The Pulptress Page 3

  Her quick recovery startled both men, but still they turned and approached, eager to take advantage of what should have been an injured opponent, but was now more a fighting hellcat, dancing back and forth on the balls of her feet. Off guard and angry, both men lost any semblance of training they’d possessed seconds before and sprang like mad dogs at The Pulptress. She thrust out her right arm first, her fingers curled in against themselves, and twisted her wrist as she planted her open fist dead center in the monotone man’s throat. He stopped suddenly, almost where he stood, and gasped over and over, like a man drowning in the early morning air. As he dropped to his knees, his Billy club clamored against the asphalt. He clawed at his throat with his now empty hands, the entire world whirling around him like some mad cyclone. He tried to curse, to cry out, to breathe, as his fingers dug helplessly, hoping to somehow pull back the shroud of darkness closing in around him. He failed, pitching forward, his face slapping dully against the unforgiving alley floor.

  As she retracted her arm from one man’s throat, The Pulptress dipped back and to the right, barely dodging the savage swing of the other’s night stick. He roared like a grumbling grizzly, not a hint of Jersey in his guttural utterances, and pounced forward, his arms open and ready for a tackle. Standing up quickly, The Pulptress spun around in a full circle, her left leg raised high. Bones crackling like puffed rice in milk echoed throughout the Corridor as her foot pummeled his masked face, his right cheek mulched into a bloody pulp. Unlike his friend, Lannigan’s hired muscle from New Jersey didn’t go in for the dramatic final scene. He simply toppled over like a sack of wet cement, the other cheek making a spongy breaking sound as his head hit the ground.

  “Pity,” The Pulptress said sincerely as she took just a moment to catch her breath, “that your friends left the party early. I would have enjoyed four far more than two.”

  “No, Lady P,” rumbled a rich, full bodied voice at her back, rolling thunder resonating from a taut muscled broad chest. “Not these two you wouldn’t have.”

  Hearing something slice the air, The Pulptress waited for the two pair of multivision goggles tossed from behind her to clatter to the ground at her feet. Then she whirled around and elatedly watched the one man she knew owned that booming timbre walk nonchalantly out of the shadows at the other end of the alley.

  Fighting her initial desire to run up to him and fling her arms around his massive chest like a little sister welcoming her wandering brother home, The Pulptress instead simply said, “You’re probably right. None of Lannigan’s lackeys gave me much sport tonight.”

  The new arrival in the Corridor walked up to The Pulptress, a wide white grin splitting the features of his dark chocolate face. He stood only a couple of inches taller than she did in her heels, but still in her eyes he towered above her as much as he had when she was a child. He wore what she’d often seen him in; black jeans, a khaki tee shirt half hidden under a black sports coat and black handcrafted shoes, Plexico originals. He reached down with a hand seemingly as big as her head, and with the delicate touch of a surgeon, took her fingers in his, lifted her hand up and lowered his head down, his lips barely brushing the top of her hand. “Lady P,” he said in a husky whisper known to melt women down to nothing but passion, “it is, as always, a pleasure.”

  She bit her lip not to giggle. Oh he’d heard her laugh and cry, for that matter, more than once in the years they’d known each other, but now that she was on her own, no longer a student of his or anyone else’s, it wouldn’t be proper for her to giggle. “It was a surprise, too, Dillon,” she said, giving him a quick wink and nod, “seeing you in the bar tonight. Following me?”

  The man known in circles both high and low and in all corners of the world by a single name chuckled, again little tiny claps of thunder rising from his throat. “No, my turn as your tutor and nursemaid ended years ago. Happenstance is all, pure happenstance.” He slid his right hand into his coat pocket and pulled out something, now resting in his palm, that resembled a tangle of golden thread. “Had to…liberate this little jewel here, known as Alexander’s Knot, from some not so good people.”

  The Pulptress arched an eyebrow. She’d heard a few things about the rare artifact that Dillon so coolly slid back into his pocket. “Well, it’s a positive then,” she said with all honesty, “that you have it now. Not so good people could cause a bit of havoc with things like that.”

  “They’ve been known to do just that,” Dillon concurred. Glancing over his former protégé’s shoulder, he said, “Tweedle and Twaddle there will probably raise and rouse in a bit.” He slid one of his tree trunk-like arms around her waist, saying, “Care to walk with me and tell me just what you were up to in the Big Apple tonight?”

  “Not at all,” she replied, reaching up and tugging gently at her domino mask. The adhesive holding it to her skin gave with a pop. With one hand she slid the mask into its pocket in her skirt while she pulled her fedora off with the other. “I’d gotten word that more than one party was interested in Thomas Kane, parties that I didn’t want to have him.”

  Dillon took the hat from her hand and held it in his free one. As he ushered her down the alley, he asked, “For his money or his undeserved genius?”

  She noted the sardonic tone in his comment. She also noticed, as they walked, two black clad masked figures stacked up against the Morriston Plaza alley wall like firewood. “Both, really, but his mind is what I wanted to protect. He’s not that bad of a guy, Dillon. After his parents were murdered when he was a kid, he ended up with that crazy aunt of his who spoiled him like fermented apples. But she couldn’t stop the intellect he had and neither could he. He…”she hesitated, searching for the right word, “He just needs time to think. He just needs direction.”

  “Direction,” Dillon teased, “that you plan to give him?”

  “Hey,” she poked him in the ribs with an elbow as they rounded the corner out of the alley to the back entrance of Morriston Plaza. “He could do worse than me as a guide. I had some pretty good ones.” She looked up at him with an impish grin. “Well, most of them anyway.” Not letting him get in a response, she said, “But no, I put him in better hands.”

  It was Dillon’s turn to show some surprise. “What’d you do? Kidnap him before Lannigan’s lavender gang could?”

  This time she couldn’t repress the girlish giggle. “Not so much. Once he and Tori staggered to his room, I told him who I was and exactly who besides Lannigan would likely make a play for him in the next couple of days. I also had to tell him to explain the two people waiting on us in his room.”

  “Li Suan and Dunklin?”

  “Yup,” she chirped, “Two best snatch and grabbers in the world. Kane sort of agreed, with persuasion like only Li can provide and then they spirited him away while I played patty cake with Lannigan’s back up roster. They’ll take him home and give him a few days to…consider his options while the heat dies down.”

  Dillon whistled a quick note. “Not many options when you’re one of the only experts in cosmological weaponry in the world.” Pausing on the street at the base of the steps leading into the Plaza, Dillon turned so he stood just inches from his friend. He knew what the doorman looking on lecherously was thinking as well as what any passersby would imagine, but that was all right. No better cover for people in their line of work than mistakes and assumptions. “Speaking of,” he said, looking down at her, one hand still on her hip, “Been home lately?”

  Glimmers of sadness haunted her eyes for a moment, then vanished. “No, not in a while. Too many messes to clean up.”

  “Lady P,” Dillon said, moving his hand from her waist and tenderly touching her chin, tilting it back ever so slightly with his finger, “the world’s a messy place. Always has been, always will be. It was for your folks, and nobody, not even them were they here, would expect you to tidy it all up alone.” Dillon bent close to her, the doorman almost falling down the steps craning his neck for the kiss he expected to see. Dillon lifted the blac
k fedora he’d held, plopped it lackadaisically on her red hair, and whispered in her ear, “Go home, Emily. Rest.”

  She smiled at him, leaned in, climbing up on the tips of her toes, and planted a lingering peck on his cheek. The doorman slapped his leg hard, his fantasy frustrated. The Pulptress, her feet flat on the sidewalk now, stepped back from Dillon. “You know,” she said, “I didn’t need your help tonight.”

  Dillon appeared caught off guard. “Who, me?” He offered. “When did I help you?”

  “In the bar. When the little guy started to get off your table. The love tap you gave him. I could have handled whatever he had.”

  “Of course you could have. You forget who taught you Kyoshu jitsu. But,” he added, “I do have to stay in practice. Not all of us can channel Gracie Allen and fight by pratfall, Lady P.”

  As Dillon turned to cross the street, the young lady known to many as The Pulptress nodded, waved, and walked into the Morriston Plaza, already calculating the fastest way from New York to Arkansas.

  THE END

  THE PORTRAIT

  by Terry Alexander

  20-December-1945

  The shiny Ford Coupe turned up the gravel driveway and stopped before a two story house in Corinth, Mississippi. “Mom, Dad, it’s great to see you.” John Charles jumped from the seat, waving at his parents waiting on the huge porch. “There were times these past few years that I didn’t think I’d make it home,” he called as he headed up the walkway. Upon reaching the elderly man and woman, he hugged first one, then the other.

  His mother pulled the apron up to her eyes, wiping tears away. “Johnny, you don’t know how many times I prayed for this day to come.”

  “Was it really as bad over there as the news reels said?” His father slapped him on the back.

  “Dad, it was a lot worse.” John turned toward the Coupe. “Mom, Dad, You remember Jill Henry from Jackson, don’t you?”

  A breeze ruffled her short strawberry red hair as she climbed from the vehicle, her freckled face lit with a bright smile.

  The older couple nodded. “I remember her.” His dad stroked his chin. “Aren’t you Bob Henry’s oldest girl?”

  “No, Mr. Charles, I’m their second daughter. Irene is the oldest.”

  “Jill, these are my parents, Lorene and Arthur.” A wide smile split John’s face. “I went through the Capitol on the way here.”

  “You took the long way.” Lorene clutched her son’s arm, unwilling to let him go. “We expected you yesterday.”

  “Jill and I stopped by the Justice of the Peace and got married yesterday. I wanted to tell you personally.” John hurried to his bride’s side.

  “Wha…” The words died on Arthur’s tongue. “Why didn’t you write and tell us what you had planned? We would have found a way to get to Jackson.”

  “Jill’s letters kept me going during the war. Getting back to her was all I ever thought about. I asked her to marry me after the Japs surrendered.” John held her hand tightly. “She wrote me back and said yes. So I drove down to see her first thing after I drew my mustering out pay.”

  Lorene surged forward and threw her arms around her new daughter-in-law. “Welcome to the family.” Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “Let’s take Jill in the house. We’ve got dinner on the stove now.”

  “You two haven’t eaten?” John asked.

  “No, we decided to wait for you to get here.” Lorene tugged on Jill’s elbow. “Now let’s get Jill in the house.”

  “Hang on a minute, Dad. I found a gift for you and Mom over in Germany.” John crossed to the trunk of the new vehicle. “It’s a painting. I found in an old church. One of the walls crumbled during the shelling and there it was, behind the wall. They were hiding it from the Nazi’s.”

  “What kind of painting? One of them landscape watercolors?” Arthur followed him to the rear of the car.

  “No, it’s the portrait of a man in front of a castle.” John pulled a wrapped bundle from the trunk. “It’ll look great over the fireplace.”

  “That reminds me, I need to get some more wood. I’m paying the Osborn boys five dollars for a cord now.” The old man took the bundle from his hand. “We’ll show your mother after we eat.”

  “I hope Mom made some fried chicken. I haven’t had a good piece of chicken since I joined the army.” His hand rested on his father’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go eat, Son. You’re mother’s been waiting for this day for three years.” He carried his paper wrapped bundle up the granite steps to the massive oak door.

  An hour later they sat around the fireplace. John placed a large piece of pecan wood on the rolling flames. A radio played softly in the back ground.

  “Where were you during the war?” Lorene asked Jill.

  “I worked at the aircraft plant. We were building fifteen planes a day. When the war ended they let everyone go. Now all I want to do is be a good wife to John.” Jill sipped from her glass of iced tea. “With his know how, he’ll land a good paying job in Jackson. It’s a growing city and they’ll need carpenters.”

  “We were hoping that you two would settle down right here in Cornith.” Arthur turned to face John.

  “Come on, Dad.” John jumped from the couch, not wanting to tackle a delicate subject at the present time. “Open the package. I think you and Mom will really like it.” He pulled the paper wrapped bundle from behind the couch.

  “Oh, Johnny, you didn’t have to get us a present. The greatest gift I could receive is having you home safe.” Her liver spotted hands tugged at the string binding. “I’m all thumbs, can’t get my hands to work right.”

  The paper tore under her hands. A dash of yellow and blue showed in the upper corner. The stern face of an oddly dressed man glared from the portrait. His blue eyes stared off into the distance, his arms folded across his chest. A gold cross draped over the painting.

  “Who in the world is that?” Lorene looked from John to her husband. “He sure looks mad.”

  “That’s Oskar Von Rohm. He was an Archduke in the thirteen hundreds. From what little information I could piece together he was a very powerful nobleman.” He took the painting from his mother’s hands, laying the crucifix on a nearby coffee table. “You know, I thought his hair was a lot darker when I packaged it up.”

  “John thinks it would look good over the fireplace.” Arthur stared at the gray castle walls and the callous man at the forefront. “What do you think?”

  “Well I…” Her voice caught. “I think it would look good there.”

  “You know it’s nearly eleven o’clock.” Arthur yawned. “It’s time to hit the hay.”

  “Mom, let me hang that up for you.” John nodded. “Just direct me to the hammer and a couple of nails.”

  “No, John, you don’t have to do that tonight.” Lorene stared at the cruel blue eyes beneath the stern brow. “Goodness, he does look blood-thirsty.”

  “John, put it away. You’re parents can decide what to do with it tomorrow.” Jill rose from the sofa, her arm intertwined with her husband’s.

  “Okay, sure.” John patted her hand. “Anything you say.” He turned toward his folks. “Where are we bunking tonight?”

  “We were going to have you sleep in your old room.” Arthur scratched the light covering of whiskers along his jaw. “But now that doesn’t seem appropriate. You and Jill can stay in the guest room at the top of the stairs.”

  “Grandpa’s old room?” John arched his eyebrows. “The one with the big safe?”

  “Big safe?” Jill repeated.

  “My Great Grandfather had a walk in safe built into the east wall. He used to keep all his valuables inside.” Arthur said. “We keep the canned goods in there now.”

  John stood the painting at the end of the sofa. “I used to sneak into Grandpa’s room when I was little. I loved that room.”

  The older couple turned to the bedroom located beside the kitchen. “I’m sure you’ll find it very comfortable. We’ll see you in the morning.” />
  “Where are you going?” John scratched his head. “Why are you going to the maid’s room?”

  “That’s our room now. I can’t climb those stairs as good as I used too. My bad hip barks at me every time I try.” Lorene kissed her son on the cheek. “We’ll see you for breakfast.”

  “Sure.” He hugged her tightly. “Ham and eggs?” John’s eyes twinkled.

  She nodded. “Ham and eggs.” Lorene and Arthur turned toward their bedroom as John and Jill walked up the stairs.

  “You’ll love this old room.” John squeezed her waist. “I used to pretend that I was a knight and the old safe my castle.”

  They turned out the lights, plunging the house into darkness. A shaft of moonlight glowed through the window, centered on the cruel face of Oskar von Rohm. A malevolent light glowed from the blue eyes.

  During the night dense clouds swept in on a fierce northern wind. The temperature dropped ten degrees in as many minutes. The warm glow from the fireplace quickly dissipated, cold settled into the house like a silent invader. Soft footsteps moved over the pastel linoleum floors. A foul odor centered in the living room, akin to the scent of death and rot on a hot summer’s day.

  Moonlight fell on a freakish hand, slender fingers, with long nails sharpened into miniature daggers. The intruder paused, nostrils distended, he sniffed the air. A familiar odor traveled on the cold penetrating breeze. He knew that stench. The same pungent aroma had tortured him for many months.

  An old fashioned boot descended on the first step of the marble staircase. A second odor caught his attention, an odd mixture of the one from the stairs, but older, aged like fine wine. A smile touched his cruel lips, as he turned toward the heavy door.