"Who Keeps Stealing the Bodies?"
May. 17th, 2022 02:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Who Keeps Stealing the Bodies?"
7/11-7/14/1956
I.
Leaving his new two-seater Thunderbird convertible parked several blocks away, Michael Hawk trotted silently along Ninth Avenue, keeping to shadows and alleys as much as possible. Even at three in the morning, Manhattan had enough traffic that he had to be stealthy and duck out of sight constantly. Milk trucks with their glass bottles rattling, newspaper delivery vans heading out with morning editions of the POST and DAILY NEWS, an occasional Checkered Cab. Wearing a dark denim jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans, his black Stetson pulled low, Hawk was not easy to spot in the gloom in any case.
At Twenty-Ninth Street, he snuck around to the rear of the Paradise Hotel. Its dingy yellow brick exterior and clouded windows, as well as the fact that the neon letter H flickered on and off, gave the establishment a rather embarrassed hangdog air. Hawk stole into the alley between the hotel and a boarded-up restaurant next door, found a window that had been left ajar on this muggy July night and eased through. A short hallway was lit by a lamp in the ceiling whose glass dish cover had collected an eclectic assortment of insects. At the bottom of the stairs leading up, a defeated potted plant sat in its ceramic vase and drooped hopelessly. A scent of mildew added the final touch to make this hotel completely unappealing.
No one was in sight. From the street, he had not even seen the blue flicker of a televison set in any window, although the roof had severals antennas installed. The New York skyline was sprouting TV aerials more rapidly every day. Michael Hawk waited, listening, for a full minute. Although only in his late thirties, his skin had the weathered texture of someone who has defied bad weather too many times. The wide square face was rugged and impressive rather than good-looking in any conventional way. Hawk started moving up the stairs with a quick easy stride.
At the third floor landing, he found the room he was seeking right in front of him. Small brazen numbers read 301, obvious enough. He tried the handle without much hope of finding it unlocked, then pulled a keyring from his jacket, the keys being held in a snug leather case to keep them from clinking. The lock was a common Schlage and he had no trouble getting the door open.
Still listening, watching for any signs of activity on that floor of the Paradise, Hawk stepped into darkness and closed the door behind him. A pencil flashlight from his inner pocket shone an intense white beam no thicker than a thread. The sagging bed, the dresser with a cracked mirror in a gilt frame, the grimy old-fashioned radio that sat in one corner, even the outdated calendar thumbtacked to the wall... these had all been expected. It was the short slim woman in black leotards that surprised him. She hopped up onto her feet from where she had been squatting while digging through a nightstand drawer.
They both reacted quickly, considering how surprised they were by each other's presence. Hawk reached back under his denim jacket and whipped up a clunky handgun with an extended needle-thin barrel. At the same time, the woman dove right at him and drove the top of her head below his sternum. She bounced off without budging him. Landing in a seated position, she cried, "Is that your STOMACH? What are you made of, marble?"
Holding both the flashlight beam and the dart gun steadily on the woman in black, Hawk instantly memorized her face. His unusual upbringing had developed many useful skills since childhood. He would be able to sketch a reasonable likeness of her or pick her photo from a dozen similar ones after that instant's glance. "Settle down, missy. Afore we tangle, let's see if we're playing the same game?"
"And you're a cowboy too? This gets better and better."
"Raised in Montana, if you want to know," he said. Hawk thumbed the end of the flashlight to widen the beam. "Check out a dump like this, a room taken by a man who labors for his living. I don't calculate you're here after precious jewels or fur coats, right?"
"Oh, my God. You're Michael Hawk! I've seen your picture in the papers." Scrambling up to her feet, the woman took two steps back toward the wide open window behind her.
"Guilty as charged. And you might be?"
"I'll be a memory to haunt you," she laughed and dove out through the window as nimble as any gymnast. Hawk yelped in dismay, thinking for sure she was killing herself by falling three stories to the pavement. But even as he dropped both the flashlight and the anesthetic dart gun, he heard a throaty chuckle from above. He reached the window just in time to see a white silken cord being yanked upward.
Well, at least now he knew how she had entered the room. Michael Hawk grumbled unhappily to himself, fetched his dart gun and holstered it, and then began searching the room himself. Maybe he had arrived here only a short time after the acrobatic thief had, maybe he would find what she had not had time enough to discover.
Maybe she hadn't been here because six fresh corpses had disappeared in less than a month.
II.
The elegance of the Everett Institute office held no appeal for the new client. A large uncluttered room with a long picture window looking down at treetops of Central Park West, its streamlined chrome furniture and tinted glass coffee table added to the airy feeling. But the small blond man scowled as if stuck outside a fish market on a hot summer day.
Nor did the three remarkably beautiful women displayed on two chairs and on the cobalt-blue couch seem to hold his attention. A tall busty Italian woman, a short slim gamin brunette with a boyish haircut and a perfect strawberry-blonde with cool appraising eyes all sat and regarded the man in a thoughtful way. Two were dressed modestly in light summer dresses, the third in slacks and short-waisted jacket. They looked composed and professional rather than overtly sexy.
"As I understood it, you ladies run a retrieval service for stolen goods," Weslie Gorsline blurted. "You have a reputation for being reliable and discreet."
"We do our best," replied the blonde, Grace Lee Gordon. Her oval face and flawless skin, with the pale blue eyes and delicately curved lips, qualified her to be on the cover of a fashion magazine. "Last night did not produce any results but resistance indicates we're on the right track."
"I'm all too busy. I only have a few minutes, I'm afraid. Very well. Ladies, I am a research biochemist. My field is extending human life after traumatic injuries. Keeping victims alive until medical care can be given."
"Go on, please," said Anna Albertini. The Italian woman was tall and solidly built, with impressive breasts and hips. But it was her oblique jade green eyes with their feline quality that held most people's attention. The strong Roman nose and jawline gave an almost regal air.
Sitting near near her partner, in sharp contrast, Chelsea Curtwood was only three inches over five feet tall, with the trim figure of a dancer in her dark slacks and a matching bolero jacket over a cream-colored silk blouse. Her hair was cut quite short, revealing her ears and not passing the nape of her neck, but there was nothing boyish about her. She nodded as she caught Gorsline's eye.
"I am trying to refine a reagent that has enormous possibilities," their client said. "It's been three days since nearly all of my supply was taken from my labs out on Long Island. There is no doubt in my mind who did it, but I have no faith in the police to help. They seem preoccupied with mob activity at the moment."
"Well, you gave us a few addresses and names, and we're on the chase," Chelsea said with a faint accent sounded French, but she was in fact Belgian. "One setback won't stop us."
"I wanted to ask, when will I be meeting your boss, Mr Everett?"
"It's not likely," Grace replied. The three women seemed to take turns speaking, perhaps so they could each study the client while he was watching another of them. "Chester moved out of state recently. Our practice is so well established in Manhattan that the Everett Institute will maintain its office here. We communicate by phone."
"I see." Gorsline rose to an unimpressive five feet eight, thin and narrow-bodied even in his tweed suit with padded shoulders. He was holding his fedora in one hand. "You have my retainer. If I don't hear from you in another day or two, one of my staff will come here to check on results. Good afternoon."
After the man left, the three Hellions drew closer together. The door was soundproofed so there were was no danger of Gorsline lingering in the hall to listen. "Girls, did you notice any odd details about our friend?"
"Absolutely," Anna responded with distaste. "Now that I got a good look, he is not thirty years old as he first seems. Not even close. There are many fine shallow lines in his face. The back of his hands are another giveaway."
"That's another thing that bothers me," Chelsea put in. "His fingernails. They were varnished a flesh color but you can see darkness underneath. What on Earth could that mean? Black fingertips? His circulation can't be that poor, he'd be in a hospital bed."
The blonde sat up straighter, intertwining her delicate fingers. "I would not be so sure of that, Chelsea. I made a point to shake hands when he entered. He wasn't thrilled to do so but he complied. His hand was cold, no higher than room temperature."
Anna shivered visibly. "I have a sinking feeling about this. My grandmother loved to frighten me as a child with tales of la Strega and nosferatu. This man Gorsline brings back memories of those stories."
"Not to mention there's the celebrity manhunter who charmed me last night," added Chelsea with a wry smirk. "Hellions, I wonder if we're stepping deeper into darkness than we know."
"I never cared for that Hellions nickname," sniffed Grace. "Anyway, Gorsline will have to wait. The family of Gary Jurgens has already hired us to find out who on Earth would steal his body right from the hospital an hour after he died."
III.
Most of the interior of Hawk's warehouse was taken up by a water-filled pit where his seaplane and motor launch were tethered. A sliding steel door was closed over the concrete apron which led down to the East River. In their stalls were his new Thunderbird, a white delivery truck that said LANDSCAPING with the phony number of a nonexistent service and a big black limo that seated seven comfortably. Wooden crates and metal cases of supplies and equipment were piled everywhere, leaving only narrow walkways to navigate.
In one corner was a walled-off section that served him as living quarters and office when he was in New York. His hunting cabin in the depths of Montana was emotionally his home but he seldom had time to stay there. The arrangement in this quasi-apartment was Spartan. A wardrobe closet and bathroom with a shower, a double bed with chairs and nightstand, and a desk on which two phones were buried under stacks of loose papers that seemed eager to cascade off the desk onto the floor if touched. A chest-high Frigidaire was empty more often than not, he lived on the go.
At eight that morning, Hawk was finishing the exhaustive routine he had been following since childhood. Thirty years of daily pushups on alternating hands, leg raises, windmills and rope skipping had given him high definition. Under his sleeveless T-shirt, muscles looked like bundles of wire beneath a weathered skin. The afternoon set of exercises involved stretching, running and working the heavy bag. Hawk had never resented this routine, he found it satisfying to do so his mind could relax for that short time. Raised at a distance by his uncle Robert, young Michael had been home schooled in a dozen useful disciplines for a criminologist. Even today, with his record firmly established, Hawk constantly met with experts to be further tutored in skills such as high diving, survival in deserts or icepacks, tracking through swamps, much more.
Straightening up, Michael Hawk took a damp towel from a nearby chair and swabbed at himself. There had been nothing useful in the dockworker's hotel room. As he recalled details of the cat burglar, he realized she had been well equipped. She had been wearing wrist-length gloves of tough leather to protect her hands when climbing the silk robe, which would otherwise have sliced her skin open. Her slippers had ridged rubber soles for traction and silence.. It had not completely registered during the brief encounter, but his mental image revealed that she had been wearing a thin-bladed stiletto on a sheath strapped to her right thigh.
Wiping himself briskly, Hawk studied the visualization of her face. Pretty enough, with a wide jaw and straight nose, dark eyes set wide apart. Her hair had been tucked up under a wool cap. Hawk thought she was within a year of being thirty either way. Five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds. When she had spoken, there had been a trace of a European accent that she was trying to lose.
Rack his memory as he would, he could not identify her. He thought of making a pencil sketch to show the police to see if anyone recognized her but what would be the point? He did not even know her aims yet. Was she working for some mastermind further back behind the scenes? Better to concenrate on his own agenda.
The ringing of one of the phones made him jump, which surprised him. Carefully extricating the device from under newspaper clippings, mail and notes on possible future cases, he answered simply, "Yes?"
It was Hollister, the assistant to the Police Commissioner, asking if he had made any progress. The newspapers were playing up the rash of bodysnatching in the Metropolitan area and public alarm was rising. Hawk admitted he had not learned anything yet, but he was gathering information and would report as soon as he had any news. Hollister told him good luck and remarked that everyone was counting on him.
"They always are," Hawk muttered after hanging up. Despairing at clearing off his desk at the moment, he took a yellow legal pad and a pencil, then went over to sit on the edge of his bed. Yesterday, he had spoken with the Medical Examiner and the Jewish family who had been retaining a body for rapid burial. Today, he intended to question the staff at the two funeral homes and see if he could spot any clues. Hawk glanced down and started sketching the woman's face. Her expression bothered him for some reason. There had been self-assurance in that smile and in her voice that was free of fear or hostility. Somehow he didn't think she was some tough-minded jaded pro.
He found himself adding more details, even lightly shading the cheekbones. Hawk put the sketch aside with a scowl and told himself to focus on the job. He had no business mooning over a cat burglar. He needed to change into a respectable suit and tie. There was a long day ahead of him of driving around the city, knocking on doors, asking questions and trying to figure out what was going on. Bothering the traumatized familes of the missing corpses was not something he looked forward to doing.
IV.
Rows of wooden folding chairs stood empty in the somber room with its heavy maroon curtains and muted lamps with amber glass. On a raised stage, the coffin sat with its lid up. Visible within, the unmoving form of a lovely blonde woman in a white gown had her hands clasped demurely at waist level. As always, all the fresh flowers on the stage and in vases out in the halls tried their best could not quite cover up the fact that this was a funeral home.
Only one mourner sat well in the rear of the room, head down and silent. She was a tall substantial woman in a black dress, face concealed behind the veil of her hat. At eleven-twenty, a noise made her raised her head and straighten up. Two gruesome specimens had emerged from a narrow door by the stage and were lurching stiffly toward the coffin. They were big men in shabby clothes, newsboy caps pulled low and collars up on their coats.
From the uncertain way they moved, an observer might wonder if they were either extremely drunk or arthritic. They navigated the mere three steps on the side of the stage as if it took all their concentration. And the waiting room was suddenly heavy with the stink of death.
Instead of screaming or running away, the mourner jumped up and tossed her hat aside. Her thick black hair was done up in a bun, Anna's classic Italian face was tight with anger. "Stop! Freeze right where you are," she ordered. In her right hand was a snub-nosed Colt .32 revolver and she raised it at full extension.
To her dismay, the intruders merely swung around and began stumbling directly toward her. She yelled again for them to stop and got no response. "Fine, be that way," she growled and snapped off a shot. The material of the nearer goon's pants leg twitched above the knee and a ragged hole tore open.
But there was no blood. The strange man did not seem to seem to even notice. As he got nearer, Anna could see his pale face was expressionless.
Leaping nimbly up out of the coffin, the supposed corpse had drawn her own handgun. "Anna, don't let them get too close," said Grace as she moved toward the edge of the stage.
Two more bullets thumped into the nearer man's chest and he twitched at the impact but did not stop in his slow approach. The other goon was just as relentless.
"What are we dealing with her?" demanded Anna Albertini, retreating across the row of folding chairs as the weird men got way too close for comfort. The sickly sweet odor of decay was unbearable. Then a third figure rushed into the room and slammed both of the goons in a flying tackle that brought them all down to the plush carpeting.
When one of the strange men started getting up, Michael Hawk exploded a perfect right cross to the side of the jaw that should have dropped him. It was like punching a piece of frozen meat. When, the goons tried to clutch at him, Hawk seized one by the arm at wrist and elbow and swung him around to crash into the other so that they both got tangled up with each other.
By this time, Grace and Anna had come around behind Hawk, guns raised. "You seem to be on our side, mister," the blonde leader of the Hellions said.
"Stay clear," Hawk ordered. "These are Zombies."
"WHAT?!" was her response. Seeing the slack lifeless features and clouded white eyes of one of the monsters, Grace gave him a bullet right at the bridge of the nose. In the enclosed room, the gunshot echoed painfully. But, even though his head twitched back and a raw blue hole was left in the center of his face, the creature remained standing.
"Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners," Anna breathed. "It's true. Walking dead."
"Wait." Hawk moved back and gestured for the two women to join him. "Watch them. I think they're going to leave." It was true. As calmly as if nothing had happened, the two Undead men swung around and shambled back across the waiting room toward the door from which they had entered.
"I don't find this a bit amusing," said Grace.
Michael Hawk regarded the two women with fascination. "Policewomen?"
"Private Investigators," the blonde replied. "Well, Anna was with the LAPD. I did my time as a WAC. Come on, don't let them get away."
Outside in the warm dark night behind the funeral home, a huge Pontiac was only beginning to roll out of the parking lot. The Zombies didn't seem able to hurry even when it would have been prudent. Anna and Grace ran toward a gleaming new Lincoln town car which snapped its headlights on as they whipped open the doors and dove in, Grace up front and Anna in the rear. Hawk went with them instinctively and slammed the rear door behind him.
Behind the steering wheel, Chelsea flashed white teeth before taking off. "Well, hello there. Nice to see you again, Mike."
"Wait, 'Mike?'" Grace said in an alarmed voice.
"Sure. This is the famous Michael Hawk. I'm sure you girls have read about him in the Sunday supplements."
"Keep an eye on that car," the blonde snapped. "They're turning left at the intersection."
"I've on their trail," Chelsea said. "They don't seem to be in any hurry. What was wrong with those two jokers? They moved like they're more dead than alive."
V.
Introductions were made as they drove down the west side of Manhattan, keeping well behind the Plymouth or sometimes turning right for a block and catching sight of it at intersections. Hawk reflected the driver knew what she was doing. The moderate traffic this late on a Tuesday night helped provide cover.
"So, of the three of us, I'm the only Hellion who wasn't fresh out of uniform when Chester started his agency," Chelsea was chatting as if she'd known Hawk all her life. "Grace did a lot of undercover stings out in LA and Anna served the Army in Honolulu."
"Chelsea was a jewel thief. Best on the East Coast," Anna put in. "She mostly robbed very wealthy dowagers who honestly would hardly miss a few emeralds or gold-set opals from their hoard."
"Think of me as a modern-day Robin Hood," the woman behind the wheel said. "We're getting near the Battery, going to run out of island soon."
Turning in the front seat to gaze at their new acquaintance. "So. Mr Hawk. Is it true that your uncle raised you from the cradle to be a crimefigher? That you're almost a superman?"
"Hell, newspapers exaggerate," he replied. "I've had some training and some lucky breaks."
The blonde went on, "And your uncle Robert was actually the Sting? You know, the notorious vigilante from twenty years ago? That's where you got those anesthetic dart guns you use?"
"Some reporter figured that out," Hawk admitted. "Yeah. Uncle Bob has been dead for a few years now, I guess there's no harm in everyone knowing. He does deserve credit for all the mobsters he put out of the game one or another."
Sitting next to Hawk, Anna spoke up. She seemed to be silent and thinking most of the time but when she did speak, everyone listened. "What is the connection between Wesley Gorsline's stolen chemical and the body-snatching?"
"Do you see a connection?" asked Grace.
"Two such unusual cases at the same time, yes, I think coincidence does not explain it. Who keeps stealing the bodies? What is Gorsline not telling us?"
"Bad news, ladies," Chelsa said. "I think I lost them. Let me circle the block, everyone keep an eye out. The driver is pretty good for a Walking Dead with a hole through his forehead."
After looping around the area with no results, she sounded crestfallen. "That's on me, girls. I let them get too far ahead and had to wait at a red light because a big black and white was watching."
"I think I know where to proceed," said Hawk. "Keep going straight. Down toward Binnemak Street."
"Oh, the great man has an idea," Grace sniffed.
"Part of an investigation into something like this is checking for unusual activity. Deliveries of food or purchases of obscure equipment, that sort of thing. I spoke to a friend at Central Hudson. According to him, a house at the end of Binnemak Street has been using so much extra electricity this month that the supervisor was getting suspicious and wanted to see a crew by to check."
Grace softened her tone. "Maybe I should give you more credit, Mr Hawk."
"We play the cards we're dealt." He reached into an underarm holster beneath his tailored suit jacket and came up with a solid handcrafted aluminum pistol. From an inside pocket of the other side of his jacket, he took a long thin barrel and screwed it into place. "I don't reckon this will do much to sway those horrors," he said. "Wish I'd brought my other gun with the explosive shells but it's in my car back in the funeral home lot."
"Eh," scoffed Chelsea as she shifted gears with a faint grinding. "They're stiffs. They won't be at their best, we can handle them."
VI.
Hanging by her wrists from a ceiling beam in the basement, just able to stand up on tip-toes to support her slight weight, Chelsea sighed, "This is not going the way I'd hoped."
To her left, both her teammates and Michael Hawk were lined up in the same state. Ordinary clothesline tied their wrists together but it was enough. All had bruises showing on their cheeks or jawlines, Hawk being damaged the most. They had been dazed and unable to completely process events until their heads had cleared in the past few minutes.
All had been stripped completely naked. Lined up as they were, the three Hellions progressed from the slim gymnast body of Chelsea to Grace's pin-up queen form to the solid curves of Anna. Hawk resembled an anatomy drawing from a medical textbook with every muscle standing out sharply.
"I believe you are all as awake as you ever will be," announced a voice with a strong Norweigian accent. Moving around into their line of sight came a short man, barely five feet tall and stocky in a buttoned-up white lab that reached past his knees. His face was obscured by a massive pair of rubber goggles with thick opaque lenses, but a full head of thick white hair was visible.
Behind him, glaring white floodlights showed every detail of elaborate scientific equipment, rows of chemicals in tubing and metal cabinets with banks of flashing lights. A wheeled table held trays of medical instruments. Propped up at a 45 degree angle was a regulation operating table with linen covering that still bore blood stains in great profrusion. The sight of this did nothing to raise the prisoner's spirits.
"You are making a big mistake, my friend.." Grace began. "By the time you get out of prison, you'll be in worse shape than your Walking Dead servants!"
Before their captor could respond, Hawk said simply, "Baron Shogren."
That caught the little man's attention. He pushed his goggles back up on his head and revealed a wrinkled face with a bristly white mustache. Surprisingly, despite his accent, he was unmistakably of Asian descent. "Ah. Mr Hawk. Nice to be recognized."
"Oh, I do believe you have a certain notoriety," the manhunter replied as calmly as if he were not strung up and nude. "My word, you must be getting on in years. You were active back in 1942 if I recollect rightly."
"Heh. More than you know. I am eighty-seven, sir. My experiments in Alchemy and in synthetic blood plasma keep me limber and active. Watch." He raised his knee up to his chest, slapped it and lowered it easily back down. "Not bad. Most men my age would be in an invalid chair being wheeled around by a nurse."
The three Hellions had been wriggling, examining their bonds, straining to wrestle free. Baron Shogren laughed out loud at their efforts.
"So, let me get this straight if I can," Hawk continued. "The six missing corpses were your doing, right? That's what the shenanigans were about tonight? This little lady posed as a newly deceased to lure you into trying to snatch her up too?"
"All correct," Shogren chuckled. The contrast between his Asian appearance and Scandanavian accent was oddly disconcerting. "The newspaper notice was so tempting. I sent two of my boys to see if they could bring me a new specimen. Unfortunately, heh heh, they came back with unsightly bullet holes which do not impair their function but which would draw attention in a crowd."
From where she was suspended from the beam, Anna intoned solemnly, "You are breaking not only the laws of Men but of God. You will suffer greatly."
Baron Shogren glanced at her but did not reply. He strutted up and down the line of prisoners. "Ah, fine specimens, I must say, you are all young and healthy. Tonight is a bonanza of material to work with."
"Hey, Mad Scientist," said Chelsea at the far end of the line. "Let me ask one question. Was it you who stole some weird experimental serum from a weird experimental creep named Gorsline?"
"I admire your audacity," the Baron said, gesturing at a waist-high glass tank of fluorescent yellow fluid near the table. "I did indeed... ah, liberate the Reagent from that fool Gorsline. He has plenty. He can spare a small amount for a colleague. You may know Gorsline as the Resurrector. For decades now he has been reviving the recently dead to a semblance of life."
"This has to be some sort of hoax," Grace objected. "I mean, you hear this sort of nonsense on those radio shows like DARK NIGHT but it doesn't really happen."
"Sadly for you, my dear, it is all too true." Baron Shogren fetched a three-legged stool with a padded seat and lowered himself gingerly on it. "I am having difficulty duplicating Gorsline's results. My subjects are active and obey orders but they show no signs of coherent thought. They could never pass for the living."
At the far end of the line-up, Hawk was studying how the end of the beam from which they hung rested on a shelf carved out of the stone wall. He quickly turned his head back toward their captor. "Let me guess. I'd guess the problem is in how fresh the meat is you're working with?"
"True. All too true. I calculate revival six minutes after last heartbeat will leave the subject functional but mentally open to control... perfect for my purposes."
"Oh my God," screamed Grace more in anger than in fear, "You want to make living Zombies!"
Baron Shongren did not answer her. He snapped his fingers at one of two goons who stood behind him. "You! Remain here. Watch them. You other, the one with the bullet holes, follow me upstairs. I must assign the others and choose two assistants." Without even glancing at his prisoners, the strange little man limped up steep narrow stairs to leave the basement lab.
Left behind, Chelsea managed a brave smirk. "You know, I expected our cases to be about solving who was pilfering from office petty cash, finding which hotel a cheatin' husband was sneaking out to late at night, where a shipment of smack was being driven in from Mexico." Her voice rose an octave. "Not being turned into a walking obedient corpse slave by a Japanese lunatic with a Norwegian accent!"
"Steady there. Look at the ends of this beam we're hanging off of," Hawk offered quietly. "The end down there by Chelsea fits into a notch that was cut for it. But the masonry up on my end is all broken down. The end here is resting on a sort of rough ledge."
"Oh, I see what you mean," Grace said. "Look. I guess Baron Shogren didn't pay close attention to the details."
"Yeah, he does seem to have a lot of projects going on," Hawk replied. "All right, my new friends, let's all push forward and give it our best. Count of three. One. Two. THREE!"
It went more easily than they had expected, the loosened side of the beam swiveling forward as if on the hinge of its fastened end. The freed end did not completely reach the stone floor but remained half a foot above it. Instantly, Hawk was down on his stomach to slide his bound hands off the beam and then vaulting back up to smash into the Zombie like a linebacker catching an opposing player flat-footed. Behind him, three Hellions quickly followed. Hawk twisted the Zombie's head around until the neck broke and the body went limp.
"Well, he went down without resistance," Grace observed. She was over at the tray of medical instruments. "Here's some scalpels. Come on, Hellions, cut each other free before the Mad Doctor comes back."
As soon as Chelsea was untangled, she rushed toward Hawk with the scalpel but found he had already undone the knots with his teeth. "Looks like you don't need any help, superman," the little brunette chuckled.
"I appreciate the offer," he said. Dropping down under a sink, he wrestled loose part of the plumbing. "Lead pipes are always reliable. I suggest you arm ourselves."
From a cabinet, Grace pulled out two clean lab smocks which she and Anna hastily tugged on. Seeing the crestfallen expression on Chelsea's face, Hawk offered her the sheet from the lab table, which he tore into halves. "You're on the petite side, missy," he said. "I do believe this will restore your modesty. Tie it on like a toga."
"Thanks," she said simply. "That still leaves you in your birthday suit."
"I got more important things to worry about. Outside, we were dry-gulched by a dozen of these Undead. We can't be sure there aren't more that were waiting inside. Get ready for a donnybrook where the stakes are more than Life and Death."
"Life and Undeath," Grace agreed. She held up a pair of stainless steel shears with nine-inch blades. "But the difference is we won't be taken off-guard this time."
As footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs, Chelsea had finished wrapping herself in the linen sheet. She snatched up a regular carpenter's claw hammer which had been under a bench. "Those ghouls are in for a big surprise..."
VI.
When the door opened, Chelsea was seen to be lying face down in the middle of the lab. Hawk had gotten out of sight. Anna and Grace were crouching down on opposite sides of the steps, holding a rubber extension cord between them.
From the open doorway, Shogren yelled in his thick accent, "She's free? Are they all free? Hurry down there, you lifeless fools."
The Zombies rushed down the steps and the Hellions tripped them up by pulling the cord taut. The Undead could not figure out how to cope with the situation and only floundered in a helpless tangle of arms and legs. Hawk pounded away at them hard as a blacksmith working on an anvil, breaking bones with each stroke. The three women scrambled over and around the writhing mass of monsters, making disgusted 'Ewwws,' and raced up out of the basement. A second later, Hawk vaulted up as well, diving out into the hallway and they slammed the door shut behind them.
A car engine revved and faded in the distance. Baron Shogren had unceremoniously fled the area.
"Come on! He's getting away!" Chelsea yelled. "Let's go."
"Hold it. We can't even pursue him," said Grace. "Not until we find out what he did with our clothes. Each of us has a set of keys but they're no use to us if we can't find them."
"We'll all search. I always want some rubber tubing to use as a siphon," Hawk said, then asked the Hellions if they had a full gas tank in their car so he could begin making an impromptu Molotov...
VII.
Early the next afternoon, Hawk visited the office of the Everett Institute for the first time. The three investigators were still bruised and scratched but in good spirits. A bottle of champagne seemed to be cheering them up, as well as a silver tray of assorted cheeses and chocolates.
Hawk explained that he had already seen the DA first thing that morning. He had expressed his regret at not having had been more help in the bodysnatching mystery. The house by the waterfront was nearly a complete loss. The recovered cadavers were being identified mostly by dental records and such bits of hair which survived the inferno.
"I've let the authorities down a few times before," he admitted without shame. "No one's perfect. They're satisfied to at least close the case and move on."
"We've had a disappointing resolution ourselves," said Grace, lowered her goblet to the arm of the sofa on which she was curled up. The perfect little nose was swollen across the bridge from the violence of the night before and a bandage showed under her blouse cuff. "It seems our client found out about Baron Shogren's house burning down. The two lunatics had been rivals for decades, but Gorsline said he was not hopeful that Shogren had been destroyed. Then he left without paying us for two days' expenses."
"Ha ha, our retainer has already been deposited," Chelsea added. "Let him dare ask for it back."
A morose Anna Albertini seemed most affected by their horrifying experience. She was bundled up in a pantsuit with a matching short jacket of dark brown material. A scratch running down her cheek had been dabbed with Mercurochrome. "Listen! I want all our investigations to be mundane crimes from now on. Adultery, murder, robbery, no matter how unsavory, is better than getting a glimpse into the darkness that lies beyond our lives."
Seated in a comfortable chair they had brought over for him, Michael Hawk rubbed an aching shoulder. He hardly noticed injuries any more, they were such a constant occurence for him. "I've heard about your agency of course. Unofficially, it's referred to as Chester's Hellions. Three beautiful competent women making dime by fighting crime, the saying on the street goes."
"Could be worse sayings about us," Grace admitted.
"So, what's the deal with Chester Everett? He seems something of a mystery man," Hawk prompted.
The three investigators gave each glances and seemed to agree on something. Grace tipped the champagne bottle to get the last few drops into her glass. "I think you deserve a little inside information, Mr Hawk. Michael. There is no Chester Everett. We founded this agency ourselves but we invented an imaginary employer. I don't know how seriously we would have been taken otherwise. Three mere women being their own bosses? Not everyone is ready for that."
Hawk grinned, which made him seem closer to his actual age as the leathery face flashed white teeth. "Clever. And useful. You can get rid of clients you don't like by blaming it as Chester's decision. And it probably confuses crooks."
"The underworld wastes considerable time hunting our mirage Chester," Grace laughed.
With that, Chelsea Curtwood rose to her feet and came over to stand in front of Hawk, hands on narrow hips. "We're taking a few days off after last night's disaster," she said. "Michael! Aren't you going to ask me out? We need a ride on the Staten Island Ferry to chat and get to know each other. Then an Italian dinner by candlelight."
The manhunter rose and straightened his jacket. "Um, well, I was thinking of the very same thing. But to be honest. I never seem to have much time for dating. I might not be good at it."
From the couch, the blonde Grace made a scoffing noise. "How badly can your date go? You two have already seen each other naked as the days you were born."
9/7/2020
7/11-7/14/1956
I.
Leaving his new two-seater Thunderbird convertible parked several blocks away, Michael Hawk trotted silently along Ninth Avenue, keeping to shadows and alleys as much as possible. Even at three in the morning, Manhattan had enough traffic that he had to be stealthy and duck out of sight constantly. Milk trucks with their glass bottles rattling, newspaper delivery vans heading out with morning editions of the POST and DAILY NEWS, an occasional Checkered Cab. Wearing a dark denim jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans, his black Stetson pulled low, Hawk was not easy to spot in the gloom in any case.
At Twenty-Ninth Street, he snuck around to the rear of the Paradise Hotel. Its dingy yellow brick exterior and clouded windows, as well as the fact that the neon letter H flickered on and off, gave the establishment a rather embarrassed hangdog air. Hawk stole into the alley between the hotel and a boarded-up restaurant next door, found a window that had been left ajar on this muggy July night and eased through. A short hallway was lit by a lamp in the ceiling whose glass dish cover had collected an eclectic assortment of insects. At the bottom of the stairs leading up, a defeated potted plant sat in its ceramic vase and drooped hopelessly. A scent of mildew added the final touch to make this hotel completely unappealing.
No one was in sight. From the street, he had not even seen the blue flicker of a televison set in any window, although the roof had severals antennas installed. The New York skyline was sprouting TV aerials more rapidly every day. Michael Hawk waited, listening, for a full minute. Although only in his late thirties, his skin had the weathered texture of someone who has defied bad weather too many times. The wide square face was rugged and impressive rather than good-looking in any conventional way. Hawk started moving up the stairs with a quick easy stride.
At the third floor landing, he found the room he was seeking right in front of him. Small brazen numbers read 301, obvious enough. He tried the handle without much hope of finding it unlocked, then pulled a keyring from his jacket, the keys being held in a snug leather case to keep them from clinking. The lock was a common Schlage and he had no trouble getting the door open.
Still listening, watching for any signs of activity on that floor of the Paradise, Hawk stepped into darkness and closed the door behind him. A pencil flashlight from his inner pocket shone an intense white beam no thicker than a thread. The sagging bed, the dresser with a cracked mirror in a gilt frame, the grimy old-fashioned radio that sat in one corner, even the outdated calendar thumbtacked to the wall... these had all been expected. It was the short slim woman in black leotards that surprised him. She hopped up onto her feet from where she had been squatting while digging through a nightstand drawer.
They both reacted quickly, considering how surprised they were by each other's presence. Hawk reached back under his denim jacket and whipped up a clunky handgun with an extended needle-thin barrel. At the same time, the woman dove right at him and drove the top of her head below his sternum. She bounced off without budging him. Landing in a seated position, she cried, "Is that your STOMACH? What are you made of, marble?"
Holding both the flashlight beam and the dart gun steadily on the woman in black, Hawk instantly memorized her face. His unusual upbringing had developed many useful skills since childhood. He would be able to sketch a reasonable likeness of her or pick her photo from a dozen similar ones after that instant's glance. "Settle down, missy. Afore we tangle, let's see if we're playing the same game?"
"And you're a cowboy too? This gets better and better."
"Raised in Montana, if you want to know," he said. Hawk thumbed the end of the flashlight to widen the beam. "Check out a dump like this, a room taken by a man who labors for his living. I don't calculate you're here after precious jewels or fur coats, right?"
"Oh, my God. You're Michael Hawk! I've seen your picture in the papers." Scrambling up to her feet, the woman took two steps back toward the wide open window behind her.
"Guilty as charged. And you might be?"
"I'll be a memory to haunt you," she laughed and dove out through the window as nimble as any gymnast. Hawk yelped in dismay, thinking for sure she was killing herself by falling three stories to the pavement. But even as he dropped both the flashlight and the anesthetic dart gun, he heard a throaty chuckle from above. He reached the window just in time to see a white silken cord being yanked upward.
Well, at least now he knew how she had entered the room. Michael Hawk grumbled unhappily to himself, fetched his dart gun and holstered it, and then began searching the room himself. Maybe he had arrived here only a short time after the acrobatic thief had, maybe he would find what she had not had time enough to discover.
Maybe she hadn't been here because six fresh corpses had disappeared in less than a month.
II.
The elegance of the Everett Institute office held no appeal for the new client. A large uncluttered room with a long picture window looking down at treetops of Central Park West, its streamlined chrome furniture and tinted glass coffee table added to the airy feeling. But the small blond man scowled as if stuck outside a fish market on a hot summer day.
Nor did the three remarkably beautiful women displayed on two chairs and on the cobalt-blue couch seem to hold his attention. A tall busty Italian woman, a short slim gamin brunette with a boyish haircut and a perfect strawberry-blonde with cool appraising eyes all sat and regarded the man in a thoughtful way. Two were dressed modestly in light summer dresses, the third in slacks and short-waisted jacket. They looked composed and professional rather than overtly sexy.
"As I understood it, you ladies run a retrieval service for stolen goods," Weslie Gorsline blurted. "You have a reputation for being reliable and discreet."
"We do our best," replied the blonde, Grace Lee Gordon. Her oval face and flawless skin, with the pale blue eyes and delicately curved lips, qualified her to be on the cover of a fashion magazine. "Last night did not produce any results but resistance indicates we're on the right track."
"I'm all too busy. I only have a few minutes, I'm afraid. Very well. Ladies, I am a research biochemist. My field is extending human life after traumatic injuries. Keeping victims alive until medical care can be given."
"Go on, please," said Anna Albertini. The Italian woman was tall and solidly built, with impressive breasts and hips. But it was her oblique jade green eyes with their feline quality that held most people's attention. The strong Roman nose and jawline gave an almost regal air.
Sitting near near her partner, in sharp contrast, Chelsea Curtwood was only three inches over five feet tall, with the trim figure of a dancer in her dark slacks and a matching bolero jacket over a cream-colored silk blouse. Her hair was cut quite short, revealing her ears and not passing the nape of her neck, but there was nothing boyish about her. She nodded as she caught Gorsline's eye.
"I am trying to refine a reagent that has enormous possibilities," their client said. "It's been three days since nearly all of my supply was taken from my labs out on Long Island. There is no doubt in my mind who did it, but I have no faith in the police to help. They seem preoccupied with mob activity at the moment."
"Well, you gave us a few addresses and names, and we're on the chase," Chelsea said with a faint accent sounded French, but she was in fact Belgian. "One setback won't stop us."
"I wanted to ask, when will I be meeting your boss, Mr Everett?"
"It's not likely," Grace replied. The three women seemed to take turns speaking, perhaps so they could each study the client while he was watching another of them. "Chester moved out of state recently. Our practice is so well established in Manhattan that the Everett Institute will maintain its office here. We communicate by phone."
"I see." Gorsline rose to an unimpressive five feet eight, thin and narrow-bodied even in his tweed suit with padded shoulders. He was holding his fedora in one hand. "You have my retainer. If I don't hear from you in another day or two, one of my staff will come here to check on results. Good afternoon."
After the man left, the three Hellions drew closer together. The door was soundproofed so there were was no danger of Gorsline lingering in the hall to listen. "Girls, did you notice any odd details about our friend?"
"Absolutely," Anna responded with distaste. "Now that I got a good look, he is not thirty years old as he first seems. Not even close. There are many fine shallow lines in his face. The back of his hands are another giveaway."
"That's another thing that bothers me," Chelsea put in. "His fingernails. They were varnished a flesh color but you can see darkness underneath. What on Earth could that mean? Black fingertips? His circulation can't be that poor, he'd be in a hospital bed."
The blonde sat up straighter, intertwining her delicate fingers. "I would not be so sure of that, Chelsea. I made a point to shake hands when he entered. He wasn't thrilled to do so but he complied. His hand was cold, no higher than room temperature."
Anna shivered visibly. "I have a sinking feeling about this. My grandmother loved to frighten me as a child with tales of la Strega and nosferatu. This man Gorsline brings back memories of those stories."
"Not to mention there's the celebrity manhunter who charmed me last night," added Chelsea with a wry smirk. "Hellions, I wonder if we're stepping deeper into darkness than we know."
"I never cared for that Hellions nickname," sniffed Grace. "Anyway, Gorsline will have to wait. The family of Gary Jurgens has already hired us to find out who on Earth would steal his body right from the hospital an hour after he died."
III.
Most of the interior of Hawk's warehouse was taken up by a water-filled pit where his seaplane and motor launch were tethered. A sliding steel door was closed over the concrete apron which led down to the East River. In their stalls were his new Thunderbird, a white delivery truck that said LANDSCAPING with the phony number of a nonexistent service and a big black limo that seated seven comfortably. Wooden crates and metal cases of supplies and equipment were piled everywhere, leaving only narrow walkways to navigate.
In one corner was a walled-off section that served him as living quarters and office when he was in New York. His hunting cabin in the depths of Montana was emotionally his home but he seldom had time to stay there. The arrangement in this quasi-apartment was Spartan. A wardrobe closet and bathroom with a shower, a double bed with chairs and nightstand, and a desk on which two phones were buried under stacks of loose papers that seemed eager to cascade off the desk onto the floor if touched. A chest-high Frigidaire was empty more often than not, he lived on the go.
At eight that morning, Hawk was finishing the exhaustive routine he had been following since childhood. Thirty years of daily pushups on alternating hands, leg raises, windmills and rope skipping had given him high definition. Under his sleeveless T-shirt, muscles looked like bundles of wire beneath a weathered skin. The afternoon set of exercises involved stretching, running and working the heavy bag. Hawk had never resented this routine, he found it satisfying to do so his mind could relax for that short time. Raised at a distance by his uncle Robert, young Michael had been home schooled in a dozen useful disciplines for a criminologist. Even today, with his record firmly established, Hawk constantly met with experts to be further tutored in skills such as high diving, survival in deserts or icepacks, tracking through swamps, much more.
Straightening up, Michael Hawk took a damp towel from a nearby chair and swabbed at himself. There had been nothing useful in the dockworker's hotel room. As he recalled details of the cat burglar, he realized she had been well equipped. She had been wearing wrist-length gloves of tough leather to protect her hands when climbing the silk robe, which would otherwise have sliced her skin open. Her slippers had ridged rubber soles for traction and silence.. It had not completely registered during the brief encounter, but his mental image revealed that she had been wearing a thin-bladed stiletto on a sheath strapped to her right thigh.
Wiping himself briskly, Hawk studied the visualization of her face. Pretty enough, with a wide jaw and straight nose, dark eyes set wide apart. Her hair had been tucked up under a wool cap. Hawk thought she was within a year of being thirty either way. Five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds. When she had spoken, there had been a trace of a European accent that she was trying to lose.
Rack his memory as he would, he could not identify her. He thought of making a pencil sketch to show the police to see if anyone recognized her but what would be the point? He did not even know her aims yet. Was she working for some mastermind further back behind the scenes? Better to concenrate on his own agenda.
The ringing of one of the phones made him jump, which surprised him. Carefully extricating the device from under newspaper clippings, mail and notes on possible future cases, he answered simply, "Yes?"
It was Hollister, the assistant to the Police Commissioner, asking if he had made any progress. The newspapers were playing up the rash of bodysnatching in the Metropolitan area and public alarm was rising. Hawk admitted he had not learned anything yet, but he was gathering information and would report as soon as he had any news. Hollister told him good luck and remarked that everyone was counting on him.
"They always are," Hawk muttered after hanging up. Despairing at clearing off his desk at the moment, he took a yellow legal pad and a pencil, then went over to sit on the edge of his bed. Yesterday, he had spoken with the Medical Examiner and the Jewish family who had been retaining a body for rapid burial. Today, he intended to question the staff at the two funeral homes and see if he could spot any clues. Hawk glanced down and started sketching the woman's face. Her expression bothered him for some reason. There had been self-assurance in that smile and in her voice that was free of fear or hostility. Somehow he didn't think she was some tough-minded jaded pro.
He found himself adding more details, even lightly shading the cheekbones. Hawk put the sketch aside with a scowl and told himself to focus on the job. He had no business mooning over a cat burglar. He needed to change into a respectable suit and tie. There was a long day ahead of him of driving around the city, knocking on doors, asking questions and trying to figure out what was going on. Bothering the traumatized familes of the missing corpses was not something he looked forward to doing.
IV.
Rows of wooden folding chairs stood empty in the somber room with its heavy maroon curtains and muted lamps with amber glass. On a raised stage, the coffin sat with its lid up. Visible within, the unmoving form of a lovely blonde woman in a white gown had her hands clasped demurely at waist level. As always, all the fresh flowers on the stage and in vases out in the halls tried their best could not quite cover up the fact that this was a funeral home.
Only one mourner sat well in the rear of the room, head down and silent. She was a tall substantial woman in a black dress, face concealed behind the veil of her hat. At eleven-twenty, a noise made her raised her head and straighten up. Two gruesome specimens had emerged from a narrow door by the stage and were lurching stiffly toward the coffin. They were big men in shabby clothes, newsboy caps pulled low and collars up on their coats.
From the uncertain way they moved, an observer might wonder if they were either extremely drunk or arthritic. They navigated the mere three steps on the side of the stage as if it took all their concentration. And the waiting room was suddenly heavy with the stink of death.
Instead of screaming or running away, the mourner jumped up and tossed her hat aside. Her thick black hair was done up in a bun, Anna's classic Italian face was tight with anger. "Stop! Freeze right where you are," she ordered. In her right hand was a snub-nosed Colt .32 revolver and she raised it at full extension.
To her dismay, the intruders merely swung around and began stumbling directly toward her. She yelled again for them to stop and got no response. "Fine, be that way," she growled and snapped off a shot. The material of the nearer goon's pants leg twitched above the knee and a ragged hole tore open.
But there was no blood. The strange man did not seem to seem to even notice. As he got nearer, Anna could see his pale face was expressionless.
Leaping nimbly up out of the coffin, the supposed corpse had drawn her own handgun. "Anna, don't let them get too close," said Grace as she moved toward the edge of the stage.
Two more bullets thumped into the nearer man's chest and he twitched at the impact but did not stop in his slow approach. The other goon was just as relentless.
"What are we dealing with her?" demanded Anna Albertini, retreating across the row of folding chairs as the weird men got way too close for comfort. The sickly sweet odor of decay was unbearable. Then a third figure rushed into the room and slammed both of the goons in a flying tackle that brought them all down to the plush carpeting.
When one of the strange men started getting up, Michael Hawk exploded a perfect right cross to the side of the jaw that should have dropped him. It was like punching a piece of frozen meat. When, the goons tried to clutch at him, Hawk seized one by the arm at wrist and elbow and swung him around to crash into the other so that they both got tangled up with each other.
By this time, Grace and Anna had come around behind Hawk, guns raised. "You seem to be on our side, mister," the blonde leader of the Hellions said.
"Stay clear," Hawk ordered. "These are Zombies."
"WHAT?!" was her response. Seeing the slack lifeless features and clouded white eyes of one of the monsters, Grace gave him a bullet right at the bridge of the nose. In the enclosed room, the gunshot echoed painfully. But, even though his head twitched back and a raw blue hole was left in the center of his face, the creature remained standing.
"Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners," Anna breathed. "It's true. Walking dead."
"Wait." Hawk moved back and gestured for the two women to join him. "Watch them. I think they're going to leave." It was true. As calmly as if nothing had happened, the two Undead men swung around and shambled back across the waiting room toward the door from which they had entered.
"I don't find this a bit amusing," said Grace.
Michael Hawk regarded the two women with fascination. "Policewomen?"
"Private Investigators," the blonde replied. "Well, Anna was with the LAPD. I did my time as a WAC. Come on, don't let them get away."
Outside in the warm dark night behind the funeral home, a huge Pontiac was only beginning to roll out of the parking lot. The Zombies didn't seem able to hurry even when it would have been prudent. Anna and Grace ran toward a gleaming new Lincoln town car which snapped its headlights on as they whipped open the doors and dove in, Grace up front and Anna in the rear. Hawk went with them instinctively and slammed the rear door behind him.
Behind the steering wheel, Chelsea flashed white teeth before taking off. "Well, hello there. Nice to see you again, Mike."
"Wait, 'Mike?'" Grace said in an alarmed voice.
"Sure. This is the famous Michael Hawk. I'm sure you girls have read about him in the Sunday supplements."
"Keep an eye on that car," the blonde snapped. "They're turning left at the intersection."
"I've on their trail," Chelsea said. "They don't seem to be in any hurry. What was wrong with those two jokers? They moved like they're more dead than alive."
V.
Introductions were made as they drove down the west side of Manhattan, keeping well behind the Plymouth or sometimes turning right for a block and catching sight of it at intersections. Hawk reflected the driver knew what she was doing. The moderate traffic this late on a Tuesday night helped provide cover.
"So, of the three of us, I'm the only Hellion who wasn't fresh out of uniform when Chester started his agency," Chelsea was chatting as if she'd known Hawk all her life. "Grace did a lot of undercover stings out in LA and Anna served the Army in Honolulu."
"Chelsea was a jewel thief. Best on the East Coast," Anna put in. "She mostly robbed very wealthy dowagers who honestly would hardly miss a few emeralds or gold-set opals from their hoard."
"Think of me as a modern-day Robin Hood," the woman behind the wheel said. "We're getting near the Battery, going to run out of island soon."
Turning in the front seat to gaze at their new acquaintance. "So. Mr Hawk. Is it true that your uncle raised you from the cradle to be a crimefigher? That you're almost a superman?"
"Hell, newspapers exaggerate," he replied. "I've had some training and some lucky breaks."
The blonde went on, "And your uncle Robert was actually the Sting? You know, the notorious vigilante from twenty years ago? That's where you got those anesthetic dart guns you use?"
"Some reporter figured that out," Hawk admitted. "Yeah. Uncle Bob has been dead for a few years now, I guess there's no harm in everyone knowing. He does deserve credit for all the mobsters he put out of the game one or another."
Sitting next to Hawk, Anna spoke up. She seemed to be silent and thinking most of the time but when she did speak, everyone listened. "What is the connection between Wesley Gorsline's stolen chemical and the body-snatching?"
"Do you see a connection?" asked Grace.
"Two such unusual cases at the same time, yes, I think coincidence does not explain it. Who keeps stealing the bodies? What is Gorsline not telling us?"
"Bad news, ladies," Chelsa said. "I think I lost them. Let me circle the block, everyone keep an eye out. The driver is pretty good for a Walking Dead with a hole through his forehead."
After looping around the area with no results, she sounded crestfallen. "That's on me, girls. I let them get too far ahead and had to wait at a red light because a big black and white was watching."
"I think I know where to proceed," said Hawk. "Keep going straight. Down toward Binnemak Street."
"Oh, the great man has an idea," Grace sniffed.
"Part of an investigation into something like this is checking for unusual activity. Deliveries of food or purchases of obscure equipment, that sort of thing. I spoke to a friend at Central Hudson. According to him, a house at the end of Binnemak Street has been using so much extra electricity this month that the supervisor was getting suspicious and wanted to see a crew by to check."
Grace softened her tone. "Maybe I should give you more credit, Mr Hawk."
"We play the cards we're dealt." He reached into an underarm holster beneath his tailored suit jacket and came up with a solid handcrafted aluminum pistol. From an inside pocket of the other side of his jacket, he took a long thin barrel and screwed it into place. "I don't reckon this will do much to sway those horrors," he said. "Wish I'd brought my other gun with the explosive shells but it's in my car back in the funeral home lot."
"Eh," scoffed Chelsea as she shifted gears with a faint grinding. "They're stiffs. They won't be at their best, we can handle them."
VI.
Hanging by her wrists from a ceiling beam in the basement, just able to stand up on tip-toes to support her slight weight, Chelsea sighed, "This is not going the way I'd hoped."
To her left, both her teammates and Michael Hawk were lined up in the same state. Ordinary clothesline tied their wrists together but it was enough. All had bruises showing on their cheeks or jawlines, Hawk being damaged the most. They had been dazed and unable to completely process events until their heads had cleared in the past few minutes.
All had been stripped completely naked. Lined up as they were, the three Hellions progressed from the slim gymnast body of Chelsea to Grace's pin-up queen form to the solid curves of Anna. Hawk resembled an anatomy drawing from a medical textbook with every muscle standing out sharply.
"I believe you are all as awake as you ever will be," announced a voice with a strong Norweigian accent. Moving around into their line of sight came a short man, barely five feet tall and stocky in a buttoned-up white lab that reached past his knees. His face was obscured by a massive pair of rubber goggles with thick opaque lenses, but a full head of thick white hair was visible.
Behind him, glaring white floodlights showed every detail of elaborate scientific equipment, rows of chemicals in tubing and metal cabinets with banks of flashing lights. A wheeled table held trays of medical instruments. Propped up at a 45 degree angle was a regulation operating table with linen covering that still bore blood stains in great profrusion. The sight of this did nothing to raise the prisoner's spirits.
"You are making a big mistake, my friend.." Grace began. "By the time you get out of prison, you'll be in worse shape than your Walking Dead servants!"
Before their captor could respond, Hawk said simply, "Baron Shogren."
That caught the little man's attention. He pushed his goggles back up on his head and revealed a wrinkled face with a bristly white mustache. Surprisingly, despite his accent, he was unmistakably of Asian descent. "Ah. Mr Hawk. Nice to be recognized."
"Oh, I do believe you have a certain notoriety," the manhunter replied as calmly as if he were not strung up and nude. "My word, you must be getting on in years. You were active back in 1942 if I recollect rightly."
"Heh. More than you know. I am eighty-seven, sir. My experiments in Alchemy and in synthetic blood plasma keep me limber and active. Watch." He raised his knee up to his chest, slapped it and lowered it easily back down. "Not bad. Most men my age would be in an invalid chair being wheeled around by a nurse."
The three Hellions had been wriggling, examining their bonds, straining to wrestle free. Baron Shogren laughed out loud at their efforts.
"So, let me get this straight if I can," Hawk continued. "The six missing corpses were your doing, right? That's what the shenanigans were about tonight? This little lady posed as a newly deceased to lure you into trying to snatch her up too?"
"All correct," Shogren chuckled. The contrast between his Asian appearance and Scandanavian accent was oddly disconcerting. "The newspaper notice was so tempting. I sent two of my boys to see if they could bring me a new specimen. Unfortunately, heh heh, they came back with unsightly bullet holes which do not impair their function but which would draw attention in a crowd."
From where she was suspended from the beam, Anna intoned solemnly, "You are breaking not only the laws of Men but of God. You will suffer greatly."
Baron Shogren glanced at her but did not reply. He strutted up and down the line of prisoners. "Ah, fine specimens, I must say, you are all young and healthy. Tonight is a bonanza of material to work with."
"Hey, Mad Scientist," said Chelsea at the far end of the line. "Let me ask one question. Was it you who stole some weird experimental serum from a weird experimental creep named Gorsline?"
"I admire your audacity," the Baron said, gesturing at a waist-high glass tank of fluorescent yellow fluid near the table. "I did indeed... ah, liberate the Reagent from that fool Gorsline. He has plenty. He can spare a small amount for a colleague. You may know Gorsline as the Resurrector. For decades now he has been reviving the recently dead to a semblance of life."
"This has to be some sort of hoax," Grace objected. "I mean, you hear this sort of nonsense on those radio shows like DARK NIGHT but it doesn't really happen."
"Sadly for you, my dear, it is all too true." Baron Shogren fetched a three-legged stool with a padded seat and lowered himself gingerly on it. "I am having difficulty duplicating Gorsline's results. My subjects are active and obey orders but they show no signs of coherent thought. They could never pass for the living."
At the far end of the line-up, Hawk was studying how the end of the beam from which they hung rested on a shelf carved out of the stone wall. He quickly turned his head back toward their captor. "Let me guess. I'd guess the problem is in how fresh the meat is you're working with?"
"True. All too true. I calculate revival six minutes after last heartbeat will leave the subject functional but mentally open to control... perfect for my purposes."
"Oh my God," screamed Grace more in anger than in fear, "You want to make living Zombies!"
Baron Shongren did not answer her. He snapped his fingers at one of two goons who stood behind him. "You! Remain here. Watch them. You other, the one with the bullet holes, follow me upstairs. I must assign the others and choose two assistants." Without even glancing at his prisoners, the strange little man limped up steep narrow stairs to leave the basement lab.
Left behind, Chelsea managed a brave smirk. "You know, I expected our cases to be about solving who was pilfering from office petty cash, finding which hotel a cheatin' husband was sneaking out to late at night, where a shipment of smack was being driven in from Mexico." Her voice rose an octave. "Not being turned into a walking obedient corpse slave by a Japanese lunatic with a Norwegian accent!"
"Steady there. Look at the ends of this beam we're hanging off of," Hawk offered quietly. "The end down there by Chelsea fits into a notch that was cut for it. But the masonry up on my end is all broken down. The end here is resting on a sort of rough ledge."
"Oh, I see what you mean," Grace said. "Look. I guess Baron Shogren didn't pay close attention to the details."
"Yeah, he does seem to have a lot of projects going on," Hawk replied. "All right, my new friends, let's all push forward and give it our best. Count of three. One. Two. THREE!"
It went more easily than they had expected, the loosened side of the beam swiveling forward as if on the hinge of its fastened end. The freed end did not completely reach the stone floor but remained half a foot above it. Instantly, Hawk was down on his stomach to slide his bound hands off the beam and then vaulting back up to smash into the Zombie like a linebacker catching an opposing player flat-footed. Behind him, three Hellions quickly followed. Hawk twisted the Zombie's head around until the neck broke and the body went limp.
"Well, he went down without resistance," Grace observed. She was over at the tray of medical instruments. "Here's some scalpels. Come on, Hellions, cut each other free before the Mad Doctor comes back."
As soon as Chelsea was untangled, she rushed toward Hawk with the scalpel but found he had already undone the knots with his teeth. "Looks like you don't need any help, superman," the little brunette chuckled.
"I appreciate the offer," he said. Dropping down under a sink, he wrestled loose part of the plumbing. "Lead pipes are always reliable. I suggest you arm ourselves."
From a cabinet, Grace pulled out two clean lab smocks which she and Anna hastily tugged on. Seeing the crestfallen expression on Chelsea's face, Hawk offered her the sheet from the lab table, which he tore into halves. "You're on the petite side, missy," he said. "I do believe this will restore your modesty. Tie it on like a toga."
"Thanks," she said simply. "That still leaves you in your birthday suit."
"I got more important things to worry about. Outside, we were dry-gulched by a dozen of these Undead. We can't be sure there aren't more that were waiting inside. Get ready for a donnybrook where the stakes are more than Life and Death."
"Life and Undeath," Grace agreed. She held up a pair of stainless steel shears with nine-inch blades. "But the difference is we won't be taken off-guard this time."
As footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs, Chelsea had finished wrapping herself in the linen sheet. She snatched up a regular carpenter's claw hammer which had been under a bench. "Those ghouls are in for a big surprise..."
VI.
When the door opened, Chelsea was seen to be lying face down in the middle of the lab. Hawk had gotten out of sight. Anna and Grace were crouching down on opposite sides of the steps, holding a rubber extension cord between them.
From the open doorway, Shogren yelled in his thick accent, "She's free? Are they all free? Hurry down there, you lifeless fools."
The Zombies rushed down the steps and the Hellions tripped them up by pulling the cord taut. The Undead could not figure out how to cope with the situation and only floundered in a helpless tangle of arms and legs. Hawk pounded away at them hard as a blacksmith working on an anvil, breaking bones with each stroke. The three women scrambled over and around the writhing mass of monsters, making disgusted 'Ewwws,' and raced up out of the basement. A second later, Hawk vaulted up as well, diving out into the hallway and they slammed the door shut behind them.
A car engine revved and faded in the distance. Baron Shogren had unceremoniously fled the area.
"Come on! He's getting away!" Chelsea yelled. "Let's go."
"Hold it. We can't even pursue him," said Grace. "Not until we find out what he did with our clothes. Each of us has a set of keys but they're no use to us if we can't find them."
"We'll all search. I always want some rubber tubing to use as a siphon," Hawk said, then asked the Hellions if they had a full gas tank in their car so he could begin making an impromptu Molotov...
VII.
Early the next afternoon, Hawk visited the office of the Everett Institute for the first time. The three investigators were still bruised and scratched but in good spirits. A bottle of champagne seemed to be cheering them up, as well as a silver tray of assorted cheeses and chocolates.
Hawk explained that he had already seen the DA first thing that morning. He had expressed his regret at not having had been more help in the bodysnatching mystery. The house by the waterfront was nearly a complete loss. The recovered cadavers were being identified mostly by dental records and such bits of hair which survived the inferno.
"I've let the authorities down a few times before," he admitted without shame. "No one's perfect. They're satisfied to at least close the case and move on."
"We've had a disappointing resolution ourselves," said Grace, lowered her goblet to the arm of the sofa on which she was curled up. The perfect little nose was swollen across the bridge from the violence of the night before and a bandage showed under her blouse cuff. "It seems our client found out about Baron Shogren's house burning down. The two lunatics had been rivals for decades, but Gorsline said he was not hopeful that Shogren had been destroyed. Then he left without paying us for two days' expenses."
"Ha ha, our retainer has already been deposited," Chelsea added. "Let him dare ask for it back."
A morose Anna Albertini seemed most affected by their horrifying experience. She was bundled up in a pantsuit with a matching short jacket of dark brown material. A scratch running down her cheek had been dabbed with Mercurochrome. "Listen! I want all our investigations to be mundane crimes from now on. Adultery, murder, robbery, no matter how unsavory, is better than getting a glimpse into the darkness that lies beyond our lives."
Seated in a comfortable chair they had brought over for him, Michael Hawk rubbed an aching shoulder. He hardly noticed injuries any more, they were such a constant occurence for him. "I've heard about your agency of course. Unofficially, it's referred to as Chester's Hellions. Three beautiful competent women making dime by fighting crime, the saying on the street goes."
"Could be worse sayings about us," Grace admitted.
"So, what's the deal with Chester Everett? He seems something of a mystery man," Hawk prompted.
The three investigators gave each glances and seemed to agree on something. Grace tipped the champagne bottle to get the last few drops into her glass. "I think you deserve a little inside information, Mr Hawk. Michael. There is no Chester Everett. We founded this agency ourselves but we invented an imaginary employer. I don't know how seriously we would have been taken otherwise. Three mere women being their own bosses? Not everyone is ready for that."
Hawk grinned, which made him seem closer to his actual age as the leathery face flashed white teeth. "Clever. And useful. You can get rid of clients you don't like by blaming it as Chester's decision. And it probably confuses crooks."
"The underworld wastes considerable time hunting our mirage Chester," Grace laughed.
With that, Chelsea Curtwood rose to her feet and came over to stand in front of Hawk, hands on narrow hips. "We're taking a few days off after last night's disaster," she said. "Michael! Aren't you going to ask me out? We need a ride on the Staten Island Ferry to chat and get to know each other. Then an Italian dinner by candlelight."
The manhunter rose and straightened his jacket. "Um, well, I was thinking of the very same thing. But to be honest. I never seem to have much time for dating. I might not be good at it."
From the couch, the blonde Grace made a scoffing noise. "How badly can your date go? You two have already seen each other naked as the days you were born."
9/7/2020
