Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

  “The second victim was a widow, formerly the wife of an innkeeper. Alone beside her bed, preparing for a night’s sleep, she drank a glass of stout. It was to be her last. Powerful poison and mercifully quick. There were no gloves beside her, naturally, but in a bedside drawer, I found not a pair, but one glove.”

  “One glove? Interesting.”

  “I thought so. The last of the victims was an army officer, lately home from India. When they found his body, an investigation showed that he would have been the worse for drink. Thus rendering him an easier target than he would otherwise have been. Yet nothing was taken. He had money, and his sword would have fetched a good price. As would his gloves. They were missing.”

  “Both of them?”

  “It seemed so, but one of them turned up not far from the canal bank. Carelessly dropped, one might think.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “No, I fancy it was dropped carefully. Set like the other two. Can you see why?”

  “Single gloves,” Jameson mused. “What would be the significance?” He was still puzzling at it when Reverence went to his writing desk, opened a drawer and pulled out two leather gloves. He walked over to the table and banged one of them down, startling Jameson.

  “Of course!” said the latter. “A challenge.”

  Reverence grunted, returning the gloves to their drawer. “That is my conclusion, Jameson. A challenge to me.”

  “But that’s grotesque! To kill three innocent people for no other reason than to test your powers. Preposterous!”

  “Nevertheless, Jameson, I am sure of it. And in saying that, you have already touched on the nature of our opponent. Who would be capable of committing such callous, cold-blooded acts?”

  “They would have little to gain, surely?”

  “You think so? A challenge to me, an attempt to belittle my prowess, to demonstrate their own superiority. Forgive me, but I think it no small matter.”

  Jameson looked appalled. “No, you have many enemies who would enjoy seeing you humbled. Do you suspect a particular one?”

  “The coldness of it, the waste of life with so heartless a motive. The calculation, the intelligence behind it. It rather points in one direction. I think we are dealing with the most dangerous criminal of them all.”

  James could not help but feel a shudder of revulsion. He knew only too well to whom Reverence referred.

  “Dr. Fung Chang. He avowed to be my undoing. I am the wasp that so annoys him. And this is his trap. He knows that I could not resist a puzzle such as this. I have to prove to the police that the killings were done at his command.”

  “But he will have covered his tracks. Nothing will connect him to the deaths, you know how diligent he is.”

  “Oh, yes. If I am to snare him, it will have to be done in a manner that he least suspects. From within his very network, at its heart.”

  “You can’t mean to go to Limehouse —”

  “Not yet. I want to try something else first.”

  “Dammit, Reverence, not psychic power! Fung Chang is the last person on earth to tangle with under such circumstances. Lord knows what powers he has. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “Perhaps you think I should simply leave well alone —”

  “Why not tell the police what you’ve just told me? Let them follow the case.” But as he said it, Jameson knew that it would be the last thing that Reverence would do. Fung Chang knew his man, how pride governed him.

  “I know you mean well, old friend,” said the detective, softening for once. “But think! If I let this go, Fung Chang will only strike again. There’ll be another three, then another. Innocent people will die just to appease him. Until I take the field. I have no alternative. I have to pick up the gauntlet.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Reverence went to the windows of the flat and gazed out at the gas-lit street below. It was an oppressive night, the skies bellying with the threat of heavy rain. Distant flickers of lightning more than hinted at a storm and as the detective studied the heavens, a roll of thunder emphasised the point. Reverence pulled the curtains shut and adjusted the gas lamps.

  “The gloves are now in my possession,” he said. “Lock the doors.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I assure you, I will leave nothing to chance.”

  Grimly Jameson did as bidden, locking the downstairs door to the flat and that of the living room. As he did so, Reverence pushed aside the armchairs and table and pulled back the carpet to reveal a pentagram, geometrically laid out in yellow paint. Jameson ill-repressed a shudder at sight of it. It had been hidden for two years.

  Reverence took from another drawer three gloves. He gave two of them to Jameson and set the other, a sleek black object, at the heart of the pentacle. They said nothing as the detective removed his smoking jacket, laid it on one of the chairs and stepped into the pentacle, sitting down cross-legged, closing his eyes in concentration. Jameson felt helpless, sitting back outside the lines of power, watching for anything that might threaten his companion.

  The thunder had rolled in from the distance, apparently focussing overhead as the storm broke. Rain lashed the windows behind the curtains, as though spectral hands attempted to tear their way in.

  Reverence reached for the glove, holding it firmly, squeezing it as if drawing from it its secrets. Vague shapes floated before his eyes, wafting like smoke before resolving themselves into human figures. Reverence studied them, focussing on their faces. These were the clerk’s killers. He could hear the distorted murmurs of their voices. Sweat broke out on his tall brow.

  When he had seen enough and committed the faces to memory, he stood up and left the pentacle. He gave the glove to Jameson and took the woman’s glove. Outside a brilliant flash of lightning threw the entire room into garish illumination, but Reverence again sat in the pentacle. He concentrated once more on the glove.

  As he did this for the third time, seeing the faces of the army officer’s killers through a thin veil, the storm seemed to focus all its manic energies on the flat, like a power sent by the evil forces they opposed. Jameson told himself he was being fanciful, but as the room shook to another detonation of thunder, he could not rid himself of the image of Dr Fung, rising up like a devil over them.

  His empire was growing, his influence over the city a palpable force. He himself was as elusive as the very wraiths that Reverence was trying to raise. Some said he was immortal, or at least blessed with longevity, a master of black arts, sciences beyond normal knowledge. And with a mind to rival that of Palgrave Reverence. Those he could not corrupt or coerce, he blackmailed or simply removed. In Parliament itself there were those known to traffic with him.

  Jameson watched as Reverence slowly stood up, arms dropping to his sides. He turned to Jameson and nodded, face haggard, shoulders slumping. The last glove dropped. Another peal of thunder rang out above them and something slid noisily down the roof tiles. Light enveloped the room.

  As Reverence made to step out of the pentagram, the light focused on its heart, forming a white column that gyrated like a miniature tornado. Reverence felt it tug at his back, pulling with invisible talons.

  Jameson realised what was happening. In horror, he watched as the detective was dragged back towards the burgeoning column of light, from which a sense of evil and dread seeped, presaging disaster. Reverence reached out, his face a tormented mask, as though he could feel a tightening grip on his shoulders.

  Jameson waited not a moment longer. With a warning shout, he flung himself forward in a rugby tackle that would have done credit to his old College, grabbing his companion around the waist and driving him across the room, out of the pentacle. Except that the floor abruptly disappeared as a pool of white light opened up. Instead of tumbling across the room, they fell downwards into that light, which seemed to swallow all sound, the storm blotted out like a snuffed candle.

  * * * *

  Mears looked around him uneasily. He
could still hear the storm crashing and heaving somewhere outside the building, an unsettling echo of the storm in the various pages he had been reading. He looked at his watch. Just gone nine. So he had only been here for little over half an hour. But where the devil was the archivist?

  He looked at the book again. Once more it had defied his memory of the original. How many other books and magazines in this odd library contained variations on their original stories? What happened in The War of The Worlds? Did the Martians triumph? he wondered. Did Gollum return the ring of power to Sauron, instead of casting it into the Cracks of Doom?

  The last unread piece on the table was the graphic novel. Cyberwolf: the Blooding. His only recorded adventure. The most recent of the publications, only five years old. It had been a controversial publication and had been withdrawn altogether, given its violent content and dubious message.

  Resigned to the fact that the archivist was nowhere to be found, at least without an exhaustive search, Mears decided to read the novel, or at least the latter part of it. Maybe when he’d finished, the old boy would turn up again and, with any luck, he’d explain why these episodes were as they were.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cyberwolf

  He’d done it a hundred times. Ring the cab connection. Gather up his equipment. Elevator, down six floors. Out of the main doors of the tower block. Brief wave to Lenny in the driving seat of the waiting cab. Away. Brief chat from Lenny, maybe some update if he knew what was happening. From the time Bannerman got the tip-off to the time the cab pulled away was usually less than ten minutes, the record four.

  This time seemed like any other. At first. So it was raining, hard and heavy, a real downpour. The flagstones were slick. Yellow cab waiting, rain bouncing off it, blurring its shape. Smear of face at its window. Cursory wave.

  Bannerman got in, yanking the door to. Bag of gear on the seat beside him: very expensive photographic equipment. Cab pulled away through the wide puddles. Bannerman glanced at his watch. 22.20 p.m.

  For once, Lenny had his sliding window shut. Odd. Bannerman lifted his thumb to the driver’s mirror. Its reflected eyes blinked, but Lenny wasn’t communicating. Maybe it wasn’t him. But the company had never let Bannerman down.

  He leaned back. He relied on speed to get results. If he wanted his photographs to be among the first out, he had to be at the scene almost instantaneously.

  The call had come from Mike Donahue, one of his regulars. Looked like some sort of trade going on at the docks. Likely a big drug deal. Some big noises involved. Could be very embarrassing for someone. Bannerman had grinned. He’d probably be the only one with the nerve to snoop around. Mike had sounded very nervous, but that was nothing new. He did well enough out of the tip-off game.

  Bannerman tapped the window. The driver, and it obviously wasn’t Lenny, put his thumb up, but didn’t turn round. He was keeping his head down. Fair enough, Bannerman thought. No one wanted to be associated with some of these jobs. Lenny never failed to complain about the risks.

  Bannerman peered out of the window. Thunder rolled overhead, beyond the skyscrapers. A brief flicker of lightning splashed their upper levels in vivid white. Storm would get worse before it got better.

  Where the hell are we? He asked himself. This is a long way round to the docks. He tapped the driver’s window again, but the guy was not going to look back. Okay, something was wrong.

  I’m getting too complacent. He casually reached over to the door handle, but it was locked. Both sides. So is this an abduction? He knew he had made enough enemies here in New York alone. And Mike had been very nervous. More than usual? Maybe. Someone next to him with a gun in his ribs? Could be.

  Bannerman had a gun of his own, tucked inside his lapel. But if he tried to blow a hole in the driver’s window, he guessed it wouldn’t help. Bullet-proof, for certain. This was a slick operation. Maybe the best way to deal with it would be to go along with it until he saw some kind of opening.

  He sat back, idly watching the blocks through the torrents of rain, though the visibility was appalling. Something else alerted him. The smell. Sweet. Hell, it was gas. Knockout gas. Filling the cab. In desperation he pulled out the gun, banging with it on the glass. In the mirror, the eyes of the driver narrowed in a smile. Go ahead, they said. Empty your gun, man. Then go to sleep.

  But the nerves in Bannerman’s fingers were already numbing. The gun fell and soon after, he slumped over his bag. Even then the driver didn’t look back.

  * * * *

  He opened his eyes, ignoring his throbbing head. The ceiling was the first thing he saw in the subdued light. This was no dock. Penthouse, more like. He tested his muscles very gently, in case anyone was watching. They’d got him trussed up pretty good. They didn’t mean him to move. From the corner of his eye he could see part of the room. Very expensive taste on display. Luxury.

  He wasn’t alone. He could sense three men, dotted around the room’s perimeter. These would be his guardian angels. Guns at the ready. They’d be good. Shoot through the eye of a needle at fifty paces, that kind of stuff. One of them moved. Bannerman heard his shoes on the deep carpet. The air changed as a door opened, then closed.

  A few moments later the man came back, with a fourth. This one approached Bannerman.

  “Do you want something to drink, Mr. Bannerman?” the man said. His voice was very smooth, Oriental, his English precise. “I have something that will relieve you of that headache.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bannerman waited while one of the gunmen came to him, lifted his head up slowly and put a glass to his lips. Bannerman sensed guns directed at him: he could smell the metal. These boys were being very careful. The liquid was water, but whatever had been dissolved in it did the trick.

  He saw the man who had spoken as he leaned closer. Dressed immaculately, he was in his late thirties, his sharp features dulled in the soft glow of the lamps. “You must pardon the rudeness of the circumstances, Mr. Bannerman. I am Mr. Ho and I represent an interested party who, for the time being, shall be nameless.”

  “I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here,” Bannerman said evenly. “Why didn’t you just ask me over?”

  “I think that’s a little naïve. You have something I want, Mr. Bannerman. And I cannot believe that you’d part with it willingly.”

  “Try me. I’ve been known to take bribes.”

  Ho made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  How much does he know? Bannerman was thinking. My identity has always been shielded, but there’s always been the chance that someone would find out.

  “But it’s done,” Ho went on. “You have made your contribution.”

  “I’m still not following you.”

  Ho held up an object dispassionately. It was a hypodermic. Bannerman felt the cold clutch of icy fingers as he saw it. A dark liquid filled its glass body. It could only be blood. His blood.

  Bannerman snorted. “You mean — you took that from me? What the hell for?” he bluffed, but he knew that Ho was perfectly assured, totally aware of what he was doing.

  “It will make a fascinating study,” Ho replied calmly, handing the needle to a colleague. “I suspect that from that simple blood sample, we will be able to produce any number of variant forms. In fact, it will be analysed by our computers within the hour.”

  Bannerman’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Listen to me! If you do this, all hell’s going to break loose —”

  Ho smiled down at him, but it was a chilling experience. “Perhaps. But I’ve studied films of your alter ego, Mr. Bannerman. I have seen Cyberwolf at work. And it is not the ravening beast that popular opinion would have us believe. It is perfectly controlled. Fighting for justice. No one has ever been harmed by Cyberwolf that hadn’t turned his or her hand to crime. Cyberwolf is what you Americans call a good guy.”

  Bannerman said nothing. I wish to God that were true. A good guy. Yeah, Cyberwolf fi
ghts for justice, but can anyone justify his methods? Controlled? Is that what these idiots think, that I can control Cyberwolf? Maybe once I could. Not now. Now the thing is bordering on the psychotic.

  But he was in a corner, with nowhere to run.

  “Nor does it take the fullness of the moon to summon Cyberwolf. I am sure it can be done at will. Of course, if you attempted to transform yourself now, my colleagues would simply shoot you before the change. In fact, I regret, Mr. Bannerman, that they will anyway. We have what we want from you.”

  “What do you intend to do with it?”

  “We are in possession of the most sophisticated computer technology in the world. Market leaders. We will create our own Cyberwolf. Several, in fact.”

  Bannerman masked his inner terrors. “With just one tube of my blood? You have to be kidding. Inject anyone with that and you’ll kill them.”

  Ho’s smile was fixed. “I doubt that, Mr. Bannerman.” He turned away, giving silent instructions to the men.

  “Kill me and you’ll never succeed,” Bannerman called after him. “I’m your only insurance of any kind of success.”

  Ho came back to him, a slight frown on his otherwise calm face. “Of course, you would say that, Mr. Bannerman.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Outside, the storm was raging now, gathering momentum. Ho turned away again, muttering further commands and then was gone as silently as a phantom.

  Bannerman felt the cold muzzle of a gun at his temple. Christ, surely they weren’t going to blow his brains out here! But another of the men was undoing the nylon that tied him down. Someone else slipped a halter around his neck, thin wire that could take his head off in the hands of a trained killer. These guys were very, very professional.

  “One wrong move, wolf man, and we’ll finish you,” breathed the man with the gun at his head. Bannerman didn’t doubt it.