A mental alarm clock does not make a buzzing sound inside one's head, but it is no less disconcerting to be pulled from a strange dream by an irresistable force than by a noise. And despite what some have cliamed, having a strong sense of self offers no real protection against the dislocation of awakening.
And yet, as Kent returned to consciousness, perched behind one of the gargoyles of the Flatiron Building, he realized that dislocation could be a comfort. For a moment, when he knew neither who nor where he was, he hadn't been angry.
Even as memory returned, the fury that had driven him through the night and into the morning had burned itself out. Aside from psychopaths, no one could maintain that level of rage for very long.
Just as well. It was, Kent thought with disgust, a near miracle that he had neither killed anyone during his rampage through New York's underworld, nor been killed himself. With the light of day above him, he wasn't even sure what he'd been trying to accomplish. He'd known that what little contact there was between supervillains and "mundane" criminals was uniformly one-sided; the people he'd vigourously threatened and assaulted last night would never have known where the Jester laired, even if some of them had worked for her.
So what had it been, then? An excuse to let out steam? If so, then he'd fallen to a lower plateau than he'd been on when McGovern found him in New Orleans, drinking himself into oblivion. Danger and the experience of testing himself to his limits were as addictive to him as alcohol might be to a prospective alcoholic.
His father wouldn't have succumbed.
Angrily, he shoved that thought away. No, his father would have acted like an imperturbable bronze glacier, never showing any sign of pain or confusion. But his father had also been institutionalized for three years after his last adventure had proven too costly, and had never been the same after that. No, Kent wasn't his father. He didn't want to be.
And even more to the point, he had capabilities that his father had lacked, and it was past time to use them. He closed his eyes, ran through a sequence of meditation techniques to calm his anger and center his consciousness, and then opened his mind.
Kent didn't dare directly search for the Jester's mind. Quite apart from whatever unknown countermeasures against telepathic intrusion the woman might possess, such a contact would give her enough warning to evacuate and head for a new location.
For a moment, he did send a projection of thought outward to search for Theresa, but it came back a resounding negative. This didn't stop him; the Jester knew his capabilities far too well to not make use of a modified tau-field generator, such as had recently become available on the black market. An ordinary tau-field, with its psychically impermeable bubble effect, would only have drawn his attention, but the modified field granted a sort of camouflage to those it shielded.
Ceasing his active scan, Kent began a more passive search, allowing the psychic impressions of an entire city to gradually flow through his mind.
Quantum physicists have been saying that observation changes the observed for quite some time now, without quite realizing the deeper truth of that statement. Sentient minds, by their very nature, affected the reality in which they existed -- unconsciously in the overwhelming majority of cases, but deeply nonetheless. Just as a great detective might deduce the places where someone had been from a million tiny clues on his person, a great telepath could perceive the billion subtle indications of someone's presence in the fabric of reality.
And if Kent Masefield was not the greatest telepath of his generation, he had at least been trained by her teacher. And skill counted more than raw power, in this instance, along with no small amount of endurance. Experiencing the collective mind of a city, especially one like New York, was seldom pleasant.
But it worked.
There.
* * *
The police speedboat drew near the docks of Ellis Island. Moments after it docked, three men deboarded and headed up towards the Immigration Center's Main Building.
"The real clue wasn't all that stuff about a `lady less lovely'," Harry Drescher explained. "It was the off-hand reference to `her good name won't be all that she'll lose'. Now, there are less complicated ways of saying that the Jester's men -- `loveless lackies' -- will gang rape their hostage, even if the writer was trying to be subtle. Combine that with the fact that the victim used the alias of Smith. When this place was actively used as an immigration center --" He broke off, abruptly realizing that Steve was watching him with interest.
"Go on," the older man prompted.
"Uh ... during that time, there were quite a few cases of people with `foreign' names being given ones thought more `American'. Like Smith."
"Or Rogers," Steve commented placidly.
Drescher felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. "Yes sir."
"Steve."
"Right. Anyway, since this is near the Statue of Liberty -- `a lady less lovely -- until lately' -- that's the other clue. The author is bisociating the Statue with herself, and her thugs with the people who worked at the Immigration Center. And I believe that those facilities weren't refurbished as part of Lady Liberty's facelift --"
"Actually," Joel interrupted as they reached the doors, "the Grand Hall was cleaned up. My dad and I visited it in '87. In fact, the entire Main Building is being converted to a museum."
Drescher stared at him aghast. "Then there's no way that the Jester could be holed up here! I've led us all on a wild goose chase."
"A little more confidence, Lieutenant Drescher," Steve commented. "You'd be amazed where secret bases can be concealed." He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but fell silent.
"Right. So let's get to it." Joel had unlocked the door using the key they obtained, and now flung it open and dove in. Steve followed closely behind, moving much more warily, while Drescher brought up the rear.
The entire building seemed deserted, and Joel immediately noticed that the recent renovations seemed oddly unfinished, even for a day off. There was a sense that things had been left lying where they were some time ago, instead of only yesterday.
Silently, Steve gestured towards a half open door marked "Employees Only." Joel nodded and gently pushed the door the rest of the way open. The corridor beyond was still darkened as he moved into it.
Then a light flashed into his eyes.
"G'day," the Jester said, holding a large flashlight in one hand, and a large pistol with its muzzle very close to Joel's forehead.
And grinning. Her green lipstick set off the impossible purple shade of her hair and eyebrows, against the clownish white of her face. As always, she wore a red trenchcoat and fancy gloves of similar color. But for the first time, perhaps because he'd never been this close to her before, Joel realized that there was something naggingly familiar about her golden eyes.
He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, and the Jester's eyes moved off him for just a moment. Her grin seemed to grow as she saw who was with him. "Back up, slowly," she suggested. "We wouldn't want my itchy finger to spasm as any thrown blunt objects hit my head, now would we?"
Joel knew how his teacher thought -- that he would be running scenarios through his mind. That he hadn't already acted meant only that none of the scenarios included a sufficient chance for Joel to escape serious injury. For now, the only thing to do would be to go along with the Jester until the situation changed.
Backing out of the darkened corridor changed the situation, but not for the better. Nearly a dozen men in cut-rate Hydra uniforms stood in the hall, armed with a variety of small arms. Joel turned to watch Steve evaluating, and knew from his frown that the answer still wasn't good enough, especially considering Drescher's presence.
"So," the Jester said, after dropping the flashlight. "What brings you all the way out here?"
Joel turned back to look at her. "You know damned well why we're here."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Nope. Masefield's the one who reads minds. I just do the occasional telekinetic trick."
"You sent a letter to UNSTA, telling us where you were and --"
"Now, how likely is that?" the Jester asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "I mean, I'm a homicidal sadistic sociopath, but I'm not crazy. Why would I announce my recent acquisition of a secure hide-out, months before I'm ready to do anything with it?"
"But the letter -- it said --" Joel broke off and turned to look at Drescher, who had begun to move his hand towards his jacket pocket.
"Slowly now," the Jester said calmly, keeping her gun pointed at the side of Joel's head.
Drescher produced the letter, and the Jester gestured for him to throw it to her. He did so, quickly and abruptly, throwing it a little to her side so that she'd have to lean over to catch it and --
Her fingertips brushed the paper, and it stopped in mid-air and fell into her hand. "Nice try. Boys?" Two of the men stepped up to stand behind Drescher. "If they move while I'm reading this, blow his head off." She unfolded the letter, and keeping her gun pointed at Joel, looked down to read it.
A few moments later, she let out a hideous chuckle. "My, someone's got a sick sense of humor."
"We'd noticed," Steve commented.
"Oh, I'm bad, I knoew it, but whoever wrote this makes me look positively virtuous. Jo-el, my dear boy, has Masefield ever shown you some of my prior correspondences with him?"
"No," he said slowly. "He hasn't. Why?"
"First, while I have a variety of names for my bete bronze, I would never call him `Kenny', much less `my dear Kenny'. I could never bring myself to pen such an absurdity without gales of laughter. Moreover, the implication that I would let the boys have their way with a prisoner is deeply offensive to me."
"Why?"
Her grin widened once more. "Surely you know the old saying. `If you want something done --'"
"So what you're saying is, you're not holding Smith hostage?" Steve interrupted, barely masking his distaste.
"Smith, hm? Theresa Smith? Is that who this is all about?" The painted woman nodded, as though confirming a suspicion. "True enough, oh captain my captain. I've got an idea who might have done this, though."
"Who?" Joel snapped.
"Now, if it's unlikely that I'd blow my cover before I was ready, d'you really think I'm about to spill something like that? Now, let's see. The bounty on your head, me Bucko, is around twenty-five million. Mr. Well-Preserved-Senior-Citizen was worth a few hundred million last time I checked -- oh, will I have fun shopping! And then there's you." She paused, gazing speculatively at Drescher. "Have you annoyed anyone enough to make them post a bounty for your capture?"
"I don't think so."
She stared at him with clear shock, then her face twisted in exaggerated disgust. "Oh my lack of god. You could have lied, and then I'd have to check, and you'd have had more time to make up some sort of plan. Instead, you give me the dumbest possible answer! Kill 'im, boys, you're doing the gene pool a favor!"
"Boss, wait!" a voice cried out from down the hallway, over the sound of running feet.
Not all the Jester's men turned to look at the source of the voice, but Drescher's two appointed executioners did. A man dressed in the same uniform had begun to run towards them.
"What?" the Jester asked, clearly annoyed.
"It's like Omaha Beach, boss! Whole boatloads of cops and spooks are comin' in for a landin! Helicopters! Paratroops! The works!"
"What?!" she shrieked, turning her eyes off the prisoners to stare at the running man.
Who promptly leapt into the air, spinning with one leg describing a perfect circle that ended in one of the executioners' heads. His other leg shot out at that moment, sending both gunmen reeling to the floor. The reaction from the kicks sent him sommersaulting forward, bringing him to Earth on his own two feet.
And gold-flecked eyes met golden ones.
"Masefield," the Jester murmured, drawing back a pace.
"Where is she?" Kent snarled.
It was all the distraction Steve needed and then some. Nor did Joel stand idle, and if his method of combat lacked the style of his teacher, it did the job quite nicely. Within a few of Drescher's breaths, the four of them and the Jester were the only ones standing in the hallway.
"I asked you a question," Kent proceeded, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened behind him.
"So you did. But you know, I'm fairly sure that you and I are mortal enemies, which essentially frees me of any obligation to answer your questions. Anyway, I don't have her."
"Obviously. The letter was intended to tell me that you'd know who did. Clearly, whoever sent it doesn't like either of us."
"Since nobody likes me, that's not very unlikely. I still don't see why I should help you."
"It's in your own best interest."
She laughed, then, a high ringing laugh of sheer abandon. "How's that again?" the Jester finally gasped out. "Are you planning to say nice things about me at my trial? `Sure, she's killed hundreds of people, but she helped me find my squeeze, so go easy on her'?"
"No," Kent said quietly, taking a step towards her. "But I think that your education needs some work ... at College."
The last word hung in the air as every trace of mirth fled the Jester's face. "You wouldn't," she muttered. "You wouldn't dare." Her voice seemed to have lost its faux-English accent.
"Wouldn't I?" Kent asked, the fury beginning to return to his face and voice. "For years you've mocked and laughed at everything that's decent. I've lost count of the number of people you've murdered to satisfy your perverse need to get me angry. Well congratulations, you've succeeded. You've made me angry enough to do something I swore I'd never do!" He suddenly calmed, and his voice took on a mocking note. "And after the surgeons at the College are done with you, you'll be happy to help me, to tell me anything and everything. Won't that be nice?"
She stared at him, her mouth hanging open and head shaking slowly from side to side. "You bloody savage," the Jester finally spat. "You stand there and bleat about what I've done when you plan to have me lobotomized?"
"I will do what I must do," he said succinctly, enunciating every word. "You are stealing precious time that I need to --"
"Time?" she sneered. "You can't imagine what I'm going to steal from you. Very well." She unfolded the letter and looked down at it. "Interesting pattern of alliteration, wouldn't you say? Almost as though it meant something."
Kent seemed taken aback by the Jester's sudden change to a business-like demenour, but he followed along. "There are twelve words beginning with the letter L -- but the only pattern that suggests is that L means something to the author, since L is the twelfth letter of the alphabet."
"You miscounted. There's thirteen. `Un-Lovely', see? Both the negation of the word and the increased number point to the letter M. Now consider the closing. I'd never close a letter to you with `Love Always'. Such a suggestion would make me laugh, if it didn't make me sick. So drop out my name, and we need to substitute something starting with M into the first word. While we're there, why not abbreviate the `Always' to A? So that it seems that this letter closes with M.A. Does that suggest anything to you?"
"Mikhail Andropov," Kent hissed. "But where --"
"Who's Mikhail Andropov?" Drescher finally interrupted, unnerved by the way the two of them had fallen into a colliquy without paying any attention to the others present.
As one, Kent and the Jester turned to look at the detective, and many men might have quailed beneath the pair of hard stares directed at him. But Drescher had already had a very long day, and would be unfazeable for a while.
"New liaison?" Kent finally asked Joel, who nodded in affirmation. "Fine. This is a freebie. Mikhail Andropov is the name he was using to coordinate Soviet psi-war efforts in Afghanistan. I don't know if that's his real name, but it's what I call him. He's also gone by Mikhail Grigorivitch Rasputin, and the first time he operated in the States, he called himself Michael Manson. That name might be familiar to you."
Indeed it was. "Michael the Body Thief?" Drescher gasped as a memory of a nightmarish case from the files of the Arkham Police Department flashed through his mind. "But he's supposed to be --" He clamped his jaws shut before the final, damning cliched word could escape.
"Right." Kent returned his attention to the Jester. "I suppose that you don't know where he's hiding out?"
"You know as well as I do," she said in a somewhat subdued tone. "This has all been directed towards you. So he'll head for the last place that you'd ever think to look, the place that will cause you the most pain."
Kent frowned in confusion and opened his mouth, perhaps to demand clarification. Then understanding swept across his features. "The Eighty-Sixth floor," he whispered in a voice of horror.
She blinked, only. "You said it, I didn't."
For a moment, he looked at her face, as though trying to see proof that she wasn't lying. After a moment, he said softly, "He scares you too, doesn't he?"
"Don't. Just shove off."
"Just a moment," Steve interjected. "What makes you think we're just going to let you walk away? Even if there aren't any outstanding New York warrants for your arrest, I'm fairly sure that Federal charges await."
"Because taking me in will slow you down, and who knows what'll happen when Mikey finds out that I'm in the clink. And furthermore, when I break out, I won't hesitate to off any cops that get in my way -- do you really want that on your conscience? And before you suggest that it should be on mine, I don't have one."
"Let it go, Steve," Kent said wearily. "There'll be another day."
Steve didn't seem inclined to accept the situation, but he didn't move as the Jester turned and headed towards the door leading to the darkened hallway. "All right," he said heavily, "but you'd do well not to be here when we finish with this Michael the Body Thief."
She paused at the door, and turned to look at him with an expression of frank disbelief. "Optimist."
He smiled. "Always."
For once, the Jester didn't get the last word, and thus thwarted, faded silently away.
"She was right about one thing; it's quite probable that Andropov has this location monitored." Kent turned to head out to the dock. "This is my problem, gentlemen. You're not obligated to accompany me--"
"Technically," Joel interrupted, nodding his head in Drescher's direction, "a member of the NYCPD, like Harry here, does have to accompany you if you want to make any arrests." He grinned then. "And Steve has this thing about seeing things through to the end, and me ... well, your mother always told me to keep you out of trouble."
Kent let out a profound sigh. "All right. Someone should radio up some officers to deal with `the boys', though," he noted, giving the two words an uncanny imitation of the Jester's voice.
"Just a moment, Kent," Steve interjected, a decided edge in his voice. "I have to know if you were serious about what you proposed to do, a while ago."
Kent didn't meet Steve's gaze. "Even if I had been, it wouldn't matter. When I found my father's notes on the Crime College process, I burned them. Perhaps that sort of thing was right in his time, but not in mine."
The evasion of the answer was clear to Drescher, and he could tell from Steve's face that it didn't satisfy him either. But that didn't stop him from nodding in agreement as Kent said, "Now let's get going."
To Be Concluded
This story, while incorporating characters held under copyright by Marvel Entertainment, Time-Warner, Peter O'Donnell, and Columbia Pictures, is copyright 2000-2003 by Chris Davies.
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