Out of the Ashes by Misty Meenor A Comic RetCon Universe Story The Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian characters are the property of DC Comics. The first one reached out to grab me. I wanted to kill them -- kill somebody -- so badly I could taste it, but I couldn’t afford the luxury. Not yet. I broke his arm and smashed his knee, putting him down with a gratifying scream. The second guy I just tossed over the bar into the wall, hard. He slid down and didn’t move. I slapped Ramon’s knife out of his hand and bent him backwards over the bar, fist bunched in his shirt, my now-broken beer bottle pressed into his cheek. “The bartender touches that gun, you lose the fuckin’ eye, kay? You choose.”

---

I don’t really know how long I’d been sitting there, in the principal’s office. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and just sat, rocking gently. The principal kept me company, partly out of compassion, and partly to keep an eye on me for the cops, I guess. He asked if I wanted anything to drink, and I think I shook my head; at any rate he didn’t ask again.

It must have been a while, because in the outer office I could hear raised voices as Susan’s mother came to collect her, and then left again.

I knew when the police detective arrived; I heard his brisk footsteps echo in the empty halls, and his shadow appeared on the frosted glass of the office door. He let himself in without bothering to knock.

“I’m Detective Lentz, Bay City P.D., you’re Principal Spencer?” he introduced himself, flashing his police badge to the principle. The introduction was for the principal’s sake, I already knew him. I’d worked with him for fifteen years.

The principal nods. “Yes, I -- “

“Would you please excuse us, sir? I have some personal news to discuss with Megan.” He held the door open for the principal, and closed it behind him. Perching on the edge of the desk, he spoke softly, “Megan, I’m Zack Lentz, I worked with Dan. We met at the funeral.”

I nodded quietly, eyes fixed on the wood grain of the desk in front of me, still rocking. “I remember. Where’s Dolores? What happened?”

“We don’t know.”

My eyes flashed to meet his. “She’s still alive?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “The man she was with is dead. We found her purse, that’s all. Her phone was in it. We’re trying to find her.”

My face went ashen. “Oh, no. W-was it the accountant?” I whispered. She was doing this for me, and they took her.

He blinked, surprised. “How did you --”

“Tell me everything. Everything.” He studied me for a moment, and I met his gaze intently. “Maybe I know something that can add help. I’ll tell you anything you ask but first I need to know. I know you worked with her. She was like a b-big sister to me. Please.”

He sighed. “I can’t tell you everything, yet. We found a car in an empty field, outside of town, on the Clarkston road. The driver was dead. Single gunshot to the head, from behind. Dolores’ purse was spilled on the ground, outside. Looks like someone in the back seat held a gun on them, forced him to drive to a secluded location. Killed the driver. Dolores may have made a run for it, we assume they took her.”

Because you didn’t find her body, you mean. “What about the other car?”

He gave me a startled look. “What other car?”

I rolled my eyes at him, and spoke slowly, for his benefit. “You don’t force someone to drive out to the boonies, kill them, and expect to walk home. And this was a kidnapping, else you’d have found Dolores, too. There’s another vehicle. Right?”

The look he gave me this time was considerably more intent. “We found some tire tracks in the mud at the side of the road, looks like a vehicle had been waiting.”

“How did you find it, if it was out in some field?”

“The farmer got a phone call a couple of hours ago. He sells produce, the number’s on the side of his truck. Somebody told him there was a car in his field and to call the police.”

I chewed on that one. So they avoid a 911 recording and the farmer gets to mess up the site a little. Clever. “When did... it... happen?”

“Sometime between six and seven, looks like. Now I need some answers, young lady.”

I felt stricken. “I was at home, hoping she’d call... And she... somebody was...” I will not cry. I took a few deep breaths. “What do you want to know?”

Zack -- Detective Lentz looked around and found a box of tissues on the principal’s desk. He handed them to me. “Did Dolores share with you at all? What she was up to at work?”

What can I tell him without telling him everything? I shook my head and dabbed at my eyes with a tissue. “She didn’t talk about it much... I don’t know. Something about the Cartel. She was curious about whether some company was a Cartel front. She had a meeting with the guy set for this afternoon, then she sent me a text at lunch, said she’d be late.”

He nodded. “Did she say which company?”

If you don’t know, I’m not telling you yet. I shrugged. “No, she never said. You’ll find Dolores, right?” I asked him earnestly.

He hesitated, “We’re doing everything we can. She’s a cop, one of us. They both were. We’ll do our best.”

I pretended not to notice that wasn’t a ‘yes’. At least he wasn’t lying.. “A-are we done here? I need to go.”

He stood, and reached for the door. “Sure, for now. I can take you home. I’ll radio for a female officer to stay with you tonight. For your own protection.”

Not happening. Dolores is out there. “Oh, sure. I guess.” I made an embarrassed face. “But I meant, I need to go.”

His eyes widened in understanding. “Ahh. Of course. We’ll stop by the washroom first.”

At the washroom, I gave him an apologetic smile and went inside. The second I was out of sight I shapeshifted into a chubby dark-haired younger girl with a pimply face and braces, and turned around and came back out, walking past Zack and out the front doors of the school. As soon as I was unobserved, I shot into the air, shifting to Miss Mars as I went.

*Show me Clarkston Road* I directed the ring. A few seconds later the crime scene was easy to spot from the air, cherrytops flashing and bright emergency lighting illuminating the area.

I landed in the dark, shifting to a tall male shape, in a dark suit, stepping into the light and introducing myself to the nearest uniform. “I’m Agent Clarke,” I told him. “Who’s in charge?” The cop pointed out a paunchy, grey-haired figure, wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that looked like he’d slept in them, in conference with two crime scene techs. I nodded. “Thanks.”

The department really is making an effort. If I’d had to pick someone else to find Dolores, Harry Yelton was probably the best man for the job; he was very sharp, which meant I had to step carefully. “Detective Yelton. Agent Gordon Clarke, DEO.”

I reached into my jacket and shapeshifted a badge in my hand, and flashed it at him. The trick is to flash it just long enough not to look rushed, and fast enough that they don’t read the fine print. I stuck my hand into my jacket again, and made it disappear. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to take over. I’m just looking for information relating to our Terberon investigation. If you can spare someone for a few minutes to bring me up to speed, I’ll be out of your hair as quickly as I can.”

Yelton barely glanced at me and grunted assent, pointing to a woman in jeans and black t-shirt, wearing a navy windbreaker with POLICE marked across the back. “Talk to Nguyen. Nguyen!” he called to her, jerking his thumb at me. “Talk to the fed.” She sighed and nodded, obviously not happy about it, and I walked over to her. She was a stocky woman in her late twenties, I judged, with short black hair.

“Agent Clarke. Gord.” I introduced myself, and waited till she peeled her latex gloves off to shake her hand. “Detective Nguyen,” she responded, careful to avoid being on a first name basis with a fed. Ouch. “What do you want to know, Agent?”

Everything, dammit. Right now. It was coming up on eleven o’clock, by now Dolores had been gone for five hours. I was frantic with the need to do something, but I needed information. “How about you step me through it, and then I’ll know what questions to ask.”

She nodded. “About six o’clock, the car drives into the field.” She gestures to the car, at the center of the portable lights, a silver Buick four-door, maybe three years old. A nice family car. “Driver is shot from the back seat. Small round, maybe a .22 hollow point, to the back of the head, from up close. No exit wound. Medical examiner has the body now. Woman was probably tied -- we found an extra zip tie in the back seat. Maybe the driver was forced to tie her before he was killed. Grass indicates she was dragged part way towards the road, then carried. Tire imprints show there was a van waiting, somebody got out to help, looks like. No effort made to tidy up -- car door was left open, and her purse spilled out. Her phone rang not long ago, seems the woman has a kid, a teenager. We sent somebody to find out what she might know.”

I studied the scene, pictured the events in my head, trying to extract information from it through sheer force of will. “Both cops?”

Nguyen consulted her notes. “Yeah. Male, 54, Asian, William Yee. Forensic accountant. Female, 35, Caucasian, Dolores Parker, Senior Police Tech. Yee’s assignment was to trace the financial dealings of the Cartel. Turns out Internal Affairs was suspicious of the guy, they were looking for a mole in the department. But they didn’t bother telling anyone. Not sure of Parker’s connection.”

You probably won’t know that, until you get into their email. “Have you got anyone checking their offices yet?”

She nodded. “As we speak. If they’ve found anything, I haven’t heard.”

I frowned. “Phone calls? What’s on their cells?”

Nguyen flipped through her notes. “Something interesting. Look at the timing of this sequence. He makes a call late this morning, talks for nine minutes. Number is a prepaid cellphone, anonymous. Half an hour later, the number calls back, call is forty-five seconds long. Right after that, he talks to Parker for just under a minute, and she immediately sends a text to her kid, saying she’ll be late.”

I ran through the sequence in my head, frowning. “You think he set her up?”

“Still pretty weak, admittedly, but it might fit.” She tapped each of the items with her pen. “Yee makes a report to his contact. Half an hour later, the contact calls back, with instructions. Yee calls Parker, and schedules a meeting. She tells the kid she’ll be late.”

I considered that. “Could be... If she knows something Yee is supposed to be hiding, they wouldn’t take chances. They don’t know who she’s been talking to. They don’t know what she knows, or how she knows it, or who she’s told. So they need to interrogate her. He becomes a liability.” If that’s what happened, Haldibane Labs has to be vitally important. Oh, Dolores, what have I done?

I’d learned enough here. “Thank you, Detective. I won’t take anymore of your time.” I walked back towards the road, out of the lights.

~o~O~o~

My next stop had to be the house, I knew something wasn’t right when Principal Spencer called and didn’t get the answering machine, but I first, had to make a detour.

My purse was at the dance, with my keys and my phone. The keys would be handy, since the cutemobile was in the parking lot, and I was going to need it soon. The phone was crucial; anyone who tried to reach Megan would do it through that phone. And I needed to be reachable. If Dolores was interrogated, she’d try to implicate me. Having the kidnappers contact me would be a timesaver and she’d know it.

The dance was almost over, a crowd was beginning to form at the doors as kids came out to wait for their rides home. I’d intended to slip in as chubby-braces-girl and find my purse -- but it turned out to be easier than that. And harder.

“Hi, guys.” I stepped out of the darkness into the brightly lit parking lot. The gang was gathered around my car; Deb and Mike, Scott and Trisha, and Kyn. Deb was holding my purse.

“Megan!” she squealed, and I winced and tried to shush her.

“Jeeez! Keep it down! What are you guys doing here?” I held out my hand for my purse, and Deb handed it over automatically. I rooted around inside it for my keys, and made sure my phone was in there. No messages. Damn.

Kyn spoke for them all. “W-what’s going on, Megan? Y-you get into a fight with Susan, then the cops are looking all over for you. D-Deb had your purse, and we didn’t know if we should hand it over, or what -- and th-then we see your car still here.”

“I-I got some bad news tonight.” I kept my voice low. “You know I live with a guardian, right? She’s a cop...” I explained about the principal trying to contact Dolores, and the visit from Lentz, and his news. “S-so I kinda panicked. I needed to think... so I just ran.” I raised my voice, to carry out into the dark. “I’m sorry, Detective Lentz. I’ll come quietly, now.”

Lentz stepped out of the shadows, shaking his head in annoyance. “You are one pain in the ass kid, you know that?”

Deb and Trisha were almost in tears as they wrapped their arms around me to give me a huge sympathetic hug. Kyn raised his hand in an awkward half-wave. “I-I’m so sorry, Megan. If w-we can help...”

I had to stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek for that. “Thank you,” I whispered. I was having a hard time keeping it together as I gave the gang a little wave and a quavering smile, and went meekly with Lentz.

~o~O~o~

“This isn’t the way to my house. What’s going on?” I demanded suspiciously, although I was pretty sure I knew.

“I’m sorry, Megan. You’re a minor. I’m going to have to leave you with Child Services until they can find a place for you to stay.” His voice oozed concern. Mostly it just oozed.

Oh, you bastard. “I’m seventeen. You have some discretion, I know that much. This is about making you look stupid at the school, isn’t it?”

His fingers tightened on the whee, knuckles turning white. “You wanted to do it the hard way, so we’ll do it the hard way.”

We were stopped at a red light, in a rougher section of town; porn shops, pawn brokers, strip bars. Dealers, whores, and the homeless. As Dan, I knew the area like the back of my hand. All the back alleys, all the unlocked doors. I grinned to myself. It’d take an army to search for me here. Unseen, I shapeshifted my high heels into bare feet, the better to run with.

I waited till we were halfway down the block. He was accelerating to make the next light, when suddenly I grabbed the wheel and spun it towards me, swerving the car to smash into the back of a parked delivery van. The unexpected collision combined with the explosion of the airbags left him momentarily stunned, and by the time he recovered, I was out the door and long gone. You’re gonna look really stupid now, asshole.

~o~O~o~

There was a squad car parked in front of the house. It didn’t matter, I used my keys to get in through the back door. I was half-expecting the place to be trashed, but strangely, nothing seemed to be disturbed. There was no sign of a break-in, and nothing seemed missing or out of place.

Why didn’t the answering machine kick in?

The machine was in my bedroom; back when it was a spare room Dan had used it for a den. My computer was there, and the answering machine was nearby, plugged into a spare phone jack. Now it was Megan’s room, and it was a little more crowded, but nothing else had moved. Dolores had a computer too, a much more powerful laptop; it was on a desk in her bedroom.

The machine was one of those solid-state thingies with no recording tape, everything was in memory. It was powered off; we never turned it off. I reached for the machine, turning it to look for the power switch on its side, and the display lit up. “We can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a -- ” I straightened the machine, and the playback stopped, the display went dark again. Aha! I found the loose power connector and pushed it in all the way, and the machine obligingly restarted.

So... what jiggled the cord?

Experimentally, I twisted the computer around, so I could get at the screws at the back of the case. As it rotated, the corner came into contact with the answering machine. Hmmm... I suppose I could have opened the case at that point, but frankly I wouldn’t have been able to tell if the innards had been swapped with a toaster oven. This kind of thing was Dolores’ forte.

Hold on a second. I addressed my ring. *Are you interfering with any listening devices, right now?*

*Eight of them*, it replied smugly. *All placed since the last time you were here. Two are delayed burst-transmission devices they are hoping I won’t notice. One is an infrared laser directed at the living room window from the telephone pole across the street.*

*What did they do to the computers?*

*There are monitoring devices installed, currently inactive until the computer powers up. It is also likely they have installed software for a similar purpose.*

I wanted to bang my head on the desk. They knew about the ring, so they knew who I was; this was government work, it had to be D.E.O., not Cartel. Nothing here would get me any closer to Dolores.

~o~O~o~

Tina was working her usual corner. Tonight she was wearing super-short cutoff jeans and a see-through top tied under her generous breasts, with her hair ribboned in schoolgirl pigtails.

“Hey, Tina. Lookin’ good tonight. Aren’t you cold?”

The young woman turned her attention from the traffic, grinning in recognition. “Danny the dead man! I wasn’t sure if you were real, the last time. That was some weird shit.” She strutted over in her platform heels and gave me a hug that promised a lot more where that came from. “No way am I touching that stuff again.” She pouted at me as I broke the hug, and rubbed her arms briskly. “And yeah, I’m fuckin’ freezing. Part of the job, y’know? At least it’s not December.” She smirked and tweaked her erect nipples through the thin shirt. “Anyway, it keeps the high beams on. Good for business.”

I jerked my head towards the all-night coffee shop. “C’mon, lemme buy you for an hour. I’ll even spring for the coffee.”

She gave me a sultry smile and linked her arm with mine. “Mister, I’ll tell you a secret. If it was someplace warm, I’d do ya just for the coffee.”

We sat in the back booth, out of sight of the street, and I gave her a few moments to warm up, hands wrapped around her coffee mug. She noticed me checking out her arms. “Don’t worry, I’m back on the methadone. I thought I was hallucinating you, the last time.” She smiled sadly. “I even thought I saw you fly, up out of the alley.” She shuddered. “That was too much. I showed up at the clinic the next day.”

I winced inwardly. “Don’t worry, that probably wasn’t me. Tina, I need your help. A cop has been kidnapped, a woman about thirty-five, nice looking. Probably the Cartel. Somebody’s got her, and you girls see a lot of places. Any ideas where I can look?”

She sat back and studied me for a minute. “This one’s not just a cop. She’s special.” It wasn’t a question.

I nodded without elaborating.

She exhaled, a long drawn out breath. “Oh, Danny, I’m sorry.” She thinks for a moment, but shakes her head sadly. “I can’t think of anyplace offhand. If the boys have her -- the Fist -- one of us’ll hear about it, sooner or later. I’ll pass the word, of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll make sure there’s a reward, a big one. Enough to get off the street.” I wrote down the number of Megan’s cell phone and slid it across to her. “Here’s where you can reach me. It’s her kid’s phone, she’s about your age. Leave a message or tell her whatever you need to, she’s a good kid, she’ll pass it on.” She nodded, and stuck the number in the back pocket of her shorts.

I toyed with the handle of my coffee mug. “So, any other stuff? Bone Fist is back, I hear.”

She nodded eagerly, glad for a change of subject. “Yeah, what was it... Tuesday night. Lots of guys wanting to party. Lots of money.” She grinned. “They’re still partying. I was gonna head over to the bar myself, in an hour or so. Give ‘em a chance to get drunk and settle down, first.”

A thought occurred to me. “Let me know if you find out any of them were working tonight?” I was planning on going there next, anyway, but Tina was a second angle.

She smiled reassuringly. “Sure, I can do that.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh! Hey! Last time I told you about the scientist guys, you still interested in them?”

I leaned back. “Could be, whatcha got?” Inside I’d jolted to full attention.

She sipped at her coffee, and wrapped her hands around her mug. “Another party. Tomorrow night, same place as last time.”

Bingo. I raised an eyebrow. “Are you going?”

She snorted, “Are you kidding? Free food, free booze, just be nice to some egghead who’ll be too drunk to get it up anyway -- and get paid? Damn straight I’m going. Jackie Monahan’s the one in charge of getting the girls, I had to be real nice to him to get in. If ya know what I mean.” She wiggled her eyebrows, smugly. “Anyway, I would have crashed the party anyway, it’s a chance to dress up nice. They’ll let in one or two crashers if the girls behave themselves, they don’t much mind, it’s more eye candy for the party and doesn’t cost them much, just a little food and a few drinks. For us girls, it’s a better class of john. Who knows? Maybe a chance to move up in the world.”

I nodded seriously. “You deserve a chance to move up in the world, kiddo. Get your ass off the streets, okay?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Yeah, right. Babysitters and rent don’t pay for themselves, y’know?”

As long as there were drug dealers to roll, I’d have cash to spare. I laid five fifty-dollar bills on the table, and smoothed them out. “Help me find that cop, and they won’t have to.”

~o~O~o~

Tina was right, the Fists were still partying; Benny the Bouncer had his hands full. I sat at the bar, working on my second beer, just watching the room. The Bone Fists definitely drank hard and played rough. I could see why the working girls waited a while before showing up, it was downright dangerous. Two or three good-natured fights seemed to be going on at any given moment; Benny let ‘em fight unless the furniture got broken, but when the big boys played, that happened often enough.

It might have been smarter to check the place out as a guy, but I’d been working Dan’s contacts on the street for a couple of hours and I was nearing my limit; Dan’s shape was getting easier to hold, and for longer, but I was still close to the edge of my shapeshifting abilities. Trying to hold a male shape took more concentration, and was more tiring. I had to keep refreshing the shape in my head to keep the edges from softening, becoming more feminine. It felt a little like being inside a parade balloon, continually poking it back into shape as it slowly leaked air.

So I went in as a woman, but not one that would attract too much attention in this crowd; a little over medium height, broad-shouldered and muscular, like an East German athlete. Coarse features, rough and slightly asymmetric, shaggy dark hair with more than a few greys. Jeans over Doc Martens, a wide leather belt with a big silver buckle, and a scuffed leather jacket over a faded black tee shirt. Nobody would be mistaking me for a working girl.

It was a cinch the boss wasn’t here, but at least one of these guys was the gatekeeper; find him, find the boss. I waved the bartender over. He was a suspicous sort, not the type to make friends quickly. I slid a twenty across the bar, the international sign of friendship, and he perked up a little. “I’m looking for a guy, I don’ have a name, he was described to me. Big black guy, fuckin’ huge, like seven feet tall, ya? I was told I could find him here. Know him?” It was a fairly safe bet the guy I described was in the slammer; the last time I’d seen Manzilla was at the mall, with a couple of bags full of weapons, in front of a dozen SWAT cops.

The bartender looked at me a long while, then called over where two guys were beating up on a third, to their great mutual enjoyment. At least they were trying to beat up on him; it looked to be a pretty even match. “Ramon! Somebody looking for Kazim.” He nodded to me and took the cash, going back to the far end of the bar.

The three men crowded around me, their differences forgotten, studying me with narrowed eyes. “Who’s askin’ for him?” the middle one asked, the guy the other two had been fighting. Presumably, this was Ramon.

I straightened up from the bar and looked him in the eye. “That’d be me. Not lookin' for him exactly. I heard he was a Bone Fist, and they did good work. I came to see him for an introduction. I might have a job for them. I was hoping to see the boss.”

Ramon stepped up to me, in my face. “I’m the boss, and I’m not interested, darlin'. So piss off.”

I sighed. “Nah, nah, nah, that’s not how it works, is it? Your job is making sure the boss isn’t bothered, ya?” I drained the last mouthful of beer from my bottle then turned to set it carefully on the bar. “My job is to get past you dumb fucks so’s I can deliver the message from my boss.”

Ramon looked me over speculatively. “You know what I think? I think you’re fulla shit. You’re a cop or you’re pulling something.” He nodded to his goons. “Take her out back and find out what kind of fuckin’ game she’s playin’. Nice meetin' ya, toots.”

The first one reached out to grab me. I wanted to kill them -- kill somebody -- so badly I could taste it, but I couldn’t afford the luxury. Not yet. I broke his arm and smashed his knee, putting him down with a gratifying scream. The second guy I just tossed over the bar into the wall, hard. He slid down and didn’t move. I slapped Ramon’s knife out of his hand and bent him backwards over the bar, fist bunched in his shirt, my now-broken beer bottle pressed into his cheek. “The bartender touches that gun, you lose the fuckin’ eye, kay? You choose.”

The bar was silent; not many people got the better of Ramon and his pals. If Ramon wouldn’t see reason I’d have plenty of chances to kill, just to get out of the place.

It took him a moment to process what had happened, then he waved a hand in the direction of the barkeep. “S’okay!” he called. Then he grinned at me, and then laughed in genuine amusement as I let him up slowly. “Not bad, for an old broad. What’s yer name, anyway?”

The guy I’d tossed over the bar had climbed slowly to his feet and was helping the other hop to a chair. I clapped Ramon on the back, and pulled a name out of thin air. I grinned. “Call me Tess.” Tess Tostrone. Of the Sicilian Tostrones.

“You’re still fulla shit, Tess.”

The bartender’s gun went off in my ear. That pissed me off. When I slapped the gun from his hand it may have taken a finger or two.

The rest of the room was growing ugly -- well, uglier; It was going to turn into a dogpile any second, which might be fun, but wouldn’t get me any closer to Dolores. I had to settle for stealing Ramon out the back way. Once we were out I jammed the steel door in its frame to buy us a few minutes, then dragged him like a whiny child through the maze of alleys into a street at the far end of the block. He was trying to twist his hand in my grip, but it was useless. After a few steps down the alley he stumbled and fell, and I just dragged him along anyway, kicking and squirming. I wasn’t going to fly; no sense giving anyone another clue to my identity. Better they think another meta’s in town.

I figured we had maybe ten minutes before we were tracked down; what I was about to do next would shorten that time considerably. I began checking the passenger doors of the vehicles parked along our side of the street, looking for one that was unlocked. I got lucky on the third try, a beat up old pickup truck, perfect for my needs. I opened the heavy door wide, and set his hand flat against the body of the truck, holding it in place with an implacable grip. His fingers jutted out into the space normally occupied by a closed passenger door.

“This is really going to hurt like a son of a bitch,” I advised him in a sincere tone, and then I slammed the door on his fingers. Just a little slam, I didn’t want them severed just yet. His scream almost made me feel sorry for him. Well, no, not really. I wanted my Dolores back and qualms about this ganger piece of shit weren’t going to slow me down much.

“Ramon, listen to me. Ramon, shh, shh, shh.” I kept my voice low and soothing. He was screaming and cursing at me in a most gratifying way, clawing and scratching with his free hand in an effort to ease my grip, but it wasn’t happening. “Ramon, Ramon, listen baby, you have a problem, and I want to help. Listen to me. Listen.... are you listening?”

Eventually he quieted, and nodded to me. “Your problem is, I’m going to slam the door on your hand again. But -- shh, shh,” I had to calm him down again. “But, you get to decide how often it happens. Are you with me?” He nodded frantically. “Okay,” I continued, keeping my tone quiet and reasonable. “I’m going to ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them with a lie, or with the truth. If I think you’re lying, I have to slam the door again. Sometimes, I already know the answer. Sometimes, I’m just not going to believe you the first time. Sometimes, I’m just messin’ with yer head. The game is, I don’t always know if you’re telling the truth, and you won’t know when I believe you. But, the sooner I believe you, the sooner I stop slamming the door. So, you win by telling me the truth, and making me believe it. I win if you run out of things I can slam. Understand?” I got a whimper, which was good enough for me.

It was close, but he won, eventually, on the second hand. The murder of the cop -- I didn’t mention the kidnapping -- was news to him. The Bone Fist did execute the Terberon theft. But Ramon had no idea what they stole.

The Hounds had been getting their orders from a man they only knew as Vincent. I knew the name; he was an up-and-coming Cartel lieutenant. The cops weren’t sure what his real name was; Vincent was just a nickname from his days in the street. He’d lost an ear in a street fight, so somebody jokingly named him after Vincent Van Gogh, and the name stuck. Unlike the ear, which didn't.

Vincent had led the Terberon heist, and he'd brought one person with him, a guy who knew what to look for in the vault. Once he'd found it, his job was to fill backpacks. Nobody else knew what was in the backpacks, although Ramon caught a glimpse as the contents were shuffled around to compensate for the loss of the gatehouse team. They were plastic cylinders, maybe six inches across and eighteen long, with slightly larger end caps. He thought they looked a little like fat pipe bombs. They were gray or silver, and they had yellow hazard stickers, but he didn't know what kind of warning. He thought his backpack had held four cylinders, and it was 'pretty heavy'.

Ramon had no idea where to find Vincent, mostly he just left voicemails at a cellphone number -- the same one Yee had called.

Find Vincent, and I find Dolores. And I find the whatever-the-hell-it-was.

~o~O~o~

To round out a frustrating night, the ring found me three Haldibane facilities in a two hundred fifty mile radius.

One was a small suite of offices, rented in a downtown tower.

The second was a manufacturing plant. The gate was chained and padlocked; according to the sign, the whole place had been closed and sealed for a D.E.O. investigation. The notice was dated just yesterday -- well, Thursday, seeing as it had been Saturday morning for a few hours already. Judging by the telephone script left on the desk at reception, the company had closed the plant 'temporarily' a couple of months ago, due to 'a global shortage in raw materials'; long before the D.E.O. ever knew about it.

The site farthest away was a long-empty warehouse. There were weathered 'For Sale' signs on the perimeter fence. Inside the warehouse, along one back wall, there was a large plywood mockup of a vault door. Part of the fence had been torn down, and the field outside the fence was a mess of muddy tire tracks. Motorcycle tracks. I supposed the feds were getting good mileage out of the prisoners I captured for them at the Terberon gatehouse, because the D.E.O. had been here, too, though they'd been careful not to leave any sign. According to my ring, the place was riddled with sensors. If a mouse sneezed, the feds would probably have an analyst from Rodent Diseases out of bed and going over the tapes within the hour.

So... if Haldibane's having a party, where are the eggheads coming from?

~o~O~o~

The day was dawning gray; heavy clouds with the threat of imminent rain. I landed in the back yard of the house, and let myself in. The squad car was still out in front, but I didn't expect to show any signs of activity. Mostly I just needed to collapse and grab a couple of hours of shut-eye. Physically I was still as energetic as ever, but with the shapeshifting and worry and trying to pull too much information from too few clues, my brain was a limp rag. I felt angry and impotent and terrified I'd miss some vital fact, if I didn't recharge soon. What good are super powers, if they can't save the one you love?

I sprawled across Dolores' bed, not even bothering to get under the covers, cuddling her pillow just to be near her scent. I was asleep almost as soon as I closed my eyes.

Oh, Dolores, where are you?

~o~O~o~

The woman wakes up, lying on a thin mattress on the floor. There’s no blanket to cover her nakedness. Her face is expressionless, she displays no curiosity about her surroundings. The room is very sparse; bare concrete floor, a stainless steel toilet and sink. A small table with a single chair. After a minute she reaches behind her head, to find a small bandage, just at the base of her skull, at the hairline.

The video stops, playing a single flickering freeze-frame of the woman, hand probing behind her head.

“Subject 14’s insertion was successful, acclimatization is complete. She should be ready for stage 2.”

“Excellent. Begin stage 2 and keep me informed.”

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