by Gregg Taylor
“If they needed to hear that from me,” Spiro said with a grim smile, “they would have been dead a long time ago. Goodnight, Mother Hen.”
There was a click in his ear as she disconnected the line, and then another series of clicks as the link to the normal telephone network was reestablished. Spiro sighed and shook his head as he began to dial.
Thirty
August Fenwick had seen the soldiers raise their rifles. As he raced across the uneven ground to a high ridge, he had expected to find the men who now faced him. He had seen their approach through the mind of his master, Rashan, who now held the bulk of the approaching force in a hypnotic thrall.
For all of Fenwick’s speed, he had not reached the ridge in time to use his martial training to his advantage. Dozens of unarmed combat styles were his to command, together with strength, agility and a familiarity with the terrain. But as the soldiers approached he knew that he was too late, that their guns gave them a striking reach he could not match. As the length of red silk around his eyes pulled taut behind him in the onrush of wind, time seemed to slow. Each moment seemed to be a complete act, an hour, a day. He forced his body harder, faster, knowing it would never be enough. He saw hands move to triggers and seemed to throw himself towards his enemies in a last burst of energy, of desperation, never realizing that he did not, at that moment, move at all.
The men were perhaps fifteen yards away when he heard the guns begin to roar. For an instant, August Fenwick felt himself suspended, as if in amber. Still himself, but not within himself. He heard the rifle shots tearing at the air, and their roar seemed to wake him suddenly, as if from a dream.
His first thought was sheer amazement at the absence of pain. His eyes darted up to the men on the ridge. Their rifles were aimed, not at Fenwick, but at an open, empty space thirty feet to his left. They had paused in their attack, as if confused, until a sudden cry came from one of their number. Fenwick looked up and saw the squat man with the beard pointing at him in astonishment.
August Fenwick did not pause to wonder at what had happened. For months he had trained the hidden powers of the human brain. Learned the ancient sciences of the mind as few living ever had. But it had been theory; this was no mere exercise. In that moment of desperation his training had taken over, he had reached out into the minds of these gunmen with his one desire: that they see him where he was not, fire their bullets uselessly rather than destroy him. As the soldiers changed their aim and targeted his true position, he had little time to improvise. It had worked once…
He reached out into the ether with his mind, and felt his consciousness flow into those of the men who faced him across the rock face in the biting wind. He felt his mind in their minds…
Abruptly, the men changed their aim again. And then again. They fired wildly as they saw the masked white man appear and disappear before their very eyes. August Fenwick felt the fear growing in their hearts with every errant shot. He could taste their adrenaline, feel their hearts racing, their knees quaking. He truly knew the terror that the strange apparition he had become put into the very hearts of the men that wished to destroy him, if only they could find him.
As Fenwick’s power grew stronger, more confident, he could not help but laugh. His laughter was mocking, full of mirth, almost joyful. It sang of the promise of justice to come and echoed through the valley. It seemed to come from a dozen mouths, and places unseen. The gunmen heard the laughter of the masked man and despaired. Desperately clutching in white-knuckled hands the guns that had made them brave only moments before, they fired, again and again, knowing in their hearts that it was futile. Knowing that their misdeeds had awakened a force they could not defeat. Fearing for everything they might have ever held dear.
The laughter of the man in the mask was a roar in their ears now as the mists of the high mountains seemed to swirl around them, making the fleeting glimpses of their tormentor even more unpredictable. Two of the soldiers turned and broke into a run, scrambling back down the rocky path as quickly as the terrain would allow. The squat man with the beard shouted orders after them, hiding his own fear within a stream of oaths and threats in a dialect unknown to Fenwick’s ear. Whatever he said, it didn’t seem to have much effect, as the men never broke the stride of their retreat. Another soldier moved to follow them. The bearded commander leveled his weapon at the would-be deserter with a glare that left the sincerity of his threat in no doubt.
Hidden in plain sight, Fenwick could see the moment clearly. The blanket of mist was, like his own phantom images, a hypnotic projection of his own mind. He saw the rifle pointed at the soldier’s heart. The soldier that had been his enemy, now under threat of his own commander. Fenwick moved swiftly to intervene.
The eyes of the soldiers stared into empty space with horror and wonder as the masked man once more reached out with his mind. To their clouded senses, the fog had rolled upward, growing thick and dense around a single point in mid-air. That mass of mist slowly resolved itself into the face of their masked tormentor, tremendous in size, suspended in the thin and biting mountain air. They heard the laughter once again, heard it at volumes that made their bones rattle and knees quake. The uneven war was lost, the soldiers were, to a man, more frightened of this horror than the squat, bearded man. They turned and ran in terror, the wind howling with the cruel, mocking laughter of the spirit that protected this valley.
One man remained. Only the commander, his rifle clutched between hands white with terror. He stared at the apparition with an expression calculated to suggest he was unmoved. His face was grim, scarred with a hundred battles. He was not a man to be frightened by ghosts. Once more, Fenwick reached out with his mind.
The vaporous apparition swirled once more, consuming itself into a man-sized tornado, just feet away from where the man with the rifle stood. An instant later the wind stopped, and the image of the man in the mask stood before his foe. The squat commander leveled his rifle and fired directly into his enemy’s heart. The form of the masked man took it and smiled, moving forward slowly but inexorably.
From his vantage point at the bottom of the ridge, Fenwick grimaced a little. This was going to be the tricky part.
The man that remained at the top of the ridge would not be fooled by a simple illusion. He needed persuasion. The sort that only flesh and blood could give. But from the base of the ridge, Fenwick was in no position to use his physical abilities, only the power of the mind. The telekinesis his fellow student favored had never been Fenwick’s study. He had experimented with creating raw force with his mental energy, but Rashan’s teaching had taken him down a different path.
With every ounce of his energy, August Fenwick reached out with his mind. As the phantom image he had cast lashed out with its fist, Fenwick gave everything he could to the illusion. If he could just make the bearded commander believe the spell strongly enough to actually feel the blow…
An instant later, the soldier lay on his back, stunned momentarily by the punch he had received. From his vantage point, the masked man laughed a little, his mirth echoing through the thin air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. The laughter stopped suddenly as Fenwick gaped in amazement. It was difficult to see for certain, but he was almost sure that there was blood on the soldier’s face. Had Fenwick exceeded his training and truly thrown a telekinetic blow? Or had the illusion been so complete that the soldier’s mind not only felt the pain but actually created the damage the blow would have done?
It was at least somewhat academic at this point, as the bearded commander scrambled to his feet and raced down the path after his men. They would hurry down the trail until they fell under Master Rashan’s spell, like the squadron they had broken off from. They would join the ranks of confused men, staring at a rock wall where a path had once been. When they did, they would speak of an unearthly terror waiting beyond. An elemental force which they had awakened, which could not be hurt with bullets and had powers no army could match. They would leave quickly, and in defeat
. If only…
The man in the red mask was drawn back to earth by the echo of gunfire behind him. Slow, methodical gunfire.
He turned in haste back towards the kuti. From where he stood, he could clearly see his fellow student, holding the ground he had been charged with protecting in his own way.
The ground along the main path was strewn with a dozen corpses. The men that remained alive were each frozen, quaking and in some kind of mental thrall. Fenwick stood stock still in amazement for a moment. Some of the soldiers stood, many were on their knees, and each seemed to be fighting a losing battle of their own. The man in the mask watched from a hundred yards away. He could see one soldier, his arms quaking, resisting some inexorable force, lift his rifle and rest the barrel in his own mouth.
Fenwick’s cry of protest was drowned out by the sharp retort of the gun. He raced over the rough terrain, leaping from rock to rock like a monkey, watching soldier after soldier lose their hidden battles and take their own lives. He was still twenty yards away when the final man fell and crumpled, his life snapped short, his blood painting the stones a bright, unnatural red.
The man August Fenwick knew only as One turned to face him with a self-satisfied smile, like a cat that had dined well.
“No mean feat, young one,” he said condescendingly, “to force another man to suicide with the brute force of one’s will.”
Fenwick stood astonished, the lengths of the sash he wore over his face flapping behind him in the biting wind. At last he sputtered his reply.
“I thought it was impossible,” he said quietly.
One smiled even more broadly. “I had heard that, too. That is why I could not resist the attempt. To force a mind into an act so far from nature is truly the act of a master. Like all things, it just required practice.”
Fenwick stared, open mouthed, at the carnage before him. His fellow student had certainly seized the opportunity to experiment. Near the top of the path, where it entered the valley, he could see men who looked like they had been shot down hastily by their own enthralled comrades. As the men had neared, One’s mastery had grown more complete, and the abominations grew more hideous until they reached the last man sprawled, almost headless, at the feet of this smiling young man.
“Study is a very fine thing, rich man’s son,” he said, his gaze narrowing as they looked deep into Fenwick’s astounded eyes. “But in the end, nothing teaches like practice. Whole armies will fall at my feet. The riches you scorn will be mine a thousand fold.”
Fenwick blinked in greater amazement. “What are you saying?” he said.
One did not seem to have heard, lost as he was in a rush of adrenaline and a haze of darkness that seemed to flow from within him. “And on that day,” he almost sang, “you, too, will call me the Master.”
Thirty-One
The crowds of gawkers that had crowded the streets and sidewalks around the remains of Joshua Cain’s home had thinned out at last. A tall, lean man with his hat pulled low over his eyes clung to the shadows as best he could as the tired remnants of the police and fire squads began to pack it in for the night. Tomorrow the arson squad could begin their investigation in earnest, but for tonight the danger was past. A handful of officers would be on patrol to protect the curious from themselves, but for the official ranks of law and order, the drama was over.
The man in the shadows would not have agreed with that assessment. He watched and waited for any opportunity to begin his night’s work in earnest. His shoulders grew tense in spite of themselves as he heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him.
“Well, well. A new face,” a voice that must have belonged to the footsteps chirped pleasantly. “Been a lot of those lately.”
The man in the shadows stammered for a moment, unsure of himself. He had thought to ignore the speaker altogether, then rejected the idea out of hand as being too suspicious. The voice did not wait for him to resolve his dilemma.
“The strong, silent type I see. Kind of a cliché, but the classics are classics for a reason, dontcha think?”
The silent man turned at last and saw a lanky man with a press card tucked into the band of his fedora, which was pushed far back on his head. The speaker stood with his hands deep in his pockets and a smirk on his face that had the look of permanent status, which was very nearly true. The man in the shadows forced himself to relax a little as he spoke.
“Do I know you, Mister?” he said at last.
“Maybe not, kid,” the man answered, “but I’d know you at thirty paces. You’re an agent and you’re new at it. Try to look less like you’re waiting for adventure and more like you’re waiting for a bus. The name’s Peters. Jack Peters, Toronto Chronicle.”
There was a small pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the reply.
“Sure you don’t,” Peters smiled. “Seriously though, kid, I’m all right. You’re supposed to meet me.” Peters looked at the face of the young man in the shadows. It was a pleasant sort of face, even if it did have something of a hunted look that was far too common in these tough times. Peters could see the man’s eyes narrow.
“I’m just waiting for a friend,” he said, as if that were the end of the conversation. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
Jack Peters sighed a little. He didn’t want to be here all night, but Mother Hen seemed serious about this. “Come on, kid. What’s the number?” he said.
The man was silent, and it seemed clear that he knew what Peters was asking, but was still uncertain of how to reply. Peters decided to needle his young friend.
“You look a little too wet-behind-the-ears to me,” he said with a grin. “I’d say you can’t be lower than… oh, one sixty, one seventy–”
“One forty-eight!” the young man snapped indignantly before realizing that he’d been played. Peters just grinned at the young man’s embarrassment. He stuck out his hand.
“Couldn’t tell you my number,” he said, “and for the love of Pete don’t ask me for a countersign. But it’s nice to meet you, One Forty-Eight.”
Agent One Forty-Eight stood frozen for another moment before a quiet voice let him off the hook.
“May as well shake his hand, Mack,” Andy Parker said with a grin. “He’s all right.”
“I tried to tell him,” Jack Peters smiled. “How are we doing, Parker?”
“About the same as usual,” Andy Parker said seriously.
“Swell,” Peters replied, the grin finally leaving his face.
He looked at Parker. The young police officer was in civilian clothes, but hardly in disguise. Peters guessed that he must have been looking for an officer he knew for information, and he was right.
“Jack Peters, Mac Tully,” Parker said with a nod. Tully looked slightly flustered, but he relaxed at least. Peters knew without asking that he must have worked with the young police constable before; Parker inspired confidence, even if he didn’t seem to know it.
“So what’s the lay?” Tully asked sheepishly.
Parker shook his head. “I didn’t get much. Probably no more than Jack.”
“Nix to that,” the reporter said. “Your pals weren’t exactly forthcoming. Every other paper in town will be trying to stretch ‘mysterious explosion’ to fill half a page.”
“Not the Chronicle?” Parker needled.
Jack Peters smiled and said nothing. Tully seemed anxious.
“I saw them pull a body out of the wreck,” the young agent said gravely.
“One of seven,” Parker replied. “They were pretty badly mauled by the explosion, and the fire didn’t help much.”
Tully’s eyes widened. “Any sign of–”
Parker shook his head. “None of them were wearing a mask, if that’s what you’re asking. Though with a blast like that, there’s no guarantee it would have stayed on. But they were all male, which is promising at least.”
“At least fifty percent promising anyway,” Peters nodded. “Though they seemed to quit the search awf
ul quick.”
Parker bristled slightly. Agent of the Red Panda or not, he was still a police officer and anything that sounded like criticism of the force got his hackles up. “It was pretty clear that no one could have survived the blast, to say nothing of the fire. It’s dark and the wreckage is unstable; there was no sense risking lives to pull out bodies.”
Peters raised his hands in submission and said nothing.
Tully looked back and forth between the two more experienced agents. “So what do we do?” he asked impatiently.
Parker grimaced and glanced over his shoulder. “We’re sticking out like sore thumbs here. Let’s go.” He crossed the street at a quick pace.
“We’re going?” Mac said, hurrying after him. “Do we know anything?”
Parker opened the door of his old car. “Not a thing. Get in, I’ll explain on the way.”
Minutes later, the three agents sped along the darkened streets, leaving Cain’s respectable neighborhood for the more highbrow addresses to the north.
“Where we going, Constable?” Jack Peters grimaced, feeling like the car was about to rattle itself apart at the speeds Parker was driving at.
“Six of the bodies they pulled out of the wreck were a collection of toughs,” Parker said, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. “All small-timers, none of them with any connection I ever heard of.”
“Which has us speeding into Rosedale why exactly?” Mac Tully called from the back seat, where he sat, legs folded and cramped and, like the reporter, holding on for dear life.
“If that’s who six of them were, the seventh must have been somebody else, young Mister Tully,” Peters chirped. “Try and keep up.”
Tully bit his lip. “Y’know Peters, I haven’t quite decided yet whether I ought to clip your beak.”
Peters nodded. “Tough call,” he agreed. “You let me know when you decide.”
Mac smiled. “You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”
