The Hydra Monster (2 page)

T
HIS STORY OF
T
HE
H
YDRA
M
ONSTER IS AN ADVENTURE OF THE
P
HANTOM OF OUR TIME—THE TWENTY-FIRST GENERATION OF HIS LINE.
H
E HAS INHERITED THE TRADI
ti
ons
and
responsibilities
created by
four
centuries
of
Phantom
ancestors
.
One
ancestor
created
t
he Jungle
P
ATROL
.
T
HUS
,
TODAY
,
our
P
HANTOM
is
the
MYSTERIOUS
and
unknown
C
OMMANDER
of
THIS
elite
corps.
In
the
JUNGLE
,
he
is
KNOWN
and
LOVED
as
The Keeper
of
the
Peace
.
On
his
RIGHT
hand
is
the Skull
Ring
THAT
leaves
HIS
mark—
the
Sign
of
the
Skull—
known
AND
FEARED
by
evil
-
DOERS
eve
ry
WHERE
.
On
HIS
left
hand
—
closer
to
THE
HEART
—
IS
HIS
'
GOOD
MARK
'
ring
.
O
NCE
GIVEN
,
THE
mark
GRANTS
THE LUCKY
bearer
PROTECTION
by
THE
Phantom,
AND
it
IS
equally
KNOWN
AND
RESPECTED
.
A
ND
to
GOOD
people
AND
CRIMINALS
alike
,
in
THE
JUNGLE
,
on
THE
seven
SEAS
,
AND
IN
THE
CITIES
of
THE
w
ORLD
,
he
is
T
HE
Phantom
,
T
HE
G
HOST
Who
Walks,
THE
M
AN
Who
Cannot
Die
.

L
EE
F
a
lk

New
Y
ORK
1973

CHAPTER ONE

They caught up with him down by the black water.

There was fog all around. It came spilling in off the night waters of San Francisco Bay. He couldn't even see them clearly. There were dark blurry shapes stalking him down the empty streets. He knew what they meant to do.

He'd known that since he'd left the saloon on Front Street and realized they were on his trail. That started him running;, running through the shrouding fog. Running along the grey streets where everybody went home at sundown. Running, stumbling again and panting, under the ramps of the Embarcadero freeway. Running around the grey supporting spires, heading for any place away from them.

It was no good. He was in no kind of shape anymore, fifty and too fat. There didn't seem to be any air to breathe, only harsh, grey fog. Harsh fog rasping at his tired lungs.

He thought about crying for help. But there weren't any cars anywhere, no people. Only him, him and them behind him. He stopped, put a sweating palm against the stone wall of a waterfront building. He gasped and sucked in air through his mouth.

For a few seconds, he didn't see them.

Then the pair stepped out of the drifting fog, slow and smiling.

"Listen," he said. "Listen, I'm sorry about what I know. I promise . . ."

He had no more time.

Two guns sounded, not loud, in the fog.

The cab driver's name was MacQuarrie. He was a lean, black man of thirty and most people called him Mac. He was cruising along the Embarca- dero, down below the freeway, after dropping a fare at the foot of Market Street.

All at once, he hit his brakes. Two men had come running across the street through the fog.

"Hey, you jerks," he said to himself. "I almost hit you."

The fog swirled up for an instant and he noticed something against one of the warehouses. Parking his dented, yellow car, Mac got out and cautiously approached. He didn't want to get hit on the head for his few dollars in change.

"Hey, you in trouble?" he called to the man who was sitting against the stone wall with his arms limp at his sides.

A single word sighed through the fat man's lips.

Mac moved closer to him. He saw the blood now, splashed all over the front of the man's faded windbreaker. "What happened?"

"I know about . . ." moaned the dying man.

Kneeling beside him, Mac said, "You stay here

and I'll get help. I don't think you ought to be..

"Hydra," said the fat man.

"What?" Mac had his ear near the man's Hps.

"Hydra," he repeated. He died.

"Oh, God," said Mac.

The police told Mac who the dead man was. He was an informer named Estling who lived in one of the rundown hotels in the Tenderloin district. They didn't think he knew anything that would be worth killing him for. Mac told the police the word the dying man had said. The word "hydra" didn't mean anything to them. But a young shaggy-haired reporter from the
C
HRONICLE
thought it would make a good lead for the story he was going to do.

Mac got home about 1 a.m. He didn't say anything to his wife about what he'd walked into. No use waking her up. He didn't sleep much.

The next morning, a warm, clear San Francisco morning, the dispatcher told him he'd made a conquest.

"Hey, what are you talking about?" he asked the radio in his cab.

"Got a special request for you and you alone," came the raspy voice out of the dusty speaker. "Maybe they want to ride with you now that you're a celebrity. See the papers yet?"

"I glanced at them," admitted Mac. They'd spelled his last name with a Y at the end instead of an IE. "Where's this fare?"

The dispatcher gave him an address out in the Avenues.

It was a white, three story apartment building

in a row of them. Two men were standing in front of it. Young men, in their late twenties, in good suits and modish haircuts. One of them was wearing wrap-around sunglasses.

He waved at Mac. "You MacQuarrie?"

"That's me," said Mac as he parked. He'd never seen either of them before.

"Our aunt told us you were an A-OK man," said the young man with the dark glasses. "We got some luggage inside." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the apartment building. "Give us a hand?"

"Sure thing." Mac switched off the ignition, pocketed the keys. "Where you going ... airport?" That would be a pretty good fare.

When he was on the sidewalk with them, the one with the glasses asked, "What did Estling say last night?"

"Who?"

"Estling, the fat stoolie. What did he say to

you?"

Mac looked from one to the other. "Hey, what's with you two guys?"

"We want to give you a little memory lesson. Now, what did he say?"

Down at the far end of the block, a blonde mother with a baby carriage appeared.

Mac shook his head. "The guy said, 'Hydra' if it's any business of yours."

The other young man, the silent one, hit Mac twice in the stomach.

"Wrong," said the one wearing sunglasses, as Mac doubled up. "Wrong, he didn't say anything."

The other one hit him twice more, hard in the ribs. Then kicked his legs out from under him.

"Remember, mister," said the one wearing glasses. "Estling didn't say anything. You never heard of 'Hydra'."

Mac was on his hands and knees on the grey sidewalk, gagging.

The other one kicked him in the tailbone.

The girl with the baby carriage screamed.

The two young men ran.

"Why did they do that?" The young mother stopped at the side of the fallen, black man. "Why did they do that to you? Are you hurt?"

Mac stayed on the ground. He didn't say anything.

CHAPTER TWO

The road wasn't supposed to lead anywhere. Just a narrow road across the flat, dry, Southwest countryside, a road somebody had probably started and never gotten around to finishing. A dead end, that was what the sign out on the other side of the old, rail fence said.

This was not, however, strictly true. The road went quite near the side of a high, rocky mesa. Right now, a little before mid-day, a car with

three occupants was moving along this dusty road.

In the front passenger seat sat a pretty, dark- haired girl, relaxed, arms folded, watching the orange and brown countryside.

Beside her, at the wheel, was a good-looking broad-shouldered man. He wore dark glasses and a belted raincoat.

Stretched across the back seat was a large, grey animal often mistaken for a dog. Actually, it was a wolf.

There were spiky, yucca plants dotting the rocky ground, a few giant saguaro cactuses. Diana Palmer said, "I'd almost forgotten you had a house here."

"Well, I don't know if you can call it a house," said the Phantom. "It's more of a hideout."

"You told me once that one of your ancestors had built it."

"Yes, way back on the Phantom family tree there's the footloose ancestor who's responsible for the Eyrie," he answered. "The place was built roughly two centuries ago. I haven't been here very often myself."