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"The Rasputniks"
May. 23rd, 2022 09:55 pm"The Rasputniks"
2/1-2/2/2002
I.
In the tiny bathroom adjoining his office, Jeremy Bane watched a bullet work its way out of his leg. He had gotten used to this. Almost thirty-six years of a tagra diet from Tel Shai had boosted his recuperative powers way past what medical science could explain. It was a major reason why acceptance to the Order was so prized, because only Tel Shai could offer the secret of tagra. Bane was not indestructible by any means, he felt his share of pain and there were limits to how much damage his body could survive. All of his colleagues who had died in action were proof of that.
With his foot up on the sink, Bane studied the tiny, almost imperceptible movement as the misshapen slug stuck a little bit further out from his calf. There was the same feeling of relief of a splinter coming free. With a pair of tweezers, he gripped the bullet, wiggled it a bit and finally got the damn thing out. It had been in there for two days, since Colonel Schoeber had fired a last gift while making his escape. Bane had felt the satisfaction of seeing the man captured by State Troopers before his car got a half mile away, but he had wanted to keep secret his involvement in the chase that drove Schoeber out of hiding.
Dropping the bullet in the wastepaper basket, the Dire Wolf looked for any signs of infection but didn't expect to find any. That was a Tagra benefit. He dressed the wound snugly, wrapped gauze around the calf and put his foot down. Barely a wince. In a few days, hopefully there might be nothing more than a pale circle on the skin. Bane washed his hands, pulled on a pair of black socks, and walked out to his office with no perceptible limp. Dropping down in his chair behind the desk, he yanked on his boots and let out a sigh. There was a bottle of water on the desk and he drained most of it. It was a relief to get that over with.
After a few minutes, his matter-of-fact mind got back to work. There was a stack of bills in the stand to his left and they weren't going to pay themselves. From the center drawer of his desk, he took out the big red leather ledger, his checkbook and a pen, and sourly got to work. There was really no reason he couldn't employ a secretary to handle the paperwork except for his deep-seated secretive nature. He had always wanted to keep everything to himself, it came from his childhood as a street orphan. Half an hour of writing checks and making entries went by slowly. At forty minutes, he couldn't take it and got up to pace. He pulled the opaque curtains aside to peer out at a drab rainy 3rd Avenue. Bane circled the office. The same enhanced metabolism that gave him his speed also kept him restless. He decided the office needed a big clock that clients could see. Right on the empty wall behind him where only his PI license hung. And a coatrack...
The doorbell rang. Quick as if he had gotten an electric shock, Bane swerved through the open door to the tiny reception room. High on one wall was the closed-circuit TV showing the hall outside. A middle-aged man and a woman in her early twenties. Bane studied them thoughtfully, with his training in body language and in observing concealed weapons. They were tense and worried but no threat, he thought.
Almost instantly, he took in that they were close relations, father and daughter most likely. German descent, good-looking pair with thick black hair and good grooming. The man was wearing a topcoat over a suit, the woman had a modest dark dress with a short jacket. As he watched, the man leaned forward and pressed the bell again. Bane decided. He opened the door inward and said, "Can I help you?"
"Hello? Oh I hope so. You are Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf, aren't you?"
"That's me. Come in and tell me your problems." Bane gestured for them to cross the reception room, just big enough to hold a coffee table and two chairs. As they went into the office itself, he closed the outdoor door after a quick suspicious glance across the lobby of the building. The door locked automatically as he followed his visitors. To the right as they entered was a big desk with three plain straightback chairs facing it and he motioned for them to seat themselves. This was why he should have thought to buy a coatrack, he reminded himself. The Dire Wolf went around and lowered himself behind his desk, unhurriedly scooping all the loose papers into a drawer.
"I don't know either of you," he said. "Let's get some introductions out of the way."
"Certainly." The man looked to be his late forties, developing a moonface and some grey in the bushy mustache. "I'm Henry Fischler, a respiratory therapist at Mount Sinai. This is my daughter Holly. She's a student at Columbia." He hesitated. "I must apologize for not setting up an appointment, sir, this is rather an urgent situation..."
"Oh, that's all right," Bane answered. "I can be hard to locate. What brings you here?"
Fischler looked down and Holly also sat with her eyes lowered. Finally, he said, "My daughter complained of a throat infection a week ago. My first thought that it was thrush. She uses an inhaler and as you may know, if you don't rinse your mouth every time, thrush is a possibility. I took a culture, prescribed a standard antibiotic and after an unusually long period the infection went away. But something about the culture disturbed me. I could not put my finger on it. I asked a colleague to do some further tests."
Bane said nothing. Actually, he had never heard of thrush and was taking this in faith for the moment.
"It was then my daughter confessed she had had a romantic weekend with a young man she had just met. This leaves me less than jubiliant, as you can imagine, but she is an adult and her sex life is really her own concern. Until my colleague returned the culture to me in an agitated state. It was something that people only develop who have been in close and prolonged contact with corpses!"
Now a bright predatory gleam sparked in Bane's grey eyes. "Holly, you want to add something?"
Holly Fischler straightened up and looked him right in the eye. "Mr Bane, the man I met told me he worked in a law office downtown. The way he dressed and the quality of his apartment, I had no reason to doubt him. I don't see how he could have any contact with bodies, it just seems impossible."
"Life is full of surprises," Bane remarked without sarcasm. "I don't suppose this guy could get this way working at a morgue or medical school, doctor?"
"No. Absolutely not. The infection indicates prolonged contact with cadavers while not wearing protection. I can't imagine any law-abiding professional who might develop it."
The Dire Wolf leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the desk. "The next question is why you don't report it to the police? I am sure they'd be interested."
"We discussed that. But maybe there was some mistake in the lab, maybe there is a similar infection we don't know of that could be contracted quite innocently." The doctor cleared his throat as if the topic of infections bothered him. "And to be honest, if there was some criminal activity, seeing my daughter's name in the papers and how she contracted it... well, we both would rather avoid that."
"I see. So, you want to hire me to investigate this man and find out if he's up to anything shady, how he contracted this infection, and keep it all quiet. Is that it?"
"Yes. Exactly." Dr Fischler exhaled sharply as if relieved to finally get to the point. "I must say I know of your work, Mr Bane. I personally knew the family you rescued from Samhain back in the 90s, and I have been following various reports since. Your record is amazing. Maybe the average person has no idea what horrors come out into the city at night, but some of us do and we feel safer knowing you are here."
Bane gave a faint smile. "Well, I enjoy compliments as much as the next guy, but we have work to do. Holly, I need a name, address and detailed description. Don't worry, nothing will be written down."
For the next ten minutes, Bane got details from her, memorizing everything. He started on hints of an accent, any signs of a limp or bad vision or hearing, any tiny item that might be useful. When it was over, Holly was giving him a quizical look. "Now, the question of my fee. I suppose a flat one thousand dollars would not be a burden on you?"
"Oh, no, certainly," Fischler took out his checkbook. "In fact, it seems quite low from what I understand."
Bane pulled out a seperate leather ledger, entered the date and the client's name and the fee. He wrote out a receipt and traded it for the check with Fischler. "I found if I didn't charge for my services, I couldn't claim I was acting for a client with certain protections. Now, if questioned by the police, I can claim confidentiality. It's useful." The Dire Wolf pushed back his chair and started to rise. "I think I have enough to go on. Hopefully there's an innocent explanation, and I'll let you know." Fischler held out a hand, Bane shook it and they headed for the door.
( the rest of the story )
2/1-2/2/2002
I.
In the tiny bathroom adjoining his office, Jeremy Bane watched a bullet work its way out of his leg. He had gotten used to this. Almost thirty-six years of a tagra diet from Tel Shai had boosted his recuperative powers way past what medical science could explain. It was a major reason why acceptance to the Order was so prized, because only Tel Shai could offer the secret of tagra. Bane was not indestructible by any means, he felt his share of pain and there were limits to how much damage his body could survive. All of his colleagues who had died in action were proof of that.
With his foot up on the sink, Bane studied the tiny, almost imperceptible movement as the misshapen slug stuck a little bit further out from his calf. There was the same feeling of relief of a splinter coming free. With a pair of tweezers, he gripped the bullet, wiggled it a bit and finally got the damn thing out. It had been in there for two days, since Colonel Schoeber had fired a last gift while making his escape. Bane had felt the satisfaction of seeing the man captured by State Troopers before his car got a half mile away, but he had wanted to keep secret his involvement in the chase that drove Schoeber out of hiding.
Dropping the bullet in the wastepaper basket, the Dire Wolf looked for any signs of infection but didn't expect to find any. That was a Tagra benefit. He dressed the wound snugly, wrapped gauze around the calf and put his foot down. Barely a wince. In a few days, hopefully there might be nothing more than a pale circle on the skin. Bane washed his hands, pulled on a pair of black socks, and walked out to his office with no perceptible limp. Dropping down in his chair behind the desk, he yanked on his boots and let out a sigh. There was a bottle of water on the desk and he drained most of it. It was a relief to get that over with.
After a few minutes, his matter-of-fact mind got back to work. There was a stack of bills in the stand to his left and they weren't going to pay themselves. From the center drawer of his desk, he took out the big red leather ledger, his checkbook and a pen, and sourly got to work. There was really no reason he couldn't employ a secretary to handle the paperwork except for his deep-seated secretive nature. He had always wanted to keep everything to himself, it came from his childhood as a street orphan. Half an hour of writing checks and making entries went by slowly. At forty minutes, he couldn't take it and got up to pace. He pulled the opaque curtains aside to peer out at a drab rainy 3rd Avenue. Bane circled the office. The same enhanced metabolism that gave him his speed also kept him restless. He decided the office needed a big clock that clients could see. Right on the empty wall behind him where only his PI license hung. And a coatrack...
The doorbell rang. Quick as if he had gotten an electric shock, Bane swerved through the open door to the tiny reception room. High on one wall was the closed-circuit TV showing the hall outside. A middle-aged man and a woman in her early twenties. Bane studied them thoughtfully, with his training in body language and in observing concealed weapons. They were tense and worried but no threat, he thought.
Almost instantly, he took in that they were close relations, father and daughter most likely. German descent, good-looking pair with thick black hair and good grooming. The man was wearing a topcoat over a suit, the woman had a modest dark dress with a short jacket. As he watched, the man leaned forward and pressed the bell again. Bane decided. He opened the door inward and said, "Can I help you?"
"Hello? Oh I hope so. You are Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf, aren't you?"
"That's me. Come in and tell me your problems." Bane gestured for them to cross the reception room, just big enough to hold a coffee table and two chairs. As they went into the office itself, he closed the outdoor door after a quick suspicious glance across the lobby of the building. The door locked automatically as he followed his visitors. To the right as they entered was a big desk with three plain straightback chairs facing it and he motioned for them to seat themselves. This was why he should have thought to buy a coatrack, he reminded himself. The Dire Wolf went around and lowered himself behind his desk, unhurriedly scooping all the loose papers into a drawer.
"I don't know either of you," he said. "Let's get some introductions out of the way."
"Certainly." The man looked to be his late forties, developing a moonface and some grey in the bushy mustache. "I'm Henry Fischler, a respiratory therapist at Mount Sinai. This is my daughter Holly. She's a student at Columbia." He hesitated. "I must apologize for not setting up an appointment, sir, this is rather an urgent situation..."
"Oh, that's all right," Bane answered. "I can be hard to locate. What brings you here?"
Fischler looked down and Holly also sat with her eyes lowered. Finally, he said, "My daughter complained of a throat infection a week ago. My first thought that it was thrush. She uses an inhaler and as you may know, if you don't rinse your mouth every time, thrush is a possibility. I took a culture, prescribed a standard antibiotic and after an unusually long period the infection went away. But something about the culture disturbed me. I could not put my finger on it. I asked a colleague to do some further tests."
Bane said nothing. Actually, he had never heard of thrush and was taking this in faith for the moment.
"It was then my daughter confessed she had had a romantic weekend with a young man she had just met. This leaves me less than jubiliant, as you can imagine, but she is an adult and her sex life is really her own concern. Until my colleague returned the culture to me in an agitated state. It was something that people only develop who have been in close and prolonged contact with corpses!"
Now a bright predatory gleam sparked in Bane's grey eyes. "Holly, you want to add something?"
Holly Fischler straightened up and looked him right in the eye. "Mr Bane, the man I met told me he worked in a law office downtown. The way he dressed and the quality of his apartment, I had no reason to doubt him. I don't see how he could have any contact with bodies, it just seems impossible."
"Life is full of surprises," Bane remarked without sarcasm. "I don't suppose this guy could get this way working at a morgue or medical school, doctor?"
"No. Absolutely not. The infection indicates prolonged contact with cadavers while not wearing protection. I can't imagine any law-abiding professional who might develop it."
The Dire Wolf leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the desk. "The next question is why you don't report it to the police? I am sure they'd be interested."
"We discussed that. But maybe there was some mistake in the lab, maybe there is a similar infection we don't know of that could be contracted quite innocently." The doctor cleared his throat as if the topic of infections bothered him. "And to be honest, if there was some criminal activity, seeing my daughter's name in the papers and how she contracted it... well, we both would rather avoid that."
"I see. So, you want to hire me to investigate this man and find out if he's up to anything shady, how he contracted this infection, and keep it all quiet. Is that it?"
"Yes. Exactly." Dr Fischler exhaled sharply as if relieved to finally get to the point. "I must say I know of your work, Mr Bane. I personally knew the family you rescued from Samhain back in the 90s, and I have been following various reports since. Your record is amazing. Maybe the average person has no idea what horrors come out into the city at night, but some of us do and we feel safer knowing you are here."
Bane gave a faint smile. "Well, I enjoy compliments as much as the next guy, but we have work to do. Holly, I need a name, address and detailed description. Don't worry, nothing will be written down."
For the next ten minutes, Bane got details from her, memorizing everything. He started on hints of an accent, any signs of a limp or bad vision or hearing, any tiny item that might be useful. When it was over, Holly was giving him a quizical look. "Now, the question of my fee. I suppose a flat one thousand dollars would not be a burden on you?"
"Oh, no, certainly," Fischler took out his checkbook. "In fact, it seems quite low from what I understand."
Bane pulled out a seperate leather ledger, entered the date and the client's name and the fee. He wrote out a receipt and traded it for the check with Fischler. "I found if I didn't charge for my services, I couldn't claim I was acting for a client with certain protections. Now, if questioned by the police, I can claim confidentiality. It's useful." The Dire Wolf pushed back his chair and started to rise. "I think I have enough to go on. Hopefully there's an innocent explanation, and I'll let you know." Fischler held out a hand, Bane shook it and they headed for the door.
( the rest of the story )
