by Gregg Taylor
The Flying Squirrel grinned and glanced at the Boss. He hadn’t moved. He was taking the stern routine a little farther than usual; he was even making Petey nervous. The moment hung in the air just long enough to be uncomfortable before Peters filled the void with the sound of his own voice again.
“Ajay Shah. Son of a wealthy industrialist, international playboy, heir to one of the largest private fortunes in Asia. He’s certainly turning heads here in town. Shah’s been wined and dined all over the city, and by all the swellest of swells.” Peters paused a moment for effect, looking at the shadow by the wall for any sign. “There’s only one trouble.”
“He doesn’t exist?” the Red Panda asked softly.
“He does not, in fact, exist,” Peters grinned. “The story checks out on the surface, which would explain why Lulu Lalonde never saw through it. But even given that half of what people say is usually bunk, somebody ought to have heard of this guy. Consulates, embassies… the Chronicle foreign desks–”
“The Chronicle has foreign desks?” the Flying Squirrel said, a little shocked.
Peters blinked. “We have paid stringers that work for us and a couple dozen other hack rags. What do you want from us?” He grinned again. “The point is they’re good men and they know their onions. They don’t know Ajay Shah, or anyone that sounds like him.”
“What does it mean?” the Squirrel said, turning to the figure in the shadows.
“I figure him for a confidence man,” Peters said, still fidgeting with the cigarette. “Or the luckiest grifter in the whole wide world.”
“I doubt he’s in this for the free lunch, Jack,” the Red Panda said, stepping forward into the light. “You have a picture?”
Peters looked sheepish. “Funny thing, that. There aren’t any.”
The Red Panda raised an eyebrow.
“Apparently the guy cuts quite a figure,” Peters said. “Lalonde’s sent our staff shutterbugs out to three swanky parties to make with the snapshot. They came back with pictures of everything but. Three guys, three nights, three complete washouts.”
“How’s that for a story?” the Flying Squirrel chirped.
“Great angle. ‘Chronicle Staff Incompetent’. I’m sure Editor Pearly will want to run a special edition.”
The Red Panda looked at his partner. “This can’t be coincidence,” he said.
“But Boss–,” the Squirrel protested before being cut off by the ringing of the telephone on Peters’ desk. Both heroes fell silent as Peters lifted the receiver.
“Jack Peters,” he said, and listened for a moment. “Oh, hello, Mother dear. Yes, he’s right here.” He held the telephone out towards the Red Panda, who took it calmly.
“Report,” he said simply, and listened without speaking for a full minute. “Understood,” he said at last, returning the receiver to its cradle.
“Well?” the Flying Squirrel said impatiently.
“Mother Hen says the coroner’s report was released on our playmates from the other night,” the masked man said gravely. “They were all burned beyond any hope of identification.”
“But?” she said, her arms crossed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“But she received a call from our man at the morgue.”
“Bert Mendel?” Jack said, perking up at what sounded like a story.
The Red Panda nodded. “Bert swears that the report was fixed. He doesn’t know how or by whom, but when his boss signed off on the report, it identified the three of them as being the household staff of one Joshua Cain.”
Jack Peters bolted up out of his chair. “Cain! Say, if we could just get something on that menace! Why, he’s got his fingers in every rotten-apple pie in town.”
The Flying Squirrel shook her head. “It feels wrong, Boss,” she said. “None of this feels like Cain.”
“Joshua Cain doesn’t devise crime,” the Red Panda decreed. “He staffs it. And he seems to be up to his neck in this.”
“What about Ajay Shah?” the Squirrel asked.
“Forget Shah!” Peters said excitedly. “This Cain story is news! Oh, you’ve just gotta let me run with this!” he implored.
The Red Panda considered it a moment. “It might help to cover Bert’s tracks if whoever hired Cain thinks we got our lead from a leak at the Chronicle. Anonymous sources only, Jack.”
“Roger that!” the newsman said settling in front of his typewriter with enthusiasm.
“But Boss,” the Squirrel objected, “we don’t want Cain to know we’re on to him!”
“By the time the morning edition hits the streets, Squirrel, you and I will be quite finished with Joshua Cain.” A smile played across his face, just for a moment, and anyone but her might have missed it.
Thirty seconds later, the room was empty but for the reporter and the busy sound of the typewriter keys.
Twenty-Seven
The winds across the Annapurna Ridge grew colder and stronger by the day. Even within the secluded valley it was becoming clear that the route down the mountain would soon be impassable for long months. It was a sense that every living being in these mountains could not help but feel – the claustrophobia of an inevitable and difficult winter.
Within the small kuti of the Saddhu, three forms sat stock-still and struggled to banish such thoughts from their minds as they focused their mental powers on meditation. The howl of the wind faded into nothingness in their ears, partly through focus, partly through long repetition. Suddenly, a shrill sound that was unfamiliar to their ears cried out from the corner of the room. Rashan opened his eyes in irritation, and turned to glance at the small pile of possessions his younger student kept in the corner of the kuti.
The man he called “Two” leapt to his feet and pulled apart his pack hurriedly, producing a small device no bigger than the palm of his hand. The high pitched cries it gave out wavered, like a signal being tuned in from afar, but to the young man the warning that the instrument gave him was clear as day. The expression on his face said that it was not good news.
“What is it?” his fellow student asked, astounded.
“It’s an alarm,” Two said gravely. “Someone is coming.”
“What are you talking about?” One snapped.
“Let him speak,” Rashan said quietly.
The young man looked around the room sheepishly. “When I was on my way up the pass, I didn’t know what I would find, or how long I would be here. But I was fairly sure that I’d have to take the same narrow path back out again, and I wanted to avoid any surprises. I left a number of radio beacons, strategically placed.”
Rashan frowned. “Explain,” he said.
The young man hesitated as he gathered his thoughts. “I built small devices that emit a radio pulse when disturbed. That’s what you’re hearing through this receiver. It lets me know that someone is on their way up through the pass.”
One knit his eyebrows. “Why does it still make that noise?” he asked.
Two nodded. “That’s the problem. It means the device is still being disturbed. Which means people are still walking past it. Which means there are quite a few of them.”
“Where are they?” Rashan asked, his face betraying no wonder at this marvel.
“Perhaps a half a mile,” Two said seriously. “The transmitters lower in the pass had different tones. I don’t know what happened to them, but they weren’t really meant to be left this long.”
“You made this?” One said, his voice betraying his astonishment.
Two grinned at the unintended compliment. “It’s all my own,” he said. “I thought it might come in useful.”
“It might,” One snorted. “If we live through this.”
Two turned to Rashan. “Who are they?” he asked.
The Master shrugged. “Chinese, British, Gurkha, Tibetans… does it matter? There have been soldiers before, and they will come again. They seek shelter, water… a place to rest. They seek it as one who is desperate for it and sees it as his right. If they find t
his place, we cannot stand against them.”
Two shook his head. “But Master,” he protested, “they are on their way, and this pass only leads here. They will find us.”
“Will they now?” the Saddhu said, drawing his robes tightly around himself and making for the door. His two students regarded one another in astonishment for a moment. One broke the spell by turning to look at the door their master had just walked through. Two moved back to his pack to return the alarm receiver to its resting place. His hand hesitated a moment, hovering over a corner of bright red silk that could just be seen from the depths of his gear.
In an instant Two made up his mind and pulled the silk from his pack with a sudden sweep. He ran the sash lengthwise through his hands, bowed quickly in silent reverence to an unseen presence, and tied the length of silk across his face, leaving only his eyes visible. The ends of the sash fell to either side, hanging past the young man’s shoulders.
“What is that supposed to be?” One asked, annoyed.
“A gesture,” the masked man said gravely.
His fellow student snorted derisively. “Oh, good,” he said. “Just what we needed.”
The masked man pushed past him and out the door.
The two students regarded the sight before them without comprehension at first. Their master stood forty yards away from the kuti, at the point where the valley started to rise sharply. His arms were raised before him and he stood stock still against the biting cold. The sharp winds caused the long sleeves of his robe to flap wildly, yet the Saddhu remained as still as any statue. The two regarded him at a distance.
“What is it?” the masked man said in hushed awe.
“He has them,” the elder student said with some satisfaction.
Two raced forward towards the motionless shape of Rashan. He heard One hiss behind him. “Hey! He will not be able to speak! The Master has clouded their minds, but he must focus!”
The younger man ignored his fellow student and moved forward quickly, but as silently as any cat might. As he neared their master, he could hear One stumbling through the rocks behind as he raced towards them, eager to exert whatever authority the situation gave him, which the masked man did not presume to be much.
Suddenly, and without warning, he felt the presence of another mind in his. There were flashes, like a bright light before the eyes that leaves the images of sights unseen to be regarded for a moment only before fading. The technique was forceful and without grace, but Two could instantly see why.
His fellow student was right. Their master’s force of will was exerted over many minds in that instant. In the pass beyond, seventy men or more suddenly blinked hard and shook their heads. The path before them, which had seemed so clear a moment ago, had vanished, leaving only impassable rock in front of their eyes. They peered ahead, up the face of the mountain, all of them straining hard to make sense of what they saw. If their minds were clouded by the Master, why did they struggle so? What were they looking for?
Rashan’s mind surged forth again into Two’s, and the masked man could sense just enough of the soldier’s thoughts to cause him to gasp with alarm. The main force of men were fighting this implanted notion that the pass ended suddenly for one reason – advance scouts had been sent ahead. As many as two dozen men had been further up the pass closer to the valley, and were now outside the sphere of the Master’s influence. To the soldiers watching below, it was as if those men had vanished from the face of the Earth. But to the inhabitants of the secluded valley, those men were still a threat.
Rashan could do nothing more from where he was. Nothing more than make seventy desperate soldiers turn back, empty-handed and without their comrades. The rest was up to his apprentices, and for that reason he had reached out to the young man’s mind.
The man in the mask raced back to meet his rival, silent as a cloud for all his speed. One watched him running easily over the terrain that he himself was having so much trouble with and marveled at his skill. A sharp pang of envy sparked within his breast, not for the first time.
The younger man explained the vision he had been given. “When the men below saw the scouts for the last time, they had split into two parties at the base of this final ridge. Eight or ten of them were headed for higher ground… they’d likely come over there.” The masked man indicated a point a hundred yards away. “The rest should come up the main path before us.”
“Who are they?” One asked, hiding any fear he felt well.
The masked man shook his head. “No uniforms. Could be militia. The rifles looked new though.”
There was the sudden sound of a small rockfall on the other side of the ridge near the main path, as if one of the approaching soldiers had lost his footing near the end of the climb.
The two students stood frozen for an instant. At last, the elder spoke. “This will shortly become at least somewhat academic.” He jabbed his finger towards the higher ground. “Yours are over there. These are mine.”
The man in the mask started to protest, but quickly saw the wisdom in the plan. He could cover the open space much faster than his fellow student. He gave One a quick nod of assent and raced away, leaping over the rough terrain at astonishing speed.
There were shouts coming from the path. One could begin to see the forms of the approaching soldiers calling to him, brandishing their weapons. There were more than a dozen of them, all heavily armed, all barking orders at the same time as they waved their rifles at the young man.
“Fools,” One smiled coldly.
The man who had come to this valley as August Fenwick raced across the rocky ground faster than most observers would have thought possible, and still he pushed himself for more. His heart pounded within his chest, desperate for still more oxygen, still more power, whatever could carry him to his goal in time.
Everything he had trained for… everything he had worked for…
August Fenwick had set himself upon a path: a quest for justice. A lofty goal made all the more noble by the fact that it could never be truly completed. He had sacrificed the life of indolence and comfort into which he had been born to fight for those who had nothing. He had traveled the world to make himself ready, to make himself equal to the task.
And it could all end here… before it had even begun…
He had put himself in this position, coming to this unstable region, looking for the power he knew he would need; the power to bring the truth to light, to put terror into the hearts of those who lived on fear. And in so doing he might have deprived the city that he loved of its would-be champion.
His legs pumped hard. With a deftness and ease that can only come with long, dedicated training he sacrificed no iota of speed to the uneven ground. His breathing relaxed and became more regular, just as he had been trained. He felt the adrenaline surge through his body and become a quiet force of iron resolve within him.
This valley… this place… here they must make a stand, or lose all…
On one side, an unknown number of aggressors, all of them armed, all of them desperate. On the other, there were only three. The old man was a true master of the mind, but physically weak. His fellow student he neither liked nor trusted, though he had no doubt of the man’s power. And then there was him.
The red silk of the mask whipped behind him in the mountain wind. The man who had come to this valley as August Fenwick felt the silk against his face, sensed it around his eyes, felt his face become strong and impassive, almost a part of the mask he wore as a talisman. He knew now, as the power of his training surged through him, that the man who had come to this valley was gone. That if he lived through this he could only leave as someone quite different. He could not help but wonder who that man was.
He was still twenty yards from the covering rocks near the base of the ridge when the first of the soldiers appeared over the lip of the valley.
Too late…
His legs churned harder. His heart pounded.
Too late…
The m
an in the mask had closed no more than five yards when the gunfire started.
Twenty-Eight
There was a bite in the wind as night descended, and the budding tree branches that stretched above the respectable neighborhood creaked in protest. There was little of the promise of spring left in the air. A low, thin fog hung over the lawns and gardens, as if bleeding the last of the recent warmth away and the new life it carried along with it.
But for the wind, the night air was as silent as the grave, with no sign of life nor note of movement to be heard. The streets were quiet and upon the air there were faint wisps of the smell of fires coming from the houses that ran up the hill. Those fleeting aromas promised warmth and comfort within the comfortable homes, and suggested to any and all that inside was a much fitter place than out on such a night as this.
Near the top of the hill, across a wide expanse of lawn, there were two fleeting shapes that clearly did not share this view. Were there any present to look for them, it was doubtful that they could have been seen, so completely did they make the long, grasping shadows their home.
The moon showed itself through the mist and chill, and bathed the home of Joshua Cain in a pallid, unearthly glow. The approaching figures froze and clung to the grey stone of the building, as invisible as ghosts.
Thirty feet away, they could just see the front door of Cain’s stylish home around the corner. The porch light was out, and there seemed to be no impediment to their progress. It was difficult to say if this apparent convenience itself was what had given them pause, but they held their positions like statues for a full two minutes.
At last the Flying Squirrel turned her cowled head back to face her partner. She could tell by the total absence of the dull, reflective gleam about his mask’s blank eyes that he had his night-vision lenses turned off. She smiled approvingly. It was harder to keep in the shadows when you couldn’t see the darkness, and she was pleased that he was leaving nothing to chance. She had a pair of fittings for her goggles stowed within a pouch upon her belt that had the same properties as his mask-lenses, but she almost never used them. Kit Baxter liked the giddy taste of fear that hid only in the darkness. Besides, it kept her senses sharp, and they had need of that tonight.