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"Three Days At the Stygian Retreat"
"Three Days At the Stygian Retreat"
4/15/-4/16/1996
I.
Four days earlier, Bane had leased a gleaming new black BMW to make an impression. Now, driving slowly up a mountain road in western Vermont, he took in the gorgeous Spring scenery but it was unfortunately wasted on him. He was too much a born city boy, too focused on his mission, to appreciate the greenery and the gentle peaks and clear brooks by the side of the road.
For once, the Dire Wolf was not wearing the trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket feared in more than one type of Underworld. He had taken out his tailored business suit of dark blue, with a crisp powder blue dress shirt and narrow black tie, even polished leather shoes. Lean and fit at six feet, Bane looked rather like a successful office drone in some big corporation. Only the grey eyes gave him away. They were pale and intense, the eyes of a born hunter.
Ahead, two six foot stone pillars marked the sides of a paved driveway leading up through the maple trees. The pillars were topped by round stone cannonballs, just beneath which were bronze plaques reading STYGIAN RETREAT - PRIVATE. Despite that, there was no barrier and he turned up the driveway and went for another mile before he spotted the Retreat itself.
Located on eleven acres of lake shoreline, the Stygian Retreat offered every sort of luxury from three hundred feet of sandy beach to a restaurant and bar on the premises to volleyball and badminton courts. Its lodges had two bedrooms each, heated pools, covered porches overlooking the lake. It had been advertised as the perfect spot for overworked executives or wealthy offspring struggling with substance abuse. And, if Bane was right, it harbored more than sixty hardened career criminals on the run.
Before reaching the main courtyard, the driveway was blocked by a metal bar which swung down from a sentry post. Two obvious cameras watched from the trees. Sliding open the window of the post, a man in the light blue shirt and dark blue slacks of a security agency asked to see Bane's ID and gave him a suspicious once-over before letting him through. The Dire Wolf noticed that guard wore a Colt 45 revolver in a heavy gunbelt that held a row of extra cartridges in loops, and he felt now he was on the right trail.
Pulling into a row of spaces marked VISITORS, Bane got out, tugged down his suit jacket and adjusted his tie. Underneath the prosaic clothing, he was still wearing the silk-thin Trom armor and had the matched silver daggers sheathed under his sleeves. But he had decided not to come armed with his usual 38, and most of his usual gadgets and gimmicks had to be left behind as well. It didn't trouble him. Ultimately, he put his faith in his own body's enhanced reflexes and fighting skills. The Dire Wolf took in the buildings and, although he didn't know much about architecture, thought it reminded him of Alpine ski lodges. He walked across a wide patio with wrought iron chairs next to round glass-topped tables and two glass doors slid open automatically as he approached.
From across a huge lobby with a marble floor and a hanging crystal chandelier that was brilliantly it, Dr Carl Petramale came forward to meet him. At least seventy, Petramale leaned heavily on a cane and had a marked limp that Bane thought would be caused by a hip going bad. The administrator of Stygian Retreat was impeccably groomed, his greying hair brushed straight back and his mustache neat over a firm beartrap mouth. Glasses with thick lenses made it difficult to read his expression. "Ah, Mr Bane. So glad you could make it. I thought I would greet you myself."
Shaking the offered hand, the Dire Wolf studied the man before him. "Dr Petramale? We've spoken on the phone a few times."
The dark blue eyes peered at him through the glasses. "Yes indeed. I'm pleased to say your application has been accepted by the board, there is just the introductory interview to conduct. If you would join me?"
"Sure." Following the older man across the lobby, Bane glimpsed two figures emerging from a side door and heading for the patio. They were big, tough-looking guys and he thought one of them had a familiar aspect but he couldn't place the fellow. All of Bane's experience thought the two would be right at home beating up shopkeepers or standing watch during drug deals.
Petramale's office looked more like a plush living room than a place of business. There were two comfortable chairs facing each other next to sliding glass doors which overlooked the lake. Next to one chair was a waist high cabinet with a clipboard sitting on top, and it was here that Dr Petramale gingerly lowered himself with a sigh of relief.
Taking the other chair, Bane gazed out at the dock to which two speedboats were moored. On the shore next to the dock, several canoes had been pulled up with the oars secured inside. Assessing exits from every room he entered, spotting places where someone might be concealed, was a deep-seated habit with him. Despite the placid scene, he felt all keyed up with the instinct for sensing danger going full blast in his mind.
"We have had some celebrities here in the past," Petramale began, "but no one quite like you. The famous Dire Wolf. Perhaps the general public may not know about you, but you have an amazing history. Your capture of Samhain- twice!- and your campaigns against crimelords like Wu Lung or Arem Kamende make for exciting reading."
"It's got worn me out," Bane said. "I'm a wreck. I have no appetite, I can't get to sleep or stay asleep when I do. Lately I'm been making amateur mistakes and almost got in an accident on the Thruway coming here. My doctor says I need to get away from New York and do what he calls decompress. He recommended Stygian Retreat."
"This is the best place on earth to relax and heal," Petramale told him. "Now, you permitted us to check with your bank and I see that four weeks here is certainly within your means. We can admit you today, if you like. Perhaps a deep tissue massage at our spa to start your unwinding process?"
"Sounds good," Bane said. "I brought all the luggage I need."
"Excellent. You will be in Cabin Eleven. A porter will escort you there and give you a schedule of the activities available this time of year." Dr Petramale struggled to his feet using his cane and moved to show Bane to the door. Behind him, the Dire Wolf allowed the faintest predatory smile to show for an instant. It was just a question here of who was the cat and who was the mouse.
II.
Left in his cabin overlooking the beach, Bane declined making an appointment for a massage or for lunch. He said he just wanted to settle in for the moment. For the next hour and forty-five minutes, he painstakingly searched the two bedrooms, the two bathrooms, the kitchen with its already stocked refrigerator and gas stove, the living room with an assortment of new magazines already laid out. He found no concealed microphones or cameras at all. The most he discovered was that the intercom on the wall by the door could be set to receive without that being apparent, and he disconnected it.
Stepping out onto the patio, the Dire Wolf dropped down into a lawn chair and sat back. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Looking out at the lake over which a V-shaped formation of ducks flew north, he went back upon the circumstances which had led a Vermont police chief to recommend he investigate here.
Six months earlier, in late October of the previous year, Dr Carl Petramale had survived a murderous assault that left two other people dead. Returning from an excursion on one of the speedboats, Petramale said he had been down below fixing a drink while his driver Stan Bergen docked the boat. With them was Petramale's personal assistant, Mary Roosa. Both had been with the doctor for years. From the trees nearby, gunfire unexpectedly cut down both the driver and the secretary. Petramale had admittedly been terrified but he had nevertheless peered up over the edge of the boat and snapped off a few shots from the .32 he was licensed to carry. That had seemed to be enough to frighten off the attackers. Squealing tires and headlights vanishing down the driveway made Petramale reassured enough to call the police. All this was what the shaken doctor related to the officers when they arrived.
The investigation got absolutely nowhere. The bullets recovered were from two separate automatics, neither of which matched any ballistics on file. Tire tracks were found but proved useless as identification. No suspects and no motivation were ever worked up that seemed worth following. It remained a mystery.
But the local police chief did not dismiss the murders so quickly. He kept an eye on the Stygian Resort and often sent some of his men there to ask around even months later. It was odd how many of the staff were soon discharged and replaced. That Petramale installed heightened security was no surprise, but he did not hire guards from an established agency. It wasn't clear where he found the rather brutal-looking men he did hire. And, although the Retreat seemed busier than ever with cars coming and going at odd hours, it was interesting that many long-time clients were being turned down for their annual stays.
The chief had met Jeremy Bane a few years earlier, in the manhunt for the maniac called Seneca, and he had followed the Dire Wolf's career since then. Two weeks ago, he had suddenly shown up at Bane's office on 44th and Third Avenue in Manhattan and confided all his suspicions that something extremely fishy was going on at the Stygian Retreat. He didn't see where he could proceed any further, his limited budget and manpower meant he had to concentrate on more current cases. But, maybe if Bane was curious...?
At first, he was reluctant. Bane was already trying to find the ancient Alchemist named Melchius, reported to be working in America for the first time. Melchius left a trail of grotesque corpses and looted vaults whereever he went. But this busines about the Stygian Retreat caught his imagination. And here he was, the Dire Wolf thought. For a supposed PI, he sure undertook a lot of work with no client and no chance of making a buck. It was only because Kenneth Dred had left him such a fortune that he could act as an unofficial vigilante this way.
Still wearing the business suit, Bane left the cabin and wandered around the resort apparently aimlessly. He got a clear layout of the grounds in his mind. Without loitering, he inspected the dock where the murders had taken place and left with a frown. The angle of gunfire from the trees to the speedboat seemed unlikely to him. He had read the police report and would have expected the killers to have been much closer. Odd. Not for the first time, he wondered if Stan Bergen and Mary Roose had had to die because they were so familiar with the doctor's life and with the way Stygian Resort was run.
By late afternoon, he had accumulated many tiny niggling discrepancies but nothing he could put his finger on. As his stomach started making loud gurgling, he gave up for the moment and went to the Retreat's restaurant. His accelerated metabolism meant he was always ravenous. Bane was seated at a corner table and only gave the menu a cursory glance before ordering a Porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, broccoli and dinner rolls. Ice water only for a drink. Bane normally ate on the run, snatching subs and hamburgers and Chinese take-out as he moved around. He figured as long as he was in a real restaurant, he might as well enjoy some decent food for a change.
He was not worried about being poisoned. It was too early in the game for that, he thought. Finishing up with a slice of apple pie topped with cheese, the Dire Wolf still had not reached any definite conclusion what was going on here. One of the waiters passing by had old scars on his knuckles and one ear that had been damaged years earlier, he noticed. For an exclusive retreat, the staff sure seemed rough.
Only two other men were in that restaurant, both doing some dedicated drinking at the bar and arguing in low tones. The occasional clients he saw lounging by one the pool or along the beach had a few interesting distinctions as well. They all seemed to be white males ranging from their thirties to their fifties. No couples, no kids or teens. No minorities. Bane wondered about this. Adding up the traits mental and physical of the clients he saw, he was irresistably reminded of a hood's convention he had infiltrated in New Jersey a few years earlier.
III.
Heading back outside, seeing the sun red and enormous as it set, the Dire Wolf explored the Retreat some more. Under some elm trees off to one side was a pair of short benches set facing each other, with a pedastal holding a permanent chess board and hand-carved pieces eight inches high. Bent forlornly over this game by himself was an elderly Jewish man in an old-fashioned suit. He had the classic profile, the bald head with a fringe of curly white hair around the ears, the round-rimmed metal eyeglasses. He seemed so out of place among these obvious goons that Bane went over and dropped down on the bench facing him.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you a good game," the Dire Wolf said as the old man glanced up. "Technically, I know how the pieces move but I'm a terrible player." This was true. Michael Hawk had taught a younger Bane the rules of the game but had gotten nowhere instilling strategy. Bane was just too impatient.
"Oh, so? Really. Let's have a go, anyway. It seems you have white and so can open, Mr...?"
"Bane. Call me Jeremy. I'm here because my doctor says I'm too stressed out. And what should I call you?"
"Morris. Just Morris. It's my last name but that's what my friends call me. Ever since my wife died eight years ago, God rest her, I've come here every spring to honor her memory. This was where we spent our honeymoon. Ah, you're going to open with your knight?"
"Sure, why not? So, Morris, you've been coming to Stygian Retreat for years then? You like the place that much?"
"I used to. Oh, are you sure you want to expose your bishop like that? Well, it's up to you. This year, everything here is so different. I don't recognize any of the staff. I used to know them so well. None of the usual guests. I looked forward to schmoozing and reminiscing with men my age. To tell the truth, Dr Pertamale gave me the impression he didn't want me here this time."
Bane studied the board, trying desperately to concentrate. Where had his knight gone? When had Morris taken it? He moved a pawn forward to get in the way of the attacking black bishop. "The people staying here sure don't seem sociable."
"Hah. They are no-goods. Hoodlums and thieves all of them if I ever saw one. Even Dr Petramale has changed. He seems like a different man. There, checkmate. Ten moves."
A little dismayed, Bane examined the situation on the board. It was true. Morris' queen was way down on his side, attacking his king. The white king had no square to escape to, and no other piece could intervene. "Damn. Well, sorry, I told you I'm not good at this."
"I believe you are not thinking ahead, Jeremy. When your opponent moves, you should be visualizing what he is planning to do with his next move and the move after that. That's the secret of chess. Let's try again."
As the old man patiently set the pieces back in their opening positions, Bane asked, "What did you mean about Petramale seeming different?"
"It was not just a figure of speech, believe me. He looks the same, he sounds the same. When he signed my arrangement to stay here, I recognized his signature. But the soul of the man has gone dark and malicious. I am not particularly a spiritual man, Jeremy, but if I were... I would almost believe that Dr Petramale has been replaced by der doppelganger."
"I see," Bane replied. "Something about him seems a bit off to me as well. Here, give me some hints as the game goes."
"Gladly. Take a minute here, you have moved your knight forward again. I will place my bishop here to avoid it, and you should be thinking, 'what opening does this give my opponent's bishop?'"
"Huh. I see. Your bishop can move here and then my other knight is in trouble."
"Not enough. When you get your other knight out of the way, your rook is wide open. That is what you should be preparing for. At least a few moves in advance." Morris sighed and pulled his light windbreaker tighter around his bony form. "I will be going inside soon. It is too chilly this early this year to sit outside."
Bane took the hint. "Sure. Maybe we'll play a game tomorrow and you can educate me. Are you going to be around?"
"Without a doubt," Morris said as he zipped up his jacket and rose. "See that yellow Firebird? That's my car. I'm in Cabin Three. I'm paid up for the week and at least I can enjoy some room service and remember better times." He offered a thin hand, which Bane shook. "I'm a late riser, Jeremy, don't expect me before noon."
"Nice meeting you," the Dire Wolf said as he watched the older man shuffle wearily across the courtyard to the door of Cabin Three. Something Morris had said about doppelgangers resonated with Bane. That had been one of his earliest cases, the one where he had met Cindy. The small city of Maybrook had been infiltrated with doubles from Fanedral. How long ago that all seemed. More than twenty years had passed since that nightmarish case.
Bane prowled the grounds some more as the lampposts flicked to life. Outside, he was spotting tiny cameras frequently, fastened on tree branches or stuck up under the eaves of the buildings. That didn't worry him. The small Eldar talisman he wore under his collar was mostly meant to protect him against dark magick but it had the useful side-effect of blurring his image on recording devices. Film and video showed him only as a vague fuzzy area that was often overlooked completely.
Returning to his own cabin, Bane found that his luggage had been searched and carefully replaced. It had been done well enough that he wasn't quite sure the search had been performed at all, except that the handle of his larger suitcase hung down where he had deliberately left it up. There was nothing incriminating in his belongings in any case. The flexible armor, the silver daggers, the Eldar talisman and the Trom lock-opening device were all on his person.
It was still early, not even nine o'clock but despite his eagerness, he thought tonight was too soon to start searching rooms. Bane placed hard rubber wedges from his suitcase under both doors and in the window jamb to prevent visitors. Then he stripped down, bringing his armor and daggers with him into the bathroom while he took a steaming hot shower. Drying off roughly with a towel, he hung the silk-thin armor over a chair beside his bed and placed the daggers at his sides, down where he could reach them instantly. In the dark warm room, the Dire Wolf used a Tel Shai technique he disliked but found useful. Breathing in up along his spine, holding it over his head and then exhaling more slowly as he visualized the breath leaving down his chest. In a few seconds, he had enabled his hyper restless body to slip into a deep natural sleep.
IV.
Bane awoke as sharply and clearly as if he had never been asleep. Moving just his eyes, he saw the clock-radio on the nightstand read 4:07 AM. In another instant, he was certain no one else was in the room. Then what had awoken him? The Dire Wolf slid silently out of bed, drew on the Trom armor and sealed its paramagnetic seals. Now only his head, hands and feet were exposed. As soon as he had the suit on, he was strapping the silver-bladed daggers to his forearms and now he felt ready for any attack. Still, there was no noise inside the room or immediately outside.
Putting on the dress slacks and cotton socks from before, he slipped on the shoes. These might have seemed like regular black office shoes but the soles were cushioned rubber for silence and the toes had steel caps under the leather. Instead of the shirt he had been wearing that day, he pulled one of the long-sleeved black turtlenecks from his luggage. They were perfect for sneaking around in the dark. Tugging the rubber wedge from the sliding glass doors to the patio at the rear of his rooms, he slipped out into the night as if part of it.
Loping noiselessly along the back of the row of cabins, seeing only one or two curtained windows with slits of light showing along their edges, Bane searched with all his senses keyed up. His night vision had fully kicked in by now. Between Cabins Three and Four, he crept toward the frontage. In the distance, where the driveway curved on its way down the hillside, two red tail lights showed for just an instant. He darted forward and saw that the yellow Firebird was gone.
Backing up against the door to Cabin Four, he pressed the Trom unlocker into the door's keyhole. Fine metal tendrils extruded from the device, stiffened and rotated. The door unlocked and opened in less than a second, and Bane slipped through to close it behind him. The cabin seemed unoccupied, there was nothing to show that that a man had been staying here. Not turning on the lights, searching in the gloom, the Dire Wolf turned up nothing until something glinting on the floor caught his attention. He knelt and picked up a contact lens. Bane frowned in the murk and slipped the lens into a pocket. At some point, the prescription on it might be useful evidence.
Stepping back outside, drawing on his enhanced hearing, the Dire Wolf caught low controlled breathing not far away. The cabin on the far end, Number One, was as dark as the others but it had a man sitting in a folding chair at its rear, arms folded but awake. Creeping up on the sentry, one fist clenched and raised, Bane froze in mid-step. Three men were coming out of the woods with flashlights. The Dire Wolf dropped low and flashed back to the door of his own cabin. He reacted so quickly it was unlikely anyone had sensed his presence.
Back in his own rooms, with the sliding door barred and the curtains drawn, Bane stood thinking in the dark for a long time. He did not go back to sleep until nearly dawn when he made himself catch a few hours. After sunrise, making sure he was unobserved, he stripped down in the middle of the living room and did his DohRa form. Devised specifically for him by Teacher Chael of Tel Shai, the form stretched and warmed up his muscles while also reinforcing fighting maneuevers and maintaining good balance. It started with easy stances and poses that became punches and blocks and kicks against imaginary enemies, faster and more energetic, then reverted to more difficult stances that few gymnasts could hold without trembling. Soon, he slowed and assumed the salute to his Teacher farther away than miles could measure. His heartbeat and breathing had only sped up just a fraction, but he was sweaty and needed a shower. Shaving while under the steaming hot water, Bane kept turning over the events of the previous day and reached only tentative conclusions.
Dressing in the slacks again and a fresh white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back a turn, Bane decided not to call for room service. He stepped out into the crisp morning air of the mountains and went over to find the restaurant opened already. Ordering a double serving of wheatcakes, bacon and home fries, he dug in eagerly. At another table, four middle-aged men in rough work clothes guzzled coffee and chewed buttered hard rolls. He could not make out what they were saying, but their tones were surly.
Finishing up, Bane was planning on driving down to the nearest town to make some phone calls to law enforcement and to his army of observers. He was certain the lines here were tapped. As he signed the chit that added the meal to his general bill, he looked up to see Dr Petramale limping toward him. The cane made a rhythmic tapping on the hardwood floor.
"Good morning, sir!" called the doctor genially enough. "How are you feeling today?"
"Much better than when I arrived," Bane answered. "Sleeping in a quiet room away from city traffic is a treat. How are you, doctor?"
"Oh, fair. Getting old is not for the faint of heart. You know, we have archery classes this afternoon if you're interested. There is also a badminton court."
"Thanks. I actually made an acquaintance yesterday, a gentleman named Morris is teaching me chess. Probably I'll look him up."
Petramale reacted with just the right concern. "Oh, Mr Morris. I'm afraid he checked out late last night. He received a phone call. His wife is ill, he wanted to go see her at once."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Bane said with a straight face. Mrs Morris having been dead for eight years made that story slightly dubious. "I see there's a gym here, a thorough workout would do me good. Maybe a run around the lake."
"Fine, fine," the doctor gushed before going on his way. "Don't hesitate to call on me if you have any problems, Mr Bane."
"Thank you, doctor." Bane scraped the last bit of French toast in some syrup and finished it. Something was wrong with Petramale's face. He was sure of it. The nasal bridge was wider, the upper lip shorter than it had been the day before. Part of Bane's training under Michael Hawk had been to identify faces by memorizing details of various parts.. how long the ear lobes were, the space between eyebrows, the condition of the teeth. It was automatic with him after all these years and he was certain he had just been talking to the same man as the day before... but that man's features had changed noticeably. Now he knew something of the Midnight War was touching the situation.
Returning to his cabin, Bane felt melancholy at the thought that Morris was now almost certainly dead and his body disposed of somewhere in the forest here. The yellow Sunbird would be on its way to be repainted and the VIN changed so it could be sold cheap on the black market. Poor old Morris. He had not understood that the suggestions he not stay here this year had been for his own good. There was too much risk that the old man would overhear something to give the grand deception away.
In his rooms, Bane scrutinized everything again and decided that nothing had been touched. He changed into black sweat pants and white sneakers, keeping the black turtleneck, and left the cabin at a brisk jog. When he reached the beach, the Dire Wolf picked up the pace and started running. Knowing he was certainly being watched, he kept his speed within normal limits and did not reveal what he was capable of.
As he circled the lake, Bane wondered why there had been no attempts on his life yet. The only conclusion he could reach was that whoever was behind this felt that the set-up was too lucrative to risk, and that there was still a chance Bane would leave without finding out too much. They knew that his disappearance after checking in here would lead to a more thorough investigation. Perhaps even the Mandate or Department 21 Black would send agents to tear through the place.
Over an hour later, he came around back to the front of the Retreat. More and more, he was seeing the guests here roaming about, as if they were becoming more at ease about showing themselves. The gym had a sign over the door that read FITNESS CENTER - VIDEO ARCADE, and he went in past a desk behind which a lovely young brunette in a leotard asked him to sign in before using the facilities. Now that he had noticed the changes in Petramale's face, Bane was examining everyone's features more closely.
As the woman asked if he wanted to schedule a personal trainer and he was declining, Bane suddenly recognized her. Her features had been modified, but the wideset hazel eyes and pointed chin gave it away. She was really in her late forties, a partner with a vicious sex trafficker named Southwick who brought in female refugees from North Korea to work in Southern California at fast houses. Yes, Denise Fenn, the one who specialized in breaking the spirits of the new girls. Behind that bland welcoming smile, those pale eyes held cold depths. The last he had heard, the LAPD were looking for her after Southwick had been rounded up.
Moving over to the Nautilus machines, the Dire Wolf began making the rounds on each one, setting the weights rather light and doing high repetitions in sets of eight. He was more interested in definition and endurance than bulk. As he went around the room, which had monotonous soft jazz playing overhead, Bane surreptitiously studied the six other men working out. Two were over by the free weights, one spotting the other doing deadlifts on the bench. As one herculean figure with oversized biceps put down a dumbbell with a grunt, Bane recognized him as well. The nose was sharper and ears smaller, the hair much lighter in color, but that was definitely Gustav 'Tiger' Schotting from the New Jersey mobs.
Keeping a prudent distance, head down and concentrating, Bane decided the change certainly was not anything so mundane as plastic surgery changing these faces. There were none of the tiny, almost miscroscopic scars always left. Overnight, Petramale's features had shifted as if reverting to their true state. Something needed to be applied every now and then to touch up. Then he remembered Melchius had been reported active in the United States recently. Alchemy.
Finishing the routines, sweaty but warmed up and feeling alert, Bane nodded politely to the seemingly innocuous young student at the desk. Remembering all the abuse she had used to break down terrified Korean women in a strange land, he decided that once the fireworks started, he would make a point to settle her score.
The rest of the day dragged unbearably. Restless and impatient by nature, with alwaYs excess energy from his metabolism, Bane found loitering a real torture. He stretched out lunch as long as he could as the restaurant, fooled around at the video arcade for awhile and went for another run around the lake at sunset. When darkness fell, he felt immense gratitude that the time to act was near.
All day, he had been catching increasingly hostile, even threatening stares from some of the guests. By now, everyone knew he was here. Those who were fugitives must be worrying how long it would be before he exposed them. Risky or not, attempts on his life would start soon. Instead of feeling nervous or apprehensive, Bane felt eager to start the confrontations. He would never change. Always the Dire Wolf.
V.
Just after midnight, peering out between the curtains with the room dark behind him, he watched two sedans pass by the sentry box and head down the driveway out of sight. Cars did tend to move around late at night here, and he supposed some of the crooks in hiding still wanted to meet with their gangs to keep business rolling. Finally, by two in the morning, Stygian Retreat appeared as quiet as it was going to get. Dressed all in black again, he went out through the patio door and stalked through the gloom along the rear of the cabins. Anyone monitoring the cameras in the trees would see at best a foggy area on one side of the screen as Bane passed, and most likely they would dismiss it as a glitch in the equipment.
The final cabin in the row was completely dark and again a man was on duty by the rear door. He was sitting in a folding chair, leaning way back with his feet off the ground and seeming as bored as one might expect. Bane crept around at an angle to come up behind the guard, making no more sound than his own shadow did. The way the guard was precariously balanced on his chair gave the opening. Getting within reach, the Dire Wolf yanked the guard backward and smacked the back of the man's head harder against the paved patio than a fall ever would. He hoped he didn't give the sentry a fatal concussion but he had to be sure the man would be unconscious for a while.
Searching the stunned guard quickly, Bane found a loaded Heckler & Koch with the safety off, bad procedure in most circumstances. The man also had a hunting knife sheathed and stowed in a pants pocket, and an impressive roll of twenty dollar bills held with a rubber band. He left all of these items where they were. Moving over to the sliding glass doors, he found them unlocked and moved inside.
Slowing his own breathing to a mininum, Bane brought up the level of his hearing to its peak. No one was in the living room or bedroom or kitchen. He made his way through the darkness and found a narrow door that was not present in his own cabin. This door was locked and he used the Trom device on it. He closed the door behind him. Going down narrow stairs nearly steep enough to be a ladder, Bane found a light switch at the bottom and decided to risk flipping it. Two light bulbs in the ceiling revealed a crude cellar with unfinished stone walls and a plain cement floor. There was two folding chairs and a table holding some medical equipment, as well as a rack of vials of green fluid.
Lying on a folding bed, an IV leading into his arm from a stainless steel tree holding two clear plastic bags, an elderly man lay unconscious under a thin sheet pulled up to his bony chest. It was Dr Carl Petramale.
On the floor next to him was a bedpan, a basin of water and a stack of towels, none of it particularly clean. Bane stepped closer, took the old man's pulse and listened to his breathing. Petramale didn't seem to be in any danger at that instant, but this was not a healthy situation for a man his age. Bane didn't think the gangsters troubled to keep him well nourished or ever took him out of bed to excercise his legs. They just wanted him alive a while longer.
Staring at the apalling scene, the Dire Wolf was not even aware of how coldly angry he was. The imposter needed the real Petramale to sign forms, at least until he learned how to imitate the signature well enough. There were also legal details, procedures, arrangenents with utility companies to keep up, and the imposter had gotten information on these from the real Petramale. By intimidation or violence, whatever worked.
Turning away, Bane opened one of the vials on the table and took a careful sniff. The incredibly sour acidic aroma was unmistakable. He had encountered this substance before when working with Dr Vitarius. It was a product of Alchemy, a solution called Ipratomus, the 'Adaptive Formula.' In the correct dose it allowed one stay comfortable in extreme weather or if likely to be injured. It helped the body adapt quickly to outside harm. Legend said that a massive, nearly fatal dose would let the user change his body instantly to survive any trauma. Bane figured that the imposter was using a dilute form of Ipratomus to mold the features of his clients enough so they would be unrecognizable to the authorities.
Because the effects wore off eventually, the gangsters were forced to keep coming to the imposter for more doses. It was quite a racket. And the leader himself had probably started with a general resemblance to Petranmale before using a large dose of the Alchemical serum to impersonate the doctor completely. He had been getting away with it for nearly seven months now.
The Dire Wolf examined the drugged and unconscious real Petramale again. He wished he could carry the man away from here, but that would just expose him to more danger in what was coming up. Bane turned away regretfully, thought it over and took the vials of Alchemical serum with him. He intended to flush them down the toilet in his cabin. The Dire Wolf snapped off the lights again and went hurriedly up the stairs and back outside. The guard was still lying where he had been left, snoring loudly through an open mouth. Bane stalked past him, moving up along the backs of the cabins. In front of the main entrance, he saw a Lincoln Town Car idling and he snuck up alongside the side of the building to watch. A minute later, the man who seemed to be Dr Carl Petramale trotted quickly down the front steps of the building, cane tucked under one arm. Before he could reach the waiting car, he found a tall figure in black stepping in front of him.
"You seem pretty nimble tonight," Bane told him.
VI.
"Ah. Yes, Mr Bane? Can I help you with something? I received an emergency call. I must see someone at the County Hospital immediately." As he spoke, the imposter reached into his right coat pocket to grab something.
Bane had stepped up within arm's reach, and the lights over the entrance caught his gray eyes with a flash that made them seem almost colorless. "County Jail is more like where you're going to be heading. You were a henchman for Melchius, right? You learned a little bit about his Alchemy, enough to steal a supply of Ipratomus for your own use."
"Young man, are you drunk?! I can't delay right now, we'll talk in the morning."
"Forget it," the Dire Wolf said. He saw the imposter shift his weight, getting his balance ready, and when the gnarled hand came up with a SIG-226, Bane simply snapped his hand out and wrenched the gun away.
"Hmm. SIG-Sauer P226R, nice gun," Bane said as he racked a round into the firing chamber. "It wouldn't weigh on my conscience to let you take a slug right now. You murdered two innocent people because they might have given you away." Instead, even as the imposter shrank back in terror, the Dire Wolf threw a vicious left hook that caught the old man square on the side of the jaw and dropped him to the courtyard. Holding the automatic in one hand, he seized the dazed imposter by the coat with his other hand and easily dragged him back up into the lobby. No one was in sight. Throwing the limp man to one side, Bane picked up the phone on the reception desk and pressed 9 to get an outside number. He spoke only a few words before he was cut off but that was enough.
"At least I reached the State Police," he told the imposter, who was coming back to awareness. "They've had three cars on stand-by the last two days and they're on their way now. I give them six minutes to get here. Come on, we're going for a ride."
From a corner of the lobby, a door slammed open and a huge fat man in a white shirt and pants lunged through, raising his hand with a Glock 17 ready. In the split-second before he could squeeze the trigger, a bullet from the SIG-227 punched home squarely in the center of his chest. Driven off-balance by the impact, the fat man fell face down and his own gun slid out of his hand.
Even as the thug hit the polished floor, Bane was dragging the imposter behind him, out through the twin glass doors and down the steps. He flung the dazed man into the passenger seat of the Lincoln, dove over the hood to land on his feet on the other side and jumped in behind the wheel instantly. The engine was already running. Bane backed the car up just as the flat whine of a bullet passed close by. He ignored that and roared across the courtyard toward the sentry box. It was the man stationed there who had left the box and taken that shot. He fired again, missing the oncoming car completely. As the Lincoln rushed at him, the sentry panicked and jumped far to one side, losing his balance.
Bane drove right through the horizontal wooden bar meant to block the driveway, snapping the bar in half without pausing. He rolled down the side of the hill and swung off to the side of the road where it met the highway. Bane turned on the Lincoln's emergency flashers. As the imposter revived and began to try to get out the door, the Dire Wolf cracked an elbow to the man's head that stunned him again. "You've caused enough trouble," he grumbled. "Whatever your real name is."
Opening the driver's door, Bane leaned out and peered up the driveway for any oncoming cars that might hold escaping crooks. He was ready for a shootout if he had to hold one but the results were anti-climactic. They found out later that most of the gangsters were asleep and didn't even know that their mastermind had been taken. When the State Troopers hurtled up the highway and turned in, lightbars flashing, Bane met them with both open hands held high. Some of them recognized him from the hunt for Seneca a few years earlier.
The Troopers took the imposter into custody in the car, one officer remaining with him The rest rolled up the driveway, weapons ready, and began the mop-up operation. Legally, Bane should not have accompanied them but no one objected when he went along. The mass arrests went surprisingly well. Only one suspect was injured, wounded in the leg and lower abdomen when the Troopers returned fire after he took a few shots at them. Most of the gangsters were taken by surprise while in bed and went quietly. At least five managed to flee into the surrounding woods, three of who were captured within a few days. Two remained at large for more than a year. During the search for them, the body of Harold Morris was discovered in a shallow grave two miles from the Retreat. He had been shot in the back of the head.
Watching the crowd of baffled, surly gangsters lined up in front of the lobby, Bane stood with folded arms and could not keep a satisfied expression of his usually stoic face. One of the Troopers was calling for a van, since there were too many suspects to bring back in the three cruisers. Two ambulances arrived, as well, one taking the wounded suspect and the other for the real Dr Petramale.
As he watched the old white-haired man in that dirty smock being loaded onto a gurney to be raised into the back of the ambulance, the Dire Wolf shook his head. At least Petramale would live to tell his tale. Cleaning up the details of this case, facing all the reports and statements and questioning he would have to endure... that would take a week at the shortest. When the trials started, he could expect to get nothing else done for months. Maybe he would not be able to avoid having his picture in the papers, which he always hated. He did not want to deal with any of this. Sometimes he deeply missed the early days of his career in the Midnight War, when he always managed to vanish before the police showed up. With a grumble, he went over to take a call for him from the Governor on the radio on one of the car radios.
9/28/2016
4/15/-4/16/1996
I.
Four days earlier, Bane had leased a gleaming new black BMW to make an impression. Now, driving slowly up a mountain road in western Vermont, he took in the gorgeous Spring scenery but it was unfortunately wasted on him. He was too much a born city boy, too focused on his mission, to appreciate the greenery and the gentle peaks and clear brooks by the side of the road.
For once, the Dire Wolf was not wearing the trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket feared in more than one type of Underworld. He had taken out his tailored business suit of dark blue, with a crisp powder blue dress shirt and narrow black tie, even polished leather shoes. Lean and fit at six feet, Bane looked rather like a successful office drone in some big corporation. Only the grey eyes gave him away. They were pale and intense, the eyes of a born hunter.
Ahead, two six foot stone pillars marked the sides of a paved driveway leading up through the maple trees. The pillars were topped by round stone cannonballs, just beneath which were bronze plaques reading STYGIAN RETREAT - PRIVATE. Despite that, there was no barrier and he turned up the driveway and went for another mile before he spotted the Retreat itself.
Located on eleven acres of lake shoreline, the Stygian Retreat offered every sort of luxury from three hundred feet of sandy beach to a restaurant and bar on the premises to volleyball and badminton courts. Its lodges had two bedrooms each, heated pools, covered porches overlooking the lake. It had been advertised as the perfect spot for overworked executives or wealthy offspring struggling with substance abuse. And, if Bane was right, it harbored more than sixty hardened career criminals on the run.
Before reaching the main courtyard, the driveway was blocked by a metal bar which swung down from a sentry post. Two obvious cameras watched from the trees. Sliding open the window of the post, a man in the light blue shirt and dark blue slacks of a security agency asked to see Bane's ID and gave him a suspicious once-over before letting him through. The Dire Wolf noticed that guard wore a Colt 45 revolver in a heavy gunbelt that held a row of extra cartridges in loops, and he felt now he was on the right trail.
Pulling into a row of spaces marked VISITORS, Bane got out, tugged down his suit jacket and adjusted his tie. Underneath the prosaic clothing, he was still wearing the silk-thin Trom armor and had the matched silver daggers sheathed under his sleeves. But he had decided not to come armed with his usual 38, and most of his usual gadgets and gimmicks had to be left behind as well. It didn't trouble him. Ultimately, he put his faith in his own body's enhanced reflexes and fighting skills. The Dire Wolf took in the buildings and, although he didn't know much about architecture, thought it reminded him of Alpine ski lodges. He walked across a wide patio with wrought iron chairs next to round glass-topped tables and two glass doors slid open automatically as he approached.
From across a huge lobby with a marble floor and a hanging crystal chandelier that was brilliantly it, Dr Carl Petramale came forward to meet him. At least seventy, Petramale leaned heavily on a cane and had a marked limp that Bane thought would be caused by a hip going bad. The administrator of Stygian Retreat was impeccably groomed, his greying hair brushed straight back and his mustache neat over a firm beartrap mouth. Glasses with thick lenses made it difficult to read his expression. "Ah, Mr Bane. So glad you could make it. I thought I would greet you myself."
Shaking the offered hand, the Dire Wolf studied the man before him. "Dr Petramale? We've spoken on the phone a few times."
The dark blue eyes peered at him through the glasses. "Yes indeed. I'm pleased to say your application has been accepted by the board, there is just the introductory interview to conduct. If you would join me?"
"Sure." Following the older man across the lobby, Bane glimpsed two figures emerging from a side door and heading for the patio. They were big, tough-looking guys and he thought one of them had a familiar aspect but he couldn't place the fellow. All of Bane's experience thought the two would be right at home beating up shopkeepers or standing watch during drug deals.
Petramale's office looked more like a plush living room than a place of business. There were two comfortable chairs facing each other next to sliding glass doors which overlooked the lake. Next to one chair was a waist high cabinet with a clipboard sitting on top, and it was here that Dr Petramale gingerly lowered himself with a sigh of relief.
Taking the other chair, Bane gazed out at the dock to which two speedboats were moored. On the shore next to the dock, several canoes had been pulled up with the oars secured inside. Assessing exits from every room he entered, spotting places where someone might be concealed, was a deep-seated habit with him. Despite the placid scene, he felt all keyed up with the instinct for sensing danger going full blast in his mind.
"We have had some celebrities here in the past," Petramale began, "but no one quite like you. The famous Dire Wolf. Perhaps the general public may not know about you, but you have an amazing history. Your capture of Samhain- twice!- and your campaigns against crimelords like Wu Lung or Arem Kamende make for exciting reading."
"It's got worn me out," Bane said. "I'm a wreck. I have no appetite, I can't get to sleep or stay asleep when I do. Lately I'm been making amateur mistakes and almost got in an accident on the Thruway coming here. My doctor says I need to get away from New York and do what he calls decompress. He recommended Stygian Retreat."
"This is the best place on earth to relax and heal," Petramale told him. "Now, you permitted us to check with your bank and I see that four weeks here is certainly within your means. We can admit you today, if you like. Perhaps a deep tissue massage at our spa to start your unwinding process?"
"Sounds good," Bane said. "I brought all the luggage I need."
"Excellent. You will be in Cabin Eleven. A porter will escort you there and give you a schedule of the activities available this time of year." Dr Petramale struggled to his feet using his cane and moved to show Bane to the door. Behind him, the Dire Wolf allowed the faintest predatory smile to show for an instant. It was just a question here of who was the cat and who was the mouse.
II.
Left in his cabin overlooking the beach, Bane declined making an appointment for a massage or for lunch. He said he just wanted to settle in for the moment. For the next hour and forty-five minutes, he painstakingly searched the two bedrooms, the two bathrooms, the kitchen with its already stocked refrigerator and gas stove, the living room with an assortment of new magazines already laid out. He found no concealed microphones or cameras at all. The most he discovered was that the intercom on the wall by the door could be set to receive without that being apparent, and he disconnected it.
Stepping out onto the patio, the Dire Wolf dropped down into a lawn chair and sat back. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Looking out at the lake over which a V-shaped formation of ducks flew north, he went back upon the circumstances which had led a Vermont police chief to recommend he investigate here.
Six months earlier, in late October of the previous year, Dr Carl Petramale had survived a murderous assault that left two other people dead. Returning from an excursion on one of the speedboats, Petramale said he had been down below fixing a drink while his driver Stan Bergen docked the boat. With them was Petramale's personal assistant, Mary Roosa. Both had been with the doctor for years. From the trees nearby, gunfire unexpectedly cut down both the driver and the secretary. Petramale had admittedly been terrified but he had nevertheless peered up over the edge of the boat and snapped off a few shots from the .32 he was licensed to carry. That had seemed to be enough to frighten off the attackers. Squealing tires and headlights vanishing down the driveway made Petramale reassured enough to call the police. All this was what the shaken doctor related to the officers when they arrived.
The investigation got absolutely nowhere. The bullets recovered were from two separate automatics, neither of which matched any ballistics on file. Tire tracks were found but proved useless as identification. No suspects and no motivation were ever worked up that seemed worth following. It remained a mystery.
But the local police chief did not dismiss the murders so quickly. He kept an eye on the Stygian Resort and often sent some of his men there to ask around even months later. It was odd how many of the staff were soon discharged and replaced. That Petramale installed heightened security was no surprise, but he did not hire guards from an established agency. It wasn't clear where he found the rather brutal-looking men he did hire. And, although the Retreat seemed busier than ever with cars coming and going at odd hours, it was interesting that many long-time clients were being turned down for their annual stays.
The chief had met Jeremy Bane a few years earlier, in the manhunt for the maniac called Seneca, and he had followed the Dire Wolf's career since then. Two weeks ago, he had suddenly shown up at Bane's office on 44th and Third Avenue in Manhattan and confided all his suspicions that something extremely fishy was going on at the Stygian Retreat. He didn't see where he could proceed any further, his limited budget and manpower meant he had to concentrate on more current cases. But, maybe if Bane was curious...?
At first, he was reluctant. Bane was already trying to find the ancient Alchemist named Melchius, reported to be working in America for the first time. Melchius left a trail of grotesque corpses and looted vaults whereever he went. But this busines about the Stygian Retreat caught his imagination. And here he was, the Dire Wolf thought. For a supposed PI, he sure undertook a lot of work with no client and no chance of making a buck. It was only because Kenneth Dred had left him such a fortune that he could act as an unofficial vigilante this way.
Still wearing the business suit, Bane left the cabin and wandered around the resort apparently aimlessly. He got a clear layout of the grounds in his mind. Without loitering, he inspected the dock where the murders had taken place and left with a frown. The angle of gunfire from the trees to the speedboat seemed unlikely to him. He had read the police report and would have expected the killers to have been much closer. Odd. Not for the first time, he wondered if Stan Bergen and Mary Roose had had to die because they were so familiar with the doctor's life and with the way Stygian Resort was run.
By late afternoon, he had accumulated many tiny niggling discrepancies but nothing he could put his finger on. As his stomach started making loud gurgling, he gave up for the moment and went to the Retreat's restaurant. His accelerated metabolism meant he was always ravenous. Bane was seated at a corner table and only gave the menu a cursory glance before ordering a Porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, broccoli and dinner rolls. Ice water only for a drink. Bane normally ate on the run, snatching subs and hamburgers and Chinese take-out as he moved around. He figured as long as he was in a real restaurant, he might as well enjoy some decent food for a change.
He was not worried about being poisoned. It was too early in the game for that, he thought. Finishing up with a slice of apple pie topped with cheese, the Dire Wolf still had not reached any definite conclusion what was going on here. One of the waiters passing by had old scars on his knuckles and one ear that had been damaged years earlier, he noticed. For an exclusive retreat, the staff sure seemed rough.
Only two other men were in that restaurant, both doing some dedicated drinking at the bar and arguing in low tones. The occasional clients he saw lounging by one the pool or along the beach had a few interesting distinctions as well. They all seemed to be white males ranging from their thirties to their fifties. No couples, no kids or teens. No minorities. Bane wondered about this. Adding up the traits mental and physical of the clients he saw, he was irresistably reminded of a hood's convention he had infiltrated in New Jersey a few years earlier.
III.
Heading back outside, seeing the sun red and enormous as it set, the Dire Wolf explored the Retreat some more. Under some elm trees off to one side was a pair of short benches set facing each other, with a pedastal holding a permanent chess board and hand-carved pieces eight inches high. Bent forlornly over this game by himself was an elderly Jewish man in an old-fashioned suit. He had the classic profile, the bald head with a fringe of curly white hair around the ears, the round-rimmed metal eyeglasses. He seemed so out of place among these obvious goons that Bane went over and dropped down on the bench facing him.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you a good game," the Dire Wolf said as the old man glanced up. "Technically, I know how the pieces move but I'm a terrible player." This was true. Michael Hawk had taught a younger Bane the rules of the game but had gotten nowhere instilling strategy. Bane was just too impatient.
"Oh, so? Really. Let's have a go, anyway. It seems you have white and so can open, Mr...?"
"Bane. Call me Jeremy. I'm here because my doctor says I'm too stressed out. And what should I call you?"
"Morris. Just Morris. It's my last name but that's what my friends call me. Ever since my wife died eight years ago, God rest her, I've come here every spring to honor her memory. This was where we spent our honeymoon. Ah, you're going to open with your knight?"
"Sure, why not? So, Morris, you've been coming to Stygian Retreat for years then? You like the place that much?"
"I used to. Oh, are you sure you want to expose your bishop like that? Well, it's up to you. This year, everything here is so different. I don't recognize any of the staff. I used to know them so well. None of the usual guests. I looked forward to schmoozing and reminiscing with men my age. To tell the truth, Dr Pertamale gave me the impression he didn't want me here this time."
Bane studied the board, trying desperately to concentrate. Where had his knight gone? When had Morris taken it? He moved a pawn forward to get in the way of the attacking black bishop. "The people staying here sure don't seem sociable."
"Hah. They are no-goods. Hoodlums and thieves all of them if I ever saw one. Even Dr Petramale has changed. He seems like a different man. There, checkmate. Ten moves."
A little dismayed, Bane examined the situation on the board. It was true. Morris' queen was way down on his side, attacking his king. The white king had no square to escape to, and no other piece could intervene. "Damn. Well, sorry, I told you I'm not good at this."
"I believe you are not thinking ahead, Jeremy. When your opponent moves, you should be visualizing what he is planning to do with his next move and the move after that. That's the secret of chess. Let's try again."
As the old man patiently set the pieces back in their opening positions, Bane asked, "What did you mean about Petramale seeming different?"
"It was not just a figure of speech, believe me. He looks the same, he sounds the same. When he signed my arrangement to stay here, I recognized his signature. But the soul of the man has gone dark and malicious. I am not particularly a spiritual man, Jeremy, but if I were... I would almost believe that Dr Petramale has been replaced by der doppelganger."
"I see," Bane replied. "Something about him seems a bit off to me as well. Here, give me some hints as the game goes."
"Gladly. Take a minute here, you have moved your knight forward again. I will place my bishop here to avoid it, and you should be thinking, 'what opening does this give my opponent's bishop?'"
"Huh. I see. Your bishop can move here and then my other knight is in trouble."
"Not enough. When you get your other knight out of the way, your rook is wide open. That is what you should be preparing for. At least a few moves in advance." Morris sighed and pulled his light windbreaker tighter around his bony form. "I will be going inside soon. It is too chilly this early this year to sit outside."
Bane took the hint. "Sure. Maybe we'll play a game tomorrow and you can educate me. Are you going to be around?"
"Without a doubt," Morris said as he zipped up his jacket and rose. "See that yellow Firebird? That's my car. I'm in Cabin Three. I'm paid up for the week and at least I can enjoy some room service and remember better times." He offered a thin hand, which Bane shook. "I'm a late riser, Jeremy, don't expect me before noon."
"Nice meeting you," the Dire Wolf said as he watched the older man shuffle wearily across the courtyard to the door of Cabin Three. Something Morris had said about doppelgangers resonated with Bane. That had been one of his earliest cases, the one where he had met Cindy. The small city of Maybrook had been infiltrated with doubles from Fanedral. How long ago that all seemed. More than twenty years had passed since that nightmarish case.
Bane prowled the grounds some more as the lampposts flicked to life. Outside, he was spotting tiny cameras frequently, fastened on tree branches or stuck up under the eaves of the buildings. That didn't worry him. The small Eldar talisman he wore under his collar was mostly meant to protect him against dark magick but it had the useful side-effect of blurring his image on recording devices. Film and video showed him only as a vague fuzzy area that was often overlooked completely.
Returning to his own cabin, Bane found that his luggage had been searched and carefully replaced. It had been done well enough that he wasn't quite sure the search had been performed at all, except that the handle of his larger suitcase hung down where he had deliberately left it up. There was nothing incriminating in his belongings in any case. The flexible armor, the silver daggers, the Eldar talisman and the Trom lock-opening device were all on his person.
It was still early, not even nine o'clock but despite his eagerness, he thought tonight was too soon to start searching rooms. Bane placed hard rubber wedges from his suitcase under both doors and in the window jamb to prevent visitors. Then he stripped down, bringing his armor and daggers with him into the bathroom while he took a steaming hot shower. Drying off roughly with a towel, he hung the silk-thin armor over a chair beside his bed and placed the daggers at his sides, down where he could reach them instantly. In the dark warm room, the Dire Wolf used a Tel Shai technique he disliked but found useful. Breathing in up along his spine, holding it over his head and then exhaling more slowly as he visualized the breath leaving down his chest. In a few seconds, he had enabled his hyper restless body to slip into a deep natural sleep.
IV.
Bane awoke as sharply and clearly as if he had never been asleep. Moving just his eyes, he saw the clock-radio on the nightstand read 4:07 AM. In another instant, he was certain no one else was in the room. Then what had awoken him? The Dire Wolf slid silently out of bed, drew on the Trom armor and sealed its paramagnetic seals. Now only his head, hands and feet were exposed. As soon as he had the suit on, he was strapping the silver-bladed daggers to his forearms and now he felt ready for any attack. Still, there was no noise inside the room or immediately outside.
Putting on the dress slacks and cotton socks from before, he slipped on the shoes. These might have seemed like regular black office shoes but the soles were cushioned rubber for silence and the toes had steel caps under the leather. Instead of the shirt he had been wearing that day, he pulled one of the long-sleeved black turtlenecks from his luggage. They were perfect for sneaking around in the dark. Tugging the rubber wedge from the sliding glass doors to the patio at the rear of his rooms, he slipped out into the night as if part of it.
Loping noiselessly along the back of the row of cabins, seeing only one or two curtained windows with slits of light showing along their edges, Bane searched with all his senses keyed up. His night vision had fully kicked in by now. Between Cabins Three and Four, he crept toward the frontage. In the distance, where the driveway curved on its way down the hillside, two red tail lights showed for just an instant. He darted forward and saw that the yellow Firebird was gone.
Backing up against the door to Cabin Four, he pressed the Trom unlocker into the door's keyhole. Fine metal tendrils extruded from the device, stiffened and rotated. The door unlocked and opened in less than a second, and Bane slipped through to close it behind him. The cabin seemed unoccupied, there was nothing to show that that a man had been staying here. Not turning on the lights, searching in the gloom, the Dire Wolf turned up nothing until something glinting on the floor caught his attention. He knelt and picked up a contact lens. Bane frowned in the murk and slipped the lens into a pocket. At some point, the prescription on it might be useful evidence.
Stepping back outside, drawing on his enhanced hearing, the Dire Wolf caught low controlled breathing not far away. The cabin on the far end, Number One, was as dark as the others but it had a man sitting in a folding chair at its rear, arms folded but awake. Creeping up on the sentry, one fist clenched and raised, Bane froze in mid-step. Three men were coming out of the woods with flashlights. The Dire Wolf dropped low and flashed back to the door of his own cabin. He reacted so quickly it was unlikely anyone had sensed his presence.
Back in his own rooms, with the sliding door barred and the curtains drawn, Bane stood thinking in the dark for a long time. He did not go back to sleep until nearly dawn when he made himself catch a few hours. After sunrise, making sure he was unobserved, he stripped down in the middle of the living room and did his DohRa form. Devised specifically for him by Teacher Chael of Tel Shai, the form stretched and warmed up his muscles while also reinforcing fighting maneuevers and maintaining good balance. It started with easy stances and poses that became punches and blocks and kicks against imaginary enemies, faster and more energetic, then reverted to more difficult stances that few gymnasts could hold without trembling. Soon, he slowed and assumed the salute to his Teacher farther away than miles could measure. His heartbeat and breathing had only sped up just a fraction, but he was sweaty and needed a shower. Shaving while under the steaming hot water, Bane kept turning over the events of the previous day and reached only tentative conclusions.
Dressing in the slacks again and a fresh white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back a turn, Bane decided not to call for room service. He stepped out into the crisp morning air of the mountains and went over to find the restaurant opened already. Ordering a double serving of wheatcakes, bacon and home fries, he dug in eagerly. At another table, four middle-aged men in rough work clothes guzzled coffee and chewed buttered hard rolls. He could not make out what they were saying, but their tones were surly.
Finishing up, Bane was planning on driving down to the nearest town to make some phone calls to law enforcement and to his army of observers. He was certain the lines here were tapped. As he signed the chit that added the meal to his general bill, he looked up to see Dr Petramale limping toward him. The cane made a rhythmic tapping on the hardwood floor.
"Good morning, sir!" called the doctor genially enough. "How are you feeling today?"
"Much better than when I arrived," Bane answered. "Sleeping in a quiet room away from city traffic is a treat. How are you, doctor?"
"Oh, fair. Getting old is not for the faint of heart. You know, we have archery classes this afternoon if you're interested. There is also a badminton court."
"Thanks. I actually made an acquaintance yesterday, a gentleman named Morris is teaching me chess. Probably I'll look him up."
Petramale reacted with just the right concern. "Oh, Mr Morris. I'm afraid he checked out late last night. He received a phone call. His wife is ill, he wanted to go see her at once."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Bane said with a straight face. Mrs Morris having been dead for eight years made that story slightly dubious. "I see there's a gym here, a thorough workout would do me good. Maybe a run around the lake."
"Fine, fine," the doctor gushed before going on his way. "Don't hesitate to call on me if you have any problems, Mr Bane."
"Thank you, doctor." Bane scraped the last bit of French toast in some syrup and finished it. Something was wrong with Petramale's face. He was sure of it. The nasal bridge was wider, the upper lip shorter than it had been the day before. Part of Bane's training under Michael Hawk had been to identify faces by memorizing details of various parts.. how long the ear lobes were, the space between eyebrows, the condition of the teeth. It was automatic with him after all these years and he was certain he had just been talking to the same man as the day before... but that man's features had changed noticeably. Now he knew something of the Midnight War was touching the situation.
Returning to his cabin, Bane felt melancholy at the thought that Morris was now almost certainly dead and his body disposed of somewhere in the forest here. The yellow Sunbird would be on its way to be repainted and the VIN changed so it could be sold cheap on the black market. Poor old Morris. He had not understood that the suggestions he not stay here this year had been for his own good. There was too much risk that the old man would overhear something to give the grand deception away.
In his rooms, Bane scrutinized everything again and decided that nothing had been touched. He changed into black sweat pants and white sneakers, keeping the black turtleneck, and left the cabin at a brisk jog. When he reached the beach, the Dire Wolf picked up the pace and started running. Knowing he was certainly being watched, he kept his speed within normal limits and did not reveal what he was capable of.
As he circled the lake, Bane wondered why there had been no attempts on his life yet. The only conclusion he could reach was that whoever was behind this felt that the set-up was too lucrative to risk, and that there was still a chance Bane would leave without finding out too much. They knew that his disappearance after checking in here would lead to a more thorough investigation. Perhaps even the Mandate or Department 21 Black would send agents to tear through the place.
Over an hour later, he came around back to the front of the Retreat. More and more, he was seeing the guests here roaming about, as if they were becoming more at ease about showing themselves. The gym had a sign over the door that read FITNESS CENTER - VIDEO ARCADE, and he went in past a desk behind which a lovely young brunette in a leotard asked him to sign in before using the facilities. Now that he had noticed the changes in Petramale's face, Bane was examining everyone's features more closely.
As the woman asked if he wanted to schedule a personal trainer and he was declining, Bane suddenly recognized her. Her features had been modified, but the wideset hazel eyes and pointed chin gave it away. She was really in her late forties, a partner with a vicious sex trafficker named Southwick who brought in female refugees from North Korea to work in Southern California at fast houses. Yes, Denise Fenn, the one who specialized in breaking the spirits of the new girls. Behind that bland welcoming smile, those pale eyes held cold depths. The last he had heard, the LAPD were looking for her after Southwick had been rounded up.
Moving over to the Nautilus machines, the Dire Wolf began making the rounds on each one, setting the weights rather light and doing high repetitions in sets of eight. He was more interested in definition and endurance than bulk. As he went around the room, which had monotonous soft jazz playing overhead, Bane surreptitiously studied the six other men working out. Two were over by the free weights, one spotting the other doing deadlifts on the bench. As one herculean figure with oversized biceps put down a dumbbell with a grunt, Bane recognized him as well. The nose was sharper and ears smaller, the hair much lighter in color, but that was definitely Gustav 'Tiger' Schotting from the New Jersey mobs.
Keeping a prudent distance, head down and concentrating, Bane decided the change certainly was not anything so mundane as plastic surgery changing these faces. There were none of the tiny, almost miscroscopic scars always left. Overnight, Petramale's features had shifted as if reverting to their true state. Something needed to be applied every now and then to touch up. Then he remembered Melchius had been reported active in the United States recently. Alchemy.
Finishing the routines, sweaty but warmed up and feeling alert, Bane nodded politely to the seemingly innocuous young student at the desk. Remembering all the abuse she had used to break down terrified Korean women in a strange land, he decided that once the fireworks started, he would make a point to settle her score.
The rest of the day dragged unbearably. Restless and impatient by nature, with alwaYs excess energy from his metabolism, Bane found loitering a real torture. He stretched out lunch as long as he could as the restaurant, fooled around at the video arcade for awhile and went for another run around the lake at sunset. When darkness fell, he felt immense gratitude that the time to act was near.
All day, he had been catching increasingly hostile, even threatening stares from some of the guests. By now, everyone knew he was here. Those who were fugitives must be worrying how long it would be before he exposed them. Risky or not, attempts on his life would start soon. Instead of feeling nervous or apprehensive, Bane felt eager to start the confrontations. He would never change. Always the Dire Wolf.
V.
Just after midnight, peering out between the curtains with the room dark behind him, he watched two sedans pass by the sentry box and head down the driveway out of sight. Cars did tend to move around late at night here, and he supposed some of the crooks in hiding still wanted to meet with their gangs to keep business rolling. Finally, by two in the morning, Stygian Retreat appeared as quiet as it was going to get. Dressed all in black again, he went out through the patio door and stalked through the gloom along the rear of the cabins. Anyone monitoring the cameras in the trees would see at best a foggy area on one side of the screen as Bane passed, and most likely they would dismiss it as a glitch in the equipment.
The final cabin in the row was completely dark and again a man was on duty by the rear door. He was sitting in a folding chair, leaning way back with his feet off the ground and seeming as bored as one might expect. Bane crept around at an angle to come up behind the guard, making no more sound than his own shadow did. The way the guard was precariously balanced on his chair gave the opening. Getting within reach, the Dire Wolf yanked the guard backward and smacked the back of the man's head harder against the paved patio than a fall ever would. He hoped he didn't give the sentry a fatal concussion but he had to be sure the man would be unconscious for a while.
Searching the stunned guard quickly, Bane found a loaded Heckler & Koch with the safety off, bad procedure in most circumstances. The man also had a hunting knife sheathed and stowed in a pants pocket, and an impressive roll of twenty dollar bills held with a rubber band. He left all of these items where they were. Moving over to the sliding glass doors, he found them unlocked and moved inside.
Slowing his own breathing to a mininum, Bane brought up the level of his hearing to its peak. No one was in the living room or bedroom or kitchen. He made his way through the darkness and found a narrow door that was not present in his own cabin. This door was locked and he used the Trom device on it. He closed the door behind him. Going down narrow stairs nearly steep enough to be a ladder, Bane found a light switch at the bottom and decided to risk flipping it. Two light bulbs in the ceiling revealed a crude cellar with unfinished stone walls and a plain cement floor. There was two folding chairs and a table holding some medical equipment, as well as a rack of vials of green fluid.
Lying on a folding bed, an IV leading into his arm from a stainless steel tree holding two clear plastic bags, an elderly man lay unconscious under a thin sheet pulled up to his bony chest. It was Dr Carl Petramale.
On the floor next to him was a bedpan, a basin of water and a stack of towels, none of it particularly clean. Bane stepped closer, took the old man's pulse and listened to his breathing. Petramale didn't seem to be in any danger at that instant, but this was not a healthy situation for a man his age. Bane didn't think the gangsters troubled to keep him well nourished or ever took him out of bed to excercise his legs. They just wanted him alive a while longer.
Staring at the apalling scene, the Dire Wolf was not even aware of how coldly angry he was. The imposter needed the real Petramale to sign forms, at least until he learned how to imitate the signature well enough. There were also legal details, procedures, arrangenents with utility companies to keep up, and the imposter had gotten information on these from the real Petramale. By intimidation or violence, whatever worked.
Turning away, Bane opened one of the vials on the table and took a careful sniff. The incredibly sour acidic aroma was unmistakable. He had encountered this substance before when working with Dr Vitarius. It was a product of Alchemy, a solution called Ipratomus, the 'Adaptive Formula.' In the correct dose it allowed one stay comfortable in extreme weather or if likely to be injured. It helped the body adapt quickly to outside harm. Legend said that a massive, nearly fatal dose would let the user change his body instantly to survive any trauma. Bane figured that the imposter was using a dilute form of Ipratomus to mold the features of his clients enough so they would be unrecognizable to the authorities.
Because the effects wore off eventually, the gangsters were forced to keep coming to the imposter for more doses. It was quite a racket. And the leader himself had probably started with a general resemblance to Petranmale before using a large dose of the Alchemical serum to impersonate the doctor completely. He had been getting away with it for nearly seven months now.
The Dire Wolf examined the drugged and unconscious real Petramale again. He wished he could carry the man away from here, but that would just expose him to more danger in what was coming up. Bane turned away regretfully, thought it over and took the vials of Alchemical serum with him. He intended to flush them down the toilet in his cabin. The Dire Wolf snapped off the lights again and went hurriedly up the stairs and back outside. The guard was still lying where he had been left, snoring loudly through an open mouth. Bane stalked past him, moving up along the backs of the cabins. In front of the main entrance, he saw a Lincoln Town Car idling and he snuck up alongside the side of the building to watch. A minute later, the man who seemed to be Dr Carl Petramale trotted quickly down the front steps of the building, cane tucked under one arm. Before he could reach the waiting car, he found a tall figure in black stepping in front of him.
"You seem pretty nimble tonight," Bane told him.
VI.
"Ah. Yes, Mr Bane? Can I help you with something? I received an emergency call. I must see someone at the County Hospital immediately." As he spoke, the imposter reached into his right coat pocket to grab something.
Bane had stepped up within arm's reach, and the lights over the entrance caught his gray eyes with a flash that made them seem almost colorless. "County Jail is more like where you're going to be heading. You were a henchman for Melchius, right? You learned a little bit about his Alchemy, enough to steal a supply of Ipratomus for your own use."
"Young man, are you drunk?! I can't delay right now, we'll talk in the morning."
"Forget it," the Dire Wolf said. He saw the imposter shift his weight, getting his balance ready, and when the gnarled hand came up with a SIG-226, Bane simply snapped his hand out and wrenched the gun away.
"Hmm. SIG-Sauer P226R, nice gun," Bane said as he racked a round into the firing chamber. "It wouldn't weigh on my conscience to let you take a slug right now. You murdered two innocent people because they might have given you away." Instead, even as the imposter shrank back in terror, the Dire Wolf threw a vicious left hook that caught the old man square on the side of the jaw and dropped him to the courtyard. Holding the automatic in one hand, he seized the dazed imposter by the coat with his other hand and easily dragged him back up into the lobby. No one was in sight. Throwing the limp man to one side, Bane picked up the phone on the reception desk and pressed 9 to get an outside number. He spoke only a few words before he was cut off but that was enough.
"At least I reached the State Police," he told the imposter, who was coming back to awareness. "They've had three cars on stand-by the last two days and they're on their way now. I give them six minutes to get here. Come on, we're going for a ride."
From a corner of the lobby, a door slammed open and a huge fat man in a white shirt and pants lunged through, raising his hand with a Glock 17 ready. In the split-second before he could squeeze the trigger, a bullet from the SIG-227 punched home squarely in the center of his chest. Driven off-balance by the impact, the fat man fell face down and his own gun slid out of his hand.
Even as the thug hit the polished floor, Bane was dragging the imposter behind him, out through the twin glass doors and down the steps. He flung the dazed man into the passenger seat of the Lincoln, dove over the hood to land on his feet on the other side and jumped in behind the wheel instantly. The engine was already running. Bane backed the car up just as the flat whine of a bullet passed close by. He ignored that and roared across the courtyard toward the sentry box. It was the man stationed there who had left the box and taken that shot. He fired again, missing the oncoming car completely. As the Lincoln rushed at him, the sentry panicked and jumped far to one side, losing his balance.
Bane drove right through the horizontal wooden bar meant to block the driveway, snapping the bar in half without pausing. He rolled down the side of the hill and swung off to the side of the road where it met the highway. Bane turned on the Lincoln's emergency flashers. As the imposter revived and began to try to get out the door, the Dire Wolf cracked an elbow to the man's head that stunned him again. "You've caused enough trouble," he grumbled. "Whatever your real name is."
Opening the driver's door, Bane leaned out and peered up the driveway for any oncoming cars that might hold escaping crooks. He was ready for a shootout if he had to hold one but the results were anti-climactic. They found out later that most of the gangsters were asleep and didn't even know that their mastermind had been taken. When the State Troopers hurtled up the highway and turned in, lightbars flashing, Bane met them with both open hands held high. Some of them recognized him from the hunt for Seneca a few years earlier.
The Troopers took the imposter into custody in the car, one officer remaining with him The rest rolled up the driveway, weapons ready, and began the mop-up operation. Legally, Bane should not have accompanied them but no one objected when he went along. The mass arrests went surprisingly well. Only one suspect was injured, wounded in the leg and lower abdomen when the Troopers returned fire after he took a few shots at them. Most of the gangsters were taken by surprise while in bed and went quietly. At least five managed to flee into the surrounding woods, three of who were captured within a few days. Two remained at large for more than a year. During the search for them, the body of Harold Morris was discovered in a shallow grave two miles from the Retreat. He had been shot in the back of the head.
Watching the crowd of baffled, surly gangsters lined up in front of the lobby, Bane stood with folded arms and could not keep a satisfied expression of his usually stoic face. One of the Troopers was calling for a van, since there were too many suspects to bring back in the three cruisers. Two ambulances arrived, as well, one taking the wounded suspect and the other for the real Dr Petramale.
As he watched the old white-haired man in that dirty smock being loaded onto a gurney to be raised into the back of the ambulance, the Dire Wolf shook his head. At least Petramale would live to tell his tale. Cleaning up the details of this case, facing all the reports and statements and questioning he would have to endure... that would take a week at the shortest. When the trials started, he could expect to get nothing else done for months. Maybe he would not be able to avoid having his picture in the papers, which he always hated. He did not want to deal with any of this. Sometimes he deeply missed the early days of his career in the Midnight War, when he always managed to vanish before the police showed up. With a grumble, he went over to take a call for him from the Governor on the radio on one of the car radios.
9/28/2016