A memory came to me, slowly and painfully, oozing up through the primordial sludge of unconsciousness. I was wrapped in a thick, well-worn terrycloth bathrobe, which warded off the stout chill of my unheated basement laboratory. A look of profound disgust was contorting my face as I mixed a couple of foul-smelling potions together for later - and listened to my personal assistant, Bob, spin a rather unwanted yarn about his latest, ah, exploits out in the real world.

"-and to think it all started with a handful of sorority girls, one wayward spirit of knowledge, and three kilos of pickled herring!" he finished, breaking off into a prolonged throaty chuckle.

It took me a little while to accumulate enough of my wits to respond. ". . . stars and stones, Bob . . . and you wonder why I never let you out of the house! Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that we had a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy at work in this household."

Bob tilted back on his shelf a little bit, the orange lights in his empty eye sockets flickering inscrutably. "You never said anything about that sort of policy, boss. I just remember you saying something along the lines of 'what's on your mind, Bob?' to fill the silence earlier."

I frowned, turning my back to him as I tended to the range. Much as I hated to admit it, my erstwhile assistant was right once again, thanks to his inhuman photographic memory. I'd never set up that particular ground rule with Bob, but after what I'd been subjected to for the past fifteen minutes, maybe it was time to revisit our contract again.

I should probably mention that Bob isn't your average sous-chef/recon agent/personal Wikipedia page. He's an ethereal spirit of knowledge housed within a possessed human skull, and thus doesn't have the same book of morals most human beings come off the assembly line with. That's got its upsides and downsides like anything else, which are demonstrated very clearly in Bob's idea of a good time, but on the other hand, he is bound ironclad by contracts and agreements and couldn't waver from them even if he wanted to. Now, misinterpreting those agreements, that's a whole other situation, but that's a collection of tales for another time.

"Not to change the subject or anything, Bob, but did you pick up any sort of concrete information while you were out and about, or did you just force defenseless kids to do just the most depraved stuff you could possibly imagine? Because if that's the case, we're going to have to have words. Serious ones."

"For the record, boss, I've never 'forced' anyone to do anything, as per the arrangements we made when I first came into your possession. Maybe I plant a few suggestions and implants here and there, but everything, and I mean everything, after that is 100% them, not me. Add some more flowers to the pot on your left, it's starting to turn a funny color."

I started and did as Bob asked, tapping a few more dried daisies into the stamina potion simmering on the portable range. A horndog he may be, but no one knows how to make a better brew than Bob.

"Anyway, I did happen to come across a few things around the city that might interest you. A few strange disappearances, odd sightings, forest trolls in Wisconsin causing a moderate amount of trouble, that sort of thing. Got a preference?"

Recalling a newspaper headline I'd seen that afternoon, I straightened up and flexed my jaw. "Bob, what do you know about the Question?"

Bob's eyelights flared. "That Question? The one about life, the universe, and everything? Harry, you know I've always appreciated your entrepreneurial spirit, but come on now. Some things aren't meant to be known by mortal men. I thought we'd had this conversation once or twice before already."

"No, no," I waved my hand, "the vigilante making the rounds these days. Media's calling him the Question after what that idiot mayor had to say about him a year or two ago. My usual contacts seem a bit shaken up by his actions recently, say he couldn't possibly be human, that kind of thing. Word on the street is the guy's a ghost - shows up at random politician's houses, mob hideouts, that kind of thing. No one sees him go in, no one sees him come out except the few broken goons he occasionally leaves behind, all with bloody noses and fractured skulls. When he's done with whatever he does in there, someone's dirty laundry's been aired on no less than five news channels and the paparazzi shows up to feast on the rotting carcass of some corrupt statesman's life. People say he's untouchable, implacable, a specter wreaking havoc on people thought to be paragons of law and order - and he's got no face on top of all that. Sound like anyone you know?"

Despite being a bleached skull with no facial muscles with which to make any kind of expression, Bob managed to give off an air of amusement. "Impressive monologue, boss. Tell me, did you practice all that in the mirror before coming down here, or was it all off the cuff?"

I blinked, confused. "I'm just describing what's already been said."

"You should write a book or something. It'd sell amazingly well, let you pay off a couple of bills right then and there."

"Eh, I don't have the time or the inclination. Answer my question, please," I said, stirring the pot on the right burner.

"You're no fun. As a matter of fact, I have heard a thing or two about this guy before, but I'm afraid it's nothing that might help you track him down or whatever you're planning."

"I'm not tracking him. Just looking for information, that's all. He's a potentially dangerous, unchecked vigilante with unnatural abilities and a tendency to find trouble wherever he looks."

Bob snickered. "How unlike anyone I know of. If I didn't know any better, boss, I'd say you were jealous of this guy intruding on your territory."

"What? No, I'm - I just need to know about what's going on in my city. I'm not jealous. Look, Bob, this guy might just be targeting white-collar criminals, corrupt officials, and wealthy mob bosses now, but if he ever changes his tune and focuses on someone who doesn't deserve what he's selling, I might be the only defense for the people of Chicago. If you know about this guy, you know that the cops only show up after the deed's done, and the closest things to concrete evidence against him are grainy cell phone photographs that rival the Patterson-Gimlin film in terms of cryptic ambiguity. Ergo, I gotta learn what I can, when I can. So what do you have for me?"

"Like I said, not much. The human fan club that you're clearly a part of just has conjecture and theories to offer with no idea of what's really going on behind the scenes, yes, but certain entities on my side of the veil are just as clueless as you adorable meatbags are. If you're worried that the Question's some kind of hitman for Faerie or an outrider knight from the Kakusareta Empire, don't be. Far as I can tell, he's not even a known variable from any of the Realms."

I absentmindedly fiddled with a cinnamon stick before adding it to the pot on my right. "Is there any chance that he could possibly be a trickster spirit?"

Bob made a sound like a punctured tire. "Doubtful. They don't generally stray over to the real world anymore, mainly choosing to watch as humans do ridiculous, humiliating things to themselves without anyone needing to give them a push. You're familiar with MySpace?"

"Bob, I'm a wizard. I couldn't use MySpace even if I wanted to."

"Probably for the best. Anyway, if the Question is anything supernatural in nature . . . hm. Targets people in positions of power, slippery as a fish, allegedly a master of disguise . . . no face. Sounds like a noppera-bo."

"Japanese yokai, trickster spirit. Faceless shapeshifter," I recalled. "Get their kicks by scaring humans."

"I'm no expert, Harry, but the Question certainly seems to be in the business of putting the fear of the unknown into the hearts of Chicago's best and brightest."

"How do I beat one?" I asked. "You know, just in case our paths cross somewhere down the line."

Once again, Bob showcased his amazing supernatural powers by sucking his teeth, despite lacking anything resembling lips or saliva to do it with. "I don't know if you can, Harry. I've never heard of a human defeating a noppera-bo, in combat or in a battle of wits. They're still spirits, if not powerful ones, so you could probably trap one with a good, strong ward or a ritual circle if you wanted to. Good news is, noppera-bo don't generally harm people. Bad news, the Question, on the other hand, has repeatedly demonstrated that he's very willing to cause all sorts of violence in various and creative ways."

"So basically, I just need to keep my wits about me and make sure this guy doesn't ever get a chance to get the drop on me, right?"

"Pretty much, yep. Situational awareness, my friend. Never does anyone wrong. And hey, look at it this way - we don't even know if he's even a spirit. He could just be some random guy wearing a mask and playing at being a hero!"

I cracked my knuckles. "Yeah, I've fought plenty of random guys before. Trapped plenty of spirits, too. All I've gotta do is keep my head on my shoulders, stay up-to-date with the headlines, be prepared for anything at any time, and this Question? If he crosses a line, he's gonna be Answered before he knows what hit him."

"That's the spirit, boss!" Bob cried. "By the way, your left-hand special sauce is burning."

I cursed and fumbled for the hot plate's controls, barely managing to salvage the potion from a fiery end. Despite the near-failure in the basement that night, I'd been in high spirits, and, for a while, had even paid an appropriate amount of attention to the movements of the new vigilante on the block. But after the Darkhallow, I'd turned that attention to other avenues, the constantly fluttering veil between the spirit world and ours, any necromancers still walking the streets, the mountain of bills to pay, that kind of thing. I'd stopped considering the Question for a moment too long, and now I was paying for it wholesale.