Issue #6

---

"Shadows of the Past"

by Chuck Burke

To think, I've got the nerve to think of myself as a detective!

I've never been in the same league as, say, Batman, or the Crimson Avenger, but I always figured I did an okay job as an investigator. Not this time, though.

"You all right, Ted?" That's Abby Walker, my friendly contact in the Syracuse Police Department.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Then when are you coming in off that roof?"

It's been a week since we got back from New York and found the letter that had been forwarded along from Warrior's Bar in New York. A letter that appears, despite all logic, to have come from Doctor Charlie McNider. Now a walking medical miracle like myself shouldn't be surprised at getting a letter from a doctor, but there's one small problem with this one.

Charlie McNider is dead. I should know, I was there when he died.

"Ted, get your sorry butt in here! Dinner is getting cold!"

I flip my body over, and crawl in through the window. The roof of the porch makes a great place to sit and get a little sun when I want to think by myself for a while. I shut the window and look around the living room. There, on a folding card table, is the evening meal that my lady friend has prepared.

"Ah, I see ya went all out tonight, Abby." I can't help it, I'm grinning.

"Oh, shut up and eat your Big Mac!"

After a simply divine meal, we get back to the matter that's been puzzling us for a week. "Any luck tracing any of McNider's former employees?" I ask.

"A little." she replies. Bobby Travers, McNider's former driver, did turn up in a hospital in Starlight City late last year, about a month before the Invasion*. He was beaten up pretty badly, which jibes with the letter."

(*whaddaya mean, "What Invasion?" Haven't you read the Cold Armageddon crossover event yet?)

"Where is he now?" I ask, as I 'do the dishes'. Once I've tossed the bags, wrappers and napkins in the trash can, I turn to Abby for her answer.

"He was there for two months. Then he was released into the care of Myra Mason, McNider's former secretary. No address given."

"That can't be right. Myra died a about a year before Charlie did."

"I'll see if I can find anything more on her. I've got a friend at the Department, in Data Services, who owes me a couple of favors."

"Well, that's it then. I was hoping to have some more information when I took this to the JSA, but the only way I'm getting that is to travel to Starlight City. I'd do better to get the rest of the gang in on it." I pour a couple of cups of coffee and take them over to the couch. "We've got a meeting tomorrow, so-"

One of the many pains of the heroing business is communications. You can't just have a regular phone, cause it would never be right to be exchanging trade secrets with Superman over an open phone line. And if you deal with different groups, or with particular security-minded folk like Oracle, they all want their own way of getting in touch with you. Add that to the problems with keeping your masked life and your normal life separate, and it gets messy real fast. After all, I can't exactly have a regular phone, a blue 'JSA' phone, a black 'Bat' phone, and a purple 'Oracle' phone in my place. So, you come up with workarounds. Like the special ringer I have in my place. My JSA communicator, my scrambled cell phone, and my regular phone are all hooked to it. But the ring is different depending on which device is being called. This time, speak of the Devil, it's the JSA line. I grab my cell phone.

"'Cat here. Whassup?" I answer. I just know that if it's Jay or Alan, they're gonna groan at my greeting. I'm a little disappointed when he doesn't.

"Wildcat, Flash and I need to see you right away. At the Brownstone." I don't believe it. Alan's usually the easiest one to tweak. Must be serious.

"D.I.N.A.H.'s teleporter on-line?" I ask, referring to the artificial intelligence system that operates our regular headquarters, the Higher Authority.

"Just say the word." Does he realize that he's setting himself up here?

"Hang on a moment." I set the phone down, dash to my room, switch to my 'work clothes', explaining to Abby as I do that I gotta run, it's JSA business. I grab the letter, give her a quick kiss on the cheek, then I grab the phone.

"Okay. Beam me up, Scotty!" I've wanted to say that for years!

"Very funny, Captain Jerk!" comes the reply just before the room fades from sight. Good, he ain't dead yet.

I don't get much time to reminisce, though. Sentinel and Flash are waiting for me.

"What's the deal, gents? Someone try to hijack the satellite?"

"No, this is a little more personal, Ted." says Flash. Jay's got a funny look on his face. For that matter, so does Alan. "Come on into the meeting room.

"Okay. Look guys, long as I'm here, I've got something that I think we need to look into." We walk into the big room, and I stop dead in my tracks. Someone is waiting for us.

"Who let him in?" I ask.

"He called me, Ted. He's got some news for you." Of course: Gotham may not be his home now, but he would still know how to get in touch with Gotham's previous guardian.

He's got the whole thing down. The look. The moves. The presence. Even I get cautious when I see him, and I helped train him, fercrissakes.

The Batman.

"Good evening Ted. Sorry to pull you away from home. How's your new life working out?" How does he do that with the voice? Even making small talk, he sounds menacing.

"Better than I could have hoped. Next time you're in touch with the folks at the Wayne Foundation, pass along my thanks. The MetaHuman Resettlement Program is a success, as far as I'm concerned." The MRP was set up a few years back to help misplaced heros, like myself, get back on their feet.

"Good. I asked Sentinel to call you down here because of some information I came across last week. It involves you."

"What sort of information?" I glanced at Jay and Alan, but they obviously have no idea what the Batman is referring to.

"Actually, I think the one who found it should explain." He gestures toward the corner. I hadn't noticed the figure in the corner before this. He looks up, and smiles.

"Robin! How ya doing, kid?" He steps forward, letting the black cape fall back over his shoulders. Kid's getting better at skulking in the shadows. Almost as good as his mentor.

"I'm all right, Wildcat. S.O.S. Same old stuff, with school and all." He comes over to shake my hand, and I pull him into a hug. Kid's saved my bacon a couple of times, and I, his.

"I hear ya, kid. I'm back in school myself these days. So, what's the scoop?"

"Well, as part of my training, I've been working on a computer imaging program for identifying fingerprints. It takes the digital scan of a latent image, stores it as both a mathematical pattern and a bitmapped image, then it does a comparison against a set of prints in a database."

"I think I followed about one third of that, kid, but I'll take your word on it. How does it concern me?"

"I was doing some test runs on it last week. The FBI sent us some prints from recent captures."

"Of course, I didn't tell Robin whose prints they were." comments Batman.

"That makes it more of a test when we get a match." says the kid. "I ran them through the program, then started the comparison routine. Usually, I run the comparison against the criminal database, but I wanted to see how long it would take if I expanded the search. I added the immigration database and the missing persons databases. That's when I came up with a very odd set of matches. To be honest, I thought I had found a bug in the program."

This kid is gonna give Bill Gates a run for his money someday, I just know it. "I still don't see what this has to do with me, kid."

"Bear with me, Wildcat. The immigration database had two matches for the prints. One was for a person leaving the US in 1953. The other was for an incoming about three years ago. But the kicker was the missing persons database. The same prints showed up in there, for a case from 1952."

Oh, hell. I know where this is going. But who's the crook whose prints they match?

"Wildcat. Ted. The missing person case was a child, named Jacob Henry Grant. The mother of record is Irina San Paulo. Father of record -"

I interrupt that Batman, something I don't normally recommend. "Ted Grant." All eyes are on me as I sit there, my head held in my hands. "Yeah, I know all the birth statistics. Weight, ten pounds, seven ounces. Length, nineteen and a half inches. Like I know my fight record, my address, hell, like I know my own birthday." I look up at Robin, who has this very sad look on his face. "Okay, so who is he now? Who's the crook with my son's fingerprints?"

"You know him, Wildcat. It's Jake Crock. The Sports Master."

Flash and Sentinel are falling all over themselves, asking me about Jake. I've not told too many people about him, or about Irina. I find myself telling them the full story. How Irina San Paulo and I met when I was doing a round of exhibition matches in Mexico. How she joined me on the tour, how her paintings of me were used for the promotional posters, how we fell in love. How we settled on the coast in northern California when we discovered she was pregnant. How proud I felt, holding my son in my arms for the first time. And finally, how I came home from the gym one cold December afternoon, to find her crying on the couch, a soggy note crumpled in her hands.

"Wildcat, how rude of you to be away when I stopped by to visit. Still, I'm sure your boy and I can have some fun before we're through."

Under the note, was a crude drawing of a wasp. The Yellow Wasp.

"Why didn't you ask for our help, Wildcat?" asks Jay.

"Look, you guys had all hung up your masks, I didn't even know how to get in touch with some of you. It's not like I was all that much a part of the JSA back then, you know?"

"Ted, we would have helped if we had known."

"I know. But I figured I could track him down myself. Now I know why I couldn't at least."

"Yes, it appears that the Wasp took Jake out of the country just about a month after the kidnaping. According to the immigration records, they went to Korea." The Batman is looking at the screen of a small device in his hands. "That's where Jake was coming from when he re-entered the country three years ago."

"Look, Ted, if there's anything we can do..." offers Sentinel.

"I'll ask. This time, don't worry. I'll ask." I look around to the guys gathered around me. "Look, I've got a couple of things to sort out in my head before I do anything. Jake is locked up at Belle Reeve, so I know he isn't going anywhere. And I have a good idea where to go for some information about what's happened to him. Just let me take a day or two, okay?" Nobody objects.

"Before you go, Wildcat, I'd like a word or two in private." Of course he does. The Batman and I walk out into the foyer.

"Wildcat, I'm sorry to be the one bringing this news. I called the others in, I thought it would be better if you had some friends here to help absorb the shock." If I hadn't known him as a teenager, I wouldn't believe I was hearing this.

"Thank you, Batman. I really appreciate it." I grin at him. "But don't worry, I won't spoil your bad-ass reputation."

"The least I could do, especially after the way you handled the Manhunter case last week. I got your file on that."

"I told Kirk you might be looking him up. He's back at the lodge, if you want to meet with him."

"I know somebody who could use a vacation in the Adirondacks. Perhaps it would be a good idea to book a room at the Good Winds lodge for a week or so. Thanks, Ted."

You know, I've heard crooks say that one of the scariest things to see, is the Batman swooping down at you from a rooftop.

They're wrong.

They haven't seen him smile.

I think it's around midnight when I hear the knock on the door. "C'mon in." I say. I hear it open and close.

"You all right, Ted? I thought I heard you walking around a while ago, and you said something this afternoon about -"

"Yeah, yeah, the posters for the gym fundraiser. I'm sorry, Toby, I kinda forgot. How about tomorrow?"

"Sure, Ted." There's a kinda long pause before he talks again. "What's wrong, Ted?"

Toby's a good kid, and he's Abby's kid brother. I figure he's as good a person to talk to as any right now.

"Just a bit of my past coming back to haunt me." I turn, and I can just see him in the light coming through the window. "You want a beer? Help yourself."

"Sure." He digs a couple of bottles out, tosses me one. That's when I realize that I'm still holding the first one. Mostly full. "So, one of the bad guys coming after you for revenge?"

"No, I wish it was that. Toby, I have a son out there. A son I haven't seen since 1952." I tell him the same things I told my buddies from the JSA.

"Jeez, Ted. What the hell are you doing here? Why aren't you down at that prison now?"

"Not yet, Toby. When I see him again, I want to have some of the answers ready. I want to know where he's been, and how he wound up with Paula and Crusher Crock. I want to know why he looks like he's about twenty five, when I know he's in his late forties."

"Not the way I'd handle it, dude."

"Right now, he don't know me from Adam. He was told to kill me, and he was ready to do it. Hell, as far as he, and most of the world, are concerned, he DID kill me. I gotta be able to combat that." I take a pull from my bottle. "You know something, Tobes? In the last sixty years, I've been on top of the world, I've fought alongside guys who might as well have been gods. I've had folks cheering my name and women falling at my feet. I've faced down death a couple dozen times. I've been paralyzed, I've played god with a bunch of mad Norse demons. I've fought off an alien armada, single handed*, and you know what?"

{* once again, during Cold Armageddon}

"What, Ted?"

There is a cracking noise, then a loud snap. It takes a second for me to realize that I've got a handful of broken glass.

"I'd give it all up just to hold my son again."

Nice little getaway she's got here. I heard she ended up with a nice little inheritance from somewhere. Could be the only honest money she ever had. I slip into my costume, take a leap off the roof of the car, and swing up into a tree. From there, I make my way toward the house. I almost make it undisturbed.

*TWAAANGGGG!*

I've heard that sound before. It's the sound that a hand-held crossbow makes when it fires a bolt. It registers in my unconscious mind first, so I find myself diving to one side with actually knowing why. It's only as I tuck my shoulder to make a rolling impact on the ground that I realize someone is shooting at me.

I alter the roll so I come up facing the direction where I expect to find the shooter. All I catch, though, is a fleeting glimpse of a brown boot diving into the shrubs. I stay low, and start stalking the shooter. I reach the tree that was used as cover for the first shot, and see the answer to one of my questions: there is an open trapdoor that leads underground set into the ground. I haven't been stalked since I came into this grove, the shooter must have just come out here. Makes me wonder how many of these little doors there might be in the ground around here.

*TWAAANGGG!*

Another bolt goes whizzing by me. I turn, and I see her. Dressed in shades of red and brown. Not the costume I recall her wearing, but what the heck? After all, I'm disturbing her afternoon at home.

"I come in peace, Artemis. I just wanna have a little talk with your Mom!"

"The hell you do, Wildcat! You bastards already killed Daddy, and you've got Jake! What more do you want from us?" I see her slide the crossbow into a holder on her thigh. She reaches for a throwing knife in her belt. "Mother is in no shape to go to prison!"

"She done something that calls for prison time? First I've heard about it." I reply.

"Then why are you HERE?" She emphasizes that last word by hurling the knife at me, end-over-end. I flatten out, and I hear the deep meaty 'thunk' as it embeds itself into the tree behind me. I leap up and pull the knife from the tree trunk. Without stopping, I whirl around and send it flying, butt-first, at the tall, slender redhead who is drawing a bead on me with a full-sized bow. It strikes her on the forehead, a couple inches left of center. She drops to the ground.

I shouldn't be too surprised: Paula and Crusher were never what I'd consider normal.

"Paula? You in here?" I holler out.

"I'm in the ballroom. Left from the door, through two rooms, then turn right." It's her. Her voice hasn't changed much, though she never sounded so calm and welcoming when we fighting.

I make my way through the old plantation house. Aside from the stuffed animals, I gotta admit, I kinda like the place. That is, until I find the ballroom.

First of all, it's big. Probably fifty feet or more in each direction. The big sweeping staircase that I associate with these places is here. If you can get to it.

The place is full of plants. I don't know at first if they're potted, or if she's dug up the place and planted them in here. All I do know is that it's stinkin' hot in here.

"How dare you wear that costume?!? You imposter!" The voice is coming from above me. I look up, and there, on a balcony overlooking this indoor jungle, is Paula.

Paula Brooks-Crock

The Huntress. Version 1.

Back before I got my clock turned back, she probably would have looked pretty good. God knows, she always was a looker. Knew it, too. That's what strikes me most now, though. Where before, she always showed off those killer legs, now they're covered by an ankle-length skirt of her usual tiger-striped outfit. That, and the hair that's pulled back under the hood is white as snow.

"How're ya doing, Huntress?" I ask.

"Who are you? You're not the Wildcat I know, he's dead!" she nearly shrieks.

"How do you figure that, Huntress? Nothing has ever been said in the press about me being killed. So how would you know about it, unless -" I reach a hand up and grab the front of my mask, "you sent your kid to kill me?" I pull the mask off and look up at her.

"No! It can't be! You're dead!" Damned if she isn't shaking. "But wait a minute? You're, you're so much younger than you should be..."

"That's right, Paula baby, and I have you to thank for it. When one of those gizmos that Jake tried on me struck the lake at my cabin, it reacted with some chemicals in the water. It acted like a fountain of youth on me, made me the man I am today." I grin, watching the puzzlement in her eyes. "Now, I've got a few questions about Jake."

She throws her head back and starts laughing. "Oh, this is just sooo delicious! I waited three years for this, and I thought I'd lost the chance!"

"So, you knew who he was?"

"Oh, yes, Sang Tze filled me in on the whole story before he died."

"Who?"

"Sang Tze. The Yellow Wasp!" She stares down at me. "You never knew, did you? You never had a clue who the Wasp really was! But I'm forgetting my manners." Paula gestures toward a table on the balcony. "Please, won't you join me for lunch?"

I grab one of the tree limbs over my head, swing on it a couple of times, then launch myself up to grab the balcony railing. I haul myself up and over it, then grab myself a seat.

"Still the show-off, I see." she purrs.

Lunch is a surprisingly simple affair. French onion soup and ham sandwiches. Not what I expect a wealthy dowager to serve, but then what do I know about wealthy dowagers? We make small talk like a couple of old friends until a maid has cleared away the dishes and served tall glasses of sweet tea.

"Now, you were wondering about the Yellow Wasp, and about my boy Jake, right?" she says with a sly smile. She's baiting me.

"Not your boy, Paula. My son." I state it simply, matter-of-factly.

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Ted, and I think that especially applies when nobody knows of the previous owner."

"I know. Fingerprints show it, and DNA will prove it."

"Yes, but can that make him see you as his father?"

"We'll just have to find out. But first, I want to know how he wound up with you." I lean forward on the table, letting my weight tip it slightly. Just enough to remind her that there is an angry heavyweight sitting across from her.

"Of course, of course." The Huntress leans back in her chair, gazing up at the ceiling. "A little over three years ago, I had just gotten out of prison. I had come back here after finding out that Crusher died in the Slab. I was still settling back in here with Artemis when Sang Tze and Sang Jak showed up."

"Sang Jak? Is that Jake?"

"Yes, it's the Korean form of Jake, with the Wasp's, well, it's not a surname as we know it, but you can think of it the same way. Still, I knew as soon as I saw them, that they weren't really father and son."

"Yeah, I saw Jake's face. Somebody might take him for part Mexican, which he is. But not Asian."

"True, very true. He reminds me so much of you, when you were younger." She glances over at me. "Of course, you look much the same now. I better watch Artemis around you." She looks off into nowhere for a moment. A ghost of a smile blows across her face. I figure I know the night she's remembering. Not wanting to dwell on that particular episode myself, I prod her a little.

"So, what did the Wasp want with you?"

"He wanted me to use your son, of course. Sang Tze was dying of cancer when he came here. He wanted to leave Jake with someone who would appreciate his lineage, and use his talents, ahhh, shall we say, in an appropriate manner."

"For revenge against me, you mean."

"Exactly!"

"So, what happened to Sang Tze?"

"He stayed with Artemis and I for a couple of weeks. One morning, he didn't come to breakfast. My maid found him in his bed. He had passed away during the night." A wistful little smile flashes across her face. "I suppose the dancing we did the night before was too much for him."

A bell rings somewhere in another room, catching the Huntress' attention. "Oh, dear. I really must be going. I have an appointment that I simply cannot miss. I do hope you understa-"

"What about my son, Paula? Why did the Yellow Wasp take him away, and why does he look like a young man?" I reached for her arm, but she pulled back in time to avoid my grasp.

"Oh, it's all in here!" She reaches into a concealed pocket on that big skirt of hers, and pulls out a tattered-looking brown leather notebook. "Sang Tze told me to give this to you if you found out who Jake really was. It has all the answers." She tosses it over the railing with expert aim, and it lands on a small desk by the door below. I lunge for it as she throws, leaving myself wide open for a sucker punch from the side. The wind gets knocked out of me, and I collapse on the railing. "Please, feel free to take it with you. If you ever get out, that is!"

The Huntress grabs my legs and heaves me over the railing. I come crashing to the floor in the jungle-like ballroom. I look up in time to see some type of grating swinging down from the walls, forming a grillwork ceiling over the entire room. Then I hear the sound of a gate being opened, followed by a low menacing growl.

"Ta-ta, Wildcat. It has been nice seeing you again. Too bad it's our last time together." I look up and see her walking back away from the balcony railing. I force my gaze away from that balcony, just in time to spot a dark blur moving toward me through the trees. Instinct kicks in, and I drop into a crouch as the panther goes flying over my head.

"Nice kitty." I mutter. It hits the ground, scrabbling to get turned around and check me out. Probably likes what it sees, too. After all, I'm smaller than a lot of his natural prey. In this dark outfit, I stand out like a beacon against the trees. Probably thinking it has an easy kill, if it can even think that much.

The big cat crouches and springs again, diving for me. He could keep this up all day, I'm sure. But I have better things to do than entertain Paula's little pet, so instead of ducking under this jump, I leap up into it. We collide in mid-air, my shoulder connecting with soft belly just back of the ribs. As soon as we make contact, the thing's rear claws are pawing at me. The costume takes a lot of it, the kevlar's tough enough to take the sting out of those claws. I try to arch myself forward so I land on top of the beast. I overdo it, and when we hit I flip forward off the kitty. It's scrambling around, trying to get off its back, while I unwrap myself from the tree trunk that so helpfully cushioned my fall.

Okay, round three. I stand up in front of the tree, one foot forward, the other behind me and turned 90 degrees. Kitty is up and prowling back and forth, trying to decide how to bring me down. All of a sudden, it charges me, low to the ground. I jump up and actually plant one foot, then the other, on the panther's back. I kick back with my feet as they make contact, driving kitty toward that tree trunk. His head smacks the trunk, pretty hard to judge by the sound and the flexing of the trunk. The cat leaps and turns at the same time, and I catch a claw across my left arm. I lash out with a right cross, connecting with kitty's head. The cat goes down for a couple of seconds, but rises up to stalk me again. I'm keeping one eye on him while the other is looking for a way out, something to use against this kitty, or both. No luck. The only thing around are trees and bushes.

Hmmm.

I start moving around the room with a funny kind of sidestep that lets me keep an eye on the panther as I move. I'm looking for just the right tree, and in a room full of indoor plants it should be easy to find. Takes a couple of minutes, but I find just the thing. Now to get this dumb damn cat to follow.

"Okay, boy, you want to play? Come on, come at me!" Yeah, I know the thing probably doesn't speak English. It ain't what I'm saying, it's how I'm saying it.

I'm taunting it. Attracting an attack.

Kitty doesn't disappoint me. This time, I spot the animal going into it's crouch. It's enough warning for me to leap back and grab the narrow trunk of the sapling I found. Kitty springs at the location where I'd been standing, leaping for the tree as I haul back on it. It bends back more than I had hoped for, so the top of the tree is nearly touching the ground. Giving a final pull, I let go.

Heh. Ever wonder where they came up with the word catapult?

Kitty goes for a pretty good ride, until he smacks into the grillwork above. Hits it with a loud bang, then drops like a lead weight back to the floor. I can see its chest rising and falling as I rush for the door, snatching the notebook up from the table as I rush out.

Hey, the poor thing was just doing what comes naturally. If I could have taken it with me, I would. But the airlines tend to frown on bringing jungle cats along for the ride. I make my way outside and back to my car, tearing strips from my costume to bind up my bleeding arm.

Not too long ago, Ted Knight and I had a long talk. He's been spending the last few years playing coach for his son David, the current Starman. He told me that one of the most disturbing things he's experienced is learning the full life story of a couple of his old foes. Disturbing, and yet satisfying at the same time. After reading Sang Tze's little memoir, I finally understand what he's talking about.

---

Dear Jake,

I will be leaving these notes with Paula Crock, to be given to you when and if the memories that we are planting in your mind should, for whatever reason, be lost to you and you once more remember your life as my son. We are giving you these new memories, and indeed a new life, to spare you the grief of my death, and to start you out with a clean slate in your new life as Jake Crock.

Unfortunately, the life you will now remember with me is not entirely true, either. I have little doubt, though we have never spoken of it, that you know that I am not your true father. Your features and build are almost alien to our Korean culture, despite your efforts and mine at making you blend in. But you can not help your true parentage. You are the son of two Americans, one of them a long-time enemy of mine, and therein lies your story.

To understand fully, you must know of my own personal history. My family came from Seoul to San Francisco in 1936, when I was in my teens. I had been a promising student at the schools of Korea, and my parents came to America to give me the chance to be more than I might hope for at home. In 1938, I was enrolled in the University of California's Engineering program. My parents gave everything they could for their dream of my completing college. They worked long hard hours, picking fruit, sweeping sidewalks, clerking in stores, anything they could find to make a few more dollars for the family. I was in my last year of college when war broke out. The American government, in response to the fears and prejudice that ran wild in the western states following Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor, set up their filthy interment camps for those suspected of sympathizing with the Japanese. Of course, they assumed that anyone of Asian descent was a Nipponese sympathizer, and my parents and I were all taken prisoner. I had my dream of a college education stolen from me, but even worse, my parents, who had never done anything against their new-found home, had their dignity and integrity stolen away. In the camps, my father was a broken man. Even when we were released in 1945, he remained broken. I worked some small jobs, as best I could, to make enough money to take my parents home. But I swore that, when I returned to America, I would be one whom the Americans feared and respected.

In 1947, I did return. As you probably know, in America, several costumed mystery men and women appeared during the days of the War. When the war ended, many of them turned their sights on the crime that seems ever-present in American cities. In response, many of the criminals likewise donned colorful costumes and adopted special weapons or gimmicks to establish their identities. I chose to do likewise. I had used my education while in Korea to work on technology programs for the Army, and I adapted some ideas from their work for my criminal career. I created a winged flying pack, and various types of stinger and dart weapons. I created a costume and took the name of Yellow Wasp.

My first sojourn was in San Francisco. I had developed a sonic device that allowed me to control swarms of wasps, and I used it to render people helpless during my robberies. My activities attracted the attention of a costumed hero named Wildcat. He stopped a number of my robbery attempts, though I can proudly say that I was never arrested during this time. Therefore, my identity never became known. I moved on to other cities, and I was more successful. I sent most of my spoils back to my parents, letting them believe that I had finally finished my college degree and was working in the USA. Many more times, during the next four years, I crossed paths with Wildcat. During those conflicts, I observed him as best I could.

Wildcat was very obviously an above average athlete. He was taller than most Americans, and in far better physical shape. By watching him, I came to the realization that he was an expert in boxing, though he appeared to be learning other martial arts forms over the period of time I observed him. We met in several different towns and cities over the years, leading me to believe that he spent much of his life on the road. I started checking newspapers in towns where we met, and soon came to the realization that Wildcat must be Ted Grant, who was, at that time, the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. This gave me a new target to watch.

In 1952, Ted Grant was no longer the heavyweight champion, and I had not run into Wildcat for over half a year. I was in San Francisco again, and I saw a small news article about Ted Grant making a public appearance one of the old Fair Play Clubs that had sprung up after the war. I went there, out of costume, and I followed him home afterward. That's when I discovered what would be my ultimate revenge on the hero.

Apparently, Grant had found himself a lady friend. No marriage, unless they did it without publicity. Still, it was obvious that there was a lot of love between them. Ted, his lady, and his son. He handled that boy like he was the most valuable treasure in the world. That's when I knew how I would exact my revenge.

I watched the home for three weeks. I got to know Grant's habits. He was retired from professional boxing, but he was operating an athletic club in the city. Every day, without fail, he left at 6:30 in the morning, and returned at half past noon. I followed him twice, saw that he went in, handled paperwork for a half hour, then spent four and a half hours working in the club, helping kids, training young boxers, and working out. I was finally satisfied that I wouldn't be caught.

The boy's mother was another matter. She never left the home without him, never left him in the care of a sitter. But every morning, as her son napped, she went out to the porch and painted. From what I could see, she was quite good at it, too.

It was a Friday morning when I struck. She was outside, absorbed in a seascape. I didn't wear my costume. I slipped in through a window, and stole away Wildcat's son. I left a note, so that he would never doubt who was responsible for his loss. I didn't worry about him tracking me down, for I had already made plans to leave the country. I only had to avoid him for a few weeks. I spent them in San Francisco's Chinatown. To an outsider, Chinatown is a maze of small shops, homes, and questionable enterprises. To one who belongs there, however temporarily, Chinatown is a world unto itself. I disappeared into a shop of antiquities, and never set foot in the streets of San Francisco until February of the following year. That was only long enough to reach the wharf and catch a ship bound for home.

Jake, my son, you are no simpleton. You must surely realize by now that the child I stole away all those years ago is you. I brought you home to Korea and raised you as my own. As the years passed, I noticed with some concern that you did not seem to be growing and maturing at a normal rate. I found no satisfactory reason for this, but I did note that when reports of Wildcat's return to the public life reached Korea, he did not seem to age very much either. I have suspected that he did something to extend his life while he was associated with America's other superheroes. I know that they had several types of magic and advanced science at their disposal, so anything is possible. Whatever means he used, it must have altered his body chemistry so that it was passed along to you.

You made me most proud, my adopted son, when you received your medical degree and started to practice medicine among the impoverished of our home country. Together, with my science and your medical knowledge, we have been able to help a great many people in our home.

I leave you this journal because I am now, in effect, stealing your life with me away. I am leaving you with a woman who I worked with on occasion during my criminal career. Together, we are using an array of hypnotic and psychological techniques to imbue you with a new set of memories. You will remember growing up as Paula Crock's son, and I have little doubt that before long you will assimilate her own particular psychotic and antisocial tendencies.

I am asking her to hold this journal, and to give it to you if it appears that you are regaining your own memories. I will not be there for you, and for that I am sorry. But I hope that you will remember me fondly, for you were as much a son to me as any flesh and blood could ever be.

With all my love,

Sang Tze

"Ted! What's the matter?" She runs, I swear, she literally runs across the living room and puts her arms around me. "You look like you've been through a wringer!"

"I have, Abby, I have." I run a hand through her mop of black curls. "Look, you better sit down. I got some stuff I need to tell you."

I don't hold anything back. I tell her about Irina and Jake, about the kidnapping, about spending three years tearing up and down the west coast, looking for any information about him. I tell her about the night I came home and found Irina waiting in the living room, her stuff already packed into her brother's car. As I tell her about Irina screaming at me, in both English and Spanish, about it being all my fault that Jake was kidnapped, she tries to reach for me. I know that if I give in to the luxury of her arms, I won't get the whole story out. Instead, I stand up and start pacing around the room. I tell her how I tried to stay in touch with Irina, and how I returned from Ragnarok to find that she had died in a car accident in Colorado. I give her a slightly edited version of the revelation at the JSA brownstone, and about my trip to the Crock estate. Finally, I hand her the Yellow Wasp's journal and let her read it on her own. I collapsed into my easy chair while she reads it, my head laid back, just letting the tears run down the side of my face.

It seems like hours later when I feel her touch on my hand. "Ted?" she whispers. I don't know, maybe I dozed off. "Ted?"

"Yeah?" I raise my head up and look at her. Man, I haven't felt like this since Al and I tied one on after Terry Sloane's funeral.

"It wasn't your fault, you know." she says in a soft voice. "If you've been blaming yourself for all this, don't. I see people like Sang Tze all the time. They make other people's lives miserable, and the victims end up thinking they deserve it. But that's wrong. And it's his biggest crime of all."

I think about that for a few minutes, squeezing her hand to let her know I haven't forgotten she's there. I know as well as anybody that there are bad people out there. They're going to do some bad stuff, and hurt a lot of people in the process. I've spent a good part of my life trying to stop people like that. I've succeeded sometimes, and sometimes I've failed. But in the case of my own family, I should have known to take extra precautions, and I tell her that.

"Ted, you were isolated, you were retired, this was more like bad luck out of the blue. But now that you know the full story, if you keep blaming yourself, the Wasp wins!" Now her eyes are flashing, that dark light that I only see once in a great while. "Don't let the bastard win, Ted! He's gone, you're still here, and Jake is still here. And you have the chance help Jake, don't you see? With this journal as evidence, if the hypnotic suggestion can be broken, and Jake's false memories removed, he'll be free! Free to come here, to learn what being a good man is all about. To learn from the best man I know!"

Damn. I knew my feelings toward Abby were getting pretty intense, but it looks like she's a couple laps ahead of me here. I reach up and pull her down into my lap, and for a while, we just sit there, holding on to each other. Finally, she raises her head and looks at me.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"ah, umm-"

"I mean about Jake, silly!"

"Yeah, well, I already placed a call for Dr. Fate through the JSA. He's not one I can call directly. But I figure that he's the best bet for breaking any hypnotic hoo-doo that the Wasp used on Jake." I pause to see her reaction. "Then, I'm going down there to have a long talk with my son."

You know, any story that ends with me being kissed by a beautiful woman can't be all bad.

Yes, it's true. At least, it's true in our world. Jake Crock is really Sang Jak is really Jake Grant. I have to tell you, the writers at DC haven't given us much to go on regarding Jake. In the new JSA series there are some hints about him being the new Killer Wasp, or having been tied to him, but before that (which means at the time FDC history splits from that other DC) the only thing that had been published was that Ted had a son, and he had been kidnaped as an infant by the Wasp. Talk about letting a plot thread hang!

Oh, and there's that other mystery. About that Doctor fellow. You'll have to hold on to that one for a while.

I hope you enjoyed my attempt at serious character development here. For the next issue, I'm going almost 180 degrees, and having a little fun. It's a flashback to 1942, with Wildcat working alongside one of the true powerhouses of the Golden Age! (You'll just have to come back next time to find out who it is, though, won't you?)

As always, any questions, comments, complaints, offers of bribes, or other random thoughts can be sent to me at cjburke@technologist.com. Some of you have been commenting about the series on the FDC mailing lists, and let me tell you, that makes my day! Whether its praise or (the thankfully rare) criticism, I enjoy hearing from folks, so keep it coming!

Till next time,

da 'Cat!