"The Triceratops Murders"
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dochermes"The Triceratops Murders"
4/8-4/9/2008
I.
visibility was so poor Bane could hardly see the street lights. He eased the Surbaru up to the curb and glanced at the outside thermometer, it read twelve degrees. Forlorn Corners, Minnesota in April. He was wearing the full field suit of black leatherlike boots, pants and jacket and now he pulled the gloves on. On the seat next to him was the helmet. The Dire Wolf pulled it on, sealed it around the high collar of the jacket and lowered the visor. He took a minute to activate the display, using the Trom sensors that amplified light until he saw through the window of his car with acceptable visibility. It was not as good as a sunny day by any means, but at least he could make out the signs on buildings. Bane stepped out into the storm, perfectly warm and dry in a suit designed for worse environments than this.
Ahead was Beckert's Chop House, with a wide picture window under the cursive neon sign. To his surprise, there were six people in there, three at a booth and three at the counter. Minnesotans must be a tough breed. The Dire Wolf stepped inside, standing on the rubber mat as he brushed himself off and stamped his boots. Everyone glanced up but most politely looked away away after a second. Bane removed his helmet. He was a tall, gaunt man with short black hair and cold grey eyes in a narrow face. He was not friendly-looking at best. Walking up to the counter, he took a stool a few spaces away from the nearest man and looked up at the signs on the wall.
Wiping his hands with a cloth, a beefy blonde man in a white dress shirt with an apron over it stepped closer. "You didn't ride a MOTORCYCLE in that weather...?!"
"Oh, that's not a cycle helmet," Bane said. "It's survival gear. I'm starving. How about a hot roast beef sandwich, hash browns and apple pie? Orange juice."
"Sure thing," the counterman said and gave him a glass of ice water, which Bane sipped. The nearest man on a stool said, "You ain't from around here, mister. Hell of a night to be driving."
"It certainly got me nervous. Maybe you guys are used to this weather and know how to handle it but I'm not used to snow like that in April."
Another local leaned over. "So, pardon my noisiness but what does bring you way out on the prairie in this season?"
"The governor's office asked me to look into the strange killings here." The food came to the counter and he dug in.
"What are you, a government agent? FBI?"
"No," Bane replied around a bite of the sandwich. "I'm an investigator with special training. Maybe you guys can tell me if my information is correct. I understand three killings have taken place in the past two months. The Trampling Murders, they were called, two men at the State University and one student. It's been kept out of the news."
Now the counterman chimed in. "We can't help you, mister. You about done, I suggest you move on."
Bane finished his orange juice, put money on the counter and looked around at the unfriendly faces. He was obviously not intimidated. Standing up, he said, "I may be around for a while. Hunting killers is what I do. I'd appreciate any help you men want to give me. Maybe you're afraid. Maybe you don't care that someone thinks he can kill teachers and students and not be punished. I've taken a room at the Midtown." With that, he headed for the door, pulled his helmet back on and stepped outside.
It's a dark night in more ways than one, he thought. Did this town just know how to keep its secrets or were those men covering for someone? He decided to forget about trying to drive the short distance and just started walking. A few blocks later, he saw the street sign LARK STREET. Here was the Acme Building, a white brick structure occupied by real estate office, a dentist, two insurance firms. On the fourth and top floor, a single window was lit. Bane found the front door was unlocked and he trotted quickly up the narrow wooden stairs. At the fourth floor landing, he smiled at the frosted glass door that read GARY STRICKLER, INVESTIGATIONS with NOTARY PUBLIC in smaller letters. He rapped sharply on the door. The sound of a chair squeaking was the only answer. Reaching in a jacket pocket, he took out the invaluable Trom device that shaped its intricate wire frame to match the inside of a lock, then rotated to open it. He opened the door as if it hadn't been locked.
The office was plain and slightly rundown, but clean. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a waist-high bookcase full of law and reference volumes. Behind a desk under a reading lamp sat a heavy, slouched man bent over a nearly empty gin bottle and a shot glass. He looked up in surprise. "We're closed, friend. You can make an appointment for tomorrow if you like."
Bane rather liked Gary Strickler on instinct. The man was late middle age, there was white in the bushy sideburns and the hairline was receding. He did not look like a tough guy, having a doughy face with jowls and round-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. But something in the wary eyes and the way one hand was back by the edge of the desk hinted that he had been dangerous enough in his younger days.
"My name is Jeremy Bane. I came here from New York to look into the Trample Killings." Bane held out his leather ID case and showed it to Stricker, who did not merely glance at it but examined it carefully.
"The Dire Wolf Agency," he said, then looked up at his visitor. "As it happens, I've read a little about you. The supernatural is a hobby of mine, although I haven't had any personal experience."
"Oh, but I think you just did." the Dire Wolf said as he pulled a chair over."Here in Forlorn Corners. Have you been to the scene of the killings?"
"Just the first one. Darndest thing. The man's apartment was only reached up a narrow outside staircase and a door I would have to squeeze through, yet some big animal got in there somehow. The victim was, well, trampled is the right word. Every bone broken. Furniture stomped on. I'd guess a horse or a buffalo went wild but there is no way anything that big could get in there."
"Unless... it wasn't that big when it went up the stairs and through the door."
"Wait, what?"
"Just my theory. I've fought some strange things in my time. Look, Mr Stricker, I want to hire you to show me the crime scenes. You know the area. You're an experienced investigator and you will spot clues I might miss. What are your rates?"
Strickler gave a crooked smile. "Aw, I'm in this as a professional courtesy. One detective to another, I want this monster stopped but I'm getting a little old for cracking heads."
"All right," Bane said it. He placed five twenties on the desk. "But I want to cover your expenses and in case you might be losing a client while you're with me. I'm staying at the Midtown, second floor, 203." They exchanged cell phone numbers and Bane got up. "What time will you be ready tomorrow?"
"I'm here at 8:30."
"Fine. Nice meeting you, Mr Strickler."
How about a first name basis, Jeremy? We're colleagues after all."
"Gary, then. See you tomorrow." He turned and left the office with the first impression he was going to get anywhere on this case.
II.
Outside, the snow had finally died down to a few flurries but it was still bitter cold. Bane sealed his helmet, turned up the light enhancing visor and trotted back up the main street. He almost ran past the Chop House on the other side of the street and considered going back in but discarded that idea. Up ahead was the Midtown, a three story white board building with a bar on the ground floor. Bright lights and country music came from it. The Dire Wolf swung around to the side of the building and opened a door. Inside was an office to the left and stairs going up. He stopped at the second floor landing, unlocked the room he had rented for a week and stepped inside. Suddenly he was moving slowly and carefully. He spent almost ten minutes looking for signs anyone had been in here, checking tiny details about the angles between objects and any of the mny traps that might have been set. The enhancers in his visor helped the search. Finally, he turned on the lights and locked the door behind him. Nothing.
When he had stepped down from the Kenneth Dred Foundation and opened up his detective agency again, Bane had not left the Midnight War entirely but he was considered semi-retired. Nearly all of the most dangerous enemies of his past were dead or imprisoned in other realms. He was mostly dealing with lesser threats now. The Dire Wolf had pulled a standing lamp over in front of the window, so he would not cast a shadow on the curtains; from the street, that window was just a bright yellow rectangle. This room was simple but he didn't need much. A double bed, a coffee table and some plain straight back chairs. A microwave on a stand, a small TV. One corner had been partitioned off to make a bathroom. Bane stripped out of his field suit and folded it carefully on one of the chairs. Under the suit he wore thin metallic armor which looked like wet silk, and when he stripped that off, the long hard muscles of his body stood out dramatically. Bane's enhanced metabolism, which gave him his speed and reflexes, also burned off fat to the extent he was always hungry.
Going in the bathroom, Bane took the armor with him. Only when he was ready to step into the shower did he unstrap the silver daggers he wore on his forearms. He never let those be too far from reach. The Wolf took a steaming hot shower, rinsed out the torso armor and hung it to drip dry, then toweled off quickly. He was starving. Putting on fresh cotton shorts and white T-shirt, he went back to the big knapsack on the bed and took out a 12 inch ham and cheese sub, two bags of peanuts and some fruit and he went through it as if he hadn't eaten in days. A big bottle of seltzer went with the meal. Once done, he relaxed a little and felt more human.
Now he sat crosslegged on the bed, eyes closed, and thought the situation over. He liked this Gary Strickler instinctively but of course he could not trust the man yet. It could be a lure to draw him into a trap. Stricker might be the killer himself of course, though he certainly didn't look capable of it, or he could be covering for the killer. The whole town could be in on it. Maybe even the governor's office could have asked him to come out here as some sort of set-up. Certainly Bane had been set up to be a fall guy many times in the past, but it was part of the desperate game he played.
Bane glanced up and saw it was just after eleven. Ah well. He finished the last apple, tossed the core and wrappers in the waste basket and went over to the two hard rubber wedges from his knapsack. One went to the window, one under the door. The Dire Wolf got his .38 revolver from his field suit and stuck it under the pillow. He went to turn out the lights, got under a single sheet and stretched out. Within seconds, he slid into a deep sleep.
III.
At five-thirty, he snapped back to full awareness instantly. He had always been like this. Jumping out of bed, he used the bathroom, found the flexible armor was dry and put it on. In his travel bag was a change of regular clothes but he decided to wear the insulated field suit again. It was expected to be no more than twenty outside and he saw no reason to suffer. The Dire Wolf spent a half hour examining his equipment again, this was so ingrained that he would have been uneasy to the point of distress if he had gone out without going through his checklist. At a few minutes after six, he left his room and went down to the bar on the first floor. He had been told breakfast was available every morning at this time.
The bar room was actually appealing, all dark wood with round tables and a juke box, pool table, posters of old country singers. Someone was a serious Waylon Jennings fan. Behind the bar was a door to a kitchen and the smell of coffee rolled out. As Bane took a seat, a middle-aged woman with a huge helmet of silver hair stepped through. "Walll, you are just on time, I've got everything heated up and raring. What can I do you for?"
The Dire Wolf said, "How about scrambled eggs and bacon and toast? Double servings, please. Orange juice."
"Coffee's ready, hon."
"No coffee for me, thanks." With his accelerated metabolism, caffeine was the last thing he needed. He spotted a stack of the morning newspaper, THE PRAIRIE HERALD, and took a copy. For some odd quirk, he never watched television but he loved studying local papers.
"You know, some of the boys was talking about you last night," she called out from the kitchen. "You made quite an impression. They don't know what to make of you."
"I get that a lot," he said. "What do you think of those killings?"
The woman came out with a big plate stacked with food. "Call me Louise, son. I'll tell you something but don't laugh."
"Promise," he said as he dug in. The bacon was perfect.
"I lived around here all my life. My man and my family have spent a lot of time hunting and they tell me everyone round here knows there are things in the woods that ain't meant to be talked about. Animals you never see that make frightening noises close at hand in the dark. Tracks left by no bear or moose. Two men went missing maybe ten, twelve years ago and their rifles were found smashed."
Bane looked up and said seriously, "Go on."
"Did you ever hear of the Mantikwa?"
"Yes. Indian legend, goes way back. A manlike beast. It's supposed to lure hunters by making a noise like a baby crying."
"Oh, it's more than a legend. Listen, you didn't hear this from me, okay? But the fat guy at the Chop House spotted Mantikwa a week ago, stomping around on the outskirts of town. Tim slowed down and got a good look. The damn thing had a head like a dinosaur, with three big horns that stuck straight out. The Mantikwa saw him and started charging and Tim floored the pedal and hasn't left town since."
"I can't blame him. How big was this thing?"
"Just man-sized. No clothes, dark hide. He said he prays he never sees it again."
Bane finished the last scrap of toast. "That was good, Louise, it really hit the spot."
"what, did you even chew? Mercy. So, Mr Bane is it? Are you here to try to catch this thing?"
"If I can. The governor has called me in on weird things before. It's my trade." As she handed him the bill, he put down a reaonable tip but didn't overdo it as he had found that aroused suspicion rather than gratitude. "Hopefully, I can nail it before any more deaths."
"Good luck. I was pushed to not talk to you, but I'm damned if anyone tells me what to say or not say. You want anything more?"
"I'm good, thanks. I appreciate the information, I'll tell you whatever results I get." Standing up, carrying the helmet in the crook of his arm, he went across the room and out into a brilliant sunny morning. It was not as bitter as he had expected. Bane started walking, looking at the buildings as he headed to where his car had been left. There was a hardware store, a place that sold shoes and coats, an ancient pharmacy. Mostly residential houses. One store sold old vinyl albums and VHS tapes, which surprised him. Bane found his Subaru under five inches of light fluffy snow and brushed it off thoroughly before climbing in and starting it up. He pulled out into a street that must have been plowed before dawn and headed a few miles out of town to the gas station he had seen on his way in.
Filling the tank, checking the tires and cleaning the windows was something he did constantly on a case. once trouble started, there would be no time for details like that. It was only a little after eight but he drove to the Acme Building to wait for Strickler and a long day of work.
IV.
By four o'clock, they had examined two crime scenes to Bane's reluctant satisfaction. He was also ready to trust Strickler to a fair extent. Every phrase and gesture and reaction that the man showed was consistent that he was just what he seemed to be. Decades of experience and coaching by experts had left the Dire Wolf sharp at spotting poses. They trudged back to the beat-up Dodge Ram, Strickler fired it up as Bane climbed in, and they headed back toward town.
"I could stand a burger and a beer," the detective grumbled. "What do you say we head back to your hotel and chew over what we learned... or maybe, what YOU learned I should say?"
"Sounds good to me. Let me ask you, though. If you had to pick a name out of the air as a suspect, who jumps in your head?"
"Oh that's easy. Stan Petterson and his sister Lina. No doubt."
Bane watched the man's profile. "Why them?"
"Oh absolutely no reason. They're just the local strange ducks. There's definitely something not right about him, and she's creepy as hell herself. Tons of unsavory gossip about them, but you know, they've never been actually known to do anything wrong."
"Where can we find them?"
"Back the other way from which we're going. About ten minutes. They live in the old family home out on 19."
"Let's go see if they're home," Bane said quietly. "You okay with that?"
"You bet, I sure got no ideas." Strickler made an illegal U-turn right in the road and headed back. "See that lake? Funny thing happened there last winter. See, old man Carl Aswegan was fishing in the ice. He kept the worms in a thermos because he figured they would draw fish if they were warm. Well, Carl was standing behind a tree when he looked back and saw an otter grab the fish he had caught and dive in the hole in the ice..."
Bane allowed himself a faint smile. He had gotten used to Strickler's rambling and implausible anecdotes about life in Forlorn Corners. He did not think much of it was true but it didn't matter. Telling these tales seemed to relax the man. Bane himself had almost no sense of humor and sometimes it bothered him because he seemed to be missing out on what everyone else enjoyed but he wasn't going to change at this point.
Strickler turned right down a long dirt road that led to a farmhouse and barn. Apparently, the farm had been disused for several years, the fields were overgrown and a rusted-out tractor sat sadly by the barn. White smoke that smelled like wood came from the chimney of the house. They pulled out right in front.
"By that time, Reverend Luftdorf was too drunk to remember where he had left the fish anyway," Strickler concluded. Bane realized he had not been paying attention because he had no idea who Reverend Luftdorf was supposed to be but it didn't seem important. He was studying the farmhouse. It had been kept in good repair and had been painted not long ago. A wide porch ran the width of the front, with furniture still sitting out. From one corner of the porch, a thick wooden post jutted out eight feet off the ground, with a vicious hook sticking from one end. He figured it had been for hanging pigs or deer to drain. As they stepped away from the truck, a man in a down coat slammed open the front door.
Instantly, Bane moved into full alertness, ready for violence. Everything about the man triggered his instincts to be on guard. a little over six feet tall and beefy, with a big belly, the man had a round moonface with short ginger hair and round blue eyes. The pudgy face was red with anger. "Nobody asked you here. You got no business with us."
"Stan Petterson?" asked Bane, not backing down the least.
"You come round here, you going to get hurt!" the man yelled. He stomped down the steps to the frozen ground but hesitated. The stranger with those pale grey eyes had not reacted at all, just watched with cool detachment that Petterson did not know how to deal with.
After a long tense moment, Bane said, "How old were you when you first started killing small animals? Ten, eleven? Eleven. And first it was rabbits and mice, but then it had to be cats and dogs. Yes, I can see the answer in your face. You started having to go further and further away to avoid suspicion. What's your trigger? Full moon? Yes, you gave that away. Like tonight's full moon?"
With that, Petterson finally reacted. He bellowed incoherently and charged. Bane hardly moved, stepping to one side and kicking down at the back of the man's nearer knee. As Petterson fell clumsily, the Dire Wolf smacked him hard on the back of the head with an open hand, fingers taut. It was not meant to damage, just disorient. Petterson got to his hands and knees but seemed too confused to get up right away.
"Damn, boy," Strickler chuckled. "You're faster than anything I ever saw."
Before the Dire Wolf could answer, another figure appeared in the doorway and screamed, "Get away from him."
Still keeping his awareness of Petterson's possible threat, Bane glanced up. The woman on the porch had the same puffy face, same reddish hair and stocky build. But her eyes did not show the glassy psychotic glitter of her brother's. "Lina, I take it?"
"What's it to you?" she demanded, stepping down. She went over to help Stan up, putting a protective arm around his wide shoulders. "Are you the cops again, asking questions?"
"I'm a hunter," he said quietly. "Now I understand all about you two. I'm sorry, I wish there was a cure for what your brother has but no one has ever found one. He'll be like this as long as he lives."
As she started to turn back toward the house, Bane interrupted. "Don't go in for a shotgun. You'd never make it. Tonight is a full moon, of course. I saw the pattern at once." He sighed. "We'll be back. There's no use going anywhere." He wheeled around and headed toward the truck. "Come on, Gary."
Strickler went with him and they drove away, seeing the Pettersons staring sullenly until they were out of sight. "Seriously, Jeremy, you have got to start explaining some of this!"
"All right," the Dire Wolf answered slowly. "That man is a howler. He's a lunatic in the classic sense. The full moon triggers his killing cycle and he has the added attribute of shape-changing. Usually his type turns into wolves. I'd say ninety per cent are wolves. But there are bears and tigers and even gorillas. I've seen them all."
Gary Strickler grunted, almost going off the road. "I'll.. I'll go with you so far. From what I've read about you, you do have a history of fighting supernatural. But it's hard to swallow like this. You know, it's like being told anything is possible. Go ahead."
"You'll see anough in a few hours to convince you. Shape-changers determine their form subconsciously. Their minds form how their bodies distort. From what someone in town said, the monster that was seen looked like a dinosaur, the one with the three horns."
"A triceratops?" Strickler said. "Aw, I always liked those ones. They were my favorite dinosaurs as a kid. So, this Petterson guy. Instead of turning into a werewolf, he becomes a sort of were-triceratops?"
Bane nodded. "Crazy as it sounds.Think about the killings. A huge beast tramples over people, smashing furniture but does it after going up stairs or down halls just big enough for a regular human. Remember that shredded shirt and jeans the police found outside the first scene?"
"Sure."
"They are ripped open from the inside. Petterson was wearing them when he changed. After the murder, he turned back. This is where his sister is waiting with a blanket or overcoat to hustle him into their car. She's his accomplice."
By now, they were pulling in front of the Midtown. Strickler took his time turning off the truck. "I'm having trouble getting this down. It's hard to digest."
The Dire Wolf put a hand on the man's shoulder, a rare gesture for him. "I know. I was the same way when I first learned about the Midnight War. But you're tough-minded, you can handle it."
The sad, heavy face turned and blinked through the thick lenses. "You know, I AM tough. Maybe I'm getting old and fat but I've had my share of shoot-outs and brawls as a young man. Even now, I can stare down a biker because I know he can only do so much to me and I'll still get up. I'm with you, Jeremy. I'm sticking with you."
"Great. Let's get that burger or two. We have a few hours before moonrise."
V.
By the time it was getting really dark, both men had eaten their fill and Strickler had enjoyed two beers. Several townspeople he knew had to come over to chat, and to find out what the stranger was up to. Bane was straightforward enough. He had been called in to investigate the killings and he had a few theories but nothing he could go to court with. That was true as far as it went. Strickler and an old farm with a white beard were reminiscing about the time one of the local cheerleaders had stolen a firetruck and parallel parked it perfectly to everyone's astonishment. Bane drifted away and gazed thoughtfully out the window. He wanted to get this over with.
Going back to the bar, he said,"We should get going, Gary."
Strickler reluctantly got up, shrugged into his heavy full-length coat and pulled on gloves. "I'll see you late, Ole. Good to hear about your kids." He turned to the younger man. "I'm all set."
Outside, Bane went over to his car and got a length of braided silk cord from the trunk. It was black and he tossed it in the back of Strickler's truck. "I want you to stay clear of any fighting, okay? This is not a question of courage. But my guess is that bullets would have only a tiny chance of having an effect. But I have a plan."
Seeming much more sanguine after having that break with regular people, Strickler chuckled. "I figured you might. Let me ask you. Did you really capture Samhain?"
"Three times. They can't hold him. Last I heard, he was supposed to be in a military facility in the Rockies but I'm sure he'll get out somehow."
Strickler grunted. "That's not reassuring. What about Wu Lung?"
"He's definitely dead. Most of the really big villains are gone now. That's why I semi-retired and now handle just detective work. Once in a while, something like this turns up?"
They were getting near the Petterson farm. "You don't have any family, do you?"
"I was an orphan. Not idea who my parents were, I grew up on the streets with one or two shady 'guardians' until I was ten. Never married, no kids."
"Girlfriend, though?"
Bane smiled so faintly it was hardly visible. "Oh yes. One that can read my mind wherever I am. We don't see each other often. Listen, pull up here." As the truck slowed, Bane took the helmet from his lap and pulled it down over his head. "Here's what I want you to do. Give me three minutes. Then back the truck down the road toward the house, get as close as you can. Stand by after that. Can you drive it with the headlights off?"
"Sure, this is an old clunker. When are you... hey?" He was talking to himself. Jeremy Bane had slipped out of the truck and raced through the darkness in total silence. Even someone standing by the road alert would have heard nothing. He had the nylon cord slung over one shoulder. Years of training by experts and a natural stealthy quality let him steal up to the farmhouse at a full run. No one was in sight, but lights were on and a white Ford Taurus stood in front of the barn. In another minute, he saw the tail lights of Strickler's truck backing up toward him. The Dire Wolf glanced up to where the full moon was starting to show its white upper edge behind the trees.
As the truck stopped almost within touch of the porch, Bane went over to it and quietly said, "When I yell to go, pull forward a few feet. Got it?"
"You betcha," Strickler answered with obvious bewilderment. He was talking to himself again. Bane had trotted back to the porch just as the front door opened. The Pettersons stepped out, stopping short as they saw the man in black standing in front of the steps. Lina was bundled up to the nose but Stan strangely was wearing just a thin bathrobe and his breath showed in the light behind him.
"Going out for some fun?" Bane asked. "There's the moon, Stan."
The big man shrugged out of the robe, completely naked in below zero temperatures but oblivious. As he stepped off onto the frozen ground, his body shuddered and swelled up, getting darker. He was covered with a thick dark hide. His fingers and toes shrank to pads. And his head became a grotesque shape with a rounded crest of bone rising up behind it. Two long pointed horns stood out on his forehead and a shorter one was on his muzzle. The monster roared like a bull.
"Triceratops," said the Dire Wolf. "Gary knows his stuff." With that word, he blurred forward, acting as smoothly as if he had rehearsed the next few moves thousands of time. He was holding the cord in his hands and he threw its noose neatly over the huge horned head, yanking it tight with all his strength. "Go, Gary! Now!"
Strickler did not let him down. The Dodge Ram rolled forward a few feet, and the cord tightened over the beam which protruded from the porch. Triceratops convulsed wildly, bellowing in pain. Its stubbed fingers could not get a grip on the cord and he could not wiggle free. Three feet off the ground, he swung and choked.
From the truck, the old detective cursed loudly. Bane glanced toward him. "Hold him, Gary. We've got him now."
He strode back and saw Lina Petterson coming out with a Winchester. "Cut him down! Cut him down!"
"Too late," Bane answered. The huge body had gone limp and the head hung down. As they watched, Stan reverted to Human in death. "
The sister swung the rifle toward Bane, then slowly lowered it. She seemed to deflate and sagged to her knees.
"All right, Gary, shut the engine. It's over." The Dire Wolf went over and tugged the rifle out of Lina's unresisting hands to put it out of reach. "Lina, it IS over. Do you understand?"
Bane crouched and tried to sound gentle. "This was the only way. He would go on killing the rest of his life and you would be trapped into helping him. It's over now. Here's what we are going to do. We are going to lower him down. I will tie the cord around the porch so it looks like he hanged himself. As soon as we're gone, call the police and tell them to come out here. Tell them your brother had been acting depressed and wouldn't talk to you. It won't go any further. They'll be quick to close the case."
She finally raised her head and stared up at him, not in anger but in relief.
"After that, it'll be up to you. You're free for the first time."
Now she spoke. "I've wanted to sell this place for years. I'll go stay with my cousins in Yellow River."
Bane went to untie the cord. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It was the only way."
6/21/2013
4/8-4/9/2008
I.
visibility was so poor Bane could hardly see the street lights. He eased the Surbaru up to the curb and glanced at the outside thermometer, it read twelve degrees. Forlorn Corners, Minnesota in April. He was wearing the full field suit of black leatherlike boots, pants and jacket and now he pulled the gloves on. On the seat next to him was the helmet. The Dire Wolf pulled it on, sealed it around the high collar of the jacket and lowered the visor. He took a minute to activate the display, using the Trom sensors that amplified light until he saw through the window of his car with acceptable visibility. It was not as good as a sunny day by any means, but at least he could make out the signs on buildings. Bane stepped out into the storm, perfectly warm and dry in a suit designed for worse environments than this.
Ahead was Beckert's Chop House, with a wide picture window under the cursive neon sign. To his surprise, there were six people in there, three at a booth and three at the counter. Minnesotans must be a tough breed. The Dire Wolf stepped inside, standing on the rubber mat as he brushed himself off and stamped his boots. Everyone glanced up but most politely looked away away after a second. Bane removed his helmet. He was a tall, gaunt man with short black hair and cold grey eyes in a narrow face. He was not friendly-looking at best. Walking up to the counter, he took a stool a few spaces away from the nearest man and looked up at the signs on the wall.
Wiping his hands with a cloth, a beefy blonde man in a white dress shirt with an apron over it stepped closer. "You didn't ride a MOTORCYCLE in that weather...?!"
"Oh, that's not a cycle helmet," Bane said. "It's survival gear. I'm starving. How about a hot roast beef sandwich, hash browns and apple pie? Orange juice."
"Sure thing," the counterman said and gave him a glass of ice water, which Bane sipped. The nearest man on a stool said, "You ain't from around here, mister. Hell of a night to be driving."
"It certainly got me nervous. Maybe you guys are used to this weather and know how to handle it but I'm not used to snow like that in April."
Another local leaned over. "So, pardon my noisiness but what does bring you way out on the prairie in this season?"
"The governor's office asked me to look into the strange killings here." The food came to the counter and he dug in.
"What are you, a government agent? FBI?"
"No," Bane replied around a bite of the sandwich. "I'm an investigator with special training. Maybe you guys can tell me if my information is correct. I understand three killings have taken place in the past two months. The Trampling Murders, they were called, two men at the State University and one student. It's been kept out of the news."
Now the counterman chimed in. "We can't help you, mister. You about done, I suggest you move on."
Bane finished his orange juice, put money on the counter and looked around at the unfriendly faces. He was obviously not intimidated. Standing up, he said, "I may be around for a while. Hunting killers is what I do. I'd appreciate any help you men want to give me. Maybe you're afraid. Maybe you don't care that someone thinks he can kill teachers and students and not be punished. I've taken a room at the Midtown." With that, he headed for the door, pulled his helmet back on and stepped outside.
It's a dark night in more ways than one, he thought. Did this town just know how to keep its secrets or were those men covering for someone? He decided to forget about trying to drive the short distance and just started walking. A few blocks later, he saw the street sign LARK STREET. Here was the Acme Building, a white brick structure occupied by real estate office, a dentist, two insurance firms. On the fourth and top floor, a single window was lit. Bane found the front door was unlocked and he trotted quickly up the narrow wooden stairs. At the fourth floor landing, he smiled at the frosted glass door that read GARY STRICKLER, INVESTIGATIONS with NOTARY PUBLIC in smaller letters. He rapped sharply on the door. The sound of a chair squeaking was the only answer. Reaching in a jacket pocket, he took out the invaluable Trom device that shaped its intricate wire frame to match the inside of a lock, then rotated to open it. He opened the door as if it hadn't been locked.
The office was plain and slightly rundown, but clean. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a waist-high bookcase full of law and reference volumes. Behind a desk under a reading lamp sat a heavy, slouched man bent over a nearly empty gin bottle and a shot glass. He looked up in surprise. "We're closed, friend. You can make an appointment for tomorrow if you like."
Bane rather liked Gary Strickler on instinct. The man was late middle age, there was white in the bushy sideburns and the hairline was receding. He did not look like a tough guy, having a doughy face with jowls and round-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. But something in the wary eyes and the way one hand was back by the edge of the desk hinted that he had been dangerous enough in his younger days.
"My name is Jeremy Bane. I came here from New York to look into the Trample Killings." Bane held out his leather ID case and showed it to Stricker, who did not merely glance at it but examined it carefully.
"The Dire Wolf Agency," he said, then looked up at his visitor. "As it happens, I've read a little about you. The supernatural is a hobby of mine, although I haven't had any personal experience."
"Oh, but I think you just did." the Dire Wolf said as he pulled a chair over."Here in Forlorn Corners. Have you been to the scene of the killings?"
"Just the first one. Darndest thing. The man's apartment was only reached up a narrow outside staircase and a door I would have to squeeze through, yet some big animal got in there somehow. The victim was, well, trampled is the right word. Every bone broken. Furniture stomped on. I'd guess a horse or a buffalo went wild but there is no way anything that big could get in there."
"Unless... it wasn't that big when it went up the stairs and through the door."
"Wait, what?"
"Just my theory. I've fought some strange things in my time. Look, Mr Stricker, I want to hire you to show me the crime scenes. You know the area. You're an experienced investigator and you will spot clues I might miss. What are your rates?"
Strickler gave a crooked smile. "Aw, I'm in this as a professional courtesy. One detective to another, I want this monster stopped but I'm getting a little old for cracking heads."
"All right," Bane said it. He placed five twenties on the desk. "But I want to cover your expenses and in case you might be losing a client while you're with me. I'm staying at the Midtown, second floor, 203." They exchanged cell phone numbers and Bane got up. "What time will you be ready tomorrow?"
"I'm here at 8:30."
"Fine. Nice meeting you, Mr Strickler."
How about a first name basis, Jeremy? We're colleagues after all."
"Gary, then. See you tomorrow." He turned and left the office with the first impression he was going to get anywhere on this case.
II.
Outside, the snow had finally died down to a few flurries but it was still bitter cold. Bane sealed his helmet, turned up the light enhancing visor and trotted back up the main street. He almost ran past the Chop House on the other side of the street and considered going back in but discarded that idea. Up ahead was the Midtown, a three story white board building with a bar on the ground floor. Bright lights and country music came from it. The Dire Wolf swung around to the side of the building and opened a door. Inside was an office to the left and stairs going up. He stopped at the second floor landing, unlocked the room he had rented for a week and stepped inside. Suddenly he was moving slowly and carefully. He spent almost ten minutes looking for signs anyone had been in here, checking tiny details about the angles between objects and any of the mny traps that might have been set. The enhancers in his visor helped the search. Finally, he turned on the lights and locked the door behind him. Nothing.
When he had stepped down from the Kenneth Dred Foundation and opened up his detective agency again, Bane had not left the Midnight War entirely but he was considered semi-retired. Nearly all of the most dangerous enemies of his past were dead or imprisoned in other realms. He was mostly dealing with lesser threats now. The Dire Wolf had pulled a standing lamp over in front of the window, so he would not cast a shadow on the curtains; from the street, that window was just a bright yellow rectangle. This room was simple but he didn't need much. A double bed, a coffee table and some plain straight back chairs. A microwave on a stand, a small TV. One corner had been partitioned off to make a bathroom. Bane stripped out of his field suit and folded it carefully on one of the chairs. Under the suit he wore thin metallic armor which looked like wet silk, and when he stripped that off, the long hard muscles of his body stood out dramatically. Bane's enhanced metabolism, which gave him his speed and reflexes, also burned off fat to the extent he was always hungry.
Going in the bathroom, Bane took the armor with him. Only when he was ready to step into the shower did he unstrap the silver daggers he wore on his forearms. He never let those be too far from reach. The Wolf took a steaming hot shower, rinsed out the torso armor and hung it to drip dry, then toweled off quickly. He was starving. Putting on fresh cotton shorts and white T-shirt, he went back to the big knapsack on the bed and took out a 12 inch ham and cheese sub, two bags of peanuts and some fruit and he went through it as if he hadn't eaten in days. A big bottle of seltzer went with the meal. Once done, he relaxed a little and felt more human.
Now he sat crosslegged on the bed, eyes closed, and thought the situation over. He liked this Gary Strickler instinctively but of course he could not trust the man yet. It could be a lure to draw him into a trap. Stricker might be the killer himself of course, though he certainly didn't look capable of it, or he could be covering for the killer. The whole town could be in on it. Maybe even the governor's office could have asked him to come out here as some sort of set-up. Certainly Bane had been set up to be a fall guy many times in the past, but it was part of the desperate game he played.
Bane glanced up and saw it was just after eleven. Ah well. He finished the last apple, tossed the core and wrappers in the waste basket and went over to the two hard rubber wedges from his knapsack. One went to the window, one under the door. The Dire Wolf got his .38 revolver from his field suit and stuck it under the pillow. He went to turn out the lights, got under a single sheet and stretched out. Within seconds, he slid into a deep sleep.
III.
At five-thirty, he snapped back to full awareness instantly. He had always been like this. Jumping out of bed, he used the bathroom, found the flexible armor was dry and put it on. In his travel bag was a change of regular clothes but he decided to wear the insulated field suit again. It was expected to be no more than twenty outside and he saw no reason to suffer. The Dire Wolf spent a half hour examining his equipment again, this was so ingrained that he would have been uneasy to the point of distress if he had gone out without going through his checklist. At a few minutes after six, he left his room and went down to the bar on the first floor. He had been told breakfast was available every morning at this time.
The bar room was actually appealing, all dark wood with round tables and a juke box, pool table, posters of old country singers. Someone was a serious Waylon Jennings fan. Behind the bar was a door to a kitchen and the smell of coffee rolled out. As Bane took a seat, a middle-aged woman with a huge helmet of silver hair stepped through. "Walll, you are just on time, I've got everything heated up and raring. What can I do you for?"
The Dire Wolf said, "How about scrambled eggs and bacon and toast? Double servings, please. Orange juice."
"Coffee's ready, hon."
"No coffee for me, thanks." With his accelerated metabolism, caffeine was the last thing he needed. He spotted a stack of the morning newspaper, THE PRAIRIE HERALD, and took a copy. For some odd quirk, he never watched television but he loved studying local papers.
"You know, some of the boys was talking about you last night," she called out from the kitchen. "You made quite an impression. They don't know what to make of you."
"I get that a lot," he said. "What do you think of those killings?"
The woman came out with a big plate stacked with food. "Call me Louise, son. I'll tell you something but don't laugh."
"Promise," he said as he dug in. The bacon was perfect.
"I lived around here all my life. My man and my family have spent a lot of time hunting and they tell me everyone round here knows there are things in the woods that ain't meant to be talked about. Animals you never see that make frightening noises close at hand in the dark. Tracks left by no bear or moose. Two men went missing maybe ten, twelve years ago and their rifles were found smashed."
Bane looked up and said seriously, "Go on."
"Did you ever hear of the Mantikwa?"
"Yes. Indian legend, goes way back. A manlike beast. It's supposed to lure hunters by making a noise like a baby crying."
"Oh, it's more than a legend. Listen, you didn't hear this from me, okay? But the fat guy at the Chop House spotted Mantikwa a week ago, stomping around on the outskirts of town. Tim slowed down and got a good look. The damn thing had a head like a dinosaur, with three big horns that stuck straight out. The Mantikwa saw him and started charging and Tim floored the pedal and hasn't left town since."
"I can't blame him. How big was this thing?"
"Just man-sized. No clothes, dark hide. He said he prays he never sees it again."
Bane finished the last scrap of toast. "That was good, Louise, it really hit the spot."
"what, did you even chew? Mercy. So, Mr Bane is it? Are you here to try to catch this thing?"
"If I can. The governor has called me in on weird things before. It's my trade." As she handed him the bill, he put down a reaonable tip but didn't overdo it as he had found that aroused suspicion rather than gratitude. "Hopefully, I can nail it before any more deaths."
"Good luck. I was pushed to not talk to you, but I'm damned if anyone tells me what to say or not say. You want anything more?"
"I'm good, thanks. I appreciate the information, I'll tell you whatever results I get." Standing up, carrying the helmet in the crook of his arm, he went across the room and out into a brilliant sunny morning. It was not as bitter as he had expected. Bane started walking, looking at the buildings as he headed to where his car had been left. There was a hardware store, a place that sold shoes and coats, an ancient pharmacy. Mostly residential houses. One store sold old vinyl albums and VHS tapes, which surprised him. Bane found his Subaru under five inches of light fluffy snow and brushed it off thoroughly before climbing in and starting it up. He pulled out into a street that must have been plowed before dawn and headed a few miles out of town to the gas station he had seen on his way in.
Filling the tank, checking the tires and cleaning the windows was something he did constantly on a case. once trouble started, there would be no time for details like that. It was only a little after eight but he drove to the Acme Building to wait for Strickler and a long day of work.
IV.
By four o'clock, they had examined two crime scenes to Bane's reluctant satisfaction. He was also ready to trust Strickler to a fair extent. Every phrase and gesture and reaction that the man showed was consistent that he was just what he seemed to be. Decades of experience and coaching by experts had left the Dire Wolf sharp at spotting poses. They trudged back to the beat-up Dodge Ram, Strickler fired it up as Bane climbed in, and they headed back toward town.
"I could stand a burger and a beer," the detective grumbled. "What do you say we head back to your hotel and chew over what we learned... or maybe, what YOU learned I should say?"
"Sounds good to me. Let me ask you, though. If you had to pick a name out of the air as a suspect, who jumps in your head?"
"Oh that's easy. Stan Petterson and his sister Lina. No doubt."
Bane watched the man's profile. "Why them?"
"Oh absolutely no reason. They're just the local strange ducks. There's definitely something not right about him, and she's creepy as hell herself. Tons of unsavory gossip about them, but you know, they've never been actually known to do anything wrong."
"Where can we find them?"
"Back the other way from which we're going. About ten minutes. They live in the old family home out on 19."
"Let's go see if they're home," Bane said quietly. "You okay with that?"
"You bet, I sure got no ideas." Strickler made an illegal U-turn right in the road and headed back. "See that lake? Funny thing happened there last winter. See, old man Carl Aswegan was fishing in the ice. He kept the worms in a thermos because he figured they would draw fish if they were warm. Well, Carl was standing behind a tree when he looked back and saw an otter grab the fish he had caught and dive in the hole in the ice..."
Bane allowed himself a faint smile. He had gotten used to Strickler's rambling and implausible anecdotes about life in Forlorn Corners. He did not think much of it was true but it didn't matter. Telling these tales seemed to relax the man. Bane himself had almost no sense of humor and sometimes it bothered him because he seemed to be missing out on what everyone else enjoyed but he wasn't going to change at this point.
Strickler turned right down a long dirt road that led to a farmhouse and barn. Apparently, the farm had been disused for several years, the fields were overgrown and a rusted-out tractor sat sadly by the barn. White smoke that smelled like wood came from the chimney of the house. They pulled out right in front.
"By that time, Reverend Luftdorf was too drunk to remember where he had left the fish anyway," Strickler concluded. Bane realized he had not been paying attention because he had no idea who Reverend Luftdorf was supposed to be but it didn't seem important. He was studying the farmhouse. It had been kept in good repair and had been painted not long ago. A wide porch ran the width of the front, with furniture still sitting out. From one corner of the porch, a thick wooden post jutted out eight feet off the ground, with a vicious hook sticking from one end. He figured it had been for hanging pigs or deer to drain. As they stepped away from the truck, a man in a down coat slammed open the front door.
Instantly, Bane moved into full alertness, ready for violence. Everything about the man triggered his instincts to be on guard. a little over six feet tall and beefy, with a big belly, the man had a round moonface with short ginger hair and round blue eyes. The pudgy face was red with anger. "Nobody asked you here. You got no business with us."
"Stan Petterson?" asked Bane, not backing down the least.
"You come round here, you going to get hurt!" the man yelled. He stomped down the steps to the frozen ground but hesitated. The stranger with those pale grey eyes had not reacted at all, just watched with cool detachment that Petterson did not know how to deal with.
After a long tense moment, Bane said, "How old were you when you first started killing small animals? Ten, eleven? Eleven. And first it was rabbits and mice, but then it had to be cats and dogs. Yes, I can see the answer in your face. You started having to go further and further away to avoid suspicion. What's your trigger? Full moon? Yes, you gave that away. Like tonight's full moon?"
With that, Petterson finally reacted. He bellowed incoherently and charged. Bane hardly moved, stepping to one side and kicking down at the back of the man's nearer knee. As Petterson fell clumsily, the Dire Wolf smacked him hard on the back of the head with an open hand, fingers taut. It was not meant to damage, just disorient. Petterson got to his hands and knees but seemed too confused to get up right away.
"Damn, boy," Strickler chuckled. "You're faster than anything I ever saw."
Before the Dire Wolf could answer, another figure appeared in the doorway and screamed, "Get away from him."
Still keeping his awareness of Petterson's possible threat, Bane glanced up. The woman on the porch had the same puffy face, same reddish hair and stocky build. But her eyes did not show the glassy psychotic glitter of her brother's. "Lina, I take it?"
"What's it to you?" she demanded, stepping down. She went over to help Stan up, putting a protective arm around his wide shoulders. "Are you the cops again, asking questions?"
"I'm a hunter," he said quietly. "Now I understand all about you two. I'm sorry, I wish there was a cure for what your brother has but no one has ever found one. He'll be like this as long as he lives."
As she started to turn back toward the house, Bane interrupted. "Don't go in for a shotgun. You'd never make it. Tonight is a full moon, of course. I saw the pattern at once." He sighed. "We'll be back. There's no use going anywhere." He wheeled around and headed toward the truck. "Come on, Gary."
Strickler went with him and they drove away, seeing the Pettersons staring sullenly until they were out of sight. "Seriously, Jeremy, you have got to start explaining some of this!"
"All right," the Dire Wolf answered slowly. "That man is a howler. He's a lunatic in the classic sense. The full moon triggers his killing cycle and he has the added attribute of shape-changing. Usually his type turns into wolves. I'd say ninety per cent are wolves. But there are bears and tigers and even gorillas. I've seen them all."
Gary Strickler grunted, almost going off the road. "I'll.. I'll go with you so far. From what I've read about you, you do have a history of fighting supernatural. But it's hard to swallow like this. You know, it's like being told anything is possible. Go ahead."
"You'll see anough in a few hours to convince you. Shape-changers determine their form subconsciously. Their minds form how their bodies distort. From what someone in town said, the monster that was seen looked like a dinosaur, the one with the three horns."
"A triceratops?" Strickler said. "Aw, I always liked those ones. They were my favorite dinosaurs as a kid. So, this Petterson guy. Instead of turning into a werewolf, he becomes a sort of were-triceratops?"
Bane nodded. "Crazy as it sounds.Think about the killings. A huge beast tramples over people, smashing furniture but does it after going up stairs or down halls just big enough for a regular human. Remember that shredded shirt and jeans the police found outside the first scene?"
"Sure."
"They are ripped open from the inside. Petterson was wearing them when he changed. After the murder, he turned back. This is where his sister is waiting with a blanket or overcoat to hustle him into their car. She's his accomplice."
By now, they were pulling in front of the Midtown. Strickler took his time turning off the truck. "I'm having trouble getting this down. It's hard to digest."
The Dire Wolf put a hand on the man's shoulder, a rare gesture for him. "I know. I was the same way when I first learned about the Midnight War. But you're tough-minded, you can handle it."
The sad, heavy face turned and blinked through the thick lenses. "You know, I AM tough. Maybe I'm getting old and fat but I've had my share of shoot-outs and brawls as a young man. Even now, I can stare down a biker because I know he can only do so much to me and I'll still get up. I'm with you, Jeremy. I'm sticking with you."
"Great. Let's get that burger or two. We have a few hours before moonrise."
V.
By the time it was getting really dark, both men had eaten their fill and Strickler had enjoyed two beers. Several townspeople he knew had to come over to chat, and to find out what the stranger was up to. Bane was straightforward enough. He had been called in to investigate the killings and he had a few theories but nothing he could go to court with. That was true as far as it went. Strickler and an old farm with a white beard were reminiscing about the time one of the local cheerleaders had stolen a firetruck and parallel parked it perfectly to everyone's astonishment. Bane drifted away and gazed thoughtfully out the window. He wanted to get this over with.
Going back to the bar, he said,"We should get going, Gary."
Strickler reluctantly got up, shrugged into his heavy full-length coat and pulled on gloves. "I'll see you late, Ole. Good to hear about your kids." He turned to the younger man. "I'm all set."
Outside, Bane went over to his car and got a length of braided silk cord from the trunk. It was black and he tossed it in the back of Strickler's truck. "I want you to stay clear of any fighting, okay? This is not a question of courage. But my guess is that bullets would have only a tiny chance of having an effect. But I have a plan."
Seeming much more sanguine after having that break with regular people, Strickler chuckled. "I figured you might. Let me ask you. Did you really capture Samhain?"
"Three times. They can't hold him. Last I heard, he was supposed to be in a military facility in the Rockies but I'm sure he'll get out somehow."
Strickler grunted. "That's not reassuring. What about Wu Lung?"
"He's definitely dead. Most of the really big villains are gone now. That's why I semi-retired and now handle just detective work. Once in a while, something like this turns up?"
They were getting near the Petterson farm. "You don't have any family, do you?"
"I was an orphan. Not idea who my parents were, I grew up on the streets with one or two shady 'guardians' until I was ten. Never married, no kids."
"Girlfriend, though?"
Bane smiled so faintly it was hardly visible. "Oh yes. One that can read my mind wherever I am. We don't see each other often. Listen, pull up here." As the truck slowed, Bane took the helmet from his lap and pulled it down over his head. "Here's what I want you to do. Give me three minutes. Then back the truck down the road toward the house, get as close as you can. Stand by after that. Can you drive it with the headlights off?"
"Sure, this is an old clunker. When are you... hey?" He was talking to himself. Jeremy Bane had slipped out of the truck and raced through the darkness in total silence. Even someone standing by the road alert would have heard nothing. He had the nylon cord slung over one shoulder. Years of training by experts and a natural stealthy quality let him steal up to the farmhouse at a full run. No one was in sight, but lights were on and a white Ford Taurus stood in front of the barn. In another minute, he saw the tail lights of Strickler's truck backing up toward him. The Dire Wolf glanced up to where the full moon was starting to show its white upper edge behind the trees.
As the truck stopped almost within touch of the porch, Bane went over to it and quietly said, "When I yell to go, pull forward a few feet. Got it?"
"You betcha," Strickler answered with obvious bewilderment. He was talking to himself again. Bane had trotted back to the porch just as the front door opened. The Pettersons stepped out, stopping short as they saw the man in black standing in front of the steps. Lina was bundled up to the nose but Stan strangely was wearing just a thin bathrobe and his breath showed in the light behind him.
"Going out for some fun?" Bane asked. "There's the moon, Stan."
The big man shrugged out of the robe, completely naked in below zero temperatures but oblivious. As he stepped off onto the frozen ground, his body shuddered and swelled up, getting darker. He was covered with a thick dark hide. His fingers and toes shrank to pads. And his head became a grotesque shape with a rounded crest of bone rising up behind it. Two long pointed horns stood out on his forehead and a shorter one was on his muzzle. The monster roared like a bull.
"Triceratops," said the Dire Wolf. "Gary knows his stuff." With that word, he blurred forward, acting as smoothly as if he had rehearsed the next few moves thousands of time. He was holding the cord in his hands and he threw its noose neatly over the huge horned head, yanking it tight with all his strength. "Go, Gary! Now!"
Strickler did not let him down. The Dodge Ram rolled forward a few feet, and the cord tightened over the beam which protruded from the porch. Triceratops convulsed wildly, bellowing in pain. Its stubbed fingers could not get a grip on the cord and he could not wiggle free. Three feet off the ground, he swung and choked.
From the truck, the old detective cursed loudly. Bane glanced toward him. "Hold him, Gary. We've got him now."
He strode back and saw Lina Petterson coming out with a Winchester. "Cut him down! Cut him down!"
"Too late," Bane answered. The huge body had gone limp and the head hung down. As they watched, Stan reverted to Human in death. "
The sister swung the rifle toward Bane, then slowly lowered it. She seemed to deflate and sagged to her knees.
"All right, Gary, shut the engine. It's over." The Dire Wolf went over and tugged the rifle out of Lina's unresisting hands to put it out of reach. "Lina, it IS over. Do you understand?"
Bane crouched and tried to sound gentle. "This was the only way. He would go on killing the rest of his life and you would be trapped into helping him. It's over now. Here's what we are going to do. We are going to lower him down. I will tie the cord around the porch so it looks like he hanged himself. As soon as we're gone, call the police and tell them to come out here. Tell them your brother had been acting depressed and wouldn't talk to you. It won't go any further. They'll be quick to close the case."
She finally raised her head and stared up at him, not in anger but in relief.
"After that, it'll be up to you. You're free for the first time."
Now she spoke. "I've wanted to sell this place for years. I'll go stay with my cousins in Yellow River."
Bane went to untie the cord. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It was the only way."
6/21/2013
