dochermes

"Game Recognizes Game"

11/13/1977

I.

"Ah, the English rose in early bloom," whined a nasal voice from right behind her.
Utterly surprised, Katherine Wheatley gave a start and whirled around. Was her telepathy failing her? How had this unimposing old man gotten up close enough to touch her without her detecting his mind? And why even now was she not picking up any thoughts at all from him? It was as alarming to her as suddenly going deaf would have been.

The man's apparent age and waistline were both about sixty, but at least he was reasonably well dressed in a lightweight white summer suit with a polka-dot bow tie that had been loosely knotted. He lifted an old-fashioned straw hat off thinning whitish blond hair and leered at her in a remarkably unsavory manner. Dominating his face was a bulbous nose as round and red as a tomato. "Forgive me if I startled you, my little crocus, but I seldom spy such a fair flower from the fair islands."

Even more perplexed, Katherine could not stop from asking, "How do you know I'm English? I didn't say anything."

"It is written on your piquant little face, sweetheart. Those cornflower blue eyes like gems catching the light, long straight hair as ebon as the raven wings of night, lips that curl up at the corners as if waiting for a chance to smile..."

"Oh, fuss and bother," she interrupted. Katherine was reassured that she was still picking up stray thoughts from the all the people going up and down the sidewalk outside Bryant Park, right behind the Public Library. Nothing was wrong with her gift, her telepathy was still functional but she could not pick up anything from this strange old man at all. This had never happened to her before. She was wearing a pleated skirt with her light maroon windbreaker and it wasn't reassuring how he was studying her slender legs with an interest not entirely avuncular. "Can I help you somehow or are you only remembering what it was like to flirt with teenage girls?"

"Zooks, you wound me to my very pith," he responded, twirling his hat and tossing it up behind him to catch it with his other hand. "I do believe I am the gentleman you are waiting here to meet. My name is Josiah Vandersanden. Mr Kenneth Dred has expressed interest in purchasing a rare item in my possession." Saying that, he held up a thin cylinder two feet long that had been neatly wrapped in brown paper.

Katherine raised one eyebrow, still worried about not being able to get a glimpse into this man's mind. Since early adolescence when her gift had first manifested, she had never had her telepathy fail her before. "Ah. Sorry to be so curt. My partner should be arriving directly, Mr Vandersanden, I was supposed to meet you here in case Jeremy was delayed..."

The old reprobate's response was cut short as they both spotted a thin young man in black striding across 42nd Street as if all the moving cars had paused for him. Jeremy Bane walked faster than most people could run. When he picked up speed as now, his movements seemed slightly unreal in their quickness. He was up on the sidewalk next to them before his arrival could quite register.

Barely twenty-one but already well-known in the Midnight War, the young Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him seem even more gaunt than he was. A narrow feral face and pale grey eyes under heavy black brows gave him a striking appearance. "Katherine. I got here as soon as I could. You must be the Vandersanden that we were supposed to meet?"

"Hullo, Jeremy. Yes. This is Jeremy Bane, he also works for Mr Dred and he is the one authorized to make the payment."

Vandersanden's extended palm was met with an unfriendly glare. "Let's see this blasting wand first, okay?"

"Of course, of course," the old man immediately replied. "Yet perhaps this trinket is best not glimpsed by the unwashed hordes of New Yorkers. Shall we find a table to seat ourselves?"

Along that wall of the park, two rows of booths faced each other across a paved promenade. Everything from tourist-oriented T-shirts and posters, scented candles and jewelry were available but the booths mostly hawked a wide variety of food. On this chilly dank November day, the area was not as packed as it normally was. The three of them found an unclaimed wrought iron table and dropped down into chairs designed to be uncomfortable so that people would not loiter but make way for more paying customers.

Bane was visibly reluctant to sit down. Katherine was used to the way he always tried to have a solid wall at his back, but in this case the best he could manage was to have to have the side of a booth behind him. She seated herself facing him so that she could keep an eye on anyone approaching from that direction and gave him a reassuring nod.

Watching Vandersanden place his bundle on the table, the Dire Wolf said nothing until the wrapping paper had been torn away. Revealed was a cylinder of dark coppery metal, shorter and thinner than a human forearm, with esoteric symbols etched into the surface. Capping one end was a faceted green gem.

"Crafted by those abominable Darthim on the island of Maroch itself," drawled Vandersanden. "In the hands of one who can wrest control of its magick, this wand can blow a hole through a brick wall you can poke your arm through. To be quite honest, it's rather like walking around with an unexploded bomb to carry this vile device."

Running his fingers along the rod, Bane made a satisfied sound. "Warm to the touch. What would you say the temperature is today, Katherine?"

"Forty at best, Fahrenheit that is," she said. "I do wish I had chosen a heavier jacket."

"And this talisman feels to be at body temperature. That's a sign it's genuine. All right. Mr Dred has authorized me to pay you this. Fifteen thousand dollars."

Accepting the thick business envelope, Vandersander riffled through the bills critically. "Crisp and fresh as autumn leaves underfoot. Well, young fellow, I believe we are both better off after this exchange."

"I can write a receipt if you want," Bane said, already tightening the wrapping paper up around the metal cylinder again.

"Sir! A gentleman's word is ironclad enough. A firm clasp of honest hands should suffice." Hauling himself up to his feet, Vandersanden extended his right hand, which Bane obligingly shook. Then, tipping his hat at Katherine, he waddled briskly away in the sparse crowd.

"There's a booth on the corner," Bane said. "We'll phone Mr Dred and report. But as long as we're here, we might as well grab some food."

Katherine gave a pleasant chuckle at his enthusiasm. "I swear, you have the metabolism of a hummingbird, Jeremy. If I ate as much each day as you, I believe I would weigh three hundred pounds, but certainly, I am a bit peckish. Bring me a smaller serving of whatever you are having."

"There's cheeseburgers on a grill right opposite us," Bane said as he rose. "Three for me, one for you. Keep an eye on this wand, though."

"Of course." Left for a second by herself, Katherine leaned forward curiously to stare at the end of the Darthan talisman protruding from the rewrapped package. That was curious. She picked it up, holding it closer and suddenly twisted the end counter-clockwise.

Holding a cardboard tray with their burgers, Jeremy Bane froze in mid-step. "What the hell?"

"Oh my goodness, it's a fake. Look at this. This is why it's warm!" The telepath held out her open hand and caught two D-sized batteries falling from inside the tube. "It's got wires inside that heat up."

Visibly shaken for the first time since she had met him half a year earlier, the Dire Wolf fell onto his chair. "He suckered me. And I fell for it."

Their dazed state only lasted for a second longer, because a heavyset man wearing a full-length winter coat approached them. He was holding a canvas bag the same general size at the phony talisman. "Jeremy Bane, I take it?" he asked cheerfully. "Vandersanden here, Josiah Vandersanden. I'm here to do business."

( the rest of the story )

"Spawn of Draldros"


7/21- 7/22/1979


Dr Vincent Cafaldo looked from Hawk to the patient in the bed and back again. "Do you recognize him?"

Michael Hawk did not answer at once. He studied the young man who lay with flushed skin under the fluorescent lights. "I've never met him before. What's the story?"

At one in the morning, the emergency room at St Theresa's had its lights dimmed and everyone spoke in hushed tones. It was a quiet night and not all the beds were occupied. "It's a strange situation. This young man dragged himself into the emergency room an hour ago, struggling to remain conscious. While still in the lobby, he sank into this comatose state and has been there ever since. No response to treatment. Blood work offers no clues. Pupils are dilated, breathing is shallow, blood pressure low at 105 over 70. All we could do is give him an IV and keep him comfortable."

Hawk turned back to the doctor. "Any ID?"

"Nothing. No driver's license, no Social Security card. But he had a lot of bizarre items on him. I remember the last time we met, Michael. The TarJack case when we had the suspect here and you showed just as he was trying to escape with a hostage. You told me to call you if anything weird turned up here and I thought it was worth bothering you, even at this hour."

( the rest of the story )

"Death Howls In the Night"

11/28-11/30/1978

I.

After walking through the cold dark night from the municipal parking lot, the inside of Gallegher's Pub seemed like a bright overheated mass of people laughing and talking too loud. Bane winced visibly as he held the door for Katherine. He was solitary by nature and would be much happier roaming the freezing deserted streets by himself.

Stepping inside, Katherine Wheatley tried to keep from smiling at his discomfort. She herself had to turn down her telepathic perception to keep from being swamped by all the boisterous mental activity going on in this bar. This was something Kenneth Dred had taught her. In less than a year, he had shown her many useful techniques to keep her mind-reading under control. He himself was no telepath but he had known a few.

As she shrugged off her heavy tan coat, she was aware of a few admiring looks from men. At nineteen, Katherine was a slim, attractive girl with jet black hair that hung straight to her shoulders and her face was friendly-looking, accessible. Her pale blue eyes made a dramatic contrast with her hair. Under the coat, she was wearing snug jeans and a bright red sweater with white trim at collar and cuffs. The young telepath glanced over the crowd with a faint smile. Everyone was so rowdy, and it was barely midnight. The front part of Gallegher's was a U-shaped bar with swivel chairs ringing it and a few round wooden tables almost within reach. Further back, where the floor was a step lower, was a dining area with larger tables and comfortable chairs.

"Place is packed," the Dire Wolf said in her ear. Jeremy Bane was only a few years older than she was, he had just turned twenty-two, but he was so serious and intense that people reacted as if he were much older. As usual, he was dressed all in black, a long cloth coat over a turtleneck and slacks. Like Katherine, he had black hair and light-colored eyes but his irises were a cold unfriendly grey that startled even people that knew him.

( the rest of the story )

"Featuring Chet Wilkins On Voodoo Drum"

8/11-8/12/1978

I.


There had been four of the so-called Forehead Murders by the second week of August. When Jeremy Bane came downstairs early as usual because his hyperactive metabolism meant he only needed four hours of sleep a night, he stuck his head in the reception room. Kenneth Dred had been working there the night before and he had left newspaper clippings arranged on the oak desk under the gorgeous hand-painted wall map. Bane automatically moved over to check the clippings out in the hazy dawn light through the high windows.

At just twenty-one, the Dire Wolf was so serious and self-assured that people reacted to him as if he were an older man. Just over six feet tall but so lean as to seem gaunt, he was wearing his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He was so rarely seen dressed any other way that he would have been almost hard to recognize in colorful clothes. Bane leaned over the clippings and read them slowly. Mr Dred had mentioned that they might be starting a new case.

The main feature of interest seemed to be the method that was used. The victims had a fracture in the forehead above the eyes, with a deep puncture wound that went into a specific area of the brain and caused quick death. In at least one case, the victim apparently had clung to life for a few moments as there were signs of strangulation as the real cause of death. Interesting, thought Bane, a new weapon of some kind, probably homemade. He looked at a list which Dred had left on a sheet of typing paper, detailing the victims' names, ages, addresses and occupations. There was no common factor that he could see.

The young Dire Wolf straightened up and for once his pale grey eyes were distant. This would be hard to investigate. Where to start? Finding something linking to victims was the usual way police proceeded but they had been getting nowhere. Maybe Mr Dred had some ideas....

Something tickled the edges of his mind, like an echoe from a distance. He was getting used to that sensation. It wasn't unpleasant or intrusive, just a vague sensation that he could ignore if he wanted to but he was intensely private by nature. Having a telepath living in the building with Mr Dred and himself would take some getting used to, and the fact she was a pretty girl added to his uneasiness. As he looked up, a slim figure swung into the doorway and a cheery "Well, good morning!" was spoken aloud.

Katherine Anne Wheatley was a year younger than himself, with a trim figure and a fresh-scrubbed attractive face. Like Bane, she had jet black hair and light-colored eyes but hers were sky-blue and friendly. She was wearing blue denim jeans, white sneakers and a dark blue sweater over a white blouse with the collar out over the sweater. "Say, Jeremy, what time do you rise anyway? It's barely half past six you know."

"I don't sleep much. Did Mr Dred tell you about these Forehead Murders?"

"Ugh. Yes. I dare say it's one reason I didn't sleep well myself." Katherine had been in the States so long only the faintest trace of her Northern England accent remained. She came over to glance at the clippings on the desk, standing close enough that Bane could smell the faint floral scent in her hair. He promptly moved away, ostensibly to pull the curtains aside to look at 38th Street, and she smiled slyly to herself.

"It's a beastly business," she continued. "Have you ever heard of such goings-on before?"

"No." Just the single word. He was watching a checker-topped taxi come to a stop at the corner. A tall heavy-set black man in an expensive tan suit got out, paid the driver and fetched a suitcase from the back seat. "I think we're going to have a visitor, Kath."

"Hm? Yes. You're right." She headed for the front door. The rare telepathic talent Dred had been teaching her how to use flared up fully as she reached out to the man outside. "He's a decent sort," she said over one shoulder to Bane. "Serious, disciplined. He thinks of Mr Dred as an old friend."

"You're our early warning system," the young Dire Wolf grumbled to himself, letting his constant guard down slightly. He followed her out into the hall just as she opened the inner door to the tiny foyer.

"Oh, he's from Africa, isn't that interesting?" she called back as she stepped down to unlock the heavy door to the street. "Good morning, may I help you?"

"Ah, you must be Miss Katherine Wheatley," answered the man in a rich baritone. "And behind you, that has to be Jeremy Bane? Kenneth has told me so much about you youngsters that I feel I know you. My is Watesa, Samuel Watesa."

The man was an inch or two under six feet tall, heavy about the waist and imposing in manner. He was very dark-skinned, almost with purple highlights, and his hair was cut short to match his neatly trimmed beard. The glasses he wore had lightly tinted blue lenses. As he saw the two young people watch him uncertainly, he smiled and placed the suitcase down to one side. "In fact, Kenneth expected me later today but I happened to catch an early flight from New Orleans. If he's not up yet, please don't disturb him on my account."

"You might wait in our reception room," Katherine told him. "We do have today's newspapers and I would be pleased to make coffee if you like."

"Thank you kindly," Watesa answered. "Yes. I only regret such a serious matter brings me to visit. Dire Wolf, is it? I have heard much of your accomplishments in so short a time. Yet I do not think you have yet encountered real Voodoo."

( the rest of the story )

"Vengeance In Silver"

3/18-3/27/1979

I.

At midnight, pure white light brighter than the sun flared silently in an alley off Ninth Avenue. As it faded and normal colors returned, a huge metallic form was seen on one bent knee and both hands flat on the alley floor. Steam rose from the silver surface of the being as if it had been taken from a kiln into the cool night air. The gleaming form lifted its head and rose effortlessly to stand erect, with the silver skin flexing as easily as human hide.

Khang stood several inches over seven feet tall, wide-shouldered and hewn with the muscles of a wrestler. Yet he had no fingernails, no navel or genitals, his feet were solid pads without toes. He looked more like an abstract statue given animation than a living man coated with silver. Except for two glowing eye-slots, his head was a featureless helmet without hair, nose or mouth or ears. If anyone had been there to see the arrival, they would have been stunned by the surreal sight.

For a long moment, Khang stood motionless, lost in thought. He lowered his head and regarded his shining hands as if seeing them for the first time. There was a Salvation Army store next to him. Perhaps that was why he had materialized here? He vaguely remembered he was here for a purpose, he had a mission but he could not quite think clearly yet. Khang pressed his hand against the side door of the store and the lock snapped audibly although he had not even tried to break it. He was stronger than flesh and blood, perhaps strong beyond all previous definitions of the word.

Entering the darkened interior, he found he could see quite plainly, although "see" might not have been the most accurate word. He sensed his surrounding, in all directions equally as well, without any disorientation. It was strange. Khang moved slowly, distractedly, as he found oversized clothing that would fit him. Huge clunky brogans, flannel trousers, a tan raincoat, all so large an average-sized man would be lost within them. Even so, they were slightly tight when he moved. A wide-brimmed slouch hat and workman's gauntlets meant for the railroad were put on next. Better than nothing.

He was leaving the store with the vague worry he had tripped a silent alarm while entering when he saw two more items. A wool scarf in bright plaid, which he wrapped to conceal his face, and a pair of welder's goggles he could strap on. He had no money to leave in exchange, which troubled him. Whoever he had been before this transformation had been too honest...

Whoever he had been before? That was a strange thought. He had not always been Khang. He had been... someone else. Flesh, with breath in his lungs and blood in his veins, not a living metal statue. But that was all he could remember. It was all so strange, he needed time to think.

Walking out onto the night streets, Khang began heading up Ninth Avenue without clear purpose in mind. The cars looked so different. Where were the tailfins? The chrome? The models seemed so small. And the people he passed were dressed so oddly. Women wearing pants. Men without suits or hats, all in dungarees and gaudy T-shirts and the billed caps that baseball players wore. He realized now he had been gone for a long time.

( the rest of the story )

"Other Clay"

2/21-2/22/1978

I.

In his black outfit, Jeremy Bane was only a vague shadow in the gloom of a winter night. From out of the woods, he stepped over a low concrete curb onto the nearly empty parking lot. The long L-shaped building had only one window lit, by the front entrance where a Ford pick-up truck sat. Security guard, he supposed. He had come out of the brush by the white panel van that still stood where it had been that afternoon. It was locked. He wanted a look in that windowless back compartment but Auerbach's office came first. When he had been there only a few hours earlier, the Dire Wolf had quietly noted where the security cameras were located. Now he flashed across the dim parking lot and flattened against the white brick wall next to the window he wanted. He had brought his burglar kit with him from the Buick. Fastening clips to the wire on either side of the window, he bypassed the burglar alarm. The window had six panes of glass and he pressed his palm to the top center and gave the back of that hand a smart smack. The panel popped neatly out of its setting and dropped to the carpeting inside. He reached in and opened the turn lock, then slid the window open.

Taking two steps back, Bane dove neatly through the window and landed inside on toes and fingertips, completely silent. All this looked easy the way he did it, but that was only because years of practice and experience made it seem so. Being thin and athletic helped, too. The Dire Wolf found the pane of glass and pressed it back in place. It wasn't as secure as it had been but it would pass a casual glance. Bane tugged the window back down but left it open just a crack so it would be easy to fling up again in a hurry. From one of the inner pockets sewn in his black jacket, he drew out a pencil flash and narrowed its lense so it produced a spot of light no bigger than a penny. For the next hour, he searched the office.

When he had visited Dr Auerbach that afternoon, the conversation had been polite but not very helpful. Auerbach had heard of the three "Human Ant" murders and in fact had once met one of the victims. But he had nothing useful to suggest and had explained in great detail why a six inch tall man could not exist. He had gone over the cube-square law, mentioned that a brain that size could not possibly function with any intelligence greater than what, say, a white mouse possessed and concluded that there was not even any plausible theory by which a living being could be shrunk in the first place. Bane said that the two witnesses who had seen this Ant-man gave descriptions which matched-- despite the fact they did not know each other and that the police had not released that detail. Auerbach just scoffed and said he had to get back to work.

Bane had not argued with any of that. Six months of working for Kenneth Dred, investigating the Midnight War, had left him ready to deal with crazy events and worry later if they were impossible or not. Thanking the biochemist, he had fixed every detail of the office in his mind. Then he had driven into town to have a meal and wait for dark.

It looked as if Auerbach had cleaned up the empty coffee mugs and some of the debris and filled the waste paper basket but the office was still terribly cluttered. Books were jammed into every available inch of space, scraps of paper were taped to the walls and the sides of the desk. He began working his way through the search. Most of the heavy reference books were on biochemistry and physics and the titles were meaningless to him. Bane had no formal education, it was surprising he could read at all. Then, on one shelf, he found a half-dozen books that stood out dramatically. They were old, slim, with ragged covers and a musty smell. THE REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE. THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN. VELKANDU. Bane smiled grimly at these titles. Oh yes, Mr Dred had been right. Auerbach was trying to marry science and sorcery into a synthesis. Best of both worlds, he thought.

As he searched, Bane was keeping an ear cocked for any noise in the hall outside. But it was the faintest whisper by his head that alerted him. He was crouching by the bookcase, peering at the dot of light, when he caught the sound. He swung around and saw a glint as something slid past his cheek,missing by less than an inch. He was up and on his feet faster than any real wolf, and the flash landed on a stunning sight. There was a tiny man. Six inches tall, wearing a tunic and leggings of red cloth roughly tied together, hairless and olive-skinned... what had come to be called the Human Ant. He drew back his little arm and hurled the poisoned needle like a javelin. Bane ducked to one side and stared. For once, he was dumbfounded. This early in his career, he was not as blase as he would later become and this stunned him.

In that moment, the Ant-man spun and scuttled across the desk, leaped up onto the windowsill and got through the opening. Now Bane came to life, keeping the flashlight and leaping across the room. He got the window open, swung through it and was outside. Widening the lense, he swung the light and spotted a tiny figure racing quick as a spider across the parking lot. If he lost sight of him, he would never be able to find the little killer but a second later, the form was gone. Then he heard the door of the van slam. Bane raced for it. Someone had to be in that van, helping the Human Ant.

As the Dire Wolf hurtled up close, he was taken aback by another complete surprise as the back door of the van crashed open and something enormous catapulted out. It was bigger than a person, maybe twice as big, and in the gloom it was hard to tell details. His eyes were adjusting quickly. Something whooshed past his head, making his hair ruffle with its passing and he dropped low and jumped back. It looked like a man twelve feet tall, wrapped in a crude red tunic. That immense hand swung again, and Bane came in under it to stand next to the giant. Raising one foot, he kicked the monster in the back of the knee as hard as he could and the giant dropped and almost fell. There was the back of the head. Bane brought his fist up and back and then slammed it down with all his strength at the nape of the neck. There was good reason that the rabbit punch was outlawed in boxing, it could easily be fatal and it hurt even this huge hulk. Bane's left hand dropped behind his hip to go for his .45 automatic and the huge paw swung back and caught him right in the chest. It felt like being hit by a car.

The next few minutes were filled with pain and confusion. Bane managed to roll over onto his hands and knees and get up again. It hurt when he took a breath. As he stood up, he was blinded by the sudden headlights as the van started up and roared away. He went to take a shot with the idea of hitting a tire but his gun was gone. A second later, he saw the lights of the van whip out onto the highway and disappear around a curve.

The Dire Wolf let out a painful breath. That just could not have been what it seem. There had to be another explanation. Had someone found a way to shrink down to doll size and then shoot up again to twice normal height? Bane had seen a lot in the past few months but that seemed just impossible. He found his pistol and holstered it, then trudged back toward the building. The fight had only lasted a few seconds and there was no sign anyone in the facility had seen it. He climbed back through the open window, wincing at his bruised ribs as he did so. He still had the pencil flash. After a second, Bane found the needle the Human Ant had thrown at him. He wrapped it in a paper napkin off the desk and took it carefully with him. Before he left, he closed the window from the outside and hooked up the alarm again. He had a five minute walk through the woods back to where he had left Kenneth Dred's Buick Regal parked just off the road and there was a lot to think about.

( the rest of the story )

"Golem Grey"

5/15/1978

I.

"I haven't met Eliphas Gold," Kenneth Dred said quietly. "I've read a few of his books, of course. Interesting work, perhaps a bit too fanciful to impress me but then cabalistic magic is not my field. Still, he is a respected author. I've never heard anything questionable about him. Why do you feel he intends to kill you?"

Dred's visitor raised his open hands, palms up. "Who can say? I think the man is a bit mad, to be honest. He has been fooling around with weird secret rites and cults and what not for years. That is bound to have a harmful effect. But I take his threats seriously! Yes, remember how he quarreled with Rosen at their meetings and no one has heard from Rosen for months now. The man is a menace, or should I say, what he creates is a menace!" Gresham seemed about to snap under tension. "I've seen his Golem. I saw it move. Nobody could stand up to it and live, nobody human."

Watching from a few feet away, arms folded, Jeremy Bane gave a baleful stare to this caller. "So naturally, you came here," he snapped. "If nobody human can do the job, you need someone who isn't quite human! Right?"

"Jeremy, please," said Kenneth Dred. "Mr Gresham didn't mean anything by that. You can see how worried he obviously is."

Letting out a breath, Bane stood down. He knew Dred was right. He had to learn some manners, learn a little tact. With the live he had led since childhood on the streets, it went against all his instincts but Bane had decided to give it a try. "Okay, Mr Dred. Since it's you saying so. I've done bodyguard work. Whatever this Golem is, I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr Bane," Gresham gushed. "What a relief. You can't imagine how worried I've been. I can't go to the police, of course. The Midnight War must be kept secret from them. When can you start?"

Kenneth Dred stood up carefully. At seventy-eight, he was thin and frail but still dignified, perfectly groomed and well dressed in a dark blue suit with white shirt and narrow black tie. "I would like Jeremy to survey your home tonight, Phil. I trust his instincts for danger. But I want a brief conference first. Phil, would you mind waiting here for a minute? Jeremy, come with me to the library."

Gresham nodded and sank back down into a chair, visibly relieved. He looked like someone who has been given good news by a doctor after an examination. The reception room had magazines and newspapers on a low coffee table, but after Bane and Dred left the room, Gresham did not even glance at them. He was thinking about Bane. So that was the infamous Dire Wolf! Strange kid, no more than twenty or twenty-one but serious as hell. The boy dressed all in black, too. Slacks, turtleneck, sport jacket, not a bit of color. What was with those eyes, Gresham thought. They were pale, cold and suspicious. Wolf eyes.

As Dred walked across the hall to the library, Bane trotted quickly up the stairs to Katherine's room. He knocked sharply on the door, and her voice sang out clearly, "Come in, it's open." Bane entered reluctantly. He didn't like the frills and knickknacks and general feminine aspect she had given her room since moving in. It made him feel faintly ridiculous. At two in the afternoon, she was sitting up on her bed with a paperback but she slid off and rose to meet him. Katherine Wheatley happened to be an attractive girl, five feet four and slim, with a dancer's body. She had long straight black hair, light blue eyes that stood out in startling contrast, and a cheerful attitude. She had been in the States for most of her life, but now and then a British phrase would slip out.

All this was an unnecessary bonus, Bane thought. She could be fat and hideous and abrasive, and Kenneth Dred still would have taken her in. Telepaths were hard to locate, since most hid their abilities for fear of being too different from people, and in time, most had their powers atrophy. Katherine was not highly skilled yet, but her telepathy was strong and reliable, and she had come to the famous Kenneth Dred for training. "Mr Dred wants us," Bane said bluntly. "We've got a new case."

Katherine smiled slightly at his lack of small talk. She could not read more than the surface of Bane's mind. The Dire Wolf was too tightly repressed, too much in control of himself to let her in. This made him absolutely fascinating to a girl who could tell what most people were thinking. "Don't let's keep him waiting, then," she said.

( the rest of the story )

"The Land That Knows No Leaving"

4/22/2021

He had found the old Lutheran church outside Endicott, Massachusets without any trouble. Jeremy Bane pulled up the narrow road that circled the cemetery and parked his car. From what he could see, the stones at the front near the church were the oldest and most elaborate, their edges worn down and the inscriptions eroded. The further back on the property, the newer the stones looked. He got out and walked slowly across the lush grass. It had been a warm wet Spring. Everything was growing, flowers and trees and bushes, even in a graveyard.

He was wearing all black because he always wore all black. It was appropriate now, he thought. There, in the back row close to where the property ended, stood a plain granite cross eight inches high. KATHERINE ANNE WHEATLEY 1959-2021. The Dire Wolf gazed down at it, waiting for some emotional reaction but feeling nothing except a vague sense of disbelief. Maybe there was something wrong with him, he sometimes wondered, his feelings were always so muted.

But considering his desperate childhood as an orphan of the streets, that would be no wonder. A lifetime fighting the secret Midnight War wouldn't have made him tender and sentimental either. Bane glanced up as a gleaming red Datsun drove up with its engine hardly audible. Instantly, all his instincts kicked into high gear, his left hand slipping behind him to grip the butt of his revolver holstered at his hip and his body ready to dive behind the elm tree he had automatically positioned himself near.

But decades of Kumundu training and bitter experience told him to ease up. The man getting out from behind the wheel was no threat. Early sixties, seriously overweight, left knee giving trouble.. Bane took it all in with a flash. No weapons under the sedate brown business suit. As the man neared, his greying black hair and blue eyes marked the family resemblance.

"Did you know Katherine?" was the first thing the man said, politely enough.

"A long time ago," Bane replied. "It seems like a different world now. You're John, right? She told me she had an older brother and showed me a few photos but none of us look the way we did back then."

John Wheatley held out his right hand for a shake. "Of course. When she was staying in Manhattan with that expert, Kenneth Dred. Give me a second. Bane. Jeremy Bane, of course. Katherine never said much about you but I could tell you left quite an
impression."

"I'm sorry now I didn't try to keep in touch. I could have. But she wanted to move on with life and forget... the things she saw."

"That's alright," Wheatley said, moving around to stand alongside Bane facing the stone. "I know all about what you call the Midnight War. Hard to believe, impossible to believe really unless you were used to having a sister who was a telepath."

Bane was at a loss what to say. "Remembering how modest she was, I don't know if she ever told you some of the work we did that year. Katherine helped a lot of people in a short amount of time. She was good at healing trauma and counselling, even if she was only eighteen."

"You couldn't have been much older."

"No. But I was... I had led a hard life. I was distant from everyone. Even those people who were trying to help me." Bane let out an uncharacteristic sigh. "But the past can't be undone. We can't go back and change things."

"No. It's just as well. Jeremy, you know she died of pancreatic cancer?"

"No, I didn't. Someone we both knew told me only that she had passed away. He saw the service notice in the local paper. Pancreatic cancer? That seems so unfair. She didn't deserve it."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Wheatley said. "If you're a heavy drinker or smoker all your life, you can't complain if you get cirrhosis or lung cancer. But she did nothing to earn that disease. It just happens to people."

"I guess. We're not punished or rewarded by karma or anything." The Dire Wolf straightened up and stepped a bit closer to the stone. "Sometimes I wish I believed in something that would make sense of out of life, why we're here and why we go."

John Wheatley unexpectedly placed a hand on Bane's shoulder and surprisingly the Dire Wolf did not move away. "That's where a little faith helps us. The loss still hurts, of course, but I believe that I will be seeing her again someday. Everything will be explained."

"Huh. We'll have to go where she is, then," Bane said. "She can't come to see us."

"No. The land that knows no leaving is how our minister described it. I would give everything I own to talk to her for a few minutes, but that's not something that's given to us. Thank you for coming to pay your respects, Jeremy."

Bane looked up and met Wheatley's calm gaze with relief. "We have to do the best we can with what we know. We're dealt our cards and we play the game until it's time to fold. That's how I figure it."

"Listen, I am out here every Sunday. But you drove a long way to say goodbye. I'll leave you to your thoughts. Take care." Turning away, Wheatley limped back to his car and drove off toward the main road.

Left alone, Jeremy Bane sank down to sit facing the stone. He was remembering when Kenneth Dred had taken him in and given him purpose. He remembered meeting Katherine, keeping her at a distance despite how warmly she had treated him. How she had left and never come back. Suddenly it hurt.

10/6/2021