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dochermes"The Gruesome Case of the Hunchback of Hollywood"
9/20- 9/22/2004
I.
Standing by the sink, Bane gingerly removed the bandages from his left ribs. He studied the reflection in the mirror. Not as bad as he had expected. Those stitches could come out today, there was no sign of infection despite the fact the wound had been inflicted by a filthy hook in the hands of a raving psychotic. Opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, he took out fresh bandages and applied them with white tape, binding them with the neatness of long experience. It was worth the slice to have nailed Yellow Bill and finally get that madman behind bars. He studied his reflection critically and seemed satisfied. Even nearing fifty, his body had zero fat. Long, hard muscles of a runner marked his build. He leaned forward. Yes, the full head of black hair did have a grey strand peeking out here and there. But then he was lucky to still have a head, much less hair on it...
From beyond the bathroom door in the living room, the phone rang. Bane reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp, he swung through the bedroom and plunged into the living room so quickly. On the end table sat a cordless phone in its charger, and he snatched it up. "Yeah? Hello?"
"Is this Jeremy Bane?"
"Could be," answered the Dire Wolf. He lifted the phone and walked over to where his black turtleneck had been dropped on the couch. "Who's asking?"
"This is Stephen Deising's office," came the mellow female voice. "Be here Monday at eleven."
Bane yanked the turtleneck on over his head. "Why would I want to do that?"
"It's Stephen Deising!" the voice sounded outraged.
"So? Wait. Is that the movie director?"
"The movie director....?! We are talking about THE movie director of our times. My God, man..."
Bane plopped down on his leather couch and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. "I don't go to movies. I never have. Sorry if Stephen Deising's name doesn't thrill me. Listen. What's this about? Why does he want to see me?"
The woman seemed to be struggling to choke down disbelief. "Let me start again. Mr Bane, I understand you are now a private investigator but the stories about you tell of... well, the supernatural. You were a ghostbuster, a monster hunter. Am I correct?"
"Absolutely. What do I have to do with a Hollywood director?"
"I thought you would have heard of the Hunchback Murders."
Now, the Dire Wolf came alive, sitting up. "Oh yes! I've followed those crimes. What does Deising have to do with them?"
"I can't tell you now. Are you coming out here?'
"Yes. I think I'm interested." He thought for a second. It was Saturday afternoon, and he had no outstanding cases. "I can be there Monday."
"Excellent," she said. "My name is Lenore DeAngelis, Mr Deising's personal assistant. I will explain everything when I see you."
"Okay," Bane said as he hung up. This was unexpected. He leaped up and paced around his apartment. The price he paid for his enchanced reflexes was a hyper metabolism that did not let him rest. This apartment was clean and neat, but hardly luxurious. In front of him where he sat was a low coffee table with two comfortable armchairs on either side. The wall to his right had two windows facing west for afternoon sunlight, and a stove, sink and refrigerator in a row. The wall to his left was shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, newspapers, and general debris that collected there. The shelves were interrupted by the door to the hall and beyond that the stairs going down to ground level.
The wall opposite where he sat was bare, broken only by the door to his bedroom... the bedroom itself had been partitioned to make its bathroom. There were five lamps in the living room, a rather small TV which was seldom on and which sat on a wheeled cart with its cable coiled up under it. There was a radio on the window sill and a microwave on the counter between the sink and stove. Everything was decent but not at all impressive.
The funny thing was that Bane had wealth. He had inherited Kenneth Dred's estate and had amassed a huge amount of spoils during his years in the Midnight War. If he wanted to, he could easily be living in a penthouse overlooking Central Park but this had never occurred to him. This apartment, three blocks from his similarly modest office on 44th Street near 3rd Avenue, was all he needed. The Dire Wolf went to the window and looked out on the street two floors below. It was getting near dusk. Soon the creatures of the night would be out and about, and to be honest, he was one of them. But tonight he would not go prowling, looking for trouble, since he had a new case to begin. Picking up the phone, he called his travel agency and confirmed they could get him on an eleven o'clock flight, although pulling the necessary strings would be expensive. So many people owed him their lives or the lives of their loved ones that he could call on favors in a wide range of areas if needed.
Bane went into his bedroom and came out with a cardboard box filled with clippings from newspapers. They were not organized in any sane manner. Despite his best resolutions, he had never gotten around to setting up a filing cabinet much less entering the information on his laptop. Dropping the box by the couch, he got a big glass of ice water to sip from and sat down to dig through the mess. As he sorted and made stacks of the papers, Bane remembered a bit wistfully of how high-tech and organized his operation had been at the old headquarters building on 38th Street. It would be so easy to walk over there and pull up all the information he could possibly want about this case in a few seconds. But then, he would start talking to Sable about cases. Argent would want to spar, he'd run into the little blonde Unicorn and into Trom Girl. Then either a few of them would want to go with him on this Hunchback business or they would have something urgent themselves he might want to help with....
No! He snorted angrily and went back to digging through the clippings. The new team had to be on their own. It was their time. He had known it was right for him to step down and hand over the crusade to them, hard as it had been. Bane forced his thoughts to the task at hand.
Soon he had found stories about the case. The Hunchback Murders. There had been five of them over the past few years. Perhaps there were more that went unconnected, but these were the ones where the killer himself had been spotted. The brute was described as no more than five feet tall, but immensely wide, with thick musular arms that reached almost to the ground and a sharp triangular hump that stuck up past his head. All the descriptions of his face were unflattering; he seemed to be ugly in a variety of ways. As colorful a figure as the Hunchback undeniably was, the brutal nature of the killings was so gruesome as to be only carefully alluded to in the news. What he did to his victims was vile even by the standards of serial killers.
It had been over a year since the last sighting. New scandals, new celebrity romances and political wrongdoings always took the stage and old sensations became forgotten. The Hunchback had not been seen in fourteen months and he was by now almost old history. Bane fixed the known details of the murders in his head, threw all the clippings back in the cardboard box and returned it to the closet in his bedroom. Stripping down, he took a packet of metallic material from his dresser and unfolded it into a suit of silk-thin flexible armor. It covered his torso, arms and legs when he tugged it snugly into place. The Trom-metal armor was not completely indestructible nor did it provide perfect protection but it had saved him from many bullets and blades over the years.
He dressed all in black, as usual. Boots, slacks, a fresh long-sleeved turtleneck. He had a permit for the long-barreled .38 Smith & wesson, but he would have to surrender it to be stored in baggage. Tugging up the sleeves of his shirt, Bane fastened on two leather sheaths which held a matched pair of silver-bladed daggers on his forearms, hilts forward. Over these sheaths were soft shells carefully molded to feel just like human muscle when touched. Bane had been searched many times by enemies, and only once or twice had anyone detected the knives under that molding. The padding was a dense silicon gel devised by the Trom; so far, he had gone through airport security six times with his daggers under those molds and not been caught yet.
From a corner of the apartment, he picked up a knapsack he always kept ready. It contained a change of clothes, first aid supplies, various small tools and gimmicks in organized compartments. Bane had never had a pet, not even fish, and there were no plants in his apartment. All he had to do was turn out the lights and lock the door behind him. Once, he had constantly relied on elaborate alarms and security systems but most of his enemies were no longer in any condition to be a threat. Bane stepped out into the warm twilight and waved down a taxi. He would be at the airport way ahead of departure time.
II.
Sunday morning, a rather sullen and even grumpy Jeremy Bane checked into the Holiday Inn motel near LAX. He ordered a huge breakfast with double servings of scrambled eggs, ham, toast and hash browns, with apple juice, and devoured it all. His accelerated metabolism burned calories ferociously. He endured a scalding hot shower, climbed into delicious cool sheets and slept for a few hours. When he snapped back to awareness, he felt like he was working at normal levels again. For someone as restless and energetic as he was, sitting on an airplane hour after hour had been torture.
Now he had to get to work. First, he rented a car for the next few days. A dark blue Nissan seemed to suit his needs. Bane had no contacts in Los Angeles at the moment. Years ago, he had known a man named Char, who had minor pyrokinetic abilities, and they had worked together a few times. But the last he had heard, Char was in Florida doing car detailing. Settling down to getting his bearings, Bane spent the day driving to the scenes of the Hunchback crimes. He got a feel for LA traffic, so different from Manhattan but equally cutthroat, and he established in his mind where everything was. It wasn't often that he had an opportunity like this to make a mental map of the action, and he appreciated the chance. Toward five o'clock, he had a meal at a medium-level restaurant, drove around for another hour or so, then headed back to his motel.
Stripping down to his shorts, Bane stepped to the middle of the room. He placed his fists by his hips and bowed low in honor to Teacher Chael, far away at Tel Shai, then began his DohRa form. At first, it seemed almost like yoga, with a series of poses and stances, then it progressed into various combination moves. As he warmed up, his motions accelerated and soon he was whipping through punches and blocks and kicks that blurred out in every direction as if the room was filled with imaginary opponents. Even without training, Bane's enhanced speed would have made him a dangerous fighter. But, having studied Kumundu for years under Teacher Chael, he had added the skills which enabled him to tackle the most nightmarish creatures in the Midnight War on an equal footing. The DohRa form reversed itself, winding down as he slowed until he ended up again bowing in gratitude for the knowledge he (and only a few others) had been granted.
Covered with sweat, Bane took another shower, pulled on fresh shorts and a T-shirt from his knapsack and plopped down on the double bed. He did not glance toward the TV but dug into a stack of newspapers he had picked up in the lobby. It was an oddity that he had no interest in fiction; he didn't read novels or watch TV series or even take in movies. They just did not register with him, but he studied the newspapers hungrily and seemed to pick up a great amount between the lines. Bane went to sleep early, had no dreams and sat up wide awake at six. Again, he ordered a substantial breakfast and got dressed. He had paid for the room for three days, but he took his knapsack with him to the rented car. As he was stowing gear from the knapsack into his pockets, items like a lockpick set and a flexible hacksaw blade, his phone rang.
"Good morning," came a pleasant voice. "This is Lenore at Mr Deising's office."
"Hello. I'm by the airport. What time were you expecting me?"
"Oh, please come directly. Mr Deising will see you as soon as you arrive. He will bump any other appointments."
"I'm flattered," said the Dire Wolf, although he wasn't. "I'm on my way."
Bane had driven past Silver Mountain Studios the previous day, getting a good look at its entrance. A security guard checked that he was expected and a valet parked his car while he was escorted through a green metal door set in a plain white concrete wall. Bane was led through what looked like a medieval village with thatched huts, a round well and lots of mud all over. In the middle of the set was a pile of 2x4s and scraps of wood, so he guessed the construction was still under way. They emerged into a conventional business office, walked down a long corridor lined with movie posters and finally through a door with a frosted glass window and absolutely no identifying sign,
As his escort turned and hurried back the way he had come, Jeremy Bane stepped into a reception area that almost made him laugh. It was huge, big enough to park a Greyhound bus in, and filled with flashy chrome furniture, framed photos on pale blue walls and a white carpeted floor that reminded him of a sheepdog. From behind a glass desk with no drawers or shelves, Lenore DeAngelis rose and sauntered over to offer her hand in greeting.
She was a luscious ash blonde with a smile that blazed, long slim legs and breasts that never belonged on a thin framework like her body. Bane was not taken with her. He thought there was not much of the original woman left, and he felt vaguely uneasy, as if he was talking to a burn victim who had been surgically rebuilt. He was going to have this reaction frequently in LA.
"Please, right this way," she sang in a husky voice. As she lightly touched his sleeve with just the manicured nails of one hand, Bane got a good look at her. The swell of the cleavage and the faint delicate perfume were lost on him, his training and experience made him a poor subject for feminine ruses. He was noticing tiny scars at the corners of her eyes, the barely visible depression where a mole had been removed. It was his nature to look for signs of disguise.
And, despite his conscious mind reassuring him that she was harmless, part of his awareness went into judging what possible threat she might be if she were to attack him. Her clinging maroon dress did not seem to offer an places for concealed weapons, nor did her slim but not athletic body. Still, he had known assassins who seemed more pampered and harmless, yet were deadly masters of the sudden attack. That female Brumal who had lunged with a poison needle toward his eye that night in Androval, for example....
Deising's office was a surprise. It was a cluttered blast of confusion. Bane's eyes needed a second to take in the jumble of impressions which reacherd them. Movie props were all over the place, a plaster skull with a single eye in its forehead sitting on a chair, models of spaceships hanging on wire from the ceiling, plaster lifemasks of famous actors, futuristic uniforms displayed on headless department store mannequins, posters and stacks of DVDs ready to fall over... it was a joyous confusion of bright colors and unmatching shapes. A heavyset man got up from beind a desk hidden in papers and rushed forward with an extended hand.
Bane had not known what to expect. He had vague ideas a Hollywood producer would be a short man with an immense belly, a smelly cigar in a thick-lipped mouth, perhaps a gaudy pinky ring. He was not sure where he gotten that image from. But Stephen Deising was a cheerful pudgy man in his thirties, wearing an oversized red football jersey with the number 11 on it. He had a full beard and longish auburn hair that swept over the back of his neck, and he pumped Bane's hand in an eager grasp.
"It really IS you, I can hardly believe it! Come in come in, here let me clear off that chair, I need to straighten this place up." He got Bane seated near his desk and hustled back to sit in his own chair. "This is exciting. I never thought I would actually meet you."
"You know who I am?" Bane asked. "I'm a little surprised."
"Oh GOD yes. The Dire Wolf! I have been following you since I was a kid. The time you captured Samhain, that was amazing. Then when you fought Seneca hand to hand, it was just fantastic. The battles with John Grim and Wu Lung. I used to cut the story out every time you were mentioned in the New York papers, and I knew, I KNEW, that they were not reporting a tenth of what you were up to. Listen, I never found a photo of Khang anywhere, I'm dying to know what he looked like."
"Khang could not be photographed," Bane said. "He left a burned out spot on film. And you know he is dead, don't you?"
Deising abruptly became sober. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know. Almost nothing is known for sure about you and your KDF. Did they disband? I haven't seen any mention of them anywhere in years."
The Dire wolf had an edge in his voice now. "That's done. Most of my friends are gone now. I didn't know people were even aware of us." He turned the cold force of his gray eyes on the man. "Listen, Mr Deising, I don't mean to seem unfriendly, but let's get to why you called me here."
"Right. Right. Well, Mr Bane. Ah, I have always been interested in the Midnight War, it's fascinating and so hard to find any hard facts about. But I didn't ask you to come here because my hero worship, although I am just giddy to see you in the flesh. The truth is, I saw the Hunchback of Hollywood!" Seeing an encouraging look on Bane's face, he went on, "I was scouting locations. We're doing a sequel to WHISTLING IN THE DARK, Donnie Cooke has already signed up. So I'm out past Bronson Canyons which have been done to death but I think different angles and some greenery could make it work. It was just Lenore and I, she has a good eye. This goddam rock the size of my head goes flying past me hard enough to earn me an obit. It bounces off the canyon wall and rolls away, not that I notice because my heart has missed a dozen beats and I'm trying to start breathing again. I saw the Hunchback. He gives Ugly new meaning.
"Hideous as he is, and he is hideous, the guy is quick on his feet. I see him shake his fist at me and scamper off quick as a cat. I find myself sitting on the ground because to be honest I am not used to almost getting killed. That was back on Wednesday. I think about this Hunchback freak all the time, the police are no help, they seem to have forgotten about him, and I ask around town about good bodyguards.
"Then I thought about you. There was a little bit in a New York paper the other day, I think the DAILY NEWS, how you brought in a pyscho-killer named Yellow Bill. He had slaughtered a family, you tracked him down somehow and beat the living hell out of him. The paper said you had moved your PI office to 3rd Avenue and I got the idea to give you a call," he stopped to take a breath.
Bane had reached his limit for sitting. He got up, strolled over to a shelf that held little models of super-heroes in heroic poses, and turned to look back at Deising. "Any idea why he wanted to kill you?"
"You like those? Burt Ivan made them for me. Ah no, no one seems to have any idea why the Hunchback attacks people, he doesn't seem to have an agenda. The victims have nothing in common, well, they are in the business but who isn't?"
"Do you think he is a normal man wearing a costume?"
"No. Absolutely not. He was stripped to the waist, I saw him maybe twenty feet away in bright daylight. I know prosthetics, Mr Bane, I would swear he really is extremely deformed."
"That's a part that doesn't make sense," Bane said, "because you could not ask for anyone more conspicuous. How can he move around without being spotted? How has no one gotten a lead on him? From what I've read, he has struck at various points in the LA area. Somehow he is able to go out in public without being identified." He glanced at a poster for some teen comedy called TROUBLE ON TWO LEGS, with art that depicted a blonde cheerleader diving from an airplane with a roll opf toilet paper unreeling behind her.
"I can take you to where I saw him," Deising offered.
"Yes. That's a good place to start." Bane gave up trying to make sense of the paraphenalia in the office. None of it looked familiar to him, although he imagined millions of fans would have loved to have been there. He watched as Deising thumbed a switch on his desk and summoned his assistant. A second later, the curvy blonde paraded in with a thick bundle of papers under one arm. "Lenore, have Mrs Crenshaw watch the office. We are going to show our guest where I nearly had my head popped like a zit. And call for the limo to be brought out front."
III.
Sitting in the plush back of the limo, air conditioned to being chilly, Bane rode next to Stephen Deising while Lenora drove. He had already declined various drinks and now had turn down ofers of assorted drugs. "Sorry, I have to be disciplined. Listen, about the Hunchback's motives..?"
"I have a theory. I think he's a critic, no, seriously. Two of his murders stopped a sequel to a blockbuster that was admittedly in bad taste. Another killing was a screenwriter who was working on a musical comedy about famine. In both cases, my production company took over the projects, I wasn't going to be intimidated."
Bane nodded. "So in a way, you benefitted from the Hunchback murders. Not that you wanted it that way."
"Of course not. I just didn't want those movies to go unproduced because of some nut. Excuse me, I just have to ask a question. I was curious about the group Red Sect. I know you broke them up twice. But one article said they were not really that bad. They were just rich people doing some role playing. What's the truth?"
"Red Sect? They certainly were not harmless," Bane growled. "That was the Lundborg family. Two brothers founded the cult to use black magick for personal gain. They are both dead now, but one brother had two sons and the other had a daughter, all of them are still tied up with the occult. "
"But what did they DO that was so bad?"
"You name it. Ritual murder, for a start. They held orgies, not sex for its own sake but to build mystic power. Red Sect members used magick to get rich by killing rivals, they stole anything valuable they wanted, paintings and antiques, and they particularly enjoyed rape followed with a mindwipe so the victim didn't even know for sure what had happened. I smashed them hard and to tell the truth, if they reform, I'll break them again."
"Got it. Got it. Say, when we get done checking out the scene where I saw the Hunchback, are you interested in going to a party tonight? Melina Powell is going to be there. She would like you, I guarantee it."
"No. Sorry. I'm all business." By now, they were in the Hollywood Hills and on dirt roads leading to Bronson Caverns. Although Bane did not recognize the area, anyone who had watched low-budget movies and TV series would have found something familiar about the scenery. Lenore pulled over and they got out. It was hot but not unbearable because of a good breeze. Bane slowly turned, checking out the area as Deising yawned and stretched. His assistant slung a large handbag over one shoulder and changed her heels for sensible flat shoes. "Over here," Deising said and stepped up on a boulder the size of an SUV.
Bane moved closer, Lenore behind him. Deising was explaining how close he had come to death and how fast his heart had been beating. Without warning, without planting his feet or preparing, Bane spun in a half-circle and blasted a straight punch that caught Lenore square on the chin. It sounded like an axe biting into wood. The woman lifted up on her toes and fell backwards, arms swinging loosely and a small pistol spun from her limp hand to clatter on the rocky ground.
The Dire Wolf watched her with a slight smile. "Oh, that was cute. She had a gun the whole time." He glanced back at the horrified Deising. "You had to mention Red Sect, didn't you? That gave it away."
"What the HELL? You punched Lenore!"
"Not Lenore," Bane said. "Eleanor. Eleanor Lundborg. Grand-daughter of the founder of Red Sect. I noticed the plastic surgery and dismissed it, figured that this was Hollywood after all. But her surgery looked different. When you mentioned Red Sect, I caught the way she walked and the hostile looks she gave me and I recognized her. One more Lundborg down." He turned back to Deising. "And you knew who she was."
The moviemaker had climbed down from the boulder, edging over to an open area. He suddenly tugged his football jersey up over his head to reveal a doughy, untanned torso. "Heh. You live up to your hype."
Bane watched him with a strange gleam in those pale silvery eyes. "She was not the sorcerer her father was, or her uncle. The way she pulled a gun shows that. But I guess she knew enough to teach you one spell. Right... Hunchback?"
In a breath, Deising shuddered and his body swelled up into a misshapen muscular hulk. His thick arms reached apelike past his knees, a bony sharp-ridged hunch extended up behind his hideous head, and his face twisted into something unrecognizable. Half a second had passed before he pounced. The earlier victims had been so dumbfounded by the transformation that they stood paralyzed while he seized them. But none of them were Jeremy Bane. As the Hunchback rushed at him, the Dire Wolf stepped to one side like a matador evading the bull. His arm whipped up and back, and his hard fist cracked down at the base of the monster's neck. A normal man would have been killed. The Hunchback dropped to one knee with a grunt of pain, jumped up again and came at his intended prey. This was what Bane had almost been hoping for.
As the brute reached out, Bane seized his extended arm with a grip that splintered the bones in the wrist. His free hand smashed to the side of the deformed face with a force that snapped the monster's head around as far as it could go without the neck breaking. The Hunchback reeled. He stood back up, snarling, and swung a wide looping roundhouse. Bane swayed so it went past him, saw his opening and ripped a hooking punch that lifted the brute up on his toes. All this took place in a few seconds. Most observers would have caught only a confused flurry of motion and a few smacking noises.
When the Hunchback fell face down, Bane stole a glance back at Lenore. She was still out. It looked like that nose might need to be redone one more time. He went over to where the monster was down on hands and knees. That distorted face swung up to glare hatefully at him and Bane whirled on one foot, his other leg whipping around to land a reverse kick that sounded like a gunshot. The Hunchback fell, still not completely unconscious, still struggling to rise.
"If I were you, I'd stay down," Bane told him. But the monster doggedly got to one knee, then stood up shakily. In a big paw, he held the gun that Lenore had dropped, swinging it up to point right at Bane's face. The Dire Wolf had never moved more quickly. He plunged forward in a dark blur, blocking the pistol off to one side with his left hand, then bringing the same hand back down with the palm edge rigid as an axe to the base of the neck. There was no mistaking the finality of that crunching noise.
Breathing just a bit quicker than usual, Bane watched the body. Long minutes passed. The Hunchback remained in the distorted form he had taken through gralic magick. That was a relief, the Wolf thought. Eleanor Lundborg was a fugitive who had been living under a false name. She could disappear when he turned her over to the FBI's Department 21 Black. But the other one.... Bringing in the body of the notorious Hunchback Killer was one thing, but he didn't know how he could explain it if he had come back with the corpse of Stephen Deising.
3/1/2013
9/20- 9/22/2004
I.
Standing by the sink, Bane gingerly removed the bandages from his left ribs. He studied the reflection in the mirror. Not as bad as he had expected. Those stitches could come out today, there was no sign of infection despite the fact the wound had been inflicted by a filthy hook in the hands of a raving psychotic. Opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, he took out fresh bandages and applied them with white tape, binding them with the neatness of long experience. It was worth the slice to have nailed Yellow Bill and finally get that madman behind bars. He studied his reflection critically and seemed satisfied. Even nearing fifty, his body had zero fat. Long, hard muscles of a runner marked his build. He leaned forward. Yes, the full head of black hair did have a grey strand peeking out here and there. But then he was lucky to still have a head, much less hair on it...
From beyond the bathroom door in the living room, the phone rang. Bane reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp, he swung through the bedroom and plunged into the living room so quickly. On the end table sat a cordless phone in its charger, and he snatched it up. "Yeah? Hello?"
"Is this Jeremy Bane?"
"Could be," answered the Dire Wolf. He lifted the phone and walked over to where his black turtleneck had been dropped on the couch. "Who's asking?"
"This is Stephen Deising's office," came the mellow female voice. "Be here Monday at eleven."
Bane yanked the turtleneck on over his head. "Why would I want to do that?"
"It's Stephen Deising!" the voice sounded outraged.
"So? Wait. Is that the movie director?"
"The movie director....?! We are talking about THE movie director of our times. My God, man..."
Bane plopped down on his leather couch and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. "I don't go to movies. I never have. Sorry if Stephen Deising's name doesn't thrill me. Listen. What's this about? Why does he want to see me?"
The woman seemed to be struggling to choke down disbelief. "Let me start again. Mr Bane, I understand you are now a private investigator but the stories about you tell of... well, the supernatural. You were a ghostbuster, a monster hunter. Am I correct?"
"Absolutely. What do I have to do with a Hollywood director?"
"I thought you would have heard of the Hunchback Murders."
Now, the Dire Wolf came alive, sitting up. "Oh yes! I've followed those crimes. What does Deising have to do with them?"
"I can't tell you now. Are you coming out here?'
"Yes. I think I'm interested." He thought for a second. It was Saturday afternoon, and he had no outstanding cases. "I can be there Monday."
"Excellent," she said. "My name is Lenore DeAngelis, Mr Deising's personal assistant. I will explain everything when I see you."
"Okay," Bane said as he hung up. This was unexpected. He leaped up and paced around his apartment. The price he paid for his enchanced reflexes was a hyper metabolism that did not let him rest. This apartment was clean and neat, but hardly luxurious. In front of him where he sat was a low coffee table with two comfortable armchairs on either side. The wall to his right had two windows facing west for afternoon sunlight, and a stove, sink and refrigerator in a row. The wall to his left was shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, newspapers, and general debris that collected there. The shelves were interrupted by the door to the hall and beyond that the stairs going down to ground level.
The wall opposite where he sat was bare, broken only by the door to his bedroom... the bedroom itself had been partitioned to make its bathroom. There were five lamps in the living room, a rather small TV which was seldom on and which sat on a wheeled cart with its cable coiled up under it. There was a radio on the window sill and a microwave on the counter between the sink and stove. Everything was decent but not at all impressive.
The funny thing was that Bane had wealth. He had inherited Kenneth Dred's estate and had amassed a huge amount of spoils during his years in the Midnight War. If he wanted to, he could easily be living in a penthouse overlooking Central Park but this had never occurred to him. This apartment, three blocks from his similarly modest office on 44th Street near 3rd Avenue, was all he needed. The Dire Wolf went to the window and looked out on the street two floors below. It was getting near dusk. Soon the creatures of the night would be out and about, and to be honest, he was one of them. But tonight he would not go prowling, looking for trouble, since he had a new case to begin. Picking up the phone, he called his travel agency and confirmed they could get him on an eleven o'clock flight, although pulling the necessary strings would be expensive. So many people owed him their lives or the lives of their loved ones that he could call on favors in a wide range of areas if needed.
Bane went into his bedroom and came out with a cardboard box filled with clippings from newspapers. They were not organized in any sane manner. Despite his best resolutions, he had never gotten around to setting up a filing cabinet much less entering the information on his laptop. Dropping the box by the couch, he got a big glass of ice water to sip from and sat down to dig through the mess. As he sorted and made stacks of the papers, Bane remembered a bit wistfully of how high-tech and organized his operation had been at the old headquarters building on 38th Street. It would be so easy to walk over there and pull up all the information he could possibly want about this case in a few seconds. But then, he would start talking to Sable about cases. Argent would want to spar, he'd run into the little blonde Unicorn and into Trom Girl. Then either a few of them would want to go with him on this Hunchback business or they would have something urgent themselves he might want to help with....
No! He snorted angrily and went back to digging through the clippings. The new team had to be on their own. It was their time. He had known it was right for him to step down and hand over the crusade to them, hard as it had been. Bane forced his thoughts to the task at hand.
Soon he had found stories about the case. The Hunchback Murders. There had been five of them over the past few years. Perhaps there were more that went unconnected, but these were the ones where the killer himself had been spotted. The brute was described as no more than five feet tall, but immensely wide, with thick musular arms that reached almost to the ground and a sharp triangular hump that stuck up past his head. All the descriptions of his face were unflattering; he seemed to be ugly in a variety of ways. As colorful a figure as the Hunchback undeniably was, the brutal nature of the killings was so gruesome as to be only carefully alluded to in the news. What he did to his victims was vile even by the standards of serial killers.
It had been over a year since the last sighting. New scandals, new celebrity romances and political wrongdoings always took the stage and old sensations became forgotten. The Hunchback had not been seen in fourteen months and he was by now almost old history. Bane fixed the known details of the murders in his head, threw all the clippings back in the cardboard box and returned it to the closet in his bedroom. Stripping down, he took a packet of metallic material from his dresser and unfolded it into a suit of silk-thin flexible armor. It covered his torso, arms and legs when he tugged it snugly into place. The Trom-metal armor was not completely indestructible nor did it provide perfect protection but it had saved him from many bullets and blades over the years.
He dressed all in black, as usual. Boots, slacks, a fresh long-sleeved turtleneck. He had a permit for the long-barreled .38 Smith & wesson, but he would have to surrender it to be stored in baggage. Tugging up the sleeves of his shirt, Bane fastened on two leather sheaths which held a matched pair of silver-bladed daggers on his forearms, hilts forward. Over these sheaths were soft shells carefully molded to feel just like human muscle when touched. Bane had been searched many times by enemies, and only once or twice had anyone detected the knives under that molding. The padding was a dense silicon gel devised by the Trom; so far, he had gone through airport security six times with his daggers under those molds and not been caught yet.
From a corner of the apartment, he picked up a knapsack he always kept ready. It contained a change of clothes, first aid supplies, various small tools and gimmicks in organized compartments. Bane had never had a pet, not even fish, and there were no plants in his apartment. All he had to do was turn out the lights and lock the door behind him. Once, he had constantly relied on elaborate alarms and security systems but most of his enemies were no longer in any condition to be a threat. Bane stepped out into the warm twilight and waved down a taxi. He would be at the airport way ahead of departure time.
II.
Sunday morning, a rather sullen and even grumpy Jeremy Bane checked into the Holiday Inn motel near LAX. He ordered a huge breakfast with double servings of scrambled eggs, ham, toast and hash browns, with apple juice, and devoured it all. His accelerated metabolism burned calories ferociously. He endured a scalding hot shower, climbed into delicious cool sheets and slept for a few hours. When he snapped back to awareness, he felt like he was working at normal levels again. For someone as restless and energetic as he was, sitting on an airplane hour after hour had been torture.
Now he had to get to work. First, he rented a car for the next few days. A dark blue Nissan seemed to suit his needs. Bane had no contacts in Los Angeles at the moment. Years ago, he had known a man named Char, who had minor pyrokinetic abilities, and they had worked together a few times. But the last he had heard, Char was in Florida doing car detailing. Settling down to getting his bearings, Bane spent the day driving to the scenes of the Hunchback crimes. He got a feel for LA traffic, so different from Manhattan but equally cutthroat, and he established in his mind where everything was. It wasn't often that he had an opportunity like this to make a mental map of the action, and he appreciated the chance. Toward five o'clock, he had a meal at a medium-level restaurant, drove around for another hour or so, then headed back to his motel.
Stripping down to his shorts, Bane stepped to the middle of the room. He placed his fists by his hips and bowed low in honor to Teacher Chael, far away at Tel Shai, then began his DohRa form. At first, it seemed almost like yoga, with a series of poses and stances, then it progressed into various combination moves. As he warmed up, his motions accelerated and soon he was whipping through punches and blocks and kicks that blurred out in every direction as if the room was filled with imaginary opponents. Even without training, Bane's enhanced speed would have made him a dangerous fighter. But, having studied Kumundu for years under Teacher Chael, he had added the skills which enabled him to tackle the most nightmarish creatures in the Midnight War on an equal footing. The DohRa form reversed itself, winding down as he slowed until he ended up again bowing in gratitude for the knowledge he (and only a few others) had been granted.
Covered with sweat, Bane took another shower, pulled on fresh shorts and a T-shirt from his knapsack and plopped down on the double bed. He did not glance toward the TV but dug into a stack of newspapers he had picked up in the lobby. It was an oddity that he had no interest in fiction; he didn't read novels or watch TV series or even take in movies. They just did not register with him, but he studied the newspapers hungrily and seemed to pick up a great amount between the lines. Bane went to sleep early, had no dreams and sat up wide awake at six. Again, he ordered a substantial breakfast and got dressed. He had paid for the room for three days, but he took his knapsack with him to the rented car. As he was stowing gear from the knapsack into his pockets, items like a lockpick set and a flexible hacksaw blade, his phone rang.
"Good morning," came a pleasant voice. "This is Lenore at Mr Deising's office."
"Hello. I'm by the airport. What time were you expecting me?"
"Oh, please come directly. Mr Deising will see you as soon as you arrive. He will bump any other appointments."
"I'm flattered," said the Dire Wolf, although he wasn't. "I'm on my way."
Bane had driven past Silver Mountain Studios the previous day, getting a good look at its entrance. A security guard checked that he was expected and a valet parked his car while he was escorted through a green metal door set in a plain white concrete wall. Bane was led through what looked like a medieval village with thatched huts, a round well and lots of mud all over. In the middle of the set was a pile of 2x4s and scraps of wood, so he guessed the construction was still under way. They emerged into a conventional business office, walked down a long corridor lined with movie posters and finally through a door with a frosted glass window and absolutely no identifying sign,
As his escort turned and hurried back the way he had come, Jeremy Bane stepped into a reception area that almost made him laugh. It was huge, big enough to park a Greyhound bus in, and filled with flashy chrome furniture, framed photos on pale blue walls and a white carpeted floor that reminded him of a sheepdog. From behind a glass desk with no drawers or shelves, Lenore DeAngelis rose and sauntered over to offer her hand in greeting.
She was a luscious ash blonde with a smile that blazed, long slim legs and breasts that never belonged on a thin framework like her body. Bane was not taken with her. He thought there was not much of the original woman left, and he felt vaguely uneasy, as if he was talking to a burn victim who had been surgically rebuilt. He was going to have this reaction frequently in LA.
"Please, right this way," she sang in a husky voice. As she lightly touched his sleeve with just the manicured nails of one hand, Bane got a good look at her. The swell of the cleavage and the faint delicate perfume were lost on him, his training and experience made him a poor subject for feminine ruses. He was noticing tiny scars at the corners of her eyes, the barely visible depression where a mole had been removed. It was his nature to look for signs of disguise.
And, despite his conscious mind reassuring him that she was harmless, part of his awareness went into judging what possible threat she might be if she were to attack him. Her clinging maroon dress did not seem to offer an places for concealed weapons, nor did her slim but not athletic body. Still, he had known assassins who seemed more pampered and harmless, yet were deadly masters of the sudden attack. That female Brumal who had lunged with a poison needle toward his eye that night in Androval, for example....
Deising's office was a surprise. It was a cluttered blast of confusion. Bane's eyes needed a second to take in the jumble of impressions which reacherd them. Movie props were all over the place, a plaster skull with a single eye in its forehead sitting on a chair, models of spaceships hanging on wire from the ceiling, plaster lifemasks of famous actors, futuristic uniforms displayed on headless department store mannequins, posters and stacks of DVDs ready to fall over... it was a joyous confusion of bright colors and unmatching shapes. A heavyset man got up from beind a desk hidden in papers and rushed forward with an extended hand.
Bane had not known what to expect. He had vague ideas a Hollywood producer would be a short man with an immense belly, a smelly cigar in a thick-lipped mouth, perhaps a gaudy pinky ring. He was not sure where he gotten that image from. But Stephen Deising was a cheerful pudgy man in his thirties, wearing an oversized red football jersey with the number 11 on it. He had a full beard and longish auburn hair that swept over the back of his neck, and he pumped Bane's hand in an eager grasp.
"It really IS you, I can hardly believe it! Come in come in, here let me clear off that chair, I need to straighten this place up." He got Bane seated near his desk and hustled back to sit in his own chair. "This is exciting. I never thought I would actually meet you."
"You know who I am?" Bane asked. "I'm a little surprised."
"Oh GOD yes. The Dire Wolf! I have been following you since I was a kid. The time you captured Samhain, that was amazing. Then when you fought Seneca hand to hand, it was just fantastic. The battles with John Grim and Wu Lung. I used to cut the story out every time you were mentioned in the New York papers, and I knew, I KNEW, that they were not reporting a tenth of what you were up to. Listen, I never found a photo of Khang anywhere, I'm dying to know what he looked like."
"Khang could not be photographed," Bane said. "He left a burned out spot on film. And you know he is dead, don't you?"
Deising abruptly became sober. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know. Almost nothing is known for sure about you and your KDF. Did they disband? I haven't seen any mention of them anywhere in years."
The Dire wolf had an edge in his voice now. "That's done. Most of my friends are gone now. I didn't know people were even aware of us." He turned the cold force of his gray eyes on the man. "Listen, Mr Deising, I don't mean to seem unfriendly, but let's get to why you called me here."
"Right. Right. Well, Mr Bane. Ah, I have always been interested in the Midnight War, it's fascinating and so hard to find any hard facts about. But I didn't ask you to come here because my hero worship, although I am just giddy to see you in the flesh. The truth is, I saw the Hunchback of Hollywood!" Seeing an encouraging look on Bane's face, he went on, "I was scouting locations. We're doing a sequel to WHISTLING IN THE DARK, Donnie Cooke has already signed up. So I'm out past Bronson Canyons which have been done to death but I think different angles and some greenery could make it work. It was just Lenore and I, she has a good eye. This goddam rock the size of my head goes flying past me hard enough to earn me an obit. It bounces off the canyon wall and rolls away, not that I notice because my heart has missed a dozen beats and I'm trying to start breathing again. I saw the Hunchback. He gives Ugly new meaning.
"Hideous as he is, and he is hideous, the guy is quick on his feet. I see him shake his fist at me and scamper off quick as a cat. I find myself sitting on the ground because to be honest I am not used to almost getting killed. That was back on Wednesday. I think about this Hunchback freak all the time, the police are no help, they seem to have forgotten about him, and I ask around town about good bodyguards.
"Then I thought about you. There was a little bit in a New York paper the other day, I think the DAILY NEWS, how you brought in a pyscho-killer named Yellow Bill. He had slaughtered a family, you tracked him down somehow and beat the living hell out of him. The paper said you had moved your PI office to 3rd Avenue and I got the idea to give you a call," he stopped to take a breath.
Bane had reached his limit for sitting. He got up, strolled over to a shelf that held little models of super-heroes in heroic poses, and turned to look back at Deising. "Any idea why he wanted to kill you?"
"You like those? Burt Ivan made them for me. Ah no, no one seems to have any idea why the Hunchback attacks people, he doesn't seem to have an agenda. The victims have nothing in common, well, they are in the business but who isn't?"
"Do you think he is a normal man wearing a costume?"
"No. Absolutely not. He was stripped to the waist, I saw him maybe twenty feet away in bright daylight. I know prosthetics, Mr Bane, I would swear he really is extremely deformed."
"That's a part that doesn't make sense," Bane said, "because you could not ask for anyone more conspicuous. How can he move around without being spotted? How has no one gotten a lead on him? From what I've read, he has struck at various points in the LA area. Somehow he is able to go out in public without being identified." He glanced at a poster for some teen comedy called TROUBLE ON TWO LEGS, with art that depicted a blonde cheerleader diving from an airplane with a roll opf toilet paper unreeling behind her.
"I can take you to where I saw him," Deising offered.
"Yes. That's a good place to start." Bane gave up trying to make sense of the paraphenalia in the office. None of it looked familiar to him, although he imagined millions of fans would have loved to have been there. He watched as Deising thumbed a switch on his desk and summoned his assistant. A second later, the curvy blonde paraded in with a thick bundle of papers under one arm. "Lenore, have Mrs Crenshaw watch the office. We are going to show our guest where I nearly had my head popped like a zit. And call for the limo to be brought out front."
III.
Sitting in the plush back of the limo, air conditioned to being chilly, Bane rode next to Stephen Deising while Lenora drove. He had already declined various drinks and now had turn down ofers of assorted drugs. "Sorry, I have to be disciplined. Listen, about the Hunchback's motives..?"
"I have a theory. I think he's a critic, no, seriously. Two of his murders stopped a sequel to a blockbuster that was admittedly in bad taste. Another killing was a screenwriter who was working on a musical comedy about famine. In both cases, my production company took over the projects, I wasn't going to be intimidated."
Bane nodded. "So in a way, you benefitted from the Hunchback murders. Not that you wanted it that way."
"Of course not. I just didn't want those movies to go unproduced because of some nut. Excuse me, I just have to ask a question. I was curious about the group Red Sect. I know you broke them up twice. But one article said they were not really that bad. They were just rich people doing some role playing. What's the truth?"
"Red Sect? They certainly were not harmless," Bane growled. "That was the Lundborg family. Two brothers founded the cult to use black magick for personal gain. They are both dead now, but one brother had two sons and the other had a daughter, all of them are still tied up with the occult. "
"But what did they DO that was so bad?"
"You name it. Ritual murder, for a start. They held orgies, not sex for its own sake but to build mystic power. Red Sect members used magick to get rich by killing rivals, they stole anything valuable they wanted, paintings and antiques, and they particularly enjoyed rape followed with a mindwipe so the victim didn't even know for sure what had happened. I smashed them hard and to tell the truth, if they reform, I'll break them again."
"Got it. Got it. Say, when we get done checking out the scene where I saw the Hunchback, are you interested in going to a party tonight? Melina Powell is going to be there. She would like you, I guarantee it."
"No. Sorry. I'm all business." By now, they were in the Hollywood Hills and on dirt roads leading to Bronson Caverns. Although Bane did not recognize the area, anyone who had watched low-budget movies and TV series would have found something familiar about the scenery. Lenore pulled over and they got out. It was hot but not unbearable because of a good breeze. Bane slowly turned, checking out the area as Deising yawned and stretched. His assistant slung a large handbag over one shoulder and changed her heels for sensible flat shoes. "Over here," Deising said and stepped up on a boulder the size of an SUV.
Bane moved closer, Lenore behind him. Deising was explaining how close he had come to death and how fast his heart had been beating. Without warning, without planting his feet or preparing, Bane spun in a half-circle and blasted a straight punch that caught Lenore square on the chin. It sounded like an axe biting into wood. The woman lifted up on her toes and fell backwards, arms swinging loosely and a small pistol spun from her limp hand to clatter on the rocky ground.
The Dire Wolf watched her with a slight smile. "Oh, that was cute. She had a gun the whole time." He glanced back at the horrified Deising. "You had to mention Red Sect, didn't you? That gave it away."
"What the HELL? You punched Lenore!"
"Not Lenore," Bane said. "Eleanor. Eleanor Lundborg. Grand-daughter of the founder of Red Sect. I noticed the plastic surgery and dismissed it, figured that this was Hollywood after all. But her surgery looked different. When you mentioned Red Sect, I caught the way she walked and the hostile looks she gave me and I recognized her. One more Lundborg down." He turned back to Deising. "And you knew who she was."
The moviemaker had climbed down from the boulder, edging over to an open area. He suddenly tugged his football jersey up over his head to reveal a doughy, untanned torso. "Heh. You live up to your hype."
Bane watched him with a strange gleam in those pale silvery eyes. "She was not the sorcerer her father was, or her uncle. The way she pulled a gun shows that. But I guess she knew enough to teach you one spell. Right... Hunchback?"
In a breath, Deising shuddered and his body swelled up into a misshapen muscular hulk. His thick arms reached apelike past his knees, a bony sharp-ridged hunch extended up behind his hideous head, and his face twisted into something unrecognizable. Half a second had passed before he pounced. The earlier victims had been so dumbfounded by the transformation that they stood paralyzed while he seized them. But none of them were Jeremy Bane. As the Hunchback rushed at him, the Dire Wolf stepped to one side like a matador evading the bull. His arm whipped up and back, and his hard fist cracked down at the base of the monster's neck. A normal man would have been killed. The Hunchback dropped to one knee with a grunt of pain, jumped up again and came at his intended prey. This was what Bane had almost been hoping for.
As the brute reached out, Bane seized his extended arm with a grip that splintered the bones in the wrist. His free hand smashed to the side of the deformed face with a force that snapped the monster's head around as far as it could go without the neck breaking. The Hunchback reeled. He stood back up, snarling, and swung a wide looping roundhouse. Bane swayed so it went past him, saw his opening and ripped a hooking punch that lifted the brute up on his toes. All this took place in a few seconds. Most observers would have caught only a confused flurry of motion and a few smacking noises.
When the Hunchback fell face down, Bane stole a glance back at Lenore. She was still out. It looked like that nose might need to be redone one more time. He went over to where the monster was down on hands and knees. That distorted face swung up to glare hatefully at him and Bane whirled on one foot, his other leg whipping around to land a reverse kick that sounded like a gunshot. The Hunchback fell, still not completely unconscious, still struggling to rise.
"If I were you, I'd stay down," Bane told him. But the monster doggedly got to one knee, then stood up shakily. In a big paw, he held the gun that Lenore had dropped, swinging it up to point right at Bane's face. The Dire Wolf had never moved more quickly. He plunged forward in a dark blur, blocking the pistol off to one side with his left hand, then bringing the same hand back down with the palm edge rigid as an axe to the base of the neck. There was no mistaking the finality of that crunching noise.
Breathing just a bit quicker than usual, Bane watched the body. Long minutes passed. The Hunchback remained in the distorted form he had taken through gralic magick. That was a relief, the Wolf thought. Eleanor Lundborg was a fugitive who had been living under a false name. She could disappear when he turned her over to the FBI's Department 21 Black. But the other one.... Bringing in the body of the notorious Hunchback Killer was one thing, but he didn't know how he could explain it if he had come back with the corpse of Stephen Deising.
3/1/2013
