dochermes | Entries tagged with 1995

"The Chill Within"

9/29/1995

I.

The sword missed him by a good three inches and sank deeply into the wooden beam holding up the roof of the porch. For that next second, the Melgar warrior tugged, trying to get his weapon free and the Dire Wolf moved in with a short hooking punch that almost broke the man's jaw. Tough as Melgarin were, that blow dazed the man and his defenses dropped. Bane drew his fist back to his own armpit and drove it forward with a savage impact that forced the air from the Melgar's lungs with a whoosh. The warrior sagged to a seated position and desperately tried to catch his breath.

Jeremy Bane seized the hilt of the straight sword and yanked it loose from where it had been wedged into the support beam. He glanced around, no one else was in sight. This small summer cottage sat at the end of a dirt driveway and the main road could not be seen through all the bushes and trees. Good. He noticed fresh tire tracks in the dirt next to the cottage, but no sign of the vehicle itself.

The Melgar was recovering, trying to get to his feet. Bane threw the sword far out into the bushes and turned to face the warrior with bare hands. As the Melgar rose, the Dire Wolf whirled on one foot and blasted a reverse crescent kick with the other leg that smacked his heel against the warrior's cheek with a loud crack. The man sagged again and ended sitting up on the porch with his head down.

"Stay put," the Dire Wolf snapped. ( Read more... )

"Open Season On Monsters"

8/28-8/29/1995

I.

Three men stood arguing in a tight cluster in the parking lot of a Mexican-style restaurant. Arriving in his rented car, Jeremy Bane slowed and came to a stop some distance away to watch. He had never met any of them but he knew them by reputation. In the hot afternoon sun, he saw them stand in a circle facing each other, all talking at the same time.

Getting out of the dark blue Hyundai Sonata, the Dire Wolf studied the three men. Their body language indicated that an actual fight was not likely to break out now, it was just posturing and establishing status. All the men were roughly the same six feet height, all in good physical condition without being bulky. The most dramatic individual visually was the man in biker clothes... heavy boots, worn jeans, a leather jacket with the sleeves torn off and a demonic face painted across its back. He had long yellow hair pulled back in a ponytail, a sullen acne-scarred face and a mustache that drooped down on both sides of his mouth.

Standing up close to this man's yelling face without a flinch was an Asian man in a neat dark brown business suit with a tan shirt and brown tie. This man stood with hands down at his side, calmly facing the yelling man's anger without seeming to be affected. He was wearing sunglasses that he now tipped up to rest atop his head.

Completing the circle was an older man in black slacks and a green polo shirt with a light sleeveless Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over it. He had receding dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard as if to compensate. This man kept interrupting the other two with a dismissing gesture of both hands.

As he watched them, Bane judged their condition, their balance and co-ordination, their probable fighting skills. This was automatic, part of his decades of Kumundu training. He decided by the way the biker's jeans sagged on one side and by his posture that he was carrying a small flat .32 automatic in his belt where the leather jacket concealed it. The man with the beard was carrying a minor weapon in his right trouser pocket, probably a folding knife with a three inch blade. The Asian man appeared to be unarmed but he showed the best balance and maybe had some combat training.

Bane himself was wearing his usual trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Holstered behind his right hip was his long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 revolver and sheathed on his forearms beneath the jacket were the matched silver daggers. Beneath dark feral brows, two pale grey eyes watched everything suspiciously. There was no one sitting in any of the cars in the parking lot, no faces at a window of the restaurant CARMELITA'S. The closest any hostiles could be concealed would be in the sparse trees on the other side of the highway and his most wary scan saw no sign of anyone there.

Tentatively satisfied for the moment, Bane strode over and the three men spotted his approach. They all recognized him. "Oh my God!" "This is all I need!" "Who invited HIM to the party?"

"Nice to be welcomed," Bane said in his even tones. He stopped just beyond arm's length, fists at his hips as he saw them adjust to his arrival. "Let's see now. You're Jack 'Hound' Kenney, the New Jersey bounty hunter. I've seen you on TV. You have a big fan base following you."

"You got that right, mister." The blond man with the ponytail grinned at the praise.

"And you, Richard Park. Second-generation Korean-American who used to work for a certain Justice Department division. You left them to be an insurance investigator." Bane turned to the third man. "And Jay Ryan Lynch, author of true crime books and associate producer for the UNRESOLVED show on cable TV. Funny to find the three of you all together in a small town in Northern California."

The bounty hunter pointed a scarred finger at the newcomer. "What about you? The famous Dire Wolf! I didn't think you was real, to be honest. You're some sort of free-lance vigilante, right? You chase maniacs."

"That's fair enough," Bane said.

"Jeremy Bane himself," 'Hound' Kenney went on. "They say you captured Samhain. Golgora. Ethan Petrov, Seneca. You've got a reputation that is a bit larger than life, buddy."

The Dire Wolf allowed the faintest of smiles on his narrow face for an instant. "Let me guess. You guys are here after the same quarry I'm hunting. Right?"

"That's what we're... discussing," Richard Park admitted. He had a flat Midwestern accent. "I figure we are just going to be in each other's way."

"Look, I'm here on a job," 'Hound' said with his voice rising again. "Wendeego's girlfriend skipped bail. She was charged with aiding and abetting him. The company I work for put up that money and they're liable if she's not brought back to face trial. I mean to drag them back, no matter what!"

Bane nodded, folding his arms as he became more comfortable with these men. "Bounty hunters have a legitimate role in the justice system. Lynch, I assume you are gathering material for either a book or your TV show?"

"Nothing wrong with that, baby," Lynch answered lightly. "Wendeego is a celebrity in his own little way. The adoring public just aches to know more about him, what makes him tick, how a serial killer came to be..."

The Dire Wolf cut him off by turning to Park. "And you, Mr Park? What's your interest in apprehending Wendeego?"

"It's mostly personal," the Asian investigator admitted. "His most recent victim was someone I knew. I used to work with Stuart Murtagh at Continental Insurance. I knew his family. He did not deserve to be skinned and eaten."

"Fair enough." Bane took one step back to take in all three men at once. "I'm hunting Wendeego because it's what I do. It's my nature. He's more dangerous than anyone suspects. I have reason to believe Wendeego has a level of physical strength way beyond normal."

"He's tough as a cheap steak! Everybody knows that." 'Hound' Kenney snorted loudly. "There's security film from the courthouse of Wendeego snapping his handcuffs apart and throwing the guard down the stairs with one hand. So he's been working out. So what? He can't laugh at a bullet between the eyes."

"We'll see." Bane unfolded his arms and held up his open hands. "Here's the deal. I can see the three of you are not going to step back and let anyone else take over. Neither am I. And I can see you are not willing to work together and catch Wendeego more quickly. That would be best, if only to keep him from murdering anyone else."

"Bunch of hunters after the same deer," Park said.

'Hound' made a scoffing noise. "Hell yes. Always open season on cannibal monsters, far as I'm concerned. Better than lettin' him get away, I say."

The three men watched Bane in a sullen silence. Finally, Park said, "Looks like no one wants to budge. I just hope I don't trip over you amateurs being in the way." He turned and walked away across the parking lot.

"Well. So much for diplomacy," Lynch laughed. The author shrugged and smiled at Bane with a blinding flash of perfect teeth in a carefully tanned face. "But!.. come to think of it, there's also some interest in you, Mr Bane. You never give interviews or even make statements, you're a bit of an urban legend, know what I mean? How would you feel about me writing your book and you polish it a bit to make sure it's not too far off? 'DIRE WOLF- MY STORY by Jeremy Bane as told to Jay Ryan Lynch.' That's how the credit would read. Royalties would be HUGE!"

"Forget it," Bane said.

"Look at how much business my book about Senator Toricelli did-"

"Forget it," repeated Bane in a slightly menacing tone that made the words an order.

"Well, stay in touch," Lynch finished blithely as he headed toward his bright red sportscar. "Have your people call my people."

"What about me?" 'Hound' Kenney said as the two of them were left. "You gonna try and scare me off that way?"

"No," Bane said. "All I can do is remind you that I have evidence Wendeego is more than a normal Human. Tough as a cheap steak, as you put it, is not even close. I think he gets stronger with each victim."

"What, like he's supernatural?" Kenney spat loudly on the asphalt and turned to leave. "I don't believe in that crap, Bane. Money, guns, cars... those are real. I don't believe in vampires and ghouls and monsters." He headed toward a black SUV that had seen a lot of wear and tear.

"I wish I could say the same," the Dire Wolf whispered as he watched the notorious bounty hunter drive away.

( the rest of the story )

"Always Later Than You Think"

6/22-6/25/1995

I.

He hadn't heard from Ted in quite a while, Bane realized. It was just before noon on a warm late June day and he decided the two of them needed to catch up on everything. Ted Wright had been a founding member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation; he was one of the very few human beings that Bane trusted without reservation and it suddenly bothered him that there had been no contact between them for weeks. With Wright's free clinic literally in the building next door, how could this happen?

Heading down to the tiny underground garage beneath the KDF building, the Dire Wolf hopped in his dark green Mustang and started it up. As always, the trunk was loaded with weaponry and gear, including a knapsack with everything he would need for an extended case. He headed up the steep concrete ramp as the steel barrier at its top slid up to let him out in the dead end alley. Bane turned right on Lexington, was back on East 38th Street and he double parked in front of the stolid stone building next to the KDF headquarters.

At just under forty, the Dire Wolf was at his physical peak. He was all bone and wire-hard muscle with nearly zero body fat. In his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sportjacket, with the pale grey eyes sharp and alert in a narrow face, Bane was ominous without trying to be. Next to the front door was a vertical row of bronze plaques listing a dentist, a grief counseling service and a travel agency. The plaque on the bottom read THADDEUS J WRIGHT, MD - CONSULTATIONS. Bane stepped into the spotless lobby with its marble staircase and brand new elevator, and turned to his left. On the frosted glass panel of that door was the same information about Wright.

Bane opened the door and entered a waiting room not much different from thousands of others. Assorted chairs scattered about, a clock and a calendar on one wall, a rack of magazines and newspapers. There was a poster explaining what to do if someone was choking. In front of him was a solid desk behind which sat a heavyset Hispanic woman with a full head of curly hair. She had the warmest and most comforting eyes he had ever seen, and Bane sometimes realized what a reassuring influence she must be on the anxiety-struck patients who waited in that room.

Right now, there was no one else in there. Bane pointed to the plain wooden door to the receptionist's left. "Hi, Maria, I'm here to see Ted."

She did not answer right away but studied him thoughtfully. Then she sighed. "Dr Wright is in there. There's all I'm saying. Good thing you're here, Mr Bane."

Suddenly alarmed, the Dire Wolf moved past her silently and opened the office door without knocking. The room was a disaster. Textbooks, binders and loose stacks of papers were piled everywhere, with no organization. Behind his desk, Ted Wright was lying forward with his face resting on a bent forearm. On the edge of his desk was a half-eaten egg salad sandwich in its clear wrapper and a paper cup of coffee that had gone dry. The tightly curled hair was more grey than black at this point.

"Ted? What the hell?" asked Bane. He lunged forward and pressed two fingers to his friend's throat, placing his other hand on the man's back. The pulse was strong, breathing was deep and slow. That close, he sniffed and could tell Wright had not showered for at least three days. That was so unlike the Blue Guide. He was normally as clean in his person as a cat.

Wright stirred, moaned and sat up. He opened bleary dark eyes and blinked with some disorientation. "What? Is my one o'clock here...?"

Pulling him upright, Bane barked, "Come on, Ted, sit up. Come on now. It's me."

"Oh, hi, Jeremy. I must have dozed off." Wright was very dark-skinned, with heavy somber features and a full beard that was now peppered with grey at he entered his fifties. He rubbed his face with the back of one hand. "I, uh, I did an overnight at the ER last night. They called me in."

Bane's voice had a slight angry edge to it. "I know you gave up your apartment in the Village months ago. You only keep a couple of rooms on this floor with a bed and a bathroom. Ted, you're here at your clinic five days a week and usually Saturdays as well, mostly ten or eleven hours a day, and then you help out at the hospital at least two nights a week, more often three."

The Blue Guide gave a prodigious yawn and scratched his head. He was wearing a dark brown suit with a tan shirt and black tie, a white smock over it. His clothes were wrinkled and there was a coffee stain on his cuff. "Whew. Yeah, well, I have a responsibility, captain. My Blue Guide art lets me diagnose conditions before any lab test or blood work could...."

Jeremy Bane came around to stand in front of the desk. "Ted. Look at me. Am I your Tel Shai captain?"

That woke Wright to full awareness. "Yes, yes of course."

"Are you sworn to obey any lawful order I gave you, on penalty of losing your acceptance at Tel Shai?"

"Yes I am. Jeremy, what are you...?"

"Stand up, Ted. You're coming with me." Not giving the Blue Guide time to ask questions, Bane marched him out into the waiting room. "Maria!" he said. "Cancel all appointments for today and tomorrow. Call the ER and tell them Dr Wright will not be available until Monday at the earliest."

Seeing the confusion on her face, Wright told her, "It's okay, Maria. Do as he says. I owe this man my life several times over."

Heading for the door, pulling Wright by one arm, Bane called back, "We'll phone you Monday depending on how things go. Don't worry."

On on 38th Street, Bane manhandled Wright into the passenger seat. His car had not gotten a ticket yet. As they eased out into traffic, the Blue Guide exhaled sharply and asked, "Maybe an explanation?"

Bane was heading west, toward the Lincoln Tunnel. "Ted. I want you to take a nap for the next hour or so. I know you can do it with Tel Shai breathing techniques. Please, Ted."

"But.. Oh, very well. I'm too tired to argue." Leaning his seat back a little, Wright began the breathing cycle they had both been taught so long ago. In a few seconds, he had slipped off into a deep tranquil sleep. Bane drove on.

( the rest of the story )

"The Centaurs of Arizona"

3/15/-3/16/1995

I.

Early in a morning outside Claymore, Arizona, with the snow almost gone from the ground and Spring settling in, Jeremy Bane pulled over to a gas station. He had leased the red Chevy Silverado at the airport and gotten used to it during the overnight drive. He was almost down by the Mexican border now and the towns were far apart. Jumping out, the Dire Wolf filled the tank and checked the tires, then wiped the windows with paper towels in his obsessive way.

Glancing at the horizon, he saw low foothills but no mountains. This part of the state was sparse desert, not like the high plateau further north. With a slight tinge of disappointment, he had realized he was not going to be anywhere near the Grand Canyon or the famous Meteor Crater on this case. Maybe when it was over, he could stick around and act like a normal tourist. If he survived, of course. Right now, though, he had enough to think about. Going into the building, he paid for the gas and bought two sub sandwiches, a big bag of pretzel sticks and a 32 ounce bottle of seltzer. In the back of his truck, he already had stowed away three gallon jugs of water as well a red container with ten gallons of gasoline. His travel bag and knapsack were tied down there as well, with everything covered by a tarp from the direct sunlight. Before hitting the road, he had stocked up for trouble as best as he could.

Standing by the Silverado, the Dire Wolf took a bite of the ham and cheese sub, gazing somberly down the highway. He was wearing his invariable outfit of all black- slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him look even more gaunt than he was. At thirty-six, he was at a physical peak. The short black hair was thick, the narrow face was taut and the pale grey eyes were as sharp as ever. The phone call from Don Hewitt had been urgent but not enough had been said to give him substance to think about. Still, a please from one of Michael Hawk's old friends was more than enough reason to catch the next flight from Newark Airort.

Bane swung up behind the wheel and headed down the highway again. Ten miles further on, a roadside sign announced CLAYMORE ARIZONA POP 3240, with the motto, "Authentic Navajo Museum." Bane kept watch for a side road on his right, saw it and swung onto its muddy surface. Not far down the road was a small white plank house with an ancient Ford pick-up truck in front of it. Bane pulled up next to the Ford and surveyed the area suspiciously before getting out. Wariness was so deep in his nature that he would have come out here the night before and investigated the area without being seen if he could have.

As he hopped down to the still-frozen dirt, Bane saw movement through a window of the house. The front door opened and a spry old man not much over five feet tall stuck a whiskered face out. "That you, Jeremy?"

"It is," Bane called to him. "Don Hewitt, right? We haven't met but Mike talked about you."

The old man hobbled over. He was bent but still active, wearing boots, denim jeans and a red flannel shirt. Hewitt looked to be about seventy, with a prominent nose in a wrinkled face. The blue eyes were clear and alert, undimmed by age. Bane stepped closer to meet him and shook the offered hand firmly.

"Mike talked about you a lot, Jeremy," said Hewitt. He peered up inquisitively. "I didn't believe half of his stories about your team, the KDF or whatever it was called. My feet stay on the ground, thank you kindly."

"Mr Hewitt-"

"Hell, call me Scratcher. Everyone does," the old man chuckled.

"All right. Scratcher. I got your call and came out here. What's the situation?" Bane tried to sound patient, never an easy thing for him.

"Let's sit on the porch, okay? My legs ain't what they once were." Going over to a bench on the porch that ran the front of the house, Scratcher Hewitt lowered himself gingerly down, one hand on the armrest. Bane came over and dropped down next to him.

"I surely wish Mike were still around," Hewitt began. "I'd count on him in any rough patch. But hell, he was older than I am. Hard to believe he's been in the ground these twelve years."

"Maybe I can help, Scratcher. Start by telling me what the problem is."

"Fair enough. You see them hills over there? Wild horses, mebbe three hundred of them in different herds. Beautiful animals. Not as many as there was when I was your age. Well, son, there's a strange critter taking over as leader of them mustangs. I hesitate to tell you what it is, for fear you'll laugh."

Bane shrugged. "Mike must have told you some of the things we fought. Go on."

"Tain't man nor horse but both. Tain't a natural being that belongs on this Earth, son.. oh, Godammit! Here come the Wainrights." Hewitt grabbed hold on the armrest and pushed himself up. Following his gaze, Bane saw a white Jeep Cherokee had turned onto the dirt road and was speeding toward them. All of the Dire Wolf's instincts stirred and he jumped to his feet with one hand reaching behind him to loosen the Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip under the jacket. He could sense trouble in the air like the oppressive sensation before a storm breaks.

The Jeep skidded to a stop way too close to the old pick-up truck. Squeezing out of the passenger side, a huge hulk loomed up. Four inches over six feet tall, well over three hundred pounds, the big man was dressed in work pants and boots, with a baggy white shirt hanging loose over a round belly. The moonface was red and angry, encircled by bristly blond hair. "Scratcher!" the giant yelled in an oddly childlike voice. "You gone too far. You was told to stay off our land and now Pa says we got to teach you a lesson!"

Stepping down off the porch, Bane folded his arms across his chest and smiled. "You're going to have to go through me first."

( the rest of the story )

"Swat the Fly"

10/6-10/11/1995

I.

Bane and Cindy got out of the back of the unmarked car that had been sent for them. On the other side of Sixth Avenue was a cluster of patrol cars with their lightbars flashing blindingly in the gloom, and looming up over them was the Hartwick Building. This was an imposing spike of white granite that had been erected more than a hundred years earlier when its crusty old millionaire builder hadn't been inconvenienced by income tax. It took up most of the block, set back from the street by a small well-tended yard and further distanced from the riff-raff by a wrought-iron fence.

Inspector Klein shuffled over to meet them. "Hiya, kids. Glad you decided to come check this out." He looked the same as he always did, a short sturdy figure in a delapidated white raincoat, chewing on an unlit cigar. The native New York accent was particularly strong that night.

Waving a hand in a friendly wave, Cindy Brunner smiled in gleeful anticipation. "It's not considered polite to refuse a ride when a police detective shows up at your door." Her dark blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back. Cindy was bundled in a long cloth coat and had even taken a second to wrap a flannel scarf around her neck. It wasn't that cold yet but the telepath liked to be prepared for any weather.

Walking beside her, Jeremy Bane nodded at Klein. "Something interesting enough to send a car for us at midnight, Inspector?"

"Yeah, I think so. Something up your alley, Mr Dire Wolf," Klein said. "There was a party here tonight for the aristocrats of Manhattan. Rich folks trying to impress each other and secretly wishing they were home in bed with a good book. Drinking expensive champagne, nibbling at ridiculous specks of foods and gossiping without shame. Then there was the homicide. Young guy, Stratford Allan Hartwick, grandson of the tyrant who owns this shack. See that window on the third floor? The one with the curtains pulled open?"

Bane turned his pale grey eyes upward. Normally he kept a serious expression on his face but now the intensity in his voice gave away how excited he was under the poker face. "Yeah. Come on, what happened?"

"There's a den there, kind of a library with a mounted sailfish and a fireplace. The kid brought a girl in there to do some smooching. She's a debutante with a million dollar trust fund herself. When he turned on the lights, young Hartwick surprised an intruder. Described as a man in dark tights with a full-face mask and goggles. He was holding a bronze statue of a rearing horse, done by somebody named Cullen, it's worth a fortune in itself. The burglar hit Hartwick over the head with the statue and frankly, the guy must be strong enough for the Olympics. Kid was killed instantly."

Bane made a non-commital grunt, still staring up at the window as he pictured the scene.

"Then the intruder did something strange, something weird, which is why I thought you two would be interested. One of the windows was open. He went out through it. Third floor, thirty-five feet above the pavement. The girl was screaming and ran for help, so she didn't see what happened to the guy."

Pointing at the Hartwick Building, the Dire Wolf said, "That looks like a rough climb. No ledges at each floor, no fingerholds, just a smooth surface almost like glass. Did the burglar have a rope hanging down from the roof?"

"Nothing our boys can find. No scrape marks, no traces of fiber. There's nothing to tie a line onto until you get to the roof itself and that's another ten stories up. But that's not the kicker."

Unexpectedly, Cindy gave Klein a gentle shove on one shoulder. "Stop building suspense, Inspector. Honestly, you like torturing us. What was the weird part?"

"Sure, sure. Two of the guests were standing on the sidewalk right where those officers are now. They had stepped out to get away from the cigar smoke and snarky remarks. When they heard a scream, naturally they looked up... and they both swear they saw a man in a black outfit climb out the window and run up the side of the building as if he was running on a level surface. They signed statements to that effect."

"I dunno if that's impossible to explain," Cindy said. "One way he could have done that would be with some sort of motorized winch up on the roof. A wire hooked to his belt would pull him up."

"No one saw him leave or enter the building. Security cameras show nothing. But then, this isn't the first time this character has been reported. Twice before, burglaries in April and June this year. Once, a witness saw this guy run down the side of an apartment building and hit the ground running. The second time, he jumped from one roof to another across a side street. I looked up records for the broad jump and he would have beat it by ten feet or more."

Standing nearby, the sergeant who had driven Bane and Cindy to the scene spoke up. "The Fly Man."

( the rest of the story )

"Soldiers of Misfortune"

(12/7-12/8/1995)

I.

Bane watched Steven Weaver slide out from under the stealth copter CORBY and get to his feet. A canvas strip holding assorted tools was stretched out next to him on the hangar floor, and Weaver replaced two into their slots, then rolled the strip up. He was a tall, lanky black man in his late thirties, with short hair and a thick mustache. For once, he looked tired. Weaver went to the sink in the corner and started scrubbing his arms and hands with hot water and liquid soap.

"She's in good shape, Jeremy. But honestly, you need to make friends with a Trom. Most of those systems are beyond Human knowledge, and I sure can't get new parts if anything wears out." He rubbed his face with a towel and sighed. "Len's been dead for five years now, and the CORBY misses his tune-ups."

The Dire Wolf was standing with folded arms, watching Weaver thoughtfully. Nearing forty, he was as lean and restless as ever. Still dressed all in black, still regarding the world warily through pale grey eyes. "I've been thinking of starting a new KDF team," he said.

"Really? Well, that came out of nowhere." Weaver grinned. "I'm glad. I know that night in Necropolis took a toll. Emotionally. But to be honest, you NEED to be busy, my man. You were born to be the Dire Wolf... and operating a one-man detective agency isn't enough for you. Are you picking out potential members yet?"

"Just one so far," Bane said. "One of the Blind Archers of Chujir, a European named Josef. When the KDF was operating, I would have nominated him for membership in a blink. But I have feeling a few more candidates will be popping up. Steve, I was thinking maybe you could help train them? Stay here and start a new team?"

Weaver hesitated. "Man, don't put me under pressure to make a decision like that. You know I lost my levitating. If I can't fly under my own power, I'm not really Black Angel any more, am I? Just an ex-USAF chopper pilot and mechanic." He unzipped his grease-stained coverall and tossed it in a bin in the corner. Underneath, he was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. From a hook, he took down a red flannel shirt and yanked it on. "Not sayin' I'm not tempted..."

( the rest of the story )

"Passing For Live People"

1/11/1995

I.

When Bane finally finished some hated paperwork at seven-fifteen, night had fallen with a vengeance. He got up gratefully from his desk and stretched, then went over to the windows that looked out at the sidewalks of East 38th Street. It was cold and dark, the holidays were over, and nobody was out on the street who didn't have to be.

Jeremy Bane was more restless and unhappy than usual. He was alone in this huge empty ten-story building which had once been alive with the hectic activity and purpose of his team of Tel Shai knights. Maybe Cindy was right. Maybe it was time to start assembling a new team. He felt like he was living in a museum....

As the Dire Wolf gazed sourly out at the street, he watched two odd men hurry past. They were mismatched, with one being tall and thin, the other a short pudgy fellow with a belly like a beach ball. They both wore tan suits, with ties neatly knotted and even matching fedoras which gave them an old-fashioned look. Whatever they were arguing about, it seemed to be a routine they were used to.

Bane saw them slow as they approached the front door of his building. Suddenly he snapped into full awareness. Clients? Business for the DIRE WOLF AGENCY? He hoped so. He turned and rushed from his office, getting out in the hall by the front door just as the doorbell rang. Good. He was so bored he had thought of prowling the bad parts of town that night looking for trouble.

Pressing the intercom, he said, "Come right in," and unlocked the outer street door with a white button. He heard the buzz and click as the two visitors were admitted into the tiny vestibule which held only a bench, a shelf with a lamp and some magazines, and a framed oil portrait of the late Kenneth Dred.

At eye level where he stood, there was a wooden panel which slid aside to reveal a monitor screen and rows of controls. As always, he activated the advanced Trom sensors in the vestibule which scanned any visitors more quickly and thoroughly than a MRI would. As he saw the bizarre readings, Bane's grey eyes narrowed with a predatory gleam. No respiration, bodies at outside air temperature. He zoomed in on one of the skeletal images and saw the sharpened upper canines...

As always, the Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. As he closed the control panel, he reached up his sleeves and adjusted the matched silver daggers that were sheathed there to be sure they were ready for use. Tonight might be interesting after all. He opened the inner door and said, "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

This close, the signs of their condition were more obvious. Both men were pale, with dark circles under their eyes. Their skin looked dry and unhealthy. The short obese man took off his hat and held it in front of him humbly. "Gosh, I sure hope you can help us, mister," he began in a juvenile voice that didn't match the forty year old face. "We're in an awful jam."

"Quiet, Tubs, let me do the talking," interrupted the tall thin man. He had a neat pencil mustache under a slightly oversized nose. "Mr Bane, I hope? Jeremy Bane, of Dire Wolf fame?"

"That's me," Bane admitted. "And you...?"

"Ah, I'm Donald Flaherty and this is my bud Gene Marino. Everybody calls us Stretch and Tubs, I hope you do the same."

"Fine with me, Stretch. Would you two mind standing right over here? On this rug. You don't feel uncomfortable there? Interesting." Bane folded his arms and gazed thoughtfully at the two visitors. "There's a powerful talisman under the floor that protects against hostile gralic force. So I know that you guys are not here to attack me, at least not right at the moment."

"I don't follow," said Tubs. He turned to his partner in confusion. "What's he talking about, Stretch?"

The Dire Wolf watched the two men warily. "You guys must have just risen. You aren't aware yet. Do you know that you're both vampires?"

( the )