Spiral
August 6, 1940
Four years into the dreams and Wesley could still remember the one that started it all. He no longer had this particular dream, but it was etched into his memory with a force that refused to yield to the passage of time. Wesley would enter a towering mansion wreathed in ruin and shadow, a place bound to the yoke of evil. He passed through its halls, down a flight of crumbling stairs. At the bottom lay a haunted sepulcher, abandoned save for the large glass phial that sat at the center. Within it there was a pale figure with a shock of ebon black hair and eyes that burned. It was those eyes that Wesley remembered most. That dream blossomed into the rest, the endless growth of nightmare and prophecy that was now his life.
Wesley smoked on his balcony and thought of his most recent series of dreams. Ones that emerged after his conversation with Alan Scott. He saw the streets of Manhattan, stretched taut and twisted. They bled into the horizon, rearranging themselves into patters that defied observation. Wesley was compelled to race down them, losing himself to the labyrinth.
"Unable to sleep?" said Dian Belmont. She stood at the entrance to the balcony, only a thin nightgown around her.
"Too much to think about," said Wesley.
"The Sandman who couldn't slumber," she said.
Wesley smiled. There was a time, in the years past, when the two of them had performed a sort of performance for one another. A charade. They circled one another, with him as both Wesley and the Sandman. Dian was no fool. It did not take her long to deduce the connection, intimately attached as they were.
"You'll burn out if you keep this up," said Dian, her expression more serious.
"I know, darling. It's been an eventful week."
She joined him on the balcony, lighting her own cigarette.
"What is she like?" said Dian.
"Who?" said Wesley.
"Oh, don't play dumb Wesley. You know. Wonder Woman."
"Ah. Well let me see.." said Wesley.
The JSA ceremony to induct her had been two days ago.
"She's tall. Taller than the rest of us, save Carter and Alan. Strong too. And fast. Reminds me of Jay, even if she's not quite as speedy," said Wesley.
"Come now, I could've gotten that from the paper," said Dian.
"There's a radiance to her, up close. It's like.. standing in a sunbeam. When you close you eyes and feel the warmth and you know it's going to be okay. She exudes that feeling."
"Careful Wesley. A jealous girl might think you're sweet on her," said Dian.
"You asked for it," he said. Dian rolled her eyes playfully.
"Wonder Woman is lovely," he said. "But, she's not you."
"Now he thinks he can save himself," said Dian.
"Besides, she's smitten with that soldier. The one that was with her during the ambush. Captain Trevor."
"Interesting. That's not something you can hear in the paper. How do you know?" said Dian.
"My natural intuition," said Wesley. "I am a detective, after all."
Dian chucked.
"Why are you really awake? What's turning over in that mind of yours?" said Dian.
Wesley took a long drag, then stubbed out his cigarette.
"We saved Roosevelt. The JSA did well."
"But?"
"But, something about the other assassination attempt doesn't sit right with me."
"The other one? With Tex Thompson?"
"Yes. There's something rotten about it."
"That they missed?" said Dian.
She shrugged when Wesley gave her a look.
"Thompson is a thug with too much money. He's bad for this country. Could be disastrous if he wins," said Dian.
"I agree. But that attack has helped him. It's galvanized his supporters."
"You think it wasn't random?"
"I intend to find out."
"Do your teammates know about this theory?"
"Not yet. Well, one of them does. It's complicated. I'd rather handle this inquiry in a delicate manner. One I know I can manage," said Wesley.
"As long as you're careful," said Dian.
"As can be," said Wesley.
He searched Dian's face for doubt or worry, but if it was there it was well hidden. Others saw a socialite with few cares in the world when they met her, a spoiled child coasting on the privileges of her father, the district attorney. Wesley knew the steel that lay beneath the surface. She was stronger than him where it mattered.
"You're not going to solve it out on this balcony tonight," said Dian, "Come back to bed."
So he did.
August 8, 1940
"He's dead."
It wasn't the statement that threw off Wesley, though that was unpleasant news. It was the utter detachment with which the woman said it.
"What?" he said inadvertently.
"Josef Zubek is dead," said Jill Corrigan.
"How?"
"Heart attack. Happened last night," said Corrigan.
They were on a street corner outside of a police station in the Bronx. Summer heat beat down on the city in oppressive waves.
Josef Zubek was a recent immigrant from Poland, arriving in the United States in early 1939. He apparently worked a few odd jobs, as a mechanic, a cleaner, a window washer. Whatever would pay the bills. Unremarkable in almost every way. Except that a few days ago, Zubek tried to kill Tex Thompson, presidential candidate.
"Did you see his body?" said Wesley.
"They wouldn't let me. And.."
"Your other self?"
"Not a possibility at the moment. Besides, I wouldn't want them to get worked up over any of the other prisoners. Or the officers…" said Corrigan.
Corrigan had met Wesley on August 1, while he was still bone tired from the fight with the valkyries. She had found him outside his apartment in the city, in the process of fitting his key in the lock. It hadn't taken long to grab his attention, particularly when she revealed to him the nature of their acquaintance.
Corrgian was the Spectre.
Or at least, the vessel that carried the Spectre. Whatever had transpired on their journey with Doctor Fate to save President Roosevelt had been costly. Her passenger had vanished into the far reaches of Corrigan's psyche and for the first time in years, she felt alone. Or so she claimed.
What mattered was that her knowledge of the JSA and Wesley was sufficient to convince him of her honesty and to impress upon him her desire to help. She was not from New York, but she was a cop. A detective. One that harbored similar suspicions as Wesley. And though the Spectre was absent, she retained a flicker of their power, enough to persuade others to overlook certain inconsistencies, such as why an LAPD detective might be let into an NYPD station.
"This is quickly becoming a dead end," said Wesley.
"Not entirely. I did get these," said Corrigan. She held up a paper and a vial filled with red fluid.
"His blood?"
She nodded.
"And his address," said Corrigan. She looked at the blood sample. "You know anyone that can analyze this? Back in LA we have a lab, but I don't know if I can persuade them to let us use one here."
"We can drop it off with a mutual friend. But I want to see where Mr. Zubek lived," said Wesley.
Greenpoint was a neighborhood in Brooklyn, known for its Polish population. Many of them had been in America for years, if not generations at this point, but there was still the feeling that they were not quite Americans. It was a sentiment that Wesley could relate to. He and his fellow Jews knew what it was like to be outsiders even in your chosen home.
The Zubek household was a modest apartment building on a street filled with playing children, vendors and people trying to get out of the midday sun. Laundry dried rapidly on the line. There was the satisfying crack of baseball hitting bat and the cries of the kids as they fled the street to let cars pass.
Zubek had a wife and four kids, but no one answered the door to their apartment. The pair split up and canvassed the area. The locals tensed up around cops, but most of them cooperated. Wesley was here under one of his assumed identities. A change in glasses, some light makeup and inserts in his shoes changed him enough that he wasn't worried about being recognized. Here, he was Detective Christman, a PI. Most of the locals spoke English and for the ones that could not Corrigan had some method of understanding them that went beyond Wesley's comprehension. Wesley did his best to keep up.
They learned that the Zubek family left three days earlier, their things packed tight in a truck. The sketch they were given of Josef was not flattering, even by those who called him a friend. It seemed his odd jobs were not always on the proper side of the law. He was a thug. One not beloved by many in the area. His wife Matylda was spoken about in far kinder tones. She was a considerate, thoughtful neighbor, willing to help out with a meal or watching a child.
It was an elderly man with a thick pair of spectacles and a raspy voice that proved the most helpful to their cause. Corrigan and the man spoke for almost half an hour, while Wesley leaned on a nearby wall and watched the neighborhood breathe.
"They're gone," said Corrigan.
"For good?" said Wesley.
"He thinks so," said Corrigan. "Matylda told a few of her friends she couldn't stay. Not after what Josef did."
"Did he say where they were headed?" said Wesley.
"Fawcett City. Or Hub. Somewhere further West. Supposedly they got family that way," said Corrigan.
Even in the afternoon light, shadows clumped on her face. It was frequently cast in the most dramatic lighting. Her eyes, two pale blue dots, leapt out from the darkness like spotlights.
"Too much ground for us to cover. Anything else?" said Wesley.
"He wasn't sure. But, he thought they came into some money. Recently. Very recently."
"How?"
"His wife brought over food after Josef got arrested. Said she saw a couple of bags stuffed with cash. He also saw Matylda talking with a pair of men the day that Josef tried to shoot Thomspon. Before any of the cops started coming around. Before they had reason to. He thinks one of them was holding a bag like what his wife saw."
"Curious," said Wesley.
"Josef was no saint, but shooting Thompson is above his weight class. This could give us a motive."
"Paying off the family. A tradeoff. Though, I wonder if they knew Josef wouldn't make it out alive?" said Wesley.
"There was another detective that came through. They called him brutish. Threatened to look into their immigration status. Burt something…" said Corrigan.
"Burke," said Wesley. "Detective Burke."
If he was snooping around, it wasn't good. The man was dogged, but Wesley was near certain he was on the take. The two had run into one another on at least five investigations involving the Sandman, rarely for the better.
"Who's next?" said Corrigan.
"We've tried the shooter. Let's talk to the savior."
"I already talked to the cops. At Yankee stadium and then again a day later," said Caleb Beasley. He held the door open to only a thin slit. The message was clear. They were not welcome.
"We're only following up on a few loose ends with the case," said Corrigan.
Beasly didn't look thrilled by their visit. His face was pinched, as if on the verge of a sneer or a sneeze. They were in a musty hallway of his apartment building, a dingy place in Queens.
"Make it quick. I got a shift coming up in an hour, and I've got a few errands to run before then," said Beasly.
"Where is it you work Mr. Beasly?" said Wesley.
"Jesus, I already told the last pair of cops all of this."
"I'm sorry for the redundancy, but this is important to the case."
"I work at the docks. Loading and unloading," said Beasly.
"Thank you, Mr. Beasly. We'll make this quick," said Wesley.
"Why were you at the rally?" said Corrigan.
"Now a man's gotta explain his political affiliation? Why do you think?" said Beasly.
Corrigan and Wesley merely stared at him.
"I like what Thompson has to say. About how we gotta take care of ourselves first. I don't know about you two, but the last few years are the first ones where things have gotten any better for me. Getting all mucked up in other countries problems shouldn't ruin that for us," said Beasly.
"What happened before the attack? Did you notice anything unusual about the man you stopped?" said Corrigan.
"That Polack bastard? Thinking he can ice Thompson. I guess there was something. He was nervous. Muttering to hisself. In his language. That's what made me pay attention to him."
"Did he say anything in English you remember? Anything important?" said Wesley.
"No. Guy didn't look excited to be there. Looked mad. Which is fair, but he was mad for the wrong reasons," said Beasly.
"How did you react in time to him pulling the gun?" said Wesley.
"Guy got it caught on his coat. He fumbled with it on the way out. I saw it and grabbed his arm. Other folks joined in. Look, all this is old news. I told it before."
Before Wesley or Corrigan could interject, Beasly shut the door more.
"Why are you spendin so much energy on me? I'm the guy who stopped Thomspon from getting plugged," said Beasly.
"Just wrapping the case up. Making sure it fits nicely," said Wesley.
"Fits alright for me," said Beasly. He slammed the door.
Corrigan gave Wesley a tired look. They left the apartment complex. Wesley found a payphone.
"He's a charmer," said Corrigan.
"He's either fed up with us or less than forthcoming," said Wesley.
He slotted in the coin and dialed the number. A familiar voice answered.
"You ready for us? The analysis done?" said Wesley.
"Come by anytime," said the person on the line.
"Where to now?" said Corrigan.
"Time to pay a visit to Rex Tyler."
Jill Corrigan had been to New York City once before she died. It was a visit that owed its necessity to the presence of death as well. Her maternal grandmother took ill and passed away when she was only nine, prompting a cross-country journey from California to the eastern city. Jill didn't remember much from this trip, only her shock at the density of the place, the cold that permeated New York in November and the way her mother shook as they lowered Jill's grandmother into the earth. Those memories jostled around inside her head as Wesley took Jill through the city. It was the first time in a long while that she felt any degree of self-determination. The battle with the valkyries and the subsequent trip that her passenger undertook had shaken them, to the point of relinquishing a level of control over Jill's mind. It wasn't total freedom. Jill could feel them rattling about in the faraway reaches of her skull, scraping at the edges. Their voice hissed out periodically.
Rex's lab was a three-story building in Red Hook, a neighborhood in Brooklyn packed with warehouses and docks. The smell of sea water was everywhere, the call of sea gulls raining down from on high. The interior of the lab was dark and cluttered, all the shelves and counters covered in vials, tubes, boxes, hot plates and other equipment. Diagrams and posters lined the walls, taped over one another in a patchwork collage. Rex was hunched over his desk, arranging a series of test tubes.
"You work here? In this?" said Jill.
Rex looked up at her, a pair of thick tinted goggles covering his eyes. His chin was dotted with stubble.
"Uh, yes. Is there something wrong with it?" Rex said.
Jill grunted, while Wesley rubbed the back of his neck.
"A bit crowded inhere," said Wesley.
"It can be messy. Been busy the past few months between work and the society," said Rex.
He flipped off the cap on a test tube and poured it into another open one. He swirled the liquid in the second around for a few moments, before returning it to the rack and putting the entire thing away. He hung the goggles around his neck.
"Plus I have to keep manufacturing Miraculo. Got the process down at this point, but it still takes time," said Rex.
He appeared to finally appreciate Jill's presence.
"So this is the other side of our friend?" he said.
"Not what you imagined?" said Jill.
"You're far more.." said Rex. "Human."
"I'll take that as a compliment," said Jill, though she wasn't sure of it. "Jill Corrigan."
"Rex. Rex Tyler. Pleasure to meet you."
They smiled at one another.
"The blood sample Rex. You said it was ready," said Wesley.
Rex rifled through a set of cabinets, withdrawing a vial of blood and a set of notes that he laid out on his desk. Jill didn't know the specifics, but she noticed the word strychnine a handful of times.
"Poisoned then," said Jill.
"Looks that way," said Rex.
"How did it happen?" said Wesley.
"It's ingested, so probably in his food. Or force fed if he was really lucky. I doubt it though. There's a sedative in his system that made him more docile, either to knock him out before the poison did it's work or so the poison could be administered."
"Which means someone from the police station is likely to have delivered it," said Jill.
Wesley frowned and examined the vial of blood.
"Reported as a heart attack. His family paid off. This took some doing," said Wesley.
"We need to see how big this goes," said Jill.
"We need to look into Beasly more. Or anyone who may have talked to him," said Wesley. "I'll call you. Both of you. Give me a day or two to muster my resources."
Rex walked the two of them out. Wesley was already miles away, Jill could tell. He had a habit of vanishing into the case as he worked out each new development on some mental board she couldn't see. There was a knot of professional jealousy, being alongside Wesley. She prided herself on her skills as a detective, but he was a reminder that there were others who outpaced her.
"Where are you staying, Ms. Corrigan?" asked Rex.
"Please, it's only Jill. JSA headquarters. Nowhere else for me at the moment," said Jill.
Nowhere else at all really. She had a house in LA, but Jill didn't sleep anymore. Even now, without the constant presence of the Spectre she mostly laid awake at night. The past few evenings she had taken to walking the streets alone. Almost an invitation for trouble.
"I'm sure you'll have to get back to your home once this case is done, but if you have a chance I'd love to take you out for a drink," said Rex. "The rest of the team has done it, even Kent. It would be a shame not to include you in that."
"We'll see," said Jill.
"He's always late," said Dian, as she sipped her tea.
"And here I thought a lack of punctuality was the trait that made me stand out amongst your male suitors," said Wesley.
"Don't worry dear. You're plenty unique as is," said Dian.
They were at a table in the heart of the Gala, a cafe in Greenwich. The place was bustling with activity, snippets of dozens of conversations overheard from their table. Jill sat next to Dian, looking profoundly uncomfortable in the setting.
"Are you sure this reporter will show at all?" said Jill.
"He's not known for punctuality, but he is reliable," said Dian.
They were waiting for Grant Fowler, an investigative reporter. Dian knew him from her social circles. He was also looking into the assassination attempt. Fowler had the benefit of talking to many of the eye-witnesses on the day of the incident. Wesley wanted to see what he had gleaned from his talks.
"Did you see this story?" said Dian, leafing through the newspaper. "That woman that swam the English channel back in May? During the evacuations."
"They've been parading her around the country since she got back. A bit hard to miss," said Wesley.
"Are you alright Jill?" said Dian. "I could get you some refreshments." She prepared to flag down one of the pastel colored waiters.
"No, no. I'm alright," said Corrigan.
"If you say so. It is lovely to meet someone from Wesley's work. You're the second," said Dian.
"Who was first?" said Corrigan.
"That firecracker of a woman. Dinah. She's been over, back when you were still gathering that group of yours," said Dian.
In a way this was close to the first time Wesley had really met Corrigan at all. There remained an unsettling aspect to time in close contact with her. One's hair stood up when she grew too close. The body knew what the mind ignored.
"I see Mr. Fowler," said Wesley.
"Grant. Grant, over here," said Dian. She got the man's attention.
Grant Fowler looked like he lived comfortably. His hair was elegantly groomed, his clothing perfectly pressed. He appraised the table with an inquisitive air.
"Dian, truly a pleasure to see you. It has been too long," said Fowler. He paused with Wesley and Corrigan.
"You must be Wesley Dodds. We haven't had the chance to meet until now," said Fowler.
"I've heard great things," said Wesley.
"Amongst all the rest. And you my dear?" said Fowler.
"Jill Corrigan."
"Ms. Corrigan is helping us out with the matter that required your presence here," said Wesley.
"Ah yes. Let's get to it then," said Fowler.
He ordered his own cup of coffee and biscuits, stalling with small talk until they arrived.
"You wanted to know about the attempt on Thompson's life. A fascinating subject, but what is the nature of this inquiry? What does a man like you have to do with it?" said Fowler.
"I work as a private investigator from time to time. A way to break up the boredom," said Wesley. It was true. He had allowed parts of his private and public personas to drift just close enough that there were plausible excuses when his behavior ran outside the norm. "I have a client interested in a matter related to the attempt."
"I see," said Fowler. "Well ask away. With the understanding that none of this is official until it sees print."
Wesley and Corrigan agreed. Fowler looked satisfied as he gulped down his coffee.
"Was there anything that stood out when you talked to the people near Caleb Beasly?" said Wesley.
"All of them tried to do their best to make themselves part of the story, even the ones who just stood and watched. It's typical with dramatic events. They all want to feel like they contributed," said Fowler.
"Must make it hard to get the truth," said Dian.
"That's why you have to be thorough. One person says they're the one that grabbed the gun out of the assassin's hands, you record it but verify. If everyone or the majority remembers that same person doing that then you might have the truth before you," said Fowler.
"What if everyone's wrong?" said Corrigan.
"It can happen. You just do your best to report the facts and hope it's enough," said Fowler.
"So what stood out that day?" said Wesley.
"The woman next to Beasly. She was a character. Told me all about her week, every little twist of fate that led up to that day in the stadium. But, she said something that stuck with me," said Fowler.
"Which was?" said Corrigan.
"That Beasly looked nervous. Well before the shooting. That he kept staring at the man next to him, Josef Zubek. Over and over. The lady thought maybe they had had a disagreement before she got there or that he didn't trust him for some reason. She said he'd check his watch and look at Zubek," said Fowler.
"Almost like he knew something was going to happen," said Wesley.
"That's where my mind went," said Fowler. "Beasly gave me nothing to work with on that front."
"Any of the other spectators remember anything similar?" said Corrigan.
"The man behind Zubek remembers how fast Beasly went for the gun. Zubek hadn't even gotten it out fully and Beasly grabbed his arm," said Fowler.
"Beasly said Zubek got it caught on his coat," said Wesley.
"Could be, could be," said Fowler. "Beasly's not exactly a swell guy himself."
Wesley raised his eyebrow quizzically. He sipped his tea.
"I did a bit of follow-up with everyone I talked to that day. Looked into local records, all that stuff. Didn't surprise me, but a lot of them are on the rolls for the Bund. Including Beasly," said Fowler.
The German American Bund. The Nazi sympathizers.
"How'd you find that? Isn't the Bund on the way out, after Kuhn got arrested?" said Wesley. The leader of the Bund, Fritz Kuhn was in prison for embezzlement.
"For the most part, yeah. But some of them still hang out with their old marching buddies," said Fowler. "I had a contact in the police who had a list of everyone in the local chapter. Beasly was on it."
That connection wasn't all that surprising considering the demographic Thompson drew. But, it was a new angle.
"That satisfy you, Mr. Dodds?" said Fowler.
"It's a start," he replied.
"If it's all the same… oh, uh, excuse me," said Fowler. He vacated his chair hastily, nearly spilling the last of his coffee.
"What's wrong Grant?" said Dian.
"I've remembered I have an appointment to keep," he said.
Wesley stood up too. He handed a card to Fowler.
"In case you think of anything else," said Wesley.
Fowler leaned and spoke into his ear.
"If anyone asks, I wasn't here," he said.
At the entrance to the cafe, Wesley saw what inspired Fowler's haste. Detective Burke was talking with the maitre d'. By the time he glanced back, Fowler was gone, out one of the side entrances.
"Was that enough for us?" said Corrigan.
"It'll have to be," said Wesley. "I vote we visit Beasly again. In our work clothes this time."
Dian looked excited to be a part of this conversation. Wesley couldn't imagine working without her, anymore but he had kept the JSA at arm's length relative to her. It represented an escalation in scale that he was barely comfortable with himself, let alone with her involvement.
"Brace yourself dear. It appears we have fresh company," said Dian.
Burke swaggered over to their table. He looked full of contempt.
"Ms. Belmont. Mr. Dodds," said Burke. He gave Corrigan a paltry nod.
"Detective Burke, what a surprise. We don't often see you around here," said Dian.
"Not my kind of establishment. Have you seen Grant Fowler?" said Burke.
"I.." started Dian.
"Before you get going, the folks at the front described someone who looked a lot like Fowler to me sitting with the three of you earlier," said Burke.
"Why the interest in Fowler?" said Wesley.
"Police business, Dodds," said Burke.
"Grant did stop by to say hello," said Dian.
"Where'd he run off to?" said Burke.
"Didn't say," said Dian.
"Don't play dumb," said Burke. "No point in protecting that worm."
Corrigan got up suddenly and excused herself to the women's room. Burke barely paid her any mind.
"Detective Burke, I don't like the tone you're taking with my companion," said Wesley.
"Your companion? Ms. Belmont is the only reason I'm giving you any courtesy at all," said Burke.
"You mean my father," said Dian. Burke didn't serve the DA directly, but he could make his life less pleasant if he complained to his superiors.
"Just tell me where Fowler is. I need to have a talk with him," said Burke.
"We don't know," said Wesley.
"I didn't ask you," said Burke.
"I think it's time for you to leave," said Dian.
"You might think you're helping him out, but you're wrong," said Burke.
"Listen to the lady," said Wesley.
"Or what? You gonna get all red in the face? Cause I insulted your broad?" said Burke.
"Time to go," said Wesley, getting up.
"What a change, huh Dodds. You get a taste of her and suddenly it makes you a man," said Burke.
"Detective Burke!" said Dian.
"Oh, go cry to your father," said Burke.
"That's enough, sir," said Wesley. He placed his hand on Burke's shoulder.
The elbow smashed Wesley's nose, nearly shattering his glasses. He felt the blood begin to flow, even as the first drop landed on his trousers. Someone screamed, and the other patrons murmured to one another.
"Get your hands off of me you filthy ki-"
Burke was interrupted by Wesley's fist driving into and past his jaw. Burke's fedora flew off, his blood flecked spittle stained the tablecloth. He staggered away for a beat, before wiping his lower lip and grunting in pain. Wesley could see the vein on Burke's forehead popping out.
"Well done Dodds. I get to enjoy this," said Burke.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said a man stepping through the gawking crowd to get between the men.
"Outta my way fella. That man just assaulted a police detective," said Burke.
"A detective that attacked him first," said the man.
Burke's anger pivoted to the man.
"Do you need a lesson too?" said Burke.
"I don't think that will be required," said the man.
Wesley noticed the others coming out of the crowd, including a pair of bulky men in black suits that grasped Burke firmly by the arms.
"Boys, no need to play rough. I think the detective was about to leave, anyway," said the man.
Burke got his arms free. Recognition played out on his face.
"No way. Excuse me sir. Sorry to bother you," said Burke.
"No need. I know how heated debates can get. The price of free speech," said Tex Thompson.
Jill Corrigan clutched the sides of the bathroom sink so hard her knuckles turned white. Her breaths came in ragged and indecisive, her vision fluttered. Were the lights blinking in the bathroom? The surge of murderous intent still roiled in her stomach, where it had risen after Burke came too close. Ever since her death, Jill could detect the evil that lay within others hearts. There was no certainty to it, no reliable consistency, but in the presence of those full of hate, she could feel it like a sickness that poured out of them. Burke was choking on it. An escape to the bathroom was all Jill could do to prevent the matter from escalating beyond her control.
She dry heaved at the sink, the pressure mounting on her temples like a vise placed and tightened. The lights continued to blink on and off, the walls appeared to bend back and forth. Her strength deserted her. Something stalked across the mirror, far in the fog coated distance. It flitted back and forth, closer every time.
She spat into the drain. When Jill looked up another gaunt, deathly white face stared back at her, its eyes obscured by shadow, its eyes twinkling stars of spite.
"Let me free and I'll kill him," said the Spectre.
Jill heaved, trying to ignore her passenger.
"You've seen what he is. What they all are. The malice in their hearts. The violence they have wrought on this world. I am their reckoning."
"No. I'm not letting you back," said Jill. Her voice wavered.
"You cannot contain me for long. This is a momentary respite, the price of my mercy. I should have not allowed you and the sorcerer to sway me into helping that man."
"We saved the president. Maybe the country," said Jill. "That's what matters."
The Spectre cackled in the mirror, their face pressed up against the boundary between the two worlds. A ghostly hand shot out from the surface, seizing Jill by the throat.
"Resist all you want. I will be free. Soon."
She had no idea how long she was on the floor, slumped in the corner, her hands around her own neck. Only the indecisive pattern of dripping water from under the sink told time. There was a knock at the door. Jill got up unsteadily, refusing to glance in the mirror as she passed. Back in the cafe, Burke was nowhere to be seen. In his place, standing by their table, talking to Wesley was Tex Thompson, the man who would be president.
"Wesley Dodds. The last name sounds familiar," said Thompson.
"My father Edward may be the cause of that," said Wesley.
"Of course. How is Edward these days?" said Thompson.
"Dead, unfortunately. He passed a few years ago," said Wesley.
"Oh lord, how rude of me. I hope you'll take no offense," said Thompson.
"None at all. That used to happen all the time," said Wesley.
An awkward pause followed, as Tex Thompson cleared his throat and Wesley made fraught eye contact with Dian. Burke had fled the cafe, to save face after Thompson's intervention. Many of the other patrons were staring, either overtly or indirectly. Thompson lived up to the press description of him. He cut a dashing figure in person, a dignified mustache on his upper lip, his frame that of an athlete. Dian broke the silence, exchanging pleasantries with Thompson. Wesley could see why he was a potent candidate. There was a charm to him, an intimacy that he was keen to draw you into, to make you feel spoken to.
"Mr. Dodds, as a man on a campaign, I hope this doesn't come across as crass. We're pretty direct back in Texas and even for one as well traveled as myself, I am not always the best with the eccentricities of local etiquette. Do I have your support in the election?" said Thompson.
"To be honest, I think we disagree on a few issues. Namely the war," said Wesley.
"The war," said Thompson with a sigh. "I did not take you for a man in want of conflict, Mr. Dodds. Your scuffle with the policeman aside."
"Were I to have my way, there would be no war in Europe. Or anywhere else for that matter. My father came home from the Great War, but he was not the same man that boarded the boat. But, the reality is that there is a war and the Nazis are not capable of being appeased or bargained with," said Wesley.
"I'm glad you're not my opponent. I sense a strong orator in there," said Thompson.
"Too kind."
"I understand your position. Hitler and his lackeys are bullies of the lowest order. But, they are not an American problem. Europe does not need America to sort out its differences. We must handle our own affairs first," said Thompson.
"Sorry to disappoint, but you're not winning me over here," said Wesley.
"I would almost be disappointed if I did," said Thompson. "I admire a man with principles."
"Your principles nearly got you killed," said Dian.
"A risk I was and am willing to take," said Thompson.
"You're not at all frightened it could happen again?" said Wesley.
"I believe the matter is wrapped up. I've even told the police that I'm not concerned with the investigation. They have the shooter, what more is there to it?" said Thompson.
Wesley studied Thompson's face. If there was a tell to it, Wesley couldn't discern it. His conversational partner looked at ease, in command of his every display.
"May we all be blessed with such confidence," said Dian.
"If a man's not willing to risk it all, does he really deserve stewardship over this great nation?" said Thompson.
One of Thompson's entourage came and whispered a missive in his ear. He excused himself and left their table, going deeper into the cafe, to anonymous backrooms where the real power brokers dined, the real reason for his visit, Wesley postulated. Corrigan returned to the table, her eyes bloodshot, her hair ruffled.
"Are you alright?" said Dian.
"Fine. Just needed a moment," said Corrigan. "That was Tex Thompson."
"The man himself," said Wesley. He explained their encounter.
"You think he's genuine?" said Corrigan.
"If he's not, I can't tell. Not from such a brief interaction. We're not going to get much more with him."
"So, we have to follow-up with Fowler's information."
"Another visit to Beasly might be enlightening," said Wesley.
"He'll be more receptive this time?"
"If we go in our work clothes, then I believe he will."
Beasly's apartment was no more inviting on the inside. Sandman let himself in a window, having hooked his line on the fire escape, did a sweep to make sure there would be no angry tenants within, then let Jill Corrigan in the front door. She wore a domino mask from when Wesley was still formulating what shape the Sandman would take.
"This place is rank," said Corrigan as soon as she crossed the doorway.
"I can't tell," said Sandman, noting his gas mask. He pulled free the mask for a moment. There was a musky, thick odor that struck his nostrils like a gale wind. Rot.
The apartment wasn't large to begin with and the state it was in made it feel claustrophobic. There were functionally only two rooms, the first being a hybrid of bedroom and kitchen, with a gas stove shoved in the corner by the windowsill and a rusty sink and counter next to it. Dirty dishes were lazily piled onto every available surface. The mattress was a sagging, grimy looking object. The other room was a cramped bathroom with a cracked mirror and a small tub and shower.
"Time to pick through this filth," said Sandman.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for, only that Beasly was the strongest connection to whatever this case represented. They dug through loose articles of clothing, moldy plates and bits of junk. His dresser contained several photographs, of a dour looking family in front of wooden buildings somewhere outside of the city.
"This is awfully messy, even for a building like this," said Corrigan.
It was strange how cluttered the room was. Behind the nightstand, Wesley found a loose board that he shifted aside. There was a small, hollow pocket of space in the wall. Within was a revolver, a knife, some unopened cigarette packs, fifty dollars and another set of photos. Sandman flicked through them. They depicted people marching, saluting, training. The people within wore uniforms, with black armbands. In the background of a few of them were swastikas. The Bund.
"Detective Corrigan, examine this," said Wesley.
One of the larger group shots was signed with the name Lukas Baeder. Another photo had the same name on it, this time of a man at a podium in some sort of camp. The Nazi flag flew alongside the American one. There was a note, recent, signed by Baeder. "You've been a good soldier. Stay resolute," it said.
"Corrigan?" said Sandman. She had not moved from her spot in the room, near the bathroom.
A few more utterances of her name failed to get a response. Sandman came to her side. Corrigan's face was sheet white. Her pupils were pinpricks. Her palm was flat on the floorboards.
"Death," said Corrigan in a voice not her own.
Sandman pried loose the floorboard she was touching. Underneath them, stared back the glassy eyes of Caleb Beasly. He removed a few more boards to confirm.
"He's been dead a while," said Corrigan, her voice normal, her pupils returned. "Strangulation." There were purple marks around Beasly's throat.
"How long do you estimate?" said Sandman. He could make an educated guess, but this was Corrigan's profession.
"At least a week. That's what accounts for a lot of this stench," she said.
They both arrived at the same troubling conclusion.
"Who talked to us two days ago?" said Corrigan.
"I have no idea," said Sandman. "But he might."
He held up Baeder's picture.
The only exposure that Jill Corrigan had to Wesley Dodds as the Sandman came when she was less than herself, under the control of the Spectre, so until this moment she had failed to properly appreciate his capacity for inducing fear into others. Her teammates, namely the ones on the periphery like Al and Rex, often treated Wesley with a level of discomfort that the rest of the group reserved for the likes of the Spectre and Doctor Fate. That treatment had perplexed Jill until this moment. As she watched Sandman stand atop Lukas Baeder's poker table, the man's right hand under his boot, the rest of the unfortunate souls that attended Baeder's game night passed out or on their way to sleep from the fumes unleashed by Sandman's sleep gun that she appreciated the nightmarish quality that his guise evoked in others. The glimpses of the slender, unfeeling mask that slipped from the fog of chemicals was positively inhuman.
Jill observed this scene from the fire escape, as Sandman did his deeds. She could not fully hear their exchange, but whatever resistance Baeder intended to offer vanished in light of the combination of possible violence and the suggestive tonic that was Sandman's concoctions. His work concluded, her companion blanketed Baeder in another gout of gas. He opened the window and slipped back out onto the platform.
"Well?" said Jill.
"It's tenuous, but he had something. Camp Siegfried," said Sandman.
"And that is?"
"A place where the Bund used to meet. Abandoned since the group lost its leadership. Baeder says the head of the camp, a man by the name Paul Moser, was less than trusting of his associates."
"Meaning?"
"He kept a detailed account of their comings and goings. Including financials."
"And these accounts are at the camp."
"Buried on the property. By the administrative building."
"What's in these records?"
"Evidence that Tex Thompson was in bed with the Bund. Maybe even enough to have their former members fake an assassination attempt."
"Should we wait for Rex?" said Corrigan.
"No. He'll be here soon enough. We need to get started," said Sandman.
Camp Siegfried was less impressive than its former owners would have appreciated. The entrance sign was covered by a notice signifying its closure, a product of the government's raids on the Bund and its leadership. Baeder had spilled that the feds had been all over the place a few years back, but he was sure that they never found the documents. It was a slim chance that anything that old could definitively implicate Thompson in his own near-assassination, but any thread of evidence was better than a dead end.
They had taken one of Wesley's cars, one he reserved for Sandman activities, but they left it near the gate, out of sight from the road. They both carried shovels for the task ahead. The path had not been well maintained, with scrub brush already overtaking it. The camp was just far enough from the neighborhoods of Long Island that the Bund would have been afforded privacy for their gatherings. There were no lights out here, only the flashlights that he and Corrigan carried. The city and the moon gave enough light to prevent complete disorientation. From their limited view, the camp was a humble affair, a series of long buildings and a couple of two story houses. A tangle of trees bordered the camp. It took some searching to find the administrative building, another longhouse at the end of a dirt path.
"Where do we begin?" said Corrigan.
"Baeder said it was beneath the flag pole."
Sandman more or less stumbled into his target, a concrete block jutting from the earth that held two long, lonesome metal poles that extended far into the night's sky. The two of them started their labor, unearthing whatever lay below.
It was as Sandman's shovel hit something other than dirt that he heard a twig snap from the nearby woods. Adjusting his head to see what it was saved his life, as a bullet plowed into the spot he was a moment ago. Successive gunshots came from the trees. Sandman palmed an orb of gas from his belt and smashed it on the earth, letting out a torrent of smoke to obscure them.
"Get out of here. Try to circle back to the car," he said to Corrigan.
"What about you?" she said.
"I'll do the same. But, I need to split their attention." He gave her another smoke bomb.
Sandman took a three count, then sprinted out of the smoke. He used the admin building as a shield for as long as he could, before cutting off to his right and dipping into the treeline. A branch exploding nearby told him that his maneuver had not gone unnoticed. This was out of his comfort zone. His tools, his skills, worked best in urban environments, where he had the element of surprise. Out here, in the woods, up against an unknown force, would be an uphill battle. Behind the mask, Wesley smiled. It was the valkyries all over again.
Only without the full might of his team to back him up.
Jill crouched low amongst the beech and maple trees. The shadows crisscrossed the ground from the lunar light. Every snap of a twig threatened to betray her. Jill could fight if it came to it, but she carried no gun. Her service weapon was back in LA presumably. There was little she could do if spotted from afar.
Eventually, the silhouette of the car presented itself. Jill came up to it. The tires were deflated, slashed near the rims. Something moved behind her and she felt a cord wrap her neck. A knee hit her on the inside of her own, buckling her legs. The cord cut into her skin. Jill struggled, but she could feel that it was a losing battle.
"Unleash me."
A form leapt out from the dark, a fist flying past her face, impacting the assailant behind her. The cord released, before it could do permanent damage. Hourman was beside her.
"Sorry I didn't arrive sooner. I got sidetracked on the way," he said.
A car screeched up on the drive, emptying out a group of gunmen. They began firing in their direction, which Hourman responded to by shielding Jill with his body. She saw bullets bounce off of his backside.
"I'd say we take these thugs, but I don't want to risk you getting shot. You ready to run?" he said.
She nodded. Hourman wrapped his arms around her and bounded off, deeper into the camp.
Another shooter collapsed to the ground, his gun dropped at his side, as Sandman relaxed his finger from the trigger of his sleep gun. This was the ninth gunman he stopped. There was no telling how many were out here.
Any sense of direction was lost in the trees. He was liable to be running in circles at this rate. As long as he kept Jill safe. It was a foolish thing, leaving his signal watch behind. He hoped that Dian would forgive him the hubris. That he would have an opportunity for Dian to forgive him.
"Sandman?" said a familiar voice.
"Detective Burke?" said Sandman.
The detective came out from behind a pair of knotted trunks, his revolver in hand. He looked frantic.
"What's with all the shooting?" said Burke.
"Would-be assassins. After me," said Sandman.
"I came here on a tip. From my own investigation. Haven't been able to raise the horn back to the station," said Burke.
"Stick close detective. We may yet make it out of this," said Sandman. "We'll work our way out of the camp."
"Lead the way," said Burke.
As Sandman turned away, he recognized the error of his ways, the extent to which the night's events had thrown him off. There had yet to be an encounter with Burke that allowed the two such a relatively calm exchange. It always ended in Sandman gassing him or fleeing the scene, with inevitable declarations of Burke's intent to capture the man.
This was all lost on Sandman as the bullet struck him from behind.
"More gunshots. Sandman?" said Hourman.
They were standing on the edge of a lake, one that bordered the camp. There were upside down rowboats, left over from calmer days.
"Probably," said Jill. "What's wrong with you?"
He was breathing heavily, his arms dipped.
"My hour is just about up. Took me longer than I thought to get here," said Hourman.
They weren't on them yet, but Jill could see the forms of their pursuers creeping through the woods, closing the perimeter on them. Between the lake and the open space of the camp center and there wasn't much room to change their position.
"Better than nothing. How are those fighting lessons Al's giving you?" said Jill.
"So you do know what goes on with the team."
"I try."
Sandman did his best to not think about how his ribs were at best cracked. Shattered at worst. Hot pokers stuck in his side with every agonized wheeze, as he propped himself up on the roots of a nearby tree. The kevlar plating in his costume held, but a point blank gunshot was a point blank gunshot. His hat was gone. Dammit, he loved that hat.
"In a way, this is better. I'm used to shooting folks in the back, but it'll be good for my rate if I have a story about killing you, face to face.," said Burke. Or not quite Burke. There was something off around the eyes. The skin appeared to hang too loose. The doppelganger noticed Sandman's attention.
"Not my finest work, eh? Bit of a rush job," said his foe. He squatted near Sandman, out of reach, not that Wesley had the power to lunge at him. His sleep gun was somewhere behind him.
"I thought you hero types were tougher than this," said not Burke.
"Why kill Beasly? Why any of this?" said Sandman.
"Not a chance pal. All you need to know if you got too close and this is what it got you," said not Burke.
He pointed his revolver at Wesley's face.
The hand to hand lessons had paid off for Rex. He took down six of their assailants, even bereft of his Miraculo. Jill did her part, cold cocking a pair of gunmen who sprinted out into the fray. Whoever arranged this ambush had a real desire to see them dead, as more enemies continued to emerge from the trees.
Hourman cried in pain as a bullet grazed his side. Another thug capitalized on his distraction to smack him from behind with a broken tree branch. He was down. It was as they pinned her to the ground, a gun pointed at Rex's head, another sure to be aimed at her shortly that Jill lost the battle.
It took her a moment to realize that the screams weren't hers. The gunmen were flying up into the canopy, carried by chords of green cloth, that dug into their skin and bent their bodies like broken dolls. A snarl slashed out into the night air.
"Don't, please don't" said one of her assailants.
"Guilty. All guilty," said the Spectre.
Jill tried to close her eyes, but it was useless. The crimson droplets fell in a downpour. Through another's eyes she saw Rex looking up at her in horror.
"What did you do?" he said.
"What I was put here for. Vengeance."
The gunshot Wesley awaited never came. Instead it produced a shower of sparks and cursing as his foe dropped his pistol. Another shot winged his shoulder. The not Burke yelped and fled into the woods, ducking to avoid another volley.
"I'd chase him, but you look like you need the help," said a voice.
Sandman painfully looked back to see Grant Fowler approach, a pistol in hand. He wore a black suit that obscured his form in the dark.
"What?" said Sandman.
"Oh, this. Likely to lead to more questions than answers," said Fowler. He reached a hand to the back of his own neck and gave it a tug. The skin came loose, unfolding off of Fowler's head. Beneath was a man in a black domino mask.
"Fowler? Is he.."
"He's alright. Out of commission for his own good, but alright," said the masked man. "You can call me the King. We've a mutual interest in this affair."
The King assisted Sandman to his feet. He offered him his hat. Sandman retrieved his sleep gun.
"If it makes you feel any better, those documents you were after were never here. Merely bait for the trap," said the Kind.
"How do you play into all this?" said Sandman.
"Afraid I can't disclose that. Concerned third party is all I can say," said the King.
The King looked around.
"These fellows you've dispatched. They won't spill. Or there will be a cover story. They're well trained, handsomely paid and sufficiently loyal. A right pain," said the King.
He palmed something to Sandman. A patch.
"You're close though. You and your comrades. Keep poking around. Though you might not like where it ends up," said the King.
The patch was marked by a two pronged tapering line that resembled a claw. It was yellow.
By the time Sandman looked back up, the King was gone.
August 10, 1940
"Easy dear. Let me get that for you," said Dian. She set down a tray of refreshments by Wesley where he reclined on her apartment couch.
"What would I do without you?" he said.
"Shockingly little it appears," said Dian.
He laughed, then regretted it. His initial assumption about his ribs was correct. Two were cracked from the gunshot, putting him out of commission for the time being.
"You were saying that Rex won't tell you what happened with Ms. Corrigan that night," said Dian.
"He's been uncharacteristically quiet on the matter. All I know is there was a rather violent retribution," said Wesley.
"There was something profoundly sad in her for the brief time we met. Even I could discern that," said Dian.
"You are a rather perceptive woman," said Wesley.
"And you are a foolish man."
"That's why we work so well together."
There was a light rapping at her door. Dian got up with a start.
"I nearly forgot I agreed to this.." she said, frantically straightening out the living room, while Wesley sat up.
"What is this?" he asked, but Dian was already at the door, saying hello to an unknown visitor.
"Wesley Dodds, I have the pleasure of introducing you to my nephew, who will be staying with me for part of the year."
Dian led in a boy, a teenager of around fifteen or sixteen. He did not much resemble Dian, having golden hair that fell nearly to his pale eyes. He looked apprehensive about the whole affair.
"Meet Sandy Hawkins."