dochermes | Entries tagged with joseph montez

DUST MITES ATTACK! III - Panic Time

9/14/2010

I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rather have black coffee..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

( the rest of the story )

"Slaughterman"

3/22/2009

I.

From the floor in the corner of the living room, Bane watched the crooks as they stood near the windows. He had not really expected them to let any of the hostages go when he had surrendered himself. Half-sitting up, he tested his bonds. He was tied with wet clothesline, both wrists bound together behind him painfully tight. They had yanked off his jacket, removed his pistol and patted him down before tying him up, then forgotten about him.

As soon as their attention was elsewhere, the Dire Wolf carefully got his fingertips at the top of one boot. Years ago, he had started to order his boots handmade, with steel caps on toes and heels, as well as one more item. A ridge at the top of each boot was actually the raised back of a razor blade concealed in a slit. Without moving more than his fingers, Bane drew the blade out and cut through the clothesline. Long hours of practice let him do this without more than a nick or two. The bonds came loose.

One of the bank robbers turned to look at him suspiciously. He had lowered his Glock and held it loosely in one hand. The other one, the more dangerous one with the uneasy eyes, was peering out the window at the police car. There were only two officers and a plainclothesman out there. The robber shifted his grip on the shotgun.

Without any preliminary movements, Bane snapped up off the floor and plunged six feet at the robbers in a split-second. The one with the pistol took a full power backfist that twisted his head around until he looked down past his own shoulder, spinning him to crash to the floor. Sensing the motion behind him, the other robber swiveled, raising his shotgun but it was yanked away from him with a roughness that broke his trigger finger. In the same movement, Bane spun the shotgun in a vertical arc that hammered its barrel to the side of the man's face. That one also fell to the floor like a sack of wet laundry.

Bane put the shotgun far to one side, then lunged to pick up the Glock and also place it far out of reach. The Dire Wolf looked back over one shoulder where the Rourke family huddled terrified on their own couch. "It's all right!" he called loudly to them, speaking slowly to make his point. "They are both knocked out. I took their guns away. It's all over."

Very uncertainly, the father stood up. He was a soft, balding man in shorts and a white polo shirt. "I never saw anything like that. You just... you just rushed them before they could blink." He held out his hand to help his wife up, and the granddaughter had already jumped to her feet. "Who ARE you?"

"I'm nobody special," said Bane. Picking up a cell phone one of the crooks had dropped, he called the number of the plainclothes detective outside. "Lt Montez, it's all over. I'm opening the door. I will be dragging these losers out, tell the officers to hold their fire."

"Gotcha, Bane. Good work," came the gruff voice.

The Dire Wolf paused to retrieve his own pistol from the younger robber before grabbing the man under the arms and hauling him through the doorway. Outside, bright early spring sunlight struck him after being inside the dimly lit home. One cop handcuffed the prisoner, while the other officer came in to help Bane carry the other one outside as well.

"This guy has a dislocated jaw!" one officer said. "Man, they are both out for the count. What did you hit them with?"

"Oh, you know, just training and experience," Bane said, going back in. He retrieved his black sport jacket and tugged it on. "You folks all right?"

Mr Rourke came to shake hands vigorously. "I need to thank you. Anything I have is yours. When those bastards broke in here and held us at gunpoint, I thought we didn't have a chance. We were as good as dead. Then you came in, and they tied you up, and I thought you were a goner, too." He wouldn't let go of Bane's hand. "How can I repay you?"

Embarrassed, Bane disentangled himself. "It's my job," he said. "I don't need any reward." For once, the Dire Wolf decided against asking this man to join his network of observers. He headed out to where the bulk of Lt Joseph Montez loomed over the unconscious robbers. "You read them their rights yet?"

Montez snorted. He had been putting on weight again as trips to the gym had start becoming less frequent and boxes of donuts more so. "They won't be in any condition to listen. You hit them any harder and we would be calling for the coroner, Bane."

"It takes some judgement," Bane admitted. "Well, I guess I will be going about my business. I can come down to 20th Street and file a statement later?"

"No," Montez said. "I need to talk to you. The officers can watch these goons until the ambulance gets here. But even before you turned up, I had something you might be interested in."

"Something weird and gruesome, I expect?"

"Yep. Right up Dire Wolf territory. Listen. Earlier this morning, all LE agencies got a news flash. Up near Cayudoga Lake upstate. Richard Moore Dorsett escaped custody. That's right, Slaughterman."

Bane turned and looked at Montez with a new alertness. "Well. I didn't think I would hear that name again. Last I knew, he was in Federal custody and so-called experts were studying him."

"Cutting him up and watching him heal in seconds, more like it. I got rumors. Dorsett is a freak of some kind. You put a bullet in his chest, it pops out again an hour later. He got run over by a freaking Dodge pick-up and he sat up and started chasing it. I heard of people with good healing but that's crazy. And... I thought maybe you had some inside dope."

"Oh yes." Bane got closer and lowered his voice, which made Montez uneasy. "I tangled with Slaughterman twice, back in the old days. He regenerates, all right. By now, his powers must be weakening, though."

"You can tell me, Bane, How does it work? How can he heal up bullet holes and grow new skin after being set on fire?"

The Dire Wolf took a deep breath. "This is one of the things I know that you will find hard to believe, lieutenant. All the biologists they call in will never figure out Slaughterman, because he doesn't work by the laws of nature. He runs on gralic magick, based on a Darthan spell. That's right, when he kills somebody, he sucks in some of their lifefore and uses it to keep himself going. In a way, he's a vampire."

"Goddam. I used to laugh at stuff like that. But you know, I keep seeing things and learning things. Instead of drinking blood, he takes what? Vitality?"

"Exactly," Bane said. "It's been years since he has been in custody. His lifeforce must be getting low. My bet is that he made this break because it's his last chance."

"And you... you're going after him?"

"I am," said Bane emphatically. "Right away."

"Let me give you a lift. You heading back to your office?"

"Yes. Thank you." The two men walked over to Montez' unmarked car. "You remember Samhain?" asked Bane.

"Oh Christ protect us, how could I forget that devil? You brought in him a few times, too, didn't ya."

"And Seneca. They all had that same healing factor, based on stolen lifeforce. Samhain was the worst because he was intelligent and cunning. He would have been a serial killer even without his powers. Seneca, on the other hand, was just a beast. He didn't know why he was killing, he just did it."

As he navigated traffic with the ease of long practice, Lt Montez said, "Klein was right about you. Just before he retired, he told me you was like a guard dog protecting a bunch of sheep from predators they didn't even know about."

The faintest of smiles turned up the corners of Bane's thin lips. "Good old Harold Klein. He didn't trust me at first, even tried running me in a few times. It took years before he agreed we should work together."

"Same here. I'll tell you the truth, the boys at NYPD all say to never mention this in public, that it's all unofficial and off the records, but they told me when I transferred here that you should be called in for crimes too bizarre or unexplainable for the regular force to handle."

"It's what I do. It's my nature, can't change." At a red light, Bane opened the door. "I'll get out here, lieutenant. Thanks. I'll report as soon as things are settled." With that, the Dire Wolf stepped out and hopped up on the curb. 58th Street. He began moving fast, crossing over a few blocks. There was his bank. Going in, Bane asked to see his safe deposit box. A chunky young woman in a black and white striped dress let him into the vault and opened the compartment where he kept a wide flat metal box. She left him alone in a tiny cubicle. Bane spun two combination dials on the metal box and opened it. Some interesting items were in here. A tiny gold skull, a stone arrowhead, two green stars made of soft stone, a chamois bag full of cyrinkyl, some legal papers, a few keys. There was a bundle of fifty and twenty dollar bills. And the Eldar travel crystal.

Bane regarded it somberly. This was a relic of his earlier career with the KDF. It was a pale blue faceted gem, just small enough to fit within one hand, set in a pale gold frame. There were only eleven of these in the real world, as far as he knew, and he had seldom used this one since he had stepped down as KDF Director and re-opened his own PI agency. With a barely audible sigh, he closed off memories and slipped the crystal into the side pocket of his jacket. He locked the box and had the bank officer return it to its compartment, then went back on the street. Walking briskly, he got to 44th Street and 3rd Avenue quicker than he would have done in a car. Here was the small yellow brick building. He hurried through the lobby, down the short hall that ended in an EXIT ONLY alarmed door, and unlocked the plain wooden door that had a brass plate reading DIRE WOLF AGENCY.

Thumbing on the overhead lights, Bane went through the tiny waiting room to his office. At his desk, he checked for messages. Quite a few but nothing urgent. So far, he had managed to keep his office from getting too cluttered. There was the big oak desk with its reading lamp, a few plain wooden chairs scattered in front of it. To his right, facing 3rd Avenue, a leather sofa sat under the wide window with opaque curtains. There was a short endtable with a lamp at each end of the couch; the lamps did not quite match, but he had never gotten around to replacing them. In the far left corner, a door opened to a tiny compartment with a toilet and sink but no shower.

Bane had added a three shelf bookcase on the wall facing his desk, now starting to fill up with newspapers, clippings, general debris he threw there. The Dire Wolf unlocked hidden wheels on the bookcase and spun it away to reveal a compartment sunk into the ground. When he left this office, he expected he would have to pay a hefty fine for some of the unauthorized changes he had made, including this hiding place. Bane tugged up a trunk, carried it over and dropped it in the center of the room. Sudden excitement made his heart beat faster. He hadn't used this gear in too long a time.

Bane stripped off his outer clothes. He was already wearing a bodysuit of flexible grey metal which looked like wet silk with a faint sheen. He seldom went anywhere without this armor. The Trom-metal was not invincible but it gave good protection up to high-power rifle slugs. He drew on tough black pants with a number of flap pockets, then a black crewneck shirt of the same durable material. Under the sleeves, he fastened the sheaths of the silver-bladed daggers he had used his entire career. They had been a gift from Kenneth Dred, and Bane would have held on to them no matter what else he had to give up in life. He fixed straps to the ensalir setting on the Eldar travel crystal and tied it securely high on his back, between his shoulder blades. Then came a black waist-length jacket of a tough leathery material, also fitted with several flap pouches and inner pockets.

Digging through the trunk, Bane began stowing odd equipment in various pockets. Some was conventional, like a small first aid kit in a plastic box or a multiple-bladed tool knife, but most had been handcrafted for his use years ago. From a padded setting in the trunk, he took out an air gun with an extended barrel. For decades, he had used anesthetic darts in this to take enemies alive, but now he slid a clip of resonance caps in and clicked it shut. He buckled the gunbelt so the holster would be behind his left hip, hidden by the jacket.

Finally, Bane raised what looked like a black motorcycle helmet and lowered it over his head. It connected to the high collar of the jacket. He lowered the visor and saw the read-outs start on the heads-up display. Perfect. He knew Leonard Slade had guaranteed the Trom power source had an active usefulness longer than Bane's own life would be, but it was reassuring to check. The Dire Wolf slid up the visor again to its track inside the helmet. He felt good wearing the field suit. It brought back many memories and wearing it gave him a thrill of anticipation. Moving quicker than ever, he returned the trunk to its hiding place and swiveled the bookcase over it.

Now to see if he could see use the Eldar crystal. With it fastened to his back, since he was already in contact and did not need to place his fingers on it. Bane half-closed his eyes and visualized where he wanted to be. It was not enough to half-heartedly wish to gate, you had to put full-out will power into the effort. Bane concentrated hard. There came a silent flare of pale blue light and, when it faded, the office was empty.

( the rest of the story )

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

11/24/2005

I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about those squiggles?" Montez asked.

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

( the rest of the story )

"With a Name Like Holden MaGroin"

5/22/2003

I.

At eleven that morning, Jeremy Bane was met in front of the station by Lt Montez and escorted down a hallway lined with doors that had frosted glass panels explaining whose offices they were. At the end of the corridor was an alcove with a coffee machine and two folding metal chairs. At the moment, one of those chairs was occupied by a plainclothes detective who was sipping the coffee and staring morosely at the floor. He stood up as he saw Montez approach.

"Getting anywhere, Steve?" asked the Lieutenant. Joseph Montez would have been a good-looking man if he could have kept his weight down. He had glossy black hair and good features including a perfect smile. But he never seemed to be able to keep the pounds off for long. Right now, he seemed to be hitting 270. "You've been chatting with her all morning."

"Sorry," said the man unhappily. He was an average looking man, just over six feet tall and fit-looking. His most distinguishing feature was a lantern jaw. "Nothing seems to work with her. Offer carrot or stick, she just seems unconcerned. She did make her phone call and of course we got the number."

"And..?"

"A hotel in Times Square. 43rd and Madison, not that bad a place. Room 991."

Montez nodded, then turned to Bane. "If no one comes for her, of course we'll send two men to see who's staying there. Right now, we're a little short-staffed."

The Dire Wolf seemed expressionless, but then he normally kept a poker face when dealing with the NYPD. Six feet tall and thin to the point of seeming almost gaunt, Bane was wearing his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. This was such a uniform for him that it would have unsettled people who knew him if he had shown up in colorful clothes.

"We might as well see if she's ready to talk," he said to Montez. Bane had cold grey eyes under heavy dark brows and he was intimidating without trying to be. "I'm not sure this is really a matter that falls in my territory."

"Wait and see," the Lieutenant answered, adjusting his belt in a futile attempt to be more comfortable. He opened a door that was not identified except with the number 4 and stepped through with Bane behind him. It was a standard interrogation room with a long table bolted to the floor and five of the metal folding chairs. One wall was taken up by the one-way mirror, the other side of which faced a darkened room where police could watch the suspects. There was also a painting opposite the door of a Western landscape for some reason.

The walls were covered with acoustic tile and, as the door clicked shut, the room was soundproofed. Montez heaved his bulk over and pulled out a chair facing where Sierra sat watching.

"Whoa, that poor chair," she said with a smirk. "Maybe you need a second one?"

Standing behind Montez, Bane took in details of the young woman instantly. From her accent, she had spent most of her life upstate. She was nineteen or twenty, a little over five foot eight and would weigh a hundred and twenty-two pounds. Sierra was a natural blonde, judging by the hairs visible on her bare arms, but that shaggy mane had been lightened with the contents of a bottle. Her eyes were dark blue with the shininess of youth, and her ears both were pierced with three holes. When she grinned, she showed good teeth except for one slightly crooked incisor. There was a faint white scar on the back of her left hand, mostly likely an old accident.

In an objective way, the Dire Wolf recognized she was very good-looking. Sierra had a babyface with plump cheeks and a soft chin, but her figure was exceptional. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a bright blue T-shirt, both too small for her, with apparently nothing under them. Bane did not react to her obvious sexy appeal, and he wasn't even aware that he didn't react. In some ways, he was so repressed and oblivious that he was unaware of it. He did reflect that the other strippers where she worked must resent her.

"So, you've had time to think, miss," Montez began.

"It's a good habit, you should try it," she interrupted.

He went on as if he hadn't heard her. "At nine-forty this morning, you rolled past a stop sign in full view of a police car. When you were pulled over, you had no registration or insurance papers for the car you were driving. Your license was valid, though."

"Hey, you wanna frisk me? Bet you'd enjoy it."

"And you were driving a new fire-engine red Maserati Ghibli. Those things start at a hundred thousand! You tell us it was a present."

"Men give me gifts, what can I say? I appeal to their paternal instincts." She turned her eyes over to Bane. "You've been quiet."

The Dire Wolf did not answer. He was watching her with his Kumundu training, judging the tension in her facial muscles, the subvocal tremors in her voice, the flicker of her eyelids. Beneath the wisecracks, she was seriously terrified. But of what, he wondered.

Seeing that Bane was not going to speak, Montez slapped a meaty palm on the table and went on. "Those are Italian plates on that car. That Maserati belongs to a CEO of a publishing house in Rome. How did you get possession of it?"

"How do you even find your thing to pee?" she asked. "My God, I thought my Uncle Ralph was fat but you..."

Now Bane stepped in, as Montez's face went red. He said sharply, "You're afraid of something, Sierra. What?"

"Me? What have I got to be afraid of? Maybe a zit before I go on stage."

There was a subdued knock on the door and the plainclothes Steve stuck just his head in. "Lieutenant, she has a visitor. He says he'll post whatever bail she wants."

"Holden! My hero," Sierra gushed as she jumped to her feet.

"You stay right there," grumbled Montez, pointing an accusatory finger. "Bail hasn't been set. You haven't even been formally charged yet. Steve, keep him out in the hall for right now."

As Montez struggled slightly to his feet, Sierra sang out, "Hey Steve, call for the crane!"

Bane moved over behind Sierra so he could watch both her and the people in the doorway at the same time. She leaned back her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him teasingly. The icy stare from those grey eyes seemed to unsettle her, though, and she settled down.

Standing in the doorway was a short, homely teenage boy in a extremely loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy cargo pants. He had a nose like a potato and an ugly haircut he seemed to have done himself with tinsnips. When he saw Sierra, he grinned lopsidedly. "Come on, babe, let's get out of here."

Just like that, Sierra vanished from the chair by the table and was standing next to the boy in the doorway. For the first time in many years, Bane's mouth fell open in shock.

( the rest of the story )

"The Silk Tigers"

7/12-7/17/2014

I.

It looked like there was going to be a thunderstorm at any minute as Bane pulled into the little strip mall near the northern end of Manhattan. Hot and muggy, with a sky filled by heavy black clouds, it was a July day that had people hoping for a storm to clear the air. Bane got out of his Subaru Outback near the cleared area near Snyder's Jewelers and showed his PI license to a uniformed officer before being allowed into the crime scene.

At fifty-seven, Jeremy Bane was still instantly recognizable with those grey eyes in a narrow face that had barely begun to line and which was still not jowly or any wider. He was still gaunt in the black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket and he still moved quickly and decisively. More flecks of grey were showing in the short black hair, but anyone who had known him at twenty-one would think time had hardly passed for him.

Lt Montez resented this and frequently said so. In the dozen years he had worked unofficially with Bane, Montez had given up on trying to keep his weight down and his belly stuck out like a beachball. His hairline had retreated in defeat also, and he had eyeglasses he kept putting on and taking off as he struggled to accept their necessity.

"Hey," he said quietly. "You might be interested in this. Very neat smash and grab. Ever hear of the Silk Tigers?"

"Just a little," Bane admitted as he peered past Montez into the store. "European jewel thieves, supposed to be very good. Not really my area." He shook his head. "That's a lot of broken glass, lieutenant."

( the rest of the story )

"Death Is But a Dream"

9/22-9/25/2011

I.

As soon as he saw the first few bodies lying on the estate grounds, Bane stopped his car and called the police. He got Lt Montez by chance, described what he was seeing and said he was not leaving the scene. The Dire Wolf turned off the engine, opened the driver door and immediately slammed it shut again. He got in touch with the same dispatcher and advised that all officers coming to the scene be equipped with gas masks. The reek of ether in the air had almost choked him. What exactly had been going on here? From an inner pocket of his black sport jacket, he unfolded a clear membrane that clung tightly over his nose and mouth, held on by tabs which fit over his ears. The Trom membrane was mostly designed to provide enough oxygen underwater for survival, but it was excellent in smoky or toxic conditions. Its one drawback was that it did not allow him to breathe deeply enough for vigorous activity but he had to accept that.

Opening the door to his Subaru Outback, the Dire Wolf stepped out into the chill night and surveyed the area. H was parked on a gravel drive that led up twenty yards to an impressive four-story mansion which was lit by only a few scattered spotlights on the lawn. Dead bodies were scattered in a loose line across that lawn, lying where they had fallen when a single bullet had caught each one in the head. The men were in tailored dinner jackets, the women in gowns, and they were all middle-aged or older. Walking slowly up that driveway, his left hand behind him on the hilt of his long-barreled Smith & Wesson 38 revolver, Bane remained cold and detached. He reached the front of the house and began to wonder about some details. Where were the cars? He counted nine corpses at what seemed clearly to have been some sort of upper-class party but there was not a single car in sight. They wouldn't have all sent their drivers away to come back later, and certainly whoever lived here would have had a few vehicles on the grounds.

Bane knelt before one of the male corpses, careful not to get within reach. The man's pockets had been turned inside out. He glanced over at a stout dowager in a burgundy gown. No jewelry on her at all, not even earrings. Was this all just a particularly brutal and thorough robbery? It seemed incredible but that explained everything. He gazed at the house, but he had been keeping an eye on it from the moment he had gotten out of his car had not seen any sign of movement. Flashing red and blue lights came up the driveway behind him as four police cars sped his way. The Dire Wolf straightened up, holding his open hands up in plain view in case some cop got too agitated by the situation. Uniformed officers poured out, some holding their sidearms and some bending over the bodies. All were wearing regulation gas masks. Bane remained where he was.

From an unmarked Accura, Lt Joseph Montez hauled his considerable bulk out out of the front passenger seat. If he had ever managed to keep his weight down, he would have been a good-looking man with regular features, wavy black hair and a nice smile, but he couldn't get below two hundred and sixty pounds for more than a week or two. As he took in the scene, he cursed loudly through his own gas mask and gestured for Bane to come down the driveway and join him.

"What are you doing here?" Montez demanded without preliminaries.

"Almost by chance." Bane gestured with a thumb toward the mansion. "I didn't know Donald Lambert at all but I get a lot of tips from my army of observers. Most don't pan out, but I follow some of them just in case. Someone told me that they had heard something bad was going to happen to Lambert and I wasn't doing anything tonight."

Montez grunted. "Too bad you didn't get here earlier. I bet if you had been here, all of this might not have happened. Come on, let's go up to the house. Crime scene boys will be here in a few minutes and once they start digging and measuring and taking snapshots, we'll be shoved aside."

They headed up toward the front of the mansion. Two uniformed officers had positioned themselves on either side of the front door, which hung wide open. Montez and Bane stepped inside the high-ceiling ballroom just inside and stared at another five corpses. "God-DAMN," the lieutenant breathed. "It's a massacre."

Jeremy Bane stood with folded arms, scowling more than usual. "I don't know anyone who operates like this. Nobody I've ever come up against. This is more like a military raid than a criminal act. The ether. The way everyone was executed. You noticed all the cars are gone?"

"Of course I noticed," Montez grumbled. At this point, five men in suits and gas masks appeared behind them, wearing blue latex gloves and carrying metal cases of equipment. "Yep, here's the CSI crew. Let's step aside."

Bane shook his head. He really wished he had been given time to search the scene by himself first, but he had grudgingly learned to cooperate. Montez shifted into gear, snapping orders to the various officers on the scene to try to find wallets on the bodies, identify the vehicles the dead men had owned and then immediately put out All Points Bulletins for those cars. This was just the first of several searches he got started. Watching this, the Dire Wolf kept trying to come up with a likely mastermind behind this atrocity. No one came to mind. Someone new, then?

Standing near the doorway, Bane noticed all the blank spots on walls where paintings had hung, the empty spaces where statuary had stood. The looters had acted according to a plan, which suggested they had known what to go after. Someone had cased the building. A member of the staff? Someone who knew Lambert socially? That was a likely avenue to explore. He mentioned all this to Montez when the beefy lieutenant came back toward him.

"Sure, we're going to be following all that! What do you think about the gas?"

"Smells like ether to me," Bane said. "Pretty soon, it'll dissipate enough that the masks can come off. Where would someone buy ether in quantity like that? How was it dispersed?" The Dire Wolf's pale eyes were narrow and angry. "Some much planning went into this. The mastermind brought enough men to have them drive the cars away. They must have brought a van or two to carry away some of this loot. Look at the space there on the wall.. that painting took up too much room to throw in a car's back seat."

Montez clapped a hand on Bane's shoulder a little more emphatically than necessary. "You've got your own connections, your own approach. I want you to get on this as if nothing else mattered. We're going to have to start phoning next of kin now. You know how much I hate that!"

"I know," Bane said quietly.

( the rest of the story )

"What Nightfall Brings"

6/11-6/13/2015

I.

With the first buzz of the Link, Bane was instantly awake and alert. He looked at the clock radio by his bed and saw 3:46 AM. Even though he had only gotten into bed at 12:30, that little bit of sleep had been enough for him. The Dire Wolf snatched up his Link from where it sat charging and said, "Yeah?" in a perfectly normal tone. The Trom device patched into the phone system but its signal could not be traced or its location discovered.

"Bane? It's me," said the hoarse voice of Lt Joseph Montez. "Come down to 19th Street. Avenue A. This is bad." With that, the homicide detective hung up.

Replacing the phone, Bane jumped out of bed and snapped the light on. That was odd. It certainly wasn't the first time Montez had rousted him in the middle of the night but some information was always even offered. Even a little teasing was normal to get his curiosity going. For Montez to be so terse was unusual and even worrisome. Hurrying, the Dire Wolf tugged on the bodysuit of flexible Trom armor that looked like dark silk but which protected against anything up to a high-powered rifle bullet. Like a firefighter, Bane lived as if he was always on duty. His clothes and equipment were always laid out properly before he went to sleep. The heavy boots with steel caps at toes and heels, the slacks and long-sleeved turtleneck, the sport jacket... everything was black. All the tiny gadgets and weapons had already been stowed in hidden slits and pouches.

Rolling back his sleeves, he strapped the sheathes to his forearms which held the matched silver daggers which were his most prized possessions. Given to him by Kenneth Dred when they had first met, the blades had been ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin and were a potent defense against the children of the night. A more mundane weapon, a long-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 Special was holstered behind his left hip. In less than a minute from when the phone had rung, Bane had turned off the bedroom light again and was moving quickly through his darkened apartment. Despite his plans to retire, despite all his intentions of closing the Dire Wolf Agency, he still leaped up at any hint the Midnight War was stirring again. He was fifty-seven now, unchanged except for a few grey strands in the full head of black hair and fine wrinkles at the corners of the grey eyes.

As he stepped out into the hall, he heard the Trom alarms arm themselves with buzzes and clicks. Did he even need them any more? All his major enemies were long dead or stuck in realms from which they could not return. His cases had been coming further and further apart. No time to think about that now, though. Bane stepped out into a warm June night just as a patrol car went by. Across the street, a 24 hour laundromat had its doors propped open and two college kids were sitting in there watching the dryers spin. He swung left and took off a brisk walk just short of acually running. At 40th Street, he went down the wide concrete ramp of IMPERIAL GARAGE, waved to the attendant sitting in a little cubicle and examined his Toyota Matrix.

On the driver's side visor, four tiny green and blue lights blinked steadily, indicating no one had come in contact with his car, but Bane took a few minutes to examine it anyway before opening the door and getting in. In another minute, he was out on Third Avenue and making a turn at the corner to head south. This was his natural element, he was basically nocturnal and felt most alive when out at night.

Finding the address, the Dire Wolf parked next to a junk yard with a high chain link fence surrounding a lot littered with rusted out cars, refrigerators, unidentifiable pieces of metal and general debris. A police prowl car stood by the entrance, next to a dark VW Jetta that he recognized as Montez' personal car. Bane jumped out and rushed over to where the gate in the fence hung open. The uniformed officer obviously had been briefed on his arrival, because he pointed out where Montez was and followed Bane over there.

The rear compartment belonging to an 18-wheeler sat on the ground in a tangle of stray pipes, aluminum sheets and engine parts. On the side of the compartment was painted SUNSHINE FRUITS ALL NATURAL AND HEALTHFUL with a drawing of an orange that had a smiling face. Standing by the doors at the back of that compartment was a heavyset man in a dark blue suit and tie, his round face turned to watch Bane approach. "Ah, that was quick," he said. "Sorry to get you up, but this is your kind of situation."

Bane walked around the compartment suspiciously, not sure if he heard anything in there or not. The rear doors were chained shut. "Give me something to work with, Lieutenant?"

"Officer Lindstrom over there saw what seemed to be a derelict staggering around in this lot. Shabby woman in her forties, drunk or high or mentally ill. As he got a good look at her, he exercised caution and stayed back. She entered this box and he locked her in. Then he called me."

Bane raised one eyebrow. "And you're with Homicide, Montez. Why would he call you?"

"Ah, come on. Ten years now, more than ten, I've been the unofficial go-to for anything too weird or too horrible for a regular investigation. And that's because they know I'll bring in New York's real expert on things that come out of the shadows." He pointed an accusing finger at the Dire Wolf. "You."

"Fair enough," Bane replied agreeably. He grasped the padlock which held the compartment secured. "Let's get set up. Your man have a flashlight? Good. Officer, I want you to stand behind him and shine the light past me into that box. Lieutenant, maybe get ready to open those doors. You carrying? Good." With that, Bane stepped over to a tangle of junk and pulled out a three-foot length of cast iron pipe. "Might need this," he explained casually.

Taking a key from his coat pocket, the obese police detective unlocked the padlock, slid the chains free and hesitated. Then, with a grunt of effort, he pressed down the bar that opened the compartment and stepped back sharply. Jeremy Bane took his place, holding the iron pole like a pool cue. In the glare of the cop's powerful flashlight, something stirred and moved toward them.

It had been a woman, above average height, dressed in a light floral print dress with a beige cardigan over it, all the clothing tattered and dirty. Her skin was covered with open sores and torn flesh, her face was abraded as if scalded by boiling water, and her hair stuck out in an unwashed mane. The woman's eyes were solid white, like the eyes of a fish that has gone stale. As the door opened, she lurched unsteadily and began to move toward them, hissing.

"That's all we need to see," Bane remarked. He swung the heavy pipe back and drove it savagely forward to crack hard against the woman's forehead. She staggered awkwardly, fell to one knee, and he smashed the pipe down as if he was trying to drive a railroad spike into the ground. There was an ugly hollow crunch and the body collapsed.

The Dire Wolf watched the corpse suspiciously. "That did it," he said at last, although he kept hold of the pipe for the moment. "What a smell. She's been dead at least a week, I'd say."

Moving closer, tense and ready to jump back at any sign of movement, Joseh Montez sighed. "Never saw a zombie before. I thought I was toughened up but this.. this makes me sick. I might heave."

"It's always hard to take," Bane admitted. "All our natural instincts are warning us to get away from that thing." He scraped the pipe in the dry dirt at their feet, then tossed it far off into a tangle of rusted machinery. "She was in the predatory stage. Officer Lindstrom? We're going to report finding the body of an unidentified woman in this box. The smell caught your attention. I think Medical Examiner's office will list cause of death as unknown. Decay set in, she died at least five to seven days before that blunt force trauma to the head. Maybe dental records will identify her."

The cop's voice was barely audible, "Whatever you say. I never want to think about this again."

In the light from a streetlamp, Montez' face was sweaty and pale. "Good thing I called you, Bane. This goes beyond what we were taught at the academy."

The Dire Wolf folded his arms and stared at the body inside the compartment. "I've never seen a free walker like this one in the city," he said as if to himself. "The Undead have always been under cotrol of a hungan. Like Papa Louis. Maybe this specimen got loose somehow, but it tells me that somewhere in New York City is a sorcerer powerful enough for necromancy. And if he can raise the dead but not completely control them, it's the perfect set-up for an outbreak."

Montez wiped his face with a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket. "We have to get moving to contain this."

"Let's hope we're not already too late," said the Dire Wolf.

( the rest of the story )

"The Land Beyond the Law"

10/1/2002

I.

There were two uniformed officers in the hall outside. Their image showed on the monitor mounted high on the wall of the tiny reception room. Coming to a halt on his way from the inner office, Jeremy Bane studied them warily. Every detail seemed authentic, from the shoes to the regulation haircuts. He couldn't spot anything that gave them away as imposters. Both men were about his own height of six feet even, both in their early thirties, both fairly fit-looking. The Dire Wolf watched as one pressed the buzzer again.

Now in his mid-forties, Bane still looked almost the same as he had at twenty-one. He was still gaunt and restless, still wearing all black, still regarding the world through cold grey eyes in a narrow feral face. He opened the door to the hallway casually enough, but he did stand back just out reach as he did so. "Yes, officers?"

"Are you Jeremy Bane?"

"I might be. Why do you ask?"

The nearer cop sighed. This close, it could be seen he had suffered a little acne as a youth, enough to help identify him. "Lt Montez sent us to come get you."

"Am I under arrest? Or being detained as a material witness?"

( the rest of the story )

"Castaway"

9/4/2009

I.

As far as staying overnight in holding cells went, that hadn't been bad. The other occupant had been a sleeping drunk, so Bane had been left alone. He was by nature hyper and restless, which made sitting still all night a real effort for him but eventually they came and brought him to the DA's office. His legal advisor, Taylor Worth, had been there to tell him that there was not sufficient grounds to hold him as a material witness, particularly since the killer had surrendered and was found with all manner of incriminating evidence on him. The fact that Bane had discovered the body and had been standing there studying the scene when the police arrived had been just bad luck.

In his office, the new District Attorney was watching Bane the way one would watch an unfamilar growling dog. Van Aken was not someone to inspire confidence, being a rather mousy little guy with uneven hair and an unfortunately large nose but he was good at his job. "You're free to go, Mr Bane," he said as they all got up. "But I want you to think about a few things. I know all about the famous Dire Wolf. I know my predecessor and certain higher-ups in the police administration have allowed you to skirt the law any number of times. Yes, I myself have been told that there are mysterious threats to the public only you can handle due to your alleged superior abilities."

Bane said nothing. He was unshaven and grimy, still wearing the clothes he had had on after a busy previous day. He turned his pale eyes on the DA and waited.

"I don't accept it," Van Aken said. "It sets a bad precedent. Our fine police force does not need freelance outside help. Any so-called extraordinary threats can be handled by the NYPD." His voice became gentle, almost affectionate suddenly. "I do not want to hear of you being called on as a vigilante again. Is that clear?"

"Got it," said Bane. Taylor Worth took his arm and led him from the office. They went down a busy hall, took the elevator to ground level and to the processing room. She reminded him strongly of her mother Donna. Although she was an inch taller and slighter in build, both had long inquisitive faces, dark reddish hair and green eyes. Taylor worked as a junior partner for her mother's law firm and had come to escort him from police headquarters many number of times before. At the ancient, chipped desk behind a metal link barrier that slid open, Bane inspected his belongings and signed for them. The only items he was really concerned about were the two silver-bladed daggers he habitually wore strapped to his forearms. He inspected them suspiciously for damage.

"No one touched them," said the seriously hairy officer behind the desk. "Believe me, Mr Dire Wolf, everybody knows about your babies there and they were left alone. Sign here. And here. Initials here. All right, until next time."

Bane took the plastic shopping bag and thick manila envelope and began stowing the items about his person. Watch, keys, phone, wallet. Money in a clear bag with the amount written on it in marker. It wasn't until they were outside police headquarters and on the street that Bane stopped to wriggle out of his jacket and tug up the sleeves of his black turtleneck. Not caring who saw him, the Dire Wolf fastened the straps to his forearms and checked that the daggers slid out easily when he pulled his sleeves back down. Putting the jacket back on, he turned to see Taylor Worth smirking happily at him.

"Not feeling naked anymore?" she asked. "Good to see you again, Jeremy. I'll be sending you the bill from our firm."

Bane gave her the faintest of smiles. "Thanks, Taylor. And say thank you for me to your mother. She has been bailing me out of trouble since before you were born."

Taylor started to walk alongside him, crossing 23rd Street. She had a satchel over one shoulder that held her laptop and papers, and her phone started to beep but she ignored it until it went to voicemail. "She's told me unbelievable stories. Before she met my father, when she was with Michael Hawk. I always tell her she's making it up in her old age."

"No. No, I am sure she has not told you half of what went on in those days. These are quieter times. Is that your car?"

"The Prius? Yes. Can I give you a lift uptown, Jeremy?"

"No thanks, I feel like walking. Thanks again. I'll be seeing you."

Chirping her car door open, Taylor Worth chuckled. "I'm sure you will. Keep some bail money available."

Bane watched her pull out and drive away. After a second, he turned and began heading uptown. He was thinking about the DA's warning and the way the tone of voice had been almost friendly. It was as if the words were contradicted by the tone. It was odd. He wondered if Van Aken had been trying to tell him to continue his unofficial troubleshooting but just keep it discreet, so he wouldn't have to hear about it. Just as well, because Bane had no intention of ever changing his ways.

Heading north, walking quickly because it was his nature to walk as fast as the average person could run, Bane reached 47th Street a little after ten a.m. He swung right, crossed over to Third Avenue and stepped up to the stoop of his apartment building. Most of the time, Mrs Choi was sitting by the window looking out and she was there today. Bane gave her a wave and she returned it with a cheery grin. For the most part, she knew which tenants had which visitors and her experiences in the old country had left her watchful for suspicious strangers. If there had been any shady characters asking questions or trying to get in, she would have let Bane know.

He went up the flight of worn steps to the second floor, punched in the security code in the little box he had installed by the door and entered his apartment. It seemed odd to people that Jeremy Bane was in fact wealthy but lived so modestly. If he had wanted to, he could have bought the entire building and remodeled it. But he did not have the instincts of luxury, it just did not appeal to him. Crossing to his bedroom, he went into the small bathroom that had been installed and threw his stale clothes in the hamper, lathered up and took the razor with him in the stall. He took a hot shower tnen switched to cold at the end. Toweling dry, Bane pulled fresh clothes from a dresser in his bedroom that were exactly the same as what he had been wearing. Black dress slacks and a long-sleeved black turtleneck, with another of the three identical sport jackets, always all black. Now he was coming back to life.

In the living room, he turned on his messages and listened to them as he dug through the waist-high refrigerator. Four eggs, some cheddar, maybe that piece of ham. He dragged down the heavy cast iron frying pan from its hook on the wall and started an omelet while listening to his messages. As the omelet cooked, he poured cranberry juice into a huge tumbler and diluted it with water, then drained it in a gulp.

The messages were the usual updates and reports from colleagues. Bane dished the omelet onto a plate and gave it a sour look. It had come out more like scrambled eggs. The Dire Wolf devoured it and felt he could have downed another one if he had more eggs. Cleaning the frying pan and plate, Bane reminisced a little about Donna Worth. After the death of Michael Hawk, she had decided not to let her degree go to waste and eventually started her own law firm. In time, she had met someone new and settled down to have two daughters. The older one, Taylor, was the legal assistant who had come to help him out this morning.

He suddenly realized he didn't know what had happened to Donna's other daughter and decided to ask about her the next time they talked. It was all so long ago. Mike had died in what, 1983? In the Snake War that broke their hidden empire. Taylor looked to be in her mid-twenties. Donna could easily be a grandmother by now, which was a funny image....

Drying his hands, Bane was still thinking about Van Aken's warning. it annoyed him a little to be asked to risk his neck and go fight some dangerous psycho and then be told later to stop doing it. Damn. If he was caught in incriminating circumstances and up on charges, the NYPD would not back him up. He would take the rap. Maybe he should start demanding some sort of immunity before rushing out to wrestle with monsters and madmen.

The Dire Wolf paused to glance around the apartment. Everything was turned off and put away. He went out into the hall, the alarms turning on automatically as he closed the door. Passing Mrs Choi as he stepped outside, he asked her if she wanted anything and she said no. Then he headed south. His office was three blocks away on the same avenue. As it had turned out, he had found the office first and then turned up the apartment as close as he could get.

It was a fine day, breezy and cool. Bane thought he would check his messages again and see if there was a case in them he could start, something weird and mysterious. Little more than a mile away, a man fell to the sidewalk and broke into frozen pieces.

( the rest of the story )

"The Heartless Men"

1/20/2002

I.

The old man left his car parked in a tow-away zone on Third Avenue, right near the warning sign. It was the least of his concerns. At seven o'clock on a cold winter night, he slowly got out from behind the wheel and walked stiffly down the block with the dogged determination of someone who is drunk or ill but wants to conceal his condition. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. A little under six feet tall, rather overweight, dressed in a dark overcoat, he had a round sullen face and a noticeable bald spot.

Standing at the corner of 44th Street, he paused before a small four-story yellow brick building that held several doctors'offices, a spa and a graphic arts company. Moving through the glass double doors, he entered the lobby. To his left was an elevator and a short hallway. Ahead were wide stairs going upward. On the wall by his right hand was a plaque listing the various businesses occupying the building, and he leaned forward to peer at the one listing he was looking for. There. Right on the first floor. DIRE WOLF AGENCY. As he read this, he swayed and almost dropped.

Slower and slower, the man turned and trudged across the lobby. He made it to the short hallway. At its end was a metal door that led outside, with a sign EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. On the wall to its left was a plain dark wood door with a brass plate that read DIRE WOLF AGENCY. The man did not get that far. Before his hand could reach the doorknob, he gave a low mournful groan and spun to fell face up. The back of his head hit the carpeted floor and bounced once, his eyes staying open. Inside the Dire Wolf agency were two rooms; the smaller reception area held only a few chairs, a low table with a magazine or two, and not much else. The inner door suddenly swung open and Jeremy Bane stepped out.

Now hitting forty-five, the Dire Wolf himself had not changed much over the years. There was no thickening of the waist, no softening of the jawline. Only a grey hair here and there and two faint lines at the corners of the thin mouth showed time had passed. Bane was still a tall, lean man who dressed all in black and who watched the world through cold grey eyes. Sitting at his desk in the inner office, he had thought he had heard something and checked the tiny camera he had installed himself in the hall outside. There was a man lying on the floor right outside his door. Swiveling the camera, he had spotted no one else out there and now he opened the door to step out into the hall.

For a long minute, Bane did not move. He stood over the body, studying it, memorizing every detail. He knew the man, but he barely recognized him... twenty years had left its marks on that face. Bending over, Bane reached into his jacket and pulled on thin black latex gloves. Very lightly, barely making contact, he examined the body and found no obvious signs of violence until he opened one button on the faded blue work shirt. There was a hole in the man's chest, a big one, its edges long ago sealed as if healed. Yet there was no heart within that cavity. A strange gleam sparked in the Dire Wolf's eyes and he let out a deep breath. The Midnight War was on again. Going through the man's pockets, Bane found only keys and money and a cigarette lighter. No wallet, no ID.

Standing up, Bane went to the lobby and warily looked through the glass door to the street outside. No one he could see. Taking the Link from his belt, he called a specific extension on 20th Street and hoped he would get Montez. For the longest moment, there was no answer and then someone picked up.

"Lieutenant Montez? This is Jeremy Bane. Yes, again. And again, I have something for you. I just found something in front of my office that I think you will want to see. Bring forensics. No, there's no hurry. He's not going anywhere and neither am I. Yes. Yeah, I know you love hearing from me." Breaking the connection and putting the Link away, Bane jammed the gloves back in his pocket. As always, he wore all black- slacks, sport jacket and a turtleneck, almost a uniform for him. He did not have to wait long before he saw the flashing red and blue lights outside and two uniformed officers came into the lobby, followed immediately by the obese bulk of Lieutenant Joseph Montez. Bane settled back for a long two hours of questions as the CSI people did their work. After the first twenty minutes, Montez took him over to a corner of the lobby.

"I saw the video from the lobby camera," he said bluntly. "The guy walked in under his own steam, but unsteady. He dropped by your office door. We can see his feet but we can't see you coming out. So right now, it looks like you are not going to be charged with anything. Did you remove anything from the body?"

"No," came the single word. "I did check his condition and found he was dead. And I did notice the funny thing about his chest."

Montez grimaced. He was once been a handsome man with thick wavy black hair and a movie-star smile but the pounds had been been put on steadily and now he was seriously overweight. "Yeah. That. What do you make of it, Bane?"

"So far, I don't know what to think any more than you do. There's a hole where his heart should be. I took a good look. The edges are clean. No blood. Frankly, it looks to me as if the wound had healed long ago, but of course there's no way he could be walking around like that."

"Of course! It's something that just couldn't happen, just like a hundred other things that just couldn't happen and most of them seem to end up at your feet, Mr Dire Wolf!"

Bane raised his eyebrows mildly. "Montez, you worked with Inspector Klein this last year before his death. I know you had long talks with him about who I am and the work I do."

"That's right," Montez spat angrily. "Klein was a good man, a good cop. I know he used you as an unofficial weapon. Look, Bane, I'm not blind. I know that there are weird things going on at night in this city. I know there are things out there preying on people, things that just should not exist. I didn't want to believe in them, I'm a good Catholic boy and I don't want to believe in the monsters that run around in the dark of the moon. But I have to accept what I've seen and I had to agree with Klein when he told me you were the best defense against these things."

Bane had looked over at the forensic examiners. They were packing up their equipment and a couple of EMTS were putting a stretcher down to load the body. "The CSI will be coming over in a minute, Lt.... They're almost done."

"Let me finish. So Klein convinced me that the city benefits from you. That you can go out after these monsters and psychos and take them down. But I don't have to like it! I don't like it at all."

The Dire Wolf did not react. With the death from a heart attack of Inspector Klein not long ago, he had expected to have to start all over again struggling against suspicion and resistance from the NYPD. But Bane had established himself over the years. The police did not exactly trust him, they certainly never made public statements about his unofficial status handling cases that reeked of the supernatural and the occult. But they were pragmatic enough to accept how useful Bane had become.

Montez waddled over to confer with the examiners for ten minutes, then returned to Bane. "One more time, pal. You know that man?"

"I can't identify him," Bane said. "Did they find anything useful?"

"Yeah, there's one thing, in the hole in the chest were a few chips of rock. Black rock. They haven't identified it yet. Those poor bastards, they're not going to sleep for a few days because they can't figure this out. The guy should have been dead, yet the video shows him walking in here. I can't imagine what their reports are going to say."

"They've got their problems, we've got ours. I'll tell you right now this is from the Midnight War. It's supernatural. There is no rational explanation."

Montez shuddered visibly. "I hate the spirit world. I hate ghost stories, I got the creeps so bad right now."

"Come into my office and we'll talk further," Bane offered.

"No, no, thanks but I got a truckload of paperwork to do tonight after all this. Listen. I know I don't have to tell you to stay in the city, I know you're going to investigate this on your own."

"Without a client and with no fee in sight," Bane smiled wryly. "I'm not much of a detective."

Montez nodded at him and turned to stomp off without saying anything more.

( the rest of the story )

"Doublers Or Nothing"

8/30/2001

I.

"Do not suspect I am an inhuman monster," said the inhuman monster.

Lt Joseph Montez realized his mouth was hanging open and he closed it with conscious effort. He was standing next to an abandoned car on 126th Street. While the city tow truck was being hooked up to its bumper, the driver had noticed blood stains on the rear seat and Homicide had been called in. Montez had been on duty at the station, filling out final paperwork on an extortion case that had been closed. By now, it was after five-thirty on a warm Spring day and he sadly realized he wouldn't be home until eight at best.

The forensics squad had taken hundreds of photos and samples from inside and outside the 1989 Ford Taurus. Now the much-offended tow truck operators had snubbed out their cigarettes and were ready to pull away. Montez had been standing by the curb, thinking the situation over. A squad car with a uniformed officer at the wheel was parked nearby.

Then this creature had strolled up and announced itself. From a distance, it seemed like a woman with black hair, a few inches over five feet tall, wearing a bright plaid shirt and black shorts. But the skin was a dead lifeless grey with blue lips and fingernails, the hair was stiff and wiry, the dark eyes went in different directions. The voice had been high and as squeaky as if the thing had been inhaling helium.

It was only now that Montez noticed that the creature's shirt had been put on completely wrong so that three buttons were undone and one side of the collar stuck up inches higher than the other. He also saw that this being had its sneakers on the wrong feet.

Yet, even so there was something vaguely familiar about the creature.

"I am a normal Human woman and not at all suspicious," it said. "Do you need assistance, lieutenant?"

"You know me?" Montez demanded. "Who ARE you?"

"Why, I'm Sable. Lauren Sable Reilly. I am not an undead Doubler. You know me well, Montez."

Taking out his cell phone, he gestured at the grey-skinned being and said in a reassuring voice, "Now, you wait just a second." He thumbed in a number he had come to know well and groaned when he got only a request to leave a message.

"That damn Bane. Of course he's not in his office when I need him," Montez said.

"Why would you need that damn Bane?" asked the creature blandly. "There is more than nothing in a hole."

The lieutenant tried another number and sighed with relief as a familiar voice answered. "Megan? Oh I'm glad you're there. Yeah, this is Montez. Listen, I'm at 126th and Eighth Avenue. There is... someone here I think you need to meet immediately. No. I'd rather not say more."

Flipping the phone shut and stowing it in a jacket pocket, he said, "A couple of people will be here in a minute and they will answer all your questions. And hopefully mine as well."

The creature tilted its head thoughtfully. "Where do you go when you're not somewhere else?"

"Aw, give me a break," Montez grumbled. He motioned for the officer assigned as his driver to come over and explained the situation as best he could.

The cop was still under thirty, a gangly freckled kid with big ears and the enthusiasm of youth. He stared at the creature. "Lieutenant, you must have noticed her lips and fingernails. I don't think the color is make-up. Is that cyanosis?"

"Yeah, maybe," Montez said. Peering more closely at the being, he asked, "Are you having trouble breathing? Do you have chest pains?"

"Should blind people listen to audio books when they're driving?" the creature replied blithely.

"Forget I asked."

Across the street, a cherry red Jeep Cherokee pulled up and stopped quite illegally near a FINE FOR PARKING sign. Emerging from behind the wheel hopped a young woman in an all black outfit including boots, snug pants and a waist-length jacket. Pockets and pouches held a dozen gadgets. Circling around from the passenger side was an Asian man in an identical outfit. He was at five feet five only slightly taller than she was but much broader.

"I don't like the looks of her at all," Sheng Mo-Yuan muttered.

"We need information to reach any conclusion," replied Megan. The Trom Girl marched across the street, barely evading the usual reckless rush hour traffic. Several drivers slowed down to try to figure out what was going on with the police car, the strange-looking grey-sknned person and two people in dark commando outfits.

Montez shook their hands. "Megan. Argent. Glad to see you guys."

"Are you done calling us rookies and newbies and little kids?" scoffed Sheng Mo-Yuan. Argent was his Midnight War codename, based on his clan name back in Chujir.

"Cut me some slack," Montez said. "It took a while to get used to you new guys. Look. What do you make of this person?"

The weird creature had been watching them closely. "Stand by for orders, my Tel Shai knights. I prevent disagree for when anyone really been far as suggested once to even want go."

"What the hell was that all about?" said a startled Argent, stepping back a pace.

The Trom Girl had unclipped her Link from its place on her belt and was taking readings. "This is interesting. Tell me, who do you think you are?"

"Well, I am absolutely not an undead Doubler grown to resemble Sable," said the monster. "Can cross-eyed teachers control their pupils? How far can you run into the woods?"

"You seem to mix coherent thoughts with gibberish," Megan said. She glanced over at her teammate. "Sheng, this is not a living creature. I'm analyzing a solid mass of crystalline fiber animated by gralic force. I have never seen anything similar."

"She denied being a 'Doubler' whatever that is. The way she talks, I guess that means she IS a Doubler?" Sheng scratched the back of his short-cropped black hair without realizing it. "If I'm not starting to speak gibberish myself."

Megan took further readings and frowned with frustration. "This is beyond any supportable conjecture. A dissection would help, or at least a battery of behavioral tests." She looked up and addressed the creature, "Are there more of you?"

The Doubler nodded with complete sobriety. "Yes. Naturally. We are the KDF Second Team. Myself, Trom Girl, Unicorn, Argent and Blind Archer. Do not make the mistake of concluding we are Doublers sent to replace previous KDF members. None of us are that damn Bane."

"If you ask me," Argent offered, "I think we should take her to 38th Street. Sable and Josef are expected back in late tonight."

"I would be delighted if you took custody of this Doubler whatever she is," Montez says. "I want to finish my reports and go home sometime soon."

The Trom Girl considered. "I agree. Whatever this construct is, she knows about the KDF and we are not common knowledge." She pointed to her Jeep. "Miss, will you come with us?"

"Of course. Imaginary friends have real friends, you realize." The Doubler tried to make both its eyes point in the same direction but without success. "There is much to do."

Steering the creature across the busy street, Sheng called back to Montez, "Hey, thanks for calling us about this, lieutenant. We haven't solved a single bizarre mystery yet today."

"As long as you get her outta my hair," Montez muttered to himself.

( the rest of the story )