Outside the Millard Fillmore Music Conservatory, a decrepit three-storey monstrosity that had been unused for a decade or more, almost a dozen police cars sat on the wet streets, their light flashing and radio calls echoing, muddled and indistinct, through the cool night air. The crime scene was alive with officers, specialists and paramedics swiftly moving about the dramatically lit location.
Officer Maria Blakeman, who had called in the units for back up and rescue, watched, alone and almost unobserved from inside the Conservatory, as the smoothly operating machine went about its work. The Mitropoulos Police Department was uncovering those behind a series of high profile robberies that had occurred over the last week. They were also learning about the activities of a new gang that had only recently emerged in these dilapidated sections of the city along the Hutson River, activities that might have included drugs and large-scale weapons purchases.
Maria was pleased with her role in bringing this chapter in the city’s criminal history to an end. In doing so, she had saved the life of Mitropoulos greatest heroine, Crimson Flare, who had been captured by Ape Greystook and his gang; Crimson Flare, who had been instrumental in Officer Blakeman’s own choice to enter the Police Academy. Having graduated from the Academy less than a year earlier, the policewoman had already shown her abilities and her intelligence in numerous cases. Her doggedness in pursuing the innocence of Crimson Flare would gain her another honour in what has thus far been a distinguished career. She smiled as her heroine approached her to give the officer her thanks.
Officer Tim Westbrook angrily watched as his partner, Officer Maria Blakeman, and Crimson Flare slowly walked together from the Millard Fillmore Conservatory, exiting through the large double doors to the street below. Outside, the blinking lights of nearly a dozen police cars tore at the darkness, red and white and blue streaks crisscrossing the dimly lit crime scene. Walking slowly, they seemed to be confiding in one another. Maria had given the heroine a bottle of water, and Westbrook watched as Crimson Flare used it to clean the filth from her face. They then walked out into the street, where the flashing lights of back-up units, crime scene units, the ambulance, and even a police electronics laboratory—to deal with that mass of computer and other equipment found tucked away in a room in on the first floor—reflected off the brick fronts and wet streets around the old music building. The policewoman took Crimson Flare’s gloved hands in her own and spoke directly to the heroine.
Westbrook had seen enough. The two police officers had come to this old, seemingly deserted music education building when reports of noises there these past several nights had led some to suspect that a band of Mitropoulos’ homeless had taken up residence, and were using the site to stoke their alcohol or drug habits. What the officers had discovered was much more.
Maria had investigated upstairs; he had gone to the ground floor. He found a room filled electronic surveillance gear, and he saw murky black-and-white images from security cameras installed upstairs of a bound naked woman being tortured by a group of people. Investigating further, he found three mini-DV cassettes lined up neatly on a desktop in the same room; next to them was a professional video unit, like the TV news crews would use. Assuming them to be evidence of the crime, he pocketed the cassettes. They would be turned over to the detectives in charge later.
But he quickly forgot about them when Maria came racing into the electronics room. ‘I’ve called for back-up. Get up to the entrance and wait for them. Get them upstairs as soon as they arrive,’ she whispered harshly.
Just before she returned to the upper floor, she said, ‘We’ve got to save her.’
As the scope of the criminal activity there became more evident, more and more units were called: Back-up units for the two criminals had who wanted to fight it out, though the gun battle was over before most of those units arrived; an ambulance for Ape Greystook; a hearse for the dead redhead sprawled on the iron fence outside the building; the police van for the electronics.
Police swarmed through the building. Crime scene investigators followed gun-wielding officers into each room and began their work once each had been cleared. Gradually evidence was accumulated against the criminals regarding the series of crimes that had swept Mitropoulos these last several days, crimes that had been laid at the feet of Crimson Flare. Equipment that allowed for the projection of images (not unlike what he had seen at the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland) quickly cleared Mitropoulos’ Masked Maiden of the accusations. The loot from these robberies was discovered in another of the rooms; a shopping list of weapons and armaments was prominently posted over a desk that looked like it belong to Ape Greystook; correspondence with Fareed Gouyannou, a name known to the police as a leading drug supplier to the city, was also posted there, and it indicated that Ape was in debt to him in the amount of several millions; and, finally, there was Ape himself, his body broken in his fight with Crimson Flare, mumbling incoherently as he was taken to the ambulance. The paramedics had filled his arms with tubes in an effort to stabilise him, and the murmurings ceased. The EMS vehicle raced from the scene, its siren blaring.
The other two men, who had been killed in the shootout with police, as well as the tall redhead impaled on the spiked iron fence outside the building, were examined by the forensics staff and shortly removed to the top of the stairs in front of the Conservatory. Identification showed that each had a long list of priors.
Maria stood watching the police doing their work, admiring the smoothness and ease of the process. Tim Westbrook sidled up to her and stood next to her.
‘I guess you’re pretty satisfied,’ he said.
‘You bet.’
‘Got your girl friend off the hook for all of those crimes, didn’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Maria turned to face her partner.
‘Nothing,’ Westbrook said. ‘Only,’ he followed quickly, ‘only, thanks to you, Crimson Flare gets away scot-free.’
Maria, both shocked and furious, turned to face him. ‘Do you have any idea what she went through? And how important bringing down Ape and his gang is for the safety of Mitropoulos?’
‘Yeah, well, you only have her word for that, don’t you?’
As Crimson Flare walked slowly from the Conservatory, her first sensation was one of relief. The parting words from Officer Blakeman still echoed in her ears.
‘Don’t stop, Crimson Flare. We need you.’
She felt the pain in her chest, where her broken ribs would need attention. The fracture was as yet unhealed; she was surprised at that, because her body always healed any kind of injury quickly. The ribs had been broken days ago.
But she also felt the police watching her. Conscious of her glittering costume clinging tightly to her petite form, she knew some, like Maria Blakeman, plainly admired the heroine for her actions and the model she offered to the community. The sequins catching and reflecting the flashing police lights drew the eyes of all on the scene to the figure of America’s Darling as she walked away. The Maiden of Mitropoulos wondered how many, like Maria Blakeman, were pleased about her survival and vindication. She wondered how many others viewed her in a different light.
Her trip home had been slowed by the ache in her ribcage. A few hours later, following a lingering hot bath, Karen Perry, wearing her XXXL Penn State t-shirt and cotton panties, stretched out on the sofa in the living room of her apartment. Lynn Simms had arrived while she soaked and quietly let herself into the apartment. Karen’s blonde friend prepared a breakfast for the two of them. Lynn had been shocked when Karen showed her the bruise just below her left breast.
‘I didn’t think Crimson Flare could be injured like that.’
Karen spoke easily, though the pain would occasionally rise up in her chest, and she would shudder. ‘Neither did I. I’d been hit with baseball bats, iron pipes, everything… and I’d never had anything broken.
‘I guess Ape must have done something right.’
‘Don’t joke, Karen. You told me about how quickly you heal. What happens if those broken ribs heal improperly? What if they’re already knitted? How will you correct that?’
Karen had spent so much time unconscious, thanks to the Nemissesitor, that she feared that her remarkable body, whose workings, even at this late date, she didn’t completely understand, might heal improperly. But, when she had departed the Conservatory crime scene, her nurse’s hands had told her that the broken bones were still in that condition.
‘The bruise is starting to disappear. While I was soaking, I began the process of correctly allowing the bones to heal. Broken ribs can’t be put in a cast, you know. It simply takes time and the right conditions. Since they were broken, the conditions didn’t allow for any sort of healing.’
‘Don’t lecture me, Karen. If there were a problem, who would you go to? You can’t take your condition to the hospital without risking your identity being discovered. You need to have them treated.’
‘You’re right, Lynn. You are the only one I can turn to. But I also know something about treating these kinds of fractures, I know they haven’t healed, and I know that they will now get a chance to heal.’
‘When did Ape break them?’ Lynn’s concern sounded in her voice.
‘I think it was the first night. I’m…’
‘THE FIRST NIGHT!??! You’ve been gone four days! And they’re not healed? What happened to you?’
There was a lot implied in Lynn’s outburst. Karen tried to calm her friend while giving her the answers as she knew them.
‘I don’t know what happened during most of that time. I was unconscious, thanks to a weapon that has been resurrected. A government project—an anti-personnel weapon—called the Nemissesitor. It attacks the inner ear.
‘Anyway, Nancy and her men used it to keep me unconscious most of the time. I don’t know what happened during that time. But you’re right. I should have healed in the space of four days. Why the ribs haven’t knitted, I don’t know. But, I think it’s a good thing they haven’t. Here, with your help, they can heal properly.’
‘You don’t know what happened during most of the time? What do you remember?’
‘When I returned to consciousness, most of time they simply turned up the Nemissesitor and knocked me out again. Other times…’ she paused, struggling to remember.
‘Other times?’
‘Other times, I remember lights. They drugged me. They used some drug that Chan had developed to control me. It kept me conscious but I couldn’t resist. I remember lights. They tortured me, I think, humiliated me.’ She paused.
‘Raped me.’
Lynn rose and walked toward her friend. Sitting on the arm of the sofa, he ran the backs of her fingers through the short, dark brown hair.
‘How much of it do you remember?’
‘Nothing. Only that it happened. Exactly what they did to me is lost. I have no way of recovering it.’
Tim Westbrook got home before he realised that the cassettes were still in his pocket. He took off his uniform and, folding it neatly, placed it on top of the chair in front of his computer terminal. Today’s work would mean it would have to be dry-cleaned, an expense the department did not shoulder for officers. While his dinner was in the microwave, he turned on his video player to see what exactly it was that he had found.
This was not the first time that Westbrook had brought home evidence in a case. On other occasions, it had turned out to be nothing, the case made against the criminal without what he had found.
When the signal from the oven told him that his Lean Cuisine was ready, he set up a tray in the living room, in front of the TV. He pulled a prepared salad from the refrigerator and set it in front of his chair. Then he grabbed the dinner, a bottle of beer, and settled in to see what these perps were entertaining themselves with.
Two officers met outside Tim Westbrook’s apartment. Gary Paladine and Bruce Sealing had been awakened from their sleep following their shifts. Both had known Westbrook for many years, having gone through the Police Academy about the same time. Paladine was in line to be a detective. He had recently taken the exam and the reports had filtered back to him through unofficial channels that he had done well and would see his promotion with the next vacancy. He was known to be one of the smartest patrolmen currently on the force. And one of the most ambitious.
Sealing was nowhere near that level of accomplishment. Not much more than a common thug, he was known around the Department not so much for his skills as for his ability to survive. On two occasions, charges of brutality had been brought against him, but, on both occasions, the plaintiff had decided to drop the complaint. Word was, on at least one of those occasions, he had brought threats against his accuser. He was currently working in administration while the latest accusation was evaluated. In his time on the force, he had gone through a partner at a rate of one every five months.
Both of the officers knew Westbrook to be a solidly competent cop; level-headed and always in control of every situation; so, when they had received his phone calls in the early morning hours, and he was wildly excited about ‘something they absolutely had to see’, and that he couldn’t tell them about it over the phone, and that they needed to get over to his place as soon as they could… they showed up almost simultaneously about fifteen minutes later.
Westbrook opened the door almost before Paladine had finished knocking. The young officer had been standing in the living room impatiently awaiting their arrival. What he had was the opportunity of a lifetime.
After viewing most of the first tape, Paladine broke the silence. ‘Are the other tapes copies?’
‘No!’ Westbrook replied. ‘They’re a continuation. There’s almost five hours of it.’
Sealing looked at Westbrook. ‘Five hours! You watched all of it before you called us?’
‘I fast-forwarded through most of it. But there’s no copied material anywhere.’
‘And you’re sure it’s Crimson Flare; the real Crimson Flare, not someone made to look like her.’ Paladine asked the question that Westbrook had also considered.
‘I found the tapes at the Fillmore Conservatory this morning, sitting alongside a camera. Crimson Flare was there herself. The other people on the tape are the people who were killed at the Fillmore.
‘There’s no question that it’s the real Crimson Flare.’
The silence in the apartment became oppressive.
Again, Paladine spoke first. ‘Well, what do we do with them?’
‘That’s why I called you guys. We need to make a decision.’
Sealing’s response was immediate. ‘Do you know how much we can get making copies and selling them on the net? Do you have any idea how many guys whack off just watching her? There’s even a fetish video about her available now.’
‘That’s one option.’ Paladine’s face showed some concern.
‘What are the others?’
‘As I see it, we have several. One: we simply destroy the tapes and forget they ever existed….’
Sealing turned bright red on hearing this. ‘Are you crazy? Do you know what they’re worth? This is the real Crimson Flare! Not some actress in a costume.’
‘As I was saying, we have several options. One is to destroy them. This would protect Crimson Flare and allow her to continue to do her work.’
Both Sealing and Westbrook were not pleased with that option. Neither was known to be particularly friendly or supportive of the superheroine. Sealing seemed to have an almost visceral dislike for her. He belittled her efforts and accomplishments at every opportunity, he mocked her purported strength, frequently declaring his intent to ‘show that bitch what a real man could do to her.’ The possibilities of the video were only beginning to dawn on him. His partners seemed to be aiming at frustrating these possibilities.
Westbrook’s distaste for Crimson Flare was of more recent vintage and of completely unclear origins. It was only in the last several weeks that he had begun to side with Sealing on the matter of Mitropoulos’ Masked Maiden. Previously, he had almost never spoken of her, for good or ill, and the little the policeman had said, in fact, seemed to be admiring of the way in which she inspired everyday citizens to help the police in their work.
Officer Paladine continued. ‘Secondly, we can turn them over to the police lab and add them to the evidence in this case.’
Westbrook’s eyes shot wide open. ‘Wait a second, Gary. I removed them from a crime scene. True, I was going to give them to the lab boys when they arrived, but between the gunfight and everything else that happened there, I simply forgot about them. I didn’t realise I had them until I got home and… well, by then it was probably too late.’
Patrolman Sealing supported his friend Tim, who had so recently become a convert to the brotherhood of officers who condemned Crimson Flare. ‘Tim’s right, Gary. We can’t turn them over to the lab with out running a risk for him. There has to be some other way.’
Paladine didn’t miss a beat in his examination of alternatives. ‘Third:’ he went on, ‘they can make their way to the police lab by… shall we say, an unknown means? We remove all evidence that Tim has had them, and we return them to the Conservatory or place them in the evidence locker, and someone will shortly discover them. It’s clean, no one suspects Tim’s role, and there’s no illegality.’
Sealing and Westbrook were quiet while Paladine offered this possibility. They didn’t like it, but their friend’s use of the word ‘illegality’ gave them pause. Blinded by having Crimson Flare in their grasp, they almost had not considered what they were doing was illegal.
‘If we are going to go down another road, fourth, we can contact Crimson Flare and let her know that these videos exist, that we have them (of course, we’ll have to protect our identities), and what it would cost to get them back.’
‘NO!!!’ Sealing was furious. ‘We can’t let that bitch off so easy! We duplicate it, we sell it, we send photos to the papers! We end that superbitch’s act once and for all.’
Paladine remained unmoved. ‘That’s the fifth alternative, which you’ve already mentioned. I’m simply offering others for consideration. Of course, if that’s where you want to go with this, running the risk that she might want to hunt down the people who destroyed her career, then that certainly must be considered.’
‘I’m not afraid of her,’ Sealing said flatly. ‘You saw what they did to her in that tape. I could handle her just as easy.’
Tim suddenly wasn’t so sure. ‘Any other possibilities?’
‘I think that’s it. But whatever we do, we have to be in it together. We have to agree among ourselves that this is what we’ll do. No solos.’ He looked pointedly at Sealing. ‘ And we can’t tell anyone else. If there’s profit to be made, we only split it three ways. If there’s risk to be run, there’s even more risk by bringing others in.’
They were all three quiet for a moment.
Sealing spoke first. ‘You know what I want.’ He sounded surly.
Tim looked at him for a moment. ‘I can’t go for that. It’s got too many risks. Let’s go for one single big payday. As a superheroine, she could steal a million bucks to pay us off.’
Paladine smiled. ‘My thoughts exactly.’
The three officers divided the videos among themselves, each taking one of the tapes. Once Tim Westbrook had seen what was on the first tape he had popped into his player, and had watched until he had satisfied himself regarding the nature, the potency, and the authenticity of the material, he failed to pay close attention to what followed. As he told his comrades, he liberally used his equipment’s fast-forward option to view the remainder of what was on the other tapes. Fortunately for Crimson Flare, he had, significantly, begun with what was chronologically the first tape. He had seen only the first ten minutes or so of each of the other two, just enough to ensure that they were not simply copies of the other videos. He had not seen the section of Crimson Flare’s torture where her mask is removed and she was forced to reveal her name.
Lacking this information, the problem for the conspirators was how to get in touch with Crimson Flare in order to make their demands. They considered using CRIMNET, but the last thing they wanted was to alert the criminal underworld about their find. Further, as police officers, they knew that Mitropoulos’ police and civic administration did not have direct access to the heroine. There was no BatPhone.
They considered arranging for a crime that would attract the vigilante, but decided that that would not be secretive enough. What could they…?
Ultimately, Tim Westbrook realised that he had a pretty good idea of how to contact Crimson Flare. He simply had to avoid exciting the curiosity of his partner.
Conversation with Maria had significantly diminished since Tim’s verbal assault on the Champion at the Conservatory the other night. As partners, he knew that eventually they would have to reconcile. Uncharacteristically for them, he made the first move.
‘Maria, listen. I think… I may have been a little out of line with that comment the other night.’
‘A little?’
‘Well, remember. Everybody on the force was looking for her. She was at the top of the Search List. You cut me off as I was reading her her rights. I lost my head because I had lost the arrest.
‘I’m really sorry.’ She didn’t handle sarcasm well.
Maria Blakeman sat quietly, looking straight ahead as he piloted their cruiser down Mitropoulos’ dark streets.
‘I know you really look up to Crimson Flare. Why is that?’
The policewoman was slow to answer, still suspicious of Tim’s interest, but gradually she vented the full significance of Crimson Flare in her life, in her outlook, in her aspirations.
Tim didn’t really listen to most of what Maria said. He was waiting for an opportunity to raise a question that he and Paladine had formulated. When the moment came, he wasn’t slow. ‘You know, this whole series of events has been quite a coincidence. First, we find her at Venable’s Furs. Then we go to the Conservatory.’ He turned in his seat and smiled at his partner. ‘It wasn’t entirely a coincidence that second time. Was it?’
Maria was slow to respond. Tim was stepping on to some very touchy territory. No one was supposed to know.
‘You have to promise….’
‘Promise what?’
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone… and I mean anyone… about this. It could not only put Crimson Flare’s life in danger, but others, as well.’
‘All right.’
‘Say it!’
‘Say what?’
‘That you promise!!’
Tim was chuckling. ‘This isn’t junior high school, Maria.’
‘Promise!’
‘O.K., O.K. I’ll promise.’
‘That you’ll never tell anyone!’
‘That I’ll never… tell anyone.’ Tim felt a little uncomfortable about that.
Maria guided the car to the curb of the brightly lit street. She turned to her partner, her eyes glistening. She looked like she was about to cry.
‘She works with someone.’
‘Wait. What?’
‘Crimson Flare works with someone. Someone who’s on the net.’
‘Who?’
I don’t know who, or anything about them. They’re just there, on the net. And they evidently help Crimson Flare.’
‘There’s someone who’s on the Internet. And this person works with Crimson Flare.’
‘I’m not an idiot, Tim. I’ve managed to figure this out. This person puts out announcements, questions, bulletins. There was announcement that Crimson Flare had been gone for several days, and that her last known destination was the Conservatory. Who do you think made complaints about noises in the Conservatory? Who the hell lives in that neighbourhood?’
Westbrook paused. ‘No one.’
‘That’s right. The people who frequent the site, they made the complaints. I knew about the situation and responded.’
‘How do you find this person, this assistant?’
Four days later, Karen lay on the sofa. The pain in her chest had disappeared and the faint outline of the bruise that had indicated the damage done to her was almost gone. She was consistently more bewildered by her body and how it responded to injury. It had been only four days since she had returned from her private hell with Nancy and Ape. Four days! The same amount of time she had spent in that hell, the same amount of time from Ape’s crushing blow to her ribcage to her emancipation by Maria.
And the ribs were healed.
‘I think I can go out tonight, Lynn,’ she was saying to her friend bent over a computer in the next room. Lynn had been extraordinarily quiet for the last quarter hour; Karen wondered what could have focused her attention so completely. She hoped this startling statement might jar her friend back to this world.
‘Karen, I think we have a problem.’
‘What is it?’ She strolled toward the computer room, so much the product of Stacy’s money and talent, an enclave that Lynn had taken to like a duck to water. ‘What did you find?’
‘When you were being held by Ape and Nancy, did you notice whether they were making a video of you?’ The question got Karen’s attention.
‘I told you that I was unconscious for much of the time, from the Nemissesitor. Then there was Chan’s drug.’
‘Well, there’s a message here, with video captures attached, showing you being tortured. I recognise Nancy and one of the men from the Conservatory—their pictures were in the paper—and they’re….’
‘What?’
‘Well, the pictures look genuine.’
Karen looked at the images that had been sent. She saw her naked body, the bruise below her breast clearly evident; she saw herself collared, with nipple clamps and the small dangling chain visible; there she was, writhing on the floor with Nancy and the shaven-headed figure also visible. Crimson Flare, still masked in all three images, looked devastated.
‘I think…’ Karen was quiet for a long time.
‘I… I think they’re… genuine. Why… were… they sent?’
‘Somebody wants a million dollars for the videos.’
‘Wh-… wha-what?’ Karen was stunned.
‘The videos are scattered in three places around Mitropoulos. When you deliver the money, they’ll let you know where they are.’
Karen ran from the room, sobbing.
‘They have to be cops; they were the only ones there.’ Karen’s reddened eyes blazed with fury.
‘We don’t know that. It could have been the guy who shot the film. You said yourself that you were unconscious and unaware almost all of the time you were in the Conservatory. We don’t know how many people saw you there. With Nancy and two others dead, and Ape in the hospital, he might be trying for a solo score.’
Karen paused. ‘You’re even starting to talk like a criminal.’
Lynn gave a slight half-smile. ‘You know what I mean. It might be the police. But it’s equally likely it’s someone else. It might just be someone who stumbled across the videos and is trying to turn them into some money. They may not be on anyone’s side except their own.’
‘How am I going to get a million dollars?’
‘They offer some suggestions. And they simply say don’t contact them until you have the money. It’ll probably be a blank address with an automated response. Whoever did this is no fool.’
‘I can’t steal a million dollars, even to allow Crimson Flare to remain active.’
‘You said you were going out tonight,’ Lynn said soothingly. ‘Why don’t you? Get back into action. I might be able to figure something out.’
That night Crimson Flare returned to the streets. Even after she had stopped a robbery, when she turned the burglar over to the police, her attitude toward the officers was less friendly than it had been previously. Her discovery that many of Mitropoulos’ Finest were among her enemies, who wished her ill, and the suspicion that some may now be trying to blackmail her; all of this was reflected in her distant and perfunctory dealings with them on this night.
Mitropoulos’ Champion was confused. How could she enforce the law if she distrusted, and was distrusted by, the police? Trying to come to grips with the situation, not wishing to let it interfere with her work, the heroine wished some time to think, to find some time to be alone. She had to sort out all of the conflicting ideas that had just become known to her. America’s Darling returned the Millard Fillmore Conservatory, to the scene of her humiliation, looking for…. Looking for what? A clue? Evidence that it was a dream? Or simply a moment to ponder her future?
The two-inch heels of her highly polished black boots echoed in the high-ceilinged halls of the building. As she climbed the stairs to the top floor, she looked around at the debris of years of neglect, remembering how she had arrived to rescue Nancy, and how, instead, she had herself been captured. The photos that had accompanied the ransom note filled in some of the gaps in her memory. She knew now that it was no dream; in her mind she heard again Nancy’s vile words, words that demeaned Crimson Flare, words that taunted and humiliated her. In one of the pictures, she saw one of Nancy’s cohorts pressing himself against her face as she took him full in the mouth, his manhood running down her jaw. In another, Nancy was smiling as she held the small silver chain that was attached to the nipple clamps that degraded the Champion of Women. In the third of the three, a battered Crimson Flare stared vacantly outward from behind her glossy black mask, while Nancy, her arm around the naked shoulder of the Masked Maiden, smiled broadly, revealing her uneven, yellowed teeth. She seemed to be saying something. It was clearly a capture from a video.
As the superheroine arrived at the top floor, she slowly walked toward the large choral auditorium where she had finally confronted Nancy. To the right was the practice room where Ape had been discovered. The lights that had been set up for the trap that ensnared her still lined the baseboards of the hallway.
She stood still, looking upward at the starless sky through the dingy skylight. Crimson Flare closed her eyes, and imagined what her life would be like if she didn’t fight against the criminals who populated Mitropoulos’ Underworld. She gritted her teeth and her shoulders shook as she tried to conceive it. Was that the only way? Quietly, she said to herself, ‘Stacy, what do you want me to do?’
‘I’ve already told you. I told you not to stop.’ The voice shook the heroine.
‘Wha--!??!’
‘I told you not to stop. We need you.’ Maria Blakeman stepped out from the shadows next to the auditorium entrance. ‘I’m not going to ask who you were actually talking to. But I’m going to give you the only answer that’s possible. Crimson Flare must continue to do her work, regardless of who her enemies might be.’
‘Do you know who her enemies are?’ The heroine felt a little uncomfortable talking about herself in the third person. ‘—My enemies?’
‘They’re everywhere. In the darkest patches of the alleyways all across the city; in the corporate boardrooms downtown.’
‘At Police Headquarters?’
‘Yes, there, too.’ Maria paused as she considered what to say next.
‘You were the one who told me about the policemen who wished me ill. Are you going to protect them now?’
‘I don’t know what’s happening. I only found out that you were out and about on the police scanner when you turned that burglar over to the patrolmen on Weston Avenue. They said you were acting strangely.’
Crimson Flare turned and walked away from her newly found friend. ‘I… I’m being… blackmailed. Someone has videos that were made here, while I was a prisoner, here, in the Conservatory. They emailed a few images to me and threatened to turn the tapes over to the tabloids or make them available on the web, unless I gave them a million dollars. Do you know anyone who would do that?’
‘I hope not.’ Maria considered, and then rejected, the possibility that a policeman, particularly one she knew, would do such a thing. ‘What do you know about the blackmailer?’
‘Nothing at all. I don’t know if it’s just one person, or more than one. I don’t know whether it’s a man or a woman. I have nothing to work with.
‘But I’m almost certain it’s the police.’ Her jaw was set and she thought of Lynn’s admonitions not to jump to conclusions.
‘I don’t…’ Maria began, then thought better of defense of her fellow officers. ‘What can we do?’
‘I have a friend,’ the Masked Maiden said softly. ‘She…
‘I know. Somebody created the website and has to send out responses when you’re… indisposed. It was the person who sent us here when you were being held’
‘She’s trying to figure something out in order to learn anything about this person. Maybe you, working inside the Police Department, can work from a new angle and help us.’
‘Can I contact you—and her—in some way other than through the website?’
Three days later, the combined efforts of Lynn, Maria, and Crimson Flare, who, in her nightly patrols had undertaken intensive interrogations of some contacts she had made while in her pursuit of criminals, had got the trio of investigators only small steps further. The one solid lead that had been uncovered was a negative one; namely, that none of the survivors of Ape’s combined Norman-Savoyard gang was currently involved in any kind of activity. The double calamity of the destruction of the original gangs at the hands of Crimson Flare, followed by the hospitalisation of Ape Greystook, again as a result of tangling with the powerful champion, had disheartened and demoralised the entire gang structure. Whoever was engaging in the blackmail, it was not coming from this part of Mitropoulos’ battered underworld.
‘If I tell him I’ve got the money, it’ll give us the one chance we need to perhaps flush him out,’ Karen was telling Lynn.
‘It’s dangerous,’ Lynn responded. ‘And what if you’re contact with the police finds out that the blackmailer isn’t there. You’re out on the limb with your perfectly formed ass hanging naked.’
Karen was surprised by Lynn’s description.
‘Nevertheless,’ Karen continued without missing a beat, ‘the only other group that might have had access to those videos are the police. I’ve determined it’s not someone working with Ape and Nancy. Right now, Fareed Gouyannou is trying to pick up those pieces, maybe to get some of his investment back. Certainly he has no reason to love Crimson Flare: She cost him a multimillion-dollar drug shipment at the McLeod-Slaughter Mansion only a couple of weeks ago. But he’s never been able to keep a secret: his security is so lax, if he were involved in this blackmail, there’d be several paths to confirm the story. There’s not even the suspicion of his involvement.’ She smiled thinking about how it was Gouyannou’s own people who had given her the lead on the drug drop those several weeks ago.
After a long pause, Lynn nodded her head. ‘I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right. And, what’s worse, I think you’re right about how to deal with it.
‘We have a couple of hours to prepare. I’ll contact our friend with the police and make her aware of tonight’s “drop”. It may be someone she knows, and she can be on the watch for any tell-tale signals.’
‘Crimson Flare will be ready, too.’
Crimson Flare’s glittering form crossed the large open space of Mitropoulos’ Centre Park, a large green area in the heart of the city’s business district, carrying a large briefcase. It was shortly before two A.M. and traffic had all but disappeared on the city streets surrounding the grounds. The only sound was the distant rattle and accompanying horse’s hooves of a single hansom cab carrying two late-night lovers on a circuit of Mitropoulos’ only pastoral area. Before going on her mission, the heroine had contacted Lynn, who found no untoward activity either on her website or on the police scanner. While wishing her friend well in the night’s risky undertaking, Lynn warned her about the dangers inherent in the plan, of her grave misgivings about this escapade. Earlier, Crimson Flare had contacted Maria, who had told her that no officers had given any indication by word or action that tonight might be something special for them. Maria heaved a sigh of relief, as she recognised that she would not be brought into a confrontation with her partner, as she had feared. All of these reports gave the Masked Maiden some cause for concern. What if Lynn were right, and it was someone outside of the Police Department?
She walked toward the copse of trees that the instructions at the website had directed her to. This place was, she thought to herself, well selected. Even though there were no obstructions between the thicket and the poured concrete barrier that overlooked the park’s pathways, the city’s nearly empty streets were more than a quarter mile distant from where she now made her way. Any activity would be almost invisible at that distance to someone walking past at that hour. Furthermore, it would be impossible to shadow someone to or from the site because of the large stretch of open ground surrounding the trees.
A cool night breeze blew across the park. To Crimson Flare, who stood in the open at the edge of the coppice, its slight chill was refreshing. In this early morning hour, it helped to awaken her senses as it brushed the exposed areas of her face. The heroine stood still as she gazed off into the distance looking for any evidence that she was being watched. The tight-fitting cowl that covered her short-cropped hair pressed tightly against her ears and clung closely to the shape of her face. As her face turned in the cool night air, the distant streetlights reflected off the smooth, polished black surfaces that served to hide her identity. She licked her ruby lips in anticipation of meeting those who wanted to hurt her, and then swallowed hard, hoping that Lynn’s fears were as groundless as she had assured her friend that they were. The darkness and near silence reminded her how dangerous a game she was playing.
Her sequined crimson uniform glittered as it hugged tightly against her body. As the Masked Maiden turned, her renowned costume dimly reflected light from the far-off street lamps. For a moment—just a moment—the Champion of Mitropoulos glanced downward to admire the effect. Its taut lines hid nothing from any observer. The crimson-and-gold sequins moved as she moved. Her small breasts seemed to be perfectly shaped, symmetrical mounds, rising and falling as she breathed. They were accented by her petite size, and the costume fell off to her narrow waist, set off by the black belt and holster, which rested easily on top of her flawless hips.
Crimson Flare thought back on what Lynn had said only a few hours ago… ‘You’re out on the limb with your perfectly formed ass hanging naked.’ She smiled to herself. The heroine was well aware of how her body was perceived by Mitropoulos’ criminal element. The sexual assaults, which had become so much a part of their dealings with Crimson Flare, were merely a reflexion of this. And besides, she told herself, it also fit in with the way she was objectified by everyone—the criminals and the police. If they hated her for being a woman, not for doing what she was doing, rape would become more and more a part of their anger. And the mode of their revenge. Dr. Brayfield had said as much during their sessions.
Well, wasn’t that what Stacy had also said? The costume would appeal to the male fantasy. And its tightness—the fact that it left so little to the imagination—would work to Crimson Flare’s advantage in confrontations with her enemies.
Even the gloves worked into this fantasy. Stacy had seen them as further symbols of her virginity, her frailty. As tight as other parts of her costume, they stretched to her elbows, holding tightly to the curves and roundness of her hands and forearms.
Mystery, frailty, virginity: these were the elements of Crimson Flare.
And just a little sluttishness, she thought.
A freshening breeze caught her, and she felt goose bumps rise on her bare neck and upper arms. As she shifted position, she felt the coolness of the breeze through the satin of her gloves against the skin of her arms. She heard fabric rubbing against fabric as she brushed her fingers against her palm of her free left hand. The sound reminded her of Crimson Flare’s mission.
The sheen of her tights shifted as she turned, showing her perfectly round thighs to their best advantage. The cut of her costume took the best advantage of her delicate form. Even her highly polished back leather boots reflected that same faint, distant light source. As she gazed down at her figure, she was reminded of just how much she enjoyed putting on this costume, and how much it would mean to her to have to give it up.
Behind her mask, her green eyes peered into the dark distance. Nothing moved.
In Centre Park, only the sounds of night creatures broke the stillness.
Crimson Flare stepped into the trees. The directions indicated that the drop point was approximately twenty-five yards inside the western perimeter, where a small clearing with a single spruce would mark the spot. Once there, a note buried at the foot of the tree would give further instructions.
She fought her way through the forest, branches tearing at her in the darkness. Beneath the foliage, the small amount of light from this night’s quarter moon was blocked, and as she moved into the trees, even the faint illumination from the distant street lamps was more and more shut out. Soon the Maiden of Mitropoulos was moving in almost total darkness. She tripped her way forward, looking for the clearing.
To her right she saw moonlight spilling onto an open area. The Champion of Women moved in that direction and soon stepped out into the glade. In almost the center of the compact open space was the spruce.
She walked swiftly toward the tree. About ten feet away, she suddenly stopped. There, beneath the tree, Maria Blakeman lay unmoving, tied and gagged. Dropping the attaché case, the avenger raced to the side of the policewoman who had become a dear friend.
She knelt next to the supine figure, gently lifting the head onto her lap. Crimson Flare pressed her face closer to Maria’s as she tenderly patted her jaw with his gloved hand, whispering her name, trying to restore life to the unmoving form.
‘Maria! Maria! Can you hear me?’
‘She won’t hear you for awhile, superbitch.’ The voice came from the darkness on the edge of the trees behind the heroine.
America’s Darling quickly rose to her feet. ‘Who are you? Where are you?’
A second voice at another part of the perimeter answered. ‘We’re the people you tried to cheat, Crimson Flare. And if you don’t co-operate now, your friend is in great danger.’
‘What do you mean?’
A third voice answered from still another part of the periphery. ‘We mean that your friend there has been injected with something that could endanger her life if you don’t raise your hands and walk over toward the trees to your left.’
‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth?’
‘All we have to do is wait,’ the third voice replied.
There was silence for about ten seconds, as the Maid of Mitropoulos tried to consider her options. She stared at the still form of Maria lying before her.
‘All right.’ She lifted her hands, turned, and moved slowly toward the trees that were about fifteen yards from her. ‘Please, don’t hurt her.’
‘We’ll give directions here,’ the first speaker told her in a harsh tone.
‘All right, stop right there,’ the third voice told her. She was standing next to the tall trees on the edge of the glade. ‘Now, don’t move. Or your little friend there will never wake up.’
‘Please, don’t let anything happen to her. I’ll do as you ask.’
‘Yes, you will,’ said the third speaker. He was directly behind her. Crimson Flare could hear his breathing.
Trapped, unable to resist, Crimson Flare’s wrists were seized roughly and pulled down in front of her, where they were quickly tied. ‘N-, no.’ Already the heroine began to feel the helplessness creep over her.
‘In a few moments you’ll leave with us. We’ll let whoever your friend is on the Net know where to come find little Maria and what antidote to apply.’
She was rushed into the back seat of a car waiting, hidden, just inside the arboreal perimeter. It raced out of the park and headed uptown, towards the McLeod-Slaughter Mansion.
Fareed Gouyannou watched as Crimson Flare was taken, unresisting, from the automobile.
‘First, she must learn the cost of intruding on my business. Take her inside.’
Startled by the sight of the drug lord, Crimson Flare, stuttered, ‘What have you done with Maria? You promised—.’
‘I have kept my word, Crimson Flare,’ he interrupted, his accent clearly evident. ‘That is more than you can say in regard to the money you promised me this evening.
‘By now your friend on the Internet has been informed of where to find your policewoman friend and the nature of the antidote to give to her. And right now, you should be much more concerned about your own safety.’
Two large men pulled the petite Champion toward the mansion. Their large hands gripped her bare upper arms tightly, forcing her wrists against her glittering torso. This position allowed the claw to find a position along the rope that was looped around her gloved arms.
Now that Maria was apparently safe, Crimson Flare could begin to free herself from her bonds.
Moments later, Crimson Flare stood in the center of the mansion’s ballroom. Her ankles had also been bound now, and her arms were stretched above her head, secured by a thick wire to an eyelet in the high ceiling. She stood on her toes, trying to relieve some of the pressure on her arms and shoulders, at the same time also diligently working the claw to free herself.
She had barely begun the process when Gouyannou entered the room, followed by three men. A small black leather parcel was clearly visible in the hand of one of them. Crimson feared what it might contain.
‘Crimson Flare,’ the drug lord said softly, ‘you are a great deal of trouble for me.’
The Champion of Mitropoulos stared silently at him, defiant.
‘But I am going to change that. Shortly you will begin to work for me.’
‘Not possible. I have dedicated myself to fighting for law and justice.’
‘Oh, it most certainly is possible. Just as you once worked for the Normans. Gentlemen!’
Five more men entered the room. Each of them carried a length of pipe.
‘Cut her down, and teach the heroine the cost of interfering with my business.’
Even before the taut wire was severed, the first blow landed against the Maid of Mitropoulos’ upper back. The force and the pain took her breath away. Her vision became hazy as she tried to catch her breath.
Another attacker almost simultaneous swung a four-foot piece of lead like a baseball bat, sending it crashing against the shoulders of the avenger, just below her chin She fell noisily onto her back in the centre of the hardwood floor. Her bound wrists and ankles did not allow her to get to her feet. The pain shooting through her body slowed her effort to sit up. She felt the huge hand of one of the men grab her at the back of the neck and easily lift the crimefighter from the floor. The large size of her attackers amplified the heroine’s diminutive proportions.
‘Do you know how many enemies you have made?’ Gouyannou said, smiling. ‘Each of these men has lost a friend, a relative, someone close to him because of your interference.’
‘That’s right, bitch.’ A third criminal swung the pipe viciously, striking across Crimson Flare’s petite breasts.
‘AAAAaaaaaaagggghhhhhhhhkkkkkkkkklllllmmmmmmmm!!!’
Weakened, bound, and in the power of her enemies, Crimson Flare’s cry filled the room.
The gangster whose hand gripped her neck tossed her body aside. She landed on her back several yards away. Her vision reduced to pinpoint by the pain, she looked up at the band of men whose purpose now seemed to be nothing mare than to inflict pain on the heroine.
End of Chapter One