Fiona Meroe entered the empty office of the DSA corporations, looking through the drawers, searching for something. It was past office hours, and all of the employees have gone home to bed. Only she came back, scrambling across the other employees' desk.
"Where is it?" she mumbled, trying to get herself focused. "Where is it?"
She opened the last drawer, then stare quietly. She picked up the sheet of paper, and stuffed it in her pocket.
The pale moonlight shimmered through the glass windows, as she turned her attention to the silence the surrounded her. Suddenly, a deep voice began to below through the halls, and she stopped, frozen in fear, as it drew closer.
The figure stood in the shadows, watching her.
"Hello, Miss Meroe. What are you doing here?" the cloaked figure asked, as it stepped into the pale moonlight. Fiona took a step back, as the Sandman drew close.
"G-get back!" she cried, as the vigilante began to take steps closer to her. Suddenly, he grasped her neck, and tried to strangle her.
"You shouldn't be here," the Sandman whispered to her, as she was gasping for her final breath. Suddenly, flashlights flickered through the hallway, and shouts of the night guards began to envelope the place. The Sandman let loose of his grasp, and Fiona slowly faded away from her consciousness as the masked vigilante crashed through the window, grabbing hold of the ledge, and began to climb down to a window below.
This shouldn't have happened, Wesley thought, as the medics dragged the body of the comatose Fiona into the ambulance.
Troy stood beside him, seriously quiet. Ray was talking with the police, ensuring that this wouldn't become a public scandal.
"Troy, how could this happen?" Wesley asked the man, as they headed back inside the building. Troy grumbled, as the elevator slowly descended to the ground floor. He motioned the younger investor to press for floor 21, and as the elevator began to ascend, Troy grabbed a piece of paper from his pocket.
"Wesley, can you read this for me?"
"It's . . . an advertisement for the Summer Parade?"
"Something else. Look below."
" . . . It's a list of the debutantes," Wesley said, all knowing what Troy was pointing out already. " . . . some of them were killed by the . . . "
"Exactly. This fell from Fiona's pocket when they were taking hold of her. I suspect, she may something to do with the Peterson Avenue killer."
"Well, that's great. So, what now?" The elevator stopped then, and the two got out, walking down the busy hallways. Troy grabbed a sheet of paper from a pile by their right, and took his pen.
"My point is, we'll need more information. Look, I have a plan." He began scribbling something on the piece of paper, as Wesley quietly mumbled to himself.
What are you getting into now?
Ian Samwell began scribbling on his notepad, trying to piece in whatever information he had gotten last night.
"This isn't right," he grumbled, tearing away another piece of scratch and throwing it into the garbage bin. "What's missing?"
"Now, my dear inspector, do have a seat." Roger Goldman said, as Ian unwarily sat on the plush couch. The fireplace crackled, giving the shadows life on those hallowed walls. He turned around, as if looking for something, then brought his gaze back to the two men.
"I'm so sorry that my family cannot attend your interrogation, gentlemen. My wife is out right now, probably for another charitable foundation, while the children are with their friends. Now, what is it you would like to ask me?"
"It's about the murders that have been occurring lately. Or have you noticed you are the only family living nearby Peterson Avenue?"
"That I have, Inspector. These murders . . . they don't appeal to my good taste."
"Oh really?" Pascal muttered suddenly, grabbing the field report from his bag. "So, how come this killer can elusively escape any eye of a witness at the time of the murder? The only way the murderer could disappear to quickly is if he lived nearby."
The middle-aged man smiled wryly, as Samwell lit a tobacco. "Please, Detective Pascal. To the south of Peterson Avenue, where the killings took place if I might add, are abandoned buildings. Supposed that it could be walking distance to our estate from the killings, wouldn't it be quicker if the villain entered one of those buildings, then escaped through another way?"
Pascal kept silent, as Ian continued to jot down notes. He then turned back to Roger, only to hear a crash from above. Instantly, an unbearable screech filled the room for a moment, then silenced. "Oh, don't pay attention to that, gentlemen. That was just our pet cat, Prudence. She can ruffle a few feathers. Practically broke a vase last week."
Samwell ignored his chatter. He didn't care about a cat, he was here for something else. "Okay, Mister Goldman, there are accounts that you will be hosting the masquerade ball this coming Friday?"
"Yes, my dear inspector."
"Then, due to my sources, the killer may attack that night. If it's possible, we'd like to have some of our men guarding the mansion on that night."
Roger Goldman froze that minute, as if nervous of some secret that loomed before him. Then he took his kerchief, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Then he saw the inspector, watching his every move.
"Why are you perspiring, Mister Goldman?"
"Nothing, inspector. Just the heat of the fireplace, that's all."
"It's a rather chilly night," Pascal mentioned, staring outside, as the moon seeped through the curtains. Outside, the squad was waiting for something to happen. As the hooting of the owl ceased, silence became dominant across the darkness. Roger ignored the comment of the detective, and turned back to Ian. "I can only tell you this, inspector. Have you heard of the Sandman?"
Ian became silent, recalling a past encounter with the vigilante.
"Well, as it goes, he may be the one doing the murders. As much as my sources reach out, he is in league with the criminal underworld," Goldman said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. "If you want to know more, please go to the North Cross at midnight, tomorrow, Thursday. I may be able to give you more information."
He gave Ian the paper, not before whispering these very words: "Spider knows all about it."
Sanderson Hawkins grabbed the piece of chocolate by the refrigerator, as Wesley washed his hands by the sink. "So, how's it all going, Wes? Did you find any clues about the killer?"
Wesley took a glass, and poured himself some from the teapot. "Not exactly. They're not information to track down this killer, only a list of the debutantes that he's after."
Sandy placed the candy wrapper in his pocket, then gobbled the whole piece of chocolate in his mouth. "So, are you attending the masquerade ball on Friday as the Sandman, Wes? Or just your normal self, with that mug of a mug?"
"Heh, watch your mouth. Anyway, I can't attend the masquerade ball as the Sandman, as that would be like revealing my own identity. However, I can grab a costume that would resemble that . . . "
Sandy then ran through the door, and minutes later, returned with a black costume and a mask. "Hey, remember that movie we watched? How about it?"
Wesley stared at the piece for a long time, then smiled.
Yes, Zorro seems nice.
Phantysima stood atop the building, onlooking below the city's fading color and lights. Below, jazz music began to play, as the lovers danced and the musician fell to the beat.
"Looking for something, Phantysima?" Wesley said, moving close to her from behind.
Phantysima turned to him, as her green eyes stared at the mask for a moment. "No . . . it's nothing. Just searching for something . . . " And she walked past the Sandman, sitting by the edge of the building. "So, did you find the information broker I you asked about?"
"Yes. Rim Kennedy, the old man. He has the list of debutantes that could be on the killer's list too."
Phantysima then grabbed a tissue paper from her side, and began to sketch a marking on it. "Well, I also found more about your killer. It seems that he or she left scratches on the victim that resemble a spider mark. Who would do that?"
Under his gas mask, Wesley paused. Quiet in thought, he then recalled something. "Wait . . . remember the newspaper today? There was a column there . . . signed by Spider Jerusalem. Could he be the one . . . ?"
"Then you best be careful. I'll go to Rim and ask him about where Spider Jerusalem is. We'll meet at the Metropolitan printing press later, at eleven. In the meantime, do something, you foolish boy, you," Phantysima said as she disappeared into the black mist, like she had done before.
Is she flirting with me? Wesley thought, trying to hold get a hold of himself. No, no more of that. I still have things to finish, matters to solve. And I have to get there at once. He grabbed hold of the other building, making his way to his destination, as the relaxing jazz music faded into the night sky.
"Yes Mister Dodds, Fiona Meroe is quite fine now. She's still in her room though. Why don't you visit her?" The nurse's voice dispersed in his mind, as Wesley sat beside Fiona, still in her hospital garments.
"Hey boss . . . " she said, trying to grasp her words. Wesley held her hand, trying to comfort her. "Fiona, what were you doing back at DSA at night?" he said, and the redhead sighed.
"Okay boss, I'll admit it. You know about those debutantes, right boss?"
"Yes . . . "
Fiona grabbed a glass of water, and drank it. "Well, I'm part of the committee that helps in decorating the parade. If the killer was after them . . . I've met some of them, there were really nice people. God, I don't know, I want to help! I-I can't just let this happen!"
Wesley smiled compassionately, steadfast his grip on Fiona.
"It's that Sandman, boss. He's the one who did this . . . "
"What . . . but how can that . . . "
That couldn't be!
"He strangled me, boss. But I'm still alive."
Someone else as the Sandman? I have to know.
"Don't worry, Fiona. Everything will be fine."
"I hope so, boss. He's already after some of them, even now. I can feel it . . . "
Wesley let go of her, as she drifted off in her sleep. He turned away, and shut the door behind her. She's not really part of this, after all, he thought, walking down the white corridor. Then, Troy was wrong about her. But now, the only suspect I have left is Spider Jerusalem. I have to get back to Phantysima. He took the elevator, counting the seconds.
And this Sandman? I have to know.
"Looks like you took your time getting here," Phantysima said, as the Sandman landed on the rooftop of the skyscraper. "I already have the information. Spider Jerusalem is already launching a series on the Peterson Avenue killer, and it's propelled the Metropolitan into success. He's probably doing the killings for better sales, Sandman."
The Sandman kept silent.
"What's wrong?" Phantysima asked, tugging onto his purple cloak. Then, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, and gave it to her. She read it, then backed away slowly.
I'm going to kill you.
" . . . what . . . ?" Phantysima readied herself in her fighting stance, as the Sandman drew closer.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said in a deep voice.
"Then you're not the Sandman I know!" Phantysima said, launching herself into the air, right before the Sandman took a step back. She landed a swift kick by his shoulder, bringing him down on his knees. He rolled back, and reached out for . . .
a shot.
Phantysima fell back, toppling over the water tower. It landed on her, as gallons of water fell on her. She lay lifeless, as the Sandman disappeared into the night mist.
Samwell stood, waiting in the middle of the warehouse, waiting for the Spider to show up. His tobacco lit the wide area, as the chains rattled by the breeze. Suddenly, a young man, hair of raven appeared out of nowhere. Samwell took his revolver, aimed to kill.
"Hello, inspector," the man said, as Ian did not dare to breathe or blink. "I am Spider Jerusalem. The one you were supposed to meet?"
Ian dropped his guard for a minute, as Spider made himself visible in the light. "What took you so long?" he said, as the young man eyed the skylight.
"Oh, nothing much. Just business to take care of. People to visit. Time to kill." He drew closer to the inspector, turning on his flashlight. "I suppose I could give you the information you requested, right inspector?"
Samwell choked on the smoke of his tobacco, and then tried to clear his throat. "That's right. Now, tell me, what do you know about the Peterson Avenue killer?"
Spider leaned on the wall, and sighed. "Oh that old thing. It's the work of someone named the Tarantula."
"And where did you get that kind of information? How sure am I that I can trust you even?"
Spider just laughed nonchalantly, and continued. "I'm a reporter, inspector. I have links in the underworld that you shouldn't know. This Tarantula person is really the talk right now, since he is staging something grand on Friday's masquerade ball, or so I've heard."
"Can I trust you even?"
"I dare say . . . no." Spider smiled his devilish grin, as Ian Samwell took a few steps backwards. "Anyhow, I'm told he's already killed Miss Jane Lennelworth by now, the first debutante in the line."
"Oh god . . . "
The chains began to rattle swiftly, as Spider Jerusalem began to unravel most of the Tarantula's plans. Suddenly, the skylight was covered in darkness. "What's going on?"
Then, a crash.
Splinters of glass fell before the two, as the Sandman made his way down. He landed on his two feet, staring angrily at Spider Jerusalem, while Ian took behind the wall.
"Spider Jerusalem," Wesley said to him. Suddenly, Ian recognized the figure.
"So, the Sandman," he whispered aiming, his revolver at Wesley. An aim to kill.
The shot was deafening. And the blow deadly.
Next issue: Getting confused? The Third Act continues, as Wesley faces the menace of the Tarantula all too close, while Ian Samwell comes to terms with the being that is the Sandman! As mask upon mask peels, will Wesley be able to confront the madness in between that is the Tarantula?