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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 11:58:46 GMT -5
 DC2 Showcase Vol. II
Issue Two
Featuring stories from Ellen Fleischer, Don Walsh & Charles HoM
Cover by Craig Cermak
Edited by Charles HoM |
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:18:13 GMT -5
"Old Enough To Know"
By Ellen Fleischer
Thanks to Komikbookvixen for field medicine tips!
Thanks to Kathy for the beta! |
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:19:02 GMT -5
For the millionth time, Dick wonders how much older he’ll have to be before he’ll understand everything. He’s been at the manor now for six months, and he still doesn’t know where Bruce goes every night. Or why, when he wakes up in the middle of the night, crying, and he makes his way down the hall to where Bruce’s and Alfred’s rooms are, they’re always empty.
Sometimes, he goes back to bed. Sometimes, he ventures downstairs. Whenever he does, he encounters Alfred coming from the direction of the study. “Why are you always in there this late?” He’s asked the question more than once.
The answer never varies. “One day, when you are older, matters will become clear.”
Right now, there seem to be so many of these ‘matters’ that Dick thinks Alfred had better get started, because he’ll be twenty before the butler gets done explaining it all.
He looks at the Wee Winkie circus clock hanging on the wall. Dick remembers when Dad found the thing in an antique shop. He bought it on the spot, brought it back to the trailer, touched it up, and kept it on the wall, right over the door for over a year. It’s one of the few things Dick brought with him when he left Haley’s, besides his clothes, his books and his toys. (He has his mother’s engagement and wedding bands, and his father’s cufflinks, but not handy. Those are other things that he’s supposed to ‘get’ when he’s older. The clock, however, is for now.) The bright moonlight makes the cartoonish drawings of animals and performers glow. The big hand is on the hind leg of the red elephant at just past the 12. The leg kicks out at a right angle. The little hand points to the mouth of the tuba that a blue tiger is blowing. Dick blinks. It’s just after four o’clock in the morning! All is quiet.
There are many kinds of silence, Dick knows. There’s the contented, restful quiet, when he’s tired and ready to fall asleep, and he knows that his parents are nearby, looking out for him. There’s the sorrowful silence that Dick senses sometimes, when he sees one or both of his new guardians watching him. He knows that they don’t feel sorry for him, not exactly. But they’re sorry that he’s an orphan. That’s okay. Dick is, too. It doesn’t mean he’s not happy here, but he wishes that they’d tell him stuff now, once in a while. This is a different quiet, though. Dick senses that he’s entirely alone on this floor. Does Alfred ever sleep? And where’s Bruce?
The big hand on the clock is creeping past the jaunty little pig’s balloons at ten past the hour when Dick slips out of bed and slides his feet into the velour slippers waiting below. He’s nearly out of the room before he remembers to pull on the matching bathrobe that Alfred’s draped over the chair for him. He never owned such a thing back at the circus. Now, though, Bruce and Alfred expect him to wear it if he’s leaving the room in his pajamas. They don’t expect him to leave the room at four o’clock in the morning, but Dick figures he’ll probably be in less trouble if he breaks as few house rules as possible. Besides, they never told him he had to stay in bed at four. The robe is another story. He knots the sash and cautiously pushes the bedroom door open.
The hallway outside is dark. Dick still can’t reach the light switch without jumping, and if he’s wrong—if Bruce and Alfred are really upstairs and sleeping—he doesn’t want to wake them up. It only takes a minute for him to go back to his room and get his ‘torch’. (He always thought it was called a flashlight, and that a ‘torch’ was one of those big sticks with one end lit, like what Plamen the fire eater used to swallow about three quarters of the way through the act. But no, Alfred calls it a torch, so a torch it must be.) It doesn’t give off much light, but there’s enough so Dick can see where he’s going. As he thought, Bruce’s room and Alfred’s are empty. Well, there’s nothing for it but to go looking for them, then.
The carpeted stairs barely creak as he treads down them. He heads toward the study, and is surprised when Alfred doesn’t walk toward him. The study door is open, but the room is dark. Dick bites his lip. Is he really the only person in the whole house? You’re not supposed to leave kids all alone by themselves, especially not at night! His parents never did that! His family at the circus would never do that! But the social worker went and dumped him on people who did? Why? Just because they’ve got money and they aren’t circus people? Dick wants to run into the dining room and start juggling the Waterford Crystal. He wants to climb up on the table, swing from the chandelier, then take a flying leap to the top of the stairs and slide down the banister. He… He hears footsteps.
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:19:33 GMT -5
He hears Alfred’s tread. And it sounds like he’s coming up a flight of stairs. But… there are no stairs in the study. Dick hastily douses the light and ducks behind the desk. He knows it’s futile. Alfred has eyes in the back of his head that can see in the dark.
Surprisingly, Alfred passes by without noticing. He doesn’t turn on any lights. Dick waits until the footsteps retreat down the hallway before he turns the torch back on.
The grandfather clock stands at a right angle, revealing a passage beyond. Dick shines the torch before him, and sees that the chamber appears to be made of stone. Rough steps lead downward. This isn’t a room… it’s a cave. For a moment, Dick wonders if this is a good idea. Maybe Alfred and Bruce are hiding bodies down here. If he discovers them… what’ll they do? He sets his jaw stubbornly. Flying Graysons aren’t afraid of anything.
The stairs turn sharply, and suddenly, Dick realizes that there’s more light up ahead. The cave is huge, and much of it is in shadow. There’s one area, though, where several lights shine down on a bed. There’s a figure lying there, barely moving.
Dick edges closer. “B-Bruce?” He whispers. Then he gasps. The costume—what’s left of it—is in tatters, but Dick recognizes the black symbol on the yellow background. And on one of the many stands and tables clustered around the bed, Dick can see an all-too-familiar cowl. “Bruce?”
The man on the bed groans faintly.
“Ah, there you are, Master Dick.”
The boy stifles a cry. Flying Graysons might not be afraid of anything, but they can get startled just like anybody else. “A-Alfred?”
Alfred sighs. “Wash your hands, Master Dick. Now, listen to me carefully. You’ll find packages of sterile gloves in the bin by the sink. Slip a pair on. Then pour some of the baricide over them.”
Dick blinks. “Baricide?”
Alfred nods briskly. “In the brown bottle on the other side of the sink. It’s far from the ideal way to keep the gloves free of germs, but it will have the desired effect.”
Dick locates the gloves and immediately spots the jar labeled ‘baricide’ close by. By the time Dick returns, Alfred has moved a small stepstool over to the bed. He motions to the boy to mount it. “I need you to apply pressure,” he explains, as he guides Dick’s hands to a dressing on Bruce’s abdomen. “Right here.” He nods approvingly. “Good lad. We need to staunch the bleeding.”
He bends down to the bed. “Now, Master Bruce,” Dick hears him whisper, “that gash in your side requires attention. I’ll set to suturing it directly.” Dick watches as Alfred prepares a needle.
“Will he… be okay?” Dick ventures after a few moments.
Alfred ties off the stitches and moves to inspect the dressing. “I believe so, lad.” He smiles slightly. “Well. Master Bruce had meant to tell you at a later date, but I suppose there’s no hiding it now, is there?”
Dick shakes his head in wonderment. The costume, the cave, the late nights… they all make sense now.
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:20:18 GMT -5
It’s after dinner when Bruce calls Dick into the study. The boy regards him seated behind the mahogany desk. Bruce doesn’t look like he was lying bloodied and unconscious in a cave just a few hours earlier. Without meaning to, Dick’s eyes flick over to the clock. Bruce notices and smiles for a moment.
“I’m… sorry,” Bruce says finally. “It must have been scary waking up to find the manor empty.”
Dick doesn’t answer.
Bruce waits. “It isn’t fair,” he says seriously. “I hadn’t meant to force this choice on you until you…”
“Until I was older,” Dick interrupts. “Can I…” He checks himself. “May I say something?”
Bruce’s eyebrows shoot up. “Go ahead,” he says.
The boy takes a deep breath. “I am older.” The words come out in a rush now. “Maybe before, there were things I didn’t have to know, didn’t have to see… but I-I saw them.” He bites his lip. “I know… I can’t go back to the way things were before I came here. I don’t mean going back to the circus—I can do that one day if I want to—but I can’t go back to being who I was. I…” He tries to make Bruce understand. “I can’t go back to being a little kid anymore. And I don’t want everything to have to wait until I’m… older.”
Bruce closes his eyes. “I couldn’t either,” he says. “It isn’t fair,” he repeats, this time in a whisper. “But now that you know about me, there’s a choice that you need to make.” He looks at Dick seriously. “We can keep going the way we have been, except that now, you’ll know what it is I do every night. That might make things easier for you in one way, because at least you won’t be wondering anymore. But I can’t deny that you might find me in the cave one morning in worse condition than you did earlier. Or… I might not come back one night.” He closes his eyes again. “You implied that you didn’t want to be treated like a child. If that’s the case, I’m not going to gloss over the facts. What I do is dangerous. You… you’ll need to be prepared for that possibility.”
He waits for Dick to nod. “If you don’t think that’s something that you can handle, I can’t blame you. I can… call the social worker back and tell her that this isn’t working out. I’ll make sure that you end up in a good home, Dick. I mean that. You’re not going to get shuffled from one foster home to another, that’s a promise.”
“But,” Dick’s throat is dry. “But I know about…”
Bruce smiles. “Well,” he says, “I trust you to keep my secret to yourself. The thing is, Dick, a lot of kids your age still…” he shakes his head, “still seem to be a bit hazy on the distinction between fantasy and reality. If you did try to tell people, I hate to say it but most of them won’t believe you. The ones who do, well, Alfred and I have some experience with throwing people off the scent. I’m not saying that you couldn’t do some damage if you wanted to,” he adds. “But I’m hoping you won’t.”
He leans forward. “The other possibility is probably the most dangerous. And that’s the real reason that I wanted to wait before I introduced you to the rest of my… world. If you were any other boy,” he added, “I wouldn’t suggest this now. But I’ve seen your capabilities, and I do think that this can work…”
As Bruce explains further, Dick starts to smile. When he woke up this morning, he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. But in the time that it’s taken the little hand on the Wee Winkie clock to reach the juggling kangaroo at 8, he knows that he’s found a place and a purpose, and, although it will take a bit longer before he allows himself to admit it, a family.
Bruce and Alfred, to their credit, never push for that last bit. They figure that Dick will understand it when he’s older.
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:21:00 GMT -5
"Wannabe, Part Two"
by
Charles HoM |
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:23:05 GMT -5
“Did you know the victim?” inquired Jason Bard. The Martian Manhunter was taller than him by two heads, maybe more, and Bard always considered himself a tall fellow. His beetle brow made the pits of his eyes, burning alien red, smoulder in the dark. The blue cape was wrapped around his body, but when Bard put out his hand to shake J’onzz’s, the cape parted and showed his armour, also alien to Jason, when the hero went to accept the gesture.
“No,” answered J’onn J’onzz, a rumble in his voice. He said nothing else, but seemed to notice the unease on Bard’s face. The silence lingered in the air for a minute or two. “But I knew of him.” That seemed to be all the Martian had to say on the matter. Bard didn’t want to press it…
“Oh?” Bard lent heavily on his cane. The detective didn’t notice an eye form on the back of the Manhunter’s hand. It was another red eye, and it stared at the walking stick curiously. The gold plated handle was held tightly by Bard’s gloved hand, and the cane itself was scuffed at the base. Bard felt a weird tingle shiver up the back of his neck, and his head twitched down toward the Manhunter’s hand. Nothing. He looked back up. “What did you know?”
“He approached the Flash in Central City,” started the Manhunter. “And after an incident with the ‘Rogues’, he was brought to the Hall of Justice. The Flash is always enthusiastic about new talent.” Bard felt unease at that. “And he requested an opportunity to join the team.”
“And you rejected him?”
J’onn paused. It was a long silence. “We had recently adjusted the roster of the group. We had no use for new members at that moment in time.” He turned to Bard, and gazed at him with his red, alien eyes. “I am here to work the case with you, Mr Bard. I would prefer it if you did not ask me such questions.”
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Post by HoM on Mar 7, 2008 15:23:37 GMT -5
Jason nodded, and limped away from the corpse. J’onzz followed slowly. “So you rejected him, and now he’s dead. Do you feel guilty about that?” The Manhunter didn’t twitch or rise to the prodding of Jason Bard. He answered slowly, methodically. “Guilt is a very human emotion, Mr Bard,” he turned slowly to his companion. “And if there is one thing I am not, it is human.” “You’ve made that obvious, haven’t you? I remember the old stories about you. I remember your old costume. But now you’re wearing… Martian armour? Is that what I heard it called? Your skull formation has morphed as to make the back of your head more pronounced, your brow is ever larger, just to make sure that if someone looked at you, they’d know for sure ‘he’s not human’. Why is that?” “I do not see how this is relevant to the investigation, Mr Bard.” Bard smiled. “Jason, please.” “We are here to investigate a murder. My lifestyle choice does not become relevant because the victim is a-- Was a-- Superhero.” “I was shot by a murder suspect. The bullet ruptured a nerve cluster, and that’s why I limp. That’s why I have this cane. You could have gleaned that information off the top of my head, I know that’s what’s always there. That one memory. Because if something happens to you, or somethings, they’ll stay with you. You’ve lived a long life, I’m not going to make any wild guesses for how long because I’m not familiar with Martian life spans, but I know you’ve operated way back when.” “I have not read your mind. I would not do so without your permission.” The Martian Manhunter stopped floating, and landed softly on the wet concrete. His cape retracted some what, the ends not pooling in the puddles on the floor. “My wife and child died. My heritage was used against me to make me weak. I had avoided it for so long, tried to live a life that was all but a lie, that my exposure to this broke me. I had to rebuild myself. My being. So I embraced my culture.” “You... Found God,” mused Bard. “An interesting comparison to make. Yes, you could say that. I remember when I used to fly around without a care in the world. Of course, that was an illusion. A mask. My wife and daughter were on my mind every moment of every hour of every day. But… Their memory was used against me.” “I’m sorry.” The Martian Manhunter shook his head. “It is fine.” Jason looked around. “Right. The CSU is here. We’ve gathered some evidence, I’m sure you’ll be using your hi-tech satellite technologies to see if there was anybody down here with him or what not, so we can’t really do much right now, can we. Want to grab a beer?” “Beer?” “Yeah,” smiled Bard once more. “Beer.” To Be Continued |
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Post by HoM on Jul 15, 2008 18:20:26 GMT -5
The Crimson Avenger
in
“The Sting of the Scorpion!”
Act I: A Bloody Business
Written by Don Walsh |
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Post by HoM on Jul 15, 2008 18:20:55 GMT -5
Everything that came and changed my life completely happened on a Monday morning. My father passed away on a Monday morning. Mother had left him years before then on a Monday, and that scandalous fact made its way out into the press three or four Mondays after that. Oh yes, scandalous. Have to remember, that's 1915 we're talking, and while couples might lead quite separate lives, no one left anyone...unless you were one of those acting types. Then, it wasn't that it wasn't a scandal...it was that they didn't care and it made our own headlines sell out all the faster. Sadly, Mother leaving also gave us an increase in sales for that edition. Dad milked it for the week. And people wondered how I learned to be such a pragmatic businessman.
But yeah, everything that changed my life changed it on a Monday. Met Claudia on a Monday. Yeah, I'm smiling, what of it? Claudia was something special.
It was 23 years after that very first Monday changed my life, after Mother left, and Mondays came to signal a seismic shift in my future. I should have seen it coming by that time. I should have realized right then and there that all the old rules had changed, and things would never be the same again. But at the time, all I thought about was what an inconvenience it was having police in my office first thing on a Monday morning, especially in the wake of a very enjoyable Sunday evening.
Ah, Monday morning...
“There's police in your office, Mr. Travis,” Claudia Barker informed the well-dressed man who had recently purchased the Globe-Leader newspaper. She looked up into the handsome face, the thick head of light brown hair, the warm brown eyes that twinkled as he looked back at her, that sweet smile he gave just her. Sadly, that vanished at the words she spoke to him, but she understood that, as she passed Lee Travis his messages. “And I rescheduled the finance meeting for two this afternoon. Seriously, why do you even schedule these meetings for when you know you know you'll just be crawling into bed from the night before?” It was a friendly chastisement, admonishment far above her station, but Lee merely laughed at her comment and accepted the scolding in good humor. Without Claudia Barker, much of the Clarion Publishing empire would be non-existent.
“Any idea what they want?” Lee asked as he glanced at the slips of paper in between slipping glances at the lovely young woman. Impeccably dressed in a blue skirt and cream-colored blouse that helped to shape her lush curves, he glanced at the round, soft face with bright blue eyes and bobbed auburn hair, and gave a quick sigh of appreciation. He had to admit, he'd hired her for her looks, and it took him several months before he realized it was her brains that won him over completely. Now he respected her, and that put her out of reach as her boss. “I'm not in any real shape to deal with cops, and tickets to policemen's balls, or whatever it is they're here for.”
“They're detectives, Lee,” she replied, dipping her head close and whispering so that others in the area didn't hear. He smelled the soft scent of roses for a perfume and sighed again. She smelled the strong aftershave that helped to keep the night before at bay, and sighed for a completely different reason. “I don't think it's a social visit, but they wouldn't tell me. I let them in, I know you prefer to enjoy a good relationship with the police, so I cooperated. Let them in, but Lee...it's not social.”
Lee noticed she sounded worried now and put a strong hand over hers reassuringly. “Understood, Miss Barker,” he said at a normal voice. “I'll take care of this, and then you can go over the rest of today's schedule. I'll need time with the printers today, make sure to fit that in, okay?”
Claudia nodded as she returned to her seat and pulled out the Rolodex. There was no need to see any printers, but she knew he liked to play things close to the vest, she liked the secret parts of his life, and so she played the ruse and picked up the handset as she heard him close his office door behind him.
“Gentlemen, sorry to have kept you waiting. Hope it's not been too long,” Lee Travis announced as he stepped into the large, well-furnished office, dark and rich wood embellishments and furniture littering the room. He stuck his hand out to shake each of the two men waiting inside as he headed for his chair. “Lee Travis. Pleasure to meet you both. Hope my assistant took good care of you two?”
“Detective Art Rohmer, this is my partner, Detective Denny Smith,” spoke one of the pair. He was a large man, six and a half feet tall, burly and broad-shouldered, squeezed tightly into an ill-fitting suit. His dark hair was trimmed very close and was fading from his forehead and he looked every bit of his many years on the force. “Miss Barker has been very helpful, Mr. Travis.”
“Lee, please. What can I do for you gentlemen?” the publisher asked as he settled gracefully into his high-backed chair and held out a cigarette case to the two police men.
The smaller of the two men, Denny Smith, nodded appreciatively and pulled out a cigarette. He was a skinny man in a rumpled brown suit, and seemed small compared to his partner, though he was nearly as tall as the man they were questioning. He had thick red hair and piercing blue eyes and he was constantly darting his attention around the office as he let his partner do all the talking.
“Do you know a woman named Doreen Naylor?” Rohmer asked after refusing the cigarette. He had pulled out a battered notebook and read over his information as he spoke.
“Yes. Lovely young woman, we dated for a little while back in Chicago,” Lee replied. He clipped himself off from saying more, knowing well in his few years in the newspaper business how volunteering extra information could quickly go poorly for a person. He preferred to be more careful with what he parceled out...and when.
“Did you know she was in the city?” Rohmer asked again as he scribbled something in the notebook and Smith stood to wander around the office.
Lee watched the younger detective carefully as he walked around, glancing at the book-case and the titles that sat on it, then admiring a large painting of ships on Lake Michigan a friend had done for Lee years before. “No. No, I didn't know that. We hadn't spoken since I left Chicago.” He looked back at the detective now, narrowing his gaze. “What is it, detective? What's happened to Doreen?”
“We found her dead in her hotel room at the Warwick,” Denny Smith declared in an emotionless manner, without turning away from a new row of books on a different shelf in the office.
Lee's eyes widened and he leaned forward, to get closer to Art Rohmer. “No. Not Doreen! When? How?”
“We're still determining time of death, Mr. Travis. She was beaten pretty badly though. Beaten to death.” Art scribbled into the notebook again and then asked, “Where were you last night? From about eight on.”
“I was out for the evening. With Carol Blakely,” Lee answered, his eyes staring off at a corner of his desk as he took in the news. “We were out until...one? Two in the morning?”
“After that?” Denny asked as he turned around, the corners of his mouth tucked up in a grin that held a little more leer in it than was truly proper.
“Yes. Just like you're hoping I'm going to say,” Lee snapped back at the gangly cop. He stood up suddenly, fists on the desktop as he leaned on them. “She was with me all night, back at my place. It's why you were...waiting...” He caught himself now, cursing inside at his momentary flare up.
“Witnesses to the two of you? Where did you take her? Any staff back at your home to verify the two of you?” Art pressed on as Lee answered, dropping back into his seat. Plenty of witnesses to dinner and dancing. No staff at the house, Claudia always arranged cleaning service, as he preferred his privacy. Wing How was his chauffeur, but he stays elsewhere, and only showed up that morning to take Miss Blakely home. Lee didn't really pay attention to the police anymore, he was instead trying to figure out who would kill Doreen in a city where she didn't know anyone, and no one knew her.
“Okay. Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Travis,” Art said as he closed up his notebook and stood. “We're sorry for your loss. We'll be in touch as we get more facts on the case.”
Lee stood up with him and reached out to shake the offered hand from the detective. “Am I a suspect?”
“We're keeping things wide open right now, Mr. Travis. Truth to tell, you're the only lead, so yeah, you rate high. But being who you are, and with your alibi like it is, that just means we're going to have to do a lot of digging.”
“Rest assured, we're going to be digging, Mr. Travis,” Detective Smith added as he shook Lee's hand next. “Pretty girl like Miss Naylor where she shouldn't be, getting whacked alone in her room? Yeah, we'll be digging pretty deep. We'll keep in touch.”
Lee didn't like Denny Smith, not at all, as he shook the watery grip of the detective. He nodded and watched the two detectives walk out, then dropped back into his seat again. Finally, he reached for the intercom and switched it on.
“Miss Barker, get Wing here please. I have to head out quickly,” he announced, and waited for the response. And waited. Finally, he stood and headed out of his office, wondering why Claudia had not responded yet.
“Sorry, Mr. Travis,” she buzzed back but she heard the door open and she spun around. She looked rattled by something, and hastily tossed on a disarming smile at his arrival. “Had...a doctor's appointment...to reschedule. He called...said he had to...change the date. Just...sorry about that.”
“Of course. No problem, I understand. When is this appointment?”
“Well, he was good enough to fit me in today, just after lunch.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt and her smile grew more confident as she spoke. “Will that be a problem?”
Lee laughed and shook his head. “You have what? A year in vacation and personal time by now? I think I can spare you an hour or two this afternoon. Now get Wing here, let him know I have something to look into.”
“What is it, Mr. Travis?” Claudia asked, her face darkening a bit now as she saw the pain in his eyes. “What did the police want?”
“Doreen is dead. Murdered. Found at the Warwick, apparently. I want a look. I have to make sense of it.” Lee sounded angry now, and greatly concerned.
“Doreen?” Claudia gasped, hands going to the soft red lips as her face paled. “Killed? Here? How did she get here?”
“Beats me. But the Warwick is a Hearst building, so right there, I have to think there's a lot more to this than there appears,” Lee explained in a low, determined voice. “I have to pack up some stuff. I'll be in my office, let me know when Wing has arrived.”
“Yes, Mr. Travis,” she answered as she watched him march back into his office and slam the door behind him. She turned back to the phone and quickly made the call, all the while sliding a piece of paper into her purse, to hide the name of Hanover, and the location of the lunch meeting she'd just made.
A short while later, Lee had finished putting closing up an over-sized attache case just as his chauffeur entered the room. Short, spare, immaculately garbed in his black uniform, Wing How looked every bit the stereotypical Chinese servant. He entered the room and gave a brief bow to his employer, and then looked at the leather satchel on the desk. “Is that what I think it is, sir?”
“You're too observant for me, Wing,” Lee chuckled tersely. “Yes. It's exactly what you think it is. Let's go, I want to get to the crime scene, and Lee Travis can't be the one messing it up.” The pair of men stormed from the office and marched out of the building, Lee passing a quick good-bye to Claudia as she again rearranged meeting schedules for the publisher. She gave a look of relief as she saw him exit the room, and returned to her own work.
“You are sure about this, sir? I know you have been practicing, exercising, all of these things, but...it never felt real to me,” Wing said as they entered a dark blue luxury car with no apparent markings and notably lacking license plates. Wing nervously settled into the new seat, and played at the settings for a few moments before starting it up and roaring out of the building parking lot.
“I know, I know,” Lee answered, equally nervous as he opened the heavy leather satchel. He looked inside, at the pile of dark blue and crimson cloth. He pulled out a large red mask to wrap around his face and over his hair. “Running with Faraday and Saunders, I realized there's injustice to fight beyond the pages of a newspaper. But I can't just go about it like they do. I can't be recognized, it would compromise everything I've built with Clarion Publishing. But I have to know why Doreen was murdered. She was too sweet a person to not...to let that happen to.”
“And so you don the mask?” Wing asked quietly, looking worried as he maneuvered through the streets of New York City.
“The choice is out of my hands, Wing,” Lee answered as he pulled a fedora from the satchel next and nodded. “And maybe that's a good thing, in a way.” He tied on the mask and positioned the hat firmly on his head, fingers running along the brim to tug it down and shading the upper part of his face. “Yes,” Lee said with a nod, as he coughed a bit, and then dropped his voice in pitch and smiled coldly. “Yes, a very good thing indeed.”
To Be Continued!
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Post by Admin on Jul 16, 2008 4:07:51 GMT -5
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