"Throw a Drowning Man an Anchor"
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dochermes"Throw a Drowning Man an Anchor"
8/2/2003
I.
At ten-thirty that evening, Bane parked his Mustang in the nearly empty parking lot of the SAFE HARBOR seafood restaurant. Last orders were taken at nine, he knew, and by now the final customers had been politely ushered out. Five big black Lincolns were parked around in the back. As the Dire Wolf got out of his car, he saw the dining room windows blink out and only the floodlights over the front of the building revealed his presence. He stood in plain view away from the Mustang to be sure that the suspicious minds within were certain he had indeed come alone.
In his fifties, lean and active as ever, Jeremy Bane wore his widely recognized trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket. He was more distressed than he had expected at the absence of his silver daggers. The matched pair which he invariably wore sheathed to his forearms were not only his most useful weapons against the children of the night, they were also his most valued possessions. But they were too well known to the underworld. He did not want to risk having them confiscated and then needing to fight a dozen gunmen to get them back. For the moment, the silver bladed knives were secured in an armored panel built inside the back of the driver's seat.
Feeling vulnerable and unhappy without them, Bane held out his arms from his sides and began walking toward the front of the restaurant. A breeze off the East River ruffled his short black hair. It was a comfortably dry September night. As he took a few more steps, he spotted movement by the side of the SAFE HARBOR and watched a huge beefy figure in a dark business suit swung around from behind a propane tank and head toward him.
Waiting patiently, knowing they were being observed by other gunmen in the area, Bane allowed himself to be patted down and as he expected his long-barreled .38 Smith & Wesson revolver was confiscated from its holster behind his left hip. "Okay," said the thug, "You ready to go in?"
"Sure."
Escorted toward the side of the building, they entered a door which swung open from behind to reveal another hulking brute. This one had his hand deep in his suit jacket pocket, obviously holding a gun.
"Ease up, there," Bane told them. "I was asked to come here by your boss."
"Right. But I've heard wild stories about you for years. The Dire Wolf! Come this way." The two gunmen led him along a short corridor flanked by a bathroom door and a closet holdings mops and buckets, into a large comfortably-furnished room with deep maple panelling and overstuffed easy chairs around a table laden with assorted bottles and shot glasses. The recessed overhead lighting was a subdued amber color. Two ashtrays held a single cigar butt each. Against the far wall, under a long mirror, was a fully stocked bar. From somewhere, old-fashioned big band music was playing at a low level.
Leaning back in one of the chairs was an imposing man with a handsome leonine head of gleaming white hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead. Impeccably dressed in a tailored dark grey suit with thin pinstripes, he raised one broad hand in a welcoming gesture but did not raise.
'Please, seat yourself. I am glad you accepted my invitation."
"We haven't met before," the Dire Wolf said as he settled into a chair facing the infamous mobster. A henchman offered him a glass of whiskey and Bane took it without trying to refuse. It didn't matter if anything had been spiked into the drink or even if he was pressed into taking several drinks. Between his accelerated metabolism and the enhanced healing factor he enjoyed from the Tagra tea diet, alcohol simply passed through him without effect. So he saw no reason to refuse the offer and sniffed it thoughtfully before taking a reasonable swallow. Good Scotch but wasted on him.
"No, our paths have never had a reason to cross and to be honest, I'm content that this was so. My various enterprises mostly involve giving people opportunities to throw their money away." Schnappin had sipped his own glass and now he lowered it to the table in front of him. "You are known for pursuing more... immediate threats to the public."
"That's a good way to put it," Bane agreed. "Naturally, I'm curious why you would want to see me."
"Mr Bane," Schnappin folded his hands in front of him and stared down at him. "So many strange things have been reported to me this past month. I hear unbelievable stories from men I have trusted for decades, men whose families I knew before they were born. There is someone or something in this city who is performing... well, what my men describe as weird miracles."
"I would like to learn more."
"Yes, I hoped you would feel that way. Very well. As my agents go about their duties, taking bets and collecting money, they have lately been harassed in ways that make no sense. One man was standing on the sidewalk when gallons of cheap perfume fell down upon him from nowhere. He had trouble breathing and had to be taken to our headquarters to be scrubbed and given fresh clothes. Another was arguing with a merchant over money owed to us, and in a blink my man's clothing was gone. Vanished. His shoes, his pants, his shirt and everything in them. He was forced to ask to use the phone to call for help."
Even in the dim light, Bane's grey eyes suddenly had a gleam to them. "Oh, now I'm very interested. Go on."
"There have been many more such incidents. A gambling room down in Little Korea near the Empire State Building was suddenly filled with hundreds of mosquitos, for example. Nothing too violent, nothing to cause death or serious injury," Schnappin said. "But these embarassments prevent my men from carrying out their duties. Worse, these events expose my men to be ridicule. A lack of respect is a real drawback in our work."
"It doesn't matter what I think about your operation," the Dire Wolf admitted. "My concern is with serial killers, lone maniacs and worse. But I investigate inexplicable phenomena as well. This does not sound like anything in the natural order. My guess is that a person is out there who has a wild talent. Someone is causing these odd things to happen because he or she wants to give you a hard time."
"That is my thought also. What could this person want? How can I make him stop if I know nothing about him?"
"I don't know yet," Bane said, "But I will warn you that these events could turn ugly. Instead of perfume, a concrete block could drop on one of your men. Instead of mosquitos, a room could suddenly be infested with dozens of rattlesnakes. I think it's urgent to figure this out at once, Mr Shnappin."
The elderly mobster smiled, revealing excellent teeth that had been well tended. "Then you will look into this?"
"Yes. Absolutely." Bane's voice got a slight edge to it. "I have to be honest and tell you that I am mostly concerned with the possible threat to the general public. Protecting your henchmen is not really my priority. But if someone with a gift like this gets mean, no one is safe."
"I understand. Allow me to present you with the one piece of information that might be useful. I have a description of a young man who was seen in the area at three of these incidents. Coincidence is a luxury we cannot afford to believe in, Mr Bane. The person is young, a boy really, no more than twenty. He is short and overweight, described as soft. The hair is light brown and untidy, the face is distinguished mostly by a large protruberant nose. That's all my men report. He made no impression on them at the time, it was only when I questioned them later that they realized he had been in nearby crowds more than once."
Bane felt a deep unease crawl over him. He had wondered what ever happened to Holden Magroin.
II.
When he walked out of the SAFE HARBOR a few minutes later, he had received neither promises of reward nor threats of punishment. Horst Schnappin had said that he felt sure Bane would follow his nature and investigate this mystery, and Bane had to agree. The old gangster was a good judge of personalities. Once he was aware of these inexplicable events, the Dire Wolf was drawn to find out more as surely as a hunting hound catching a scent.
Back in his dark green Mustang, he eased out of the parking lot into heavy Friday night traffic in this lower end of Manhattan. A few blocks over, he pulled into a shopping mall and got out of his car again. Shrugging out of the sport jacket, he pulled up the sleeves of the black turtleneck to reveal the sheen of the silk-thin Trom armor underneath. Bane unlatched the hidden panel in the back of the driver's seat, pulled out two daggers in their soft leather sheaths and quickly strapped them to his forearms with the hilts out for quick access. After he pulled his sleeves back down, he adjusted the daggers and was satisfied he could draw them instantly. Only then, putting the jacket back on, did the nagging feeling of disquiet fade.
Maybe he was too dependent on those weapons. Sometimes he felt he would benefit from going on a case without them to be more reliant on himself. But they were so useful in a crisis. The silver blades had been blessed by the immortal Eldarin ages ago and had proven themselves against numerous creatures of the Midnight War. They also grew warm in the presence of malevolent gralic energy, a warning system that had saved his life more than once. Still. He worried that it was not good to feel dependent on anything but his own skills and capabilities. Maybe next time.
Driving toward Midtown, Bane remembered Holden Magroin all too well. It had only been two months ago when he had been led on a bizarre chase by the little nerd. Holden had the ability to open gralic gates which brought anything he wished to a spot near him. The largest object he had seen Holden materialize was a sports car direct from Rome. At the time, the naive young man had been hopelessly smitten with a mercenary-minded stripper who used him without mercy. When the truth of the situation finally couldn't be denied any longer, Holden had an emotional meltdown and Bane had talked the grieving kid into coming to the KDF building to discuss what should be done with him.
But the boy had made a run for it as soon as he was unattended. He did not return to the Prospect Park apartment where he had lived with his mother. He called her from Grand Central to say he was hitting the road, and ever since then, he had mailed her an envelope crammed with cash every other week from various locations around the Eastern seabord. Bane had been unable to locate Holden, since the boy lived off the grid with no credit cards and left only a fragmentary paper trail. Since he paid for everything with cash and could summon new cars or belongings whenever he chose, Holden Magroin was as untraceable as any fugitive had ever been. Eventually, Bane had hired an agency to keep looking, since more urgent crises turned up that needed his full attention.
Since it was past eleven, the building where his office was located would be closed for the night. The Dire Wolf left his car in its berth at the IMPERIAL GARAGE at 40th Street, checked that the green and blue security lights over the driver's sunvisor were blinking steadily and strode quickly up the ramp to the street. He did pause to greet the young man sitting in the glass-fronted security booth and then headed out into the night. Third Avenue was unusually quiet, he observed. For a pleasant September night, the traffic was sparse and the sidewalks nearly empty. It worried him because he didn't know any reason for this.
Twice, people walking past made a point to get over on the sidewalk away from him. Two women actually trotted across the street to avoid him.
Bane knew he could be an intimidating sight in his black outfit, with his pale eyes and quick movements, but this was ridiculous. What were they afraid of? Had there been some murders in town he hadn't heard of? Or wild rumors that had escaped his hearing? Stranger and stranger.
Bane walked briskly past the yellow-brick building where his office was, seeing that only the lobby lights and a floodlamp over the front door still burned for insurance reasons. He crossed the narrow side street to the next block, came up on the slightly shabby GROSSMAN'S DELI where he bought many of his sandwiches for lunch and stopped short as a sign in a side door caught his eye. This was a simple wooden door with a mail slot, opening to stairs leading up to apartments over the deli. Something had been added. Tacked to the door was an 8 by 10 piece of posterboard marked in flamboyant scarlet letters ROD ROSCOE, PRIVATE EYE and a phone number. The Dire Wolf didn't know whether to scowl or smirk at that name. 'Oh, come on,' he muttered.
This had to be some youngster's idea of a joke, but because he was already uneasy about the deserted streets, Bane decided to at least look around. He concentrated all his attention on his Tel Shai technique, slowing his breathing until his hearing intensitified. He opened the unlocked door a fraction of an inch and focused. The muted buzz of voices on TV, a cupboard door slamming, a man snoring.. all these came from an upward direction. But there was something else. He couldn't quite get a grasp on it...
With his full concentration on sounds from within the building, the Dire Wolf was for once taken by surprise as a huge white-skinned hand seized him by the back of the neck and smashed him against the side of the building with murderous intent. The pain of a rib or two breaking burned in his chest. Bane lifted his legs and drove his feet up against the wall to push himself back, but the man holding him from behind did not budge an inch. Bane was hoisted up to head level and slammed down to the sidewalk with a loud crackling noise. Any normal Human would have been killed. He was dazed and disoriented but his immediate reaction was to fight back. Bane wriggled furiously, got loose from that iron grip and rolled over and over on the sidewalk to gain some distance. The agony in his chest was slowing him down.
Getting up on one knee, his left hand whipping out the silver dagger from beneath his right sleeve, the Dire Wolf caught only a split-second glimpse of a towering misshapen figure in black rags. From directly overhead, gallons of boiling water poured down on the monster. Steam rushed out in all directions and the brute wailed as his skin was scalded entirely away. Doubling over, pawing at his raw face, the creature lurched off into the night.
Only a few drops of that boiling downpour had splashed over on Bane. He hardly noticed it, the pain in his chest and back was preoccupying him. But he had recognized that white lifeless skin, the distorted face with one eye larger than the other and the yellow peg teeth grimacing. There was no mistaking Quilt.
III.
In another second, he had forced himself shakily up onto his feet, leaning back against the building. He reflected that his enhanced healing ability was certainly taking its time tonight, it was still too painful to draw a full breath and he couldn't stand up yet. Bane saw that Quilt was evidently not coming back immediately and he slid his dagger back under his sleeve so he could brace himself with both hands. It had only been a few seconds since the attack. Now he digested the jolt of realizing that damn Quilt of all enemies had started to kill him, but a deluge of boiling water had stopped the Patchwork Zombie. Boiling water... from nowhere.
Of course. Bane managed to straighten his back and took in a breath that stung but wasn't agonizing. The Tagra tea diet elevated his body's recovery beyond what medical science could understand. The cracks in his ribs and sterum were closing up already. The severe bruises were breaking up as the veins sealed and the subcutaneous blood was absorbed again. Bane's head cleared as the door behind him swung inward and he felt a familiar nasal voice right at his ear.
"Jee-ZUS, I woulda sworn you were a goner. He was beating you like a carpet. Jeremy! Hi, come in, siddown."
Still in severe discomfort, Bane decided to accept the invitation. He was led by the arm down a short hallway and into a low-ceilinged room that was only lit by a single dim lamp on a desk. In one corner, a radio on a stand played incredibly moody jazz. There was not much else to the office. The desk with a lamp and a newspaper on it, two wooden chairs, the radio and a calendar on the wall that showed a pretty girl from some Japanese cartoon. There were also two framed diplomas on a wall. Bane was recovering faster and he felt he would be back to normal in another few minutes. Tel Shai knights were neither immortal nor indestructible but they did bounce back from trauma that would normally mean waking up in the ICU.
He got a good look at Holden Magroin. The kid was still short and dumpy, still possessing an unimposing round face with a potato-shaped nose. But the hair was now a black crewcut and the boy was wearing a tailored dark blue pinstripe suit complete with yellow handkerchief in the left breast pocket. He also put on a soft felt fedora that he tilted far back on his head.
"Good to seeya again, Jeremy," Holden said with his lopsided grin. "I was hopin' you would stop by. Maybe my reputation hasn't been built up yet but I'm working on it."
"Holden! I'm glad to see you're okay," Bane replied, sitting up a little more at ease. "I tried finding you but you're tough to locate. What's going on here? You can not possibly have earned your PI license in two months! Where are those diplomas from?"
"Oh, that. Errr, I bought them. Guy named Spanish Eddie, I slipped him a few thousand and he got me a Private Investigator license, certificate from the Duluth Criminology Academy, all that stuff. Worth every penny."
"I know Spanish Eddie," Bane said. "He does decent work but don't trust those documents too far, Holden. They'll stand up to a casual check but a real journalist or police officer will disprove your credentials right away."
The boy took his fedora off, twirled it around one finger and dropped it, bent over to pick it up off the floor and smacked his head on the desk when he straightened. Same Holden. When he was settled again, he pulled open the deep right hand drawer of his desk and came up with two shot glasses and two cans of Red Bull. "I, uh, don't like booze. Tried it, got sick. This keeps me going through those late nights on cases."
"You're better off without alcohol," Bane said as he took the tinest possible sip. All that caffeine and sugar! His accelerated metabolism did not need any of that. "So, Holden, did you get a good look at that character who was throwing me around?"
"Whoa! Yeah I did and I almost wet myself. Who is he? What's his PROBLEM?"
Bane leaned forward and lowered his voice to get the boy's full attention. "Remember every word of this. That was Quilt, the Patchwork Zombie. He is one of the most dangerous menaces in the Midnight War, I've been honestly afraid every time I've had to face him."
"You're afraid of him? Really? He sure looks like a monster." Holden filled the shot glass with Red Bull and drained it with a gulp as if it were whiskey.
"Quilt is not a living Human being. In 1888, a Darthan Kje took body parts from seven executed murderers, sealed them together with Alchemical paste and reanimated the dead tissue using gralic force. Quilt has been terrorizing and murdering all the world ever since. He has poisoned city reservoirs, burned down hospitals with everyone in them, derailed passenger trains and dropped bombs on concert crowds from a helicopter. And here he is in Manhattan tonight."
"So he wasn't sewn together by a scientist and brought to life in a lightning storm?"
"What? No. Quilt was created using the darkest of forbidden Black Magick. He's a supernatural creature of the night."
"What were the different parts used? An arm from one guy, a leg from another?"
Bane exhaled strongly, and his voice started to lose patience. "No one knows. It doesn't matter. You should be wondering, what was this fiend doing outside the door fifteen minutes ago? Who was he coming to see... me or maybe you?"
Holden Magroin shrugged, "Eh. I have my gift. Since the last time I saw you, I've been exploring my limits. I can summon anything up to the size of a car, and I can make it appear anywhere within my line of sight. Let's be honest, most of the time I only summon a couple thousand dollars or a new TV or Chinese food. But if this Quilt dude gets in my face, I could drop a full-grown Bengal tiger around his shoulders. Or maybe a couple of live hand grenades inside his shirt. He's messing with Rod Roscoe!"
"Rod... Roscoe? Is that the name you're using?"
"Got a nice ring to it, huh? 'Rod' and 'Roscoe' are both what criminals call guns, you know."
"Seventy years ago, maybe. Holden err Rod, are you getting a lot of your ideas about detective work from paperbacks?"
"Sure, from the old pulp novels, actually. I love that stuff. You ever read the Black Torch stories? Very exciting."
Bane could not keep from shaking his head. "You know, Rod if I may call you that, once Quilt is out of the way, I have an idea. How about I set you up as an apprentice to an established detective agency? Elzabeth Colt, maybe. You'd like her partner, Angelina. They'd show you valuable tricks, how to follow someone without being seen, how to ask questions that get answers without seeming to threaten, how to spot gunmen by the way they stand or walk."
"Well... maybe. I wanna create my own legend."
"You should see what Angelina Delgado looks like before you decide. Wavy black hair down to her waist... and she can draw and fire in one-fifth of a second."
"I dunno, I'll think about it. What about that Frankenstein guy, Quilt?"
"He should be back outside by now," Bane said. "Getting covered by boiling water would only make him angry."
IV.
Holden Magroin, now calling himself Rod Roscoe, rose to his full five feet six inches of chubby stature and got a garment down from its hook on the back of a closet door. it was a classic off-white trenchcoat but when he tightened its belt, he did not look like a world-weary veteran of crime-fighting. He looked like a little kid playing dress-up in his father's clothing.
Bane had remained seated. Suddenly there was an AR-15 in his lap. He gave a start. Holden's power was disconcerting because it was so abrupt and quiet. No flash of light, no whoosh of air being displaced as most teleportation caused. Objects simply appeared or disappeared so unobtrusively that it was disorienting. The Dire Wolf held up the assault weapon for a second but then put it down to lean against the side of his chair. "Say, do you know exactly where these objects come from?"
"Nope, no idea. Could be anywhere, I guess." Holden was examing a Colt .45 Automatic, making sure it was loaded and the safety was on. "When I get a chance, I want to take some lessons in marksmanship."
"Oh brother. I think the safest place to stand would be right behind you, if you've had no training. Honestly, when Quilt shows up, you're better off relying on your power. You know, Rod, I've been wondering why you set up this business."
Holden adjusted his fedora and smiled at his idol. "What do you mean, Jeremy?"
"Well, with your power, you really can have anything you want. Let's face it, you could be dozing on the beach in Polynesia, eating the finest food from any restaurants, hanging around with the most beautiful escorts alive. Instead, you're setting yourself up for getting hurt or even killed by brutal mobsters."
"Aw hell. I tried all the things you said. I lived in Hawaii for a few weeks, then Rome. But I'm a city boy, like you. Born and raised in the Big Apple. I wanna be here."
Going over by the door, keeping an ear open, Bane drew his long-barreled .38 Smith and Wesson and checked to see it was ready. "Why be a PI, though?"
"Cause I wanna be like you. You're too cool for words, Jeremy. I rented this room right across the street from your office cause I figure we can refer clients to each other. Like doctors do, ya know? If you don't take a case, maybe I can offer the second opinion, heh heh." He held out a wide palm and a Three Musketeers bar appeared in it. "Want one?"
"No thanks. Here he comes. He'll just smash the door if we don't let him in." The Dire Wolf was listening to the thump of heavy boots outside. He swung the office door inward at exactly the second that a big undead fist would have crashed against it. The huge hulk of Quilt charged into the room and stumbled at not meeting any resistance.
Ten inches over six feet tall, the Patchwork Zombie was more horrifying the longer one looked at him. He was wearing a tattered black suit with a thick black sweatshirt underneath, and all his garments were torn and blood-stained. One arm was several inches longer than the other. His shoulders were so wide he had turned sideways to enter the room. Quilt had chalky skin with no blood running under it, lank black hair on top of a flattened skull and a prominent brow ledge. One eye was set noticeably higher than the other, his nose was a mere peg and his jagged mouth tilted up at an angle.
In his right hand, the monster clutched a wicked-looked knife with a serrated edge. Only it was gone in a blink and he clasped instead a lovely bunch of fresh yellow daffodils. As the Zombie raised his weapon to attack, he felt the change and his jaw dropped down in complete confusion.
"For us?" asked Holden. "Aw, that's sweet. Let me get a glass of water to keep them fresh."
"What...?" Quilt had a surprisingly mellow and cultured voice instead of the hollow rasp one might expect. He sounded like a BBC announcer. "I don't understand..." Even as the monster flung the flowers aside, one of the chairs in the office appeared under him, bending his knees forward and dropping him down into it.
"Please, make yourself at home," Holden said. "Coffee?"
Still seated as he fought to understand what was going on, Quilt glared murderously over at his long-time nemesis. "Dire Wolf! All this is your doing."
Bane saw what Holden's plan was, keeping the monster off-balance and uncertain. It was a good approach. He twirled his revolver in fancy manuevers like an Old West gunfighter and then holstered it. "Are you having memory lapses, Quilt? I think you show signs that your mind is going."
The Patchwork Zombie growled deep in that thick chest. "I was going to grant you a quick painless death because I have much to do tonight, but you have vexed me beyond all endurance." He dropped his hands down to his lap and his face grimaced again as he realized he was holding a large stuffed Teddy Bear that wore a particularly goofy expression. On its chest was a pink heart with the words I WUV YOU written across it.
"You are such a sweetheart today," Holden said with an unbearable grin. "I guess your real personality is coming out at last."
The hideous brute leaped up, knocking the chair over behind him. His head scraped the ceiling of the rather cramped room. "I did not bring that toy here! What is going on?"
"You're losing it, Quilt," Bane said. "I always thought your mind would deteriorate at some point."
"Those words will be your last, fool!" As the Patchwork Zombie raised his open hands for the attack, he looked down and caught a glimpse of himself. Somehow, he was now wearing a bright yellow muu-muu with white outlines of cats on it and a ruffled collar. Perched on his head was a wide-brimmed pink sunbonnet with a bright ribbon. The Monster bellowed in outrage. He ripped the loose garment apart and flung the pieces onto the floor where he stomped on them hard enough that dust flew up from between the boards.
"You're still wearing the bonnet," Bane observed.
Crumpling the hat in his hand, Quilt snarled. "It will take you days to die. I will skin you. I will remove your fingers and toes one at a time, and you will watch me eat them. You will beg for death, you will weep and plead..." He broke off as a dozen black-and-yellow Monarch butterflies swirled around his head. The monster swatted at them in apoplectic rage. "What the Hell is happening here? Stop it at once!"
Bane had moved into the open doorway and he stood with one foot in the hallway. "You're going to have to catch me, old friend. Let's see how fasr you can run on legs that don't match." With that, he spun and raced away.
Enraged beyond coherent speech, Quilt thundered after him. As the Patchwork Zombie reached the street and saw Bane waiting for him the next block over, the Monster pursued. But directly in front of him, a massive truck tire belonging to an 18-wheeler appeared on the sidewalk. Quilt's right foot got tangled inside the tire, he fell heavily onto his face and thrashed around for a few seconds before struggling back up to his feet.
"Stop clowning around!" Bane called from the next block. "Do you want to catch me or not?"
Infuriated beyond speech, the Zombie lumbered after Bane, who was so much quicker than he could easily have run in circles around the brute without being caught. Behind them, Holden Magroin made sure his office door was locked before following. The young man had never done any cardio exercise in his life and quickly found himself out of breath. This wouldn't do. As Quilt stamped forward, a puddle of motor oil appeared on the sidewalk and the Monster's feet swung high up in front of him. The brute crashed hard on his back, rolled and tried ineffectively to get back up. He was covered with the slick substance and could get no traction.
Coming to a halt on the corner of First Avenue, Bane called back, "What is the matter with you tonight, Quilt? I swear, we're going to put you in a nursing home for elderly hellbeasts. Are you coming or not?"
"Let me get my hands on you..." the Patchwork Zombie growled. He managed to crawl past the oil and got to his feet, slipping a few more times. As the chase began again, Holden walked behind the two longtime enemies. He sidestepped the spilled oil and thoughtfully summoned a foot of dry desert sand to cover it. No reason why innocent people should slip and get hurt, he thought.
As Quilt picked up his pace, opening and closing his gnarled hands in anticipation, he was halted once again. A multi-colored cloud swirled around him, its metallic particles sticking to the motor oil on his clothing. The Monster glared down at himself in a rising fury that might well have given a living Human a heart attack. He was covered with party glitter, red and gold and blue. At that intersection, one of the infrequent cars out that night slowed to a crawl at the bizarre sight but then squealed away as the driver noticed the sheer size and the killing anger of the beast's posture.
"Stop doing this!" Quilt screamed. "However you are making these things appear on me, stop it this instant!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bane yelled back calmly. "Maybe the Darthim need to cut your skull open and pop a new brain in. One hundred and thirty years of use has worn yours out." Behind him was a chest high retaining wall and nearby was a typical New York City green metal bench, bolted to the pavement. The Dire Wolf vaulted lightly up to stand on the bench and glanced down behind him where the cold black East River lapped up against the wall. Perfect.
As he neared his enemy, Quilt ran faster, shambling awkwardly because one leg was longer than the other. He had forgotten any cunning, he had dropped all caution. The Patchwork Zombie was in a mindless amok state. Bane was ready. He abruptly leaped forward and seized the Monster by one arm and by the back of the head, pivoting in a simple direct Kumundu throw that flung the brute up and over the retaining wall in a sloppy forward somersault. Cold water splashed up in a black geyser.
"That was satisfying," Bane said as Holden Magroin finally arrived near him. The kid was wheezing and he sat down on the bench to catch his breath.
"I better join a gym," Holden managed to gasp. "I didn't realize I was so out of shape."
"Right now, we have to stay alert," Bane told him. The Dire Wolf leaned over the retaining wall where some splashing was still heard. "Quilt doesn't need to breathe. He'll be climbing back out in a minute."
"Yeah, I don't think so." The chubby young man took off his fedora and fanned himself. "Man. These trenchcoats are too hot to wear!"
"They're not meant for summer," Bane said. "Watch out, there's his head breaking the surface."
Something immense plummeted down to crash right on the emerging Monster. It was an old-fashioned ship's hooked anchor, weighing two thousand pounds. Right behind it came a mile-long chain with each link wearing forty pounds. Quilt vanished beneath the surface instantly.
"Man! That was hitting my limit," admitted Holden. "My head is splitting. Your friend there is wrapped in tons of chains. I don't think he's going to get loose anytime soon."
"Somewhere there's a tugboat captain who can't figure out what happened to his anchor." Bane lowered himself onto the bench and Holden plopped beside him in obvious exhaustion. The Dire Wolf patted the kid on one shoulder. "Good work, Rod Roscoe. You kept your cool and you did exactly what would confuse that killer."
"Thanks. Coming from you, that means something. You know, my daddy told me when I was little that you should always throw a drowning man an anchor. I thought it was just one of his stupid sayings but at least I got to try it out."
Behind them, the river was quiet. Bane leaned forward and he remembered how Quilt had looked in a muu-muu and sunbonnet, then coated with glitter like a disco dancer. He snickered, then started to laugh out loud at the image. He could not remember the last time he had given way to actual laughter, but now he was helpless as his body shook and his eyes teared up. Finally, he wiped his face and said, "Whew. That was unexpected. Thanks, Rod, I feel a lot better."
"Aw, call me my right name," Holden chuckled. "Glad to help. You know, maybe being a private eye isn't really what I'm meant to do. Suppose I became an explorer instead. I could go up the Amazon without having to bring a safari carrying supplies. I could summon whatever I needed at the moment. I did read that a surviving dinosaur has been seen down there."
"Sounds interesting," said Bane, not mentioning that exploring the Amazon would also get Holden out of Manhattan for a long time.
11/9/2018
8/2/2003
I.
At ten-thirty that evening, Bane parked his Mustang in the nearly empty parking lot of the SAFE HARBOR seafood restaurant. Last orders were taken at nine, he knew, and by now the final customers had been politely ushered out. Five big black Lincolns were parked around in the back. As the Dire Wolf got out of his car, he saw the dining room windows blink out and only the floodlights over the front of the building revealed his presence. He stood in plain view away from the Mustang to be sure that the suspicious minds within were certain he had indeed come alone.
In his fifties, lean and active as ever, Jeremy Bane wore his widely recognized trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket. He was more distressed than he had expected at the absence of his silver daggers. The matched pair which he invariably wore sheathed to his forearms were not only his most useful weapons against the children of the night, they were also his most valued possessions. But they were too well known to the underworld. He did not want to risk having them confiscated and then needing to fight a dozen gunmen to get them back. For the moment, the silver bladed knives were secured in an armored panel built inside the back of the driver's seat.
Feeling vulnerable and unhappy without them, Bane held out his arms from his sides and began walking toward the front of the restaurant. A breeze off the East River ruffled his short black hair. It was a comfortably dry September night. As he took a few more steps, he spotted movement by the side of the SAFE HARBOR and watched a huge beefy figure in a dark business suit swung around from behind a propane tank and head toward him.
Waiting patiently, knowing they were being observed by other gunmen in the area, Bane allowed himself to be patted down and as he expected his long-barreled .38 Smith & Wesson revolver was confiscated from its holster behind his left hip. "Okay," said the thug, "You ready to go in?"
"Sure."
Escorted toward the side of the building, they entered a door which swung open from behind to reveal another hulking brute. This one had his hand deep in his suit jacket pocket, obviously holding a gun.
"Ease up, there," Bane told them. "I was asked to come here by your boss."
"Right. But I've heard wild stories about you for years. The Dire Wolf! Come this way." The two gunmen led him along a short corridor flanked by a bathroom door and a closet holdings mops and buckets, into a large comfortably-furnished room with deep maple panelling and overstuffed easy chairs around a table laden with assorted bottles and shot glasses. The recessed overhead lighting was a subdued amber color. Two ashtrays held a single cigar butt each. Against the far wall, under a long mirror, was a fully stocked bar. From somewhere, old-fashioned big band music was playing at a low level.
Leaning back in one of the chairs was an imposing man with a handsome leonine head of gleaming white hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead. Impeccably dressed in a tailored dark grey suit with thin pinstripes, he raised one broad hand in a welcoming gesture but did not raise.
'Please, seat yourself. I am glad you accepted my invitation."
"We haven't met before," the Dire Wolf said as he settled into a chair facing the infamous mobster. A henchman offered him a glass of whiskey and Bane took it without trying to refuse. It didn't matter if anything had been spiked into the drink or even if he was pressed into taking several drinks. Between his accelerated metabolism and the enhanced healing factor he enjoyed from the Tagra tea diet, alcohol simply passed through him without effect. So he saw no reason to refuse the offer and sniffed it thoughtfully before taking a reasonable swallow. Good Scotch but wasted on him.
"No, our paths have never had a reason to cross and to be honest, I'm content that this was so. My various enterprises mostly involve giving people opportunities to throw their money away." Schnappin had sipped his own glass and now he lowered it to the table in front of him. "You are known for pursuing more... immediate threats to the public."
"That's a good way to put it," Bane agreed. "Naturally, I'm curious why you would want to see me."
"Mr Bane," Schnappin folded his hands in front of him and stared down at him. "So many strange things have been reported to me this past month. I hear unbelievable stories from men I have trusted for decades, men whose families I knew before they were born. There is someone or something in this city who is performing... well, what my men describe as weird miracles."
"I would like to learn more."
"Yes, I hoped you would feel that way. Very well. As my agents go about their duties, taking bets and collecting money, they have lately been harassed in ways that make no sense. One man was standing on the sidewalk when gallons of cheap perfume fell down upon him from nowhere. He had trouble breathing and had to be taken to our headquarters to be scrubbed and given fresh clothes. Another was arguing with a merchant over money owed to us, and in a blink my man's clothing was gone. Vanished. His shoes, his pants, his shirt and everything in them. He was forced to ask to use the phone to call for help."
Even in the dim light, Bane's grey eyes suddenly had a gleam to them. "Oh, now I'm very interested. Go on."
"There have been many more such incidents. A gambling room down in Little Korea near the Empire State Building was suddenly filled with hundreds of mosquitos, for example. Nothing too violent, nothing to cause death or serious injury," Schnappin said. "But these embarassments prevent my men from carrying out their duties. Worse, these events expose my men to be ridicule. A lack of respect is a real drawback in our work."
"It doesn't matter what I think about your operation," the Dire Wolf admitted. "My concern is with serial killers, lone maniacs and worse. But I investigate inexplicable phenomena as well. This does not sound like anything in the natural order. My guess is that a person is out there who has a wild talent. Someone is causing these odd things to happen because he or she wants to give you a hard time."
"That is my thought also. What could this person want? How can I make him stop if I know nothing about him?"
"I don't know yet," Bane said, "But I will warn you that these events could turn ugly. Instead of perfume, a concrete block could drop on one of your men. Instead of mosquitos, a room could suddenly be infested with dozens of rattlesnakes. I think it's urgent to figure this out at once, Mr Shnappin."
The elderly mobster smiled, revealing excellent teeth that had been well tended. "Then you will look into this?"
"Yes. Absolutely." Bane's voice got a slight edge to it. "I have to be honest and tell you that I am mostly concerned with the possible threat to the general public. Protecting your henchmen is not really my priority. But if someone with a gift like this gets mean, no one is safe."
"I understand. Allow me to present you with the one piece of information that might be useful. I have a description of a young man who was seen in the area at three of these incidents. Coincidence is a luxury we cannot afford to believe in, Mr Bane. The person is young, a boy really, no more than twenty. He is short and overweight, described as soft. The hair is light brown and untidy, the face is distinguished mostly by a large protruberant nose. That's all my men report. He made no impression on them at the time, it was only when I questioned them later that they realized he had been in nearby crowds more than once."
Bane felt a deep unease crawl over him. He had wondered what ever happened to Holden Magroin.
II.
When he walked out of the SAFE HARBOR a few minutes later, he had received neither promises of reward nor threats of punishment. Horst Schnappin had said that he felt sure Bane would follow his nature and investigate this mystery, and Bane had to agree. The old gangster was a good judge of personalities. Once he was aware of these inexplicable events, the Dire Wolf was drawn to find out more as surely as a hunting hound catching a scent.
Back in his dark green Mustang, he eased out of the parking lot into heavy Friday night traffic in this lower end of Manhattan. A few blocks over, he pulled into a shopping mall and got out of his car again. Shrugging out of the sport jacket, he pulled up the sleeves of the black turtleneck to reveal the sheen of the silk-thin Trom armor underneath. Bane unlatched the hidden panel in the back of the driver's seat, pulled out two daggers in their soft leather sheaths and quickly strapped them to his forearms with the hilts out for quick access. After he pulled his sleeves back down, he adjusted the daggers and was satisfied he could draw them instantly. Only then, putting the jacket back on, did the nagging feeling of disquiet fade.
Maybe he was too dependent on those weapons. Sometimes he felt he would benefit from going on a case without them to be more reliant on himself. But they were so useful in a crisis. The silver blades had been blessed by the immortal Eldarin ages ago and had proven themselves against numerous creatures of the Midnight War. They also grew warm in the presence of malevolent gralic energy, a warning system that had saved his life more than once. Still. He worried that it was not good to feel dependent on anything but his own skills and capabilities. Maybe next time.
Driving toward Midtown, Bane remembered Holden Magroin all too well. It had only been two months ago when he had been led on a bizarre chase by the little nerd. Holden had the ability to open gralic gates which brought anything he wished to a spot near him. The largest object he had seen Holden materialize was a sports car direct from Rome. At the time, the naive young man had been hopelessly smitten with a mercenary-minded stripper who used him without mercy. When the truth of the situation finally couldn't be denied any longer, Holden had an emotional meltdown and Bane had talked the grieving kid into coming to the KDF building to discuss what should be done with him.
But the boy had made a run for it as soon as he was unattended. He did not return to the Prospect Park apartment where he had lived with his mother. He called her from Grand Central to say he was hitting the road, and ever since then, he had mailed her an envelope crammed with cash every other week from various locations around the Eastern seabord. Bane had been unable to locate Holden, since the boy lived off the grid with no credit cards and left only a fragmentary paper trail. Since he paid for everything with cash and could summon new cars or belongings whenever he chose, Holden Magroin was as untraceable as any fugitive had ever been. Eventually, Bane had hired an agency to keep looking, since more urgent crises turned up that needed his full attention.
Since it was past eleven, the building where his office was located would be closed for the night. The Dire Wolf left his car in its berth at the IMPERIAL GARAGE at 40th Street, checked that the green and blue security lights over the driver's sunvisor were blinking steadily and strode quickly up the ramp to the street. He did pause to greet the young man sitting in the glass-fronted security booth and then headed out into the night. Third Avenue was unusually quiet, he observed. For a pleasant September night, the traffic was sparse and the sidewalks nearly empty. It worried him because he didn't know any reason for this.
Twice, people walking past made a point to get over on the sidewalk away from him. Two women actually trotted across the street to avoid him.
Bane knew he could be an intimidating sight in his black outfit, with his pale eyes and quick movements, but this was ridiculous. What were they afraid of? Had there been some murders in town he hadn't heard of? Or wild rumors that had escaped his hearing? Stranger and stranger.
Bane walked briskly past the yellow-brick building where his office was, seeing that only the lobby lights and a floodlamp over the front door still burned for insurance reasons. He crossed the narrow side street to the next block, came up on the slightly shabby GROSSMAN'S DELI where he bought many of his sandwiches for lunch and stopped short as a sign in a side door caught his eye. This was a simple wooden door with a mail slot, opening to stairs leading up to apartments over the deli. Something had been added. Tacked to the door was an 8 by 10 piece of posterboard marked in flamboyant scarlet letters ROD ROSCOE, PRIVATE EYE and a phone number. The Dire Wolf didn't know whether to scowl or smirk at that name. 'Oh, come on,' he muttered.
This had to be some youngster's idea of a joke, but because he was already uneasy about the deserted streets, Bane decided to at least look around. He concentrated all his attention on his Tel Shai technique, slowing his breathing until his hearing intensitified. He opened the unlocked door a fraction of an inch and focused. The muted buzz of voices on TV, a cupboard door slamming, a man snoring.. all these came from an upward direction. But there was something else. He couldn't quite get a grasp on it...
With his full concentration on sounds from within the building, the Dire Wolf was for once taken by surprise as a huge white-skinned hand seized him by the back of the neck and smashed him against the side of the building with murderous intent. The pain of a rib or two breaking burned in his chest. Bane lifted his legs and drove his feet up against the wall to push himself back, but the man holding him from behind did not budge an inch. Bane was hoisted up to head level and slammed down to the sidewalk with a loud crackling noise. Any normal Human would have been killed. He was dazed and disoriented but his immediate reaction was to fight back. Bane wriggled furiously, got loose from that iron grip and rolled over and over on the sidewalk to gain some distance. The agony in his chest was slowing him down.
Getting up on one knee, his left hand whipping out the silver dagger from beneath his right sleeve, the Dire Wolf caught only a split-second glimpse of a towering misshapen figure in black rags. From directly overhead, gallons of boiling water poured down on the monster. Steam rushed out in all directions and the brute wailed as his skin was scalded entirely away. Doubling over, pawing at his raw face, the creature lurched off into the night.
Only a few drops of that boiling downpour had splashed over on Bane. He hardly noticed it, the pain in his chest and back was preoccupying him. But he had recognized that white lifeless skin, the distorted face with one eye larger than the other and the yellow peg teeth grimacing. There was no mistaking Quilt.
III.
In another second, he had forced himself shakily up onto his feet, leaning back against the building. He reflected that his enhanced healing ability was certainly taking its time tonight, it was still too painful to draw a full breath and he couldn't stand up yet. Bane saw that Quilt was evidently not coming back immediately and he slid his dagger back under his sleeve so he could brace himself with both hands. It had only been a few seconds since the attack. Now he digested the jolt of realizing that damn Quilt of all enemies had started to kill him, but a deluge of boiling water had stopped the Patchwork Zombie. Boiling water... from nowhere.
Of course. Bane managed to straighten his back and took in a breath that stung but wasn't agonizing. The Tagra tea diet elevated his body's recovery beyond what medical science could understand. The cracks in his ribs and sterum were closing up already. The severe bruises were breaking up as the veins sealed and the subcutaneous blood was absorbed again. Bane's head cleared as the door behind him swung inward and he felt a familiar nasal voice right at his ear.
"Jee-ZUS, I woulda sworn you were a goner. He was beating you like a carpet. Jeremy! Hi, come in, siddown."
Still in severe discomfort, Bane decided to accept the invitation. He was led by the arm down a short hallway and into a low-ceilinged room that was only lit by a single dim lamp on a desk. In one corner, a radio on a stand played incredibly moody jazz. There was not much else to the office. The desk with a lamp and a newspaper on it, two wooden chairs, the radio and a calendar on the wall that showed a pretty girl from some Japanese cartoon. There were also two framed diplomas on a wall. Bane was recovering faster and he felt he would be back to normal in another few minutes. Tel Shai knights were neither immortal nor indestructible but they did bounce back from trauma that would normally mean waking up in the ICU.
He got a good look at Holden Magroin. The kid was still short and dumpy, still possessing an unimposing round face with a potato-shaped nose. But the hair was now a black crewcut and the boy was wearing a tailored dark blue pinstripe suit complete with yellow handkerchief in the left breast pocket. He also put on a soft felt fedora that he tilted far back on his head.
"Good to seeya again, Jeremy," Holden said with his lopsided grin. "I was hopin' you would stop by. Maybe my reputation hasn't been built up yet but I'm working on it."
"Holden! I'm glad to see you're okay," Bane replied, sitting up a little more at ease. "I tried finding you but you're tough to locate. What's going on here? You can not possibly have earned your PI license in two months! Where are those diplomas from?"
"Oh, that. Errr, I bought them. Guy named Spanish Eddie, I slipped him a few thousand and he got me a Private Investigator license, certificate from the Duluth Criminology Academy, all that stuff. Worth every penny."
"I know Spanish Eddie," Bane said. "He does decent work but don't trust those documents too far, Holden. They'll stand up to a casual check but a real journalist or police officer will disprove your credentials right away."
The boy took his fedora off, twirled it around one finger and dropped it, bent over to pick it up off the floor and smacked his head on the desk when he straightened. Same Holden. When he was settled again, he pulled open the deep right hand drawer of his desk and came up with two shot glasses and two cans of Red Bull. "I, uh, don't like booze. Tried it, got sick. This keeps me going through those late nights on cases."
"You're better off without alcohol," Bane said as he took the tinest possible sip. All that caffeine and sugar! His accelerated metabolism did not need any of that. "So, Holden, did you get a good look at that character who was throwing me around?"
"Whoa! Yeah I did and I almost wet myself. Who is he? What's his PROBLEM?"
Bane leaned forward and lowered his voice to get the boy's full attention. "Remember every word of this. That was Quilt, the Patchwork Zombie. He is one of the most dangerous menaces in the Midnight War, I've been honestly afraid every time I've had to face him."
"You're afraid of him? Really? He sure looks like a monster." Holden filled the shot glass with Red Bull and drained it with a gulp as if it were whiskey.
"Quilt is not a living Human being. In 1888, a Darthan Kje took body parts from seven executed murderers, sealed them together with Alchemical paste and reanimated the dead tissue using gralic force. Quilt has been terrorizing and murdering all the world ever since. He has poisoned city reservoirs, burned down hospitals with everyone in them, derailed passenger trains and dropped bombs on concert crowds from a helicopter. And here he is in Manhattan tonight."
"So he wasn't sewn together by a scientist and brought to life in a lightning storm?"
"What? No. Quilt was created using the darkest of forbidden Black Magick. He's a supernatural creature of the night."
"What were the different parts used? An arm from one guy, a leg from another?"
Bane exhaled strongly, and his voice started to lose patience. "No one knows. It doesn't matter. You should be wondering, what was this fiend doing outside the door fifteen minutes ago? Who was he coming to see... me or maybe you?"
Holden Magroin shrugged, "Eh. I have my gift. Since the last time I saw you, I've been exploring my limits. I can summon anything up to the size of a car, and I can make it appear anywhere within my line of sight. Let's be honest, most of the time I only summon a couple thousand dollars or a new TV or Chinese food. But if this Quilt dude gets in my face, I could drop a full-grown Bengal tiger around his shoulders. Or maybe a couple of live hand grenades inside his shirt. He's messing with Rod Roscoe!"
"Rod... Roscoe? Is that the name you're using?"
"Got a nice ring to it, huh? 'Rod' and 'Roscoe' are both what criminals call guns, you know."
"Seventy years ago, maybe. Holden err Rod, are you getting a lot of your ideas about detective work from paperbacks?"
"Sure, from the old pulp novels, actually. I love that stuff. You ever read the Black Torch stories? Very exciting."
Bane could not keep from shaking his head. "You know, Rod if I may call you that, once Quilt is out of the way, I have an idea. How about I set you up as an apprentice to an established detective agency? Elzabeth Colt, maybe. You'd like her partner, Angelina. They'd show you valuable tricks, how to follow someone without being seen, how to ask questions that get answers without seeming to threaten, how to spot gunmen by the way they stand or walk."
"Well... maybe. I wanna create my own legend."
"You should see what Angelina Delgado looks like before you decide. Wavy black hair down to her waist... and she can draw and fire in one-fifth of a second."
"I dunno, I'll think about it. What about that Frankenstein guy, Quilt?"
"He should be back outside by now," Bane said. "Getting covered by boiling water would only make him angry."
IV.
Holden Magroin, now calling himself Rod Roscoe, rose to his full five feet six inches of chubby stature and got a garment down from its hook on the back of a closet door. it was a classic off-white trenchcoat but when he tightened its belt, he did not look like a world-weary veteran of crime-fighting. He looked like a little kid playing dress-up in his father's clothing.
Bane had remained seated. Suddenly there was an AR-15 in his lap. He gave a start. Holden's power was disconcerting because it was so abrupt and quiet. No flash of light, no whoosh of air being displaced as most teleportation caused. Objects simply appeared or disappeared so unobtrusively that it was disorienting. The Dire Wolf held up the assault weapon for a second but then put it down to lean against the side of his chair. "Say, do you know exactly where these objects come from?"
"Nope, no idea. Could be anywhere, I guess." Holden was examing a Colt .45 Automatic, making sure it was loaded and the safety was on. "When I get a chance, I want to take some lessons in marksmanship."
"Oh brother. I think the safest place to stand would be right behind you, if you've had no training. Honestly, when Quilt shows up, you're better off relying on your power. You know, Rod, I've been wondering why you set up this business."
Holden adjusted his fedora and smiled at his idol. "What do you mean, Jeremy?"
"Well, with your power, you really can have anything you want. Let's face it, you could be dozing on the beach in Polynesia, eating the finest food from any restaurants, hanging around with the most beautiful escorts alive. Instead, you're setting yourself up for getting hurt or even killed by brutal mobsters."
"Aw hell. I tried all the things you said. I lived in Hawaii for a few weeks, then Rome. But I'm a city boy, like you. Born and raised in the Big Apple. I wanna be here."
Going over by the door, keeping an ear open, Bane drew his long-barreled .38 Smith and Wesson and checked to see it was ready. "Why be a PI, though?"
"Cause I wanna be like you. You're too cool for words, Jeremy. I rented this room right across the street from your office cause I figure we can refer clients to each other. Like doctors do, ya know? If you don't take a case, maybe I can offer the second opinion, heh heh." He held out a wide palm and a Three Musketeers bar appeared in it. "Want one?"
"No thanks. Here he comes. He'll just smash the door if we don't let him in." The Dire Wolf was listening to the thump of heavy boots outside. He swung the office door inward at exactly the second that a big undead fist would have crashed against it. The huge hulk of Quilt charged into the room and stumbled at not meeting any resistance.
Ten inches over six feet tall, the Patchwork Zombie was more horrifying the longer one looked at him. He was wearing a tattered black suit with a thick black sweatshirt underneath, and all his garments were torn and blood-stained. One arm was several inches longer than the other. His shoulders were so wide he had turned sideways to enter the room. Quilt had chalky skin with no blood running under it, lank black hair on top of a flattened skull and a prominent brow ledge. One eye was set noticeably higher than the other, his nose was a mere peg and his jagged mouth tilted up at an angle.
In his right hand, the monster clutched a wicked-looked knife with a serrated edge. Only it was gone in a blink and he clasped instead a lovely bunch of fresh yellow daffodils. As the Zombie raised his weapon to attack, he felt the change and his jaw dropped down in complete confusion.
"For us?" asked Holden. "Aw, that's sweet. Let me get a glass of water to keep them fresh."
"What...?" Quilt had a surprisingly mellow and cultured voice instead of the hollow rasp one might expect. He sounded like a BBC announcer. "I don't understand..." Even as the monster flung the flowers aside, one of the chairs in the office appeared under him, bending his knees forward and dropping him down into it.
"Please, make yourself at home," Holden said. "Coffee?"
Still seated as he fought to understand what was going on, Quilt glared murderously over at his long-time nemesis. "Dire Wolf! All this is your doing."
Bane saw what Holden's plan was, keeping the monster off-balance and uncertain. It was a good approach. He twirled his revolver in fancy manuevers like an Old West gunfighter and then holstered it. "Are you having memory lapses, Quilt? I think you show signs that your mind is going."
The Patchwork Zombie growled deep in that thick chest. "I was going to grant you a quick painless death because I have much to do tonight, but you have vexed me beyond all endurance." He dropped his hands down to his lap and his face grimaced again as he realized he was holding a large stuffed Teddy Bear that wore a particularly goofy expression. On its chest was a pink heart with the words I WUV YOU written across it.
"You are such a sweetheart today," Holden said with an unbearable grin. "I guess your real personality is coming out at last."
The hideous brute leaped up, knocking the chair over behind him. His head scraped the ceiling of the rather cramped room. "I did not bring that toy here! What is going on?"
"You're losing it, Quilt," Bane said. "I always thought your mind would deteriorate at some point."
"Those words will be your last, fool!" As the Patchwork Zombie raised his open hands for the attack, he looked down and caught a glimpse of himself. Somehow, he was now wearing a bright yellow muu-muu with white outlines of cats on it and a ruffled collar. Perched on his head was a wide-brimmed pink sunbonnet with a bright ribbon. The Monster bellowed in outrage. He ripped the loose garment apart and flung the pieces onto the floor where he stomped on them hard enough that dust flew up from between the boards.
"You're still wearing the bonnet," Bane observed.
Crumpling the hat in his hand, Quilt snarled. "It will take you days to die. I will skin you. I will remove your fingers and toes one at a time, and you will watch me eat them. You will beg for death, you will weep and plead..." He broke off as a dozen black-and-yellow Monarch butterflies swirled around his head. The monster swatted at them in apoplectic rage. "What the Hell is happening here? Stop it at once!"
Bane had moved into the open doorway and he stood with one foot in the hallway. "You're going to have to catch me, old friend. Let's see how fasr you can run on legs that don't match." With that, he spun and raced away.
Enraged beyond coherent speech, Quilt thundered after him. As the Patchwork Zombie reached the street and saw Bane waiting for him the next block over, the Monster pursued. But directly in front of him, a massive truck tire belonging to an 18-wheeler appeared on the sidewalk. Quilt's right foot got tangled inside the tire, he fell heavily onto his face and thrashed around for a few seconds before struggling back up to his feet.
"Stop clowning around!" Bane called from the next block. "Do you want to catch me or not?"
Infuriated beyond speech, the Zombie lumbered after Bane, who was so much quicker than he could easily have run in circles around the brute without being caught. Behind them, Holden Magroin made sure his office door was locked before following. The young man had never done any cardio exercise in his life and quickly found himself out of breath. This wouldn't do. As Quilt stamped forward, a puddle of motor oil appeared on the sidewalk and the Monster's feet swung high up in front of him. The brute crashed hard on his back, rolled and tried ineffectively to get back up. He was covered with the slick substance and could get no traction.
Coming to a halt on the corner of First Avenue, Bane called back, "What is the matter with you tonight, Quilt? I swear, we're going to put you in a nursing home for elderly hellbeasts. Are you coming or not?"
"Let me get my hands on you..." the Patchwork Zombie growled. He managed to crawl past the oil and got to his feet, slipping a few more times. As the chase began again, Holden walked behind the two longtime enemies. He sidestepped the spilled oil and thoughtfully summoned a foot of dry desert sand to cover it. No reason why innocent people should slip and get hurt, he thought.
As Quilt picked up his pace, opening and closing his gnarled hands in anticipation, he was halted once again. A multi-colored cloud swirled around him, its metallic particles sticking to the motor oil on his clothing. The Monster glared down at himself in a rising fury that might well have given a living Human a heart attack. He was covered with party glitter, red and gold and blue. At that intersection, one of the infrequent cars out that night slowed to a crawl at the bizarre sight but then squealed away as the driver noticed the sheer size and the killing anger of the beast's posture.
"Stop doing this!" Quilt screamed. "However you are making these things appear on me, stop it this instant!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bane yelled back calmly. "Maybe the Darthim need to cut your skull open and pop a new brain in. One hundred and thirty years of use has worn yours out." Behind him was a chest high retaining wall and nearby was a typical New York City green metal bench, bolted to the pavement. The Dire Wolf vaulted lightly up to stand on the bench and glanced down behind him where the cold black East River lapped up against the wall. Perfect.
As he neared his enemy, Quilt ran faster, shambling awkwardly because one leg was longer than the other. He had forgotten any cunning, he had dropped all caution. The Patchwork Zombie was in a mindless amok state. Bane was ready. He abruptly leaped forward and seized the Monster by one arm and by the back of the head, pivoting in a simple direct Kumundu throw that flung the brute up and over the retaining wall in a sloppy forward somersault. Cold water splashed up in a black geyser.
"That was satisfying," Bane said as Holden Magroin finally arrived near him. The kid was wheezing and he sat down on the bench to catch his breath.
"I better join a gym," Holden managed to gasp. "I didn't realize I was so out of shape."
"Right now, we have to stay alert," Bane told him. The Dire Wolf leaned over the retaining wall where some splashing was still heard. "Quilt doesn't need to breathe. He'll be climbing back out in a minute."
"Yeah, I don't think so." The chubby young man took off his fedora and fanned himself. "Man. These trenchcoats are too hot to wear!"
"They're not meant for summer," Bane said. "Watch out, there's his head breaking the surface."
Something immense plummeted down to crash right on the emerging Monster. It was an old-fashioned ship's hooked anchor, weighing two thousand pounds. Right behind it came a mile-long chain with each link wearing forty pounds. Quilt vanished beneath the surface instantly.
"Man! That was hitting my limit," admitted Holden. "My head is splitting. Your friend there is wrapped in tons of chains. I don't think he's going to get loose anytime soon."
"Somewhere there's a tugboat captain who can't figure out what happened to his anchor." Bane lowered himself onto the bench and Holden plopped beside him in obvious exhaustion. The Dire Wolf patted the kid on one shoulder. "Good work, Rod Roscoe. You kept your cool and you did exactly what would confuse that killer."
"Thanks. Coming from you, that means something. You know, my daddy told me when I was little that you should always throw a drowning man an anchor. I thought it was just one of his stupid sayings but at least I got to try it out."
Behind them, the river was quiet. Bane leaned forward and he remembered how Quilt had looked in a muu-muu and sunbonnet, then coated with glitter like a disco dancer. He snickered, then started to laugh out loud at the image. He could not remember the last time he had given way to actual laughter, but now he was helpless as his body shook and his eyes teared up. Finally, he wiped his face and said, "Whew. That was unexpected. Thanks, Rod, I feel a lot better."
"Aw, call me my right name," Holden chuckled. "Glad to help. You know, maybe being a private eye isn't really what I'm meant to do. Suppose I became an explorer instead. I could go up the Amazon without having to bring a safari carrying supplies. I could summon whatever I needed at the moment. I did read that a surviving dinosaur has been seen down there."
"Sounds interesting," said Bane, not mentioning that exploring the Amazon would also get Holden out of Manhattan for a long time.
11/9/2018
