by Barry Reese
“Yes. But I think I have a better idea about what our friend the Grim Reaper might be up to.”
“The Grim Reaper?”
“That’s who he looks like,” Max explained. He turned away from his friend and began to head back into the house. “Tell Evelyn that something came up.”
McKenzie stared at Max’s back, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Sure.”
Max stopped at the door, turning to look back at McKenzie. “Oh… and have fun on your honeymoon. Don’t worry about things while you’re gone.”
“Why in the world would I worry about anything, Max? My best friend’s just going off to face a guy who chops people’s heads off and dresses up like Death.”
Max laughed softly, realizing how absurd the whole thing sounded. Something occurred to him then and he suddenly snapped his fingers. “Kirsten! I need to speak to her.”
McKenzie seemed surprised but he was more than willing to go along with his friend’s inspiration. “I’ll send her your way. You going to be down in the Nest?” McKenzie was referring to the reinforced storm cellar that Max had turned into a secret lair, filled with items used in his crusade against crime.
Max nodded curtly and disappeared within.
* * *
Kirsten was still in her wedding dress when she entered the Nest. She had a sort of happy glow about her that made Max feel guilty for having pulled her away from the reception. She took one look at Max in his Peregrine garb and some of the pleasure seemed to ebb from her. Max wore his domino-style mask with its odd little beak-like appendage over his nose; a long jacket over his slacks and white shirt, a tie, and gloves completed the outfit.
“Will mentioned that you needed to speak with me.”
Max nodded, thinking that not very long ago they’d met on the field of battle. The fight had ended when McKenzie had stepped between them, bringing his lover and his best friend to peace. He hoped he’d never have to face her that way again for she was a terrifying opponent. “I had a vision of a German agent, dressed in a hooded robe. He wielded a scythe and wore some kind of skull mask over his face. Are you familiar with him?” Before he’d even finished the description, Kirsten’s eyes had widened, making it quite clear that she did know someone who matched that appearance.
“Yes. His name is Werner Richter. At the same time I was undergoing training as the Iron Maiden, he was being outfitted with his own equipment. I know that he was a spiritualist and that there were stories about him trafficking in black magic.”
Max picked up a piece of paper and wrote the man’s name down, asking Kirsten to spell it for him for accuracy’s sake. “I believe he’s the one performing the murders in town,” he explained. “He’s looking to bring together three crystal skulls. I know he’s got one of them already—he got it last night. Do you have any idea where I might begin looking for the other two?”
Kirsten pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I did learn a bit about them. You have to understand, Hitler and his aides are diehard believers in the occult. They have reams of information on all sorts of topics. My particular leanings were towards those of Norse and Germanic ancestry but Hitler was willing to use anything to achieve his goals.”
Max thought he detected a trace of admiration in Kirsten’s voice, reminding him that she was only a few months removed from service to the German leader.
“I know of one other here in the United States but the last of the Greater Skulls… I have no idea where it might be.”
“The one here in the states?” Max prompted.
“Dr. Mitchell-Hedges, a retired professor from Miskatonic University. He has one. When I was still working for the Third Reich, Mitchell-Hedges was temporarily under surveillance and there was talk of stealing the skull from him.”
Max nodded, immediately making plans to contact the doctor and find out if he still owned the skull. As for the mysterious third crystal piece… he had ideas about how to find that one, as well.
The Peregrine reached out and touched Kirsten’s arm, squeezing it gently. “Thank you. I know it must be hard for you to give information about someone you used to work with—”
Kirsten’s face twisted into an expression of contempt. “I knew him, Max… but I never worked with him. Werner was a sadist who enjoyed his work far too much. If you’re expecting me to have some qualms about him being hurt… you’re wrong. Nothing would make me happier, in fact.”
The Peregrine laughed. “Okay then. I’ll make sure he pays for his crimes.”
After Kirsten was gone, the Peregrine began his investigations.
CHAPTER III
The Second Skull
January 12, 1942—Arkham, Massachusetts
Simon Mitchell-Hedges was a slender man in his earlier sixties, with silver hair and dark eyes. He walked with a cane adorned by a golden lion’s head and looked like the very picture of English nobility, in his sweater vest and slacks. His home was filled with books on every subject known to man. His private library was his personal sanctum, his defense against a world gone mad.
The professor had served on the faculty of Miskatonic University for nearly thirty years and during that time he had come face-to-face with things that simply should not exist… demonic forces which waged war on a daily basis against the human soul.
Upon retiring, Mitchell-Hedges had become a recluse in his home, sending his butler out for supplies but otherwise never leaving the safety of his abode.
As such, he never had guests. It was always just he and his butler… but Gregory was gone now on errands, meaning that Mitchell-Hedges should have been all alone.
But he wasn’t.
When he stepped into his study he came face-to-face with a frightening sight: a man dressed in a long coat and mask, with a pistol held tightly in one gloved hand. The figure had wavy dark hair and an olive complexion, making Mitchell-Hedges wonder if the fellow wasn’t of Greek descent. “Who are you?” the professor demanded, gripping his walking stick so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“I’m called the Peregrine. I’m not here to harm you.”
“Then why are you brandishing a gun?”
“Because you have a sword in that cane.”
Mitchell-Hedges blinked in surprise and took a step backwards. “How do you know that?”
“I own one just like it. You give the handle a little squeeze on the sides and the blade pops out. Am I right?”
The professor lifted the cane off the floor and set it aside, letting it rest on a small table nearby. “Now it’s your time, Mr. Peregrine?”
The Peregrine placed his pistol in one of the twin holsters hidden by his jacket. “I’m here about the skull. You’re in great danger because of it.”
Mitchell-Hedges moved forward again, stopping next to a fully stocked bar. He poured himself a glass of scotch and held it towards the Peregrine questioningly. When the vigilante answered with a negative shake of his head, Mitchell-Hedges replaced the stopper and took a sip of his drink. “That skull has caused me problems since the day I first came into contact with it. I can assure you that whatever plans you have for it are not worth the turmoil it will cause you.”
“I’m not looking to bring the Greater Skulls together,” the Peregrine explained. “I’m looking to prevent that from happening.”
Mitchell-Hedges looked back at him with a slightly different expression than before. “If you’re looking to destroy it, you’ll fail. Nothing can harm it. The only thing you can do is keep it away from the others.”
“That’s what I’m going to try and do. Has anyone come here, looking for it? Threatening you?”
“No. What makes you think they would ?”
“There’s a killer loose. He has slaughtered quite a few people in Atlanta recently. I’ve managed to do some digging into the backgrounds of the people who died—and all of them were folks who might have had information about the other skulls. Thieves, black market experts, collectors… on the surface, none of them had anything in common, but a
closer inspection showed otherwise.”
“You said the ‘other’ skulls… I take that to mean that he has one in his possession already?”
The Peregrine nodded. “He took it from the home of a professor named Stephen Gaines.”
Mitchell-Hedges looked pained and downed the last of his scotch. He began pouring himself another. “I know Stephen very well. He’s not harmed, I hope?”
“He’s fine. He wasn’t even home when the theft occurred.”
“Thank heavens for that. Well, Mr. Peregrine… let me tell you this: if this killer of yours gets all three skulls together, this world is in a lot of trouble.”
The Peregrine nodded. “He could strike at any time. I need you to give me the skull so I can protect it.”
Mitchell-Hedges laughed softly. “And how do I know that you’re not the killer yourself? You break into my home wearing a mask and holding a gun. That doesn’t make you the most trustworthy of people to me.”
The Peregrine took a step towards Mitchell-Hedges, forcing sincerity into his voice. He knew that he could augment the effect with a concentrated mental effort but he preferred not to manipulate the minds of others, especially innocent souls. “The killer’s real name is Werner Richter. He’s a Nazi who uses a scythe to cut people’s heads off. If you want to check out the newspaper clippings about me, feel free to do so after I’ve gone. I’m the Peregrine. I was active in Boston before moving to Atlanta. Hell, they’ve even made some factually incorrect movie serials based on my alleged adventures!”
That brought a smile to the old man’s face. “I know. I’ve seen them. I can’t say they made for very good viewing, though the leading lady was very enticing.”
Max resisted the urge to laugh, knowing that it was his own wife who had starred in those. “I agree,” he responded in a monotone. “So will you give me the skull?”
“Yes,” Mitchell-Hedges agreed. “It’s actually here in this room.” He walked past the Peregrine, stopping before a locked chest hidden underneath a table stacked high with bound leather volumes. Dust covered everything in this corner of the room and Mitchell-Hedges blew away a thick layer of the stuff from around the lock. He withdrew a small silver key ring from his pocket and opened the chest, revealing the box’s sole possession: the crystal skull.
The Peregrine felt a sudden prickling of his skin as the hair on the nape of his neck began to stand on end. It was a sensation he’d experienced numerous times before. It was an innate danger sense, a split-second warning that had saved his life on many occasions. “Get down!” the Peregrine yelled, leaping forward to land atop the startled professor. He knocked Mitchell-Hedges to the floor, the crystal skull skittering away from the man’s hands. It slid across the floor before bumping against the leg of a chair.
At that same time, several gunshots tore through the large window in the room. A second later, several men threw themselves through the weakened glass, sending shards flying. One of them embedded in the floor less than an inch away from the Peregrine’s left arm.
The Peregrine spun about to see four dark-garbed strangers in skull masks, each wearing a red band emblazoned with the swastika. But it was the gentleman who stepped through the shattered remains of the window behind them that caught the Peregrine’s attention. He was tall and wore a black cloak with a raised hood. From beneath the shadowy interior Max could see a bone white facemask. In the Grim Reaper’s hands was gripped a razor-sharp scythe.
The Peregrine drew his pistols, unleashing a hail of bullets that immediately struck two of the men in their chests. The vigilante then shoved the professor under the table and rolled away from him, narrowly avoiding several bullets that were sent in answer to his own attack.
The Grim Reaper seemed to take a brief glance at the Peregrine before dismissing him. The killer strode towards the second skull and knelt to retrieve it. His hand suddenly jerked away as a dagger, glowing with a golden halo around it, flew past the skull. The Reaper looked up to see the Peregrine had thrown the blade and was now grappling with another of the gunmen, spinning the man around so that he functioned as a human shield against the other.
As the fourth Nazi hesitated, unwilling to shoot his companion, the Peregrine threw the man at the other. They slammed together, falling to the floor in a heap. Max moved quickly, shooting both in the arms and legs, leaving them alive but incapable of continuing in battle.
While the gunmen moaned and thrashed about, the Peregrine turned back to face the Grim Reaper, who was now standing with skull in hand. Before Max could do anything, the Reaper had dropped the skull within the folds of his robe, where it seemingly disappeared entirely.
“Why are you here?” the Reaper asked in a thick German accent.
“Because you’re a murderer who needs to be brought to justice.”
“I am a patriot and a soldier,” the Reaper answered. “Are your own soldiers murderers for killing the enemies of your nation?”
The Peregrine pointed both pistols at the Grim Reaper, ready to let the bullets fly. “Hand over the skulls, Richter.”
“Ah. You know who I am then…”
“Yes.”
The Grim Reaper pointed a gloved hand at the Peregrine. “And I think I know you as well. The birdlike mask and the glowing dagger… you are the Peregrine. You’ve interfered with the Fuehrer’s plans before. You brainwashed the Iron Maiden.”
“No brainwashing was needed, friend. She just finally realized what a lunatic she was working for.” The Peregrine gestured with the pistols. “Now, hand over the skulls or I’ll start shooting.”
“Go ahead,” the Reaper replied. He moved forward with blinding speed, whipping the scythe through the air, aiming its blade directly at the Peregrine’s neck. Max barely managed to duck under the blow, opening fire as he did so. The bullets all hit home but each of them seemed to disappear within the voluminous folds of the Nazi’s robes.
Max was forced to roll quickly as the Reaper continued to press his assault. The scythe’s blade narrowly missed catching the Peregrine in the shoulder. It embedded in the floor, giving the Peregrine the chance to drive an elbow into the killer’s stomach, staggering him. The blade pulled free but there was no time for the Reaper to raise it for another attack before the Peregrine was back upright. Max shoved the barrel of the gun against the Reaper’s head and discharged the weapon, hoping to end the conflict as quickly as possible.
To Max’s shock and horror, the Grim Reaper let out a roar of anger—but not of pain. He threw out a fist that connected with Max’s cheek. The punch was enough to send the Peregrine back on his heels and he was unable to dodge the Reaper’s next swipe of his blade: the scythe cut a deep gash in left shoulder, sending a warm wave of pain through the hero.
The Peregrine jumped away, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder. “What are you?” he asked, knowing that by all rights the Grim Reaper should be dead by now.
“I am a loyal German, one who was given the opportunity to serve the Fatherland in a way that most men could never do.” The Grim Reaper held up his scythe, soaked in the Peregrine’s blood. “My blade can cut through nearly anything and my cloak is far from a normal bit of cloth.”
“I’ll make you the same offer we made to the Iron Maiden, Werner. Renounce the Nazi ideology and I’ll do everything I can to help you settle in here in America. If you don’t accept, I’ll find a way to get a bullet under that hood of yours—and you’re going to burn in Hell.”
“Spoken like a Western fool,” the Reaper retorted. “If anyone should renounce their ways, it is you. Turn your back on the Zionists who control your economy and the mongrels who walk your streets… and you might find a place in the coming world order.”
Max wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, thanks for that well put together sales pitch. Pardon me for sticking with my mongrel friends, though.”
The Peregrine readied himself for another attack but the Grim Reaper suddenly took a step back. A thick fog seemed to arise from nowhere, risi
ng steadily past the Peregrine’s ankles, then his knees, all the way past his waist, until it clung to him like a thick cloud from the neck down. Into this mist the Grim Reaper had disappeared, though his voice echoed in a taunting manner before fading:
“My goal isn’t to kill. It’s to accumulate objects that the Fuehrer can use. Take your life and learn a valuable lesson: stay out of my way.”
The Peregrine ran forward, trying to make contact with the Grim Reaper but finding only empty air in the villain’s stead. Cursing under his breath, the Peregrine turned back to check on the Nazi gunmen. Each of them was still and quiet, prompting Max to examine them quickly. The wounded were now dead, having taken their own lives via cyanide capsules.
“Did he escape with the skull?”
The Peregrine glanced over to see Mitchell-Hedges climbing from under his table, coughing as the mist began to dissipate.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“You’re bleeding,” Mitchell-Hedges said. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“No thank you. Just call the police. These men are dead. I have to get to work finding that last skull.”
Mitchell-Hedges nodded, though he stared at the dripping blood from the Peregrine’s wound with obvious concern. “If I had any clue about where it might be hidden, I’d tell you. Those three skulls can’t be brought together… I’ve seen enough to assure me that their power is real enough to pose a threat to the entire world.”
The Peregrine’s face was set in a grim expression. “I believe you. But I’m lucky enough to have a friend who might be able to tell me where the final skull is located… and what the origins of those damned things really are.”
CHAPTER IV
The Russian Superman
January 14, 1942—New York City
The tall man was of Russian descent, with close-cropped silver-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a well-tailored black suit, a white handkerchief perched dashingly out of his breast pocket and a golden ring set with a pale red stone shone on the little finger of his right hand. His teeth were shockingly white and very straight, helping give the impression of a man who came from impressive stock.
