"Running On the Razor's Edge"

[dochermes]

"Running On the Razor's Edge"

10/23-10/25/1982

I.


"What on Earth is that unholy racket?" demanded the Gentle One.

Sitting five feet away from the desk, Rook had been admiring how the Gentle One managed to keep himself shrouded and unseen without leaving the room entirely dark. A dim purple bulb in the center of his desk barely revealed his gloved hands when he placed them near it. Those hands were broad, powerful, with stubby fingers and the white cloth gloves appeared purple because of the light. The Gentle One had developed a manner of emphasizing his statements quite eloquently with gestures from those gloved hands.

Beyond arm's reach of the desk, a highbacked wooden chain was fixed to the floor. Set on its back behind the occupant's head was an identical purple bulb that cast the vaguest light over the person in the chair. Rook was not fond of this arrangement. One of the most gorgeous women freelancing in international crime, her looks were both a major tool and a weapon she had learned to use well. But, after dealing with the Gentle One, she realized he was not susceptible to female pulchritude.

She had heard the crashing and roaring of angry voices from next door at the same time her new employer had, and she was on her feet instantly. Rook was half French and half Japanese, a tall slim beauty with straight glossy black hair that reached to the small of her back. While in her early teens, she had earned several million dollars posing for magazine ads but there had always been a strong streak of larceny and a craving for adrenalin in her soul that guaranteed she would not live within the law for long. Rook smiled with her perfectly curved lips and said huskily, "I have the strangest feeling we both know who has intruded on your hideaway."

"The Haunt must die," whispered the mastermind in the shadows. "I have grown so weary of his theatrics. Confound the man!"

Smoothing down the silk of her tight wine-colored dress, Rook said, "I'll see what I can do. Calculate a suitable bonus for me." She snatched up a small leather handbag with a fine-linked gold chain from where it had been laid at her feet. Another of the tiny purple bulbs had lit up at the top of a door, illuminating a few inches just enough that she could find the handle without fumbling. Careful not to look back, as per her standing orders, Rook stepped into a large unfurnished room that in contrast was brightly lit by a naked 75-watt bulb in the ceiling. In that room, caught in a wild brawl, one man was holding his own against four bruisers.

Rook smiled indulgently. Of course it was the Haunt again. Who else? The four thugs working for the Gentle One were all big, muscular guys with lots of experience beating up people. Yet they had their hands full with just one man who shrugged off their punches and kicks while landing punishing blows in return. At the moment, one of the goons had his arms wrapped around the Haunt's legs and was trying to immobilize him while the other three took swings. It didn't seem to faze the loner.

The Haunt was a vivid figure in a royal blue suit with matching fedora and wrist-length gloves. He wore a spotless white shirt and bright red necktie, but the flamoyant wardrobe was marred by the fact that one sleeve of the suitjacket had been ripped loose at the shoulder seam and that his shirt had come loose from the waistband during the struggle. His cloth domino mask was the same royal blue, fitting as snugly as if it had been grafted on.

One simple uppercut from a gloved fist lifted one of the thugs clear of the floor. The Haunt did not seem to have any martial arts training, just simple roughhouse boxing, but it obviously worked for him. In another second, he had kicked loose of the man holding his legs and jumped away from the hired fighters. On the other side of the bare room was a large uncurtained window that showed only the moonless night sky. The Haunt swung around with his back to the view and grinned insolently. He was a remarkably good-looking young man, evidently only in his mid-twenties, with crisp black hair and a strong jawline a movie star would envy. That face was bruised a bit by the brawl but swelling had only just started to show.

"Gah-DAM," yelled one of the thugs. "What is that guy made of, anyway?"

"Come on, we'll get 'im from four sides at once. No matter how tough he is, he'll be crying for his mommy before we're done with him," said another.

"If you gentlemen would step aside...?" drawled Rook. Startled at finding her having come up right behind them while they were distracted, the four men hurried to get out of her way.

"Rook? Again? Hey, I love your hair that way," the Haunt called over.

"You big moose," she answered, "You will never ever learn." She straightened her arm, her slender hand filled with the little Beretta Bobcat she had plucked from her handbag. This was a tiny, easily concealed weapon and she compensated for its modest stopping power by using 22 Hollow Points and with severe accuracy. Five shots detonated in close succession, and three bright red splashes of blood geysered out from the front of the Haunt's white shirt. He was already tumbling back when the fourth bullet hit him low in the stomach and the fifth missed completely, then he crashed backward through the window behind him to disappear into darkness.

"He's gonna land in the Heewasauga," laughed one of the thugs. "There, hear the splash?"

Rook did not comment and there was no triumph in her dark eyes. With a loud sigh, she turned to glare at the four hired strongmen. "You clowns, didn't you see what he had in his hand?"

In a timid way that was comical coming from a huge brute with a flattened nose and scarred knuckles, one of them said, "No, Miss Rook."

"Just Rook. Not Miss Rook. Somehow that joker got a hold of what you were supposedly guarding. He had the Blue Rose Cameo when he went out the window!"

II.

One o'clock in the morning. On the third floor of the Halliwick Hotel, Jeremy Bane stood holding the curtain aside to gaze down at Pruitt. He had never been in Georgia before and, although he knew cities like Atlanta were as big and modern as anything in the Northeast, he had still been surprised as how up-to-date and energetic a city like Pruitt was. The town had a reputation for lots of crime and accusations of corruption in the police department, but that could be found anywhere.

At twenty-five, the Dire Wolf was at a physical peak. He stood just over six feet tall and weighed one hundred and seventy pounds with zero body fat but long hard muscles that looked like bundles of wires. His enhanced metabolism filled him with so much restless energy that even now he was fidgeting and aching to get moving on this investigation. Bane was wearing his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, which had become so much his trademark that it was almost a uniform.

The knock from the door to the hall was unexpected. The Dire Wolf swung around eagerly and rushed over. As he approached the door, his left hand went to the butt of his anesthetic dart gun holstered at his hip beneath the jacket. "Hold on just a second," he called on his way.

Standing next to the door but not pressed up against it, Bane slowed his breathing and focused his attention on hearing. This was one of the first Tel Shai techniques he had mastered. In thirty seconds, his ears became much more sensitive as his awareness shifted into them. There was only one person in the hall outside, he concluded, a woman. She was breathing normally, not excited or upset, and from clues such as a lack of wheezing and an easy intake, he figured she was young and healthy. Teacher Chael had told him in a few years he would be able to locate and identify heartbeats at close range.

Unlocking the door, Bane swung it open and watched a tall dark-haired woman in a red dress rush past him.

"Close it quickly, my dear," she said with the faintest accent.

Beneath heavy dark brows, Bane's pale eyes were unfriendly. "Rook? What are you doing in Georgia? Never mind, I guess your activities take you everywhere."

The adventuress turned her head, flinging the lustrous hair back, and bestowed a dazzling smile as if giving a present. "Ah, Jeremy. We have not met since that night we shrank Karl Eldritch down to the size of a dust mote."

"Come on in," he said as she crossed over to lower herself delicately to the couch in the center of the suite. "I assume you are bringing trouble with you, as always?"

Rook crossed one sleek leg over the other and raised an arm across the back of the couch to emphasize her breasts.

"Forget the poses," the Dire Wolf said. "I'm all business, lady."

"Very well, it is your loss. Ca ne fait rien. Tell me, Jeremy, are you not also quite a distance from your usual territory?" On the coffee table before her were a half dozen maps of the state and the city, which he had obviously been studying.

Bane started toward the couch, thought better of sitting next to her and pulled an easy chair closer to drop down facing her. "First, level with me. Is someone going to kick the door in and start shooting any second?"

"Not on my account, I assure you," she replied with a throaty chuckle. "I dare say you have more violent enemies than I do and more of them. What, no drink offered to a charming guest?"

"I just got here. There's nothing but water from the tap," he said. "Come on, Rook, start talking."

"Be that way, then." Rook uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "Tell me, have you ever heard of the Combridge family treasure?"

"No." Just the single word.

"It was during your American Civil War. What a nightmare those years sound like. General Obediah Combridge was going into battle but first he stripped his mansion of all its valuables. Evidently there was a surfeit of gold utensils, jewelry, silver coins, paintings and more. In particular, there was some statuary by a sculptor whose work is all the rage in Europe now. Combridge was quite wealthy, although I have to say that his fortune was amassed on the backs of slaves. Be that as it may, he sent his family away and hid the fortune somewhere in this area."

"Go on," Bane prompted her. "I'm with you so far."

"But the general fell in battle and the family returned a year later with no idea where the valuables had been hidden." The beauty raised her shoulders an elegant inch and dropped them. "They scraped along by renting out their vast acres to sharecroppers - is that the word?- and eventually the estate was sold off bit by bit."

"I can guess where you come in," the Dire Wolf said. "You're on a treasure hunt."

"Ah, so true. There is a clue. As his wife said farewell before the battle, Combridge presented her with an item he had just had fashioned.. a cameo of the Blue Rose. This was their private joke, that their love was as rare a thing as a blue rose. He told her to guard it well and he would explain its secret when they were reunited." Rook smiled sadly and held up her hands. "As it happened, they never met again in this world."

Bane was finding it hard to sit still. Impatience was his biggest weakness. "Okay, okay, so this cameo has something about it that reveals where the treasure is and you're on the trail. Right?"

"A thousand pardons. May I use your bathroom, Jeremy? I have been traveling."

"Sure. That door right over there."

Taking her handbag with her, Rook rose and crossed the room without putting any seductiveness into her gait. She had reluctantly accepted it would be wasted on Bane. Like the Gentle One, the Dire Wolf just did not seem interested. She closed the door behind her with a soft click.

Jeremy Bane got up and paced. Sitting motionless was an effort for him. He did not trust Rook an inch, of course, he realized everyone was a mere pawn to her. But he hoped he would be able to at least hold his own and not get manipulated by her stories too easily. His Kumundu training helped him read body language and spot deception, but Rook was just too good at her art for him to be certain about her tales.

After a reasonable time, Rook emerged again and surprised him by heading for the door. He swung around as she paused with one hand on the doorknob. "Is that it? You just came here to tell me that story?"

"Ah, my Dire Wolf, I am increasingly concerned that I have been followed despite my precautions. Perhaps I will return later, when I am more certain. Adieu!" She raised a manicured hand in an ironic salute and left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Bane dove across the room and tore up the bathroom. There it was, concealed inside the shower head. A tiny cameo that he could easily close his hand around... a white oval with an intricately carved blue rose in its center. The Dire Wolf tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket and rushed back out into the suite. As if he had rehearsed it a hundred times, he flung the window up facing State Street and swung his legs through the opening. Hanging by his fingertips, he dropped down lightly to the sidewalk three stories below as easily as if stepping off a curb.

On this side street, so late at night, there had been no traffic passing and he thought no one had seen him drop. The Dire Wolf placed his back against the hotel wall and edged over to peer around the corner. There was Rook, just emerging from the lobby. She turned in the other direction and strode away with her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

Bane watched. Just as she crossed to the next block, a tall man in a blue suit emerged from the shadows of a doorway and started following her. The Dire Wolf allowed himself a faint predatory grin as he started shadowing the shadower.

III.

After almost twenty minutes of walking, Rook reached a small park in the center of Pruitt. It was only three blocks long, a narrow rectangle of green with a few elm trees for shade, some wooden benches and a statue of a military man standing with one hand on his heart. Around the base of the statue was a circular stone ledge with a few footrests at intervals. At almost two in the morning, it was deserted and only an occasional car drifted past. Rook marched up to the statue, daintily lowered herself down on the ledge and lifted her feet as if grateful to be off them.

Across the street, the man in the blue suit watched her from the darkened doorway of a shoe store, and from a block further back, the Dire Wolf watched him in turn. After a few seconds, the shadower crossed over and openly approached where Rook sat. Staring, Bane felt a twinge at seeing how much blood covered the man's white shirt as he stepped into the light.

"My word, darling, I did not expect to see you so soon," Rook said blithely. "Don't you have three bullets in your vital organs? Didn't you fall thirty feet into the river a few hours ago?"

The Haunt pushed his hat back on his head and grinned cheerfully. "Well, you know, I eat right and exercise daily and try to avoid stress." His suit was in fact still damp and wrinkled. The shirt was soaked in blood that had dried black.

On the other side of the statue display, Jeremy Bane crept up low to the ground, on fingers and toes. Between his all-black outfit and years of Kumundu training, he was extremely difficult to spot when he didn't want to be. Crouching and slowing his own breathing, he could not only follow their conversation but catch intonations and inflections.

"I do hope you harbor no grudge against me for that display of marksmanship," Rook said. "Let's be honest, I have seen you run over by a truck, fallen off an eight-story building and thrown across a field by an explosion... and each time, you laugh it off as one would a paper cut on the finger. Obviously, my darling, you have some supernatural qualities."

The Haunt did not answer directly. He rubbed his chest and scowled. "I'll let it slide this time, Rook, but don't make a habit of practicing your aim on me."

"I believe the Gentle One thinks you have the Blue Rose Cameo in your possession," Rook said.

"That's such a bizarre name for a criminal who has ordered as much murder and torture as he has," replied the Haunt as he sat down next to the beautiful woman and clasped his gloved hands in front of him. The domino mask was surprisingly effective at making his expression hard to read.

"Heh. Yes, it is like the way people in Europe referred to elves and fairies as 'the honest ones' or 'the good folk,'" she said. "It's ironic. But we must get back to the cameo, my dear. There are quite a few villains searching for it right now."

"From sad experience, I'm sure the cameo is actually on you at the moment. You only told your boss I had taken it to get the heat off you."

Rook chuckled and reached down to her handbag. "Allow me to be honest with you, Haunt-"

"Why start now?"

"Because hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake. Some of the statuary in the Combridge treasure might be worth half a million apiece. The sculptor has a certain following among the more refined. Now, I must admit I have not been able to find any clue on the cameo as to where the treasure is hidden, but you show a certain--shall we say, capability to pull surprises from your hat?"

Listening closely from almost within reach, Bane fought down an urge to leap up and tackle this Haunt character. That would not be productive. He had come to Georgia to deal with the gangleader called the Gentle One, who had sent killers to New York after some witnesses to his crimes. Bane had stopped the hit men and he was offended at the action because he regarded Manhattan as his own turf. His intention was to take the Gentle One down, All this business with Rook and the Haunt and a hidden treasure was really secondary to him.

"Go on," the masked man told Rook.

"I propose an arrangement. You examine the cameo and if- or shall I say when, perhaps?- you uncover its secret, we go claim the treasure. You will have the satisfaction of keeping that money out of the hands of the Gentle One." She turned her flawless smile on him like a weapon. "I will have the satisfaction of having it in the hands of one who will put it to good use. That is, myself."

The Haunt considered this for a moment, took his fedora off and straightened it up a bit, then said, "It's worth a try. Your employer's men will be after me anyway because they think I have the cameo, so I might as well really hold onto it. Okay, deal."

"Are you still driving that pathetic old taxi?" she asked.

"It's great camoflauge. No one notices a taxi anywhere, and I did have a new engine put in," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought perhaps I should accompany you," Rook answered. "I might help you examine this infuriating cameo."

"No. The whole point of a secret headquarters is that it's secret. I agreed to meet you here. We will meet again tomorrow night at a different location."

"Oh, very well. Down by the old lighthouse, then. You wound me, Haunt. When have you ever regretted dealing with me?"

"Every. Single. Time." He sighed. "Right now, I'm pretty sure you're playing me in some way. Where's your accomplice, that Belgian guy? Or the Dutch woman? Are you working this solo?"

"My friends will be in the area shortly. Here," she said, reaching into her handbag and giving him a small object. "Several men have already died trying to claim this."

"It's so small. Rook, I'm sure I'll regret this, but yeah, I'll see what I can find out about this thing."

"Wonderful. Now, explain those bullet holes in your chest to me..."

By this point, Bane had backed away from the statue and was moving through the dark. He had earlier spotted a blue-topped taxi parked on a side street and the conversation had decided his next course of action. He found it hadn't moved. There was no one behind the wheel. Crouching down at the rear of the taxi, he took a small flat metal device from one of the many inner pockets of his jacket and clicked it inside the wheel well where it stuck by magnetism. These little tracers were Trom-made, which meant their signal reached further and was more reliable than those used by spy agencies.

Even as he did this, he heard quiet footsteps approaching. There wasn't time to get away. Taking quite a chance, Bane swung around behind the taxi and stretched out on the street behind it. There were no cars parked in front of the cab, so he hoped the Haunt wouldn't have any reason to back up. A few seconds later, he heard the front door open and close, then the motor started up. The taxi pulled away onto the deserted street and Bane waited until it had turned the next corner before standing up. Wearing all black was extremely useful in Midnight War activities.

Brushing himself off, the Dire Wolf headed back to the green to find Rook was gone. He had wanted to conceal a tracer on her as well, but her tight silk dress offered no place to try, and the small leather handbag was no better. He set off at a brisk walk back toward the hotel where he was staying. Maybe he was getting distracted from his plans to attack the Gentle One but Rook was always in the middle of trouble and worth keeping an eye on. And he had been curious about the Haunt for a long time.

IV.

An hour later, Bane pulled his Mustang over to the side of a back road and got out. It was a dark night, overcast and without a moon, but his eyesight was enhanced by the tagra tea diet and he could see clearly in a few seconds. There was a chest-high wire fence in front of him, and within it he could see the backs of a few tombstones with some unused space left. This was the Brunswick Creek Cemetery he had seen marked on the maps he had studied.

Reaching back inside his car, the Dire Wolf turned off the tracking monitor and replaced the device to the knapsack in the back seat. He had followed the tiny glowing green blip on the screen to the countryside outside of Pruitt, where family homes were spaced well apart. A sluggish stream ran alongside the road, Brunswick Creek itself, with willow trees hanging low over the water. This looked more like the Georgia he had pictured. Bane went over and stood beside the fence.

On the drive here, Bane had tried to remember everything he knew about the Haunt. It wasn't much. The man was said to be a vigilante of some sort, true identity unknown, who operated throughout the South but mostly in this area. The Haunt had reportedly helped solve many robberies and a few murders over the past two years. He was known to gather evidence and present it anonymously to the police for them to act on, and he had also been reported to obtain confessions from many suspects but these were obtained by duress and not admissible in court. This had led to a few cases being thrown out, which diminished his reputation slightly.

The Haunt was widely regarded as an urban legend in the underworld. Many believed he was just a made-up figure used by the police to cover their irregular methods, and the sighting of a masked man were dismissed as some undercover officer in a distracting disguise. Bane had been interested but had not expected to ever find out the truth.

Now it looked like he would get some answers. Bane moved back a few feet, took a running start and lightly vaulted over the wire fence to land on fingers and toes in the damp grass on the other side. He did this with an ease that suggested he was capable of higher jumps without effort. Watching and listening but catching no sign that anyone was near, he started moving through the cemetery. As he headed toward the front of the grounds, he noticed the tombstones were getting smaller and more worn. They were from when the town of Pruitt had been founded in the early 1800s.

Up ahead, lights showed a small, one story wooden house with an attic. Over the back door, a single bulb shone in a glass box. In a window on the ground floor was the dim glow of a night light. Bane approached the house slowly. Off to one side was a shed which had its sliding door up to reveal a ride-on lawnmower and some groundskeeping equipment. Parked next to the shed were two vehicles. One was a red Dodge pick-up truck with its bed filled with rakes and shovels, but the other was covered by a tarp.

Bane crept over and lifted a corner of the tarp to reveal a blue-roofed taxi. He examined the license plates and found there were three of them with different numbers, one wired atop the other, so they could be changed quickly. He straightened up again with a faint smile. Well, it figured someone called the Haunt would make his headquarters in a graveyard.

Almost invisible in his black outfit on a dark night, the Dire Wolf stepped silently around the house. The nightlight vaguely showed the interior of a bathroom with an old-fashioned porcelain bathtub up on legs off the floor. Bane made his way toward the front, where two lights burned on either side of the door. A wooden plaque nailed to the post on the front porch read CARETAKER and in smaller lettters, SQUIRE PINKSTON. Was this the Haunt's real name and daytime job? It seemed a little too obvious.

Still circling the house, Bane noticed something interesting in the dirt. By now, his night vision had fully kicked in and he could see almost as well as he would in daylight. In the soft damp earth beside the gravel driveway in front of the house was a fresh footprint. A man's shoe, size 12 in Bane's estimation, and it was pointing away from the house. His hunting instincts flared up. He searched the immediate area and located a second print on a path between the rows of tombstones.

Bane did not suspect the supernatural at that point. To him, this didn't seem like a genuine Midnight War case but just a bunch of crooks and semi-crooks trying to cheat each other. Still, it WAS the middle of the night in an old run-down graveyard and he felt a bit on edge. After a few more minutes, he found a third print near a mausoleum. There were at least four of these structures in the Brunswick Creek Cemetery, and this was the largest, a white stone structure with ornate carving around the top edge. The door had mock columns carved from the stone, and a name inscribed in cursive letters, SUDLOW FAMILY. There was a huge padlock holding the door shut.

Stepping in closer, Bane froze in place and let his senses work. There was a definite throbbing sensation in the ground beneath his boots. He knelt and placed a palm on the ground, letting the vibration register. Some sort of motor was running beneath him. Now he was really intrigued. The Dire Wolf looked around the immediate area. Six feet away from the mauseoleum, near the path, two metal pipes stuck up knee-high from the ground. He knelt by them. They were stainless steel and new, capped to keep rain out but with openings on the sides. One had faint diesel fumes seeping from it. He placed his hand near the other one and felt air being drawn down in the pipe. In the gloom, Bane's grey eyes gleamed with excitement. Moments like this were what he lived for.

Returning to the mausoleum, he drew a pencil flashlight from inside his jacket and ran a thread of intense white light around the door. Something about it did not seem quite right. He scrutinized the padlock and decided it was a diversion. After a few minutes of probing, the Dire Wolf located a small panel which swung open to reveal a keyhole and handle. Better and better, he thought. He took a Trom device from an inner pocket and pressed it to the keyhole. Thin metal filaments extruded into the lock, shaped themselves to fit the interior and then rotated to unlock it with a click. Returning the device to his jacket, Bane seized the handle and pulled. Against some resistance, the massive door swung outward. Warm dry air rushed out. Bane stepped around to peer inside and walked right into a powerful straight punch from a gloved fist.

V.

It was one of the rare times in his career that he was caught completely flat-footed. That punch caught him square on the chin, knocking him back with dazed lights flashing in his head. Bane did not quite fall, but he stumbled back two steps. A second blow came whistling at him, and his Kumundu training enabled him to barely deflect it with a soft palm block. The big masked man in the blue suit came at him with both fists raised.

Turning to plant his feet firmly, the Dire Wolf blurred out first a right backfist and then left cross that cracked hard to the Haunt's face. Expecting the man to fall, Bane was surprised once again when the masked man disregarded both blows and threw a wide looping roundhouse that grazed Bane's cheek. It would have had a stunning impact if it had connected fully.

The Dire Wolf was so used to his extra speed giving him an immense edge on opponents that it took a second to adjust. Whoever this Haunt was, he was not only fast and strong but unusually hard to hurt. Rather than try slugging it out, Bane changed tactics. He hooked his foot in front of the Haunt's ankle and swung it up to make him fall. Even as the masked man dropped to his knees, Bane stepped in and smashed an elbow between the shoulder blades with more force than he would normally allow himself to use. The Haunt dropped. Bane jammed one knee down hard in the small of his opponent's back and pulled the man's right arm up and out straight. He was positioned so that the masked man could neither kick him or get leverage to struggle back up. Adding to the effect, Bane twisted the captured arm slightly to make it clear he could break it if he chose.

"Settle down, settle down," he said quietly. "This might be a misunderstanding."

The masked man hesitated and then yielded. "Appears I have no choice."

"My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm sometimes called the Dire Wolf. I operate out of New York City and I think we're in the same line of work."

"Yeah, I've heard of you. You and the KDF, a bunch of ghostbusters. You have a bit of a reputation there, Mr Bane." The Haunt had stopped struggling but he had drawn his other arm up under him in preparation for getting free. He was a big man, several inches taller than Bane's six feet and heavily muscled.

Holding the masked man's arm, Bane squeezed the wrist with his free hand and was silent for a moment.

"Mind telling me what you're doing?" asked the masked man.

"Just a second. You're full of surprises, Haunt. Pulse six per minute, almost zero blood pressure. Your skin is at air temperature." He peeled off the blue cloth glove from the captured hand. "Fingernails are dark. Are you what we usually refer to as alive, buddy?"

"Let me up and we'll talk. I've heard enough about you that I think you're the one man I can reveal my secret to." The Haunt shifted his weight but could not get up as Bane pressed down on the captured arm. "To be honest, I don't think I have too many options at the moment."

"All right." Bane released the man and the Haunt rose up to loom over him ominously in the gloom. The masked man took his glove back and tugged it on. "I tell people I wear these to avoid leaving fingerprints on crime scenes but it's really to hide the black fingernails. I don't leave prints anymore."

"I found the exhaust for the generator and the air intake," Bane said. "So you have a sort of hidden lair under this mausoleum?"

"Yep. I do have a right to it, being the last of the Sudlows. My coffin is in there, actually. Come on in." The big man in blue walked through the still open door into the structure and Bane followed. Yellow light poured up though an open trapdoor in the stone floor, revealing six coffins resting in wall nooks. A seventh coffin was in the center of the crypt, with a name plate DREW SUDLOW 1954-1980. "That's for me," the Haunt said. "They didn't have a body to place inside, there's actually a photo of me in there with a few roses."

"I can see you have an interesting story to tell," Bane replied mildly. He followed the Haunt through the trapdoor and down a short ladder to a large room that was dry and warm. Light came from two standing floor lamps. A comfortable looking red leather chair sat between the lamps, with a hassock in front of it. To one side was a round table covered with a jumble of newspapers and magazines. Against one wall was a waist-high bookcase filled with reference volumes about law and local history, and a large citizen band radio sat on the bookcases. A standing wardrobe in one corner and a queen-sized bed in the other made up all the other furnishings.

Bane looked around. "The Haunt's secret sanctum. I bet a lot of crooks would love to get down here if they knew about it."

"That's a true fact," the masked man answered. Every now and then, a phrase or a tinge in his voice had a Southern ring to it. "I don't use that bed much. I don't really sleep since the errr incident. About every other day, my mind gets tired and foggy and I lie down and sort of daydream for an hour or two, that seems to be all I need."

"I don't see any food or any bathroom facilities," Bane observed. "Do you go up to the caretaker's house for that?"

"Once in a great while. Mostly I don't need to eat or drink, I just do it sometimes to reassure people when socializing. So I only need a bathroom every blue moon. You must have figured out by now I'm a kind of zombie."

"Not like any I've ever heard of," the Dire Wolf said. "So, what's the story, Mr Sudlow?"

The Haunt walked over to fetch a wooden chair from the foot of the bed and bring it over in front of the easy chair. As they seated themselves, the masked man said, "It's hard to believe, but I understand you yourself have dealt with the weird and the supernatural many times. Okay. Back in early 1980, I was an operative for a local private detective named Bill LaRosa. I wasn't a licensed PI myself yet, I was working on it. We were hired to find a bird named Wesley Gorsline. He was some sort of nut who believed he could revive recently dead people as long as not too much time had passed. Gorsline had been thrown out of universities and banned from hospitals all over the country but he kept at it."

"The Resurrector," Bane said. "I have heard the name but I've never crossed paths with the man."

"Really? Well, I traced him to a shack in the woods. Gorsline had gotten to the point where he was stealing corpses from morgues to experiment on. I suspected he wanted bodies as fresh as possible so he had actually started kidnapping folks and murdering them so he could bring them back immediately. Or he thought he could."

Bane waited as the Haunt paused, took off his fedora and placed it in his lap. The blue domino mask covered his eyebrows and made his expression enigmatic. "I learned better. There was a big metal vat in that shack, big as a hot tub, filled to the brim with this fluorescent yellow goo. Weird stuff. When I broke in, Gorsline got the drop on me. He had a Luger aimed right at my chest at point blank range, but not close enough for me to make a grab for. I raised my hands and listened to his wild ranting and raving.

"On a plain wooden table behind him was the body of a young woman, a pretty black girl maybe nineteen or so, in a summer dress. She was lying face up and from where I stood, I could see the marks on her neck that showed she had been strangled. Gorsline was going on and on about how there would be little damage to her when she revived because he had injected her quickly after her death."

The Haunt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down thoughtfully. "What happened next.. what happened next.. God have mercy on my soul, if I still have one. I was standing with my back to the vat of glowing goo, hands up, praying for an opening. Gorsline had his Luger aimed at me. When the woman screeched like an owl and leaped off the table to tackle him from behind, Gorsline shot me three times right in the chest. It hurt worse than I had ever expected, burning like someone had stuck white-hot wires into me. I fell backward and toppled right into the vat, sinking into the goo. My last thought was something mundane, something like, 'well this is it.'"

Bane said nothing, listening with intense interest, and the masked man continued, "What happened after that, I slowly figured out later. Gorsline and the revived woman disappeared and haven't been found to this day. The shack caught fire somehow and burned almost completely to the ground. When locals saw the smoke in the morning, they found the yellow goo had leaked out and sunk into the ground, and my lifeless body was still lying at the bottom of the vat. I had been soaking in that glowing gunk all night while the shack burned down. Some cousins of mine from Dogham County claimed my body and had it brought to a funeral home where the police ordered an autopsy for the next day.

"But in the morning, my corpse was gone and the door to the funeral home was wide open. It was a scandal and a mystery. Everyone figured Gorsline was still at large and had bodysnatched me. A funeral was held anyway. After all, I had been declared dead. And the empty coffin you just saw was placed in the crypt above us with the usual service."

The Haunt was silent for so long that Bane thought he had ended his story. "So what really happened?" the Dire Wolf asked at last. "You woke up in the funeral home?"

"If you can call it waking up," the Haunt said. "Suddenly I sat up in a panic. I was naked on a table. There were scars on my chest where the bullet holes had sealed up by themselves. I wasn't thinking clearly as you can imagine. I was basically hysterical. Sneaking around the darkened funeral home before dawn, I found some clothes that more or less fit me and I ran out the door. I found some poor old farmer's truck that I could hotwire and I just took off into the night.

"By noon the next day, I was over in Dogham County and beginning to understand against my will. I found out I didn't have much of a pulse and I only breathed when I made an effort to do so. I wasn't hungry at all. I had no sense of smell or taste. Eventually it sank in what I was. I had been floating in Gorsline's reanimation serum all night and it had soaked into my body. I was one of the Undead."

"So that's how the Haunt can survive so much trauma?" Bane asked. "I kept reading how you had chairs broken over your head, how you've been shot and stabbed and hit by cars, yet you just showed up again as if nothing had happened. It's the serum."

"Damn straight. I don't feel pain at all. Wounds just sort of close up and vanish in a day or so. I guess I absorbed so much of the reanimation fluid that it keeps resurrecting me." He grinned in an embarassed way. "It's an advantage for a crimefighter but believe me, I'd rather be alive again and able to enjoy a steak dinner or get a good night's sleep."

Bane shook himself and reached into his inner left jacket pocket. "That reminds me. We can't forget the situation that brought us together. Here, does this look familiar?"

Staring at the cameo, the Haunt dug in his pants pocket and brought out the identical one which Rook had given him. "Well, this is unexpected. Do you think either one is genuine?"

"I doubt it," Bane said. "You've dealt with Rook more than I have. How far do you trust her?"

"That's a good one. I don't believe her when she tells me what day of the week it is." The Haunt stuck his tongue in his cheek and smiled wryly. "And yet.. somehow whenever I tangle with her, things always seem to work out for the best. It's like she does good despite her intentions."

"So she gave us duplicates of the Blue Rose Cameo expecting that the Gentle One will be chasing us while she looks for the treasure on her own? Tricky girl."

The Haunt held up both cameos side by side. "Mr Bane..."

"Might as well call me Jeremy if we're going to work together. Drew?"

"Oh, I feel poor Drew Sudlow is really dead. I answer to Haunt now. Anyway, Jeremy, these are exactly identical as far as I can see. Maybe the two of us can figure out what clue is hidden in them and get to the Combridge treasure before either Rook or the Gentle One can?"

"I like that idea," Bane answered. "Come on, let's put our heads together..."

V.

Rook had returned to her rented rooms on Watrous Street in a residential part of Pruitt and slept until noon. Rising when she was ready, she made a cup of tea in which she dunked the bag exactly eleven times and added a slice of lemon. Then, taking a shower and washing her hair with herbal shampoo she ordered from Japan, the adventuress spent forty minutes in front of the mirror. It was not that she wore a lot of make-up because she didn't but the minimal touches she did add had to be exact for good effect. Her skin was a golden peach color with just a faint tan as she always avoided the sun.

Studying her reflection as critically as a surgeon examining a patient, she searched for the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, for any loss of tautness in the skin under the chin, for any sign of coarseness in the fine textured pores. Everything seemed fine so far. She knew at some point she would have to begin to rely more on cunning and misdirection than her looks by themself. Not yet. The oval face with its full lips and straight nose fascinated both men and women.

Expecting the Gentle One to be in a foul mood after the previous night, she decided to play down the sexiness in favor of a more professional look. Flesh-colored pantyhouse, a short snug black skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse with long sleeves. A blazer that matched the skirt, an understated string of pearls and pearl earrings. Maybe a bracelet? Yes, but a simple silver band on the left wrist only.

Feeling ready to face her current employer, Rook checked that her Beretta Bobcat was still concealed in the gap above the ceiling tiles in the bathroom. Instead, she examined her other gun, a .25 ACP, and was satisfied it was ready to use before stowing it in her handbag. As a matter of policy, she tried to alternate the weapons she used. It might keep the police confused if nothing else.

The Gentle One was not the leader of a huge underworld empire. He was an idependent criminal who planned heists and kidnappings and swindles by himself, with a handful of trusted thugs and one or two assistants such as the matron. No one really knew his country of origin or his history, and only his closest aides had seen him in the light and lived. Twice now, the Rook had worked for him in Europe, but this was the first time she had been recruited by him in America. The Gentle One paid well and did not cheat his contractors. But, and this worried her, there were rumours that ocassionally those who failed him vanished and were presumed dead but never found...

Leaving her room, she listened for signs of the other boarders but they all seemed to be at work at the moment. From the living room on the ground floor came the sound of a rather loud TV with a talk show on. The elderly couple who rented out rooms here were obviously getting a bit hard of hearing. Rook passed by the living room door without the couple being aware of her and stepped out onto a street lined on both sides with nearly identical houses. She started walking until she reached the convenient mart on the corner, then used the outside phone booth there to call for a taxi.

It amused her to specifically use a company that did not have blue-topped cabs. Not that she expected the Haunt to show up again so soon. The ride to the building along the river that the Gentle One used for headquarters was uneventful. Rook got out several blocks away, paid the cabbie and walked briskly to her destination. As she drew within sight of the ancient three-story structure that apparently had started life as some sort of fish processing plant, she spotted a watcher stepping back on the roof. Word of her arrival was being rushed through the building.

Even as she stepped up to the door, it opened from within. Two of the hired thugs from the night before admitted her after frisking her with a severity that showed they got no pleasure from patting her body down. This time they did confiscate her handgun. They had been under orders to allow her to remain armed the day before. Then the matron, a middle-aged woman with a doughy face under grey hair, approached and escorted her up creaky wooden stairs to an office on the second floor. Rook stepped again into darkness lit by only two dim purple bulbs, one on a desk and one on the top of the chair where she took her seat.

The gloved hands extended into the faint radiance of the purple bulb. They were not clenched in anger as she had feared, but beckoned her in with a welcoming motion. "Rook, I have managed to find some information on your bank accounts in France and in Switzerland. You are quite wealthy, young lady. In fact, I find you are a millionaire several times over."

She smiled and leaned forward. "It is an uncertain world, you know. A girl must think of her welfare."

"What I am wondering is this," whispered the voice. It was impossible to detect any accent or national origin from those low tones. "Why do you continue in this dangerous and nerve-wracking line of work? You could live quite comfortably anywhere and sleep peacefully at night."

It was a long minute before Rook answered. When she did, her voice had lost its usual lightly mocking tone. "Have you considered the phrase, 'running on the razor's edge?' As my mentors explained it to me when I was young and full of illusions, you can run barefoot quite safely along a razor as long as you keep moving smoothly. if you hesitate- if you waver- you are lost. Is that image vivid enough for you?"

"It is," answered the Gentle One at barely audible level. "You feel that you are in this position of running on the razor's edge and you don't see how you can stop without being sliced apart?"

"Sadly, yes. It is not something I like to admit." She straightened up again and brightened her voice with an effort. "So. I assume the body of the Haunt has not been dragged from the river? Surely even the lethargic local news would pick up on a story like that."

"No. I have a theory that this Haunt character is not an individual but several men taking on the role as needed. He has been reported killed too many times for his survival to be explained by mere good fortune or toughness."

"That could be why he wears the mask," Rook considered. "One police officer or FBI agent after another in that disguise..."

"In any event, my men have found no sign of him anywhere. Perhaps his remains will surface soon. Even without the cameo, I think we can find the Combridge treasure." The Gentle One slid a manila envelope across the table to the edge nearest Rook. "Naturally, I had many detailed photographs taken, as well as impressions in clay to make a few duplicates. Study these today. You have until midnight to discover what clue the cameo holds and report to me."

Rook reached over for the envelope. "That deadline sounds ominous. What do you have in mind for me, my friend?"

"Oh, nothing punitive. I will likely need your services again at some point. But you would be dismissed for now with less than your usual fee," the Gentle One answered. "There are two more complications to mention."

She had started to adjust herself to rise but something in his voice stopped her. "Yes?"

"One of my employees has seen a man named Bane on State Street yesterday. I believe you have met him?"

"Oh, yes. Not a happy memory, I assure you. The famous Dire Wolf. What under the sky could bring him here?" This time, Rook did stand up, holding the folder in front of herself. "I would prefer to avoid him, to be frank. Jeremy Bane is both impulsive and a bit too comfortable about using violence to be amiable company."

"If he stays out of my way, I will happy to pretend he does not exist," the Gentle One said. "But if he interferes with my businesses or if he is also after the Combridge treasure by misfortune, his death will be painful and shameful. If by chance you happen upon this man, I trust you will encourage him to return to New York at once."

Rook kept the amusement out of her voice by sheer will. "Yes, sir. I will."

"And there is one more item on our agenda," said the Gentle One. The gloved hands vanished for a moment and then reappeared in the limited glow of the purple bulb on the desk. They slid a leather handbag identical to her own toward her. "Do not get these two bags confused, young lady. This one has been crafted by my experts. It contains eight ounces of the gelatin W14 explosive."

"How charming," Rook said, making no move to touch it.

"If anyone attempts to open this bag, it will detonate twenty seconds later. The explosion is calculated to be fatal to anyone within arm's reach. Should the Haunt take your bag and attempt to search its contents, you will have time enough to dive to safety. My hope is that you will find an opportunity to accidentally leave this behind where our masked nuisance will find it?"

"I see." Rook tentatively picked up the bag and peered at it in the dim light. "Ah, the clasp is not quite the same as the one on my bag, I see. Hopefully, I will be able to remember which is which, yes?"

The vaguest rumble of laughter sounded in the gloom. The voice of the Gentle One replied, "I have faith in your alertness, Rook. Report as soon as you have news."

VI.

At nine o'clock that morning, the caretaker for the cemetery had entered the Sudlow mausoleum and knocked on the trapdoor. The Haunt let him down the ladder and introductions were made. Squire Pinkston was in his late sixties, a thin short man who dressed in work boots, overalls and a worn flannnel shirt. Pinkston had a long, mournful face with deep vertical creases and silvery white hair that was getting a bit long and untidy.

The man had brought a thermos of coffee and a few mugs with him. Bane thanked him for the offer of some but declined. His hyper metabolism meant caffeine was the last thing he needed.

"I've known Squire all my life," the Haunt said, sipping his coffee black. "I showed up here after my incident and he took care of me. This room was originally dug as extra storage space for future generations of the Sudlow family. We reworked it together."

"Including the generator to supply light and pump fresh air in?" Bane asked. "I thought that would be hard for one man to install secretly."

"What Drew hasn't mentioned is that I owe him my sister's life," the old caretaker interrupted as he filled his own coffee mug. "Even before he started working for that detective, he stopped her from being killed. She was being stalked by some psycho where she worked at the Dollar Store. Drew happened to pull into the parking lot just as that nut shoved her into his car. She was hollering of course but no one else was around." Squire Pinkston snorted in delight. "Drew only punched the guy once before calling the cops, but they had to take him in to have his jaw popped back in place before putting him in jail."

"Anybody would have done as much," the Haunt said.

"Mebbe. But you was the one who did it. The police later found trophies that freak had kept from two other women he had already murdered. I swore I would repay the debt someday somehow. So, when Drew showed up in that confused state, I was more than pleased to help him out. And I've been glad to support him as he solves crimes ever since."

The masked man grinned and added, "Being immune to bullets and beatings is an advantage every PI should have."

Bane sat and watched the two men thoughtfully. "From what I've read, the Haunt has done a lot of good. But I have to ask, why the disguise? Why wear a mask when you're legally dead anyway?"

Instead of answering, the Haunt reached behind his head and untied the blue mask. Under his eyes were black circles that no amount of make-up would conceal. The discoloration reached his cheeks. As he replaced the mask, he said, "I'm a little self-conscious about my undead condition. Why advertise it?"

"Fair enough," Bane said. He was still fiddling with one of the Blue Rose cameos. Now he took a thin curved blade from the lockpick set he carried and pried the rose shape loose from his setting. He held up the piece of ivory and gazed at it from behind. "You know.. something about this..."

The Haunt put down his coffee mug and leaned forward. "Like what?"

"Do you have a good map of Pruitt? I think I might be onto something here." As the masked man unfolded a map from the bookcase and spread it out on the bed, the Dire Wolf came over and held the piece over it.

"I spent an hour studying maps yesterday," Bane explained. "Naturally, I try to have a clear layout in my head of the area where a case is taking place. Something about the shape of this thing..." Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he took out the pencil flashlight and thumbed it on, then held it behind the segment of the cameo. In a few seconds, the rose shape was casting its shadow on the map of the Pruitt area, and as Bane moved it around, suddenly the shadow exactly matched the outline of a segment of the rivershore.

"By God, there it is!" yelled Squire Pinkston, sticking his head in between Bane and the Haunt. "A perfect fit."

The Dire Wolf nodded and studied that section of the map. "Looks like the stem of the rose ends at the old lighthhouse, eh?"

"And that's where Rook wanted to meet tonight!" the Haunt added. "She always knows more than she's telling. I calculate I should bring a shovel and a pick with us tonight, we might have to do some digging."


VII.

The 1981 Ford LTD had tinted windows and there was an opaque glass divider behind the front seats, so Rook still had not gotten even a glimpse of her current employer. The Gentle One was in the front passenger seat, speaking to her through an intercom. The driver and the two men sitting on either side of her in the back were the same gunmen who had been brawling with the Haunt the night before and they were so silent that Rook decided they had been instructed not to speak to her. She enjoyed the plush velour interior of the limo and the air conditioning on this muggy night, but she admitted the company left much to be desired.

At one-thirty in the morning, the limo pulled off the road onto a narrow gravel path that ended in a clearing in the woods. The Heewasauga River was right nearby. As the three gunmen exited the car, the Gentle One spoke from the front seat one final time. "I see no sign of another car, Rook."

"That is not unexpected," she answered. "The Haunt and the Dire Wolf are capable of concealing their vehicle nearby and hiking a few miles to the cave." She slung the gold chain of the handbag over her shoulder and lightly brushed her hair back with her fingers. "My information is that our two gallant chevaliers have found the cave and are almost certainly down there now."

"That is something else we need to discuss," whispered the sibilant voice through the intercom. "I am not pleased that your underworld sources seem to have produced better results than mine. You have only been in this area briefly."

"Such is life. There is more than one web of informants and observers in the badlands, sir. Naturally, I know mostly thieves and spies and fences."

"Hmm. I suppose. Very well, Rook. Lead my men to this reputed cave and stay out of their way when the firefight begins. Go now." There was a click as the intercom turned off.

Rook pouted but realized there was no one for it work on, so she got out of the car and closed its door gently. Without a word, she led the three big bruisers along a footpath through marshy grounds for more than a mile. It was another dark, oppressively still night and even after their eyes had adjusted the going was slow and cautious. Eventually, they emerged where a stone jetty extended into the river. At the end of that structure stood an old lighthouse that had been dark since WW II. A metal sign on a post gave a brief history of the Pruitt Light, but there were no NO TRESPASSING notices anywhere.

On the river, a speedboat roared by, loud rock music blaring from it. The oldest thug, the one with a melancholy face that seemed to feelings of repressed guilt, spoke for the first time that evening, "There's the matron."

Rook said, "Ah, a distraction to cover us. Quite clever."

"Boss knows what he's doing," grumbled the hired gun. "Where's this cave, Rook?"

The adventuress gingerly led them down the side of the stone jetty facing the river, holding onto the stray branches and taking pains not to fall. Once she grasped the sleeve of one of the gunmen for support and he said nothing but did not draw away. On the rocky strip of shore alongside the jetty, dim yellow lights showed. Someone was down there with a flashlight. As soon as their feet were on level ground, all three of the gangsters drew their guns and held them ready.


VIII.

The three gunmen had caught Bane and the Haunt in awkward positions, both kneeling as they had been examining empty crates and worthless debris. The Dire Wolf considered jumping up and attacking anyway. He was wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and a shot to the head would be unlikely considering how fast he could move. Still, it was always a possibility a gunman would get in a lucky hit. Better, he thought, to get some information from these goons and see what Rook was up to. Bane had expected some sort of trickery from Rook before the case was over, anyway... it was just her nature.

Behind the three men, the Heewasauga River flowed sluggishly under a black sky. The speedboat circled around one more time and took off. It was clear in retrospect that the noise of the boat and its loud music had been planned to cover any noise the Gentle One's team made as they had approached.

Rook stepped around from behind the three gunmen, careful not to get in their line of fire. She was still wearing the black skirt, blazer and white blouse. Her handbag was slung over one narrow shoulder. In the uncertain flicker of all the flashlights, shadows moved over her perfect oval face as if alive. "My dear friend," she said to the Haunt, "While it is true that you seem able to survive any number of bullets, it cannot be a pleasurable experience for you."

"It may not be fatal," the Haunt admitted, "but it's not anything I look forward too, either. Well, Rook, as you can see, the treasure has already been taken. I can't say when. All they left are the wrappers, so to speak."

"Too bad," the adventuress said in a low voice, as if to herself. "All this agita for no payoff. Ah, such is life."

The biggest of the gunmen, the one with the sorrowful Italian face, swung his pistol over to cover the Rook. "Move over by your friends, lady."

"What? Did I hear you correctly?" she asked.

He put more menace in his voice, "I said get over there! Jimmy, go up and tell the boss exactly what the situation is." As the youngest of the three thugs rushed from the caved, stumbling a bit on the damp rocks outside, the other two spread out to match sure everyone was covered. "Now we just sit pretty for a minute," he growled.

Seeing Rook stroll insolently over to take her place between Haunt and himself, Bane fretted. He might have made a move against the gunmen before, but Rook had neither armor nor abnormal healing factor and he didn't want to risk her life. Alternative plans raced through his mind.

"Seems like your boss doesn't quite trust you," Haunt drawled in an attempt to rile Rook. She did not react other than with a shrug.

"Our trade is not based on trust but on mutual self-interest," she said. Rook started to let her handbag chain off her shoulder but the oldest gunman pointed his pistol directly at her.

"None of your tricks, la-" he started but was cut off by the explosion outside. A deep thumping boom and a flare of white light seemingly from directly above them made everyone give a violent start. Bane recovered quickest. Even as everyone else was staring around wildly and unable to process the unexpected blast outside, Bane drew and fired twice so quickly that the cough of his gas-powered weapon was lost in the echoes of the blast. Both darts jabbed into the gunman's neck, a little too close to the windpipe for safety. Their sting was painful enough that he gasped and clapped his hand to the thin metal barbs in his neck, distracting him for the second it took before the potent Trom-formula chemical was in his bloodstream. He was confused and disoriented instantly before passing out entirely. Dropping to his knees, the thug stretched out full length on the cold wet rocks.

Personally, Bane was not that fond of the dart guns. They had been pressed upon the KDF members by Michael Hawk because they were usually non-lethal and left someone who could be interrogated. But their range was limited and they didn't work well when the targets were wearing heavy clothing. Bane would rather have stuck to his Smith & Wesson 38 which had stopping power and intimidation factor, but he went along with his teammates for the most part.

The remaining hired gun was too confused to react. Between the explosion outside and the way his leader had seemingly been shot dead right next to him, the man hesitated too long. Taking two long strides toward him, the Haunt simply reached out and bent the gunman's wrist inward to break his grip and then yanked the revolver away.

Stepping back, seeing the Dire Wolf was still covering the surviving gunman, the Haunt turned to Rook. "If you feel like explaining anything, let us know."

The adventuress smiled sweetly, opened her handbag and took out a cigarette from her pack of Players. She lit it with a tiny platinum lighter inscribed with an ornate heart, and took a deep inhalation. "I usually only indulge after a tense moment," she said absently. "This pack is old enough that they are getting stale."

Without taking his eyes or his weapon off the remaining gunman, Bane said, "That was the Gentle One who just got blown up, then?"

"I sincerely hope so. He was waiting in his limo up by the trail. The old viper! First, he gifted me with a handbag packed with plastic explosive. He claimed the plan was for me to leave it here so our dear Haunt would be killed when he tried to open it. But I could tell the Gentle One had no more use for me and I had perhaps learned a little much for his peace of mind."

The Haunt shoved his fedora to the back of his head with a gloved hand and whistled. "Since you opened your handbag safely just now, I must sadly conclude that you left the one he gave you behind in his limo?'

"Safely tucked up under the front passenger seat," Rook replied with another drag on the cigarette. She exhaled through both nostrils. "He used a radio signal to detonate the explosive. I think it's only justice. The Gentle One set a trap and stuck his own head into it."

"'The schemer falls into the pit he digs for another,'" Bane quoted.

"Oh, excellent. You've read the Bible. Ecclesiates, wasn't it?"

The Dire Wolf glanced over at her. "Is that where's it from? I wouldn't know. Michael Hawk used to say it when a bad guy tripped himself up. Okay, Haunt, what's your thoughts on the situation?"

The masked man turned in a semi-circle, gesturing at the cave interior. "The treasure angle turned out to be a dud. Whoever got here cleaned out everything worth taking. So there's not much reason to linger. Since the police and or ambulances will probably be showing up soon, outlaws like myself and Rook are better off being scarce."

"Fair enough," said Bane. "What about this guy here?"

"I suppose we just let him go," Haunt said with some doubtfulness. "None of us are willing to just execute him. His boss is dead. If he wants to find a job with some other mastermind, he'd be smart not to mention any of this."

Bane pointed the weird looking thin barrel of his dart gun as the man. "You agree with all that, buddy?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. you guys will never hear from me again." The gunman backed toward the mouth of the cave and suddenly took off at a run as his nerve broke.

Rook stepped over and prodded the unconscious thug with the toe of her shoe. "I presume this throwback is merely taking a nap, then?"

"He should wake up in an hour or so," Bane said, holstering the dart gun. "He'll be nauseous and dizzy for a period after that, though. That's a strong chemical in those darts."

"I suggest you carry him up out of here. Let's leave him by the wreckage of the limo. I only wish we could see his face when he awakens in the dawn and pieces together what has happened." Rook turned her most charming smile on the Haunt, having realized it was wasted effort on Bane. "Then we call it a night, yes?"

"Sounds good to me," the masked man said. He bent and easily hauled the sleeping man up over one shoulder. "Jeremy, you all set?"

"Sure. Haunt, it's been good working with you. If you ever find yourself in New York City, be sure and come see me." Bane raised a critical finger at Rook. "But you! You need to retire and get away from this life. You're playing games with cold heartless killers too often."

The beautiful mouth turned down in a pout. "I have been running on the razor's edge too long, my dear. I can't dismount now without being slashed. But I do appreciate the brotherly concern. Shall we go? It's starting to get light out."

IX.

Back in the center of Pruitt, the blue-topped taxi pulled over in front of the Halliwick Hotel. During the ride from the lighthouse, the three of them had discussed their frustration of not being able to get near the red-hot ruins of the burnt limousine and be certain that the Gentle One had in fact been inside when the explosion had taken place. The Haunt had mentioned his clandestine arrangements with some members of the local police and said he was sure he would be able to get a peek at the report once it was filed away.

Getting out from the back seat, the Dire Wolf suddenly felt tired. He had been on the run more than twenty-four hours after all, and his adrenalin was leveling down now that immediate danger had passed. With a wave at Haunt and Rook, he went into the lobby and had no plans other than a quick shower and a few hours sleep before catching a flight home.

Rolling back to the park where they had rendezvoused the night before, the Haunt eased up to the curb. "Here we are. Are you sure you don't want to be dropped off closer to where you're staying?"

"This is fine, dear one." Rook leaned over and kissed him softly on the mouth, nothing lingering but just a warm farewell. "Au 'voir. I am certain we shall meet again. If you are lucky."

As she stepped out onto the curb in the growing dawn, Rook watched the taxi pull away. The Haunt. He was like a big friendly dog, not terribly bright but handsome and reassuring to have on hand when dealing with the ungodly scum of the badlands. There was a pay phone on the corner. She dropped a dime into it and dialed a number, spoke just a few words and then waited patiently. Within five minutes, a black BMW swerved over to let her in. Behind the wheel was her longtime assistant Maxime.

Maxime was Belgian, a lifetime grifter now in his late fifties and quite overweight. The bristling mustache in the round face had become more grey than black. He watched Rook with hopeless devotion. From the start of their working relationship, he had realized he would only possess her in his fantasies but he had come to be content with that. "Yes, Princess?"

"I will explain later what happened. Right now, let's just say I am nearly certain the Gentle One is explaining his many misdeeds before his Maker. Everything has been arranged?"

"Yes, ma'am." Maxime stopped at a red light and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Giulia and I packed everything carefully and paid the smugglers well. We have dealt with them before, you know the Faerber family. By the time we are at your villa, the crates will be waiting."

Rook laughed out loud, suddenly seeming much younger. She pulled back her thick black hair and tied it with an elastic band. "This project will keep us busy for weeks, old friend. Sorting the items out, deciding which dealer or collector is best to approach, haggling over prices... Mercy. Quite a task to dispose of the Combridge treasure!"