The Menace In The Mirror 4s6h19

THE CORPSE:

THE MENACE

IN THE MIRROR

by

Scott Mercer

© Copyright 2009 B Movie Books

B Movie Books is the author of this work for purposes of the Berne Convention

and other agreements giving effect thereto.

.

This publication is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places,

events, products or business entities is unintentional and purely coincidental.

Any trademarks mentioned are used without authorization from

their respective owners and remain the property of said owners.

B-Movie Books

610 South Main Street #333

Los Angeles, California 90014 USA

Cover art by Geoffrey Grisso / Gringo Perdido Studios

PRINTED IN THE

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

http://bmoviebooks.com

http://scottmercer.us

1

2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Manifesto of The Corpse.…….………………………………..4

Chapter One: An Unwelcome Phone Call…………………..……5

Chapter Two: A Rainy Dawn…………………………..…………9

Chapter Three: Enter The Professor ……………………………..14

Chapter Four: A Call to Arms………………………………….…19

Chapter Five: A Dangerous Warning……………………………26

Chapter Six: An Unexpected Attack…………………….……….30

Chapter Seven: No Rest For The Weary…………….……...……36

Chapter Eight: Backed Into A Corner………..………………….40

Chapter Nine: A Dead End……………………………………….42

Chapter Ten: Pardon The Interruption…………………….……50

Chapter Eleven: Out in the Open………………..……….………55

Chapter Twelve: A Chance Encounter………….………….……60

Chapter Thirteen: Murder For Hire.……………………….……63

Chapter Fourteen: Sealed and Locked.………..……..…………68

Chapter Fifteen: Breaking The Truth...………………..………...73

Chapter Sixteen: A Date With Death ..…………………………..79

Chapter Seventeen: The Fiendish Strike………………………...82

Chapter Eighteen: Headlong Into The Void………….…….…...86

Chapter Nineteen: The Final Ceremony .……………………….88

Chapter Twenty: A Matter of Perception..…………………...…96

Out of My Head by Scott Mercer…..…………………………….102

3

THE MANIFESTO OF THE CORPSE

I create this, my manifesto, my oath and my pledge. Upon these words I

swear to build my long and painful road to justice.

I died today.

My enemies wanted to wipe me off their lists. Obliterate me, make me

vanish. So they killed me. But I didn’t die. They subjected me to the foulest

possible tortures of mind, body and soul. Assaulted me with chemicals,

electricity, powerful pharmaceutical compounds and surgical implements.

And in the end, they were able to wipe my name off their lists. But it was

only by dying that I could live yet again. Somehow, contrary to every goal

they had worked for, the combination of insidious plagues heaped upon me

by my bitterest foes transformed me into something of great power.

Now, I am rock-solid proof of the saying: that which does not kill me only

serves to make me stronger. For I have gone through, and beyond, life, and

death. Penetrated fear. Absorbed all pain. Disconnected all my conscious

thought processes. I have forged a wordless, seamless communication with

the very atoms around me. These very atoms can bend to my will, making

my every thought a reality.

They wanted to deform me, cripple me, destroy me. They wanted to make

me a corpse. So that is what I will become for them: an insidious, regretless

corpse. I will forever walk the endless night, cursing the hearts of the unjust

with paranoia and pain; always decaying but never dying; unable to rest,

but ever able to go on. For my charge is not ended. And it will never end as

long as terror stalks this restless, churning world. Now, and from this day

forward, the armies of evil will know fear. They will swallow madness.

They will beg forgiveness, all to no avail. No pity will come to them. Ever.

They will suffer in a manner that befits them. They will feel the same panic

and despair and hopelessness they once forced upon others.

But above and beyond all else, they will, now and forever,

taste the hideous eternal wrath of…

THE CORPSE!

4

CHAPTER 1: An Unwelcome Phone Call

A coalblack sky glowered at the city of New Holland, which spread out far below

its thickly ominous portent. The urban landscape answered back with little more

than the sound of falling rain and the scurrying of rats along its garbage-strewn

alleyways. The coming graystreaked dawn loomed hours in the future. Only a few

taxicabs dared ply the slippery streets, cruising for those last few lingering boozers

stumbling home from the dive bars, the rave clubs, and the penthouse synth salons.

Far above the art-deco skyscrapers, the neon signs blazed and sputtered,

broadcasting their advertising messages to a city full of closed-eyed prospects

dozing away their lives. The electrified ballyhoo for the latest cell phone brain

implants and holographic horror movies missed its intended audience.

Police cruisers crept along the district harboring the known bordellos and

gambling dens along the river, looking for new fish to spear. The city sat quietly,

like a lion on the Serengeti, waiting for its moment. Its chance to pounce.

It should have come as no surprise then, that the practitioners of evil would select

this very night as the optimal time to strike. A perfect night for the strange activities

outside The Castle, the gigantic, gothic police department headquarters (which,

appropriately to the name, resembled a huge Medieval castle) deep in the bowels of

downtown, to go unnoticed by those inside the building.

Sometime during the rainsoaked night, a shadowy, trenchcoated figure stopped a

battered sedan in front of the Castle and removed a large object from the trunk,

throwing the bulk over its hunched shoulder. Only it was not an object at all, even if

one observing the strange scene could be forgiven for assuming this due to the

obfuscating nature of the pounding rain.

It was a body.

The twisted figure quickly ascended the slippery, water-drenched staircase,

placing the body into a dark corner of the entry structure, next to a large column to

the side of the front door. From this position, the body would not be visible to

anyone looking out from the inside of the building, nor to anyone ing by on the

sidewalk below. One would have to approach the door and make a point of walking

around the giant column in order to see it. Within seconds, the mysterious figure,

making quick work of its macabre deposit, had vanished, any trace of its brief

presence wiped away by the cascades of water coursing from the hostile heavens.

The phone rang off the hook at the ungodly hour of 3:55 a.m., shattering the

suburban quiet. Dogs howled in the distance as Chief Hamilton Pringle fumbled for

the light on his bedside table. His wife Marjorie stirred fitfully beside him. Pringle

cursed under his breath, regretting his decision to install that special direct line from

downtown in his home. The damnable instrument rang especially loudly, jarring

5

him, and probably several of his neighbors, from their sleep. Its insistent ringing

could mean only one thing: an urgent call from The Castle. Pringle groped for his

glasses and affixed them to his puffy face. He reached out and grabbed the glowing

instrument, which would put him into immediate with someone at police

headquarters.

“Pringle,” he said gruffly.

“Madison here, Chief,” came the reply.

“Yeah, Andy, it better be good.”

“It’s good, Chief. Real good.” And by that, of course, he meant really bad. “He’s

back.”

“Who’s back?”

“The Corpse.”

“Dear God. I thought we had heard the last of him. It’s been months.”

“It was just a matter of time, Chief.”

Pringle sighed. Nobody had yet put their finger on the disturbing enigma known

far and wide as The Corpse. Yes, he did seem to be helping the police, but how long

could he be counted upon? No one knew who he was. Or what he was. Or even if

he was real. The Chief was sure of one thing: the image of this vigilante lived on

vividly and strongly in the hearts and minds of the underworld, from the lowliest

messenger boy to the most powerful overlord; hearts under the thrall of fear, minds

under the command of superstition. That much could only help the New Holland

Police Department in their ongoing quest to smash evil. But Pringle knew, deep

down in his bones, thanks to 30 years of police work, that in spite of his seeming

assistance, The Corpse was not to be trusted.

“He’s left a calling card, right here on the front steps of The Castle. A dead body.”

Pringle sat bolt upright in bed. “No! Did anyone see anything?”

“Not so far. Not that we can figure out.”

“How do you know The Corpse had any involvement?”

“He left a note.” Pringle’s blood froze. He grinned from ear to ear, anticipating

the break he had been waiting for. The Corpse had finally made a mistake. If The

Corpse had written the note by hand, the lab boys could possibly get a sample of the

handwriting performed by the damned zombie. They would be well on their way to

neutralizing this loose cannon, whoever or whatever he was. That note was the

silver lining in this hovering cloud.

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes. In the meantime, I want you personally supervising

this investigation, Andy. If Haskins has a problem with that, you tell him to talk to

me,” Pringle said, and slammed down the receiver. He kissed his sleeping wife on

the forehead and went to get dressed.

Around half an hour later, the rain began to let up as Pringle piloted his specially

armored salon car into the subterranean parking garage at The Castle. About two

minutes after that he entered the Homicide Squad Room, which even at this early

hour hummed with activity. Officers bustled here and there. Telephones rang off

the hook. The word had escaped to the wider world.

Captain Andrew Jackson James Madison, the Chief’s loyal assistant, and the man

that had roused him from his concrete-hard slumber, approached him.

6

“Chief, it’s a madhouse.”

“Who’s the vic?” Pringle asked.

“Not sure yet. No wallet, no i.d.”

“Nothing on him?”

“One thing that was distinctive. He was wearing a funny kind of a ring, Chief.”

“Can I see it?”

“Got it right here.” Madison held up a plastic evidence bag bearing the ring.

Pringle took the bag and examined the ring. It looked very intricate and very old. It

was a gold ring with a large red stone set in it. Along the sides and back were some

unusual symbols.

“Strange. Any idea on these symbols yet, Andy?”

“Haven’t got it pegged yet. Some of the boys were thinking they might be

Masonic.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m a Freemason. That’s not it. From my limited recall, they

kind of look like Norse runes to me. Why don’t you call Professor Hildeborg at

Vincenzo University this morning.

He’s their resident expert on ancient

Scandinavian mythology. Maybe he can get a handle on them.”

“Got it, Chief.”

“What else? Where’s that note?”

“Pirelli’s got it. Hey Pirelli!”

Pirelli put down his paperwork and hurried over. “Morning, Chief.”

“Morning, Pirelli. Madison tells me you’ve got the note.”

“Yes, sir.” He brandished a plastic evidence bag. “I also found the body, Chief.”

“Do tell.”

Pirelli stared at the floor. He sighed and looked up. “Well, I came in really early

for my morning shift, to finish up some paperwork. I drove in to the garage around

the back, just like everyone else, so I didn’t even see the front of the building. After a

few minutes, I found that I was out of cigarettes, so I took a break to go down to the

24hour market on Hill Street. Two blocks away. So, of course, I walked down the

front steps. Something in the corner, off in the corner, caught my eye. It was the

body.”

“So, the body was off to the side,” the Chief said.

“In the shadows. You had to be walking directly by there. You couldn’t see it

from the street. Or from inside the building. It was in an alcove to the right of the

front entrance.”

“What next, Pirelli?”

“Okay. I went over there. I couldn’t tell it was a body until I was right up on him,

because he was all folded over. Knees on the ground, feet bent up, back bent

forward so that his head was between his knees. Seemed to me like a big guy, blond

hair. I thought at first he was a drunk, ed out. I tried to wake him up a bit. I

shook his shoulder. At that point I saw blood pooling up underneath him.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, chief. Navy blue suit, white shirt, mohair topcoat,

brown shoes, charcoal fedora. No tie.”

“And the note?”

7

“It was pinned to his coat, on his forearm, with an ordinary straight pin.” Pirelli

ed the plastic evidence bag containing the note to Chief Pringle.

The Chief marveled at their good fortune. “Holy cow. This is probably the first

piece of physical evidence we’ve been able to recover from this guy.” The Chief

examined it carefully. He read:

This criminal is my gift to the NHPD. He was a scourge of decent society. You will

investigate him and find that he was guilty of many serious crimes. He will bother the good

citizens of New Holland no longer.

With my Best Regards,

The Corpse

The Chief’s brow furrowed. “Damn. It’s been printed. I thought we might get a

sample of his handwriting. What a dead end.”

“We’ve already got some preliminary results on the note, chief,” Madison said.

“I’m afraid it’s not much though. It was printed on standard copy machine paper,

nothing special or distinctive about it. Probably available at any office supply store

in the city. Or the world, for that matter. The font used was Garamond. The note

seems to have been printed on a home computer. Traces of standard ink used on

various types of home computer printers.”

“Let me guess, an ordinary home printer that could be purchased at any computer

store in the country?”

“Most likely.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Clean. Couldn’t get any off the note or the body.”

“Do we know who he is?” Chief Pringle asked.

“We ran his fingerprints, but no matches. He’s not in our database. We’re

checking the FBI and the state and federal databases. Still waiting on the results on

those.”

“What about any DNA evidence left on the body?” Pringle said.

“The Crime Scene Unit just got done, and the body is on its way to the Medical

Examiner. We’ll cover that corpse from stem to stern.”

“Andy, don’t say the word ‘corpse’, please?”

“Sorry, Chief.”

“Okay, Andy. You know what to do. You have full authority to find out who our

victim is, and, dare I dream, round up The Corpse, whoever he is. But damn it, be

careful. You know appearances can be deceiving. You keep me updated.”

“Got it, Chief.”

As Madison left the office and made his way into the hallway, he was accosted by

the sight of a familiar but unwanted face. Trying to avoid the dumpy yet garrulous

man, he turned away quickly and attempted to flee down the hallway. But it was

too late. There was no use. Madison had been spotted.

“Andy! Andy, you got a minute?” The man loped after Madison down the

hallway. “Andy, please!”

8

The peevish Captain stopped and turned. There was no getting away now.

“Berkowitz!” he shouted. “What are you doing here? I was sure you’d be sleeping

off a hangover right now. It’s a little early for you, isn’t it? Or have you been

carousing around all night?”

“Very funny, Andy. You want me to show you my 90 day chip from A.A.?”

“Who’d you steal that from?” Madison asked as he walked briskly down the hall,

attempting to shake the persistent reporter.

“Look, the Ledger don’t pay me to make chit-chat with you, Andy.”

“Yeah, I know, they pay you to make stuff up.”

“Will you give me a break! I’m just trying to make a living here. I’m a working

stiff just like you. You know what an apartment in New Holland runs. So how

about it? Be a friend. Give me an exclusive. Who’s the dead body on the front

stoop?”

Madison stopped in his tracks and stared down the reporter. “My, my, word does

get around quick,” he said. “Where’d you pick up that little tidbit of information?”

“You know a reporter never divulges his sources.”

“Sure, a reporter doesn’t. I don’t see how that applies to you,” Madison scoffed.

“Awww. That was a low blow.” Berkowitz looked genuinely hurt.

“Look, Berkowitz, Chief Pringle will be giving a press conference at 3:00 this

afternoon. You can ask him all the embarrassing questions you want. Until then,

my lips are sealed.”

“But you will confirm that a body was found on the steps outside.”

“All I can give you is this: yes, the body of an unidentified man was found on the

front steps at about 3:30 this morning, by an officer who went out to buy a pack of

cigarettes. That’s it. You’ll have to wait for the rest of it.”

Berkowitz smiled and doffed his fedora. “Thanks Andy, thanks a lot! You’re a pal.

That’s all I need.” He went scampering off to find a quiet spot from which he could

call the City Room of The Ledger, where they were waiting for Berkowitz’s call to

print an extra regarding the bombshell story. Madison frowned and shook his head

as he watched Berkowitz disappear into the distance.

CHAPTER 2: A Rainy Dawn

Meanwhile, the soggy tendrils of a soaking dawn extended across the breadth of

the city, until they reached the high cliffs known as The Walls, and crept over Manor

House, the gothic estate of Collin Van Dyke, the wealthy munitions heir, where the

imposing manse overlooked the skyscrapers of New Holland across the Vincenzo

River. Collin Van Dyke’s mood matched the weather perfectly: stormy, dark and

restless, as he stared out the floor-toceiling windows at the pounding rain. A finger

of lightning split the sky, reaching down from the heavens, as if to accuse the city of

New Holland itself. Collin saw the bolt land at the St. Kevin Monastery on the other

9

side of the river, where it pounded the structure’s ancient parapets, and pondered

exactly what that meant about the emotional state of the cosmos. He took another

sip from his tumbler of whisky to ease his torment and then turned away from the

window. He knew he probably shouldn’t be drinking so early, but he had been

tossing and turning all night, unable to find the rest he so purposefully sought. He

felt some amount of relief with the dawn of the new day, as dark and rainy as it was,

and allowed himself to celebrate getting through another night with a drink.

Collin’s worries had accumulated of late. He felt under constant attack, and

rightfully so. Multiple scowling relatives had employed battalions of attorneys to

place Collin’s gigantic inheritance under assault. These relatives were none too

happy at the of his late uncle Josiah’s will, which left Collin the bulk of Josiah’s

multi-billion-dollar estate. He did receive some comfort from the fact that he had

under his own employ the most dogged, unstoppable team of legal sharks that

money could buy. He would have to make a point of leaving the bothersome

particulars of these legal battles to their specialized surefootedness and try to keep

his mind focused on his overriding concerns, including his ongoing fight for justice

and the potential of advanced genetic therapy to alleviate suffering throughout this

wounded world.

As much as his legal conflicts troubled Collin, they really numbered among the

least of his worries. He had more pressing concerns, one of which was currently

residing in his basement. He put down his tumbler of whisky. Collin sighed deeply

and turned toward the bookcase on the far wall. As he approached the bookcase, he

cast his mind back across the years, to once again consider the long and tangled tale

that brought him to his current predicament.

Collin had come late to his status as ridiculously wealthy. While never dirt poor,

prior to his inheritance, he had never tasted the good life that his late relative had

enjoyed. Collin’s mother, Evelyn, was Josiah’s sister-in-law. Josiah’s brother,

Damon, that is, Collin’s father, died in a plane crash when Collin was only six years

old. Probably the worst thing that can happen to a boy is to lose his father, but

Collin told himself that in the most important ways, he had finally come to

with that unexpected death, after so many years.

After the sudden loss, Collin’s mother raised him alone. Although there were

several gentlemen that she dated over the years, she never remarried. She struggled

to keep her son fed and cared for. While they always had a home, there were many

times that they had to do without certain niceties. They moved homes a few times,

finally settling into a small but decent apartment in the Old Bay Channel

neighborhood.

Uncle Josiah had experienced a falling out with his brother Damon sometime

before Collin’s birth, for reasons Collin still could not ferret out. So, throughout his

childhood there was no financial forthcoming from Uncle Josiah, even after

Josiah’s only son and heir, Philbrook, died mysteriously several years after Collin’s

father had.

Fortunately, Collin had done very well at school, excelling in science, math and

philosophy courses; all the concerns of a traditional university education. As a

result, he had received a partial scholarship to Vincenzo University. In spite of that,

10

he ed the military. He had not risked too much by doing so, as the country was

at peace at that moment. It was quite a shock when war broke out shortly after

Collin completed basic training. Collin proved himself both a brave and skilled

soldier on the battlefield, and was quickly promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. He

received several citations for service above and beyond the call of duty. Several of

his fellow soldiers accused him of living a charmed life. He never received so much

as a hangnail during his hitch in the service. As always, whatever fortune came his

way, Collin did not consider himself blessed, but didn’t think of himself as lucky

either. He felt that what most people called luck was actually 90% preparation and

10% anticipation.

After distinguishing himself in the military, Collin declined to serve another tour

of duty and he came back to civilian life, where his scholarship was still waiting for

him. He returned to Vincenzo University, where he graduated Magna Cum Laude

with dual majors in biology and chemistry.

About a year before his graduation, his mother ed away after a long illness.

Collin was perturbed that she didn’t live long enough to see him graduate. But he

took some amount of solace in the assurances he gave to her that he would be able to

take care of himself after she was gone.

He knew that a good job would be waiting for him after graduation. He

anticipated that his exemplary service record in the military and relatively high

grades at University meant he could pick and choose from a number of employers.

Sure enough, the recruiters from The Megalodon Corporation, a large biochemical

concern, offered him a position that he could not turn down. They placed him into

their research and development group, where he worked on highly secret projects.

Collin thought this position would be in line with what he envisioned as his career;

helping mankind through advances in genetic science.

Although he enjoyed the challenges provided by his work and the collegial

bonhomie of most of his fellow scientists, he balked at the ultimate uses for the

products obtained: highly toxic compounds to be used as biochemical warfare

agents. International treaties preventing their use were approved and signed by all

of the most powerful countries. But no one was checking whether or not certain

large nationstates were purchasing these products and placing them into stockpiles

“just in case.”

Then, after about two years working at Megalodon, Collin was hit by some news

that came like the bolt of lightning he had just witnessed: his uncle Josiah, who he

hadn’t heard of or thought about in decades, was dead. Even during his childhood,

Collin’s visits to his uncle’s palatial home were few and far between, and had

dwindled down to exactly none shortly after his father’s death. As stipulated in

Josiah Van Dyke’s last will and testament, Collin was about to inherit a huge amount

of money, several office buildings, many apartment buildings, and several large

homes. Also, he would assume ownership of Josiah’s stock portfolio. Collin noted

with queasy irony that this contained a large number of shares in Novestco, the

holding company that owned Megalodon Corporation.

Collin knew that he, as Josiah’s closest living blood relative, should receive the

bulk of the magnate’s estate.

The fact of Collin’s relationship to his uncle was

11

enough to give him confidence that the fortune of Josiah was rightfully his. And yet,

in spite of his legal precedence, various associates, cousins by marriage, and even

more distant relations were wrangling to get a piece of the Van Dyke fortune. It was

a legal nightmare which would take years to resolve, but in the meantime, Collin

had been awarded control of the estate by the High Court. That fact also gave Collin

confidence that ultimately these legal matters would be decided to his benefit.

In relatively short order, he had quit his job at Megalodon, moved in to Manor

House and tried to make himself at home. At first, Collin thought that he and

Manor House were not a comfortable match. It had taken him weeks merely to

explore every nook and corner of the large, expertlycrafted mansion. But after some

time he made many adjustments to his perceptions and to the house itself, both

small and large. Finally, Collin began to feel that Manor House was now his own.

After these adjustments had been made, he felt ready to begin his journey. Collin

decided that he would devote a long period of time to deciding how to best use the

rest of his days and the accumulation of Uncle Josiah’s fortune. He stayed in his

room for weeks on end. He did not watch any television, listen to any music or read

any newspapers. He read parts of many books including The Bible, The Bhagavad-

Gita and the writings of the great thinkers of the human race. He spent most of his

time directing his thoughts inward. In the end, Collin decided that he would devote

the remainder of his life to the furthering of justice, the advancement of science, and

to the betterment of the human race through scientific research. In college, he had

proved himself adept at the biological sciences, with a particular facility for genetics.

It was in these fields where he would concentrate his efforts. It was a noble goal and

he had nothing but the best of intentions.

He never could have seen coming what happened, he told himself. No one could

have seen it coming. The particular set of circumstances that came together that

woeful night to create The Corpse were nigh on to impossible; a billion-toone shot.

The biggest brains in the world couldn’t have brought forth those circumstances on

purpose if they tried for a thousand years.

But Collin knew that really he was just rationalizing. Keeping himself in a state of

denial. Deep down, Collin had known the risks. He just wished that he had taken

them on himself instead of exposing someone else to them. The incident that

haunted him to this very day was almost five years in the past now. But the power

and tragedy of what he had done was strong enough to vex him for the rest of his

days.

It had been over two years since The Corpse first made himself known to the

populace of New Holland, taking down a major crime ring, and at the same time

causing a sensation in the tabloid press. “Dead Man Walking” proclaimed the

Ledger. “Lock The Cemeteries,” blared the Bugle. Every newspaper, radio station,

and internet blogger in his basement ed in the media Perfect Storm, the likes of

which had never been seen before.

The Grapevine and the internet worked in

combination with the of the press, both respectable and damnable, to keep

the public talking about, thinking about, and fearing, The Corpse. Who was this

disturbing figure? Or what was he, really? Was he really dead, yet undead? Was he

a total fraud, the result of expertly-applied prosthetic makeup effects and

12

technological advances? Or was he a figment of the imagination, the result of

unreliable witnesses strung out on Brick, or some insidious new form of Synth? The

media had no end of fun and profit repeatedly posing such queries as well as

attempting to answer them. They filled endless column inches following leads that

never panned out, repeating the fantasies of socalled “experts,” and engaging in the

wildest possible forms of speculation. There sprung up a cottage industry of

analysts, advocates, and talking heads to feed the media firestorm. Web sites and

blogs blossomed by the thousands, both ing, and damning, the appearance

of The Corpse. Wannabes and never-weres sprung up in The Corpse’s wake, all

with their own names, their own costumes, and all attempting the same vigilante

tactics. But, Collin knew, only The Corpse had been subjected to the precise array of

factors that had turned him into a being who, paradoxically, was amazingly strong

and debilitatingly weak at the same time. Only The Corpse had the seemingly

supernatural advantage that others could only fake or aspire to. The advantage

usually reserved for mythological beings and figments of the imagination.

Collin knew intimately that The Corpse was not a figment of anyone’s imagination.

All the proof that anyone needed to confirm this right this second sat resting

downstairs in Collin’s vast basement laboratory complex. Perhaps one day, they

would get a chance to see this proof.

The skeptics would be convinced. The

eyewitnesses would be proved sane. The superstitious would have yet one more

thing to fear. And another bogeyman would emerge from the misty dark of night

and the veil of superstition, into the cold, analytical light of day.

But for right now, The Corpse had a much more advantageous position working

under mysterious circumstances and a covert identity. At present, no one could be

allowed to see Collin’s facilities. Not one person could be permitted to suspect what

Collin was doing. Nobody could be left free to nail down exactly who or what The

Corpse was and what his intentions were. The only ones who shared this burden of

knowledge were Collin’s servant, Warren; his chauffeur, Nelson; and The Corpse

himself.

Collin pulled out a book on the bookshelf, which triggered the hidden mechanism

in the wall. The bookshelf swung back, revealing a hidden ageway, which had

first been used decades ago by Collin’s uncle, Josiah Van Dyke. Collin moved

toward the hole in the wall. He sighed deeply. He stopped, then turned and walked

away with a heavy heart. “I’ll give him a little more time to rest,” he thought. “He

probably needs it.” But was Collin giving his injured charge more time to rest, or

just giving himself a little more time to avoid the awful truth? Collin did not want to

answer that question, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking it. The bookcase

swung shut behind him and locked against the wall with a disturbing finality.

13

CHAPTER 3: Enter The Professor

Later that morning, Chief Pringle had just gotten off the phone with the Mayor,

who had given him more than an earful, when Captain Madison poked his head

through the double doors leading to his office.

“Chief, I’ve got some good news and bad news,” Madison said.

“Come in, Andy. I could use some right now. I just got done with a good chewing

out by the Mayor. He saw the Ledger this morning and he didn’t like it one bit.”

“Sorry to hear that, Chief. I wish there was something I could do.”

“What’s the bad news? I need that first.”

“Fingerprints came back. He’s not in any databases that we can find, state or

federal. FBI came up empty too.”

“What’s the good news?”

“We got a speck of DNA off the dead guy’s coat. It wasn’t much, but it was

enough to work with.”

“So we have a suspect out of that?” the Chief asked hopefully.

“Well, yes and no,” Madison said.

“Speak English, man!”

“Okay. The DNA could not be matched to anyone. The cells are…how did the

M.E. phrase it? They’re all torn up, each one damaged beyond identification.”

“That’s no help,” Chief Pringle grumped.

“Ah, but it is. The cells we have seem to have been damaged in the same way as

that sample we got off The Minister,” Madison responded.

“You mean Giacomo Dellasandro? The hood? We thought he was rubbed out by

the Cesare gang.”

“Yeah, that’s what we thought at the time. And we just wrote off the corrupted

DNA sample as spoilage, something that happened during the process of collecting

the sample, or in the laboratory. Here’s the rub. There’s no way to match up the

samples precisely, because each cell is damaged in a different way. It’s like that old

myth about two snowflakes never being exactly alike. But the samples do resemble

each other in the particular manner of the damage, which is unlike anything I’ve

ever seen anywhere else. Just ripped to shreds. This could mean that The Corpse

was behind both killings.”

“At least we know what we’re dealing with. Or who. Strike that. At least we

know we’ve dealt with him before, whatever he is.”

“Yes. God help us. We know now that The Corpse isn’t a figment of the

imagination. He is real. And he is, in a way that most anyone would define it, a

monster.”

Previously, the only evidence of The Corpse’s existence had been the widely

varying reports and descriptions of spooked eyewitnesses and a few shadowy

14

telephone calls to the police and the newspapers. But now, they had solid evidence.

And if that speck of DNA evidence was right, that meant that the note was in fact

written by The Corpse.

The police had never received a written communication from The Corpse before.

Even though there was no direct evidence to link the note with The Corpse, like a

fingerprint on the note itself, the words chosen had a consistency with the previous

communications. The phrases “scourge of decent society” and “the good citizens of

New Holland” had been used by The Corpse before. If the person who wrote the

note was not The Corpse, at the very least, he would have had to have seen the

previous communications. That narrowed the field somewhat, but still, too many

parties fit that profile.

Although the newspapers did not publish the exact text of the communications

made to them, they did acknowledge publicly that The Corpse, or at least someone

claiming to be him, had ed them by telephone and letter. The press had also

published s that the police had been ed. Again, the exact text of the

communications had not been divulged.

The exact statements of eyewitnesses made to the Police had not been published

either, but the tabloids had definitely interviewed these eyewitnesses, who had

repeated their s almost verbatim. There was no law against it. Madison and

Chief Pringle agreed on all of these facts.

“Check the back issues of The Bugle and The Herald, Andy,” Chief Pringle said. “I

want you to find out if they published any of those phrases used in the note, if they

were public knowledge.”

“I’m on it, Chief,” Madison. “You’ll have that later on today. Right now I’m going

over to Eastern to interview that professor. Find out about that ring if I can.”

“Right, good thinking. Keep me advised.”

Captain Madison left the Chief’s office filled with dread. Not because of The

Corpse, but because he had to talk to a professor. Throughout his academic career,

Andy had been intimidated and afraid of teachers. As soon he graduated high

school, he looked for an alternative other than college. He thought about the army,

but there wasn’t a war going on at that time, and he sure as hell didn’t want to sit

around some cramped metal barracks, occasionally going out to the dusty

countryside to perform war games. He wanted action, and he wanted it now.

So he tested for enrollment in the New Holland Police Academy. He did very well

and shot to the top of his class. Upon graduation, he was given a prime assignment.

Although he was made a detective, it was in the roughest downtown precinct New

Holland had to offer: a landscape of criminal gangs, random thugs, murderers for

hire and rampant dealing in Brick. A typical Saturday night in that urban wasteland

offered up more activity than a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Andy loved mixing it

up with the baddies, getting out in the field and getting dirty in more ways than one.

Madison found he had a knack for solving the more difficult cases that had his

colleagues stumped.

He began to be noticed among the higher-ups in the

department, and was quickly promoted to the rank of Captain of Detectives.

About five years previously, he had been tapped by the Chief himself to be his

personal right-hand man, his eyes and ears among the mass of detectives and

15

officers that made up the department. In that period of time he had expanded his

role to be a sort of detective-at-large, with the Chief’s personal stamp-ofapproval

giving him carte blanche to move within the department at will and, as Chief Pringle

put it, “grease the wheels.” To Madison, that meant ignoring the department’s

bureaucracy, no matter how many toes got stepped on or whose feelings got hurt.

Of course he could not break the law at any time. Not break. But bend it a little,

well, that was purely up to his discretion. It was a power he used sparingly and

carefully. It all depended upon who was watching. That method of operation

certainly made Andrew Jackson James Madison more than one enemy in the police

department, from the rank and file to the Top Brass, but he felt secure in his position

as long as Chief Pringle stood behind him.

Of course, with such power came great responsibility. There was bending the

rules, and then there was breaking the law. It was a fine line, but a sure one.

Madison had to walk that fine line every single day, between propriety and results.

The rules existed for many reasons, sure, and he respected those reasons. But he

knew that results got the biscuits buttered. And Madison had put into practice

many times the old saw that it was much easier to apologize than it was to ask

permission.

Soon enough Captain Madison arrived at the University and made his way across

the campus to Brockton Hall, where Professor Hildeborg had an office on the fourth

floor. He ascended the creaky staircases of the ancient, ivycovered building until he

finally reached the fourth floor.

He found the office door marked “Professor S. Hildeborg” and rapped on the glass.

There was no response. Madison tried the doorknob. It turned freely and the door

opened. He slowly pushed the door free of the jamb. As it creaked like an ancient

schooner, a shaft of light slowly illuminated the dark and dusty room. The blinds

were drawn down tight, leaving the only light that which came from the doorway.

Madison saw walls covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Each bookshelf

was crammed to the brim with books, books, and more books. The books filled

every cavity and spilled on to the floor where they were stacked in tall piles. An old

electric fan twirled lazily, giving weak relief to the stuffy atmosphere. Next to the

window there was a giant, rickety desk, its dark varnish peeling away. On top of the

desk were piles of papers and more books, stacked impossibly high.

As he peered around the piles on the desk, he saw the figure of the professor, bent

over in a huge desk chair. His eyes were closed and he was motionless.

“He’s not breathing!” thought Madison, who rushed over to the old man’s side.

“Professor Hildeborg!” he shouted, grabbing his arm.

At that, the Professor awoke with a start and let out a gasp. “What is it, man?

Can’t somebody take a quick nap anymore?” the professor demanded. “Who are

you?”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Madison gulped. “But you seemed dead.”

Professor Hildeborg cackled. “Heh heh. You’re not the first person to tell me that.

My wife used to say to that to me all the time. In bed.” He continued cackling.

“Professor Hildeborg, I’m Captain Madison, New Holland Police.” He flashed his

badge and identification.

16

“I see.” The professor rubbed his eyes and yawned. “You caught me during my

daily nap break, Captain. But I’m always happy to help out the men in blue. How

may I assist you?”

“We have quite a puzzle on our hands, Professor. But I am told that you are the

man to help us solve it. I’d like to show you something. Perhaps you can tell me

what you know about it.” Madison brandished the ring in its plastic evidence bag.

“Please do not remove it from the bag. This is evidence in an important police

matter.”

Professor Hildeborg grabbed the bag and held it up in the dim light. “Yes, yes, of

course,” he said distractedly. He reached into his desk and retrieved a jeweler’s

loupe. He squinted through the device with one eye and examined the ring.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“That is not for public consumption at this time,” Captain Madison said. “Do you

know anything about it?”

“Oh, yes, yes, but I haven’t seen one of these things in years,” he muttered.

“So you recognize it?” Madison asked hopefully.

“Yes, yes. Beautiful specimen.” The Professor put down the loupe and the ring.

“Well?”

He stared Madison dead in the eye. “Captain, this is a ring that was custom made

for the of a secretive religious cult. A cult spoken about in hushed tones in

back rooms and hidden ageways. A cult that has remained obscure for years.”

“But you happen to know about them?”

“Things like that happen when you get to be my age,” he cackled. “I’ve crossed

paths with them several times. But they are all anonymous. No one seems to know

who the of this group are. Even myself. But one thing is known for

certain. These are dangerous people.”

“How dangerous?” Madison asked.

“I don’t want to alarm you, Captain,” the professor said carefully. “But I will tell

you this: they are criminals. And they are not afraid of the police. Or anyone else,

for that matter. They’ve been underground almost since their founding. They have

been responsible for a long series of crimes going back decades. And none of their

have ever been prosecuted for any crimes. Or even suspected of any

crimes by the authorities, to my knowledge.”

Madison felt his interest level rise the more the old man went on. “What kind of

crimes?”

“I can’t give you a specific list, Captain. But you name it, they’ve probably been

guilty of it. They have been pulling strings and making things happen for decades,

all without anyone knowing their identities or their activities.”

“Just who are they?” Madison asked.

“Nobody knows. Their individual names are known to none but their own

secretive number, it is said,” the professor murmured.

“I don’t mean their names. What are they involved in? What are their goals?

What are they all about?”

“They are the hidden hand that moves the chess pieces on the board of life. They

are the spoon that stirs the pot, and the grease the spins the gears.”

17

“I see. They sound quite powerful,” Madison said.

“More than you know,” the Professor intoned, with more than a jot of dread.

“You said that they are a religious cult. What are their religious beliefs,

Professor?”

“Quite complex. But I’ll simplify it for you. They perform a type of preChristian

faith first established in Northern Europe over 2000 years ago. They worship the

ancient Norse gods. Their patron god is Bolverk, the Norse god of pain and

suffering. It is one of the aspects of Odin, the king of all the deities. These people

believe in the racial superiority of the Scandinavian people, and the eventual return

of the spirit of the Viking to a tradition of control and dominance over all of the

lesser races. These people make Hitler look open-minded and generous.”

“So this ring was made in Sweden, or maybe Norway?” Madison asked.

“No, Captain, this ring was made around 1935, and it was forged right here in

New Holland,” Hildeborg said.

“Really?”

“Yes. In fact, I know the person that made it. He is still here in New Holland, and

still has a small shop.”

“What else do you know about them?” asked Madison.

The professor paused. He leaned forward in his elderly chair, which squeaked

loudly in protest. He spoke in hushed tones. “I could tell you more. They are called

the Bolverken. If you look up that term on the internet you can find out some of

their history. But a better idea is to look through the archives of New Holland

newspapers from 1925 to 1935 or so. I’m sure you could get more certain

information from that source that what I could dig up from my faulty old memory.”

“Any other information you can give me?”

Professor Hildeborg rolled his eyes and considered for a moment. He raised

himself out of his chair with great effort. He shuffled across the floor, moving

slowly to a tall bookshelf which seemed about ready to collapse. He reached out

and yanked out an ancient volume, which he showed to Captain Madison.

“I will give you this book. Study it well. Absorb its contents. Anything and

everything you will need to know about these people is contained between its

covers.”

“What is it?” Madison asked.

“This book is very important. The religious cult based their entire founding upon

the words it contains. It was written in 1904 and published privately in Stockholm.

Made in very small numbers. Please guard it with a strong hand. As far as I know,

it is the only copy of this volume held in private hands.” The professor’s gnarled

old hand ed over a threadbare, dusty tome, rather thick. The title was printed

on the cracked cover in gold leaf, but was barely legible. Madison was just able to

make out: “The Secret History of the Norse Race.” He opened the book and glanced

quickly at the interior, noting that it was written in English.

“It’s in English,” Madison barked.

“Yes,” the professor replied, “it certainly is. That was done deliberately. Since it

was published in Sweden, there would be comparatively few souls that could read

18

it. So, there would be a much smaller chance of the authorities discovering its

contents.”

“Clever of them. I will give this a good look. Thank you Professor, this should be

of great help in the investigation.”

“My pleasure indeed.”

Madison cast his mind back over their conversation. “Professor, you said that the

person that made this ring is still here in New Holland. Could you tell me who he

is?”

“I can do better than that, Captain. I can tell you where he is also. His name is

Lindenmuller. He has a workshop in The Bottoms. The Van Riper Building on

Dornacker Street.”

“Thank you, Professor. I really appreciate your help.”

“Not at all my boy. Glad to be of assistance. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve still got

25 minutes until my next lecture. I’d like to finish up that nap if I could.”

“Of course, Professor.”

“Goodbye, Captain.”

As Madison shut the door behind him, he noted Hildeborg settling back into his

chair and shutting his eyes. Within seconds, he began snoring up a storm. Funny

old bird, he thought, smirking.

CHAPTER 4: A Call To Arms

The copies of The Bugle, The Ledger, The and The Financial News arrived at

Manor House promptly at 7:00 a.m., as usual. The electronic contents were

transmitted wirelessly to the printing terminal, which in this case was located in the

rambling manse’s large kitchen. The gears and levers whirred and clicked as they

printed out the copies of all four publications. Most people merely rented the

machines from one of the publishers, who funded their maintenance and repair with

a small amount added to each customer’s subscription fee. Collin hadn’t wanted to

bother with yet more maintenance personnel coming into his house, so he had

purchased the printer himself, a large outlay which only a few private citizens could

afford.

Warren, the Manor House chef and butler, and personal assistant in all of Collin’s

underground activities, presented the newspapers to Collin on a silver tray, along

with his usual breakfast of smoked fish, whole-wheat toast with butter and fresh-

squeezed orange and tomato juices. He placed the tray down on the large antique

mahogany desk that Collin had placed in his oversized master bedroom. Collin

performed all his real work in his basement laboratory. He rarely used that

particular desk for anything other than eating breakfast and mournful

contemplation. This morning, he had both activities on the docket.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” Warren asked.

19

Collin looked up at him. “No, Warren. Not right now, thank you. I believe that

I’ll be in the laboratory this morning. No interruptions, if you please.”

“On the job, sir,” Warren said.

“Good man.”

Collin sat at the leviathan of a desk. He picked at his food distractedly and glanced

at the rain through the windows. So much was up in the air right now that he felt

gratified that he could depend on Warren. Warren had worked at Manor House for

over 30 years, going back to the employ of Josiah Van Dyke. Collin thought it

prudent to keep in his employ someone who probably knew all the secrets of the

house itself, as well as those of his mysterious uncle Josiah. After doing a thorough

background check on Warren, Collin felt he could trust him implicitly to keep any

secrets he might have. Born Charles George Warren in Manchester, England, he had

been plucked from obscurity working in a London hotel as a waiter by Uncle Josiah

and brought to New Holland. He had no living relatives apart from a few distant

cousins in England. He seemed to enjoy his job and was paid well by Josiah. In fact,

upon checking his bank s, it seemed to Collin that Warren could have

retired, bought a decentsized home and hired a servant of his own for his declining

years.

But that didn’t suit him, he said. He expressed the desire to continue working at

Manor House, as it was “the only home I’ve known since I was 23 years old.” Collin

offered to double his salary. Warren accepted the offer humbly, but he still seemed

to spend almost no money on himself. His quarters at the estate were quite large, in

fact he had a separate small house on the grounds in which he lived by himself.

Any other workers, such as housekeepers, gardeners and Nelson, the daytime

chauffeur, lived off the mansion. The house in which Warren lived was tastefully

but spartanly furnished. Warren had no hobbies except occasionally taking the train

into New Holland to catch a revival film screening on the weekends or riding his

bicycle to the local public library to check out a book. He had never owned a car,

though he did have a driver’s license and chauffeured Collin around at night.

Warren hadn’t had a vacation in five years. For men like Josiah Van Dyke, such

loyalty among his servants was to be assumed. For Collin, a man of a different

generation, it was to be accepted only with some level of suspicion, however long

unspoken.

As Collin looked over the morning editions of the papers, he didn’t see anything

amiss. As he did every morning, he pored over the daily tabloids for news of The

Corpse. He had made his way through The Bugle and The when he picked

up The Ledger. They had put together a Rush Extra edition, which amounted to only

a four-page sheet wrapped around their normal edition.

It was there that he saw it: trouble. A banner headline screaming in 99 point type:

“THE CORPSE STRIKES!” Underneath this was a stock photograph of The Castle.

As a frequent benefactor of the police department, he recognized the building

immediately. Collin took a deep breath, pulled the paper up close to his eyes and

read intently:

“Early this morning, the public menace known as The Corpse made his ugly

presence known yet again, when the lifeless body of an unidentified man was

20

discovered on the front steps of The Castle, the main Police Department

headquarters.

“According to a police department spokesman, Chief Hamilton Pringle will be

holding a press conference later today at which he will answer all questions about

this latest attack.

“Reporters on the scene collected rumors from Castle personnel regarding the

incident. These employees, who requested to remain unidentified, stated that the

body was discovered by a Police Detective at about 3:30 a.m. when the man went out

of the building to buy cigarettes.

“Officers were immediately able to link the victim to the mysterious figure known

as The Corpse as a note was attached to the body signed by the known fiend. The

contents of the note were not divulged. The quoted sources wished to emphasize

that the investigation was still at a very early stage and efforts to retrieve all

information were ongoing. Chief Pringle will address reporters at 3:00 p.m. this

afternoon.” On the inside of the sheet were a few boilerplate articles speculating on

the true nature of The Corpse and assessing what impact he had made on the city of

New Holland since coming on to the scene several years ago.

Collin lowered the newspaper and rubbed his eyes. This was a whole new

wrinkle. He knew that The Corpse had nothing to do with this murder whatsoever.

He knew because The Corpse was at this very moment resting in his basement, and

had been doing so for months. And he knew what was behind this attack on The

Corpse’s credibility, if not exactly who was responsible.

During the previous few months, Collin Van Dyke had sent out the word to his

informants, and they had heard the scuttlebutt going around New Holland: the

criminal element was glad to have had The Corpse out of their hair for so long now.

In fact, they were beginning to wonder where he was, or if he would ever come

back.

Collin knew the police were smug enough to think The Corpse was gone for good,

and would no longer embarrass them by cleaning the streets of evildoers. But the

lawless element was more wily and clever than that, Collin thought. They knew The

Corpse was probably down but not out. With their animal cunning, they could

sense that he was weak, embattled, but using his time away to gain strength, retrofit

himself for a comeback. Now was the time for them to strike at him, while he was

vulnerable, and remove his meddling ways from their landscape for good.

Collin knew that sooner rather than later, this would all be coming to a head. The

criminal masterminds would strike at The Corpse, and strike at him soon. He knew

their plan; he could read them like an open book.

Collin knew that they would never find The Corpse, wherever he was, so they

would be forced to try to draw The Corpse out into the open. From there, they

would hope to destroy him, trap him, or at least discredit him as a force against evil.

After that, they could run roughshod over New Holland, do what they wanted and

take what they pleased, with only the beleaguered and under budgeted police

department to get in their way. He had to act quickly before the situation got out of

hand. But there was a problem. Collin was ready to pursue a plan of action, but

21

was The Corpse? And, if not, could he be made ready; physically, mentally, and

emotionally? He pushed his half-finished breakfast aside. “Warren,” he called.

Warren appeared from the kitchen. “Yes, sir?”

Collin brandished the front page of The . “Have you seen this?”

“I’m afraid I did, sir. An attempt to ruin our reputation. Just as you were worried

about.”

“Yet again, I wish I had been wrong about something. Damn my insight. And

that’s not the only thing concerning me.”

“I assume you are referring to our friend downstairs. Do you think he’ll be ready

for this assault?”

“If I know him, he’ll be ready, mentally. His physical condition is what I’m really

worried about. We shall see in short order. I’m going down right now. I should be

down there for quite some time. Please take a message if anyone calls.”

“Will do, sir.” Warren gathered up the breakfast dishes, then vanished back into

the kitchen. Warren knew exactly what Collin meant. Throughout the long, tragic

process that had led Collin and his friend to the creation and implementation of The

Corpse, Warren had been fully in the know, aware of any and all developments, as

well as assisting his employer as needed. Collin had made clear to Warren that his

help had been invaluable all along the way and he was grateful for his devotion and

steadfast service in the difficult crusade that weighed heavily upon him.

Warren had been almost as disturbed as Collin had by the unanticipated turn of

events. In spite of the mental anguish enforced upon him he had undertaken to help

Collin in any way required of him. That was the least he could do. After all, he

done the same for Josiah Van Dyke, who in his many years as a mogul had harbored

secrets even more terrible and worrying than anything that Collin had the

misfortune to be burdened with.

But the most difficult part of Warren’s situation was not the load of physical chores

required, but the obvious need to keep any and all knowledge of anything he heard

or saw in Manor House exclusively to himself: no relative, no paramour, no friend

could ever know even a hint of any of it. Perhaps that was the overarching reason

why Charles George Warren had kept people at a distance; he rarely ed his

distant relatives in England, did not seek any romantic entanglements, and did not

choose to cultivate any friendships. A lonely life, but a necessary one.

The most difficult part of his service to his employer, Warren thought, was the

delicate decision of when to offer help and when to leave his employer to work out

his dilemmas by himself. However, right at this moment, his choice was clear.

Collin Van Dyke needed to be by himself. Warren busied himself tidying up the

kitchen.

Collin stood in his study alone. He once again picked up a crystal glass from the

silver tray on his desktop. He slowly decanted two fingers of the Orkney Island

Gold Label whiskey into the glass. He picked it up in his hand, slowly swishing the

brown liquid around. He rubbed his forehead as the rain in sheets pounded against

the window panes. He stopped, breathed deeply, turned, and stared at his reflection

in the full length mirror behind him, next to the door. But he did not see his own

image. In its place, he saw the image of his old friend, being subjected to undue

22

tortures. Being assaulted with chemicals, electrical shocks, and injections of various

drugs. The image of his friend becoming The Corpse. And now, he saw in this

mirror his friend standing there in the room, in his black cape and black hat,

breathing heavily, the same way that Collin was breathing heavily, his metal chest

plate rising slowly under his black tunic, his knuckles cracking as he made two

balled fists inside his reinforced leather gloves. Collin saw now, not his friend, but

the iconic image of the mysterious enemy of evil, The Corpse, perhaps in the same

way that his enemies saw him: towering, deformed, inscrutable, and possessed of a

variety of supernatural powers too horrible to contemplate. The same image that

had probably been burned forever into the superstition-loving minds of all the

evildoers that had the misfortune to encounter it. And now, Collin, his breathing

even more labored, saw that same image besmirched by the awful idea that The

Corpse had turned evil; that he would kill at random; that he would leave dead

bodies for the police to discover, with nothing but a flimsy excuse and a selfish

disregard for the public’s safety left behind. He would not have it!

With sudden fury, Collin flung the whiskey-filled glass at the mirror, shattering it

into a million pieces!

Warren came running, and rapped on the door to the study in a fastidious display

of readiness. “Mr. Van Dyke, are you all right in there?” he asked.

Collin tried to catch his breath as he braced himself against the desk. Warren

opened the door and peeked inside. Collin looked up sheepishly and nodded his

head.

“I’m fine, Warren,” he said slowly. “Or, at least, I will be. Just letting off a little

steam.”

Warren nodded, attempting to understand. “I see. Will you be requiring

anything?” he asked.

“No. Not just now. Thank you for your concern, Warren.”

“Very well, sir,” he said, shutting the door behind him. Collin had caught his

breath by now. He smoothed back the sweat-drenched hair on top of his head. He

certainly appeared to have regained his composure, but deep inside, he was still a

roiling storm of guilt, anger and shame. “Got to focus that rage, Van Dyke,” he

thought to himself, “funnel it into something positive.”

He returned to the bookcase, where he pulled the book on the shelf that acted as a

trigger once again. The bookcase swung open, and Collin disappeared down the

ageway to the stone staircase that led to the basement laboratory, his mind

burdened down with a depressingly large number of weighty thoughts.

The rain came down even harder now upon Manor House, but Collin Van Dyke,

ensconced in his basement compound, could not hear the relentless pounding of the

furious water. The sound of his many scientific machines and equipment drowned

out all other noise. The devices of his own construction knocked and banged away,

funneling relief and succor to the twisted figure in the white eggshaped pod on the

platform at the center of the room. Electricity, chemicals and speciallybalanced air

in equal measure were pumped into the hermetically sealed plastic enclosure with a

large, man-sized window on its front.

23

Collin approached the sad, distorted being gingerly. He did not refer to him by his

former name. After his transformation into The Corpse, Collin attempted to

continue addressing him by his given name, but the man would not accept it. “That

man no longer exists,” he would say. “I forbid you to speak that name ever again. If

you wish to refer to me in the third person, you should say ‘The Corpse.’ If you are

going to address me directly, just say ‘you.’ That will suffice.” That exchange had

filled Collin with sadness. He had choked back tears and left the room. But he took

the wishes of The Corpse to heart. He had to. Collin approached.

“How are you feeling?”

The Corpse moved his head slightly. It appeared that his skull would snap off if

he moved any faster. “What a question.”

“Yes. I know. Just tell me the best you can.”

“The last adventure did me no bit of good. It’s taking me longer than ever to

recover now.”

“Yes. I know. I’m working on that. But do you feel any better? What I’m really

wondering is: are you up to another job?”

“Mentally I’m ready. As far as my physical condition, you would know about that

much better than I.”

Collin paused. “You know I didn’t want this.”

“Yes. I know. I thought we’ve gone over this. I volunteered for this thing. So

don’t torture yourself, Collin. I’m a big boy. Just keep me going the best you can.”

“I don’t know how you can do it,” Collin said.

“I have no choice. Honestly, do you see any other way? So let’s do this. Please.

At least we’re doing some good for somebody. That’s all I have to get me through.”

“Okay. Let’s do it then.”

“What’s the job?”

Collin sighed deeply. “There’s trouble. I don’t know the specifics, but for some

reason, someone is trying to discredit you. There was a murder victim left on the

front steps at The Castle.”

“Yes?”

“The murderer attached a note to the body. Signed your name to it. The

conventional wisdom says that you had something to do with it.”

“What? Really?” Shock and hurt ed on the face of The Corpse. “That is a

surprise, but I suppose deep down I was really expecting something along these

lines at some point.”

“I know. We knew you were going to make enemies in the criminal underclass.

Powerful enemies. And we knew they would eventually go to any lengths to attack

you physically, or, failing that, attack your reputation.”

“Of course you’re right.”

“So that was part of the deal all along. But the thing is, what are we going to do

about it?” Collin asked.

The Corpse thought intently. “Who was the victim?”

“They haven’t said anything yet. But I am going to find out. Bet on that.”

“Okay. Get some facts in order. We need to know who’s behind this. As soon as

you get the lowdown, I’m ready for whatever you need me to do.”

24

“Thanks,” Collin said. “I knew I could count on you.”

“The Corpse is ready to go back into action.”

“Very good. I’ll do some research on the computer. Then we can go over what we

know. We’ll make up a list of likely suspects and then make up a plan of action.”

Collin moved to the keyboard on the workbench and started up his JCN

Turbocomputer. From this machine he had access to an entire world of information.

In this location he had installed a main internet node under the guise of acting as an

internet service provider. With this powerful connection, he could unleash a torrent

of knowledge from the information superhighway the likes of which usually was

reserved to government agencies and large universities. The computer location was

ed in the name of one of Collin’s many nonprofit charitable organizations,

Progress For Humanity. The organization was not just a flimsy “cover story.” The

group did perform many charitable activities. This would prevent anyone who

happened to investigate the organization from discovering the activities Collin was

performing in his basement. Because of his status as representative of a charitable

organization, Collin was able to open many more doors, both literal and figurative.

After several minutes of intense typing, he was able to find whatever information

was available to the public. The web sites of all the newspapers and video providers

in town had only sparse information at this point. He would have to go deeper,

accessing areas that were forbidden to the public to ferret out hidden clues and

background details. But first, he had to begin the process of rejuvenation so The

Corpse could him in this quest. He walked over to the white pod at the center

of the room. “You know this is going to take hours. I’m going to begin the process

now, and start the countdown clock.”

The Corpse nodded acknowledgement.

Collin flipped several switches near the giant mechanical womb containing The

Corpse. Fluids of Collin’s own concoction were released from various containers

and flowed into his wretched circulatory system. The process would take several

hours, if all went well. If there were any complications, it could take days to get it all

sorted out.

By the end of the day, The Corpse would be ready to leave his protective

environment on a temporary basis, up to several hours at a time. The Corpse shut

his eyes tight in anticipation of the invigorating fluids entering his system. Then, the

healing liquids began to coarse through him, bringing temporary life to his decaying

form. He felt the familiar feelings that he had come to both long for and dread over

the past few years. The rush of power and vitality, the feeling of invulnerability, the

lightheaded and floaty sensation that both increased perception and at that same

time made it fuzzy around the edges.

At that moment he was both slave and

master, king and pauper, deity and flea.

He held within him supernatural powers that gave him sway over ordinary men.

But at the same time, these powers hobbled him. After the powers had melted away

like a sand castle on the beach eroding at high tide, their residue would cause him to

decay even further, with only intensive, lengthy and painful treatments available to

make him whole once again; or at least as close to whole as he could come in his

state of advanced disability.

25

Now, once again, The Corpse began his journey from near-death to a super-

human existence. He started to feel vital, fresh and sharp. Soon he would be ready

to take on whatever challenges would come his way. By the time the process

reached its conclusion, he would harbor nearmystical powers that would allow him

to defeat any man. He felt strong. He felt invincible. The Corpse would soon be

ready again to strike at the black heart of the criminal underworld!

CHAPTER 5: A Dangerous Warning

Captain Madison approached the corner of Dornacker Street with caution.

Concerned citizens had been complaining about the crime, urban decay, and

rampant immorality in this area of the city for years. Referred to as “The Bottoms,”

it was an isthmus between the river and New Holland Bay containing a motley

collection of shabby slum dwellings and deteriorating industrial facilities. People

had been howling for years about urban renewal and so forth, but the land was in

the hands of hundreds of different small landowners who refused to sell out. As of

yet, the city government was unwilling to gather the political will necessary to start

evicting residents and tearing down buildings after taking them over via eminent

domain. So there the neighborhood sat, rolling on and on, never able to rehabilitate

itself, just slowly falling apart piece by piece.

The residents of the area too, were slowly destroying themselves, whether it was

with liquor, drugs, cyber implants, or self-loathing brought on by intractable

poverty. Most of the residents of The Bottoms were either homeless, or drug-

addicted, or both. There was a sizeable minority of the working poor, who just

couldn’t afford to live anywhere else in the city.

There were few retail

establishments in the area apart from liquor stores and fast food shacks selling pho

noodles or kabobs. There were a few shabby industries in the area, including

sweatshops, junkyards and several small factories putting out everything from

hardware to plastic toys.

Anyone looking at the Van Riper Building could tell that it was once the jewel of

The Bottoms. It was a 12story professional office building built sometime early in

the last century in the Beaux Arts architectural style. The place had seen its best

days many decades in the past. The doctors and dentists that once inhabited the

place had moved out long ago, but some of the windows still bore legends in fading

paint such as “Alexander Berman, D.D.S.”, fronting on empty offices. At present the

building was partially occupied by a few importexport agents, private detectives,

tattoo parlors, chiropractors and artists. And there it was. Listed on the directory in

the marblecovered lobby, probably in the original movable letters put in place when

the building opened, was the legend, “B. Lindenmuller, Custom Jeweler, 11th Floor.”

26

Madison approached the rickety elevator and pressed the button, but it was dead,

probably having last operated decades earlier. Great. An eleven-story climb. He

took a deep breath and got down to it. Or rather, up to it.

After several solid minutes of climbing, Madison finally reached the 11th floor. It

appeared that Lindenmuller had the only occupied space on that floor. In the rest of

the offices, doors creaked in the breeze coming in through open or broken windows.

Paint peeled off the walls and debris blew from here to there. Regular maintenance

apparently did not take priority for the current owner of the building.

Madison found the door to Lindenmuller’s space and knocked on it gingerly.

From behind the door he heard the squeaking of a chair and the shuffling of papers.

He knocked again, this time louder.

“Yes, come in,” came the response.

Madison pushed back the door and saw an office that looked remarkably like that

of Professor Hildeborg. Books were piled everywhere. The only difference seemed

to be that Lindenmuller had a large work table with bits of metal, semi-precious

stones and various connectors. Sundry metal working tools and large adjustable

work lights threw illumination down on to the work surface. Lindenmuller got

halfway up from his chair, his old bones making a mighty effort. The man was quite

short, slender, and bent over with age. He wore tweed slacks and a matching vest

with a pocket watch attached, and a dark tie fastened loosely about his wrinkly neck.

He had wild, unkempt hair, and a trimmed gray beard. Madison noted a certain

gleaming quality in eyes. The Captain pegged it as not insanity, or psychosis, but as

indicative of a highly active mind, even at his advanced age, Madison thought.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the courtly old gentlemen. “My name is Lindenmuller.

How may I assist you today?”

“Good day to you too, sir,” Madison replied. “I’m Captain Madison, New Holland

Police.” He brandished his identification. “I’m hoping you can help me with an

important matter.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lindenmuller. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping to make a

sale. Another day, I suppose. But please, have a seat. I’m happy to offer you any

help I can, Captain.”

Madison looked around in a vain attempt to find a seating area that wasn’t covered

with books, junk or dust. Lindenmuller apologetically cleared a wooden desk chair

of a stack of papers quickly and gallantly dusted it off with a handkerchief from his

vest pocket. “Please, Captain, take a seat.”

“Are you sure the clutter won’t swallow me up?” Madison asked.

“Quite sure, Captain.”

“Thanks. Mr. Lindenmuller, I’d like you to take a look at something. And tell me

whatever you can about it. Is that fair enough?”

“Anything to assist, Captain.”

Madison reached into his jacket pocket and produced the ring in the plastic

evidence bag and displayed it. “This ring.”

“Oh my,” Lindenmuller said.

“You seem to recognize it,” Madison said.

“Yes I do, Captain. I made this ring. A very, very long time ago. May I see it?”

27

“Yes, sir. Please do not remove it from the bag. This is evidence in a very serious

crime.”

Lindenmuller took the ring. “Oh yes. Certainly. Such a beauty. Heh. Number 47.

Where did you get this? You must tell me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Madison said.

“No doubt that whoever was wearing this ring has committed a crime. Otherwise,

it would not be in your position. Am I correct?” Lindenmuller asked.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s confidential. Police matters, you know.”

“I see. Quid pro quo, Captain. Perhaps you would be more inclined to tell me

something I don’t know, if I were to tell you something you don’t know,”

Lindenmuller said.

Madison arched an eyebrow. “Well, sir, I suppose that depends on what you have

to say to me.”

Lindenmuller put down the ring in front of him and Madison scooped it up. “Very

well, Captain,” Lindenmuller said, “here’s the thing. That is the second time I have

seen this very ring in the past two weeks, after not seeing it for more than 60 years.”

“Do tell.”

“About two weeks ago, maybe three, a man came in here. I would say about

thirty-five years old, maybe forty. Tall, blond hair, muscular. He had that ring.

Had it on his ring finger, in fact. I had no idea how he tracked me down. As a

matter of fact, how did you track me down, Captain?”

“I’m not going to say,” Madison stated.

“Hmm. All right. Anyway, he had the ring, and he asked me if I had made it. I

told him that I had. He wanted to know the entire history of the ring, what it meant,

who had ordered it made, and why.”

“And did you tell him?” Madison asked.

“No, Captain, I did not. I only told him one fact: that I had made it.”

“Why did you refuse to tell him anything?”

“Because I did not know this man, Captain. And failing any judgment of his

personal character, I did not want to see any harm come to him. For him to be in

possession of the information I had would place him in great danger.”

“What would make you think that harm would come to him?” Madison asked the

old man.

He shook his head from side to side and chuckled lightly. “Captain, if you knew

the history of this ring, you would not have to ask me that,” Lindenmuller said.

“Well, clue me in, then. Just what is the history of this ring?”

“Ahh, I believe we had a little informal agreement, Captain. Quid pro quo. So

now it is your turn to answer my question. How did the ring come into your

possession?”

Madison sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you a few

things. Most of the information will be all over the papers within a few hours. This

ring was on the fingers of a murder victim that was found on the steps of The Castle

early this morning.”

28

Lindenmuller’s eyes went wide. “No!” he shouted. Madison thought he detected

tears beginning to well up in his eyes. “I was afraid something like that would

happen.”

“I have a good hunch that our victim was the same man who came here to see you

several weeks ago,” Madison said. “I have a picture of him, would you like to take a

look at it? Before I show it to you, I should mention that the man is dead in the

picture.”

Lindenmuller stared at the floor and kicked at his desk. “Yes, I suppose so. Show

me the picture. I can handle it.”

Madison pulled the picture out of his jacket pocket. In it, the man was placed on a

morgue slab, his skin cold and turning blue. Obviously dead. In spite of that,

Lindenmuller thought that he looked like he was sleeping comfortably. The man’s

face had not been injured.

“Oh my. Yes, that is him, Captain.”

“What is his name?”

“Sadly, that is something I don’t know, Captain.”

“Do you mean to tell me that a man you don’t know came into this office asking

you all sorts of questions, and you didn’t even bother to have him identify himself?”

“Yes, Captain, I asked him who he was. Several times. I refused to give him any

information until he opened up to me. But he wouldn’t tell me his name. He said

that the fewer people who knew he was asking questions the better off he would be.

Said that it was a matter of life and death. I understood that line of thinking

intimately. I didn’t question him any further.”

“So, you did not tell him anything about the ring, or its history?” Madison asked.

“No, I did not. But I would be happy to give that same information to you, as an

officer of the law.”

“Listen, sir, I didn’t hold out on you, so don’t hold out on me. Who is he? We

have to identify this man if we are to find his killer!”

“Believe me, Captain, if I knew, I would tell you. Sincerely. He refused to identify

himself.”

Madison stared him down. “Hmm. If you say so, Mister Lindenmuller. But I do

need you to make a statement, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, whatever I can do for you.”

“I have some questions regarding the ring, and the history of the ring. I do need to

record the interview with you for my records. I have a recorder here.” Madison

reached down into his tro pocket where he had a small digital recorder. He

couldn’t fish it out, so he stood up from the chair in order to get at it. As he was

fumbling around trying to get his hand on it, Madison thought he heard a noise

behind him. It sounded like the door creaking open, he thought.

“Captain! Look out!” Lindenmuller shouted and disappeared behind a bookcase

with a speed that belied his years.

Madison spun around and felt an immediate pain along the right side of his

forehead. At the same instant he heard the loud crack of a handgun being fired at

close range. He had heard that song of angry metal many times before and knew it

as intimately as a mother’s lullaby. The searing pain felt like it had split his skull

29

wide open. Madison fell to his knees. The full weight of his body now quickly

yanked him towards a close and personal date with the cracked, dirty linoleum. He

forced his eyes open, and managed a quick glimpse of a shadowy figure in the

hallway. He was able to make out a large topcoat and a fedora pulled down tight

over the head, before he fell forward to the floor and lost consciousness. As Andy

Madison drifted toward oblivion, he heard the unmistakable sound of more

gunshots echoing away to infinity. After that, nothing.

CHAPTER 6: An Unexpected Attack

Collin Van Dyke faced a dead end. His enemies knew everything, and he didn’t

even have any idea who they were. Collin didn’t like that. In spite of his wide-

ranging access to computer files that the owners of these files did not know about, he

could not get to the kernel of the matter. Who was trying to discredit The Corpse?

Collin needed some inside information. Fortunately, he would be able to access

exactly what he needed. All he needed to do was pick the brain of an old friend.

The procedures Collin had begun in his laboratory were going smoothly, so he felt

he could delay his labors for a brief period. He wanted to attend the press

conference given by Chief Pringle. Perhaps he could wrangle a moment with the

Chief, or get a chance to speak to Andy Madison.

Collin had Nelson drive him downtown and drop him off at The Castle. He could

enter and exit the complex at will. All the on-duty watch officers recognized him

and waved hello. He was a familiar figure on the premises and was recognized as a

V.I.P.

Collin knew that as a major benefactor of the Police Union and the Benevolent

Association, the red carpet would be rolled out for him at any time. But this wasn’t

just a cynical attempt to gain favor and access. Collin truly felt a debt of gratitude to

the New Holland Police Department, whose put their life on the line every

day. The fine officers of the NHPD had saved his hide many times. They had

protected The Corpse on more than one occasion, in spite of their suspicions of his

motives. For this assistance in his important work, Collin felt nothing but thanks, in

spite of the way many of them viewed the activities of The Corpse.

Collin entered the Auditorium, where he ran into a sea of reporters and

photographers. They all milled around in various small clumps, chattering to each

other like a bunch of prize hens. He saw Berkowitz holding court amongst a bunch

of his colleagues. They were razzing him, but he gave as good as he got, gesturing at

his fellows, jabbing at their chests with his stubby forefinger, waving his unlit cigar

(no smoking in the facility, please) all over the place. Berkowitz had his chest puffed

out, staring up at their faces, telling how he was going to get the drop on all of them

and file the story first, exposing the identity of The Corpse while they were still in

the bathroom with their pants down.

Behind Berkowitz sat his photographer,

30

O’Reilly, fiddling with his camera and looking bored. He tried to stifle a yawn, then

started picking his teeth. Collin smirked and took a seat in the back row of chairs.

He was able to overhear several of the reporters’ conversations:

“I heard the guy was killed in some morbid manner.”

“Yeah, I heard he had the blood sucked out of him!”

“You’re wrong guys. I got an inside man at the M.E.’s office, and he says for sure

that his body was cut into pieces and stitched together backwards and upside

down!”

“What? That doesn’t even make any sense. What would the purpose of that be?”

“Listen, guys, I’m not here to figure out the motives of a guy…or whatever he

is…like The Corpse. I’m just ing along what I heard.”

“Yeah, right. So I’ll go ahead and print that nonsense and look like a total jerk,

while you go ahead and print the real story? Thanks for nothing, Bill!”

Collin rolled his eyes and tried to suppress a laugh. “Glad I didn’t go into that

idiotic business,” he thought, removing his hat and holding it on his lap.

At precisely three o’clock, Chief Pringle stepped to the podium in the Auditorium.

He gently tapped on the microphone to make sure it was functioning. The

assembled reporters stopped their puttering and talking and came to attention.

Flash guns flashed and popped. Video cameras recorded the scene. Pencils flew

across steno pads with lightning speed.

“I’d like to thank all of you for coming,” Chief Pringle said. “Ladies and

gentlemen, I have a statement to read to you, and then I will be taking a few, I said

only a few, questions. At approximately 3:30 a.m. this morning, a body was found

on the front steps of Police Headquarters here by an Officer who was exiting the

building. The body was hidden in a corner off to the side of the front door and was

not visible from the street. We have no witnesses, and unfortunately, our security

system was down for maintenance, so there is no recording of the body being placed

there.

“We have made a preliminary identification of this man as Paul Nilsson, of

Chicago, Illinois. He was employed in that city as a commodities broker, and had

been so for the past fifteen years. So far, we have been unable to determine what he

was doing in New Holland. Apparently, he recently took some time off from his job,

but he did not tell anyone where he was going or what he would be doing. He was

thirty-eight years old, married, and had no children. We have ed his wife

and she will be flying to New Holland to make a positive identification of the body.

She should be here in the morning. If any member of the public knows anything, or

happened to see anything, I urge them to call the New Holland Police Department,

or they can respond to this request on our web site. Just click on the button that says

“tips.” I’ll be happy to take your questions now.”

The excited reporters clamored for attention. Pringle grimaced. He thought he

would get the most dreaded one of them out of the way first.

“Yes, Mr. Berkowitz of The Ledger.”

“Chief, what about the note found on the body. Was The Corpse the only party

responsible for this crime, and why did he do it?” The assembled crowd again

31

immediately exploded in a burst of shouted questions. Pringle shushed them and

commanded their attention.

“I would like to address these rumors immediately. It is true. There was a note

found attached to the body. It was supposedly authored by the party known as The

Corpse. It was printed on an ordinary computer printer. There was no signature.

We initially thought that The Corpse was responsible for this murder.

At this

point, we are not convinced that this note was, in fact, authored by The Corpse. And

therefore, we are in no way convinced that The Corpse was the party responsible for

this murder. There was some physical evidence leading us in that direction. But,

that turned out to be inconclusive. We have no eyewitnesses, and no additional

hard evidence. That is, at present. If, during this investigation, we are able to

uncover any further evidence ing the theory that The Corpse has some

involvement with this incident, we will keep you advised of such a change in

circumstances.”

The reporters again clamored as more flash guns went off.

“Yes, Miss Gale.”

Maria Gale of The Bugle stood, smoothing out her skirt. She balanced a pen and

steno pad in her other hand. “Chief Pringle, I think everyone in this room has either

heard or repeated rumors of various bizarre methods of death that this poor man

was subjected to. Set the record straight for us. Just how was the man murdered?”

“It is true that we were stumped about the cause of death, at first. After the

Medical Examiner did a preliminary autopsy, he made a finding that this was a

garden-variety stabbing. It seems to have been done with an ordinary straight-

edged blade. Could have been a kitchen knife, possibly a letter opener. The official

cause of death would be loss of blood.”

The reporters again begged for attention. Pringle pointed to a man in the front

row. “Yes, Mr. Doherty of The .”

“So Chief, have you officially eliminated The Corpse as a suspect?”

Pringle ground his teeth. “I did not say that. The investigation is ongoing. We

have yet to rule out anyone. So, The Corpse is still a suspect. Everybody is still a

suspect. We have our best people working on this situation. All I can say is at this

time, things are not pointing in that direction. But, as I said, the situation could

change at any moment based on any new evidence we uncover. Next question.”

“Chief, do you have any other suspects that you can tell us about,” asked Don

Jackson of the Allied Press.

“The answer to that is, we have many, and are working toward narrowing down

the list to the most likely suspects. We don’t have any names we can give out at this

time. As soon as we can narrow down the list of suspects, or make an arrest, I

promise you, we will let you know. The New Holland Police Department has its

best people working on this case. Again, if anyone in the public has any information

about this case we would urge them to us at the following. .”

Chief Pringle continued speaking, but his voice could no longer be heard across the

large auditorium. He realized that his microphone had cut out, and he began to tap

on the microphone and fiddle with the connection.

32

From out of nowhere, a strange voice crackled across the public address system.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” the voice croaked.

“Oh no,” Collin thought. “Tell me this isn’t what I’m fearing it is.” Collin looked

around desperately for the source of the sound. He feverishly attempted to figure

out how they had spliced in to the public address system, while remaining in his

seat, sweating nervously.

“I am The Corpse,” the voice said.

Collin frowned. “What a bad job,” he thought. “That doesn’t sound anything like

the voice of The Corpse. It’s too thin, too reedy, too garbled.” Of course, nobody

else in the room knew that. Nobody else in the room had ever heard the voice of

The Corpse before.

Berkowitz jumped up and hollered, “Holy shit! O’Reilly, get this, get a picture!”

“A picture of what?” O’Reilly complained. “The speaker?”

The speaker. Yes. Berkowitz whipped a digital recorder out of his pocket and held

it aloft, trying to capture an audio sample of this strange voice.

Collin remained motionless, scowling, attempting to hide his fury. Now, they

were playing with fire. Just as he had anticipated, they were attempting to cloud the

motives of The Corpse, smear his reputation, throw a veil of doubt over his

intentions.

The reaction of the others in the room was not nearly as calm and measured as the

outwardly placid façade projected by the immobile Collin.

People started

screaming. Several women fainted. Others frantically dove for the exits. The doors

could not be opened. People began pounding on the doors impotently. Now

O’Reilly had something to take a picture of. He snapped off a few shots.

“The doors are all jammed!” someone shouted in a voice that stank of panic.

“What!” Chief Pringle screamed. “Get some men on those doors, get them open,

right now!” Several uniformed officers quickly made for the double doors at the

front of the auditorium.

The disembodied voice continued. “…and I do not like any of you. You have all

made me suffer. Now I shall make you all suffer in the same manner!”

Suddenly, clouds of foul purplish smoke bellowed out of the air vents at the top of

the walls. Video cameras spun around to capture the macabre scene. O’Reilly, now

having something visual to capture, snapped off a few choice photographs. The

amplified voice laughed evilly. Berkowitz swung his recorder around wildly. Most

of the people started screaming again.

Collin scowled at this affront from unknown forces who would employ a literal

smoke screen in order to erect a figurative smoke screen obscuring the Corpse’s true

mission. Collin swore that he would not, and could not, let the practitioners of evil

dilute the powerful effects of the mystical legend of The Corpse and whatever

unknown abilities he might possess. Collin knew this mysterious reputation was

one of The Corpse’s most powerful weapons, as sure as the broadsword wielded by

a gladiator in the fiercest of battles.

The officers were now kicking at the front doors. One officer drew his service

revolver in order to shoot the lock.

33

Chief Pringle saw this and hollered, “Holster that weapon, Officer! Somebody

might be on the other side of the door trying to get in!” The rookie sheepishly

reholstered his weapon and went back to working on the door.

Several other people were throwing chairs against the side doors, which also

would not open. Many had grabbed their cellular phones and were calling the

emergency number at a frantic pace. Some were ing their loved ones, fearing

certain doom.

The sulphurous purple smoke began to descend into the room, filling every

available crevice. Some people began to cough and choke. More people ed out.

Bodies littered the carpeted floor. In spite of his outward appearance, inside Collin

was furiously tamping down a panic, unsure of what to do next. This would be a

fine place to die, he thought, trapped like a rat in a maze, a dog in a cage, a fish in a

barrel.

Eventually, the smoke reached the carpet, where it petered out and dissolved into

a thin mist. Those choking stopped and took a deep breath. Everyone looked

around, waiting for the axe to fall. Were they going to die or not? The hushed

crowd look around, craning their necks, seeming frightened and confused. One

could hear a flea biting an ant.

Then the sickly voice returned. “That was only a warning!” the voice shrieked.

“As you can see, I could easily have killed you all. I chose not to do so. At this time.

But in two short days, all of New Holland will taste my wrath! That is all from The

Corpse!” The meager voice then dissolved like the purple smoke it had heralded.

And then, it was gone.

Some of the people in the room tried the doors.

“Hey, the doors are open now!” someone called. A palpable sigh of relief flowed

through the crowd like a wave. A cadre of officers entered the room and made their

way to the stage to see if Chief Pringle had been hurt.

“Chief, are you alright?” asked Captain Morrison.

“I’m fine, Morrison. How the hell did The Corpse get access to our systems in

here?” Pringle harrumphed.

“We don’t know Chief. We’ve been trying to get into the room for ten minutes.”

Officer Hanson approached Chief Pringle and quickly whispered in his ear,

“Chief, we got a call a minute ago. Officer down. They think it’s Madison.”

Pringle’s eyes widened. He addressed the crowd of reporters.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I believe no one has been injured in this incident and

that’s an outcome we can all be grateful for. As to what just happened, I’m afraid it’s

far too early for any answers. And due to an unfortunate turn of events, I’m afraid

we’re going to have to call this press conference to a close, as I have an urgent police

matter to attend to. Thank you all very much, people.”

Chief Pringle was hustled out of the room, the assembled reporters clamoring after

him. The officers made sure that Pringle exited the room without delay.

The

reporters’ collective disappointment was assuaged by the fact that they all had

plenty to write about for their next edition. But disappointment soon returned.

34

“Ladies and gentlemen, no one leaves this room,” Captain Morrison announced.

“We will be interviewing all of you. You are all witnesses to a crime. We will be

holding on to all your videotapes, photos and notes as well,” he stated.

A riot of protest went up from the crowd.

“An officer will be coming around. Please deposit your cell phones in this box.

You will all be interviewed in due time, and you will all be released simultaneously

once we have finished talking to you. Your materials will all be returned to you.

Everyone have a seat, you’re all going to be here for several hours.” A chorus of

boos and catcalls went up from the assembled journos, who didn’t like this idea at

all. A wave of grumbling coursed across the room like a wave on the ocean, petering

out at the back wall.

Collin winced. He assumed that he would need to be interviewed as well. He

didn’t appreciate the idea one bit, but he didn’t know how he could get out of the

place without attracting unwanted attention. He supposed that he would just have

to play dumb. Sit through an interview and just tell them the straight facts about

what he saw, being careful not to give anything away. After all, he had nothing to

do with the attack, so all he could tell them really was what he saw with his own

eyes. He approached Captain Morrison, whom he knew from a hundred charitable

functions he had attended in of the police.

“Hello, Captain. Hell of a thing.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Van Dyke. Yeah. I thought I’d seen it all.”

“Yes. I assume you’re going to need to interview me as well?” Collin asked.

“Sorry, Mr. Van Dyke. We do.”

“As I thought. Very well, but I don’t know how much help I can be.”

“Just the standard routine. Fortunately, in this case we had a room full of people

with video cameras running,” Morrison said.

“Yes, all those recordings will be quite helpful in your investigation, I’d imagine.”

“Sure. But we’ll still need to take a statement from you and everybody else.

Listen, if you have an engagement, or any kind of appointment, I can bump you to

the front of the line.”

“I appreciate that. Awfully considerate of you, Captain.”

“It’s no big deal, really. We’ll be getting to you shortly.”

Collin had a seat amongst the agitated reporters, waiting to be questioned. He

wished he could be helpful, but he thought he really hadn’t seen too much. The

faulty impression of The Corpse’s voice had distracted him beyond all sense. He

looked around the room to spot a friendly a face. He quickly found one. One that

he could possibly even get some information from. Collin approached Maria Gale,

who was sitting in a chair, expressionless, her hands folded in her lap. She had been

detained and was waiting to be interviewed, just as Collin was. As soon as she saw

Collin, her face lit up.

“Maria?”

“Collin! I didn’t know you were here for this fiasco. How did that happen?”

“Just came down here to see your boyfriend when I got waylaid by this circus.

Any idea where he got to?”

35

“Please, Collin, Andy Madison is not my boyfriend. I certainly don’t consider him

boyfriend material. He and I are just… good friends. And no, I have no idea where

he is. I’m sure he’s out in some dirty back alley getting punched in the gut by some

reprobate.”

“Okay Maria, if you say so. I’ll keep things on the q.t.”

“Look, Collin, you can say whatever you want. I’m a big girl.”

“Uh huh. Some thing with The Corpse here. The damnedest stunt I’ve ever seen.”

“You think this was done by The Corpse, huh?” Maria asked, lighting up a

cigarette.

“Of course,” Collin responded with mock guilelessness. “I mean, he said that’s

who it was, right?”

Maria Gale chuckled between drags on her coffin nail. “Oh Collin, you are so

naïve sometimes, I swear. The Corpse didn’t do this anymore than I did.”

Collin attempted a look of surprise. “You think?”

“No, no way. The set up is all wrong. It just doesn’t feel like The Corpse’s work.

I’ll tell you, Collin, this whole thing stinks, and I don’t mean just that purple smoke

they pumped in here.”

“Huh. Well, if you say so.”

“Say so? Listen, kid, I know so. I’ve been covering The Corpse since he first

appeared, years ago, and let me tell you, I feel like during all that time, and doing all

that legwork, that I have gotten inside his rotten, zombie mind. All of which leads

me to one inescapable conclusion: The Corpse did not do this.”

“Interesting,” Collin said, ively. “I never would have thought of all that.”

“Well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks, Col.”

“You’re being facetious, aren’t you?”

“Totally.”

One of the uniformed officers came over to where they were sitting. “Miss Gale?

We’re ready to interview you now.”

“Sure thing, Sergeant.”

“Good to see you, Maria. If you end up seeing Andy before I do, tell him I said

hello.”

“You got it, Collin.”

And with that, Maria Gale sashayed herself out of the room.

CHAPTER 7: No Rest For The Weary

Andy Madison felt confused and unsure of his whereabouts. He knew only that he

stood alone in a dark, watersoaked alleyway, as the rain pounded down all around

him. But he was not alone for long. As he tried to get his bearings, he noticed some

dark figures lurking just out of sight in every direction. Behind him, seven of the

dirtiest, most mutilated thugs ever loosed upon New Holland stood, grinding their

36

teeth and holding revolvers on him. In front of him, a gang of a dozen South

American pirates held machine guns aloft, ready to fire. Above him, a troop of 20

Chinese Tong assassins descended the fire escapes, leaping, tumbling, falling, flying,

ready for action.

All 50 men slowly closed in on him, ready for battle. They formed a circle around

him, frozen in their combat stances. The drops of rain rudely shocked the buckled

pavement below, making the only noise perceptible for blocks around. Andy

surveyed his situation. It was fifty against one. Not a fair fight at all. But, he’d just

have to take them all out anyway, even if it wasn’t fair to them.

“All right!” he shouted. “Which one of you assholes wants it first?”

The bloody battle cries poured forth. Behind him, seven thugs pounced. From

above, 20 sets of flailing arms came down upon him, chopping away. From the

front, the scowling pirates tromped forward with unconcealed menace scarring their

faces.

“Fine,” Andy shouted. “You boys wanna play.”

Andy jumped up, flipping over in the air. As he did this, he caught the jaws of

several of the Chinese tong with his feet and legs, shattering their

mandibles and sending them diving to the ground, where their bones fractured on

the cracked asphalt. As he spun backwards, he hit the ground hard, planting his feet

on the pavement. He had landed behind the grotesque, gun wielding thugs. They

quickly spun around, just as rapidly receiving roundhouse kicks from Andy’s limber

right leg. He couldn’t get all of them, but he sent at least four of them to the ground,

where they met the sureness of unconsciousness. A few of them dropped their guns.

Thinking quickly, Andy scooped up one of the guns and once again jumped up.

This time, he grabbed hold of one of the fire escapes and hauled himself up. During

the micro-moment he spun around, he noticed the oncoming tong warriors

clambering up the ladder below him. Andy quickly aimed the gun and emptied it

below him, wiping out the dirty miscreants, sending their limp, lifeless bodies to the

asphalt below.

By this time, the dozen South American pirates stood below him, fuming. He fired

his gun, but it was useless. Empty. He flung it down and it clattered along the alley.

The pirates raised their weapons and pointed them directly at Andy. He dove

forward, missing their bullets by the tiniest fractions of an inch! He tucked his body

into a somersault, knowing that momentum would carry him forward and

downward, where his body, rolled up like an armadillo, would dispatch his

opponents like so many bowling pins being wiped out by a large, man-sized ball.

Strike! Andy thought, as his bulk crushed their wispy torsos.

As the pirates splayed about the alley, again, some of them dropped their

weapons. Andy was able to grab a machine gun and brandish at it the few

remaining opponents he had not already wiped out.

One of the extant thugs approached Andy with cocksureness, wet gravel

crunching under his size 12 boots.

“You want some of this, idiot?” Andy Madison bellowed, waving around his

machine gun.

37

A deep, steady voice boomed out of the thug. The voice sounded remarkably

familiar.

“Come on Andy. It’s all over.”

“All over? What are you talking about?”

“Andy, come on now.”

Andy Madison felt disoriented. He looked up at the sky, an impenetrable black

blanket that pushed down from above, blocking out all light. A thick curtain that

prevented him from knowing exactly where he was. Finally, as he looked down,

the thick curtain of blackness gradually lifted. Awareness slowly crept back into the

brain of Andrew Madison, adding to his abilities like sand flowing stingily into an

hourglass, one grain at a time.

He heard the familiar voice again. “Come on, Andy, it’s over. You’re okay. Come

on.”

And then, the tipping point was reached. He was able to open his eyes. He did so

suddenly, the lights on the ceiling above him momentarily blinding him. He closed

his eyes again. He moved his parched tongue through his dry mouth and spoke as

well as he could.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in Bay Channel General, Andy,” came the deep, booming voice. He

recognized it as belonging to Chief Pringle.

“My aching head,” Madison complained, slowly opening his eyes again. He saw

Chief Pringle’s wide face and walrus mustache. “Oh man, did I just have a

humdinger of a dream,” he muttered. “Funny, though, I can’t seem to it.

I don’t know, something about an alley.”

“I spoke to the doctor,” Pringle said. “You’re fine. You should be able to go home

as soon as you feel up to it.”

Madison turned and looked at the chief with a quizzical expression on his face.

“What? Go home? Hold on a second. Didn’t I get shot in the head?”

“No, you didn’t, Andy,” the chief said. “You dodged a bullet. Literally. The

shooter missed you, by only a few inches. But you did turn around so fast that you

smashed your head on a metal filing cabinet. Opened up quite a gash, too.”

Madison gingerly lifted his right hand to his forehead. He felt a large bandage

placed there. He touched it gingerly. The pain had dulled to a low roar.

“I want to tell you that you can take all the time off that you need, stay at home

until you’re recovered.”

“Thanks, Chief. That’s very generous.”

“I want to tell you that, but I can’t,” Pringle said. “You know how it is when The

Corpse is involved. If it’s not the Mayor breathing down my neck it’s the press.

And if it’s not the press, it’s the watchdog groups. And if it’s not the watchdog

groups, it’s the voters.”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t think I was going to actually stay at home, did

you?” Madison asked.

“No. Not really. But I wanted to make the gesture anyway.” Pringle put on his

hat and turned to leave the hospital room. “See you in the morning, Andy.”

“Yeah, see you bright and early Chief. And Chief?”

38

Pringle stopped at the doorway and turned back.

“Yeah?”

“Whoever’s behind all this, at least we’ve got another charge to throw at ‘em now:

attempted murder of a police officer.”

“I think if you add that to everything else, that means a mandatory life sentence

with no chance of parole,” the Chief mused.

“Really? Isn’t that something. But what would I know about that?. I’m no

lawyer.”

“Yes, indeed, you wouldn’t know anything about that,” Pringle said.

“I’ll see you in the morning. I want to get an early start on finding the guy who

took a shot at me,” Madison said, trying in vain to moisten his mouth.

Pringle stopped and turned to face Andy. He chuckled. “No need for that, Andy.

He’s dead.”

Madison sat bolt upright in bed. “What?”

“Yes. Lindenmuller took him down. He had a gun in his desk. Three slugs in the

back for our shooter. He wasn’t running so fast after that.”

“So, who was he?”

“We’re working on that. The medical examiner’s going to be doing an autopsy.

We’re working on digging up his criminal record, if he had one. He had no i.d. on

him. But he did have one thing in his possession.”

“What?” Madison asked.

“He was wearing a very ornate ring. Very similar to the one we found on the

murder victim we found at The Castle.”

“Oh. I see. I suppose I’ll take a look at that. Is Lindenmuller okay?”

“Yes. He wasn’t injured. A little shook up, sure, but he’s fine now. I don’t believe

any charges are going to be filed against him. I think a case can be made for self-

defense, even though the shooter was running away. Probably anybody would

agree that Mr. Lindenmuller doesn’t represent an imminent danger to the

community. Besides, the man is eightyseven years old. How long would he be in

jail anyway?” Pringle asked rhetorically.

“Are you going to put him in protective custody, Chief?”

“I think that’s a little premature, don’t you, Andy?”

“Not at all. I think he knows something. And someone doesn’t want him talking.

There’s some really weird stuff going on here, Chief. I’ve gotta get on it,” Madison

said, straining at his bed sheets. Chief Pringle put a beefy palm on Madison’s

shoulder and forced him down on the bed. Pringle’s hand felt like a boulder

pinning him down. Pringle held his hand there solidly until Madison stopped

squirming.

“Good. Glad to see you’re raring to go. But, look, it’s getting late. Take at least

ten hours to rest. You can start in the morning.”

“Come on Chief, the leads are getting cold. You know that most major crimes are

solved in the first 48 hours. Otherwise they’re never solved.”

“The morning will be fine. Get some sleep, Andy. That’s an order.” Pringle

thought it would be unwise to even bring up the incident at the press conference

earlier that afternoon. Madison would find out about the whole mess soon enough.

39

He would also be finding out just who or what was behind it, eventually, Pringle

thought.

Madison frowned and sunk back to his bed. “Right, Chief.”

Pringle shut the light. He left the room and closed the door behind him. Madison

shut his eyes and drifted off. Sleep hit him like a brick.

CHAPTER 8: Backed Into A Corner

Collin had returned to Manor House shortly after being released from The Castle.

He was interrogated about what he saw during the incident at the press conference

by a low level detective for about two hours, and then let go. He gave as full an

ing as he could of what he had witnessed, holding nothing back. He knew

that nothing he said would reveal the identity or whereabouts of The Corpse, since

The Corpse had nothing to do with the shocking incident at The Castle.

The

detective was apologetic throughout the interview, perhaps overly so. He was

probably instructed to handle this VIP with kid gloves, Collin thought, referring to

himself.

He quickly checked in his laboratory and made a few minor adjustments.

Everything was going according to plan. After all the procedures came to

completion, The Corpse would be quite improved. The entire regimen would be

over in only a few hours. Collin looked into the pod and noted that The Corpse had

his eyes closed and was resting comfortably. Collin felt that he should do the same.

The rest of the measures would be completed automatically within a few hours. He

went upstairs to get some sleep. Wallace had left him a cup of warm cappuccino,

decaffeinated of course, by his bedside. He didn’t feel much like drinking it. Collin

tossed in his bed fitfully all night, but eventually managed to get a little rest.

As dawn broke, the first rays of the new day’s sun woke Collin from his fragile

rest. Another day, another risk. Another chance of losing his friend. His friend who

had already sacrificed so much. His friend who suffered on life equipment

in a stone basement while Collin slept in silk sheets and drank cappuccino. The guilt

was killing Collin. It had almost reached the level of physical pain, he thought, but,

he quickly added to himself, nothing like the pain that The Corpse was suffering

every day of what ed for his life now. Collin shook his head and exhaled

deeply. He harbored a healthy sense of dread for his daily scan of the morning

newspapers. Collin forced himself to go downstairs to the dining room and look

through them, in spite of the stomach-turning possibilities that awaited.

The headlines greeted him like the proverbial slap in the face. “The Corpse

Attacks” screamed The . “The Corpse Gasses Cops” said The Bugle, in a

rather straightforward manner.

“Smoked Out” shouted The Ledger, rather

cryptically.

40

As usual, Gary Berkowitz’s purple prose drove sales of The Ledger to the number

one position. Their readers breathlessly followed the adventures of the heroic

Berkowitz in his quixotic quest to corral the covert Corpse. “I wonder if he ever

worked on the comic books,” Collin thought, almost iringly, as he flipped

through the pages of The Ledger. He noted that the photos of the incident had been

doctored by a computer to make them seem even more dramatic and exciting.

Would our hero survive his life-threatening adventure to hunt the sinister Corpse

another day? Please turn to page 36 to find out, right next to our up-to-theminute

sports coverage and today’s lottery numbers!

What a dismal business, Collin

thought.

Collin felt he was getting nowhere fast. But he had to let The Corpse in on the

latest developments. The trepidation he felt reading the headlines added up to

nothing compared to his feelings as he slowly made his way down the stone ramp to

his basement laboratory. His uncle Josiah has originally used the space as a wine

cellar. As one of the most competitive oenophiles in the world, Josiah needed a large

space to store his vast collection of vintages, some going back centuries. Vintage

wines did not interest Collin in the slightest, so the massive wine collection was one

of the first things he liquidated upon the receipt of his late uncle’s estate. The

collection was considered “world class” and the auctioning of its contents was the

event of the year in wine collectors’ circles. Collin ended up contributing some of

the proceeds to charity, but not nearly a majority. He needed a large infusion of

funds to invest in his equipment and his genetic research.

Collin entered the laboratory. The Corpse was not moving, and appeared to be

comfortable. Collin flicked a few switches, and tapped a few commands on the

computer keyboard. Slowly, inside his pod, The Corpse began to stir. Collin

watched almost detachedly as the eyes of The Corpse gradually opened.

“Good morning,” Collin offered.

“Good morning,” came the response through the voice synthesizer. “Are we ready

to hit them where they live?”

“Yes. Shortly, shortly. I should let you know what’s been going on.”

“Going on?”

“Yes. Before we had a chance to make our plans, our estimable opponents moved

more quickly than I had anticipated. Another aggressive stunt.” Collin held up that

morning’s copy of The Ledger, so that The Corpse could view the headline.

“Yesterday afternoon, I was lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to head downtown to

The Castle, to try and get in touch with Andy Madison. He wasn’t there, so I

thought I would try to get a word in with Chief Pringle. He was giving a press

conference about the body found on the steps that morning. While he was doing

this, the room was shuttered. Locked from the outside. Nobody could get in or out.

And then, a strange voice came over the public address system.”

“Claiming to be me?” The Corpse anticipated.

Collin paused. “Yes. Just as I had predicted. He claimed to be The Corpse, and he

claimed to have a bone to pick with everyone in that room. He said that he would

make everyone suffer the way he had suffered. A foul, purple smoke came out of

the air vents.”

41

“Classic,” The Corpse bit, sarcastically.

“This voice then announced that this was just a warning. He could have killed

anyone in that room, at any time. So everyone should watch out. Watch out for the

violent attacks of The Corpse.”

“That really burns me, Collin. I mean, what do I have left at this point? Nothing at

all but my reputation. And now, they are trying to take even that away from me.

Let’s find these bastards, Collin. Let’s find them and take them down.”

“You know this means giving them exactly what they want, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know. They’re trying to draw me out into the open. Get me into a public

arena, where I’ll be exposed, vulnerable. We’ll give them that. We’ll allow them to

think that they are the ones pulling the strings here.”

“This is going to be a big change. You’ll have to appear in public. Let a large

group of people see you during daylight hours. Let them hear your voice. And give

them a quite easy chance to make a recording of you.”

“Fine with me,” The Corpse replied. “You know that I’ve always been an

advocate of the public knowing about my presence. It’s been your decision to work

in the shadows.”

“And I still believe that is the best way to operate,” Collin said softly.

“I understand why you would like to take that approach. Frankly, it’s fine with

me. We can go back to that. But you know what we have to do now. I have to stick

my neck out.”

“I don’t know. This is a big risk,” Collin muttered.

“Yes, it is risky, but necessary.”

Collin let out a large sigh. He knew deep down that The Corpse spoke the truth.

But he didn’t like it.

“Okay. We’ll do this. But we’re going to have to figure some way to keep you safe

during this. So you won’t be in any danger,” Collin said.

“That sounds like the way to go,” The Corpse said quietly.

“Ironic that the only way we can get to them is by giving them exactly what they

want,” Collin ruminated.

“Irony’s for humor magazines,” The Corpse snapped. “What I’m ready for is

revenge.”

“Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER 9: A Dead End

Shortly after Andy Madison sat down at his desk with his morning cup of coffee, a

knock came upon the door of his office. He looked through the glass and saw an

attractive, darkhaired woman about forty years old, he estimated. He waved her in.

She opened the door gingerly and stuck her head inside.

“Captain Madison?” she asked. “I was told you had some questions for me.”

42

“Mrs. Nilsson?” he shot back.

“Yes, I’m Connie Nilsson.”

“Come in,” Andy offered. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water?

Coffee?” She slowly entered the office and quietly took a seat in front of Madison’s

desk.

“No, thank you, Captain,” she replied. “The desk Sergeant offered me that too.

Very kind of you, but no. I’m fine.”

“Do you mind answering a few questions? I’d like to solve this case as quickly as I

can.”

“If you must,” She sniffed.

“I believe that you’ve been over to the morgue,” he said.

Her eyes began to water. “Yes, I just got back. From seeing Paul.” She began to

sob.

“I’m sorry to put you through this, Mrs. Nilsson,” Andy said, offering her a tissue.

“But I’m afraid I have no choice. This is the part of the job I really hate.”

“I understand completely, Captain,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I know you have

your job to do.”

“That’s right. It’s finding out who killed your husband, and why.”

“It’s just that, well, I don’t know what questions you could possibly have for me. I

mean, I’m willing to help in any way that I can, but I have to it, this whole thing

has struck me from out of the blue. I’m at a total loss.”

Andy nodded. “That’s completely understandable. I’d like you to take a look at

something.” Andy pulled out the plastic bag containing the ring.

“Mrs. Nilsson, do you recognize this ring?” He placed it on the desk next to her.

He waited to see if she would pick it up. She did. She held the bag up to the light

and examined the ring closely.

“It’s a beautiful ring,” Mrs. Nilsson replied. “Did it fall off the murderer’s finger or

something?”

Andy drilled into her eyes with a laser-like look. He felt that she was telling the

truth. If she had any knowledge of the ring and what it represented, she would have

left the tainted artifact sitting on the desk, petrified of touching it, or even looking at

it. No, she hadn’t seen the ring before. And likely had no knowledge of what her

husband had been doing. But he had to make sure.

“We found it on your husband’s finger, Mrs. Nilsson.”

“What? Paul? No, he didn’t own anything like this.”

“Not that you were aware of,” Andy said cautiously. “You sure he never told you

about this?”

“Positive,” she said, her eyes blinking rapidly. “What does it mean?”

“It is the ring of a secret society of criminals. Thugs. Murderers. Assassins.

People who destabilize governments. And worse.”

Mrs. Nilsson half-laughed, half-sobbed. “And you think Paul was mixed up with

these people? There’s absolutely no way! I’ve known the man for ten years! He

would tell me if he was caught up in anything like this. He would never lie to me.”

“All right, Mrs. Nilsson. Had your husband ever been to New Holland before?”

“Yes, he’s been coming here recently, on business. Quite a lot, actually.”

43

“How often?”

“Two weeks or more out of the month.”

“I see. For how long has this been?”

“The past six months or so.”

“And he’s been working with clients here?”

“No, he said he’s been working out of the New Holland office of Wagner and

Wheel. That’s the company he works for.”

“Yes. He had a business card in his pocket. New Holland office. I called them.

They said they hadn’t seen him at all.”

“What?”

“They told me he wasn’t working there. Then I called the main office in Chicago.

They said he hadn’t been in the office in six months. They told me he took a leave of

absence six months ago.”

“I – I don’t understand.” Andy fixed her with another look. “He wasn’t

working?” she asked between sniffs. She looked clearly disoriented and shocked.

She was just a poor sap, kept in the dark by her scheming husband. But Andy had

to push her to the limit.

“Do you want to rethink your opinion about him never lying to you?”

“Yes, I mean no, I mean, I don’t know what to think.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think either, Mrs. Nilsson. But I do know that

your husband had been concealing his real activities.”

Her eyebrows ran halfway up her forehead to her hairline. “We’re a good pair

then. You don’t know what to think, and I don’t know what to say, Captain. All I

can tell you for certain is that Paul would not have had anything to do with any kind

of criminal activities, or with anyone performing them. He never even jaywalked.”

“I do have to agree with you on that,” Madison replied coolly. “We, of course, did

check his criminal record.”

“And, you didn’t find anything,” Mrs. Nilsson completed the sentence.

“And we didn’t find anything. Right. Not even a traffic ticket.”

“So how could you think that Paul would be mixed up in some kind of criminal

organization?”

Captain Madison shrugged his broad shoulders. “I really don’t know, Mrs.

Nilsson. I’m in the dark here. I was hoping you could shed some light on all this.”

“I’ll tell you what I think about it,” she fumed. “I think you’re wasting your time

looking into my husband’s background, when you should be going after the

monsters who did this to him. Why, this was probably nothing more than a garden

variety mugging. Maybe some mugger saw him wearing this ring and tried to get it

from him, by force. Maybe he fought back, the lug. Fine ment for New

Holland. Who knows? I wasn’t there, so I certainly can’t tell you anything about it.

Now, if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I’d like to go now.”

“I know this is a difficult time, Mrs. Nilsson. Thank you. By the way, we might

need to ask you something else. Where are you staying?”

She turned back and looked over her shoulder at Captain Madison with hatred

burning in her eyes. “The Milner Hotel,” she barked.

“Fine. I’d appreciate it if you not leave town until we let you know that it’s okay.”

44

Mrs. Nilsson did not reply. She merely stalked out of the office, scowling, and

slammed the door behind her.

Andy Madison continued to follow up some more loose ends. He telephoned

Nilsson’s closest co-worker back in Chicago. The man denied knowing anything

about Nilsson’s problems. He too, had been told by Nilsson that he was working

out of the firm’s New Holland office, working on some kind of special secret project

that he couldn’t talk about.

Madison then accessed Nilsson’s credit card records for the last year, after getting a

warrant from Judge Standard. Sure enough, Nilsson had been coming to New

Holland for two weeks out of every month for the last six months. He would stay at

the Youngman Hotel each time. Andy got on the horn with his at the

telephone company, Laverne. He knew she had something of a crush on him, and

wasn’t shy ing this to his advantage. After the usual amount of flirting and

small talk, Andy asked for access to the telephone records from the Youngman

Hotel. He received the access, with a side order of molasses and honey. She sent the

records over on the fax machine within a few minutes.

There were some numbers he had recognized. Sure enough, Nilsson had called

Lindenmuller a few times. He also had some calls to Vincenzo University. Andy

checked, and sure enough, there were several telephone calls to Professor Hildeborg.

“Makes sense,” Andy thought, “since he was researching the meaning of the ring,

the same way that I was.” Only appropriate that Nilsson eventually made his way

to Lindenmuller and Hildeborg. Funny that Hildeborg didn’t mention that. This

could be explained. Maybe Nilsson didn’t give the professor his name, or disguised

his voice. Maybe they never met face-to-face Maybe they only spoke on the

telephone. Or maybe, the Professor was hiding something. Another visit to the

professor was apparently in order. Andy had to find out how far Nilsson got with

his investigation.

He called down to the crime lab, and within a few minutes, swung by The

Youngman Hotel with two Crime Scene techs. Fortunately, the room where Nilsson

was staying hadn’t been cleaned out completely. Nilsson still had two more days

left on his stay. The bed had been made, and the bathroom had been cleaned, but

Nilsson’s personal possessions were still in the room. The two techs went through

them. Nothing much to see. His clothing was there, as well as his toiletries in the

bathroom. His wallet was not to be found. There was a briefcase sitting on the

dresser. It had a luggage tag on it noting the man’s name and address in Chicago.

The case was unlocked. One of the techs opened the case with a dramatic flair.

There was nothing in it.

“Well, then,” Andy said. “Looks like somebody beat us to whatever was in there.

Make sure you guys get whatever fingerprints you can off that case, and the rest of

the room. I’m headed back to The Castle.”

Back in his office, Madison felt like he was at a dead end. He had to continue

investigating the death of Paul Nilsson, and at the same time try to find out how this

gas attack at the press conference had been performed. The Corpse, or whoever it

was, had really upped the ante with that stunt. Madison was being pulled every

45

which way and nowhere, looking for ghosts and wraiths in every closet, under every

bed. He figured that’s probably what his determined foe had wanted: keep the

police busy and distracted, going on wild goose chases while the real mischief was

being planned right under the cops’ noses.

Then he ed. Madison reached for his briefcase and pulled out the worn

and dusty volume that had been given to him by Professor Hildeborg. He started in

at page one. “The Secret History of The Norse Race,” Madison read, “Being a

compendium of long forgotten accomplishment, trials and tribulations during which

time the descendents of the Northern Peoples rose to greatness and fulfilled their

destiny as lords over all mankind. Compiled by The Leader of the Temple of The

Clan of The Vassals of The Mighty Bolverk. Stockholm, 1904.” That’s what

Hildeborg said about it, Andy thought. Written and published anonymously. He

quickly thumbed through the dusty pages. There was no index. He looked more

closely, scanning the text. He did not see any clues that could help him. No

contemporary names, or places, or anything. All the stories were about supposed

events that took place centuries ago, the earliest even before Jesus Christ was born.

For that matter, all of the events took place in Northern Europe. No mention of

North America, or New Holland. There were seemingly endless chronicles of

primordial battles, in which thousands were slaughtered, captured warriors were

tortured and disemboweled, villages were laid waste, treasures stolen, women

raped, children enslaved. There were innumerable tales of the various Norse gods,

lesser gods and sub-gods conducting endless infighting in the hereafter. In these

interminable conflicts they competed for the loyalty of human vassals who would

consolidate earthly power on their behalf, fighting battles along the crags and fjords

of Northern Europe in the eternal names of these lusty deities. The book held vast

amounts of supplications and prayers. There were pseudo-scientific treatises,

written in the manner of scientific or medical abstracts, offering justifications for the

“Norse bloodline” as godlike perfection, or the closest to it that was possible,

embodied in human form.

Madison just shook his head. He had never had full immersion in this type of

racist propaganda before, which managed to combine bad science and outmoded

religious thought in one giant justification for all-out, untrammeled evil.

The second half of the book proscribed religious ceremonies and rituals for The

Bolverken, formally known as The Clan of The Vassals of the Mighty Bolverk. This

part of the book started off creepy and quickly turned nauseating. They seemed to

have some sort of a fetish about black cats. Black sheep, also. Literal black sheep.

There were intricate instructions, prescribed down to the tiniest detail, of animal

sacrifices, ritual orgies, and depraved sexual acts sure to have nearly anyone

possessing this volume thrown in prison in almost any nation on the planet.

Anyone, law enforcement officer or other authority figure, reading this volume from

that day forward would hear the name of The Bolverken and shudder in fear, vomit

with disgust, or faint in horror. But that probably wouldn’t happen. Because so few

dared to speak the name of The Bolverken aloud.

Madison was pulled away from the gothic world of torture and blood embodied in

this hateful volume and jerked back to the real world when he heard a voice in the

46

doorway of his office. “How are things?” He dropped the book and looked up to

see an almost-forgotten face.

“Collin! Haven’t seen you in months! How’s your work going?” Madison asked.

Collin Van Dyke shrugged his shoulders. He shoved his hands deep into his

pockets. “What can I say? It’s lonely work. By myself in the laboratory. The days

turn into nights and back into days again. It’s tough sledding, but ultimately

exhilarating, really. I’m making some great progress.”

“That’s good. I wish I could say the same. I feel like I’m banging my head against

the wall here.”

“And that’s probably the only thing you’ve been banging recently.”

“Is that a not-too-subtle comment on my sex life, Van Dyke?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Could be.”

“Man. Pot, meet Kettle. You’re a good one to talk, being locked in your laboratory

half the time. How’s your social calendar? Not exactly full, I take it.”

“My dating life is fine. I just had a lovely time at the opera last week with

Phoebe.”

“That stiff? I don’t know what you see in her, Collin. Other than the fact that she’s

the mayor’s daughter, I mean.”

“She’s quite lovely, Andy. I know she comes off a bit snobbish, but you really to

need to get to know the real person before you go off making all these snide

remarks.”

“Yeah, like that joke they make about Los Angeles. Scrape off the tinsel on the

surface, and underneath, you’ll find the real tinsel?”

“Ouch. Okay, fine. I won’t try to defend Phoebe Havelock to you. I have enough

problems.”

“You talking about your research? The last time we talked, you mentioned some

kind of breakthrough.”

“Oh yeah, it uh…didn’t turn out to be as much of breakthrough as I had

anticipated. But you know, gene science is not for the weak of heart. Just when you

feel like you’re on the verge of something really spectacular, some unforeseen side

effect rears its ugly head.” Collin looked at the floor and shook his head.

“So, stay a while, take a seat.”

“Sure, thanks.” Collin sat in the wooden chair next to Madison’s desk.

“So what brings you down here?” Madison asked.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I just thought I would check in, see what

was going down, maybe buy you dinner,” Collin said.

“Really?” Madison cocked an eyebrow.

Collin sighed. “Alright, you got me. I’ll come clean. I’ve been frustrated with my

work, and I just needed a break. I needed some human . Warren is a great

employee, very devoted, but…”

“I understand. You needed to talk to a friend. You can’t have that kind of talk

with an employee, no matter how loyal. Listen, how long have we known each

other?” Madison asked.

“Over twenty years,” Collin said.

47

“That’s right. And when we first met at Carter Junior High, didn’t we take a blood

oath?”

Collin laughed. “Yeah, that’s right. Blood brothers. To the end.”

“Okay, so we can talk about whatever it is. It’s been nuts the past two days. I

wouldn’t mind venting to someone myself.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“That’s right,” Madison said. “I heard you were at the press conference. Had to

find out all about that fiasco on my own. Nobody tells me anything around here.

So what were you doing hanging around this dump, anyway?”

“Same thing as I am now. Looking for you. But you weren’t here yesterday, so I

thought I would try to say hello to Chief Pringle after the press conference. Then of

course, all that nonsense caused by The Corpse…”

“Hold on there, son. Everybody thinks it was The Corpse, I’ll let on to that,”

Madison said.

“But you’re not so sure?” Collin asked.

“Not at all. We know whoever murdered that guy and left him on the steps

wanted us to think The Corpse was responsible. We got some DNA evidence, I

know. But the whole setup bothers me. It doesn’t make any sense that he really did

it. The Corpse never attached a note to a body before. That’s just not his m.o. He’s

not a big fan of leaving evidence.”

“But didn’t he try to kill everyone at the press conference yesterday?”

“I know I wasn’t here, but I had a look at the surveillance video. Something just

about it doesn’t add up. I know I’m going on instinct, but sometimes in this job,

instinct’s all you got,” Madison snorted.

“I’ll defer to you on that one. You know more about The Corpse than I do,” Collin

said.

“Yeah. Anyway, that was quite a hubbub. I hope you didn’t freak out too much.”

“There sure was a lot of panic in the room, I’ll it to that,” Collin offered.

“Makes sense to me. Everyone’s life was in danger. Or, maybe not, according to

you?”

“Man, I looked at that surveillance video dozens of times this morning. Nobody’s

life was in danger. Looked like some kind of crazy publicity stunt. It doesn’t add

up.” Madison reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a cigarette. He lit it with

the lighter on his desk.

“So you don’t think The Corpse was behind that either?”

“Definitely not,” Madison said, exhaling sweet smoke. If there’s one thing I know

about The Corpse, it’s this: he plays his cards very close to the vest. He would

definitely not expose himself to public scrutiny like that.”

“So who was it that tried to kill everyone?”

“Get it straight, Van Dyke. I told you. Whoever put that stunt together wasn’t

trying to kill anybody. If they wanted to kill people they could have done it. Easily.

But they didn’t. So, the question is, why?”

“And your theory?” Collin asked.

48

“Pretty simple. Someone’s trying to throw us for a loop. Trying to make us

suspect The Corpse. Probably wants to distract us from the real nastiness about to

come down. But what?” Madison asked.

“Interesting. Say, what’s that book you have there? Looks like an old one.”

“What, this? Oh, yes, almost 100 years.”

“What is it?”

“It’s some kind of obscure religious propaganda. Could very well have something

to do with who killed our friend out on the front stoop. All about the crazy

Scandinavian blood cult. The Bolverken.”

“Scandinavian blood cult? What? That’s like saying Canadian totalitarian dictator.

There’s no such thing.”

“So I thought, Collin. But there are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, then

are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Hamlet, Act One, Scene Five.”

“Yes, indeed. Anyway, things are so crazy on this case, I’m still trying to get a

handle on it. Almost getting shot in the head hasn’t done any good for my

disposition either.”

“What? Someone took a shot at you?” Collin asked, aghast.

“Yeah. Yesterday. He missed. And he ended up eating some lead. Me, I just

smashed my head into a filing cabinet.”

“Wow. Who was the guy?”

“Not sure yet, but better him than me. Luck on my side for once. They’re still

working on identifying the shooter. Tell you what, I’ve been working since 6:00 a.m.

I think I can take off. We can have a late lunch, early supper, whatever you want to

call it.”

“Sounds good.”

Madison got his paperwork together and placed it into a file folder, which he

stuffed in a stack of trays next to his desk.

“So, Fritz’s okay with you?” Collin asked.

Madison looked at him. “Have you ever known me to say that a thick juicy steak

and a martini didn’t sound good? Let’s go,” Madison said, grabbing his overcoat.

The two of them went down the front steps of the Castle, on their way to Decatur

Street. As they ed by, Collin offered, “so, where’d they find the body?”

Madison stopped and pointed to an alcove to the right of the front door. “Right

over there,” he said. “The guy was folded up like a package of laundry. Once we

moved him, we saw the pool of blood underneath him.”

“Ugh,” Collin said.

They continued down the steps, making a left and heading down Fort Street.

“So, how’s the old noggin?” Collin asked.

Madison had almost forgotten about it. “Oh! Yeah, it’s down to a low throb.

They put some stitches in ‘er. Should be all healed up before I know it.”

“That’s good. I got real worried when I heard they took you over to the hospital.”

“They think I’ll be fine soon enough. No permanent damage.”

Once ensconced in red leather booth at Fritz’s, Andy Madison’s mood turned even

more serious. He took a sip of his martini.

49

“Dry as the Sahara,” he quipped.

Collin chuckled. “Since when have you known Bernie to turn out anything else?”

“Collin, I’m not making any progress on this thing with The Corpse. Or whoever.

First, the guy leaves a body on the front steps of The Castle, right under our noses,

then, they pull this stunt at the press conference. I’ve got an ident on the body, but

that seems to be a dead end. The guy’s wife doesn’t know anything about it. The

guy is clean. No criminal convictions on his record. Not even a traffic ticket. The

only thing I got on him is the fact that he lied to his wife, and his friends.”

“How so?”

“He told his wife he was working at the branch of his employer here in New

Holland. Only come to find out, that was a complete lie. We pulled his credit card

records. He was here in New Holland, sure enough. Two weeks a month for the

last six months. But he was not working in his job. He had taken a leave of

absence.”

“Obviously, he was doing something here in New Holland. What do you think it

was?”

“I don’t know, Collin. But I sure am going to find out.”

“Don’t worry, man. You’re not done yet. You’ll get to the bottom of it. I have a

good feeling that everything’s about to fall into place on this. Listen, if you need

anything from me, you know where to get a hold of me. As always, the Van Dyke

Foundation s the NHPD completely in its quest against crime.”

“Thanks for the backup, Collin. It’s good to hear. Tomorrow, I’m going to hit the

streets and hit them hard, first thing in the morning. The Chief is counting on me to

get this thing solved. If I don’t crack the case, it’s my neck on the chopping block.

Maybe after a good night’s sleep I can look at this thing with fresh eyes. Now, how’s

about that steak?”

“Yeah. Let’s get a waiter over here.”

CHAPTER 10: Pardon The Interruption

The next morning, Andy Madison was back in his office, still ruminating, when he

got a knock on his office door. It was Sergeant Hewitt from the crime lab. “Hey,

Andy, we got an ident back on the douchebag.”

Andy smirked. “Which douchebag would that be?”

“Come on, Andy, you know. That jerk who took a shot at you.”

“I know, Mike. Just pulling your leg. Let me have it.”

“Okay, his name was Arne Svejda. S-V-E-J-D-A.”

“Hold up, Mike. Svejda. That’s Scandinavian, isn’t it?”

“You can knock me over if I know, Cap.”

“I think it is, Mike. What else?”

50

The Sergeant referred to a sheet of paper. “Address, 2355 Morel Street, West

Americk. 25 years old. Six foot three, two hundred twenty pounds. Unmarried, no

children. High school dropout. Employed as a janitor at Vincenzo University.”

“Holy spit, Mike. Now we got something. Any priors?”

“Not too much. Just a few traffic tickets, bar fights, held in the drunk tank. Stuff

like that. Wait a minute. Looks like he did have one six month stretch at West

Colony a few years back. This is weird.”

“What was it for?”

“Shoplifting. At Royal Pet Store, 3685 Concorde.”

“What did he shoplift? Wait! Don’t tell me. A black cat?”

Sergeant Hewitt looked at Madison in amazement and awe. “Yeah, Cap, that’s

right. How did you know?”

“Can’t tell you that. Do you have a picture of this guy, Mike?”

“Yeah, the autopsy photo.”

“Let me have it.”

“Be sure to put that back in the file when you’re done.”

“You got it, Mike. Thanks a lot.”

“One more thing. We found something on the gun.”

“Was it ed?” Madison asked.

“No. Not ed. We did a ballistics test, just in case. We might need it later

on to compare it to some other case.”

“Of course we have no idea what case to compare it to. You said you found

something?”

“The gun had a mark scratched on it. Like it was the name of the owner.”

“Like people engrave their names on TV sets or computers, in case they get

boosted?”

“Right. It says TCVMB.”

Madison wrote down the letters. “Did you say TCVMB?”

“Yeah. Damn if I can figure out what it is.”

There was something familiar about the series of letters, but Madison couldn’t

figure out exactly what it was either. “I know it’s not roman numerals. C, V, and M

are roman numerals, but T and B aren’t. Let me try something.” Madison spun

around to his computer and opened his internet browser. He typed the letters

“TCVMB” into the search box.

“Over three million hits. Doesn’t look like much of anything. Just gibberish. Lists

of letters. Random keys. Pages in Turkish, Japanese.”

“There might be something important buried in there,” Sergeant Hewitt offered.

“Yeah, but three million hits? Could take me a long time to find it. Thanks

anyway, Hewitt.”

About half an hour later, Andy Madison was back at Vincenzo University. His

objective was to see Professor Hildeborg. He was told by the department secretary

that he was teaching a class in Hall 203. Andy quickly found his way to the lecture

hall and entered from the back of the room, silently taking a seat in the last row.

He quickly looked around at the lay of the land. At the front of the medium sized

hall, Professor Hildeborg stood with his back to the class, writing away on the

51

blackboard with a large stick of chalk. He wrote in writing that Madison could not

decipher, but recognized it as the same type of runes that were present on the ring

found on Paul Nilsson.

Andy looked at the front row of the classroom. There he saw five to ten young

men in black shirts and black tros. They were unusually tall and beefy, with

broad shoulders and bulging arms. “Hmmm,” Andy thought. “Those must be

football team . I can’t believe they’d be taking a class like this. This class

couldn’t possibly be known as an ’easy A.’” He then noticed that these unusually

sturdy specimens were sitting quietly with their hands folded in front of them, not

writing anything or referring to any notes. Well, that seals it, Madison thought.

Those are definitely football players. Hildeborg must be ing them through

without any work. Automatic “C.” Though Madison did wonder why they were

identically dressed. He wrote it off as merely some kind of campus mandated dress

code for athletes.

Professor Hildeborg, finally done with scratching his runes, began to speak. “The

decline of the Norse religion, perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not so coincidentally,

came about the same time as the decline in naval power of the Viking raiding

parties, around the end of the tenth century.” Hildeborg then turned to face his

class. His eyes instantly locked with those of Captain Madison, who noticed a brief

hesitation on his part, and what he thought was a look of surprise in the old man’s

eyes. The professor then continued on with his lecture, which had only a few more

minutes to go. He seemed distracted, Andy thought.

A sort time later, a loud buzzer sounded marking the end of the class period. The

professor dismissed his class with a curt wave of his hand. “We will continue this

tomorrow,” he barked.

A nerdy, chubby looking twerp with thick black glasses in the front row stood up

and interjected. “Begging your pardon, Professor, but you neglected to provide us

with our homework assignment for the evening,” his voice squeaked. Almost all of

the rest of the students in the class stared at him with daggers of hate protruding

from their eyes, radiating directly to the nerd’s bulging thorax. There were mutters

of dissent and even violence thrown in his direction.

“Just continue on to the next chapter,” the Professor said, gathering up his

materials. I will see you next time.”

There was a sigh of relief among most of the students, and what Madison thought

was an exhale of disappointment from deep in the nerd’s soul, as he tried to wrap

his mind around the idea of no formal homework assignment. He was the last to

leave the classroom, sadly trudging along with a frown plastered to his face.

Madison approached the professor.

“Sorry to bother you, Professor,” Madison said.

“Oh, Captain!” the Professor responded, dropping his paperwork on the desk. “I

did not see you there. How can I help you? You have some additional questions

about the ring?”

“A little more than that, Professor.”

“Please, whatever you wish.”

52

“I’m a little surprised, Professor. The last time I saw you, you didn’t have too

much to offer me. Maybe now you’ll have some personal information to relate to

me.”

“Could you explain?”

“Of course. As you recommended, I went to see Mr. Lindenmuller.”

“Oh did you? How did that work out for you, Captain?”

“Not very well,” Madison said. “Somebody took a shot at me. Tried to kill me.”

“Oh, my Heavens. That’s quite disturbing. But, uh, you seem to be no worse for

wear, Captain.”

“Yes. The shooter missed me. I did bash my head on the side of a filing cabinet

though.”

“That’s awful. And how are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you. Still in pain, but a lot of improvement.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Captain. So, everything is all right.”

“For me, yeah. Not for the shooter. Lindenmuller dispatched him quite readily.

Whoever was gunning for the old man underestimated him. To his detriment.”

“I see. This is all quite exciting police blotter type material, Captain, but you said

you had more questions for me?”

“Yes, I do. We identified the shooter. Seems he was an employee here at the

University. A janitor. I did some checking with the personnel office, and he was

assigned to clean this particular building from time to time. Were you acquainted?”

“That’s quite amusing, Captain. If you really checked with the personnel office,

you’ll find out that there are hundreds of people on the janitorial staff here. I can’t

be expected to know all of them.”

“All right, then. I thought I would just give it a shot. I do have a picture of the

man. Would you take a look at it for me?”

Andy pulled the autopsy photo out of his jacket pocket and plopped it down on

the desk in front of the professor.

“Oh dear,” Professor Hildeborg gasped. “He looks dead.”

“Quite dead, Professor. Does this photo do anything to jog your memory?”

“Not really, Captain. You see, if I had seen the man before, he probably wouldn’t

have been dead at that time, would he?”

“As befits a man of learning, your logic is impeccable, Professor. There is one

other thing. The guy’s name was Arne Sjveda. Scandinavian name, I believe.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Arne did you say? Oh yes, of course! Now I . Large

fellow. Yes, now that I hear the name, I do recall seeing him loping around here

from time to time. Cleaning the place.”

“Did you ever know the man to be violent?” Madison asked.

“Violent? Oh, no Captain. The man was a peach. I’m shocked to hear that he even

owned a gun.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“Yes, well, I knew him well enough. From working around here. I did speak to

him on occasion, but I certainly wouldn’t say that we were friends.”

“Right.”

53

“Are you sure he was trying to shoot at you? I mean, he could have been gunning

for Mr. Lindenmuller. You know, Lindenmuller used to work for the Bolverken,

many years ago. This is a man who could very well have some enemies. “

“You know something professor, I thought about that. I did. That made a lot more

sense to me. That was Lindenmuller’s office. Anyone could have known that he

would be there during business hours. Anybody that wanted to get at him could

find him, most any day of the week. Myself, well, nobody knew I was going to be

there.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Nobody except you, professor.”

Hildeborg furrowed his brow. “What are you implying, Captain?”

Andy Madison shrugged his shoulders. “Just thinking out loud, Professor. That’s

what I do sometimes. One more thing. The man who was murdered, he was from

Chicago, but he had been visiting New Holland quite frequently over the last six

months. I managed to procure his telephone records. On several occasions, he

telephoned you in your office.”

“Really? He called me?”

“Yes. On three occasions. The calls lasted for 22, 36 and 18 minutes.”

“Well, that is odd. I can’t say recall that. What was his name again, Captain?”

“Paul Nilsson.”

“Right, Nilsson. No, Captain Madison, it doesn’t ring a bell. I take a lot of

telephone calls, you know. Day in, day out. I’m something of an expert on

Scandinavian mythology. I get calls from other scholars, researchers, reporters. All

kinds of people. It doesn’t surprise me that I would forget the odd telephone call.”

“Did you ever meet the man in person?”

“I believe that I would that, Captain.”

“The same way you ed talking to him on the phone?”

The professor chuckled avuncularly. “Yes, well, Captain, I am getting on in years.

And you know what tends to happen once age gets the better of a person, don’t you?

The memory does sometimes play tricks on one.”

“Yes, memories can sometimes betray a person,” Madison said, distractedly.

“But, what would you know about that? You’re still a young man.”

“On the contrary, sir. Betrayal is something I know quite a bit about. Professor, I

believe I might have some more questions for you. Don’t be surprised if I’m in touch

with you again. You might want to try a string around your finger or something.

You know, to remind yourself,” Madison said as he left the room.

54

CHAPTER 11: Out in The Open

Collin’s chauffer, Nelson, piloted the sleek black custommodified vintage hearse

through the morning rush hour traffic. Next to him sat Warren. Collin relaxed in

the back seat, attempting to conserve as much energy as possible for the stunt they

were about to embark upon. In a specially designed enclosure in the back of the

vehicle, The Corpse rested comfortably, his systems being closely monitored. He,

too, was attempting to conserve as much energy as possible in order to perform the

task at hand. Warren looked over his shoulder at Collin Van Dyke.

“Everything seems to be ready, sir,” Warren.

“Good,” Collin said.

They pulled into a parking garage which looked out over Ledger Square. Warren

quickly paid for an entire day’s parking and piloted the hearse to the tenth floor of

the garage: the roof. Nelson parked on the western edge of the level, directly

overlooking the busy plaza spreading out below. A few vehicles sat scattered about

the otherwise abandoned space. The level was largely empty since most customers

would park their vehicles in the first empty spot they encountered on the way up the

building. Odds were good that they would not be disturbed, even after the spectacle

they were planning had begun, since all eyes in the vicinity would be locked on a

spot hundreds of yards away.

Collin informed The Corpse that the time was near for their little experiment.

Collin, Warren and Nelson went to work preparing the necessary items. About an

hour later, they had finished their preparations. The population of New Holland

was about to witness a spectacle the likes of which they had never seen before.

Across the square sat the building of The New Holland Ledger, an ancient

structure that dominated the diagonal juncture of two former Dutchera cow paths

that for the past almost 200 years had been known as Ledger Square. The Ledger

building resembled nothing so much as a Babylonian temple on steroids, with its

stepped back design, recessed windows, seemingly endless number of terraces,

massive amount of ziggurats, and rusted bronze color. In addition, a large, circular

tower with spiral staircase fronted the building where it jutted towards the heart of

the square, like a massive ship’s prow cutting through the water on the high seas.

When the building had been built, well over 100 years earlier, there had been a fad

for all things Babylonian, fueled in part by some interesting archeological

discoveries in Mesopotamia, as well as an extremely popular book of the time,Sirala,

or 1001 Babylonian Nights, which spawned popular songs, dime novels, toys, and

whatever other subsidiary products the consumer culture of the time could conjure

up. Not nearly the amount of ephemera that our civilization can crank out these

days, but for its time it brought forth a motherlode of popular entertainment.

55

On the massive tower, just below a neon sign advertising the Ledger’s brand of

Action Journalism, sat an inconspicuous door. Anyone looking directly at that door

at that moment would have noticed the appearance of The Corpse, who stepped out

on to the parapet in front of him. He surveyed the crowd like the Holy Father

addressing a major gathering in Rome. At first, the citizens of New Holland

continued on their morning business, scarcely noticing the strange figure towering

above the urban streetscape. Then, he began to speak.

“People of New Holland,” his voice boomed, echoing around the urban canyon. “I

am The Corpse,” it said. The sound was so loud it was not to be ignored. There was

no means of amplification visible. The figure did not speak into any microphone or

other noticeable device. Most of the pedestrians stopped dead in their tracks and

looked up. Some were confused as to where the sound came from. It seemed to

come from everywhere, and nowhere, at the same time. Others helpfully pointed

out the figure on the parapet where the Ledger building dominated the square. Out

in the streets, taxicabs slammed to a halt, their drivers leaping into the middle of

traffic to take pictures with their cell phones, frustrating their engers who were

trying to get to work. Truck drivers and delivery men also stopped their vehicles in

order to jump down to the sidewalk and observe this bizarre and unusual event.

The Corpse continued his speech. “In the past several days, parties unknown to

myself have been committing sinister deeds in my name. These parties, claiming to

be The Corpse, have been committing murder, kidnapping, and other serious crimes.

This is wrong.”

The voice was deep, strong, robust, and only slightly raspy.

Nothing like the quavery, reedy voice heard over the speakers during the press

conference at The Castle.

Across the city, switchboards lit up. People dialed 911 on their cell phones, with

hundreds of pairs of eyes and ears reporting to the authorities that the pernicious

enigma, The Corpse, was out in public, showing himself in broad daylight, almost

daring the police to capture him. Others dialed up newsrooms at radio stations and

television stations. Over at channel 11, their news helicopter that lay silent on their

roof was revved up and given the green light to get going, with instructions to

complete this most urgent assignment: be the first to capture video of this

unexpected news flash.

On the prow of the tower, The Corpse rambled on. “I am here today to assure the

citizens of New Holland of my good intentions. The Corpse is not a friend to crime

or criminals, but instead, its sworn enemy. Those acting under color of my name

and my mission have nothing to do with me, or my activities.” The raging throngs

down on the street had almost no capacity to absorb the words booming from The

Corpse’s mouth, so gobsmacked they were.

Inside the Ledger Building, Gary Berkowitz’s desk phone began to ring. He raised

an eyebrow and smiled slightly. He hoped for something juicy. It had been a dull

morning. Most of the time, his nose for news didn’t steer him wrong. He could sniff

out a story where everything seemed to be smooth sailing. He could see below the

placid surfaces and ferret out the seething clashes underneath that paid his rent. He

had an unerring way of discovering the hidden urban conflicts that were his bread

and butter.

56

Usually.

This morning, not so much. He had spent most of the morning on the telephone,

trying to track down some leads on The Corpse, and once again going over the

statements from the witnesses he had interviewed after the press conference. Since

most of those were fellow reporters, they were not about to give up anything juicy,

or even mildly helpful, especially to a wellknown story jacker like him. But a few of

the cops were a little more forthcoming, and he was poring over their statements

once again, in the hopes of spotting some tiny detail, some little inconsistency that he

had missed before. That one anomaly that would break the story and set him

spinning off toward journalistic gold, hell, maybe even the Rumsberger Prize. But

nothing had clicked.

Then the phone rang.

He was hoping one of his network of stoolies, informants and nosy landladies was

calling in to give him some kind of tip. Not quite.

“Ledger, city room.”

“Berkowitz.”

He recognized the voice. Stansky from The Bugle.

“Stansky. What do you want?”

“Hell’s bells, man. How much did you pay him?”

“Pay who? For what?”

“Don’t play coy with me, you sack of shit. I want answers. How’d you find The

Corpse?”

“Okay, slow down. What?”

“Oh, crap, you don’t know. Guys, he has no idea!”

“No idea about what?” Berkowitz griped.

“I suggest you turn on channel 11. Right now. And smile for the cameras. Hope

you’re ready for your closeup, pal!” Stansky guffawed uproariously as he hung up

the telephone.

Berkowitz was baffled. He quickly ran over to the television set in the corner of the

room and changed it to channel 11. He saw a familiar sight. It was the exterior of

the very building he was standing in, The Ledger Building, shot from a news

helicopter. The camera was focused on a small figure standing on a terrace at the

front of the building’s iconic tower. A figure clad in a black cape and hat.

Berkowitz almost swallowed his cigar butt.

“It can’t be,” he nearly whispered.

Behind Berkowitz, a crowd of curious reporters and other employees had gathered

to peer at the television. “Is that our building?” one of the voices asked. “Turn up

the volume, Berkowitz,” another voice said. Berkowitz grabbed the remote control

and raised the volume. The news presenter, back in the studio, was narrating.

“…doing there, or not. Once again, if you’re just ing us, we are at the New

Holland Ledger building, in downtown New Holland, where a person is perched

outside the building. Initial reports are that this is the possible criminal mastermind

known as The Corpse. He seems to be addressing the crowd, a massive crowd in

fact which has formed on the streets below him. His voice is somehow amplified,

though we are not sure how that is being accomplished. Let’s see if we can listen.”

57

“People of New Holland,” The Corpse said, “I am not your enemy. I am your

friend. I feel that I am nothing but a public servant. I protect the public from those

that the police cannot protect you from. Order must be maintained. Chaos must be

stamped down. This is the crusade that I have vowed to undertake. “

“There you go, Gary,” came a voice from behind him. “You spend months trying

to find The Corpse, and he shows up right on your doorstep!” The others laughed.

“How do we get up to that tower!” Berkowitz hollered. He looked at the crowd

surrounding him. “Anybody know?” A look of dumbfounded helplessness crossed

the faces of the reporters. “You people are some help, thanks,” Berkowitz said, as he

took off running down the hallway. On the way out, he ed O’Reilly, who sat

with his bulk curled up in a low chair. “O’Reilly!” Berkowitz barked on his way

past. “Wake up! Huge story, and it’s right under our noses!” O’Reilly barely

stirred. Berkowitz doubled back and yanked him out of the chair by his shirt collar.

“Come on!” he bellowed. O’Reilly shook off the sleep, grabbed his camera and

loped along behind.

Soon enough, Berkowitz stood in front of an unmarked door located inside a

stairway. “This is it,” he said. “Behind this door should be a narrow staircase that

leads up to the top of the tower.” He tried the door knob. “Sure enough. Locked.

Probably hasn’t been used in decades. You got any ideas?”

O’Reilly sighed. He reared back and raised his leg. He let his foot fly forward and

hit the lock with all the force he could muster. The latch gave way and the door flew

open, assorted parts bouncing every which way. Berkowitz frowned.

“I guess that’s one way to go,” he shrugged. “Let’s move.”

They ascended the narrow spiral staircase for several stories until they reached a

closed door.

“You care to try that golden foot of yours again?” Berkowitz offered.

O’Reilly reached forward and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. He pushed

the door open and smiled weakly.

“Oh. I guess not. Okay, I’ll go first, I guess. You stay up here. If the bastard kills

me, at least somebody will be there to get a picture of it. Well, here goes,” Berkowitz

said, swallowing the lump in his throat. Outside the door was another narrow

staircase that wrapped around the exterior of the tower, which lead down to the

parapet where The Corpse was making his pronouncements.

Across Ledger Square, Collin noticed a figure coming down the staircase, making

his way toward The Corpse’s position. “Who is that?” Collin grabbed his binoculars

and looked through them. “Berkowitz!” he moaned. “That creep! He’s going to

ruin everything!”

“I believe I can keep him at bay, sir,” Warren said softly.

“Very good, Warren. Just don’t injure him. What were you thinking?”

“The sound ray, sir.”

Collin Van Dyke nodded. “Excellent thought, Warren. Make it snappy now,

before he gets a chance to do anything. I’ll keep an eye on him. Everyone, make

sure your noise-canceling headphones are on, just in case.”

Warren quickly removed the sound ray device from one the storage lockers in the

back of the hearse, as Collin and Nelson put on their headphones.

58

“We haven’t used this device for some time. Here’s hoping it’s still in fine fettle,”

he said. He removed the device from its anodized aluminum case. He unfolded the

brackets and strapped the device around his chest. Warren quickly turned on the

view screen and stood at the edge of the roof, waiting for unobstructed access to

Berkowitz’s pudgy form. As soon as the reporter inched into view, Warren made

sure to align his figure with the green targeting vectors on the screen. Quickly, he

pressed the red button to deploy the concentrated beam of sound. If all went well,

Berkowitz would get zapped with a blast of noise so loud that it would knock him

down to the ground. Anyone else outside the direct beam of audio energy would

hear nothing whatsoever.

Collin looked through his binoculars. He saw Berkowitz creeping around the

curve of the tower to get within mere feet of the figure of The Corpse. Suddenly,

Berkowitz had a strange look on his face. He grimaced and his eyes rolled back in

his head. He reached up with his hands and clamped them over his ears. With no

warning, he fell back and crumpled to the floor, where he ed out. Collin

nodded and smiled in satisfaction.

“Good work, Warren.”

“Mr. Berkowitz should be out of commission for some time,” Warren said.

“I would say at least half an hour,” Collin added.

“What about his photographer? Doesn’t he usually accompany him?” Warren

asked.

Collin looked through the binoculars once more. “That’s a very good point,

Warren. Where is that sidekick of his? I don’t see him. Maybe he didn’t want to

risk getting close to The Corpse.”

“If he does attempt to take any pictures of The Corpse, they won’t be of any use to

him. Or anybody else.”

“Right you are, Warren. But keep the sound ray at the ready anyway. You never

know what might happen.”

“Very good. Will do.”

On a nearby rooftop, a young man in a black suit and black mask knelt before the

edge of the Burnberry Building. He put on his black leather gloves and carefully

balanced a highpowered rifle on the roof’s ledge. He precisely lined up his target

across the square, some 500 yards away. He squinted and looked into the scope of

the rifle, setting up the hash marks. He wrapped his finger around the trigger and

slowly squeezed. The man clad in black smiled an evil smile, but one of supreme

satisfaction. The bullet leapt from its home in the gun’s steely barrel and pierced the

humid air, covering hundreds of yards of space to find its target in mere fractions of

a second. And that target was the gesticulating figure of The Corpse!

59

CHAPTER 12: A Chance Encounter

Andy Madison went into Cole’s and sat down at the bar. The television screens

along the walls were tuned into various obscure college football games and minor

league hockey delayed broadcasts with the sound muted. Blues music filtered down

from the speakers arrayed along the ceiling. It was early afternoon and the place

was near deserted. Just a few of the local alkies peppered the room here and there,

along with a well-known tout who sometimes made his office in one of the

telephone booths along the back wall.

Al the bartender approached the small man in the booth, who was busy with his

latest business transaction. Al depressed the switch on the pay phone, ending the

call.

“Al, come on! What’s the big idea? I was working with a major-league important

customer there! He was going to bet on some straightup nag at Bay Meadows in the

Sixth. Except you hung up the call before I could get the amount! What’s the big

idea?”

“Listen, Wheezy, what do you think I’m running here? A boarding house? This is

a licensed tavern. You not gonna order anything, I need this space clear, you know,

for actual paying customers.”

Wheezy scowled and looked up at Al’s beefy torso. He could throw Wheezy out

on to the street on his butt, and Wheezy knew it. Al had done it before and looked

bored enough to be willing to do it again.

“All right, all right, don’t get all sore. Here you go,” Wheezy offered, shoving a

crumpled bill into Al’s giant hand.

Al took the bill and smoothed it out. He held it up to the light, looking for the anti-

counterfeiting hologram. He slowly whistled. “I’m impressed, Wheezy. A fifty?”

Wheezy shrugged. “Yeah, yeah. I’m pretty flush right now. So how’s about it, Al?

We good for a while?”

Al looked down at him and nodded. “Yeah, Wheezy. We’re good.”

Al returned to his place behind the bar, where he opened up the till of the cash

and stuck the fifty dollar bill into a hidden slot along the back of the drawer.

Andy Madison looked at him distractedly, while attempting to mop the sweat from

his brow.

“Nice shakedown,” Andy offered.

Al shrugged. “We do what we got to do, Andy. You know that. Sorry to keep

you waiting. So, your usual?”

“Just a beer, Al,” Madison said through a frown.

“You look like you need it,” the bartender said, knitting his brow.

“What can I say, Al. One of those things. Not getting anywhere.”

60

“Tough week at work, huh?” he asked, drawing a cold frosty one. “Yeah, I heard

about all that trouble with The Corpse,” he said.

Andy frowned and shook his head from side to side. “No trouble with The

Corpse,” Andy said, “at least that’s what we think. Just somebody who wants

everyone to think he’s The Corpse.”

“Oh yeah? Ain’t that a kick,” Al said, setting down the mug, as the head

overflowed on to the bar. “You’ll get it sorted,” he said.

“Sure,” Madison agreed, “but I’m getting tired of waiting for a break on this case. I

feel like somebody somewhere doesn’t want me solving this thing.”

“Come on Andy, you’ll get to the bottom of it. You always do.”

“Yeah, right. And in about one minute, some hot babe is gonna walk right into this

dump, and sit right down in my lap and start feeding me peeled grapes. Ain’t

gonna happen, Al. Never in a million years,” Madison scoffed.

Soon enough, an exceptional frail, slender with shoulder-length auburn hair,

walked in and took a seat at the bar a couple stools down. She was dressed

tastefully and elegantly.

Al shot Andy Madison a look. “I’ll get you a bowl of peeled grapes,” he snapped.

“Ah, take a flying leap, you stooge,” Madison joked.

“Okay, but I don’t know how you did that,” the bartender replied, shaking his

head.

Andy tried to pretend that he was absorbed in his beer, figuratively, or hell, maybe

even literally. But he couldn’t keep up that charade for too long. He cast a sidelong

glance at her as Al approached to take her order.

She was pretty and sweet,

beaming at the bartender as she smoked her cigarette. She flashed her pearlies and

batted her eyelashes at him.

“Would you like something, ma’am?” he said in his most solicitous manner.

“Why yes, thank you. Could you fix me a banana daiquiri, if it’s not too much

trouble?” There was the barest trace of an accent that Andy couldn’t quite pin

down.

Al broke into a broad grin. “Trouble? Awww. For a nice lady like you? It’d be

my pleasure.”

Andy Madison rolled his eyes. “I’m glad I didn’t have any lunch,” he thought, “or

I’d be close to losing it by now.” He continued staring into his beer, when he wasn’t

checking out her qualifications. Her wellscrubbed good looks were not in any way

soiled by the cigarette she was daintily smoking. She seemed about as threatening

as a young kitten. Was she a working girl? It didn’t add up, Andy thought. Not

with that outfit, in this dive. A girl with her fashion budget would be working

penthouses and private clubs. By appointment only. Maybe she was a model?

Actress? The Theater District was not too far away.

Andy thought about what kind of opening gambit he could make while she waited

for her libation. After no more than two minutes, Al the bartender returned with her

drink. “Here you go, miss. One banana daiquiri. Enjoy.”

“Thank you, I will.” she said.

61

Andy took his moment to open his mouth. “Don’t let that guy fool you, miss. He

could turn on you at any moment if you don’t leave him a big enough tip,” Andy

offered.

“Ha!” Al offered in response, over his shoulder.

She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, thank you sir. I’ll have to keep

that in mind.”

“That’s the big city, you know. A girl’s got to protect herself.”

“Well. You seem awfully concerned about me,” she said, lighting a new cigarette.

“Okay, yes. I’ll it it. But I’d be concerned about any woman drinking alone in

this dive. Unescorted.”

“I see. Why don’t you slide down a bit? Then I won’t be so unescorted.”

Andy moved down a couple stools to sit next to the woman. “That’s a good idea.

My name’s Andy Madison,” he said. He held out his paw and offered her a crooked

smile.

She blew out the smoke from her cigarette and flashed him her dazzling grin. She

took his hand and shook it. “Glad to know you, Andy. Miss Ann Johnson. But you

can call me Ann.”

“Of course. Since we know each other so well,” he joked.

She took a sip of her drink. “Well, Andy, we may not know each other…yet. But

things change. If we want them to.”

“I like the way you think, Ann.”

“That’s always the way I’ve thought. To me, the world isn’t going anywhere. It

just sits there. But us, you and me, that is, people, are the ones moving. Doing

things. Changing things. And it all starts right up here.” She jabbed a gloved index

finger at the top of her skull.

“I take it you mean the brain, not the hair do,” Andy smirked.

She chuckled. “Yes, I mean the brain. You know, nothing happens until someone

thinks of it,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. “Thought into action.”

Andy furrowed his brow. “I don’t know if I’ve met a woman like you before. You

must be a college girl.”

“To be honest, I found college a bit confining,” she said.

“I’ll bet you did,” Andy said, nodding his head. I’d really like to continue this

conversation, Ann, but, I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“But, that’s just the day. What are you doing tonight?”

“My calendar is open.”

“Would you like me to fill it up?” Andy asked.

“That sounds nice.”

“I’d like to buy you dinner. Do you eat?” He was trying to be funny. She knew it.

She smiled.

“Yes, I eat. What’d you have in mind?”

“Why don’t you pick a place? I’m easy.”

She considered this. “I see we have something in common. Okay, Andy. There’s a

little neighborhood place I go to all the time. Why don’t you pick me up at my

place? Seven o’clock.”

62

“I will do that. What’s the address?”

“312 West Morganstern. Apartment three.” She left a few dollars on the bar,

grabbed her purse and turned to leave. Andy watched her go. As soon as she made

her way through the door, he quickly fished a pencil and a piece of paper out of his

pocket in order to commit her address to paper. Al came back down the bar.

Andy looked up at him. “That sure was a welcome distraction,” he said.

“I’ll say,” Al replied. “We usually don’t get that class of woman coming into this

t. At least, we haven’t in a long while. Hey, she didn’t finish her drink.”

“Maybe you’re slipping,” Andy jibed.

“Like hell,” Al responded. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. “Andy, I

am not a drinker of these girly cocktails myself, you understand, but that, my friend,

is a drink. With all due respect to my forebears, I still got it.” He offered the drink

up to Madison for a taste.

“I’ll beg off, Al,” Andy said. “Got to take your word for it. Bananas aren’t really

my thing.”

CHAPTER 13: Murder For Hire

Collin stared intently through his binoculars. He saw the impact before he heard

it. The bullet had streaked across Ledger Square toward The Corpse… and ed

harmlessly through, lodging in the cement wall behind him. This was due to the fact

that The Corpse was not really standing on the parapet of the tower at the Ledger

Building. His image was merely a holographic projection which was coming from

the equipment on top of Collin Van Dyke’s custom designed vintage hearse. The

Corpse sat comfortably, safely ensconced inside the thickly armored vehicle where

no one could get at him.

Collin grinned from ear to ear. “I see we have a fish on the line. Now comes the

fun. I would wager that he’s going to try again. Warren, did you get a fix on the

bullet?”

“Yes, sir. It came from 86.2 degrees.”

“That would put it right over…there. The Burnberry Building.” Collin swung

around to look at the roof of the building. “Over there! Look! There’s the sniper!”

Collin looked through his binoculars. “He’s still there. We can still catch him.

Warren, you stay here and keep an eye on The Corpse. Remain on stand by.

Nelson, you’re with me. Let’s go!”

Collin Van Dyke and his chauffer ran down the staircase of the parking garage,

and within a minute were at the front of the Burnberry Building.

“He’s probably going to try to get out the back door,” Collin said.

“We’ll meet him halfway,” Nelson said.

On the top of the Burnberry Building, the sniper was confused. Far across the

square, The Corpse continued speaking. He must have missed his shot, the sniper

63

thought. But that was impossible. He couldn’t have. He was a first class marksman,

best in his group at the Academy. He hadn’t missed a shot in – well, he couldn’t

even when, it had been so long. He regrouped and took his time aiming.

Again, he fired. Again, he hit his target. Again, there was no effect. A look of panic

crossed the man’s sweaty face. His pupils dilated as he slapped his forehead, the

cognitive dissonance welling up inside him. How could he know that the image he

was aiming at, the very spot that he had indeed directed his shot at perfectly, was

nothing but vapor, a projection, a trick of the light?

Far below him, his gunshots had been noticed by two of the New

Holland Police. The officers could no longer write them off as an errant taxicab

backfiring. The sniper looked down at the street and saw the two police officers

pointing in his general direction.

He was screwed.

The sniper had failed his task. He could not return to his employers and inform

them that he had botched the job. He would be executed immediately. Nor could

he surrender himself to the custody of the New Holland Police Department. Within

days of finding himself inside the New Holland prison system, the long, bony

fingers of The Bolverken would reach out to him. They would find him, torture him,

kill him. The Police could not protect him now. So he had only two choices: die

immediately, or die a little bit later. Unless he could think of some other way out.

He abandoned his sniper rifle and ran for the door that led to the staircase down.

Down and out, to freedom. As he vaulted down the staircase, he looked down to the

bottom of the building. He saw two people running up the staircase. Whoever they

were, they were after him. He could smell it. But maybe this was good. Maybe

these people, whoever they were, wouldn’t kill him. Maybe he could beg for their

mercy. He continued pounding down the staircase, and soon enough, he ran into

the two men on the way up: Collin Van Dyke and his employee, Nelson. They both

had guns drawn.

“Stop right there!” Collin hollered. All pretense and nicety was gone. When Collin

Van Dyke turned vicious, above all else, he was believable. And not without reason.

He had killed men before, under the color of war.

The black-suited Bolverken sniper raised his hands high in the air and shut his

eyes tight. “I s-s-surrender,” he stammered. “Are you cops?”

“No, we aren’t cops.”

“That’s g-g-good. Who are you?”

“We’re friends of The Corpse. Who you were shooting at, dare I remind you.”

The sniper nodded rapidly. “I know,” he said, “but you have to help me. I failed

my task. I was supposed to take him out. But it didn’t work. If my employer gets to

me now, I’m dead.”

Collin continued pointing his gun. “Why should we help you?” he barked.

“I’ll tell you everything,” the sniper begged. “Who hired me. Why they wanted to

get rid of The Corpse. The whole story. Just help me! If they get to me, they’ll

torture me!”

Suddenly, the sound of two additional sets of footsteps climbing up stairs made

their presence known. Nelson peered over the banister. “Police,” he said.

64

“Why don’t you just surrender to the police?” Collin asked.

The sniper shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s no good,” he moaned. “These people

have their tentacles everywhere. If I get thrown in jail, they’ll get to me there,

eventually. So, I die in two weeks instead of two days.”

Collin looked at Nelson and bit his lip. “Okay. Keep your gun trained on him.”

“Got you, boss.”

“Follow me,” Collin said, dragging the sniper by his coat collar. He patted the

sniper down and found a revolver in his inside jacket pocket, which he removed. He

dragged the sniper along the hallway, trying different office doors. Most were

occupied. Finally, he found an office that was empty. He dragged the sniper inside

and locked the door behind him. Nelson followed.

“Who hired you?” Collin snarled.

“The – Bolverken.” Collin ed the name. The subject of that odd volume

that Andy Madison had on his desk. But did they really exist? He had dismissed

the whole idea as nothing but a tall tale. Were they here, today, in New Holland?

He needed more information.

“Who is The Bolverken?”

“They’re very powerful –“

“I need names!”

“I can’t – “

Just then the a huge blow was heard on the other side of the door.

“The Police,” Nelson whispered.

“New Holland Police! Open up in there!” came a shout from the hallway.

“Give me a name!” Collin shouted.

They kicked at the door again.

Nelson shook his head. “We’d better get out of here, boss. We can’t get caught

with him.”

Collin slapped the sniper in the face hard. “Tell me!”

A look of total fear suffused the sniper’s face as he looked over at the door. He

craned his jaw and ground his teeth together.

“What are you doing?” Collin asked. “Oh no!” Collin attempted to shove his

hand into the sniper’s mouth, but he kept his jaw clenched tight.

“What happened?” Nelson asked.

Not making any progress with the deadbolt lock, the cops now smashed at the

glass in the top half of the door.

“I think he just bit into a pill he had in his mouth. He swallowed poison!” Collin

shouted.

The sniper’s eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids shut. His neck snapped

back and his body went limp.

“No, damn it! Tell me a name!” Collin slapped him across the face several times.

“It’s too late Boss, let’s go!”

The police had gotten through the window that made up the top portion of the

door. One of them reached his arm through the hole to unlock the deadbolt.

“Damn you!” Collin shouted, letting go of the sniper’s lapels and allowing his

body to slide down to the floor.

65

Nelson and Collin fled out the window, where the fire escape waited. Collin jerked

his thumb upward, indicating that Nelson should follow him up to the roof. They

were only four stories from the top of the building, so that would be the quicker

escape.

Inside the empty office, the police had quite a conundrum lying before them. The

sniper, whom they had seen on top on the roof, was lying on the floor of the empty

office, glassyeyed, dead. There were no obvious signs of trauma. They had heard

other voices in the room, but nobody else was there. One of the officers ran over to

the open window, where the fire escape was located. He thrust his head out the

window and quickly looked up and down. He saw nobody.

“We’d better call this in,” the officer said. “Looks like we need an ambulance.”

The other officer had squatted down in order to examine the body of the sniper.

He felt the pulse at the assassin’s neck. He shook his head. “Not an ambulance. The

coroner.”

Up on the roof, Collin bent over and picked up the sniper’s rifle. He made sure he

was wearing gloves. He held it gingerly to avoid smearing any of the fingerprints.

He raised it slowly to his face. On the butt, he noted a small group of letters that had

been scratched in; TCVMB-NH.

“What is that?” Collin said. “I get part of it. It’s obvious. The NH stands for New

Holland. But what’s TCVMB?”

Collin pulled out the revolver that he had removed from the sniper’s pocket. He

looked at the butt of the gun. “Look at this. Same letters here. I’d better leave this

bad boy. Can’t be found with an uned gun in my possession, now can I?”

Collin carefully placed the revolver next to the sniper rifle on the roof.

Nelson wrote the letters down on a small notebook he carried in his pocket. “Got

it, boss.”

“We should get going, Nelson.”

“I agree, but how are we going to get out of here?” Nelson asked.

“We’re just going to walk right out of here. If my hunch is correct, the police

officers that we saw are going to be occupied for a few minutes. We should have

about three or four minutes before any other police officers get here, depending on

traffic. Besides, I’m sure most of the police in the area are busy trying to get at The

Corpse. If we get stopped, just follow my lead.”

Collin and Nelson exited the roof and went down one flight of stairs to the top

floor. They walked down the hall to the elevator and pushed the button. The

elevator car arrived shortly. It was empty. Collin pressed the button for the lobby.

Nelson nervously tapped his foot. The elevator picked up two more engers on

the way down, two other businessmen in suits. As far as the casual observer was

concerned, that’s what Collin Van Dyke and Nelson were as well: just a businessman

and his assistant. The other two engers stared at the floor and said nothing. As

they reached the lobby, Collin and Nelson tried to hide behind the two men as they

left the building. Just as the four of them reached the front door, several NHPD cars

pulled up to the front of the building, sirens blaring. Collin and Nelson made a

quick right turn to avoid the officers, who ran out of their vehicles, storming the

structure. They ed Collin and Nelson, ignoring them completely.

66

“That was a close one,” Nelson said softly.

“Closer than I would like,” Collin itted.

Collin retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and hit a button. Even though the

cell phone was encrypted, some unknown hacker somewhere might have cracked

the latest codes, and would be able to decipher Collin’s communications. Because of

this, he always kept his cell phone calls as vague and as free of incriminating

statements as possible.

“Warren,” he called.

“Yes, sir,” Warren responded.

“I believe our appointment is done. We’ll meet you in front of the parking

garage.”

“Very good, sir.”

On the roof of the parking garage, Warren was ready to employ the planned finale

of The Corpse’s public appearance. He pulled a large collapsible barrel out of the

back of the hearse. He raised the barrel to the appropriate angle, then pressed a

large red button.

On top of the Ledger Building, The Corpse was carrying on about how he would

wreak bloody revenge upon those who were diminishing his good name. In spite of

the best efforts of several reporters and police officers, no one other than Berkowitz

had yet managed to get close to him. O’Reilly had kept his distance at the top of the

staircase, employing his zoom lens to get what he imagined were some excellent

photographs of The Corpse in action.

As soon as Warren pressed the red button, a large smoke grenade was lobbed

across Ledger Square, several hundred yards away. It landed at precisely the spot

where the projection of The Corpse was visible, deploying a giant red flash and a

tremendous blue cloud of smoke. At this, Warren turned off the projection. As soon

as the smoke dissipated into the wind, The Corpse had vanished.

Down on the street below , the crowd reacted with shock and disbelief. Was what

they had just witnessed real, or the product of mass hypnosis, a shared delusion?

Up on the tower, the New Holland Police had finally found their way through the

catacombs of The Ledger Building to the staircase on the outside of the tower. As

they ed O’Reilly and rounded the corner, they were shocked to see that The

Corpse was gone.

Captain Gerstein, one of the ranking officers, turned to O’Reilly.

“Where’s The Corpse?”

O’Reilly shrugged. “Gone.”

“Don’t give me that, shutterbug. How’d he get off this roof? Is there any other

way to get out?”

“Not that I know of,” he said.

Down the staircase, Berkowitz began to stir. He opened his eyes to see the police

milling about and O’Reilly staring down at him.

“What happened to you?” O’Reilly asked, blinking.

“I dunno,” Berkowitz said. “One second I was looking at The Corpse, and then the

next second, I heard this blast of noise, it was so, so, painful, and then…nothing.

Did you get some pictures?”

67

“Don’t worry,” O’Reilly said, tapping his camera. “I got ‘em.”

“Good. Now help me up, would you?”

Collin, Warren, Nelson, and The Corpse, were all comfortably ensconced in the

black hearse, driving silently away from the scene, raising no suspicion at all. Collin

activated his portable computer.

“Let’s see if we can find anything. TCVMB. Hmmm. No good. Looks like a

bunch of hash. What if we add the other part?” Collin typed “TCVMB New

Holland” into the search engine. He viewed a page of results for a local softball

league. A collection of poetry. A page written in a foreign language that he could

not identify. The New Holland chapter of the TurkishAmerican Friendship League.

Then he saw it. He clicked on the link, taking him to the web page.

He had landed on an obscure reference in the incorporation files from the

Secretary of State’s Office. An old application for renewal of a corporate charter,

dating back to 1957. There it was. “The Temple of the Clan of The Vassals of the

Mighty Bolverk – New Holland Chapter, aka TCVMBNH.” The Bolverken. Even

better: there was an address listed on the report.

“Warren, I’d like you to drop me off at the corner of Morganstern and Pier Street.”

“Will do, sir.”

CHAPTER 14: Sealed and Locked

Madison trudged back to his office, at a loss. Having a date later in the evening

would give him a much-needed respite from the frustrations of this case, but he

couldn’t think about that now. He wouldn’t be off duty for several more hours, and

he had to throw himself back into the mix.

Back in his office, he slumped down into his chair. Andy Madison turned away

from the television and back to his desk. What could he do now? He stared at the

cursed ancient book, which sat before him on his desk. He couldn’t find any clues

there. Maybe he should look again, this time more closely. Give it another shot. Get

out the fine tooth comb. He tried it for a few minutes. It was useless. Like he found

before, there were no references to anything in the United States, or to anything that

happened later than 500 years previously. He chucked the book on to his desk with

loathing. It landed with a dull thud, and it’s back cover flapped open. He stared at

the tome in disgust.

It was then that he saw it.

On the endpaper, in the lower right corner near the binding, were some small

marks. Barely legible, but they were they there. He dug out a letter opener and

peeled back part of the spine so he could see them in their entirety. They were tiny.

He fished about in his desk drawers for a magnifying glass. He slowly lowered the

glass to a spot just above the two small marks. There were two small circles. The

first one had four words in it. They read…Printed in the USA!

68

Wow. This was a game changer. So, this book did not originate from Stockholm.

Now that the place was debunked, there was a good chance that the date printed on

the book was also false. He lowered the magnifying glass into place yet again, to

view the second mark. He saw another tiny circle. Inside it stood the letters “IBBB”

and the numbers “450.” Now, that’s a puzzler, Andy thought. He thought he would

give the internet a spin.

He opened the internet browser on his computer and clicked on to his favorite

search engine. Tentatively, he entered the letters and numbers into the bar. What he

saw sent his blood surging. He was off to West Americk. If traffic was light, he

could be there in 20 minutes. As he left the office, he was too focused on his

breakthrough in the case to notice the group of people still gathered around the

television set, watching the helicopter footage of the spectacle of The Corpse

addressing the populace of New Holland from the tower atop the Ledger Building.

It took Andy a few minutes to find a parking spot. He parked a block away from

the headquarters of the International Brotherhood of Bookbinders, Local 450. This

branch of the union served New Holland and surrounding areas. They had moved

out of central New Holland in the 1950’s and moved into this “modern” building at

that time. Clearly, the “new” building was now showing its age. Distinguished

with a façade of light cream brick and large, skinny windows with burnished

aluminum frames, the place had clearly seen better days.

When Andy entered the front lobby, the receptionist, an elderly lady, seemed

genuinely surprised to see him. Actually, she was probably surprised to see

anybody, Andy thought. This woman had clearly worked in her position for

decades, watching as the hip of the union dwindled and dwindled, and all

printing jobs were eventually shipped out of New Holland, to either the South, or if

an even more advantageous profit scheme were desired, Mexico or China. The

woman had frosted white hair, pink skin and pale blue eyes. She wore a cardigan,

and for Andy, this was the telling piece, bifocal glasses attached with a chain around

her neck.

“Can I help you sir?” She said through a squint.

Andy flashed his badge. “New Holland P.D., ma’am.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Is there any trouble?” She peered over her glasses at Andy’s

identification.

“Not at all. I’m just doing a little background checking. Perhaps you can help

me?”

“I will try, Captain.”

“I understand that that union printing shops were required to keep a detailed

record of each printing job, which the union kept a master record of.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Sorry? You mean that wasn’t done?”

“They stopped doing that in 1972.”

“Oh, that’s good. That might be good enough.”

“Very well then. Follow me. It’s in the back.”

69

The woman led Andy down a long hallway and around a corner, past a metal door

and into a large room. She reached above her head and yanked on a pull cord to

turn on the light. Before him, Andy Madison saw a large rack of tiny drawers.

“You old enough to the old library card catalog, officer?” the lady

asked.

“Yeah, sure, when I was a kid,” Andy replied.

“These are organized by year. Within each year they’re in alphabetical order by

title. Good luck.” She left him alone to his work.

Within a few minutes, he had found what he was looking for; the card that gave

him the real lowdown on that book. The book didn’t date from 1904 at all. At least

that version of it. It was printed in New Holland in 1926 by a company known as

New Delft Specialty Bookbinding. Only 200 copies were produced. The publisher

was listed as Scandinavian Research Association / TCVMB Corporation. TCVMB,

Andy thought. There it is again. “Still familiar, but I can’t figure out what that

stands for.” But if it were a corporation, he sure could find out. He returned to the

front desk.

“Ma’am? Do you have an internet connection?”

Andy Madison quickly accessed the web site for the Secretary of State. From there,

he could check if this TCVMB Corporation was still operating, and exactly where it

was. His luck held up. The TCVMB Corporation was originally chartered in 1927.

It was listed as an educational foundation. No indication of what exactly the

TCVMB stood for; it was an acronym without an answer. It listed its headquarters

building at 687 Morganstern Street, a location which it apparently still held after all

these years.

Madison tromped his way down Morganstern Street. He didn’t even know what

this neighborhood was called. Sandwiched halfway between the Financial District

and The Bottoms, this was a forgotten section of small factories, dilapidated

warehouses and crumbling tenements. Too run down to be used by respectable

people and too boring to be inhabited by edgy artist types, it sat close by The

Vincenzo, rotting and decaying, forgotten by most and trafficked by few. Too

obscure to even merit a name. That’s probably how these people liked it, Andy

thought. Better to operate from the shadows.

He was halfway to Pier Street when he saw it: 687 Morganstern. From the street,

it didn’t appear too large, but if one were to stop and actually examine the edifice,

one could see it was a massive brick structure that traveled way back from the street,

into the heart of the block, where it turned, and zigzagged and did who knows what,

the buildings surrounding it concealing its true size. The building had no windows

that Andy could see. The only item visible on its giant, nearly featureless brick

façade was a large steel double door and surrounding mantel. It was then that he

saw it: carved into the solid marble above the door were five letters: TCVMB. Below

that, a string of other letters: MCMXXIX. The second group of letters he got in a

flash. Those were roman numerals, indicating the year in which the building had

been constructed: 1929. It was at that point that he took a less-thaning look at

the steel doors.

Jackpot.

70

The doors were covered with Norse runes. The very same runes that were

featured on the rings made by Lindenmuller. He approached the door silently,

carefully. He reached up his hand and touched the runes to make sure that they

were real. So real they were. They were amazing. Madison stood there transfixed.

“Enjoying yourself?” a voice came from behind him, shaking him from his reverie.

Captain Madison spun around, his revolver drawn. The man opposite him threw up

his hands in surrender.

“Don’t shoot! Me friend, Tarzan!”

It was Collin Van Dyke.

“Holy shit, Collin, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sneak up? I was just walking down the street when I saw a friend of mine, that’s

all.”

Andy cocked an eyebrow. “Just happened to be walking down this street? In this

neighborhood? Not likely, Collin. Come on, spill it. What are you really doing

here?”

“Okay, I’ll confess. Your stories about the Bolverken got me a little curious about

this whole thing. I did some research. Had some luck on the internet. That led me

here.”

“What did I tell you about this amateur sleuthing? Don’t you have something

better to do with your time? Leave the crime solving to the professionals, man.”

“Sorry, Andy, I just couldn’t help myself. Curiosity going to get the better of me

one day, I guess.”

“Alright then, you’d better tell me. What did you find?”

“Not much really, that’s why I came here. The juiciest fact that I was able to dig

up was the address of this place. But I think I have an idea what this place is.”

“Spill it,” Madison said.

“This has to be their headquarters. I don’t have any idea if the group is still active,

but they had a corporate renewal back in 1957, indicating this was their corporate

address.”

“If you figured out that much, then what do those letters over the door mean?”

“The Temple of the Clan of The Vassals of the Mighty Bolverk.”

“I’ll be damned,” Madison said. “Of course. That’s where I saw it. On the title

page of the book. The Leader of the Temple of the Clan of The Vassals of The

Mighty Bolverk. TCVMB. I just couldn’t it, damn it! What else do you

know?”

“Actually, that’s about all I can tell you. I wasn’t able to find out anything more

than that.”

“Okay. Well, that’s probably enough for now. And I guess I could use some

backup. Stay with me here. Let’s see what happens if we just knock on the door.”

“Sounds good to me,” Collin replied.

Andy Madison approached the giant steel doors with trepidation. There were

large circular knockers, one on each door, measuring at least three feet in diameter.

Andy tried one. It seemed to be almost rusted in place.

After some effort, he began to move the piece of steel, and eventually used it for its

intended purpose. It made a loud, hollow thud against the towering slab that was

71

the door. There was no response. After a pause, Andy tried it again, mashing the

knocker against the door five times.

“Nothing,” he said.

Collin spied something off to the side of the door frame. “What’s that? A door

buzzer?” It was a small plastic square with a round plastic circular button set into it.

It looked degrees more modern than the rest of the building.

“Let’s try it,” Andy said. He pressed the button several times. Nothing and

nobody stirred. “Makes sense that they wouldn’t answer.”

“Nobody home, is what I’m thinking. Say, what are you doing here anyway? I

thought for sure that by now you’d be over at Ledger Square mixing it up with all

that commotion.”

“What commotion?”

“You’re kidding. You didn’t hear the news? The Corpse.”

“What about him?”

“Seems like he made his first public appearance. And just like you thought, he

denied having anything to do with the murder of Paul Nilsson, or the incident at the

press conference.”

“I can’t believe I missed this! Are you sure about this? This isn’t some internet

rumor, is it?”

“No way. There were thousands of witnesses. And it was all on Channel 11. They

had a news helicopter hovering over the place, recording the whole thing for the

whole world to see.”

“When in the hell was this?”

“Couple hours ago.”

“This is crazy. Listen, Collin, I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. I’ve got to head

back to my office. Wrap my head around this. After I take that in, I might be

coming back here, but I’d have to get a warrant anyway to get in here. No point in

you staying here. You need a ride, or something?”

“I’ve got Nelson on speed dial, Andy. He can come get me in a minute or two.”

“Okay then, I’ll be seeing you later, Collin. You take care.”

Andy Madison turned away and jogged down the street to where he had parked

his police cruiser. Collin looked at the fortresslike building in front of him and tried

to take it all in.

A search warrant? That would be the least of the obstacles facing someone who

wanted to uncover the undoubtedly well-obscured secrets of this place. The

building was probably rigged with all kinds of locks, tricks, death traps, and who

knows what kind of devilish surprises. The police department, or, more accurately,

Collin, would have to be wellprepared before mounting an assault on this demonic

labyrinth.

Collin approached the doors, gingerly. He ran his fingers across the intricately

carved runes, just as Madison had done. But they weren’t an illusion, they were

real, all right,. He grabbed one of the doorknobs and threw his right shoulder

against the massive steel bulk of the door. Surprisingly, it gave way easily and

folded back into the building, not making a sound. Past the door frame, Collin was

able to glimpse a dimly lit hallway with ancient wall sconces throwing their meager

72

illumination into the shadowy void, showing the way to a destination Collin could

barely conceive, and a fate he had no desire to. This was a little too easy, and much

too inviting, Collin mused. “That tears it,” he thought. “Unlocked door? That’s no

mistake. They’re practically laying out the welcome mat for me.” Collin tilted his

head back and looked above him nervously. “I’ll bet they’re watching me right now

with some kind of security camera.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it at all.” With

that, he yanked the giant door closed. He pulled out his cell phone and told Nelson

to come pick him up.

CHAPTER 15: Breaking The Truth

Madison returned to his office, ready to find out more about this spectacular

incident that he was unfortunate enough to miss completely. In the background, the

television was still grinding out footage of The Corpse on the top of the Ledger

Building. Now they were holding a roundtable where various talking heads were

discussing the potential impact of The Corpse’s appearance in public.

“This represents a completely new era in costumed vigilantism,” contended Mark

Polansky, identified as a “Vigilante Expert.” “Before now, The Corpse worked in the

shadows. Now, he’s out in the open. Total game changer.”

A woman in a business suit, identified as Marilyn Fender, a “Hero Rights

Advocate,” disagreed. “I think that’s a profound misreading of what has happened

here. Before this incident, pretty much everyone knew who The Corpse was. He’s

been around for several years. We’ve had his manifesto, and that hasn’t changed, as

far as I can tell. We’ve known what he looks like for the same amount of time, due

to multiple eyewitness reports. We didn’t have any photographs, but we had some

sketches which turned out to be pretty accurate, based on those reports. Today, the

appearance of The Corpse just confirms the facts that we already knew.”

“Did we already know that bullets would through him harmlessly?” Polansky

griped. “I think that’s nothing less than a revelation.”

“Yes, true,” Marilyn Fender conceded, “we haven’t seen that before, but I don’t

think we can judgment yet on whether or not that’s really what happened. I

mean, the sniper could have merely missed him as he moved about on the roof.”

The of the program, Richard Devlin, interrupted. “Marilyn, are you

telling me that all of those eyewitnesses in their many thousands, were mistaken

when they said that they saw a bullet through the body of The Corpse?”

“I don’t know, Richard,” she replied. “But we haven’t seen the police report yet.

We do know that special effects are part of The Corpse’s arsenal, and what all those

people saw, or, more accurately, what they think they saw, may not have been

exactly what happened…”

Madison turned to his computer and quickly opened his internet browser. He

searched for the video of The Corpse’s coming out party. Sure enough, several of

73

the local television stations had posted the footage on their internet pages. He

loaded the footage. He held his breath, prepared for almost anything.

That sure looked like The Corpse, Andy mused, based on the eyewitness reports

he had been compiling for years. Sounds like him, too, he thought. He clicked over

to the web site of The Ledger. The Corpse was all over the web site. For some

reason, though, they didn’t have any photographs, just handdrawn sketches. You’d

think they’d be able to get a picture, Andy thought, since The Corpse was there right

on their own doorstep. Andy Berkowitz had submitted a breathless of his

dealings with the mystery man, and how he was attacked and knocked out, once

again casting himself as the hero in his own narrative, facing off against the

nefarious machinations of the undead avenger.

The Corpse had made a ionate defense of his own reputation. If his contention

were true, then somebody really was trying to smear his name and his deeds. Andy

Madison had a likely candidate for this task: The Bolverken. They had murdered

Paul Nilsson. Why, Andy didn’t know. But he realized now that he had to find out.

There was one man he knew that might know about it. And he was going to have to

track him down. It had taken Andy Madison a second try to extract any useful

information out of that ancient book. Perhaps the same thing would work on

Lindenmuller.

Andy called Lindenmuller at his workshop. There was no answer. The day was

coming to an end, so he was probably at his home by now. Madison looked up the

report of the shooting in the police files and found the old man’s home address

quickly. He could be there in 20 minutes. He grabbed his hat and sprinted out of

the office.

Madison stomped along the cracked pavement, looking for Lindenmuller’s

apartment building on Van Houten Street. The area, known as Little Delft, was

filled with tidy townhouses and small apartment blocks. The middle class

neighborhood sat silently along the river, shoehorned between the slum dwellings of

The Bottoms and the high-toned lanes of Upper Bay East. As Madison made his

way along the street, no one stirred. Dim lights burned behind frosted-over

windows and stray cats picked through garbage cans. In the distance, the mournful

wail of a tramp steamer’s horn could be heard along the Vincenzo, meandering

down from Castle Fort to return to the Atlantic and another trip back to Europe.

Soon enough he found the building, 782 East Van Houten. Madison saw a three-

story brick apartment building with no distinguishing features. He walked up the

staircase to the front door. Luckily, the lock on the front door was broken. He

quickly yanked open the door and went inside. He scanned the mailboxes arrayed

near the front door. Lindenmuller’s apartment was on the second floor, in the back

of the building, apartment 11. As he ed, the sounds of lower middle class living

going on behind the various shuttered doors rose up to his eardrums: male and

female voices arguing in some language he could not identify, babies crying, a cheap

AM radio blasting out Latin music. The aromas of middle eastern cooking found

his nostrils.

Madison eventually found the right door and knocked hard on the ancient wood

with its peeling paint. He heard the sound of a slow, shuffling gait behind the door.

74

Finally, the door cracked open a few inches. The chain remained in place. Madison

glimpsed a blue eye in the crack.

“Oh Captain Madison. It’s you,” came the croaking voice through the small

opening.

“Mr. Lindenmuller. Do you think I could come in? A few things I need to ask

you.”

“Of course, Captain. Wait just a moment.”

He quickly shut the door and removed the security chain. He then turned the

knob and pulled the door open all the way.

“Please come in,” he said.

Madison followed the old man into a small space, its dimensions made to look

even smaller due to the vast piles of books and papers that extended up to the

ceiling. This place is just like the guy’s workshop, Andy thought, only five times

worse. A weak breeze wafted in through an open window, providing insufficient

relief of the stale atmosphere.

“Give me a moment,” he squeaked apologetically. “I’ll clear a place for you to sit.

Hold on.” He quickly shifted several piles of old newspapers and magazines from

an antediluvian sofa and placed them on the floor. He took a tennis racket that

happened to be sitting on an adjacent low table and began to the beat the open

space on the overstuffed sofa, in a feeble effort to clear away some of the dust. He

raised quite a dark cloud, which just as quickly settled back into the body of the sofa.

“Sorry about that. I do what I can. But where are my manners? Would you like

something to drink? How about a nice glass of bourbon?”

“No, sir. I’m on duty.”

“I see. A glass of water?”

Andy took a quick look around the t. He doubted that there was even a clean

glass in the t, but before he could say anything, the old man was off to another

room which Andy assumed was the kitchen. Soon enough he returned with a plastic

bottle of mineral water, which was unopened. He placed it on the table within arm’s

reach of Andy. He took seat on a large chair across from the sofa.

“Captain. How is your head?”

“Much better,” Andy said. “Hardly even notice it anymore.”

“Good. I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you in the hospital, but you were there such

a short period of time.”

“Don’t worry about it. And you, Mister Lindenmuller. How are you coping?

“Coping? With what?”

“With shooting a man. I know how that goes. I have years on the police

department. It can be very traumatic.”

“Shooting a man, would be a problem. Shooting that animal that tried to kill you,

well, I have no problems with taking care of someone like that. I was in the war, you

know.”

Madison smiled a small smile. “Good for you, sir.”

“How is your investigation coming, Captain?”

“Not so well, I’m afraid,” Andy replied.

75

“Is that so? Well, you are a smart man, Captain. I’m sure you will find out the

truth.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Lindenmuller. To find out the truth.”

“What do you mean, Captain?”

“I mean that my investigation is stalled. And I need more information to work

with.”

“Really? Do you have any idea where you could get that?” Lindenmuller asked.

“Yes, I do.” Madison stared him down.

“Oh? What are you thinking?”

Madison got to his feet. He approached Lindenmuller and got right near his face.

“Mister Lindenmuller, I know you haven’t been honest with me. You know the

identity of the man who came to see you regarding the ring. Now who was he?”

Madison demanded.

“Captain, how could you suspect me of doing something like that?”

“It’s very obvious to me you know more than you’re telling. You weren’t

surprised at all by that shooting. You knew it was coming and you were ready for it.

You had a gun close at hand. And honestly, do we even know for sure that thug

was trying to take a shot at me? How do we know that he wasn’t trying to kill you?

How could he have known that I was even going to be there? Yes, he could have

been following me. But, that was your workshop. Your name right on the door.

Anyone who could read a phone book would know where to find you. Now let’s

have it.”

“Very well, Captain.” Lindenmuller sighed. “You have found me out. I did not

tell you the whole truth.”

“Finally,” Madison said. “Spill it. The whole story.”

“I had never met the man before he came to see me. But, I did know who he was.

His name was Paul Nilsson.”

“Why did he come to see you?”

“He was doing an investigation.”

“An investigation? What do you mean? We know he wasn’t a cop.”

“He wasn’t a member of any law enforcement agency, yes, indeed. He was doing

his own personal investigation.”

“Look, we know his name was Paul Nilsson. He worked as a commodities trader

in Chicago. That much we found out. But what was his story? What was he doing

in New Holland?”

“Some of this I was able to get from him. Some of it I already knew. And some

things I had to uncover on my own. The story goes back many decades, Captain.

His father was Peter Nilsson. Peter was one of the founding of the

Bolverken. If the group was a corporation, you would probably call Peter Nilsson

the Chief Operating Officer. He did a lot of their dirty work for decades. Man on

the spot. Took care of the bribes. Organized the enforcers. Cleaned up all kinds of

messes. Tied up loose ends.”

Madison scuffed his shoes on the floor. “You said you hadn’t met Nilsson, but you

knew who he was.”

76

“Yes. I meant that I knew his father, Peter, and I was aware that he had fathered a

son named Paul. But I never met him before a few weeks ago. Now, you know I

created the rings for the Bolverken. But that wasn’t the only job I did for them. They

called upon me to make many of their ceremonial items. Urns. Daggers. Vessels.

These things I did for them, may God forgive me. They kept me gainfully employed

for quite some time.”

Lindenmuller stared out the window. “Anyway, right at the start, I had met most

of the leaders, including Nilsson. It was all harmless at the time. Getting together,

talking, reconstructing the ancient Norse religion. They hadn’t become involved

with any illegal activities yet. I continued doing work for them from time to time

over the years. I wouldn’t say that I was in the loop, exactly, but I had some

awareness of their activities. I read the papers. I heard rumors going around.

Things like that. I know that at some point, Peter Nilsson had a falling out with the

High Council. This was years after I had done the work for them.”

“Go on,” Madison said.

“I’m not sure of the details there. But I know Peter Nilsson had turned against the

Bolverken. He was cooperating with the police. I don’t know if he had done this on

his own or not. Someone may have dug up some dirt on him, maybe someone on

the NHPD, or the District Attorney’s office.”

“Right, the cops could have been trying to turn Nilsson, get him to spill the beans

on the big operators. Or, more likely, he just got a case of the guilts.”

“Yes, that could be the way it happened. I do know that Nilsson lost interest in

their illegal activities at some point down the line. He thought it was ridiculous. He

just wanted to He had turned states’ evidence and was set to testify to the long

litany of crimes The Bolverken had perpetrated over the decades. Do I even need to

say it? Nilsson never made it to trial. He was found dead in his apartment. Without

his testimony the case fell apart. Nothing ever came of it.” Lindenmuller stared

gloomily out the window.

“Was anyone charged in his death?”

“No. Ultimately it was ruled a suicide. Nice and tidy, eh?”

“So when was this?” Madison asked.

“I think fall of 1962. Just before Paul Nilsson was born. After that, his mother

went into hiding. Later on she moved somewhere out West. Somewhere in

Arizona.”

“How’d you know that?” Madison asked.

“Paul told me that when he was here.”

“So how did Paul get involved in this?”

Lindenmuller sighed and smacked his dry lips. He took a deep breath and began:

“His father was about 60 years old when he died. Paul’s mother, Eva, was about 30

years younger than his father. When his mother ed away, about a year ago, she

left him the ring, as well as a huge quantity of personal papers that his father had

hidden away, including his personal diary. His mother wanted to spare him the

agony of learning of his father’s monstrous past. But, I guess she figured that once

she was gone he would be old enough to handle it. That’s what Paul speculated, at

any rate. His mother had mentioned not even a whisper of all this while she was

77

alive. Paul knew there was something about his father, some big, earth shaking

secret that his mother did not want him to know anything about. Whenever he

asked her anything at all about his father, she told him that she couldn’t say

anything about him, and that she had to keep quiet for his protection. Do I even

have to mention how these discoveries affected Paul? He couldn’t believe it. He felt

complete and utter shock.”

“At least that’s what he told you.”

“Well, he seemed pretty shook up to me. But even with all of his fears, he decided

to gather all his evidence together and find the parties responsible for his father’s

death.”

“He wanted to make them pay.”

“Yes. But I don’t think he was out to kill them. I believe he was going to turn

them in to the police. Once he had gathered the evidence.”

“There’s an obvious motive for murder here, Mr. Lindenmuller. Nilsson was

gunning for somebody. And that somebody took him out before Paul could get the

drop on them.”

“That could be right.”

“You should have told me all this before,” Madison said.

“Yes. I see that now. I’m sorry that I didn’t. But I was fearful. The retribution of

the Bolverken is powerful. And they have long memories. If word ever got out that

I had betrayed them in any way…”

“They would have killed you?” Madison asked.

“No Captain, not killed. Tortured. Kept alive so I could be tortured some more.

Allowed to rest and heal so I could be tortured yet again. Tortured beyond all pain

and endurance. Tortured until death would be a great improvement. Bones

shattered. Flesh flayed. Nerves fried. Then left to die, painfully, in filth and

disgrace. So you see why I was hesitant to reveal to you what I knew.”

“Yes. I see what you mean.” Andy Madison looked at his watch. “Listen, I have a

previous engagement that I have to get to. But this changes things. If everything

you said is correct, then you are in great danger because of what you know. I’m

going to put you on watch by the police. With the police here, those people will not

be able to get at you, all right?”

“Yes, Captain, thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll set it up. There will be some officers coming by later tonight to keep an

eye on you. Until they get here, just stay in your apartment. And do not open the

door for anyone but the police. Understand?”

“You have my word, Captain.”

78

CHAPTER 16: A Date With Death

Andy Madison considered himself lucky.

At a startlingly late hour, he

ed his date with Ann Johnson. A welcome distraction, indeed. He would

have just enough time to get home, change into something decent, shave, comb his

hair, slap on some cologne, get across town and be at her apartment at the appointed

time. He took a taxi so he wouldn’t have to worry about parking. He didn’t need

his car, since she said she wanted to stay in the neighborhood.

Madison arrived at her apartment at exactly the right moment. For a first date, he

had to be precise. He had no idea how particular or not the woman was. Some

women were more carefree about the whole thing, but in his dating experience, they

were clearly in the minority. So, off the top, he had to tow the line. He knew the

drill. Be on your best behavior for the first date. See how everything goes. Then

you can play it by ear as the evening progresses. One thing he had discovered was

that his employment provided him with a convenient excuse. He would not hesitate

to press a button on his cell phone which would trigger “an urgent call from

headquarters.” He had to break off the evening immediately and tend to a matter of

life and death! A fresh killing, a new kidnapping, a massive riot on the other side of

the city. Way, way, way over on the other side of the city. But he hoped that he

wouldn’t have to employ such shenanigans in this case.

Ann Johnson’s building had a quaint charm about it. The owners kept it in

immaculate condition in spite of its advanced age. Fine rugs covered the floors and

tasteful small furnishings broke up the monotony of the hallways. He quickly found

Ann’s apartment and rang the door buzzer. After a few seconds, she appeared at the

door. She smiled her high-end grin. She was done up to a turn. Glamorous yet

refined in a burgundycolored cocktail dress and tasteful jewelry, with matching hat

and shoes.

“Andy. I’m sorry if I don’t invite you in,” she apologized, “but my place is just an

absolute horror. Shall we go? I’m starved.”

Andy Madison shrugged his assent. “Fine with me,” he said, as she closed the

door behind her. She locked her arm with his as they strolled down the long

hallway.

“So, where are we going?” Andy asked.

“This little café down at the end of the block. Sabotino’s. I eat there all the time.

It’s wonderful.”

“I’ll trust you,” Andy said. “Is that a good idea?” he joked.

Ann laughed. “You can trust me,” she said. “You’ll see.”

“You have a favorite dish?” he asked.

“Everything’s fantastic. But my favorite would probably be the veal scaloppini.

Just exquisite.”

79

They offered small talk to each other during the short walk to the restaurant, which

sat on a prominent corner along a street filled with quaint little cafés with sidewalk

seating. Ann said she was looking forward to the dinner.

As they entered the restaurant, the maitre d’ came over to them. A short, slight

man with a pencilthin mustache, he was swimming in his tuxedo. He looked like a

little boy playing dress-up, in spite of his balding pate and his combover.

“Ah, Miss Johnson. Would you like your usual table?”

She really was a regular, Andy thought.

“It’s a beautiful night. I’d love to eat outside, “ she said, looking up at him and

batting her eyelashes.

“How can you say no to that?” Andy smiled.

“Very well, sir, outside table it is,” the maitre d’ huffed. He led them both to one of

the few tables on the small patio, which was lowered just below street level, next to

the front door. The maitre d’ pulled out a chair for Ann Johnson first, then one for

Andy. He set down two menus. Just to smooth things over, Andy slipped him a

five dollar bill. This seemed to soften him up a little.

“Thank you, Mario,” she said.

“Alfonso will be with you shortly,” he replied.

“You didn’t have do that,” she said. “I’m here all the time. They always treat me

very well.”

Andy shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do. Special treatment and all.”

Andy ordered the veal scaloppini, at Ann’s suggestion. She ordered a salad. Andy

picked the bottle of wine, an excellent California vintage that he had tasted before.

They continued with the perfunctory small talk; the usual first date subjects. Ann

said that she was employed as the assistant to a powerful literary agent. Andy had

never heard of him, but refrained from telling her that. Andy told her how he had

grown up right here in New Holland and how he found his way to the police force,

where he discovered his great talent for detective work. She told him that as an

army brat she had spent her childhood in various places, including Europe, Canada

and Australia. That explained the odd accent that he couldn’t quite identify, Andy

thought.

Suddenly, a black sedan roared up and mounted the sidewalk, flattening metal

trash cans and flinging them everywhere. The vehicle smashed into the iron fence

separating the patio from the sidewalk, twisting it into a giant metal pretzel.

Before Andy could even react, two thugs exploded from the vehicle, pointing guns.

One was the size of a brick wall, and just as intelligent. The second one was runty,

beadyeyed and shifty, constantly twisting his head, looking about, here, there and

everywhere. The other diners on the patio scrambled for their lives, diving into the

restaurant, where the rest of the customers and the wait staff cowered. One of them

walked right through a glass door, unaware of its presence.

“Nobody move,” the big thug shouted.

Andy decided to take charge of the matter. He stood up. “You can have our

money,” he said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Runty began laughing maniacally. “Money! That’s rich. We don’t want your

money.”

80

“What do you want, then?”

Brick wall growled, “The girl. Get up.”

Ann Johnson looked shocked. “Me? But what did I do?”

“Shut up!” the thug barked. “You’re coming with us.”

“What is this all about?” Andy Madison demanded. “What did she do?”

“Nothin’. But you did, cop. We want you to back off. No more investigations on

the Paul Nilsson case.”

“Listen, goofball, you know I can’t do that.”

“You can and you will. You will back off, or the girl gets it! Let’s go, lady, in the

car.”

Madison snarled, “it’s not just me, you know. When one cop’s in trouble, he’s got

the entire police department backing him up. You should know that.”

Ann Johnson, her hands up, slowly walked up from the patio and got into the

back seat of the black sedan.

Runty spat on the sidewalk. “Listen cop, don’t get any of your buddies involved

in this. The second we see a cop car, or hear a siren, she’s dead, you get me?”

“Yeah, I get you,” Andy muttered, his hands still raised.

“We’ll be in touch,” the Brick Wall said, chuckling. He dove into the driver’s seat

of the black sedan. He quickly backed it out of the spot where it had come to rest,

pieces of the iron fence still crammed into the smashed mass that now made up the

vehicle’s destroyed front end. Madison was shocked that the thing could still move

at all, let alone speed down the block.

Andy Madison ran out into the middle of the street, where he planted his feet and

pulled out his police issue revolver. He leveled the gun at the vehicle’s tires and let

off as many shots as the weapon would allow. The gun barked loudly, echoing

across the block of three and four story buildings, sending the patrons dining at the

sidewalk cafes diving for cover under their tables. But it was no good. By then the

vehicle was already too far away. It skidded out of sight and turned a corner at the

end of the block.

“I’m glad I decided to tag along,” a voice behind him said. Madison looked up,

confused. It was Collin Van Dyke.

“Collin! What are you doing here?”

“After we met this afternoon, I did a little research on that group of thugs you

were looking into, The Bolverken. I decided that they were a little dangerous for one

man to be fighting all by himself. I thought I would keep an eye on you. Good thing

I did.”

“Some good you did. They still kidnapped the girl.”

“I see. Would you have approved if I had started shooting at those men in the

middle of a crowded street?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Don’t worry, Andy. We’ll get her back.”

“Damn it, Collin, I told you. Enough amateur detective work. You’re not a

member of the police force.”

81

“I heard what he said, Andy. Don’t get your buddies down at The Castle involved.

I know it’s against police department procedure, but if you insist on bringing the

department in on this, she’s dead, for sure.”

Andy stood in the middle of the street, his hands shoved into his pockets,

frowning.

“I hate it when you’re right, you jerk. What did you have in mind?” Madison said.

“We can’t do anything standing in the middle of the street like this. We need to

regroup. Figure something out,” Collin replied.

“Okay. We’ll get a plan going,” Andy said. “Let’s go over to my office.”

“We can take the subway. It’s a few blocks away. Wait here for a second. I’ll go

take care of your tab at the restaurant.”

“Collin, I can pay for my own dinner.”

“How about a bill of several thousand dollars for structural damage?”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

CHAPTER 17: The Fiendish Strike

“I want to check on Lindenmuller,” Andy Madison said.

“Who’s he?” Collin asked.

“A jeweler. He made specialty pieces for The Bolverken. Including the ring that

was found on Paul Nilsson’s finger. Turns out he had some with Nilsson in

the past few weeks.”

“You need to check on him?”

“He might be in danger, Collin. With what he knows. You saw what they did to

Ann Johnson. They kidnapped her so I would drop my investigation. I called in

some uniformed officers to go over to his place and watch the guy, but I’m not sure

if they got there yet. His place is only about ten blocks from here. I think we need to

check it out.”

“You’re right, his safety could be at risk. Let’s go,” Collin said.

Within ten minutes, the two had arrived at Lindenmuller’s apartment building.

The door was still unlocked. “Keep your eyes open,” Andy Madison said, as he and

Collin entered the building.

The building was quiet as they slowly walked down the hallway.

“I don’t like this,” Madison said. He drew his revolver. “You hear that?”

Collin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t hear anything.”

Madison nodded. “Exactly.”

“Where are the officers?” Collin whispered.

“They should be right outside his door. Upstairs,” Madison said softly.

The two men slowly mounted the staircase.

Soon enough they were at

Lindenmuller’s door. Nobody was there. But something was there. Two large dark

puddles on either side of the door.

82

“Shit,” Madison said.

“Looks more like blood to me, Andy,” Collin said.

“We’d better get in there, Collin,” Madison said. He reared back and heaved his

right foot against the lock on the door. The ancient wood splintered under his size

12 police-issue boot and the door gave way.

They barged through the door to find Lindenmuller, brandishing a rifle.

“Hold on!” Madison shouted. “Mister Lindenmuller, don’t shoot. It’s me, Captain

Madison.”

The blood returned to the old man’s face. “Oh thank God,” he said. “I was so

damn sacred with what I heard out there.”

“I think you had every right,” Andy said, attempting to close the door behind him.

“Mister Lindenmuller, this is my good friend Collin Van Dyke.”

“Glad to meet you,” Collin said. “I wish it had been under more hospitable

circumstances.”

“Indeed. I heard gun shots out in that hallway, Captain,” Lindenmuller said.

“From what I just saw out there, I don’t doubt it at all,” he replied. “But there’s

nobody there. I wonder where they took the bodies.”

Somewhere behind him, Andy Madison heard nothing, again. And that’s what

bothered him. The raucous building was quiet. No arguing couples, no sizzling

bacon, no babies bawling. Not even the sound of traffic percolated up from the

street below. He raised his hand to quiet Lindenmuller. Andy put his index finger

to his mouth and mimed a “shhh.” Lindenmuller looked at him and nodded that he

understood. Collin did the same.

Slowly, Andy stood up and removed his gun from his holster. He approached the

door, and quietly reached over, pulling the door open, attempting to make no noise

whatsoever. He stood beside the door and quickly yanked on what remained of the

battered, broken object.

Andy’s timing was perfect. As soon as he pulled on the door, a massive weight

struck it, pummeling it open. The lack of resistance from the open door resulted in

an excess of momentum, which carried the person quickly through the door frame

and tumbling on to a table, which it smashed, and proceeded downward to the floor.

The now crumpled form wore a fedora and trenchcoat, and held a gun in its right

hand. The shattered remains of the table, nothing more than a pile of splinters now,

rested under the body’s bulk. The person seemed to have been knocked out by his

unexpected trip, and laid there motionless with his eyes shut. Andy Madison bent

over and grabbed the gun out of the thug’s right hand. He stood over the form,

pointing his revolver directly at a vulnerable spot. He didn’t recognize the face, but

he sure looked like a garden-variety rent-agoon to him. He kicked at the body with

his boot.

“Okay, smart ass, get up. I said get up!”

The hulk began to stir. It opened its eyes and looked up. “You’re making a big

mistake, Madison,” it said.

“Famous last words,” Andy said, regretting not having a more snappy riposte at

hand. “Who are you and who do you work for? You better start singing.”

“Or what?”

83

“Or the lady I got in my hand is going to start belting out a lead aria. Now let’s

hear it. All of it.”

Andy Madison heard it all right. Behind him. The sound of a gun being cocked.

“Damn it to hell,” he thought, suddenly ing. “The open window.”

“Drop the guns, Madison,” a goony voice bellowed. “Both of ‘em.” Andy knew he

was licked. He threw the guns on the floor and raised both of his arms. Another

large man came into view from behind him. This one he recognized. They had dealt

with each other in the past.

“Sharkey,” Andy drawled. “Long time no see. I thought I sent you away to Castle

Fort.”

“You did, asshole,” the crook replied. “Five to ten. I just got out a few months

ago. Good behavior.”

“How long’d you do?”

“Four years, two months, three weeks, one day, five hours, and sixteen minutes,”

he repeated mechanically.

“Glad to see it didn’t bother you.”

“Shut up, Cop,” the felon barked. “You and the old man are coming with us.”

Collin entered from the kitchen, brandishing Lindenmuller’s rifle.

“Like hell they are,” Collin said. “Now drop your weapons.” The two thugs

began laughing. “I said drop them!” Collin stuck the rifle directly in Sharkey’s face.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. They frowned and dropped their weapons. Madison

scooped them up.

“So, Sharkey, the tables turn once again. Thanks for the assist, Collin. Would you

do me a big favor and dial 911? In the meantime, I’ve got these jokers covered.”

In a few short minutes, a near battalion of police had descended upon

Lindenmuller’s apartment. They found the bodies of the two police officers stuffed

in the trunk of the thugs’ car, parked about a block away. After speaking to the lead

officer on the scene, tying up matters, and making sure the two thugs were in

custody, Andy scooped up one of the patrol cars and drove him, Collin and

Lindenmuller back to The Castle. They were sitting at Madison’s desk within ten

minutes. Lindenmuller sat glumly on the sofa in the corner. He looked very small.

“I could use a drink,” Collin muttered.

“I wish I had something powerful,” Andy said, “but you know what kind of

trouble that could get me into.”

“I get you.”

“How about a Zip?”

“Make it a Diet Zip.”

“I’ll hit the vending machine. Be right back.”

“I’m thirsty,” Lindenmuller muttered.

“I’ll get you one too,” Madison said.

The telephone rang, shattering the tension. Collin’s brow knitted as he looked at

Andy, who took a deep drag on a cigarette.

“I’m sure that’s for me,” Madison said.

“Yeah, nobody knows I’m here,” Collin said.

84

“I wouldn’t think so,” Andy said, forestalling what he knew waited for him on the

other end of that phone line.

The phone rang again, jangling Andy’s nerves about as much as the bells inside the

telephone. “You’d better answer,” Collin said.

Andy reached over and grabbed the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Madison?”

“Yeah, Andy Madison here.”

“You listen good, cop. We’re only gonna say this once. So get it through that thick

skull of yours. You may have the old man. But we’ve got your little cupcake.

What’s her name? Ann. If you ever want to see her alive again, be at Pier 59 in one

hour. Come alone. If you bring anyone else, the girl gets it.”

The line went dead, and Madison heard nothing but a dial tone. He nervously and

repeatedly slammed down on the hook with his finger. “Hello? Hello? Operator?”

It was no use. The call was gone. There wouldn’t have been enough time to trace it,

even if they had been ready to do so.

Andy’s face looked white as a sheet as he returned the telephone receiver to the

cradle. He hung his head low and exhaled loudly. He slowly raised his head to look

at Collin Van Dyke.

“What is it?” Collin asked. “You don’t look well.”

“Just what I figured. They’ve upped the stakes. They’re holding Ann Johnson at

Pier 59. I’m to be there in one hour. I assume they’re going to demand that I back

off my investigation. If I don’t do it, she dies.”

“You know it’s a trap,” Collin said.

“Of course it’s a trap. I’m really there to trade my life for hers. The second they

get me alone…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“You’d better do as they ask,” Collin said.

Madison shook his head sadly. “It’s against procedure. If I did that, I’d be deep in

the shit with Chief Pringle. And going in there without any backup is definitely not

going to lower my life insurance s. But, you might be right. I might not

have any other choice,” Madison said. “Mister Lindenmuller, you’re staying here.

I’ll have Officer Hanson come up here to keep you company. Collin, you and I are

going to go down there, just the two of us. Well-armed.”

“I’m sure bringing me along doesn’t fit the rules,” Collin said.

“You know what they say, man. In for a penny, in for a pound. What’s one more

broken rule at this point? I’m sending a text message to Haskins. If I don’t

him within an hour, he’s going to send in the cavalry, with guns blazing. They’ll

level that Pier.”

Collin nodded. “Fine with me.”

85

CHAPTER 18 : Headlong into the Void

The lowing of ships’ horns out on Lower New Holland Bay drifted in slowly, in

much the same manner as the slimy fog that slid over the wharves and piers that

ringed the city.

Captain Madison piloted his unmarked police cruiser along the washboard-like

surface of Pier 59.

“I still don’t like this, Collin. Going in with no backup. Maybe we should have

brought some help with us.”

“That’s your upset stomach talking. Look, Haskins knows that if you don’t

him in an hour, he’s to send in the troops. These people are professional criminals,

Andy. They’ll sniff out any backup from miles away, and then Ann Johnson is in

trouble. I don’t like it either. I know it’s risky, but I think it’s our only way.”

Madison pulled his police car over to the front of a large warehouse that marked

the end of the pier. They saw no evidence of anyone else for miles around. No

people, no vehicles, no lights. Waves lapped gently at the shore. Even the river was

quiet.

Collin and Andy entered the building slowly, guns drawn. Inside the giant

warehouse, a black void descended from the rafters to the building’s foundation.

They heard no sound except the creaking of the wooden boards under their feet.

They strode forward, guns raised. Then, blackness.

Sometime later, perhaps ten minutes, maybe ten years, Collin shook off the black

hood of unconsciousness and opened his eyes. He was still in the warehouse at the

pier. He was tied to a chair. He craned his neck and looked behind him. Andy

Madison sat behind him. They were tied back-toback. Madison was still knocked

out, apparently. Collin looked around. There was nobody in sight, but he was sure

that the thugs that sent them to the land of Nod were hovering somewhere nearby,

keeping an eye on them. Collin jerked his head back repeatedly, bumping into

Andy’s head gently, hoping the motion would shake him awake.

“Andy,” he said. “Get up.”

Behind him, Andy Madison slowly stirred.

“What happened?” he slurred.

“We got the shit knocked out of us, that’s what happened.”

“Oh, my damn head,” he moaned. “Where are we?”

“Still at the pier. Not sure why though.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Madison said. “They’re bringing the boss here.”

“You sure?”

“My best guess. If they didn’t need us for something, they would have slit our

throats by now. And those thugs are definitely not in charge. I know hired meat

86

when I see it. And since we’re not tied up in the trunk of a car, on the way to the

hideout…”

“This must be the hideout,” Collin said.

“Good thinking, “ Madison replied.

Outside, noises rattled the pier. A vehicle pulled up and stopped. Doors were

slammed.

“See? What’d I tell you,” Madison said. “Here comes the boss.”

The door to the warehouse slid open. Beyond that, a large sedan sat parked, with

its headlights pouring blinding light into the massive dark space. Silhouetted by the

harsh light were five figures. Four were large hulks in overcoats and fedoras. They

surrounded a smaller figure in the middle. That must have been the boss. Andy

and Collin both craned their necks to see. They could make out very little with the

lights from the sedan blasting into their lines of sight. As the group approached, the

figures came into focus and finally, their features could be made out. Andy squinted

at the smaller figure as the group approached.

It was Ann Johnson.

“NO!” Andy Madison cried out to the uncaring Universe, his soul a darkened void

of regret and anger at his own stupidity.

She strode forward with a sense of entitlement Madison had rarely seen. She was

totally relaxed in her own skin, completely in her element. “Captain Madison,” she

purred. “So glad you came to rescue the Damsel in Distress. I knew I could count

on you.”

“If I wasn’t tied up, I would kick myself,” Madison fumed.

“And if I wasn’t tied up, I’d give you a good solid thrashing,” Collin muttered.

Collin’s sentence was not directed at Ann Johnson. It was directed at Andy, in the

hopes that Madison would understand that Collin was in the throes of untying the

ropes that bound his wrists, and was about to continue the process with Andy. It

seemed to Collin that Andy Madison had received the message, since he kept his

arms completely still while Collin went to work.

“There will be plenty of time later for kicking you when you’re down, Captain.

You’re going to a party. Both of you.”

“A party?”

“Perhaps I was being a bit too flippant. Not really a party at all. It is quite an

important event, but rather more serious than it is festive. Funny coincidence that

you should worm your way into our affairs, just at the point when we required a

mandatory volunteer for a very important purpose.”

“A mandatory volunteer?” Collin asked.

“I think I know what she means. A human sacrifice,” Andy said gloomily.

“Nobody is about to volunteer for that role.”

“Very good captain. You’re going to be the life of the party. That is, until we take

your life away from you. Put them in the trunk,” Ann Johnson commanded.

Collin Van Dyke had been making use of the time waiting for the return of the

friendly neighborhood thugs by untying the ropes binding his hands. Now he just

had to find an opportune moment to jump up and knock out his attackers. This

looked to be as good a moment as any.

87

“In the trunk?” Collin protested. “That’s a bit uncivilized, isn’t it?”

“Now’s not the time, Collin,” Andy Madison muttered.

“Now, hold on, there, Andy, I have to protest this. Yes, you people might be going

to kill me, but I feel you should allow me to go down like the gentleman that I am.

Sitting upright. With a little bit of dignity, by the right of everything decent!”

One of the thugs balked. “Will you get this guy,” he said. “You believe him,

Lefty? He’s worried about his dignity. You’re gonna die, boss!”

“That’s more than I can say for you mooks,” Ann Johnson scoffed. “At least he has

a little bit of self-respect.”

“Come on, Miss J. You gotta be joking.”

“I am not joking. He’s right. You two could learn a little bit from him. A little bit

of class. No Nose, go put them in the back seat. Make sure they remain restrained.”

As No Nose approached and bent over slightly to begin lifting and moving Collin,

Collin took that moment to fling his arms over his head and use the ropes to begin

strangling No Nose. They both fell to the floor and began rolling to the side of the

room, where the light was dim. They disappeared into the dankness of the

blackened space.

Andy Madison jumped up as well, throwing himself on top of Lefty, who

collapsed to the ground. Ann Johnson was not armed, but had several more vassals

on hand to do her bidding. “Don’t stand there, you mooks! Get the bastards!”

As Madison wrestled with Lefty, two other thugs jumped into the fray, kicking up

a cloud of dust. This distracted the attention in the room from Collin, who had

managed to use his rope to choke out the large thug. Was he dead? Collin wasn’t

sure, and he wasn’t about to stop and find out. Collin leapt to his feet and found a

door in the side wall that lead out to the pier. Two of the other thugs saw Collin

vanish through the doorway.

“He’s getting away!” Blinky shouted.

“What about him, boss?” Lefty asked.

Ann Johnson was incensed. “You, Louie, Blinky, go get that rich nancy boy. We

can’t have him going to the police. But we have to get the Captain here over to the

temple before the moon rises, so he can be prepared for the ceremony. That’s what

the Clan Leader commanded. And that is what you will do.”

Louie and Blinky set off after Collin Van Dyke, who at that moment was fleeing

down the pier and toward dry land as fast as his legs would take him.

CHAPTER 19: The Final Ceremony

Collin hurried along the alleyway behind the warehouse at the end of the pier,

stopping to look behind him every other second. Soon enough he saw an open

loading dock off to his right. He jumped up on to it, and entered the building, which

was some kind of run down factory. Inside, dozens of middleaged women labored

88

over old sewing machines, assembling some kind of garments. A sweatshop. The

workers barely noticed him as he ran through the factory, but one woman, clearly

the supervisor, started running after him and chasing him with a broom, screaming

at him in what he assumed was Mandarin Chinese. At the other end of the room he

saw a closed door marked “emergency exit.” Hoping to get lucky, he smashed the

handle and plowed through the door. Good. Just as he expected, the alarm was

either disconnected or broken. He plunged down the stairs to the exit at street level.

He opened the door and looked both ways. He saw no one. He ran out into the

street, hoping to flag down a ing taxi. Not seeing one, he fled down the block to

the nearest cross street, which was Dennison Street, a major thoroughfare.

Behind him, he heard a shout. “There he is!”

The two thugs were about 200 yards behind him. Collin made a sudden left turn

on to Dennison. He saw a free taxi approaching. He jumped out into the street to

flag it down. The cabbie slammed on his brakes. Collin yanked open the door and

slid into the back seat.

“Holy hell, you’re going to get yourself killed, buddy!” the cabbie shouted in a

south Asian accent.

“Get me out of here! Drive! Drive!” Collin shouted, smacking the back of the

driver’s seat with his flat palm.

“Okay, buddy, okay. You’d think it was a matter of life or death,” he grumbled.

“Believe me, it is,” Collin said.

As the taxi cab pulled away, he saw the two thugs running down the street and

arriving at the corner. One of them pulled out his gun, but the other one smacked

his arm down. It was too crowded and they were too far away to get off a good shot.

Collin Van Dyke arrived at Manor House sweaty, dirty and out of breath. As he

entered the main hallway, Warren came to meet him.

“Good heavens, sir, are you injured? You look a wreck.”

“Warren, I’m fine. A little worn out, maybe, but not injured. I did get a knock on

the head, but I think that’s resolved itself. On the other hand, Captain Madison is in

deep trouble,” Collin said.

“I see. What’s our plan of action?” Warren asked.

“The Bolverken have got him. I know exactly where they’re keeping him. But not

for long.”

“Are they going to be moving him, sir?”

“No Warren, not moving him. Sacrificing him.”

“Oh, dear. You mean, human sacrifice?”

“Yes, Warren.”

“I suppose the situation is more dire than I had thought.”

“Indeed it is. Quite dire. But I do have a plan. It’s the old fallback.”

“The superstition of the criminal underclass, sir?”

“These specimens in particular. They worship pagan gods and believe in

witchcraft, Warren. Pre-Christian religious ceremonies. They are even more

susceptible to visions of the paranormal than the common variety thug that one

might encounter.

89

“So, I suppose we give them a show.”

“Correct, Warren. A great big show. One of the biggest we’ve put together. But

we don’t have a lot of time. The ceremony is scheduled for tonight, as soon as the

full moon rises. We have less than three hours. We’ve got to move. ”

Andy Madison briefly regained consciousness long enough to realize that he was

crammed into the trunk of a large sedan. He tried to move his limbs, but it was no

good. He was too weak, and his arms and legs were both tightly tied behind his

back with strong ropes, which were covered with strong duct tape. He moved his

arms and legs back and forth slightly and heard metal chains jangling. The

Bolverken certainly weren’t taking any more chances. It would take Andy hours to

worm his way out of his bindings. He had a hunch where he was being driven, so

he knew he would not be in the trunk for long. In spite of this, he could not prevent

himself from drifting off into unconsciousness. Apparently, he still had to deal with

the after effects of a banged-up noggin.

Some time later, Madison regained his senses yet again to find himself in a large,

dark chamber. His head throbbed like a balloon being continuously inflated and

deflated. He strained at the chains fastening his hands and legs together behind his

back. He could barely move. He craned his neck severely to see if he could get a

good view of the room around him. He saw a large, dark chamber made of stone.

He knew exactly where he must have been taken: the windowless, locked, blocky

building on lower Morganstern Street. The secret, underground hidden chamber

below the Temple of the Clan of The Vassals of The Mighty Bolverk.

There were torches burning in holders on the wall, and they filled the chamber

with a slightly sulfurous smell. But there was ventilation in the room, as he could

sniff out a small breeze of fresh air blowing in through some unseen duct. He had

been seated on a stone slab, which he supposed was some type of altar. Behind him

on a wall were the same type of Norse runes that decorated Lindenmuller’s ring. By

now he had stared at the ring so many times that he recognized them.

Just then Madison noted that he was tied to another person behind him. He

twisted his back and turned his head behind him until he thought his neck would

snap. Finally he was able to get a glance of the person tied to him in his peripheral

vision. It was Lindenmuller, and he was unconscious. “How in the hell did they get

him out of The Castle?” Madison thought. “I left him under the direct supervision of

Officer Hanson.” Andy reckoned that the old man certainly wouldn’t be of any help

in trying to escape from this unholy pit.

“So, they got to you too,” Madison whispered. “Guess they really do have their

tentacles everywhere. Makes sense, I guess. Might as well get rid of all the enemies

in one place, at one time. This time, my friend, they are not going to make the same

mistake they made before. They are not going to let us out of here alive.” This

statement did no good at waking up Lindenmuller.

Madison again tugged at his arms fastened behind him. He could feel twine ropes,

plastic ties and duct tape binding his arms together, in addition to the steel chains.

Over and above that, the thick industrial tape covered both his hands and fingers. It

looked like the agents of evil were taking no chances on the possibility of escape.

90

He attempted to begin the struggle against his bonds, but he could barely even move

his fingers. He struggled and grunted as he ground the giant balls that used to be

his fists against the rough stone surface below him, attempting to shred the tape.

He heard a noise. Two wooden doors at the far end of the space creaked open,

revealing lines of people beyond the entryways. Madison looked on in horror as a

line of hooded, robed figures entered the stone chamber. Leading them was one

figure in a crimson robe, carrying an elaborate wooden staff. They all carried

torches. They chanted in unison a strange kind of hymn. The tune was dirge-like.

They sang in a guttural language that Madison had trouble identifying. He felt that

he had never even heard it spoken before.

They walked in single file on to a kind of stage where he and Lindenmuller were

tied up on the stone altar. The robed figures, still chanting, placed their torches in

wall holders at the back of the stage, then walked down the other side of the stage

and took their places in several lines of pews facing the altar.

The chanting stopped and the assembled crowd lowered their hoods. There were

more than fifty people in all, and Madison recognized several of them in the

audience.

Among them were a member of the Police Commission, a city

councilman, and a prominent philanthropist; some of the crème de la crème of New

Holland’s elite. This was world shattering. Towards the back he saw a familiar face

that he couldn’t quite place. It took him a second. Officer Hanson. Well, that

explains how they were able to get Lindenmuller into this demonic pit. And it

probably also solves the mystery of how they got access to The Castle’s ventilation

system and public address system for that appearance by the fake version of The

Corpse. Andy Madison cursed himself and ground his teeth. It struck him, far too

late, that Hanson was a Scandinavian name.

The man with the elaborate wooden staff intoned, “O ye, o ye, all of the

Clan pay heed. I speak in the stead of the powerful spirit of the Mighty Bolverk. All

give allegiance and devotion to the one who will be your spiritual guide and keeper

of the flame of the Northern Spirit. The Clan Leader Comes!”

Silence cloaked the room as everyone assembled remained motionless. The only

sounds were the barely perceptible crackling noises made by the torches, and

Madison’s continued grunting as he tried in vain to escape his bindings.

The crowd remained silent as a large stone door slid to the side at the back of the

stage, revealing a dank, black chamber. An eerie glow emanated from within. A

person wearing a ceremonial kinglike robe of purple velvet, trimmed in ermine fur,

came forth. He was wearing an unusual headgear which seemed to combine a

traditional royal crown and a papal miter. It was layered in gold and encrusted with

many precious jewels. He held in his right hand a large gold scepter, also adorned

with jewels. Madison quickly estimated that the crown and scepter, if they were not

costume jewelry, would be worth several million dollars. The figure came into the

light, revealing his face.

It was Professor Hildeborg.

He was flanked by ten large, beefy young men: the elite shock troops of the

Bolverken. Madison recognized them as the unusually muscled “students” in

91

Hildeborg’s class. They were dressed in black monk’s robes, fastened with belts of

rope.

Hildeborg strode forward purposefully, and powerfully. He spoke in a loud,

gravelly voice. Madison could see that the old “Absent Minded Professor” act had

been a carefully rehearsed pose. Hildeborg raised his arms and addressed his

minions.

“Welcome, fellow of the Temple of The Clan of The Vassals of The

Mighty Bolverk. We claim our mantle as the carriers of the tradition of the Sacred

Bolverken. Tonight is a night we have been anticipating for some time. The Wolf

Moon has returned to its den and blood will fill the skies. And here, in our sacred

chamber, we have delivered the sad, pathetic forms of The Taskmaster and his

conspirator, The Rector of Laws. Tonight, they will be sacrificed to the spirit of the

mighty Bolverk! The Prophecy has been completed!” Hildeborg raised his hands in

triumph.

The of the audience raised their own arms in response, and shouted

lustily in unison, “Hail! Bolverk!”

Hildeborg then went to the back of the stage and sat on a large stone chair which

had been shaped into the form of a royal throne. Intricate carvings of dragon’s

heads, fanged demons, and evil demigods decorated the entirety of the giant block

of stone.

The crowd began chanting earnestly in a language that Madison could never hope

to understand. Its guttural, grinding tones were probably first uttered long before

the Roman Empire conquered most of Europe, but never touched the snowy

northern climes of Scandinavia. The toneless chanting continued for several

minutes. Then someone began playing a large wooden flute, its low, throaty notes

echoing chillingly around the damp stone walls of the dark chamber. One of the

other beefy guards ed in, beating in rhythm on a large drum. Andy recognized

the artifact as being similar to the ones pictured in the redleather covered book, the

drums that were used by the taskmasters on the Viking longboats to keep the slaves

rowing in correct time. Now, Andy thought, I’ve seen it all. But a rude surprise

awaited him, just now. He heard the name, “Ana Janssen.”

Ann Johnson leapt on the stage. She slowly removed her robe. She stood naked in

the dim light of the chamber, slowly writhing to the beat of the flute music, and she

rotated, flinging her arms wildly. Madison stared at the spectacle, disgusted and

fascinated. The tempo of the music slowly increased. Ann Johnson kept up, her

writhing quickening to the pace of the music, her delicate voice moaning in what

sounded like pure pleasure. Now the music had reached a frenzied pace, the notes

piling up against one another in a cascade of earthy tonality, the melody rising,

falling, tightening. Ann Johnson was in another world now, her eyes closed, her

mouth upturned in a state of rock solid ecstasy. She moved her arms so quickly, it

seemed like they were acting of their own accord, like two sinuous snakes encircling

her rotating body. The music got louder and louder, as everyone in the chamber

leapt to their feet, eager to examine her twisting, energetic moves. One of the

muscular attendants lifted a giant mallet and slammed a large gong. Its crashing

noise reverberated across the dank space. The chamber fell silent, its occupants

92

stunned at what they had just witnessed. Ann Johnson collapsed on the stone floor,

her chest heaving with the labored breathing of someone completely exhausted. The

display was over. All continued to stand in silence, dumbstruck by the stunning

vision. Ann Johnson put her robe back on and went to sit at the back of the stage.

Hildeborg stood and addressed his slavish followers. “Now, minions of Bolverk,

that all the conditions of The Prophecy have been fulfilled, the thousand years of

powerlessness and exile will come to an end. The Star Chamber of Asgard will open

to us, and the power of the Gods will descend upon our world, to crush and thwart

all our enemies. Only we, the of the Sacred Bolverken, the grateful

servants of the mighty Bolverk, will have the knowledge to harness these powers

and use them at our command! With the powers of the Gods at our disposal, we

will rule over all humanity!” The crowd broke out into spontaneous, heartfelt

applause.

“Silence!” Hildeborg howled. “Now we shall go on with the ceremony, with Aal

Daach, Part the Third. Continue!” Hildeborg fastened his regal cape tightly around

his chest and again sat on the large ceremonial throne.

More chanting. When will they stop this blasted desecration, Madison thought.

The chanting went on, but a low, guttural moan underlaid it now. A chilling,

anguished cry that froze the soul and made hairs stand on end. The assembled in

the crowd looked around them, trying to locate the source of this frightening noise.

As they scanned amongst themselves, fear rising within them, their chanting slowed,

then ceased. Hildeborg sprang to his feet in rage.

“What is the meaning of this? Continue the ceremonial chanting!” he ordered.

Suddenly, a loud, resonant voice filled the room. It came at once from everywhere

and nowhere. “YOU WILL NOT HARM THEM!” it bellowed.

“Who said that?” demanded Hildeborg. “Reveal yourself. Reveal yourself right

now! You have blasphemed the sacred chamber of the Bolverken!”

In the dark of the far end of the chamber, a shadowy figure came into view.

Slowly, it moved forward, its terrible countenance revealed by the flickering light of

the torches. It seemed to float several inches above the floor, apparently nothing

ing it but a cushion of air. Or was that just a trick of the light, or the lack of

it? It was a figure dressed all in black. A black cape covered its body, and a large

black hat pulled down on its head, partially obscuring its face; a face which seemed

corroded, blistered, and dead.

“What is that?” hissed Hildeborg. “What is it? By the Lord Odin no! No!”

“It is I,” the shambling figure boomed. “I, the Lord of the Undead. The Sword of

Eternal Justice. I have been charged by the deities to dispense richly-deserved

punishment. To strike at the bitter heart of Evil. For I am The Corpse!”

One of the henchmen stood up and pointed in horror, his mouth agape. “He’s real.

He’s real!” One of the other guards attempted to grab at the form of The Corpse,

who extended his arm and applied a very powerful stun gun to the shoulder of the

attacking guard. The presence of the stun gun was obscured by the long black cape

of The Corpse, causing most of the onlookers to believe that the very touch of The

Corpse was enough to bring a strong, overlymuscled man to the floor in a state of

93

unconsciousness. The rest of the muscle men leapt to their feet in a panic and looked

for an exit. They all began running in different directions.

“Sit down, you fools!” demanded Hildeborg. “It’s all a fake! It’s all made up! It’s

not real! It’s nothing but a fairy tale!”

Hildeborg was knocked to the ground as Bolverken ran everywhere in a

panic. Some of them managed to get to hidden doors at the front of the room.

Hildeborg got to his feet and approached The Corpse. “I don’t believe in you. You

can’t exist!” Hildeborg screamed.

The Corpse raised his right arm and unleashed a large, purple bolt of plasma,

designed for maximum visual impact, which knocked the weakened Hildeborg to

the ground yet again. His bloodshot eyes filled with terror.

“No,” he spat in a hoarse whisper.

The Corpse once again shot a bolt of energy from the apparatus attached to his

arm. Of course, this was concealed by his long black cape, making it look like the

lighting was shooting out of his gnarled hand. The energy beam struck Hildeborg,

knocking him down to the floor. He was unconscious, but still breathing. The

energy bolt radiated enough light for everyone in the room to have seen its colorful

display.

The remaining supplicants in the stone chamber, who had witnessed their mighty

clan leader, struck down like the weakened old man that he truly was, took their

viewing of this act as their cue to vacate the premises.

The Corpse took this moment of supreme fear and panic to escape through the

entrance from which he had come; the same secret entrance that Hildeborg had used

to appear suddenly. It was a rotating trap door that flipped up and down at the

back of the chamber. Once under the altar, The Corpse had moved down a low-

ceilinged hallway to a hidden door at the back of the building hidden behind the

garbage dumpsters. He pushed on the door gingerly and it swung open. Warren

was waiting there for him, and quickly ushered him in to the trunk of the limousine,

where a specially padded enclosure was placed to accommodate The Corpse.

Warren slammed the trunk lid shut and ran around to the driver’s door. He got in

hurriedly and slammed his foot on to the accelerator. The limo vanished into the

night in a cloud of fog.

Suddenly, a huge noise was heard outside the chamber. The cavalry had arrived.

Led by Captain Haskins, a fusillade of officers decked out in full riot gear entered

the chamber, truncheons swinging.

Smoke grenades were deployed, filling the

room with thick smoke, which made moving about almost impossible.

Some of the of the temple had not yet managed to escape the stone

chamber, and so were hemmed in by the smoke and the onslaught of police officers.

By this time, Andy Madison had finally managed to free himself from his bonds.

He saw Ann Johnson attempting to leave via the door at the back of the altar. He

jumped up and grabbed her by shoulder. She swung her leg around, attempting a

judo kick, but Madison jumped back, missing her stiletto heel by fractions of an inch.

The extra momentum from her kick carried her into a nearby stone wall, where she

struck her head, causing her to fall to the floor. She remained conscious, but dazed.

94

She bled profusely from her forehead. Madison quickly handcuffed her arms

together behind her back and dragged her to her feet.

“Sorry we couldn’t finish our date,” Madison grunted, “but I imagine we’ll be

seeing a lot more of each other, Ann. In court.”

Collin Van Dyke approached, appearing through the smoke.

“Andy! You’re okay, man. Glad to see it.”

“Collin, thank God. You all right? Last I saw of you, there were two gun-toting

thugs about to blast you into oblivion.”

“It took a while, but I finally left them behind. Don’t ask. Got shot at more times

than I care to . As soon as I ditched them, I ed Captain Haskins,

told him about this place. I met him here outside a few minutes ago. Took us a

while to get past all their security measures. I guess my hunch was right that you

would be taken here. Fortunately.”

“Good thing you did. You know, you just missed The Corpse.”

“Is that right? What was he doing here?”

“Same thing we were trying to do, I suppose. Take these creeps down. He broke

up the party pretty quickly,” Madison said.

“I see you’re having a nice reunion with Ann Johnson,” Collin said.

“Oh, sure. But her name is really Ana Janssen. So, where were you born, really?

Stockholm?”

The smile fell off her face faster than a California mudslide. “You bastard!” she

screeched, struggling against her handcuffs. Two uniformed officers approached.

“Got another one for the van, guys,” Madison said.

“Tough one, buddy,” Collin said.

Andy Madison shook his head. “Tell me about it. Some luck I have with women,”

he moaned. “I can’t tell a decent one from an evil one. This one, boy, she looks like

June Cleaver, but she’s as dangerous as an actual cleaver. Excuse me a sec, guys.

Got to take care of the formalities before I her off to you. Ann Johnson, you are

under arrest.”

“What’s the charge, cop?” she hissed.

“Kidnapping, attempted murder, assault on a police officer. We’ll start with those.

See where we go from there. We’ll probably find a few more once the smoke clears.

Now you can take her away, boys.”

Collin Van Dyke stared at Andy Madison, smirking.

“What?”

“Once the smoke clears?”

“Oh. Damn. You know very well I didn’t mean that literally,” Andy said.

Collin burst out laughing.

95

CHAPTER 20: A Matter of Perception

Chief Pringle bounded into the dark, looming space, demanding answers.

“Where’s Madison?” he barked. “Is he here?” A uniformed officer waved him over

to where Collin and Andy were standing, just below the altar.

“Madison!”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Andy, thank God. You’re all right?”

“I’m fine, Chief. And Collin here is fine also. We were both kidnapped by these

people. Fortunately, Collin was able to get away. He brought the troops out here to

make the bust. He only arrived here after the fact. Make sure I was alright.”

“Good man, Van Dyke. What have you found out, Andy?”

“These people were all part of a dangerous criminal cult, the Bolverken,” Madison

said carefully. “This was their little club house and hideout. Professor Hildeborg

was their leader. I suppose we’ll find out how many people they had among their

ranks, but I’m guessing it was in the hundreds. Their excuse was the racial and

historical superiority of the people of Scandinavia. Their real m.o. was the usual:

robbery, theft, kidnapping, protection, murder for hire, even assassination of

political figures. All in the service of accumulating power.”

“I see. And the dead body that was found on the steps?” The Chief asked.

“The dead man was the son of someone that had been murdered by them years

earlier, Peter Nilsson.”

“Who was he, Andy?”

“Peter Nilsson was a founding member of the cult, a professor of religion whose

interests in Norse mythology became an obsession. So he put together what started

off as a fun little get-dressed-up-on-theweekend and talk about mythology group.

Then, slowly, it turned into actual religious worship. The group quickly expanded.”

“How could they control the minds of so many seemingly normal, upstanding

citizens?” Chief Pringle puzzled.

“You have to , this was the Depression. A lot of people had too much

time on their hands. No income coming in and too many worries about what doom

and gloom the future might hold. Some of the new took things a little too

seriously. Like Hildeborg. Pretty soon, they were talking about human sacrifice and

blood rituals, and racial purity, and total domination of the human race. They

turned to extortion, robbery and theft to finance their grand plans to control

humankind. And they would do anything to anybody who tried to stop them. Peter

Nilsson turned against the Bolverken when he decided that their methods had

become a little too extreme for his tastes. The cult fell into the hands of Hildeborg.

Pretty soon they started in with gun running, drug trafficking, prostitution, and

murder for hire. Hildeborg was supervising the whole mess. Because of his status

96

as a professor, he always had in his classes a new supply of willing recruits. Fresh

meat for the grinder.”

“When Nilsson reported everything he knew to the police, he was wiped out by

the Bolverken’s shock troops. They made it look like a suicide. The trial never

happened.”

“The son, Paul, never knew about his father’s activities until the death of his

mother, only a year ago. Hidden papers proved that the Bolverken had killed his

father. Paul went undercover to get his revenge and find out who was in the

organization. The Bolverken found out his true identity, and knew he had to be

stopped. They killed him and planted evidence on him to discredit The Corpse. The

Corpse was just a convenient fall guy that the Bolverken wanted out of their way.

An obstacle in their pursuit of controlling the crime business. In New Holland, in

the whole country. Ultimately, in the entire world.”

“But hold on a minute, Andy.

Why would Hildeborg lead you right to

Lindenmuller? He would be making it too easy for you,” Chief Pringle said.

“You’re exactly right. But he was making it easy. Hildeborg wanted me to find

Lindenmuller. He decided to get rid of two enemies at once. He was going to shoot

me and Lindenmuller, then frame Lindenmuller for the crime. Nice and neat,

Lindenmuller and I supposedly shoot each other, we’re both dead. No witnesses to

the crime. But the Bolverken assassin bungled the job. He only nicked me. And

they underestimated Lindenmuller. He dispatched the assassin.”

“Look at this, Chief,” a uniformed officer said. He picked up a large manila

envelope that was stuck in a crevice at the back of the altar. It was marked, “To

Chief Pringle.” “It’s addressed to you, Chief,” the officer said.

Pringle looked up. “Let’s see that, Officer.”

The blue jacketed officer walked up to where Chief Pringle was standing and

handed over the large envelope. The Chief saw a note written on its front. Pringle

read it aloud. “To Chief Pringle and The New Holland Police Department: In this

envelope you will find conclusive proof of the criminal activities of The Bolverken, a

criminal religious cult. Some of this evidence stretches back many decades. It is my

hope that by offering you this evidence, you will be convinced of my good intentions

toward the people and the government of the city of New Holland, and my

dedication to fighting the scourges of crime and injustice that foul its streets.

Gratefully, The Corpse.”

Pringle stared at the envelope, frozen, blinking his eyes.

“Well, come on, Chief, open ‘er up!” Madison said.

Pringle tore the envelope open. He pulled out a large stack of papers, some of

them yellowed with age.

“What in the devil?” Pringle blurted.

Madison approached. “What is it, Chief?”

“I’ll be damned,” the chief muttered softly. “This looks like the real deal. I sure

hope to God it is. Records, old, so old…looks like lists of people to be murdered.

Names, places, payments. Cancelled checks, photos, contracts. I can’t believe it.”

97

Madison looked over his shoulder, as Chief Pringle flipped through the brittle

pages. “Looks like this stuff goes back decades, Chief. To the Forties, the Thirties.

No, the Twenties! Wow!”

“You’d better arrange to get this stuff down to the Cold Case division, Andy.

Looks like they just landed themselves a project that’ll keep them busy until The

Apocalypse.”

Madison whistled in awe. “I’ll say. Does that say. .Jimmy Hoffa? Elizabeth Short?

Charles Lindbergh Junior? What in the devil? A contract for the murder of

President Kennedy?… My God…” his voiced trailed off as he chose to silence his

disbelief.

Suddenly there was a commotion just outside the door to the chamber. Raised

voices piped up. The soles of shoes scuffled on the stone floor. The two officers

guarding the door had their hands full trying to keep someone out. Madison

recognized the piercing voice of Berkowitz.

“It’s okay guys,” Madison shouted up to the door. “He’s a reporter. I know the

guy. Let him in.”

Berkowitz and O’Reilly burst through the door. “Where is he?” Berkowitz

demanded. “I know he’s here. I heard it on the police radio. Where’s The Corpse?

Fess up!”

Madison just chuckled and looked down at the floor. “Well, Gary, I’m afraid

you’re a little bit late to the game. You were right. He was here. But he’s not here

anymore.”

“He’s in custody?”

“No, Gary, we don’t have him in custody.”

“Well, where the hell did he go?” Berkowitz griped.

Madison smirked. “I’d never say this if I hadn’t been here myself, but he vanished.

Just up and vanished into thin air. Did anyone see him outside, Chief?”

“No, not that I know of,” Chief Pringle said.

“Yeah, it was a doozy,” Madison said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen

it with my own two eyes. Damnedest thing you ever saw. A puff of smoke, and he

was gone. Like the wind.”

Berkowitz grunted in frustration and clenched his fists. “Damn it, I was so close!

So close! I could almost taste it. I almost had the exclusive! The Corpse was right

here. Right here in this room. But I missed him. I missed him by seconds! I was

robbed I tell you! First, O’Reilly can’t even get a picture of the bastard, and now

this,” Berkowitz whined loudly. He then turned and petulantly stomped out of the

room. “Come on, O’Reilly, let’s put this thing to bed,” he said grumpily. The

photographer stopped and got off a few shots of the stone chamber. His flash gun

stabbed pulses of light into the dim space. “Come on, will ya?” Berkowitz said,

grabbing his second by the collar. His grumpy voice faded until it could no longer

be made out.

Chief Pringle and Collin watched Berkowitz and his photographer leave the room.

Many police officers still milled about the area, the Crime Scene Unit performing

their business quietly and efficiently.

98

Chief Pringle turned to Collin. “Tell me something, Collin, and please be truthful,”

Chief Pringle said. “It’s too much of a coincidence that you ended up involved in all

this.”

“I’ll it it. I was keeping an eye on Andy. That’s why I was there when Ann

Johnson, or whatever her name was, got kidnapped. Only it was all a trick to get us

out of the way. Once I escaped, I knew where they had taken Andy. Right here to

the temple. Both of us had been here earlier in the day.”

“But this all fits together just a little bit too neatly.”

“What fits together, Chief?” Collin asked innocently.

“The Corpse just happens to show up here? I don’t buy it. You’re The Corpse,

aren’t you? I know what they can do with make up and special effects nowadays.”

Collin chuckled softly. He shook his head. “No, Chief. I am not The Corpse. That

is the absolute truth.”

Chief Pringle stared Collin down.

Collin looked back at him imively.

“Alright, Collin, if you can look me right in the eye and say that, then I believe you,”

The Chief said.

“Good. I’m glad I have your trust.”

“And why shouldn’t you?” Pringle said. “After all, I have no hard evidence that

you are The Corpse.” Pringle started at Collin for some time. “For now,” he added,

before turning and walking away. Collin kept a disionate look on his face as he

watched Pringle disappear up the stone staircase.

Collin shook his head. “I don’t know what I can do to convince him. Any ideas,

Madison?”

Madison looked at Collin. He raised an eyebrow. “Not by a long shot, buddy.

Well, anyway, I guess this wraps up another one. Hildeborg’s in custody. Ann

Johnson’s headed for the poky, too. I mean, Ana Janssen. I had two of the boys take

Lindenmuller down to the hospital, have him checked out. He’s been through quite

a bit. We’ve pretty much got the skinny on everything that went on, thanks to The

Corpse.”

“I guess so, “ Collin said.

“You know that as part of my report, I’ll have to describe the activities of The

Corpse.”

Collin nodded solicitously. “Of course you do. I’m as anxious as anyone else to

know what you can find out about The Corpse,” Collin said.

Madison stared at Collin through slitted eyes. He suppressed a smirk. “I’m sure

you are, Van Dyke. I’m sure you are. I’ll be seeing you around, buddy. Don’t be a

stranger.” Madison turned away and walked over to the ranking officer on the

scene. He had a few more questions to ask and a few more statements to take.

Collin put on his hat and made his way up the stone steps to exit the chamber. He

stepped out into the alley and made his way past the lineup of police cars,

ambulances, television news vans, and the truck from the Coroner’s office. Their

sirens had been turned off long ago, but their police lights were still on, twirling

multi-colored light against the brick sides of the nearby buildings. A chilly night

had settled down on the city of New Holland, and the full moon was still high in the

sky. Collin turned up his collar against the cold. His limousine was nowhere in the

99

area. It had returned to Manor House hours ago, and The Corpse had been placed

back into his healing pod, where he was recovering nicely. Collin pulled out his cell

phone and called for a taxi, which arrived after a wait of a few minutes. On the

drive back to Manor House, Collin allowed himself the rare luxury of thinking about

nothing at all, merely staring out the window at the other cars on the highway, or up

at the black, clouded sky. He told the taxi driver to take the long way across the

river.

The next morning at daybreak, the light streamed in through Collin’s bedroom

windows, waking him gently. He showered and dressed hurriedly. It felt good to

wash the grime of the city off his body. Collin decided to come downstairs and take

his breakfast in the dining room. He informed Warren through the intercom.

Collin’s breakfast waited on the long dining table, as rays of sunshine poured in

through the large picture windows, beyond which the green trees of The Walls

bathed in the luxurious light. Warren greeted him.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Warren. How did everything go on your end last night?”

“Just swimmingly, sir. Everything was in order. No problems at all. I take it that

you found some choice items to place into the envelope?”

“You bet I did, Warren. I’ll give you a full description a little later. Those filing

cabinets were packed with decades of the most underhanded activities you can

imagine. Some things that you wouldn’t believe. That I didn’t believe. But there I

was, staring right at them.”

“You know, the police would have found those files anyway. Why the charade

that they came from The Corpse?”

“We don’t know that, Warren, now do we? Someone could have set the place on

fire on the way out the door during the chaos, then the police would have never

discovered them. The solutions to a thousand mysteries would have vanished right

along with The Bolverken. Besides, nothing wrong with taking any opportunity to

convince the police that The Corpse is actually on their side. He really is.”

“I suppose so, Mr. Van Dyke.”

“We’ll talk some more later, Warren.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The morning papers were also waiting for Collin, still warm from the printer. “The

Corpse Escapes!” shouted the front page of The . “Cult Ritual Murders: What

Part Did The Corpse Play?” blared the front page of The Bugle. “Corpse Correction”

punned The Examiner. Collin plowed ahead through the various stories, all of them

containing contradictory eyewitness statements and theories. Some of the various

of the Bolverken, who had all been arrested, were interviewed. The

different publications also hyped to varying degrees the related story of The

Bolverken, the secretive organized crime cult operating in the midst of the city of

New Holland for many decades. Collin thought that was the much more interesting

story of the bunch, but, then again, he had a keen interest in deciphering the inner

workings of the criminal mind. Just one of his many hobbies.

All of the papers

chose to downplay the part of the story where Chief Pringle assured the populace

100

that The Corpse was not in any way involved in the murder of Paul Nilsson, and in

fact, had assisted the police by digging up information implicating The Bolverken in

the many crimes they had been involved in. Of course, such a revelation didn’t sell

too many copies, so the papers had buried that part of the story somewhere deep in

the middle of the section, in the vicinity of the latest restaurant reviews and the lost

dog notices.

Collin noted with interest the copy of The Ledger at the bottom of the stack.

Berkowitz’s story splashed across the front page: “The Cult of The Corpse,”

subtitled, “How I Narrowly Escaped Death At The Corpse’s Frigid Hands.” You

mean How You Showed Up Late To Someplace The Corpse Was Seen Ten Minutes

Ago, Collin thought with a chuckle. Collin eagerly devoured Berkowitz’s purple

prose; a gripping tale fraught with danger, excitement and chills. Somehow, he

portrayed himself as the hero of the entire affair. “This guy is too much,” thought

Collin, shaking his head. “He should write for the pulp magazines.”

It seemed that, as usual, the true nature of The Corpse remained a highly

challenging riddle, even to those who had been in his presence, Collin mused.

Fortunately, no pictures had been taken which could have helped solve that same

riddle. With that, Collin smiled, pushed aside the papers, and happily tucked in to

his breakfast.

Deep below where Collin sat at that very moment, in the massive stone bunkers

holding his secret laboratory, The Corpse was receiving his nourishment as well,

given to him in a manner that only science could provide. At that moment, he

shared the thought that had often and recently ed through the minds of both

Charles Warren and Collin Van Dyke. It was a lonely existence, but a necessary one.

More importantly, he had succeeded. The Corpse had returned to wreak vengeance

upon the underworld. He had regained his reputation, and he had taken down

those that dared sully his name. I am back, The Corpse thought. And he smiled.

101

Out of My Head

By Scott Mercer

(One in a series of explanatory notes from the author)

Those readers that have come this far certainly have exhibited a great deal of taste

and sophistication, and don’t need me to tell them how to a read a book. But for

those who skipped forward to this part, they may be unaware what this short

communiqué contains. If the reader wishes to avoid any deconstruction or

explanation (some may feel such analysis defangs more than a little of the “magic”

that accompanies a tall tale such as this), they should please proceed to the first page

of the story itself, and avoid these few explanatory paragraphs. If the reader desires

a brief orientation to the world they are about to enter, then please, read on.

This story unfolds in a constructed pulp-magazine meets comic-book universe,

which is part 1940’s, part present day, and part hightech future. The story unfolds

in the fictional metropolis of New Holland, which, if visualized, would probably

resemble Tim Burton’s version of Gotham City meets Blade Runner. As to why this

story appears as a novel and not as a comic book, the answer is that it may yet

become one. But for now, it’s down to the bare bones: story.

As far as an easy-to-digest description, I would say the title character, an undead

avenger, is about equal parts Tim Burton’s Batman, the tales of The Spider (the pulp

magazine hero), and the Universal Pictures version of Frankenstein and all its

descendants, with a bit of Blade Runner android and Night of the Living Dead

zombie thrown in for spice. I relish the mixture of the old overwrought styles and

juicy melodrama of the past with the high technology and science fiction themes of

the future: what a sandbox to play in! But the aspect of the story that most intrigued

me was the idea of a monster that was not only benign, but also actively heroic,

unlike a being like The Incredible Hulk, whose alliance with mankind is (probably

justifiably) not exactly solid.

Other writers have explored similar territory with (for example) the characters of

Ben Grimm and Hellboy, but with The Corpse there is also the Frankenstein

element: he is an outrageous monster who was formerly an unexceptional human

being. With his actions as a heroic avenger, this also firmly places him alongside

Spiderman and other “once normal people turned superhero.”

The Corpse not only saves the populace from endless threats, but he gets no thanks

whatsoever for his selfless acts; in fact he is persecuted and his motives questioned

time and time again due to his outward appearance and the fearful notions of an

ignorant populace. Does this make some sort of statement about ourselves?

Perhaps. Most literature does, or at least tries to.

The origins of The Corpse stem more from the unforeseen consequences of science-

gonebad than the supernatural origins of Hellboy, or the extraterrestrial origins of

102

Superman, making him closer in spirit to Frankenstein’s creation, or Ben Grimm. In

spite of his pseudoscientific, rather than fantastic, origins, his m.o. is to exploit the

fear of the supernatural among his immoral enemies for his own advantage in the

endless war against the criminal class (now there’s Batman popping up again).

One difference: unlike Batman, or The Shadow, or The Spider, the monstrous

vigilante and his multimillionaire sponsor are not the same person. Perhaps I have

made things a little too easy for our protagonist, Collin Van Dyke. Is The Corpse

nothing more than a puppet whose unique condition finds him peculiarly unable to

object to serving in this role? Is he being, like so many others have been, exploited

by the Capitalist overclass? The reader will discover in tales, as we

explore the further exploits of The Corpse, including his (its) origins, that such

accusations are plainly untrue. Anyway, I suppose that here I’m trying to anticipate

and defuse future criticism. A fool’s errand for sure.

As the insightful reader can tell, like a mad chef, I’ve taken one ingredient from

here, another ingredient from way over there, and mixed everything up into an

over-the-top salad (or perhaps a stew?) of genre fiction goodness; what I humbly

hope you will agree is a worthy new entry in the grand American tradition of

popular pulp adventure storytelling. Now, dig in to your salad while it’s fresh.

- Scott Mercer

103

WHO… OR WHAT...

IS THE CORPSE???

Is he the Living Dead, come to kill us all? Or is he a soldier of Justice,

condemned to walk the face of the Earth, fighting a never-ending

mission against law breakers, so that society may function?

He dances on the brink of death and tumbles back, looking like a rotting

zombie, but possessing the strength of great multitudes. Striking fear

into the hearts of the criminal underworld and the general public

alike, he walks the night, looking to crush evil. Always decaying, but

never dying. Never able to rest but always willing to fight on.

Chronically misunderstood by almost all,

but fiercely dedicated to his task.

Is he dead or alive? Man or superman? Friend or foe? Monster or

Master? Angel or devil? Vigilante or Victim? Plague or Gift?

He is all of these things, and none of them.

He is…

T H E C O R P S E !

104