dochermes

"Running Out of Thrills"

4/1-4/29/1999

I.


Exactly at midnight, the last of the four Adrenalati took his chair at the elegant green baize-covered card table. The others sat nursing their drinks, while one drew deeply on a clove cigarette before snuffing it out in a crystal ashtray. Cards were scattered on the table, but that was just for appearances. None of them cared about gambling anymore. They had reached new depths of being jaded even for the wealthy. Around them, the furnishings had cost fortunes, from the heavy maroon drapery to the marble counters to the genuine paintings by Kruipshank and LeDroit. None of this mattered to them at this point. Their pulses were only made rapid over something wicked.

As Ellsworth Eberhardt pulled out his King Francis era chair and took his seat at the head of the table, he was as impeccably dressed as ever. His white dinner jacket was tailored precisely, he seemed so clean-shaven and well-groomed that it was as if he had just stepped from a salon into the meeting room. Eberthardt was tall, slim, in his early fifties. The crisp brown hair had a sprinkling of white throughout it, the long face smiled at his friends with barely repressed glee. He picked up his bourbon on the rocks, sniffed it thoughtfully and took a long sip. "Everything went perfectly," he drawled. "The clueless police will be scratching their pointed heads."

Sitting to his left, the wide bulk of Mike Meade shifted restlessly. Despite the expensive clothing and the careful preparation, he still had a rough, unpolished look to him. Meade had started on the streets, son of immigrants who lived in the back of their deli and saved each coin to send their son to a good school. Recruited by ROTC, rising quickly to lieutenant in the Army, Meade had gone back to college after his tour of duty and had prospered in business. With his lantern jaw and flat nose, deepset brown eyes under heavy brows, he was intimidating without effort.

Meade watched their leader with a vague hostility. Ellsworth Eberthard had grown up with servants and every advantage on Martha's Vineyard. To be fair, he was a genius in computer design and troubleshooting and he had made his own millions. Meade had to admit the Adrenalate's leader deserved to be where he was. He made no answer but merely nodded.

It was Emilie who spoke in her low husky voice. "You were right. That was the first real jolt of life I've felt in weeks." A slender ash blonde with delicate features, Emilie Keyser wore a strapless burgundy dress and a simple turquoise and silver chain around her neck. She was watching Eberhardt with new appreciation. "The idea that I might get caught arrested, that was exciting! I believe you have found the solution to our, shall we say, ennui?"

"You and your word of the day," scoffed her brother. Emilie was just under thirty, while Kenny was five years younger. There was not much family resemblance. Both had light blonde hair, cloudy blue eyes and fine features. But the insolence and disrepect in Kenny's expression could not be concealed for long. He wore a neat dark grey suit, with matching vest and thin black tie over a crisp white shirt, but he alone did not seem at ease in it. "It was a real kick, Ellsworth. Just as you promised. And kicks keep getting harder to find."

"I am so glad to hear that," said their leader. "And the tokens of your misdeeds?"

Each placed an object on the card table. Mike Meade's token was a platinum cigarette lighter, Emilie's was a thin new leather billfold. Her brother Kenny bounced a steel money clip holding a thick wad of fifties. Leaning forward, smirking despite his best efforts, Eberthardt dropped a pair of rectangular emerald earrings trimmed in fine gold wire on the table.

"Now I'm impressed," Kenny chuckled. "How'd you do that without her noticing?"

"When you're a little older, I will tell you. Our first sins are petty, as you can see, but we will escalate quickly. Before we end the game, the sheep of this city will be looking over theirs shoulders in raw terror." He raised his tumbler in a gesture of salute. "My dear friends, the most exclusive club in Manhattan meets tonight to plan our next outrage. To the Adrenalati!"

They all raised their glasses. "The Adrenalati!"

( the rest of the story )

"Tournament of Psychos"

4/17-4/19/1993

I.

At best, Jeremy Bane was restless and jumpy. Having to wait for an appointment was getting on his nerves badly. The morning seemed to drag on forever. The Dire Wolf circled his office over and over, hands clasped behind him. He straightened the mess of old newspapers on the coffee table in front of the couch. He dusted the bookshelves with a rag. He checked the condition of the bizarre creatures from Ulgor for the third time. In the five foot high tank, the water bubbled clear and the food flakes had been gobbled up.

The starfish with one red eye in its center, the fanged sea horse, the hermit crabs who seemed to be building a tunnel in the colored gravel using their saliva as glue... all were fine. He smiled back at the baleful stare that the starfish fixed on him.

On the wall behind his desk was a gorgous handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937. That was the year Kenneth Dred had purchased this building. Now Bane had inherited it all. Along with his lover and partner Cindy Brunner, Bane was carrying on Dred's Midnight War work.

In his early forties, the Dire Wolf was a tall lean figure all in black. The elevated metabolism which gave him his superior reflexes also filled him with excess vitality that made it difficult for him to sit still at all.

The phone on his desk rang. Bane lunged for it as if it was going to explode but managed to keep his voice calm. "Hello."

Ah, Mr Bane," said a refined middle-aged voice. "Cameron Eckhardt here. I'm on my way. I should be at your residence shortly."

"Fine. 28 East 38th Street, remember. I'll be here."

"Excellent." With a click, the connection was broken off.

Bane hung up and then called Cindy up in her rooms on the third floor. "Hey, that guy Eckhardt just phoned. He's coming here now. Did you find out any more about him?"

"No, nothing sinister, I'm afraid," answered her husky voice. "We know he's a civilian profiler who sometimes works with the FBI. He's written three books and a dozen articles on the subject of serial killers. Divorced, no children, taught a class in abnormal psychology at Columbia for six years."

"I don't know why I'm so doubtful about him. Maybe I'm just suspicious of everyone."

"With the life you've led, that's not surprising. I'm glad you turned out as positive as you have."

"Maybe your telepathy would be helpful," Bane said. "Do you want to come down and check his mind out? Without him catching on?"

"No, no," came the voice he knew best in life. "Listen, hon, you want to sharpen your detective skills. The Dire Wolf Agency has been picking up cases lately. Here's your chance. I'm gonna dig into some Jane Austen until he's gone."

"You're right," Bane reluctantly conceded. "If I rely on your gift, I'll never develop observation and deduction."

"Remember all the tips Mike gave you," she said. There was a click as she signed off.

In fact, the Dire Wolf often drew on the lessons his late friend had patiently instilled in him. Michael Hawk had been raised from childhood to be a world-class criminologist and investigator, and he had tried to steer Bane in that direction. To be honest, Bane admitted he did not have the patience nor the thoroughness to fully analyze clues. He was not the genius Hawk had been. Bane's strength was in his combat skills and his tenacity. When it came to confrontation with the creatures of the night, he was in his element.

As always, Bane was wearing his trademark uniform of black slacks and turtleneck, with the sport jacket he now tugged on. Sheathed under his sleeves were the matched silver-bladed daggers that were his most valued weapons. Even as he headed out into the front hall, the doorbell rang.

Standing to the side of the inner door, the Dire Wolf slid a wooden panel aside to reveal a monitor screen and its controls. He pressed the button to unlock the outer door and said into a speaker, "Good morning. I'll be right with you."

In the small foyer beyond, the caller waited for a few seconds while advanced Trom sensors analyzed him more thoroughly than any CAT scan or MRI could. On the monitor screen, Bane read the green figures and numbers which unscrolled. The visitor had no metal on him larger than a set of keys. There was no chemical signature for any of the known explosives or poisons. Height, weight, biological age, hair and eye color, heartbeat and blood pressure, all were revealed.

Cameron Eckhardt was not in the fully detailed KDF data banks, but the statistics all matched. This man was twelve pounds heavier than the weight listed in the files but that meant nothing. People in middle age did put on weight or simply announced their weight as less than the truth out of vanity.

Satisfied for the moment, Bane closed down the sensors and slid the panel shut again. He opened the inner door and gestured for his visitor to enter. "Come right in," he said, shaking the hand that was offered.

Eckhardt removed his heavy coat and Bane politely took it to hang upon a series of hooks. They headed toward the office as the Dire Wolf summed up his impressions. Dr Cameron Eckhardt was a well-toned, healthy man in his late fifties. He moved well, with no limp or uncertainty. Dark hair was brushed back from a high forehead, and the stolid face showed serious eyes and a bulldog trap of a mouth.

He held a slim black leather attache case, but the Trom sensors had shown nothing in it but papers and some pens. When they entered the office, Bane motioned for Eckhardt to take one of the plain wooden chairs in front of the desk while he himself circled around to take his own seat facing the man.

"So. Dr Eckhardt," Bane began without any pleasantries. "I understand you're a profiler. You work as a consultant with the FBI but you are not an agent yourself. Is that right?"

"Exactly," answered a cool, restrained voice. "After the success of my two books, I was approached by the Bureau to lend what assistance and suggestions I can. I have thankfully been some help in locating serial killers. Not only am I paid for my work, I can then use the experiences as material for my books. Mr Bane, do you know there's a file on you?"

"Yeah, I would think so." He did not say it, but through devious means Bane had already read a copy of his file without the FBI being aware of it. Having friends with extrahuman abilities was sometimes immensely helpful.

"I daresay you could request a copy through the Freedom of Information act," Eckhardt said. "But that is not what I have come to discuss with you."

Bane allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch the corners of his mouth.

"I don't quite know what to make of the ahem, supernatural events you are reported to have been part of. That is not my area. But I am greatly impressed with the level of maniacs you have successfully captured or who disappeared mysteriously after confronting you. Seneca. Golgora. The Slaughterman. Seth Petrov. I sometimes think you must have an untrained knack for profiling yourself."

The Dire Wolf shook his head. "I don't think so. As I understand it, your approach is to try to put yourself in the killer's mind, to see things from his viewpoint. That way, you can predict his next move. That right?"

"In a simplified way," Eckhardt said.

"I certainly do not want to start thinking like the maniacs I'm chasing. To see things the way Quilt does...? No, thanks. Dr Eckhardt, it seems to me there's some risk in your method. I have to wonder if maybe that viewpoint might rub off on you."

"To be honest, that is a hazard of the profession," Eckhardt admitted. "Typically, a professional profiler only works the field for a limited number of years before being rotated to less demanding duties. But there's little choice. These murderers must be apprehended and since profiling works, we use it."

"Let's get to business," Bane abruptly shifted gears. "What exactly brings you to see me, doctor?"

Opening his attache case, Eckhardt took out a map and unfolded it on the desk. It showed the northeast United States with a pattern of tiny red, green and black Xs across New York, Connecticut and Pennsylvania. At even first glance, the Xs were converging in a loose spiral toward New York City.

"You see here something new," the profiler intoned ominously, "Something I have never found in the annals of crime."

Bane leaned forward and scrutinized the map. "Let me start with the idea that each X represents a murder. Is that right? Okay. Each state has mostly marks of the same color, but there are a few exceptions." He swung that startling grey eyes up so fast that Eckhardt winced involuntarily. "There are three killers, is that it?"

"That's my conclusion," the profiler said. "Samhain. Dr Sabbath. Charlie Pantera. All active in what should be each other's exclusive territory. They're have a sort of competition."

"A tournament of pyschos," Bane growled. "Quick, I need a timeline. When did these murders start? How are they spaced?"

"I have that on a separate sheet, as well as details of each crime," Eckhardt said as he pulled out sheafs of documents clipped together. "The first one we can identify took place last December. The most recent was Tuesday... three days ago."

Bane was engrossed in the map. "Samhain. Again! How the hell can that monster still be alive? I saw him take four bullets in the face and then he fell off the Tappan Zee Bridge into the Hudson in midwinter." The Dire Wolf did not mention that he had been the person firing those shots.

"No one knows," Eckhardt shrugged. "The man called Saimhain has been reported killed at least four times that I know of. Yet he keeps coming back. You see why I feel your experience in the uh, paranormal is called for."

Bane was going through the documents. "This Charlie Pantera is a new one to me."

"Oh yes. He's from west Texas, a Mexican boy not more than twenty. Evidently he is only starting his pattern. He believe his murdered his family in a fire and left a charred body intended to be taken for him. Not a very good job. The corpse was two inches taller than Pantera. And Dr Sabbath, I assume you know about him?"

"By reputation," Bane said. "I haven't tangled with him yet. This is the most outrageous thing I've seen in years. These three pyschos seem to making their way toward a meeting, leaving victims along the way. Are they going to brag and compare body counts with each other?"

"I believe so. Mr Bane, the FBI and the State Police are already on full alert and have called in as much manpower as they can. No one wants the public to go into a panic by finding out about these three. I obtained permission to bring you in on this, if you are interested."

The Dire Wolf snapped those pale eyes up at his visitor. "Is Department 21 Black in on this?"

"Yes. I meet with a liaison from that department regularly," said Eckhardt. "You understand, I am not a man of action. I'm an author and lecturer, I've never even drawn a gun on anyone. But your reputation from fighting the creatures of the night is legendary. I might be able to locate these criminals but you are the one who can face them on equal terms."

Studying the map, Bane did not answer immediately. "Yes. Of course. I need all the facts you can supply, doctor. Dates, places, photos. Any police reports you can clear. I assume you've worked up a timeline?"

"First, there is the matter of your fee," the profiler said. "21 Black has promised to reimburse me for any expenses during the duration of this case."

The Dire Wolf glanced up again and the impact of those grey eyes was so forceful that even Eckhardt gave a start. "All right. I'll charge a flat one thousand dollars. With you as a client, we will have certain confidentiality conditions from the cops." He folded up the map almost reluctantly. "Let's get started. Do you want some coffee? Tea?"

"No thank you."

Bane opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a red leather ledger. "Make the check out to 'Dire Wolf Agency' and I'll write a receipt. Then we can get this hunt started...."

II.
( the rest of the story )

"The Astronomy Murders"

10/23-10/25/1992

I.

When the front doorbell rang, Bane glanced up in surprise at the wall clock. Six minutes after eight o'clock. He had only taken his seat behind the massive oaken desk in his office a few seconds earlier. Dr Burnley was calling early indeed.

Striding quickly out into the front hall, the Dire Wolf moved with his normal urgency. He was a tall gaunt man in his mid-thirties, dressed as always all in black.. slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Beneath heavy black brows were a pair of pale grey eyes that were never at rest. His excess nervous energy kept him always restless even when he needed to be still.

Standing by the front door, he slid open a wooden panel to reveal a monitor screen which was already lighting up. Bane pressed a button which opened the outer street door and said, "Please come right in. I'll be with you in a moment."

The monitor screen showed the interior of waiting room, barely large enough for three people at a time. Dr Peter Burnley of NYU was a heavyset man of average height, well-dressed in a brown business suit. No ID came up for him on the screen, which meant he had no criminal record either with the FBI or the NYPD. Advanced Trom sensors buzzed and hummed, taking readings more detailed than any hospital equipment could.

Everything matched what Bane had been able to find out about Burnley. The age and height and coloring of hair and eyes were right. The face passed the recognition process compared to a picture Bane had scanned in from an old issue of DISCOVER magazine. No sign of a gun or knife, no chemical signature of poisons or explosives.

For the moment, he was prepared to accept that this was the same man who had called him the night before to make an appointment.

Closing the panel back over the monitor, Bane moved over and swung the inner door open to usher his visitor inside. "Good morning. Dr Burnley? I'm Jeremy Bane."

The man held out a hand and Bane shook it agreebly enough. "Oh, I'm glad you're here. I must apologize for calling on you so early in the morning...."

"That's all right." Bane led the astronomer across the hall to his office. This was a long narrow room with minimal furnishings. His oak desk sat against one wall beneath a gorgeous handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937.

The Dire Wolf touched a chair to indicate Burnley should sit in front of the desk, then walked around to his own seat facing the man.
"You sounded agitated last night. You still seem worked up. What's the problem?"

Looking quickly around the room, Burnley took a few deep calming breaths before beginning. "I happen to have known about you already, Mr Bane. You're listed in the phone book under this Dire Wolf Agency as a Private Investigator but until a year or two ago, you were known better for your work in the Midnight War... you lead a team of Tel Shai knights known as the Kenneth Dred Foundation."

"Really," said Bane. "That's not exactly knowledge the general public has heard about."

"I know a little about the Midnight War. I'm an atheist and very skeptical by nature but I've always had an interest in the occult. Call it a hobby. I've read quite a bit about you, Mr Bane."

"Naturally, I did some basic research myself about you since your call," Bane replied. "You're known as the leading expert on Uranus. Not the most exciting planet, if you ask me. No rings like Saturn, no evil monsters like Mars..."

Burnley laughed politely at that. "Uranus has its points of interest, sir. I believe its real story has yet to be told. In two years, the Tycho probe will circle it and I will have more information to work with."

"Anyway, you seem to be free of any scandals or connection with crime of any sort," Bane said. "So what is it that brings you to me?"

"It's fear! Awful fear like I never knew before." Burnley leaned forward and searched Bane's face with obvious distress. "I'm afraid of being murdered because two of my colleagues have been. Perhaps I should go back a bit."

"Sure," said Bane. "Take your time. Give me all the details."

"Very well. In August, a man named Paul Fouchet died in Montreal. He was known for his correction of suspected perturbations in the orbit of Mercury. He was found in his car after having been missing for two days. The autopsy showed he had been murdered in particularly horrible way. He had been held down while mercury was poured into his ear!"

"That IS nasty."

"Then came the second death," continued Burnley. "On September 12th. A man in Northern California was killed and his body left in the woods near his house. Vincent Andruzzi, quite young but a promising researcher. He had done some fine work on the Martian symposium the year before. His area of knowledge was about possible life forms on Mars millions of years ago. Poor Andruzzi was found lying on his back. Next to him had been left a round Roman-style gladiator shield. Stuck right in his chest was a short spear."

Bane's eyes lit with a feral gleam as his interest sparked. "Oh. I see. Mars, the Roman god of war, right? His symbol was a shield with a spear point at the upper corner. Someone killed two astronomers in symbolic ways. Yeah, I can see why you'd be apprehensive."

"Apprehensive..?!" yelped the man. "Terrified is more like it. The planetary sciences have many researchers and scholars but, not to be modest, only a dozen or so of us are in the top rank. I'm one of them. All my adult life, I have dedicated my energies to increasing knowledge. If top planetary experts are being targeted, then I am very likely on the list."

"I assume you've already gone to the police?" asked Bane.

"And I got nowehere! They were polite but didn't seem interested. From what I overhead outside the room where I was sitting, the police don't think the two deaths are connected. All they wanted to talk about was some sort territory dispute between drug gangs..."

"Sounds like the NYPD," the Dire Wolf said. "Not much imagination. What's your home life like?"

"Oh, I live alone since Nora-- my wife-- died a few years ago. A cleaning service comes in on Wednesdays. Mr Bane, I don't own a gun. I've never been in a real fight. I'm sixty-three and out of shape. If I was attacked by a determined young man, I have to admit I'd be an easy victim."

Bane raised a hand reassuringly. "Coming to me was a good step to take, doctor. Tell me, do you have enemies in the field of astronomy? Is there maybe a jealous rival? A disgraced scientist who wanted revenge against you?"

"Lord, no. We're a community of meek, scholarly bookworms. The firecest we ever get is firing off a strongly worded letter to an editor. There aren't many face to face meetings between us, just reading each others' published papers and maybe a few going to the same lecture once a year."

Despite the situation, Bane could not hide a faint smile at Burnley's dismay. "People are full of surprises. Stamp collectors and glass blowers have commited gruesome murders of each other. Librarians have been killed over chewing gum. You can't point me toward any likely suspect in your field, then?"

"No. The idea never even occured to me."

"Any romantic tangles between these men and their wives or girlfriends? Anyone competing for a job or lose a promotion they wanted?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Mr Bane, these men worked in specialized areas and had nothing in common, really. It would be like a heart surgeon feuding with an architect. I doubt if any of these fellows ever actually met."

The Dire Wolf dropped that line of thought. "It was a month between the deaths, and about a month has passed since the last one."

"Oh, that has been preying on my mind, too." Burnley leaned forward and his voice became pleading. "Will you take me as a client, Mr Bane? I have heard so much about you. I'm comfortably well off, perhaps a fee of ten thousand dollars would be appropriate?"

"Yes. I will undertake to protect you from this unknown killer and to bring him in."

"What a relief. Of course I want to live. In another two years, the NASA probe will reach Jupiter and I will finally have enough information to work on. Here, let me get my checkbook out.

Watching him fumble with the pen, Bane said, "I have your address at a house in Forrest Hills over in Queens. 1219 Fluegel Street. Is that right?"

"Yes, I'll give you my phone number, too. I should make this out to you by name?"

"Or to Dire Wolf Agency, either is fine. But hold off a second." Bane fixed those pale eyes on the man as if searching for falsehood. "Dr Burnley, two detectives I know will go out there to watch the area while I search for the perp. They are both solid, veteran investigators that I've worked with for years. Sam Simek and Artie Rosen."

"But I hoped you would be directly involved?"

"Absolutely," Bane said. "I will be on this case full time. But I want two men to protect you. When I nail the killer, you'll be the first to know. Make out my retainer for one thousand dollars even."

"Really?" asked Burnley, pen raised. "I have to say that seems reasonable."

"It's a formality," Bane told the man. "With you as an official client, I have certain rights when dealing with the police and their questions." He took a wide red leather ledger from the middle drawer of his desk and wrote out a receipt, then tucked Burnley's check away. "There. Hold on to that for your tax records. What's your schedule for the next few days?"

Dr Burnley examined the receipt with interest before folding it into his checkbook. "Ah. Well, I have a meeting with my literary agent at Fifth Avenue. I expect that will take all day, with a long lunch and a few drinks. Most likely, I will be getting home around five or five-thirty."

"Fine. My men will be waiting. You're in good hands, Dr Burnley."

Standing up, the astronomer allowed Bane to escort him to the front door. "You know, I feel like I made the right choice coming to you. You seem so confident."

"You're under my protection now," the Dire Wolf said. "I promise, everything will be all right." But behind the reassuring words, Bane felt an unsettling alarm over his suspicions. He thought he knew who was behind these killings.

( the rest of the story )

"Indigo the Illusionist"

11/21/1994

The doorbell rang. Jeremy Bane turned with one foot on the stairs and raised an eyebrow. He had been planning on a workout in the gym on the seventh floor and he had no appointments. This might be much more interesting.

Bane was a gaunt, dangerous-looking man with short black hair and intimidating pale grey eyes. He was wearing his usual uniform of black slacks and long-sleeved turtleneck, but the sport jacket had been left in his office for the moment. As the bell rang again, he strode quickly to the door and thumbed the intercom button. "I'll be there in a second," he said, and heard a familiar gruff voice reply, "Fine."

Swinging open a wooden panel set at eye level, he activated the monitor screen and saw what the street camera was sending. He studied the two people standing on the steps outside. One was a frequent visitor, a short, dark man with grizzled curly hair and a thick unlit cigar clamped in a bulldog mouth. Inspector Harold Klein. He did not recognize the other man. The Dire Wolf hit a button on the control panel that opened the outer door and said, "Come in."

The two visitors stepped into a vestibule that was just big enough to hold them and maybe one other person. There was a bench, a shelf with a ceramic lamp and some magazines, and an oil painting on the wall of Kenneth Dred himself. For twenty seconds, there was faint buzzing and humming noises as advanced Trom sensors scanned the men more thoroughly than any CAT scan or MRI. Bane saw that Klein was carrying his usual Smith & Wesson Detective Special, handcuffs, folding jackknife. The other man did not have anything resembling a weapon, analysis showed no unusual chemical signature and the yellow letters flashed ID UNCONFIRMED. So he wasn't listed in any files that the KDF had tapped into.

Bane closed the panel with a click and opened the inner door. "Morning, Inspector."

"Hiya Bane," came the reply in a real New York City accent. He kept his beige raincoat on, as he did even on the hottest days and as he had done since it had been new and white, but his companion shrugged out his heavy topcoat. Bane took the coat and hung it on the rack to the left as one faced the door.

"Got any cases on the fire?" Klein asked.

"It's been slow lately. Back in the old days, there'd be bodies all over this place."

( the rest of the story )

"Inksane"

10/6-10/9/1999


I.

Jeremy Bane paid the taxi driver and stepped onto the sidewalk where a uniformed officer was watching him suspiciously. Another cop stood just inside the revolnving door to the lobby of the Weissbach Towers on 83rd Street, also giving the Dire Wolf an unfriendly gaze. Bane hardly noticed. He was used to the NYPD being divided about his role as a freelance investigator into gruesome murders and inexplicable crimes, half the police welcomed his help and half resented him bitterly. As long as they kept out of his way, he didn't care one way or the other.

At forty, Bane was a gaunt six-footer who moved with restless energy he could barely contain. As usual, he was dressed all in black- slacks,turtleneck and sport jacket, and the somber outfit made the pale grey of his eyes stand out even more vividly. Stepping toward the officer in the doorway, Bane asked quietly, "You realize Inspector Klein asked me to come here?"

The cop had a sullen Italian face with a heavy five-o'clock shadow, and he glared at Bane before relenting and being professional. "Yes, sir," he said after a barely perceptible hesitation. "The inspector is waiting for you." He turned sideways.

As he pushed through the revolving doorway, the Dire Wolf muttered, "Thanks."

The lobby was impressive enough, marble and dark wood with chrome trim here and there but it was deserted. No one sat in the overstuffed armchairs, no one loitered by the phone booths. The clerk behind the reception desk was a frail-looking older man in a red jacket, staring down at his clasped hands in front of him. Leaning with one elbow on that desk was a short stocky man in an off-white raincoat he wore no matter what the weather. Inspector Harold Klein's curly hair had gone completely grey and his face was furrowed with stress lines from a career in Homicide, but he still managed a wry grin as he spotted his visitor.

"Hiya, Bane," he called out. "Got a lulu for you this time. Sorry the remains have already been wheeled away but I couldn't reach you."

"Fill me in, Klein. What makes this a Midnight War case?"

The Inspector brought Bane to one corner of the lobby and pointed a thick finger at a closed door. "Still lots of blood all over in there. That's a meeting room for building personnel. Table, chairs, coffee machine, about what you'd expect. At nine-twenty this morning, a joker named Jan Molenaar went in there. He was an attorney for Weissbach Towers and he said he needed to review some papers in privacy. A minute later, our suspect barged in and slammed the door behind him. The desk clerk heard what he describes as terrifying screams and then the suspect hurried out of the room across the lobby into the street." Klein glanced over at the man behind the desk, "The clerk, his name is Burgess by the way, took a peek inside and damn near had a heart attack. Fell right down. He got hold of himself enough to call the police but he was hyperventilating and they almost insisted on taking him to the hospital for panic attack. He seems to have settled down for now but I wouldn't make any loud noises around him for a while."

The Dire Wolf saw the clerk staring nervously at them and he gave the man what he intended to be a reassuring smile. "So, what did he see that shook him up like that?"

"Molenaar was in pieces. His head and his arms and legs had been pulled off by hand. Quite a mess. That takes a little bit more strength than the average Joe off the street could manage."

"I bet." Bane was staring at the door, as if aching to look inside. "Was the suspect a big weightlifter guy?"

"Nah, that's what clinched me calling you in. Clerk says the killer was just a kid, maybe twenty or twenty-one, skinny college student type. Good-looking, well-dressed. Except for the blood all over him when he left."

The Dire Wolf suddenly had a distinct predatory gleam in his eyes. He seemed almost about to smile. "Oh, that's interesting. This suspect, did he have curly blonde hair and a deeply cleft chin?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he did." Klein leaned closer. "Seems like maybe you know him."

"I thought he had gone to the West Coast but apparently not. This is a real world-class psycho we're hunting, Inspector, right up there with Samhain and Golgora. Now he's back in New York, and this time I swear I'll nail him."

"What are you trying to do, tease me? Gimme a name, buddy."

"His legal name is Martin Leiber, but in Midnight War, he's called Inksane."

( the rest of the story )

"Just Another Crisis"

11/3-11/9/1993

I.


Late on a winter day, when shadows stretched in elongated caricatures across the ground, a stocky man in a long white coat got out of his new Honda Accord and closed the door silently. By the side of the road was a phone booth next to a power pole. Harold Craft entered the booth, and as he pulled its folding door shut, the interior light went on. A directory was fastened by a thin chain to its metal shelf. Craft surveyed the area suspiciously and waited until a pick-up truck going by passed out of sight.

Harold Craft looked as if he would be near sixty, well-dressed in a tan suit with dark brown tie that matched his short hair and deepset eyes. Satisfied he was not being observed, he dug at the spine of the phone book until the back cover peeled apart and revealed an 4x5 sheet of stiff paper. Now he had to read quickly. As the specially treated paper was exposed to air, letters in bright blue ink appeared but he knew they would only be visible for under a minute.

ASSIGNMENT FOR S.I.G. AUTHORIZATION: DIADEM. SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO
ACCEPT, YOU ARE TO ARRANGE FOR JEREMY BANE AKA DIRE WOLF, 28 EAST
38TH STREET NYC NY TO BE DISGRACED AND HIS PI LICENSE REVOKED TO
END HIS VIGILANTE ACTIVITIES. USE ANY MEANS NECESSARY. GOOD LUCK.

Craft retained the message the first time he read it, he had twenty years of training in spytrade, but he went through it again just as the blue letters faded and were gone. There was no way to make the message reappear, but he carefully folded the paper into a tiny square and started chewing on it. After a few minutes of pretending to thumb through the phone book, he left the booth and returned to his car. A mile down the highway, Craft wound down the window and spat the gummy wad to the road. His mind was turning over a hundred possible plans and rejecting them one after the other.

An hour later, he was pulling up to the house on the hill overlooking the Palisades. His home was a quiet red brick structure with an attached two-car garage and a back yard that blended into woods. Driving up to the garage, he pressed a button on his dashboard and the reinforced steel door slid smoothly up to admit him. It lowered again automatically as he got out and went through a door into the kitchen of his home.

Harold Craft had a den, with comfortable easy chairs and reading tables. Bookshelves lined the walls except for the full stocked bar. He glanced longingly at the decanter of Hennessy but regretfully had to put business first. Tossing his topcoat over a table, he dropped down into an overstuffed chair and sighed. A notepad and pen were at hand and he settled back to go through names in his mind.

Nothing in that house, in his car or anywhere on the property, contained the words STRATEGIC INTERVENTION GROUP. Nowhere could the names or likenesses of any of the specialists under his command be found. The most patient search would find nothing to contradict the idea that Harold Craft had been a hard-working realtor who had been careful with his money and who had planned for an early retirement so he could quietly drink and read Mark Twain, Charles Dickens and Tolstoy the rest of his life. Even now, writing on his own notepad, Craft did not write any names down, merely numbers. He thought of the specialists he could recruit as One through Fourteen.

As he wrote down four numbers, Craft nodded with tentative satisfaction. He did not have to do any research on the target, the man Bane. He had received his regular briefings on any people with unusual abilities who might someday be of interest to the Mandate. With a slight surprise, Craft found he was excited at the idea of targeting Bane. If only to find out how many of the stories about him were true.

( the rest of the story )