Sandman propped himself from the building, grabbing onto the ledge. He was chasing Muggy McGuire, ace acrobat and an abusive father who had already turned to a life of crime, murdering his only daughter.
"Muggy McGuire, you know you have no escape from the fate you elude," he said, as he reached for his gas gun. The acrobat grabbed the clothes line, and propelled himself 8 feet above the air, leaping onto the other building. The Sandman grabbed the clothesline as well, and swung from above, and stomping the ground as he landed. "Escape is futile," he muttered, grabbing Muggy in the feet. As he tripped, the Sandman sprayed Muggy with his sleep gas, sending him off to the land of Nod.
"Sleep now, Muggy McGuire, and let you know that you shall be brought to justice. Like Hypnos and Morpheus before me, I lead my chosen unto the land of sleep, and there discern the truths I desire."
Tying down the acrobat on a pipe, the Sandman managed to take his hand. A recorder has been tucked in his palm, for the fear of unknown things that may happen to him. The vigilante hesitated, then played it.
"Mommy . . . who's Mr. Donald Jurgens?"
"Don't worry, Becky, sweetie. He's a nice man who'll help you."
"I don't like him. Why can't Daddy be the nice man?"
"Honey, that's because . . . that is . . . "
"Don't worry, honey. I'll tell your story to everyone."
"Why?"
"Because . . . it'll keep you safe."
The Sandman shut the recorder off and placed it in his pocket. He turned to the murderer, who was moaning slowly.
"May the jury be exile you to a life of isolation for what you have done."
And he took off into the night, like a Sandman should.
"Poor kid," Ray Stark said, reading the newspaper ever so vigilantly. "Got killed by her own father . . . Wes, hey did you read the morning news?"
Wesley Dodds, young investor and co-partner of DSA Corp., sighed, signing the papers that laid on his desk. "Ray . . . reading the papers was scheduled for my breakfast."
Raymond Stark poured himself some coffee, and sat on the wooden chair. "Mystery Man involved. Well, at least a hero in New York has noticed the headlines already."
"Some are too busy."
"Well, we can't have that."
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Raymond opened it gently, and found himself face to face with the door slammed on his face. Fiona Meroe stepped forward, and brought a folder down on Wesley's work. "Fiona, I see you're better--what's this?" Wesley grabbed the folder, and opened it.
"Read, Mister Dodds . . . it's from Egilmann and Dell."
"The Law Firm? What do they want with us?"
Fiona placed her index finger onto the dotted line, and turned to Wesley. "Sir . . . this is bad news . . . they may sue us."
Donald Jurgens stepped into the cold alleyway. Although it was day, he knew that someone was watching him. As a journalist, he had refined his investigative work for years. Now in his fifties, Donald had no intent on dying just yet. He still had twenty years . . .
"Greetings, Donald Jurgens," the cloaked figure said, from the dark corners of the narrow alleyway. Donald turned to find nothing, and began to grow tense. Although there were people passing by on their way to work, he knew nothing would stop someone from coming for him.
"W-who . . . are you?" He whispered to the dark purple figure.
"I am the Sandman, Donald, who has come to whisk you into dreams . . . to gather the truth and justice the innocents that have been wronged . . . "
"No! Don't! I--I--I didn't do it!"
The Sandman paused, before aiming the gas gun at Jurgens. "I am not here to harm you, but to answer questions. Who is Muggy McGuire . . . and who is Becky?"
The journalist grew cold, as the vigilante raised the recorder to his eye level. "M-muggy's . . . the dad . . . acrobat family of Paradise Circus. But t-that's all I know," he began to stammer. The Sandman coldly dropped his guard, raising his hand towards the lighted end of the alley.
"Then go. Go before I will find what the sins of your soul and confess it to your Lord,"the vigilante proclaimed. Donald rushed to the winding end of the alleyway, and turned back. His eyes drew cold, for no one was there where he last saw the masked man.
"Paradise Circus, Rim Kennedy. Where is Paradise Circus?" The Sandman turned to the crippled man who sat in the corner of the dark warehouse. Its darkness was unnatural, for it was daybreak outside. Like the cackle of old gypsies, the crippled man started to cough and wheeze. "Well, you're asking me now . . . ? I let you get away the last time you asked me this kind of favor, old friend, but this time I'm afraid you'll have to give me something in return."
"Name your price, if it is a price worth naming."
"Well . . . I suppose I could use a new cane," he said, coughing. "My lungs are too tired . . . it's the age thing. I tell you what . . . I'll give you all the information you need from now on, but you . . . "
" . . . Rim?"
"You've gotta protect me if something happens. That good deal enough for you?"
Wesley hesitated. He knew too well Rim's offer would have a catch.
"Is that all, Rim Kennedy?"
" . . . and one more thing," the old man said, while tapping his cane. " . . . promise me, like you did before, don't ever let my secret out. There is no such thing as Rim Kennedy. Never was."
The Sandman nodded, and crossed his arms. "Now . . . "
"Paradise Circus is an indoor act. They work at the Valenzuela Suite, Ballroom Panama. Reservations required. I can arrange for a ticket . . . "
"No, Rim, you have done enough. I thank you."
The Sandman walked into surround himself in the shadows, and turned to the crippled man. "I will keep my promise," he said to Rim. "I know you will. Go get them," Rim said, hacking. "I know you will."
"Wonderful," Wesley muttered, in his tuxedo, traversing up the stairs of the grandeur marble lobby. For now, he was to forget his worries. Fiona reminded him, that there was to be a court trial against Egilmann and Dell next Thursday . . . so why not relax now? "Valenzuela Suite . . . if I didn't own that mansion, I'd say I'd stay here."
"Whatever, Wesley Dodds. Please don't get carried away," Marianne said, wearing her black gown. "I know you found us two reserved tickets to the Paradise Circus act . . . but this is all so sudden! A date . . . I . . . I don't really know what to say. What will Dian think of us?"
"Dian? Dian Belmont? I don't think she cares," Wesley said. "She's a close friend of mine, I guess that's that."
"Oh yes, she wouldn't be. I just remembered she had this infatuation with the Sandman."
"Oh . . . ?" Wesley smiled, trying to hide his snickering.
"And what's so funny, Mister Dodds?"
"Nothing, my dear sweet Miss LeuChante." Opening the door for his date, Wesley found he and Marianne were in the middle of the opening act of the show. Pushing through the crowd, Wesley and Marianne sat on their reserved table, as purple lights began shimmering across the place. Suddenly, the voice of the ringmaster echoed throughout the ballroom.
"Ladies and gentleman, for children of all ages . . . dwell on the impossible and incredible! For I bring you to a place of envy on Earth! I bring you . . . Paradise!"
Suddenly, mist began to swell from the stage, as the performers somersaulted all the over. One by one, they gathered into a human pyramid, then each leapt, cartwheeled back onto their two feet. As the mist disappeared, the ringmaster made his presence known and bowed to the audience. "Thank you, all of you for coming," he said, as Wesley got up from his seat.
"Where are you going, Wes?" Marianne asked, as the investor hushed her and made his way into the vast crowd.
Wesley Dodds slipped behind the curtains backstage, and searched for clues. As the tension of the guards began to loom, he ducked into an empty dressing and quickly placed the gas mask and the purple cape on. Hiding in the shadows, the Sandman suddenly grabbed one of the stage hands and pushed him against the wall. "Who are you," he cried, muffled by the vigilante's gloves.
"It will not concern you who I am, for when you are dead, names do not matter," he said eloquently, still holding onto the boy. The stage hands eyes went wide open, as he found from within the gas mask, there was a grave darkness that dwelled in the voice of the Sandman. "Tell me, where can I find the mother of Becky McGuire?"
" . . . Sheila? S-she's on the stage, p-perf-forming. What do you want?"
"I want justice. Justice for the death of Becky McGuire."
"Rebecca? yeah, she was my friend too, but . . . "
"Enough. I will see her after the show. And all truths shall be brought to surface."
Suddenly, the Sandman picked up a mist bomb in his hand, and disappeared within the smoke. The stagehand trembled, afraid of what might happen to a mother who has already lost both of her dearest heart.
"S-sheila . . . you're wanted at your dressing room," he told her. It was nine in the evening, all the guests were gone.
Sheila Lynsday-McGuire sighed, and opened the door to her room. "Hello?" she said, trying to find the light switch. It was dark, she couldn't see. At that moment, she found the lights open by the themselves. Something was watching her, she knew, as she turned towards the light. There and then, she tried to scream, but the masked man has shot some sort of gas into the air, as she felt her body fall onto the floor.
This couldn't happen to her. She must've been dreaming.
In the waking world, the Sandman injected her with a drug, the stimulant his old friend Dr. Kivalti created, before he simply disappeared. It was like Sheila was alive, but sleeping. She knew what was going on, but she can't resist to tell all. The drug had done its job.
"Sheila McGuire, what happened to your daughter?" he asked.
The woman, eyes open, yet mind in sleep, stared into the wide space of the ceiling. " . . . I don't know . . . "
"She died. Your husband killed your daughter."
"No . . . it's not his fault. It was the journalist . . . "
"Donald Jurgens?" the vigilante replied to her flat voice. "Your recorder . . . his recorder, Donald Jurgens was supposed to help you. Write about her plight."
"He did . . . oh did he ever . . . made Muggy mad, he did . . . couldn't help but slander my love . . . Becky, I'm so sorry . . . "
"Your husband killed your daughter."
"Yes . . . he did, didn't he? Becky died, because I should've shut up and not let the journalist write about it."
"It is not your fault that you are a mother."
"Muggy thought it was. It's my fault. And the journalist."
The Sandman knelt before her, stroking her face. "Are you one of them?"
" . . . yes."
Her hands reached out to touch his suit, and feel his knee. " . . . then why can't you bring me and the journalist to justice? Kill me . . . please."
" . . . I . . . I . . . "
"I don't deserve to live."
"Sleep the sleep of the just, Sheila McGuire. For it is not you to be blame, nor Donald Jurgens, for the death of Rebecca McGuire. It is the guilt of your heart that binds you to the wake, for all your good deeds have only brought indirect injustice . . . and the hand of death by your own husband. Sleep, Sheila McGuire. Sleep the sleep of the just."
" . . . Please . . . don't do this . . . I don't . . . "
The Sandman closed Sheila's eyes, as the drug began to loose its effect, as she felt herself beginning to fall into a distant sleep. Under his mask, Wesley Dodds shut his eyes, as this time, this was a crime that he could not right anymore.
Walking away into the shadows, he thought to himself quietly.
There are always predators to maul on the weak.
There will always be victims, caught in their grasp.
And lastly, there will always be the innocent prey, whose works of good have only brought them misfortune, and whose hides have been hunted by those who believe themselves right.
And that, there will always be.
Next issue: Two short stories.