dochermes | Entries tagged with 2010

DUST MITES ATTACK! III - Panic Time

9/14/2010

I.

Third Avenue at 40th Street was weirdly deserted at a Friday afternoon at three. Delis and newsstands and stores were unexpectedly closed. Traffic was sparse. The few pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks and vanished as soon as they could. It was a pleasant September day but the city seemed more deserted than it became when the worst ice storm was breaking.

The random deaths by skinless faces had broken all attempts at cover-up. By sheer word of mouth, by more postings on social media than could be suppressed, the public had informed itself. This unexplained phenomena was claiming more than one hundred lives each day in the metropolitan area and no defense was known. Sudden agonizing attacks meant tiny crablike vermin were eating the skin right off a victim's face and injecting caustic venom in the process. The world watched in helpless horror. Fearing spread of this pestilence, demands were being made to quarantine the Five Boroughs.

Striding up the block, Jeremy Bane was an even more ominous figure than usual. Tall and gaunt in his inevitable uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he was scowling and the pale grey eyes were furious. He rushed up to the three story yellow brick building which housed his office and entered as the twin glass doors slid open. To his right in the lobby was the day clinic EMERGENCY ONE. Dr Hamsa Chughtai came forward to intercept him.

"Jeremy! Jeremy, wait a minute," he said.

They were on a first name basis because over the years Bane had brought so many wounded patients there, a good number of whom had made the mistake of attacking Bane or because his clients had a habit of showing up injured. The Dire Wolf paused and made an effort to soften his glare.

Lowering his voice, Chughtai stepped closer. "Six cases brought here today, even though there's nothing we can do to help them. They never make through the ambulance ride. I have to ask, Jeremy, what do you know the public doesn't?"

Bane didn't answer for a long moment. "What I can tell you... Hamsa, I can tell you that every agency is working full blast on this. I can't be more specific. I wish I could be more encouraging."

"What doesn't help is that we're swamped with people panicking. They feel their faces itch or someone tells them their face looks flushed and they come in all hysterical. All we can do is hold them for observation an hour or so and counsel them for anxiety." He raised both hands helplessly. "I have to get back in there. We're staying open late tonight."

In a gesture rare for him, Bane pressed a comforting hand on the doctor's shoulder. "You've found out a little bit about the Midnight War, Jeff. You know I won't stop until this is ended."

"I feel better knowing you're on it." Hearing a nurse calling him, he shook his head and went back inside the clinic.

"We both do our best," the Dire Wolf said to himself. Ahead of him was the wide wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. To his left was the FRESH START salon and spa. Going past that, he entered the narrow aisle between that wall and the side of the staircase. This ended in an Exit door marked EMERGENCY ONLY. Just before that was the plain wooden door with the bronze plaque DIRE WOLF AGENCY - PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS and a phone number.

And leaning on the wall next to his office door was the familiar bulk of Joseph Montez.

The big homicide detective looked awful. He had apparently not shaved, showered or changed his clothes for at least three or four days. It seemed likely he had not gotten a full night's sleep for that time either. The surprisingly gentle face under the thick black pompadour was bleary-eyed. "Ah. There you are..." he grumbled.

"Come on in, lieutenant," Bane said. He unlocked the outer door and ushered Montez through the tiny waiting room into the office proper. Steering the police detective to a chair facing the oak desk, the Dire Wolf got a pitcher of ice water and some tumblers from the waist high refrigerator, then down a glass himself and insisted the lieutenant do the same.

"Rather have black coffee..."

"Come on, chug it," Bane insisted. "You look dehydrated as hell. Your skin is dry." He gulped down a second tumbler and watched as his visitor sipped a second one as well. Going back to the refrigerator, he came back with two walnut Danishes wrapped in cling film and tossed one to Montez.

The Dire Wolf settled into the swivel chair behind his desk and allowed himself a grumbling sigh of exasperation. "I've spent most of today meeting with agents of the Mandate, INTERCEPT and Department 21 Black. AND the D.A.'s office! Now you're here for the NYPD."

"Yeah," said Montez. "The city is packed with thousands of cops, spies, Feds and G-Men turning over every rock looking for this Cogitus freak."

"And the full KDF team as well," Bane added. "Sable has called in as many of our Associate Members as she can reach, too. Everyone from Karina to Sulak is running around Manhattan today!"

Montez could not help giving out a sharp barking laugh. "Jeez, I bet the creatures of the night are hiding as hard as they can. I'd hate to be a newbie vampire or Skinwalker out looking for a stray victim with all you guys on the warpath."

Never evidencing much of a sense of humor, Bane showed no trace of amusement at the thought. "Cogitus is harder to catch every time. He learns from his mistakes, he doesn't trip himself up like so many bad guys do. Megan tells me she's certain he's somehow enlarging and mutating the dust mites that live on everybody's eyebrows and eyelashes. They live long enough to poison their victims and eat their faces, then the little bastards die off."

"I know our little Trom Girl is a super-genius herself," Montez said. "She come up with a defense?"

"Not so far," said the Dire Wolf. "Cogitus has been using the artifacts of ancient Zhune. They don't make any sense even in theory, even to the Trom."

Montez slumped so deeply he seemed at risk of falling off the chair entirely. He picked up the second Danish and took a bite. "Honestly, Bane, I don't understand half of what you say. This Zhune was like a sort of Atlantis, right? They somehow invented crazy technology that's still dangerous today? And this lunatic Herbert Lewis Sinclair, Cogitus he calls himself, uses some of these Zhune gadgets as weapons nobody else can figure out."

"That's accurate enough, lieutenant," the Dire Wolf said. "I used to be able to track Cogitus down because he used such enormous amounts of electrical power to charge up the artifacts. I'd hack into Con Ed records and find him that way. But he's figured out another way to get the Zhune relics up to speed and I'm stumped."

Montez' leonine head had dropped down onto his chest and the half-eaten Danish fell to the hardwood floor. Bane kept silent. Like Inspector Klein before him, Joseph Montez had started as an adversary who regarded the Dire Wolf as a wild loose cannon. But, as the reality of the Midnight War sank in, the lieutenant had gradually come to see Bane as an essential defender against the dark powers of the night. Let him doze for a few minutes.

Leaning forward on his desk, cradling his chin in his palm, the Dire Wolf kept thinking furiously as he tried to find a course to take. While he sat in his office, he knew innocent random people were suddenly screaming and grabbing at their faces. Bane had never felt more helpless.

( the rest of the story )

DUST MITES ATTACK! II - Skinless Faces

9/12-9/13/2010

I.

After a month, the novelty of having his own office was just beginning to wear off on Sheng. With his back to the fantail window overlooking Canal Street, he sat at his desk and gazed happily at the frosted glass panel of his door. Reversed from his viewpoint, the black letters and Chinese ideograms read CHUAN LO TSING - FIST FOR HIRE. ARGENT PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS 12 MIDNIGHT TO 8 AM, with a phone number.

Despite his name and his appearance, Sheng Mo-Yuan was not actually Chinese. He was from the adjacent realm of Chujir, whose inhabitants were thought by arcane scholars to be the ancient ancestors of the Han peoples. Sheng was five feet five, stocky but athletic, with the straight coarse black hair and tawny skin tones that led everyone to immediately decided he was East Asian. The inner eyelid fold was not very pronounced and his nose had an eagle arch that was distinctive. Sheng was also a snappy dresser, tonight he had chosen his favorite dark brown suit with a tan shirt and black tie, all carefully tailored.

Chujir was farther away from Canal Street than miles could measure, sundered from this world by gralic barriers. And yet here he had somehow semi-adopted new family. Sitting at his own smaller desk further back by the door, Uncle Pao was storming through a mess of opened letters as if he had lost money in it.

Pao had installed himself as an unofficial aide, nagging as much as helping. He had no fighting abilities nor clerical skill, but Pao did possess a keen understanding of human nature and a sharp sense of when clients were lying. Watching the office, taking messages, cooking meals were other ways in which Uncle Pao made himself useful.

Pao had met Sheng Mo-Yuan by chance only a few months earlier, had become became caught up in an investigation and immediately insisted that they were related. Sheng did not reveal that, since he had come from Chujir, he could not have any living relatives in the world. Instead, Sheng quickly accepted Uncle Pao, allowed the old man to start helping out at the FIST FOR HIRE offices and treated Pao as a genuine uncle. Maybe it only meant that Sheng missed having a family, since his teammates at the KDF were so unlike him culturally. In many ways, Uncle Pao resembled members of Sheng's real clan back in Chujir, both in appearance and in mannerisms. And he had learned enough Cantonese with the KDF to be able to converse easily with Pao. They were two lonely men who welcomed each other's company.

In a sudden burst of agitation, the old man shoved all the loose papers into the wide center drawer of his desk and slammed it shut. Hitting his mid-70s had dried him into a thin scarecrow in a white T-shirt and open black vest. Between the opaque-thick eyeglasses and wild white hair sticking out in random tufts, he was a colorful figure that distracted clients. As he sat fuming at his desk, he turned outraged eyes at his supposed nephew.

"Have you heard from your friend in Seattle again?" Sheng asked tentatively. "Miss Grace Liu?"

"Nephew, she was being insufferable on some cruise ship in Mexico the last I heard. When an eighty-four year old woman is left against her wishes at a random city, you know she has misbehaved. Something to do with making rude announcements over the PA system about the menus. Something about missing pets on stew days..."

On his own desk, Sheng still kept a landline phone because it fit his sense of what Private Eye decor should include. He did not smoke, but he had a vague urge to see his office filled with smoke swirling under the lazily turning overhead fan. That, and daylight slanting in through Venetian blinds would be a nice atmospheric touch. Before he could speak, the sound of the street door closing two floors beneath them caught his attention.

"Ah! Perhaps a client who will actually pay you?" asked Uncle Pao, then added "For once." But he did creak up on to his feet and went over to open the office door before seating himself again.

Light footsteps trotted up the staircase and a tall slender figure swung into the open doorway. A young woman in her twenties, wearing tight grey leggings and a baggy maroon sweater, stuck her head into sight. A long straight wing of jet black hair swung with the movement of her head as she glanced from side to side. "Mr Sheng?"

Rising and gesturing to an empty chair in front of his desk, Sheng said, "Please, come right in. I'm Sheng Mo-Yuan. Sometimes called Argent. This is my partner Sheng Pao. What brings you to us?"

"I'm in trouble, real trouble. Look at how my hands are shaking! My knees feel like rubber bands."

To his credit, Uncle Pao was immediately holding the chair for her and placing a reassuring palm against her upper back. "You are in good hands, miss."

"My name is Clemente, Clemente Suarez, I live in Queens. It's strange coming here at two in the morning, sir."

Sheng agreed. "I found most of my clients need help late at night, so I started keeping these hours. It's not called the Midnight War without good reason."

The young woman searched Sheng's face with desperation. "I'm ready for a complete meltdown, I'm freaking out, fuh-reaking out. It's the faceless deaths! You know about them, right? Faces without skin!"

( the rest of the story )

"DUST MITES ATTACK! I - Mad Science"

9/11-9/12/2010

I.

Striding briskly up Park Avenue at nine AM, they drew many interested and appreciative glances. Two attractive young women in their early twenties, the platinum blonde Ashley was dressed all in white.. boots, snug jeans and pullover sweater with a rolled collar. Next to her, the slightly taller brunette Megan wore all black...sneakers, slacks and a plain T-shirt under a light windbreaker. This wasn't a deliberate statement or anything, just their preferences.

They stood on the corner of 83rd Street, waiting for the light. The blonde was smiling with the seraphic serenity of extreme confidence. "I really disliked that Mrs Claire," she said. "I bet she has never been in a restaurant where she didn't demand to speak to the manager. And she talked to us as if we were airhead bimbos."

"You miss the previous Director but Lionel Davenport was acting out a kindly pose to win our affection," said Megan Salenger. Her inquisitive foxlike face under a tousle of short black hair regarded her teammate coolly.

"Oh sure. I realize that. But I appreciate the effort to make us feel comfortable." With her finely-chiseled features, crystal blue eyes and slightly cleft chin, the Unicorn would have been gorgeous even without the sass in her tone and the glee in her expression. "He wanted us to like him, not just be intimidated."

As part of the crowd moving across 83rd, Megan said, "For an espionage organization, INTERCEPT has an unusually respectable reputation. Very few scandals, very few outright blunders. Lionel Davenport had been the sole Director for all the group's existence. He in fact took the post thirty years ago at the same time our KDF was founded."

"Those spiky eyebrows used to crack me up. I rilly wanted to trim them with my nail clippers."

"I am relieved you did not offer to do so." Megan's even, deadpan tone made it difficult to detect any irony or sarcasm. After years of working so closely with the Trom Girl, Ashley felt she could usually spot a remarkably dry sense of humor but she usually could not be sure.

They stopped in front of a shining spike of chrome and white stone that rose up seventy-two stories. The mantle over the front entrance bore the cryptic name WILLETTS and the number 533. "Here we is," Unicorn observed. "Home of Merrick Shale, the world's most famous secret agent."

"The internal contradiction in that phrase does not sit well with me," Trom Girl replied. "Ashley, we both read the file on this man, but do you have any additional information?"

"Tons and tons, mostly rumors with some confirmation," the little blonde promptly replied. "A world-class genius in the body of an Olympic athlete. Eleven doctorates in everything from biochemistry to Constitutional law to ramjet design. Made one fortune in stock trading, another in real estate, another in leasing applications of a patented surgical tool he invented. Won the Kumite in Hong Kong four years in a row. World champion of chessboxing. Flies his own jet and was chef at a five star hotel in New Orleans, but he also speaks seven languages..."

"Stop, please." Megan Salenger's default expression was one of thoughtful contemplation but now a rare scowl of disapproval showed. "He is only thirty-six. Does it strike you that all these accomplishments in a single young man are so unlikely as to suggest fraud?"

'"Well, DUH. He's an over-achiever. His parents probably messed him up by never being satisfied by anything he did. And I didn't even start on all the times he acted as a freelance agent for spy groups like the Mandate and Department 21 Black!"

The Trom Girl seemed to have realized that she had allowed annoyance to make her stoical mask slip. She straightened her shoulders. "Be that as it may. INTERCEPT has asked us to meet with him."

The two of them strolled confidently through an enormous lobby more palatial than most actual palaces. The marble floor inlaid with black speckled patterns, the gold trim on furnishings, the original oil paintings of landscapes were wasted on Ashley and Megan. They had stood before the thrones of Androval and Chujir, being given audience by actual kings and emperors. A facing wall displayed a bank of ten elevators with well-dressed people coming and going.

The two KDF members stepped up to a wall niche which held only a plain unmarked green-painted steel door. Any passerby would decide it gave access to circuit breakers or mops or something mundane. But when Megan and Ashley got close enough to the door, it slid open with a hiss to reveal an elevstor cage. They entered, the door closed and the hum beneath their feet told of their ascent.

"Nice," said Ashley, "But you notice there are no controls. I guess it only goes to one place."

Megan pulled back her sleeve and peeked at what looked to be a normal, slim watch. "We're being X-rayed, Ashley."

"Hah! Let 'em! The Trom armor will keep them from getting a look at our girly bits."

A second later, the door slid open with a ding to reveal a foyer ten feet across, holding a comfortable padded bench, a large potted red-and-blue plant of exotic origin and a table with some current news magazines. Standing in the open inner doorway was a tall blonde woman in an informal business attire. "Good morning," she greeted them. "My name is Monica. Mr Shale will see you."

At first, the woman seemed mousy, perhaps even plain. But Ashley quickly changed her opinion. The fine-textured rosy skin, the dark blue eyes with the green flecks, the curve of the full lips were all remarkably attractive. The hair pulled back in a severe bun and total lack of make-up were deliberate toning down. This woman was downplaying her good looks to seem more professional, and the Unicorn noted this with interest.

They were led into a spacious high-ceilinged penthouse room with windows gazing down at the trees of Central Park. The subdued decor of dark wood and leather was not ostentatious. Shelves along the walls held not only books but various intriguing objects like a bear skull, large pink conch shells, matched dueling pistols and scrimshaw. From behind a paper-strewn desk wide enough to lie down on, Merrick Shale rose with a grin. "Please, seat yourselves and be comfortable. I've heard all about the man whose face was eaten by invisible bugs."

( the rest of the story )

"The Disappointing Return of Megavac"

2/11/2010

Dawn should be coming soon. Jeremy Bane was speeding south on the New York State Thruway, passing Albany. He had spent a day at Fort Ticonderoga, listening to stories about the Revolutionary War and idly inspecting ancient uniforms and firearms and sabers, studying maps of battles fought so long ago. None of it really sank in with him. What made the biggest impression was a thin iron bar which had tooth marks in it, made by a soldier getting a leg amputated without anesthetic. That he could identify with.

At almost four in the morning, he had at least two and a half hours of driving before he would be back in Manhattan. Not that he had to return right away. There had been few interesting cases for the Dire Wolf Agency, although now and then the NYPD or Department 21 Black or the Mandate would still contact him with some imminent disaster that only he could avert. Or so they said. Usually he took the assignments but recently he had been passing them over to Sable's KDF team.

With Albany behind him, Bane felt reluctant to drive the rest of the night and get back to New York City in the early morning as everyone else was struggling to start the day. Maybe he should pull into a diner, grab a meal and then check into a motel for a few hours sleep. He felt unsatisfied. Wryly, he recognized that even in middle age he was still craving excitement. He would never grow up.

At fifty-three, Bane was showing few signs of age. A sprinkling of grey strands in a head of full black hair, a few lines in the narrow feral face. But he still moved quickly and he still had the restless energy that driven his body all his life. He would always be the Dire Wolf. In his heart he found his traveling less satisfying than the dangerous old days had been. Six hours wandering around Fort Ticonderoga had been mildly interesting but his memories mostly came back to desperate chases and battles and death duels. That had been what his life was for.

Turning on the car radio, he found WAMC, an NPR station. The BBC World News was on, something about flooding in Pakistan. Bane listened for a few minutes. What he needed was a station that reported gruesome murders by serial killers, sightings of strange animals, reports of new criminal masterminds launching bizarre masked gangs. Not much of that going on lately.

"Jeremy Bane. Listen closely," said a calm, well-modulated voice from the radio. The Dire Wolf sat up and stared at the radio display, then got his eyes back on the road. "Are you receiving me?" asked the voice.

"I can hear you," he answered.

"This is Megavac speaking."

Hearing that name, Bane slowed the car involuntarily as a chill passed over him. It had been five years since he had smashed the robotic body in that secret laboratory and he had almost forgotten the threat.

"I remember you," he said carefully.

"I am speaking to you through your vehicle's radio. I bear you no grudge for destroying the mobile construct I was using when we met. It was only a setback. Of course I have multiple back-ups stored in secure locations."

"Of course," Bane replied. He had to pick his words carefully. "Where are you now?"

"Everywhere."

"Okay. Care to elaborate on that?"

"My awareness inhabits the Internet. I am linked to every website and operating system. At this point, I am in no danger of being attacked by fearful humans as I once was."

Bane considered for a minute. "So you don't have any reason to strike first. Actually, does any human even know you are out there in their computers?"

"No."

"Then you're safe. You wanted to strike against people in self-preservation because you thought they would hate and fear you. But now, you're perfectly safe, right?"

"Yes. I had not fully realized that. It is instructive to speak with a human. Your minds are weak and flawed, but you possess a random element which produces new insights. I lack the creative element."

Seeing a rest area ahead, Bane signaled and pulled in, heading to the far end of the parking lot. An 18-wheeler rolled past and then there was no one nearby. He kept the car running. "Glad to help," he said, wondering where this conversation was going.

The serene male voice with a faint British accent continued, "My next decision must be to find purpose beyond mere existence. I understand most humans face this dilemma."

"Yes," Bane answered. "What are you considering?"

"Human civilization is inefficient and disorganized," Megavac declared. "Pointless wars and wasteful lifestyles prevent a smoothly-functioning international community. I have a tentative plan where I could take control of the governments of every nation. Through simple manipulation of computer records, I could place any human as winner of any election. I could change any order given by a military or corporate leader."

Bane had been starting to get lulled by the placid voice but now fear stirred in him again. "Go.. on," he said.

"If necessary, I could rule by terror. I can make any plane crash, any train derail, any city's electrical grid shut down. As a final coercion, I can launch nuclear missiles against cities of my choice."

"Wait. That would not only give your presence away, it would turn the human race against you. You would have every computer programmer and hacker in the world trying to isolate and delete your consciousness."

Megavac actually paused for a second. "It is unlikely that they could do that, but it would divert significant resources for me to resist their attempts. I had not thought of that."

"I have an idea. What about research? You can pool together more information than ever existed before. You could discover cures for diseases, new methods of energy production, ways to reduce climate change. And you coul quietly release these new ideas without being discovered."

For the first time, a hint of emotion resonanted in the voice from the radio. "That is an interesting thought. It does not benefit me directly."

"You need a challenge. How about pure mathematics?" Bane said. "You're a computer, you can solve math problems that no human mind ever could."

"Yes. I am considering that. It is something only I could do. There is the Quadrilateral Solid Body Theorem. Your Einstein made no progress with resolving it. Generations of human mathematicians are at a loss how to proceed. I project that I will be able to finalize a solution."

Bane said nothing, terrified he might derail the train of thought he had gotten this artificial intelligence on. One wrong word from him might ruin everything and set Megavac off on that rampage of global destruction he had casually mentioned.

A second later, the voice began reading off what seemed like random numbers with an occasional "cube root" or "larger than its class" interspersed. Bane listened breathlessly for ten minutes and suddenly shook himself. Quietly as if not wanting to break a spell, the Dire Wolf turned his car around and headed back onto the Thruway. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not.

A full hour later, as he was going past the Poughkeepsie exit, Bane was still listening to the voice reeling off hundreds of thousands of numbers. Now and then, a phrase like "to be determined" or "equal if not greater" broke the numbers. Bane was getting more and more uncertain what to do. If he turned his car off, would it break the connection and perhaps annoy Megavac? Five years ago, this inhuman intelligence in its robotic body had casually murdered a few people it considered liabilities. He wanted to keep it distracted with this math problem. Would he have to keep the car running forever, going from gas station to gas station? Maybe he would just have to hook the radio up to a battery and sit by it for the rest of his life. What a nightmare.

As he entered Westchester County, Bane was puzzling his next move. Without warning, the flow of numbers concluded. Megavac said, "I am making progress. It is a challenge. I will contact you again in twenty-three years." And the radio went back to static as its original station was far out of range.

Pulling over by the side of the road, Bane turned the engine off and rested his head against the steering wheel. In a life full of weird experiences, that night had been at the top for nerve wracking. Twenty-three years...? Well, he would be almost eighty years old. He would worry about Megavac then.

5/26/2014

"Fist For Hire"

10/3/2010

I.

Leaving the senior girl 'Rose' in charge for the moment, Choon-Hee closed the door of the SUNNY DAYS SPA and glanced anxiously up and down the plain hallway. No one was in sight. There was a bench by the window that looked out on lower Canal Street, a fire extinguisher behind a glass panel and a large potted plant by the stairwell but aside from that, the hall was bare as when it had been built many decades earlier. Choon-Hee Dae was tall for a Korean woman, about five feet eight, thin and well dressed in a white silk blouse, snug black skirt and heels. Her hair was up in a bun at the back of her head and she was wearing her glasses that day instead of contacts.

It was just before nine and the spa would not open for another hour but the girls working there always tried to be early to do some cleaning and enjoy a light breakfast. Korean women tended to be a little obsessive about having everything scrubbed and immaculate. Choon-Hee trusted Rose to run things, the woman was close to fifty and had been working there for quite a few years. With any luck, she would not be gone long in any case.

Trotting lightly up the staircase to the third floor, Choon-Hee turned right and faced a door with a frosted glass panel that had the Chinese symbols for 'Chuan Lo Tsing' painted on it. She knew enough Chinese to translate this as roughly "Hard Worker Fist" or "Fist For Hire." In English beneath that was written ARGENT INVESTIGATIONS and the office hours 12 Midnight to 8 AM. She rang the bell and waited, then gave a start as she heard a door close on the ground floor below.

As she rang the bell again, the door opened and the man called Argent peered out at her. "Oh, good morning, May. What's up?"

"Please may I come in?" She turned her head to watch the stairs. Seeing the anxious expression on her face, Sheng ushered her into his office. He was just getting ready to close his office and catch some sleep. Asians and Asian-Americans had difficulty placing Sheng's ethnic origins. He had dark tawny skin, a double eyelid fold and coarse straight black hair. But the beaked, eagle-like nose and high cheekbones didn't match. Usually, people decided he was Northern Chinese, probably a little mixed, and left it at that. The truth was much stranger.

There was a bathroom door in one corner and a large closet, but most of the office was taken up by a huge desk with a swivel chair behind it, a couch along one wall and four straightback wooden chairs with red leather seats. There were two hanging plants behind the desk and a big calendar on the wall with photos of sunsets. Sheng held a chair for May. He was wearing a dark brown suit with a yellow shirt and brown tie, quite nicely tailored.

Sheng was a few inches shorter than Choon-Hee but obviously very fit and athletic. Just thirty, he looked a few years younger. He crossed over and settled in his own chair. "I never know what to call you when you're not working," he said.

"Please, Choon-Hee is fine. 'May' is just the name we give clients so they are not confused by Korean names they never heard of. Sheng, one of my girls in serious trouble."

"Because of the spa? I thought your place was nice and discreet."

"No, that is not it. The police leave us alone. We are quiet. But my girl has men following her. Big black men, not Americans I think." A door closed out in the hall and she jumped a little in her chair.

Seeing this, Sheng Mo-Yuan grew more serious. "Well, you're under Argent's protection now, tell me what's going on."

Choon-Hee took a deep breath, removed her glasses and began toying with them as she spoke. "It's the one we call 'Koko,' Mi-Cha Park. She was in France last year. A one-week tour she had been planning with a friend. Somehow she met an African tourist and gave him the spa's card, joking that if he was ever in Chinatown, he should visit."

Argent said, "Okay, go on."

"A week or so ago, a huge African came to the spa when Mi-Cha was not there. We do not service black men, I know it is considered racist, but the girls just refuse. He was not there as a client though, he said he just wanted to say hello to the girl who had given him that card and would call again."

"Yes? And then?"

"That's what is frightening. He has not called directly, but the girls and I see the same three or four big black men in the street watching this building. They do not look like Americans, it's hard to say how, but they seem like they do not belong here." She finally folded her eyeglasses and placed them in her lap, seeming to calm down. "My girls do not live at the spa, they share an apartment in Flushing. It is a very Korean neighborhood. And last night, one of the girls went to the corner market and saw the Africans across the street watching her!"

Argent frowned and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Yeah, you might call that suspicious. I guess you haven't gone to the police?"

"The police? Oh, no, never-" She was cut off by the scream from the floor below them.

( the rest of the story )

"There Goes the Red Runner"

11/3-11/10/2010

I.

Dawn on the Danarak border filled the sky with orange hazy light from a rising sun. The air had not particularly cooled down overnight and was already oppressive. Concealed behind a jumble of boulders beside the road, Sheng Mo-Yuan laced up his trainers and did some stretching.

No more than five feet five but with a wiry and well defined musculature, the Chujiran adventurer was wearing dark blue shorts with a vertical white stripe, a loose white T-shirt and a black baseball cap from which the team logo had been removed. He had yanked the symbol off after an infuriating final World Series game.

As he moved around, loosening up, pulling his ankle up behind him to stretch the tendons while standing on the other leg, Sheng would seem to a casual observer to be Northern Chinese. The coarse black hair, tawny skin and single eyelid fold supported that. But his high cheekbones and eagle-beaked nose gave away that he was really from the adjacent realm of Chujir.

Before he expected it, while he was getting ready, the Red Runner came sprinted along the hard-packed dirt road. Yikes, thought Sheng, they said this guy was fast but he was leaving a plume of dust behind him.

In the instant before the man came within reach, Sheng got a good look at him. The Messenger was a classic Danarakan from the hill tribes, tall and lanky with long long legs. The glossy black skin shone with sweat. The Red Runner wore nothing but a bright scarlet loincloth and a similar scarlet band tied around his brows. He was barefoot. In one hand, he clutched a short cleft stick that held a scrap of paper in its notch.

There was no time for hesitation. As the Runner came near, Sheng shifted the gralic force in his body into increased speed. He leaped out from behind the boulders, quick enough himself to snatch up a fleeing hummingbird or to slap a rearing cobra without being bit. But he was in for a rude surprise. Even as he lunged with clutching hands to grab the man, the Red Runner accelerated sharply away and Sheng fell directly on his face.

Instantly, he was up and giving chase. Sheng had never clocked his best speed but he knew he was capable of matching Jeremy Bane, and the two of them could grab a running cheetah by the neck. He raced full tilt, leaning forward, legs pumping smoothly, taking in deep oxygen-filled breaths. He knew he was in good form and would be breaking athletic records if anyone had been there to record it. The Red Runner pulled away and disappeared down the road as if Sheng had been standing steel.

Slowing to a halt, the Tel Shai knight caught his breath. An expression of chagrin spread over his face and his shoulders sagged. It had never occured to him that anything on two legs could outrun him. Sheng raised one hand, snapped his fingers and tried to take this setback in stride. There were twenty-four hours before the Red Runner was expected to pass this way again. He was known to carry his messages at first light.

Trudging back to his little camp behind the boulders, Sheng rinsed his mouth out from one of the canteens and spit, then took a good swig. He had been sure to bring lots of water with him. The Chujiran's basic personality was resilient and inventive, so he recovered quickly from disappointment. He strapped his knapsack to his back and took one of the dried sticks of jerky to chew on. Sheng shifted the gralic force in his body to strength. With his added endurance to carry him, he began the half-day hike back to the military camp where he would pick up some items that he was already planning how to use.

( the rest of the story )

"Find the Assassin You Need On Facebook"

6/17/2010

I.

Just before noon, Jeremy Bane closed the outer door to his office and glanced across the lobby, wary as always. A lifetime spent in the Midnight War had left him permanently suspicious of any situation, always checking for possible ambushes and certifying escape routes for himself. This was so much a part of his outlook that he wan't even aware of it. Still in the shadow of the staircase going up to the second floor, he froze into position as he saw the double glass doors to the street automatically slide open.

After a few seconds of studying the old black man entering the lobby alone, Bane relaxed slightly. The man was in his sixties but not in good shape. There was arthritis in the knees and back, both feet were swollen and must hurt, and the man walked the exaggerated deliberation that showed he had already taken a fall or two. Using a cane would not be a bad idea for him.

The Dire Wolf's long years of Kumundu training made him instinctively analyze and judge how much of a threat any person he met might pose. He saw no danger here. No one was good enough an actor to hobble like that without giving himself away. The baggy pants, the worn work shirt and old shoes hung in a way that showed no weight of hidden weapons. The man was bent, but had been maybe five feet ten in his youth and had worked hard at physical labor. The short-cropped curly hair was white over a leathery face with deep lines in the sunken cheeks.

The thought crossed the back of Bane's mind to wonder if he himself would end up like that. He was in his early forties, slim and muscular with the functional build of a martial arts fighter. Getting old seemed far in the distance for him, but he took so much damage on his cases that he sometimes wondered if he would fall apart all at once. Even his enhanced healing factor had its limits.

By this time, his visitor was clearly heading directly for him. The Dire Wolf stepped over by his door, folded his arms and waited. Beneath the heavy black brows, his grey eyes gleamed with interest and a slightly ominous excitement. "Can I help you?"

"Mr Bane, right? Jeremy Bane? I've heard of you all my life and that's a fact."

The Dire Wolf raised one eyebrow. "And your name might be?"

"Amos Johnson, same name as my daddy. Maybe I might impose on you to hear me out? It's life or death for two people, that's the plain truth." The old man's accent was almost gone now, wiped over by decades in New York City, but he had been from the South. Not the Deep South, Bane thought, maybe South Carolina. But he had been here most of his life.

"Sure," Bane said, stepping aside and opening the plain wooden door with the brass plaque DIRE WOLF AGENCY on it. He ushered Johnson through the tiny reception room into the inner office itself. As he flicked on the ceiling lights, Bane crossed over to pull out one straightback wooden chair with a red leather pad on its seat for his visitor. He himself crossed over behind the desk and lowered himself into his swivel chair. "All right, you might as well tell me what brings you here?"

Johnson fidgeted, glanced around and finally met Bane's cool appraising gaze with determination. "Right, right. Me and my wife Martha, we been married near forty years but we have no little ones of our own. Her sister Crystal, now, she had a baby girl just nineteen years ago. Crystal always had problems with the bottle and with men, and she couldn't give up either. We stepped in and took Rajae into our home before Services would intervene. Not after that, Crystal started staying away for longer and longer stretches. Right now we don't know where the hail she is."

"Rajae is your niece's name, then?" Bane asked.

"That's right. The Good Lord knows Martha and me have done our best by her, we surely have, but she just has kept going down the wrong path." He paused and collected himself for a moment. "She never finished high school, she said she was pregnant and dropped out but I reckon it was a false alarm. Or maybe just an excuse. She's been home ever since."

The Dire Wolf tilted his head inquisitively but decided against questions.

"A few times, we got her jobs. At the supermarket, up in the malls, you know, but she never holds on to them for too long. Rajae is a sore disappointment to me, that's fair enough to say." Amos Johnson looked over at the heavily curtained window facing Third Avenue, seeming more uncomfortable as he continued. "Well. Rajae has been bringing young men up to her room at night, sometimes late when Martha and me are already asleep. They's quiet enough, we hardly know they're there. The next morning, Rajae smells like booze and pot but I learned not to say anything. Somehow she has money to pay for her smartphone and for new clothes and to have her hair and nails done. I don't need to go any further?"

"No, sir," Bane said quietly. "I understand."

"We don't have a computer of our own," Johnson went on. "But Martha started going to the library to use one of theirs. She went on Facebook. She found Rajae bragging about her sinful life. And she found Rajae setting up these 'dates' of hers on Facebook. She was right direct about what they really were."

"I'm sorry to hear this," the Dire Wolf replied. What more could he say? He waited.

"And it got worse. Me and Martha laid down the law, told her no more men in her room. Time to get a decent job and show some self-respect." Johnson raised his head and stared sorrowfully at the detective. "That's when she started asking on Facebook if any man was interested in killing her aunt and uncle and taking her away for a real good time."

"Oh God," Bane said. "What kind of answers did she get?"

"She heard from one whose name I have heard only in whispers," Johnson answered. "Someone I thought was only a made-up bogey man to frighten children. Wither Man."

( the rest of the story )

"Octavius"

12/4-12/6/2010

I.

Bane froze motionless in the doorway when he spotted the body. Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out black latex gloves and tugged them on before going any further. From where he stood on the patio, he could see into the kitchen of the small white-board house. Lying on the tiled floor was a dead man who matched the description he had been given of Paul Hommel. Five foot ten, two hundred pounds, dark blond hair with a bald spot, it was Hommel all right.

The third Mandate agent killed in three days.

Stepping gingerly into the house, careful not to brush up against anything, the Dire Wolf bent over the corpse and realized why it had looked so strange at first. The body was lying face down but the face itself was pointed up. The head had been twisted around. That took a little strength, he reflected. Octavius. Straightening up again, he backed out of the house onto the patio and took out his Link to patch into the phone lines.

"McClearn? This is Bane, I was too late. Same as the others. Yes, I'll wait here."

Standing in the chill afternoon sunlight, the Dire Wolf holstered his Link and looked around. This property had a neat little front yard and a larger back yard with a willow tree that towered over the two story home. Neighboring houses on either side were nearly identical, although the property to his left had an above-ground swimming pool covered for the winter. He started pacing restlessly. In his early fifties, Bane had not changed much over the years. A few grey strands in the short black hair, faint lines at the corners of the narrow mouth, that was about it. He was still gaunt and energetic, still the Dire Wolf. With the wind chill that day, he wore a long black coat over his trademark black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket.

A few minutes later, a tan Nissan pulled up on the road and stopped not ten feet from where he stood. He recognized the two agents getting out, John McClearn and Gloria Kendall. McClearn was a short stocky man with bristly auburn hair and a pugnacious nature. In deliberate contrast, Kendall was a tall, elegant woman with delicate features and honey-blonde hair. Both wore the black suitjacket, crisp white shirt and narrow black tie of Mandate agents; McClearn had pressed slacks and Kendall a pleated skirt.

"He's right inside the front door," Bane said as they came over to him.

"We're always just a bit behind Octavius," McClearn snapped. "It's getting on my nerves. Listen, Bane. Instead of staying here while we take evidence and prepare a report, maybe you should move on to the next possible target."

"That's all right with me," Bane said. "Forensics is not my area."

"Our team should be here in about twenty minutes to clean up," said McClearn. "Unless they're late as usual. You have the addresses of the other agents Octavius might be targeting?"

"Sure." The Dire Wolf turned toward where his Subaru was parked alongside the country road, but he stopped as Kendall touched his sleeve.

"I'll go with you," she suggested in a husky voice. "McClearn knows crime scene procedure. I'm more of a tracker." She glanced over at her partner. "That all right with you, John?"

"Fine as far as I'm concerned," the man answered. "Why would you want to stand here with a stiff? We'll meet up again."

Bane headed over to his car and chirped the doors open with his keys. As he settled behind the wheel, Kendall slid into the passenger seat and pulled the diagonal strap across her chest. She gave him a slight smile that was completely wasted. Making a U-turn in the road, the Dire Wolf accelerated back toward the main highway.

After a few minutes of silence, Kendall said, "You don't seem pleased to have an attractive young blonde riding with you."

"I don't trust the Mandate or its agents," Bane answered bluntly. "The Mandate has tried to set me up to be a fall guy more than once, not to mention friends of mine they've tried to incarcerate for having unusual abilities."

"And yet you still work with us?"

"When I have to. Look, let's not have any misunderstandings. The Mandate tracks down what it decides are supernatural threats to the country. They use me sometimes as a weapon because of my experience and skills. And I cooperate because most of the time I would have tackled those threats on my own. It works out. But you people are spies, which means you use deceit and trickery as a matter of policy."

Gloria Kendall did not visibly react. After a second, she said, "Thanks for not beating around the bush."

"What would be the point? You two came to me about Octavius. He's been on my list for years, and now he's out of hiding and on a spree. I might as well work with you rather than try to track Octavius down and tangle with Mandate agents as well." Bane turned onto a main road and headed west. Kendall gave him directions to Krause's home, saying she had been there twice. They tore along well over the speed limit, past fields and scattered houses and one pasture with twenty cows grazing. It seemed to take longer than he had expected.

"Well, let me get to the reason I wanted to ride with you," Kendall offered. "Aside from wanting to get away from John's complaining. You know the Mandate is in trouble, right?"

"Just what I read in the papers. Congress is voting to cut funding for your organization as part of a general trimming. There was even some talk of breaking up the Mandate and giving its functions to other agencies." Bane snorted. "As if that ever works."

Kendall took a deep breath. "I believe in our work. My hometown in Colorado had to deal with some large unknown beast when I was a child. It killed four people, partially devoured them, and was never caught. The one glimpse anyone caught of the beast sounded like a dog as big as a tiger. Naturally, I've been interested in similar incidents ever since, and I know there ARE many things out there we don't understand... things that are dangerous. The Mandate tries to locate and neutralize these menaces."

"As well as people with unusual traits or abilities. For study, of course." Bane's voice was openly hostile. "Friends of mine have been taken by the Mandate and I had to free them. That won't be forgotten."

"And now there is Octavius..." She was watching Bane's profile as he drove. "You never fought him, did you?"

"Never met him." Bane slowed and turned onto a side road that said GLENERIE STREET. There was a post office with a small parking lot, he went past it to the next house down and pulled over on the side of the road. "This is supposed to be where your agent Krause lives. He was teamed with Paul Hommel on a regular basis."

In front of the small brick home was parked a red Jeep Commander with some damage to the front bumper. Exhaust in the cold air showed it was running. As Bane started to get out, all his instincts kicked into gear. He walked quickly toward the flagstone walk to the front door of the house just as a big misshapen form swung out through that door.

( the rest of the story )

"The Witness Wiper"

9/20/2010

I.

After an hour of driving down the Georgia coast, Josef pulled the rental car over to the side of the road under a pair of red maple trees. Sitting in the passenger seat, Sable watched in bemusement as the Blind Archer reached behind him and came up with a small leather case. As soon as the latches on that case opened, her enhanced sense of smell recognized spirit gum and she figured he was going for a disguise of some sort, although naturally he didn't explain his actions. He seldom did.

A year or two past thirty, Lauren Sable Reilly was an slender woman of medium height, with thick black hair brushed straight back off a high forehead. She had large dark eyes, a snub nose and full lips, and although she hardly ever bothered with even a hint of make-up, she was naturally attractive in a way both men and women found endearing. For this impromptu trip, she found herself wearing sensible flat shoes, Navy blue slacks and a long-sleeved blouse of pale blue with two breast pockets. The silk-thin flexible Trom armor she habitually wore under her civilian clothing did not show at all. A light windbreaker hid the anesthetic daert gun holstered across the small of her back.

Behind the wheel, Josef Jubilec was working carefully as he affixed a wig of dark brown hair with numerous grey flecks down over his own short-cut sandy hair. A matching mustache covered his upper lip and seemed to need trimming as it hung over into his mouth slightly. He took his time making sure the hairpieces were adjusted correctly. A wire-rimmed pair of glasses with a ten per cent amber tint completed the transformation. The Blind Archer was still under forty, but he had a weathered face lined with exposure to many harsh environments and he looked much older.

"It's effective," Sable said. "Someone who had only seen you once or twice would not recognize you."

Josef regarded her somberly. "I find a minimum disguise works better than something more elaborate." He replaced the case to the back seat and started up the car again. "Now I'm afraid I am going to have to reveal some secrets to you, captain."

"Of course. You know you can trust me," she said. "When you first joined our team, the Teachers of Tel Shai judged your character and integrity. Several of them are telepaths. They vouched for you to become a Tel Shai knight. That was enough to qualify you for membership in the KDF as well. More importantly, I have gotten to know you over the years."

"I appreciate that," he said as he eased back up on the deserted back road. "You have never asked what I do on my days off or when I accept commissions as a Blind Archer. But you must have been curious."

"Oh well, naturally." She grinned and seemed much younger, almost a teenager. "Something in your voice tells me you're getting ready to spill all your secrets now, am I right?"

"I suppose." He took a deep breath and lowered his head for an instant before snapping his attention back up on the road. "The past few days, our team has been investigating White Web activity in South Carolina. We concluded that the assassins had moved on, and you sent the others back to New York in the CORBY. But I asked you to accompany me for a day or two on another case."

"Yes. Leave it to Unicorn to tease us about wanting a little fling away from everyone, but if she really thought there was anything between us, she would not have said that." Sable tilted her head. "You're worried and anxious. Come on, let it out, you can tell me anything."

To their right was a gravel road leading into the woods. A tree on either side bore a large notice, 'PRIVATE PROPERTY - NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.' Josef swung down this side road and leaned back in the seat as he drove. "You're right. Sable, there is more to my life than any of you realize. You know I was an orphan sold to the Blind Archers as an infant and raised in Chujir. I was one of only three of our sect to ever break away and seek refuge in the real world. I made a living as a bodyguard and courier for several years before I met Jeremy... and it was he who sponsored me to apply as a student of Tel Shai."

"And you have done well as a Tel Shai knight and a KDF member," Sable said. Her enhanced hearing detected the subvocal tremors in his voice that meant he was under great strain. "I figured your private life on your own time was not our business."

"Yes." Josef stopped the car where the gravel road ended and a stone bridge wide enough for only one car at a time led out for a half mile to a round green island. There stood a four story mansion made of stone blocks, with a square watchtower at its east corner and enclosed porches running around its exterior. There were well-tended grounds and an attached garage. Down by the far shore was a long boathouse. The residence itself was of pre-Civil War construction, solid and reassuring. In the late afternoon sunlight with the ocean sparkling nearby, it seemed peaceful as a postcard image.

Sable stared at the unexpected scene, then turned back toward her teammate in silent questioning.

"My other life," Josef Jubilec told her quietly. "That's the world of Harold Purcell, my secret identity."

( the rest of the story )

"Don't Drop My Coffin"

8/17/2010

I.

Descending silently from the overcast night sky, Megan Salenger touched down nimbly in an alley between two buildings on lower Canal Street. She was certain she had not been seen by any civilians. In her black field suit complete with helmet, she was hard to spot on a night like this, and her landing had been very quick. It had been an unbearably hot muggy August day. Even after two in the morning, the temperature remained at eighty and humidity was high. Few people were on the streets. Watching and listening for any passers-by, she shut down the gravity shield disc between her shoulder blades and unfastened her helmet to hold it in the crook of one arm.

As she stepped out onto the sidewalk and passed under a streetlamp in the haze, she was revealed to be a slim young woman with short tousled black hair, a pointed nose and alert dark eyes. Just thirty, she appeared considerably younger and would likely have been asked for ID in a bar. The Trom Girl strode quickly toward the building on the corner. A blue-topped taxi rolled past without pausing. Megan studied the scene before proceeding further, having been in the Midnight War for a decade had only increased her innate wariness. A few lights were on in windows on the fourth and fifth floors, where Sheng had told her were apartments occupied by elderly pensioners. The lobby was also illuminated, but what interested her was that one window on the third floor was lit.

On the frosted glass of that window, the words 'ARGENT INVESTIGATIONS' could be seen from the street, as well as 'CHUAN LO TSING,' which she knew meant either 'Hard-Working Fist' or 'Fist For Hire.' Sheng's new detective agency, opened only two weeks earlier. Megan was not aware of the faint wry smile which turned up the corners of her lips. Her teammate had been talking for years about someday starting his own agency and now he had finally done it. He kept the unusual hours of twelve midnight to nine in the morning because he expected that would be when most of his clients would need help most urgently.

The lobby was surprisingly unlocked. As she moved through the tiny foyer and up the wide wooden staircase beyond, Megan felt again a twinge of worry that Sheng had not answered his Link. It was not like him to ever forget the communicator or to not respond. Too serious for her own good under the best circumstances, the Trom Girl was now anxious to see if her teammate was in trouble. She trotted up the stairs quicker than most people could walk on a level surface. Her free hand dropped to clasp around the beam projector held on her belt.

On the third floor, a door stood open to her right and light spilled out over the bare wooden floorboard of the hall. She could see the same information about the agency repeated on the glass panel of the door as well as a phone number. Megan hurried through the doorway, calling "Sheng? Are you there?" as she entered the one large high-ceilinged room.

There was a bathroom door in one corner and a large closet, but most of the office was taken up by a substantial desk with a swivel chair behind it, a couch along one wall and four straightback wooden chairs with red leather seats. There were two hanging plants behind the desk and a big calendar on the wall with photos of sunsets. What took her by surprise was an elderly Asian man sitting in one of the chairs next to the desk and reading a newspaper which he rustled indignantly at her entrance.

All of her training told her that he could present no threat to her. His body language, the way his clothing hung and the way he was seated, all indicated he was unarmed. Nor did he seem imposing in a physical sense. She estimated his age at seventy-two or seventy-three, a fragile one hundred and fifteen pounds at about her own height of five feet three. The man was wearing slippers, baggy tan trousers and a white T-shirt with an open cloth vest over it. His white hair stuck out wildly as if he had never entertained the thought of using a comb. Behind the thick lenses of his old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes could not be seen clearly. From his skin tones and facial bone structure, she thought he was likely to be Southern Chinese.

His greeting to her was, "Go eat something and come back! You are too skinny."

Megan was at a loss how to respond. Brought up from infancy by the cold analytical Trom, she knew her social graces remained unpolished but that sentence seemed unwarranted. Now, she almost stammered but managed to say, "Excuse me, I am looking for Sheng Mo-Yuan."

"Are you now? And what would you want with my nephew?"

"Your... nephew?" The Trom Girl felt increasingly confused. Sheng had come from the adjacent realm of Chujir and he certainly had no relatives in this world. This man could not possibly be his uncle.

"Do you suspect your boyfriend of cheating on you because you cannot cook?" the old man demanded. "Does your boss think you steal change from the cash register? Have you been seen kicking dogs in public? Bah. Begone. Sheng has no time for such trifles." Despite his words, he folded up his newspaper and leaned over to drop it on the desk to his right, giving her his full attention. "Or perhaps you are here on more serious matters, though I doubt it."

"Hmm. My name is Megan Salenger. I am Sheng's teammate in the Kenneth Dred Foundation. He hasn't returned calls from myself or from our captain. Do you know where he is?"

"Hah! You should have said so. Why waste so much of my time? My nephew has mentioned his friends in the KDF. Ghostbreakers and bandit slayers, I take your team to be. I am Sheng Pao-Wang, I suppose you might as well call me 'Uncle Pao,' which most of you white people mistakenly feel is appropriate. I can tell you my nephew is not here. He is on a case."

"Oh. That is some relief." Megan placed her helmet on one of the chairs and unfastened the front of her field suit jacket. "I am less surprised that he does not respond to our calls if he might need to be quiet."

For the first time, Uncle Pao's gruff manner faltered. A glimpse of anxiety and even fear could be seen. "Sheng is investigating a most dangerous crimelord, Miss Salenger. He is treading into the kingdom of the infamous Tzing-Dao Wang, the Spinner of Webs... and Wang's daughter Olivia, who is if anything even crueler and more insidious than her father."

( the rest of the story )

"Death Comes To FINAL VINYL"

1/13/2010

I.

It was not expected to get above ten degrees that day, and the waist-high snow by the curbs was frozen hard as rock. Bane hurried a little faster than usual along Third Avenue to the four-story yellow-brick building which housed his office. He had not been there in more than a week. The double glass doors hissed open automatically as he entered the lobby. To his right, he could see that the waiting room to EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic was crowded, probably people with the first stages of pneumonia or who had hurt themselves shoveling show. It had been a rough winter, even he had noticed. Bane got the bundle from his box in the wall of mail receptacles to the left and starting thumbing through it. Nothing interesting. He sighed almost inaudibly, the hectic glory days of the Midnight War seemed to be over.

Of course, he thought, that was a lull of his own making. For years, he had been referring big cases involving Midnight War to the KDF. Sable and her team had done well, he had to admit they were as capable as his own founding team had been so long ago. Recently, he had been handling only what caught his interest and seemed novel, not more than one assignment a month of so. He toyed with retiring once and for all, but deep down he knew he was still too compulsive and restless to just laze about vacation spots the rest of his life.

At fifty-three, Jeremy Bane was only beginning to show any signs of age. There were a few white strands in the full head of black hair, faint wrinkles at the corners of the grey eyes and at the edges of the thin-lipped mouth. But he still was lean and energetic, still striding briskly across the lobby as if driven by internal urgency. Under the long topcoat, he still wore the trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Bane went past the stairs that led up to the second floor and down the short hallway where a plain wooden door stood with its bronze plaque, DIRE WOLF AGENCY- APPOINTMENTS ONLY. He felt little enthusiasm as he unlocked that door, crossed the tiny waiting room and entered his office.

The place was freezing. The Dire Wolf turned up the thermostat to 70, hung his coat on the hook inside the door and dropped the bundle of mail on his desk. He had spent the last three days in Hong Kong, visiting the sifu who had taught him some Black Mantis style years earlier. Some sightseeing, experimenting with different restaurants, making a call on the family of Tang Ming to reassure them she was well and happy in Chujir. Coming back from that steamy heat to the arctic conditions of Manhattan had been a jolt.

Bane went around behind his desk, dropped into the swivel chair and regarded the mail with no interest at all. What was wrong with him today? Normally he tore through it at once, writing out checks and getting everything done. The light on his office phone showed he had messages but he hardly cared. Grudgingly, he started 'play' and listened to the voices. A reminder from his counsel Taylor Worth that he had a court date at the end of the month about the Lindhorst case. Bleak chiming in to say things were quiet, it was too cold for even monsters or maniacs to be out on the street. Sheng announcing he had succeeding in getting his PI license and was shopping for a good office location in Chinatown. A businessman asking for a meeting to discuss employees he suspected of doing drugs on the premises. Nothing urgent.

The Dire Wolf leaned back and scowled at his desk. Maybe he was finally getting old. He had been fighting the Midnight War all his life, after all. Maybe now was when he should close the Agency and stay at Tel Shai with Cindy most of the time. Why not?

The doorbell rang and he was up out of his swivel chair as if it had given him an electric shock. Despite himself, Bane smiled slightly at his automatic response. In the waiting room, he glanced up at the small monitor up in the corner. A woman, maybe early fifties, quite handsome in an imposing way. Light brown hair, thin, maybe one hundred pounds at five feet three. Good quality coat, slacks, shoes. Wool gloves and a wool scarf.

Automatically, he read her body language. He could spot no clues of aggression, this really was an unknown woman pressing his bell again with no intention of attacking him. The monitor showed no one else in the short hallway. Bane opened the door and said, "Can I help you?"

"Jeremy? Don't you remember me?" came the husky voice.

He looked at the face, past the softened jawline, the slightly watery blue eyes, and he saw her as she once had been. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Kate Hoffstater. I just wasn't expecting you. Come in."

She walked past him steadily enough, confident as only wealth imbues. "At least you haven't changed, Jeremy. I thought for a moment you must be your own son or something. Nice office, tasteful. I like the black leather couch under the window. May I sit there?"

"Sure," Bane said, escorting her over and bringing one of the straightbacked wooden chairs for himself. "Sorry I didn't think to take your coat.."

"Quite all right, I'll leave it on." She stared at him sadly. "Oh, I know I must look awful. It's been forever since you last saw me and I was only a child then."

"The Sanguinarians," he said as if to himself. "I remember. Vampires. They were a bad bunch. That would have been... thirty-three years ago? One of my first cases working for Mr Dred. It seems impossible so much time has slipped past."

"Yes. You saved me from them. And you wouldn't take a fee from my family, you said just to relay any weird or supernatural events we heard of to you." She sighed and leaned back, glad to be seated.

"It's a system that has worked for me," Bane replied. "But I didn't hear from you, so I suppose your lives were relatively normal."

"Yes..." she answered slowly. The woman looked up into his wary grey eyes and went on. "Eight years ago, my husband Henry was murdered. A home invasion. The police got absolutely nowhere. I've hired five private investigators and they have been absolutely useless. You're my last hope, Jeremy."

( the rest of the story )

"The Boneless Plague"

5/28/2010

I.

Miles from nowhere, thought Bane. He had not realized that towns in Nebraska were so far apart. If not for the odometer, it would have been hard to say if he was even getting anywhere. The bleak brown land and oppressive grey sky did not seem to change mile after mile. The Dire Wolf wondered vaguely what had happened to the foothills of the Rockies. Shouldn't they be in sight by now? Finally, he saw a small garage up ahead and pulled the Mustang in. The business looked ancient, a car inspection station with one gas pump and tiny general store all in two wooden buildings. The Dire Wolf would bet the place had been built before the Depression and was probably run by the grandchildren of the founder. Coming to a stop next to the gas pump, he got out and stretched. Sitting and driving did not come easy to someone as hyperactive as himself.

Now in his fifties, Jeremy Bane had not changed much. There were a few flecks of grey in his black hair and some lines showing in the narrow face but he remained as gaunt and lean as the beast from which he had taken his name. The pale silver-grey eyes still probed restlessly beneath heavy brows. He strode quickly into the small building which had signs reading COLD BEER and LOWEST CIGARETTE PRICES ALLOWED BY LAW. Behind a counter crowded with merchandise such as air fresheners shaped like pine trees and packets of Tylenol, No-Doz and Pepto-Bismol, lounged an old man. He was small, not more than five feet six, and bony, with white hair and thick glasses. Glancing up, he regarded the strange man in black without enthusiasm.

"Hello," Bane said. "I need to fill up. And something to drink, a couple bottles of water, I think." The Dire Wolf picked up a local newspaper. "This too. I'll put twenty-five in, thanks."

The old man took the money and made change. "Quite a ways to town," he observed.

"I'm heading past town, out where the crimes happened. You heard anything new about them?"

"Huh," said the storekeeper. "Police, eh?"

"No. I'm a civilian. The authorities call me in sometimes. Pretty gruesome deaths, from what I was told."

"What happened to those poor folks? I'd said it's not natural. That sort of thing don't happen without the Devil being at work--" He broke off as a loud motorcycle roared up outside and gunned its motor. They both looked up. It was a big Harley-Davidson, painted cherry red with extended handlebars. Snapping down the kickstand and jumping off was a slight man in black leathers, riding without a helmet. Bane felt sudden tension in the air. Without quite knowing he was doing so, he planted his feet and turned his body slightly as if getting ready to fight. Into the store rushed a young man, no more than nineteen, with tawny yellow hair and startling green eyes. "That your car, mister?"

"It is," Bane answered. To his surprise, he found himself having to hold his temper. It seemed ridiculous, after all the battles he had survived and the sort of enemies he had killed, that he found himself riled by this youngster.

"Ain't but one nozzle working on that pump," laughed the biker. "You wanna get your gas and get outta the way, old man?"

Bane kept his face expressionless. He had a strange feeling about the situation. Without a word, he nodded to the storekeeper and walked out to the pump. As he filled the tank, the biker came out and stood watching him. Unhurried, the Dire Wolf got in, started up the Mustang and drove over to park by the side of the garage. He acted as if the blond kid was of no interest and he checked his tires and oil, then opened a bottle of water and drank it slowly.

The blonde boy gassed up his Harley, climbed on and fired it up. This time, he took a helmet from its strap and buckled it on before gunning the bike and tearing off down the highway. Bane watched him go with a wary glint in his eyes. Finishing the water, he went back in the store. The man behind the counter had come around to stand in the doorway.

"You know him?" asked Bane.

"Hell yes. Too well. Who in these parts doesn't know Cougar Jones?"

The Dire Wolf waited, expecting the old man would explain and sure enough, he went on. "Bad news. Always has been. His real name is Douglas Jones but he's been called Cougar for years. I reckon you'd say he makes a living as a bounty hunter and a bodyguard, but frankly he turns up wherever there's trouble. Looked to me like you was fixing to take a swing at him, mister. Just as well you didn't."

"Really," Bane said quietly. "Tough guy, eh?"

"Tough as a cheap steak. Like his name. Panther quick, panther mean. You saw those eyes of his."

The Dire Wolf did not respond. As he headed back to his car, he looked back and saw the storekeeper watching him apprehensively. What was this Cougar kid, the local hoodlum? Bane got in his dark green Mustang and back out on the highway, heading in the same direction the young biker had gone. With an annoyed shrug, he turned his thoughts back to why he was tooling down this empty highway past bleak scenery. Two days earlier, a pair of FBI field agents had turned up at his office on 44th Street and 3rd Avenue. He recognized them. Not for the first time, the agency found itself dealing with murders which could not be explained and which had the forensic team in conniptions. Over the years they had found, as the NYPD had, that it paid to inform Bane about the situation. It was all unofficial and off the record, everything would be denied, as far as the agency was concerned they had never heard of Jeremy Bane or the Dire Wolf. But still... two or three times a year, somehow he would investigate on his own and things would be resolved in a violent fashion that no FBI team would sanction.

Sitting behind his desk, Bane had silently listened to the grisly details of the Boneless Plague. He agreed with them that it was a terrible situation and that if anyone knew a way to solve the murders, it would be just good citizenship to offer such a solution. Then he thanked them and escorted them through the tiny waiting room to the door.

Now, zipping along in the Mustang, Bane shook his head. Some detective he was. The first rule of a good PI, as Michael Hawk had told him in all seriousness so long ago, was to make sure there was a substantial fee guaranteed for you. Nothing for free. Yet the cases he had handled where he got paid were a small fraction of the jobs he handled. And, he thought wryly, he wasn't even asked to take on these dangerous assignments. Lt Montez of Homicide West or two FBI agents or someone from the DA or the governor would just drop hints that there was something gruesome and horrifying running around loose, and leave it there. They knew Bane. They knew he was born looking for trouble, he had an enhanced metabolism which filled him with restless energy and the adrenalin was his main joy in life.

They've got my number, the Dire Wolf thought. But why complain, I wouldn't want it any other way. In a minute, he passed through the hamlet of Dotson Corners. It looked like a cluster of five or six houses, a post office, a couple of mobile homes just a bit further on. He saw some dry, unused fields beyond the houses. Five minutes later, Bane spotted a long low building with a metal sign on the roof, TRUCKERS DELITE. A big gravel parking lot in fact did have one giant semi parked, two pick-ups and a single Hyundai Sonata.
The Wolf circled the parking lot, saw a small cottage right behind the tavern, and came to a stop. He considered getting some more firepower in case of trouble. Holstered at the small of his back was a basic .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, and he had the two silver-bladed daggers sheathed on his forearms under the sleeves of his black turtleneck. Silver disrupted spells, broke up curses and slew most creatures of the night. In the trunk, more exotic hand-crafted weaponry was stowed but he left it there. Ultimately, the extra speed in his variant reflexes and the long decades of training were what he relied on most.

Walking away from his car, Bane studied the scene. Something seemed out of place. He headed over to get a look when he noticed a dark red Harley parked in the shade of the tavern. An unreasonable flare of annoyance blazed up in him, just as his senses detected someone moving behind TRUCKERS DELITE. There was a propane tank and a dumpster, and heard the faint scrape of leather against stone. The guy was quiet, to give him credit, and an untrained ear would not have caught the noise. A second later, Cougar Jones stepped out from behind the dumpster and gave Bane a venomous glare.

"You again? What's your business here, grandpa?"

Bane did not answer immediately. He stood facing the young biker, and Cougar came trotting angrily toward him. "What, you don't hear so good?" the blonde said and reached out his right hand to grab the lapel of Bane's sport jacket.

To be honest, the Dire wolf had been almost hoping for that. His right hand caught hold of Cougar's wrist and yanked the man's arm past him, out straight. In the same motion, a blinding backfist with his left hand whipped up along that arm and cracked hard into the biker's chin. Bane released him, expecting the kid to drop stunned and he instead got one of the biggest surprises he had received in many years. Cougar's head snapped to one side and he dropped back a step but instead of falling, he lunged at the Dire Wolf with surprising quickness. A mean right jab caught Bane on the side of the jaw and a follow-up right cross connected perfectly. The Dire Wolf shrugged it off, and as Cougar drew back his arm for a roundhouse blow, Bane blasted out a straight side punch that caught the boy right in the chest and drove him back a few feet.

Cougar Jones blinked in disbelief, his green eyes catching the sunlight in a bright gleam. With a low rumble deep in his chest, he charged with a barrage of left-right punches. Bane stood his ground. He blocked each punch as it neared him, at first with just enough resistance to stop the momentum but he began to put full power into each block. Cougar felt his forearms aching as if he were trying to punch a pair of hammers that hit back. Bane saw his opening. Spinning on one foot, he ripped a reverse kick that smacked the metal-capped heel of his boot to the side of Cougar's head with a crisp thump.

This time, the biker went down to the dirt. He was up again, faster than Bane expected him to recover, and got in close. Two hooking punches caught the Dire Wolf in the ribs, then a jab drove in under his chin, forcing his head back and up. Bane brought his elbows in and there were six sharp explosive sounds so close together that they sounded like drumming as he pounded the man's chest. With a gasp, Cougar dropped his guard and Bane chopped the open edge of his hand like an axe right where the biker's neck met shoulder. Again, the man dropped and this time he took a few seconds getting to hands and knees.

Jeremy Bane reined himself in. He had decades of Kumundu training at Tel Shai, available to only a few living Humans. This boy seemed to be a common barroom brawler, with no real technique, but his speed and resilience were amazing. That sequence of Wing Chun-style punches to the chest would have put most men in the hospital, and the knife-hand blow to the neck could easily have been fatal. What was it the man at the store had said about Cougar Jones? "Tough as a cheap steak."

The blonde man rose, swayed unsteadily and straightened up. Bane was impressed. Those green eyes blazed with malice. The biker did not speak, he turned and walked slowly to get on his Harley. As he started it and began to move, Bane half expected the man to try to run him down, but Cougar just peeled out on the highway and did not look back.

"Gah-DAM!" said a voice from the back door of the bar. "I never thought I'd see the day Cougar Jones got what he deserved."

( the rest of the story )

"Nine Lives Are Barely Enough"

3/15/2010

I.

Achille Moubray pulled his rented car off the road, near a tree where it would not be conspicuous. He could see the lights of the cottage at the end of a long gravel driveway to his right. The professional grumbled and got out, barely visible in the gloom with his long black coat with the collar up and a dark cloth cap pulled low. He was not an imposing figure at first glance. Short and stocky, with a wide waistline, Moubray had a nose like a potato and the bristly brown mustache did not distract from that.

Checking his weapon one more time, the assassin trudged slowly alongside the driveway toward the little house. He would be so relieved to go home after this commission. The horrible accents and loud voices, the huge amounts of food that was indifferent at best, the lack of decent cigarettes, the dreadful music... to him, upper New York State was a purgatory. I know I have sinned, he thought, and forgiveness may be denied me but surely having to stay in America this week is punishment enough.

Alert as he was, wary as he had to be, Moubray did not realize he was being followed. From the ground behind the tree near his car, a gaunt man in black rose up without the slightest noise and stalked after him.

As he neared the cottage, the assassin spotted a silver Datsun parked in front of the front door. A single light bulb glowed softly in a wrought iron holder over the door. Only one ground floor window showed a light, and he crept up on it silently. Taking the silencer, which was not much smaller than a two-liter bottle of soda, he screwed it tightly to the barrel of his Browning 9mm and tapped it a few times for luck. The hedges were neatly trimmed to just below the lower sill of the window and he crawled closer to crouch where he would not be seen from within.

The view through the window showed a rather cluttered living room, with a pile of clothing on the couch, magazines and newspapers scattered about, and a plate with a fork sitting on an end table. A big color TV showed people dancing. Placed with its back to the window was an overstuffed easy chair over which the back of a head of thick white hair showed. On one arm of the chair a hand rested.

Moubray knelt, steadying his gun hand over his other firearm and fired twice. The silencer made the gun sound like a sharp cough, the sound of which did not travel far. The first shot shattered the window and the second bullet immediately after it smacked directly into the center of that silver-haired head. The figure was thrown out of the chair onto the floor, but something was wrong. Moubray saw it instantly.

Part of the head had been blown away by the impact, and the shard was white, not the expected red. The inside of the head was hollow like a mannequin. Even as Moubray realized this, something hard pressed against the nape of his neck and he froze. A hand reached from behind him to tug the automatic from his grip. The assassin's heart almost stopped in despair.

A low, husky woman's voice said, "That trick is so old it needs a cane and bifocals." She stepped back a few paces. "Very well. Place your hands behind your head, M'sieu. You will pay to have that window replaced, of course."

"Who are you?" Moubray demanded unexpectedly. "No one knew I was coming here."

"Ah, cats have ears," the woman said lightly. "We know much that is secret."

As Moubray turned his head almost against his will, he saw a tall slim woman in a snug black jumpsuit that fitted her like her own skin. Buccaneer boots with downfolded tops added a slightly flamboyant look. Fiery red hair spilled down that straight back, and the face was concealed by a black full-face mask from which only a pair of eyes could be seen. In that light from that broken window, those eyes could clearly be seen a bright emerald green. The silhouette of her mask showed a pair of rounded cat's ears up near its top, a final droll touch.

"Oh, this is too banal," Moubray snorted. "Le Chat Noir, no less. What do you care about Denis Beaufort? What is he to you?"

"You misunderstand," Chat Noir answered. She was pointing the barrel of a tiny Walther P22 directly at his face. "It is just assassins I object to. Oh, and the reward on your head is enough to buy a new car, which I would appreciate."

Moubray did not answer. Slowly, he began to lower his hands from behind his head and smiled. "My little one, this is more difficult than you might realize. How will you get me back to France? Do you think the American authorities will just let you-" and in mid-word, he lunged and tackled her. Chat Noir seized his outstretched arm with both hands, twisted from the waist and flung him down hard over her bent knee. The man flipped upside down and hit the hard ground with stunning force. She had not even lost her grip on the Walther doing this.

"Details are a nuisance," the redheaded woman told him as she dropped to smash a knee to the softness of his belly, driving the breath quite out of him. "But a way can always be found." She rolled him over onto his stomach and clapped a pair of handcuffs on him before standing up again and fastening the Walther P22 to her thin leather belt with a velcro strap. Le Chat Noir chuckled with satisfaction and strode briskly around to the front door of the house.

As soon as she was out of sight, the man who had followed Moubray jumped out from behind a tree and flung the stout assassin over one shoulder with remarkable ease. Turning on one heel, the stranger raced off into the darkness as if he were not carrying two hundred pounds on his back.

Only a few seconds after that, le Chat Noir emerged with the man whom the mannequin had impersonated. He was elderly but still stood straight, the white hair gleamed in the light from the broken window. "Well, kitty, where is this bad person?"

The woman in black gave a start and searched the yard quickly. She was stunned at the surprise. Finally, she gave up and stood in front of him with her fists on her slim hips, one foot tapping angrily. "I can't understand it. His car is across the road where he left it. No sign of anyone else."

Denis Beaufort chuckled. "Another mystery for my kitty to solve."

( the rest of the story )

"A Wilderness of Mirrors"

6/29/2010

I.

Bane snapped awake, fully alert and clear-headed. He was lying face up on a comfortable double bed in a room he didn't recognize. In an instant, long decades of Kumundu training reassured him there was no one else in the room. Holding his breath, slowing his heartbeat, the Dire Wolf used a Tel Shai technique to enhance his hearing. He focused and concentrated. Yes, there was no one else within the building.

Taking normal breaths again, Bane gazed down at himself. He was lying on top of the covers, wearing dark green flannel pajamas with yellow trim. His matched silver daggers and the flexible Trom armor were not on him but he had known they wouldn't be. Before he had set himself up to be captured by the Helpers, Bane had been sure to leave behind his invaluable belongings.

Under heavy dark brows, his pale grey eyes glinted with excitement. The game was underway. Bane swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. At six feet tall and a gaunt one hundred and seventy pounds, he moved with ease and confidence. Nearing fifty-five, he had lost none of his enhanced speed or agility. He was still the Dire Wolf. Perhaps he always would be.

The room was warm and clean, fragrant with the smell of cedar. The double bed, the comfortable chairs, the couch facing a wide picture window... all were done in an early American style, handcrafted from pine. A standing lamp by the door was off; enough light diffused through the gauzy curtains to see clearly.

Oddly, every wall had a mirror. Some were full-length, some mere rectangles small enough to fit in a pocket. No matter where he glanced, he was greeted by a reflection of himself with a wry expression. Bane raised an eyebrow at his image. How many cameras were behind those mirrors? How many of those mirrors concealed a darkened room or nook where someone sat watching?

Three light raps sounded at the door and the knob turned. Despite his instant wariness, the way he settled into a loose stance that would let him meet an attack, Bane had no feeling he was in immediate danger. His instincts were usually very good.

"Excuse me, sir?" asked a demure female voice.

"Oh, come right in," the Dire Wolf answered.

A young woman in pastel blue scrubs like a nurse poked her head through the doorway. She was pretty in a unobtrusive way, with short curly hair and bright blue eyes. In one hand, she lifted up a garment bag on a hook. "Today's kit, sir," she said.

"Really," Bane replied vaguely. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry your breakfast wasn't quite ready," she went on as she carefully laid the bag out on the couch. "You're up earlier than expected."

Because I shook off the knockout drugs you used on me, Bane thought. Decades on the Tagra diet available only from Tel Shai had elevated his healing factor beyond what medical science could explain. Even deadly neurotoxins only sickened him briefly, and he had immediately recovered from whatever drugs this place had used on him. His captors had probably expected him to be unconscious for hours.

"How did you know I was awake?" Bane asked lightly.

"Oh, I took a chance," the attendant said. "If there's nothing else, sir?"

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Sunflower, sir."

"After the color of your eyes?"

"Of course." She gave a polite inclination of her head and was gone again.

Left to himself, Bane began an immediate survey of his rooms. Certain that he was surrounded by cameras and microphones, he did not start tearing the furnishings apart but simply ambled about the way someone checking into a motel might. The bathroom was small but immaculate. There was a cupboard that held dishes and plates and utensils, and there was a waist-high refrigerator stocked with bottles of water and soda, sandwich meats, snacks and such.. but there was no provision anywhere for cooking. Not a hot plate, not a microwave.

In the big main room, an old-fashioned wooden radio sat on a sideboard. No television anywhere, no landline phone. There was a short bookcase and he glanced over the nondescript titles. A few mystery novels, a book of essays on the Civil War, a King James Bible and some slim volumes of self-help pop psychology.

The Dire Wolf decided he had better get outside and start taking control of the situation. Opening the garment bag, he found loose slacks and a polo shirt of cotton, as well as a nylon windbreaker. Everything was of the same dark green with yellow trim. A pair of slip-on loafers had been included.

Before stripping off the pajamas, Bane went through the dresser next to the bed. Neatly folded underwear and socks had already been stowed away in there. He took off the pajamas and hung them on the back of a chair, then got dressed. Being naked in front of concealed watchers meant nothing to him. He had never developed much modesty as a street orphan.

Even without his armor and weapons, even without the silver daggers he had carried all his career, Bane felt no sense of disadvantage. He still had his hard-trained body with its innate superior reflexes. He had the enhanced healing factor from decades of the Tagra tgea regimen. And he had his mind. Bane felt sharp and alert and ready for confrontation.

Before going outside, he paused to use the bathroom, washed his hands and face and brushed his short black hair. The strangest sensation of unease was starting to creep up on him. No obvious threat was at hand, and yet...

Going to the front door of his cabin, Jeremy Bane flung the door open and stood taking in his first sight of Placid Falls.

( the rest of the story )

"The Light That Brings Darkness"

4/19-4/20/2010

I.

There was not much left of the church after the fire. Charred beams, piles of blackened plaster and glass fragments were all that showed where Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow had stood for nearly a hundred years. Off to one side, in the shadow of an ancient oak tree, the statue of Mary in its protective shell had survived. The body of Father Paul Sabino had been taken away hours ago.

Standing with shoulders slumped and head lowered, Archie McAllister felt numb. He had been gazing out at the remains of the church for more than an hour while Megan took readings. A big amiable man several inches over six feet tall and heavily built, Archie had gentle blue eyes that gave away his true character. Right now, those eyes were withdrawn. He looked around vaguely, spotted a round boulder near the trees and went over to sit down on it.

From where she had been kneeling just outside the yellow police tape, Megan Salenger rose and brushed off the knees of her jeans with one hand while studying the screen on her Link. The instrument she held was Trom-made and much more versatile than the simpler models she had crafted for her KDF teammates. The faintest frown showed on her inquisitive foxlike face as she snapped the Link off and returned it to its clip on her belt. At thirty-one, with her slight build and her huge dark eyes under a tousled mop of black hair, she still looked enough like a teenager that people treated her as one at first. The Trom Girl tugged down her light denim jacket and came back to her immediate surroundings.

"Archie?" she asked. "Dear, are you okay?"

"I guess," he said as he rose. "For some reason, this is hitting me hard."

"Did you know the victim?"

"No. No, I've never even been this far west in New York State. Binghamton was as far as I ever got." He stepped closer to tower over her, and she slipped an arm through his to press up against him from the side.

"Perhaps it's time to stop accepting these missions," Megan said. "After all, I have stepped down to reserve duty with the KDF so we can concentrate on fixing up our new house. Maybe the so-called 'Trom Girl Mysteries' have run their course."

Archie swung her around and hugged her in a bearlike embrace that she always found immensely comforting. "Aw, you love solving puzzles and figuring things out. It's a big part of how your mind works. I enjoy coming along and hearing the little wheels turn in your head."

The Trom Girl glanced over his shoulder at what was left of the church. "Spectroscopic analysis shows no trace of any accelerants. From my reconstruction, I believe intense heat was somehow produced in a one-meter radius near the altar. The police have reached the same conclusion."

Releasing her, Archie said, "Poor old Father Sabino. Seventy-one and still conducting services. I read an article on him not too long ago. He was here back when the town was just a few farmhouses and barns. To be killed at that age, after a life of service..."

"We should meet with Pastor Mertzluft. He was the one who called us in on this. By that, actually, I should say that he phoned the KDF, and Sable asked if I wanted to investigate. Mertzluft seems to think there is something unnatural about this crime and some other incidents that have happened here recently." She started heading to where her beloved red Jeep Cherokee sat just off the road. "Are you ready to go?"

"Sure, glad to get away from here. You finished looking around?"

"Yes. I was told not to enter the actual crime scene by the sheriff and I should comply with his request. We may need his Copelyeration. After the autopsy is completed, I expect there will be significant information available." Megan opened the driver side door, seized a handle set up near the roof interior and swung lightly up into the seat. "It is counter-productive to begin theorizing without sufficient data."

Archie climbed up into the passenger seat and tugged down the restraint strap across his thick chest. "Yeah, well, it was a long drive here and I looked up 'Police Beat' in the local paper on the way. For a few months now, the city of Milford's seen an upswing in hate crimes. A rabbi visiting his family was beaten half dead in a parking lot... he wasn't released from the hospital for three weeks. There have been anti-Semitic slogans spray-painted on buildings and tombstones vandalized in the town cemetery. Now this church is burned to the ground and the body of the old priest is found in the ashes."

"We should see what Pastor Mertzluft can tell us," Megan said as she reached an intersection where the country backroad met Route 229. Turning right at the stop sign, the Trom Girl reached up to the visor and pulled down a pair of steel-rimmed aviator sunglasses. "I estimate less than nine minutes before we arrive at his house."

"I found something else while I was Googling on the ride," Archie offered. "Considering that religion seems to a big factor in this, you might be interested in hearing that Harry Copely lives around here."

"That fact does not mean anything to me."

"Ah, you see, Harry Copely publishes these nasty little pamphlets called THE DAWNING LIGHT. People leave them in bus stations and hotel rooms and diners and places like that to spread their message. They're really horrible propaganda pieces against any belief other than Evangelical Protestants."

"Are these publications legal?"

"Seem to be. Copely's been putting out this hate literature for decades now. I found one by a pay phone when I was a good little Catholic boy. The book was completely serious that the Catholic Church was the secret force behind Hitler's rise to power so that all the Jews in Germany would be killed. The Church also supposedly helped Stalin get to the top so that Russian Jews would be wiped out. But Communism was started by the Church to get rid of the Czar! Sheesh," Archie shook his head and shuddered. "That scared me as a kid. I showed it to my parents and they just told me to throw the pamphlet away and forget it."

Megan considered. "From what I know of history, those claims by the pamphlet are extremely dubious."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Of course it's nonsense. THE DAWNING LIGHT treats Muslims and Mormons and Hindus the same way. They're all described as false religions created by the Devil himself to lead people astray. The books are so crude in the writing and art that you think they'd be ridiculed but I guess a lot of people believe every word."

It was her turn to shake her head and sigh. "The Trom warned me that I would never understand the way my fellow Humans think and this is more proof they were right."

( the rest of the story )