Tales of the Red Panda: The Mind Master (15 page)

The crowds of gawkers that had crowded the streets and
sidewalks around the remains of Joshua Cain’s home had thinned out at last. A
tall, lean man with his hat pulled low over his eyes clung to the shadows as
best he could as the tired remnants of the police and fire squads began to pack
it in for the night. Tomorrow the arson squad could begin their investigation
in earnest, but for tonight the danger was past. A handful of officers would be
on patrol to protect the curious from themselves, but for the official ranks of
law and order, the drama was over.

The man in the shadows would not have agreed with that
assessment. He watched and waited for any opportunity to begin his night’s work
in earnest. His shoulders grew tense in spite of themselves as he heard the
shuffle of footsteps behind him.

“Well, well. A new face,” a voice that must have belonged to
the footsteps chirped pleasantly. “Been a lot of those lately.”

The man in the shadows stammered for a moment, unsure of
himself. He had thought to ignore the speaker altogether, then rejected the
idea out of hand as being too suspicious. The voice did not wait for him to
resolve his dilemma.

“The strong, silent type I see. Kind of a cliché, but the
classics are classics for a reason, dontcha think?”

The silent man turned at last and saw a lanky man with a
press card tucked into the band of his fedora, which was pushed far back on his
head. The speaker stood with his hands deep in his pockets and a smirk on his
face that had the look of permanent status, which was very nearly true. The man
in the shadows forced himself to relax a little as he spoke.

“Do I know you, Mister?” he said at last.

“Maybe not, kid,” the man answered, “but I’d know you at
thirty paces. You’re an agent and you’re new at it. Try to look less like
you’re waiting for adventure and more like you’re waiting for a bus. The name’s
Peters. Jack Peters,
Toronto Chronicle
.”

There was a small pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” came the reply.

“Sure you don’t,” Peters smiled. “Seriously though, kid, I’m
all right. You’re supposed to meet me.” Peters looked at the face of the young
man in the shadows. It was a pleasant sort of face, even if it did have
something of a hunted look that was far too common in these tough times. Peters
could see the man’s eyes narrow.

“I’m just waiting for a friend,” he said, as if that were
the end of the conversation. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

Jack Peters sighed a little. He didn’t want to be here all
night, but Mother Hen seemed serious about this. “Come on, kid. What’s the
number?” he said.

The man was silent, and it seemed clear that he knew what
Peters was asking, but was still uncertain of how to reply. Peters decided to
needle his young friend.

“You look a little too wet-behind-the-ears to me,” he said
with a grin. “I’d say you can’t be lower than… oh, one sixty, one
seventy–”

“One forty-eight!” the young man snapped indignantly before
realizing that he’d been played. Peters just grinned at the young man’s
embarrassment. He stuck out his hand.

“Couldn’t tell you my number,” he said, “and for the love of
Pete don’t ask me for a countersign. But it’s nice to meet you, One
Forty-Eight.”

Agent One Forty-Eight stood frozen for another moment before
a quiet voice let him off the hook.

“May as well shake his hand, Mack,” Andy Parker said with a
grin. “He’s all right.”

“I tried to tell him,” Jack Peters smiled. “How are we
doing, Parker?”

“About the same as usual,” Andy Parker said seriously.

“Swell,” Peters replied, the grin finally leaving his face.

He looked at Parker. The young police officer was in
civilian clothes, but hardly in disguise. Peters guessed that he must have been
looking for an officer he knew for information, and he was right.

“Jack Peters, Mac Tully,” Parker said with a nod. Tully
looked slightly flustered, but he relaxed at least. Peters knew without asking
that he must have worked with the young police constable before; Parker
inspired confidence, even if he didn’t seem to know it.

“So what’s the lay?” Tully asked sheepishly.

Parker shook his head. “I didn’t get much. Probably no more
than Jack.”

“Nix to that,” the reporter said. “Your pals weren’t exactly
forthcoming. Every other paper in town will be trying to stretch ‘mysterious
explosion’ to fill half a page.”

“Not the
Chronicle
?”
Parker needled.

Jack Peters smiled and said nothing. Tully seemed anxious.

“I saw them pull a body out of the wreck,” the young agent
said gravely.

“One of seven,” Parker replied. “They were pretty badly
mauled by the explosion, and the fire didn’t help much.”

Tully’s eyes widened. “Any sign of–”

Parker shook his head. “None of them were wearing a mask, if
that’s what you’re asking. Though with a blast like that, there’s no guarantee
it would have stayed on. But they were all male, which is promising at least.”

“At least fifty percent promising anyway,” Peters nodded.
“Though they seemed to quit the search awful quick.”

Parker bristled slightly. Agent of the Red Panda or not, he
was still a police officer and anything that sounded like criticism of the
force got his hackles up. “It was pretty clear that no one could have survived
the blast, to say nothing of the fire. It’s dark and the wreckage is unstable;
there was no sense risking lives to pull out bodies.”

Peters raised his hands in submission and said nothing.

Tully looked back and forth between the two more experienced
agents. “So what do we do?” he asked impatiently.

Parker grimaced and glanced over his shoulder. “We’re sticking
out like sore thumbs here. Let’s go.” He crossed the street at a quick pace.

“We’re going?” Mac said, hurrying after him. “Do we know
anything?”

Parker opened the door of his old car. “Not a thing. Get in,
I’ll explain on the way.”

Minutes later, the three agents sped along the darkened
streets, leaving Cain’s respectable neighborhood for the more highbrow
addresses to the north.

“Where we going, Constable?” Jack Peters grimaced, feeling
like the car was about to rattle itself apart at the speeds Parker was driving
at.

“Six of the bodies they pulled out of the wreck were a
collection of toughs,” Parker said, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. “All
small-timers, none of them with any connection I ever heard of.”

“Which has us speeding into Rosedale why exactly?” Mac Tully
called from the back seat, where he sat, legs folded and cramped and, like the
reporter, holding on for dear life.

“If that’s who six of them were, the seventh must have been
somebody else, young Mister Tully,” Peters chirped. “Try and keep up.”

Tully bit his lip. “Y’know Peters, I haven’t quite decided
yet whether I ought to clip your beak.”

Peters nodded. “Tough call,” he agreed. “You let me know
when you decide.”

Mac smiled. “You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

“Meanwhile, I think our intrepid young policeman was about
to reveal our mysterious destination,” Peters grinned at Parker.

“Are you two about done?” Parker said seriously. “I usually
work alone, so clever banter isn’t my forte.”

“I’m done if he’s done,” Mac promised.

“The seventh body was just I.D.’d. It belonged to Randall
Allyn. His family estate is up this way.” Parker looked grim.

“Who’s Randall Allyn?” Mac seemed puzzled.

“The Allyns are old money, Mister Tully,” Peters said,
clicking his teeth a little. “They carry a lot of water in this town, and
there’s no particular reason why a wealthy young man like Allyn should be
anywhere near Joshua Cain.”

“Or any of the gorilla squad on their way to the morgue
right now,” Parker added, nodding.

Tully shook his head. “I still don’t see–”

“Think about it, Mac,” Parker said with a glance at Tully in
the rear-view mirror. “Our contacts are worried enough about the Chief that
they sent us out without orders, right?”

“Sure,” Mac said, only slightly annoyed.

Peters picked up the thread. “And whoever the Chief might be
under that mask, he’s pretty clearly got some money at his disposal and some
time on his hands.”

Mac turned pale. “You don’t think that Randall Allyn–”

“No, I don’t,” said Peters. “I don’t buy the Red Panda as
some soft rich bird. I know it makes sense, but I’ve met a lot of these society
types, and they’re nothing like him. And unless I’m wrong, I think Allyn was
too young for the part.”

Parker’s car screeched to a halt in front of the Allyn
estate. “I hope you’re right, Jack,” he said grimly. “But we have to make
sure.”

The three men climbed out of the car and moved quietly
across the lawn.

“How do you want to play this?” Peters asked.

“Quickly and quietly,” Parker said seriously.

“What does that mean?” the reporter asked.

Parker thought for a moment. “It just sounded like what
he
might say,” he admitted at last.

Mac Tully drew a .32 revolver from his coat. “Let’s not keep
still,” he said. “We’re sitting ducks like this.”

“Indeed you are,” said a voice that seemed to come from
everywhere. The agents spun around, trying to pick the speaker out of the
darkness. They could see a dozen forms moving towards them through the shadows.
“Drop the pistol, young man,” the voice commanded. Even were it not for the
obvious logic of the situation, Mac Tully still would have been forced to
comply. There was something about the voice that would not be disobeyed.

The three men stood, surrounded, as the shapes moved closer
and resolved themselves into the best-dressed gang of toughs in history. Jack
Peters gave a low whistle.

“Ambushed by the swellest of swells,” he said quietly. “A
genuine Who’s Who of the rich and richer.”

The tuxedoed men surrounding them stood as still and grave
as statues. Only one man stepped forward, a smile creeping across his hawk-like
visage.

“Well, well,” he said in a quiet voice that rolled like
thunder. “Not at all who I expected.” The smile grew even larger. “How
marvelous,” he said.

The Red Panda opened his eyes and blinked hard. The lights
seemed to swirl before him as he struggled to focus. He blinked again and shook
his head. He was seated in the passenger seat of a sleek, powerful roadster,
and if the sensations were unfamiliar to him, he put it down to the fact that
the car was parked and quite still as opposed to roaring through the city
streets at gut-wrenching speeds.

He relaxed back into the seat. The passenger door was
sitting open, and as he recovered his senses he could see that the car was
parked in the hidden garage in the Underground Lair. His hat lay on the
dashboard and he moved to replace it on his head, but changed his mind and
pulled his mask and gloves off instead. His ears were ringing, but he was
clearly unharmed.

“Kit?” he said at last. There was no reply.

“Kit?” he called with more urgency.

There was a small, flustered squeak from down the hall.

“Kit?” he said again, genuinely concerned and trying without
much success to pull himself to his feet.

“I’m here,” came her voice from down the hall. “I’m fine.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” she said, her voice not getting any
nearer.

“What happened?” he said, sinking back into the seat.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” came her voice again.

He furrowed his brow. “We went out the window.”

“
I
went out the
window,” she corrected. “You were supposed to follow.”

“Allyn was struggling,” he said slowly, as if piecing it
together. “Trying to slow me down, to keep us both near the explosive. He
fought like a madman. I couldn’t…” His voice trailed off.

“You couldn’t force him out the window, you couldn’t get
past the six goons blocking the door and you couldn’t get to the bomb to
diffuse it,” she said grimly. “And you couldn’t bring yourself to cut and run.”

“That’s more or less it, yes,” he said with a frown. “What
are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said from the hallway.

“Well, come in here and do it,” he said. “This is awkward.”

“No,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m… I’m wearing a towel,” she said, embarrassed.

“You’re what?”

“I’m wearing a towel.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought you said. Why are you
wearing a towel?”

She peeked her head into the room. Her hair was dripping wet
and he could just see one of her bare shoulders from around the corner, and the
arm that was clearly locked to the top of a towel to keep it up. She was simply
flustered, but might have seemed a little annoyed.

“I’m wearing a towel because someone woke up and started
hollering for me before I was dry,” she said quickly.

“You took a shower?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

“I was unconscious in the car and you took a shower?” he
needled.

“You were fine, you just got your bell rung,” she said, her
mouth pulled into a cross little pout. “I’ve seen it often enough to know what
it looks like. Besides, there wasn’t a mark on you, I checked.”

That phrase hung between them for a few seconds before he
bit his lip and turned away to keep from laughing. Her cheeks turned a deeply
appealing shade of crimson and she pulled a little further back behind the
corner.

“That’s not what I meant,” she protested.

“I know what you meant,” he said with a crooked smile.

There was a small pause.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m dripping on the floor here.”

“Go,” he said, and then an instant later added, “Kit?”

Her head popped back around the corner. Both shoulders
followed it this time, and he was momentarily distracted.

“What?” she asked.

“How did I get out?” he asked, shaking his head a little.

She held his eye hard. “You wouldn’t leave the kid, but the
record was almost over. I snagged the back of your coat from the ground with my
Grapple Gun and hit the retractor, hard,” she said. “The room blew when you
were mid-air. Knocked you cold.”

There was a small pause. He nodded. “Thanks, Kit,” he said.

“Then a whole mess of rubble hit me, necessitating the
shower. I smelled like an ash-can.”

“I understand,” he said.

“It hit me because I was standing between it and you,” she
added.

“Yes.”

“On purpose,” she said, in case that hadn’t been clear.

“Of course.”

“Tore up a perfectly good Squirrel Suit, too,” she said, her
chin leading ever so slightly as she watched for a reaction.

“Kit?”

“Yeah?”

“Get dressed.”

“Yes, Boss,” she grinned, turning to go. It is entirely
possible that she did not intend to show a little leg on the way out, but it
gave him something to think about while he waited for her to change.

Ten minutes later, clad in the loose, comfortable clothes
she kept on hand just for such an emergency, she found him in the trophy room.
He was in shirt-sleeves, and his feet were bare as he sat cross-legged, seated
on a mat they used for sparring practice. It seemed out of place away from the
gym and she thought at first he might be meditating, but she saw his eyes were
open and focused in the middle distance, and knew that he was lost in thought.

He looked up at her. Her hair was mostly dry, and piled on
top of her head in a manner best known to herself. A few damp strands hung by
her left ear and she had a look that said she was a little embarrassed about
her appearance, which was usually when Kit Baxter was at her most maddeningly
attractive. It took a moment, but he forced himself to turn back to face the
middle distance, which he did not intend to be the commentary on her appearance
that she took it as.

“So what now?” she sighed. “We don’t have a single lead
left, and more questions than answers.”

“Do we?” the Red Panda said grimly.

Kit blinked. “Well,” she said, “I guess not, because you
only say things like that when you’re about to tell me that you’ve solved the
mystery by looking at my shoes, like Sherlock Holmes.”

He smiled and said nothing.

“Okay,” she said, her lips pursed in mock annoyance, “we
know whoever our baddie is, he’s tied up with Cain, which means he was behind
the Empire Bank job.”

“Right.”

“And since he blew up Cain’s house with about as much gusto
as the warehouse that dropped on our heads, we can assume that was his work
too,” she said, tucking her stray hair absent-mindedly behind her ear as she
thought.

“Yes.”

“He had Randall Allyn in some kind of trance, and he’s got
hypnosis and… what did you call it?”

“Telekinesis,” he said quietly.

“Right…,” she said. “Which isn’t surprising, after what he
did to the minds of the bank guards. You said he was a ‘master of the mind’.
But it seemed a little…”

“Yes?” he said, turning his head back to her a little in
spite of himself.

“Well, it was a little extreme, wasn’t it? Allyn fought like
a bear to stay close to that explosion, and the goons just stood there and took
it. I thought that was supposed to be impossible. Forcing people into suicide,
I mean.” She frowned.

He nodded. “It is. Even among those who truly know of such
things, it is. A man of great power could trick a victim into a trap, or
frighten him to death. But to force a mind to willingly embrace death through
sheer mental coercion…” Fenwick trailed off.

“Boss… if he had Randall Allyn there, he must be targeting
the hoi polloi,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “He could have been behind the
deaths of Richard Granville and Martin Davies. And maybe even Wallace Blake.”

August Fenwick nodded. “I’m sure of it,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, with a nod of her head. “So we know a few
things after all. We could suppose that he’s calling himself Ajay Shah, even if
that name doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something,” Fenwick said, his voice sounding
tired. “It means ‘Unconquerable King’. But it isn’t his name. It’s his plan.”

There was a small pause. “That’s crazy,” she said.

“It isn’t either.” The steely resolve of the Red Panda crept
back into Fenwick’s eyes. “Because I know who he really is. And I know why he’s
here.”

Kit Baxter wasn’t a girl easily surprised, but this moment
was clearly an exception. “What?”

He smiled at her and motioned for her to sit on the mat
opposite him. “A fellow student of a master I trained with in Nepal. He had
great power, great ambition and great anger. And unless I’m much mistaken, he
might feel that I may be the only man alive that can stand in his way.”

“Nice,” she said, settling down on the mat, her legs
crossed. “Glad you’re on my side.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say that I liked my odds. But
I’ve got a chance.”

She crinkled her nose up slightly in confusion. “So what are
we doin’?” she asked.

He sighed. “Do you remember Nick Diablos?”

She nodded. “Sure. That was an early case. A con man with
hypnotic powers, made his marks think he was the Devil. He made me fight you as
I recall.”

The Red Panda nodded. “He made you think that I was him, and
he was I. But still you broke free of that trick, because it was an action
against your basic nature, and your subconscious mind rebelled.”

“Right,” she smiled. “So what’s the problem?”

He regarded her gravely. “The problem is that this… this
Ajay Shah… would not have to trick you. He could make you
want
to fight me. Want to kill me. He could make you fight like a
demon with no regard for your own safety. Either you kill me or he forces me to
kill you. Either way, he wins.”

She blinked hard at the thought. “But Boss, after Diablos…
you trained me…”

“I did what I could to give you a basic immunity to hypnotic
attack, and reinforced it with non-invasive hypnotic suggestions of my own,
yes.” His face was serious. “We’re going to spend the next few hours going over
everything I taught you again.”

“Sure,” Kit sighed. “Sleeping is for chumps.”

“But based on the way he used Randall Allyn, he’s almost
certain to force me to choose.”

“Choose what?” she asked.

“Choose to sacrifice a life,” he said. “Either mine or
yours. I’m not sure he’d care which, though I suspect he’d rather force me to
kill you.”

“And I thought the Parish school was tough,” Kit smiled.
“You do have a way with people, don’t you?”

“Whatever else happens, even if everything else fails, there
may still be a way to fight against his power.” He spoke quickly now, urgently.
“While we work, you must pick a single point of stillness within yourself.
Something you can focus on, something you can use to find your way back to your
true self.”

“You talk in real pretty riddles, you know that?”

“Kit, this is serious. It may be the most serious thing I’ve
ever said to you.”

Kit sat up straight. It might not be love poetry, but a girl
couldn’t be too choosy, and she’d hate to miss the most serious thing he’d ever
told her.

“Okay,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

“A single point of stillness…” He cut himself off when he
saw her brows furrow. “A single, simple image. Something you can see in your mind’s
eye. It should be something easy to remember, something you know very well.”

“Okay…,” she said, still not understanding.

“If Shah should gain control, this may be your only way of
fighting back. You must focus every scrap of energy left in you on this image.
It must be something that you have a strong emotive response to. Something that
reminds you of who you are, of the truest thing you know about yourself. Only
with that as your anchor can you find yourself again.”

As he spoke she watched his eyes, watched them more closely
than she had ever dared. They were dark, so brown they were almost black, but
they danced with energy. They were full of fire for the task ahead, full of
concern for her safety. They looked tired from the fight and yet still bore great
resolve. They were his eyes, and she memorized every detail as he spoke.

“Gotcha,” she said with a smile.

“Kit, this is serious. Promise me that you know what your
anchor is.”

She looked deep into his eyes again. So deep that she could
see her own image reflected, grinning back at herself.

“I promise,” she said.