July 9, 1984 . . .
Walter stepped out into the living room, dressed in jeans and a lightweight t-shirt, carrying his large gym bag. It had just grown dark outside. He glanced in the direction of the bedroom. Clara had gone to bed early, planning to read for while. Instead, she had fallen asleep within a few minutes, snoring softly. Walter smiled. It had become a pattern during the past few weeks.
These latest months of her pregnancy had seemed to take their toll on her usual drive. She would still arise in the morning and, other than for a few mumbled complaints about her balance, would go about her daily routine. By early afternoon, though, she often found herself dozing off. She had finally surrendered and made that part of her afternoon schedule. It appeared to help, although Walter had caught her yawning occasionally during dinner, usually when the day’s activities had kept her from that much-needed rest.
He could hardly blame her. She had been eating for two for months, was now carrying around all that extra weight, so it made sense to him that she might need to sleep for two as well. Even with the naps, though, she was often asleep around eight o’clock, leaving Walter to himself for most of the evening. Most nights, he took advantage of this to “spend a night out with the boys”, knowing that the opportunities to do so might be rare once the baby arrived.
A hint of unease tickled at his senses. Frowning slightly, he went quietly back toward the bedroom, the lightly padded carpet muffling his steps. He peered inside. In the reflected light from the hallway, he could see her sleeping peacefully. For a long moment, he just stared. Even swollen with pregnancy, she was still one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Smiling, and giving a softly contented sigh, he pulled the door closed, but not all of the way for fear that the sound of it latching might wake her. Promising himself that he would try to be home early, for he did have to go the office in the morning as well, he stepped out into the night, locking the back door behind him.
The night was warm, but the incoming breeze told him that it would cool off later. Tossing the bag onto the back seat of the car, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the car, and headed off. On night like this, before he had met Clara, he might have gone to one of the nearby hotel bars and lingered over a drink or two. Now, though, in addition to cherishing his time with her (and he still did, which astonished him at times), he had made other commitments as well.
There was not much traffic on the streets, which was not particularly surprising for this hour on a Sunday night. While it might be summer, and most of the children out of school, he knew that a lot of people had extended their Fourth of July holiday to include the two weekdays that had followed it. Tomorrow, though, it would be back to regular routines.
As he made his way toward the parking garage, he idly observed those around him. Every once in a while, he would catch sight of an action or body language that raised his suspicions. He would sometimes follow them, usually either stopping them before they performed the act or, very occasionally, deterring them entirely. He chuckled at the memory of one such event when his presence, even though he had remained in regular clothing, had incited the would-be perpetrator to simply give up and toss his gun into a nearby sewer outlet. Walter had felt mildly sorry for the man, knowing that he had probably paid a fair sum of money in order to get the weapon in the first place.
He found the parking garage to be mostly deserted, as he had expected. There were a handful of cars, a few of which he recognized. He pulled into a spot a few spaces away from another car, a dark blue Japanese-made sedan, and shut off the engine. They deliberately kept their vehicles separated to provide the appearance of random placement, thinking that clustering them together might arouse someone’s suspicions at times when both the garage and its adjacent buildings should be lightly occupied. He retrieved his bag from the back, locked the car, and headed for the elevator.
The car took some time to arrive. Walter knew that it was probably because it had both been at its home floor and that he was being checked to ensure that he should be allowed access to it. It chimed its arrival and the doors parted. The interior was empty, as he expected, and he stepped inside. He pressed the control to close the doors. They slid closed with faint sounds of scraping metal. If he did nothing, they would reopen again in thirty seconds. Although there was a key slot for special access, he ignored it. Instead, he punched five of the number buttons in a specific sequence. After a moment, a bright green light glowed on the panel and the elevator began to descend.
Thomas Raynes, in what Walter considered to be one of his particularly wise and clever moments, had devised this scheme to permit visiting heroes to access the levels of the building—and it removed the need for them carry additional keys which could get lost or stolen. The access code combination was changed often, but at random intervals in order to aid overall security. Walter marveled once again at how often the simplest measures could also be among the most effective.
There were no indications of how far the elevator went as it traveled downward. This was another security feature, Walter knew. If someone did manage to enter the elevator and learn the access code—or manage to coerce someone to enter it—they would gain no knowledge as to exactly where in the building it was taking them.
The elevator glided gently to a halt. The doors remained steadfastly closed and it took Walter a moment to remember that he needed to enter a code here as well. You need to pay attention, dude, he chided himself. You don’t even have the excuse of infant-induced sleep deprivation yet. He quickly punched out the next five-digit code. The green light glowed again and there came a reassuring chime. With a faint hiss, the doors opened.
He walked the short corridor to a pair of large, dark doors. They were at least two feet taller than he was and together looked like they opened into a space wide enough to drive a decent-sized truck through. Walter had never been sure why they were needed, as it was impossible (as far as he knew) to get anything that large down to this level. He was certain, though, that Raynes had a good reason for it. The researcher rarely did anything merely for show if it did not also serve a practical purpose.
Mounted on the wall, next to the right door, was a large flat panel and another keypad. This one was different from the one in the elevator. It was designed to work in conjunction with the panel and accept only specific matching codes. Walter pressed his palm against the panel, careful to make certain that his fingertips also touched it. He waited, feeling the faint warm buzz as the surface of his hand was scanned. There was a faint click and the keypad lit up. He entered an eight-digit code this time. The security system seemed satisfied and he heard the heavier sounds of the main door lock disengaging. Walter opened the door and stepped through.
The room inside was fairly large and, while there was overhead illumination, it was chiefly lit by the glow of the myriad screens inside. It was hexagonal in shape, with a large projection screen mounted on each of the six walls. Each of them displayed a different image. Some were maps of the city; others showed camera views of areas that Walter could not immediately identify.
The center of the room was filled with a small of number desks and several pieces of equipment. A smaller display was present on each one of the desks. To Walter’s left and right, positioned a few feet from those walls, were large tables littered with printouts and smaller bits of equipment. Three figures were gathered near one of these. Two of them were watching one of the large screens while the third one, seated at one of the nearby desks, did something there that modified the image displayed on the screen.
‘Hey, Walter,” one of them acknowledged him without looking away.
Walter was not surprised. He knew that his arrival had been logged and tracked from the moment he had driven down the garage’s adjacent side street.
“What’s going on?” he asked, moving closer to get a better look at the screen.
“Quiet night,” one of the others mumbled. “Everyone seems to be behaving themselves.”
“They’re probably partied out,” the man at the desk said, chuckling.
[insert more here]
There was crackling from his earpiece. He ignored it at first as interference and then it came again, louder and more insistent. Walter took several paces away from the crowd, trying to make sense of the signal—if, in fact, there really was one. He pressed his fingers lightly against the side of his mask near his ear; sometimes this helped.
“Walter,” a voice sounded through the sputter of interference. He thought he recognized Osprey. Her voice was steady, but carried a tenor of distress.
Walter tapped the outer shell of the earpiece. “I hear you, Oss,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“Walter,” her voice came again. He could definitely make out the rising anxiety in it even over the wash of interference. “We’re tracking a call from your address. Emergency vehicles are already on their way.”
Walter felt his heart sink. His address? Had something happened to Clara? He glanced around quickly. The other heroes seemed to have matters under control now. He considered letting Westin know that he was leaving, but did not want to lose the time it would take to break into the conversation.
“Thanks, Oss,” he murmured. “I’m heading over.”
“I’ll let the others know,” Osprey said. There was a pause and then her voice crackled over the tiny speaker again. “If you need anything . . .”
Walter’s lips drew into a tight line. If he were ever tempted to take comfort in another woman’s arms, it would be hers. There was something about the petite and delicate woman, a compassion and yet almost maternal fury that he found strangely appealing.
“Thanks, Oss,” he repeated. “I’ll let you know.”
Without another glance at the others, he headed off into the darkness.
When he reached the house, the neighborhood was quiet. A few neighbors were out in their yards, seeming to be doing nothing in particular. He reached what he thought might be curious glances from a few of them, but he had taken the time to change out of his costume, so it could not have been from that. Maybe Osprey made a mistake. Everything looks quiet here.
There were several lights on in the house, which he found mildly puzzling, but not particularly worrisome. Maybe Clara woke up and found me gone? He went straight to the front door, surprised to find it unlocked. Opening the door slowly, he peered into the interior and then stepped inside.
It appeared pretty much as it normally did, but there were several items that had been knocked over and some unusual markings across the carpet. A break-in? But wouldn’t the police still be here?
He moved down the hallway to find the bedroom door ajar. The bedding was tossed aside. There were things here that also looked carelessly tossed aside. He could no longer bear the growing sense of foreboding and headed for the master bathroom.
“Clara?” he called out. His voice was strong, but quavering. “Clara?” he repeated, more loudly this time.
The bathroom was empty. To his relief, everything there appeared normal.
He strode back into the bedroom, heading toward the hallway, when he noticed something on the bed. He walked toward it to see that it was a dark stain. Blood? His increasing anxiety now surged nearly into complete panic. He raced back into the hallway, checked the other bathroom, and the other sections of the house. Empty. The back door was still locked, which meant that whatever had taken place had started with the front of the house.
Walter stood in the middle of the living room, surveying the area for any signs of what might have happened there and where Clara might be. He found himself stymied, at a loss of which of the myriad options to pursue next.
His earpiece buzzed.
“Go ahead,” he murmured automatically.
“Walter,” Osprey’s voice came over the small ear piece. It was clearer here away from the earlier mayhem. “I’ve located her.”
Walter felt a sudden lump form in his throat. A hollow sensation radiated from his stomach.
“She’s been taken to St. Matthews.” She paused and then quickly added, “You’d better get over there.”
The empty sensation in his abdomen expanded. There was something in Osprey’s tone that he could not quite identify over the connection.
“I’m on my way,” he told her and raced for the door.
#
July 10, 1984 . . .
Walter had no lasting memories of the drive between his house and the hospital. He was reasonably certain that he had not been involved in any minor accidents along the way; he was less certain whether or not he might have caused any. By sheer luck, or because of the late hour, he found an available parking space close to the main entrance to Emergency. As soon as he shut off the engine, he darted across the parking lot and through its double doors.
He nearly dashed past the front desk, but then realized that he had no idea where to begin looking for Clara, not to mention that a man running blindly through the corridors was likely to alarm the hospital Security personnel. He was not terribly winded, as the overall distance from the car to the doors had been short, so he was able to find his voice quickly.
The nurse on duty behind the desk, a middle-aged woman with light-colored hair that was just beginning to show signs of graying, seemed prepared for his questions.
“Who are you looking for?”
She smiled at him in a way that Walter assumed was meant to be reassuring, but he took little comfort in it. He would relax once he had found Clara and knew what had happened to her.
“Clara.” He shot out, and then forced himself to slow down. “Monahan.” Walter sighed heavily, annoyed with himself. “Eastman,” he corrected himself. “Clara Eastman.” He swallowed and then blurted out, “I’m her husband.”
The nurse gave him another smile and started checking the entries on a list. After a moment, she flipped a page up and then another one. She began to frown and then looked over one more page. Looking back up at Walter, she asked, “Do you know what time she arrived?”
Walter thought for a moment and then checked his watch. He blinked in momentary surprise when he saw that it read 2:38 AM. Performing some quick mental calculations on how long it probably took him to get home after receiving Osprey’s message, his brief search of the house, and then the drive from there to the hospital.
“I’m not sure,” he finally admitted, realizing that they were too many gaps in his memory to be certain of the times. “Probably around one AM.”
The nurse nodded and checked over the list again. Shaking her head slowly, she turned her attention back to Walter. “Are you certain she was brought to this hospital?”
“Yes,” he replied, forcing himself to remain calm when he really wanted scream at her. “Oss . . . someone told me that they brought her here,” he explained. “A friend,” he added quickly.
The nurse looked over the list, but did not flip the pages this time. Her frown deepened in a way that worried Walter. She gave him a quick, obviously forced smile. “Let me check something.” She picked up the telephone and dialed a short number.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “Good evening, Mary. Can you check to see if there’s been someone checked in over there by the name of Clara Eastman?” There was a brief pause. “Yes, I have her husband here. I’ll wait.”
She did not meet Walter’s eyes while she waited. Although Walter did not check his watch to know for certain, it felt like they waited for a very long time.
“Oh,” the nurse finally said. Her expression became flat. A moment later, it brightened and she broke out into a relieved laugh. “Thank you, dear! I’ll let him know right away.” She was grinning as she hung up the phone.
“Mr. Eastman,” she said, almost beaming. “Your wife is in maternity.” She pointed toward one of the hallways. “Around the other side of the building, to your left.” She patted his hand lightly. “If you hurry, you just might make it.”
Had she not been smiling when she said, Walter thought it might have otherwise sounded much more foreboding. He nodded his understanding, glanced in the direction she had indicated, and headed off quickly.
“The other side of the building” provided to be quite a bit further than he had expected. He was nearly convinced that he had gone the wrong way, or missed a sign in the dark, when he spied the bright glow from another large door. As he came around the corner of the building, he could read it clearly: Maternity. He resumed his earlier jog, barely pausing at the doors.
“Mr. Eastman?” A nurse in surgical scrubs was already waiting for him.
Walter nodded. The nurse smiled. She was much younger than the one at the reception desk at been. He guessed that she was probably in her late twenties. Although her hair was tucked up underneath a cap, he saw that it seemed to be long and dark, possibly even black.
“This way,” she said, gesturing to the corridor on their left. “Everything is going well,” she went on. “She’s doing fine.”
Fine? If she was fine, then what the hell was she doing in the hospital? He went ahead and gave voice to his concerns.
“Fine?”
The nurse seemed surprised by his question. “Yes,” she replied. Then Walter saw realization dawn on her face. “She’s in labor,” she explained unworriedly, although it did little to calm Walter’s fears. “It looks like your little one decided to make an early appearance.”
Walter focused on following her through the corridor, passing through the same doors as she did, without paying any real attention to where they were. They passed through a room with several chairs and long sofas. There was no one else present. The nurse who had escorted him here conferred with the woman at the window there for a moment, nodded and, still smiling, turned back to Walter.
“The doctor will be out to see you in just a moment.” She squeezed his shoulder gently, smiling cheerfully. “Gloria can help you if you need anything until he shows up,” she said, waving toward the woman behind the window. The woman returned the wave and smiled at Walter. Part of him wished that people would stop smiling at him and just explain what was happening.
Fortunately, he did not have long to wait. An older man partially dressed in surgical scrubs stepped through the inner door. Unlike the nurse, he was not wearing a cap. His hair was a thorough mix of both salt and pepper, with definite signs of thinning at the crown.
“Mr. Eastman?” he asked. His voice was a mild tenor, just the kind to inspire certainty and confidence.
“Yes?” Walter answered, trying not to fidget.
The man gave Walter a reassuring smile. “Mr. Eastman,” he said, offering Walter his hand. “I’m Dr. Pollack.”
Walter frowned. But Clara’s OB is Dr. Tallert . . .
Pollack seemed to read his expression. “Dr. Tallert has been called,” he informed Walter easily. “I’m just here in case things continue to progress before he gets here.” He chuckled warmly. “I’d put fifty-fifty odds on it.” Something chirped shrilly at his waist. He glanced down and laughed. “As I was saying . . .” He tapped a control on the small device and it went silent. “I need to go back in,” he said. “You’re welcome to observe, but it could be all over by the time you’re scrubbed up. Your call, though,” he offered, giving Walter a quick wink. “Gloria can find someone to help you if you decide to.” He nodded toward the woman at the desk. She returned his nod and buzzed him back inside.
Walter stared at the door, wondering whether he really wanted to go inside. He and Clara had discussed it, and she had hinted clearly that she would prefer it if he were present when their child was born. Of course, they had naturally assumed that the entire process would be a bit more organized when it happened. That made him think of her pre-packed suitcase and he now wondered whether it had still been at home or if she had managed to convince the paramedics to pack it along in the ambulance. It was too late to do anything about it now, he knew. If necessary, he could go back home and get it. Later.
He had just summoned up the courage to tell the nurse inside that he wanted go in when he heard someone else come hurrying down the corridor. He recognized Dr. Tallert, although it took him a moment. He was not accustomed to seeing the physician looking slightly disheveled, unshaven, and out of his white lab coat.
“Walter!” Tallert called out, reaching out to shake Walter’s hand. “Congratulations!,” he said. “It looks like the little guy is ready to make his debut.” He stifled a small yawn. “Always in the middle of the night,” he remarked, but clearly amused.
He accepted a clipboard of forms from the duty nurse, read them over quickly, and then scrawled his signature in a few places before handing it back.
“Shall we, Walter?” he offered, gesturing theatrically toward the inner door. “Your lovely and charming wife awaits us.”
Swallowing back a large lump in his throat, Walter followed Tallert through the door. Given a choice, he would have preferred to face down a half dozen well-armed villainous minions instead.
#
July 10, 1984 . . .
Having swapped his street clothes for a set of surgical scrubs and cap, Walter had discovered that they were not nearly as comfortable as he had expected them to be. It also did not help that they appeared to be made from a fabric that seemed so thin that he felt almost naked. What is it about hospitals? he wondered. Is there some rule that says that less clothing is somehow better? He did not voice his opinion, for it seemed not to bother anyone else. He might have thought that perhaps the hospital gave less durable garb to visitors had Tallert not handed him a set from the same stacks from which he had taken his own.
He was in the process of scrubbing his hands as instructed by one of the nurses. Tallert, no doubt well accustomed to it, had finished several minutes before and had already entered the delivery room. Walter examined his hands again. They were bright pink (and even slightly red in places where he might have scrubbed with a little too much enthusiasm) and his fingernails were probably the cleanest they had ever been in his life. Feeling more than a little ridiculous, and every bit like a small child, he held out his hands toward the scrub nurse for inspection. She looked them over, taking care not to touch them with her own, and nodded her approval.
Smiling up at him, she added, “You could get a job here.”
Walter tried not to roll his eyes, but do not miss the sparkle of amusement in hers. She inclined her head toward the door. “Go ahead,” she told him. “I’ll be right there.”
Walter nodded and pushed his way through the door. As the door closed behind him, he stopped, frozen in place. Although he had been told what to expect, had seen it repeatedly in countless movies, television shows, and then again in their birth preparedness classes, Walter found that none of that had prepared him for the reality of it.
The first thing that he noticed were the smells.
Doctor Catrina Running Horse-Brasington stepped from the transporter platform, ignoring the other five people who had beamed aboard with her.
Allison awoke with headache. It was the sharp, throbbing kind, reminiscent of a migraine, but without the associated halos and nausea. She tried to rise and reconsidered the last part. Her eyes squeezed shut against the sudden bright onslaught; everything seemed too vivid and sharp. Her stomach voiced its own complaints. It was definitely not a migraine, she decided, cautiously blinking her eyes open again. While her brain hurt from the inside, it lacked the searing stabs of agony that accompanied one.
Keena walked with only mild trepidation down the corridor. Lonax, the Denobulan Exec, had informed her with surprising stiffness that Captain Sandoval wanted to see her, immediately. There had been an unusual tension about the Denobulan, but Keena had dismissed it as stress. There were a large number of crew rotations in process, so she could understand why the Exec might not be feeling quite his usual cheery self. She had reached out lightly, sensed the roiling emanations associated with mental and emotional stress, and had withdrawn. Once the personnel reassignments were done, and the new crew members properly in place, she fully expected a return to his brightly chipper demeanor.