dochermes | Entries tagged with 2004

"Squid Vicious"

A lost story from 2014; when the laptop rebooted, the text was erased.

3/2-13/2004

Early in the morning, passers-by find a badly injured Bane lying in the alley between two buildings. Someone calls for an amvbulance but the EMTs are not hopeful about his chances. Bane has broken ribs, severe bruising, concussion, bleeding from nose and mouth. Strapping him to the gurney, they take his vitals, give him nasal oxygen clips and try to stop the bleeding. Within a few blocks, his enhanced healing kicks in. At a red light, Bane unexpectedly breaks free and jumps out the rear of the ambulance, brushing the confused paramedic aside. He is away down a side street before the EMTs can react.

Recovering quickly, Bane manages to get into the bathroom of a McDonalds without being stopped. He cleans himself up as best he can, then starts walking toward 48th Street. Back at his apartment, he strips off the tattered blood-stained clothes and collapses on the couch in a deep exhausted sleep. In mid-afternoon, Bane awakes refreshed and feeling almost normal except for stiffness and pain. He eats something and drinks a few mugs of the tagra tea as he remembers what had happened.

The night before, Bane had confronted a new badlands figure calling himself Squid Vicious, who was gathering a few thugs to commit low-level violent robberies. Somehow Squid had thoroughly beaten Bane half to death, and Bane has only a vague confused memory of what had happened. Maybe his head injury fogged his memory.

Bane gets a call from Lt Montez, who is looking over a wild report from two EMTs about a critically injured man who broke free and restraints and ran away from an ambulance when he should not have able to even sit up. The man answers Bane's description, Montez observes dryly. Denying everything, Bane instead asks for some information on Squid Vicious but not much is known.

Around dusk, Bane gets through his DohRa form successfully and decides he's ready to get back in the fight. He calls Bleak for any tips, gets an address down by the Battery and hints that Squid is hiring some hard cases and paying well. Bleak is surprised Bane does not recognize the pun in the name 'Squid Vicious' and he tells the Dire Wolf to stop being so dead inside and listen to music once in a while.. any kind of music.

As it gets dark, Bane finds an auto body shop in the worst part of lower Manhattan. Four bikers are there with their Harleys, a stolen BMW is being painted for resale on the black market. Facing Bane as he enters is a wide man in a tan raincoat tossed over his shoulders. Suddenly the Dire Wolf remembers everything. Burke Costello had been a bodyguard for a Red Sect warlock whom he tried to rob and been cursed by a Darthan spell.

From Squid's back sprout four thick tentancles stretching eight feet in length, lined with hooked suckers. These had taken Bane off-guard the night before, but now he's ready for them. He stamps down hard on one tentacle, pinning it to the cold concrete floor. Even as another of the limbs whips around his torso, Bane seizes a tentacle and slices entirely through it with the silver dagger. The severed limb whips about wildly. Bane springs in close and drives the dagger into Squid's chest, then kicks the dying man back away from him.

As Squid sags to the floor and the tentacles spasm and twitch, the Dire Wolf wheels around to confront the gang. To his surprise, they are already gone. The taillights of one motorcycle can just been speeding away. Relieved and amused, Bane actually laughs out loud as he seldom does.

"Love That Graveyard"

A Trom Girl Mystery

10/29/2004

I.

"Too bad it's not Halloween for two days yet," Archie said as they pulled over by the side of the road. Ahead were two squat stone pillars topped with white crosses and bronze plaques that read COLLIER CEMETERY, with an added wooden sign, NO ADMITTANCE. Despite that, there was no barrier across the gravel road that led up to four acres of graves dating back to Colonial times.

"Why do you say that?" asked Megan Salenger. She sounded genuinely puzzled. Behind the wheel of her cherry red Jeep Wrangler, the Trom Girl was dressed rather formally in Navy blue slacks, a white silk button-front blouse and a beige topcoat. Her shock of thick black hair was neatly brushed and not in its usual tousled state. "I don't see why you wish it to be Halloween."

Sitting beside her, Archie smiled without mockery. "Ah, it's just a perfect night. The moon is bright, it's windy and sprinkling a little. All the trees have bare branches, it just LOOKS like Halloween, you know?"

"I think so," she said. "Tonight's weather matches your mental image of what the holiday should be. Much the same way as people express a desire for snow on Christmas?"

Archie McAllister said, "You got it," and peered through the windshield at the old house up on the hill. "Man. Even the dark old building with one light showing in a window! It's perfect." He was a few years older than her twenty-five, almost a foot taller than her five foot three. He did have shaggy black hair much like hers, but his eyes were a startling and rather lovely pale blue that stood out oddly in his bearded face.

The Trom Girl watched him affectionately. Her unusual upbringing had been intended to leave her a nearly emotionless genius but nature had asserted itself. She was healthy and normal, no matter what the Trom councils had intended. "I'm glad you could accompany me on this investigation," she said as she put the Jeep back in gear and headed up the gravel road.

"Yeah, I got a three day weekend but Monday morning I better show up at the shop. There's a vintage Indian that needs body work and the boss wants me on it."

"That should present no problem," she said as she slowly drove past rows of worn tombstones and an occasional crypt. The grounds were tended, but the grass looked sparse and lifeless, the cemetery as a whole had a forlorn and discouraged feeling.

"I looked this place up when you first told me about it," Archie said. "It's closed. No new graves. The State of Massachusets is going to maintain it as an historical site but already some developers are talking about bulldozing it to put up a mall. That'd be a shame."

She did not respond. He was used to that by now, as Megan had many odd habits. After a moment, as they neared the old dark house, she asked, "Did you find any information on Hollis Webber?"

"Nothing much. Nothing I don't think you wouldn't already know. Weird old duck."

As she brought the Jeep to a halt in front of the three story Victorian building, Megan made a faint snorting noise. "He is not a duck! I enjoy your figures of speech, Archie, they are so unexpected." From the back seat, she took a package neatly wrapped in brown paper and hefted it. "Let us meet him."

Archie hopped out on the passenger side, grinning despite himself at the rundown structure that loomed up in the darkness in front of them. On the top floor, one small window glowed with an amber light but that was the only sign of habitation. The building itself was in need of repair, a fresh coat of paint would have done wonders and a few shutters hanging sadly on one hinge would not have taken long to fix.

There was a white doorbell and Megan pressed it steadily. A few seconds later, a wrought iron lamp hung over the door sprang into brilliance. They both blinked and the massive oaken door swung inward to reveal a huge man barely restraining his obvious rage.

"No visitors. Go away! Go now," he growled in a heavily accented voice. The man was wrapped in a heavy parka and had woolen gloves on. His wide face looked as if it had never been presentable, even before either years of drinking or brawling or both.

"We're here to see Mr Webber," Megan told him as calmly as if the brute was not glowering furiously at him. "I tried phoning him earlier."

"I told you to get lost!" repeated the man in a louder voice.

Angered at his tone and protective of Megan, Archie clenched his fists and took a breath but she forestalled him by handing over the package she held. "Take this for a second, hon," she said.

As the angry man glared at her, Megan Salenger drew a small dull grey metal device from her coat pocket. It fit easily in her palm. She held it up so the round bulb set on one end faced the hulk. "Here. Do you see this?" She pressed a contact patch and, although the device made no flash or sound, the big man sighed and dropped senseless to the floor with his face down in the doorway itself.

Megan took the package back. "Archie, could you get him in a seated position at least, so we can close the door?"

As he grabbed the unconscious brute and dragged him back into the foyer to prop him up against the wall, she did indeed close the door behind him. "He seemed unreasonable," she said.

"That's the neural shock cartridge, right? Aren't you worried about scrambling somebody's nervous system with that thing so they get epilepsy or amnesia or something?"

"No," she answered and left it at that. They stood in a foyer with a bench and a single straigh tbacked chair, a lamp high on the wall and a coatrack that held a long oilcloth coat, with a scarf wrapped around it. On the wall were framed prints of the town of Collier, Massachussets as it had been two hundred years earlier. Megan opened the inner door and froze. Standing in its opening was an emaciated old white-haired man pointing a big Army .45 automatic with both hands right at her face.

( the rest of the story )

"Search For the Tzumatli Wheel"

6/27-6/28/2004

I.

"I'm a reincarnated cowboy," said Johnny Packard. "And by that, I don't mean in any symbolic or metaphysical sort of way, you take my meaning? I truly am the Brimstone Kid from the Old West brought back into a modern body."

The jukebox in the corner was turned up much too loud. The voices of the Dixie Chicks were familiar and the tune was clearly "Traveling Soldier," but the words could not be distinguished at all. Perched on a stool next to the bar, Ruffian brought her flawless face closer to Johnny to hear him. She studied him intently. She saw a young guy in his mid-twenties, no more than five feet six, lean and wiry in boots, black jeans and a denim jacket buttoned all the way up even on a sultry night. Johnny's angular face under the shock of dark red hair was not good-looking so much as it showed strength and wry humor. The bright green eyes were amused at seeing her examine him so openly.

"I should laugh nervously, I suppose, and quickly make an exit," the woman called Ruffian said. "But I don't know... Something in your voice, in your eyes, tells me you believe what you're saying. I want to hear more."

"It's gospel truth, ma'am," Johnny answered. "It don't make no never mind to me what folks believe but my words are always straight shootin'."

Ruffian smiled with her lips closed. She was slightly taller than Johnny, a slender woman about thirty with smooth olive skin and gorgeous straight black hair that hung straight down her back to her waist. In this honkytonk, she was simply dressed in sneakers, blue jeans and white long-sleeved blouse with a folded collar. No jewelry beyond plain stud earrings and a silver chain necklace with a turquoise pendant no bigger than a coin. "I'm glad to hear that, Johnny. I've heard stories about you back East. Just now, I happened to see you ride up on your Harley. Doesn't the modern world with all its technology seem frightening to you?"

"Naw, I may be from a different era but that don't mean I'm stupid. Back in Manhattan, I took recent history courses at a community college until they was comin' out my ears. I learn fast. There's lots of things I don't much care for about this modern world but there's just as many that suit me fine."

Ruffian flashed perfect teeth at him as she lifted her empty glass. "Buy a lady a drink and tell me more?"

"I'd be pleased to do so," Johnny said. He got the bartender's attention and freshened both their glasses. After he took a contemplative sip and muttered, "Good bourbon. Anyway, ma'am. Miss Ruffian, if I might call you that, are you from these parts?"

"Oh heavens no, I've never been in Arizona before. I came here to write an article about Skinwalker sightings. Was this your hometown in your... your earlier life?"

Johnny raised his shaggy eyebrows and gazed down at the bar. "For a while. I spent better part of a year in this territory. Tell me, have you heard of the Tzumatli peoples?"

"Never. The name sounds sort of Aztec, maybe?" She lifted her glass and took a delicate sip that barely got her lips wet. Behind those huge dark green eyes with long natural lashes, a shrewd mind was watching Johnny, calculating, planning, but none of that showed.

"Far as I can tell, almost nothin' is known about them for sure," Johnny Packard said. "There's a tiny bit of evidence that they were one of the very earliest groups in Mexico and Central America, but that's based on some pottery and bits of jewelry you could fit in a shoebox. Scientists would surely love to learn more." He paused and drained his glass with a single gulp, then seemed distant again.

"Oh, don't stop there," Ruffian said. "There has to be more to the story."

"True enough. In the late spring of 1881, some folks found a curious trinket while clearing land. It was a wheel of beaten gold, too big to hold in your hand, with a funny-looking green stone in its hub. In a circle around the outer edge were thirty-six symbols. Just squiggles or the head of a cow or the open hand of a man or a sun with lines coming off of it. The farmer took it to the local schoolteacher who figgered it was not only really old but interesting. He bought it from the farmer without lettin' fall just how valuable this Wheel was. You see, the teacher decided that this was not only from the Tzumatli but it was their alphabet inscribed on the outer rim."

He paused long enough that Ruffian tugged impatiently at his sleeve. "Come on! Keep going."

"Sorry, I was ponderin' a mite. The teacher wrote to a university back East and they promised him a wheelbarrow full of money for it. So he packed it up real careful and put it on a train headin' to St Louis and from there up North to Boston. The train was held up by the Mullen Gang. Four people got killed, includin' the engineer, the mail car man and two reg'lar fellows who tried to stand up to the outlaws. They got holes through 'em for their courage. Along with the money and gold watches and such, the Mullen brothers took some packages from the mail that looked as if it might seem worth something. That was when the Tzumatli Wheel vanished for the first time."

She was leaning in toward Johnny Packard more closely than seemed necessary just to hear him. Laying it on thick at first always seemed to work in her experience. "The first time?"

"Yesm. First of many. But that was when I first learned about the Wheel, the first time I had to shoot a man who was trying to take it away but not the last...."

( the rest of the story )

"Seventeen Twins"

7/5-7/6/2004

I.

A muggy evening in early July, with tempers short everywhere and drivers taking crazy risks. Jeremy Bane crossed 20th Street in lower Manhattan and trotted up wide stone steps to the front door of the police station he knew best. The glass door was unlocked, but he had to be buzzed in from the tiny lobby into the waiting room by a uniformed cop sitting behind a counter. The officer knew Bane as soon as he came into view, and nodded in a not unfriendly manner. Six feet tall and gaunt, dressed all in black as always, the Dire Wolf was easy to recognize. The pale grey eyes under the feral black brows never changed, nor did the wary suspicion in them.

The waiting room had two benches with the usual despondent winos and sullen petty thieves waiting to be processed, as well as two well-dressed middle-aged women likely there to bail someone out. Beyond a flanking pair of plain wooden doors stood a desk elevated on a platform so that people had to look up, a rather obvious psychological trick that nevertheless worked. On one side of the desk was the flag of the State of New York, on the other was the flag of the United States, and on the wall behind was a large portrait of the current Mayor of New York City... all this to impress the gravity of the situation on first offenders.

The Dire Wolf had been here many times under different circumstances. As he approached, the sergeant behind the desk put down a clipboard and grumbled, "You again. I suppose we can expect five or six bodies this time?"

"I do my best," Bane answered. As he spoke, a man in a lightweight tan suit stood up from a straightback wooden chair beside the desk and tucked a large manila folder under one arm. He would have been quite good-looking if he had been able to keep his weight down but it had been a losing battle for some time. He grinned as he saw the Dire Wolf again.

"Hiya, Bane," said Lt Joseph Montez with a Lower East Side accent, stepping forward. "Got a beauty for you this time."

"Evening, lieutenant," Bane replied. "I came as soon as I got your call. What's the situation?"

"Follow me. Through this door. Let me ask, did you ever hear of Milo Nicosia?"

"Nicosia? Sure," said the Dire Wolf. "Career criminal, lots of heists all over Europe. He never quite made the ranks of the very best, but he's done all right over the years."

Montez led the way down a dim corridor lined with rows of doors with frosted glass panels, behind which frequent arguments could be heard. At the end of the hall was a nook with a coffee machine, some Danish on a tray and two chairs, and next to this was a solid wooden door with the number 11 on it. The lieutenant rapped on that door sharply, an officer peered out and then let the two of them in.

It was a good-sized room with white plaster walls, lights in the ceiling that were brighter than they needed to be, and a chipped old wooden table surrounded by some folding chairs. Sitting motionless in two of those chairs were two men who looked alike. Both were tall, skinny, with thinning black hair and a prominent ratlike nose under which a trimmed pencil mustache sat. Both men wore polished black loafers, blue slacks and a bright orange crewneck shirt. They were gazing down at the floor and did not seem to be aware of Montez and Bane entering the room.

"I don't suppose they confessed?" Montez asked the officer.

"Nah. Not a peep. They just sit there."

He snorted angrily. "I wasn't hoping for much. Well, Mr Dire Wolf, whaddaya think?"

Bane had stepped toward the prisoners and started to speak, then stopped. He was staring, bending closer and studying the two men. For a long moment, he was as unmoving as they were. "Good job," he said at last. "I can't tell if it's plastic surgery or Hollywood make-up artists or what, but I can't tell one from the other."

"They look alike, huh?" asked Montez with a grin.

"Exactly alike. Every detail I can spot. Fingerprints?"

"Fingerprints match each other, which is to say they match Nicosia." Montez pulled out a chair and plopped down opposite the two motionless prisoners. "Funny."

"It has to be surgery then," Bane said. "Unless.."

Montez glanced over at him. "Unless it's something from your weird area of the twilight zone, the Midnight War. That's what I was thinking. That's why I called you tonight."

"I see. Yeah. What are the circumstances of their arrest?"

"Okay. See, this guy here? He's Nicosia One. He was nabbed swiping some goodies from Schneider's Jewelry in Time Square. Didn't resist arrest, just came quietly. Wouldn't answer questions, just sat there like he's deaf. And an hour later, THIS joker, Nicosia Two, was busted down on 32nd Street and Lexington, after breaking into a pharmaceutical storeroom. Same story, silent as a clam. When Two was brought here, the officers in charge nearly had cardiac arrest and they brought me in because I am well known as the investigator to go to where weirdness happens." The lieutenant leaned back again. "And that's because I usually drag you into it."

"I'm glad you did," Bane muttered absently. He was scrutinizing the two identical men in fascination. "Not sure what we're dealing with here. Has a doctor examined them?"

"Can't do that without consent," said Montez. "Or if they appear to be in distress, which they're not."

The Dire Wolf reached out to take the wrist of the nearer man, then stared up at the clock on the wall for thirty seconds. "Pulse is fifty-eight per minute. Way slow. Skin is clammy, I'd guess temperature at ninety-one or two. I can see them breathing, deep but slow. Surprising they're not in a coma, but they are sitting upright without trouble."

Getting up again, Montez straightened with a little effort. He had been in good shape not so long ago. "Little disappointed, Bane. I expected you to know immediately just what these boys are."

Bane did not reply right away. After a minute, he started to turn toward the door. "I want to check a few ideas, lieutenant. Keep me informed if anything happens with these two."

"And where are you going to be? If I might ask."

"I'll be looking for the real Milo Nicosia."

( the rest of the story )

"Captain Cadaver"

A Trom Girl Mystery

12/1-12/3/2004

I.

"We haven't been allowed to do an autopsy on Woertham yet," the local Medical Examiner grumbled as he unlocked the morgue door and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. He looked like he would be grouchy as a matter of course, with a sour face that had deep vertical lines around the mouth. George Allcott was sixty-one, losing his hair fast and not an imposing figure in any case. He stood no more than five feet eight, and the white lab coat over the old-fashioned tweed suit did not give him an air of authority.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs outside the morgue entrance, Megan Salenger was as serious and restrained in manner as usual. Only a few inches over five feet tall, wrapped in a red flannel shirt too large for her and faded jeans with the cuffs rollede up, she looked considerably younger than twenty-three. The Trom Girl had thick tousled black hair, cut short over an inquisitive foxlike face. As she entered the morgue, she glanced around and retained every detail with a near-photographic memory.

Behind her, a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, Archie McAllister followed her through the door with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. He always looked like he needed a nap, a haircut and a shave, and today was no different. Archie had on his down-filled parka but it was unusually warm outside for the first of December and he had left it unzipped. When he glanced around the morgue, it was with only mild curiosity.

"The FBI requested you to delay the autopsy until we arrived," she said in a tone that indicated it was not a question.

Allcott scowled more than usual at the comment. "Yes. The sheriff's department is not happy about having the case taken over the Federal authorities, I can assure you. Here he is. The late Lewis James Woerther." There were two autopsy tables in the room, and he led them to the one which had a sheet-covered body lying on it. Something was holding the sheet up over the corpse's torso to produce a tentlike effect.

"It's freezing in here," Archie observed.

"It's a morgue," replied Allcott in a tone just as cold. He yanked on blue latex gloves from a box sitting on a counter filled with tools and instruments. Without asking, Megan took a pair for herself and nodded at Archie to do the same. As they tugged on the gloves, the Medical Examiner for Winchell County pulled down the cover sheet to reveal the naked body of a man with a wooden stake in his chest two inches thick. The corpse showed blue and green discoloration, puffiness in the face and some sloughing of the flesh in general.

"I already pierced the abdomen to release the gas which had been generated," Allcott said. "I thought it better to do that before civilians arrived."

"Thank you for sparing us that," Megan said, stepping closer and scrutinizing the corpse intently. "This is the body that was found buried in the woods three miles from the reservoir, then? I would judge he has been dead four to five days, taking into account the cold state of the ground."

"Oh, very good," Allcott replied. He gave Megan a curious glance. "You're accurate. A couple hiking in the woods saw their dog become agitated and start sniffing the ground and barking. They noticed freshly turned earth in a shape consistent with burying a human body, so they notified the police. In short order, Mr Woerther was exhumed and brought here."

"Cause of death might seem obvious, but it's always good procedure to check for earlier trauma." She was so close to the corpse that she seemed about to sniff it but she was looking for bruises or scrapes. "What do you make of these two puncture wounds on the right anterior of the throat?"

"Snake bite, almost certainly. There is no discoloration or swelling around the wounds, which would seem to indicate death from other causes followed before the venom could act."

The Trom Girl pointed at the bloated arms and legs. "The punctures are too widely spaced for any known snake species. I see no abrasions from ligatures. He wasn't tied down when the stake was driven into his body."

That made Allcott blink in surprise. "Are you a trained investigator, Miss Salenger? The FBI described you only as a consultant."

"I hold a PI license for the State of New York," she answered absently. "I don't believe he was held down by bare hands, either. It appears that this person was already dead when the stake was inserted." Megan actually reached down and flexed the fingers of the corpse to test their state of rigidity. Normally, Allcott would have yelled at her not to do that, but he was impressed with her clinical attitude.

Glancing up, the Trom Girl frowned. "I assume tissue and blood samples have been taken?"

"Yes, of course. The lab is backlogged as usual and they promise results tomorrow. I do have to say I had extraordinary difficulty drawing any blood. There seemed to be almost none left in the body. How that happened is a puzzle--"

"Oh, come on already!" blurted Archie, speaking for the first time. "I mean, seriously. A body with two bite marks on the throat and no blood remaining, buried with a freaking stake through his heart. Haven't you watched any horror movies in your life?"

Alcott gave Archie an offended stare which was wasted on the big mechanic. "Young man, this is a medical facility. We do not consider folklore or Hollywood fantasies when making our examinations. I assure you a more prosaic explanation will be found than what you suggest."

"With all due respect, doctor," Megan said. "I have faced and destroyed genuine vampires. Not delusional living persons but the actual Undead. That is the reason Department 21 Black of the FBI wanted us present when you remove that stake."

Her voice was so calm and self-assured that Allcott did not know how to react to it. "Have everyone lost their good judgement? Young lady, I can promise you that when that foreign object is removed, as it should have been when the body was first brought here, that the cadavar will not spring to life and attempt to bite any of us in the neck."

"Let's hope not," Megan said with complete seriousness. "Are you ready? Archie, perhaps you will pull the stake while Dr Allcott and I hold the body steady."

"Sure, sure." Under his breath, the big man muttered, "Looking forward to it."

As the Trom Girl and the doctor pressed down on the corpse, Archie grasped the stake with both hands and yanked up sharply. It came out smoothly, more easily than he expected, and he stood there holding it awkwardly.

"You notice the stake is clean," Megan said to both of them. "There is no fluid or tissue adhering to it."

"That's odd," Allcott mumbled as he reached over to take the stake and examine it.
He swung around at a sudden sucking noise right behind him. The body had collapsed into a semi-liquid mass of putrescence, dripping off the edges of the autopsy table down to the white tile floor. The stench filled the morgue in a wave.

Gagging, hands clapped over his mouth, Archie ran from the room. Before she joined him, Megan calmly gave the stinking mass another appraisal. "Undead do that sometimes. At least he did not return to life and attack us," she said completely straight-faced.

( the rest of the story )

"The Phantom Owlhoot"

A Trom Girl Mystery

5/29/2004

I.

Megan Salenger assured herself by Archie's breathing that he was soundly asleep. Slowly and carefully, she slid off her side of the bed in the Holiday Inn and stepped away to stand naked in the center of the room. At twenty-three, she was slim and sleek with small breasts and narrow hips. Only five foot three, Megan had the trim muscles of a gymnast or acrobat, not obtrusive but functional.

The Trom Girl brushed her tousled head of black hair back away from her face and smiled down at Archie. What a pleasant surprise to find she enjoyed sex so much. She had waited so long because of her repressed upbringing. Their first time together had been in fact her first time, and it had been awkward and hesitant but she quickly had grown to love making love. For a while, it had been all she had wanted to do. Meeting Archie had been one revelation about herself after another.

Outside the drawn curtains, only the faint lights of the parking lot showed dimly. It wasn't quite dawn yet. Megan stood in the center of the room, fists by her side and feet together, and bowed low to Teacher Chael at Tel Shai, farther away than miles could measure. She had to practice her Doh Ra. First, there was a series of poses and stances that gradually became slow motion punches and blocks and kicks. The movements sped up. Soon her arms and legs were whipping and blurring as she seemed to be fighting an imaginary group of opponents, then the motion decelerated again until she was holding difficult poses and slowly coming to a halt.

The whole process took a little over forty minutes. Her individual Doh Ra had been planned specifically for her by Teacher Chael, and at its end every muscle had been stretched and warmed up while reinforcing the memory of Kumundu attacks and defenses into her reflexes. Chael emphasized constantly that full contact sparring was the other half of Kumundu training. She was sweating very lightly, barely breathing any faster than when she had started, and she felt great. Her childhood under the board of Trom supervisors had always emphasised taking care of her body as well as stretching her mind as far as Human limits would reach.

Archie had not stirred, except to turn over on his other side. Still making no sound, Megan slipped into the bathroom and took a quick shower under steaming hot water. She dried her hair roughly with a towel and was back out in the main room within a few minutes. The Trom Girl went over to the chair by the big double bed and held up what looked like a leotard of dark silk that had a sheen to it. Almost with regret, she opened it on its inner paramagnetic seams and tugged it on. Except for her feet and hands and above her shoulders, she was now covered in Trom armor that would stop even a high-powered rifle bullet but which was so light and flexible that it was not restrictive at all. Megan had a strong urge to skip wearing it today. She was not on KDF business, she was not here in Nevada as a Tel Shai knight, this was a holiday. But prudence won out.

As she tugged on snug white jeans and a black T-shirt, she watched Archie stir and smack his lips and stretch. Megan enjoyed watching him for its own sake. Archie McAllister was a big guy a few years older than she was, with thick black hair on his chest and always a few day's worth of beard. He reminded her so much of a bear the imagery was irresistable. As he rubbed his blue eyes and sat up, he grinned at her, "Morning, Trom Girl. You're eager to get started, eh?"

She leaned over and kissed him lightly, then stepped back to tug the curtains slightly open. Outside was getting brighter. "I am hungry," she answered. "We skipped supper last night, if you remember." Megan picked up a red flannel shirt from the back of the chair where she had tossed it and pulled it on. The Trom armor meant she had to wear long sleeves no matter what the weather was like.

Archie chuckled and got out of bed to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders. He nuzzled the side of her neck. "It was for a good reason. So, listen, you want room service or you want to go out and eat?"

"I would prefer to eat at that diner we saw while driving in, how about you?"

"Suits me fine," he agreed as he headed for the bathroom. She heard the door close and the shower start up. Megan shook her head thoughtfully. This was all so unexpected. A Human orphan raised by the emotionless Trom, she had never even considered the idea of romance in her plans and yet here it was. Nature seemed to take over at a certain point and she had to admit she was glad. Her fellow Tel Shai knights back in New York City had been first stunned and then delighted when she had started dating a motorcycle mechanic and they all were happy for her. Even Unicorn had kept the teasing to a minimum.

As Archie showered, Megan went to her knapsack and started stowing small unidentifiable gadgets in various pockets. The Link itself, her main tool, looked enough like a cellphone in its case on her belt that it would not attract any attention but the beam projector had to be hidden. A dull grey metal oblong that fit easily in the palm of her hand, the projector went into the breast pocket of her flannel shirt which she buttoned. It was a far cry from the dozens of tools and weapons she carried in her KDF field suit but she could not bring herself to discard everything right away.

Still the Trom Girl, she thought.

Archie emerged all scrubbed and wide awake. He began digging through his old Army duffel bag and looking for socks and underwear. "So, hon, what's the agenda today? Going after that ghost sighting?"

"You must think I'm crazy, Archie. This is your vacation, your week away from the garage, and I drag you out into the desert to investigate paranormal activity." Megan Salenger kept the doubt out of her voice, or thought she did. "I must be a nuisance as a girlfriend."

Archie was pulling on her old comfortable jeans and work boots. "Nah, time spent with you is always amazing. You were born to solve puzzles and figure out mysteries, Megan, it's your basic nature. We're better off accepting what we are."

"You seem to accept all the... unusual things about me," she said. "Tel Shai. My upbringing by the Trom. My work with the KDF. Nothing seems to faze you."

Archie buttoned on a heavy denim shirt and rolled up the cuffs over muscular forearms. "Aw, I have to admit it's a lot to take in. But you know, I hitched around Europe two years after I got out of the service. I saw some strange things. It's a funny world with a lot more going on than most people ever realize." He waggled a finger at her. "The so-called Trom, hah! I knew our government had some sort of knowledge retro-engineered from UFO crashes!"

He came over and hugged her, and she returned it fiercely. Looking up into his face, Megan said, "I'm glad. I was worried you would panic and run away when you found out about my life. I couldn't have dealt with that."

"Feh. Megan, you're amazing. It'd be worth going through Hell to be with you. Now, what exactly is your project for today, Trom Girl?"

Pulling away with a grin that made her look even younger, Megan gestured toward the partly opened curtains. "First a huge breakfast. Then we start looking for the local paranormal manifestation... Stone Ridge's 'Phantom 'Owlhoot.'"

( the rest of the story )

"Mr Never"

4/30/2004

I.

William W Koskie grumbled to himself as he headed for the elevator. His assistant would be waiting outside with the limo. Just another week before he had to in for that surgery, and the prospect irritated him. It wasn't fear of dying on the table or even the uneasiness of living with a bad valve in his heart that troubled Koskie. It was the deals that would be missed, the money he wouldn't be making. He knew that his team was close to getting control of Swift Processing and once they did that, he could let the staff go and relocate the company to India. Too bad about the American jobs that would be lost, but that was their problem. The elevator door closed and he pressed the lobby button, feeling a painful twinge in his left arm that ran up to his shoulder. That operation would be none too early.

With an abrupt and terrible certainty, Koskie knew he was not alone. There had been no one in the elevator when he had entered, but he felt the presence of someone right behind him, almost breathing down his neck. With a sick sinking feeling, he turned around and saw a man just inches away. Despite himself, he screamed and jumped back. The stranger was bundled up in a trenchcoat and scarf, with a fedora pulled down low. A white cloth mask was fitted snugly over his face, with dark sunglasses covering his eyes.

"Where did you come from? How did you get in here?"

With a low whisper, the stranger answered, "I come and go as I wish, Mr Koskie." With that, he raised a Parabellum in a gloved hand and fired it at pointblank range directly into the CEO's left eye. Blood splattered over the inside of the cage as Koskie dropped straight down, and the stranger stepped over him. He shot twice more, both times into the victim's face and leaving very little of it intact. The elevator door dinged as it was about to open, but before that happened, there was a faint rush of air and the killer was gone as if he had not been there. Two techs on their lunch break stepped into the elevator and tripped over the corpse.

A week later, in Bambino's, a restaurant on Central Avenue in Albany, the Esposito brothers were sitting glumly in a booth at the back. Eating dinner had been a chore this time, and half the veal remained untouched. Joe rubbed his face wearily. "He's not coming, Ray. I told you he wouldn't show up."

Ray did not answer immediately. He stared into his empty coffee cup as if there was a message in it. "Why wouldn't he come? Money talks, Joe, everybody knows that. Even someone as mysterious as Never."

As he said that, a man stood up from the booth behind him. The Esposito family owned this restaurant, they had searched it thoroughly and no one had come in. All that evening, Joe and Ray had been sitting there waiting for their visitor, and now, somehow, he had appeared from nowhere.

Nothing could be seen of Never. Between the hat and the gloves and the cloth mask which covered his entire head, not a bit of skin showed. The nearly opaque sunglasses hid his eyes. As he rose unexpectedly, Joe Esposito gave a twitch and knocked over what was left of his glass of wine. "Whoa! What the hell...?!"

Ray Esposito took a deep breath. "There's no need to do that, Mr Never. We can do business like civilized people."

"One has to be careful," replied the masked man in a barely audible voice. "You saw about our friend in the paper?"

"Yes. Excellent. Well done. Perhaps we can do business again."

"Perhaps," said Never, holding out a gloved hand. Taking the cue, Ray reached inside his suit and took out a white business envelope that bulged. The masked man did not glance at it, he thrust it inside his coat and raised one finger in warning. "I am glad you honor your agreement, sir. If you wish my services again, let the manager here know and I will drop by at some point to ask him. Then we can arrange a meeting."

"Suits me. Listen, Mr Never, we've played fair with you. We are men of honor, our word can be trusted. How about letting us know how you pulled that off? A guy has natural curiosity."

Never shook his head. "Allow me my privacy, sir." He pointed at the front door with a sharp gesture. Joe and Ray both looked up and when they turned back, their visitor was gone. "How does he DO that?" growled Joe, not expecting an answer.

The next sighting of Mr Never was at the Chase National Bank on State Street. When two armed couriers came in with locked canvas satchels of cash, the masked stepped around a corner where no one had seen him second earlier, gun in hand and ready. He shot both guards dead, Knelt to pick up the satchels and was gone from sight. The alarms went off, the doors locked automatically and the bank's own security guard came running up. But the killer was not found.

After that, the masked man seemed to up the stakes. An Army colonel with twenty years in service was found dead in his office in the Pentagon. The hard drive on his computer was missing, and with it, the real names of a dozen undercover agents who had infiltrated Mideastern terrorist groups. The door was locked from the inside and the sentry down the hall by the stairs swore no one had been seen entering or leaving. Rumors started within hours that the hard drive was being auctioned off to enemy nations for the highest bid. And still, no one had a face or a name to attach to this strange criminal. He became known as Never.

( the rest of the story )

"The Gruesome Case of the Hunchback of Hollywood"

9/20- 9/22/2004

I.

Standing by the sink, Bane gingerly removed the bandages from his left ribs. He studied the reflection in the mirror. Not as bad as he had expected. Those stitches could come out today, there was no sign of infection despite the fact the wound had been inflicted by a filthy hook in the hands of a raving psychotic. Opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, he took out fresh bandages and applied them with white tape, binding them with the neatness of long experience. It was worth the slice to have nailed Yellow Bill and finally get that madman behind bars. He studied his reflection critically and seemed satisfied. Even nearing fifty, his body had zero fat. Long, hard muscles of a runner marked his build. He leaned forward. Yes, the full head of black hair did have a grey strand peeking out here and there. But then he was lucky to still have a head, much less hair on it...

From beyond the bathroom door in the living room, the phone rang. Bane reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp, he swung through the bedroom and plunged into the living room so quickly. On the end table sat a cordless phone in its charger, and he snatched it up. "Yeah? Hello?"

"Is this Jeremy Bane?"

"Could be," answered the Dire Wolf. He lifted the phone and walked over to where his black turtleneck had been dropped on the couch. "Who's asking?"

"This is Stephen Deising's office," came the mellow female voice. "Be here Monday at eleven."

Bane yanked the turtleneck on over his head. "Why would I want to do that?"

"It's Stephen Deising!" the voice sounded outraged.

"So? Wait. Is that the movie director?"

"The movie director....?! We are talking about THE movie director of our times. My God, man..."

Bane plopped down on his leather couch and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. "I don't go to movies. I never have. Sorry if Stephen Deising's name doesn't thrill me. Listen. What's this about? Why does he want to see me?"

The woman seemed to be struggling to choke down disbelief. "Let me start again. Mr Bane, I understand you are now a private investigator but the stories about you tell of... well, the supernatural. You were a ghostbuster, a monster hunter. Am I correct?"

"Absolutely. What do I have to do with a Hollywood director?"

"I thought you would have heard of the Hunchback Murders."

Now, the Dire Wolf came alive, sitting up. "Oh yes! I've followed those crimes. What does Deising have to do with them?"

"I can't tell you now. Are you coming out here?'

"Yes. I think I'm interested." He thought for a second. It was Saturday afternoon, and he had no outstanding cases. "I can be there Monday."

"Excellent," she said. "My name is Lenore DeAngelis, Mr Deising's personal assistant. I will explain everything when I see you."

"Okay," Bane said as he hung up. This was unexpected. He leaped up and paced around his apartment. The price he paid for his enchanced reflexes was a hyper metabolism that did not let him rest. This apartment was clean and neat, but hardly luxurious. In front of him where he sat was a low coffee table with two comfortable armchairs on either side. The wall to his right had two windows facing west for afternoon sunlight, and a stove, sink and refrigerator in a row. The wall to his left was shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, newspapers, and general debris that collected there. The shelves were interrupted by the door to the hall and beyond that the stairs going down to ground level.

The wall opposite where he sat was bare, broken only by the door to his bedroom... the bedroom itself had been partitioned to make its bathroom. There were five lamps in the living room, a rather small TV which was seldom on and which sat on a wheeled cart with its cable coiled up under it. There was a radio on the window sill and a microwave on the counter between the sink and stove. Everything was decent but not at all impressive.

The funny thing was that Bane had wealth. He had inherited Kenneth Dred's estate and had amassed a huge amount of spoils during his years in the Midnight War. If he wanted to, he could easily be living in a penthouse overlooking Central Park but this had never occurred to him. This apartment, three blocks from his similarly modest office on 44th Street near 3rd Avenue, was all he needed. The Dire Wolf went to the window and looked out on the street two floors below. It was getting near dusk. Soon the creatures of the night would be out and about, and to be honest, he was one of them. But tonight he would not go prowling, looking for trouble, since he had a new case to begin. Picking up the phone, he called his travel agency and confirmed they could get him on an eleven o'clock flight, although pulling the necessary strings would be expensive. So many people owed him their lives or the lives of their loved ones that he could call on favors in a wide range of areas if needed.

Bane went into his bedroom and came out with a cardboard box filled with clippings from newspapers. They were not organized in any sane manner. Despite his best resolutions, he had never gotten around to setting up a filing cabinet much less entering the information on his laptop. Dropping the box by the couch, he got a big glass of ice water to sip from and sat down to dig through the mess. As he sorted and made stacks of the papers, Bane remembered a bit wistfully of how high-tech and organized his operation had been at the old headquarters building on 38th Street. It would be so easy to walk over there and pull up all the information he could possibly want about this case in a few seconds. But then, he would start talking to Sable about cases. Argent would want to spar, he'd run into the little blonde Unicorn and into Trom Girl. Then either a few of them would want to go with him on this Hunchback business or they would have something urgent themselves he might want to help with....

No! He snorted angrily and went back to digging through the clippings. The new team had to be on their own. It was their time. He had known it was right for him to step down and hand over the crusade to them, hard as it had been. Bane forced his thoughts to the task at hand.

Soon he had found stories about the case. The Hunchback Murders. There had been five of them over the past few years. Perhaps there were more that went unconnected, but these were the ones where the killer himself had been spotted. The brute was described as no more than five feet tall, but immensely wide, with thick musular arms that reached almost to the ground and a sharp triangular hump that stuck up past his head. All the descriptions of his face were unflattering; he seemed to be ugly in a variety of ways. As colorful a figure as the Hunchback undeniably was, the brutal nature of the killings was so gruesome as to be only carefully alluded to in the news. What he did to his victims was vile even by the standards of serial killers.

It had been over a year since the last sighting. New scandals, new celebrity romances and political wrongdoings always took the stage and old sensations became forgotten. The Hunchback had not been seen in fourteen months and he was by now almost old history. Bane fixed the known details of the murders in his head, threw all the clippings back in the cardboard box and returned it to the closet in his bedroom. Stripping down, he took a packet of metallic material from his dresser and unfolded it into a suit of silk-thin flexible armor. It covered his torso, arms and legs when he tugged it snugly into place. The Trom-metal armor was not completely indestructible nor did it provide perfect protection but it had saved him from many bullets and blades over the years.

He dressed all in black, as usual. Boots, slacks, a fresh long-sleeved turtleneck. He had a permit for the long-barreled .38 Smith & wesson, but he would have to surrender it to be stored in baggage. Tugging up the sleeves of his shirt, Bane fastened on two leather sheaths which held a matched pair of silver-bladed daggers on his forearms, hilts forward. Over these sheaths were soft shells carefully molded to feel just like human muscle when touched. Bane had been searched many times by enemies, and only once or twice had anyone detected the knives under that molding. The padding was a dense silicon gel devised by the Trom; so far, he had gone through airport security six times with his daggers under those molds and not been caught yet.

From a corner of the apartment, he picked up a knapsack he always kept ready. It contained a change of clothes, first aid supplies, various small tools and gimmicks in organized compartments. Bane had never had a pet, not even fish, and there were no plants in his apartment. All he had to do was turn out the lights and lock the door behind him. Once, he had constantly relied on elaborate alarms and security systems but most of his enemies were no longer in any condition to be a threat. Bane stepped out into the warm twilight and waved down a taxi. He would be at the airport way ahead of departure time.

( the rest of the story )

"You Give Ugly A Bad Name"

2/1-2/6/2004

I.

He had been drifting up into consciousness and then sinking back down again for the longest time. Everything hurt. Despite the pain, despite his body wanting to remain unaware, part of his mind never gave up. Each time he regained consciousness, he tried to hold onto it longer without knowing why. He was sitting up. On a floor, with his back against something. Finally, he held on long enough to open one eye, the other one refusing to work. It was a cold dim room. Vague light come from a heavily curtained window to his left. He sank into darkness again. Finally, he stirred enough to look around. Near at hand was a gallon jug of water and he desperately wanted it. It seemed to take hours to make his arm reach for the jug, for his hands to fumble the plastic lid off, but finally he drank. Even in his dazed condition and with a ferocious thirst, he remembered enough to sip slowly until he was satisfied.

The water helped a lot. He must have been very dehydrated. Now Jeremy Bane remembered who he was and where he was. This was his secret hideout, the Chinatown apartment no other person knew about. Slowly getting to his knees, he reached over and grabbed a handful of beef jerky packets and ripped them open, chewing slowly. He was beginning to feel stronger. After a few more minutes, he tried to get up but fell back into a seated position. Finally, he settled for getting up on the beat-up old couch behind him. From there, he could reach the light switch.

The hideout looked the same. Weeks usually went by without his coming here. It was drab and unattractive, just a big room with a toilet and sink in one corner, with a tiny mirror over the sink. Jugs of water and cans of food were stacked along one wall. A radio sat on the floor, and there was a closet crammed with assorted clothing. On one wall was an old-fashioned clock whose hands said one-thirty. He figured it must be one-thirty in the morning by the dim light from the window. Bane was feeling a little better, but his body still ached all over. What had happened to him? He glanced down and saw his clothes were shredded, just strips of cloth hanging off him. The Trom metal armor on his body gleamed like wet silk in the vague light; it had not been pierced but he had obviously taken a lot of punishment. The armor was good but it wasn't perfect and some impact got through it.

Not feeling up to walking just yet, the Dire Wolf sipped more water and snagged a can of fruit cocktail, popping it open and eating the contents with his fingers. He began to take stock. All that was left in what remained of his pockets were the keys and his wallet. Could be worse, they were good item to retain, but his gun was gone and so was the Link and his watch. The two silver daggers were still strapped to his forearms, but one had a bent blade. That annoyed him. Bane finally got to his feet, swayed and stood still for a minute before slowly beginning to walk over to the sink.

His face was a mess, which did not surprise him considering how it felt. One eye was swollen shut. His nose had been broken and blood had dried on mouth and chin. The left side of his face was a purple bruise. Turning on warm water, he grabbed a washcloth and gingerly began cleaning up. Finally, he lowered his whole head into the sink and rinsed his hair to get the sweat out. Drying carefully, he studied the results sourly. It had been a long time since he had taken so much damage.

Now that his head was clearing, he walked slowly over to a round cannister on the pile of food and took out a handful of dried leaves. A mug sat on the shelf of the sink and he ran water in it until it was as hot as it would get, then crumpled the leaves in and stirred it with a finger. The Dire Wolf drained the contents in a gulp and immediately came back to normal. The tagra leaves were only available at Tel Shai. As a Tel Shai knight, he had been on a tagra diet for more than thirty years and his healing powers had been boosted past what medical science would recognize as possible.

He was almost moving at his normal pace. Bane went to check that the door and window were locked, then stripped off the armor and took a sponge bath by the sink. His body had zero fat, all long lean muscle like a runner and it was covered with bruises but now the pain had subsided to a dull ache. The Dire Wolf still could not remember what had happened to leave him in this state. He figured he had better put the Trom armor back on, so only his hands, neck and head were exposed. Discarding his ruined clothes in a corner, Bane went to the closet and dug out a pair of black jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt. There was a bag of clean socks and underwear, and two pair of boots. He got dressed almost as quickly as he normally would, with an occasional wince or grunt.

The Dire Wolf went back to the couch to think. He still had no idea what the situation was. There was no phone here, either.

All he could figure was that he had been seriously injured, almost killed, and had managed to make it here. A sudden surge of cold anger rose up inside him at the realization. He finished the water and ate some more, a cold can of beans for protein.
Bane washed his hands and went back to the closet. He had decided not to keep an arsenal here but in the pocket of a black coat was a loaded .38 revolver and a box of shells. Great, there they were. He shrugged the coat on. There was a make-up kit in the closet and he carried it over to the sink to use the mirror. In his long career, he had only used disguises a handful of times but now he thought it was a good idea. Bane applied some pancake make-up to his face, working it in until the bruising was only a faint shadow. The broken nose he couldn't do anything about at the moment. A pair of glasses with a 20% tint helped hide the swollen eye. What else? Reluctantly, he combed a solution into his hair that left numerous gray strands until the natural black was almost gone. That would have to do. Bane frowned at his reflection. Disguises felt like hiding to him, but he had to be realistic thatsometimes they were necessary. Checking his gun again, making sure that daggers on his arms were ready to slid out when needed, he turned off the lights and opened the door a crack. No one was in the hallway.

Bane trotted silently down the worn stairs to the ground floor and stood by the front door for a second. The only other exit would set off an alarm. Finally, he opened it and stepped out into a freezing night and a deserted Mott Street. Great. As far as he could tell, no one had spotted him. Bane turned north and started walking quickly uptown.

( the rest of the story )

"The Pumpkin Face Murders"

11/29/2004

I.

"Aren't you glad to see me? You KNOW you are. Don't give me that look, captain," Unicorn said as she sailed into the office. "You know you love me more than life itself. Here! Check this out, it's a Meat Lovers Pizza from Vinnie's on First Avenue. Pepperoni, ham, salami, sausage, I don't know what those things are, bologna maybe?"

Jeremy Bane adjusted to the chatter from Unicorn as she rattled happily away. Ashley Whitaker was twenty-four, a perfect little blonde with delicate features, platinum hair past her shoulders and bright blue eyes. She had a trim figure and today was wearing almost all white... boots, snug jeans and long-sleeved pullover with dark blue trim at the collar and cuffs. A light windbreaker was dark blue with white stripes down the sleeves in contrast. Strapped to her back by a harness that ran diagonally down between her breasts was a leather sheath about three feet long.

"Let me have a slice," she was continuing as she put the pizza box on the office desk, "I know you can eat the whole thing by yourself, but be fair. I also bought this 32-ounce bottle of Pepsi. Maybe you don't have any cups here? What the heck, we can drink from the same bottle, I don't mind if you don't. At least I know where MY mouth has been," she giggled.

Despite himself, the Dire Wolf could not be angry with Unicorn. She was just too oblivious. "Any particular reason why you are here, Ashley?'

"I like that!" she said, ripping off a slice and putting a wad of napkins under it. "Men would give everything they own to have me visit them and you act like I'm in the way. Really," she began chewing. "Do you have any glasses or mugs or anything?" she went on in a muffled voice.

Bane went to the closet and found some red plastic cups in a bag, as well as some paper plates. "I think the world of you, Unicorn. But you ARE a KDF member and I assume you have duties there."

"Nah," she said, putting what was left of her slice on a paper plate and opening the soda. "They're all in Okali. I'm off. Sable has started giving each of us an assigned day off. Even so, we're on call. It's like being a firefighter. But I know you miss me and wanted me to visit." She chugged eight ounces of Pepsi and tried to conceal a belch. "Aw, let's be honest, I miss you. You're my captain. I look up to you. Maybe I have father issues, what do you think?"

Bane did not answer. He was working on his own slice. It was pretty good, but he didn't want any Pepsi because caffeine was the last thing he needed. There was a fresh bottle of water on his desk and started sipping from it.

Ashley started on her second slice. "Hey, Jeremy, you remember the first time we met? That was hilarious. I was ten years old, TEN! and I already was convinced I would be the new Unicorn when I was old enough. Bet you thought that was funny but here I am. My mom retired young, she made a bundle and she just got tired of it all and I was bugging her about it, to be honest. And I am good at it. You know," she stopped talking for another glass of soda, "my power is kinda specialized. I can't punch out a gorilla the way Sheng can or fly or turn into a freakin' giant lion! But I can remove the gralic powers from others and there are times when that it is exactly what is needed. Did you hear I captured Sirion by myself?"

"The Melgar strongman? No, I didn't hear that." Bane was starting his second piece when Ashley had finished the last of her own second slice and was eyeing a third.

"Talk about hysterical," she said. "You know he's like Sulak, right? He was holding a motorcycle over his head, ready to throw it at some people. I yelled my slogan, 'with this horn you know the rest' and took away his powers. The bike dropped right on him. It was great. He's alive but both arms and one leg are in casts. You never saw anyone so mad."

Bane snorted and almost choked. Sirion was a real brute, almost as strong as Sulak. The image of him dropping a motorcycle on himself was priceless. He wiped his mouth and said, "Ashley, I hate to interrupt but I have business. Two FBI men have an appointment at noon."

Jumping up, Unicorn wiped her hands together and got one more glass of Pepsi. "That's in four minutes! Jeremy, why don't you tell me these things?" She grabbed the remaining pizza, the napkins and paper plates and ran to put them in the closet. Picking up the bottle of soda, she looked hurt. "No refrigerator?"

"No refrigerator," he agreed. "Unicorn, you have to leave now. This is not KDF business, it's a case for the Dire Wolf agency."

"So what? You need my expert help." Ashley stood her ground, hands on hips and feet planted well apart.

Bane hesitated and was lost, because the doorbell rang. He motioned for her to hide the bottle of soda as he went through the tiny waiting room. This was seldom used. It was big enough for two chairs and a coffee table with some newspapers on it and not much more, but there was a mirror on one wall next to a calendar. The Dire Wolf paused to tug down his jacket and glance in the mirror. He had not changed much over the years. He remained a tall, gaunt man with short black hair and cold grey eyes under heavy brows. He checked there were no pizza crumbs around his mouth and opened the door.

Standing out in the hall were two men nearing fifty, wearing black suits with white shirts and black ties. Their hair was short, their shoes polished. Bane said, "May I see your IDs, please?" and inspected the cards they produced not from wallets but from separate cardcases. He did not just glance at them but carefully checked them out before stepping back into the waiting room and motioning them through into the office itself. Bane watched them closely; the taller one with the pointed nose was Carl Seberg and the broader one with faint acne scars was George Weidy.

As they entered the office, Unicorn was nowhere to be seen. The door to the bathroom was open, so she was not in there, which left the closet. Bane shook his head sadly. That girl. He gestured for the two agents to seat themselves in straightback chairs, while he circled around to drop into his own swivel chair behind the desk. "I have worked with the Bureau before, but not Department 21 Black," he said. "I take it you are a new part of the organization?"

"Yes," said Seberg. "Our interests overlap, Mr Bane. I think it is safe to admit that there are crimes which are difficult to explain. Paranormal, in fact. Officially, the supernatural is dismissed but," and here he leaned toward Bane confidentially, "we know these things happen, don't we?"

Bane watched their faces as if the three of them were playing poker. "With all respect, gentlemen... there is much more than the FBI knows about. The cases your Bureau has handled. Quilt, Seneca, Wu Lung, are just the tip of a huge iceberg." He gave the slightest predatory smile. "There is a Midnight War going on that you have only seen the edges of."

"Be that as it may, let us concern ourselves with the situation at hand. Two days ago, an extraordinarily dangerous man has escaped custody. He was being transferred from one facility to another when he apparently broke his own thumbs to get the handcuffs off, killed a guard despite being shot three times in the chest, grabbed the driver and made the van flip to turn over five times down a hill, and then kicked out a window and walked away. He seems hard to kill."

"Sounds like a fair description. Where did this take place?"

"Up near Buffalo. We believe he has a hideout in that area where he is remaining concealed and we would like you to help in the search. You have apprehended this fugitive before."

"Wait a minute," Bane said in a tight voice. "Is this who I think you're talking about?"

"Yes. SAMHAIN."

( the rest of the story )

"Ollie Moonglow and the Sharks From Outer Space"

8/14-8/15/2004

I.

"UNICORN!" shouted Megan as she slammed open the door to the KDF main library room. Jolted out of deepest concentration, Ashley Whitaker yelped like a stepped-on puppy and fell completely off the plain wooden chair. She landed hard on her perfect little butt, the Number 2 yellow pencil falling from behind her ear and the looseleaf notebook thumping to the floor next to her.

The main library had three walls lined with tightly filled bookshelves, and the fourth wall was only broken by two high narrow windows which looked down on East 38th Street. Under standing brass lamps, two long oak tables invariably laden with stacks of even more books also groaned under piles of loose papers, magazines and scattered newspapers. Two comfortable chairs and four plain wooden ones provided the only other furniture. Since KDF members did as much research into the Midnight War as college students studying more mundane topics, attempts to keep this room organized seldom lasted a full week.

Still seated on the polished wooden floor, the petite blonde gaped up at her teammate. At twenty-two, Unicorn was unselfconsciously gorgeous. The slim but curvy body reached five feet one on a good day, the platinum hair shone with health and the sapphire eyes held the clear alertness of youth. At the moment, though, bafflement left her expression not at its best. "Megan...?! What the HELL, dude?"

The Trom Girl offered a hand and hauled her friend back up onto her feet. Megan Salenger was a year older than Ashley, a little taller and a little more solidly built. Her mop of short black hair was tousled as usual, but for once those large dark eyes were not reserved and thoughtful. They gleamed with excitement.

"Hurry up, Ashley," Megan urged, picking up the fallen notebook and pencil to toss them carelessly on the table. "We must leave immediately."

"Huh? Why? Is Maroch invading New York? Has the Skinwalker outbreak started?"

"No, nothing like that." The Trom Girl was wearing her field suit with the boots, snug pants and high-collared waist-length jacket, all matte black and all bristling with pockets full of gear. In one hand, she clutched an off-white windbreaker she sometimes wore to look less like a commando about to raid. "We are going to investigate the death of Ollie Moonglow."

Unicorn tilted her head quizzically. "Why are you so worked up, hon? The Megan I know is always cool, calm and collected. Have you been chugging Red Bull or something?"

"We must leave now," Megan replied, tugging Ashley by the arm toward the door. "I assume you are wearing your armor under that T-shirt and jeans."

"Well, yeah. Let me grab my denim vest, it's got most of my gadgets. And my Unicorn horn is up in my room..."

"I do not think you will need it," the Trom Girl interrupted. "We are not opposing enemies with gralic force. Come down to the garage, I have already completed the rundown on my Jeep."

Not resisting, Ashley simply grabbed her vest from the back of the chair where she had been sitting and tugged it on as they rushed out into the hall and down the main staircase. Megan said nothing further until they had bounded down to the front hall and rushed into the walk-in closet by the street door. The panel at the rear of the closet slid open.

"I have left a note explaining our agenda for when Sable returns," Megan said. They raced down steep concrete steps and along a narrow walkway. The Trom Girl was nearly running and Ashley had little choice but to trot along behind her. In the small underground garage beneath the KDF building, Megan hopped up behind the wheel of her cherry-red Jeep Cherokee. Unicorn slowed to grab her travel knapsack from its place on a shelf where all their members stowed their gear and climbed up into the passenger seat.

"It's almost ten o'clock at night, you realize," the blonde reminded her teammate.

"Mrs Pickett said we should come right over to see her."

In a few seconds, the Jeep rolled up the ramp to street level and exited into an alley as the metal door rose to let them out. Megan swung out onto Lexington Avenue and slowed for the stop sign rather than coming to a full halt.

"You have GOT to start explaining, missy," Ashley said as she caught her bearings. "I've seen you less agitated when we were being chased through the woods by Howlers. You're starting to scare me."

The Trom Girl gave one of her rare grins, flashing blindingly white teeth that had been meticulously cared for since childhood. "I must apologize. It IS unusual for me to display such enthusiasm. Trom discipline means decorum and logic. Ashley, the third wife of Ollie Moonglow phoned us just now. She wants to hire our KDF team to investigate his death."

"Oh. Is that all? Jeez, Megs. It's usually me who gets all worked up and drags you away from rebuilding a frammistat or something. You mean that weirdo rock star Ollie Moonglow? The one who looks like a starving greyhound? That's the case you want to investigate?"

Stuck at a red light for the moment, the Trom Girl fixed a stern gaze on her friend. "I find his stage persona fascinating. The lyrics of his songs supply a complex array of clues that are difficult to assemble into a coherent narrative. His band has an ambiguous style. Lately, I have been listening to his album TOO MUCH IS NEVER ENOUGH repeatedly."

"What? Oh my God, Megan. Maybe you can't figure out that lunatic's songs because they don't make sense in the first place. He's taken enough drugs to kill a buffalo herd. I mean, his stuff is catchy and he has a decent voice, I like that British accent, but still..."

"It is possible I detect patterns and meanings others may not."

"Yeah, yeah, I know you're a genius in everything from cryptography to astrophysics to hopscotch," Unicorn but suddenly let out a breath and continued in a relaxed tone. "Ya know what? Why are we about to argue? I'll go along with you. Sure, what the heck. So, Ollie Moonglow is dead. His third wife called the KDF to look into it. Why us? We're not a detective agency."

"I estimate eleven minutes until we arrive at her hotel," Megan said. "As Ollie's albums indicate, he had a deep interest in the paranormal. He somehow learned about the real Midnight War. Several of his songs hold unmistakable references to Khang, to the Snake men, even to the realms bordering the world we know. After all, his band is called the Sharks From Outer Space. His last hit in the United States was a song called, 'Hunted By the Dire Wolf,' and it mentions grey eyes."

"So he knows about Jeremy?" Ashley reflected. "Okay, now I'm getting interested. That's how his ex-wife knew who we are. I get it so far."

"Her name is Onyx Pickett. Ollie's real name was Samuel Pickett, and they were separated but the divorce has not been finalized. Ashley, finding a parking spot may take a few minutes. Traffic is unusually heavy tonight."

Glancing out at 83rd Street, Unicorn made a non-committal sound. "Aw, keep circling, Megs. We can walk a coupla blocks if we have to. Hey! Right there!"

A white delivery van pulled away from the curb not ten feet in front of them and Megan whipped into the vacant spot so promptly her front bumper almost brushed up against the departing vehicle. As Ashley dug in her jeans for two quarters to put in the meter, she asked, "Tell me more. What else do we know?"

The Trom Girl put her Jeep in Park." Ollie died from complications of having both hands hopelessly crushed."

( the rest of the story )