dochermes

"The Whispering Skull"

A Trom Girl Mystery

12/13/2006

I.

She shot past the strip mall they were looking for, and it took ten minutes to turn left at the next intersection into a parking lot and come out to circle back again. Megan Salenger finally pulled her red Jeep Cherokee into the strip mall and parked it, put it in gear and turned the engine off and then let out a long exasperated breath. "I do not like Paramus," she said to Archie. "I do not intend to come back here."

In the passenger seat, his familiar bulk looming up to almost fill the space, Archie McAllister tried not to grin. "Well, honey, it's only two weeks before Christmas. You have to expect traffic to be crazy."

The Trom Girl visibly relaxed as her shoulders lowered and she sighed. At twenty-seven, Megan appeared considerably younger. Her small frame and shag of tousled black hair over an inquisitive face combined to make her look like a teenager. On this gloomy overcast day, she was wearing the snug waist-length KDF field jacket rather than a winter coat because it was so well insulated that it would keep her more comfortable. "I suppose I should realize that," she said with resignation. "I've experienced it before."

A foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than his partner, Archie peered out his window at the strip mall. There was a frozen yogurt place, a nail salon, and a pet supply store. At the end of the row of buildings, a wide dark-tinted window read PSYCHIC READINGS - WALK-INS WELCOME in red script and beneath that in smaller letters, ENIGMATICUS, KNOW YOUR OWN SECRETS. "At least we're at the right place," he said cheerfully. "What have you turned up about this Enigmaticus bird? That CAN'T be his real name."

"No," she answered as she leaned over him to get a look at the store herself. "He is Dewey M Schmidt from Atlanta, Georgia. He is fifty-eight years old and has apparently been a fortune-teller most of his life, working carnivals and county fairs. He was married for a year to a woman named Patricia but the divorce became final in 2002. Schmidt has been at this storefront location for just under two years."

"No criminal record, I guess?"

"Nothing of consquence. He has been warned a number of times by local law-enforcement in different states to move on rather than face bunko charges. Schmidt, or 'Enigmaticus' skirts the law by offering advice and consultations rather than claiming to actually foretell the future." She paused and added, "But of course, what his clients come for is not what they seem to be receiving. Two suicides and a missing person that we know of."

Archie scraped the back of his hand across a bristly cheek and considered the situation. He always seemed to need a shave, just as he always appeared to be due for a haircut. In a wide, heavy-featured face, a pair of light blue eyes were so gentle that they gave his true nature away. "How do you want to do this? Do we go in together?"

"Oh, yes. I appreciate your presence, Archie. And, to be honest, you understand human nature better than I ever will. Being raised by the Trom has left me a permanent outsider, I'm afraid." She unbuckled her seat belt and placed one small hand on his coat sleeve before hopping out of the jeep.

Archie joined her as they walked past the frozen yogurt store and nail salon. Every parking spot was filled, people crowded the narrow sidewalk in front of the row of stores. Many of them seemed agitated and far from enjoying the season.

"I do not observe holidays," Megan said, "The Trom just ignore such customs. I hope this does not trouble you, Archie."

"Nah. I'd like to skip all the shopping and visiting myself, but my family insists. I still have to get something for my brother's two boys, come to think of it." He stood in front of the psychic's storefront and tried to see inside the tinted window without success. On the door, hours open were painted.

Megan opened the door, making a tiny bell hung overhead tinkle as she did so. The front part of the store had a counter with a cash register, credit card swiper and a stack of cards with the store name and phone number printed on them. Along the walls, a variety of interesting merchandise was for sale. Dreamcatchers, jewels such as tourmalines and malachite, various types of necklaces and rings, hand-carved carved wooden boxes and smudge sticks were most apparent. A chest-high bookshelf offered pamphlets and thin paperbacks, and there were also posters of the chakras or of inspiring outer space vistas for sale as well.

In a recessed area partially concealed by a gauzy curtain, a couch and two comfortable chairs could be seen. This area was dimly lit by a blue bulb, and it was from here that Enigmaticus emerged with a smile. "Hello, there. Can I help you folks?"

The former Dewey Schmidt did not look healthy. He was a bit under average height and frail in a black suit that fit loosely.. perhaps he had bought it before losing weight. The man had striking features, with a hawklike nose and strong jawline, black hair brushed straight back over a high forehead. But he seemed weary and disinterested, and the dark circles under his eyes did not help. Megan's keen sense of smell caught a definite tang of bourbon under mouthwash.

"Hi!" she sang out in a cheerful tone not at all like her usual calm, measured tones. "I've been experimenting with different psychic experiences. I've had a Reiki session and a Tarot reading. I'm very interested in learning what you offer here?"

Archie smiled pleasantly, partly because that was his nature but also because he was amused to hear Trom Girl roll off the speech they had worked out.

"Oh, I will be glad to explain, young lady. To some extent, I do offer warnings and hints as to what you might expect. But mostly, my art is to inform you of memories you have forgotten or suppressed. Many times, I can tell you what you have subconsciously observed of other people but do not consciously know."

"Really," she responded. "Interesting. Recovered memories and subconscious observations... I think a person could learn much about herself that way."

Enigmaticus tugged down his suit coat and adjusted his cuffs. Perhaps he had been napping, that would explain his bleary eyes. "As always, I fear I must offer a warning. Some of these memories might be unpleasant. You might recall hugging your first pal in kindergarten, but you might just as easily remember some trauma you would like to keep buried."

"Hm. Oh, I think I will take my chances. We still have some running around to do today, can I make an appointment tomorrow? Say, early afternoon?" asked Megan. She was smiling much more than she usually did, which made her look both quite pretty and younger than her real age.

"Oh, certainly. Would one o'clock be good? It's forty dollars for a half hour and sixty-five for a full hour. I have several clients that come in weekly and keep journals of what they have learned."

"An hour, please," said Megan in her sweetest voice. "Is that where the sessions take place? May we take a look?"

"Of course, of course." The man held the semi-transparent curtain aside and they entered a cozy nook where a long comfortable couch sat against the wall under the faint blue light. A chair up by one end of the couch and an identical chair at the foot made up all the furnishings. The walls were painted with relaxing swirls of light and dark blue. There was one startling touch that Megan immediately headed for.

On a shelf next to the chair at the foot of the couch sat a human skull on a velvet pad. It was situated to be right near the ear of the person sitting there. She leaned closer to examine the skull without touching it. "A young woman's? No, a man's skull but quite a delicate bone structure."

"Oh, that. Yes. A ceremonial gift from my teacher. I usually cover it with a cloth before the customer enters," Engimaticus said with obvious dismay. "My instructor was old-fashioned but well versed in the esoteric knowledge."

"It doesn't bother me," Megan said. She turned and gave the psychic a warm smile as she headed out into the main part of the store again. "So, then, I will be back tomorrow for my session."

"I will be looking forward to it. Here, please take a card in case you need to contact me." As the two left his shop, Enigmaticus waved politely. Then, slowly, as if drawn against his will, he turned back to stare at the polished skull which was somehow facing him on its shelf.

( the rest of the story )

'"Bullets Have No Heart"

9/15/2006

I.


At four that afternoon, Jeremy Bane crossed Third Avenue and stepped quickly up to the four-story building of yellow brick that had held his office for the past few years. He had come from the newsstand across the street, where he had picked up three different papers, including one in Chinese which he could sometimes puzzle out a little from his limited knowledge. Two men were standing in front of the lobby doors, one holding a briefcase. Both were wearing suits. He watched them suspiciously but he did not reduce his awareness of his surroundings doing so. A lifetime in the Midnight War meant he seldom really relaxed.

At fifty-four, Bane had not changed much in his looks since he was twenty. There were three or four grey strands in the black hair and faint lines around the corners of the mouth. But he was still thin to the point of being gaunt, six feet tall and dressed all in black with the familiar turtleneck, slacks and sport jacket. The grey eyes were clear and cold as ever. The Dire Wolf stepped up to the curb as the waiting men saw him, and one smiled.

Bane approached and said, "Are you waiting for me?"

"If you're the head of the Dire Wolf Agency, we certainly are," said the younger man. He was much the same height and build as Bane himself, but with dark auburn hair and greenish eyes, with a crooked smile. Next to him was a middle-aged stout man with not much hair left and his eyes moved worriedly. Looking at him, Bane saw the man's eyes focus on something behind him with sudden terror.

In the next half-second, Bane plunged forward and grabbed the man in a bear hug, tugging the balding head down against him. He bent his own head forward as the thud of three bullets smacked him across the shoulder blades. With the Trom armor he wore, they did not penetrate and the impact was dissipated so it only felt like hard blows from a stick. As he seized the man, the automatic doors slid open and he shoved the startled fellow inside and kept pushing him into the lobby. Letting go, he pivotted on his heel and leaped through while the doors while they were still open. In his left hand, his .38 revolver appeared quick as a conjuring trick and he was back out on the sidewalk. All this took place in little more than a full second. The other man was still standing out there, just beginning to react to the sudden flurry of motion.

Something punched the gun from his hand, bending his wrist back painfully. Bane dropped into a crouch and raised his other forearm up to protect his head. On the roof of the five story building across the street, he spotted a slim woman all in grey, with long ash-blonde hair. She lowered a pistol and dropped back from sight.

Dandelion?

He bent to retrieve his pistol, saw that the cylinder had been knocked out by that bullet. That sort of accuracy with a handgun at point-blank range would be remarkable but to do a shot like that from across the street... It had to be Dandelion. "Come on," he snapped to the red-headed man, going back inside the lobby. The older man was standing with his mouth open, just now beginning to digest what had happened.

"I think you two need to start talking," Bane barked. "What about it?"

The red-headed man opened a billfold to reveal an ID card. "Special Agent Matheny of the Mandate. I was bringing this gentleman to see you." He leaned over to check the holes in the back of Bane's jacket. "Are you quite all right?"

"Bulletproof vest," Bane answered. People were in the lobby, stepping out from the walk-in clinic Emergency One that took up most of the ground floor. He saw the receptionist stick her head out of the clinic and said, "Everything's fine, Shannon. Nothing to be concerned about." He herded the two men toward the back of the lobby, where the staircase going up left a narrow short hall which ended with a steel NO EXIT sign. Here was the plain wooden door with the brass plate DIRE WOLF AGENCY. He unlocked it and ushered them through the tiny waiting room to the inner office. With the opaque curtains over the picture window, the room was dim and he thumbed on the overhead lamp. To the right was his desk, with two straightback chairs facing it and he motioned for them to sit down.

As Bane settled behind the desk, Agent Metheny began. "You know about the Mandate, of course. Our goals have not always been perfectly aligned, shall we say? But in this case, I think you will agree to work with us. This man is Warren Estes. He is pressing charges in an industrial espionage case, which we need not get into. Where his situation affects us is that he received a warning. Someone involved in the upcoming trial tipped him off that attempts would be made on his life. And you saw the results just now."

The Dire Wolf inspected Estes closely. The man's tic in the left eye and the shaky hands were only perceptible if you looked for them. He was not acting. Warren Estes was within a year or two of sixty, in poor shape as far as cardiovascular issues went. He was impeccably groomed and cologned and trimmed, wearing espensive clothes and tailored Italian shoes. None of that helped when he was terrified for his life. He turned his attention back to the agent. "Go on."

"There's not much else. As you know, the Mandate was established to keep an eye on people with unusual, perhaps even unexplainable talents. We and you have clashed over this. We came in because we are watching a man named Karel Cherny."

Bane leaned forward, placing his hands palm down on the desk. "I've heard of him. We've never met, though. World-class assassin who asks a stiff fee for his services. You think he's on Mr Estes' trail."

"You took three bullets meant for him not five minutes ago."

The Dire Wolf did not mention he had spotted an entirely different killer. Perhaps he should have but he had no love for the Mandate. He turned again to Warren Estes, saying, "So you need protection?"

"Absolutely," Estes answered in a thick, accented voice. "But Agent Metheny here has assured me that his organization will take care of that. I am hoping you will undertake to capture this 'Karel Cherny' person. If he has to be killed, because he is too dangerous to be taken alive, I think that would be morally acceptable." Estes added, "If whistleblowers like myself are too intimidated to speak up, the world is a poorer place."

After a long moment of silence, Bane said, "I have never had to cross paths with Karel Cherny. But I disapprove of nearly everything he has done in a long career. I will undertake to track him down immediately. As you say, capture him if possible but take him either way."

"That is a great relief," Estes breathed. "I have heard a good deal about you, Mr Bane. The Dire Wolf. You are perhaps better known in certain circles than you realize. Here, let me get my checkbook."

"I think I should accept a fee." Bane frowned more than usual. "If I am acting on your behalf, it will give certain legal advantages. Make it to this agency for one thousand dollars flat."

Estes hesitated. "But... expenses? If this drags on for a while?"

"No, the fee is just a formality. With you as my client, I will be able to claim some confidentiality in the investigation. But I'll be carrying it on mostly for my own purposes."

"Well, if you say so." Estes wrote out the check and entered it in his own log, while Bane wrote the details in a ledger he took from his desk, folded in the check and returned it to the drawer.

Agent Matheny took out his cell phone, hit a number and talked in hushed tones for a minute that dragged into three. He put the phone away. "My agency will have a car here within a few minutes with a team. We will escort Mr Estes to a safe house."

"I have work to do myself," Bane said. He put down the pieces of his revolver, ruined by the bullet, on a wall shelf behind him and unlocked one of the deeper side drawers of his desk. From there he lifted up a rather clunky-looking firearm with a needle-thin extended barrel and inspected the mechanism.

Matheny watched with interest. "One of your dart guns I've heard about?"

"Yes," Bane answered without elaboration. Satisfied the weapon was in proper order, he slid in a clip of the potent anesthetic darts he had used in the KDf and clicked everything shut. He rubbed his left wrist thoughtfully, it was still sore from the impact of the bullet that had smashed his gun. The dart gun would not fit in the holster he was wearing, but he would change that when these two were gone.

Standing up, he escorted Agent Metheny and Warren Estes to the lobby. An elderly woman sat on the bench by the elevator, head down in weariness. Bane glanced at her and decided that if anyone had a disguise that good, he might as well retire and go fishing or something. At the curb was a long black sedan with tinted windows. So obvious. What could you do with these people? As Matheny walked Estes to the car and a man in a black suit with sunglasses got out to help, Bane was scanning the area. His grey eyes flickered, looking for anything out of place, any movement that triggered his perception. That window had a curtain move. A figure lounged in a doorway. Nothing.

Bane realized he was standing in the open, with his gun in hand. Agent Matheny nodded before getting in the car. "We'll be in touch, Mr Bane."

( Read more... )

"Dr Nightmare"

A Trom Girl Mystery

4/29-4/30/2006

I.

When the doorbell rang, Ashley Whitaker squeaked with delight and bounced across the hall quick as any squirrel to the front door. The little blonde was immaculate in all white - boots, snug stretch pants and a long-sleeved pullover with a rolled collar. She swung her head to flip the shining platinum hair aside and crooned into the intercom, "Gooood Morning!"

Standing well behind her, Megan Salenger scowled grim as an executioner. She was as pretty as Ashley but in her own inquisitive, foxlike way. The Trom Girl was wearing an oil-stained beige jumpsuit over her civilian clothing, holding in one hand a part of the CORBY's remote guidance system she had been upgrading. In her other hand was a handmade diagnostic tool most Human techs could not have figured out.

"Hi there, Unicorn," came a familiar male voice through the speaker. "I'm here to see Megan."

"I am NOT here!" Megan called out sharply, tapping the diagnotistic tool against her hip.

"He heard you, silly," Unicorn laughed. She pressed the button that unlocked the street door to admit visitors into the vestibule where they could be IDed.

"Tell him I am occupied and cannot be interrupted," said Megan, taking one half-hearted step back toward the stairs.

"She's not doing anything special, Archie. Come on in!" The blonde checked the scanner results on the monitor screen at eye level, automatically verifying that the visitor had been identified and was not carrying any weapons. This only took a few seconds. She swung open the inner door and sang, "Hiiiii, Archie! Good to see you."

Looming up over both women, who only stood five feet one and five feet three respectively, Archie McAllister was a massive bearlike form in work boots, worn jeans and a red checked flannel shirt. As usual, he had not shaved in a few days and needed a haircut as well. In that massive, weathered face, his gentle blue eyes seemed incongruous.

"Too cute for words," Unicorn told him as she shoved him toward where Megan had not moved.

"Hi, honey," Archie said to Megan. "Are you still mad at me?"

"I think you should know," the Trom Girl answered icily.

"How about telling me what I did wrong? Or what I said wrong?" he went on. "I can't apologize if I don't know what for."

Megan brushed her shock of untidy black hair with one hand, gave him a stony stare and said, "If you think about it, you'll know what you did...."

"Oh for the love of God!" Unicorn interrupted. She snatched the electronic parts from Megan's hands and dropped them on one of the bookcases that lined the walls, then yanked down the zipper of Megan's jumpsuit. Underneath, Megan was wearing a dark green T-shirt and black slacks. Before the startled Trom Girl could react or resist, Ashley was pulling the jumpsuit off her.

"Lift your leg!" Unicorn yelled as she worked the jumpsuit cuff over Megan's sneaker. "Now the other one. All right!" Not all that gently, the blonde pushed her teammate by the shoulders almost into Archie's arms. "Better. Lots better."

The inner door was still open, and Unicorn seized both Archie and Megan by an arm each, propelling them into the vestibule. "It is a gorgeous Spring day outside. You two need to go for a walk for a while." As she closed the inner door, Unicorn saw Megan's perplexed stare and snapped, "You are getting a little TOO Human, Trom Girl! Stop torturing him."

Left in the tiny vestibule, just big enough for the two of them to stand without being on top of each other, Megan and Archie both blinked uncertainly. "I never know how to deal with her," Megan said at last. "Ashley seems to break the rules of social interaction as she pleases."

Archie opened the outer door to East 38th Street. "Well, let's go for a walk anyway. I wanted to tell you about some strange things going on in a town in Massachusets. Did you hear about this Dr Nightmare stuff?"

"Dr Nightmare? No." Megan hesitated for the barest instant, then stepped out onto the sidewalk after him. He started walking north and she followed. It was a warm sunny day in late March, with the city coming back to life after a vicious winter. She didn't even feel she needed a windbreaker. "Who is Dr Nightmare?"

"See, no one knows," Archie said as he walked her up towards Times Square. "It's in a town called Lindenhurst. Here's what I heard. Maybe a month ago, someone started putting up these flyers of a weird staring face with the words DR NIGHTMARE at the bottom. All over town, glued up on fences and walls and utility poles. No one knew what it meant." He paused amidst a cluster of pedestrians at the corner as they waited for the CROSS light.

"Hmmm. One might suspect a new album from a musical group? Or an independent film trying to stir up publicity?" Megan seemed to have forgotten for the moment she was angry with Archie over something.

"Yeah. Sounds like good explanations. But since the posters went up, there has been a dozen crimes in a quiet town. Burglaries with the homeowners asleep in the house, mostly, but one man murdered in his bed and nothing taken. And one woman woke up to find an intruder trying to rape her. Her dog, a big German Shepherd, came tearing in and chased the man away after quite a struggle."

The Trom Girl had that distant look in her eyes that meant she was turning over a dozen ideas at once. "What did this intruder look like?"

"Tall and thin, dressed all in black. He had long stringy black hair and a thin face with staring dark eyes. He looked in fact just like the face on the posters." Archie stopped in front of a pizza place. "I could stand a meatball sub, maybe some curly fries."

Wrapped in thought, Megan barely seemed to notice they were going in the pizza joint. "Yes. I am hungry too. I will have the same. It is strange that a criminal would post his own face all over public places."

Archie stepped up to the counter and ordered. "Yeah, it's weird. I read about this in the paper and thought, this is a perfect 'Trom Girl Mystery.'"

Squeezing his arm, Megan looked up into his face and finally smiled. "It is! I'm interested. Oh, meatball subs! Did we order these?" And she dug in ravenously.

( the rest of the story )

"Commie Buster vs the Red Widow"

11/6-11/10/2006

I.

It was just getting dark when Jeremy Bane headed up Cornell Street in Queens and found Silverberg's Swap Shop. He had known the owner years earlier back in Times Square but had never been to this location before. First, he had circled the block suspiciously on foot and studied the windows on the opposite side of the street and watched for men sitting in parked cars. Not that he had any particular reason to suspect a trap, but he had been in the Midnight War most of his life and doing a recon of the area was a strong habit by this point. Satisfied for the moment, Bane approached the hock shop. For a second, he studied the variety of items in the windows. Machetes and swords, bongo drums and guitars, stacks of CDs and DVDs, a nice olive-green tool box. An accordion and a camcorder. All had hand-lettered signs promising the items could not be found cheaper anywhere.

The Dire Wolf shrugged and went inside, making the bell at the top of the door tinkle as he went through. It was not cold enough yet for a topcoat, he was comfortable in his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket.

"Jeremy!" yelled Stan Silverberg from behind the counter. "Look at you. I swear you look exactly the same as you did ten, fifteen years ago."

"Hi, Stan," replied the Dire Wolf quietly. "Good to see you again. Queens is out of my normal turf, you know."

As Silverberg came around the counter to offer a hand, Bane saw that the man had put on at least thirty pounds. The round belly was bisected horizontally by a belt pulled high, and he wore a black vest over a white dress shirt. The moonface was open and friendly, with a smile that still won people over. Silverberg had never been good-looking but he was likeable.

Bane shook the man's hand firmly and clapped that forearm with his free hand. "What exactly did you call me about, Stan? You were vague on the phone."

"Ehhhh, it may be nothing. But ya never know, and I remember you are interested in the weird stuff. Listen. Three times in the past month, a beautiful woman has come in here to pawn antique gold jewelry. She is shrewd, she demands a good price. I am curious. I call a few of my friendly rivals in the trade and I find she has been to see them, too. So I end up calling everything, pawn shop and old coins and jeweler in the whole metropolitan area."

"She's been to all of them?" Bane guessed.

"Yes! A busy young woman. In the past month or two, she must have unloaded fifty thousand dollars worth of items. But only a little at each location. Suspicious, eh?"

"A little bit," Bane admitted. "It makes me curious. How about a description?"

"Gorgeous young woman, maybe thirty years old at most. Tall, almost six foot, with a nice trim figure. Long shiny black hair. She speaks with just a hint of an accent as if she has tried to lose it but I am from Poland and I will never forget. Definitely Russian...from Georgia!" Silverberg shook his head angrily. "Russians...!"

"There's something more you haven't told me," the Dire Wolf prompted him.

"Yes. Usually this woman has on a full-length white topcoat, buttoned up to the collar. But today, when she was here, it fell open when she picked up her keys off the floor. Jeremy, I saw a bright red military uniform with a tunic and jodhpurs and polished black boots. And across the front, bold as hell, was a yellow Hammer and Sickle!"

"Really. That's not something you see much of anymore."

"Tell me about it. As a Polish Jew, I don't know what I hate more, the swastika or the hammer and sickle."

Bane's pale grey eyes had suddenly sharpened and his voice was more intense. "Now I'm interested. Just what is this mystery woman up to? Did she sign anything?"

"Yes, a slip in case she wants to reclaim the items. Post office box in Leonia New Jersey for an address, Sophie Lee for a name. Both fake, I'm sure." Silverberg leaned closer and smiled at the expression on his friend's face. "Now THERE'S the Dire Wolf I remember! You are ready for the hunt, aren't you?"

"Yes," Bane said simply. "Thanks, Stan. This might lead to something more important than either of us realize. I'll let you know what I find out."

"I owe you more than a little," Silverberg answered. "You chased those hoodlums out of my 8th Avenue shop when they were demanding money and you scared them so much they never came back. If I can return the favor even a little, I will."

The Dire Wolf headed for the door, pausing to give a friendly wave. "I'll keep you posted." As he stepped outside, he did not inform Silverberg that Comrade Natalia would have to be at least eighty years old.


( the rest of the story )

"The Man From INTERCEPT Affair"

8/29-8/31/2006


I.


Everything had that orange haze that promised an unbearable day, and at seven-thirty in the morning, it was almost eighty. Jeremy Bane did not feel uncomfortable, even in his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Zero body fat and thirty years on a tagra diet had left him with a body that adjusted to extremes easily. He had become so used to it that he was a bit startled when he felt faint sweat on his forehead. Getting old, he thought. Hitting fifty is bound to bring some limitations. He stepped away from his dark green Subaru Outback, paid for the day and left the municipal parking lot. He was down around 40th Street, almost right on the East River. As a huge semi pulled by, he looked across the street and gazed at the row of unremarkable buildings with stores on the lower floor and apartments above. Bane sighed. Yesterday, he had checked his own sources and had decided to look into this affair but he was not enthusiastic.

Crossing the street, he went past the TWICE IS BETTER antique store and turned into the narrow dead-end alley between it and the next building. Ahead was a chest-high wooden fence with a few crates in front of it. As he walked toward that fence, a plain wooden door opened from within and he stepped inside without breaking stride. He found himself in a small dingy foyer that smelled musty, with another simple unmarked door on the back wall. Standing in his way was a slim man of average height, wearing a neat black suit with white shirt and black tie, very plain. The man had straw blond hair and suspicious blue eyes in a narrow face.

"Good morning," he said, and even Bane's training could not spot an accent.

"Hi," the Dire Wolf answered informally. "I believe I had an appointment."

"And with whom would that be, if I might ask?"

Now he had spotted it. Georgian. But this man had traveled widely. "A man who does not light his pipe," he said, feeling silly.

"Exactly." The blond man held out his hand. "Nicholas Pryshepa. Good to meet you, Mr Bane." He turned and raised a hand, and the door behind them opened by itself to reveal a corridor of blindingly bright white tile. Bane fought a smile at the contrast, although he enjoyed this agency's sense of theatrics. Pryshepa led him around a corner to a wide double glass door that slid apart to let them into a reception room. Everything was pristine, gleaming, as if the place had just been built and never used. Behind a stainless steel desk sat a gorgeous young woman with long black hair. She was wearing a white blouse and Royal blue blazer with matching pleated skirt. She stood up, glancing down at the display screen built in the surface of the desk. Reaching behind her, she took two triangular badges from a board behind her and wiped them with a cloth before handing them over. Following Pryshepa's example, Bane pinned the badge to his jacket pocket and glanced to see it read INTERCEPT GUEST 014.

"Thank you, Mia," said the blond man, receiving a stunning smile which he seemed oblivious to. As they turned, the woman pressed a button and a panel in the opposite wall slid open to reveal an elevator cage. Pryshepa led him in, the door slid shut and the cage rose smoothly. Bane thought it strange that everything was done for them, no attempt was made to reduce the obvious fact that they were under constant observation. Must be a nerve-wracking place to work, he thought. As they reached the fifth floor, the door slid open and Pryshepa gestured for him to enter the office.

There was another dramatic contrast. A minute ago, everything had been glaring overhead lights, steel and white tile. They walked into a subdued, cozy office lined with bookshelves and framed portraits and a three-foot globe by a curtained window. A big oak desk buried under folders and loose papers and styrofoam coffee cups took up much of the space, and the man behind it did not seem to have noticed their entrace.

"Good morning, sir," Pryshepa said discreetly.

A man about seventy sat there, with a sad deeply-lined face and spiky eyebrows. His tweed suit looked as if he had been wearing it for a few days, and his tie was badly knotted. He looked up, frowned, and for just a second the pose of absentmindedness slipped and Bane caught a glimpse of a shrewd intelligence probing at him.

"Ah, Mr Bane, good of you to come." He stood partly up and extended a hand which the Dire Wolf shook. "Lionel Davenport. Please, have a seat." There were two red leather chairs in front of the desk and Bane dropped down in one.

"I suppose first we need to establish where we stand. You've never worked for INTERCEPT before, I believe?"

"I've never worked WITH your organization," Bane answered with the different phrasing. "Our areas of interest don't often overlap."

Davenport smiled and leaned back. "I find most people have never heard of our organization, much less know our purpose. We are, how shall I put it, called in by various member nations of the United Nations when they have unusual or delicate problems their own agencies should not handle. Our name itself is a good clue to our function."

"You have a good reputation," Bane said. "More than I can say for many spy agencies."

"Ah, yes, I understand you have had trouble with the Mandate. That crew," Davenport sighed, "are a grave disappointment in every way."

Leaning forward, Nicholas Pryshepa picked up a glossy 8x10 photo from the desk and handed it to Bane. He saw a handsome, dark-haired man about thirty in a tuxedo, smiling smugly. Bane handed the picture back and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Ah, that young fellow is our main Interception Agent. Chap named Holden Crest. Sadly, the night before last, he was walking outside his apartment building when someone dropped a cat upon him. Common housecat but its claws had been dipped in poison. He's doing well, but the doctors won't release him for duty for another few days."

Bane did not know how to reply. "Unusual attack strategy."

"Quite. Normally, I would use Mr Crest on the case we are facing now, but with him out of commission, I am at a bit of a loss. Mr Pryshepa here is out second Interceptor and a fine man, but our policy is to always send a team of two and the others I have on my staff are not experienced enough or unavailable. Besides, there is another problem. The menace we face is something quite extraordinary, something more from your line of work than ours. Tell me," and he lowered his voice, "Have you ever heard of STIGMA?"

Bane frowned. He was beginning to get a feeling here that there was something threatening to him under all the melodrama. He had known some very dangerous foes who wore a silly facade. "STIGMA? No, never."

"They are not a particularly old group. Our earliest reports of them go back less than three years. STIGMA is a loose alliance of various independent criminals. Each has his own little empire, whether espionage or gambling or whatnot. We believe they have set this up to eliminate friction when their affairs interset, possibly to pool their resources as needed. Our organization has clashed with STIGMA several times but, I regret to say, with indifferent results. We pull a draw more often than a clear-cut victory. Now, this brings us to why I thought it best to ask if you would lend a hand. one of the services of STIGMA is assassination, particularly in the East Asian area. They use diabolically cruel methods and are held in great fear. The leader of the Asian branch of STIGMA is an elderly man named Chiang Surigata."

"Wait, what? Chinese first name and Japanese last name?"

"Quite. Rather unusual, that."

"Unheard of is more like it. But I suppose it's not impossible. Go on."

Davenport glanced up at the Russian. "Nicholas, if you would?"

Apparently taking over while his chief sipped cold coffee, Pryshepa began, "We were requested to protect an industrial chemist who works for a new fertilizer company from threats on his life. His company has had great success coaxing crops from previously barren land, and STIGMA for whatever reason seeks to block this. We have heard that Chiang Surigata is involved." The Russian came around to stand beside the desk, so that Bane could see him and Davenport at the same time. "I must admit, Surigata is an enemy outside our expertise. In this modern age, the idea of magic and witchcraft seems hopelessly out of date. And yet... Surigata has done things that are difficult, perhaps impossible to explain."

"And that's where I come in," Bane said. "The Midnight War has touched your world." He sat up. "You must know a little about me. My war is not general public knowledge but you have sources..."

Lionel Davenport broke in again. "Quite so. Your record of capturing maniacs like Samhain and fighting warlords like Arem Kamende are well documented. But all the rumors of the occult, of the sorcerors and monsters you've brought down.. Officially, none of that happened. The FBI, the NYPD, the CIA, even the Mandate and Black 21 are in on it. They deny everything but we know they have asked you to help out when there are supernatural threats."

Pryshepa made a scoffing noise and immediately caught himself. "Sorry, sir."

"I'll look into this," Bane said after a second. "I myself don't tackle international crime rings anymore, but there is a new KDF team going and they could handle STIGMA. We broke Wu Lung and John Grim back in the old days." He started to get up.

"Mr Pryshepa will accompany you," Davenport interrupted. "Your first lead is the chemist, of course. Rather colorful chap, Australian named Colin 'Pongo' Harkins. He's been told you will coming to see him. Mr Pryshepa here will brief you on our methods. Good luck, gentlemen."

For a second, the Dire Wolf paused. His first reaction was to insist he work alone using his own approach. But then, he figured, why not go along with these people and see what they were up to? If Pryshepa was being used to keep him under watch, at least he would be visible and not skulking around. "All right," he said. "I'll try it your way."

Davenport smiled and went back to rearranging papers into different stacks. The Russian turned and led Bane out of the office and back into the elevator. As they stepped out into the reception room, they just caught glimpse of a tall black man in a dark suit heading through a door with a thick manila envelope and an air of urgency. It was the first hint of other operatives in the building. The woman named Mia took their badges and wiped them with a cloth before hanging them back on their pegs.

"Security," Pryshepa explained. "A chemical is put on the badges before we get them. Without that chemical, a stolen badge would cause alarms to go off."

Bane made a non-committal noise and followed him through the tiny dingy foyer back out into the dead-end alley. Warm muggy air slapped them and Pryshepa scowled. "We should use an INTERCEPT car," he said as he headed for the street.

"Lead the way. Mr Pryshepa, what do you know about me? That you can share?"

The Russian walked briskly along 40th Street. "The Dire Wolf. An American of uncertain origins, first known as an aide to the late Kenneth Dred. Founded the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Private detective work on his own for decades. You have killed or captured many dangerous criminals, including Samhain, Seneca, Atron Ke, Wu Lung, Arem Kamende, Avathor... quite a list."

Bane said, "Go on."

"Very well," Pryshepa said with barely concealed irritation. "Your reputation is that you handle supernatural threats. Both the police and government agencies have used your services this way, unofficially and off the records."

They were at the municipal parking lot. The Dire Wolf said, "Of course you don't believe in the supernatural, do you?"

"Of course not. I am an educated man. This is not the Middle Ages. To be honest, I am a little disappointed to see people in authority even consider anything other than rational, common sense explanations to mysteries."

The man waited for a comment. Bane said evenly, "I'm not out to prove anything, Mr Pryshepa. I take things as I find them."

"Please call me Nicholas or Nick. We are going to be working together, I think we should be on a professional basis."

"Glad to. Call me Jeremy." He followed the Russian to claim a spotlesss new Nissan that looked as if it had been waxed a few seconds ago. Pryshepa took the wheel and they eased out into traffic as Bane noticed a few unobtrusive gadgets which had been installed.

"Normally you would be working with your friend Holden Crest?"

Pryshepa snorted lightly. "A good agent, good man. But he has a weakness for women, particularly blondes, and it has gotten us both in trouble several times. I trust that will not be a problem with you."

"No," Bane said. "Don't worry about me. Before we meet this chemist, what can you tell me about him?"


( the rest of the story )