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dochermes"Inksane"
10/6-10/9/1999
I.
Jeremy Bane paid the taxi driver and stepped onto the sidewalk where a uniformed officer was watching him suspiciously. Another cop stood just inside the revolnving door to the lobby of the Weissbach Towers on 83rd Street, also giving the Dire Wolf an unfriendly gaze. Bane hardly noticed. He was used to the NYPD being divided about his role as a freelance investigator into gruesome murders and inexplicable crimes, half the police welcomed his help and half resented him bitterly. As long as they kept out of his way, he didn't care one way or the other.
At forty, Bane was a gaunt six-footer who moved with restless energy he could barely contain. As usual, he was dressed all in black- slacks,turtleneck and sport jacket, and the somber outfit made the pale grey of his eyes stand out even more vividly. Stepping toward the officer in the doorway, Bane asked quietly, "You realize Inspector Klein asked me to come here?"
The cop had a sullen Italian face with a heavy five-o'clock shadow, and he glared at Bane before relenting and being professional. "Yes, sir," he said after a barely perceptible hesitation. "The inspector is waiting for you." He turned sideways.
As he pushed through the revolving doorway, the Dire Wolf muttered, "Thanks."
The lobby was impressive enough, marble and dark wood with chrome trim here and there but it was deserted. No one sat in the overstuffed armchairs, no one loitered by the phone booths. The clerk behind the reception desk was a frail-looking older man in a red jacket, staring down at his clasped hands in front of him. Leaning with one elbow on that desk was a short stocky man in an off-white raincoat he wore no matter what the weather. Inspector Harold Klein's curly hair had gone completely grey and his face was furrowed with stress lines from a career in Homicide, but he still managed a wry grin as he spotted his visitor.
"Hiya, Bane," he called out. "Got a lulu for you this time. Sorry the remains have already been wheeled away but I couldn't reach you."
"Fill me in, Klein. What makes this a Midnight War case?"
The Inspector brought Bane to one corner of the lobby and pointed a thick finger at a closed door. "Still lots of blood all over in there. That's a meeting room for building personnel. Table, chairs, coffee machine, about what you'd expect. At nine-twenty this morning, a joker named Jan Molenaar went in there. He was an attorney for Weissbach Towers and he said he needed to review some papers in privacy. A minute later, our suspect barged in and slammed the door behind him. The desk clerk heard what he describes as terrifying screams and then the suspect hurried out of the room across the lobby into the street." Klein glanced over at the man behind the desk, "The clerk, his name is Burgess by the way, took a peek inside and damn near had a heart attack. Fell right down. He got hold of himself enough to call the police but he was hyperventilating and they almost insisted on taking him to the hospital for panic attack. He seems to have settled down for now but I wouldn't make any loud noises around him for a while."
The Dire Wolf saw the clerk staring nervously at them and he gave the man what he intended to be a reassuring smile. "So, what did he see that shook him up like that?"
"Molenaar was in pieces. His head and his arms and legs had been pulled off by hand. Quite a mess. That takes a little bit more strength than the average Joe off the street could manage."
"I bet." Bane was staring at the door, as if aching to look inside. "Was the suspect a big weightlifter guy?"
"Nah, that's what clinched me calling you in. Clerk says the killer was just a kid, maybe twenty or twenty-one, skinny college student type. Good-looking, well-dressed. Except for the blood all over him when he left."
The Dire Wolf suddenly had a distinct predatory gleam in his eyes. He seemed almost about to smile. "Oh, that's interesting. This suspect, did he have curly blonde hair and a deeply cleft chin?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he did." Klein leaned closer. "Seems like maybe you know him."
"I thought he had gone to the West Coast but apparently not. This is a real world-class psycho we're hunting, Inspector, right up there with Samhain and Golgora. Now he's back in New York, and this time I swear I'll nail him."
"What are you trying to do, tease me? Gimme a name, buddy."
"His legal name is Martin Leiber, but in Midnight War, he's called Inksane."
II.
Twelve minutes later, Klein cupped a steaming mug of coffee as he sat at a lunch counter two blocks away from the crime scene. "That's better, I needed that. Okay, Dire Wolf, we're away from the ears even of my own boys. What's this Inksane nonsense?"
Seated next to the Inspector, Bane was devouring half of a hot roast beef sandwich. One price for his enhanced speed was enough appetite for three men. He chewed and swallowed, reluctantly putting the sandwich down to speak. "He's dangerous enough to take seriously. Leiber got mixed up with Red Sect, some sort of pact that gave him a gralic power. It's a weird arrangement, but he can gain abilities from people he kills if he adds a tattoo representing that ability."
"Wait, what...?"
"When I met Leiber, he had just gotten his first tattoo," Bane said, going for the rest of the sandwich. "Mmmph. He killed a bodybuilder, strangled him with a rubber hose, then had images of muscular arms tattooed on his biceps. That's where the gralic magick kicked in. When those tattoos went on, Inksane became as strong as the bodybuilder. He did the same with two more victims, a knife-thrower and an acrobat. So now he was strong and nimble and good at throwing knives. I was on his trail when he disappeared. That was six months ago. One report had him spotted in San Diego."
Finishing his coffee, Klein held out the mug for a refill. He seemed to be having difficulty assimilating all this. "Aw, I've seen a lot of weird stuff working with you but sometimes.. I dunno, it just gets too hard to buy. So this freak kills people so he can steal their abilities, is that it?"
"That's it." Bane started forking hash browns down. "My next question would be, what was special about the victim at Weissbach Towers?"
"Oh, that I can tell you. He was a marksman. Won a dozen trophies for handgun competition at the Long Island Gun Club." Klein raised an eyebrow and added, "So that's what Leiber wanted from him?"
"Yes. He'll be getting tattoos of two pistols, I bet, and then he will be just as good a shot as Molenaar was." Bane polished off the hashbrowns and almost wiped the plate. "He can do this indefinitely, just adding one skill after another until he's unbeatable."
Klein grunted and stood up. "Obviously, time to start clamping down on tattoo parlors in the metropolitan area. I guess you'll investigate in your own way, eh?"
"I've got an idea or two," Bane admitted. "I'll keep you informed, Inspector. Thanks for calling me in on this."
Unexpectedly, Harold Klein snorted with laughter he could not contain. "That's what drives me nuts about you! You're not getting a fee for this, you don't have a client. You are all set to go chasing after a known killer who you yourself say is dangerous, and why? Because you want to. You live for the hunt, Mr Dire Wolf, you ARE a wolf."
Bane nodded agreeably. "You've got my number, all right."
III.
The rest of that day was spent on the move, making one phone call after another, running in and out of seedy side streets. Bane expected the NYPD to know about the many illegal tattoo parlors in the city, and his hope was that his own deeper connections would lead him to a few the cops had never suspected. Hours dragged by without results. Getting down near Chinatown, the Dire Wolf stepped into a Szechuan restaurant and devoured several plates of ginger chicken and dumplings. As he was chewing and staring out the window at passersby, a thought clicked in his mind. He ordered soup and took out his Link, then made a call. "Hello, Dom? It's me. Yeah, I need a giant favor. Right. I want you to stand by tonight. If I bring in someone for emergency ink, I need you to handle it. Yeah. I know you owe me, but this is asking a lot. Okay. Thanks. I'll see you soon."
Getting the bill, Bane dropped money down and headed out to the street. It was starting to get dark, and he was out of possible shady ink spots to check. But, racking his memory, he came up with one more. He had never been there, but he had heard Bleak mention it. Up past 120th Street and Eighth Avenue, he remembered, but that had been a few years ago. The Dire Wolf started walking at his usual gait, faster than most people could run. Reaching 40th Street and the IMPERIAL garage, he checked out his dark green Mustang. The blue and green lights winking behind the driver's visor reassured him that no one had touched it, and he always kept it fueled up and ready. Bane rolled out onto Third Avenue and headed uptown.
Finding an open spot on Ninth Avenue, just two blocks from where he wanted to be, Bane settled for it. He got out and surveyed the area like a commando entering enemy territory, but that didn't mean anything unusual because he always acted like that. He had been on alert all his life. The Dire Wolf strode briskly toward 120th Street, watching traffic and keeping an eye on the people walking past. Usually, he was active in the middle of the night when there were few witnesses around but he decided to go ahead.
Standing before a closed-down building with yellow tape across its front door and most of the windows boarded up, he paused. In the alley between this building and the next, a young black man was sitting in a doorway with a cigarette. Bane spotted a tiny glint of yellow light in the window beside the man, just a gleam where the board was nailed crooked. That was all he needed. Standing with his back to any passerby, the Dire Wolf drew his dart gun and fired once, holstering it again in a blink. The CO2 cartridge made a barely audible cough. The man sitting in the doorway jumped, cursed and grabbed at his neck where a thin metal dart was protruding. The darts hit with enough impact to sting worse than a hornet, and the injection of the drug burned painfully. For a second or two, that was all a victim thought of, and by the time the target realized he had been shot, the anesthetic was making him confused and disoriented. In three seconds, the young black man slumped back against the door and his mouth sagged open.
Bane stepped closer, still scanning the area for anyone watching. The anesthetic darts had many drawbacks. They were useless when the target had thick or tough clothing, which meant in winter they were often impractical. The darts had no stopping power like bullets did, and took two to four seconds to immobilize a target. So far, the Trom formula had worked well on people whose weight ranged from one hundred to three hundred pounds, with no overdoses so far.. but that was always possible. Someone with a weak heart or an allergic reaction could easily die after taking one of the darts.
But for taking out someone unobtrusively and keeping them unconscious for an hour or so, the darts were perfect. Bane checked the young man's pulse, found it was steady, and slid the guy off the doorstep to lie back against the wall. To anyone passing by, it would look like just another drunk sleeping it off. The Dire Wolf found the door was unlocked and simply walked through into a darkened hallway that stank of urine and cigarettes and beer.
A thin line of light showed beneath a door. Bane pressed up against it and slowed his breathing, letting the Tel Shai technique enhance his hearing. After thirty seconds, he could hear voices clearly from the room beyond.
- "Hey, looks like a new machine, Jerry."
- "You bet, it's an Empire Rotary, just got it yesterday. Nice and smooth, the foot pedal responds like a race car. You sure you're okay with this design?"
- "Yeah. The Browning works for me. I'm ready, start drilling."
Figuring he had heard enough, Bane drew his dart gun and set himself. He pulled back his free arm, elbow down by his waist and smacked the heel of his open hand just above the doorknob. He wasn't using raw strength. The Kumundu technique drew torque up from his legs to focus in a single spot, snapping the lock cleanly and slamming the door inward so hard it almost swung shut again. The Dire Wolf took in the scene instantly and fired a single dart at an obese man with long ringlets of black hair, catching him in a bare arm. Before he could swing the dartgun over, he was tackled headlong by a wiry young man in a berserk rage.
For once, Bane had his hands full. The dart gun went flying as he blocked some of the savage choppy punches pounding at his face. He managed to keep his footing, got hold of an arm at wrist and elbow, and threw the killer over his hip to thump down hard on the floor. Inksane was up against instantly, fingers clawed, running directly into a short hard jab that rocked his head back. For a split-second, the man was exposed and Bane blasted a left hook that cracked like a gun going off. Inksane's head swung around but he did not fall.
Bane got his first good look at his opponent. Martin Lieber stood maybe five feet eleven and would weigh just under two hundred pounds. Bare to the waist, he had solid muscles that were not overdone; he looked athletic rather than a typical prison weightlifter. Leiber had light blonde hair that topped his had with curls, a strong jaw with a cleft chin, and bright blue eyes. The enraged expression on his face had nothing comical about it. He wanted to kill.
Tattoos ran down both arms, the source of his power and the trophies of his victims. Inksane lunged forward, faster than expected, getting a hooking punch past Bane's upper block to crash hard on the Dire Wolf's face. They grappled, struggled for a second as the killer's sharp fingernails gouged deeply close to Bane's eyes, before the Wolf exploded a barrage of alternating left-right blows to the man's torso. It was a Wing Chun attack that always had good results. Twelve full-power punches in two seconds drove the breathe from the killer and cracked two ribs. Inksane stepped back, and Bane connected with an uppercut that swung the man's jaw up so far that his neck almost broke.
As Leiber reeled back and knocked over the heavy chair in which he would have been sitting for the tattoo procedure, Bane moved after him. He was a little annoyed that it was taking more than a single punch to finish things, even though he had known that Inksane had greater than normal strength. The Dire Wolf reached out to seize Leiber and was surprised as the man pounced on him again, driving them both back against a wall and knocking bottles of ink off shelves with their impact. It was only for a split-second that Inksane grabbed Bane by the hair and thumped his head against the wall before the Dire Wolf kicked loose. Bane was furious with himself for getting caught offguard twice by this opponent. He knew he had not been taking the match seriously enough. As he shoved Leiber back to arm's-length, Bane threw a left cross and left backfist that connected so closely together they sounded like one impact. Inksane turned around dizzily and dropped to the cluttered floor.
Dropping down to pin the stunned man with a knee, Bane reached inside his jacket and drew out a flat metal case. Its padded interiors held five color-coded hypodermic needles. Selecting the one with the yellow band, he removed the cap from the needle, tapped the syringe to check for bubbles and injected the entire contents into an artery on Inkster's wrist. Bane replaced the empty hypo and pocketed the case again.
Twenty years for administering drugs without consent or a license, he thought. Sometimes he realized how many felonies he committed during a typical case, not that it would ever deter him. This was a large dose of the Trom anesthetic used in the darts. The average adult male would be out for four to five hours, with another period of nausea or dizziness after that. Bane checked the man's pulse and listened to his breathing, finding both strong, before getting to his feet. He felt blood running hot down his chin and dabbed at his nose. Getting a gauze pad from an inside pocket, he rolled it into a plug and inserted it gingerly into one nostril. Inksane had gotten a few good blows in. His left eye was swelling up, as well.
Glancing over the outlaw tattoo parlor, he knelt and examined the artist. Jerry Apollonia was snoring slightly, but that would be his weight causing that. Bane was certain the man had not gotten a good look at him before the dart had knocked him out. Digging around, he came up a with tan polo shirt that he yanked on the limp Martin Leiber before propping the man up near the door to the hall. Next would come a risky part. He needed to go fetch his car and double park it right outside this building. It needed to be facing with the rear passenger door toward the alley, so he could haul Inksane into the car and pull away.
People would witness this, that couldn't be helped. Bane intended to carry Inksane with one of the man's arms up across his shoulders as if he was helping him into the car. He would criticize the man loudly for getting so drunk and swear it was the last time he would come get him. This was a weak ruse, but it was the best he could come up with in the time available. Bane sighed. Taking enemy alive always complicated things. He dragged the unconscious killer and left him just inside the door to the alley before stepping out into the night. There was still a lot to do.
IV.
The bleeding down his face had stopped, but his eye was still swollen shut. Bane did not take time to clean up. Bringing his Mustang around to the garage at the rear of Dom's house, he saw the warm yellow light spilling out through the open door. The bulky form of Dominick Ferraro loomed in that doorway, thick arms folded and legs well apart as he saw the headlights turn off.
Opening the rear door, the Dire Wolf seized Inksane by the shirt and hauled his limp form roughly out, dumping him on the gravel. The serial killer looked as badly battered as Bane did, with his face bruised and nose askew. Bane dragged the man toward Dom, who seemed to suddenly come to life and lend a hand. They brought the unconscious killer into a partitioned off area that served as Dom's studio. Bright lights flooded down, revealing the tools and supplies of a tattoo artist, as well as many large full-color paintings of various designs.
Dom was not a good-looking guy, with a shaven head and a nose shaped rather like a potato. He wore a T-shirt with straps to better reveal the tattoos he himself bore up each arm, as well as tattered jeans and heavy workboots. Coming in through the other doorway was a younger version of himself, not as beefy, with thick curly black hair. That would be his son Vinnie. They placed Inksane on the padded table and stepped back to stare sourly at him.
"There's our subject," Bane told them. His voice sounded flat from the blood packed in his nose. "I estimate we have four or five hours before he comes back to life. You two sure you want to go ahead with this?"
Dom clapped a heavy hand on Bane's shoulder and squeezed. "Mister, I never forget what you did for me. My baby, my Angela, was thirteen when Samhain had her tied up in his cellar. He had started to cut her up when you broke in and beat the hell out of him. You brought my baby home safe to me when I had already given up hope of seeing her again."
"That was ten years ago," Bane said. "You told me she's married now."
"And she gave me a beautiful grandson!" shouted Dominick. "I almost cry when I think how all that would be lost if not for you. I owe you a debt no man can pay, Jeremy, and I will do this with a glad heart."
The Dire Wolf nodded. "This is a felony, Dom. You're tattooing a man without his consent, but he'll never know who did it..."
"Ah, enough talking. We have work to do. Vinnie, you start on his ankle, I begin on his wrists. We work fast but clean, yes?" The two of them examined the unconscious man on the table. "He is drugged, yes?"
"Yes. I gave him enough to keep him under even with the pain." Bane went to a sink in the corner and began to scrub his face with brutally hot water and liquid soap. Soon he had cleaned all the blood from his face and found his eye was beginning to open a slit. With his enhanced healing factor, the bruises would fade away in a few more hours. Already, the pain from the fight had diminished to no more than a vague twinge when he moved.
The Dire Wolf pulled up a stool and watched in silence, letting father and son work. He hoped Inksane did not suddenly revive to find himself under the needle like this. Finding the killer had left Bane with a problem. Just binding him and turning him over to the NYPD would never work, any more than it had with Samhain or Seneca or the other near-immortal maniacs. They always escaped shortly because they could take immense damage that would kill a normal Human. No, Bane figured he had to come up with something more appropriate for Martin Lieber.
Two hours passed in near silence. Finally, Vinnie announced he was done, dabbing at the killer's ankle. Bane leaned closer. In black ink, a thick chain encircled that ankle, with a round iron ball fastened to it. It represented the eighty-pound ball and chain that convicts used to be encumbered with to keep them in line.
"Good work, Vinnie," said Dom. He went back to laboring on the killer's wrists. Vinnie washed up, shook hands with Bane and told him, "Thank you for rescuing my little sister Angela. She's the light of our lives, and we are still in your debt. Call on us for anything, Mr Bane."
"I was glad to help, and I appreciate your doing this," the Dire Wolf said. He was actually a little embarrassed at the gratitude shown. After Vinnie left, Bane went back to watching Dom finish his own task. Finally, the artist proudly displayed his work. A tattooed handcuff encircled each of Inkster's wrists, remarkably realistic considering the speed with which they had been executed.
"Not bad, although it should not be I who says so," Dom grumbled. "Maybe you feel like explain?"
"This man is cursed," Bane told him. "He believes the tattoos give him power. The guns make him a good shot, for example. He is strong and hard to control but I think these tattoos will help."
Dominick Ferraro rubbed the side of his nose with a thick finger. "Ah. You are wise in the ways of witches and the evil eye and the children of the night, Jeremy."
"Now I'm going to get him away," Bane said. "When he wakes up, I don't want him to see you or this place. Thanks for everything, Dom. You're preventing future killings by doing this." The Dire Wolf yanked Inksane up over one shoulder and started heading back to his car. "I'll stop by to let you know how things work out."
"Good luck," Dominick said. "Dire Wolf! You are well named, my friend."
Throwing the still unconscious man in the back seat, Bane eased out onto the West Side Highway. It was past midnight by now and he figured his prisoner would start to stir soon. Spotting a strip mall with only one store still open, he pulled into the parking lot and came to a stop in front of a darkened laundromat. The convenient mart at the other end was still lit, with people coming and going, but here he had a pool of darkness in which to work.
On the side of the Mustang away from the convenient mart, he dragged Inksane out again and propped the man up against the car. The killer was breathing with quicker and more shallow breaths, then beginning to mumble. Bane took some alcohol swabs from an inner pocket and wiped some of the blood off Leiber's face. The swelling and discoloration had not changed. He moved back just out of reach and stood with hands on his hips, wondering if his scheme would work or if he was in for another vicious duel.
Martin Lieber revived all at once. The blue eyes snapped open and fastened on Bane with pure venom. Heaving up from the ground, the young killer took one step and fell on his face. He thrashed about, managed to get up again but was obviously having a hard time. Dragging his right leg seemed to take all his strength, and he was staring at his hands. He could not move his wrists more than a few inches apart for some reason.
Inksane cursed viciously. "You! What did you DO to me?"
"You've got a few new tattoos, Lieber. A ball and chain so you can't run, handcuffs so you can't do much harm. You're manacled for life now and believe me, you deserve it." Bane took a step forward and watched as Inksane tried to lunge at him but fell to the parking lot again. The killer struggled and got to his knees, then stood up.
"The police won't believe you're being restrained by invisible chains," Bane said quietly. "They'll just assume you're even crazier than you seemed before. But I think they'll be glad to find you can't walk well and you can't use any weapons well. It'll be easier for them to keep you harmless for the rest of your life."
Swaying, tugging desperately in an attempt to get his wrists apart from unseen links, Inksane screamed, "I'll find a way to get loose! I'll come looking for you! We'll have a showdown!"
With a remarkably predatory grin, Bane answered, "I'd like that."
1/20/2015
10/6-10/9/1999
I.
Jeremy Bane paid the taxi driver and stepped onto the sidewalk where a uniformed officer was watching him suspiciously. Another cop stood just inside the revolnving door to the lobby of the Weissbach Towers on 83rd Street, also giving the Dire Wolf an unfriendly gaze. Bane hardly noticed. He was used to the NYPD being divided about his role as a freelance investigator into gruesome murders and inexplicable crimes, half the police welcomed his help and half resented him bitterly. As long as they kept out of his way, he didn't care one way or the other.
At forty, Bane was a gaunt six-footer who moved with restless energy he could barely contain. As usual, he was dressed all in black- slacks,turtleneck and sport jacket, and the somber outfit made the pale grey of his eyes stand out even more vividly. Stepping toward the officer in the doorway, Bane asked quietly, "You realize Inspector Klein asked me to come here?"
The cop had a sullen Italian face with a heavy five-o'clock shadow, and he glared at Bane before relenting and being professional. "Yes, sir," he said after a barely perceptible hesitation. "The inspector is waiting for you." He turned sideways.
As he pushed through the revolving doorway, the Dire Wolf muttered, "Thanks."
The lobby was impressive enough, marble and dark wood with chrome trim here and there but it was deserted. No one sat in the overstuffed armchairs, no one loitered by the phone booths. The clerk behind the reception desk was a frail-looking older man in a red jacket, staring down at his clasped hands in front of him. Leaning with one elbow on that desk was a short stocky man in an off-white raincoat he wore no matter what the weather. Inspector Harold Klein's curly hair had gone completely grey and his face was furrowed with stress lines from a career in Homicide, but he still managed a wry grin as he spotted his visitor.
"Hiya, Bane," he called out. "Got a lulu for you this time. Sorry the remains have already been wheeled away but I couldn't reach you."
"Fill me in, Klein. What makes this a Midnight War case?"
The Inspector brought Bane to one corner of the lobby and pointed a thick finger at a closed door. "Still lots of blood all over in there. That's a meeting room for building personnel. Table, chairs, coffee machine, about what you'd expect. At nine-twenty this morning, a joker named Jan Molenaar went in there. He was an attorney for Weissbach Towers and he said he needed to review some papers in privacy. A minute later, our suspect barged in and slammed the door behind him. The desk clerk heard what he describes as terrifying screams and then the suspect hurried out of the room across the lobby into the street." Klein glanced over at the man behind the desk, "The clerk, his name is Burgess by the way, took a peek inside and damn near had a heart attack. Fell right down. He got hold of himself enough to call the police but he was hyperventilating and they almost insisted on taking him to the hospital for panic attack. He seems to have settled down for now but I wouldn't make any loud noises around him for a while."
The Dire Wolf saw the clerk staring nervously at them and he gave the man what he intended to be a reassuring smile. "So, what did he see that shook him up like that?"
"Molenaar was in pieces. His head and his arms and legs had been pulled off by hand. Quite a mess. That takes a little bit more strength than the average Joe off the street could manage."
"I bet." Bane was staring at the door, as if aching to look inside. "Was the suspect a big weightlifter guy?"
"Nah, that's what clinched me calling you in. Clerk says the killer was just a kid, maybe twenty or twenty-one, skinny college student type. Good-looking, well-dressed. Except for the blood all over him when he left."
The Dire Wolf suddenly had a distinct predatory gleam in his eyes. He seemed almost about to smile. "Oh, that's interesting. This suspect, did he have curly blonde hair and a deeply cleft chin?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he did." Klein leaned closer. "Seems like maybe you know him."
"I thought he had gone to the West Coast but apparently not. This is a real world-class psycho we're hunting, Inspector, right up there with Samhain and Golgora. Now he's back in New York, and this time I swear I'll nail him."
"What are you trying to do, tease me? Gimme a name, buddy."
"His legal name is Martin Leiber, but in Midnight War, he's called Inksane."
II.
Twelve minutes later, Klein cupped a steaming mug of coffee as he sat at a lunch counter two blocks away from the crime scene. "That's better, I needed that. Okay, Dire Wolf, we're away from the ears even of my own boys. What's this Inksane nonsense?"
Seated next to the Inspector, Bane was devouring half of a hot roast beef sandwich. One price for his enhanced speed was enough appetite for three men. He chewed and swallowed, reluctantly putting the sandwich down to speak. "He's dangerous enough to take seriously. Leiber got mixed up with Red Sect, some sort of pact that gave him a gralic power. It's a weird arrangement, but he can gain abilities from people he kills if he adds a tattoo representing that ability."
"Wait, what...?"
"When I met Leiber, he had just gotten his first tattoo," Bane said, going for the rest of the sandwich. "Mmmph. He killed a bodybuilder, strangled him with a rubber hose, then had images of muscular arms tattooed on his biceps. That's where the gralic magick kicked in. When those tattoos went on, Inksane became as strong as the bodybuilder. He did the same with two more victims, a knife-thrower and an acrobat. So now he was strong and nimble and good at throwing knives. I was on his trail when he disappeared. That was six months ago. One report had him spotted in San Diego."
Finishing his coffee, Klein held out the mug for a refill. He seemed to be having difficulty assimilating all this. "Aw, I've seen a lot of weird stuff working with you but sometimes.. I dunno, it just gets too hard to buy. So this freak kills people so he can steal their abilities, is that it?"
"That's it." Bane started forking hash browns down. "My next question would be, what was special about the victim at Weissbach Towers?"
"Oh, that I can tell you. He was a marksman. Won a dozen trophies for handgun competition at the Long Island Gun Club." Klein raised an eyebrow and added, "So that's what Leiber wanted from him?"
"Yes. He'll be getting tattoos of two pistols, I bet, and then he will be just as good a shot as Molenaar was." Bane polished off the hashbrowns and almost wiped the plate. "He can do this indefinitely, just adding one skill after another until he's unbeatable."
Klein grunted and stood up. "Obviously, time to start clamping down on tattoo parlors in the metropolitan area. I guess you'll investigate in your own way, eh?"
"I've got an idea or two," Bane admitted. "I'll keep you informed, Inspector. Thanks for calling me in on this."
Unexpectedly, Harold Klein snorted with laughter he could not contain. "That's what drives me nuts about you! You're not getting a fee for this, you don't have a client. You are all set to go chasing after a known killer who you yourself say is dangerous, and why? Because you want to. You live for the hunt, Mr Dire Wolf, you ARE a wolf."
Bane nodded agreeably. "You've got my number, all right."
III.
The rest of that day was spent on the move, making one phone call after another, running in and out of seedy side streets. Bane expected the NYPD to know about the many illegal tattoo parlors in the city, and his hope was that his own deeper connections would lead him to a few the cops had never suspected. Hours dragged by without results. Getting down near Chinatown, the Dire Wolf stepped into a Szechuan restaurant and devoured several plates of ginger chicken and dumplings. As he was chewing and staring out the window at passersby, a thought clicked in his mind. He ordered soup and took out his Link, then made a call. "Hello, Dom? It's me. Yeah, I need a giant favor. Right. I want you to stand by tonight. If I bring in someone for emergency ink, I need you to handle it. Yeah. I know you owe me, but this is asking a lot. Okay. Thanks. I'll see you soon."
Getting the bill, Bane dropped money down and headed out to the street. It was starting to get dark, and he was out of possible shady ink spots to check. But, racking his memory, he came up with one more. He had never been there, but he had heard Bleak mention it. Up past 120th Street and Eighth Avenue, he remembered, but that had been a few years ago. The Dire Wolf started walking at his usual gait, faster than most people could run. Reaching 40th Street and the IMPERIAL garage, he checked out his dark green Mustang. The blue and green lights winking behind the driver's visor reassured him that no one had touched it, and he always kept it fueled up and ready. Bane rolled out onto Third Avenue and headed uptown.
Finding an open spot on Ninth Avenue, just two blocks from where he wanted to be, Bane settled for it. He got out and surveyed the area like a commando entering enemy territory, but that didn't mean anything unusual because he always acted like that. He had been on alert all his life. The Dire Wolf strode briskly toward 120th Street, watching traffic and keeping an eye on the people walking past. Usually, he was active in the middle of the night when there were few witnesses around but he decided to go ahead.
Standing before a closed-down building with yellow tape across its front door and most of the windows boarded up, he paused. In the alley between this building and the next, a young black man was sitting in a doorway with a cigarette. Bane spotted a tiny glint of yellow light in the window beside the man, just a gleam where the board was nailed crooked. That was all he needed. Standing with his back to any passerby, the Dire Wolf drew his dart gun and fired once, holstering it again in a blink. The CO2 cartridge made a barely audible cough. The man sitting in the doorway jumped, cursed and grabbed at his neck where a thin metal dart was protruding. The darts hit with enough impact to sting worse than a hornet, and the injection of the drug burned painfully. For a second or two, that was all a victim thought of, and by the time the target realized he had been shot, the anesthetic was making him confused and disoriented. In three seconds, the young black man slumped back against the door and his mouth sagged open.
Bane stepped closer, still scanning the area for anyone watching. The anesthetic darts had many drawbacks. They were useless when the target had thick or tough clothing, which meant in winter they were often impractical. The darts had no stopping power like bullets did, and took two to four seconds to immobilize a target. So far, the Trom formula had worked well on people whose weight ranged from one hundred to three hundred pounds, with no overdoses so far.. but that was always possible. Someone with a weak heart or an allergic reaction could easily die after taking one of the darts.
But for taking out someone unobtrusively and keeping them unconscious for an hour or so, the darts were perfect. Bane checked the young man's pulse, found it was steady, and slid the guy off the doorstep to lie back against the wall. To anyone passing by, it would look like just another drunk sleeping it off. The Dire Wolf found the door was unlocked and simply walked through into a darkened hallway that stank of urine and cigarettes and beer.
A thin line of light showed beneath a door. Bane pressed up against it and slowed his breathing, letting the Tel Shai technique enhance his hearing. After thirty seconds, he could hear voices clearly from the room beyond.
- "Hey, looks like a new machine, Jerry."
- "You bet, it's an Empire Rotary, just got it yesterday. Nice and smooth, the foot pedal responds like a race car. You sure you're okay with this design?"
- "Yeah. The Browning works for me. I'm ready, start drilling."
Figuring he had heard enough, Bane drew his dart gun and set himself. He pulled back his free arm, elbow down by his waist and smacked the heel of his open hand just above the doorknob. He wasn't using raw strength. The Kumundu technique drew torque up from his legs to focus in a single spot, snapping the lock cleanly and slamming the door inward so hard it almost swung shut again. The Dire Wolf took in the scene instantly and fired a single dart at an obese man with long ringlets of black hair, catching him in a bare arm. Before he could swing the dartgun over, he was tackled headlong by a wiry young man in a berserk rage.
For once, Bane had his hands full. The dart gun went flying as he blocked some of the savage choppy punches pounding at his face. He managed to keep his footing, got hold of an arm at wrist and elbow, and threw the killer over his hip to thump down hard on the floor. Inksane was up against instantly, fingers clawed, running directly into a short hard jab that rocked his head back. For a split-second, the man was exposed and Bane blasted a left hook that cracked like a gun going off. Inksane's head swung around but he did not fall.
Bane got his first good look at his opponent. Martin Lieber stood maybe five feet eleven and would weigh just under two hundred pounds. Bare to the waist, he had solid muscles that were not overdone; he looked athletic rather than a typical prison weightlifter. Leiber had light blonde hair that topped his had with curls, a strong jaw with a cleft chin, and bright blue eyes. The enraged expression on his face had nothing comical about it. He wanted to kill.
Tattoos ran down both arms, the source of his power and the trophies of his victims. Inksane lunged forward, faster than expected, getting a hooking punch past Bane's upper block to crash hard on the Dire Wolf's face. They grappled, struggled for a second as the killer's sharp fingernails gouged deeply close to Bane's eyes, before the Wolf exploded a barrage of alternating left-right blows to the man's torso. It was a Wing Chun attack that always had good results. Twelve full-power punches in two seconds drove the breathe from the killer and cracked two ribs. Inksane stepped back, and Bane connected with an uppercut that swung the man's jaw up so far that his neck almost broke.
As Leiber reeled back and knocked over the heavy chair in which he would have been sitting for the tattoo procedure, Bane moved after him. He was a little annoyed that it was taking more than a single punch to finish things, even though he had known that Inksane had greater than normal strength. The Dire Wolf reached out to seize Leiber and was surprised as the man pounced on him again, driving them both back against a wall and knocking bottles of ink off shelves with their impact. It was only for a split-second that Inksane grabbed Bane by the hair and thumped his head against the wall before the Dire Wolf kicked loose. Bane was furious with himself for getting caught offguard twice by this opponent. He knew he had not been taking the match seriously enough. As he shoved Leiber back to arm's-length, Bane threw a left cross and left backfist that connected so closely together they sounded like one impact. Inksane turned around dizzily and dropped to the cluttered floor.
Dropping down to pin the stunned man with a knee, Bane reached inside his jacket and drew out a flat metal case. Its padded interiors held five color-coded hypodermic needles. Selecting the one with the yellow band, he removed the cap from the needle, tapped the syringe to check for bubbles and injected the entire contents into an artery on Inkster's wrist. Bane replaced the empty hypo and pocketed the case again.
Twenty years for administering drugs without consent or a license, he thought. Sometimes he realized how many felonies he committed during a typical case, not that it would ever deter him. This was a large dose of the Trom anesthetic used in the darts. The average adult male would be out for four to five hours, with another period of nausea or dizziness after that. Bane checked the man's pulse and listened to his breathing, finding both strong, before getting to his feet. He felt blood running hot down his chin and dabbed at his nose. Getting a gauze pad from an inside pocket, he rolled it into a plug and inserted it gingerly into one nostril. Inksane had gotten a few good blows in. His left eye was swelling up, as well.
Glancing over the outlaw tattoo parlor, he knelt and examined the artist. Jerry Apollonia was snoring slightly, but that would be his weight causing that. Bane was certain the man had not gotten a good look at him before the dart had knocked him out. Digging around, he came up a with tan polo shirt that he yanked on the limp Martin Leiber before propping the man up near the door to the hall. Next would come a risky part. He needed to go fetch his car and double park it right outside this building. It needed to be facing with the rear passenger door toward the alley, so he could haul Inksane into the car and pull away.
People would witness this, that couldn't be helped. Bane intended to carry Inksane with one of the man's arms up across his shoulders as if he was helping him into the car. He would criticize the man loudly for getting so drunk and swear it was the last time he would come get him. This was a weak ruse, but it was the best he could come up with in the time available. Bane sighed. Taking enemy alive always complicated things. He dragged the unconscious killer and left him just inside the door to the alley before stepping out into the night. There was still a lot to do.
IV.
The bleeding down his face had stopped, but his eye was still swollen shut. Bane did not take time to clean up. Bringing his Mustang around to the garage at the rear of Dom's house, he saw the warm yellow light spilling out through the open door. The bulky form of Dominick Ferraro loomed in that doorway, thick arms folded and legs well apart as he saw the headlights turn off.
Opening the rear door, the Dire Wolf seized Inksane by the shirt and hauled his limp form roughly out, dumping him on the gravel. The serial killer looked as badly battered as Bane did, with his face bruised and nose askew. Bane dragged the man toward Dom, who seemed to suddenly come to life and lend a hand. They brought the unconscious killer into a partitioned off area that served as Dom's studio. Bright lights flooded down, revealing the tools and supplies of a tattoo artist, as well as many large full-color paintings of various designs.
Dom was not a good-looking guy, with a shaven head and a nose shaped rather like a potato. He wore a T-shirt with straps to better reveal the tattoos he himself bore up each arm, as well as tattered jeans and heavy workboots. Coming in through the other doorway was a younger version of himself, not as beefy, with thick curly black hair. That would be his son Vinnie. They placed Inksane on the padded table and stepped back to stare sourly at him.
"There's our subject," Bane told them. His voice sounded flat from the blood packed in his nose. "I estimate we have four or five hours before he comes back to life. You two sure you want to go ahead with this?"
Dom clapped a heavy hand on Bane's shoulder and squeezed. "Mister, I never forget what you did for me. My baby, my Angela, was thirteen when Samhain had her tied up in his cellar. He had started to cut her up when you broke in and beat the hell out of him. You brought my baby home safe to me when I had already given up hope of seeing her again."
"That was ten years ago," Bane said. "You told me she's married now."
"And she gave me a beautiful grandson!" shouted Dominick. "I almost cry when I think how all that would be lost if not for you. I owe you a debt no man can pay, Jeremy, and I will do this with a glad heart."
The Dire Wolf nodded. "This is a felony, Dom. You're tattooing a man without his consent, but he'll never know who did it..."
"Ah, enough talking. We have work to do. Vinnie, you start on his ankle, I begin on his wrists. We work fast but clean, yes?" The two of them examined the unconscious man on the table. "He is drugged, yes?"
"Yes. I gave him enough to keep him under even with the pain." Bane went to a sink in the corner and began to scrub his face with brutally hot water and liquid soap. Soon he had cleaned all the blood from his face and found his eye was beginning to open a slit. With his enhanced healing factor, the bruises would fade away in a few more hours. Already, the pain from the fight had diminished to no more than a vague twinge when he moved.
The Dire Wolf pulled up a stool and watched in silence, letting father and son work. He hoped Inksane did not suddenly revive to find himself under the needle like this. Finding the killer had left Bane with a problem. Just binding him and turning him over to the NYPD would never work, any more than it had with Samhain or Seneca or the other near-immortal maniacs. They always escaped shortly because they could take immense damage that would kill a normal Human. No, Bane figured he had to come up with something more appropriate for Martin Lieber.
Two hours passed in near silence. Finally, Vinnie announced he was done, dabbing at the killer's ankle. Bane leaned closer. In black ink, a thick chain encircled that ankle, with a round iron ball fastened to it. It represented the eighty-pound ball and chain that convicts used to be encumbered with to keep them in line.
"Good work, Vinnie," said Dom. He went back to laboring on the killer's wrists. Vinnie washed up, shook hands with Bane and told him, "Thank you for rescuing my little sister Angela. She's the light of our lives, and we are still in your debt. Call on us for anything, Mr Bane."
"I was glad to help, and I appreciate your doing this," the Dire Wolf said. He was actually a little embarrassed at the gratitude shown. After Vinnie left, Bane went back to watching Dom finish his own task. Finally, the artist proudly displayed his work. A tattooed handcuff encircled each of Inkster's wrists, remarkably realistic considering the speed with which they had been executed.
"Not bad, although it should not be I who says so," Dom grumbled. "Maybe you feel like explain?"
"This man is cursed," Bane told him. "He believes the tattoos give him power. The guns make him a good shot, for example. He is strong and hard to control but I think these tattoos will help."
Dominick Ferraro rubbed the side of his nose with a thick finger. "Ah. You are wise in the ways of witches and the evil eye and the children of the night, Jeremy."
"Now I'm going to get him away," Bane said. "When he wakes up, I don't want him to see you or this place. Thanks for everything, Dom. You're preventing future killings by doing this." The Dire Wolf yanked Inksane up over one shoulder and started heading back to his car. "I'll stop by to let you know how things work out."
"Good luck," Dominick said. "Dire Wolf! You are well named, my friend."
Throwing the still unconscious man in the back seat, Bane eased out onto the West Side Highway. It was past midnight by now and he figured his prisoner would start to stir soon. Spotting a strip mall with only one store still open, he pulled into the parking lot and came to a stop in front of a darkened laundromat. The convenient mart at the other end was still lit, with people coming and going, but here he had a pool of darkness in which to work.
On the side of the Mustang away from the convenient mart, he dragged Inksane out again and propped the man up against the car. The killer was breathing with quicker and more shallow breaths, then beginning to mumble. Bane took some alcohol swabs from an inner pocket and wiped some of the blood off Leiber's face. The swelling and discoloration had not changed. He moved back just out of reach and stood with hands on his hips, wondering if his scheme would work or if he was in for another vicious duel.
Martin Lieber revived all at once. The blue eyes snapped open and fastened on Bane with pure venom. Heaving up from the ground, the young killer took one step and fell on his face. He thrashed about, managed to get up again but was obviously having a hard time. Dragging his right leg seemed to take all his strength, and he was staring at his hands. He could not move his wrists more than a few inches apart for some reason.
Inksane cursed viciously. "You! What did you DO to me?"
"You've got a few new tattoos, Lieber. A ball and chain so you can't run, handcuffs so you can't do much harm. You're manacled for life now and believe me, you deserve it." Bane took a step forward and watched as Inksane tried to lunge at him but fell to the parking lot again. The killer struggled and got to his knees, then stood up.
"The police won't believe you're being restrained by invisible chains," Bane said quietly. "They'll just assume you're even crazier than you seemed before. But I think they'll be glad to find you can't walk well and you can't use any weapons well. It'll be easier for them to keep you harmless for the rest of your life."
Swaying, tugging desperately in an attempt to get his wrists apart from unseen links, Inksane screamed, "I'll find a way to get loose! I'll come looking for you! We'll have a showdown!"
With a remarkably predatory grin, Bane answered, "I'd like that."
1/20/2015
