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Subject: RP {Echo} Damsel in Distress 1/3 (Superhero, MF FF Anal Humil)
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RE                                                     

Copyright remains with author.  This story is *not* to
be reposted, posted elsewhere, etc. It is *not* to be made 
available in any media for profit.  You are entitled to 
one hard copy for your own amusement.  


  **Note**  The internet addresses and sites mentioned in this
            story are *not* actual ones.  Don't waste your time.

If under the legal age, don't read further.

Dark Damsel: Damsel in Distress by Echo

Chapter 1

     There were no lights on.  The only illumination came from
the television screen, which cast an eerie glow throughout the 
room.
     The image on the television blurred.  There was silence
as the figures moved faster than humanly possible.  Click.
The picture froze.  On the screen was the news anchor, stopped
in mid-syllable.  An inset showed a man in cuffs being led
towards a waiting police car.  Click.
     ". . . end of a criminal spree.  And now our man in
the streets, Jake Gowan, brings us this live report."
     The inset showed a man with a microphone.  It enlarged
until it filled the screen.
     "Thanks, Bill.  With me, here, I have The Hub City's own 
Dark Angel, whose subterfuge has ended a reign of terror.  Dark
Damsel, could you tell our viewers a little more about how you 
captured the infamous 'Midnight Caller'?"
     The camera panned over to a young woman dressed in a tight, 
dark grey and black costume.  Her face was mostly hidden by a cowl
and she stood in the shadows, as if unwilling to be exposed to the
light of the camera.  Shadows or not, there was no mistaking the
lovely rounded figure of the Hub City's most alluring crime-fighter.  
Those same curves had led more than one villain to underestimate 
the strength, skill and determination which resided within.
     She laughed, lightly, as if at a joke.  "Oh, I'd hardly
call it a 'reign of terror'.  And Kirby Phillips, the man you
know as the 'Midnight Caller' is hardly infamous except, 
perhaps, in the minds of those with expensive jewelry and, of 
course, those who insure said jewelry."
     "Still, Dark Damsel, the Midnight Caller has been a bane to
the law enforcement officers of this city for some months,"
the reporter strove to inject some drama into the story, 
"diverting much needed resources from other areas.  His capture
is bound to have repercussions far beyond the removal of one
criminal from the streets of the Hub City."
     Dark Damsel paused.  She would have preferred to have been on 
her way home to a luxurious bath.  This reporter, however, had
ambushed her as she left the Midnight Caller in the hands of
the police.  It would do her image little good to be seen as
cold and disdainful of the citizens she had sworn to help
protect.
     "This is correct."  She refused the reporter the use
of his name.  She was not familiar with him and she would not
allow him to use her presence to promote himself.  "That
is why I persuaded Lady Margot to aid me in this venture."
     "But Lady Margot's necklace alone is reputed to be 
worth a quarter of a million dollars."  The reporter's voice
turned a little hard.  "If your plan had failed . . ."  He
left it to the viewers' imagination to consider just what 
would have happened.
     Dark Damsel frowned inwardly.  This man was a less than
reputable reporter.  He sounded as if he worked for a tabloid
news show.  She smiled, not feeling like smiling at all.
     "If my plan had failed," she said sweetly, "then Kirby
Phillips would now be in the possession of a thousand dollars
worth of fake jewels."
     The reporter laughed.  "So," he managed, "the notorious
Midnight Caller, the 'terror of the Hub City', risked and lost 
his liberty for imitation stones.  One wonders how he will live 
down this humiliation in the company of his peers, his new
housemates . . ." the reporter paused for dramatic effect,
and looked straight into the camera, "in The Big House."
     He turned to catch Dark Damsel's response, but she had taken
one step back, disgusted with the interview, and launched 
herself into the darkness.  The reporter didn't miss a beat.
     "Thank you, Dark Damsel, for your time."  The camera closed
in on his face, which receded back into the inset.
     "And thank you, Jake," the news anchor said as the inset
disappeared.  "Recapping:  The Midnight Caller, now identified
as Kirby Phillips, age 45, has been captured by Dark Damsel, 
whose ruse lured him out and into the arms of the law.  He may 
have been a good thief, but he wasn't all that smart after all.
The Hub City rests easier tonight.  To echo Jake Gowan:  Thank 
you, Dark Damsel.  And that's the news for the 14th of April, 
1993."
     Click.  
     Again images moved at super-human speed.
     Click.
     "Good evening ladies and gentlemen.  Here is the news for
tonight, June 24th, 1997.  The Photographer has struck again.
This criminal, known by his penchant for leaving behind a 
photograph of the items he steals--for insurance purposes?--has
made his biggest haul to date.  Police sources estimate the
loss to Hamilton Wilson to be in the neighbourhood of $350,000.
Rumour has it that Dark Damsel has been called in . . ."
     Click.  The screen went black.
     "Yes!"  The word was a sibilant whisper filled with 
triumph.

     "Commissioner Delcourt?"
     Commissioner Delcourt spun around in his chair.  He had 
heard nothing.
     "Dark Damsel!"
     The Commissioner looked up at the beautiful young woman
before him and wondered what would lead such a person to hide
behind a mask and become a crime-fighter.  A young woman of
her age should be married and raising a family . . . .  He broke
off that thought.  If any of the women on the force knew he
even *thought* like that in this day and age, there would be no
end of trouble.
     "I received your summons and here I am, sir."  Dark Damsel
spoke respectfully to the man who had been her father's partner,
who she called "Uncle", and who was now the Commissioner of 
Police in the Hub City.
     "Um, yes.  You've heard of 'The Photographer', no doubt."
The Commissioner nodded at the sudden interest in her eyes.
"As you know he is a clever man, never leaving any clues behind,
but this time he made a mistake."
     "A mistake, sir?"  It was now Dark Damsel, fighter of crime, 
who spoke to the police official.
     "Maybe.  We found this in Hamilton Wilson's condo."  He
pointed to a bit of torn newspaper sealed in a plastic evidence
bag.
     Dark Damsel picked it up and looked closely at it.  It was a
picture of an older woman wearing a diamond necklace.  The 
caption read:  "Lady Margot and her famous necklace will be in 
the Hub City on the 29th for the opening of the new City Opera, a 
project dear to the heart of the well known philanthropist.
Story on page 26."
     "Lady Margot!" Dark Damsel exclaimed.
     "Indeed, Dark Damsel, Lady Margot.  I recalled how her help
allowed you to catch Kirby Phillips some years ago, and thought 
that you should know about this."
     "Yes, I owe her for that one."  Dark Damsel cast her mind
back to the night, three years ago, when she had asked Lady
Margot's help.  Lady Margot had been willing, even to the point
of risking her jewelry.  "I have faith in you," she had told
Dark Damsel.  Dark Damsel had appreciated the gesture but had 
assured the woman that this would not be necessary.  Her thoughts 
jumped back to the present.
     "Commissioner.  Do you happen to know if Kirby . . ."
     "Still in prison, Dark Damsel," the older man replied at 
once, knowing that this question was bound to come up.  "No, 
Kirby Phillips is not 'The Photographer'.  His alibi is 
iron-bar solid."
     "I'll see Lady Margot when she arrives.  I'd hate to
have anything happen to her here in the Hub City, Commissioner.
I appreciate your informing me."  Dark Damsel turned to leave.
     "We've already warned her, but she refuses to either
stay away or to leave her jewels behind.  We will be placing
her under surveilance, hoping to catch this Photographer in 
the act, but I thought that informing you was the least I could 
do, Dark Damsel, after all the help you've given to the Hub City.  
I'll rest easier knowing that you are on the case as well."

     The motorcycle purred between her legs, vibrating in such 
a lovely way.  It would be a cold day in hell before she would 
give it up, she knew.  The Belton mansion, where Lady Margot was 
staying, was just up ahead and Dark Damsel slowed.  She would 
have to talk with the Beltons through their securi-cam in order 
to be let into the grounds.  They would then allow the gate to 
open for . . .
     Dark Damsel stared.  The driveway gate was ajar!  She
cut the engine and glided to a halt just before the gate.
Peering through the bars she caught sight of the bodies
of the guard dogs which normally prowled the grounds at night.
     Across the street sat an unmarked police car, its 
occupants slumped over as if asleep.  It took but a moment 
to ascertain that they were alive, merely rendered unconscious.
     Like a ghost, the Dark Angel of the Hub City slipped
through the gate and into the deeper shadows.  Every sense
was on high alert as she approached the house.  The front
door stood half open.  Dark Damsel feared the worst.  She 
silently climbed the steps and slipped across the landing.
The blackness beyond the half open door awaited like a 
menacing beast.
     With flash in hand, the Dark Angel moved through
the door.  Silence.  Dark silence.  Dark Damsel reached for
her belt pouch and pulled out the special goggles which
she had acquired the previous year.  The infrared light
in her hand turned the interior of the house bright when
viewed through the goggles.  
     As Dark Damsel made her way towards the living room, 
something caught her attention.  She stopped and listened
carefully.  Breathing.  Laboured breathing.  She shone the
light into the living room and froze in shock.  There were 
the Beltons, and Lady Margot, tied to chairs.  She was
about to move forward when a bright flash from the study
almost blinded her.  She heard the click-whirr of a camera.
     The Photographer.  She wasn't too late!  A slow smile
came over her face.  One night on the job and she had the
criminal already.  Delcourt wouldn't be able to help but be
impressed, she thought.
     Like a wraith Dark Damsel moved across the floor to the
study.  A soft glow of light highlighted a diamond necklace
on the desk.  A man in close fitting black garb stood
over it, camera at the ready.
     Flash.  Dark Damsel stepped into the room.  The 
Photographer's eyes would be unable to see her in the shadows.  
Her hand reached for her cuffs.
     "Hands behind your . . . ahh!"  
     The Photographer had spun in the instant she spoke and
his camera flashed, blinding Dark Damsel.  She blinked twice then
grunted in pain as his kick knocked the cuffs from her hand.
     Hearing a whisper of movement, Dark Damsel jumped back,
barely avoiding the follow-up.  She needed time and backed into
the large foyer.  Her assailant was on her in an instant, 
reaching for her.  She grabbed his arm, turned and tossed him
to the floor but he was up in another instant, facing her, in a
fighting stance.
     This was no ordinary cat-burglar, Dark Damsel knew.  This
was a trained fighter.  In the dim light she smiled to 
distract him (she had faced trained fighters before), then 
whipped forward and around with a kick.  The Photographer 
dropped under her kick and swept out with his own legs, knocking 
her supporting leg out from under her.
    "Oww!"  The cry was torn from her as she landed on her 
shapely ass.
     The two rose quickly, almost together, but the Photographer
was just that shade faster and Dark Damsel cried out in pain as 
his kick caught her right elbow and sent her crashing into the 
wall.  She spun around and faced him once more, her right arm 
hanging uselessly at her side, with jolting, disconcerting lances 
of pain distracting her.
     I've got to end this quickly, she thought, and feinted
left then moved right.  The Photographer fell for the feint
and she elbowed him in the back, cherishing the gasp of pain
which issued forth as he crashed to the floor.
     Dark Damsel's sense of fair-play almost prevented her from
kicking the man while he was down, but the knowledge that
she was now fighting under a tremendous handicap overcame
that sense.  She kicked, only to feel her foot caught and 
thrown to her left, sending her careening into the banister.
She groaned as her right arm took the brunt of the hit.
     Before she could recover, the Photographer struck her
left thigh and she fell to the floor thinking, irrelevantly,
that there was going to be quite a bruise there in the morning.
     "Don't move!" the man hissed, holding something in front
of him.  
     The bastard had a gun.  Dark Damsel froze.  Flash.  It was
the camera.  How he'd kept hold of it through the fight, she
didn't know, but she was blinded.  She pulled the goggles off,
unable to face the prospect of another flash through them.  
She heard quick footfalls.  He'd used the distraction to make 
his escape.
     Dark Damsel rubbed at her eyes as she slowly regained
her feet.  Her right arm was still useless.  Click.
     "What?"  Damn.  She'd been more disoriented that she'd
thought.  He hadn't left the house, he'd merely returned to
the study and grabbed her cuffs.  Click.  She was cuffed
to the bannister by her left wrist.  Her right arm still wasn't
working and her left thigh was a sea of pain.  He had her!
     The Photographer moved against her too close and too
quickly for her to knee him in the groin.  He fumbled at her
neck for a moment then stepped back.  Flash.
     "You look quite lovely in the necklace, my dear," the
Photographer whispered.
     "Bastard!"  She had the necklace, but was powerless to
prevent him from taking it again.  Dark Damsel quivered in
impotent fury.
     Her assailant moved forward and she tried a final kick,
but was rewarded with a cruel slap across the face which 
carried power and stung like blazes.  The necklace was 
unclasped and Dark Damsel hung from her wrist, defeated.
     "And now for a souvenir," the Photographer laughed
in that same whisper.  It was done so she would never be
able to identify his voice, she knew.  Flash.
     In her mind's eye she could see the picture.  Dark Damsel,
cuffed, and beaten.  It wasn't a pretty thought.  She closed
her eyes.
     Her eyes snapped open again as she felt him removing her
cowl. "No!" she shouted and tried to get away.  It was no use
and soon the Photographer was the proud possessor of her cowl,
her means of disguise.  She knew what was coming next and steeled 
herself for the flash.
     "Just one more thing, Dark Damsel."  She waited expectantly,
head lowered against this final indignity.  Dark Damsel was
finished, she knew.  Once her identity was known she would be
a target for every crook she'd ever put away and all of those
who'd love to be known as the one who had killed Dark Damsel.  
She closed her eyes against the flash to come.
     Fingers closed in her hair and drew her head back.
     "Wha . . ."  
     Her cry was muffled as the Photographer kissed her hard
on the mouth, his tongue invading, probing.  His other hand
stroked her breast through her costume.
     Dark Damsel tried to squirm away from the kiss, but the
Photographer was too strong.  So she gave up, surrendering
herself to the long, probing kiss and the stroking.  Finally
he released her and stepped back, chuckling as her breath came
in gasps.
     "Enjoyed that, did you?" he whispered to her.
     "No!"  Dark Damsel retorted defiantly.
     "Well, I did.  You've quite a body, there.  The kind a
man would love to run his hands over . . . . Now there's a
thought."  With that the Photographer hefted her breasts with
his hands.  "Nice weight, nice indeed."  He ran his hands down
her body from neck to thighs, then he stepped back.
     "Say good-bye, Dark Damsel."
     "You're going to kill me?"  She tried to find his eyes
in the dark, despair almost overcoming her.
     "Kill you?" the man seemed genuinely surprised.  "I'm a
thief, not a murderer.  I have what I wanted, that and a
souvenir besides."  He leaned forward and gave her a quick
kiss on the cheek.  "A couple of souvenirs."
     He was gone and she was still handcuffed to the 
bannister.  However, feeling was returning to her damaged arm
and she was able to find the key to the cuffs in her belt 
pouch.

     There was enough light coming through the living room 
window to guide her to Lady Margot.  She untied the woman's gag.  
Lady Margot remained calm.
     "Who is it?"
     "It's me, Lady Margot, Dark Damsel," the hurting heroine
whispered, low enough so that the Beltons wouldn't hear.  Those
two were tied to chairs some feet away.
     "Dark Damsel!" Her voice was warm with a friendship that
made Dark Damsel want to hide, but likewise low.  "Did you get 
him?"
     "I . . . I," Dark Damsel didn't know how to tell her.  "I'm
sorry, Lady Margot," she finally blurted out, "he got me.  And
he got your necklace, I'm afraid."
     "Are you all right?" Lady Margot asked, ignoring the loss
of her $300,000 necklace.
     "No, I'm not." Dark Damsel's voice broke slightly as she 
fumbled with the ropes binding Lady Margot.  The only other
sound was made by the Beltons' breathing.
     "Poor dear.  Turn on the light.  It'll be easier."
     "I, I can't.  He took my cowl.  What am I going to do?"
Dark Damsel couldn't think.
     Lady Margot, however, could.  "You take my shawl, young
woman.  Untie me and leave.  I'll wait a few minutes then call
the police and untie the Beltons.  It'll be okay, you'll see.
My shawl is in the front closet, first hanger.  Ahh, thank you."
Lady Margot rubbed her wrists, coaxing back lost circulation.
"Go now."
     Tears were streaming down Dark Damsel's face.  "Thank you,
Lady Margot.  She hugged the older woman tightly, then limped
out of the room.
 
     The motorcycle wouldn't start.  
     "Damn, that bastard took my battery," Dark Damsel snarled.
She pushed the cycle onto the Beltons' grounds.  She would
pick it up later.  Pulling a package from the saddlebags, she
wondered how she was going to get home, then spun around as 
a growl interrupted her thoughts.  The dogs!
     Dark Damsel limped quickly to the gate and swung it closed
behind her just as a very woozy pooch growled again just
on the other side.  Apparently the dogs had only been
tranquilized, not killed.  A light appeared in the house.
     She had only a few minutes, she knew and she began limping 
down the street as fast as she could, pulling her raincoat from 
the package as she walked.  
     Taking the first corner she flattened herself against a
wall as two police cars screamed by, lights flashing.  She 
breathed a sigh of relief as they did not even slow until
past her.

     Dark Damsel stepped off the subway train several
stops before the one she would normally take.  She was being
followed, she knew.  It was a feeling that just wouldn't go 
away--one she had felt many times before and ignored only once,
much to her regret.
     Lady Margot's shawl was tight around her head, somewhat
shading her eyes and covering her face.  Her hair had been
tucked inside the raincoat, whose collar had been turned up.
The only thing which might give her away were her costume
covered legs and boots, but no one was paying much attention
to anyone else.
     The Damsel would have liked to confront her shadower, who
was, she believed, in the car behind hers, but to do so without
cowl might be disastrous.  "The better part of valour is
discretion", she muttered to herself, "with which better part
I have saved my identity."

     The old warehouse had a secret room.  It had been the
hideaway of a criminal who had been captured by Dark Damsel.  On
his subsequent transport to jail he had made a bid for escape.
It had ended with his death and the injury of the two policemen
accompanying him.  Dark Damsel had seen the advantage of not 
reporting the room to the police--there had been no incriminating 
evidence within anyway--instead taking over the hideaway herself.
It had seemed a good idea at the time and seemed even more of
one now.
     Although she had made an effort to shake any shadower, she
felt that she had not been successful.  It would be a pity to
lose this place, but she had two others like it.
     Dark Damsel climbed the fire escape and slipped through an
unlocked window.  In moments she was in her room.  She sat
down in an overstuffed chair and, for the first time since
meeting 'The Photographer', she relaxed.  It took some time
for the tension to fade.
     "Ten minutes, long enough," she groaned.  It was the
work of only two more minutes to grab her spare costume, 
her street clothes and be ready to go.  A thought hit her
and she grinned.  She climbed on the small table and attached
her mini-camera to a rafter.  She set it for 'motion detection',
hit the delay, then moved quickly out of the room.
     If it was 'the Photographer' who was following her,
perhaps she could catch him on film--a fitting irony, she 
thought.  In any event, she would know if anyone had discovered
her hideaway.

     From the roof of a neighbouring building a quiet figure 
watched as Dark Damsel slipped down the escape and disappeared into
the shadows.  Her limp was barely noticeable.
     "So, Dark Damsel, this is where you hang your cowl," the voice
was low, triumphant.  "Let's just take a little look-see."


Chapter 2

     Renee Jimson woke to the sun coming through her print
curtains and dappling her bed in light and shade.  The sun
had not yet reached her face, but she woke anyway.  It was
warm and comfortable in the bed and she didn't want to move.
     "Oh, well," she murmured to herself and in one move
tossed off her covers, swung her legs over the side of the
king-size bed and jumped to her feet.
     It was a mistake, she allowed as her body protested
against the vigourous movement.  What had been an almost
unnoticeable dull ache in her thigh burst into multi-coloured
flashes of pain.  Renee steadied herself, putting most of
her weight on her right leg.
     "Ah, hell," she spoke aloud to the stuffed tiger who
resided on her dresser, "you'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you?"
The tiger, if it thought anything of the kind, was too polite
to mention it.  She picked up the little toy and nuzzled it.
     "Thanks for watching over me.  I sleep better knowing that
you're here."  Renee yawned widely, then frowned as her left
cheek complained vociferously.  "Come on, Nietzsche, let's see
how much damage he did."
     Renee carefully made her way to the washroom and closed
the door behind her.  As she looked into the mirror above the sink
she frowned once again.  A large bruise decorated her left cheek,
courtesy of the Photographer.  She glared into the mirror.  He 
would pay for that.  Turning to the full-length mirror on the 
back of the door she winced at the much larger bruise on her
thigh.
     "Something else to remember you by," she said, more angry
at herself than at her assailant.  She had been overconfident
and she had paid the price.  Next time would be different.  She
shrugged at the sight and turned back to the sink.
     "'What does not kill me makes me stronger,' right, 
Nietzsche?" she asked the tiger, who now sat upon the counter.
Nietzsche, of course, said nothing.  He was the strong silent
type.
     Renee took a last look in the mirror.  Her grey eyes were
serious under the dark brows.  Her black hair hung down 
slightly lower than her shoulders, a little mussed by the 
night's sleep.  She stopped to take inventory, enjoying the
sight of her breasts, not small, not large, nipples erect in
the coolness of the morning air, pointing slightly upwards.
     She was in excellent shape, she knew--had to be, what with 
all the chasing around she did--and she enjoyed looking at her
body.  Enjoyed playing with it too, come to that--but that could
wait.  Yes, she was in excellent shape and her reflexes were
lightning fast yet, even so, The Photographer had been that 
fraction of a second ahead of her at almost every stage of the
fight.  She would have to do better--starting now.
     Her apartment had originally had three bedrooms, but she 
had had one of the walls taken out to give her a large exercise
room.  Within the room there was only a set of shelves containing
a variety of books and a mini-system.  She turned on the CD 
player and relaxed as the soft sounds of nature filled the room.
     Flowing with the sounds she focused her mind on her body, on
each set of muscles as she slipped into the moving meditation of
T'ai Chi.  This morning her movements were not so fluid as was
usual, her pains saw to that, but by the time she had completed
two sets the stiffness had been worked out of her muscles.
     The light sweat she had worked up gave a nice sheen to her
body.  One wall, covered in mirrors, gave mute testimony to
her beauty.  She glanced from herself to Nietzsche, who now sat
on one of the speakers, admiring her nude body.
     "Like what you see?" she asked the tiger.  She hefted a
breast, all the better for him to appreciate it, and grinned.
The grin faded as she recalled how The Photographer had done
likewise, her helpless against the indignity.  "Bastard!" she
whispered.
     Her body now limbered, Renee began the more intensive
stretching of her Yoga.  Her meditation was deeper now and her
body did as it was required.  Morning exercises were vital
to keeping supple and alert.  She had been a little less than 
exacting lately.  No more.

     Breakfast was fruit.  With deft strokes she cut up a
delicious salad of apple, orange, grapefruit, kiwi and a bit
of everything else she had in the house.
     " . . . . tomorrow.  And for those just getting up, it
appears that The Photographer has struck once again, and 
although the Hub City Police were on the spot quickly, he eluded
capture one more time."  The radio announcer had that fatally
cheerful morning voice of all morning announcers.  "Our sources
at the Hub City Police Department tell us that Lady Margot's
famous necklace was taken from her.  Lady Margot, as you may
recall, is in town for the opening of the new Opera House.
In this latest crime, The Photographer has upped the ante.
This was a 'home-invasion' style robbery, for Lady Margot and
the Beltons, with whom she was staying, were home during the
incident.  They were tied, then The Photographer made off
with the jewelry.  Police are keeping the details under wraps,
but a source states that they had an anonymous tip which
sent them to the scene of the crime mere minutes after it 
occurred.  We can only hope that the next time the Police will
arrive to catch this villain in the act.
     "Now, on the weather front we are expecting unsettled
conditions to continue for today and tomorrow, stability 
returning on the weekend."
     Renee turned off the radio.  An anonymous tip?  Ha!
That tip had come from The Photographer himself, she knew.
Had she been any slower getting out the police would have
found her at the scene and her identity--or at least her
description--would now be public knowledge.  There were 
altogether too many leaks from Police Headquarters.  She
laughed mirthlessly to herself.  At the time she had wondered
at the very quick response to Lady Margot's call.  She no
longer wondered.  The Photographer had, apparently, something
against her.
     While turning on the shower she puzzled on that.  He had
certainly had the opportunity to turn on the light and see her
face uncovered yet had neglected to do so.  There would have
been no threat from the Police, they were sleeping peacefully
outside.  She, of course, was beaten and cuffed to the bannister
and, thus, posed no threat.  Why had he not?  Of course, had
he done so, she would have seen his face as well.
     The shower was soothing.  Renee loved the feel of her hands
slipping over the soapy breasts.  There was that certain 
slickness that sent tingles of anticipation running through her.
The hot water cascaded against her back as her forefingers
traced small circles over her areolae, occasionally rubbing
against the hardness of her nipples.  And on every such 
occasion her breath caught.
     Circle, circle, circle, a fuzzy voice chanted in her
mind.  Yes, circle, then slip away to stroke the breast, topside,
underside, slip down over the stomach, up over the shoulder then
return to circle, circle, circle.
     The warm buzz from the occasional touch was awaking the
lust within her.  It appeared, she smiled lazily, that this
short shower was going to slip into one of luxury and joy.
As if that were a surprise.
     One hand slipped down and began to slide over her mound
touching her lips, stroking ever so gently.  Her other hand
was in constant motion now, running over her breasts, her
stomach, behind to her ass, down the furrow to that little
pucker . . . tease and move, tease and move.
     Breath coming in gasps.  Small spasms.  Breasts jiggling.
Oh, yes.  How nice.  Close, oh so close.  Bent over slightly,
breasts hanging, hand working.  Other hand slipping back,
fingering the pucker, teasing all the little nerve endings.
Straightening up, head back under the shower, stream coming
down her front, washing the soap down and off.  A single stream
of water struck her outstretched nipple and she jerked.  Oh,
god!  She moved back to let it happen again but she was shaking,
spasming too much for the stream to make more than momentary
contact.
     Renee groaned.  She loved feeling those little rushes,
now built into bigger rushes; the small currents feeding one
another until, like now, they were large currents; the wavelets
building to the waves which now rocked her body.  Her breath
caught, body stiffened.  She shuddered, the waves, currents
and rushes released, held back no longer.
     "Ohh!"  The wail rose and fell, faded and disappeared.
It was a lovely way to start the day, she thought, when her
reasoning mind returned.  That mind floated down and she
finished the shower and stepped into the cooler air of the
bathroom.

     There were seven new messages, the computer screen told
her.  They downloaded and Renee broke the connection with her
severer.  As was to be expected these days, three of the
messages were spam.  "As if I really need to be able to
subliminally seduce women," she scoffed.  Three of the others
were from clients and the final one was from her anonymous
remailer.  She decoded it.

          Dark Damsel:
     
     As soon as you are able I need to hear from you as
     to what went on at the Belton mansion and why your 
     cycle was found on the Belton grounds.  If you have 
     any information that we could use, I'd appreciate 
     hearing from you soonest.

                          Thanks.

     PS: Your motorcycle has been put in the usual spot.
         Pick it up at your convenience.

     The message wasn't signed.  The header stated it came
from the nym identity "A Friend".  It was, she knew, from
Commissioner Delcourt.  What would she tell him?  She would
consider that later.
     The doorbell rang.  It would be Brenda, her assistant
and second in command, so to speak.  Renee Jimson ran a small
desktop publishing shop.  Most of her work came from students
at the near-by Hub City University, but some also came from
authors who wished to see their works published.  Most of the
typing Renee farmed out to several part-time workers, but she
did some of it herself, especially if the subject matter
interested her.  It was amazing what one could learn by reading
the papers as she typed them.  Some of what she read was put
to good use by Dark Damsel.
     "Hi Brenda.  You're early today," Renee greeted her
friend and assistant.  Brenda was going to University part
time as a mature student, even though she was only twenty-five,
and working for Renee helped pay for it.
     "Class canceled," Brenda explained, tossing her blond
hair back over her shoulders.  "Got anything interesting today?"
     "You've finished Mr. Smith's paper?  God, that was quick,
considering his hand-writing."  Renee grinned at the taller
woman.  "Sure, I've something more interesting than that, and I
may be asking you to do a little extra work as well," she winked
at Brenda.
     Brenda laughed, "I don't know how you do it, Renee.  
Another one?  Just don't forget to take precautions," she warned
the older woman--okay, so she was only two years older, but those
two years were enough to give the relationship a running joke.  
"You don't want your night life to be ruined by a baby," she 
lectured, a knowing grin plastered on her face, "now do you?  A
woman your age . . ." her voice trailed off as she caught her 
first glance of the left side of Renee's face.
     "What happened?"  Brenda was deadly serious now.  "This new
guy of yours, did he do that?"
     You might say that, Renee thought to herself.  "No, of 
course not.  I got mugged last night . . . well, it was a 
would-be mugger.  I'm sure he looks worse.  I'll be damned if
I'll give any pathetic little thief my hard earned money . . ."
she allowed the thought to go unfinished, hoping Brenda would buy
the excuse.  She turned around and began sorting through the 
small stack of papers.
     "Did you report it?"  Brenda wasn't about to let this go.
     "Commissioner Delcourt was my father's closest friend,
Brenda.  I still call him 'Uncle Teddy', so what do you think?"
A little misdirection wouldn't hurt.  "You can't report it any
higher than that, can you?"
     Brenda was mollified.  "I guess not.  So, the police are
working on it?"
     Renee didn't have to lie now.  "Oh, they're working on it
all right.  No doubt about it, they are after the man."  And 
they were, but not because of what had happened to her.
     "Good."  Brenda was emphatic.  "Oughta be more Cops out
there making the streets safe.  Now, what do you have for me?"
She accepted a sheaf of papers from Renee.  "Awright!  Just up
my ally.  So, now, let me guess.  You'll be keeping odd hours
and may not show up here for days at a time, poor girl, so you
want your good friend Brenda to make sure everything runs 
smoothly until you ditch this guy like you do all the others,
right?"
     "Brenda," Renee put on her best sorrowful look, "what have
I ever done to make you think this of me?"
     "Not a thing," Brenda apologized, struggling hard to keep
a straight face, "I'm very sorry."  She didn't sound at all 
sorry.
     "But you're right," Renee sighed.  "That's exactly what
I want you to do.  You know the drill."
     "You're so organized it's hardly worth the extra pay . . .
no, wait, I didn't say that," Brenda laughed.  "Yes, I know the
drill.  Want me to start getting a handle now?"
     "Please.  I have some work to do in the other room."
     While Brenda busied herself at Renee's business computer,
Renee slipped back into her bedroom and booted up her Notebook
again.

     She typed her answer to Commissioner Delcourt.

     Sir:
         Will explain more later.  Ran into the Photographer
     but came out second best.  Hope to have a lead later
     this day.  
         Thanks for moving the bike.
         Be in touch later,
         
         DD

     She encoded the message and sent it on its way through
the remailers.  
     Hope to have a lead later.  Yeah, right.  A small 
possibility that her secret hideaway had been found and a
reasonable photograph obtained.  She'd go there after nightfall.


     Dark Damsel gazed at the building across the way.  She had
to go in and see if her hideaway had been discovered, yet every 
fibre of her being screamed that there could be a trap set up
for her.  She had been followed last night, no doubt about it.
That she had lost her follower before arriving here--great doubt.
     Dark Damsel shrugged.  She glided across the street, leapt
for the fire escape and made her way up to the unlocked window.
It was locked.  She ground her teeth in frustration, then climbed
up to the roof, defeated the lock on the door and slipped down
the stairs, every sense in high gear.
     Nothing.  The secret door was just ahead.  Her hand reached
for the disguised handle then came away.  Not a wise move.  She
retraced her steps and climbed up a flight.  The hideaway had
a second entrance, a trap door.  She would use it.  
     None of her telltales had been disturbed and she felt 
certain that if her hideaway had been compromised, it hadn't
been from this direction.
     After using her flash to see what she could, Dark Damsel
lowered herself through the trap and to the floor.  Nothing 
looked disturbed.  She turned on the floor lamp and light 
flooded the windowless room.
     "Damn!"  Her camera lay on the table, opened, film gone.
A large envelope lay on the table.  She didn't touch it, didn't
move.  Slowly, carefully, her eyes searched out every square
inch of space, looking for anything amiss.  There was nothing.
She crept about looking under this and that, touching nothing,
wary.  Still nothing.  Nothing but the envelope on the table.
     She looked closer.  The large manila envelope bore two
words:  Dark Damsel.
     Cursing herself for a fool, she reached for it.  It was
a 10" by 13" envelope.  She stopped, stepped back and removed
a small spool of weighted wire rope from her pouch.  She tossed
the weight onto the table and slowly dragged it back, pulling
the envelope onto the floor.  Nothing.  Nothing except moving
the envelope uncovered a slip of paper.  She stepped forward
and read the note.

     Dear Dark Damsel:
          One Photographer to another, I couldn't bring myself
   to take your camera.  On the other hand I couldn't allow 
   myself to be photographed so I took your film.  That, of  
   course, wasn't fair, and I do want to be fair about this, 
   so I left you some *developed* film in its place.  A fair 
   trade is no thievery, not so?
          Enjoy.

     There was no signature.  With a trembling hand, Dark Damsel
opened the envelope and slid out several 8x10s.  She glowered.
They were of her.  The top one was a picture taken a year or 
two ago.  She had just broken up a gang that had robbed several 
banks.  She looked good.  In the second she was sprawled on
the floor of the Belton Manor, just raising herself to her
elbows.  Gritting her teeth she looked at the third.  Dark
Damsel appeared in the photo, left arm over her head, handcuffed 
to the bannister.  Lady Margot's diamonds graced her neck.  The 
final one showed her, Dark Damsel, defeated, hanging from her
wrist.
     Carefully, quietly, Dark Damsel replaced the photographs
in the envelope, picked up the hand-written note and placed it
there as well.  She left by the door, knowing now that it 
wouldn't be booby-trapped.  This man wanted to humiliate her.
Killing her wouldn't be good enough for him.  She was his
special target.  
     With an anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach, Dark
Damsel made her way to the 'Garage on 5th'.  She slipped in
through the side door, using the key she had been given.
     
     "Hi, Ray."  The grizzled looking mechanic looked up
at Dark Damsel's entrance.  A big smile replaced the scowl
he had been wearing.
     "Dark Damsel!"  His eyes went up and down her body,
an affirmation of her effect on him.  "Good to see you again.
She's all ready for you.  Put in a new battery and did some
routine maintenance."  Ray found it a struggle to keep his
eyes on her face.  Such nice curves were not to been seen
just anywhere, and the tightness of Dark Damsel's costume
left little to the imagination.
     "Thanks Ray.  Appreciate it." 
     "Not a problem," he allowed.  Then he gave her a more
serious look.  "Got anything for us?"
     Dark Damsel grinned at him.  "For you Ray, always," she
husked and was delighted to see him take in his breath in
response.  She loved to tease him.  "One of my sources,"
she continued evenly, "thinks you ought to check out 412-9th,
Apartment 7B.  Be careful.  They play for keeps, or so my
source tells me.  But be quick, they seldom stay in any place
for more than a few days."
     "Thanks, Damsel, we appreciate that.  Not going to go in
yourself?"
     "Not this time, Ray.  I'm working on something else that
requires my full attention."  She gave him the benefit of a
smile.
     "So I hear.  You take care . . . Jesus!"  Ray stepped
forward to get a closer look at her face.  Apparently she wasn't
the master of disguise she had thought she was.  He had spotted
the bruise through the make-up.
     "You play with the big boys, you have to take your lumps,
time to time," she said lightly.
     Ray wasn't buying it.  He was angry and Renee loved him
for it.  "You put out the word and if we ever have him we'll 
take him for a walk around the block."
     The Damsel knew he was serious and knew that Ray and his
partners would do a job on anyone she pointed out.
     She grinned at him, not feeling like grinning.  "Type of
man I could fall for," she winked.  "But they'd take away your
Commendation for Service Above and Beyond, Ray.  We couldn't have
that, now, could we?" 
     "Your call, Dark Damsel."  He wasn't laughing.  "What's 
that?" his attention went to the envelope.
     "A gift from a friend."  She smiled and turned it over.  
Only then did she see what was written in small letters in the 
bottom corner.  Her smile faded.  "Borrow your computer for a
bit, Ray?"
      He waved her magnanimously to the seat he had vacated when
she had entered.  She looked once more at the envelope.  Ray
moved back to give her privacy.  He knew when to leave her alone.
      Renee clicked on the browser and the Web came up, home 
page: Hub City Police Department.  She typed in the address 
written on the envelope. http://www.super-heroine.com/~bzx/dd
She knew of the site.  It featured pictures of costumed heroines
and models made up to look like those heroines.  Many of those
latter were in stages of undress or worse.  The site also offered
fan fiction.  There were some sick puppies out there.  Some of
the stories, on the other hand, were quite erotic and she, too,
had enjoyed one or another from time to time.  
     There was one writer whose passion was Minx, a blonde 
bombshell whose position vis-a-vis the law was questionable.  No 
one had caught her breaking it . . . yet.  That writer was quite 
good and Dark Damsel read everything he (or was it she?) wrote.
     There had even been a few stories about her, some of them
quite raw.  Mostly she avoided those.  She could do without them.
     The page came up.  Dark Damsel's expression changed from
wary to bleak.

          THE END OF DARK DAMSEL

     The caption spread across the photograph that she had in
her envelope, the one of her smiling as the bank gang were
placed in the paddy wagon.  She clicked on the continue button
and wasn't at all surprised to see the other photos of her
from the night before.  The Photographer moved quickly, she
realized with some dismay.  And she wouldn't be able to track
him through this site.  Anyone could post stories or pictures
here as long as the owner of the site allowed it, and there
wasn't much he wouldn't allow.  Were she to go in and 
investigate it would be apparent (and the news would be 
widespread in milliseconds) that those pictures were truly
of her and not of a model dressed like her.

          STAY TUNED FOR MORE

ended the page.  A cartoon figure raised and lowered his
eyebrows suggestively.  
     The dirty rotten bastard!  So, there it was, out in the
open.  The Photographer wanted her, wanted her badly.  He was
out to publicly humiliate her.  Why?  Why her?  Was he 
someone she had met before, put in jail perhaps?  It didn't
matter.  What did matter was the decision she had to make.
She could go after the man and risk her identity and her
pride, or she could stop being Dark Damsel.  She grimaced.
There was no decision to be made.  She *was* Dark Damsel.
     "Thanks again, Ray."  She was quieter and he looked
at her closely as she turned to the garage to get her
motorcycle.  "I'll see you guys soon."
     As Dark Damsel rode out through the open bay door,
Ray moved to the computer.  She had returned it to where
it had been prior to her use, but he tracked down the site
she had gone to.
     Dark Damsel was much too far away to hear the quiet
curse:  "Fucking Bastards!"; much too far away to see that 
death lurked in the eyes of the easygoing police detective.



Chapter 3

     The police scanner in her motorcycle gave her the news.
Disturbance in the alley between 10th and 11th Streets, off
Kylie Avenue.  Dark Damsel took the next right.  She was 
merely three blocks away.  By the time the police had 
arrived it would all be over, whether or not she intervened.
     The motorcycle parked and safeties set, she moved through 
the shadows.  Dark Damsel grimaced.  It was an ugly scene.  A 
woman, stylishly dressed, was backed up against a brick wall.  
A thug in front of her was going through her purse while two 
more stood by, one to either side.
     "Look, you have my money.  Just take it and go."  The
woman was putting on a brave face but her shaky voice gave
her away.
     The head thug looked up from the purse and grinned a 
nasty grin.  "Let's see what else you got, pretty lady," he
snarled.  "Mebbe you be real nice to us and we leave you
cab fare."  The other two goons chortled at that and the
woman's face blanched.
     "The police will be coming.  Get away while you can."
There was no disguising the tremor in her voice now.
Dark Damsel was close enough to see that the head thug 
had a scar on his face.  The one to the left of the woman
had had his nose broken a couple of times; the other stood
in the shadows and she couldn't see him clearly.
     "Mebbe you right.  So mebbe we got no time to be fancy,
hey?"  Scar grinned at her.  "Or mebbe you wanna come with
us, some place we can all take our time."
     "Le's take her with us, boss," Broken Nose growled.
"She might be fun an' we can always sell her off later.
Ain't nobody gonna call the cops in this neighbourhood."
     The woman's hands, as she held them up in front of 
her were shaking badly. 
     The man in the shadows spoke and the hair on the nape of
Dark Damsel's neck stood on end.  His voice was cold and without
a shred of humanity.
     "Let's just gut her here.  Won't be no witnesses then."
     She was close enough now to see that none had guns.  Shadow
held a knife and Broken Nose a cosh.  Scar didn't have any
weapons visible.
     "Now that hurts," called out Dark Damsel.  She grinned
at the expressions on the men as they spun to meet this threat.
"Calling me 'nobody'.  I'm here and I'd be a witness."  The three
moved forward slowly.  Damsel held her ground.  It could be 
tricky, but if they moved just a little closer the woman could
escape.  Even now she was eying her chances.  "What is this,"
the scorn was heavy in Dark Damsels voice, "only three to
one?  It's hardly worth my while."
     "That's Dark Damsel," Broken Nose whispered loudly to
the others.  He seemed in no great hurry to mix it up.
     Scar chuckled menacingly.  "So, you like odds, huh?  Shag!
Get over here.  We got a filly wants to be rode."  He snickered,
then glared.  "You wanna take the bitch's place, that's just
fine.  Always wanted me one of you costumed bitches."
     A fourth man, larger than the others, appeared, not just
larger--huge.  Dark Damsel didn't like the odds anymore.  She 
might beat any two of them without too much trouble, three was 
cutting it a bit thin, but with four . . . . There was little 
chance that one wouldn't get in a lucky blow, and once they got 
on top of her it would be over.  She tried a bluff.  Maybe her 
reputation would scare them off.
     "Only four?  I can handle four any day of the week.  I'll
hardly even break a sweat."  Confidence she didn't feel rang out
in her challenge.
     "And I love a good sweat!"  The voice came from above and
behind her.  Dark Damsel spun around and looked up even as the
four thugs began to close in.
     "Minx!"  It was the first time Dark Damsel had laid eyes
on the costumed woman.  She was blonde and built like nobody's
business.  Her costume was grey and white, with white boots.  She 
was not masked, but the garish paint which decorated her face 
with bizarre symbols and stripes would prevent anyone from ever 
recognizing her in civvies.  Well, now she knew.  Minx was *not* 
one of the good guys.  "Okay, then five to one."  
     Dark Damsel grunted as she kicked Shadow's knife from 
his hand then spun away from the counter stroke.  She was
for it now, she knew.
     Minx laughed out loud as she dropped from the fire
escape landing.  "Five to one?" she questioned.  "I was thinking
more of four to two."  A fist to the face and poor Broken Nose
held his main facial feature while he howled in pain.
     Damsel dropped under Shadow's grasping arms, came up tight
against him and straightened sharply, butting him hard under
the chin.  Shadow dropped like a stone and the Damsel spun 
away again, avoiding Shag's sucker punch.  She caught a glimpse
of Scar being pummeled by Minx, trying to protect himself from
her fury, before her attention returned to Shag.  He swung
again and she kicked, catching him in the ribs.  It seemed
to have no effect.  A sweep caught the back of one knee and
brought him down, but he was up again after blocking a kick
to his head.
     "I'm going to take you apart," he growled and stepped
forward, blocking her move.  With a garbage bin to her side,
the brick wall to her back and Shag in front there was nowhere
to go--except through the thug.  He warded off a punch and a
kick, then caught her leg and threw her to the ground.  "I'm
going to like this."
      Shag stood over her, his feet apart, a nasty smile on
his face.  Shock chased away all other expressions as a white
booted foot came up between his legs from behind and struck
him savagely.  Damsel scrambled to her feet.  Shag stood rooted
to the spot, a brute of a man, and groaned.  But he didn't
go down.  He didn't even bend over.  Damsel kicked at his
ribs again and he stepped back involuntarily.  Minx stood to 
his other side and repeated Damsel's blow.
     "I'll kill you," Shag gasped.
     "Not this time," Damsel gritted out as she kicked with
full force.  She heard a rib or two break and the behemoth
stepped back another two paces.
     "Not next time, either," growled Minx and kicked to Shag's
stomach.  
     Finally he bent over, gasping for breath.  Together Minx
and Dark Damsel hammered his back with clasped hands and Shag
went down.  He did not move.
    Minx brushed the hair out of her face and grinned raggedly
at Dark Damsel.
    "Yes!" they said together and high-fived.  They were both
breathing heavily as they turned to survey the scene.  The 
woman they had saved was picking up her purse; Broken Nose
was still sobbing as he held his face; the others were all
on the ground, out for the count.
     Minx held out her hand and Dark Damsel took it.  The
sharp pull brought her off balance and into Minx's arms.
Minx bent her head down and she licked at Damsel's neck.
     "I told you," she purred in Damsel's ear, "I love a good
sweat.  You taste good.  Wanna go somewhere and taste each
other?  Nothing like a good fight to make you horny, is
there?"
     Damsel felt Minx's hand moving down her back, cupping
her ass, then dragging up her front until it rested on her
breast.  Minx hefted it in much the same way as the Photographer
had done, but in Minx's hand it felt good.
     "I, uh, I'm sorry, Minx," Dark Damsel stammered, "but I
don't . . . I'm not . . ."
     "That's okay, honey.  I'm not, either.  But it can be
a fun change of pace."  Sirens sounded in the distance, getting
closer.  "You ever change your mind," Minx slid her hand
down to cup Damsel between the legs, "you let me know."  She
traced Damsels nether lips through her costume.  "Gotta go,
sweet thing," Minx whispered in her ear, then turned Damsel's
face up to kiss her full on the lips.
     Dark Damsel was completely taken aback.  This had never
happened before.  But Minx had saved her bacon, so she met
Minx's kiss and opened her mouth to allow Minx to probe with
her tongue.  It felt so weirdly good to feel Minx's breasts
pressed against her own, Minx's mouth on hers, so weirdly good.
     "Don't forget to give me partial credit," Minx grinned at
a ragged breathing Dark Damsel before jumping for the fire escape
landing, pulling herself up in one quick move and fleeing to
the rooftops.
     Dark Damsel's thoughts were all in a whirl.  So that was
Minx.  Yow!  Shakily she moved to meet the police who were coming
swiftly up the alley, guns drawn.  


     "It's great when a citizen isn't afraid to go to court,"
Commissioner Delcourt told Dark Damsel.  "The woman you and
Minx saved last week was so indignant that she she's already 
called in twice to affirm her commitment to seeing 'those four 
bastards hang'.  Has nothing but good words about you and Minx 
and wants me to pass along her thanks.  You, apparently, took
off before she could thank you in person."
     "Good.  'Cause I certainly can't go to court and give
my full name for the record, can I?"  Dark Damsel didn't
expect an answer to that question.
     "Those boys you brought in.  Rewards on two of them.
We've been looking for them for quite some time now.  So,
what do we do with the reward?"
     "Same as usual, Commissioner."  
     Working with the police, but not of the police, had
its benefits.  She was entitled to reward money for wanted
felons she brought in, or information she gave leading to
convictions.  That money was, for the most part, put into
a special account.  Money from that account had paid for
her motorcycle and did pay the insurance on same--care of 
the Hub City Police Department--and for various other gadgets 
they supplied her with from time to time.  Occasionally she 
asked for some of it in cash.  She, also, had sources to 
reward.
     "Actually I'll want half in cash.  Minx deserves half
the reward."  The Damsel thought for a moment.  "Say,
Commissioner, you don't have a line on Minx, do you?"
     Delcourt leaned back in his chair.  "Sorry, Damsel,
she's almost as much of a mystery to me as you are.  Sometimes
we think she's on our side, sometimes we wonder.  I would
love to know what got her into this racket."  He leaned 
forward again and opened a drawer.  Out came an envelope.
"I had a suspicion you would ask for this.  Half.  In cash,
used twenties, not marked in any way."
     "Thanks, Commissioner.  Now to other business.  The
Photographer."  Dark Damsel tried to keep the anger out of
her voice as she said the name.
     "Just a minute."  He buzzed his secretary.  "You can send
her in now."
     A medium-tall brown haired woman walked into the room.
She moved like a cat, graceful and purposefully.  Her brown
eyes regarded Dark Damsel in a way that made the Damsel 
slightly uneasy.  It looked almost like disguised lust.  Damsel
grinned to herself; since the meeting with Minx she was becoming
overly sensitive about relations with other women.
     "Dark Damsel, I'd like you to meet Rebecca Nasturant.  I
put her on the research you wanted."
     Nasturant looked from the Damsel to the Commissioner
and back.  At the Commissioner's nod she opened the file folder 
she was carrying and pulled out several sheafs of paper.
     "This is what we have so far, Dark Damsel," her voice was
precise, efficient, not at all what Dark Damsel had expected.
Such a sinuous woman should have a more sensuous voice, Damsel
thought.
     "Given that this Photographer *does* have something
personal against you, we've gone back over every case you are
on record as having handled or supported.  Computer printouts
of all those who might be holding a grudge are on List A.
>From those, all who are still in prison . . . or dead . . .
have been appended to List B.  List C is those who are now
at large, either wanted or living within the law."   Nasturant
handed copies of the list to Dark Damsel and to Delcourt as
she mentioned them.  She set the rest of the file down on the
Commissioner's desk.
     "What remains is what we have on the names from List C.
Anything you can do to reduce the list would be a great help,
Dark Damsel.  I took the liberty of arranging them in what
I think is descending order of probability."
     "Thank you officer, it is greatly appreciated."
     Nasturant nodded at Dark Damsel, looked her up and down
once more, then turned to Delcourt.  "Is there anything else,
Commissioner?"
     "No, thank-you, Rebecca.  That will be all for now."
     Rebecca Nasturant nodded, turned and left the room,
her footsteps silent.
     "A great help, that woman," Delcourt enthused.  "A miracle
worker on the computer."  And a wonderful sight for the eyes,
he added silently, wondering if a woman that young might find
a man like him attractive.  He shook his head.  As long as
she was his subordinate it was impossible.  Sexual harassment
suits would pour on him like rain.  Ah, well . . .
     Dark Damsel smiled to herself.  It would do Uncle Teddy
a world of good to get back into 'action', she thought.  He
hadn't gone with anyone since his wife had died three years
ago--as far as she knew.  She wondered if he was as obvious to
the lovely young officer as he was to her.
     "I'm sure she is, sir.  I'll take the lists and report
back via e-mail."  Like hell she would.  She wanted the
Photographer for her own.
     "Now, Damsel," Delcourt began, his mind in the same track,
"don't do anything rash.  Together we can get this man and 
put him away."
     "Nothing rash.  Of course not, sir."

     Peter Lepcher.  There he was third from the top of
List C.  Dark Damsel had broken up his operation four years
ago.  He had been sentenced to ten years in jail but had been
a model prisoner and was out on parole.  There was nothing 
about the man that seemed to indicate a lust for vengeance,
but Officer Nasturant had placed him up near the top.
     Lying back on her bed, Renee picked up his file.  Hmm.
He had become involved in martial arts while in the Pen.
Strike one.  Yet he had been a model prisoner, no fights,
no involvement with gangs, no nothing.  He had been released
just three months before the first heist by the Photographer.
Strike two.
     Renee glanced up to the Television to watch a particularly
funny part of a movie she had seen three times before and she
was still chuckling when she returned to her study of Lepcher's
file.  Her chuckling died, as did her smile.  Lepcher was now
in business running a photography shop with dark-room.  Strike
three!  Dark Damsel would have to investigate.  Now.
     There was still a light on in the shop when Dark Damsel
arrived, though the store was closed for the day.  She parked
her bike in the alley behind the shop and went to the back door.
     Pulling a lock-pick from her pouch she bent down then, 
with a wry grin, straightened up once more.  No use buying
trouble.  She rang the bell.  She could hear the foot-falls
as someone approached the back door.  The door opened.  Lepcher!
     "Dark Damsel!"  Lepcher's eyes went wide.
     "Surprised?  You didn't think I'd find you, perhaps?" Damsel 
sneered.
     "I didn't think you'd be looking?" answered the astonished
man. "I've done nothing wrong, Dark Damsel, nothing that would
bring Dark Damsel after me.  Hell, you were the one who sent me
up.  I never laid a finger on you, so I don't understand why 
you'd come after me.  What's going on?  Surely I have a right
to know."
     The man was a good actor, Dark Damsel decided.  She needed
something to jolt him out of his complacency.  She made a sudden
strike, slow enough for him to block, one leaving her seemingly
open to a counter strike.  The moves were automatic.  Lepcher
blocked the blow, but stopped the counter-move part way in.
Instead he backed up, his hands in front of him, prepared.
     He was ready, Dark Damsel could see, but he didn't seem
to want a fight.  Also, his block wasn't the lightning fast
move that the Photographer was capable of.  She reconsidered.
     While Dark Damsel was thinking, Lepcher lowered his guard.
He looked very confused.  "What's going on here, Dark Damsel?"
he asked.  "Wouldn't it be better to talk it over first?"
     "Where were you on the night of the 26th?"  Dark Damsel
demanded.
     Lepcher rolled his eyes.  "I knew it.  I knew it would
come to this sooner or later.  Damn and blast that man!  I'm
not The Photographer.  Shit.  I buy into a photography store
and suddenly this guy starts his spree.  First:  I've paid
for my crime; second: I'm on parole and I'm not going back
inside; third: I'm not stupid.  You think I'd leave pictures
behind me, something to lead the police straight to this shop?"
     "I don't know what you'd do?" Dark Damsel replied.  "You
could be very clever."
     "I suppose.  But the police have been here three times
already.  I don't have an alibi for the 26th, I was here working
by myself, but I do have one for the last three of the 
Photographer's jobs.  You're supposed to be tight with the 
cops, ask them."  The words were almost a plea.
     Dark Damsel was almost ready to believe him.  He seemed
sincere.  But why had mention of the police investigations
been left off his sheet?  Had there, in fact, been any?
     "Look, Dark Damsel, if you want, come in.  Look around."
     "Okay, I will."
     Over the next hour Lepcher showed Dark Damsel through his
store, showing her the improvements he had made, told her of
his hopes and dreams, took her through his client lists, 
everything she wanted, and more.  By the end of that time
Dark Damsel was sure that Peter Lepcher was not the 
Photographer. 
     "I'm sorry, Peter.  I had to check you out," she said
as he led her back to the door, holding it open for her.
     "That's okay.  I guess I'll have to expect this sort of
thing for a while yet.  People are never willing to admit that
someone has changed.  Actually, Damsel, I owe you my thanks.
I was going nowhere, fast.  The time in prison gave me the
chance to turn everything around.  I'm happy now.  I don't
look over my shoulder for what's coming up behind me anymore.
I have a lady friend, and I don't have to keep secrets from
her."  Lepcher offered his hand and Dark Damsel took it.
     "Now, I'd better get back to work.  I told Penny I'd be
done by eleven and it's almost that now."  He closed the
door behind her and she heard it lock.
     Well, one down, forty to go, thought Dark Damsel as
she straddled the bike and put the key in the ignition.  She 
turned the key and there was a flash of light which blinded her 
and a sudden pain in her thigh.  She started to sway.  As her 
vision came back she noticed there was a dart in her right 
thigh.  Seemed odd that there would be a dart sticking out of 
her thigh.  She should do something about that.  Yes, she should 
pull it out.  Or something.  Another flash disconcerted her.  
Damn, it was getting foggy out.  Didn't hear anything about that 
in the forecast.
     A hand reached out to support her and Dark Damsel tried
to thank the good Samaritan but the words wouldn't come.
Some words did come, but they were from outside.  She tried
to concentrate.
     "I knew you'd come here, sooner or later," the disembodied
voice whispered.  "Now the fun begins."

end 1/3

Comments to: echo@nym.alias.net


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