"Instant Mummies"
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dochermes"Instant Mummies"
2/3-2/4/1999
I.
Freezing rain had been drizzling since dusk and the roads were treacherous. A layer of ice had visibly gathered on the branches of the tree outside Abernethy's house. Frowning, Jeremy Bane turned grimly away from the picture window to the situation that had drawn him here. In his forties, he remained a lean, ominous figure, still dressed all in black, still glaring at the world with cold grey eyes from beneath dark brows. More than ever, he lived up to his war name Dire Wolf.
The room showed money had been spent wisely. The uncluttered, highly polished wood floors and walls, the stone fireplace with a low fire smoldering, the solid sedate furniture, the original oil paintings.. all showed the owner was comfortably off. None of this was any comfort to the man now. In his own house, surrounded by a half dozen big police officers and the famous Dire Wolf, Lawrence T Abernethy was still shaking with terror.
From where he stood by the window, Bane glanced over at the antique grandfather clock by the door and saw it was ten minutes to midnight. He turned and strode over to the plush easy chair where Abernethy sat. The attorney was not a good-looking man at the best of times, with his weak chin and large mole on the side of his nose, but now the fear on his face took away any dignity he might have had. Standing next to Abernethy, exhaling cigar smoke through his nostrils, was Inspector Harold Klein of Homicide West. Over the past nine years, his association with Jeremy Bane had led to his being regarded as a specialist in crimes involving the unexplained, the unnatural and the just plain weird.
Klein looked up quizzically. His hair was more white than grey at this point, a year beyond normal retirement age. He stayed on duty for the moment because his experience made him invaluable. As Bane approached, Klein tried talking to Abernethy again. "Look, there's not much point in denial at this late stage. You know Grier is dead. Yesterday he got a note just like yours and last night he died. Instant mummy. He had the Sphinx mad at him just like you do. Now, we are here to protect you, sir, but your cooperation may make all the difference."
"There's nothing I can tell you," the man repeated stubbornly.
Bane stepped closer. "You know me?"
"The Dire Wolf? Oh, certainly. What criminal lawyer in the metropolitan area hasn't heard of you?"
"Good. Let me remind me you of a few men I have personally captured or killed. Samhain. Seneca. Dr Sabbath. Wu Lung. John Grim. Get the picture?"
"I know your reputation, Mr Bane."
"Good," the Dire Wolf repeated. "Your client, the Sphinx, is right up there with the monsters and maniacs I've been fighting. He's using the name Nefu-Sobek but it's certainly fake. He claims to be an Egyptian businessman from Cairo but no one there has ever heard of him. What is clear is that Nefu-Sobek was a disciple of Menekartes. Now THERE was a sorceror of the first rank. His disciples scattered after his death and Nefu-Sobek gathered a few of them to start a cult of his own. Twenty murders, a dozen high-scale robberies, sale of forbidden Velkandu drugs to highest bidder, all in the past few years. The Sphinx has been busy."
Klein tossed his cigar butt into the fireplace. "Last night, his lieutenant was killed at midnight. In a locked room with a dozen witnessses. Timothy Grier suddenly shriveled up and turned into an instant mummy. They found a note in his pocket, threatening him with death that very night." He glanced over at Bane. "Mr Abernethy here was at that party. He saw it happen. And today he found an identical note addressed to him under his front door."
Suddenly Abernethy's self-control gave way. "Oh, what's the use? You can't know what you're dealing with. Nefu-Sobek isn't human, he's a devil from Hell and nothing we do can stop him."
Klein growled, "That's enough of that talk. I've got five good hand-picked men watching this house. Your food and your water have been brought in by officers. You haven't left this house since you came in last night."
Bane asked, "Has anyone else been in the house, even for a second?"
"No," Abernethy answered sullenly. "My wife left me three years ago. I've lived alone since then."
"And my boys have searched the house, Bane. No poisoned needles in a sofa pillow, no chemicals in the heating duct to send up fumes. They're thorough as army ants. No traps." Abern
"Sounds safe enough," Bane said slowly. "And yet.. Grier seemed to be safe too."
Abernethy stood up suddenly. "All this activity will scare him off. He won't dare to try anything in a house full of armed policemen, would he?"
"These masterminds have egos bigger than a dozen normal men," Bane said. "His pride will make him give it a try and when he shows up, he's mine!" The Dire Wolf stopped suddenly, staring at the lawyer. "You turned awful white all of a sudden. Do you feel okay?"
"No. I feel- I feel awful," Abernethy gasped just as he gave a strangled gargling noise and dropped back into his chair. In a few seconds, before Klein or Bane could react, the man's body shuddered and withered to half its size. A huge puddle of cloudy fluid gushed out onto the floor as the water in his tissues gushed out and he dried up into a leathery, wrinkled husk. His sunken eyes rolled up to show only the whites.
"Instant mummies," whispered Harold Klein. "My God."
Bane whirled to glare around the room, startling the horrified policemen. "A locked room, guarded by your own men. Food and water brought in. Windows sealed, house searched. And STILL the Sphinx got him. How the hell did he do it?!"
Three hours later, the forensic squad was cleaning up without having gotten anywhere. The body had been taken out on a stretcher for a full autopsy, dozens of samples had been taken and the house was being sealed off. As the yellow tape was going up, Jeremy Bane shrugged into his long black topcoat and frowned at the world.
"Think it was poison?" Klein asked. He was as usual wearing a raincoat that had not been white for years.
"Yes," the Dire Wolf answered. "The Sphinx has never shown any energy powers. He's not the warlock that Menekartes was. But he has used Velkandu potions a number of times, including truth serums and zombie-makers. I need to check my files on this guy."
Going over to stand by the front door, Inspector Klein peered out at the night. "I'll talk to you in the morning. You might want to drive under eighty this time, it looks slick out there."
Bane snorted. "Too bad murders don't all take place in May, huh? All right. See you later, Inspector."
On the drive back down to Manhattan, Bane in fact did take it more carefully than usual. The streets were icy but they were also deserted and he could go slow. The small dark green Mustang had new tires and he was used to how it handled. Soon he turned onto Lexington Avenue without incident. At 38th Street, the Wolf pulled into the dead end alley where a brick-covered steel panel rose automatically at a signal from his dashboard. With a feeling of genuine relief, he drove down a short concerete ramp and and parked his car in the small underground garage next to the Buick Regal. Bane got out, suddenly feeling tired, which was rare for him.
Walking past the vault and arsenal, up steep concrete steps to emerge from the back of a walk-in closet in the front hall, Bane shrugged out of his heavy coat and hung it on a hook by the front door. Cindy wasn't back yet. He went in the kitchen, finished off a huge bowl of leftover macaroni salad with chicken slices, drank a glass of apple juice and then a tumbler of ice water. Feeling a bit more alive, Bane trudged up the stairs to the third floor where his room was, stripped down and took a hot shower. It was four-fifteen. He set the alarm for eight-thirty, crawled between the sheets and was asleep so fast he didn't realize it.
II.
Bane woke up just before the alarm would have gone off, completely refreshed and eager to get going. He was not made for a peaceful life. In a few minutes, he was up and dressed in a fresh uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He did have a variety of other clothes but he seldom wore them. Most were probably musty by this time. He headed down the stairs to the second floor and entered the conference room. Before settling down for the day's work, the Dire Wolf went to the waist high refrigerator in one corner and found enough to make a big ham and cheese sandwich with mustard, a glass of milk and a Danish. When he had time, he needed to restock the supplies. One drawback to his enhanced metabolism was a ferocious appetite. Bane took a solitary banana and almost inhaled it, then felt ready to get started.
He turned to gaze at the long oak table, with its twelve plain wooden chairs arrayed along it, where three generations of heroes had assembled since 1934. Bane paused for a long moment with a strange mixture of feelings. Here his friends and teammates had met for the most amazing eleven years of his life. Soon, if his plans worked out, a new team would be seated there. The wheel keeps turning, he thought. A new century, a new millenium and a new team of Tel Shai Knights. Bane smiled faintly at the prospect and went over to the row of green metal filing cabinets. Most of the reports had been scanned and put in the computer but he prefered to handle paper while thinking. He pulled three files.. one on Menekartes, also known as Prince Yathrib, one on the Sphinx and one on Velkandu sorcery.
The next hour was difficult for Bane as he studied the files. He was too hyper to stay seated for long and he had to force himself to sit and slowly study the reports. Menekartes had sure enjoyed a long murderous career for sixty years, ranking him with the very upper rank of villainy, alongside Wu Lung and Quilt and Samhain. His death ten years earlier had not been any too soon. With the fall of Menekartes, his cult had promptly fallen apart. The Mummy's chief lieutenant and protege was an international criminal best known as the Sphinx. It was Nefu-Sobek who had absconded with the fortune in cash and jewels and gold, and it was he who had claimed the arsenal of forbidden talismans Menekartes had amassed. In a few years, the distinctive Sphinx-style crimes had begun. They were characterized by the unnecessary fear and torture he inflicted on his victims, by elaborate robberies and extortion schemes, and by the way he occasionally killed one of his own men who failed him. He was careful not to let the others witness this, though, as it made recruitment difficult.
Bane shrugged. He had known all this, although the dates and some details had faded. He found a list of the Sphinx's men and sure enough both Timothy Grier and Bruce Abernethy was on the rolls. The Dire Wolf took a few minutes to fix in his memory the names and addresses of the remaining cultists, trying to spot some clue where the monster would strike next. Finally, he dug into the file on Velkandu, the secret drugs and potions known only in the Midnight War. Tagra, velocitin, grendavil, bernicas, ensalir and gremthom, and imnefre... the Mummy Dust of Death. When he closed that file, Bane pressed his palms flat on the table and felt as if a weight had been lifted. Now he knew what they were dealing with. It was a great relief.
Briskly now, the Dire Wolf returned the files to their places, folded is notes and put them in his inside jacket pocket and picked up the phone next to him. He was informed that Inspector Klein was out on an investigation but would be checking back later in the day. The duty officer knew who Bane was from previous cases and would let Klein know he had called. Bane hung up and phoned the Human Capability Enhancement project in New Mexico. He wasn't sure if Stephen Weaver still carried his Link on him, although he had kept it and it would work. Reaching Weaver's office, Bane felt his spirits lift at hearing the familiar voice of the Black Angel.
"Hey there! Dire Wolf man, how you? Let me guess. You want to talk to Cindy? She's not here. She and Megan went to meet with some Trom liaisons to get terms settled before Megan signs up with you two."
"A new team of Tel Shai knights," Bane said. "A new KDF. This building has been empty too long. You've been working with our little Trom Girl."
"She's a good kid, Jeremy. I think she'll be as much a hero as anyone of us were. Man, I wish being a Tel Shai knight. If my levitating came back a little stronger, I'd strap the Black Angel wings on again in a second."
Bane's voice softened just perceptibly. "You know, Steve, you'd be welcome to live here in New York. You could do upkeep on the CORBY and help train the new kids. And frankly, Cindy and I would like having you stay here. This is a big building for just two people, it feels like a museum sometimes."
"Aw, go ahead and get mushy if you want," Weaver answered warmly. "I miss you guys too but I'm doing important work here. The Trom trust me and they don't trust many Humans. Tell you what, I'll come back to the city when you get things set up and meet the new team. I can't believe it's been almost twenty years since we met."
"Time is going by faster. Okay. Look, Steve, tell Cin and Megan that I'm on a case and won't be at the headquarters. I hope you visit soon. Take care." Hanging up, Bane rested his hand on the phone with rare thoughtfulness. Only six Tel Shai knights had survived that hellish Final Halloween nine years earlier when he had disbanded the original KDF. Of them, only Cindy and himself had stayed active in the field. The others, Ted Wright and Sulak and Garrison Nebel and a few others, had gone to different lives and not returned to the Midnight War. He could not blame them.
Standing up with a deep breath, he headed for the door and down the stairs to the front hall. He was already wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and the usual arsenal on his person, from the silver-bladed daggers sheathed on his forearms to the anesthethic dart gun holstered behind his left hip. Bane paused to pull on the long coat hanging by the front door. It would be a little warmer today, just above freezing. The Dire Wold stepped into the walk-in closet, through the hidden panel in its back wall and down steep concrete steps to the basement. Past the furnace and water tank, past the vault and arsenal, to the plain wooden door of the underground garage. He climbed back into the Mustang he had left only six hours earlier and started up the ramp.
Exiting the alley onto Lexington Avenue, he pulled into traffic. There were two possibilities for the Sphinx's next victim. A year ago, Nefu-Sobekhad been almost captured. A FBI task force known as 21 Black had raided his strongholded, killing two gang members and rounding up nine others. The Sphinx himself had escaped, not the first time he had slipped out as a noose was drawn. For the past year, he had not been heard from. At the time, Bane had been on the Sphinx's trail himself; he had been tipped that the mastermind was after a mystic scarab talisman that a local author owned. According to Bane's sources, the raid had been engineered by an undercover 21 Black agent, a woman known as Signet, since re-assigned to Washington. But the Sphinx did not know that. He had been reported believing that he had been betrayed by his lieutenants. The deaths of Grier and Abernethy, both top men in the cult, confirmed this and Bane thought it was obvious the sphinx was just getting started with his purge. There were four or five cultists still free, but only two more candidates most likely for the hit list. One was Elizabeth Gwynne, who had handled paying off cops and bribing politicians. The trouble with her was that she had moved to Florida. It didn't seem reasonable for the Sphinx to go all the way after her and then return to Manhattan, where the NYPD and 21 Black would have time to get organized. No, he would dispose of Daniel Greenfeld first while in the area.
Bane knew Midtown inch by inch, having grown up on its side streets and back alleys, but he was in slightly less familiar territory in the financial district. He found the address on Wall Street itself but spent another twelve minutes trying to grab a parking spot. Finally, he left the Mustang squeezed in a vacancy and jumped out impatiently. On the sidewalk, being surrounded by so many skyscrapers was like being at the bottom of a canyon and there was a distinct feeling that the buildings were going to fall over on him.He dismissed the sensation as an optical illusion and hurried to find the address. A featureless grey slab of stone like many others. He trotted up the wide steps and across a marble lobby packed with men in suits rushing back and forth. The Dire Wolf checked the wall directory with a glance. Greenfeld and Associates, Consultations, Rooms 2203-2205. He snorted to himself as he got into a crowded elevator. Consultations! A description that vague could cover a wide range of shady dealings. Sphinx in charge or not, he would bet that Greenfeld was still a crook. This company with its plush location had been bought with money from extortion, slavery and murder.
On the 22nd floor, Bane strode out of the elevator and directly across the deep-carpeted hall to a pair of mahogany doors with a brass plaque GREENFELD AND ASSOCIATES. He seldom knocked and this time he shoved the doors inward to march into a suit that cost more just to furnish than most home mortgages. It was all ivory and off-white, from the floor-length curtains to the recessed lighting. Sitting behind a cream-colored desk, working on a desktop, was a handsome young man with a deep tan and neat tailoring.
As the doors slammed inward and a gaunt man in black burst in, the male secretary rose from his seat. He was imposing enough to be a bouncer, wide-shouldered and deep-voiced. "ExCUSE me!" he boomed. "Say, just a moment, you can't come in here-"
"I just did," Bane answered, not breaking stride as he reached the frosted-glass door of the inner voice. It was just as well that door was ajar because if it had been locked, Bane would have just broken the lock without pausing. As he reached his hand to the knob, the Dire Wolf saw the secretary rush up.
"See here, I'll throw you myself."
"You can try," Bane said. There was such calm assurance in his voice and in those cold grey eyes that the secretary hesitated. But then the man grabbed for his arm anyway. The Wolf snapped out a backfist that swung the young man's head far to one side. He sagged to his hands and knees, not completely unconscious. Bane went through the door into an office that looked remarkably cold and uninviting, brightly lit and furnished with chrome and white enamel. From behind a wide desk, Daniel Greenfeld jumped to his feet as though he had been given an electric shock. "Oh my Lord! Bane!"
"Nice to be recognized," the Dire Wolf said. "That should save some time. Listen to me closely. Ready. The Sphinx is back. Timothy Grier and Lawrence Abernethy are already dead. Got it?"
Greenfeld was visibly trembling, trying to back up. "And you? Why are you here?"
"Let's get things straight. I'm hunting the Sphinx. You- you're a crook, but you're not my kind of my crook. I tackle killers. So you have nothing to fear from me as long as you cooperate." Bane stepped closer. "In fact, you should be glad to see me. Your boss has already bumped off two of the gang. Maybe I can tag him before he gets around to you."
In the doorway, the secretary appeared, rubbing his jaw gingerly. "I'm calling the police!"
"Go ahead," said Bane, "Extension 14. See if Inspector Klein is back yet."
"Stay where you are, Garrett. All right, Mr Bane, tell me more. You've certainly got my attention," Greenfeld decided.
The Dire Wolf positioned himself so he could see both men without turning. This was automatic with him, he always spotted exits and possible places where someone might be concealed. He had been at war all his life. "Last night, I saw Lawrence Abernethy die. The night before that, it was Timothy Grier. It doesn't take deductive genius to see you're next on your boss' hit parade. He thinks he was betrayed by his own crew."
"How... how did they die?" asked Greenfeld, still admitting nothing but choosing his words carefully.
"They turned into instant mummies. Just like that. And I think I know how the Sphinx did it. It's almost noon. Last night at midnight, did you drink or eat anything outside your home?"
"I was at the bar in Grand Central. Haggard's, where I often go. The bartender knows me and he has my martini ready as soon as he sees me come in. I've been staying at the Carleton and I needed a double after working these hours."
"What else did you?" Bane demanded.
"Just a sandwich and chips."
The Dire Wolf swung to glare at the secretary. "Call 911! Get some EMTs here, I think your employer here has been poisoned."
"Hold it!" yelled Greenfeld. "Garrett, stay put. Mr Bane, you force your way into my office with one wild story after another. I have never known anyone called 'the Sphinx.' And your insinuations border on slander-" He broke off in mid-sentence as his face went absolutely white and he groaned in sudden pain. Garrett took a hesitant step forward but stopped. As Bane swung around the corner of the desk, he also stopped short. Daniel Greenfeld doubled up in a violent sezure, fell onto the deep rug and convulsed. From even orifice, even his eyes and ears, cloudy fluid squirted and gushed out. He wasn't even able to scream.
Stepping closer to the body, the Dire Wolf glared down furiously at it. Lying in a puddle of his own fluids, Greenfeld had turned into a brittle, wrinkled cadaver that looked as if it had been dug out of an Egyptian tomb. If not not for the elegant dark grey suit, the withered corpse was a perfect mummy.
"Number three!" growled Bane. "The Sphinx has been ahead of me every step so far." Straightening up, he glanced over at the desk. A long piece of tan-colored paper caught his eye. Without touching it, he leaned over and got a look. In a simple handprinted message were the words: TRAITOR, THIS DAY IS YOUR LAST. NEVER SHALL YOUR SOUL FIND REST UNTO ETERNITY. The words had been written on a photocopy of a photograph which showed the Pyramid of Gizeh in the background in the foreground was the Great Sphinx.
III.
When he had first started working for Kenneth Dred, Bane had always tried to escape the scenes of mayhem before the police arrived. Gradually, as he learned the unwritten rules of the desperate game, he found he could use police doing their interrogation to actually find out information about the killers he was stalking. The truth was that cops were used to dealing with terrified victims, shaken-up witnesses and uneasy suspects. Someone like Bane was outside their experience. As the years went by, the NYPD came to regard to Dire Wolf as a useful weapon in cases involving the inexplicable and outright supernatural. It was unofficial and off the record and everyone in the department would deny it, but he had become a sort of specialist to be called in.
Two hours after Greenfeld's gruesome demise, the CSI teams had wrapped up. The secretary Garrett had been sent home. The young man had stood five feet away as a human being had dried up and fallen dead. He was traumatized enough to need a taxi. Bane watched the man leave shakily, escorted to the street by a uniformed officer. Standing by the desk, Harold Klein mumbled, "You forget not everybody is used to this sort of thing, son."
Bane shrugged unsympathetically. "It's all I've ever known. Klein, I know now how the Sphinx is pulling these murders. He has a drug called Imnefer, a forbidden potion that makes the body expel all its water content. It was used to embalm bodies in ancient Khebir. The lab boys may find traces of it, but I doubt it. This is something outside normal chemistry."
"I'm with you so far. The bit where he tells his victim they're going to die and then kills them without being there? What's the deal with that trick?"
The Dire Wolf stepped closer as the last of the CSI examiners took away bagged samples. "That's the diabolical part. This Imnefer can be used as a dust, sprinkled on someone to mummify him instantly. Menekartes used it as a weapon that way. Or it can be diluted into a solution and given orally to the victim. It takes effect hours later, usually about twenty hours later."
"That's twisted!" Klein snorted. "So this Sphinx guy slips the poison to Grier and Abernethy and now Greenfeld. He puts it in a drink or their food. Then he leaves them a threatening note and sits back to wait at a safe distance."
"That's it. And in a locked room guarded by half a dozen officers, while you and I watch, the victim turns into a mummy in front of our eyes."
Klein exhaled and shook his head. "Damn. I will NEVER say I have seen everything. Well. You tell me Greenfeld said he had a drink last night at Haggard's Bar. I'm on my way to question the bartender and waiters. And you?
"I think I should head in a different direction. Questioning suspects is something you better than anyone I know. I would just stand there and look dumb. No, I have a hunch to follow."
The inspector had one glass eye; the other one fixed intently on Bane. "Care to spill any details?"
"Nothing definite. It's clear that the Sphinx is wiping out his old gang to make sure he gets the one who betrayed him. You have the list of those who are still in the slammer, of course."
"Sure. The three who weren't convicted or who charged are the same three we've seen dry up."
Bane frowned and stood with folded arms over the spot where Greenfeld had died. "Wait. What about the FBI woman who actually did turn the Sphinx in?"
"The Bureau knows about this. They tell me she's in a safe spot."
"Hmm. I can't help feeling there's something else the Sphinx has in mind. He's been in hiding for a year. My guess is he's itching to pull a crime just because he loves to."
"Well, good hunting. I got some bartenders to question." Klein started heading for the door. "You coming?"
"In a few minutes. I need to think. I'll call you as soon anything turns up."
"Bane," said the inspector, just the single word.
"What?"
"So far this guy you call the sphinx has been killing his gang members, crooks as bad as he is. But we have to treat him as if he was murdering Girl Scouts. We can't let him bump off a few more before closing in. You read me?"
"Sure, Inspector. What makes you think of that?"
Klein smiled wryly. "Sometimes I see you get caught up in the chase. You're not called Dire Wolf by accident."
"Got it," Bane answered. "Don't worry."
Klein grunted and left the office. It was highly irregular for him to leave a civilian alone at a crime scene, although a uniformed officer waited in the hall outside for the moment. Bane was a licensed PI but still, he should have been escorted from the office. This was an example of the way the NYPD tended to overlook protocol because of the results he got. The Dire Wolf stood there thinking for another five minutes, head down. Logically, he should rush to the next two or three members from the gang. But he had been a step behind the Sphinx so far and he didn't want to rush up just in time to watch another victim turn into a mummy. Suddenly, he straightened up and rushed from the office, thumbing the elevator button and nodding to the officer on guard as he spend back down to the street.
As he raced to where he had left his car and pocketed the parking ticket under the wipers, Bane had Klein's comment stuck in his mind. What was that all about? Did the inspector think he was holding back because he wanted the Sphinx to wipe out his gang? That was annoying. As he drove back to 38th Street, he kept turning possibilities over in his mind. What should his next move be? For some reason, he thought it would be a waste of time to fly down to Florida to try to protect that woman from the gang. His instincts told him the enemy was still here in the city. Back at the headquarters building, he parked his car in the underground garage and went back to his office. No messages. His stomach rumbled audibly, and he glanced at the wall clock. Four o'clock. Going to the kitchen, he made an omelet with four eggs and chunks of Parmesan cheese, drank half a bottle of cranberry juice and felt his tension ease up a little. He got a bowl of cottage cheese with pineapple chunks and devoured that as well. As he cleaned up and put the frying pan away, Bane abruptly froze into position. His subconscious had been worked while he distracted himself with food. As soon as he stopped trying to pull up information, the information floated to the surface of his mind. Turning off the kitchen light, he ran across the hall to his office.
In a waist-high bookcase by his desk was a row of phone books. Yes. There she was, Celia W Marshe, 113 West 45th Street. It felt right. Moving in a blur, he raced down to the garage without stopping for his coat and jumped into the Mustang once again. He didn't have far to go this time. There was a spot on 46th and he parallel parked into it, jumping out and running to the address he wanted. It was an unimpressive brick building on the corner of 9th Avenue. The foyer was the size of a phone booth and smelled of cabbage at best. Bane went up the narrow wooden steps two at a time, stopping on the second floor landing in front of adoor that 2B MARSHE. He took a second to breathe deeply and slowly, loosened the silver daggers sheathed on his forearms and to calm himself. Dropping into a stance, he drove a sharp blow with the heel of his hand just above the doorknob. The lock snapped cleanly and the door slammed inward. Bane hurtled into an apartment littered with piles of books and loose papers, curios and statuettes standing on every available surface. It smelled of sandalwood.
An open doorway showed a tiny kitchen, with a sink and gas range. The refrigerator door was open and, standing in front of it with an open container of milk in his hand, was an imposing man.
"Nefu-Sobek."
"Bane," growled the Sphinx.
IV.
"Leaving a little food additive?" the Dire Wolf asked quietly.
The Sphinx slowly returned the milk carton to the refrigerator, leaving the door open. Its light and that which came from the door behind Bane were the only illumination. He was standing with his left side toward his enemy, ten feet away across a cluttered floor. Nefu-Sobek was just under six feet tall, but wide and solidly built, with thick arms and legs. His hands were abnormally large. The mastermind was well-dressed, in a dark brown suit with matching vest and a yellow tie, highly polished shoes and a white topcoat. The face above that impeccable collar was massive, broad, and intimidating. Bronze skin, a leonine flat nose and wide-set dark eyes gave the man a distinct resemblance to the monument from which he had taken his name.
"Dire Wolf. I had not planned on settling my grievance with you at this time. But, since you are here..."
Bane took a step into the room, arms down and relaxed, ready to move in any direction. "Oh, you mean that night at the Museum of Oriental Antiquities? The last I saw of you, the authorities were getting papers to deport you back to Egypt. You got off easy."
"After you struck me with your hands! I had broken no laws in this land when you accused me of theft."
"Come on. You stuck a gun in my face and pulled the trigger four times. If I hadn't seen your little pal Ginger show me the bullets in his hand, I wouldn't have let you get that far. You're not the mastermind your old master was, Sphinx. I'll say this for Menekartes, he was the real thing. A spirit from the Darthan Age, thousands of years old, inhabiting the body of an actual Egyptian mummy. Man! You just don't get monsters like that these days."
The Sphinx had not moved. "I have my curiosity. What brings you here- to this place at this time."
"I remembered that I was tracking you the night the FBI busted your racket," Bane said. "That damn blue scarab amulet had turned up again. It was detected in the New York area and I knew you'd be after it. Just now, I realized you have succeeded in slaughtering your three lieutenants but before you left the city, you'd want to claim that beetle talisman. And I knew Celia Marshe had written an article about it recently."
"I'm surprised you could figure that out on your own."
Bane smiled very faintly, but with his eyebrows lowered. "You've left your trail of instant mummies. That ends now. As a private investigator licensed by the state and city of New York, I place you under arrest on three charges of murder in the first degree. Let's go." He took a step forward.
The Sphinx slammed the refrigerator door so hard a bottle fell inside, and as he swung around, a white flash exploded from the pistol in his right hand. Four bullets tore through the air at Bane. One missed entirely but two slammed into his chest and one caught him in the shoulder. Caught moving forward, off-balance, the impact knocked him back off his feet. The Trom armor he wore under his clothes was good but it did't make him invulnerable. Some of the concussion got through. Even as he fell, though, the Dire Wolf caught his weight on his toes and the outstretched fingers on one hand. His left arm flicked. A silver blur spun and the throwing dagger slid cleanly through the Sphinx's wrist with its point sticking out the other side. Even Nefu-Sobek bellowed at the unexpected pain. The revolver fell from his limp fingers. Before it hit the floor, Bane was upon him. He was taking no chances with an enemy like this and he threw a storm of alternating straight punches to the body that sounded like drumming. He felt a rib crack beneath his fist.
The Sphinx could not defend himself because of the knife through his hand. Bane stepped back for the finishing blow. Nefu-Sobek threw a clumsy ineffective left cross and, as that arm was extended its fullest, Bane seized that wrist with his own left hand and brought his right hand across sharply to break the man's elbow. Gasping for breath from the pain, the Sphinx staggered back against the sink.
"You've got both arms out of commission," Bane said. "Time to give it up."
"What are you waiting for!" screamed the mastermind. "Finish it!"
"Oh, very well," the Dire Wolf snapped. He stepped forward and drove a straight ram's head punch to an exact spot above the diaphragm. Blood was driven away from the impact and the air was forced from the man's lungs with explosive suddenness. The Sphinx slumped to the floor and over onto one side. Bane watched him warily for a second.
He next did something curious. There was a butcher block with an assortment of wooden-handled knives by the sink. Bane selected one with a blade as close to that of his daggers as was available, then got a clean dishtowl and a ladle. He slid his dagger from the Sphinx's hand and placed it in the sink, then tied up the man's wound tightly, using the ladle as a tourniquet. It took a minute for the bleeding to be stopped. Bane cleaned his dagger thoroughly before returning it to its sheath and left the kitchen knife in the sink with the blood. Those silver daggers had been given to him by Kenneth Dred at their first meeting and he had no intention of ever surrendering them as evidence. He realized that forensics could establish that the wound had not been made by that kitchen knife but he figured the police would be glad enough to have an international criminal handed over for extradition that they would accidentally overlook the mismatch.
Finding the phone, the Dire Wolf called Klein's extension and was lucky to catch him. He didn't explain over the line, just asked for an ambulance and some officers. Hanging up, he glanced down at the battered killer on the kitchen floor. A feeling of letdown swept over him. He would have to wait here for the ambulance and then go with Klein for a couple of hours of questions and paperwork, filling out statements and scheduling a discussion with the DA, whom he never liked. But that wasn't what was bothering him.
The Sphinx was breathing noisily, propped up against the cabinet beneath the sink. Blood soaked through the washcloth on the wounded hand, and the other arm was twisted in a way no unbroken arm could bend. Nefu-Sobek was a vicious killer who deserved worse, thought Bane. But the truth was, he had lost his temper after taking those shots to his torso. He had battered the Sphinx more than was necessary because he had been taken off-guard and he had been angry.
With some surprise, Bane realized he felt ashamed.
12/2/2000- Rev 10/17/2013
2/3-2/4/1999
I.
Freezing rain had been drizzling since dusk and the roads were treacherous. A layer of ice had visibly gathered on the branches of the tree outside Abernethy's house. Frowning, Jeremy Bane turned grimly away from the picture window to the situation that had drawn him here. In his forties, he remained a lean, ominous figure, still dressed all in black, still glaring at the world with cold grey eyes from beneath dark brows. More than ever, he lived up to his war name Dire Wolf.
The room showed money had been spent wisely. The uncluttered, highly polished wood floors and walls, the stone fireplace with a low fire smoldering, the solid sedate furniture, the original oil paintings.. all showed the owner was comfortably off. None of this was any comfort to the man now. In his own house, surrounded by a half dozen big police officers and the famous Dire Wolf, Lawrence T Abernethy was still shaking with terror.
From where he stood by the window, Bane glanced over at the antique grandfather clock by the door and saw it was ten minutes to midnight. He turned and strode over to the plush easy chair where Abernethy sat. The attorney was not a good-looking man at the best of times, with his weak chin and large mole on the side of his nose, but now the fear on his face took away any dignity he might have had. Standing next to Abernethy, exhaling cigar smoke through his nostrils, was Inspector Harold Klein of Homicide West. Over the past nine years, his association with Jeremy Bane had led to his being regarded as a specialist in crimes involving the unexplained, the unnatural and the just plain weird.
Klein looked up quizzically. His hair was more white than grey at this point, a year beyond normal retirement age. He stayed on duty for the moment because his experience made him invaluable. As Bane approached, Klein tried talking to Abernethy again. "Look, there's not much point in denial at this late stage. You know Grier is dead. Yesterday he got a note just like yours and last night he died. Instant mummy. He had the Sphinx mad at him just like you do. Now, we are here to protect you, sir, but your cooperation may make all the difference."
"There's nothing I can tell you," the man repeated stubbornly.
Bane stepped closer. "You know me?"
"The Dire Wolf? Oh, certainly. What criminal lawyer in the metropolitan area hasn't heard of you?"
"Good. Let me remind me you of a few men I have personally captured or killed. Samhain. Seneca. Dr Sabbath. Wu Lung. John Grim. Get the picture?"
"I know your reputation, Mr Bane."
"Good," the Dire Wolf repeated. "Your client, the Sphinx, is right up there with the monsters and maniacs I've been fighting. He's using the name Nefu-Sobek but it's certainly fake. He claims to be an Egyptian businessman from Cairo but no one there has ever heard of him. What is clear is that Nefu-Sobek was a disciple of Menekartes. Now THERE was a sorceror of the first rank. His disciples scattered after his death and Nefu-Sobek gathered a few of them to start a cult of his own. Twenty murders, a dozen high-scale robberies, sale of forbidden Velkandu drugs to highest bidder, all in the past few years. The Sphinx has been busy."
Klein tossed his cigar butt into the fireplace. "Last night, his lieutenant was killed at midnight. In a locked room with a dozen witnessses. Timothy Grier suddenly shriveled up and turned into an instant mummy. They found a note in his pocket, threatening him with death that very night." He glanced over at Bane. "Mr Abernethy here was at that party. He saw it happen. And today he found an identical note addressed to him under his front door."
Suddenly Abernethy's self-control gave way. "Oh, what's the use? You can't know what you're dealing with. Nefu-Sobek isn't human, he's a devil from Hell and nothing we do can stop him."
Klein growled, "That's enough of that talk. I've got five good hand-picked men watching this house. Your food and your water have been brought in by officers. You haven't left this house since you came in last night."
Bane asked, "Has anyone else been in the house, even for a second?"
"No," Abernethy answered sullenly. "My wife left me three years ago. I've lived alone since then."
"And my boys have searched the house, Bane. No poisoned needles in a sofa pillow, no chemicals in the heating duct to send up fumes. They're thorough as army ants. No traps." Abern
"Sounds safe enough," Bane said slowly. "And yet.. Grier seemed to be safe too."
Abernethy stood up suddenly. "All this activity will scare him off. He won't dare to try anything in a house full of armed policemen, would he?"
"These masterminds have egos bigger than a dozen normal men," Bane said. "His pride will make him give it a try and when he shows up, he's mine!" The Dire Wolf stopped suddenly, staring at the lawyer. "You turned awful white all of a sudden. Do you feel okay?"
"No. I feel- I feel awful," Abernethy gasped just as he gave a strangled gargling noise and dropped back into his chair. In a few seconds, before Klein or Bane could react, the man's body shuddered and withered to half its size. A huge puddle of cloudy fluid gushed out onto the floor as the water in his tissues gushed out and he dried up into a leathery, wrinkled husk. His sunken eyes rolled up to show only the whites.
"Instant mummies," whispered Harold Klein. "My God."
Bane whirled to glare around the room, startling the horrified policemen. "A locked room, guarded by your own men. Food and water brought in. Windows sealed, house searched. And STILL the Sphinx got him. How the hell did he do it?!"
Three hours later, the forensic squad was cleaning up without having gotten anywhere. The body had been taken out on a stretcher for a full autopsy, dozens of samples had been taken and the house was being sealed off. As the yellow tape was going up, Jeremy Bane shrugged into his long black topcoat and frowned at the world.
"Think it was poison?" Klein asked. He was as usual wearing a raincoat that had not been white for years.
"Yes," the Dire Wolf answered. "The Sphinx has never shown any energy powers. He's not the warlock that Menekartes was. But he has used Velkandu potions a number of times, including truth serums and zombie-makers. I need to check my files on this guy."
Going over to stand by the front door, Inspector Klein peered out at the night. "I'll talk to you in the morning. You might want to drive under eighty this time, it looks slick out there."
Bane snorted. "Too bad murders don't all take place in May, huh? All right. See you later, Inspector."
On the drive back down to Manhattan, Bane in fact did take it more carefully than usual. The streets were icy but they were also deserted and he could go slow. The small dark green Mustang had new tires and he was used to how it handled. Soon he turned onto Lexington Avenue without incident. At 38th Street, the Wolf pulled into the dead end alley where a brick-covered steel panel rose automatically at a signal from his dashboard. With a feeling of genuine relief, he drove down a short concerete ramp and and parked his car in the small underground garage next to the Buick Regal. Bane got out, suddenly feeling tired, which was rare for him.
Walking past the vault and arsenal, up steep concrete steps to emerge from the back of a walk-in closet in the front hall, Bane shrugged out of his heavy coat and hung it on a hook by the front door. Cindy wasn't back yet. He went in the kitchen, finished off a huge bowl of leftover macaroni salad with chicken slices, drank a glass of apple juice and then a tumbler of ice water. Feeling a bit more alive, Bane trudged up the stairs to the third floor where his room was, stripped down and took a hot shower. It was four-fifteen. He set the alarm for eight-thirty, crawled between the sheets and was asleep so fast he didn't realize it.
II.
Bane woke up just before the alarm would have gone off, completely refreshed and eager to get going. He was not made for a peaceful life. In a few minutes, he was up and dressed in a fresh uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He did have a variety of other clothes but he seldom wore them. Most were probably musty by this time. He headed down the stairs to the second floor and entered the conference room. Before settling down for the day's work, the Dire Wolf went to the waist high refrigerator in one corner and found enough to make a big ham and cheese sandwich with mustard, a glass of milk and a Danish. When he had time, he needed to restock the supplies. One drawback to his enhanced metabolism was a ferocious appetite. Bane took a solitary banana and almost inhaled it, then felt ready to get started.
He turned to gaze at the long oak table, with its twelve plain wooden chairs arrayed along it, where three generations of heroes had assembled since 1934. Bane paused for a long moment with a strange mixture of feelings. Here his friends and teammates had met for the most amazing eleven years of his life. Soon, if his plans worked out, a new team would be seated there. The wheel keeps turning, he thought. A new century, a new millenium and a new team of Tel Shai Knights. Bane smiled faintly at the prospect and went over to the row of green metal filing cabinets. Most of the reports had been scanned and put in the computer but he prefered to handle paper while thinking. He pulled three files.. one on Menekartes, also known as Prince Yathrib, one on the Sphinx and one on Velkandu sorcery.
The next hour was difficult for Bane as he studied the files. He was too hyper to stay seated for long and he had to force himself to sit and slowly study the reports. Menekartes had sure enjoyed a long murderous career for sixty years, ranking him with the very upper rank of villainy, alongside Wu Lung and Quilt and Samhain. His death ten years earlier had not been any too soon. With the fall of Menekartes, his cult had promptly fallen apart. The Mummy's chief lieutenant and protege was an international criminal best known as the Sphinx. It was Nefu-Sobek who had absconded with the fortune in cash and jewels and gold, and it was he who had claimed the arsenal of forbidden talismans Menekartes had amassed. In a few years, the distinctive Sphinx-style crimes had begun. They were characterized by the unnecessary fear and torture he inflicted on his victims, by elaborate robberies and extortion schemes, and by the way he occasionally killed one of his own men who failed him. He was careful not to let the others witness this, though, as it made recruitment difficult.
Bane shrugged. He had known all this, although the dates and some details had faded. He found a list of the Sphinx's men and sure enough both Timothy Grier and Bruce Abernethy was on the rolls. The Dire Wolf took a few minutes to fix in his memory the names and addresses of the remaining cultists, trying to spot some clue where the monster would strike next. Finally, he dug into the file on Velkandu, the secret drugs and potions known only in the Midnight War. Tagra, velocitin, grendavil, bernicas, ensalir and gremthom, and imnefre... the Mummy Dust of Death. When he closed that file, Bane pressed his palms flat on the table and felt as if a weight had been lifted. Now he knew what they were dealing with. It was a great relief.
Briskly now, the Dire Wolf returned the files to their places, folded is notes and put them in his inside jacket pocket and picked up the phone next to him. He was informed that Inspector Klein was out on an investigation but would be checking back later in the day. The duty officer knew who Bane was from previous cases and would let Klein know he had called. Bane hung up and phoned the Human Capability Enhancement project in New Mexico. He wasn't sure if Stephen Weaver still carried his Link on him, although he had kept it and it would work. Reaching Weaver's office, Bane felt his spirits lift at hearing the familiar voice of the Black Angel.
"Hey there! Dire Wolf man, how you? Let me guess. You want to talk to Cindy? She's not here. She and Megan went to meet with some Trom liaisons to get terms settled before Megan signs up with you two."
"A new team of Tel Shai knights," Bane said. "A new KDF. This building has been empty too long. You've been working with our little Trom Girl."
"She's a good kid, Jeremy. I think she'll be as much a hero as anyone of us were. Man, I wish being a Tel Shai knight. If my levitating came back a little stronger, I'd strap the Black Angel wings on again in a second."
Bane's voice softened just perceptibly. "You know, Steve, you'd be welcome to live here in New York. You could do upkeep on the CORBY and help train the new kids. And frankly, Cindy and I would like having you stay here. This is a big building for just two people, it feels like a museum sometimes."
"Aw, go ahead and get mushy if you want," Weaver answered warmly. "I miss you guys too but I'm doing important work here. The Trom trust me and they don't trust many Humans. Tell you what, I'll come back to the city when you get things set up and meet the new team. I can't believe it's been almost twenty years since we met."
"Time is going by faster. Okay. Look, Steve, tell Cin and Megan that I'm on a case and won't be at the headquarters. I hope you visit soon. Take care." Hanging up, Bane rested his hand on the phone with rare thoughtfulness. Only six Tel Shai knights had survived that hellish Final Halloween nine years earlier when he had disbanded the original KDF. Of them, only Cindy and himself had stayed active in the field. The others, Ted Wright and Sulak and Garrison Nebel and a few others, had gone to different lives and not returned to the Midnight War. He could not blame them.
Standing up with a deep breath, he headed for the door and down the stairs to the front hall. He was already wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and the usual arsenal on his person, from the silver-bladed daggers sheathed on his forearms to the anesthethic dart gun holstered behind his left hip. Bane paused to pull on the long coat hanging by the front door. It would be a little warmer today, just above freezing. The Dire Wold stepped into the walk-in closet, through the hidden panel in its back wall and down steep concrete steps to the basement. Past the furnace and water tank, past the vault and arsenal, to the plain wooden door of the underground garage. He climbed back into the Mustang he had left only six hours earlier and started up the ramp.
Exiting the alley onto Lexington Avenue, he pulled into traffic. There were two possibilities for the Sphinx's next victim. A year ago, Nefu-Sobekhad been almost captured. A FBI task force known as 21 Black had raided his strongholded, killing two gang members and rounding up nine others. The Sphinx himself had escaped, not the first time he had slipped out as a noose was drawn. For the past year, he had not been heard from. At the time, Bane had been on the Sphinx's trail himself; he had been tipped that the mastermind was after a mystic scarab talisman that a local author owned. According to Bane's sources, the raid had been engineered by an undercover 21 Black agent, a woman known as Signet, since re-assigned to Washington. But the Sphinx did not know that. He had been reported believing that he had been betrayed by his lieutenants. The deaths of Grier and Abernethy, both top men in the cult, confirmed this and Bane thought it was obvious the sphinx was just getting started with his purge. There were four or five cultists still free, but only two more candidates most likely for the hit list. One was Elizabeth Gwynne, who had handled paying off cops and bribing politicians. The trouble with her was that she had moved to Florida. It didn't seem reasonable for the Sphinx to go all the way after her and then return to Manhattan, where the NYPD and 21 Black would have time to get organized. No, he would dispose of Daniel Greenfeld first while in the area.
Bane knew Midtown inch by inch, having grown up on its side streets and back alleys, but he was in slightly less familiar territory in the financial district. He found the address on Wall Street itself but spent another twelve minutes trying to grab a parking spot. Finally, he left the Mustang squeezed in a vacancy and jumped out impatiently. On the sidewalk, being surrounded by so many skyscrapers was like being at the bottom of a canyon and there was a distinct feeling that the buildings were going to fall over on him.He dismissed the sensation as an optical illusion and hurried to find the address. A featureless grey slab of stone like many others. He trotted up the wide steps and across a marble lobby packed with men in suits rushing back and forth. The Dire Wolf checked the wall directory with a glance. Greenfeld and Associates, Consultations, Rooms 2203-2205. He snorted to himself as he got into a crowded elevator. Consultations! A description that vague could cover a wide range of shady dealings. Sphinx in charge or not, he would bet that Greenfeld was still a crook. This company with its plush location had been bought with money from extortion, slavery and murder.
On the 22nd floor, Bane strode out of the elevator and directly across the deep-carpeted hall to a pair of mahogany doors with a brass plaque GREENFELD AND ASSOCIATES. He seldom knocked and this time he shoved the doors inward to march into a suit that cost more just to furnish than most home mortgages. It was all ivory and off-white, from the floor-length curtains to the recessed lighting. Sitting behind a cream-colored desk, working on a desktop, was a handsome young man with a deep tan and neat tailoring.
As the doors slammed inward and a gaunt man in black burst in, the male secretary rose from his seat. He was imposing enough to be a bouncer, wide-shouldered and deep-voiced. "ExCUSE me!" he boomed. "Say, just a moment, you can't come in here-"
"I just did," Bane answered, not breaking stride as he reached the frosted-glass door of the inner voice. It was just as well that door was ajar because if it had been locked, Bane would have just broken the lock without pausing. As he reached his hand to the knob, the Dire Wolf saw the secretary rush up.
"See here, I'll throw you myself."
"You can try," Bane said. There was such calm assurance in his voice and in those cold grey eyes that the secretary hesitated. But then the man grabbed for his arm anyway. The Wolf snapped out a backfist that swung the young man's head far to one side. He sagged to his hands and knees, not completely unconscious. Bane went through the door into an office that looked remarkably cold and uninviting, brightly lit and furnished with chrome and white enamel. From behind a wide desk, Daniel Greenfeld jumped to his feet as though he had been given an electric shock. "Oh my Lord! Bane!"
"Nice to be recognized," the Dire Wolf said. "That should save some time. Listen to me closely. Ready. The Sphinx is back. Timothy Grier and Lawrence Abernethy are already dead. Got it?"
Greenfeld was visibly trembling, trying to back up. "And you? Why are you here?"
"Let's get things straight. I'm hunting the Sphinx. You- you're a crook, but you're not my kind of my crook. I tackle killers. So you have nothing to fear from me as long as you cooperate." Bane stepped closer. "In fact, you should be glad to see me. Your boss has already bumped off two of the gang. Maybe I can tag him before he gets around to you."
In the doorway, the secretary appeared, rubbing his jaw gingerly. "I'm calling the police!"
"Go ahead," said Bane, "Extension 14. See if Inspector Klein is back yet."
"Stay where you are, Garrett. All right, Mr Bane, tell me more. You've certainly got my attention," Greenfeld decided.
The Dire Wolf positioned himself so he could see both men without turning. This was automatic with him, he always spotted exits and possible places where someone might be concealed. He had been at war all his life. "Last night, I saw Lawrence Abernethy die. The night before that, it was Timothy Grier. It doesn't take deductive genius to see you're next on your boss' hit parade. He thinks he was betrayed by his own crew."
"How... how did they die?" asked Greenfeld, still admitting nothing but choosing his words carefully.
"They turned into instant mummies. Just like that. And I think I know how the Sphinx did it. It's almost noon. Last night at midnight, did you drink or eat anything outside your home?"
"I was at the bar in Grand Central. Haggard's, where I often go. The bartender knows me and he has my martini ready as soon as he sees me come in. I've been staying at the Carleton and I needed a double after working these hours."
"What else did you?" Bane demanded.
"Just a sandwich and chips."
The Dire Wolf swung to glare at the secretary. "Call 911! Get some EMTs here, I think your employer here has been poisoned."
"Hold it!" yelled Greenfeld. "Garrett, stay put. Mr Bane, you force your way into my office with one wild story after another. I have never known anyone called 'the Sphinx.' And your insinuations border on slander-" He broke off in mid-sentence as his face went absolutely white and he groaned in sudden pain. Garrett took a hesitant step forward but stopped. As Bane swung around the corner of the desk, he also stopped short. Daniel Greenfeld doubled up in a violent sezure, fell onto the deep rug and convulsed. From even orifice, even his eyes and ears, cloudy fluid squirted and gushed out. He wasn't even able to scream.
Stepping closer to the body, the Dire Wolf glared down furiously at it. Lying in a puddle of his own fluids, Greenfeld had turned into a brittle, wrinkled cadaver that looked as if it had been dug out of an Egyptian tomb. If not not for the elegant dark grey suit, the withered corpse was a perfect mummy.
"Number three!" growled Bane. "The Sphinx has been ahead of me every step so far." Straightening up, he glanced over at the desk. A long piece of tan-colored paper caught his eye. Without touching it, he leaned over and got a look. In a simple handprinted message were the words: TRAITOR, THIS DAY IS YOUR LAST. NEVER SHALL YOUR SOUL FIND REST UNTO ETERNITY. The words had been written on a photocopy of a photograph which showed the Pyramid of Gizeh in the background in the foreground was the Great Sphinx.
III.
When he had first started working for Kenneth Dred, Bane had always tried to escape the scenes of mayhem before the police arrived. Gradually, as he learned the unwritten rules of the desperate game, he found he could use police doing their interrogation to actually find out information about the killers he was stalking. The truth was that cops were used to dealing with terrified victims, shaken-up witnesses and uneasy suspects. Someone like Bane was outside their experience. As the years went by, the NYPD came to regard to Dire Wolf as a useful weapon in cases involving the inexplicable and outright supernatural. It was unofficial and off the record and everyone in the department would deny it, but he had become a sort of specialist to be called in.
Two hours after Greenfeld's gruesome demise, the CSI teams had wrapped up. The secretary Garrett had been sent home. The young man had stood five feet away as a human being had dried up and fallen dead. He was traumatized enough to need a taxi. Bane watched the man leave shakily, escorted to the street by a uniformed officer. Standing by the desk, Harold Klein mumbled, "You forget not everybody is used to this sort of thing, son."
Bane shrugged unsympathetically. "It's all I've ever known. Klein, I know now how the Sphinx is pulling these murders. He has a drug called Imnefer, a forbidden potion that makes the body expel all its water content. It was used to embalm bodies in ancient Khebir. The lab boys may find traces of it, but I doubt it. This is something outside normal chemistry."
"I'm with you so far. The bit where he tells his victim they're going to die and then kills them without being there? What's the deal with that trick?"
The Dire Wolf stepped closer as the last of the CSI examiners took away bagged samples. "That's the diabolical part. This Imnefer can be used as a dust, sprinkled on someone to mummify him instantly. Menekartes used it as a weapon that way. Or it can be diluted into a solution and given orally to the victim. It takes effect hours later, usually about twenty hours later."
"That's twisted!" Klein snorted. "So this Sphinx guy slips the poison to Grier and Abernethy and now Greenfeld. He puts it in a drink or their food. Then he leaves them a threatening note and sits back to wait at a safe distance."
"That's it. And in a locked room guarded by half a dozen officers, while you and I watch, the victim turns into a mummy in front of our eyes."
Klein exhaled and shook his head. "Damn. I will NEVER say I have seen everything. Well. You tell me Greenfeld said he had a drink last night at Haggard's Bar. I'm on my way to question the bartender and waiters. And you?
"I think I should head in a different direction. Questioning suspects is something you better than anyone I know. I would just stand there and look dumb. No, I have a hunch to follow."
The inspector had one glass eye; the other one fixed intently on Bane. "Care to spill any details?"
"Nothing definite. It's clear that the Sphinx is wiping out his old gang to make sure he gets the one who betrayed him. You have the list of those who are still in the slammer, of course."
"Sure. The three who weren't convicted or who charged are the same three we've seen dry up."
Bane frowned and stood with folded arms over the spot where Greenfeld had died. "Wait. What about the FBI woman who actually did turn the Sphinx in?"
"The Bureau knows about this. They tell me she's in a safe spot."
"Hmm. I can't help feeling there's something else the Sphinx has in mind. He's been in hiding for a year. My guess is he's itching to pull a crime just because he loves to."
"Well, good hunting. I got some bartenders to question." Klein started heading for the door. "You coming?"
"In a few minutes. I need to think. I'll call you as soon anything turns up."
"Bane," said the inspector, just the single word.
"What?"
"So far this guy you call the sphinx has been killing his gang members, crooks as bad as he is. But we have to treat him as if he was murdering Girl Scouts. We can't let him bump off a few more before closing in. You read me?"
"Sure, Inspector. What makes you think of that?"
Klein smiled wryly. "Sometimes I see you get caught up in the chase. You're not called Dire Wolf by accident."
"Got it," Bane answered. "Don't worry."
Klein grunted and left the office. It was highly irregular for him to leave a civilian alone at a crime scene, although a uniformed officer waited in the hall outside for the moment. Bane was a licensed PI but still, he should have been escorted from the office. This was an example of the way the NYPD tended to overlook protocol because of the results he got. The Dire Wolf stood there thinking for another five minutes, head down. Logically, he should rush to the next two or three members from the gang. But he had been a step behind the Sphinx so far and he didn't want to rush up just in time to watch another victim turn into a mummy. Suddenly, he straightened up and rushed from the office, thumbing the elevator button and nodding to the officer on guard as he spend back down to the street.
As he raced to where he had left his car and pocketed the parking ticket under the wipers, Bane had Klein's comment stuck in his mind. What was that all about? Did the inspector think he was holding back because he wanted the Sphinx to wipe out his gang? That was annoying. As he drove back to 38th Street, he kept turning possibilities over in his mind. What should his next move be? For some reason, he thought it would be a waste of time to fly down to Florida to try to protect that woman from the gang. His instincts told him the enemy was still here in the city. Back at the headquarters building, he parked his car in the underground garage and went back to his office. No messages. His stomach rumbled audibly, and he glanced at the wall clock. Four o'clock. Going to the kitchen, he made an omelet with four eggs and chunks of Parmesan cheese, drank half a bottle of cranberry juice and felt his tension ease up a little. He got a bowl of cottage cheese with pineapple chunks and devoured that as well. As he cleaned up and put the frying pan away, Bane abruptly froze into position. His subconscious had been worked while he distracted himself with food. As soon as he stopped trying to pull up information, the information floated to the surface of his mind. Turning off the kitchen light, he ran across the hall to his office.
In a waist-high bookcase by his desk was a row of phone books. Yes. There she was, Celia W Marshe, 113 West 45th Street. It felt right. Moving in a blur, he raced down to the garage without stopping for his coat and jumped into the Mustang once again. He didn't have far to go this time. There was a spot on 46th and he parallel parked into it, jumping out and running to the address he wanted. It was an unimpressive brick building on the corner of 9th Avenue. The foyer was the size of a phone booth and smelled of cabbage at best. Bane went up the narrow wooden steps two at a time, stopping on the second floor landing in front of adoor that 2B MARSHE. He took a second to breathe deeply and slowly, loosened the silver daggers sheathed on his forearms and to calm himself. Dropping into a stance, he drove a sharp blow with the heel of his hand just above the doorknob. The lock snapped cleanly and the door slammed inward. Bane hurtled into an apartment littered with piles of books and loose papers, curios and statuettes standing on every available surface. It smelled of sandalwood.
An open doorway showed a tiny kitchen, with a sink and gas range. The refrigerator door was open and, standing in front of it with an open container of milk in his hand, was an imposing man.
"Nefu-Sobek."
"Bane," growled the Sphinx.
IV.
"Leaving a little food additive?" the Dire Wolf asked quietly.
The Sphinx slowly returned the milk carton to the refrigerator, leaving the door open. Its light and that which came from the door behind Bane were the only illumination. He was standing with his left side toward his enemy, ten feet away across a cluttered floor. Nefu-Sobek was just under six feet tall, but wide and solidly built, with thick arms and legs. His hands were abnormally large. The mastermind was well-dressed, in a dark brown suit with matching vest and a yellow tie, highly polished shoes and a white topcoat. The face above that impeccable collar was massive, broad, and intimidating. Bronze skin, a leonine flat nose and wide-set dark eyes gave the man a distinct resemblance to the monument from which he had taken his name.
"Dire Wolf. I had not planned on settling my grievance with you at this time. But, since you are here..."
Bane took a step into the room, arms down and relaxed, ready to move in any direction. "Oh, you mean that night at the Museum of Oriental Antiquities? The last I saw of you, the authorities were getting papers to deport you back to Egypt. You got off easy."
"After you struck me with your hands! I had broken no laws in this land when you accused me of theft."
"Come on. You stuck a gun in my face and pulled the trigger four times. If I hadn't seen your little pal Ginger show me the bullets in his hand, I wouldn't have let you get that far. You're not the mastermind your old master was, Sphinx. I'll say this for Menekartes, he was the real thing. A spirit from the Darthan Age, thousands of years old, inhabiting the body of an actual Egyptian mummy. Man! You just don't get monsters like that these days."
The Sphinx had not moved. "I have my curiosity. What brings you here- to this place at this time."
"I remembered that I was tracking you the night the FBI busted your racket," Bane said. "That damn blue scarab amulet had turned up again. It was detected in the New York area and I knew you'd be after it. Just now, I realized you have succeeded in slaughtering your three lieutenants but before you left the city, you'd want to claim that beetle talisman. And I knew Celia Marshe had written an article about it recently."
"I'm surprised you could figure that out on your own."
Bane smiled very faintly, but with his eyebrows lowered. "You've left your trail of instant mummies. That ends now. As a private investigator licensed by the state and city of New York, I place you under arrest on three charges of murder in the first degree. Let's go." He took a step forward.
The Sphinx slammed the refrigerator door so hard a bottle fell inside, and as he swung around, a white flash exploded from the pistol in his right hand. Four bullets tore through the air at Bane. One missed entirely but two slammed into his chest and one caught him in the shoulder. Caught moving forward, off-balance, the impact knocked him back off his feet. The Trom armor he wore under his clothes was good but it did't make him invulnerable. Some of the concussion got through. Even as he fell, though, the Dire Wolf caught his weight on his toes and the outstretched fingers on one hand. His left arm flicked. A silver blur spun and the throwing dagger slid cleanly through the Sphinx's wrist with its point sticking out the other side. Even Nefu-Sobek bellowed at the unexpected pain. The revolver fell from his limp fingers. Before it hit the floor, Bane was upon him. He was taking no chances with an enemy like this and he threw a storm of alternating straight punches to the body that sounded like drumming. He felt a rib crack beneath his fist.
The Sphinx could not defend himself because of the knife through his hand. Bane stepped back for the finishing blow. Nefu-Sobek threw a clumsy ineffective left cross and, as that arm was extended its fullest, Bane seized that wrist with his own left hand and brought his right hand across sharply to break the man's elbow. Gasping for breath from the pain, the Sphinx staggered back against the sink.
"You've got both arms out of commission," Bane said. "Time to give it up."
"What are you waiting for!" screamed the mastermind. "Finish it!"
"Oh, very well," the Dire Wolf snapped. He stepped forward and drove a straight ram's head punch to an exact spot above the diaphragm. Blood was driven away from the impact and the air was forced from the man's lungs with explosive suddenness. The Sphinx slumped to the floor and over onto one side. Bane watched him warily for a second.
He next did something curious. There was a butcher block with an assortment of wooden-handled knives by the sink. Bane selected one with a blade as close to that of his daggers as was available, then got a clean dishtowl and a ladle. He slid his dagger from the Sphinx's hand and placed it in the sink, then tied up the man's wound tightly, using the ladle as a tourniquet. It took a minute for the bleeding to be stopped. Bane cleaned his dagger thoroughly before returning it to its sheath and left the kitchen knife in the sink with the blood. Those silver daggers had been given to him by Kenneth Dred at their first meeting and he had no intention of ever surrendering them as evidence. He realized that forensics could establish that the wound had not been made by that kitchen knife but he figured the police would be glad enough to have an international criminal handed over for extradition that they would accidentally overlook the mismatch.
Finding the phone, the Dire Wolf called Klein's extension and was lucky to catch him. He didn't explain over the line, just asked for an ambulance and some officers. Hanging up, he glanced down at the battered killer on the kitchen floor. A feeling of letdown swept over him. He would have to wait here for the ambulance and then go with Klein for a couple of hours of questions and paperwork, filling out statements and scheduling a discussion with the DA, whom he never liked. But that wasn't what was bothering him.
The Sphinx was breathing noisily, propped up against the cabinet beneath the sink. Blood soaked through the washcloth on the wounded hand, and the other arm was twisted in a way no unbroken arm could bend. Nefu-Sobek was a vicious killer who deserved worse, thought Bane. But the truth was, he had lost his temper after taking those shots to his torso. He had battered the Sphinx more than was necessary because he had been taken off-guard and he had been angry.
With some surprise, Bane realized he felt ashamed.
12/2/2000- Rev 10/17/2013
