![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
"Featuring Chet Wilkins On Voodoo Drum"
"Featuring Chet Wilkins On Voodoo Drum"
8/11-8/12/1978
I.
There had been four of the so-called Forehead Murders by the second week of August. When Jeremy Bane came downstairs early as usual because his hyperactive metabolism meant he only needed four hours of sleep a night, he stuck his head in the reception room. Kenneth Dred had been working there the night before and he had left newspaper clippings arranged on the oak desk under the gorgeous hand-painted wall map. Bane automatically moved over to check the clippings out in the hazy dawn light through the high windows.
At just twenty-one, the Dire Wolf was so serious and self-assured that people reacted to him as if he were an older man. Just over six feet tall but so lean as to seem gaunt, he was wearing his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He was so rarely seen dressed any other way that he would have been almost hard to recognize in colorful clothes. Bane leaned over the clippings and read them slowly. Mr Dred had mentioned that they might be starting a new case.
The main feature of interest seemed to be the method that was used. The victims had a fracture in the forehead above the eyes, with a deep puncture wound that went into a specific area of the brain and caused quick death. In at least one case, the victim apparently had clung to life for a few moments as there were signs of strangulation as the real cause of death. Interesting, thought Bane, a new weapon of some kind, probably homemade. He looked at a list which Dred had left on a sheet of typing paper, detailing the victims' names, ages, addresses and occupations. There was no common factor that he could see.
The young Dire Wolf straightened up and for once his pale grey eyes were distant. This would be hard to investigate. Where to start? Finding something linking to victims was the usual way police proceeded but they had been getting nowhere. Maybe Mr Dred had some ideas....
Something tickled the edges of his mind, like an echoe from a distance. He was getting used to that sensation. It wasn't unpleasant or intrusive, just a vague sensation that he could ignore if he wanted to but he was intensely private by nature. Having a telepath living in the building with Mr Dred and himself would take some getting used to, and the fact she was a pretty girl added to his uneasiness. As he looked up, a slim figure swung into the doorway and a cheery "Well, good morning!" was spoken aloud.
Katherine Anne Wheatley was a year younger than himself, with a trim figure and a fresh-scrubbed attractive face. Like Bane, she had jet black hair and light-colored eyes but hers were sky-blue and friendly. She was wearing blue denim jeans, white sneakers and a dark blue sweater over a white blouse with the collar out over the sweater. "Say, Jeremy, what time do you rise anyway? It's barely half past six you know."
"I don't sleep much. Did Mr Dred tell you about these Forehead Murders?"
"Ugh. Yes. I dare say it's one reason I didn't sleep well myself." Katherine had been in the States so long only the faintest trace of her Northern England accent remained. She came over to glance at the clippings on the desk, standing close enough that Bane could smell the faint floral scent in her hair. He promptly moved away, ostensibly to pull the curtains aside to look at 38th Street, and she smiled slyly to herself.
"It's a beastly business," she continued. "Have you ever heard of such goings-on before?"
"No." Just the single word. He was watching a checker-topped taxi come to a stop at the corner. A tall heavy-set black man in an expensive tan suit got out, paid the driver and fetched a suitcase from the back seat. "I think we're going to have a visitor, Kath."
"Hm? Yes. You're right." She headed for the front door. The rare telepathic talent Dred had been teaching her how to use flared up fully as she reached out to the man outside. "He's a decent sort," she said over one shoulder to Bane. "Serious, disciplined. He thinks of Mr Dred as an old friend."
"You're our early warning system," the young Dire Wolf grumbled to himself, letting his constant guard down slightly. He followed her out into the hall just as she opened the inner door to the tiny foyer.
"Oh, he's from Africa, isn't that interesting?" she called back as she stepped down to unlock the heavy door to the street. "Good morning, may I help you?"
"Ah, you must be Miss Katherine Wheatley," answered the man in a rich baritone. "And behind you, that has to be Jeremy Bane? Kenneth has told me so much about you youngsters that I feel I know you. My is Watesa, Samuel Watesa."
The man was an inch or two under six feet tall, heavy about the waist and imposing in manner. He was very dark-skinned, almost with purple highlights, and his hair was cut short to match his neatly trimmed beard. The glasses he wore had lightly tinted blue lenses. As he saw the two young people watch him uncertainly, he smiled and placed the suitcase down to one side. "In fact, Kenneth expected me later today but I happened to catch an early flight from New Orleans. If he's not up yet, please don't disturb him on my account."
"You might wait in our reception room," Katherine told him. "We do have today's newspapers and I would be pleased to make coffee if you like."
"Thank you kindly," Watesa answered. "Yes. I only regret such a serious matter brings me to visit. Dire Wolf, is it? I have heard much of your accomplishments in so short a time. Yet I do not think you have yet encountered real Voodoo."
II.
Within half an hour, Kenneth Dred had come downstairs, impeccably dressed as always. He had never been a big man and now that he was in his late seventies, age and arthritis had withered him into a slight figure that still stood erect. His pleasant gnomish face lit as he entered the reception room and saw his guest. "Samuel! You certainly wasted no time getting here to help."
Watesa rose from the couch and the two shook hands. Bane and Katherine had also gotten out of the chairs they had brought over and said their greetings before seating themselves again. As Dred saw the wheeled cart with the coffee pot, he fixed a cup for himself before lowering himself onto the couch next to Watesa.
"I don't suppose Samuel here has told you two that he was already preparing to come to New York before I called him yesterday," Dred began. "Would you care to fill everyone in?"
"Certainly," said the big African with a trace of a French accent. "My area of study is Voodoo and related arts from the Corruption on Ulgor so long ago. I was born in Danarak, in fact I am related to the Bakwanga. Ah, I see you haven't heard of them. No matter. A year ago, I confronted a dangerous warlock named Adebole. He was a mentor to Arem Kamende. He had made things uncomfortable enough for himselfthat he left our homeland altogether and relocated to New Orleans but that is my home. I drove him away. Recently, I heard that Adebole had moved here, to Manhattan, and had died of pneumonia. Unfortunately, I also heard rumours that his belongings had disappeared with his death."
As the mystic paused and sipped his second cup, Bane spoke up. "You mean, Voodoo stuff? Dolls you stick pins in?"
"Those fetish figures, yes," answered Watesa. "But I am more concerned about a few sigils he had crafted himself. They are inherently malicious. Adebole's talismans will corrupt even the most innocent man who posseses them. That is why I have come here, and that is why I hope you two young people will help me."
Katherine glanced inquiringly over at Dred, who nodded. "Why, certainly," she said.
"Whenever you're ready, we can start," Bane snapped almost harshly. "But I have to ask, what about those Forehead Murders we were ready to investigate?"
"The two are related. I have seen killings like those back in Danarak. That is another reason why I felt it so important to come here." Watesa put down his cup and sat up straighter. "I do not know this city. Without your help, I would be at a great disadvantage just finding my way around."
Bane snorted and got impatiently to his feet. "I'm your man, then, I was born and raised in Manhattan. Let's get going on our Voodoo clean-up."
Rising with some stiffness, Kenneth Dred chuckled. "You couldn't ask for two better assistants, Samuel. I was lucky beyond hope when I found Jeremy and Katherine."
III.
Before they left, Dred insisted that everyone have a solid breakfast. "The Midnight War is not best fought on empty stomachs," he explained. Bane and Katherine prepared huge amounts of scrambled eggs, thick maple-flavored bacon and wheat toast with strawberry jam, which was about as far as their cooking skills extended. More coffee, orange juice and ice water accompanied the food which they consumed thoroughly. As the two youngest members of the household cleaned up, Watesa thanked them sincerely. "I hadn't eaten since yesterday at noon," he explained.
"I have busines of my own to attend today," Dred told everyone. "Largely paperwork and phone calls, I'm afraid, but I do want frequent reports to keep my worrying at bay."
"Don't worry, sir," said Katherine. "I'll ring you every chance we have."
While Bane went down to the basement garage to fetch Dred's Plymouth, Katherine escorted Watesa to the front steps. By now, the city was its usual frantic self and the sounds of auto horns and yelling voices and music from passing cars echoed in the canyons of the buildings. She was asking him about New Orleans when Bane pulled around up to the curb. She got in the back seat so that he could have a better view.
Watesa asked the Dire Wolf to just drive toward uptown for the moment. He peered out the passenger window acutely but said nothing, and for the moment both Bane and Katherine kept their silence as well. They had reached 59th Street and the southern border of Central Park before the big African asked Bane to find a parking spot. "I sense something," he said quietly.
It took a few blocks before an opening was found, but Bane parallel parked in and completely ignored an angry driver who had to pause for a second. To their right was the low wall that encircled the park. As they emerged onto the sidewalk, Watesa turned thoughtfully in a circle and finally pointed at a shop across Fifth Avenue. "There! I have no doubt now." He immediately started crossing the street but was forced to wait for the light to change and allow it.
The three of them stopped before a plate glass window that said INTERNATIONAL EXCHANGE in flowing silver script, TREASURES FROM THE WORLD'S CULTURES. Display shelves showed curios from bronze statues of Kali to colorful Mexican robes to an Irish harp.
"Some Voodoo gear in there?" asked Bane after a disinterested scan of the window.
"Absolutely." Watesa went through the door, setting off a small bell set at its top. From behind a counter, a thin middle-aged woman with a severe expression raised her head. "Good morning," she said with just enough courtesy.
As Katherine looked around with genuine curiosity and Bane watched as if expecting an ambush, Samuel Watesa strode directly to a small wooden mask on the wall and glared at it. It was small, no bigger than a hand-width, carved with a mouth open in a rictus of pain and eyes that were mere slits.
"That's new," said the clerk. "Yoruba, from the West Coast. Wonderful piece."
"It is NOT Yoruba. It is from my homeland, from the countryside of Danarak where the farmers dwell in longhouses." Mutesa scowled angrily and took the mask off its peg. "I will take it. Where did you obtain this artifact, madame?"
Obviously pleased at the sale, the clerk still shook her head sadly. "Oh, I can't reveal our buyers. They are quite discreet..." Suddenly her face slackened and she seemed dazed, then recovered. "I'm.. I'm sure you understand, sir."
Stepping closer to Watesa, Katherine Wheatley whispered in his ear, "I've got the answer."
The big African mystic nodded and brought the mask over to the counter. As he made the purchase, he asked for a box and folded the paper bag over the package tightly. Only then did he seem to let out a breath, as if he had been handling something that might explode.
Back on the street, Katherine explained, "I went in her recent memories for a second. I have a clear mental image of the man who sold her that mask. If you wish, I can send you that image as well.. it won't hurt, my telepathy is quite refined."
"In a minute, perhaps. I want to get this demon mask back to Kenneth's house where it can be stored safely. It is hideously potent." Watesa held the package gingerly. "Even I can feel it calling me, sending me its evil message."
Jeremy Bane had drifted over to a nearby window as something caught his attention. "Hey. You guys, I think you oughtta take a look at this."
A printed flyer was taped up inside a shop window. It showed the silhouette of a jazzband, with the bass and piano visible. In front of that silhouette was a photo of an intense young black man holding up a cylindrical drum under one arm. On the taut hide top of that drum was an odd symbol of what looked like an animal skull with two curving horns. The flyer said THIS WEEKEND AT THE HIDDEN THEATRE, TWO SHOWS NIGHTLY - THE JAMES BARRISTER FIVE. In slightly smaller letters, the flyer continued, FEATURING CHET WILKINS ON VOODOO DRUM.
Behind Bane, Samuel Watesa gasped as if he had been struck. "There it is," he breathed. "The Death Drum."
IV.
Returning to the nine-story building on East 38th Street, Bane went down to secure the mask in the vault where dangerous talismans were kept. The thick steel door had protective Eldar talismans fastened at its top, and they shimmered at the presence of a new menace to be contained. The Dire Wolf locked the door and checked it before heading along the narrow walkway and up steep concrete steps that let him out through the panel in the front hall. Bane had already parked the Plymouth and now he went into the reception room to join the others.
Kenneth Dred was now sitting behind the huge oak desk, straightening up folders full of loose papers. Watesa and Katherine had brought their straightback chairs to sit in front of him. As the Dire Wolf entered, all three met his appearance with quizzical smiles.
"All set," Bane said. He was feeling mildly annoyed at how friendly Watesa and Dred were, although he did not yet have enough self-awareness to recognized it was his own resentment at someone else getting so much attention from Dred. Bane had grown up as an orphan of the streets, cold and solitary, with no real friends and no desire to have any. That Kenneth Dred had so easily won him over was unexpeco the young Dire Wolf, all the respect and trust he had never shown anyone went to the gentle old scholar who had freely taken him in and treated him well.
"Please have a seat," Dred told the Dire Wolf. "Samuel and Katherine have already reported to me about the fetish mask. Good to have it sealed away! But they were beginning to tell me that you spotted something still more dangerous.. the Death Drum."
After details of that poster advertising the jazz group and its member with a Voodoo drum were explained to him, Dred rubbed his pointed chin thoughtfully. "So I dare say I know where you three will be tonight?"
"Just Mr Watesa and me," snapped Bane. "Not Katherine. That night club is in the Village. Not a dangerous neighborhood, not much crime but I figure this Death Drum thing will draw a bad crowd. Just a hunch. Bringing a pretty young white girl there at night is asking for trouble."
Samuel Watesa raised an eyebrow. "But I will be with you. Surely your American blacks will see my accompanying you as a sign to treat you well."
"Yeah, to some extent," Bane admitted. "It's still a bad call for her to go. This guy with the Voodoo drum might be the bird behind the Forehead Murders, too. Too dangerous."
Kenneth Dred turned to the teen who was sitting silently through this. "Perhaps we should ask Katherine herself how she feels?"
"I do have my telepathy to let me know of any imminent danger," Katherine said crisply. "In fact, I would be there to probe this Chet Wilkins chap and learn about him." She smiled over at Bane and said exactly the right thing to win him over. "But honestly, sir, sitting right next to our Jeremy, how could I ask for any better protection?"
"Fine," the Dire Wolf gave in without grace. "I suppose. It still seems like a bad idea, but I guess I'm outvoted."
"Thank you," Katherine replied with her sweetest voice. "Well, sir, what's the immediate agenda for us?"
Kenneth Dred glanced up at the wall clock. "I'd say you wouldn't be going out to the jazz club until ten o'clock or later. Samuel, do you want to go back and searched for more of Adobele's propety?"
"I think that is necessary," said the African mystic. "My sources indicate he left a ritual knife with a bone handle and a short staff of some sort. We had best locate them promptly as well." Watesa pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Back on the chase, my friends."
As he stood up, Bane said, "I'll bring the car around front again." None of them realized that at that very moment, two of the three cursed talismans they were sought were at work on a man's soul.
______
Walking slowly along Lenox Avenue, Chet Wilkins felt the weight of the damn drum heavier than before as it dangled in its leather holder from a strap across his shoulders. He had not showered or changed after the marathon jam session the night before. Grimy and unshaven, with a suit that had stale sweat dried in it, Wilkins felt far from his usual presentable self. He was a good-looking young man with regular features and thoughtful big brown eyes that usually won people over. His hair had been straightened and was combed neatly, his fingernails were manicured and his teeth were well kept. Wilkins had decided as a child to make a good first impression on people was prudent protection for a black man. But now he looked disheveled and weary and felt unsure of himself.
The drumming which echoed in his head still had not lessened. If anything, it kept circling through his mind more insistently than ever. It was difficult not to ask passersby if they heard it as well. He had heard this pounding since the first moment he had set eyes on the Death Drum.
In his right hand, Wilkins held a thick three-foot walking stick with a brass knob at one end and a pointed ferrule on the other. He had obtained this cane from the antique store the same night he had gotten his hands on the drum, through murder. Everything since that moment still felt so unreal. As he stepped up on the stoop of a tenement building and entered a small foyer, the drumming in his mind sped up as if it were excited. Chet Wilkins trudged up narrow wooden stairs to the second floor and found the door with 2C on it, as the girl had told him early that morning.
Sudden revulsion swept over him. He felt nausous. What was he doing? What was he about to do? But the drumming pounded in his head and drowned out uncertaintly. Wilkins rang the doorbell and instantly the door was opened by a petite black woman who wore a subdued Afro. She was wearing a baggy blue sweatshirts and stretch pants, barefoot, smiling warmly as she saw him. He remembered she had given her name as Monica.
"Well, hel-LO there baby," she purred. "I was wondering if you were going to come visit." She leaned forward and gave him a wet, warm kiss but broke it off quickly. "So glad to see you."
Wilkins came in and shrugged off the straps from his shoulder, propping the cylindrical drum against a chair. The wild drumming sounded so loud and so insistent that it was making it hard for him to think. "A man doesn't forget meeting a beauty like you," he said. "Even if I can only stay a few minutes."
"A lot can happen in a few minutes," Monica answered. "We can make each other very happy. I sat and listened to you drum for six hours last night, even after the other band members copped out and left. When I heard the feeling in your music, the pure soul shining through, I knew we had something special between us. A real connection."
"I'm go glad. You're sensitive in a way most of our people have lost," he said as if to himself."Your connection to the motherland has not been broken completely." Looking away, he frowned. That wasn't him talking. What was that about the motherland? What was happening to him?
Monica grinned and reached up to unbutton the collar of his dress shirt, tugging down the knot of the tie. "Maybe a quick shower, I'll join you?"
"Sure, baby," he mumbled. "But first I need to show you something. Here. Watch closely." He hefted the walking stick and twisted his brass cap until it rotated with a click. "This is the secret behind the music. It's not for everyone. It's been kept private among drummers for ages."
That took her off guard and confused her. "What? Uhh, okay I guess. What am I supposed to see, honey?"
Chet Wilkins raised the cane and held the brass ferrule at its pointed head close to her face. "You have to listen closely. It's only for a second. Ready, babe?"
"Sure... I guess," was her uncertain answer. She stared nervously past the cane's end at his tense unsmiling face. "I don't get it..."
In one move, Wilkins pressed the cane's point to the center of her forehead, above and between her eyes, and he turned the brass cap once again. The powerful springloaded mechanism within shot the ferrule sharply forward and its sharp point punched through bone into her brain. Monica did not even have time to scream. Her arms and legs flung wildly about, she fell twitching to the floor and was still in the new calmness of death. A final sigh escaped her lips as air left her lungs through reflex action.
Exhaling sharply himself, Chet Wilkins went to the nearby sink and cleaned the point of the walking stick as thoroughly as he possibly could. Later, he would have to open up the cane and struggle to wind up the stiff coiled spring within its mechanism. The African warlock who had crafted this murder device had planned its construction well.
Wilkin took a minute to lower his aching head in the sink and run cold water over it. The drumming in his mind had stopped, he realized with blessed relief. It was like a great weight being lifted. Wiping his face with his hands, Wilkins almost began to sob at the release. Now, for the rest of the day at least, he would be free of that drumming. He could get to his pad, take a hot shower and grab some sleep, enough to feel like a normal human being again.
But it was only a respite. Wilkins reluctantly picked up the Voodoo drum and slung its strap over one shoulder. The killings merely quieted the drum for a while, then its hunger returned. By nightfall, he knew, the drumming he was doing on stage would only be an echo of what he was going to hear pounding within his brain.
V.
The afternoon dragged as the three investigators cruised the city. Samuel Watesa was searching with some mystic perception he did not elaborate upon, and both Bane and Katherine kept silent to let him work. At three-thirty, they had stopped for lunch at a pizza joint. As they ate hot meatball subs outside, sitting around a round wrought-iron table, Katherine began asking Watesa about himself.
"I was born in Danarak," he explained between bites, "but I went to University in Paris. A few years ago, I moved to New Orleans and obtained American citizenship. It was a difficult decision but I knew my work was here."
"What's this about Voodoo?" Bane asked with his usual bluntness. "Zombies? Sticking pins in dolls? Dancing around a bonfire in the middle of the night?"
"Oh yes. And yet, Jeremy, all that is only the surface. What we call Voodoo is the outer edge of a darker, more perilous cult that goes back thousands of years. To the fall of Ulgor, when the Sulla Chun gave forbidden knowledge to Humans." Watesa picked up what was left of his sub and chewed thoughtfully. "I understand you have been working for Kenneth Dred less than a year."
"That's right." The Dire Wolf had finished own meatball sub immediately and was now looking as if he might order another one. One price for his enhanced speed was constant hunger. "I signed up last September. Mr Dred has been filling me in on this Midnight War business but it's a lot to take in."
The African mystic watched the young man sitting opposite him appraisingly. "You are well-named, Dire Wolf. I see you have a spirit born to danger and the night. You wear the two silver daggers Kenneth gave you?"
"Never without them," Bane answered. "Why?"
"They are not JUST silver, although silver is potent in itself. Those blades were blessed by the immortal Eldarin long ago, they are potent against the creatures of the night as few other objects in this world are."
Bane gave one of his barely perceptible smiles. "They haven't let me down yet."
"Just so. Well, we should begin searching soon. I can sense one of the Adobele talismans is nearby. Katherine, how refined is your telepathy? Can you search through a crowd for a certain thought?"
"I think so, Mr Watesa..."
"Please. Call me Samuel, both of you. I am not that old yet. Now, whoever possesses one of these talismans will find it preying on his mind. He will be thinking about it constantly, perhaps worrying someone wants to take it away. A bone-handled knife with a crescent blade and the drum we saw in that flyer in the window. There was also an ebony walking stick with a brass cap and pointed end, but that is not ensorcelled. It is a murder device but not magick."
Katherine nodded. "I see. You want me to be alert for an image of one of these in someone's mind? I can do that." She reached in her sweater pocket and got out a clip with which to tie back her hair. It was a breezy summer day and her hair had been annoying her as it blew about.
They all rose and headed south. At the moment, they were on 42nd Street, across from Prospect Park. As he saw the stone lions in front of the Public Library, Watesa laughed out loud. "Always a symbol of strength and nobilty, those beasts. When we are done with our mission, I will tell you of the Black Lion and my cousin Kwali."
As the three of them strolled south, Jeremy Bane held back with Katherine and Watesa where he could watch them and scan the crowds. His life on the streets had left him constantly wary and with good reason. The cold grey eyes were never still, always watching and judging. Soon, they paused by a video arcade where several young men lounged outside. The loud chimes and dinging and shouts from within the arcade were raucous enough, but that was expected.
Both Katherine and Watesa hesitated, glanced at each other and saw they had picked up on the same thing. Three youths, maybe still of high school age, were standing around just by the arcade door, smoking cigarettes and watching the women walking past. One boy in particular stood out. He was average in height and building, wearing biker boots, jeans and a denim vest over a white T-shirt. The longish curly hair gleamed with gel, the sullen face was marked with acne.
"He has that knife," Katherine whispered in Bane's ear. "His name is um, Joey. Joey Suarez."
"This should go easy," Bane said. "Samuel, let me handle this." He stepped right up to the three youths and met their hostile glare evenly. They straightened up, a bit confused at his casual approach.
"Joey, right? Listen, here's your chance to make a couple hundred. You've got hold of something by mistake that I'm looking for." Now Bane did something very few native New Yorkers would ever consider. In broad daylight out on the street, he pulled a thick roll of money from his jacket pocket and held it up before tucking it away again. "Whatever you paid for that sticker, I'll beat it. What's your price?
"Eh? Loco. I don't know what you talk about, mister. Leave me alone." The boy started to turn away, but the edge in Bane's voice stopped him short.
"I know you don't want trouble that means going to court, Joey," Bane said. He seldom raised his voice but his restrained tone always had something in it that demanded attention. "Suppose you bought in good faith something that is evidence needed for a trial. You need to avoid getting tangled up before a grand jury. Here's three hundred dollars in cash. Give me that knife and your name will never be mentioned."
Joey wet his lips, hesitated and then abruptly tried to rush Bane. He didn't even take a complete step before a hand flashed over to grasp his throat like an iron clamp and freeze him motionless. The boy sagged at the pain. He looked to his friends for support but they had suddenly wandered off. Finally the youth gave in, "All right. All right. Let go, mister, you're gonna break something in my shoulder."
"Hand it over," the Dire Wolf said in his low tones. As the young Hispanic boy reached behind him to come up with a knife in a new leather sheath, Bane snatched it from him so quickly that Joey blinked and thought he had dropped it. Then a roll of twenties was being pressed into his now-empty hand.
"My advice is not to spread this around," Bane told the boy. "You probably won't see any of this on TV or in the papers, either." He tucked the sheathed weapon in his own belt, back where his sport jacket would conceal it. Without another word, he spun and started walking quickly down the street. Katherine and Watesa were startled but followed promptly.
As they turned a corner and were out of sight, the Dire Wolf handed the sheathed weapon to the African mystic. "Here! You better take this. Man, you're right, something about that knife bothers me. It seems somehow. well, it's getting on my nerves."
"You're picking up on its seductive lure," Watesa told him in complete seriousness. "Come. Let us secure this at Kenneth's house with the mask. That was good work, Jeremy."
As they headed briskly back toward 38th Street, Katherine made a scoffing noise. "I was following that boy's surface thoughts. He had never been so scared in his life, Jeremy."
Bane shrugged. "I thought I took it easy with him."
"There's just something about you. I suspect it's those eyes, they look like ice." She went up the front steps of Dred's house, unlocked the front door with her key and stepped aside. "After you, gentlemen."
After the knife was safely locked away in the vault, the three of them joined Kenneth Dred in the reception room and they discussed everything that had happened so far. It had been a busy day.
"It's almost five," Dred observed. "I might suggest that since you won't be going to the night club until late tonight, perhaps everyone should take a break. My housekeeper won't be here to cook today, she comes twice a week. Perhaps Chinese food could be ordered? Everyone can rest up then, you may well be active all night."
"That suits me to the ground," Katherine said. "I feel mu shu pork would do me good. Let me get paper and I'll take everyone's orders. Samuel?"
"Eh? Oh, chicken fried rice for me, please. Then I think I could stand a nap. I've had no sleep for almost twenty-four hours."
"There are guest rooms on the third floor, fully stocked. Please use the first one right by the stairs, Samuel." Dred smiled and turned to Katherine. "Lemon chicken for me, my dear."
"That leaves you, Jeremy?" the young telepath said.
"Get me a Happy Family platter," he answered. "The whole thing, pork, chicken, beef and shrimp. I'm starving." The Dire Wolf jumped to his feet again. "I'll be right back. We left the car at 50th Street, I have to bring it back." With that, he was heading for the door.
After he left, Samuel Watesa let out a deep breath. "Kenneth, old friend. Do you fully realize what you are dealing with in that young man?"
"Jeremy? He's remarkable, certainly."
"More than that! I can sense he is a focal point for great events, a nexus if you will. He will dominate the Midnight War more than any mortal being." Watesa shook his head in disbelief. "I would almost predict he has a final destiny that will make the Higher Ones tremble, even Draldros Himself."
"All that, and he still has no manners at all," sniffed Katherine dismissively.
IV.
The alarm clock clattered at seven PM, and Chet groaned as he rolled over to slap it clumsily off. He sat up on his bed, breathing heavily as if he had been having bad dreams. It took him a few minutes to get hold of himself. When he had gotten home that morning, he had showered and gone straight to sleep. Blessed relief of sleep, not hearing the cursed drums and thinking about what his life had become but now he was awake again and everything rushed back into his awareness. Chet sat on the edge of his narrow bed, holding his head in his hands and groaned out loud as if being tortured.
He had murdered five people. In a little over a month. The latest was that poor girl. That had been just a few hours ago, maybe nobody had even missed her yet. How had this happened to him? He had never even been in a fistfight before. He was a meek sort of guy. But the demonic pounding of that drum would only stop if he took a life, and he could not stand to endure the drumming. It hadn't started up yet but he couldn't fool himself into thinking it wouldn't.
His roommate Ajax was gone already. The apartment was dark and chilly. Standing up, Chet dug for his bathrobe on the foot of the bed and pulled it on. Pretty soon the guys in the band would be phoning to see if he was ready. They were supposed to do the first set at nine. Chet used the bathroom, skipped shaving and started to get dressed. This was his last clean dress shirt, his crazy life was making him loose track of details like laundry. As he fumbled with the necktie, his stomach rumbled audibly. When was the last time he had eaten? Damn, he was falling apart. If he didn't want to get caught, he had better keep up normal appearances.
Going to the refrigerator, Chet got a couple pieces of paper towel and dropped three slices of rye bread down on them. There was some sliced ham and a package of Swiss cheese. He threw together a thick sandwich and scarfed it dry without mustard or butter. There were three bottles of beer left and he gulped one of them down. Nice breakfast. Chet Wilkins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and felt like crying at the situation he was in. He had never believed in the supernatural, he had laughed at his mother's stories of haunts and hexes but now he had no doubts. That weird drum was possessing him with a murderous spirit.
Heading for the door, the young black man hesitated, then grasped the walking stick with a hand that visibly trembled. Here we go again. At the foot of his bed was the Death Drum in its cylindrical leather carrying case. He slung it across his back by its strap and, as he did so, the faint rhythmic pounding started up inside his mind again, as if from a distance. He cursed and went out the door.
V.
At nine o'clock, everyone assembled in the reception room where Kenneth Dred was already seated at his desk. Behind him was a cabinet where he kept local newspapers for two months, and he had been digging through them while the others rested and showered and changed. Samuel Watesa and Katherine Wheatley dropped down into straightback wooden chairs in front of that desk. Restless as always, Bane remained standing.
"I've made a few phone calls to some people I know at the TIMES and at NBC," Dred began. "Evidently, this Chet Wilkins person has been in a jazz band as a drummer for several years now. He seems to be of adequate talent and not a big success until two months ago. Wilkins began playing on what seems to be a large African drum and his skills improved dramatically. He dominated the band and crowds started demanding long wild drum solos. Wilkins left to join his current band and I am told he is quite a sensation. It's said he is on his way to be a national sensation."
"That was soon after Adobele died," Watesa put in. "Someone claimed his fetish drum and it ended up in the hands of Chet Wilkins." The African mystic sighed. "He may already be lost to its influence. Adobele was a powerful warlock."
Standing by one corner of the desk, the Dire Wolf had his fists on his hips impatiently. "And the first Forehead Murder was discovered at about the same time that Wilkins started played the drum! Come on, that can't be coincidence."
"I suppose we had best see for ourselves," Katherine said as she pushed her chair back. For once, she had dressed up a bit, wearing a Navy blue sweater over a white crewneck shirt. Black stockings and a short black skirt showed off her legs in a way unusual for her, and she had brushed out her black hair which had grown down to her shoulder blades. Katherine had even applied subdued touches of make-up, something rare since she had come to work with Kenneth Dred.
Samuel Watesa was impeccably dressed in his tailored dark brown suit, with a tan shirt and black necktie and vest. Bane of course had his inevitable outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which had become his standard uniform. In addition to the matching silver dagger sheathed under his sleeves, he had a long-barrelled 38 Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip. Since working for Dred, Bane had started carrying an increasing number of small tools and gadgets on his person, from a few lockpick tools to a flexible saw blade hidden in a lapel to a pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt where the jacket concealed them. More and more, he was finding having these devices available great asset.
Getting to his feet, the elderly scholar gazed at the three with affection. Not that long ago, he would have gone with them. In his youth, Dred had been an adventurer himself and had weilded those silver daggers against deadly enemies. That was long over now, he had to sadly realize, but at least he could pass the torch as if it were. "Jeremy, I know I don't have to warn you to be alert. If the Death Drum is being played by Wilkins, if he is the Forehead Killer, you three are walking deliberately into great danger."
The corners of Bane's mouth barely moved, which for him was a grin. "Or you could say danger is walking into them." He started for the hall, "Might as well get going.
Following the two men from the room, Katherine paused to smile reassuringly. "I'll report as I can, sir. Don't worry, you couldn't ask for a better bodyguard than our own Dire Wolf." With that, she was out into the warm April night, standing beside Samuel Watesa on the front steps as Bane fetched the big Plymouth and brought it around.
As they drove downtown toward Greenwich Village, Samuel Watesa asked, "Do either of you like jazz by any chance?"
"Umm. I've only heard a little, I'm afraid," Katherine answered. "I'm a folk music gal, I have an acoustic guitar and I practice when I can."
The Dire Wolf grunted. "Music doesn't register with me. It just doesn't hold my attention." Bane saw a parking spot and eased into it. "This is a few blocks away but we'd be damn lucky to find anything closer on a Saturday night."
They disembarked and looked around. Samuel Watesa had never been in the Village and he was curious about the older buildings, the small boutiques and antique stores and bistros. Gazing at a shop with a tinted window filled with bizarre curios, he said, "I can see how Adobele's artifacts would end in this area."
"There's a lot of Midnight War going on in the Village," Bane admitted. He started moving toward the corner of Bleeker Street where the Hidden Theatre was located. Despite Watesa being older and more experienced, the Dire Wolf just seemed to have a natural tendency to take charge. They stopped before an iron railing and descended cement steps that went down to a frost glass door with the words HIDDEN THEATRE-NOT FOR EVERYONE painted on it. Music rattled the glass of that door, giving a warning of how loud an experience they should be prepared for.
Bane opened the door and faced a huge black man in a bright yellow silk shirt and dark green pants. The man held out a big hand and yelled, "Five bucks apiece, boss." After getting the money, he waved them in with a wide grin. "Enjoy. The joint is hopping tonight."
The club was crowded, every chair was taken and a dozen more patrons stood around. In a flash, Bane took in the layout, where the exit was, where he would go if a large-scale brawl broke out, where people might be concealed from view. He saw the unmarked door by the end of the bar that would be the owner's office. He spotted that the two bartenders were not fighters. One bouncer leaning against the wall in a corner was big enough and had a sullen face but he looked soft around the waist and Bane downgraded him as a threat. All of this appraisal took less than a second. He had been at war one way or another all his life.
The crowd was mostly black, as he had expected because he had a theory that the African magic would draw them more than it would descendants of Europe. Viking magic would attract Scandanavians. But there were a few rapt white faces here and there so he and Katherine did not stand out dramatically. The smell of booze was in the air, and an acrid haze of cigarette smoke was almost thick as fog. The Dire Wolf growled inaudibly deep in his chest. He was very uncomfortable under these conditions.
On the raised stage at the back, five men in matching dark blue dinner jackets were playing their instruments, including piano and bass, but they were subdued and grudgingly holding themselves back. Sitting on the edge of the stage with a cylindrical wooden drum between his knees, Chet Wilkins' hands were blurring as he slapped away rhythmically on the hide top. The booming of the drum allowed no room for conversation. Every person there was bobbing his or her head to the beat, snapping fingers and swinging shoulders. It was hypnotic and compelling, a beat with strong hooks that listeners waited to come around again.
Samuel Watesa brought his lips close to Bane's ears to be heard. "That drumhead is bound with human skin," he said. "That mark was a tattoo."
Twenty minutes was all Bane could handle. He was not at all patient in the first place, he hated being in crowds, and music of any sort annoyed him. When he told his partners he was going to check around outside, Katherine was surprised it took him that long to make a break for it. Katherine was a pretty young woman, and she had been busy turning down offers for drinks or to dance to the extent that she had not been doing anything else. She looked over at Samuel Watesa, who was sipping ginger ale and watching the drummer with grim severity. Personally, she was beginning to like the Voodoo drumming, it was the catchiest music she had ever heard.
Reluctantly, Katherine slipped outside and found the Dire Wolf standing up on the sidewalk taking deep breaths and trying to calm down. "Better out here?" she said.
"Hell yes," he grumbled. "How people can enjoy that is beyond me. Okay. What have you picked up about him, Kath?"
She had started to speak when Watesa emerged, searching for them. Drawing the two men close, she explained in low tones. "He's in way over his head. That drum has taken over. I know he hears its sound in his head all the time, that's why he's such a sensation.. he's acting out the pounding he hears mentally, and everyone listening gets caught up in it. They're falling under the spell the more they listen!"
Watesa sounded mournful, "It is my worst fear. The Voodoo will infect the crowd, take hold, plant seeds of hatred and violence that will grow stronger. This man, Chet Wilkins, is cursed. He kills to make the music in his head stop, doesn't he?"
"Yes," Katherine said almost in a whisper. "Each murder gives him a night without the drumming in his mind. It's torture for him either way."
The big African shook his head and turned back toward the door of the nightclub. "Come. We will confront him and take those talismans!"
"Whoa, whoa," Bane said, catching the older man by the arm and stopping him short. "In front of that crowd? With his band and a bouncer and the cops on call? You'd just end up in a cell while Mr Dred calls his lawyer to post bail."
"Then what?"
The Dire Wolf raised a finger and beckoned both of his partners closer. "I think I have a plan. It's a little devious but if it works, we'll have this case solved and the murders stopped for good. Katherine, it all relies on you...."
VI.
After an hour and a half, the band leader took the mike and announced the set was over. The next show would be in thirty minutes and everyone was welcome to stay without having to pay cover charge again. James Barrister was a tall skinny black man from San Diego, he had been playing jazz for more than twenty years and had a reputation among fans... although he was now being overshadowed completely by this drumming sensation. As the band stretched and wiped their sweating faces and reached for cigarettes, Barrister clapped a heavy hand on Chet's shoulder. "That means you too, son. Get some air. We have another set coming up and the crowd will be bigger."
As he was touched, Chet gave a start and looked around in confusion, as if coming out of a trance. He flexed and kneaded his sore hands. "Huh? What? Oh you're right, chief. I better move around a little. Maybe I'll go for a walk around the block." As the band members were toward the door in the rear that held the dressing room, Chet Wilkins slowly slid the cursed drum into its leather carrying case and drew the strap over one shoulder. The music in his head was louder than ever, he couldn't think straight. What was he going to do? He couldn't take much more of this.
A girl's hand touched his, her skin was cool and dry and smooth. Chet looked up in surprise at a very pretty young white girl. Long straight black hair, blue eyes, a snub nose and a warm smile. Not one of the tramps who tried to pick him up for a thrill, he could see that at once. She had a certain reserve to her and her eyes were somehow strangely sad.
"Hello," she said. "I'm Katherine, Chet. I think you need to be out in the night air. Come, I'll walk with you."
"Sure. Why not? You've been listening to the music, Katherine?" As he stood up, suddenly aware of how sweaty he was from drumming under the hot lights, Chet grinned at the young girl. Even through the drum pounding inside his skull, something about her had a calming influence. He put a friendly hand high up on her back and reached back to grab the walking stick as they headed for the rear exit.
Once outside, the cool clean air made him feel better but the damn ghost music beating over and over again made it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. Chet tried to focus. He had nothing against flings with white women, despite his parents having warned him it always led to trouble, and he had a strong feeling this one was what they used to call a "nice" girl. Maybe she just wanted to talk, maybe not. A quick sex bout right now was not really on his mind.
"Over this way," she said, taking him by the arm. In an alley between two darkened buildings, they walked up to where lumber leaning up against a wall provided a sort of screen. "I'm sorry for all this," Katherine said. "I wish there were another way. You weren't a bad person."
Nothing she was saying really sank in. The hellish drumming in his brain was unbearable. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. It was crazy, way too reckless, but he had no choice. If he killed her here, behind that lumber, the music would stop and he could think straight again. Even if it meant the police might start asking questions after her body was found and someone remembered her leaving the club with him, he didn't care anymore. He had to stop that pounding. It wouldn't matter if a cop had been standing there watching. Chet knew he would have to kill her even if he was being filmed by a TV news crew, the music in his skull had gotten so unbearable.
"Come here," he muttered. She looked up quizzically at him as if expecting him to try to kiss her, but instead he raised the African walking stick and held the pointed end toward her face. "This is a big secret. It explains everything. Watch closely." He brought the metal ferrule close to her forehead and twisted the brass cap on the other end of the cane.
And in less than a second, strong hands seized the walking stick and swung it around with his own hands still gripping its shaft. The sharp end dug into his own head, directly up over his eyebrows. Chet Wilkins had a quick glimpse of two furious grey eyes glaring at him, then there was a flash of sharp pain and blackness and he knew nothing more ever again.
As the body fell with a thump to the dirty alley bricks, Jeremy Bane let go of the stick and let it remain in Chet's grasp. The sharp point of the cane remained embedded inches deep within the young man's skull. Bane swung around, making sure no one had been passing by on the street.
"Oh, my God," Katherine sobbed. "That poor boy. He was being tortured by that drumming, Jeremy. He wasn't responsible for what he did."
"It's over now," the Dire Wolf told her bluntly. Whipping a silver dagger from its sheath under his sleeve, he sliced easily through the leather strap and tugged the Death Drum free. "Come on, we need to make ourselves scarce." He yanked off his jacket and wrapped the drum within its folds.
"I feel so bad for him," Katherine went on. "I kind of led him on to his death. Even though... I was going to be next..."
"Better him than you!" Bane tugged her by one arm, not that gently, toward the sidewalk. As he showed himself, the big Plymouth belonging to Kenneth Dred started up and rolled down the street to stop in front of them. Behind the wheel, Samuel Watesa waited until they jumped into the car and then eased away, heading north from Greenwich Village.
"The final Forehead Murder," Bane said. "The Death Drum will be safe in Mr Dred's vault until it can be destroyed. Most likely the papers and TV will not reveal what happened. I guess everything is tied up neatly."
"For Chet Wilkins, too neatly," Katherine whispered as if to herself.
5/26/2015
8/11-8/12/1978
I.
There had been four of the so-called Forehead Murders by the second week of August. When Jeremy Bane came downstairs early as usual because his hyperactive metabolism meant he only needed four hours of sleep a night, he stuck his head in the reception room. Kenneth Dred had been working there the night before and he had left newspaper clippings arranged on the oak desk under the gorgeous hand-painted wall map. Bane automatically moved over to check the clippings out in the hazy dawn light through the high windows.
At just twenty-one, the Dire Wolf was so serious and self-assured that people reacted to him as if he were an older man. Just over six feet tall but so lean as to seem gaunt, he was wearing his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He was so rarely seen dressed any other way that he would have been almost hard to recognize in colorful clothes. Bane leaned over the clippings and read them slowly. Mr Dred had mentioned that they might be starting a new case.
The main feature of interest seemed to be the method that was used. The victims had a fracture in the forehead above the eyes, with a deep puncture wound that went into a specific area of the brain and caused quick death. In at least one case, the victim apparently had clung to life for a few moments as there were signs of strangulation as the real cause of death. Interesting, thought Bane, a new weapon of some kind, probably homemade. He looked at a list which Dred had left on a sheet of typing paper, detailing the victims' names, ages, addresses and occupations. There was no common factor that he could see.
The young Dire Wolf straightened up and for once his pale grey eyes were distant. This would be hard to investigate. Where to start? Finding something linking to victims was the usual way police proceeded but they had been getting nowhere. Maybe Mr Dred had some ideas....
Something tickled the edges of his mind, like an echoe from a distance. He was getting used to that sensation. It wasn't unpleasant or intrusive, just a vague sensation that he could ignore if he wanted to but he was intensely private by nature. Having a telepath living in the building with Mr Dred and himself would take some getting used to, and the fact she was a pretty girl added to his uneasiness. As he looked up, a slim figure swung into the doorway and a cheery "Well, good morning!" was spoken aloud.
Katherine Anne Wheatley was a year younger than himself, with a trim figure and a fresh-scrubbed attractive face. Like Bane, she had jet black hair and light-colored eyes but hers were sky-blue and friendly. She was wearing blue denim jeans, white sneakers and a dark blue sweater over a white blouse with the collar out over the sweater. "Say, Jeremy, what time do you rise anyway? It's barely half past six you know."
"I don't sleep much. Did Mr Dred tell you about these Forehead Murders?"
"Ugh. Yes. I dare say it's one reason I didn't sleep well myself." Katherine had been in the States so long only the faintest trace of her Northern England accent remained. She came over to glance at the clippings on the desk, standing close enough that Bane could smell the faint floral scent in her hair. He promptly moved away, ostensibly to pull the curtains aside to look at 38th Street, and she smiled slyly to herself.
"It's a beastly business," she continued. "Have you ever heard of such goings-on before?"
"No." Just the single word. He was watching a checker-topped taxi come to a stop at the corner. A tall heavy-set black man in an expensive tan suit got out, paid the driver and fetched a suitcase from the back seat. "I think we're going to have a visitor, Kath."
"Hm? Yes. You're right." She headed for the front door. The rare telepathic talent Dred had been teaching her how to use flared up fully as she reached out to the man outside. "He's a decent sort," she said over one shoulder to Bane. "Serious, disciplined. He thinks of Mr Dred as an old friend."
"You're our early warning system," the young Dire Wolf grumbled to himself, letting his constant guard down slightly. He followed her out into the hall just as she opened the inner door to the tiny foyer.
"Oh, he's from Africa, isn't that interesting?" she called back as she stepped down to unlock the heavy door to the street. "Good morning, may I help you?"
"Ah, you must be Miss Katherine Wheatley," answered the man in a rich baritone. "And behind you, that has to be Jeremy Bane? Kenneth has told me so much about you youngsters that I feel I know you. My is Watesa, Samuel Watesa."
The man was an inch or two under six feet tall, heavy about the waist and imposing in manner. He was very dark-skinned, almost with purple highlights, and his hair was cut short to match his neatly trimmed beard. The glasses he wore had lightly tinted blue lenses. As he saw the two young people watch him uncertainly, he smiled and placed the suitcase down to one side. "In fact, Kenneth expected me later today but I happened to catch an early flight from New Orleans. If he's not up yet, please don't disturb him on my account."
"You might wait in our reception room," Katherine told him. "We do have today's newspapers and I would be pleased to make coffee if you like."
"Thank you kindly," Watesa answered. "Yes. I only regret such a serious matter brings me to visit. Dire Wolf, is it? I have heard much of your accomplishments in so short a time. Yet I do not think you have yet encountered real Voodoo."
II.
Within half an hour, Kenneth Dred had come downstairs, impeccably dressed as always. He had never been a big man and now that he was in his late seventies, age and arthritis had withered him into a slight figure that still stood erect. His pleasant gnomish face lit as he entered the reception room and saw his guest. "Samuel! You certainly wasted no time getting here to help."
Watesa rose from the couch and the two shook hands. Bane and Katherine had also gotten out of the chairs they had brought over and said their greetings before seating themselves again. As Dred saw the wheeled cart with the coffee pot, he fixed a cup for himself before lowering himself onto the couch next to Watesa.
"I don't suppose Samuel here has told you two that he was already preparing to come to New York before I called him yesterday," Dred began. "Would you care to fill everyone in?"
"Certainly," said the big African with a trace of a French accent. "My area of study is Voodoo and related arts from the Corruption on Ulgor so long ago. I was born in Danarak, in fact I am related to the Bakwanga. Ah, I see you haven't heard of them. No matter. A year ago, I confronted a dangerous warlock named Adebole. He was a mentor to Arem Kamende. He had made things uncomfortable enough for himselfthat he left our homeland altogether and relocated to New Orleans but that is my home. I drove him away. Recently, I heard that Adebole had moved here, to Manhattan, and had died of pneumonia. Unfortunately, I also heard rumours that his belongings had disappeared with his death."
As the mystic paused and sipped his second cup, Bane spoke up. "You mean, Voodoo stuff? Dolls you stick pins in?"
"Those fetish figures, yes," answered Watesa. "But I am more concerned about a few sigils he had crafted himself. They are inherently malicious. Adebole's talismans will corrupt even the most innocent man who posseses them. That is why I have come here, and that is why I hope you two young people will help me."
Katherine glanced inquiringly over at Dred, who nodded. "Why, certainly," she said.
"Whenever you're ready, we can start," Bane snapped almost harshly. "But I have to ask, what about those Forehead Murders we were ready to investigate?"
"The two are related. I have seen killings like those back in Danarak. That is another reason why I felt it so important to come here." Watesa put down his cup and sat up straighter. "I do not know this city. Without your help, I would be at a great disadvantage just finding my way around."
Bane snorted and got impatiently to his feet. "I'm your man, then, I was born and raised in Manhattan. Let's get going on our Voodoo clean-up."
Rising with some stiffness, Kenneth Dred chuckled. "You couldn't ask for two better assistants, Samuel. I was lucky beyond hope when I found Jeremy and Katherine."
III.
Before they left, Dred insisted that everyone have a solid breakfast. "The Midnight War is not best fought on empty stomachs," he explained. Bane and Katherine prepared huge amounts of scrambled eggs, thick maple-flavored bacon and wheat toast with strawberry jam, which was about as far as their cooking skills extended. More coffee, orange juice and ice water accompanied the food which they consumed thoroughly. As the two youngest members of the household cleaned up, Watesa thanked them sincerely. "I hadn't eaten since yesterday at noon," he explained.
"I have busines of my own to attend today," Dred told everyone. "Largely paperwork and phone calls, I'm afraid, but I do want frequent reports to keep my worrying at bay."
"Don't worry, sir," said Katherine. "I'll ring you every chance we have."
While Bane went down to the basement garage to fetch Dred's Plymouth, Katherine escorted Watesa to the front steps. By now, the city was its usual frantic self and the sounds of auto horns and yelling voices and music from passing cars echoed in the canyons of the buildings. She was asking him about New Orleans when Bane pulled around up to the curb. She got in the back seat so that he could have a better view.
Watesa asked the Dire Wolf to just drive toward uptown for the moment. He peered out the passenger window acutely but said nothing, and for the moment both Bane and Katherine kept their silence as well. They had reached 59th Street and the southern border of Central Park before the big African asked Bane to find a parking spot. "I sense something," he said quietly.
It took a few blocks before an opening was found, but Bane parallel parked in and completely ignored an angry driver who had to pause for a second. To their right was the low wall that encircled the park. As they emerged onto the sidewalk, Watesa turned thoughtfully in a circle and finally pointed at a shop across Fifth Avenue. "There! I have no doubt now." He immediately started crossing the street but was forced to wait for the light to change and allow it.
The three of them stopped before a plate glass window that said INTERNATIONAL EXCHANGE in flowing silver script, TREASURES FROM THE WORLD'S CULTURES. Display shelves showed curios from bronze statues of Kali to colorful Mexican robes to an Irish harp.
"Some Voodoo gear in there?" asked Bane after a disinterested scan of the window.
"Absolutely." Watesa went through the door, setting off a small bell set at its top. From behind a counter, a thin middle-aged woman with a severe expression raised her head. "Good morning," she said with just enough courtesy.
As Katherine looked around with genuine curiosity and Bane watched as if expecting an ambush, Samuel Watesa strode directly to a small wooden mask on the wall and glared at it. It was small, no bigger than a hand-width, carved with a mouth open in a rictus of pain and eyes that were mere slits.
"That's new," said the clerk. "Yoruba, from the West Coast. Wonderful piece."
"It is NOT Yoruba. It is from my homeland, from the countryside of Danarak where the farmers dwell in longhouses." Mutesa scowled angrily and took the mask off its peg. "I will take it. Where did you obtain this artifact, madame?"
Obviously pleased at the sale, the clerk still shook her head sadly. "Oh, I can't reveal our buyers. They are quite discreet..." Suddenly her face slackened and she seemed dazed, then recovered. "I'm.. I'm sure you understand, sir."
Stepping closer to Watesa, Katherine Wheatley whispered in his ear, "I've got the answer."
The big African mystic nodded and brought the mask over to the counter. As he made the purchase, he asked for a box and folded the paper bag over the package tightly. Only then did he seem to let out a breath, as if he had been handling something that might explode.
Back on the street, Katherine explained, "I went in her recent memories for a second. I have a clear mental image of the man who sold her that mask. If you wish, I can send you that image as well.. it won't hurt, my telepathy is quite refined."
"In a minute, perhaps. I want to get this demon mask back to Kenneth's house where it can be stored safely. It is hideously potent." Watesa held the package gingerly. "Even I can feel it calling me, sending me its evil message."
Jeremy Bane had drifted over to a nearby window as something caught his attention. "Hey. You guys, I think you oughtta take a look at this."
A printed flyer was taped up inside a shop window. It showed the silhouette of a jazzband, with the bass and piano visible. In front of that silhouette was a photo of an intense young black man holding up a cylindrical drum under one arm. On the taut hide top of that drum was an odd symbol of what looked like an animal skull with two curving horns. The flyer said THIS WEEKEND AT THE HIDDEN THEATRE, TWO SHOWS NIGHTLY - THE JAMES BARRISTER FIVE. In slightly smaller letters, the flyer continued, FEATURING CHET WILKINS ON VOODOO DRUM.
Behind Bane, Samuel Watesa gasped as if he had been struck. "There it is," he breathed. "The Death Drum."
IV.
Returning to the nine-story building on East 38th Street, Bane went down to secure the mask in the vault where dangerous talismans were kept. The thick steel door had protective Eldar talismans fastened at its top, and they shimmered at the presence of a new menace to be contained. The Dire Wolf locked the door and checked it before heading along the narrow walkway and up steep concrete steps that let him out through the panel in the front hall. Bane had already parked the Plymouth and now he went into the reception room to join the others.
Kenneth Dred was now sitting behind the huge oak desk, straightening up folders full of loose papers. Watesa and Katherine had brought their straightback chairs to sit in front of him. As the Dire Wolf entered, all three met his appearance with quizzical smiles.
"All set," Bane said. He was feeling mildly annoyed at how friendly Watesa and Dred were, although he did not yet have enough self-awareness to recognized it was his own resentment at someone else getting so much attention from Dred. Bane had grown up as an orphan of the streets, cold and solitary, with no real friends and no desire to have any. That Kenneth Dred had so easily won him over was unexpeco the young Dire Wolf, all the respect and trust he had never shown anyone went to the gentle old scholar who had freely taken him in and treated him well.
"Please have a seat," Dred told the Dire Wolf. "Samuel and Katherine have already reported to me about the fetish mask. Good to have it sealed away! But they were beginning to tell me that you spotted something still more dangerous.. the Death Drum."
After details of that poster advertising the jazz group and its member with a Voodoo drum were explained to him, Dred rubbed his pointed chin thoughtfully. "So I dare say I know where you three will be tonight?"
"Just Mr Watesa and me," snapped Bane. "Not Katherine. That night club is in the Village. Not a dangerous neighborhood, not much crime but I figure this Death Drum thing will draw a bad crowd. Just a hunch. Bringing a pretty young white girl there at night is asking for trouble."
Samuel Watesa raised an eyebrow. "But I will be with you. Surely your American blacks will see my accompanying you as a sign to treat you well."
"Yeah, to some extent," Bane admitted. "It's still a bad call for her to go. This guy with the Voodoo drum might be the bird behind the Forehead Murders, too. Too dangerous."
Kenneth Dred turned to the teen who was sitting silently through this. "Perhaps we should ask Katherine herself how she feels?"
"I do have my telepathy to let me know of any imminent danger," Katherine said crisply. "In fact, I would be there to probe this Chet Wilkins chap and learn about him." She smiled over at Bane and said exactly the right thing to win him over. "But honestly, sir, sitting right next to our Jeremy, how could I ask for any better protection?"
"Fine," the Dire Wolf gave in without grace. "I suppose. It still seems like a bad idea, but I guess I'm outvoted."
"Thank you," Katherine replied with her sweetest voice. "Well, sir, what's the immediate agenda for us?"
Kenneth Dred glanced up at the wall clock. "I'd say you wouldn't be going out to the jazz club until ten o'clock or later. Samuel, do you want to go back and searched for more of Adobele's propety?"
"I think that is necessary," said the African mystic. "My sources indicate he left a ritual knife with a bone handle and a short staff of some sort. We had best locate them promptly as well." Watesa pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Back on the chase, my friends."
As he stood up, Bane said, "I'll bring the car around front again." None of them realized that at that very moment, two of the three cursed talismans they were sought were at work on a man's soul.
______
Walking slowly along Lenox Avenue, Chet Wilkins felt the weight of the damn drum heavier than before as it dangled in its leather holder from a strap across his shoulders. He had not showered or changed after the marathon jam session the night before. Grimy and unshaven, with a suit that had stale sweat dried in it, Wilkins felt far from his usual presentable self. He was a good-looking young man with regular features and thoughtful big brown eyes that usually won people over. His hair had been straightened and was combed neatly, his fingernails were manicured and his teeth were well kept. Wilkins had decided as a child to make a good first impression on people was prudent protection for a black man. But now he looked disheveled and weary and felt unsure of himself.
The drumming which echoed in his head still had not lessened. If anything, it kept circling through his mind more insistently than ever. It was difficult not to ask passersby if they heard it as well. He had heard this pounding since the first moment he had set eyes on the Death Drum.
In his right hand, Wilkins held a thick three-foot walking stick with a brass knob at one end and a pointed ferrule on the other. He had obtained this cane from the antique store the same night he had gotten his hands on the drum, through murder. Everything since that moment still felt so unreal. As he stepped up on the stoop of a tenement building and entered a small foyer, the drumming in his mind sped up as if it were excited. Chet Wilkins trudged up narrow wooden stairs to the second floor and found the door with 2C on it, as the girl had told him early that morning.
Sudden revulsion swept over him. He felt nausous. What was he doing? What was he about to do? But the drumming pounded in his head and drowned out uncertaintly. Wilkins rang the doorbell and instantly the door was opened by a petite black woman who wore a subdued Afro. She was wearing a baggy blue sweatshirts and stretch pants, barefoot, smiling warmly as she saw him. He remembered she had given her name as Monica.
"Well, hel-LO there baby," she purred. "I was wondering if you were going to come visit." She leaned forward and gave him a wet, warm kiss but broke it off quickly. "So glad to see you."
Wilkins came in and shrugged off the straps from his shoulder, propping the cylindrical drum against a chair. The wild drumming sounded so loud and so insistent that it was making it hard for him to think. "A man doesn't forget meeting a beauty like you," he said. "Even if I can only stay a few minutes."
"A lot can happen in a few minutes," Monica answered. "We can make each other very happy. I sat and listened to you drum for six hours last night, even after the other band members copped out and left. When I heard the feeling in your music, the pure soul shining through, I knew we had something special between us. A real connection."
"I'm go glad. You're sensitive in a way most of our people have lost," he said as if to himself."Your connection to the motherland has not been broken completely." Looking away, he frowned. That wasn't him talking. What was that about the motherland? What was happening to him?
Monica grinned and reached up to unbutton the collar of his dress shirt, tugging down the knot of the tie. "Maybe a quick shower, I'll join you?"
"Sure, baby," he mumbled. "But first I need to show you something. Here. Watch closely." He hefted the walking stick and twisted his brass cap until it rotated with a click. "This is the secret behind the music. It's not for everyone. It's been kept private among drummers for ages."
That took her off guard and confused her. "What? Uhh, okay I guess. What am I supposed to see, honey?"
Chet Wilkins raised the cane and held the brass ferrule at its pointed head close to her face. "You have to listen closely. It's only for a second. Ready, babe?"
"Sure... I guess," was her uncertain answer. She stared nervously past the cane's end at his tense unsmiling face. "I don't get it..."
In one move, Wilkins pressed the cane's point to the center of her forehead, above and between her eyes, and he turned the brass cap once again. The powerful springloaded mechanism within shot the ferrule sharply forward and its sharp point punched through bone into her brain. Monica did not even have time to scream. Her arms and legs flung wildly about, she fell twitching to the floor and was still in the new calmness of death. A final sigh escaped her lips as air left her lungs through reflex action.
Exhaling sharply himself, Chet Wilkins went to the nearby sink and cleaned the point of the walking stick as thoroughly as he possibly could. Later, he would have to open up the cane and struggle to wind up the stiff coiled spring within its mechanism. The African warlock who had crafted this murder device had planned its construction well.
Wilkin took a minute to lower his aching head in the sink and run cold water over it. The drumming in his mind had stopped, he realized with blessed relief. It was like a great weight being lifted. Wiping his face with his hands, Wilkins almost began to sob at the release. Now, for the rest of the day at least, he would be free of that drumming. He could get to his pad, take a hot shower and grab some sleep, enough to feel like a normal human being again.
But it was only a respite. Wilkins reluctantly picked up the Voodoo drum and slung its strap over one shoulder. The killings merely quieted the drum for a while, then its hunger returned. By nightfall, he knew, the drumming he was doing on stage would only be an echo of what he was going to hear pounding within his brain.
V.
The afternoon dragged as the three investigators cruised the city. Samuel Watesa was searching with some mystic perception he did not elaborate upon, and both Bane and Katherine kept silent to let him work. At three-thirty, they had stopped for lunch at a pizza joint. As they ate hot meatball subs outside, sitting around a round wrought-iron table, Katherine began asking Watesa about himself.
"I was born in Danarak," he explained between bites, "but I went to University in Paris. A few years ago, I moved to New Orleans and obtained American citizenship. It was a difficult decision but I knew my work was here."
"What's this about Voodoo?" Bane asked with his usual bluntness. "Zombies? Sticking pins in dolls? Dancing around a bonfire in the middle of the night?"
"Oh yes. And yet, Jeremy, all that is only the surface. What we call Voodoo is the outer edge of a darker, more perilous cult that goes back thousands of years. To the fall of Ulgor, when the Sulla Chun gave forbidden knowledge to Humans." Watesa picked up what was left of his sub and chewed thoughtfully. "I understand you have been working for Kenneth Dred less than a year."
"That's right." The Dire Wolf had finished own meatball sub immediately and was now looking as if he might order another one. One price for his enhanced speed was constant hunger. "I signed up last September. Mr Dred has been filling me in on this Midnight War business but it's a lot to take in."
The African mystic watched the young man sitting opposite him appraisingly. "You are well-named, Dire Wolf. I see you have a spirit born to danger and the night. You wear the two silver daggers Kenneth gave you?"
"Never without them," Bane answered. "Why?"
"They are not JUST silver, although silver is potent in itself. Those blades were blessed by the immortal Eldarin long ago, they are potent against the creatures of the night as few other objects in this world are."
Bane gave one of his barely perceptible smiles. "They haven't let me down yet."
"Just so. Well, we should begin searching soon. I can sense one of the Adobele talismans is nearby. Katherine, how refined is your telepathy? Can you search through a crowd for a certain thought?"
"I think so, Mr Watesa..."
"Please. Call me Samuel, both of you. I am not that old yet. Now, whoever possesses one of these talismans will find it preying on his mind. He will be thinking about it constantly, perhaps worrying someone wants to take it away. A bone-handled knife with a crescent blade and the drum we saw in that flyer in the window. There was also an ebony walking stick with a brass cap and pointed end, but that is not ensorcelled. It is a murder device but not magick."
Katherine nodded. "I see. You want me to be alert for an image of one of these in someone's mind? I can do that." She reached in her sweater pocket and got out a clip with which to tie back her hair. It was a breezy summer day and her hair had been annoying her as it blew about.
They all rose and headed south. At the moment, they were on 42nd Street, across from Prospect Park. As he saw the stone lions in front of the Public Library, Watesa laughed out loud. "Always a symbol of strength and nobilty, those beasts. When we are done with our mission, I will tell you of the Black Lion and my cousin Kwali."
As the three of them strolled south, Jeremy Bane held back with Katherine and Watesa where he could watch them and scan the crowds. His life on the streets had left him constantly wary and with good reason. The cold grey eyes were never still, always watching and judging. Soon, they paused by a video arcade where several young men lounged outside. The loud chimes and dinging and shouts from within the arcade were raucous enough, but that was expected.
Both Katherine and Watesa hesitated, glanced at each other and saw they had picked up on the same thing. Three youths, maybe still of high school age, were standing around just by the arcade door, smoking cigarettes and watching the women walking past. One boy in particular stood out. He was average in height and building, wearing biker boots, jeans and a denim vest over a white T-shirt. The longish curly hair gleamed with gel, the sullen face was marked with acne.
"He has that knife," Katherine whispered in Bane's ear. "His name is um, Joey. Joey Suarez."
"This should go easy," Bane said. "Samuel, let me handle this." He stepped right up to the three youths and met their hostile glare evenly. They straightened up, a bit confused at his casual approach.
"Joey, right? Listen, here's your chance to make a couple hundred. You've got hold of something by mistake that I'm looking for." Now Bane did something very few native New Yorkers would ever consider. In broad daylight out on the street, he pulled a thick roll of money from his jacket pocket and held it up before tucking it away again. "Whatever you paid for that sticker, I'll beat it. What's your price?
"Eh? Loco. I don't know what you talk about, mister. Leave me alone." The boy started to turn away, but the edge in Bane's voice stopped him short.
"I know you don't want trouble that means going to court, Joey," Bane said. He seldom raised his voice but his restrained tone always had something in it that demanded attention. "Suppose you bought in good faith something that is evidence needed for a trial. You need to avoid getting tangled up before a grand jury. Here's three hundred dollars in cash. Give me that knife and your name will never be mentioned."
Joey wet his lips, hesitated and then abruptly tried to rush Bane. He didn't even take a complete step before a hand flashed over to grasp his throat like an iron clamp and freeze him motionless. The boy sagged at the pain. He looked to his friends for support but they had suddenly wandered off. Finally the youth gave in, "All right. All right. Let go, mister, you're gonna break something in my shoulder."
"Hand it over," the Dire Wolf said in his low tones. As the young Hispanic boy reached behind him to come up with a knife in a new leather sheath, Bane snatched it from him so quickly that Joey blinked and thought he had dropped it. Then a roll of twenties was being pressed into his now-empty hand.
"My advice is not to spread this around," Bane told the boy. "You probably won't see any of this on TV or in the papers, either." He tucked the sheathed weapon in his own belt, back where his sport jacket would conceal it. Without another word, he spun and started walking quickly down the street. Katherine and Watesa were startled but followed promptly.
As they turned a corner and were out of sight, the Dire Wolf handed the sheathed weapon to the African mystic. "Here! You better take this. Man, you're right, something about that knife bothers me. It seems somehow. well, it's getting on my nerves."
"You're picking up on its seductive lure," Watesa told him in complete seriousness. "Come. Let us secure this at Kenneth's house with the mask. That was good work, Jeremy."
As they headed briskly back toward 38th Street, Katherine made a scoffing noise. "I was following that boy's surface thoughts. He had never been so scared in his life, Jeremy."
Bane shrugged. "I thought I took it easy with him."
"There's just something about you. I suspect it's those eyes, they look like ice." She went up the front steps of Dred's house, unlocked the front door with her key and stepped aside. "After you, gentlemen."
After the knife was safely locked away in the vault, the three of them joined Kenneth Dred in the reception room and they discussed everything that had happened so far. It had been a busy day.
"It's almost five," Dred observed. "I might suggest that since you won't be going to the night club until late tonight, perhaps everyone should take a break. My housekeeper won't be here to cook today, she comes twice a week. Perhaps Chinese food could be ordered? Everyone can rest up then, you may well be active all night."
"That suits me to the ground," Katherine said. "I feel mu shu pork would do me good. Let me get paper and I'll take everyone's orders. Samuel?"
"Eh? Oh, chicken fried rice for me, please. Then I think I could stand a nap. I've had no sleep for almost twenty-four hours."
"There are guest rooms on the third floor, fully stocked. Please use the first one right by the stairs, Samuel." Dred smiled and turned to Katherine. "Lemon chicken for me, my dear."
"That leaves you, Jeremy?" the young telepath said.
"Get me a Happy Family platter," he answered. "The whole thing, pork, chicken, beef and shrimp. I'm starving." The Dire Wolf jumped to his feet again. "I'll be right back. We left the car at 50th Street, I have to bring it back." With that, he was heading for the door.
After he left, Samuel Watesa let out a deep breath. "Kenneth, old friend. Do you fully realize what you are dealing with in that young man?"
"Jeremy? He's remarkable, certainly."
"More than that! I can sense he is a focal point for great events, a nexus if you will. He will dominate the Midnight War more than any mortal being." Watesa shook his head in disbelief. "I would almost predict he has a final destiny that will make the Higher Ones tremble, even Draldros Himself."
"All that, and he still has no manners at all," sniffed Katherine dismissively.
IV.
The alarm clock clattered at seven PM, and Chet groaned as he rolled over to slap it clumsily off. He sat up on his bed, breathing heavily as if he had been having bad dreams. It took him a few minutes to get hold of himself. When he had gotten home that morning, he had showered and gone straight to sleep. Blessed relief of sleep, not hearing the cursed drums and thinking about what his life had become but now he was awake again and everything rushed back into his awareness. Chet sat on the edge of his narrow bed, holding his head in his hands and groaned out loud as if being tortured.
He had murdered five people. In a little over a month. The latest was that poor girl. That had been just a few hours ago, maybe nobody had even missed her yet. How had this happened to him? He had never even been in a fistfight before. He was a meek sort of guy. But the demonic pounding of that drum would only stop if he took a life, and he could not stand to endure the drumming. It hadn't started up yet but he couldn't fool himself into thinking it wouldn't.
His roommate Ajax was gone already. The apartment was dark and chilly. Standing up, Chet dug for his bathrobe on the foot of the bed and pulled it on. Pretty soon the guys in the band would be phoning to see if he was ready. They were supposed to do the first set at nine. Chet used the bathroom, skipped shaving and started to get dressed. This was his last clean dress shirt, his crazy life was making him loose track of details like laundry. As he fumbled with the necktie, his stomach rumbled audibly. When was the last time he had eaten? Damn, he was falling apart. If he didn't want to get caught, he had better keep up normal appearances.
Going to the refrigerator, Chet got a couple pieces of paper towel and dropped three slices of rye bread down on them. There was some sliced ham and a package of Swiss cheese. He threw together a thick sandwich and scarfed it dry without mustard or butter. There were three bottles of beer left and he gulped one of them down. Nice breakfast. Chet Wilkins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and felt like crying at the situation he was in. He had never believed in the supernatural, he had laughed at his mother's stories of haunts and hexes but now he had no doubts. That weird drum was possessing him with a murderous spirit.
Heading for the door, the young black man hesitated, then grasped the walking stick with a hand that visibly trembled. Here we go again. At the foot of his bed was the Death Drum in its cylindrical leather carrying case. He slung it across his back by its strap and, as he did so, the faint rhythmic pounding started up inside his mind again, as if from a distance. He cursed and went out the door.
V.
At nine o'clock, everyone assembled in the reception room where Kenneth Dred was already seated at his desk. Behind him was a cabinet where he kept local newspapers for two months, and he had been digging through them while the others rested and showered and changed. Samuel Watesa and Katherine Wheatley dropped down into straightback wooden chairs in front of that desk. Restless as always, Bane remained standing.
"I've made a few phone calls to some people I know at the TIMES and at NBC," Dred began. "Evidently, this Chet Wilkins person has been in a jazz band as a drummer for several years now. He seems to be of adequate talent and not a big success until two months ago. Wilkins began playing on what seems to be a large African drum and his skills improved dramatically. He dominated the band and crowds started demanding long wild drum solos. Wilkins left to join his current band and I am told he is quite a sensation. It's said he is on his way to be a national sensation."
"That was soon after Adobele died," Watesa put in. "Someone claimed his fetish drum and it ended up in the hands of Chet Wilkins." The African mystic sighed. "He may already be lost to its influence. Adobele was a powerful warlock."
Standing by one corner of the desk, the Dire Wolf had his fists on his hips impatiently. "And the first Forehead Murder was discovered at about the same time that Wilkins started played the drum! Come on, that can't be coincidence."
"I suppose we had best see for ourselves," Katherine said as she pushed her chair back. For once, she had dressed up a bit, wearing a Navy blue sweater over a white crewneck shirt. Black stockings and a short black skirt showed off her legs in a way unusual for her, and she had brushed out her black hair which had grown down to her shoulder blades. Katherine had even applied subdued touches of make-up, something rare since she had come to work with Kenneth Dred.
Samuel Watesa was impeccably dressed in his tailored dark brown suit, with a tan shirt and black necktie and vest. Bane of course had his inevitable outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which had become his standard uniform. In addition to the matching silver dagger sheathed under his sleeves, he had a long-barrelled 38 Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip. Since working for Dred, Bane had started carrying an increasing number of small tools and gadgets on his person, from a few lockpick tools to a flexible saw blade hidden in a lapel to a pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt where the jacket concealed them. More and more, he was finding having these devices available great asset.
Getting to his feet, the elderly scholar gazed at the three with affection. Not that long ago, he would have gone with them. In his youth, Dred had been an adventurer himself and had weilded those silver daggers against deadly enemies. That was long over now, he had to sadly realize, but at least he could pass the torch as if it were. "Jeremy, I know I don't have to warn you to be alert. If the Death Drum is being played by Wilkins, if he is the Forehead Killer, you three are walking deliberately into great danger."
The corners of Bane's mouth barely moved, which for him was a grin. "Or you could say danger is walking into them." He started for the hall, "Might as well get going.
Following the two men from the room, Katherine paused to smile reassuringly. "I'll report as I can, sir. Don't worry, you couldn't ask for a better bodyguard than our own Dire Wolf." With that, she was out into the warm April night, standing beside Samuel Watesa on the front steps as Bane fetched the big Plymouth and brought it around.
As they drove downtown toward Greenwich Village, Samuel Watesa asked, "Do either of you like jazz by any chance?"
"Umm. I've only heard a little, I'm afraid," Katherine answered. "I'm a folk music gal, I have an acoustic guitar and I practice when I can."
The Dire Wolf grunted. "Music doesn't register with me. It just doesn't hold my attention." Bane saw a parking spot and eased into it. "This is a few blocks away but we'd be damn lucky to find anything closer on a Saturday night."
They disembarked and looked around. Samuel Watesa had never been in the Village and he was curious about the older buildings, the small boutiques and antique stores and bistros. Gazing at a shop with a tinted window filled with bizarre curios, he said, "I can see how Adobele's artifacts would end in this area."
"There's a lot of Midnight War going on in the Village," Bane admitted. He started moving toward the corner of Bleeker Street where the Hidden Theatre was located. Despite Watesa being older and more experienced, the Dire Wolf just seemed to have a natural tendency to take charge. They stopped before an iron railing and descended cement steps that went down to a frost glass door with the words HIDDEN THEATRE-NOT FOR EVERYONE painted on it. Music rattled the glass of that door, giving a warning of how loud an experience they should be prepared for.
Bane opened the door and faced a huge black man in a bright yellow silk shirt and dark green pants. The man held out a big hand and yelled, "Five bucks apiece, boss." After getting the money, he waved them in with a wide grin. "Enjoy. The joint is hopping tonight."
The club was crowded, every chair was taken and a dozen more patrons stood around. In a flash, Bane took in the layout, where the exit was, where he would go if a large-scale brawl broke out, where people might be concealed from view. He saw the unmarked door by the end of the bar that would be the owner's office. He spotted that the two bartenders were not fighters. One bouncer leaning against the wall in a corner was big enough and had a sullen face but he looked soft around the waist and Bane downgraded him as a threat. All of this appraisal took less than a second. He had been at war one way or another all his life.
The crowd was mostly black, as he had expected because he had a theory that the African magic would draw them more than it would descendants of Europe. Viking magic would attract Scandanavians. But there were a few rapt white faces here and there so he and Katherine did not stand out dramatically. The smell of booze was in the air, and an acrid haze of cigarette smoke was almost thick as fog. The Dire Wolf growled inaudibly deep in his chest. He was very uncomfortable under these conditions.
On the raised stage at the back, five men in matching dark blue dinner jackets were playing their instruments, including piano and bass, but they were subdued and grudgingly holding themselves back. Sitting on the edge of the stage with a cylindrical wooden drum between his knees, Chet Wilkins' hands were blurring as he slapped away rhythmically on the hide top. The booming of the drum allowed no room for conversation. Every person there was bobbing his or her head to the beat, snapping fingers and swinging shoulders. It was hypnotic and compelling, a beat with strong hooks that listeners waited to come around again.
Samuel Watesa brought his lips close to Bane's ears to be heard. "That drumhead is bound with human skin," he said. "That mark was a tattoo."
Twenty minutes was all Bane could handle. He was not at all patient in the first place, he hated being in crowds, and music of any sort annoyed him. When he told his partners he was going to check around outside, Katherine was surprised it took him that long to make a break for it. Katherine was a pretty young woman, and she had been busy turning down offers for drinks or to dance to the extent that she had not been doing anything else. She looked over at Samuel Watesa, who was sipping ginger ale and watching the drummer with grim severity. Personally, she was beginning to like the Voodoo drumming, it was the catchiest music she had ever heard.
Reluctantly, Katherine slipped outside and found the Dire Wolf standing up on the sidewalk taking deep breaths and trying to calm down. "Better out here?" she said.
"Hell yes," he grumbled. "How people can enjoy that is beyond me. Okay. What have you picked up about him, Kath?"
She had started to speak when Watesa emerged, searching for them. Drawing the two men close, she explained in low tones. "He's in way over his head. That drum has taken over. I know he hears its sound in his head all the time, that's why he's such a sensation.. he's acting out the pounding he hears mentally, and everyone listening gets caught up in it. They're falling under the spell the more they listen!"
Watesa sounded mournful, "It is my worst fear. The Voodoo will infect the crowd, take hold, plant seeds of hatred and violence that will grow stronger. This man, Chet Wilkins, is cursed. He kills to make the music in his head stop, doesn't he?"
"Yes," Katherine said almost in a whisper. "Each murder gives him a night without the drumming in his mind. It's torture for him either way."
The big African shook his head and turned back toward the door of the nightclub. "Come. We will confront him and take those talismans!"
"Whoa, whoa," Bane said, catching the older man by the arm and stopping him short. "In front of that crowd? With his band and a bouncer and the cops on call? You'd just end up in a cell while Mr Dred calls his lawyer to post bail."
"Then what?"
The Dire Wolf raised a finger and beckoned both of his partners closer. "I think I have a plan. It's a little devious but if it works, we'll have this case solved and the murders stopped for good. Katherine, it all relies on you...."
VI.
After an hour and a half, the band leader took the mike and announced the set was over. The next show would be in thirty minutes and everyone was welcome to stay without having to pay cover charge again. James Barrister was a tall skinny black man from San Diego, he had been playing jazz for more than twenty years and had a reputation among fans... although he was now being overshadowed completely by this drumming sensation. As the band stretched and wiped their sweating faces and reached for cigarettes, Barrister clapped a heavy hand on Chet's shoulder. "That means you too, son. Get some air. We have another set coming up and the crowd will be bigger."
As he was touched, Chet gave a start and looked around in confusion, as if coming out of a trance. He flexed and kneaded his sore hands. "Huh? What? Oh you're right, chief. I better move around a little. Maybe I'll go for a walk around the block." As the band members were toward the door in the rear that held the dressing room, Chet Wilkins slowly slid the cursed drum into its leather carrying case and drew the strap over one shoulder. The music in his head was louder than ever, he couldn't think straight. What was he going to do? He couldn't take much more of this.
A girl's hand touched his, her skin was cool and dry and smooth. Chet looked up in surprise at a very pretty young white girl. Long straight black hair, blue eyes, a snub nose and a warm smile. Not one of the tramps who tried to pick him up for a thrill, he could see that at once. She had a certain reserve to her and her eyes were somehow strangely sad.
"Hello," she said. "I'm Katherine, Chet. I think you need to be out in the night air. Come, I'll walk with you."
"Sure. Why not? You've been listening to the music, Katherine?" As he stood up, suddenly aware of how sweaty he was from drumming under the hot lights, Chet grinned at the young girl. Even through the drum pounding inside his skull, something about her had a calming influence. He put a friendly hand high up on her back and reached back to grab the walking stick as they headed for the rear exit.
Once outside, the cool clean air made him feel better but the damn ghost music beating over and over again made it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. Chet tried to focus. He had nothing against flings with white women, despite his parents having warned him it always led to trouble, and he had a strong feeling this one was what they used to call a "nice" girl. Maybe she just wanted to talk, maybe not. A quick sex bout right now was not really on his mind.
"Over this way," she said, taking him by the arm. In an alley between two darkened buildings, they walked up to where lumber leaning up against a wall provided a sort of screen. "I'm sorry for all this," Katherine said. "I wish there were another way. You weren't a bad person."
Nothing she was saying really sank in. The hellish drumming in his brain was unbearable. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. It was crazy, way too reckless, but he had no choice. If he killed her here, behind that lumber, the music would stop and he could think straight again. Even if it meant the police might start asking questions after her body was found and someone remembered her leaving the club with him, he didn't care anymore. He had to stop that pounding. It wouldn't matter if a cop had been standing there watching. Chet knew he would have to kill her even if he was being filmed by a TV news crew, the music in his skull had gotten so unbearable.
"Come here," he muttered. She looked up quizzically at him as if expecting him to try to kiss her, but instead he raised the African walking stick and held the pointed end toward her face. "This is a big secret. It explains everything. Watch closely." He brought the metal ferrule close to her forehead and twisted the brass cap on the other end of the cane.
And in less than a second, strong hands seized the walking stick and swung it around with his own hands still gripping its shaft. The sharp end dug into his own head, directly up over his eyebrows. Chet Wilkins had a quick glimpse of two furious grey eyes glaring at him, then there was a flash of sharp pain and blackness and he knew nothing more ever again.
As the body fell with a thump to the dirty alley bricks, Jeremy Bane let go of the stick and let it remain in Chet's grasp. The sharp point of the cane remained embedded inches deep within the young man's skull. Bane swung around, making sure no one had been passing by on the street.
"Oh, my God," Katherine sobbed. "That poor boy. He was being tortured by that drumming, Jeremy. He wasn't responsible for what he did."
"It's over now," the Dire Wolf told her bluntly. Whipping a silver dagger from its sheath under his sleeve, he sliced easily through the leather strap and tugged the Death Drum free. "Come on, we need to make ourselves scarce." He yanked off his jacket and wrapped the drum within its folds.
"I feel so bad for him," Katherine went on. "I kind of led him on to his death. Even though... I was going to be next..."
"Better him than you!" Bane tugged her by one arm, not that gently, toward the sidewalk. As he showed himself, the big Plymouth belonging to Kenneth Dred started up and rolled down the street to stop in front of them. Behind the wheel, Samuel Watesa waited until they jumped into the car and then eased away, heading north from Greenwich Village.
"The final Forehead Murder," Bane said. "The Death Drum will be safe in Mr Dred's vault until it can be destroyed. Most likely the papers and TV will not reveal what happened. I guess everything is tied up neatly."
"For Chet Wilkins, too neatly," Katherine whispered as if to herself.
5/26/2015