1988.

It had been two days since Hank last saw Jasmine. She never came back from checking in on one of her friends who had said something about a client asking her to wear a white rabbit costume for an Alice in Wonderland fantasy. 

Hank didn’t have that friend’s address or phone number, which left him to call every single one of Jasmine’s contacts that he knew of. So far, no one who answered knew anything that could help. It was like Jasmine had walked out of their apartment and been swallowed up whole by the city.

No reports of an Alice in Wonderland murder followed. So, that was something. 

Since the Edgar Allan Poe murder, this new Troubador had performed three others — one based on The Scream by Edvard Munch, another inspired by Tchaikovsky’s  Swan Lake, and the third a grisly reimagining of Hansel and Gretel. 

Titan City stood on the verge of panic. Every day, The Titan Gazette carried another Troubadour story — if not a new murder, then analysis, interviews, or speculation about his psychology. The TCPD was asking Titan Citizens, whenever possible, not to walk the streets alone at night. Vigilante groups had risen up and sent two innocent men to the hospital with severe injuries for “looking suspicious.” 

So, even though he had not slept for more than a few hours together since Jasmine had gone missing, Hank did not look much more on-edge than anyone else he passed on the way to start his shift at Bobby D’s that morning. Even with his senses dulled by sleep-deprivation, Hank saw in the faces that he passed the terror of not knowing when the Troubador might strike again and who might be his next victim. The spring air around him hung thick with the bitterness of exhaust and fear.

However, it did seem strange to Hank that he found the front door of Bobby D’s unlocked when he arrived. Usually, he had to tug on the handle, make a bit of noise, and then Iris would open it for him, although since she had come back from school on her spring break, it would have been Betsy. But the door just swung open for him. Very strange.

Then he heard a voice, Betsy’s. It had a strained, shivering quality to it, “Hank? Please… Help…”

He saw her sitting at a table with a bowl of oatmeal in front of her. The duct tape wrapped around her torso held her bound to her chair. And where her left arm had been, there was only a bloody stump, just below the shoulder. It had been wrapped in bandages, with a rubber hose tied in place as a tourniquet.

Hank ran to free her as fresh tears started down her face. Between sobs, she said, “The man… he wore a mask… Weird mask with a… Long nose…” 

He knew that mask. He had seen it before, in Edward’s criminal database in the Crypt and splashed across the front page of the news when he was a child — the Capitano mask of the Troubador.

The duct tape around Betsy held firm as Hank fought to rip it open. He had to grab one of the box cutters they used when opening up produce shipments and carefully carve along the back of the chair.

“He killed them… He killed mom… He killed Uncle Bobby…” 

Betsy slumped forward, free of her bonds. 

“When I asked him why… he said… he said it was because of you, Hank…”

Hank’s hands stopped as he was tearing away the last of the tape. If the Troubador had targeted Bobby D’s because of him, that had to mean…

“Why did he do this? Why, Hank?”

From somewhere deeper in the deli, Hank caught the whiff of a heavy, acrid aroma, like roast beef left in the oven too long. Hank knew he wouldn’t like what he found when he followed it, but first, Betsy had to be told. She deserved to know.

Looking into her wide, horror-stricken eyes, Hank couldn’t say anything but the truth. “Because I’m the Crimson Wraith.”

“What? You’re… What? No…” 

She shook her head, like Hank must have been confused somehow or else telling a badly timed joke. 

“No, you’re not. No…” 

But she saw the unwavering conviction in his eyes. 

“Why? No… No, no, no, no, no!” 

And then her words disappeared into screams. Hank put his arms around Betsy, who wailed into his chest and began beating feebly at him with her remaining arm.

When her cries began to subside, he asked, “Your mom and Bobby, where are they?”

Betsy pointed to the kitchen. 

The closer he came, the more the stench of overcooked flesh assaulted Hank’s nostrils. 

He turned the corner to find Bobby face down in the fryer, hot oil still bubbling around him. A kitchen knife in his back held a piece of paper with one word written on it in block letters: SHOW. 

Iris hung in the freezer. The blood dripping from her had frozen in dark streaks along her body. In her chest, another knife held another piece of paper with another word: TIME. 

Hank left both of them as they were for the police, who he called before taking from his pocket the card with the number for Finn Manor.

He had not called Finn Manor before. Jasmine had handled those conversations. When he heard the click on the other end, it was the first time he spoke their code phrase — the place where they had met Michael.

“Golden Sphinx,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Mills,” said Stephen. “I am afraid that Michael and Edward are not available at present…”

Hank. “The Troubador. He was here.”

“The Troubador?” said Stephen. “Where?”

“He came to the delicatessen. He killed my boss and my boss’s sister. Bobby’s niece he left, but he… He cut off…” Hank swallowed hard. “He cut off her arm. It’s a message. He killed them as a message to me. Jasmine has been missing. He has to have her. He must have made her tell him about me.”

“All right,” said Stephen. “Tell me the details of the scene. How did he kill them? What did he leave for you to find?”

Hank laid out the details of the scene as meticulously as he could manage — Bobby in the fryer, Iris in the freezer, the signs on them, Betsy left with one arm at a table with three bowls of oatmeal.

“Dios mio,” Stephen murmured. “It’s a children’s fairytale. One too hot, one too cold, and Betsy, you say he cut off her left arm?”

“Yes.”

“Then all that he left her with is ‘just right.’”

“What does it mean?”

“Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

Blood pounded in his skull, and Hank drove his fist into the wall in front of him. Plaster came free from the blow. 

“He’s insane,” growled Hank.

“Most certainly. But I think he has also told you where you can find him.”

“Where?”

“Mr. Mills, you should know, this must be some kind of trap.”

“Tell me!”

“I will, but please, you should not go after him alone. If you could just wait until Michael can accompany you…”

“He has Jasmine! He has her!”

“I know.”

“Then tell me where he is.”

There was silence on the phone, and in that silence, Hank felt his whole body vibrate, a terrible trembling as if machinery within him were jammed, gears grinding against each other, threatening collapse.

“SHOW and TIME add another piece to the puzzle,” said Stephen. “Showtime. A staged performance. On Wilson, just off 43rd, there is an old movie theater, closed for many years now. It was called the Regent, and for its insignia, it used the symbol of three golden bears. So, it would appear you’ve been given an invitation.”

Hank nodded. “Wilson. 43rd. Regent. Got it.”

“I will reach Michael right away,” said Stephen.

“Tell him to hurry.” Hank slammed the phone receiver down .

Sirens outside the delicatessen announced the arrival of the emergency vehicles. From the kitchen, Hank heard Betsy screaming, “Help! Help us, please!” 

That would be Hank’s last sight of her, running outside as she waved her remaining arm. 

Through the window, he saw Commander Goodman stepping out of a TCPD cruiser. Even with his decades on the force and all he must have seen in that time, Goodman’s mouth hung agape as he beheld the only surviving victim of the Troubador’s killing spree.

Hank knew that if he stayed to talk to the police, there would be trouble. He had just told Betsy that he was the Crimson Wraith. Not even Goodman know that. And she knew the Troubador had killed her family because of it.

What reason would Betsy have to keep his secret? Was that a risk Hank could afford? 

Even with Goodman’s private support, if Betsy outed Hank to the authorities, they would have no choice but to arrest him. After all, he was a vigilante — a criminal. 

What could Hank do for Jasmine from behind bars? Already, the Troubador must have tortured her terribly to reveal what she had. How much more had he hurt her since?

As he ducked out the back door and down the back alley, Hank heard Betsy calling out for him. But Hank kept walking, moving through the outer fringes of the crowd of onlookers drawn to the police vehicles and sirens.

Some would stay to witness every second. Others would only pause a moment to get a sense of the action inside before going on with their own lives. Hank moved as they moved, not running from the scene of the crime, just drifting away.

In his clenched fist, he held his usual work bag. It never left his side. Within, it held the mask that had become his destiny — the mask of the Crimson Wraith. 

It was the mask he would wear to rescue his Wily Wisp after and end the Troubador’s reign of terror, whatever it might take.