dochermes | Entries tagged with 2005

"Final Night For Rosa's Cantina"

A Trom Girl Mystery

4/2/2005

I.

"Driving five solid hours and we're STILL in Texas," grumbled Archie McAllister. He reached behind him with a thick hairy arm and snatched his bottle of water from the back seat to finish it off. "If you asked me, they should have cut the territory up and made it into two states of a halfway reasonable size."

Sitting beside him as calm and detached as usual, the Trom Girl lowered her wire-rim tinted glasses down over her snub nose and studied his profile. "Texas is interesting in that it was a separate Republic before it joined the United States. To have asked its inhabitants to willingly be split-"

"Aw hell, honey, I know that," Archie interupted gently. Despite his bulk, the big bearlike man had a mild disposition and seldom raised his voice to anyone. "I guess I'm just blowing off steam."

Megan Salenger rinsed her mouth with a swallow from her own water bottle, rolled down the window on her side and primly spit out the window. Outside was nothing but the highway, hot dry dirt and sparse shrubs. Once in a while, a stunted post oak stood by itself. At twenty-five, the Trom Girl was slim and even boyish in build, only five feet three and not much more than a hundred pounds. She was wearing a plain white T-shirt and khaki shorts, with hiking shoes and ankle-length socks. After a moment, she said in a sheepish tone, "To be honest, my love, I think I did not choose the airport closest to our destination. I was in a hurry."

Archie snorted and shook his head. "Well, we all make goofs, Megan. Anyway, I'd still rather be driving down the highway all day with a beautiful woman as company than another day working on bikes at the shop."

The Trom Girl reached over and rested a small hand on his arm. "I enjoy being with you for its own sake. Your boss will not expect you back for three more days, so we may have a little vacation for ourselves."

"Hey, more tumbleweeds!" Archie yelled. "Look at those things, I heard that if they get up under your hot engine they can start a fire."

"We are almost at Alto Paso. Another eleven miles, I calculate." Megan leaned back in her seat and gazed forward at the horizon which shimmered in the heat. "We will learn about the ghost of Rosa's Cantina."

"That's another thing," Archie muttered. He glanced over at her with gentle blue eyes in a wide face that bristled with three day's of black beard. "We already settled a ghost cowboy. That Phantom Owlhoot nonsense."

"It's an odd coincidence," she agreed. "The Phantom Owlhoot turned out to be merely a hoax concealing criminal activity but I am not so certain about the Rosa's Cantina ghost. Also called the Broken Neck Ghost."

"Yeah, well, we'll see. If I get within reach of a ghost and swing my arm through it, maybe then I'll believe it."

"It is good policy to be skeptical," she agreed. "See that farmhouse over there? We are nearing the town. Archie, are you tired of coming with me on these investigations?"

The big man laughed easily, reached over and patted her bare leg. "Naw. Not at all. I love going on these 'Trom Girl Mysteries.' They're so... unpredictable. We run into the damndest people and situations."

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. "And there is no one I would rather spend time with on these cases. The Trom who raised me hoped to dampen all my emotional responses but obviously they failed. I still have Human feelings."

"And everyone who knows you is glad, honey. Here we go. Couple of buildings. Looks like an old bus stop where the road into town splits off. There's the sign. Alto Paso, population 1,877. Not counting dogs and chickens, I bet."

"Look!" she cried out as she pointed through the windshield. "That little wooden structure with the cars parked next to it. Rosa's Cantina."

Archie swung over into the gravel parking lot. The cafe was not large, a white-boarded structure with a flat tarred roof and a big picture window on the side facing the road. In red script was written ROSA'S CANTINA - LIVE MUSIC FRIDAY AND SATURDAY NIGHTS. In one corner of the window was a blue neon sign COLD BEER ON TAP. A plank porch ran the length of the front, with a sturdy railing against which patrons could lean or even sit upon.

In the parking lot were a red Ford pick-up truck, a rusted Oldsmobile and two Harleys with helmets resting on their saddles. Archie pulled up some distance away and studied the scene. "What do you think, hon?"

"Nothing seems out of place," she decided at last. "These vehicles have appropriate plates and inspection stickers. They belong to local people. There is a shotgun in a rack inside the Ford, but I can see from here that it is safely locked in place. I see nothing to cause suspicion."

"Good enough for me," the big man grunted as he swung out of the Jeep and stretched luxuriously. "That cold beer sign gave me an idea."

Coming around to stand beside him, a full twelve inches shorter and more than a hundred pounds lighter, Megan tugged on a leather vest which she left unfastened. It had a dozen pockets, many concealed on the inside, which held the advanced tools and gadgets she used. A layer of the flexible Trom armor lined the inside of the vest as well. "Am I presentable?"

Archie grinned at her, with her thick tousled black hair and the tinted sunglasses emphasizing her inquisitive foxlike face. "You are all kinds of cute."

"That is what I wanted to hear," she answered with a satisfied smile. "Let's go inside and meet the person who requested our investigation."

From the open doorway, a tall handsome woman with glossy black hair wiped her hands with a washcloth. "That would be me," she called out. "I'm Felina Martinez."

( the rest of the story )

"The Sheridan-McDonnel Pan-Dimensional Viewport"

10/7/2005

I.

It was just getting dark when Jeremy Bane pulled into Fawcett, New Jersey. He found the street address he was looking for and eased up to the curb a block away to study the scene. There were some pretty large houses in this neighborhood, built in the days a century ago of extended families and servants but now divided up into apartments. Despite his most suspicious gaze, he saw nothing out of place. A cold rain the night before had left the sidewalks littered with yellow leaves. Getting out of his dark green Mustang, Bane turned and walked off in the opposite direction to circle the block.

Now nearing fifty, the Dire Wolf did not look much different than he had at twenty. There were only a few grey hairs here and there. He still was a tall, gaunt man with pale grey eyes in a narrow feral face, he still dressed all in black - slacks, sport jacket, turtleneck. Bane walked completely around the block, searching for any signs of ambush but still spotting none. Grudgingly satisfied, he stepped up to the address he had been given. The wide handsome porch had been divided by a partition so the two apartments had separate entrances with a litte privacy. The mailbox on the left hand side read FLETCHER- MCDONNEL and Bane pressed the doorbell. Immediately, as if she had been standing there waiting, a pretty little woman with dark skin and thick wavy black hair swung the door open.

"You're not the pizza," she said in a accusatory tone.

( the rest of the story )

"Death At Wyngaerts Falls"

A Trom Girl Mystery

8/14/2005

I.

At the base of Wyngaerts Falls, late on a muggy uncomfortable August day, Megan Salenger stood on a rocky ledge and studied the water. Behind her were Sheriff Acienzo and his deputies, watching dubiously. In the mist and spray from the water crashing down two hundred and thirty-nine feet, they were glad that at least the air felt fresher. The area had been closed to the public for a week since the body of Tony Schoonmaker had been found at the top of the falls.

Standing behind the Trom Girl, Archie helped her hook up her helmet to the compressed air cylinder between her shoulder blades. At six foot two, he was almost a foot taller than she was and he looked down at her tousled head of jet black hair as she lowered the helmet on and closed its visor.

"How it's working there, kid?"

Her voice came clearly through a speaker grid in the helmet's jawbar. "Everything seems nominal, Archie. Air supply is normal. The suits checks as watertight." She was wearing one of the KDF field suits with its boots, snug pants and waist-length jacket. The gloves sealed around the cuffs and the helmet fastened to the high collar of the jacket so that the field suits could even be made airtight. In the tight black outfit, the Trom Girl seemed even smaller and thinner than she actually was.

The sheriff shook his head doubtfully. "By tomorrow we can have a few State frogmen here. Maybe you should wait instead of using your own equipment."

Megan dismissed this as she stepped to the pointed end of the ledge almost directly under the falls. "I'm fine, Sheriff. I've done diving off New Zealand in my field suit. Infra-red projectors on." There was a faint click and her visor acquired a deep pinkish sheen to it. The Trom Girl crouched and slid off the ledge to disappear under the swirling water.

Meeting the worried gaze of the two lawmen, Archie McAllister shrugged. "She'll be okay," he told them reassuringly. Then he himself got down on one knee to peer into the pool at the base of the falls.

( Read more... )

"The White Web Murder Case"
(A Trom Girl Mystery)

11/24/2005

I.

Megan Salenger approached the fireplace, cold now with the ashes sitting untouched. The ornate marble mantlepiece had been cleared of assorted nick-nacks such as framed photos, carved jade stallions, gorgeous seashells and a wind-up clock. These had been placed on the floor to one side. Spraypainted on the dark wall over the mantel in white paint was an elaborate emblem of a spider web.

She turned around to regard the two big men standing behind her. One was a friendly bear of a guy, a full foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than she was. This was her first and likely to be lifetime boyfriend, Archie McAllister. Standing next to him was a man in a neat dark business suit whose crisp lines were detracted from by a round belly. Lt Joseph Montez was not a bad looking guy despite his weight, with a full head of crisp black hair and perfect teeth in a flashing smile.

"I hate to admit it but we are even more short-staffed than usual," Montez said. "With two other fresh homicides running currently, I thought maybe you would like to help out on this particular one."

The Trom Girl nodded but with some detachment. Her eyes had a faraway look in them as she regarded the scene. Megan was a slim young woman with tousled black hair and an inquistive foxlike face. On this crisp November day, she was wearing a heavy denim jacket over a blue flannel shirt, with old jeans and white sneakers. The Trom Girl stood with hands on her hips, motionless for long minutes that made her companions start to feel restless.

"I know that facial expression," Archie put in. "The little wheels in her head are spinning full blast."

Snapping back to paying attention to them, Megan said, "What do you know of the White Web, lieutenant?"

"Aw, just what every cop has heard. Wild rumors. A cult of assassins thousands of years old that operates all over the world but mostly in East Asia. Personally, I figure they're just a branch of the Triads or something."

"The Triads and the Yakuza fear the White Web," she said. "Russian gangsters and Columbian drug lords keep their distance. I believe that emblem is authentic. Philip Walsh died without knowing a White Web killer was behind him."

"Walsh and his wife were both sales agents for an electronics company," Montez offered. "They both had spent years in Japan and South Korea making important trade deals. Our records show no hints of contact with criminal gangs."

"Hm. What is known of Mara Walsh's early life?"

"Not much, really. She's thought to be Eurasian, Japanese with an American GI father who was never identified. You know how badly the Japanese treat mixed-race kids. Phil Walsh met her when she was working as a hostess in a gambling joint and brought her home with him on a green card. They were married a year later and she was a major reason for his success working in Asia."

Archie spoke up for the first time. He rubbed his unshaven chin and said, "Sounds like she could have had some shady connections with a backstory like that."

"Probably," Montez agreed. "That did occur to us. She should be returning here in a few minutes. Headquarters called that a squad car was bringing her home after questioning was getting them nowhere." He looked over to where Megan was kneeling on the sofa that stood against the wall to their right. On the wall behind it were Japanese symbols in the same white paint.

She peered down behind the couch, turned and hopped lightly off. "This couch was moved five inches away from the wall today. The dust patterns are conclusive."

"What about those squiggles?" Montez asked.

The Trom Girl glanced back behind her, "That is Japanese kanji. 'Death and shame to talkers.' It's meant to imply that Philip Walsh was betraying the White Web. Let's look at the bathroom."

( the rest of the story )

"The Curse of Sagutai"

5/6-5/7/2005

I.

In his office, Jeremy Bane was studying three local newspapers, as well as one from upstate, item by item. He had long ago realized that tiny hints and vague allusions in newspaper stories could lead to important cases involving the Midnight War. Right now, he was reading about a sighting of a brown bear chasing two hikers up near Lake Minnewaska but it sure didn't sound like a normal bear as it was described as running on its hind legs most of the time. Very intriguing. Using a razor blade he kept on his desk, he cut out the clipping and put it to one side. The Dire Wolf Agency had nothing active at the moment, there was no reason why he couldn't go upstate tomorrow and poke around where this bipedal bear had been reported.

Back to the newspapers. He couldn't find anything else of possible relevance. There was an amusing story about three teenage boys stealing a ride-on lawnmower and trying to go down the Thruway on it, but that didn't relate to his world. Bane folded the papers, got up and crossed the office to leave them on top of the waist-high bookcase for the moment. The Midnight War was sure in a slump these days.

The doorbell rang and he swung around, glancing up at the clock on the wall behind his desk. Ten minutes to five. The Dire Wolf headed into the small waiting room, barely large enough to hold a coffee table stacked with old magazines and two straightback chair. High up over the door to the hall was a closed circuit monitor and he paused to check out the image. An older man, maybe five feet eight and one hundred and fifty pounds. White hair and mustache, a pointed foxlike nose and thick-lensed glasses over dark eyes. The man was dressed well, in a tailored dark blue suit with powder blue shirt and black silk necktie. He was also holding a slim cane that had a curved handle, leaning on it just a bit, and he topped off the outfit with a matching fedora tilted at a slightly rakish angle.

All of Bane's instincts were warning him.

( the rest of the story )

"Now, the Other Foot In the Grave"

1/27/2005

I.

They had taken him off the CPAP machine which gently forces air into the lungs, now he only had a nasal clip from which oxygen hissed into his system. Hanging from the metal IV tree were bags holding a saline solution, an antibiotic and a magnesium compound. He had long ago signed a DO NOT RESUCITATE form refusing any tube feeding or other heroic attempts to bring him back if he slipped into the darkness. At eighty-four, years struggling with a damaged heart and diabetes had worn him down to the point where life did not seem worth any more effort to hold onto.

Alfred Lemister did not have a private room but it happened that the other bed was unoccupied and the next patient was not expected to be brought in until that evening. He didn't notice. Mostly he drifted in and out of a haze, the pain almost numbed by the shots he had been given an hour earlier. With the thin sheet pulled up to his chest, his bony arms folded down over his stomach, he did not look like much more than a skeleton covered with dry skin and topped with a wisp of white hair. Then something got his attention and both bleary eyes opened.

A man dressed all in black was standing at the foot of his bed, watching him silently. He was six feet tall, gaunt and ominous. Under heavy black brows, a pair of light grey eyes stood out vividly. He did not react as Lemister woke up and saw him.

"No... visitors," the old man gasped. "I said no visitors."

"No one knows I'm here," said the stranger. "My friend caused a distraction at the nurses station- she's good at that- and I have training in stealth. I won't be here long."

"You! It's you. God damn it, have you come here to finish me off? You better ... hurry."

"No," the stranger answered. "I've done enough harm."

( the rest of the story )

"Secret of the Golden Shield"

2/23/2005

I.

The holding cell in the 20th Street police station was old. The concrete floor was stained, the wooden benches were chipped and marked, the toilet bowl had a permanent discoloration. Keeping it pretty was apparently not high on the list of priorities. On a cold evening in late February, Jeremy Bane was led by Lt Montez to the holding cell. They were quite the opposites, visually. Bane was six feet tall, gaunt, no more than a hundred and seventy pounds. He wore a black turtleneck, sport jacket and slacks; he had black hair with a few scattered grey strands, and he had pale grey eyes under heavy brows. Montez on the other hand was a few inches shorter and a hundred pounds heavier. He wore a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back, dress trousers with the snap unfastened behind the belt, and he had wavy black hair and dark eyes. If he could have kept his weight down, he would be quite handsome.

"Guy's being held as a material witness," Montez explained. They walked down a hallway with frosted-glass windowed doors on every side, past detectives drinking coffee and complaining, with a constant ringing of telephones. "He was found with the decapitated body, he's got no ID and he won't give answers. Says he will only talk to you."

"Did he give a name?" asked Bane.

"Yeah. Pagan, Christopher Pagan. Guy's well dressed and seems coherent."

The Dire Wolf shook his head slightly as they approached the holding cell. Behind the bars, four big, tough thugs were sitting as far away from a blonde man as they could without climbing up on each other. The man watched them with a predatory smile that was remarkably sinister.

"One other thing," Montez whispered. "Our boys tried to search him but couldn't get their hands in his pockets. They got upset when I asked them why. They said- get this- his clothes feel like hot leather." Bane said nothing. They reached the holding cell and the man calling himself Pagan stepped forward with a grin. Before he could speak, Bane said, "Nugash, Gornak. Nugash."

Pagan gripped the bars and thrust his head forward.

"Gornak, semba gathrak-- brazo il tumbor. Sim?"

The blonde man nodded and stepped back. Again, the tough guys in the cell cringed away from him.

"That's another funny thing," Montez said. "He hasn't made any threatening moves at all, he's not a big guy but those goons are afraid to get near him. All right, Bane. Who is he? What were you saying?"

"It's a little-known language," the Dire Wolf answered. "I thought he might know it but he didn't answer and it seemed like he didn't recognize it."

"Says you. He seems to know you. Give me a name."

Bane stepped back. "Wish I could help."

"Well, THERE'S a comment that is useless. Come on, Bane, give me something to work with."

The Dire Wolf folded his arms and looked thoughtful. "I'll do some digging. He looks Central European. Has anyone come to post his bail?"

"Nope. He hasn't even made a phone call, he just asked that we get you."

"I see. Well, my name has gotten around in the underworld, I'm afraid." Bane turned and started for the door. "This is one I don't think I can be any help with. Sorry, lieutenant, but I don't know the answer to every mystery."

Montez snorted. "If you ask me, you know more than you ever tell. Okay, I don't have anything to hold YOU on! Did I tell you that this guy can't be fingerprinted? The ink just smudges, they tried all day."

"That's a new one," Bane admitted as he headed down the hall to the front desk.

Montez accompanied him, saying, "You know something about law. What are the statutes regarding suppression of evidence in a murder case?" but got no answers. Bane remarked again that he didn't know anything that could help the police, said he wished them good luck, and headed across 7th Avenue.

Now he had to move fast. He got in his silver Toyota Matrix and headed uptown. At 40th Street, he crossed over to 3rd Avenue and left his car at the Imperial Garage. He trotted north another four blocks and circled a small Golden brick building that had a walk-in emergency clinic, some doctor's offices and the Dire Wolf Agency. Bane went into the dead end alley between his building and the building next to it, which was a Thai restaurant closed at this hour.To his right was a metal door that said EXIT ONLY. He glanced at his watch. 11:24. This was going to be interesting. After five more minutes passed, the Dire Wolf broke several laws by taking a small device from an inner pocket and pushing a button. The device chirped and two dull clicks came from the door. The alarms and the lock had been undone. One of his KDF teammates had made the neutralizer with Trom technology advanced beyond Human knowledge.

From overhead, there was a loud flapping noise and a dark manlike figure dropped down out of the black sky. Bane took it by one leathery arm, "In here, quick." He tugged the Kulan in through the door, closing it behind them and reactivated the alarms and lock. They were in a very short hallway with the side of a staircase to the left. With his key, Bane unlocked a plain door with a brass plate DIRE WOLF AGENCY and ushered Gornak through. Only after he had closed the hall door behind them and it locked automatically did Bane let out a deep breath.

He turned to face a nightmarish figure, a manlike creature close to seven feet tall, with red leathery hide. it had batlike wings which were now folded, talons on fingers and toes, and a ropy tail that whipped back and forth. The creature's head was that of an enormous hound with upright ears and a long muzzle. As Bane looked up at that face, the creature said in perfectly clear English, "Thank you, captain, I had no idea what to do."

The Dire Wolf unlocked the door to the inner office and led Gornak in, thumbing on the overhead lights. He was not worried about being seen from the street. The wide window over the leather couch on the wall facing them had curtains as opaque as he could manage. "Okay, Gornak, first tell me about the escape."

The Kulan demon went to the center of the room and sat down crosslegged on the floor. With his wings and proportions, it was more comfortable than any chair. Unhesitating, Bane did the same and say down facing him a few feet away.

"I watched the clock on the wall over the desk, as you said. When the hands meant Eleven Thirty, I dropped my Veil and was revealed in my true form. From the time I ripped the cell bars free and tossed them aside, then flew down the hallway and out the front door could not have been more than three or four seconds. I rose up out of sight of those Humans on the street and flew north. When I caught your distinctive scent- all Humans have different odors as much as different faces, I dropped down beside you."

Bane whistled. "Whoa. I seriously doubt if any of the prisoners or the cop at the desk will be able to produce a clear story, much less any two of them matching up. When you released your gralic force, the security cameras as well as cell phones and computers would be frozen. They may be ruined. So I don't think there is much chance of a dragnet going out for a red Kulan. Your human guise, though, that's a different matter."

The phone on the desk rang. Bane glanced at it and ignored it. "Got to be Montez. Let it ring. No light shows under the hall door or the window.. I've checked. Even if he gets officers pounding on the door, he can't know we're here." The Dire Wolf looked back at Gornak. "He's going to be sore. Ah, not the first time."

The Kulan threw his head back and yawned, an unsettling sight considering his fangs. "Let me tell you what brought me here, captain--"

"Not just yet. I don't think Montez has grounds to get a search warrant but I wouldn't put it past him to try." The Dire Wolf jumped up. "I thought I was being way too paranoid but it seems like I was just paranoid enough." He unslung a laptop from where it hung charging in a satchel beside the desk and put it by the Kulan. Bane looked over his desk thoughtfully. The check book, the ledger, the correspondence were all innocent.. just normal accounts of the mundane murder cases he had handled. The few references to Midnight War events were on his laptop. Bane had been careful to leave as little trail as possible. He looked in the closet. Nothing there, just clothes and a cardboard box of newspaper clippings. The bathroom was also unincriminating. There was nothing in there that could not have been purchased at CVS.

Only one thing remained. Bane knelt beside the three-shelf bookcase on otherwise bare wall facing his desk. He knelt and undid a latch and then swung the case around on hidden casters. A shallow pit was revealed, chiseled out of the concrete by Bane himself quite against the terms of anyone's lease. Within it was a steamer trunk, black with Golden metal corners and a big old-fashioned lock. The Wolf lifted it up and slid it over the carpet to Gornak, then swung the bookcase back and locked it in place. The average police search would not find those latches and the pit was now empty anyway.

"We need to get moving," Bane said as he unlocked the trunk. The big padlock was a decoy, the real lock was hidden in the trim. Inside was his field suit and an assortment of weapons and tools. On top of the packed items was an oval packet wrapped in tissue paper. Bane took this and locked the trunk again.

"I need you to carry this," he said. The demon picked up the heavy trunk with one hand and held it at chest height. Bane hardly noticed, he knew Kulan were strong. Unwrapping the tissue paper revealed a beautiful pale blue faceted gem in a silver frame. This was rare indeed, less than a dozen were known to exist. Standing up, Bane crossed over to turn off the lights and walked back from memory to where the winged demon sat on the carpet. The room was almost completely dark, the only light being the faint red bulb of the cordless phone on the desk. Sitting down next to the demon, the Wolf asked, "You got that trunk?" Getting a grunt in reply, Bane placed one hand on Gornak's thick arm and his other hand on the travel crystal. "This is going to be rough," he muttered.

A brilliant flare of pure blue light swirled and was gone. When it faded, the room was empty.

( the rest of the story )

"Hounds of the Unholy"

9/23/2005

I.

This was not even a hurricane, thought Bane as he made his way down the sidewalk, "just" a tropical storm. Yet he could not see the buildings across the street. The wind was gusting at fifty miles per hour, making the rain pour horizontally at times. Bane had the visor of his helmet down so he was breathing through the built-in filters, otherwise he would be taking water up his nose. He reached up to the controls on the side ear pod and adjusted the light amplifiers. There was no traffic, which was fine with him. Was Florida like this often? Why would old people come here to retire?

In his black field suit, with the visor down on his helmet, Jeremy Bane was almost invisible in the downpour. He was comfortable enough, staying dry inside a suit designed to protect against extremes worse than this, but he was uneasy over the situation that had brought him here. Why had George Hanlon called him for help? They had never met. Bane vaguely remembered hearing the man's name as a collector of mystic talismans and paraphenalia... there had once been an exhibition of his collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art but Bane had not been able to go see it. Why the urgent phone call to come see him, then? Ah well, thought Bane, I do have a reputation in the Midnight War and most likely Hanlon had just decided on me because of that.

The Dire Wolf was walking through a residential area on the edge of town, with small low-built houses and good-sized yards. To his right was a wooden fence in need of some repairs. Just ahead, the road ended and there stood a three-story Victorian-style house with an attached garage. One light burned over the front door. A sudden gust of wind broke off a tree branch and sent it skittering across the road. Bane walked quicker, reaching the house and looking around with his innate suspicion. He seriously doubted if anyone could see him from inside the house in the gloom and the heavy rain, but he decided to do a quick circle. Getting close, he made his way around the building, looking for anything out of place. At the back of the house, where a flagstone path led to a shed, he thought he heard something, and he flattened with his back against the wall to listen.

The next few seconds were an explosion of movement. Two opponents appeared, seemingly from nowhere, each holding one of his arms and yanking him forward. Even taken completely by surprise, Bane's training and reflexes took over. He kicked the legs out from under the enemy on his right, spilling him on the ground, and breaking loose; in the same motion, he did a vicious hip throw that spun the enemy on his left down hard into the dirt. His opponents were tough and persistent. They were up again and coming at him. Bane clocked one right in the center of the face with a straight punch that would be fatal to a normal person it hit. The enemy reeled back, Bane swung and smacked a lightning backfist that sent the other in a loose tumble to the ground.

He had only a second to get his bearings. Bane was baffled by the way these men had seemed to come through the walls of the the house itself to grab him. It had to be a trick. Then he focussed on the attackers and realized they were not Human. In the bare instant before they attacked again, he saw that they were manlike, about six feet tall, gaunt and bony with a leathery hide and doglike heads. They came at him, and the Dire Wolf met them with full power blows such as he seldom let fly. He kept knocking them down, but punches which would break the skulls of human opponents seemed to barely drive them back. One managed to get hold of his arm and gnawed at it with his long fangs, but the Dire Wolf pounded him five times in half a second and the brute sagged to the ground.

The other leaped upon him. Bane flung him off and down hard to the ground with an aikido throw. Fighting in this rain was not the easiest thing. Both brutes rolled over to get up again. They looked something like the Kulan of Fanedral, but without wings. The dog-headed creatures snarled and seperated to come at him from different sides. Behind the visor of his helmet, Bane had a predatory grin. He was enjoying this.

Then a big human form dropped from high above, landing with knees bent. His feet cracked the flagstone path where he hit. He stood upright, well over six feet tall, powerfully built with well defined muscles that stood out under the simple white T-shirt and black jeans he wore. The man had a craggy, rough-hewn face with deepset dark eyes under heavy brows and unruly thick black hair. One of the dogheaded brutes leaped at him, and the newcomer threw a single punch that sounded like a gun going off. The creature's head flew apart at that impact. The man shook gore off his fist and turned as the other monster growled and leaped. Again, he threw just one punch, so powerful that his arm went through the chest of the brute and he had to tug the corpse off. Shaking his arm in the rain to clean it, the newcomer chuckled.

Bane had raised the visor of his helmet. "Sulak? It IS you! Sulak!"

( the rest of the story )

"Whatever Happened To the Green Devil?"

3/22-3/29/2005

I.

March 25, 1945

Late at night through a deserted back area on Long Island's easternmost end, a white delivery van wheeled along at reckless sped along rain-slicked roads. Both sides of the van had VAN ETTEN'S FARMS painted in swirling red letters with the stylized outline of a chicken and a pyramid of eggs depicted. Each week, the van was repainted. Previously, it had read ISLAND FURNITURE REPAIR and before that, QUICK-FIX PLUMBING AND HEATING. New plates went on more often than that.

At the wheel was the colorful figure of Victory Eagle and next to him, one elbow out of the passenger window, sat the Green Devil. It was the first time they had met. Both were used to operating solo but orders from the War Department had been persuasive.

"This is not half bad," Green Devil said, pulling her arm back in and turning the crank to raise the window. "Both our motorcycles fit in the rear and we can check out the area without being obvious. I should buy something similar, maybe a panel truck. Not that I could afford it..."

"Yes. Well, we are amazingly conspicuous in these ridiculous costumes," grumbled the Victory Eagle. He was a tall, remarkably athletic man whose impressive physique was concealed by a tight silk outfit of bright blue pullover shirt and tights. Red leather gloves and boots, as well as a wide belt of red leather, added another primary color. All but the lower half of his face beneath the nose was concealed by a snug blue hood with two eye holes and a small white eagle symbol like the NRA emblem. Across the muscular chest was emblazoned a much larger three-quarter view version of the eagle in flight, its wings spread and its talons clenched as ready to strike. The red, white and blue motif was appropriate.

Seeing how Green Devil was checking him out, Victory Eagle flashed a Hollywood-perfect array of chalk-white teeth. With that smile and the square chin and straight nose, what showed under the mask seemed to indicate quite a handsome specimen. "This wasn't my idea. Apparently, mystery-men in flamboyant uniforms are all the rage these days. I was happy as a spy smasher in regular duds."

"I feel a bit drab next to you," she admitted. She was a slender, supple figure all in dark colors. The tight pants and snug short leather jacket were midnight green, while the high boots and cuff-length gloves were black, as was the white-outlined symbol of a trident on the back of her jacket. The young woman had on a green motorcycle helmet with short curved horns of hard steel fastened up by its temples. As she had been riding along, Green Devil had eventually unfastened the strap under her chin and tugged the helmet off. To Eagle's obvious disappointment, underneath the helmet was a black silk bandana which had been fashioned into a mask.

From under the back of the bandana, strands of brick-red hair, fine-textured, had escaped to trail down her neck. Kelly O'Connor was wearing dark lipstick which helped conceal the full contours of her lips, but that snub upturned nose and the brilliant green eyes still showed.

Getting a good look at her as they rolled past a corner street lamp, Victory Eagle laughed. "A bit Irish, eh?"

"Astounding! Eh, not much deduction required for that, Eagle. I worked up this get-up mostly because I was inspired by the other heroes I read about in the newspapers. Mark Drum, Sulak, the Sting and his Dragon of Midnight pal, but especially the Sceptre. She's a hot number all right, taking out one Axis spy ring after another."

"I met the Sceptre not long ago," Eagle said. "I asked her why she hasn't given that weapon to the government so it could be mass-produced. If each of our soldiers was carrying a Sceptre, we'd be strolling through Berlin and Tokyo today. But she said it could not be duplicated and efforts to do so had only resulted in explosions that killed everyone nearby."

"Too bad," sighed Green Devil. "Still, we do what we can with what we have. Hey! Here's the crossroads Major Duberson told us about. Quarreyville Road."

"We turn left here," the Eagle agreed as he eased the van off the narrow back road, up under a pair of elms "Three miles to the target. Maybe here is a good place to switch to our bikes."

"Yeah, that works," Green Devil said. She was wiping the face plate of her helmet with a soft cloth. She lowered it over her head and fastened the strap again. "The Major thinks tonight's job is as important as opening the Second Front, but he over reacts to everything."

When he got out of the van, Victory Eagle did not seem at all silly in the colorful outfit. He was such an imposing specimen and he felt himself so straight and confidently that the bright blue and red outfit seemed normal. From behind the driver's seat, he fetched a leather belt with a flap holster which held an Army Colt .45 automatic and he buckled this on. The belt had a few slits on its inner surface to hold keys and other small items, since the Eagle costume had no pockets.

The two vigilantes worked together to open the rear of the van and lower a sturdy board down to reach the ground at a shallow angle. Vaulting nimbly up into the interior, Green Devil untied the straps which had been securing her bike and started it up. She rode a Triumph from England, imported before the war, with a pair of saddle bags in which she kept civilian clothing, a first aid kit, some useful tools and personal items. She had painted the Triumph a slightly brighter green than her costume, still very hard to see in poor light, with the trident symbol emblazoned on the gas tank. There was not enough room to turn her bike around inside the van, so she backed down the ramp gingerly before feeling stable on level ground.

The Eagle's motorcycle was half again larger, a specially modified Harley-Davidson with a storage bin on the back and with a headlight twice as powerful as the normal model. The body had been painted a brilliant red, white and blue to continue his motif. In front of the handlebars was an oval windscreen of dense plexiglass which, although he didn't mention it, was bullet-resistant if not completely safe against high-powered rifle fire.

"Nice toy," muttered Kelly to herself. "Maybe I should sell out to the government, too." As the powerful Harley revved up and tore away, she gunned her Triumph and stayed right behind him. Another exciting adventure of our daring heroine, she thought, using a radio announcer's voice in her imagination, not suspecting it would be the final exploit of the Green Devil.

( the rest of the story )

"The Ant Farm Horror"

7/13-7/14/2005

I.

Bane awoke with the first ring, rolled over and snatched up the phone next to his bed. The nightstand clock read 2:27 AM, but he was used to dramatic calls in the middle of the night. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Mr Dire Wolf! Montez here. Get over to 60th and 7th Avenue, you're gonna love this one." The connection broke off. Jeremy Bane lived like a firefighter, with all his gear laid out before he went to sleep. He tugged on the flexible Trom armor which looked with wet silk, leaving only his forearms and head exposed. The twin silver daggers came from under his pillow to be strapped on his forearms, hilts forward. The black slacks and long-sleeved turtleneck, the heavy boots, the black sport jacket were put on within seconds. The .38 Colt revolver was behind his left hip. As he spun the cylinder critically and holstered the gun, he was ready. He kept his wallet and PI license case, his keys, his specialized tools and weapons already stowed in their assigned pockets. In less than a minute from when he had picked up the phone, the Dire Wolf was going out the door of his apartment. He had lived like this all his life.

Out on Third Avenue, he decided he should get his car. There was no telling where this case, if it was one, might lead. Breaking into a run, the Dire Wolf crossed from 47th to 40th and then over to Lexington. He loped down the wide concrete apron leading down into IMPERIAL GARAGE. At the moment, he was driving a dark green Nissan. On its driver's sun visor, two blue and green lights winked to indicate no one had touched it. Bane got behind the wheel and headed out. He made a left and got to the 7th Avenue, then turned north. At 59th Street, he saw a perfect open space and whipped in to claim. Traffic was light at twenty to three in the morning, but New York traffic seldom stopped altogether.

Up ahead was the front of the Chase Manhattan bank, where a uniformed officer stood blocking off the sidewalk. Two men in suits were taking pictures and talking in their cell phones. Off to one side, hands on hips, was the familiar bulk of Lt Joseph Montez. His weight went up and down, but tonight Bane estimated him at about two hundred and forty, so he had been cutting down on fried foods again. Montez spotted him and waved him over.

"Hey! Good morning. Here's something you haven't seen before," he said.

Bane stepped closer. The little nook which held the bank's ATM was almost covered with dead ants. He glanced up and saw the security camera also had ants sticking out of its minute crevices. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, "Okay, give me something to start with."

With a chuckle that gave away how much he was enjoying this, Montez drew Bane to one side. "Common black ants. Some of them crawled up and got inside the security camera and jammed it. That was at 1:18 AM according to the last image recorded. Then a couple hundred more of them squeezed in through openings in the ATM and shorted it out. But get this! The little buggers got the machine set on DISPENSE and left it there. Every bill in that ATM poured out."

The Dire Wolf was staring at the scene. "And then the ants carried the money away...? I mean, come on."

"No. We know a person in a long coat and wearing a floppy fedora walked over at that point and gathered up all the cash in two shopping bags. A camera across the street caught him, but the image is too small and grainy to be useful."

Bane was pacing back and forth. "You know, lieutenant, aren't you assigned to Homicide? Why are you covering this weirdness?"

"Because of you, my friend, because when the NYPD finds something creepy or supernatural or just impossible to believe, I get a phone call to go take a look. And that's because they're counting on me to bring you in on it."

The two CSI investigators seemed to be wrapping things up, arguing with each other as they made notes. Bane stepped closer to the scene with all its dead ants. "All unofficial and off the record and this never happened," he said as if repeating a familiar list.

"That's right. Well, Dire Wolf, what's your thought about this mess?"

Bane turned his pale grey eyes on the lieutenant. In a narrow feral face, they stood out dramatically. "First, I'm no scientist. I don't even have a high school diploma. All I remember reading somewhere is that ants communicate by dripping chemicals from their butts."

"I read that, too. Pheromones, they're called."

"So. My first guess is that some whacko scientist sprayed these pheromones on the security camera and into the ATM and the ants blindly forced themselves inside. That's okay as far as it goes. But setting the ATM to spit out all the money. I draw the line there."

Montez was still grinning. "Go on."

"It's a trick of some kind. Just off the top of my head, I'd say the ants are a distraction. Some genius hacker found a way to make the ATM cough up its money and the ants are there to confuse us." Bane folded his arms angrily. "It's working. I'm sure confused."

"Listen. Confidentially. You fight vampires and invisible men and invaders from Mars and crazy things like that." Montez had lowered his voice. "Ever cross someone who can control insects? You know. make an army of spiders, that sort of thing?"

Bane considered. "Never. I never even heard about such a thing. But there are people who know more Midnight War history than I do, I'll ask around."

Montez headed over to where the CSI investigators were loading gear into their van. Over one shoulder, he said, "Worth getting up for, though?"

"Yes," said Bane thoughtfully. "Thanks for the call." He stood there regarding the scene for a few more minutes, came up with nothing, and headed back to his car. He made a right at the next corner and headed back down to 40th Street. Nocturnal by nature, Bane was wide awake now. He left his car at IMPERIAL and started walking up 3rd Avenue. At 44th Street, he paused by the four-story yellow brick building where his office was. It was all dark now. He walked on another few blocks to the slightly shabby building where his apartment was, went up the worn wooden stairs to the second floor and his door at the end of his hall. Just before dawn one night, he had moved the Trom security alarms he had installed himself inside a wooden panel he had rigged to hinge open. He intended to do this now and then.

Flipping open the panel, he saw the blue and green lights were winking steadily. Bane closed the panel and clicked it shut, then unlocked his door and stepped into the cool dark apartment. It must be close to four AM by now and although his instincts were to just stay up until dawn, he was trying to keep some sort of schedule. Carefully arranging his clothes in case he got another call, Bane slid between the sheets. This was where Tel Shai training came in. He started a circular breathing pattern, slowing it, slipping into a state which soon became natural sleep. No dreams of ants came to his sleeping mind.

( the rest of the story )

"I Notice You Have Gills"

A Trom Girl Mystery

6/20-6/22/2005

I.

"Hope's End, Maine," muttered Archie mostly to himself. "Whoever named this town knew their business. What a rundown dump."

Behind the wheel of the Jeep Cherokee, Megan Salenger slowed as they drove down the empty main street. She could not disagree with him. Most of the buildings had been boarded up long ago. Others had windows where the glass had been broken out, or had doors hanging crazily off one hinge. None of the stores seemed to be still in business. On one side street, an ancient rusted Oldsmobile sat with its hood up as if gasping for breath.

The streets themselves were narrow and twisting, perforated with potholes, barely wide enough for two cars at the same time. Evidently, the town had developed in the days of horse-drawn carriages and had never been rebuilt. Streetlamps were only found scattered every few blocks.

The Trom Girl pulled over and took off her tinted aviator's glasses. At twenty-six, Megan had an inquisitive foxlike face with a pointed nose, full lips and huge dark eyes. Her thick mop of short black hair was tousled and untidy as usual. After a long moment, she said in a perplexed voice, "The references said a population of 1,820 but I see no signs of inhabitants at all."

Seated beside her, Archie McAllister was also peering up and down empty streets. "I don't know, hon. Maybe that Prescott guy meant some OTHER town named Hope's End? Maybe he was pulling your leg?"

"That seems unlikely," she answered. "Sable interviewed him. You know her enhanced senses make it almost imposssible to mislead her. She can hear hearbeats speed up and smell adrenalin in trace perspiration."

"I know, I know. Sable really can read a newspaper from across the street and hear a moth go by. I didn't believe it until I saw demonstratations of her powers." The big guy scratched his week's growth of beard thoughtfully. "Sable is better than a lie detector. If she said this Prescott was telling the truth, I'm inclined to believe her."

Reaching over, Megan teasingly helped him scratch his chin. "You've seen many unusual phenomena this past year, my love. You seem to take it well."

"Hah. Well, I try to be open-minded." Archie gestured at the deserted streets. "Should we get out and look around?"

"I believe we should," answered the Trom Girl. She was wearing white sneakers, jeans and a red windbreaker over a white T-shirt. Dropping the keys in a pocket of her jacket, she opened the door and hopped lightly down to the street. Only five foot three and slim, she looked younger than she was and could be taken for a minor.

In contrast, Archie stood nearly a foot faller and was a hundred pounds heavier. He was not overweight but solid. The well-worn work boots, khaki pants and red flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled back added to a roughneck image at first glance. But Archie's sky-blue eyes were gentle and that was what people noticed right away.

Standing next to her Jeep, Megan had taken a small flat device from a pocket and was studying its screen. Her nose wrinkled up as she squinted. "Odd."

On the sidewalk, Archie was peering into the window of what had been a hardware store, with its shelves long stripped and only a few scraps of paper on the floor to show anyone had ever been in there. He straightened up and turned toward her. "Odd? Like how odd?"

"I can't get meaningful readings," she said. "There are a number of life forms nearby, but something is interfering with the sensors." She gave up and jammed the device in her hip pocket. "The town is not empty, Archie. It's just that no one is showing themselves."

"Another 'Trom Girl Mystery,' all right! Here we go..." Archie came around to loom protectively over her. "I don't see anyone peeking out of windows. Hey, there goes a seagull. At least something's alive here."

"We are less than a mile from the ocean. Hope's End was a busy port in its day, with a fishing industry and a tannery." Megan pointed down the street. "That building seems unusual. Let's have a look."

As they walked briskly down the untended sidewalk, with weeds growing up through its cracks, they passed a shoe store and a butcher shop, both closed and boarded up. At the end of the street was a small Green, with a few forlorn trees and some benches. Beyond that, just before the woods began, was what had once been a church.

"Hey, I finally see someone," Archie whispered. "Looks like an old man with a cane. He's crossing the street back that way."

Megan glanced back. "He's entering that hotel. Let's inspect this church first."

This structure alone was in good repair, painted within recent memory and kept presentable. Inexplicably, the front door was nailed shut and there was a massive padlock as well. The message board beside the front door where services would have been listed was blank, and the name of the denomination had been painted over. In stylized black script was written DEEP WISDOM OF THE PAST. On a chest-high stone pillar beside the door crouched a bizarre little statue carved out of black basalt. It was the figure of a shark with human arms and legs, body parallel to the ground and tail held out stiffly behind it.

"That's cute!" Archie snorted. "A walking Great White. What do you make of that?"

"That is Grelok, one of the three Halarim," Megan replied in her serious tone. "He is represented by his sacred beast, the Malak. Archie, this is a sign of the Midnight War in this town. There is serious danger here." She leaned closer and said, "The inscription is faded but it seems to be in English..."

Behind them, an old man's voice cackled, "True! All too true, missy."

( the rest of the story )

"War Dance of the Feral Boys"

12/1-12/3/2005

I.

"He doesn't look like much," said one of the gunmen. "Take away his fancy bow and arrow, and what have you got?"

In the meeting room upstairs at Keator Motors, it was eleven-thirty, hours past closing. The lot full of cars was deserted, none of the staff were on duty. Only the lights required for insurance reasons still burned. But, behind the locked door of that room, where the chairs around the oval table were usually filled with sales representatives and managers hammering out terms, five heartless men with guns in hand stood around an outsider.

Josef Jubilec stood in their center with hands slightly raised, a faint smile on his weathered face. He looked older than he was, as his stressful life had left deep lines down his cheeks and around his eyes. Josef was a few inches over six feet tall, wide-shouldered and deep chested, as shown in the subdued tan business suit he wore without a tie. The short sandy blond hair and cloudy dark blue eyes stood out vividly in the fluorescent lighting. Josef said nothing.

"Easy there, Paul" said one of the thugs.

"No, seriously. Without his scary bow and arrow, what have you got here?"

From behind him came a quiet, menacing voice. "One of the most dangerous men you will ever meet."

All the thugs in that room gave a start and came to attention. Entering from a plain unmarked door on the other side was an elderly man with only a fringe of white hair at the back of his head. Standing behind him, holding a chair out from the table, was a bodyguard twice his size.

As the gunmen stood alert, turning to face the old man, Josef folded his arms across his chest. "Hello, Mr Sabino."

"Ah... Josef Jubilec. Please relax. This is not a confrontation." The old man placed his withered hands flat on the table in front of him. "Your organization does not often come to Miami."

"No," Jubilec agreed. He stepped closer to the table, ignoring the shuffling and stirring as the gunmen reacted to his move. "Your operation here is not related to our agenda."

"I know, I know," Sabino sighed. "To you, we are mundane criminals. Certainly not the mighty warlords like John Grim or Wu Lung that you clash with. But I have asked you to meet with me because something inexplicable is going on in this area."

Josef did not move any closer. He could see the thugs were tense enough as it was. "Mr Sabino, I appeciate that you said 'asked' me to come here and not 'ordered.' I would like very much to hear what you have to say."

The elderly man sat up straight. He was in his mid-seventies or so, but not bent or frail. "You are one of the Blind Archers of Chujir. Most of us who live outside the law believe your sect to be mere legend. But I know better, and so do the ones I serve."

Josef said nothing but waited. He could sense that the men surrounding him had eased back a little.

Sabino continued, "Have you heard of the Feral Boys?"

"Only vague rumors," the Blind Archer answered. "Nothing of any substance."

"In the past few months, there have been many strange crimes in and around Miami. Murders, missing people, thefts on a grand scale... but these crimes make no sense. There is nothing tying them together. My people do not think it is a new gang trying its hand, nor do they think it is some lone mastermind. It is something new and unexplained."

Josef nodded. "I have heard that the Feral Boy tribe is descended from Indian refugees driven south from Georgia in the early 1800s. Apparently they did not join up with the formation of the Seminoles. Two of these Ferals abducted the daughter of the Torres clan leader and no trace of her has been found. One Feral Boy killed a Colombia gang courier and took a briefcase holding sixty thousand dollars.. or so I am told."

"This is all true. Many of the Feral Boy tribe hide in the Everglades and live as their ancestors did. But there are those who live in cities and towns, blending in, posing as regular people. A lot of Feral Boys are so mixed they don't look like Indians at all but they remain loyal to their tribe." The gangster scowled even more than before. "And they are wicked. They proclaim themselves as devil worshippers who sacrifice captives to the Old Ones. Worse things are going on than the papers ever report. A child was skinned and left dead in a stream. Animals have been found with their eyes removed, still alive, suffering. I do not know any possible reason any of my business rivals would do such things, Mr Jubilec."

"It does sound like the worst type of black magick," the Blind Archer agreed. "And it is why my team has come to Florida."

Sabino pushed his chair back slightly and all the thugs shifted their stances in response. "Good. These dreadful events have woken the police from their usual torpor. It is always awkward when they start trying to do their job. Even the FBI have been reported arriving here to investigate. Those fanatics from Department 21 Black are likely to interfere with usual business. And there are even whispers about the Mandate taking an interest..."

"My team is already investigating," Josef said. "It doesn't matter what I think of your operations, our agenda is limited to the supernatural. You are not Midnight War."

"Ha ha, no. We are just making money in a normal if not legal way. That is all I can tell you, I am afraid. Except for two more items. Many signs point to the area around east Flagler Street. And we have heard a name in connection with these deformed men. ."

Josef could not hide a smile. "'May Doosa.' It must be an alias, an obvious pun."

"Be that as it may," Sabino finished, "our paths need not cross. We will not confront your Tel Shai knights and you will not interfere with our business."

"Sounds entirely reasonable, Mr Sabino. Perhaps you can leave any further information at our public number?"

"I will do so." The old gangster got to his feet smoothly enough, tugging down his jacket. "These men will see you to your car, of course."

"Of course." The Blind Archer made the slightest possible bow and turned to open the door behind him. All five thugs surrounded him again, their pistols pointed at the floor near his feet rather than directly at him. Josef gave the gangster underlord a polite smile as he went down a metal staircase to the display room of the dealership. Waiting at the door to the lot was one more man. They were all dressed presentably, clean shaven and with recent haircuts, but they still could not pass as normal citizens.

Escorted to the parking lot, Josef headed for the black Ford Escape he had leased early that morning. He was reflecting that it was too bad the KDF didn't tackle regular run-of-the-mill crime but their mission from Tel Shai targeted what was beyond law enforcement. He thought that these Feral Boys did sound like the weirdness he usually faced. As he reached for his keys to beep his car doors unlocked, the thug called Paul spoke up again.

"I don't think he showed the boss enough respect."

"Goddamit, Paul, you are just desperate for trouble tonight," another one snarled. "Let it go."

Stepping around next to Josef, Paul raised his Glock 19 and waved it in the Blind Archer's face. "You don't have that famous bow and arrow in a pocket, do you? I think you're a fake." The barrel almost touched Josef's cheek.

A faint sigh escaped Josef despite himself. He had hoped to skip this. Suddenly the thug who was called Paul was on his knees, clutching at his face. Josef was now holding the Glock. He ejected the magazine and pocketed it, then dropped the unloaded weapon on the asphalt next to the stunned man. No one had clearly followed his moves and they took long enough to react that he was behind the wheel before they started talking. The Blind Archer started up the Ford Escape, backed up carefully away from them and pulled out onto the highway before the gunmen had fully gathered their wits.

( the rest of the story )