"Eyes Forced Open"

[dochermes]

"Eyes Forced Open"

5/9-5/13/2020

I.

Skinny as he was, Carlo Ventura squeezed through the bathroom window without trouble. When he and his gang had investigated the cabin out in the Catskills the night before, they found both the front and back doors locked. The windows were locked as well. The only exception was the small square window at the rear through which they had peered into a bathroom. This slid upward without resistance. Carlo had mentally rehearsed his next moves. Under the window was a white wooden cabinet. He placed his hands on it and slid smoothly in to stand up on the tiled floor.

Tied to his wrist with a short cord was his dimmed flashlight. Carlo had taped a piece of tissue paper over the lense to emit a vague diffused light that hopefully would not give him away. The door was open, showing a short hallway with a floor to ceiling bookcase. That made him laugh to himself. Everyone knew the old geezer who lived here was blind.

A few inches under six feet and thin, Carlo was wearing a dark sweatshirt and tight jeans, with black cross-trainers. He had wiry black hair that hadn't been cut in too long and a vestigial mustache that showed no signs of ever filling in. It was three-thirty in the morning. He and his gang had watched this cabin since nightfall.

Heading into the living room, he moved as slowly and as silently as possible. To his left, the bedroom door was closed and no light showed under it. Carlo turned in a slow circle and began picking up likely items to swipe. The tablet and Iphone sitting on the table first. He took them with their chargers attached and handed them through the bathroom window where Stacey and Dylan were waiting to receive them. Then some nicknacks that looked like genuine silver, including a ceremonial plate of some sort on its own stand.

The constant anger boiling just under his surface grew worse. This wasn't as big a haul as he had hoped. He was sure that his partners would be laughing at him and saying he was a loser, and just the thought was enough to make him fume. If he didn't find some decent swag, he was tempted to drag the old blind man out of bed and give him a stomping.

On a shelf in the kitchen, he found a wallet. Maybe this would help. There was a debit card, two credit cards and some bills... four twenties and a ten. Damn it. For the risk he was taking, he deserved more. He pocketed those items and moved back to the living room. Carlo was shaking with rage at being cheated this way. On a shelf were some nice-looking gems, including a geode that he knew was worth some bucks. That was a big ol' opal set in a silver frame. Better than nothing.

Almost hoping that Stacey and Dylan would dare mouth off about the meager haul so he could yell at them, Carlo was ready to bring the stones to the window when he paused. What was that thing sitting on a stand by itself? He moved closer, still placing his feet down with care, not brushing against anything, breathing slowly. On a carved wooden stand sat a metal helmet. What the Hell? He examined it closely. It was made from a single piece of metal and would cover the entire head, with a ridge running from brow toward the back in a low crest. The face plate had no openings for mouth or nose, so breathing might be difficult while wearing the thing. And there were no openings for vision, just the outlines of two eyes etched into the surface.

But it seemed to be gold. Real gold. Maybe not 24 carat but pure enough to be worth a fortune. This helmet alone had to be more valuable than everything else he had stolen put together. Carlo hurried to hand the gems to his pals outside, then came back to the helmet.

Why was his heart pounding? Why was it hard to breathe? This was just another gig. Carlo Ventura had only the vaguest intimitation of what a fateful moment this was for him. He picked up the helmet and hissed through his teeth in surprise. Even though the living room was chilly, the metal of the eyeless helmet felt warm to the touch... warm as a living thing.

In a sudden panic, he hurried back to the bathroom. Carlo passed the weird helmet out to Dylan, then scrambled outside himself. He pulled the window shut, tugged off the thin cotton gloves and grabbed the helmet out of Dylan's startled grasp. They ran across the lawn to where they had parked their clunker on the side of the dirt road. Stacey and Dylan had already stowed what he had given them.

As Stacey got behind the wheel and started the old Hyundai up, with Dylan in the passenger seat, Carlo dove into the back seat and clutched the eyeless helmet to his chest.

"Dude, what's with you?" demanded Dylan. "Did the sucker wake up or what?"

"Aw, shut up! Keep running your mouth like that and I'll shut it for you." Curled up in the back seat, Carlo cradled the strange object tightly. He was terrified and could not have said why.

In the cabin, a fully-dressed and alert man in his sixties emerged from the bedroom. He could hear the car engine start up not far away. Garrison Nebel had grown more gaunt over the years, and his brown hair had turned to a solid white. His eyes still had opaque pupils from the gralic blast that had blinded him so long ago, but he moved about his cabin with the surety of a sighted man.

The gems that had been stolen had been purchased only a few days earlier at a crystal shop. Both the tablet and Iphone were old and had been erased of all data. The accounts on the credit cards had been closed and replacements were on the way. He had left all that out as bait. His real treasures were locked in a box beneath the bedroom floor.

Nebel stood before the empty post where Sagehelm had sat untouched the past few years. A deep sorrow dragged his spirit down and he tried to rise above that. It had been time to pass the talisman. He accepted it. Nebel only hoped that the Eyeless Helmet knew what it was doing.\

II.

When he reached Bearsville, Bane took the left turn. After almost two hours on the Thruway, driving more slowly along winding country roads was no hardship. He had only bought this new Subaru Outback two days earlier. Although he had loaded its trunk and compartments with the usual weapons and gear, he had not brought it to Megan yet for modifications.

Maybe it wouldn't be necessary. Maybe he wouldn't really need the armor body panels or bullet-resistant windows or the nozzles that sprayed either smoke or anesthetic gas. He was supposed to be retired, after all. More than a year earlier, he had shut down the Dire Wolf Agency and closed his office, then had vacated his apartment and bought a house in a quiet neighborhood of Forest Hills. Yardwork, sightseeing and visiting friends was his plan.

But the Midnight War never seemed to leave him alone for long.

Jeremy Bane was beginning to show signs of age. The short black hair was still full but grey strands were showing more thickly every year. Although the infamous pale grey eyes were still sharp and alert, crow's feet had settled in at the corners and grooves had deepened in the lean cheeks. Bane still moved with confidence and quickness, he was still thin and muscular, but he also showed a growing tendency to think things over before trying some death-defying stunt. He was finally becoming cautious.

Rolling along the simple two-lane road with its numerous twists and turns, Bane went past fields and woods with single houses spaced well apart. Each home had a mailbox by the road, and several had handmade cardboard signs which road FRESH EGGS or YARD WORK DONE CHEAP. Only once did he pass a store, a tiny cement block with a plate glass window that advertised COLD BEER and MILK- BREAD- CIGARETTES in red neon cursive.

Traffic coming from the other direction was sparse. Bane remembered this road and his thoughts went back to the desperate grueling battles he had fought in this area decades ago. For whatever reason, the lower Hudson Valley seemed to be a focus for Midnight War activity. The Group Mind. The Three Sleepers. The box that contained the Call of the Void. The Lycanthrope Gang. That had all been so long ago. And it had been in this area that he had first met Garrison Nebel.

Before he was quite ready to end his somber remniniscing, the Dire Wolf slowed and pulled into a gravel driveway. On a wood post was a white metal box that announced NEBEL and the number 1288. The red flag was lowered, meaning no mail had been delivered.

White birch trees flanked him as he pulled to a stop in front of the redwood cabin he had not visited in years. No car was parked nearby. Since Nebel was medically blind, even with his enhanced perception driving was beyond the mystic. He called as needed for taxis or for rides with friends, and often he hiked miles along the country roads as if every inch of the way was known to him.

In front of the house was a lilac bush in fragrant bloom. On a handcarved wooden bench under its shade, Nebel was sitting peacefully, hands folded, smiling to himself. The blind mystic wore plain mundane clothing... tan work boots, comfortably loose denim jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt with two breast pockets. It had been a decade since he had last worn the full ceremonial garb of the Sorcerer of Truth with its full-length cloak cloak and white tunic, an Eldar travel crystal hanging around his neck like an amulet.

Nebel rose smoothly to his feet and held up a hand in greeting. Shutting off the engine, Jeremy Bane called over, "Hey, Garrison! I'm sure you know it's me, right?"

"It's priceless when old friends meet," answered the mystic. He unclipped a pair of dark sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and slid them on to conceal his eyes. This was done as a courtesy for visitors. "Please, sit beside me for a moment. Smell the lilacs. Listen to the buzz of the hummingbird at my feeder and let the sunlight sink into your skin."

"Glad to oblige," said the Dire Wolf. He had deliberately refrained from wearing his trademark black uniform. In ordinary white sneakers, jeans and a blue polo shirt, he would have been hardly recognizable to those creatures of the night that feared him.

As Bane dropped lightly to the bench, Nebel tilted his head quizzically. "Ah. You are well, Jeremy. Your energy flows smoothly and strongly. I should not give mere flattery, but I think you still have another year before your speed and agility begin to decline to normal Human levels."

"Good to hear," Bane replied. "Your perception used to creep me out at first but I came to rely on it. So. Let me get to the point. How do you feel about giving up your helmet?

The deepest sigh formed within Nebel's lower chest and rose to escape him. "Ah. Jeremy. All these decades of emotional control, of Kumundu training, of Tel Shai disciplines to find spiritual calm. They all fail me. I am stricken. I feel like a child whose pet dog has died."

Bane surprised himself by reaching over and stroking the mystic's bony upper back. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that it gave them both great comfort. "Maybe it doesn't help but you've always said how this was inevitable someday."

"So true," Nebel said. "Sagehem was forged and ensorcelled in the Darthan Age, more than thirty thousand years ago. All the wisdom and insight of King Elzulang, first of the immortal Eldarin, went into its crafting."

Leaning back, watching a ruby-throated hummingbird hover by the red feeder full of sugar water, Bane chose his words carefully. "The Eyeless Helmet suited you so well. And yet, it had belonged to many sorcerers and adventurers long before you. You knew you would have to eventually pass it on."

"I know, I know." Nebel straightened up and his voice brightened. "'To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven.' So be it. I have asked you to drive all the way up here, Jeremy, for good reason. I am not convinced the Sagehelm is offering itself into the right hands."

"That worries me," Bane admitted. "Your helmet is a major talisman in the Midnight War. If it was used for selfish or malicious pirposes... well, it'd be hard to confront, let alone stop."

The faintest of smiles touched Nebel's nouth. "So you see why the Dire Wolf must return to the fight again."

"Right," said Bane. "More like the broken down old horse gets hitched up to the wagon one more time..."

III.

At eighty-twenty that morning, Carlo was rousted from an uneasy sleep by the sound of Stacey's mom slamming her car door and going to work. During warm months, he slept on a delapidated old couch that was stowed on the back porch. Carlo gave a convulsive start that threw him off the couch onto the boards of the porch and it was several minutes before he caught his breath and realized where he was and what he was doing.

Panting, he remembered the crazy dreams. So strong, so vivid that he thought they were real at first. He had been sinking into a black web of tough strands he could not break, soaking in a freezing cold rain... but there in the darkness high overhead, a single bright spark of golden light had been calling him.

Getting hold of himself, Carlo's first thought was about the helmet. He had fallen asleep holding it and now he fumbled hysterically about until his fingers closed on the metal. It was safe. Sitting up with his back against the couch, he turned the eyeless helmet over and over as he studied it in the morning light.

From inside the miserable bungalow, Stacey's voice called, "Hey, Carlo! Scrambled eggs and bacon. Ya want some?"

"Whaddaya think, I'm gonna live on dreams?" he snapped. "Course I want some. And there better be lots of coffee." Carlo managed to get to his feet. He stared out at the overgrown backyard of Stacey's family. Grass was knee high, weeds wrestled everywhere with each other, branches from the dying willow tree lay where they had fallen after the last storm. Suddenly it troubled him. He had never even noticed it before but now he felt a deep urge to clean that yard, to bring order where there was none...

Through the screen door behind him, he heard plates clattering and chairs scraping on the floor. Carlo remembered seeing something at one end of the porch and he went over to fetch a black and white bowling bag. The ball itself had been lost long ago, sometime after Stacey's dad had gone to prison for fifteen for twenty. Carlo found the golden helmet fit inside the bag and he zipped it shut with relief.

Relief? Why should he care? It was only loot he was going to have to sell anyway. Carlo didn't realize he was carrying the bowling bag with its odd contents as he slammed the screen door behind him. Stacey and Dylan were already digging into breakfast at the tiny round table in one corner of the kitchen.

Giving only a sullen grunt to their chipper greetings, Carlo started on his own plate. There was no actual bacon. The yellow pyramid of steaming scrambled eggs had generous amounts of Bacon Bits stirred into it. The coffee was black and bitter. As he started wolfing down mouthfuls, he stared resentfully at his two partners.

Stacey Streiber and Dylan Bodie were both eighteen. They had been boyfriend and girlfriend for two years at that point, and Stacey's mom allowed Dylan to stay regularly in Stacey's room mostly to avoid the pleading and begging for something they would sneak in anyway. Usually, Carlo fumed at the thought these two were enjoying hot sweaty sex night after night while he tossed and turned on the porch. It wasn't fair. He often demanded that Stacey cut him in on the action which only led to shrieking arguments and hard feelings.

But today was different somehow. Carlo watched Stacey chomping on a burnt piece of white toast smeared with margarine and the craving he had felt for her seemed far away. It seemed unimportant. Stacey was a chunky girl, medium height, invariably wearing clothes a bit too tight for her. A wide stripe of pale flesh always showed above the back of her jeans. Stacey had frizzy dark blonde hair in an explosion around her face and an expression of mild surprise as if she was always just waking up.

Watching her eat, Carlo wondered why he had lusted after her these past few years. The spirit flickered dimly in her, like a candle in a draft. Then he caught himself. 'The spirit flickered...?' What the hell kind of a thought was that? It was like it snuck itself into his head from somewhere else. He got back to working on the eggs and drained his coffee in a single gulp.

Dylan had shoved a complete piece of toast in his mouth and was working on it while trying to breathe. The same age as Stacey, Dylan had actually graduated high school the previous June. Big and heavy but not soft-looking at all, his round face under a buzz cut of black hair made him appear less intelligent than he actually was. At the moment, he was studying the unofficial leader of their unholy trinity as if suspecting something was deeply wrong.

"GahDAM, I got to get going," Stacey said. "I missed work Friday and Mr Morgen told me I was pushing my luck. Tell you what, I can drop you guys off uptown and you can get a few bucks for last night's work. Augie is always good for a fair price."

Dylan rose, towering over the still distracted Carlo, who had only finished half his breakfast. "Hey, lemme see that goofy helmet..."

Startling everyone, Carlo swatted Dylan's hand away with a resounding slap. "NO! Dammit, you keep your paws off the helmet!"

As Stacey froze in fear of still another vicious argument, Carlo caught himself and cradled the bowling bag in both arms. "I mean.. I dunno. It's too good to let Augie have. I figure we need to take it to someone who'll offer more. Maybe that antique dealer in Poughkeepsie?"

Stacey disappeared into her room and emerged a moment later tugging on a more sedate dark brown shirt. "Okay, fellas. I won't get off work until six so you guys gotta entertain yourselves until then. Where am I gonna pick you up?"

"I'm staying here," Carlo said.

Both his partners stared. Dylan was standing up and holding a plastic supermarket bag that held most of the items they had taken from the blind man's cabin the previous night. "Huh? You're gonna trust me to deal with Augie?"

"Stop being so stupid!" Carlo snapped. "You done it a hunnerd times. I got to do some thinking. It's time to up our game. We can't keep scraping by on chump change like this."

"Awright, awright." Dylan was quick to mollify Carlo. "You're the brains of our squad. Come up with something good."

Not receiving any answer, Dylan followed Stacey through the cottage to the front yard where her junk car was parked. As they left, Carlo heard Dylan say, "What's going on with him anyway? He's acting awful weird."

None of that mattered. Carlo Ventura went out to sit on the steps of the back porch, carrying the bowling bag with him. The morning sunlight was bright and warm, the same golden hue as the helmet. Carlo had no way to express what he was feeling. He had never gotten past ninth grade and the vocabulary wasn't there.

Breathing slowly and deeply, the young thug raised the Eyeless Helmet and lowered it over his head.

IV.


On the outskirts of town, Bane and Nebel passed two car dealerships that sat glowering at each other across the highway. A diner and a run-down motel called SUNSET HILL came next, then the junkyard that they were looking for. An eight foot high fence of chain links surrounded the property but the gate stood wide open at this hour.

A Wooden plaque read in huge block letters FRIENDLY FRED'S JUNK - SCRAP METAL BOUGHT - USED TIRES. Next to it was a sign that made Bane smile wryly, GUARD DOGS ON PREMISES, OWNER ASSUMES NO LIABILITY FOR INJURIES TO TRESPASSERS.The 'S' in DOGS had been underlined to stress how perilous this junkyard was after closing. He pulled off the road near the gate and gazed in at mountains of furniture, bathtubs, engine parts, air conditioners and much unrecognizable debris.

Nebel got out first, holding a wooden cane with a plain crook handle. He did not carry a white cane to advertise that he was blind, since his perception allowed him to move about as deftly as most sighted people. But if the fact was brought up, the cane was a useful prop. He smiled at Bane and said quietly, "It has not been brought here. I would sense its presence."

"All these years and I still am not quite sure what your gralic powers are." Bane said. He was an ominous figure in his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket even in the early afternoon sunlight. "With the helmet, without the helmet...?"

"I am not sure how to explain my gifts," Nebel replied. "Enhanced perception may be the best definition. Here comes our host."

Lumbering with surprising quickness toward them was a short man with his trousers hitched up to a sixty-inch waist and a black vest over a blue shirt. As he approached, he lit a fresh cigarette with the smoldering stub of the one he had just finished. "Hiya, hiya, what are you folks lookin' for? Odds are I got it."

Bane waited until Friendly Fred had nearly collided with them, then held out a flat leather billfold. "Here. Take a second and be sure you examine these."

"What the f--? Lemme see. Jeremy Bane, Private Investigator licensed by the City and State of New York. And this other card, Registered Consultant New York Police Department. Well, the photo sure looks like you..." He handed the billfold back in the most crestfallen way imaginable. "So you ain't here to buy anything, I guess?"

"No. Here's a card with the products numbers of a tablet and a laptop. Both of them have the initials 'G.N.' etched into them. There was also a geode eight and one half inches high on a carved teak stand. These items were stolen by my client. I intend to recover them."

Despite the fact that Bane kept his voice neutral and businesslike, Friendly Fred had became extremely agitated. He spit his cigarette out and crushed it out under one heel, then said, "Your number's listed here... Mr Bane."

"I want you to call me at once if anyone turns up here with these items," the Dire Wolf said. As he started back toward his car, he jabbed an index finger at the fat man. "I'll be checking back." Friendly Fred whirled and hustled back toward a trailer that had a sign OWNER nailed over the open door.

Pausing by the passenger door, Garrison Nebel said, "Jeremy, are you aware how terrified that man was of you?"

"Really?" Bane glanced back up to where the trailer door had slammed shut. "I wasn't trying to intimidate him."

"You don't need to," Nebel said. "I have noticed this before, captain. Over your career, you have killed hundreds of Humans, monsters and creatures of the night. This has left a permanent tinge to your aura that even the most mundane people notice. You are dangerous and it shows."

Getting back behind the wheel, the Dire Wolf shrugged this off. "If you say so. I'm not much for psychic stuff. So, you don't think any of your belongings were there?"

"No. We can disregard the cards and the electronic devices. They have no value. It is Sagehelm we must locate."

Bane checked his mirrors and eased out onto the highway after a white panel truck reading ALBERTSON PLUMBING AND HEATING sped by. As they headed back toward the Thruway Circle, Bane snapped his fingers. "Hey! What about that travel crystal you wore? And the ensalir-thread cloak.. that cloak had protective properties, right?'

"Both are safely concealed," Nebel answered. "If this thief does well with the helmet, then I will present him with the other talismans. But."

The Dire Wolf glanced over for a second at the blind mystic. "But what?"

"This is so difficult," Nebel admitted in a mournful tone. "I have not known such doubt and uncertainty for more than forty years. It's... I feel as if the ground has shifted under my feet."

"Back to being Human. Well, I think you would have said this is for the best and all things flow as they are meant to."

Nebel shrugged. "Jeremy, surely I am not the first person to experience this."

"The expression usually goes, 'You can talk the talk but can you walk the walk?'" Bane told his friend. "Here. The Stadium Diner. You may be an ascetic but I am always starving. It's my enhanced metabolism."

The two longtime partners settled into a booth. Without even knowing he was doing it, Bane sat near the swinging door to the kitchen and faced the front entrtance. He also positiioned himself so he could watch cars pulling into the parking lot from North Front Street.

As the Dire Wolf studied the menu, Garrison Nebel regarded him with a faint smile and mentioned their positioning. "You are always ready for an ambush."

"Yeah, and you notice I'm still alive," Bane said distractedly. "I think I'll try the roast turkey dinner with sweet potatoes and corn. A bowl of chicken noodle soup first." He glanced up at the mystic. "Have you given any thought to what you want?"

"I'll have the same," Nebel replied. "I am not a vegetarian any more. Tea with lemon, please."

After the waitress took their order and left them with tumblers of ice water, Bane stared out at the sparse traffic. "You know, Gary, if this burglar does turn out to be the right owner for the helmet, he's going to need training. Explanations. You should be there to offer some guidance."

Nebel sighed. "A mentor will be the last thing he's looking for."

V.

It was after six-thirty before Stacey and Dylan returned home. Both were in a foul mood, tired and cranky. Stacey's mom had gone to her second part-time job at the pizza place and would be lucky to return by eleven. As the old Hyundai was shut off, it made a clunking noise and shuddered but they were used to that.

"Yo! Carlo! Where are you, man?" hollered Dylan from the living room. He received no answer and checked the bathroom and kitchen without results. The bedrooms, either Stacey's or the mother's, were absolutely off-limits. There had been fistfights to establish that.

From the back door, Stacey's voice sounded very small and frightened. "Hey, Dylan...? Better come out here."

They found Carlo Ventura sitting on the lawn, crosslegged with the golden helmet in his arms. He was saturated with sweat, his clothing was stuck to his body and his hair was plastered down close to the skull. As Dylan and Stacey hurried over, he raised his head but didn't seem to recognize them at first.

"Jeez, are you sick or something?" asked the frizzy-haired girl. "You look like you got double pneumonia."

"I'm okay," Carlo answered in a distant voice. "I've been thinking."

"Lissen, lissen, I got bad news. Don't go nuts. No punching." Dylan held up a handful of bills. "I couldn't get much for the loot. Friendly Fred was sure spooked about something, he wouldn't even talk to me. I hadda walk uptown to the Swap Shop. Augie gave me a little for the stones and the tablet but not much."

"And none of the credit cards worked!" added Stacey. "They were all cancelled. I don't know what the deal is with that old blind jerk...."

Carlo rose smoothly to his feet, holding the eyeless helmet under one arm. He gazed at his longtime pals as if seeing them for the first time in direct sunlight after only meeting them on dark nights. "Do not worry about that. Get in the car. We have somewhere to go."

"You," Stacey said slowly, "are giving me the creeps."

"I think he's possessed. We need an exorcist. Let's take him to Saint Anne's Church uptown," Dylan muttered.

As Carlo started past them to walk around the house, Stacey grabbed him by one arm and steered him toward the back steps. "Not like that, you're not. Come on, take a walk down normal street." She dragged him reluctantly into the house and up the stairs toward the bedrooms. "Dylan, do me a favor and grab some fresh clothes for him. Socks, underwear, some of his stuff is in your closet."

"Sure."

After Stacey got the distracted Carlo into her bathroom, she reached into the shower and turned on the hot water. "There. Ya got your soap, ya got your shampoo. Here's your clothes, thanks Dylan, now I'm giving you ten minutes to straighten up or else the two of us will scrub you like we usedta do our old German Shepherd."

As steam started to fill the tiny bathroom, Carlo blinked and apparently took in the situation for the first time. "Yes. I should purify myself. Very good." He placed the golden helm on a cabinet with excessive care, then yanked off his sweaty wet T-shirt.

"We'll wait in the hall." As she closed the door on him, Stacey turned to Dylan and her eyes were bugging out. "Is it that helmet, ya think? Is it making him crazy?"

"I don't see how," Dylan answered. He was never good at rapid response to changes and now his wide doughy face was screwed up with the effort of thought. "Is he tripping? Did he mention any drugs he was gonna take?"

"He didn't say anything but you know his temper. I'm afraid to ask him questions." Stacey grabbed him at the biceps and squeezed harder than she realized. "If Carlo's having some sort of pyschotic breakdown, we're in real danger. He gets violent enough over little stuff."

After a few more minutes of silence from the bathroom, Carlo emerged. He was wearing fresh jeans and a plain white T-shirt with an open plaid flannel shirt over it. His hair was slicked back, gleaming clean, and he had even shaved. The Eyeless Helmet was still held in both hands. "Now I am fit to carry this great gift," he said.

"Well, you look better." Dylan folded his arms and stayed slightly in front of Stacey in case of trouble. "How you feeling?"

"Clear." Carlo smiled blissfully and placed a hand on each of Dylan's wide shoulders. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Come on, we need to hurry."

Stacey had washed up at the sink and she had a fresh blouse in one hand, but she hesitated at his words. "Aw come on. We just got home. Where do we have to go?"

"When we're done, we'll be set for a long time," Carlo told her. "No more breaking and entering." He set the bowling bag down and placed the Eyeless Helmet inside it, wrapped in a soft towel. "You two must learn to trust my visions."

V.


Sitting in the parked Subaru by the side of the road, Bane stared down a steep grassy slope to a clearing where a circle of stones and ashes showed a fire had been built. He raised the binoculars to his eyes again. "Looks like a beer can or two left behind. Dirt is showing around the firepit, I'd say people have been throwing parties there for some time."

Nebel did not look over at the scene. "High school students have met here for the past few years, but not in numbers large enough that anyone felt compelled to call the police on them. Do you see the opening in the trees on the opposite side of the clearing?'

"Yeah. A trail from that direction?" the Dire Wolf asked.

"That is the easier approach. South Road runs close by." The blind mystic raised his head and pressed the button to lower his window on the passenger side. "Captain, be alert. My perception without the helmet is not as deep or as certain as it was. And yet... Danger is coming here. Numbed spirits untouched by mercy. Men who do violence without feeling anything."

"I've learned to trust your instincts, Garrison." Reaching behind his left hip, Bane drew his long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 and thumbed off the safety. "Are you wearing the Trom armor?"

"No. I haven't put it on in years. I didn't bring a dart gun, either."

"Probably just as well," the Dire Wolf said. "You stand guard here while I investigate." He jumped out of the car and scurried down the steep hill so quickly it looked as if he was falling but he hit the level area with perfect balance. Bane dove into a cluster of elm trees and was gone from the sight of any possible onlookers.

As he rushed from one patch of cover to the next, heading for the faint sound of young voices, the Dire Wolf was pleased to find no stiffness or uncertainty in his movements. Between the healing effects of the Tagra tea and decades of Kumundu training, he still felt he was at peak. It couldn't last forever, of course. Age caught up with everyone, even Tel Shai knights.

In a few minutes, he was moving on fingers and toes through the brush, cutting his way without causing a rustle. He had separated the three voices, all under twenty, all standard Northeast United States accents. Slowing as he neared, he peered out from the bushes and watched. A big teenage boy starting to get fat, a chunky girl with frizzy blonde hair and a skinny darker-skinned boy holding a black and white gym bag in one hand.

They had been digging at a spot equidistant between two white birch trees. The heavier boy dropped his shovel and dropped to his knees to join the girl. They pulled up an opaque bundle wrapped in white duct tape.

"I'll be damned," said the girl. "Right where you pointed, Carlo. I guess you really do have some crazy psychic stuff going on."

"The helmet reveals hidden objects, exposes deception and restores living things to their proper state," answered the thin boy. He did not join his two friends as they struggled to unwrap the bundle but stood a few feet away and waited thoughtfully.

From where he watched in concealment, Bane recognized that peaceful tone in the voice of this Carlo. It was the same tranquil calm that had filled Garrison Nebel's voice for many years. The gym bag clinched it. He was sure he had found the Sagehelm. Shifting his weight, he readied to show himsself.

Bane had gotten situated where he would block the path to the main road from these kids.

By this time, the big teen had taken out a jacknife and cut open the bundle to reveal a solid block of money wrapped tightly in clear film. He whistled. "All hundreds, far as I can see," he said.

"Whoa! Dylan, Carlo, we're rich!" laughed the girl. "Man! Stretch limos and designer clothes and vacations in Cancun for us."

Dylan turned the bundle over and over. "This is the best surprise ever! I vote we get home and divy this fortune up. Then we hit the good life."

Only Carlo did not visibly rejoice. His narrow face with its pointed nose and deepset eyes remained somber. "We must leave right now."

"Just one minute," Bane interrupted. He had gotten close enough to touch them without their noticing. When he spoke, all three squawked in alarm. Stacey fell over from where she had been squatting over the hole they had dug.

"Oh my God, are you TRYING to give me heart attack?!" she squeaked, scrambling back to her feet.

Even though he was blocking their exit route, Bane held up both empty hands in a reassuring gesture. "Easy, easy, I'm not here to hurt you," he said. "But think for a second. What kind of people leave a hundred thousand buried in the woods? Drug dealers. Blackmailers. Kidnappers. You kids have placed yourselves in real danger by uncovering that money."

"Are you a cop?" demanded Stacey. "You have to tell us if you're a cop."

"No, not police," Carlo said with that eerie calm. "He has discipline. A code of ethics. I say we can trust him."

"That's nice to hear," replied Bane. "My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm a licensed detective. I'm not after that money. Right now, my priority is getting you guys to safety. Whoever buried that money won't be happy to find it gone and frankly they will punish you kids in nightmarish ways. Let's go."

"It is too late for that," Carlo announced. "They are aready here." As he spoke, eight big men in dark suits and sunglasses trudged up the path to encircle them. Most of the newcomers were openly holding guns.

V.

Bane was thoroughly disgusted with himself. Most of his attention had been focused on the gym bag, judging its weight by the way this Carlo kid held it. He was certain that the Eyeless Helmet was in there. The weird distracted way Carlo was acting clinched it. Sagehelm had been changing the boy.

Taking two steps to one side, the Dire Wolf split the focus of the gunmen between himself and the kids. He was wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes, so only his head and hands were exposed, but the three teens were completely vulnerable. Before the violence started, though, he wanted to see if he could get some information out of these guys.

Small groups of thugs usually had a leader who was either the oldest or the biggest. In this case, one of the men had a white bristly mustache and the begining of a paunch. Sure enough, he was the one who announced calmly, "Okay, nobody needs to get hurt. You, in the black clothes, you look like someone to take seriously. Put your hands up behind your head. That's right."

As soon as he had seen the gangsters approach, Bane had taken an object from his right jacket pocket instead of going for his gun. Now, raising his arms, he thumbed the stud on the small metal ovoid and lobbed it over the heads of the gunmen, at the same time opening his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut.

Everything turned brilliant white and a sharp crack like thunder at point blank range shook the air. The dazzlers Bane used were not as potent as the flash-bang grenades which SWAT teams carried but worked on the same principle. By unconscious reflex, all the thugs had looked up to see what he had tossed and they were all blinded and deafened by the blast. Two of them fell down with their sense of balance thrown off.

Even Bane had a loud ringing in his ears and white spots flashing in front of his eyes but he could function well enough. He leaped inbetween the thugs and shoved two of them to tangle up with a third. Striking too quickly for his movement to be coherent to those watching, Bane belted a left hook that broke one man's jaw and instantly shifted his weight to drive his boot deeply into another thug's abdomen. That man made a strange whooshing noise as all the air left his lungs in a rush.

The first three were beginning to separate themselves and struggling to rise, shaking their heads and gasping in shock. The Dire Wolf's hand whipped up with his revolver in it, but for once he was a split-second too late. The oldest gunman extended his own arm and blasted eleven shots from a Glock 19 in a single burst. Bane barely raised his arms to protect his head before the salvo drummmed against his torso. He was thrown back to roll over a fallen log out of sight.

Surprisingly, the three teens had run for it. Carlo had evidently retained his senses sufficiently to pull his friends away from the scene. As the gangsters got to their feet, their leader ejected the magazine from his automatic and clicked a fresh one into place.

"Lou! Lou, I can't see! I'm blind!" yelled one of the thugs, pawing at his face.

Barely functional himself, the one called Lou stuck his Glock into his belt and managed to line his men up. The one with the cracked jaw and the one who had been kicked in the stomach were helpless for the moment. He was barely functional himself, but Lou showed why he was the leader by getting everyone moving away from the clearing. He made two of the gunmen help the injured one.

"We gotta get away from here!" he shouted, still unable to clearly hear himself. "That grenade or whatever... and the shots... Anyone in the area is calling 911 right now. The State Troopers'll be here in a hurry."

Once he had all six of his squad stowed in the black SUV, Lou climbed in behind the wheel himself. He wasn't sure of his competence to drive at the moment but there was no choice. Getting back on the road, he rolled away as quickly as he dared and prayed no traffic would be coming the other way.

Beside him, one of the gangsters was blinking and rubbing his eyes. "I'm startin' to see again. What was that thing that guy threw, a hand grenade?!"

"Kind of," Lou said. "I've seen the military use them. You know what, I think I know who that bastard in the black outfit was. We gotta tell the boss. I think Sepulcher will be real interested in knowing we killed the Dire Wolf."

VI.

It was several minutes before Bane groaned and raised his head. He had listened and peeked through slitted eyes but had detected no sign of the gunmen. The flexible Trom armor he habitually wore dispersed impact across its entire surface but even so it had felt like being hit by a dozen sledge hammers in rapid succession. He breathed deeply. Although it was painful to do that, he didn't think any ribs had been broken or his sternum cracked. He knew what those experiences felt like.

Sitting up, the Dire Wolf was not enthusiastic about any vigorous activity for the immediate future. Maybe the enhanced healing of the Tagra tea was starting to have a diminished effect. Or maybe he was simply getting older and less able to bounce back from severe trauma. Bane forced himself up onto his knees and surveyed the scene. Sitting on the fallen log ten feet away from him was Garrison Nebel.

"At least those goons didn't take the time for a finishing bullet to the head," Bane grumbled. "Healing factor or not, that would have been the end for me."

"I retain enough perception to tell you are not badly hurt," Nebel replied. "I am sure there will be bruising and soreness, though."

"Tell me about it." Levering himself up onto the log next to his teammate, said, "This seemed a lot less punishing thirty years ago. So. What's the situation, Gary?"

The blind mystic had picked up a broken branch and was toying with it thoughtfully. "I thought it best not to move you until you revived by yourself. The young people fled right after your grenade went off. The henchmen left after you were shot. I can follow the trails of either group."

"I'm not even going to ask how you do that," Bane said. "I've seen you pull enough weird stunts to just accept your abilities." He got to his feet and rubbed his chest. "Ouch."

"We should proceed now," Nebel said and took Bane by one arm to help him up the steep incline to where their car waited. Despite his pride and stubborn attitude in general, the Dire Wolf was realistic enough to accept the support. They got back in the Subaru and pulled out onto the back road.

"Here's what I think happened," Bane said after a moment. "Those goons I fought came to retrieve a bundle of money that had been buried there. It was a good-sized block of cash in plastic wrap. But the three kids got there a few minutes earlier. Seems likely the helmet led the kids there, doesn't it?"

"Absolutely. Sagehelm reveals hidden objects, undoes illusions and restores living things to their natural state if they have been changed by magick." Nebel gave as much of a smile as he ever did. "I assume those youngsters were thinking how much they needed money and the Eyeless Helmet obliged them. It was the helmet that led them here."

"So, just bad timing for those teenagers," Bane said. "I wonder if the helmet knew about the goons coming?"

"It is hard to say," answered Nebel. "Jeremy, I have a thought. The henchmen arrived on the main road after our young thieves did."

"So they saw the kids' car!" Bane snapped. "Yeah, that occurred to me. They have a good description of the vehicle and probably the plate numbers. Depending on who the gunmen are working for, they might be able to trace those numbers."

"Many of our more capable enemies are no longer among the living," Nebel said. "Samhain is dead. So is Avathor. John Grim, Wu Lung, Arem Kamende, Karl Eldritch...."

"All moved on to wherever bad guys go when they die. It's one reason I thought I could retire, most of the real menaces are gone. But then, there's still a few masterminds in the game. Olivia Wang, the new Spinner of Webs, for example. And organizations like STIGMA and the White Web are still around."

The blind mystic rubbed his chin and took a few minutes to comment. "I can't pick up who those men worked for. My skills are not up to it."

"Can you steer us to where the kids went?"

"Yes. Keep on this road, captain. I can sense the aura of Sagehelm not far ahead."

Bane gave a faint snort. "Well, if those goons show up too, they'll be a little surprised to see me."

"You have one of the dart guns hidden in this car," Nebel said and it was not a question.

"Sure. Tucked under your seat, with a full clip in it."

The mystic reached down and came up with a soft leather bag that held an odd-looking air-pistol with a needle-thin barrel. He hefted it and placed it in his lap. "This is good, Jeremy, I would not use a lethal weapon unless innocent lives were in immediate danger."

Bane said, "You're a more spiritual man than I am, Garrison. Too many times, I found the darts didn't work because they don't penetrate heavy clothing. I ended up relying on old-fashioned bullets again."

"Captain, we are drawing near. Please slow down." He exhaled deeply and bowed his head. "Sagehelm! Not MY Sagehelm any longer. The old order changeth, lest the good became hardened and corrupted."

"This isn't going to be easy for you," Bane said as he rolled up to a side road marked CROSS LANE. "Not being sarcastic, it must be like meeting an ex-wife or something."

"Exactly," the blind mystic replied. "But then, grief makes us better people."

VII.


"Mom hates it when I call her at work but this is a real emergency," Stacey wailed. "I can't think straight. I've never been in this much trouble before. Those were real no-kidding mobsters with guns and we only got away because of that weirdo in black with his grenade."

Like Stacey, Dylan was too agitated to sit still. They had both been pacing in loops from the bungalow's kitchen to living room and back again. "If we knew your mom would be safe, the three of us could just run for it. We got enough money to buy tickets to the city and then hop a plane anywhere. But who knows what those gangsters would do to her?"

"And what if they find us here?" added Stacey. "I dunno know how. If they show up, we're as good as dead. Maybe we should leave the money out on the porch and hide in the woods. Would they leave us alone, do you think?"

"No." The single word came from Carlo Ventura on the couch. He was sitting bolt upright, gazing down at the golden helmet in his hands as if reading a cryptic message. "Calm yourselves. This will all work out for the best."

"Oh my God, Carlo, STOP it!" yelled Stacey. "You're getting on my nerves big time. Ever since you started lugging that damn thing around with you...!"

"Yeah, Carlo, what's going on you?" Dylan added. "You don't have your bad temper but you also lost your personality. You used to take charge all the time. Now you're like some, I don't know, Zen monk or something."

The skinny youth lifted his face and bestowed a beatrific smile on his friends. "I am more myself than I ever was. The fog of anger and resentment has lifted. Stacey, Dylan... I urge you to do nothing rash. The crooks are outside."

Making an outaged squawk that started as the word 'what?', Stacey spun just as the front door was kicked inward. Three of the gunmen clustered on the porch but it was the man who had forced the door who captured their full attention. Thin to the point of seeming emaciated, the mastermind was dressed strangely all in white- flannel trousers, sneakers, dress shirt with the collar open, lightweight jacket, all white. Sepulcher could not help grinning. The hideous smile was frozen on his bony face from the muscles having tightened up during his botched execution and never relaxing again. The thinning brown hair was combed straight back. With the sharp pointed nose and wild hazel eyes, Sepulcher was an unsettling man for even hardened cops or FBI men to confront.

To Stacey and Dylab, he seemed like an embodied nightmare. They clung to each other, trembling visibly and could not speak. On the couch, still holding the Eyeless Helmet, Carlo regarded the frightening intruders with a placid smile.

"Settle down, children," the grinning man announced. "My name is Sepulcher. Perhaps you've heard of me. My, ah, unfortunate appearance is the fault of the Texas judicicial system. Their lethal injection was contaminated. It did kill me but only for a minute or two, and I recovered to find that repressed evidence proved me innocent."

A sudden gush of macabre laughter poured of him as if it was always held under the surface and escaped at times. "An innocent man surviving his execution! What an embarrassment I was to the Lone Star State. And the muscles in my face are frozen this way. It's hard to say exactly who the joke was on, eh?"

To his credit, the eighteen year old Dylan got Stacey behind him, trying to protect her. It was a futile gesture. Bullets from those semi-automatics at that range would pass entirely through him to hit her but he didn't know that. "Wait, wait, we know what you want. It's all there. You can have it, there's no need to hurt us."

"If only that were true," chuckled Sepulcher. "But my policy has always been to leave no witnesses. The three of you, turn and face that wall. You don't need to see what's coming. But don't worry. I've been dead and it's not that bad." The mocking laughter started up against but he choked it down.

Carlo Ventura slowly rose to his feet and held up the Sagehelm "Foolish man. You do not recognize the true treasure in this room."

"That helmet!" said Sepulcher. "It matches the descriptions of an Eldar talisman worn by a Tel Shai knight. But it's lost. No one has seen it in years."

"Its time has come again," Carlo replied. He lowered the golden helm over his head and the entire room was flooded with rich radiance warm as sunlight. It was all anyone could perceive for a timeless moment. As the light faded and colors returned, the people blinked and found their vision undamaged. But the three killers staggered back out into the yard in extreme confusion and doubt. The light had affected their leader most of all.

Sepulcher's face was back to normal. That hideous grin was gone as the muscles of cheeks and jaw loosened and resumed their nornal appearance. Suddenly the much-feared mastermind looked old and vulnerable. Not seen for almost two decades, Henry Lee Howitt sank to his knees and shivered as his mind wrestled with the return of sanity.

"The light which shines on the isle of Elvedal," announced Carlo, his voice made hollow beneath the helmet. "It restores distorted objects to their natural state, as it has done here."

Out in the front yard, the gunmen had raised their weapons and were trying to decide their next move. Was this trembling skinny old man still Sepulcher or not? In that moment, a dark Subaru hurtled up the driveway and braked to a sudden stop.

From the passenger side, a tall white-haired man wearing opaque glasses stood up. In one hand, he held an unfamiliar gun with the long thin barrel and this was enough to push the agitated thugs over the edge. The one called Lou shoved his own weapon forward and snapped off two quick shots.

To everyone's amazement, the blind man turned his body sideways and leaned back. The bullets whistled past him by an inch. The strange airgun coughed three times and all three gangsters twitched as each felt a vicious sting in their necks. Only one had time to reach up and pluck out a needle-sized metal dart before he sagged to the grass. The Trom formula in the darts acted within three or four seconds at most.

Coming around from the driver's side of the car, Jeremy Bane whistled. "Man, Garrison, I haven't seen you pull that stunt in years."

"Oh, I did not literally dodge the bullets," Nebel said. "I am merely Human in reflexes. I did perceive that he was going to shoot and reacted before he actually pulled the trigger."

"It's still impressive as hell." Holding up his revolver, the Dire Wolf stepped toward the open door of the bungalow. "Hey! Kids! Take a breath, it's okay. These goons are going to be asleep for the next hour." He paused as Howitt stepped out into the yard, hands raised.

"Don't shoot," said the man who had been Sepulcher. "Please. I will go quietly. It all seems like a nightmare."

"Sepulcher? You're back to normal?" Bane walked up and swung the unresisting man around to clap a pair of regulation handcuffs on his wrists. "I can't imagine what the courts are going to decide to do with you."

"It doesn't matter," Howitt mumbled. "I'm so tired."

By now, Stacey and Dylan were peering timidly from inside the door at the scene. Moving past them, Carlo raised the Eyeless Helmet up off his head and offered it to Garrison Nebel.

"Here," he said, "I think this is yours?"

"Not any longer," answered the blind mystic. "You have done good work this day."

"I can't handle it! I'm not smart enough to use this helmet. I'm weak and angry. I don't have the wisdom to deserve this helmet," Carlo said.

"None of us do," replied Nebel with infinite sadness. "But you will try the best you can."

6/4/2018