by Gregg Taylor
He took the pack away from his temples and dropped it in the kitchen sink. He looked down on the counter to his left. There, barely visible in the light spilled from the neon sign across the street, was the Grapple Gun the Flying Squirrel had used to pull him to safety. He looked at the device with admiration, trying to understand its operation. He supposed that the department had people qualified to study it. Perhaps even reverse engineer it to produce more. He arched an eyebrow as he thought. It even seemed possible that within this device there might be found some clue in its construction that could provide the solution to his quest, and reveal the identities of the mysterious figures. Parker paused at the thought that he might have emerged from this seemingly disastrous outing victorious.
Somehow, it didn’t seem right.
To his way of thinking, if the motives of the masked vigilantes were less than pure, they wouldn’t have bothered to save his life. To use the very device they had achieved this with to uncover their secrets felt wrong. He wondered if that was why he hadn’t remained at the scene once he’d got himself free, hadn’t stayed to file a report as the fire crews pulled the charred body of Satchel Braun from the wreckage of the shop, and those of his three mysterious confederates. Or why he had just watched from the far rooftop to make sure that those were the only bodies that were found. That the masked heroes had got out in time.
His thoughts wandered again to the mysterious girl in grey. He was trying awfully hard to remember his duty, to not act like a kid with a schoolboy crush. But there was something haunting about her eyes, her voice. And he certainly admired the way she had handled herself in a scrape. Those goons had been serious customers, after all.
That, too, gave him pause. Those two gorillas had strength far beyond that of ordinary men, to say nothing of the bullets they had shrugged off. And the little man in the trenchcoat had blown himself to kingdom come to send a message. Parker had never heard of such behavior in racketeers or their victims. Why would the little man have done such a thing?
Parker turned and headed for a cupboard in his small sitting room. Maybe a drink would clear his head. Maybe it would knock him right out. Either option sounded good to Andy Parker. The only thing he was sure of was that this case was bound to get still more complicated. Unless he turned in the Grapple Gun. That could end his involvement in this crazy business at a stroke. Maybe lock up a promotion.
“If I don’t turn it in, there’ll be trouble,” he thought. “I’d bet my badge on it.”
The phrase was one he used quite often, but this time it gave him a sudden start. His badge–! He slapped his pockets, knowing already that he would not find the tin shield that identified him as one of Toronto’s Finest.
Parker groaned. He had no choice but to turn in the Grapple Gun and come clean now. The investigators from the fire department would check every inch of that wreckage, and they were sure to turn up his shield sooner or later.
He sat down on his old sofa and stared at the glass in his hand. Somehow he no longer wanted it. He felt his head nodding, and barely managed to set down the glass before he fell asleep, exhausted.
He awoke with a start and a stiff neck. He blinked in the semi-darkness. It was impossible to say how much time had passed. He rubbed his forehead with the flat of his hand. What had awoken him? He thought he heard a scuffling sound in the kitchen.
“Mice again,” he thought in disgust. Maybe he should get a cat.
He stood up and made his way into the kitchen, flicking on the electric light as he did so. He blinked at its glare. A cool breeze washed over him. Had he left that window open?
His gaze fell on the kitchen counter. The mysterious Grapple Gun was gone! And in its place he saw his own badge, with a small card attached to it. Parker snatched it up. The card bore the mark of a small ink stamp in the shape of a paw print and claws. The mark of the Red Panda!
Andy Parker raced to the window in time to see a sleek, female shape hanging in the sky, gliding as if suspended by nothing more than the beams of the low-hanging moon. At that distance he couldn’t say for certain, but he could have sworn he heard her laughing.
Twelve
Kit Baxter practically skipped into the Crime Lab. It took her some time to settle down after a normal evening’s activities as the Flying Squirrel, but tonight her adrenaline was still racing, three hours after the explosion at Northcott’s Grocery. She spotted the Red Panda at one of his workbenches peering into the microscope. He did not look up as she approached.
“Get it?” he asked.
“Got it,” she said, putting the Grapple Gun down on the table.
“Good,” the Red Panda said, looking up at last with a half grin. “That was quick thinking, saving that young policeman’s life, Kit. But that could have been a little… complicated.” He started to turn back to the eyepiece.
“I think it already is,” she said, knowing it would turn his gaze back to her.
“What makes you say that?” he said as he did exactly that.
“Well, think about it, Boss,” she began, plunking down on a stool and resting her elbows on the table. “That wasn’t a detective’s badge. He’s a Constable. A patrolman.”
“So why was he carrying it when out of uniform?” the Red Panda finished her line of questioning for her.
“Right. To say nothing of the revolver.”
“It’s interesting.”
“And he was way out of his neighborhood, so he wasn’t heading home after his shift.”
“Perhaps he was out for a stroll,” he said facetiously.
“A stroll? He was miles from home and he decided to pick up a few things in a shop practically identical to the one across from his house?”
He smiled. “I grant you it seems less than likely. But given the rumors of new crime in the area–”
She cut him off. “So the cops decided to send in a single flatfoot, in plainclothes, from the wrong division…”
He laughed. “All right, you’ve sold me. He’s officially under suspicion.”
“But of what? It doesn’t make any sense,” she said, plunking her cheeks down to rest on her upturned hands.
“That’s the sort of thing we’re usually most suspicious of, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” she said, blinking hard twice. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Hmm?” he said, glancing back at the microscope. “Oh, an interesting sample from the crime scene.”
“How’d you get a sample from the crime scene? The cops an’ the fire department have it all locked down.” Her brows furrowed crossly.
“A little serendipity goes a long way,” he said. “Besides, as much as I’d like to have samples of the explosive agent used, this is one thing the police aren’t likely to find in the ashes.”
“What is it? And where did it come from?”
“It came from my right gauntlet.”
“What?” she said incredulously.
“I noticed a smear on my gauntlet that roughly corresponded with where I had hit one of those bruisers,” he said seriously.
“And?” She wished he’d finish a sentence without prompting when she was tired.
“Face paint. Foundation.”
She blinked. “You’re saying those two monsters were wearing makeup?”
“I really am.”
“But… that doesn’t even make sense.”
“It’s interesting, isn’t it? They made no effort to hide their faces, and yet at least one of them, and possibly both, was wearing flesh colored foundation makeup.”
“Flesh comes in lots of colors,” she reminded him.
“Ah, fair point,” he said. “But there are facial features beyond skin color that denote different races, and I’d be prepared to swear that both of those bruisers were Caucasian in origin.”
“So there must be something else to the makeup.”
“But there isn’t. It’s plain old, buy-it-at-any-drugstore, foundation makeup.”
“So you’re saying two giant w
hite guys were wearing makeup to look like… two giant white guys.”
“In a nutshell,” he said turning back to the microscope.
“But Boss, why change the color of your skin to the same color it already is? What’s the reason?”
“There isn’t one,” he said. “And therefore?”
“Their skin must have been a different color?” she said, feeling lost.
“Right.”
“But you just said–”
“I didn’t say I had it figured out,” he smiled. “I just said it was interesting. So aside from our mysterious policeman, we have known criminals working with bizarre, high-powered gorillas who wear face-paint, to say nothing of suicide bombers. Quite a combination.”
She tried to make a remark, but spoiled it with a yawn.
“You ran out of steam in a hurry,” he said with a grin. “We should get you home.”
“Sorry, Boss,” she said blinking. “The adrenaline finally quit, I guess.”
“Want me to drive you?”
“I think a multi-vehicle pile-up is probably more excitement than I need tonight. I’ll take the downtown tube and catch a taxicab.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. Kit shook her head a little. She was sure there was a perfect line out there somewhere about walking her home. Something that would give her a last little thrill and make him blush one more time for good measure before retiring. But suddenly she was too tired to think of it.
“I’m sure. You’re gonna sleep at some point, right?”
“I promise,” he lied, and turned back to his lab work.
Thirteen
A copy of the Chronicle snapped to the table top with a sharp crack. A large, angry face quickly leaned over it aggressively, barking across the long mahogany table. The large-type headline screamed the news: “Bombing Terror! Three Killed in Mysterious Gangland Attack!”
“Is this your idea of a smooth operation?” he snarled.
The tall, raven-haired woman across the table arched her eyebrow and said nothing. Her fingers curled into tight balls of quiet rage. Professor Zombie was unaccustomed to insolence.
The cheerful, round-faced man beside her was, however. Indeed, he was an expert practitioner. Kid Chaos leaned back in his chair and plunked his boots up on the rich wood of the table.
“Smooth operation? Dear heart, it’s a rousing success!” His grin was broad, but there was something in his eyes that dared Malcolm to speak to him as a subordinate again.
“Success? You blew that grocery store halfway to Hell!” Malcolm growled.
“And how much resistance do you think our protection clients will put up now?” Kid Chaos beamed. “We’re the only game in town, Pooky. In every neighborhood in the city, little honest shopkeepers will have a pretty good idea of just exactly what will happen to them if they don’t grin and pay up. And it won’t be a beating, or a few broken bones. We’ll take the little piece of heaven they’ve worked and slaved to build, and blow it into a million little pieces!” The little man giggled excitedly until it seemed that he might burst with his own delight.
Malcolm cursed under his breath. “But the publicity–”
“Not publicity, Mister Malcolm. Advertising!” The little man sprang up on the table and struck a heroic pose. “Free advertising at that… every headline in town is spreading the good news! Do you have any idea what that kind of ad campaign would cost?”
“But the greengrocer wasn’t even in the shop! Somehow he got out before the place went up.”
“Better and better! Leave one alive to tell his tale! He certainly isn’t talking to the police or the newspapers. Even if he never opens his mouth to a single soul, the fact that he could have will lead to every appalling variation on the story you can imagine… and quite a few you can’t. Don’t underestimate the power of the morons in the street to terrify themselves!” Kid Chaos was dancing on the table now, determined to provoke a reaction from the enraged gangster.
At last Malcolm could stand no more. His great fist came slamming down hard on the table. “Listen to me, you maniac!–”
It was the push that Chaos had been looking for. He jumped down from the table and thrust his great moon of a face hard into Malcolm’s. “No, you listen to me, Malcolm. You aren’t working with kids here. You aren’t working with punks. You brought us into your little Cabal to do something you never could. You bring the organization and we provide the imagination. Partners. Don’t forget it.”
Malcolm stared back, furious. He drew a deep breath and forced a tight smile. Circumstances dictated a change in his tactics.
“Your point is taken, Chaos. But the fact remains that the exercise of your… creativity… has brought attention to our activities before we are well established. If this organization is to have a chance to succeed–”
“If we are to have a chance to succeed,” the icy voice of Professor Zombie broke in suddenly, “we must be prepared to seize that success by the throat. Not hide in the shadows like sneak thieves. Last night’s operation was an unreserved success, beyond the loss of my footsoldiers–”
“Our footsoldiers,” Kid Chaos broke in sullenly.
“Our footsoldiers,” Professor Zombie corrected with a condescending smile. “We had intended to lose only one little zombie. An unimportant weakling carrying the bomb. Had the plan worked perfectly, those two bruisers would have been long out of the blast zone. We went to considerable trouble to create them to lose them so quickly.”
“What do you mean, create them?” Malcolm blurted, becoming angry again. “Weren’t they just a couple of corpses you made into your puppets?”
Kid Chaos snorted and thumped down in his chair. “Philistine,” he said.
Professor Zombie was less offended, or at the very least she showed it less. “It is true,” she began, “that a variant of the Necronium compound can be used to animate the dead for short periods. But the rapid decay of dead flesh left my zombies with unpredictable… deficiencies. I now use a treatment of Necronium 232 in a suspension solution, electrified on a frequency–”
“Professor,” Malcolm interrupted, careful to keep his temper, “in something less than exhaustive detail, if you please.”
The arch-villainess smirked in contempt. “My current Zombification process allows me to begin with a live, healthy subject, and leech from their bodies the sweet gift of life, leaving in its wake only cold obedience.” Her ice-cold eyes fell on Malcolm in a way that made him most uncomfortable. He shifted visibly in his chair, and Professor Zombie’s smirk grew crueler.
“And we’ve come up with a little something extra special by putting our heads together,” Kid Chaos said with zeal. “I had been playing with a serum that would give my henchmen vastly enhanced strength. It was a great success. Unfortunately it had one small side effect.”
“What was that?” Malcolm’s interest was piqued in spite of himself.
“It caused the subjects to… what is the word?”
“Die,” the Professor said, her lips curling in delight.
“Ah!” Chaos burst in delight. “Le mot juste! But working in concert with the Professor makes the problem quite moot. Once the subjects are no longer dependent upon a heartbeat for continued operation, the inevitable cardiac arrest doesn’t seem to matter so much.” And again the little man burst into a fit of giggles, biting his fist in delight.
“But having gone to considerable trouble to secure subjects of a proper size and build, dose them with Chaos’ serum and then subject them to my Necronium treatments… losing them so quickly is a blow.” Zombie scowled at the prospect of starting from scratch.
“Yes,” Chaos said casually, “odd about that, isn’t it?”
“Nothing odd about it,” Professor Zombie said with a smile.
“You think the man in the mask paid a call?”
“Who else?”
“What’s that?” Malcolm sprang from his chair. “There was nothing in the papers about the Red Panda!”
“And
a good thing too,” Chaos sneered. “That publicity hog would have pushed us right out of the headlines.”
“But if the Panda is in this already–”
“Calm yourself, Malcolm,” Professor Zombie said, her voice dripping venom. “We have ways of dealing with the Red Panda, and his little pet. You take care of the business end.”
“But–”
“Thank you, dear, dear Malcolm,” Kid Chaos said smoothly, easing the gangster out the door, “for everything.”
Kid Chaos closed the door and leaned against it heavily.
“I thought he’d never leave,” he smirked.
“Mister Malcolm seems a little out of his depth at times.” Zombie was more serious. “That is most disappointing.”
“A middle manager at best,” Kid Chaos said dismissively. “We need his organization. Which means we need him. For the moment.”
Finally, she allowed herself a genuine smile. “For the moment,” she echoed grimly.
Fourteen
On the twelfth floor of the monument to the lapsed standards of journalistic integrity that was the Toronto Chronicle building, Jack Peters sat behind his desk, deep in contemplation. His lanky form was sprawled feet-first across his desk, and he drummed his fingertips on his chair arms as he thought. The battered typewriter upon the desk had clearly been rudely pushed aside in favor of the telephone at some point in the recent past, and its situation had not improved since.
He stared at the wall a moment, deep in thought. Through the frosted pane of glass in his door, he could see there wasn’t much light left on in the outer offices. It was late, and in the evenings the Chronicle carried no more than a skeleton staff on the City Desk for emergencies. Deep in the bowels of the great paper, the real work continued. Mighty presses were rolling, churning out bales of ink-stained hyperbole for the Morning Edition, but after hours, the Editorial Department was sleepy at best.
