dochermes

"Stumble Into Darkness"

9/3/2019

I.

Trudging up to the third floor landing with a paper bag of groceries in each hand, Foster Whitcomb felt hot and sweaty and grimy. It was after eleven at night, but the air was still so humid it felt like moving underwater. A cold shower and a glass of white wine might help. Timothy was supposed to call around midnight about coming up from Manhattan the next day, that was all which kept Foster from giving in to a severe grumpy attack.

Here on the top floor of the ancient brick building were two doors marked 3A and 3B. Living in 3A was an elderly woman who as far as he could tell never stepped outside her apartment. Not a day went by without some deliveryman knocking on her door or a home health care nurse stopping in to help out. You couldn't ask for a quieter neighbor and Foster had long ago decided he would run any errand that the old lady asked if she ever stuck her head out the door. He knew he was a friendly-looking big teddy bear of a man and that she would be comfortable talking to him.

Putting down the grocery bags on either side, Foster dug in his jeans pocket for his keys, then hesitated. That was odd. Was the door open just a crack? He knew he had locked it that morning, he was meticulous about details like that. Oh. Tim must have come up from the city early to surprise him. Great, they had been talking about going to see that movie THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES and now they could catch the seven o'clock showing!

"Hey, you!" he called out, stepping into the cool dark apartment and then freezing where he was as if suddenly paralyzed. At his feet, next to an overturned chair, Timothy Limbo was stretched out face up and covered in bright crimson blood. Foster's heart missed a few beats, then he dropped to his knees and touched his partner's face gingerly. "Tim... Tim?"

The familiar dark blue eyes flickered open but seemed out of focus. Foster could see three deep parallel gouges going down the left cheek and that side of the neck was chewed up. Tim's leather motorcycle jacket was open. The plain white T-shirt was in red-soaked tatters.

"Oh God, Oh God," Foster breathed. He dug in his hip pocket for his phone and fumbled it out. "Hang on, bubba, hang on, I'll call 911...!" He tapped in the four-digit security code to unlock his screen.

But, surprisingly, Tim's hand shot up and closed around the phone to stop him. Foster tried to tug it free but couldn't. He had known almost from their first meeting that Timothy Limbo was much stronger than he would seem to be, but this grip was like an iron clamp.

From the swollen lips came a whisper. "Wait. Hold on, Foster..."

"I HAVE to call an ambulance, Tim! Look at you! You look like you were ripped up by a bear."

"Heh. Close enough," Timothy managed, not letting go a bit. "Give me a second. Here. Look at my chest..."

Foster did bend closer. "I can see white, is that a rib?"

In a stronger voice, Tim said, "Watch. Just watch."

After a few seconds, Foster caught his breath. He brought his face down until it was almost touching the raw wounds. "This is crazy. It's impossible."

"The edges are closing up, right?"

"I can SEE it. I can see the wound sealing, and it's sealing faster. Tim, what's going on?"

In a voice that sounded almost normal, Timothy said, "I'm going to be all right. Trust me, Foster. Put away your phone and close the door before anybody sees what a mess I am right now."

Bringing the groceries in and slamming the door shut, Foster dropped down again to his knees. "I never heard of such a thing. Tim, these gouges on your face look much better than they did a few minutes ago."

"Foster, I should have explained a lot of things before. I'm still bleeding? Yeah, I can see it seeping through what's left of my shirt. Listen. I told you I work for the Kenneth Dred Foundation, right? We're a non-profit research organization that investigates the paranormal."

"Yeah, that's how I met you. I came to your group about that ghost girl I was seeing. But, Tim, what's that got to do with anything? Oh, your poor face, did you get clawed by a lion or what?"

Grunting, Timothy Limbo tried to get up on one elbow but sank back down again. "Need a little bit longer. Foster, you've met a few of my teammates. Sable. Josef. Jocelyn. We all have enhanced healing. We never get sick, we can't be poisoned, we can walk naked through a blizzard and be fine. You see for yourself. My injuries are closing up faster than medical science could explain."

"I'm going to get some wet cloths and clean you up." Foster hurried over to the sink in one corner of the three-room apartment, ran some warm water and came back with wet washclothes that he dabbed gently at his partner's face and chest. "This is unbelievable. What causes this healing? How does it work?"

"I can't.. I can't tell you, Foster. It's like classified information. If I could share it with you, believe me I would." Trying again, Timothy propped himself up against the couch behind him. "I just thought of something. Did you see any blood on the stairs outside?"

"What? No. I didn't notice any."

"This is life and death important, go look. If you see any blood at all, you have to scrub it off. Hurry. Please!"

"All right. I don't...." Not finishing the thought, he stepped out of the apartment and started slowly down the stairs. Nothing. On the way back up, two small splotches caught his eye on one step and he rubbed vigorously with the wet dishcloth until they were gone. His mind was racing so much it was hard to concentrate. It reminded him of how he had reacted after being in a car crash as a teen. The same sense of time slowing down, of the scene feeling unreal, of being numb rather than upset. Back in their apartment, he found Timothy had managed to get up on the couch. "I still want to get you to the ER," he said. "You look so much better but come on! What about infection? What about blood loss?"

"We try not to go to regular doctors," Timothy said easily enough, trying to tear the tatters of his shirt off. "They would want to run tests and do experiments and we'd be locked up like white rats."

"'We?' Who do you mean by we?"

Timothy finally got the shreds of blood-soaked white cloth off him and wadded them up. "I knew I would have to tell you sometime. You know about Tel Shai. I've heard you mention it on your podcast. The ancient Order of mystic knowledge that has trained Midnight War heroes for thousands of years."

"That's just a legend!"

"No, Foster. Tel Shai is real. The KDF members are knights of Tel Shai and I'm one of them."

Not knowing how to react to that, Foster finally said, "Tim, your color is so much better. When I saw you on the floor, your face was white."

Getting shakily to his feet, Timothy Limbo dropped back down again. "Ugh. Not yet. I need a little more time to heal. Foster, do me a favor. Get me another shirt and my pair of black jeans, okay?"

"If you insist." Remembering the groceries, he picked up both bags and put them on the counter by the sink. Their apartment didn't have a gas stove or oven, they made do with a microwave, hot plate and an electric rice cooker for the moment. Foster went into their bedroom and came out in a minute with a dark red T-shirt and some jeans.

"Thanks. Ow. Everything hurts." Timothy started changing clothes, checking his leather jacket and finding the blood had only gotten on one cuff. As he scrubbed it off, he said, "I'm going to have to ask you for a big favor."

"Like there is anything I wouldn't do for you."

"You're going to have to drive me to the city. To KDF base in Manhattan. I can't use my motorcycle, I'd be too exposed, so we have to take your car. Okay?"

"Not a problem, buddy. You still haven't told me what attacked you. I'm guessing a black bear, the way you were torn up."

Getting to his feet, seeming steady at last, Timothy Limbo zipped up his jacket half way. "I wish they were only bears."

( The )

"Princess of the Feral Boys"

5/18/2019

I.

A gaunt figure dressed in black strode silently through knee deep waters. This far north into Virginia, the Great Dismal Swamp was marshy land which could mostly be navigated on foot. In his watertight field suit, Jeremy Bane remained dry. If he had sealed his helmet to the high collar of the jacket, he could have lain submerged in comfort.

Late afternoon showed a dim and eerie green as slanting sunbeams filtered through dense overhead foliage. The Dire Wolf followed the child in front of him, impressed at how quickly she moved through the murky water. Never slipping, never hesitating, the fact she was barefoot made her confidence even more striking. In one grimy hand, she clutched a broken tree limb tall as she was and she used it to rapidly probe ahead of her.

Sue-Louise was of the Feral Boys, that strange race of outcast tribes who had not been accepted into the Seminoles but who had thrived and spread over the South in secrecy. Bane knew that the child was eleven but she looked younger because of poor nutrition. Stringy dark blonde hair hung in tangles to her shoulders. The girl wore a white cotton dress, short sleeved and reaching to her knees, with two deep pockets on its front.

Reaching a higher patch of dry ground with a cypress tree hanging nearly sideways, the Feral Girl hopped nimbly up onto it. She swung around with an extended hand to help but saw Bane leap up out of the foul water higher than she had. The Dire Wolf landed in a crouch, fingers of one hand touching the damp grass, ready for any attack.

"You is nimble on yo feet for a white boy," she said. Despite her blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, Sue-Louise regarded herself as one of the Feral Boys, Native Americans for a thousand generations. To her, Bane was a white man from Yankee territory and there was no use discussing the matter.

The Dire Wolf thumbed the left ear pod of his helmet and the visor slid up into its crest. The face revealed was narrow, intense, with pale grey eyes under heavy black brows. "We've covered at least ten miles since dawn."

"Taint nearly enough. Them renegades is like gators, they don't tire. They is coming for us now."

"Four of them, your clan leader said. At least one has a rifle, one has a bow." Bane stood and turned slowly in a circle. "I have a plan to lure them into a trap."

"I wish my pappy was here," said Sue-Louise. "Or my cousins Paul-Paul and John-Wally. They know the ways of this land. I'd feel safe wid them on hand."

Bane remained calm and focused. "We have to deal with the situation as it is. Your leader met me in Galvinsburg. He knew the renegades were after you, and he wanted you returned safe to your family. I was nearby. There wasn't time to send for other Feral Boys from this area. What he didn't say is why these killers are trying to get hold of you."

She sniffed and wiped her nose with a forearm. "It's because'a the bloodline, Mistuh Bane. My daddy and me are descended from Feral Boy royalty. Chief Gilbert-Ron was our great-grandfather."

"Okay, I'm following you so far."

"In a year maybe two, I'll be ripe fer breeding. Popping out a new prince. Us Feral Boys folks ain't had a real prince in too long. We's too scattered to do ourselves any good."

Bane snorted. "I don't care if you people consider yourselves a separate nation. Twelve is no age of consent anywhere."

"Walll, it ain't for you to decide, suh." She twiddled the three foot stick she had been using as a cane. "I know you has weapons of all kinds hidden on yuh. Lemme use a knife."

"All right." His gray eyes were never still, moving rapidly over each spot where a person could be hidden, where a movement meant danger. Bane reached up one jacket sleeve and drew out a short, narrow-bladed throwing dagger without a guard. "Careful with this, it's expensive."

Sue-Louise twirled the knife and grinned, showing a missing upper canine. "Silver! You a witch-slayer, Mr Bane?"

"Yes." He did not elaborate further. Despite the conversation with the child, most of his attention was focused on their surrounding. A splash far behind them sounded like nothing more than a fish leaping out of the water to catch a fly. He turned some of his attention back to the little girl he was supposed to be protecting.

She had quickly whittled away one end of the stick to a point that looked sharp and intimidating, and now she regarded it with a satisfied smirk.

The Dire Wolf held out his hand to request the return of his silver dagger. As he returned it to his forearm sheath, he said, "Planning on using that on the renegades?"

"What? Hayll no. I'm hopin' to fry some catfish for supper. Wood round here ain't TOO wet to get a fire started." She lowered the stick and turned those light blue eyes on him critically. "You gettin' paid to bring me home, mister?"

"No," Bane anwered. "Your clan leader asked me to help. We have a truce. A few years ago, a friend of mine killed Gator Joe. Your leader and I met and agreed to try to keep your people and the regular inhabitants of Virginia from getting in each others' way."

"Hah! Yeah right. Gator Joe ain't been heard of in ages."

"So," Bane continued, "I send regular shipments of canned food, rice, aspirin, bandages, that sort of thing to post offices boxes around the Dismal Swamp. The Feral Boys mostly are content to do their hunting and fishing in their own turf. Less trouble this way."

"I seen some of them packages!" Sue-Louise interrupted. "Them vitamin packets you stir into water. I don't mind them, they taste like oranges."

Bane wheeled around, moving quicker than her eyes could track and a long-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver appeared like a conjuring trick within his left hand. It blasted twice, deafening at close range. Twenty yards away, a heavy splash sounded as the echoes of the gunfire reverberated.

Getting to her feet herself, Sue-Louise only then noticed what the Dire Wolf was holding in his other hand. It was a three-foot fibreglass arrow with a barbed hunting tip. He grasped it halfway down the shaft. "I don't believe it. You CAUGHT that thang?"

The Dire Wolf tossed the arrow aside without answering. "He was on a branch that creaked under his weight. There. That cypress that's hanging low over the water. I tagged him both times center mass." Reaching in a pocket of his field jacket, he drew out two cartridges to replaced what he had fired.

"They found us," Sue-Louise whispered. "That was Nestor-Jack the tracker. The others'll be close behind him, bet yo ass."

"We'll be ready," said Bane in a low quiet tone.

II.

Watching from a stretch where the oily water was chest deep, three of the Feral Boys watched the island in the gathering dusk. One held a rifle wrapped tightly in oilskins to keep it dry, another kept his lightweight Glock 19 tied on top of his head with twine. In the fading light, they looked similar enough to each other to be related. The Feral Boys had mixed and intermarried so much with the general population that they came in all likenesses. These were wiry, olive-skinned man with coarse black hair chopped short at the neck. All they wore were cotton trousers and open denim vests, soaked completely by now.

The oldest Feral Boy had a face apparently molded by nature to appear brutal with its flat wide nose, heavy brow ledge and sullen jaw. "They started a fire," he whispered. "Some big branches startin' to burn. Make for easy targets."

"Yeah, Tom-Tom. I can see the Princess. Thar. That shape a'squatting by the fire. No more than knee high, that's her. Mother of the new prince," replied another.

The leader Tom-Tom growled deep in his chest. "Ain't gonna be no new prince to talk peace terms. We ain't burned no houses in years. We ain't taken new slaves in so long that our younguns won't know how to keep 'em in line."

Furthest behind them, the third Feral Boy muttered, "Don't seem right, slaying a child that way. Give her time to decide for her own self, I say."

Tom-Tom raised his voice above a rumble in his anger. "Yore dealin' with the bloodline, fool. No chances can be taken. Come on behind me. Real quiet and slow. I don't wanna hear a ripple."

With infinite patience, three renegades stalked closer to the island where the fire was crackling warm in the chilly night. Behind them, the faintest of gurgles sounded.

Twisting his head, Tom-Tom hissed, "Lucas-Joe? Lucas?" No answer came. The surface behind them was resuming its smoothness.

"Dida gator grab him?"

"That quick and that silent? Hayll no. It's that Dire Wolf bastard we was warned about. Come on, let's get this over with."

They waded noisily through the water, and Tom-Tom got off two shots with his Marlin .30-.30 that slammed into the huddled form by the fire to knock it over. Before a third round could be loosed, Tom-Tom felt an incredibly strong hand clamp down like iron over his face, pulling him back into the water, then there was an agonizing pain across his throat and he left this life.

Scrambling up onto the low mossy island where the fire burned, the remaining renegade ripped the pistol loose from where it was tied to his head and thrust its barrel forward. Then he froze. There was no dead body there. By the fire was a black jacket stuffed with branches that had been slammed over by the rifle bullets.

As the Feral Boy hesitated for a fatal moment of confusion, a small form swung up from the brush and plunged the needle point of a sharpened stick into his chest. It pierced his heart as accurately as any surgeon could match. Dropping his gun, clutching at the stick but unable to pull it free before he died, the renegade fell and rolled off the island to splash into the water.

"That makes four," Bane announced grimly. Without the field jacket he had used as bait, his black crewneck shirt dripped cold rank water. He vaulted up onto the island and met the calm stare of Sue-Louise with open surprise.

"I wasn't expecting you to do that," he said to her without anger. "The plan was for you to stay behind that tree while I finished this last one off."

"And let a white boy fight my fight?" she sniffed. Then, despite herself, she grinned like any urchin caught breaking a rule. "Tain't fitting for a princess of the Feral Boys."

6/7/2020

"Water Demon In a Gambling Den"

9/22/2019

Two bodyguards led Jeremy Bane in off the hot steamy Tokyo street into the equally hot steamy nightclub. The music was loud and repetitive, there was lots of decorative smoke and many sweating faces shouting at each other from inches away. Bane was not the only white face there by any means, he spotted a party of Arabs and even a North African. As they passed the bar, the bigger of the bodyguards went over and came back with three glasses.

"Rinsu vodka, very good. Custom you try." He handed a glass to the Dire Wolf and sipped his own gingerly.

Bane tried it. It tasted okay. Alcohol had not have any effect on him for many years, as his tagra tea diet made his body process anything he took in and discard what it didn't need. He drained the glass and said, "Thank you." Both bodyguards reluctantly finished their own as if they wanted to savor the flavor. They led him to a door at the rear of the nighclub, where a huge sumo-type in a tight suit opened a door for them. Here was an equally huge room filled with gambling tablescrowded with excited men, and assorted beautiful women of different nationalties milling about to encourage them. The two guards slowly made their way through this room, giving Bane a chance for a good long look. Again they were admitted through a rear door, up a wide staircase to still another wrestler who admitted them through another locked door. This room was dim and stuffy and the reek of different smoke was heavy. On long couches were sprawled stupefied men and women who smiled blankly as Bane passed by. Paraphenalia of many kinds was scattered on the floor.
( the rest of the story )

"The Shore of Dreams"

7/21/2019

I.

Coming back into the air-conditioned living room, Timothy Limbo exhaled with relief. The lank yellow hair hung down over a forehead beaded with sweat. "The CORBY is secured and inspected, captain. Given three minutes for the impulse engines to warm up, we could take off whenever you like."

From the easy chair where she was pretending to thumb through a magazine, Lauren Sable Reilly managed a smile. "Thanks, Timothy. If Ulgor is in fact sending a strike force, we need to have all our options open."

"How's it going in there?" he asked, jerking a thumb toward the door at the other side of the room. "With your powers, you could hear everything from the next county."

"It's taking all my will power not to eavesdrop," Sable replied. "Of course, I could enhance my hearing. But I swore not to. I feel like they deserve privacy at this time."

Timothy turned toward the third person in that room. "What does our Trom Girl think?"

From the couch, Megan Salenger clicked shut the Link she had been making adjustments on with a tool fine as a hair. Now forty, she had filled out only a little from the lithe gymnast form she had always shown. Under the tousled black hair, the dark eyes remained as sharp and inquisitive as ever. "There are too many variables for me to reach any conclusions, I'm afraid. Melgarin are not much different from Humans. They are longer-lived of course, physically stronger and more durable. But Galvan is very much an exception. His body is charged with gralic force, known as the Legacy of Malberon, and he is as close to being invulnerable as an organic being can attain. This is not usually inheritable."

"I thought the Legacy just settled on a Melgar of each generation at random?" Sable gave up on the magazine and started pacing. Timothy had not seated himself and was still standing by the front door.

"So it is said," Megan replied. The Trom Girl fidgeted, something so rare for her that it alarmed her friends. She found her one foot was tapping on the floor and frowned. "Jin on the other hand is quite different from the Human norm. Her Race is so adapted to undersea life that her body has major deviations. The gill slits on the sides of her throat, the air bladder under her lungs, her third blood cell type with copper base, her vision extending into the ultra-violet... She has many natural modifications."

"But she doesn't lay eggs or anything? I mean, she has her period like any other woman, she never minded telling us about stuff like that," Timothy said.

"No. She is not that much of an alien," the Trom Girl said. "I admit I am unhappy at not having enough data to make an intelligent statement. To the best of my knowledge, this is an unprecedented situation."

Timothy came over and made himself sit down near her on the couch, perching on the edge as if ready to spring back up. "Believe me, you're not any more unsettled than I am. I didn't expect to be this worried."

"It would be a poorer world if we didn't worry about our friends." Sable had folded her arms and was standing by the wide picture window. "Did you get a look in that room?"

"No. I figured Dr Wright knows how to set up what he needs," Timothy said.

"The bed is actually a tilted hard rubber table," Sable told them. "Warm saline solution runs over Jin and out into the plumbing. She needs to be more hydrated than we do at the best of times. I helped Dr Wright set it up yesterday."

"We're so lucky to have him on hand, Sable. He's the only Blue Guide active today and he's been running his clinic and volunteering at Metro General for what, forty years?"

"He retired only two years ago," Megan added, lowering the Link she had been studying. "But he was more than glad to come out here. Between his Tel Shai healing abilities and his practical ER experience, he's the best possible doctor to have on hand. We can trust his judgement without reservation."

Timothy jumped up again. "I need to get out. I don't care if it's like an oven out there, I can't sit still."

"Stay put," Sable told him. "I don't want to order you, Tim, but you should be here and ready."

After a moment, he grumbled and went over to the old-fashioned refrigerator to get a bottle of club soda. Gulping half of it, he suppressed a belch. "How do you think Galvan is taking it?"

"The last I saw him, when he came out to use the bathroom, he seemed okay," Sable said. "Excited. Concerned. Proud. He was a tangle of emotions, but then he never was one to hide his feelings."

After seeing Timothy get a bottle of water, Megan got up and fetched one for herself. "Captain?" she asked while at the refrigerator.

"Eh? No. No, thank you. Timothy, I'm extending my senses to the south. I think I hear something. Send one of your Caspers, will you?"

"Oh, sure." He held out his open hand and a barely visible tornado of force shimmered into existence above it. It looked like a tiny dust devil that swayed and then shot across the room to squeeze out under the door. "My boy is on his way, captain."

"Stand by, Megan," Sable said, still staring out at the hazy orange sky. "We heard rumors that Ulgor had learned what was happening. Even in exile, even though she hasn't been back to her Realm in twelve years, Demrak Jin is still a member of the royal family."

"She is not in direct line to the throne," Megan objected. "I thought they had forgotten her."

"The Gelydrim of Ulgor have ideas about honor and purity that seem wrong to us." Sable shrugged. "Well, of course, they think we are decadent and shameless, so I guess it's all relative."

"My Casper sees them now," Timothy said. "I'm getting his perception. Two helicopters. Coming this way fast."

( the rest of the story )

"Doors Barred For Good Reason"


8/28/2019

I.

The killer awoke before dawn. That had been an hour ago. Even now, only a dim grey half-light showed outside. Having circled through the small, one-story brick building already, Jeremy Bane returned to the killer's room for final observations. At sixty-two, Bane looked and moved like a trim athletic man in his mid-thirties. Only a few scattered white flecks in the short black hair hinted at his age.

The Dire Wolf stood unmoving in the filthy bedroom and his pale grey eyes moved quietly around one more time. The narrow bed had not been slept in. There was not even a vague depression left by an occupant, the blankets were taut. But up against a corner was a tangle of clothing that had been piled up to make an impromptu pillow. Monaghan had slept on the bare hardwood floor. That wasn't suprising. For the past two years, Monaghan had been a fugitive living on the room and resting wherever he could.

Six feet away from the crude pillow were two dirty cotton socks, left half-inside out. Bane figured this meant that the lunatic had plopped down, tugged off his infamous cowboy boots with their red star, then kicked off his socks and slept for a few hours otherwise full dressed. His family had not known he had returned home through the unlocked window of his old room.

Then, not more than a hour earlier, Monaghan had stirred. Forgetting the socks, he put his boots on. One wall held a waist-high bookcase crammed with cheap paperbacks about true crime, black magic, war atrocities and worse. Three nails above the bookcase had held handmade papier-mache masks. Two remained, one bright yellow and one a venomous green, demon masks with staring eyes and tusked mouths that gaped ferociously. The nail in the middle was empty.

The killer had selected a face from that gallery to wear. Maybe he still had it on. He wouldn't be the first fiend to hide beneath a mask constantly.

There was no need for Bane to return to the three other bedrooms. Checking them out had been his first action once he had tracked Monaghan this far. Upon rising, Monaghan had moved down the straight corridor that made up most of the house. He went into the room where his sister lived, and then he paid a visit to his brother, then he walked on down the hall. The parents' bedroom had been much worse a shambles than the brother's or sister's. Not much blood had been left unspilled in the bodies, and their faces were unrecognizable ruins. Whether it was normal for him or part of a passing frenzy, Monaghan was remarkably strong. The position that the mother's body had been left posed in suggested he had violated her after death.

Suddenly, he had to get outside. He turned on one heel and left through the living room door that had been wide open. Outside, the air was warm and oppressive under a layer of black storm clouds. Still, being out of the house was better. He took deep calming breaths as he strode back to where he had left his Mustang. He had definitely touched nothing inside the death house, not even brushing up against a wall. Bane chirped open the driver's door, saw no cars in sight on the isolated highway and eased up onto the road. His chest felt tight.

All these years, he thought, and I'm still not toughened enough to shrug off a scene like that. How did medical examiners get callous? He had known forensic photographers who were perfectly capable of documented that house of horror and then casually going back to their car to munch on a PBJ. But he, the famous Dire Wolf, feared in the Midnight War for decades, was fighting down the urge to be sick as he drove.

Maybe it was for the best, he thought. After he put some miles behind him, the tension in his body eased up. He felt the muscles in his shoulders and arms loosen. Now came another distasteful duty. It had to be down, he didn't want any relatives or friends of that family to happen upon the scene. Better that it be closed off by police.

On the center console between the two front seats was propped a flat metal device that resembled a cell phone. He had earlier arranged the controls on his Link, now he simply pressed one of the buttons and placed a call that went to both the nearest 911 office and to the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. He told them there had been a murder at the Monagahan home, then broke the connection. The signal from the Links could not be traced, and he had arranged for his voice to be distorted so it was intelligible but not his.

So far, no one knew he was in this part of Southern California, so near the Nevada border. Even if later his presence was revealed, that call would provide no corroborating evidence. Bane drove south. If he was right about Monaghan's motives, the killer's next visit would be to his ex-girlfriend and her lover, Monaghan's ex-best friend. Attempts to call them had not been picked up so far.

As he sped along, Bane scowled. Off the shoulder to his right stood a young man in blue work coveralls, thumb up hopefully. You don't know the danger you're in, the Dire Wolf thought. If Monagahan had seen this hitchhiker and picked him up...! There's a killer on the road, Bane thought, a killer with a brain squirming like a toad in pain. He roared past the disappointed man and hoped his could intercept Monagahan before the next outburst.

( the rest of the story )

"Discount Miracles From Wickett and Thicke"

3/20/2019

I.

Bane's coffee table was strewn with disordered newspapers. One of his peculiar traits was that he never listened to music or watched movies, but he had a passion for local newspapers. Every few days, he stopped at a store in Times Square and picked up an armful of local papers. Sometimes he concentrated on newspapers from New York State, but as often he bought a dozen papers from around the world, as long as they were in English.

Today, he was growing more restless and annoyed with every page that he pored over and tossed aside. Many of his most dangerous cases had begun with a brief suggestive item in an obscure paper from some backwoods, but at the moment there seemed to be nothing anywhere indicating Midnight War activity that might need his attention.

In his early sixties, the Dire Wolf remained lean and active. The black turtleneck showed no thickening around the middle, the short black hair was only speckled with grey strands. But the infamous pale eyes were getting angry as he neared the end of the stack. Maybe reporting wasn't what it once had been. He found fewer and fewer reports of bizarre creatures being spotted or bursts of unexplained disappearances. Bane slammed the last paper down and leaned back on his couch as his Link buzzed.

The screen showed a number he didn't recognize. More and more, he regretted closing his office and putting the Dire Wolf Agency on an appointments only basis. He wasn't ready for retirement. A lifetime of Midnight War had left him with a permanent appetite for stress and action and now he realized how eagerly he was hoping this might be a case. "Yeah, hello?"

"Mr Bane?" squeaked an elderly man's voice. "Jeremy Bane?"

"That's right. Who are you?"

"Oh thank God, I had the damndest time getting a number I could reach you at. This is Jacob Shultis. You may have heard of me, I own some real estate."

That's an understatement, Bane thought. Shultis was famous for his luxury spas across the Tri-State area. "Sure. What is it you want with me?"

"Something terrible has happened. It's fantastic, I don't know if anyone would believe me if they didn't see for themselves. Can we meet?"

"Okay," Bane said, visibly perking up at the words 'terrible' and 'fantastic.' "I would rather not do business at my home. Do you have an office?"

"Yes. Right now, I'm opposite Rockefeller Center. You can see that stupid statue from my window. Can you please come right away, I am more distressed than any of my divorces made me."

"I'm in Queens," Bane told him. "I can leave immediately. Give me the address. Okay. I'm on my way." The Dire Wolf jumped to his feet, almost hopping up and down at the prospect of some excitement. This is ridiculous, he thought, I'm giddy at the idea of risking my life when I don't have to.

Even retired, he wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes every day, just as he always had the matched silver daggers strapped under his sleeves. It only took a second to tug on the black sport jacket. Heading for the door, he unlocked the reinforced cabinet and took out his long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 in its holster which he fastened to his belt behind the left hip. When he stepped outside, he heard the reassuring buzzes and clicks of the security alarms arming themselves.

The dark green Mustang was parked in the short gravel driveway next to his house. Bane never left it without a full tank and checking the tires and oil. He lived like a fighter pilot or firefighter always ready for the call. In a few seconds, he was pulling out into the side street and heading for Manhattan.

The Shultis Health Spa occupied the bottom half of a gleaming chrome spike of a building that rose forty stories high. Bane was admitted down a ramp into an underground parking garage where a trim young man in a stylish business suit met him.

"Mr Bane? Hello, my name is Stimmel. I'll be bringing you directly to Mr Shultis."

"Fine." Chirping his car doors locked with his key fob, Bane went with the man past a double pair of doors to a private elevator set in a concrete pillar. The door hissed open as they approached and the cage rose without Stimmel touching any buttons.

"There are a few things you might need to know," the aide said in the brief ride. "Mr Shultis does not care for physical contact, so please do not offer to shake hands. You might find the suite warmer than usual, but that's his preference. Of course, I will be present along with his attendant."

"Any idea what he wants with me?" Bane asked. They reached the fortieth floor as the door opened with a chime.

"Here we are," said Stimmel. He led the Dire Wolf into a high-ceilinged chamber forty feet to each side, with windows taking up an entire wall overlooking Park Avenue far below. The decor was old-fashioned elegance, real wooden walls and solid mahogany furniture. A golden carpet inches thick. Bookcases filled with matching reference works were broken up by statuary and an original Vasquez oil of a rearing stallion. Immediately to their right as they entered was a desk from behind which a gorgeous redhead in a tight yellow dress rose to flash an expensive smile at them.

But all of Bane's attention was focused on the figure in the motorized wheelchair. Bundled in a heavy wool robe with a blanket over his legs, at least in his early eighties and badly preserved at that, the man seemed to be a frail bundle of skin covering bones. The prominent nose nearly met a pointed chin. Not much hair remained on the round cranium.

"I'm so glad you came!" crackled the dry voice. "Please, please, have a seat on the couch there. If anyone can help me, I know you can."

Remembering not to approach closely, Bane remained beyond arm's length. He was puzzled enough not to sit down as suggested. "Jacob Shultis...?"

"Yes. Unhappily enough. You are no doubt remembering pictures of me in the papers. No wonder you seem confused. Mr Bane, I am fifty-seven years old."

II.

Lowering himself to the couch, the Dire Wolf said, "Tell me everything."

"Yes, yes. Alan, Fran, please go down to the lobby and enjoy a smoothie for a few minutes."

The redhead seemed dubious. "Sir, are you sure you won't need us?"

"Heh, quite sure. With this man here, I am safer now than I have been in months. Go now. Take your time." After his two assistants had exited in the elevator, Shultis made his chair spin around to face his visitor straight on. "So, Mr Bane. I have heard wild stories and rumors about you for many years. And being curious by nature, I have even had some investigators do a little research. It seems that the tall tales of the Dire Wolf are if anything understatements."

Blunt by nature, Bane simply said, "What happened to you?"

"Heh. Very well. I have been seeing a delightful young woman from the Carmody family. We get along very well. But, to be honest, I'm pushing sixty and she was barely leaving twenty-one behind. All the cruises and water-skiing and concerts were wearing me out. I could see she would soon be growing tired of me growing tired too often."

"Got it so far."

"I have been following your clandestine Midnight War for years now. Astonishing how much goes on in the dead of night that the media ignore or never learn about. I heard about two men who were offering a new vitality serum not available to the general public. I met them and tried a sample. For a stiff price, I might add."

When Shultis paused, Bane simply said, "Go on."

"It worked within minutes. I felt invigorated. Full of energy, eagerness, snap crackle and pop so to speak. It was wonderful. For a week. Then my world collapsed. I woke up one morning weary and feeble, just as you see me now. My personal physician was horrified and still has absolutely no idea what to say."

"Hmm. Sounds like the miracle serum charged you up but also burned you out in the process. You're worse off than you were before."

"Absolutely." The ravaged face looked away as tears welled up in those bloodshot eyes. "What a horrible thing to do to someone! It's an abominable crime. I have not been able to locate the two fiends who took away twenty years of my life. I was ready to quietly take an overdose of medicine but then I thought of you..."

Bane nodded. "You want me to find these two for you."

"Yes! Yes. I don't fool myself into thinking they can reverse the process but at least I can see they are punished for what they did."

"All right. This sounds like Alchemy to me. I know a few masters of the Great Art who might be able to help. Describe these two men."

"Better than that, I can give you their names. I checked their IDs. Graham Thicke and Ian Wickett."

To Shultis' surprise, Bane buried his face in his hands and groaned. "THOSE two again! I wish they would fall off the Earth. The worst con artists since Doc Valentine. Every time they show up, people are robbed and swindled and betrayed. And now they're dabbling in Midnight War crimes."

"You know them then?"

"Too well!" Bane jumped to his feet. His hyperactive metabolism made it difficult for him to sit still more than a few minutes. "I always took it easy on them. They're grifters without a shred of conscience between them, but compared to the monsters I usually fight, they seemed harmless. Last time we met, I let them go. Not any more. I'll drag them in by their heels."

The withered old man grinned and clapped his hands together with a clacking sound. "That's the Dire Wolf I was hoping to meet. Name any fee you want, run up any expenses necessary. I'll place millions at your disposal."

"No. Write me a check for a flat one thousand. That establishes you as my client. It gives me certain legal advantages when dealing with the police."

"But... I can pay whatever you want, Mr Bane."

The Dire Wolf stared down at the shriveled figure in the wheelchair. "To tell you the truth, sir, I'd go after them even if you don't hire me. I'm angry now."

III.

For the first time in weeks, Bane left his Mustang in the space he leased at the IMPERIAL GARAGE and strode brusquely out onto 40th Street. Even after he had closed his office nearby, keeping this space available had seemed worth it to him. On a late Friday afternoon like today, he could make better speed around Midtown on foot. Holding his Link up by his ear, the Dire Wolf made call after call to his sources as he sprinted along the sidewalks.

A tense forty-five minutes of questioning Jacob Shultis had drawn out every possible detail about the meeting with Wickett and Thicke, from their clothing to the slightest phrase they had spoken. As he wove in and out of the crowds without once brushing up against anyone, part of Bane's trained mind was analyzing the conversation for any hints on where to find them.

At 42nd Street, he swung left. This area had changed dramatically since the most hectic days of the Midnight War. Gone were the rows of second-run movie theaters and strip clubs, used book stores and shady gambling joints. Everything was a bright colorful tourist trap now. This glossiness and glitter annoyed Bane, it meant his most useful hunting grounds had been lost.

Finally, on Eighth Avenue up near 50th Street, the Dire Wolf found one of his best sources. Sitting by a propped open door of an Italian restaurant called Hugry Bambino was an immensely fat middle-aged woman with long white hair done up in an elaborate pattern atop her head. In her long black dress, Mama Ferraro soaked up the warm late March sun with the delight of a cat. She saw the grim figure in black walking toward her and she laughed out loud.

"Mama Ferraro!" Bane said, shaking her offered hand. "No, don't trouble yourself getting up. I'm on a job, I won't be here long."

"Long time no see, Jeremy," she replied. "How have you been? How is that little blonde girlfriend of yours, the mind-reader?"

"She's fine. She has a teaching job." Bane stepped closer and waited until no one was close before continuing in a lower voice. "I know when I need information in a hurry, I should check with you first. You keep track of everything weird or eerie in this neighborhood."

"It's what I live for. I'm a gossip to the bone. Tell me, paisan, how can I help you?"

Bane described two men who seemed to be in their thirties. One was a slightly built fellow with a bland infoffensive face and light brown hair, and his companion was much bigger and more imposing. Both dressed extremely well to the point of foppishness. They spoke with a posh upper class British accent that sometimes seemed artificial.

Before he could name the suspects, he was taken aback by the bile with which Mama Ferraro spat, "I know them, Jeremy! May their lives be bitter and miserable to the end of their days. Do you know what they did to Papa?"

"No."

"All his life he dreamed of owning a nice car. He and I, we worked long hours for years to build up this restaurant, hiring the best chefs we could afford and encouraging regular customers. Papa finally bought a new Mercedes in January. He kept it as shiny and spotless as the new snow on Christmas morning. Then those hyenas Wickett and Thicke turned up."

Bane squatted easily down next to the massive woman in her black dress, keeping his own voice low. "Graham Thicke, Ian Wickett. Tell me what they did."

"Fast talkers, untrustworthy talkers! Oh, I disliked them from the start. But you know Papa. He has a big soft heart like a red sofa cushion. They sold him an additive they claimed would make his Mercedes run so smooth it couldn't be heard AND it would double its mileage."

"Did it work?"

"At first, yes. Papa was so happy. He drove up to Albany and back without needing to fill the tank. The needle hardly moved. The car flew along the highway like a hawk. For a week, it was the wonder of his friends. Then, he started it up early one morning and the engine block cracked in half with a noise that broke his heart to hear. Coolant and oil poured out onto the garage floor."

Bane shook his head. "I am so sorry to hear that. Mama, I can tell you that these crooks have ruined another man's life as well. They sold him a miracle serum that did irreparable harm. Do you know where I can find Wickett and Thicke?"

"As if we didn't try to confront them, my friend. We even took the big boy from our kitchen with us, Louie. You've seen him. But they were no longer staying at the hotel they had given us as an address." She searched his face and smiled wickedly. "I would love to see you track these men down, Jeremy. My poor Papa will never be the same after having to junk his car."

The Dire Wolf's expression grew even more stern than his usual scowl. "They're going to regret all they've done, Mama."

"Ah, you know who you might want to talk to? The man with the rooftop garden, Benny Jack the Farmer. Over by the river, you know?"

"He has been dealing with these two?"

"I think so, buddy," the woman admitted. "I am not sure. But last week he came in for his usual veal and wine, Benny Jack was excited. He said he was going to take a chance on a new fertilizer that was not on the market yet. He even used the word 'miracle.'"

Bane straightened up, eager to get back on the chase. "Maybe I can reach him in time. Here, for your vigilance." He placed two folded fifty dollar bills on her lap. "You have saved a few lives over the years by pointing me in the right direction, Mama Ferraro."

"Glad to help," she said. "I will never be able to repay you for when those Winter Snow hoodlums came in to break up our dining room because we would not pay protection. You folded ten dangerous men up like origami. They never came back."

The Dire Wolf nodded politely, spun on his heel and took off a full run toward the west where the Hudson was only a few blocks away. Seeing him race off, Mama Ferraro laughed again. "Oh yes. Go get them, boy."

IV.

Except for two satellite dishes and a kiosk over the stairs leading down, the entire roof of the ancient red brick building was taken up by the Neighborhood Garden. It had started as one man's retirement hobby but over time all the tenants had chipped in. Bane had been here once before, in the Spring when bright green decorative plants filled rows of pots, and where vegetables and flowers blazed brilliant in rows of crates filled with dirt. People all over the West Side came here to see it and have their spirits lifted.

Gone now. Everything was dead. Brown, lifeless brittle leaves drooped wherever he looked. It looked worse than the dead of winter when at least a few plants hung on.
As the Dire Wolf stared glumly at the ruin, he heard a footstep behind him. Not a threat. It was tentative, almost timid step coming up the stairs from the fifth floor below them.

Bane turned to see the stricken face of Benny Jack watching him. A short black man with a sparse beard and mustache, he normally had a warm smile and an almost serene manner. That was gone now, too.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am to see this," the Dire Wolf said. "What could have done it?"

"It's mah fault," answered Benny Jack. "Bad judgement on my part, I haveta take the blame. These two sharpies talked me into trying a new fertilizer spray, they claimed the big companies wouldn't allow it to be sold in stores because it worked too good. You can see they were liars."

Bane shook his head and moved down the row of earth-laden boxes where now nothing lived. "It looks like they sold you poison, Benny."

"Yeah. Guess so. I tried it on a few plants and they perked up remarkably spry. So I sprayed everything. For a week, this roof was a rainbow of growing living things. In this drab dull awful neighborhood, it was like... I dunno, an oasis in a wasteland."

"Benny, I'm looking for the men who sold you that spray. They've been victimizing people all over the city. Did they give you an address?"

"They said they was gonna be at the Paradise Hotel, not far away. You know it?"

"Yes. If they're there, I intend to bring them in and press charges for everything from fraud to illegal distribution of dangerous chemicals. If I can manage not to beat the hell out of them. Good luck, Benny."

As Bane hurried toward the covered stairs, he paused when Benny Jack spoke up again.

"This isn't the end," the man declared. "Goddam, every time I get knocked down, I get up again. The people in this building are already bringing up fresh earth and seeds and saplings. We'll build the Garden a second time."

Bane raised a hand in salute. "That's the spirit I like to see. I wouldn't expect less from a farmer." He rushed down the stairs, descended five flights and ran out of the dingy foyer like a real wolf trying to catch a rabbit.

At a brisk walk, Jeremy Bane covered distance more quickly than most people could run. Passersby stepped aside as they saw him hurtling toward, more than a few stared. Bane didn't care. He was surprised at how angry he was becoming. Considering how many tortured bodies and bloody carnage he had seen in a long career, for some reason he was increasingly furious over what Wickett and Thicke were doing.

He took a moment to stand in front of a used furniture store and took some deep calming breaths. One of Teacher Chael's first lessons had been to show how anger led to mistakes and mistakes led to defeat. Bane stared at the kitchen tables in the store window without seeing them and after a few minutes he felt more in control of himself.

At 17th Street, he swung left and jogged toward the Lower East Side. Even this part of the Bowery, once known as Skid Row, had been cleaned up considerably since its hellhole days. The Paradise Hotel still stood as sordid and disreputable as ever on a corner with a vacant lot strewn with debris next to it. Aside from the normal drug deals and prostitution and gang activities that might be expected, quite a few Midnight War battles had been secretly fought in those mildwed halls and tatty rooms. In fact, this had been a twenty-year-old Bane's first encounter decades ago with the shadowy world few people suspected. That Nekrosan sorcerer with the Growler, what had been his name? Yorick. After the Hamlet reference.

Bane crossed over and began slowly circling the block, coming completely around and standing in front of the entrance before repeating his route. At the rear of the hotel was a paved courtyard holding a rusted out pick-up truck and a pair of bicycles chained to a streetlamp. He came around again, and as he passed the Paradise, he spotted a curtain on a third floor window move. Hopefully, the old ruse was working.

Going past the courtyard, he slipped into a deep doorway of a pharmacy that had been closed and boarded up for years. How many desperate people had gone straight from that drugstore to get their fix in the hotel rooms nearby? How many had come out to buy or sell their pain pills? Bane saw the rear exit of the Paradise slam open and two exceedingly well-dressed men scrambled out. The bigger one was carrying a suitcase in each hand, the other only held a briefcase.

Before they could take three full steps, Bane had vaulted across the courtyard and smashed into the bigger man in a full flying tackle. They went down in a brief tangle, then the Dire Wolf sprang up again in time to trip the other man and send him to the asphalt as well.

"Hold it!" he snapped. "You boys have got a story to tell!"

"This is a rum go," answered the smaller man. He was up on his hands and knees, more offended than hurt. He even took a second to tug down his jacket and pull his jacket sleeves into place where they had ridden up.

Bane disregarded him for a second, Thicke was not the physical threat. Facing him was a wide-shouldered man several inches over six feet tall, with unusually large hands. The bowler hat had somehow remained planted on the impeccably cut brown hair. Letting go of the suitcases, Ian Wickett curled those big hands into fists and took a menacing step forward.

"Forget it," the Dire Wolf warned. "I know you're a Melgar. You're strong and hard to hurt, but it won't help you now."

Wickett rushed forward and was met with a high side kick to the chest that stopped him cold. The breath was driven out of his lungs with a gush. Closing in, Bane drove a left cross, right cross and left backhand that rocked the Melgar's head from side to side so his brain slid back and forth within his skull. The blows were sharp and crisp. Wickett dropped to one knee, still trying to raise his hands. Bane knelt over him and crashed an elbow to the back of the neck that would have killed a normal Human receiving it.

Wheeling around, the Dire Wolf pointed accusingly at the other grifter. "Stay where you are. No sneaking off."

Graham Thicke had a pleasant enough face, though the chin was weak and both ears unfortunately stood out from the skull. "I must say it brings me no joy to encounter you again. Have you run out of werewolves and serial killers to chase?"

"You two are bad enough," Bane said. "You heartless conmen! It doesn't bother you at all how many people you've made miserable?"

"A shrewd aphorism advises us to never smarten up a chump or give a sucker an even break. See here, old man. We are actually performing a valuable service. One learns prudence from sad experience. The customers we, ah, fleece end up wiser from the experience. You can see that, can't you?"

"Yeah. And if I break your jaw in a couple places, it'll heal up stronger."

Thicke visibly went pale at the threat. "Oh, well, if you're going to be unreasonable..."

Seeing from his peripheral vision that Wickett was rising, Bane stepped to one side. "Get over by your accomplice so I can watch you both of you. No, never mind the luggage right now."

A bit shakily, the big Melgar obeyed. "Sorry about that, sir," he said to his partner.

"Quite all right, Wickett," Thicke assured him. "Mr Bane here is a bit more proficient than the average person. But I say, what IS your grievance with us? You seem to be taking our game rather personally."

Bane remained where he was, arms folded across his chest. In the afternoon sunlight, his grey eyes flashed alarmingly bright and cold. "You boys have gotten hold of some Alchemical solutions."

"Well... yes. We happened to be visiting a chap named Agadol when he gave up the ghost. Went to join the choir invisible, one might say. The dear old thing was at least two hundred and looked it, so evidently even his Alchemy could not keep body and soul together any longer."

"I know Agadol. As Alchemists go, he wasn't that skilled at the Great Art. Mostly he made up love potions and good luck powders that sometimes worked but more often were useless or even harmful. So after he died, you two looted his workroom?"

"What an ungenerous phrase," Thicke said. "Certainly the departed had no further use for his miraculous creations. On the other hand, our coffers have been decidely anemic lately. Don't you think Agadol would have approved of our helping ourselves, Wickett? To remember him by?"

"Quite."

"Enough. Let's get some uniformed officers here to drive you jokers downtown for some questioning. I'm not arresting you. I am authorized to detain you on behalf of my client until law enforcement gets here." He reached to unclip his Link from its place on his belt.

"One moment, sir." Although Wickett used the subdued tones of a valet, his size and sheer presence gave him authority. "If I may say so, the grounds for arresting us seem insufficient. Are there any traces of the serums we allegedly sold to these gullible souls? Were any papers signed? Or even any witnesses? I think not. If through some unlikely train of events we should be brought to court, what can you present to a judge?"

"Oh, jolly good, old thing," said Thicke. "Well put."

"I'll search your suitcases over there," Bane growled. "That should produce some evidence."

"Sir, that would invalidate any charges you might have in mind," the big Melgar objected in a maddeningly humble tone. "Even as a licensed investigator, you have no authority to rummage through personal belongings. Those grips are locked. I'm afraid your best recourse is to allow us to depart with a stern menacing warning."

"I sometimes suspect you are the true brains of our partnership, Wickett."

"I should not dispute such an insight, sir."

The Dire Wolf raised a hand toward the suitcases. "Pick them up, Wickett. I'm going to flag down a taxi. You guys have seen me move a few times now. You know I can tag both of you if you run in different directions and drag you around like sacks of laundry. So nothing cute."

"How tedious," Thicke grumbled. "Mr Bane, you can be very common."

"Whatever works." The Dire Wolf waved as a yellow cab approached and the driver slid open to the curb. "Thicke, get in front. Wickett, in back with me. I don't want you behind me or close to the wheel for any tricks. Let's go. As they settled themselves, he said to the driver, "Take us to the Shultis Spa by Rockefeller Center."

"I know that place," the cabbie acknowledged. "Meter's running."

IV.

Having phoned ahead, Bane was met at the entrance by three exceptionally huge and intimidating men in dark suits, wearing opaque sunglasses. They kept watchful eyes on Wickett and Thicke as the two exited, then nodded to the Dire Wolf.

"Mr Shultis sent us in case you needed any assistance," said the largest guard. He was a very dark black man with a nearly shaven head and a slight hint of a French accent. For a second, his grim mannerisms slipped. "Although from what I know of you, I doubt you need help."

Bane said nothing, still fighting his own temper. All six men marched through a crowded lobby and entered another private elevator built into the side of a marble pillar in one corner. Considering the bulk of the three guards and of Wickett, it was a squeeze to cram everyone in for a single trip.

Neither assistant was to be seen in Shultis' imperial office. The broken old man sat in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap. As the party arrived, Shultis told Bane, "Well, that was snappy. I was dreading an investigation that would drag on forver."

"I do my best," said the Dire Wolf.

"This is rather dodgy," Thicke objected. "I don't know Methuselah here from my childhood nanny. Where is the customer we allegedly, and I stress the word, allegedly took advantage of?"

"You fool! You damned simpering spoiled upper class brat! Can't you see that I am Jacob Shultis? This is what your poison did to me."

Bane was scrutinizing both grifters intently as the situation sank in. Everything from pupil dilation to tautness in the neck muscles to how deep the intake of breath lasted, added up. Shultis' decrepitude was news to them. There was a remote chance that both men were consummate actors but he dismissed that. Thicke was dim enough that he couldn't fake a reaction that would feel a toddler.

Wickett and Thicke exchanged stupefied glances. Even the big Melgar's stoic face showed shock. Then they both turn to face Bane's enraged glare.

"Not only have you aged this man twenty years, you hurt everyone else you sold your Alchemy gunk to," the Dire Wolf announced. "Aside from Shultis here, there was the Neighborhood Garden that you poisoned and Papa Ferraro's new Mercedes that you totaled. Who else?"

"No one, I swear!" burst from Thicke but he instantly recanted. "No, wait. Last night, that charming young gel purchased the weight loss lotion. Agadol had it marked as 'thinnerer' on the label."

"Give me her number!" Bane roared in a tone he seldom used. Even the tough guards gave a start, and Thicke immediately rattled off the information.

Yanking out his Link, the Dire Wolf luckily had his call answered. "Hello? Listen closely please, this is a medical emergency. That weight loss lotion you bought yesterday, have you applied it? No? Not even a little bit? Thank God. Miss, I must urge you to place it far out of reach until someone can arrive to destroy it. It's poison. Yes. I'm completely serious. The men who sold it are frauds who are their way to prison."

"Steady on, Bane," Thicke protested.

Ignoring the man, the Dire Wolf continued. "Yes. I'm a private investigator on this fraud case. You can reach me at the number of my call. All right. You're lucky all right, you ducked a bullet this time." Bane broke the connection and swung his murderous gaze on the two men. "Anyone else?"

"No, no, not at all." Thicke cringed before the expression of those grey eyes, which had unsettled men much more hardened than he was.

"That was indeed the full extent of our sales," added Wickett.

"Lucky for you! If that woman had turned into a sort of concentration camp victim, I don't think your lives would last another minute. I'm claiming your luggage, I'll dispose of any Alchemy that might be hidden in it. That's why I'm also going to search you both."

"Oh, I hardly think so..." began Thicke.

"Neither of you can risk a meeting with the police," Bane told them. "Wickett, whatever your real name is, you're a Melgar from Androval. Any ID you may have bought would be exposed as fake easily enough. And Thicke, you have outstanding warrants in your name across a few states. You can't go to the cops over anything we do any more than we can drag you to them."

"Oh, jolly good, we'll be on our way then." Thicke turned toward the elevator door and froze at the gleeful anticipation of violence on the guards' faces. "Tush, what is this? It's in everyone's interest to dismiss us and leave this unfortunate episode behind us. Don't let's linger on the past."

Bane sighed. "Mr Shultis, you've suffered the most. What do you think should happen to Wickett and Thicke?"

The dilapidated wreck in the wheelchair wheezed and coughed before answering. "I have never been involved with murder, it's a mortal sin. I'm tempted to have their bodies weighted and dropped in the Hudson, but no... If they can't be thrown behind bars, they should at least be punished somehow. Ajax, Sean, Ned, would you have any problem breaking their knees and elbows?"

"Not at all, sir," was the instant reply. A second guard added, "We could leave them flopping around way out in Jersey if you like."

At this point, Graham Thicke rolled his eyes up so the whites showed and sagged limply to the carpeting. Wickett was far enough out of reach that he reached his partner to late to break the fall.

"Never saw a healthy young man up and faint like that," Shultis cackled. "Pitiful. What a weakling."

"He'll be fine. Thicke has always been a drama queen." Bane watched at the Melgar helped his groggy partner up onto the couch. "I think I have a plan, if you go along with it, Mr Shultis."

"Why not? You've handled this satisfactorily so far."

"I'm going to confiscate everything these two low-lives have on them. Cash, keys, breath mints, whatever. Even search the lining of their clothes and inside their shoes. I want to make sure they don't have any more Alchemical junk hidden inside a lighter or something. And I'm sure they're carrying some credit cards that belong to other people."

"You wound my pride," muttered Thicke, who was loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. "I question your breeding."

"Then I'm going to place them on a Greyhound to some dismal city. Detroit maybe, or Gary, Indiana. They'll survive a day without food. And if they know what's good for them, they'll never cross my line of sight again. If you think your guards would agree, Mt Shultis, I'd like having one of them accompany these two to make sure they don't get off early. He can return here the same way."

"I'd be glad to do it, sir," volunteered the black man promptly. "It breaks my heart to see you this way. Maybe they'll try to make a run for it. I'd be forced to, well, hurt them a little."

"That would be a shame," added a second guard.

"Very well. Go ahead. You're on the expense account during the trip, Ajax, find the best meals you can on the way back. Now, Mr Bane, have you anything else to suggest?"

"Yeah, there is one thing, now that I think of it. Can you swing buying a new Mercedes for someone? These dogs wrecked a beautiful car that a man broke his back to save up for."

"Done and done," Shultis replied. "It'll be it here tomorrow by noon. You can pick it up, just get me the necessary information to transfer title to your friend. One of my lawyers will handle the paperwork."

"Then that ends this case on the best note we can manage," Bane said. "I only wish we could restore you to your natural age."

Shultis laughed, which made him wheeze for a minute before he could continue. "Hell, it's my own fault, son for being rash. I've always learned the hard way every time!"

10/7/2021