gloves were molded lead knuckle bars that gave her punches unexpected bite. The man's knees sagged and his eyes rolled up. Green Devil drew her other arm back and threw a right hook that had everything she could put in it and, since he was wide open, her fist cracked against the side of his jaw as if she were using a ball-peen hammer. He fell heavily onto his back.
Kelly kicked the revolver far off to one side and laughed. "The Green Devil strikes again!" She had discovered this strange ability as a child and had kept it to herself because she was afraid it would make her seem weird and creepy. By the time she was twenty, she had nearly forgotten about it. But a few years earlier, during an argument in a bar, a drunk woman had yanked a dart from its target board and lobbed it at her face. Kelly had easily deflected the dart without conscious thought and she realized she had a wild talent. Experimenting had proven that she could redirect any object moving at her, including rifle bullets, and she had seized on the chance to be a mystery woman.
Lights were blinking on in the nearby factory, including a blinding one over the front door, and voices could be heard yelling. The joint was going to be jumping now, she thought. One word stood out from the uproar, 'Schnell!' and that was all she needed to go into high gear. The double metal doors slammed open and two men in work clothes stampeded through, both waving handguns. Armed goons in a machine shop that's not even open this late, she gleefully reflected. I'm on the right trail.
In no mood for diplomacy, the Green Devil lowered her helmeted head and charged right at the pair. Both gunmen immediately began shooting at her. Kelly let her body take over, acting on reflex as both gloved hands whipped in tight circles. Bullets whined and ricocheted wildly in all directions. Her palms stung only slightly. She had no idea what was really happening during this phenomenon but her mind tapped the transcendental gralic force used by mystics and sorcerers, focusing it into shields over her hands. It was the gralir which allow this feat. Kelly knew nothing about magick. As far as she could tell, she was simply swatting bullets out of the air like flies and loving it.
As it happened, one of the slugs dove in through a gunman's open mouth and exited the top of his skull in a geyser of bone fragments and blood. The man next to him gasped, tried one more shot and Kelly met it straight on with her open palm. By chance, since she had no control over the deflection, that bullet reversed itself and thumped deep into the gunman's chest right in the sternum. He wheezed and sagged to the steps in front of the doors.
Striding insolently up to the two men, Kelly announced, "And THAT is why you don't use poor widdle girls for target practice." She leaned forward and examined the one who was still alive. "Oh, this looks bad, pal. Missed the heart but I think you nicked your own lung. Quick medical attention might still save you, though."
>"Ungueher..."< he gasped.
"Watch your language there, Heinzie," she said. Some of the lilt in her voice evaporated as she saw he was going fast. There was a rattling in the throat and then the man's head flopped to one side. Kelly stood up. Death wasn't something she had gotten jaded about, but she did hate Nazis with zeal. When she thought about what they were doing.... The Green Devil rose and marched through the open doors of the machine shop with what she hoped was righteous anger.
She rushed through a shabby reception room with a couch, a few chairs and a cigarette machine. In one corner sat a desk holding two telephones and a stack of binders, with a cheap pin-up calendar taped up. On the opposite wall, a metal door stood open to reveal an office. Kelly slowed and approached more cautiously, open hands up by her sides. The light was on in that office and a radio was softly playing classical music. What was going on here? The Green Devil stepped up to the office door, ready to poke her head in but she froze as something jabbed against the back of her neck.
"Don't move," hissed an oddly-accented voice." That's it. Stay just the way you are." The low voice pressed the object harder to her neck. "I saw your little circus trick out there, liebchen, but it will of no use be to you in here."
"Steady there, buddy," she said, holding as motionless as possible. "You've got the advantage."
As if to reinforce her words, a strong hand shoved her into the office and she stepped quickly to keep from stumbling. Waiting inside were two more thugs. These were tall, clean-cut men with blond crewcuts and startling pale blue eyes. Pure Aryan types, she thought with grim amusement. "Hey, why aren't healthy young boys like you in the Army?"
"In our own way, we are," said one of them. The two of them were holding .38 revolvers and they stepped a few feet away from each other to watch her more effectively. At the same time, the man who had been behind her came around into view. Kelly's heart almost stopped.
Tall and lanky, wearing a dark brown jumpsuit and polished riding boots, this man had a gunbelt with a long commando knife sheathed at the left hip. He holstered his Luger as he saw the other two spies had Kelly covered. Emblazoned on the chest of that jumpsuit was a white circle with a bold red swastika in its center. Kelly was shocked that anyone, even an enemy agent, would dare show that hated symbol on US soil. Even that was not the worst. It was the man's hideous face that gripped the Green Devil in chilling terror.
A hairless skull covered with taut yellowish skin, the man had a heavy brow ledge overshadowing deep brown eyes that hinted at real madness. There were no external ears, the nose was a mere stub and the wide mouth showed crooked teeth as he leered at the young women. "Good evening. Perhaps you have heard of me?" he asked in a bizarre accent. "The Fuehrer calls me Herr Totenkoph, the Death's Head. I have heard my own men refer to me as Skull-Face. It doesn't matter. To members of my own Race, I appear quite normal. You Humans look grotesque to me."
"A Nekrosan..." whispered Kelly. "Here? In America?"
"Ah, you know a little of the Midnight War, then? Yes. I am a Nekrosan from Perjena. My real name does not matter. And you, the Green Devil? ARE you a devil?"
"I'm an all-American girl, born and bred in the USA! And my kind isn't scared by an ugly face," she shot back.
"Good, good." Death's-Head stepped back and folded thin arms across his chest. "You have much better reasons to be scared..."
IV.
March 25, 2005
Over two hours after they had entered the lobby, Mrs O'Connor and Naomi rode away in a private company's medical transport van. Bane stood with folded arms and watched the taillights disappear around the intersection before going back to his office. His head was packed with information. He had quizzed the old woman on every possible detail regarding Kelly O'Connor's life... where and when she had been born and gone to school, all about her various jobs and her roommate, anything known about her love life and even her political beliefs, on and on. He had not taken notes. Long years as a detective had given him a memory which could repeat hours of conversation verbatim even weeks later.
Returning to his office, he did not sit behind the desk again but wandered around the big room as he thought, hands clasped behind his back. From everything he had been told, he felt he would have liked Kelly O'Connor if somehow they could have met. Her biggest flaws seemed to have been a quick temper and a tendency to throw common sense aside when she was worked up. It seemed clear that her parents had suspected she was the Green Devil to the point of covering for her activities from the police, but both Thomas and Bridgit O'Connor were long dead and couldn't offer any information. If the investigation went on long enough, he might see if the parents had left letters or diaries which might be still in existence.
The Dire Wolf pulled the curtain aside and gazed out at Third Avenue. His own instincts told him that he would only get any useful information by digging into Kelly's team-ups with other costumed vigilantes of her era. During the war years, Manhattan and a few other cities saw a craze of civilians putting on wild outfits to fight both crime and espionage. Evidently, the flamboyant visuals and the local triumphs had cheered the public up and helped boost morale. Bane had been told that Kelly O'Connor had worked with Mark Drum, the Sting, the Victory Eagle, Vulcan and possibly the team of Archangels. All long dead or at least missing for decades.
Very little had ever been confirmed about those dozen or so 'mystery men' who had amazed New York City so long ago. There were others, like the Sceptre and Lion Man, that Bane had researched himself and learned much of their secrets because their talismans were still potent and still in use. Most of those heroes remained only names. A few yellowed newspaper clippings, some creased and faded photos snapped as the heroes had tried to hurry away without being identified. He needed to learn more.
He was locking up his office and striding through the lobby before he realized he had made a decision. The biggest repository of Midnight War lore was only a few minutes away. Outside, a beautiful sunny afternoon greeted him but he seldom noticed the weather. Bane moved north for six blocks as a pace barely short of a jog, then swung to his left along 38th Street. At the corner of Lexington Avenue, he stopped and looked up at the ten-story white stone building that had been the center of his life for so long. It sank in sometimes how much secret history was tied up in this structure.
As he placed his foot on the bottom step, a buzzer sounded over the massive front door with its plaque 'KDF - 28 E. 38TH ST' and a voice chirped through the intercom, "Heyyyyy, captain! Come on in! Great to seeya!"
Unicorn, of course, he thought. The front door had unlocked itself but he still had to wait in the tiny vestibule while Trom sensors verified his identity. This was mandatory procedure. In that minute, he looked up at the oil painting of Kenneth Dred and suddenly he reflected again that Dred had been active in the 1930s and 1940s with the very mystery men who were so intriguing Bane right now. The Dire Wolf could not remember his mentor ever mentioning those years much.
Grabbing him by an arm and yanking him bodily inside was a beautiful platinum-blonde in her early twenties, not much over five feet tall and barely one hundred pounds. For once, the Unicorn was not dressed all in white. She was wearing plain black canvas sneakers, remarkably snug shorts that were Navy blue and a dark grey T-shirt with big sweat stains over most of its surface. A rough white towel was draped around her neck.
"Working out?" he asked as she dragged him across the front hall into the office.
"Oooh, I can tell you're a detective," she laughed. "Yes. Practicing my DohRa form. Teacher Chael said he was going to make it tougher because I've been doing it too easily lately. Captain! Whatcha doing here? Have you come to visit your favorite Tel Shai knight, that would be me of course?"
Despite himself, Bane could not keep from smiling at her. Ashley Whitaker had that effect. "Well, to some extent. But unfortunately, I'm also here for some research."
"Oh. Business, huh? Tell me all about it." She started wiping at her face and neck with the damp towel as she listened. Bane explained he had taken a new client and he wanted to learn more about some Midnight War fighters from World War II.
"Really. Heck, that was a thousand years ago. Not even my mom was around back then. I guess you need to dig around in the conference room, then." Moving again, she took him by one hand and trotted up the wide staircase to the second floor to the room where so many battles had been planned, so many tough decisions made.
Here under subdued recessed lighting was the long oak table with twelve chairs spaced around it, in which generations of knights had taken their places. The row of green metal filing cabinets still stood along one wall, as well as the communications center with its five-foot-wide monitor screen. As Bane and Ashley entered, the room's sole occupant put down a tool with wire-thin filaments which which she had been adjusting the innards of an electronic device. She stood up and greeted Bane with a raised hand in an informal wave.
Megan Salenger was a few years older than Ashley, a little more solid in build and with dark tousled hair over an inquisitive foxlike face. She was also much more sedate and restrained in manner. A Human orphan reared by the emotionless Trom, Megan had been raised to be a world class genius in a dozen demanding fields but her tutors had failed in removing all feeling from her make-up. She was still entirely Human in heart. "Captain. It's good to see you again, I assume Unicorn has been giving you unrequested agitation?"
Bane had to laugh at that completely serious statement. "You two. Megan, I have a client and I need to find information about some of the so-called mystery men of the 1940s. In particular, the Green Devil and the Victory Eagle. I figured this was the best place to start."
"It is indeed," said the Trom Girl. She went to the head of the conference table and unlocked a deep drawer to bring out a leather-bound book thicker than a Manhattan telephone directory. Smiling her subdued little smile, Megan placed the book on the table and gestured for Bane to take a seat there. "I think we both know this is this best source to consult first."
"Just what I was thinking," Bane responded. He seated himself and examined the book respectfully. FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE, compiled over a fifty year period by Kenneth Dred himself, handwritten entries with annotations and marginal notes in tiny legible script. This was the only copy, although the pages had been scanned and were waiting to be permanently available in the KDF computer records. Bane carefully opened the front cover and looked down at the first page. There was no index or table of contents, but the entries had been arranged and rearranged into topics.
"Ho-ho, I've seen that expression before on his face," Unicorn said. "We've lost him. You know what, I definitely stink. You can almost see the little wavy lines coming up off me. I'll be back after a steaming hot shower." The little blonde spun on one heel and raced out of the room as if a fire alarm had sounded.
At the other end of the table, the Trom Girl had opened three laptops and was beginning separate searches on each. "Captain, if I may interrupt?"
"Hmm? Oh sure, Megan. What?"
"I am going to penetrate official records. The New York City Police Department, FBI Department 21 Black, the Pentagon Official Secrets Archive, the Mandate's sources, Internal Revenue Service, maybe the NEW YORK TIMES morgue as well. This will take a while to accomplish without being detected."
Bane glanced over at her. "Don't get caught, Megan. We don't want to have to visit you in prison," he said before diving back into the mesmerizing pages of the invaluable book left by the man he most respected.
Twenty minutes passed in silence except for the faint turning of pages and the soft click of keyboards. Eventually, Ashley returned in a white pullover and ratty old jeans, with her gleaming hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was carrying a stack of a dozen ancient books she had located somewhere in the endless shelves which lined the halls of every floor of that building. To her credit, Unicorn did not make a sound but settled in at the table and started digging through the books with her perfect little face screwed up in severe concentration so she looked about eleven years old. The afternoon crawled by.
When the old landline phone on the wall rang, all three of the gave violent starts. Unicorn was closest. She was up out of her chair quick as a chipmunk and snatching up the receiver. "Hello. Kenneth Dred Foundation. Hi, Sheng! How're things in Juneau? Well, no KIDDING it's cold, I think we could have guessed that..."
Bane glanced up at the wall clock and was amazed to see it was four-thirty-five. They had become more absorbed in their research than he would have guessed.
Looking over her shoulder at the table, Ashley sang, "Sheng says hi to everyone. Their mission is a dud so far. Sable says if the Wendigo doesn't show by tomorrow morning, they're heading back. Say, Jeremy, you want to talk to her? Sheng, put Sabes on, will you?"
Bane got up to take the phone. He and Sable filled each other in on their respective activities and agreed it seemed as if nothing monumental was in the immediate future. After a few pleasantries, they broke the connection.
When she saw the Dire Wolf coming back to the table, Megan allowed herself the slightest pout of disappointment. "There seems to have been a paper file on Victory Eagle in the Mandate's archives, but it was removed at some point. Everything else is mere publicity fluff from the War Department, which later became your Department of Defense."
"That might still be a clue," Bane said. "Maybe the Eagle's file wasn't destroyed but taken away by someone. Ashley, you find anything?"
"Aw, mere crumbs," Unicorn admitted. "There was one mention in a book on military scandals about 'the disastrous Victory Eagle project.' And Green Devil is described as a security risk from the start, so the author is hinting that she was told to step down. I don't THINK so. That girl was feisty."
With obvious reluctance, the Dire Wolf returned FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE to the deep bottom drawer of the table and heard the lock click. "The funny thing is, now I'm sure there's something to it. All the other mystery men either revealed who they were after the war or some substantial information was confirmed about them. To see VIctory Eagle erased from the record like this strikes me as suspicious."
Megan Salenger was starting clean-up and erasure procedures on her laptops. Her face was always sober but now her expression had settled into outright gloom. "I regret not being able to uncover useful information, captain. Sorry."
"You know..." Unicorn offered tentatively, "Jeremy, you do have a lot of shady contacts. The criminal underworld, secret societies, the Midnight War, even those spooks in espionage that you can't trust to tell you what day of the week it is. You remember a few years ago when we tackled that mess with the Peacemonger? Your bad-ass Mandate pal?"
The Dire Wolf blinked. "I wasn't thinking of him, but Ashley, you may be pointing me in the right direction. If anyone knows where forgotten bodies are buried, Colonel Tom Shackle is the one."
V.
March 25, 1945
"Oh, I have no illusions about loyalty," Death's-Head said. He circled around the Green Devil, checking her out from different angles as she held her tongue with difficulty. "As long as gold bricks are supplied and I have a free hand, yes I will work for Herr Hitler a while longer. But the war in Europe is as good as lost. Anyone with a brain can see that, and I must set myself up to thrive in the new world which will be following."
"So you're not much of a Nazi, then?"
"Heh. Hardly." The skull-faced man dug in a flap pocket of his jumpsuit for a cigarette and tucked its end in a slim ebony holder before allowing one of thugs to light it for him. "Your Human civilizations rise and fall. They are flowers which bloom and fade, but our realm Perjena has deep roots. We Nekrosim have endured since the Darthan Age three hundred centuries ago."
Taking a chance as the grotesque saboteur turned his attention away to flick ashes, Kelly shifted her weight evenly to both feet and lowered her hands a bare inch. The gunmen were not keeping their full focus on her either. It was hard for them not to keep staring at the fleshless face of a Nekrosan. "So, what's your plan?" she asked. "After the Allies win in another year or three, they're not going to welcome the services of a former Nazi terrorist and mass-murdered... especially one with your mug."
"Oh, I have given the future some thought," Death's-Head replied. "Schnitzer, go outside and check on the sentry. Secure the grounds. I understand the scandalous Green Devil operates alone, but it is better to be sure." He turned that face of skin-covered bone toward Kelly again. "As for you, co-operate. Come quietly and stretch out your remaining minutes as best you can."
"Words to live by," she replied, lowering her hands as the Death's-Head ushered her out of the office and down a narrow hallway. Two thugs escorted them with their guns at the ready. Kelly knew she could deflect bullets with her special ability but that didn't mean she was eager to try it. There was always a chance of a slug getting past her defenses, especially at point blank range like this.
They marched silently through a dim maze of machinery, toolbenches, bins of metal parts and general debris. After a lengthy hike through the main factory, the skull-faced man unlocked another door and flicked on the lights in a high-ceiling storeroom.
Here were piles of automobile tires stacked ten feet high. Here were burlap sacks of white sugar and of coffee beans, boxes of chocolates, crates of nylon stockings. All had once been commonplace but rationing had made them valuable rarities. This stockpile of restricted items was worth more than money could measure because there was no substitute for them.
"The Black Market..." Kelly said in an awed voice. "Holy cow."
"A lucrative pursuit indeed," commented the Nekrosan. He was standing much too close to the Green Devil, his vile breath in her ear. "But you must realize this is not merely a way to make money, no no. It is a means to corrupt those in power. Judges, police, leaders of industry, all will compromise themselves for these objects. Does your wife complain she had no nylons? Would you craze a juicy steak on Sunday night? Are your car tires bald and unsafe on rainy nights? Come to Death's-Head and ease your distress."
The skull-faced man unleashed a long torrent of hollow ghoulish laughter that echoed through the cavernous storeroom. Kelly noticed the uncomfortable expressions on the gunmen's faces and decided they were not wild about working for this monster.
"Geeze, I gotta hand it to you, handsome." The Green Devil had placed her hands on her hips, ogling some of these items as if she herself was deeply tempted. "You know your business. This is some racket."
"Oh, this is only the beginning," the fiend chuckled. "After the war, I will simply move to other supplies which are hard to obtain. Drugs. Stolen goods. Sex slaves. Perhaps gambling as well. The weakness of Humans is my great joy."
Kelly was taken off-guard by the Death's-Head quick movements as he yanked her right wrist to him and snapped a handcuff around its wrist, then fastened the other cuff to the solid steel pipe of a display rack holding boxes of mixed nuts. The Green Devil jerked her arm but the pipe was secure and she cursed her inattention.
Trying to delay what the monster had planned next, she said, "You're building an empire based on greed and corruption, aren't you? You'll get in now and beat the regular mobsters to the game when peace is achieved."
"True, true," the fiend said. He unfastened the flap holster on his belt and drew the 9mm Parabellum, checking its safety. "I will be the King of Crime in this city, perhaps the entire State. I will meet as an equal with governors and congressmen of this hopeless country. How my family back in Perjena will be honored by the wealth I send home. Then, perhaps, someday even our Empress may feel her throne slip away from beneath her...."
His reverie was cut short as one of the gunmen appeared in the doorway. "Boss! Boss! Both of our boys are dead. Hoffman bled out before I got there and Uhl was shot through the chest. It was this animal next to you who killed them."
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," Kelly protested. "They shot at me. Their own bullets came back to take 'em. Those guys blew out their own candles if you ask me!"
As she yelled, the guard in the door was roughly swung around by a powerful red-gloved hand which seized his shoulder and turned him into a vicious uppercut which broke his jaw. The agonized man was flung halfway across the storeroom to land in a heap at the Nekrosan monster's boots. Everyone swung around as the Victory Eagle made one of his unmistakable dramatic entrances. The costumed spybuster drove a hooking punch deep into the next man's stomach, doubling him up and tossing him aside. But quick as he was, the Eagle faced an experienced killer who was already holding his Luger at the ready.
The Death's-Head extended his arm full length and snapped off three shots that were deafening in the enclosed space. All three bullets slammed into the hero's chest, two high by the heart and one further down by the rib cage. The white eagle symbol vanished in a gout of bright arterial blood as he collapsed to the bare concrete floor.
Kelly O'Connor's lips moved but no sound came out. In that split-second of silence following the gunfire, she felt her own heartbeat pounding painfully in her chest.
But miraculously, the muscular form convulsed and leaped back up onto its feet. There was no bulletproof vest in the world that could explain the heavy bleeding from the chest which had stopped even as the Victory Eagle sprang at the remaining gunmen. He drove one directly into the wall with bone-breaking impact, then wheeled to crash an overhand right to the face that hurled the remaining thug to the floor. Still in one motion, the Eagle grasped dazed spy behind him and crunched the man's head against the rough stone wall with a crack of the skull collapsing.
Moving past the dead men, the Victory Eagle straightened up. Through the shredded material of his shirt, skin showed intact and unbroken under the fresh blood. For once, that famous mask showed why it was such a potent symbol. Furious blue eyes and a mouth tight with anger were all that showed of the face of this strange vigilante.
During the brief carnage, Death's-Head had moved behind the handcuffed Green Devil and was pressing the muzzle of his gun to her chest. The skull-faced man studied the spybuster stalking closer, drawing almost within reach. He said quietly, "Don't I know you?"
"No," answered the Eagle. "I'm just one more anonymous soldier in a terrible war."
"That voice? Yes, I recognize it. And who else disregards bullet holes as if they were bee stings? Yes, I remember you, my old rival."
"Watch your next words carefully," came the answer in an iron-hard voice very different from the heroic bass tone heard earlier. "You have not yet forfeited your life, Morgil."
"Ho, ho, so you know my name, eh?" laughed the monster. "I cannot return the courtesy, but I do know the name you are feared and hated under! We will meet again."
Belying those words, the Nekrosan blasted four more shots from his 9mm at point-blank range. The Victory Eagle's face disappeared in a geyser of blood and bone chips as he reeled backwards to hit the floor with a thud.
"That ought to keep even you out of my way," Death's-Head snorted as he ejected the magazine from the butt of his pistol.
VI.
March 27, 2005
"It took me two days to set up this meeting," Jeremy Bane said. He accepted the comfortable easy chair and looked around the den more slowly than his initial recon glance. All dark polished wood and tan leather furniture, several shelves of history books and scattered magazines, a gigantic TV screen and an old-fashioned stereo, all were reassuring in their solidity. The room smelled vaguely but not unpleasantly of cigar smoke. On a low table between Bane and his host was an already open bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses.
Settling into the chair facing his guest, Colonel Tom Shackle did not try to conceal the twinge of pain. He had been limping visibly when he had greeted Bane, and there were new lined of grief etched into the square face. Inside, Shackle kept his dark glasses on and the scar strands extending below those glasses explained why he kept his left eye concealed.
"It's only been a few years since we last met," the Dire Wolf said. "You've been busy."
"Here, help yourself." Shackle got himself a shot of the drink and tossed it back. "I know it doesn't effect you -- you've got that damn healing juju that protects you from its effects-- but it's poison I enjoy."
Bane obligingly took a drink, curious because he had forgotten its flavor. Alcohol was indeed wasted on him. Decades on the Tagra tea had boosted his healing factor to the extent he might as well be drinking distilled water. But he might as well be polite. "Thanks for agreeing to see me, colonel."
"Hell, I do owe you a couple of favors. The Peacemonger. The Witness Wiper. Even the time you exposed that double agent that STIGMA had spent eight years establishing in my department." He took one more sample of the Jack Daniels and tightened the cap on the bottle. "So go ahead and tell me what's eating you."
Bane related the events of the past few days and how he had turned up a few tantalizing hints but nothing substantial to work on. "That's as far as I've gotten, colonel. I don't feel like I've even caught a glimpse of the answer."
"Hmm. Let me get some cards on the table, Bane. It's no secret that you and your Tel Shai team have gotten your hands on a lot of classified material over the years. Above TOP SECRET in fact. The brass at the CIA and the DOJ hate it but never even mention it because they're too ashamed. How do you guys do it?"
"We're unusual people, colonel. You've been with the Mandate half your life," Bane said. "Admit it, you've seen the supernatural. You've seen things that can not be explained."
Stalling to gather his thoughts, Colonel Shackle took a thin black cigar from the breast pocket of his conservative dark blue suit, sniffed it but then made no effort to light the thing. "Yep," he said finally. "I'd deny it in front of a Congressional committee with all the lights and cameras on me. But I've seen monsters. I've seen people fly and throw flames from their palms and I've seen people walk through solid walls like ghosts. Goddam, I've seen you yourself catch a knife someone threw at you and you threw it right back to kill him... without getting a nick."
Bane allowed himself the faintest possible smile. It took people years before they could read his minimal expression. "So the word is that you're being edged away from field work and being asked to correct all the mistakes in the Mandate archives. Is that close?"
"Some might say so," Shackle grudgingly replied.
"Colonel," the Dire Wolf continued, "My impression is that you know more of the secret history of the world than all the consultants and experts that the Mandate calls in when they're stuck. I want to talk about a few of the so-called 'mystery men' of the 1940s."
"Oh, those jokers. Idle playboys and newspaper reporters and cops in their off duty hours, all climbing into circus outfits and chasing Nazi spies. Bunch of damn fools. Still," he admitted, "Some of them did good work. Mark Drum was valuable. That racketeer called the Sting sure seemed to bust a lot of spy rings, and even the Sceptre nailed some big name mobsters. What did you want to talk about?"
"The Victory Eagle."
Unexpectedly, Colonel Shackle struggled to his feet and tugged down his suit jacket. "I need to start packing my suitcase, son. They're sending a car to drive me to the airport. I hate going to DC, it's a nest of snakes all wriggling over each other, but duty is duty."
Bane rose as well, keeping disappointment out of his voice. "So you're leaving town?"
"Yep. Not that I want to. My flight is at six. Maybe I'll be back in a week, maybe not. Give me a call at the end of the month, I guess."
"All right. Well, I appreciate your seeing me at all. Just getting your address was a project."
Shackle limped over to the nearby bookcase and rested a big hand near a bronze bust of Benjamin Franklin. "The only President who was never President," he chuckled. The colonel tapped the top of the metal head several times and his voice changed slightly as he said, "Wish I could point you in the right direction, Bane... oh, hell. Jeremy. We've known each other longer enough for first names."
Extending his hand to receive a firm dry handshake, the Dire Wolf nodded. "Fine with me, Tom. I can see myself out. Thanks for everything."
As he headed back to his chair, the Mandate's former top agent sighed with the melancholy of late middle age. "I'm sure you'll turn up what you need. Call me."
VII.
March 25, 1945
As a young girl, Kelly had devoured her father's collection of pulp thrillers and old issues of POLICE GAZETTE. This not only explained where she had formed her unrealistic concepts about crime-fighting, it was where she got the idea to hide useful items on her person. In tiny pockets she had sewn herself on the inner lining of her jacket were a cigarette lighter, a couple of skeleton keys, a folding knife, a compass and some bandages . But her most prized item had cost her every cent she could save up. As soon as Death's-Head had stepped around in front of her, she had pulled a narrow flexible strip from inside her left jacket cuff. It was a steel sawblade coated with diamond dust she had gathered at the jewelry shop where she worked. With infinite care, she began wearing away at a link of the handcuff holding her to the metal pipe. Just one broken link, that was all she asked...
Even as the Victory Eagle had stormed into the storeroom, been shot and gotten up again and then been shot once more, her hands kept working automatically at sawing through the tiny link. She was barely aware of continuing this as she watched the gruesome fate of her new colleague. Her heart had never beat so fast in her life.
The Death's-Head prodded the Eagle's body with a toe and made a satisfied grunt. "Too bad. But because of you two fools, I have lost some useful assistants tonight...." He heard a faint clink behind him and wheeled about just as Kelly tugged open the sawed-through link and hopped away from the rack with the cuffs themselves still on her wrists like bracelets.
"Still one bullet left," the Nekrosan spat. He snapped off a final shot without even taking careful aim but firing at a freed Green Devil was a serious error. Her right arm whirled in a counter-clockwise arc and the slug glanced off her open palm to slice deeply across Morgil's throat. The bullet twanged as it ricocheted one more time off a wall.
Trying to catch her breath, Kelly O'Connor slowly felt her mind clear from all the excitement. Everyone was dead. Everyone in that storeroom had been killed in the past few minutes except for her, and her own survival had been a close call. Feeling her knees get wobbly, the Green Devil plopped down to sit on the floor and she unfastened the strap under her chin. Getting her motorcycle helmet off and some deep slow intakes of air helped.
The skull-faced man was lying on his back and his hand slid down off his chest but he was no longer alive. One severed end of the windpipe clearly showed in his wound. Kelly managed to get up on her feet again, feeling calmer. What to do next? A phone? Yes, there had to be a phone here. She would call the number the Major had given her and the government would send people here to take care of this. G-Men, the Secret Service, it didn't matter to her. She needed to make that call and then get on her bike and get home as quick as possible. Maybe it was time to pack away the Green Devil outfit for a while.
A row of brown cardboard boxes on a shelf caught her eye. Butter. Real butter, not that awful margarine dyed yellow. She was so tempted to load up some of this loot in her bike's saddlebags. Chocolate, a couple pair of nylons, some actual coffee. Who would ever know? More, who would ever care if she claimed a reward for once. This stuff would likely end up going to some government big shots for their use anyway....
The Victory Eagle groaned and sat up.
That was too much to handle. Kelly felt sure she was losing her mind. He couldn't be alive. It was impossible, she had to get out of here! But her feet wouldn't obey and she stood motionless as the costumed man got to his hands and knees and then upright. The Eagle wiped with gloved hands at his face to get some of the still-wet blood off and then he stretched luxuriantly. All of his mask had been blown away by the bullets and he discarded the shredded cloth.
The face revealed was quite handsome, almost a matinee idol type, with thick wavy black hair, clean-cut features and clear bright blue eyes. He seemed oddly sad to find Kelly staring at his exposed features. "You see, you are not the only one with a special gift."
"It's unbelievable," she said. The Green Devil came closer. "Not a mark on you. Hah, sure beats my puny little ability. How is this possible?"
"The official story is that I'm the only survivor of an Army project testing new treatments to help wounded soldiers," he replied absently." He gazed down at the corpse of the Nekrosan. "Poor old Morgil. He looks about the same dead or alive, to be honest."
"Hey, I have a question," Kelly said. "You knew his real name. And he seemed to know who you really are. What's the scoop?"
The Victory Eagle flashed perfect teeth in a winning smile. "First, let's get those cuffs off you, Devil. Here, hold up your hands."
Kelly O'Connor moved in closer. Instead of helping her, the Victory Eagle seized her by the throat and drove his commando knife to the hilt up under her left breast. "Sorry, darling," he continued in the same conversational tone, "But I can't have you describing me."
VIII.
March 29, 2005
Sitting on a wooden bench at the PEACEFUL VALLEY cemetery, Jeremy Bane watched from a distance as Mrs O'Connor sat in front of a marble wall of niches holding small bronze urns. Standing behind the wheelchair, the nurse Naomi rested a comforting hand on the old woman's shoulder. They had been there for a while but he was in no hurry.
The same night he had visited Colonel Shackle, Bane had gone back to the redwood cabin in the mountains and deftly broken in. Sure enough, the bronze bust of Franklin swiveled up to reveal a latch. In a concealed compartment had been a thick sheaf of official papers in an unmarked manila envelope. After memorizing the relevant ones, he had restored everything as he had found it and hope left the cabin as unaffected by his presence as he could. Good old Colonel Shackle, making a point of tapping that bust and saying he hoped Bane found what he was looking for. The old rogue, still breaking rules whenever he disagreed with them.
But today, after he had brought Mrs O'Connor and the nurse here, Bane still had not told them what he had learned. He wasn't going to. He listened to a breeze in the elms and watched yellow sunbeams slant down, thinking things over. Maybe he would enter the story into the book FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE, slipping a note in his own handwriting between the pages that Kenneth Dred had left. There would other heroes after he and the new KDF team had passed on. Someone someday might need to know what had happened to the Green Devil. Sitting in a cemetery brought out reflections like that.
When Mrs O'Connor called over to him, the Dire Wolf rose and went to stand beside them. He had to choose his words carefully. In the third row of niches from ground level, a bronze container was inscribed 'Here Rests A Soul Known Only To God, March 1945.' Most people who chanced to see that would likely conclude that the urn contained the ashes of an unidentified soldier.
"I'm sorry I can't tell you any more, ma'am," he said after further silence.
"That's all right, young man," she said. "You're positive about identifying her, though?"
"Yes. Nook 153, March 1945. All I found out is that Kelly died after bringing down a dangerous Axis agent. She was doing what she thought was right, what she wanted to do more than anything in the world."
"We should all be able to say the same when our time comes," the old woman said. "I feel better. A little, anyway. Ready to go, Naomi?"
"You needn't rush on my account," said the nurse gently. "Take as much time as you need."
"No, I'm very tired. Mr Bane, I did give you a retainer when you started, but we haven't discussed your actual fee."
The Dire Wolf stared at the urn, seemingly distracted but he replied, "I'm not charging a fee, Mrs O'Connor. It's my way of paying respects to a real hero. I'm glad to have brought some closure."
"Very well. I understand how you feel, I think. Let's go home, Naomi."
"I'm going to stay here a few minutes," Bane said and watched them head down the long walkways toward the parking lot. He turned back to all that remained of Kelly O'Connor. It wouldn't have done the old woman any favor to explain that her niece had been murdered by Samhain, the unkillable killer. Samhain, who could recover from nearly total bodily destruction and who had left victims across the entire nation for almost a century. Bane had clashed with Samhain half a dozen times but had never been able to get rid of the monster with finality. Only five months earlier, Samhain had been destroyed once and for all by Unicorn, of all people.
He had read in the documents how Samhain had concocted a plausible cover identity and gone to the War Department to volunteer. Why had he created the Victory Eagle identity? Why pose as a patriotic symbol when he was still murdering innocent people left and right? A twisted sense of humor? No one would ever know. Eventually he had given himself away and the public was told that Victory Eagle had died during the liberation of Berlin. In fact, Samhain had gone on for decades more as the world's worst serial killer, difficult to catch and impossible to cage.
Well, he was gone now, Bane thought. Samhain seemed as much a part of the past, already fading into history, as the Green Devil herself was.
He couldn't think of anything profound to say and he didn't want to touch the urn. Bane bowed his head respectfully, turned and started walking back to his car.
11/20/2000 - Rev. 12/13/2018
