Heroic Measures (continued)

His head jerked upward in the direction of the sound and then he darted for the stairs. As he reached the platform at the second level, he heard it again, coming from the topmost level. He leapt forward until the reached the top floor and then slowed, searching the area for the source of the sound. There were four doorways, but from where he stood he could not peer into them to see what they might contain.

He had started moving toward the room on his right when the noise came again. It seemed to be coming from the second room from his left. He changed direction abruptly, nearly stumbling on the thick carpet, and rushed toward that doorway. Reaching it, he took only a single long stride inside it before coming to a stop.

A woman with long russet-colored hair stood wrapped in a white terrycloth robe. Arms wrapped tight around her chest, she stared wide-eyed at something on the floor before her. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, betraying her terror at whatever she had witnessed. Walter walked to her, peering past her petite form to see what had her so horribly transfixed. What he saw forced a clearly audible gasp from him and he quickly turned his eyes away.

He took a moment to gather himself before he could face the sight again. It had once been the body of a man. Now, it was an eviscerated mound of blood and flesh. Bascombe.

Walter looked toward Vivian, as much to check on her as to be able to turn his gaze away from the grisly sight.

“What happened?” he husked.

He then wondered if he truly wanted to know the truth. Perhaps inspired by the sight of this previously unimaginable brutality, his mind formed an uncharacteristically dark and complete story of what had transpired here tonight.

There had been a quarrel. Perhaps Bascombe had been cheating on her or, for some other unknown reason, had asked her to leave. Driven into the blind fury of a woman scorned, she had lashed out viciously with her claws, raking at him until she had regained her senses, realizing what she had done. She could not call the police, so she had called him . . . because she knew that he would protect her.

The image dissolved from his mind, leaving him feeling somehow violated. He had never before conjured such thoughts about her. When forced to defend herself, she could be cold and efficient, but he had never known her to be brutal—not like this

Studying her for a long moment, he tried to reclaim his thoughts. His mind felt as if it had been scraped raw by the sudden vision. There was no hint of blood on her, not any marks from her claws. Although it was possible that she could have discarded them, along with any soiled garments, Walter knew without doubt that things were as they appeared—as gruesome as they were.

He went to her and she pressed her head against his chest. With a dull ache that welled up from deep inside, he placed his arms around her and held her close. She breathed heavily against his chest. Walter waited for sobs that did not come and, after a short while, she lifted her head and looked up at him. She seemed somewhat calmer, but her eyes retained their hollow, haunted look.

“I went downstairs,” she whispered hoarsely, “to get . . . something.” Her breaths started coming rapidly again. “When I came back . . .” she hesitated, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts. “It was like this.”

She began to turn her head, but then flinched and averted her eyes. Closing them, she leaned her cheek against Walter’s chest. His arms enfolded her once more. He breathed deeply, recognizing the scent of her past the sharp tang of fear. It was then that he noticed that she naked beneath the robe. The realization shot through him like a sharp blade and he forced aside the sequence of mental images that his mind brought forth.

He opened his arms to release her. She seemed surprised, staring up at him with wide dark eyes.

“We need to call someone,” he said. His voice came out cold and flat.

He turned away and headed for the door. There was nothing he could do for what remained of Bascombe. He did not pause as he exited the room. He was nearly to the stairs before he heard the soft footfalls of Vivian behind him. The rhythm of her passage on the soft carpet ushered forth other memories her. They did not help the hollow ache in his stomach.

Walter felt her tug at his arm. He slowed, but did not turn to face her.

“Who?” she asked. There was a clear note of fear in her tone. “Not the police.”

Now he did turn and look at her. He had not intended to call the police. While it was likely that they could begin a credible investigation, he doubted that they possessed the knowledge to classify this as anything more than a particularly gruesome killing. Yet, there remained the question of why she had called him and why she seemed reluctant to have the police involved. There was more happening here, perhaps not directly involved with Bascombe’s murder, but something that Vivian did not want noticed by the local law enforcement agencies.

“Not the police,” he agreed evenly.

He made his way back down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. As he expected, there was a phone there on the counter. He picked it up and dialed a number that he had not used in a long time. Despite that, he was not surprised that he still remembered it.

Several metallic clicks sounded over the line. The connection was probably tapped, but that would do their listeners little good since the signal would be encoded and scrambled.

“Yes?” a male voice at the other end finally said, although that meant nothing in this age of digital manipulation.

“It’s Walter Eastman,” he said. “We need your help.”

#

Present day (October) . . .

[insert more here]

Red stood next to Walter as Westin knelt and visually examined the shredded remains of Bascombe’s body. Vivian stood behind them, now clothed in a stylish sweatshirt and matching pants. Amaad was checking the rest of the house for signs of entry or other clues as to the identity of the assassin. Walter was not sure when his mind had made the shift from considering this a random killing to it being a carefully calculated murder, but the implications were clear.

Bascombe had been specifically targeted and, whoever his killer was, had waited until Vivian was well clear of the room. There was little doubt that Bascombe had no dearth of enemies, but it seemed strange that any would have waited so long to exact their revenge.

Westin rose and turned toward Red with a grim expression.

“Just like Parnell.”

Red’s only reaction was a tightening along the line of his jaw.

Parnell? Walter searched his memory for a hero with that identity, but could recall no one with that name. He did not know every hero in the world, but his circle of acquaintances intersected broadly with those of Red and Westin. Unless it was someone new or . . .

Walter than made the connection. Parnell had not been among the ranks of the heroes. He had operated on the other side of the law, a minor player among them, but a member of one of the more dangerous and notorious syndicates. And now, apparently, he was dead, murdered in a similar fashion to Bascombe.

Westin and Red exchanged a glance and Red nodded slightly.

“This is the eighth one,” Westin stated coolly. A tight undertone of anger punctuated his words.

Eight? The statement rocked Walter. He did not remember hearing or reading about any mysterious deaths among the hero or villain population, and it was highly unlikely that the media would neglect to cover such a controversial story.

#

Present day . . .

[insert more here]

Walter fought to see through the haze of pain. He knew that he was hurt—badly—but he also felt oddly disconnected from the pain. Dark gray mists clouded his vision and he found that he had trouble focusing his thoughts. Going into shock? he wondered vaguely. The possibility did not concern him as much as it should have.

Darker shadows took shape in the gray clouds.

“Over here!” someone shouted. It was not a voice he recognized.

There was a mixed churning of sounds near his head.

“Oh my god,” someone else gasped out and, for a moment, Walter wondered if they were addressing him. “Do you realize who this is?”

The awe and wonder in the voice were clear.

Walter felt a wide, broad smile form, although he did not know whether it showed.

Maybe there really is still a place in the world for heroes . . .

Heroic Measures (continued)

November 10, 2002 . . .

Walter stared at the grave marker and lowered his head in silent prayer. It had been two years since he had last seen the withered being that had been Orlovsky; longer than that since the world had last seen the Vermilion Mage. Like so many of his kind, he had succumbed to the very mutation that had given him his extraordinary powers. Only two years, my friend, and already you are all but forgotten.

He did not know why he came here, other than that it was somewhere for him to gather his thoughts when no other place would do. When the presence of people, however few in number they might be, began to overwhelm him, it was a place that offered him solace and peace. In those rare times when Clara could not offer him the insight he needed, he would come to consider the wisdom of those who had come before.

Orlovsky had been older than he was, but not by so many years that life should have been taken from him so early. He had not even been allowed to die in the battle protecting another, but had instead suffered a lingering demise as his body had consumed itself from within. Walter did not dwell on that image though, instead recalling the vibrant, if often taciturn, man who would take time to charm the children with simple tricks.

The wind picked up, threatening to lift the hat from Walter’s head. He hugged his coat more tightly around him and looked toward the sky. The clouds, earlier an almost metallic silver, had now become the color of lead, dark and threatening. The forecast had warned of another storm, pushing ahead of it a deep cold front. He could feel it on his ears. As he had started to grow older, his ears had become surprisingly sensitive to cold. It was rarely a significant discomfort, but on days such as this he longed for a pair of old-fashioned earmuffs, as ridiculous as he might look in them.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this one short,” he whispered, studying the name engraved on the marker. “But I will return.”

He knew this last part was true, for he had visited here many times before. Feeling the brisk wind wash over his face, he turned and headed for the gates.

“Did you have a good walk?” Clara called to him as he entered the house. She would know where he had gone, but would ask him nothing of it unless he raised the matter first.

“Yes,” he answered her, although it was not entirely the truth. His thoughts remained troubled, and he could not find the insight to understand why.

“The storm’s coming.”

“Yes,” Walter replied again. “And soon.” He paused, trying to remember whether she had also asked him to pick something up while he was out. Searching his memories from earlier, he could not recall such a request.

He hung his jacket on one of the hooks next to the door, stopping to rub his hands together in an effort to warm them before heading toward the kitchen.

Clara was there, dressed in a colorful apron, chopping up something on a white nylon cutting board. She turned her head and smiled at him. Her eyes glowed with her affection for him. “Tea’s just about ready,” she said, and turned back to dicing the vegetables.

Walter turned and saw that a small plate had been placed at his spot at the table. Next to it rested a single fork. The plate contained a single item: one of Clara’s wonderful homemade brownies. “Chocolate therapy”, she called it. Walter had never possessed any particular fondness for chocolate, but these he could not resist. He had even been known to sneak bites from them in the middle of the night if he had risen from some other reason. Clara now made sure that they were well disguised or hidden from his casual searching.

He sat down and had not reached for the fork when she arrived from behind him and placed a steaming cup and saucer down before him. She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, her gentle touch giving him more comfort than a dozen embrace. Her hand lifted and it felt as though it took a great weight with it. His spirits now much improved, Walter attacked the brownie with renewed enthusiasm.

#

Present day (October) . . .

It took Walter several moments to realize that the sound was not part of his dream. Whatever the dream had been, though, it vanished from his mind as he realized that the noise was the persistent ringing of the telephone. He blinked in the darkness, remembering that he had forgotten to replace the handset back in its stand at his bedside. Pushing aside the covers, he rose, sliding his feet automatically into his slippers, and went in search of the phone.

Telephone calls in the middle of the night always made his heart race. If they were not misdialed numbers from some drunken or distant party, then they almost never brought good news.

He found it quickly. Its glowing display was like a small beacon in the darkness. Reaching for it, he narrowly avoided stubbing several toes against the leg of one of the kitchen chairs. He glanced at the tiny screen, but it gave him no useful information about the caller. Fumbling slightly, he pressed the button to accept the call.

“Hello?” His voice was still hoarse from sleep.

“Walter?” A faint, trembling voice came over the line.

“Yes?”

He tried to place the voice, but the identity of the caller eluded him.

“Help me,” it said, sounding breathless and scared.

His throat tightened and then his eyes grew wide as he recognized the voice. It was one he had not heard in some time.

“Vivian?”

“Something’s happened,” she went on in the same shallow breathlessness, not stopping to acknowledge his question. “Can you come here? I need you to come here.”

Here? Where was “here”? Then he remembered. She had moved in with Bascombe, sharing his house and, Walter supposed, his bed as well.

“I’ll be right there,” he said, trying to remember the location of the house.

It was on the north end of the city, in one of the better, more expensive neighborhoods. At this time of night, he should be able to get there quickly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Please hurry.”

Walter was about to ask her whether he should contact the police, or possibly someone else, when the line went silent. He looked down at the display to see that the call had ended.

He dressed quickly, pulling back on the same pants and shirt he had worn earlier that day, chiefly because they prevented any delays from him deciding on what else he should wear instead. He was well down the main boulevard when his brain finally began functioning properly enough for him to wonder why, after all of these months, she had called him—and why now? Certainly there were other, still active, heroes who she could turn to.

Blinking at the bright lights that dotted the road, he nearly missed the turn onto the street that led to the gated community where she and Bascombe lived. He slowed down, not remembering clearly exactly how far down it was, and then had little trouble finding it when he passed the tastefully illuminated sign that advertised its outer boundary.

His arrival disturbed a sleepy-looking guard at the gate.

“Kind of late,” the older man remarked. “Who are you here to see?”

Walter found that he possessed little patience for the man’s observations, but resolved to refrain from anything other than courteous responses to the guard’s inquiries.

“Vivian Parrish,” he replied. “She’s with . . . um, Arthur Bascombe.”

“Is Mr. Bascombe expecting you?”

“No,” Walter answered, allowing just a bit of frustrated snideness leak through. “But Ms. Parrish is.”

The guard looked dubious and, Walter thought, slightly disapproving. Walter fought the urge to roll his eyes. Oh, I’m sure that all of the residents here live pure and faithful lives. From what he had seen, increased wealth was no surer a sign of improved fidelity than anything else. It just meant that the resulting divorces were more expensive.

Walter glanced over to see the guard busying himself with something in the booth. His well-lined face took on a sudden expression of surprise and, a moment later, he returned to the car, handing Walter an elegantly decorated placard.

“Number one-eight-two,” he said, seeming somewhat chastened.

Without saying another word, he returned to the booth and pressed the control that opened the gate. Walter pulled forward and stared at the illuminated house numbers.

The houses were arranged in a serpentine loop that bordered an artificial lake. He realized that he should have turned left when he had entered, because he had nearly made his way back to the entry gate before finding the house. Although there were obvious parking spaces across from the cluster of houses, he pulled directly in front of the house and shut off the engine. The house looked much like all of the other ones in the immediate area, except that there were lights on inside. With a growing sense of foreboding curiosity, he left the car and approached the front door.

He reached up to knock, only to find that it swung open at his touch. He peered inside, wondering if he should have carried something with him for protection.

“Vivian?” he called out carefully, not so loudly that he might alarm someone not expecting him. When there was no answer, he repeated it again, slightly louder. “Vivian?”

He stepped through the open doorway, listening for any signs of movement from further within. The interior, he noted appeared to have multiple levels. Ahead and to his right was a short step down into a living room. On his left was a stairway that appeared to stop at a floor containing a large common space, before continuing upward to another level that he presumed contained the bedrooms.

Faint noises carried to him from further inside. They had a subtle, environmental quality, as if someone had left a large window open at the other end of the house. That would be unusual given the night’s chill of late autumn. Walter crossed the foyer and, about to enter the short hallway that he believed led to the kitchen, heard what sounded like a muffled cry come from an upper level.

Heroic Measures (continued)

December 20, 2007 . . .

Walter sat on the side of the bed, trying to appear brave. Although it was something he had done many times as a hero, it had not prepared him for this moment.

The doctor had gone, having checked Clara’s vital signs and then conferred quietly with the hospice worker. He had not consulted with Walter, but then he had not needed to. His expression and manner had been communication enough.

Quiet noises came from elsewhere in the house as Ana, their caregiver from the hospice center, busied herself in the kitchen. Dinner? Walter realized it must be, He had lost track of time during the past few days. Clara had slept fitfully and he needed to be there, to remain by her side during her periods of wakefulness, as much for himself as for her.

She seemed to be resting easier now; whatever the doctor had given her had eased the hoarseness of her breathing. The lines on her face had softened slightly and Walter raised a hand to brush away a strand of graying hair that had fallen across her forehead. He withdrew it, not wanting to wake her.

For not the first time in recent days, he fought back tears. It had become more and more difficult, and it took more effort now to swallow the growing lump of anguish that threatened to choke him. He turned his head away for a moment and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. It would not do to let Clara see him like this.

She stirred, murmuring softly. It appeared to be a memory, but Walter saw none of the lines of pain return to her face. Her body shifted slightly beneath the blankets, now grown so frail as the final stages of the disease had ravaged her body from within.

Walter sat and stared down at her. She was still beautiful, and he could see within that face the young girl he had first fallen for. He wanted to tell her that the first real snow had fallen, that there had been a group of young carolers the night before . . . that he would miss her so and was not ready to let her go.

Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. For a moment, she seemed to be far away, in another place entirely, before they focused on his face. She smiled. It was soft and gentle and said without words all of the love that she held for him.

Walter managed a smile of his own, although it felt as though his heart was being torn from his body. He said nothing, finding no words to express what he truly wanted to say, what had already been said. As always, she seemed to understand.

“I forgive you,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like paper on the wind. “Now you must forgive yourself.”

Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around his and then eased their fragile grip. She settled back once more against the pillows, closing her eyes. Her breaths came long and slow. And then the next one did not come.

Beside the bed, one of the monitors produced a steady high-pitched tone. Walter heard the sound of Ana’s footsteps moving quickly down the hallway, but he knew it was already too late. All of the anger, fear, and despair that he had kept locked away burst forth and he sobbed, knowing that she was gone.

#

December 20, 2007 . . .

Walter did not know how long he remained there by her side. He was certain that Ana had come in and then left, for the machines had stopped making their myriad sounds. She had said nothing to him—or if she had, he did not remember it. His face was soaked with tears, but he left them there. There was no one left here to see them.

He looked over at Clara’s still, silent form. He could not bear to leave her, and yet he knew that he must. There were things that now needed to be done . . . final things.

He bent forward and placed one last kiss on her forehead, knowing that it would be last one there would ever be, and then rose from the bed. He could never sleep there again; there were too many memories now.

Ana must have heard him rise and was waiting for him in the hallway. She watched him with soft, sympathetic eyes and then embraced him. Walter allowed it and placed his own arms around her, accepting the support she offered. He did not cry, yet he knew there would be many more tears in the days to come. She released him, seeming to know the moment when he was ready. He knew without her speaking that she had attended to everything: signed the proper forms and made the appropriate calls.

Continued on into the living room, he found it awash in color. The Christmas tree was lit, sending bits of flickering light to dance along the walls. Beneath it were a small number of wrapped gifts, most of which would now never be opened. He had so hoped to see her face when she opened small cameo pendant that bore his likeness.

He sat, knowing not what else to do, and stared out toward the street. His eyes saw nothing there in the winter darkness, though. They instead witnessed scenes from the past, times that were now gone to him forever.

There came sounds from the front door. Ana passed him and there were the hushed sounds of calm, but urgent conversation. People passed him, but he did not look away. Ana might have stopped for a moment to stand behind him, but he did not know for certain, and she did not disturb him. A part of his mind recognized that they were heading toward the bedroom and he forced himself to rise.

He made his way numbly to the doorway and watched as they gently, ever so gently, lifted Clara’s body from the bed. It seemed to take them no effort at all, as if whatever life force had dwelled there had taken its weight with it when it had left. Just as gently, they placed her on the gurney and began to cover her with a sheet. One of the men there paused before shrouding her face and looked over to Walter. Walter stared once more at the face of the woman that he had loved more than any other, more than he could ever have imagined, and then nodded slowly. The man looked down and pulled the sheet forward.

Walter stepped out of the way as they made their way through the doorway and back down the hallway. They were slow and careful, cautious not to damage the walls or disturb the body that lay beneath the coverings. Reaching the living room, they paused a moment, and then continued to the front door. Then they were gone.

He turned back to the now-empty room. Ana had begun to remove the linens from the bed. She worked efficiently, her face set in an expression of fixed determination. No doubt she had done this many times before. It took her only moments to gather them all and place them into a waiting basket. Not once did she look over at Walter, although she must have known he was there. There was no way, though, that she could pass through the door without seeing him.

There came new sounds from the front of the house. These drew Ana’s attention and Walter preceded her into the living room. The noise came again in the form of a firm, but respectful knock at the front door. With a frown, Walter opened it to reveal a trio of heavily-clad people. The air before them frosted as they breathed, waiting.

“Walter?”

He looked down at the moment who had spoken his name. It took him a long moment and then recognized her: Osprey. He took in the other faces: Sen and Red. A strange sort of relief flooded through him and he opened the door, gesturing for them to enter. The two men moved past him into the small foyer. Osprey stopped before him, her wide dark eyes bright.

“I’m so sorry, Walter,” she said quietly. She looked down, as if shamed, and followed the others inside.

Walter looked to make certain that there was no one else and then closed the door. He heard sounds in the kitchen. Probably Ana making coffee, he guessed. He motioned for his visitors to enter and sit down. They accepted in silence, after removing their coats and hanging them on the hooks mounted next to the door. Clara’s winter coat still hung there, rosy pink with faux fur that rimmed the cuffs and hood.

The three of them sat down, all of them avoiding the empty chair next to Walter—Clara’s chair. Walter heard Ana pass behind him and saw Red exchange a quick look with her. The glance held some kind of mutual understanding and Walter realized at that moment that Ana was more than she appeared. More than just an incredibly compassionate member of the hospice, she knew other things as well, and had probably been chosen—or volunteered—for precisely that reason. It had all been planned out without his knowledge. Later, maybe, he might feel angry about it, but for now he was grateful for their company.

They sat in silence, each reflecting on their own thoughts. The aroma of brewing coffee wafted in from the kitchen. Walter considered that he should be a good host and prepare to serve it. Sen seemed to sense his thoughts and rose with smooth grace from the couch.

“I’ll take care of it, Walter,” he said softly, and disappeared into the kitchen.

The others remained there with him, waiting. He found that he had nothing to say, and yet there were so many things that needed to be said. Muted bits of conversation carried from the kitchen. Ana and Sen were discussing some matter in hushed tones, probably involving him, Walter decided. He glanced over at Red, who regarded him with quiet sympathy. His eyes moved to Osprey. She sat formally upright, her eyes turned downward, her hands resting in her lap. She appeared genuinely stricken by his loss.

His loss? Clara was dead. “Loss” did not even begin to describe how it felt. A part of him wanted to go over and comfort Osprey, to tell her that it would be all right, that he would be all right. The thing was, he did not know whether it would be the truth. As bad as it felt now, Walter suspected that it would be far worse in the days, weeks, and even months, to come. He could not imagine ever feeling that way again. A part of him could foresee surviving, managing somehow from day to day, but never again feeling completely whole. Maybe that’s just how it is.

Ana and Sen entered, each bearing a small tray. One tray held coffee in four mugs, along with small servings of milk and sugar. There was a fifth cup, which Walter knew contained tea for Ana. In the past few weeks since she had become a part of their lives, he had never seen her have coffee. On the other tray were three plates. Each contained slices of cheese, small cubes of fruit, and assorted nuts.

Walter automatically added sugar to the cup placed before him and stirred it. He then surprised himself by reaching for a wedge of cheese. He ate it, surprised at how hungry he was. Thinking on it, he could not remember when he had eaten last. Throughout the past few days, when he had been reluctant to leave Clara’s side for more than the minimum amount of time necessary to deal with his own vital needs, Ana had periodically brought him plates of food. It might have always been the same, although he doubted, but he had little other memory of them other than he had put it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and continued to focus on what was most important to him. He had not noticed what time it had been on most of those occasions, but now he was infinitely grateful to her for it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

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.

Heroic Measures (continued)

They walked together in silence. Walter tried to thinking of something either sympathetic or witty to say, but his imagination failed him. Nearly every phrase his mind produced sounded awkward or lame when he considered saying it aloud. Besides, a part of him just wanted to bask in the warm internal glow of being in the close proximity of this girl, with her aware of it there for a change. He could only imagine what she might be thinking, or feeling, but his mind interpreted every shift of her posture and expression as a sign that she found his presence welcome, or at least reassuring.

Her car was parked two blocks away: one block further south and then one block west. The street there, like most of the ones in that section of town, was poorly lit. Most of the street lights appeared to work, but many of them cast a very dim, heavily diffused light. The area where her car was parked was deep in shadows. It had probably been fine during the day when she had arrived, Walter thought, but he was glad that he had offered to accompany her here. There were too many places for someone to hide, too many opportunities for her to get ambushed before she could react.

She was holding her keys and quickly unlocked the door car they reached it. She dropped her purse on the seat and then withdrew a pen and small slip of paper. After writing some on it, she held it out to Walter. He accepted it, looking quickly down at it. It was a business card from the printing shop. He turned it over to find a telephone number written there.

“Call me sometime.” She gave him a smile that caused him to start to tingle from his toes.

He managed to nod and her smile brightened further. Another silent moment passed between them and she climbed into the car. She stared up at him as she closed, and then locked, the door. Her eyes turned away, somewhat reluctantly Walter thought, and she started the car. It started quickly and he stepped back, giving her plenty of room. She glanced back at him one final time before putting the car into gear and pulling away. Walter waited, watching the red glow of her tail lights as they grew distant and then vanished when she turned a corner.

Standing alone in the once again street, Walter realized that he wore an enormous grin. He felt some embarrassment at that, but knew that there was no one to witness his undoubtedly ridiculous expression. Feeling suddenly conspicuous, he headed back into the shadows and back for home.

#

August 9, 1981 . . .

Walter sat at the table, toying idly with the business card that the girl had given him. His sandwich remained mostly neglected, with only a few bites taken from it. He flipped it over to view the handwritten telephone number and then back to the printed side.

Clara Monahan, Printing Sales Associate, it read. It appeared that she disliked the use of her first name. Good to know. He could not really blame her, thinking how Bernadette, and its obvious permutations, had a somewhat outdated sound to it. Not much different from “Walter”, he mused.

He turned the card over again. The number was neatly, if somewhat hurriedly, written there. He wanted very much to call it, but afraid that she might actually answer. What would he say? It was not as though he had been the most articulate conversationalist during their previous two direct encounters. Well, he supposed, he could start by introducing himself. He had the advantage of knowing her name, but she did not, as far as he knew, know his.

That thought stopped him abruptly. He could not tell her his name, not if he wanted to keep his personal identity secret. She knew him only as a costumed hero—one that had come to her rescue twice now, but only as a person behind a mask. If he were to call her now . . .

He felt a sudden ache of loss. Her face had persisted in his thoughts for weeks now, and yet she would have to remain as beyond his reach as ever. It was possible that he might be able to share his secret with her. He desperately wanted to, but almost certainly for all of the wrong reasons, he recognized. If she possessed any interest at all in him, it was with the hero who had saved her, not him. If he wanted her to fall in love with him, he would have to start over. He would have to allow her meet Walter, the ordinary human being, not the avenging hero.

All was not completely lost, he suddenly realized. There might be a way for her to come to know both of them—at least for now. Over the phone she would have no way of knowing who he really was. He could still check on her, hear her voice . . . maybe even talk to her. Somehow, that made it both a little easier and much difficult for him. It would not really be him that she was speaking to, but on the other hand, he would always need to sound bold and confident whenever he called. Can he do that? Walter wondered. The alternative would be to allow her to slip away completely to someone else—assuming that there was not already someone else.

Walter frowned. The knot tightened further in his stomach. He had not considered that possibility before. A girl as attractive must surely have a boyfriend—or at least several young men vying for her attention. For all he knew, she gave her number out to almost anyone she found interesting.

He took a slow breath, trying to calm his roiling emotions. Something deep inside him told Walter that at least the last assumption was not true. As for the rest, he could not be sure—at least not yet. And there was only one way to begin to be certain, at least without continuing to shadow her every move. He eyed the phone mounted on the wall next to kitchen. Now might be his only chance to do this with any measure of privacy. His mother had left to run some errands, leaving him alone in the house. Feeling the knot reform in his stomach, Walter got up, lifted the phone from its cradle, and dialed.

Each distant ring at the other end seemed more prolonged than the previous one. He was about to give up on the eighth ring when there came the sound of someone answering.

“Hello?”

The voice was female, but it did not sound like Clara. Yet, Walter he could not be certain that it was not hers. He knew that telephone lines could distort voices in deceptive ways.

“Hello,” Walter said, forcing a deep, hopefully mature tone. He took a quick breath that he hoped could not be heard over line or, if it was, would be interpreted as static. “I’d like to speak to Clara Monahan, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

Walter froze, his voice blocked by a sudden lump in his throat. It must be her mother. He had not considered the possibility that someone else might answer the phone when he had called. Some hero you are. You really need to learn to think ahead. Stymied already by your future mother-in-law.

“Yes,” Walter replied, managing to regain most of his voice. “I helped her with her car last night.” He waited, silently praying that somewhat vague and mysterious answer would be enough and not just raise more questions.

“Oh.”

He could not quite tell how the person at the other end had reacted to his statement.

“Just a moment,” the voice finally said, after what might have been some muffled discussion at their end. “Let me get her.”

Walter let out a slow sigh of relief. This was not going quite as he had expected.

“Hello?”

It felt as though Walter’s heart skipped several beats. The lump had reformed in his throat. It was undeniably Clara’s voice. It might have been his imagination, but she sounded pleased to be hearing from him.

“Hi Clara,” Walter said, feeling a bit more confident. “I, uh . . .” he cleared his throat, forcing a deeper sound of it. “I just wanted to check to see how you were doing. You know . . . after last night.”

Walter rolled his eyes. “You know?” Yeah, that really sounds like a hero talking . . . and then he hoped that no one was listening on another line. That last phrase could be taken wrong in so many ways . . .

“Yeah,” Clara said, obviously trying to sound casual about it. Walter had the feeling that she had not told her parents about the incident. “I’m fine.” There was a brief pause before her voice returned. “Thank you for calling to check.”

Walter hesitated. What as the right thing to say here? There were certainly things he wanted to say, but none of them seemed appropriate.

“It’s the least I could do,” he finally said. It was true . . . on several levels.

“Oh.”

Walter thought he detected a definite air of disappointment with his response. Okay, he thought. There’s always the more honest approach.

“A beautiful girl like you should be more careful out alone at night like that.” Walter tried very hard to make it sound as conversational as possible, not at all like a rebuke.

The long silence that followed made him think that it had not worked. It was either that, or he had managed to completely freak her out.

“Yeah,” her voice came over the line again. If he read it correctly, it sounded as if she had accepted it with good-natured embarrassment. “Roger keeps telling me that.”

Roger? A boyfriend? Older brother? Either could be a bad omen, Walter thought. His curiosity now nagged at him. Was there any way to find out? Well, he decided, there’s always the direct approach.

“Roger?” He hoped his tone was, while inquisitive, sufficiently neutral.

“My boss at the shop,” Clara laughed. “He always tells me not to me the last one out. Or to at least move my car closer while there’s still someone else there.”

“Sounds like good advice to me,” Walter agreed, laughing himself. “You might consider taking it.” Oops, he thought. Too heavy-handed?

“After last night,” Clara said, “I will.”

“That’s good to hear.” Not that it doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to watch out for you.

There was a long silence. Walter felt he should say something else. Again, various remarks flitted through his mind, but none of them seemed like the right one. Maybe I’d better just hang up.

“Will I see you again?”

Walter paused, caught off-guard. It was not a question that he had anticipated. What was the right way to answer it?

“Not under the same circumstances, I hope,” he replied, opting for something lightly humorous.

“I hope that’s not what it would take.”

Walter’s cheeks felt warm. The conversation was venturing into areas he had not truly expected. I’d better end this quick, he thought. Before it really gets out of control.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, following up with a laugh that sounded too forced even to him. “I need to go,” he continued, “but I will keep in touch.”

“I hope so.”

There was definite sincerity in her tone that both tightened the knot in Walter’s stomach as well as warmed him inside.

“Good bye, Clara,” he said. “And be careful.” He hung up before she could respond again. Dang it, he scolded himself. I should have said “Ms. Monahan” . . . more official. Still, he held little disappointment over how the call had turned out. That she wanted to see him again, even if it was the hero version of himself, was definitely a good sign. That meant that he had some kind of a chance.

He placed the handset back into the cradle, staring at it thoughtfully. When would he see her again? And what would he do when he did?

Heroic Measures (continued)

Nothing noteworthy had happened during the previous four nights he had watched out for her. Twice, one of the male co-workers had remained behind and walked her to her car. From what Walter could see, he did not appear to be particularly fit or capable of protecting her if they were accosted, but his mere presence by her side might have been enough to deter anyone looking for easy prey. The other nights she had walked to her car without incident, although there had been a tense moment when Walter two figures approach her from the opposite direction. They turned out to be a couple walking back to their car after a late dinner. Walter had wondered then who had been more unnerved by that encounter: the girl or himself.

From the shadows were he waited, he continued to watch the building. Even at this hour, the evening remained warm. A warm breeze rustled the dry leaves of the trees that dotted the city street. Their shadows made flickering mosaics of black and gray on the sidewalks and streets below him. Walter scratched at the collar of his outfit. It itched, not only there, but pretty much anywhere that he tended to perspire. I really need to find a new material for this thing. He grimaced as he realized that he was considering the relative merits of clothing fabrics. It was not something that a young man his age should spend his time thinking about. The persistent itch behind his knees told him otherwise.

There was little traffic on this street at this time of night. Few of the businesses established here remained open much past early evening, with shop were the girl worked being the chief exception. There were none that, such as the glut of gaudily-lit bail bonds offices located several blocks away near the city jail, remained open all night. Most of the restaurants, nightclubs, and bars were located three or more blocks further north. This area rarely even saw use for parking at night unless there was a major event downtown that drove customers this far from the venue in an attempt to locate free parking. It would remain almost empty until early morning when the first of the offices reopened for business.

Two longer shadows suddenly cut through the shifting patterns. Walter looked further ahead to see two dark-clad figures moving down the sidewalk. Their movements appeared furtive. They kept mostly to the dark bands of shadow that ran along the façades of the buildings. One appeared to be carrying something that he attempted to hide from casual view. They paused at the front of each office, peering none too casually into the front windows. One then did something unseen near the door, presumably checking the door, Walter guessed, while the other one kept checked to see if anyone else was nearby. More than once, the figure had glanced in Walter’s direction, but had apparently seen nothing. Probably, Walter decided, because they expected no one to be there.

Walter watched their progress as they made their way down the street. So far, they had not done anything strictly illegal, at least nothing Walter felt was worth taking a chance at getting shot at it for confronting them about. If his guess was right, at least one of them was probably in violation for carrying a concealed weapon. In truth, though, he thought the figure was doing a poor job of actually trying to conceal it. That did not mean that the other person was not carrying a weapon as well, but at the moment he had no proof of it.

The two figures kept moving, stopping for no more time than was absolutely necessary at each door. Walter felt his tension increase as they neared the shop where the girl worked. He hoped that, with the business closed for the day, the front door would be locked. Even if they realized that she was still inside, the pair might be deterred by having to make their way through the locked door to get at her. Walter had no idea, though, of what they were after. If there were simply after cash, then they might be willing to smash their way, get what they could, and then hurry away before the police could arrive.

The faint scrape of metal drew his attention back the scene ahead. The girl stepped into view at the doorway of the building. She turned, apparently fumbling with a handful of keys in order to lock the door. The sounds she made had caught the two figures’ attention as well. Now two doors away, they paused, one visibly nudging the other one. A very brief conversation followed and the pair quickly closed the distance between themselves and the girl.

Walter flexed slightly, stretching his cramped muscles, preparing for the leap that would carry him to her aid. Ahead, the girl heard the approach of the two figures, and turned around. Before she could react further, one of them grabbed her, forcing her arms behind her with one arm while wrapping its other arm around her throat. The other figure pointed the weapon at her. The shape of its dark silhouette told Walter that it was probably a shotgun of some type: not the kind of firearm one wanted to encounter at close range. He gave the girl silent credit for neither struggling nor screaming, although it was possible that she was in no position to do either. Guns had a nasty habit of going off when one of the perpetrators panicked at the uncooperative behavior of their intended victims.

Waiting no longer, Walter dropped down from his hiding place, hitting the ground with a reassuring lightness. Staying crouched low to the ground, he glanced toward the scene at the doorway. Their positions remained unchanged; they had not seen him. A silent smile danced momentarily across his lips. So far, so good.

Now came the hard part. He would have to rely on surprise, speed, and a good measure of luck. Judging from their relative sizes, he could probably manage the one holding the girl by himself, but the other man was larger—and clearly armed. He was not. And there were two of them. He had no idea whether the girl could be of any help, so he left her out of the equation, also hoping that she did not do something foolish that might put them both in jeopardy. Walter held no illusions that he was any kind of expert on criminal psychology. All he knew was that, as often as not, they might react violently in situations that had not yet become such. He rather preferred to keep any blood from being spilled—particularly if it came from him or the girl. His primary objective was to keep her safe. Everything after that was of lower priority. If the thugs got injured during any ensuing melee, well, they had started it.

Walter broke into a run, hearing loose gravel crunch beneath the soft soles of his boots. He raised his arm, sighting along its outstretched length, and released the first charge. A blue-white bolt lanced out, connecting with the weapon the one figure held. The man yowled and dropped the weapon. It landed with loud crack on the concrete and Walter silently prayed that he had judged right and it would not go off. He did not slow his approach, though, feeling relief when no abrupt explosion followed. Continuing on his own trajectory, he collided with the man, hopefully with enough force to, if not knock him down, at least thrown him off-balance enough that Walter would have a few seconds to deal with other man.

He felt a mild rush of victory as the man went down. Walter thought he heard the crack of the man’s head hitting the pavement, but he did not wait to find out. He spun over the sprawled figure of the man, quickly rolling back onto his feet. He found himself in the doorway, behind the man who held the girl. It was not quite where he had expected to land, but it would definitely work.

The man still had his back to Walter. He struggled to turn around while still keeping one arm tight around the girl’s throat. She began to struggle now, which did not improve matters for her assailant. Walter did not give him time to gather his bearing, driving a kick behind the figure’s knee. The man collapsed, pulling the girl down with him. She landed on top, though, and kicked and clawed her way free. His hand reached into his jacket.

“Don’t.” Walter snarled a warning through clenched teeth.

The attacker met his eyes and then decided to ignore Walter’s advice. Walter did not hesitate. He grabbed his assailant’s arm and, before the man could try to pull free, released another blast of current. The man’s body bucked, but Walter held onto his arm, making certain that he had achieved the desired effect. After a moment, he released his hold and the man’s body fell limp to the sidewalk, small spasms still moving through some of his muscles.

The girl was backed into the corner by the door, staring wide-eyed at her now-senseless attacker. Her eyes moved toward Walter and then narrowed in confused recollection.

“You . . . ?”

Walter smiled, rising to his feet. He dusted off his pants and gave her a small, somewhat theatrical bow. From behind him sounded the scuffling noises of the first man trying to rise. Fury flashed onto the young woman’s face and she lunged forward with a sharp kick across the side of the man’s head. His head snapped back, he seemed to hang motionless for a moment, and then sagged back to the ground.

The girl glared defiantly at her now-unconscious assailant (at least Walter hoped that he was only unconscious—she had kicked him pretty hard) and then at the second man. Her eyes then turned back to Walter. Her anger dissolved and she broke into laughter. There was a sharp, hysterical edge to it that alarmed Walter. This time, though, he did hesitate, uncertain of what to do next. He stood there, feeling awkward and powerless.

Her laughter soon transformed itself into heaving sobs. She sank down to her knees, her back scraping against the masonry around the doorway, and her arms clutched tightly around her stomach. Walter could only stare. Even under conditions where he knew a girl well, he was often at a loss on how to handle situations like this. His breakup with Abigail had been driven more by her anger than tears, and that he had been able to deal with. This, though, was completely of out his realm of experience.

You’d better get a grip, he warned himself. You’re not going to be much of a hero if you can’t comfort them as well. He gave a mental sigh and decided to trust his instincts. His reasoning mind was coming up empty.

He reached out a tentative hand to her, not entirely sure what he was going to do with it. She stared at it wordlessly for a long moment and then took it, allowing Walter to pull her to her feet. The motion felt strangely effortless to Walter, but he had no time to consider it further before he found her clinging to him tightly, crying into his shoulder. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close against him. Her breath was warm against his neck and she smelled faintly of pleasant spices.

Walter, he chided himself. No.

He held her like that for a long time until she seemed to regain her composure. She pulled away from him, although not too quickly, and wiped at her eyes. Walter wished he had a handkerchief to offer her and made a mental note to start carrying one. She patted under her nose with the back of her forefinger, sniffed, and then looked down, hunting for something. Her eyes found it and Walter turned his head to look. It was her purse, still untouched, laying upright on the ground.

Swallowing with surprising nervousness, Walter bent and picked it up, presenting it to her with both hands like a regal offering. She accepted it with a weak smile. Opening it, she dug inside it for a moment before pulling out a package of tissues.

Walter waited in self-conscious silence while she wiped her eyes and then, with surprising daintiness, blew and wiped her nose. She then tucked the soiled tissues into a pouch on the outside of her bag. Walter felt a bit like a heel for not taking them from her, but what was he supposed to do with them?

They stood there in timid silence for several moments. Their eyes occasionally met, but neither of them seemed willing to make the next move. Finally, Walter decided that, as the man and hero in this situation, he should speak up.

“I’ll, um, walk you to your car.” He said, trying not to roll his eyes at the awkward tone.

She gave him a quick, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Walter wondered if he should offer her his arm. The matter was decided for him when she touched it lightly, apparently wanting the contact for emotional support, but made no additional effort to indicate that she wanted more than that from him at that moment.

They began moving down the street, leaving the two assailants behind them, forgotten.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The drunken young man glared at Walter. Walter could already see the man’s hands forming into fists. His first instinct was to run, to try to avoid the inevitable confrontation, but he knew that he would not get far through the tightly-packed crowd of partying students. Some, already, had turned to see what had caused the sudden commotion. The situation was close to being a complete cliché, but Walter felt that he might be more amused by that if it were not that he was in a central figure in the unexpected drama.

Walter turned back to face the furious young man. A dark stain started above his stomach and spread down well below his waist. It could definitely appear to the uninformed observer that, in his drunken state, the somewhat bulky young man he had lost control of his bladder. Walter suspected that his own appearance was not all that different, but that was of less concern to him than not being beaten into a bruised and bloody mess on the first night of his vacation. That was certain to interfere with any potential activities he might have alone with Abigail later.

He opened his mouth with the intention of making a conciliatory offer of getting the damp young man a towel. His sodden adversary chose that moment to take this first swing. Walter tried to dodge it, but stumbled on the coffee table positioned in front of the sofa. The youth’s fist caught him in the shoulder, sending him off-balance, causing him to land hard with his back against the table. The cups, plates, and other items scattered under his impact, but the table itself supported his fall.

Looking up, Walter saw his opponent stare down at him in apparent surprise. Oh good, Walter considered hopefully, maybe he didn’t really mean to hit me. He watched as a series of thoughts passed slowly through the man’s mind. His face finally settled on a smile, but to Walter’s disappointment, it was not the expression of someone experiencing remorse at his unexpected and unfortunate actions. It was the anticipatory grin of a self-assured predator.

Walter felt like a beetle that had been caught rolled onto its back. He probably looked like one, he realized, as he waved his arms and legs in an effort to get back on his feet. He managed the feat just as his enraged opponent grabbed for the front of his fleece jacket. Rolling roughly aside, he prevented his assailant from getting a good grip, with only the youth’s fingers managing to find purchase on the fabric. Walter shook himself loose easily and started to back away, being much more aware of the location of the previously offending coffee table.

He did not get far, as his back collided against a growing crowd of spectators. Reluctantly, he took a small step forward, knowing that there was small chance that they would let him through easily, and certainly not before his pursuer had a firm grip on him. He sighed, mentally resigning himself to the conclusion that escape was not going to be an immediate option. Like it or not, he was going to have to find a way to stand up to his alcohol-fueled assailant—and preferably keep standing. It was not that he was in particularly poor physical condition (although he not been exercising as regularly during the last few weeks of the school term), but it was obvious that his opponent out-massed him by a significant margin. His agility and skill might eventually win out but, as Walter knew from the few Physics courses that he had been forced to endure, those did not complete the entire equation. Even a few moderately well-placed blows from the bulky youth would carry enough force to do some serious damage to more than just his ego.

The large youth swung again. Fortunately for Walter, the young man’s intoxicated condition greatly hampered his coordination. His arm missed Walter’s head, impacting instead against his shoulder. Walter stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet—barely, and then ducked as the man’s other arm arced in from the other direction. Walter felt its passage ruffle his hair and he rolled aside, trying to get a glimpse of the man’s next move.

His attacker glared down at him, clearly not pleased with how this supposedly easy little beat-down was proceeding.

“Just hold still, you little pussy,” the youth hissed. His consonants were noticeably slurred.

Walter’s cheeks burned. He had the occasional outburst of inane insults from the drunken youth, but that one just pierced him directly in the heart of his male ego. While perhaps he was not the most masculine student on campus, he certainly would not be mistaken someone majoring in Theater Arts.

Momentarily distracted by his inner rage, Walter misjudged the path of his opponent’s next swing. It caught squarely him in the abdomen. Walter bent over, gasping, and trying not to retch. He fought for breath, forcing himself to try to breathe past the temporary paralysis. His vision filled with a crimson haze of pain and short-lived oxygen starvation. He managed to lift his head in time to see a dark blur begin to ascend toward his face. Assuming that it was his assailant’s fist, he allowed himself to drop down out of its trajectory.

The fist passed well over his head. Walter did not wait for the youth’s next attack, however. He rose abruptly, both hearing and feeling his head crack against the young man’s jaw. If the stupid, drunken man suffered a fractured jaw or broke some teeth as a result, then so be it, Walter thought. After all, he attacked me first.

The heavy youth appeared stunned for a long moment and then staggered backward, landing hard on the couch. Behind him, several of the students scurried to get out of his way. His head swayed and blood began to trickle from his mouth. Walter felt a twinge of regret at the sight; he had meant only to defend himself, not actually draw blood—regardless of the intent of the other man.

The dazed youth coughed. His eyes began to focus once more. They fixed on Walter and a bestial snarl formed on the young man’s lips. He spat out a gobbet of blood, aiming it toward Walter, but it fell short to leave a dark globule to slowly stain the carpet. He began to rise, still seeming to have some difficult maneuvering his bulk, but Walter could see the renewed determined in the youth’s eyes. The urge to flee reasserted itself, but Walter was afraid that the enraged youth, now maddened by unanticipated sight of his own blood, might turn his anger against someone else.

I have to end this now, Walter decided, although he had no clear plan on how exactly to do that. He was still outmatched in size and weight, and there was a good chance that his opponent’s fury would fail to temper his attacks until Walter was an unconscious, pulped heap on the carpet.

Not waiting for his opponent to get back to his feet, Walter lunged, knocking him back onto the sofa. He was not certain, but he thought he felt it bounce under their combined impact. His hands dug into the doughy flesh of the youth’s shoulders, experiencing some mild surprise when he felt thick muscles underneath. He stared into the young man’s face.

“Stop it!” he commanded in a deep growl.

The youth’s eyes widened in surprise and then he tried to free himself from Walter’s firm hold. Something inside Walter finally snapped and he screamed down at the youth.

“I said, ‘STOP IT!’”

Like a dam breaking under unforeseen pressure, a wave of energy surged through Walter. He could feel it passing through his body, cresting like a huge swell of current, and then flowing out through his hands. Underneath him, the youth’s body thrashed and then went completely rigid, his back curved inward in a wide arch. His eyes bulged and gurgling noises came from deep within his throat. Blue-white sparks danced along his eyelids and lips. His features grew taut as the muscles beneath continued to constrict.

He felt a hand pull hard on his shoulder and a voice penetrated the swirling miasma that filled his mind. The connection was broken and Walter managed a shuddering breath before willing his fingers to release their hold on the youth’s shoulders. There were certain to be bruises, he thought with sharp pangs of remorse.

“Walter!” the voice sounded again. It was Abigail. Not only did she not sound happy, there was frightened undertone to her voice.

Walter pulled himself away and stood, swaying on weak legs. He looked down at the still form of the youth on the couch. He felt numb, drained. The young man’s head lolled to one side, his tongue hanging limping from one side. His skin looked pale and pasty.

Oh my god.

Staggering slightly, he began to move toward the youth to check his breathing and pulse when the burly young man coughed and then abruptly vomited blood. Most of it impacted his shirt, pants, and the sofa. He then coughed again, hard, expelling more bloody mucus. His eyes fluttered open and his eyes slowly brightened into awareness.

Walter started forward again, but then felt the light pressure of someone’s hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Abigail staring at him, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes held the flat glaze of someone in shock. Walter felt as though someone had crushed his chest. He looked back at the slumped figure of the youth on the couch. Someone had brought several towels and a girl was trying to get him to take a sip of what Walter hoped was water and not vodka. He turned back to Abigail, saw her expression, and closed his eyes.

#

August 8, 1981 . . .

Walter crouched in the shadows, keeping watch on one particular doorway. It was late, and well past closing time for the small shop. The last of the other employees had left nearly an hour earlier, so he knew that she was there alone. She. He knew her name now, and a few other things about her. It had taken some careful research—not to mention a considerable amount of luck—to find those things out. He had memorized the license plate of the car on the first night that they had met and then used that as a starting place from which to learn her identity.

Bernadette Clara Monahan. She lived with her parents on Laurel Avenue in a modest house that spoke neither of wealth nor poverty. She attended the same college as he did, although he could not ever remember seeing her there. Still, with the hundreds of students that crossed its grounds every day, that was hardly surprising, particularly if her major did not happen to intersect with his own. The classes within the same disciplines tended to be fairly isolated from one another.

He had learned entirely by accident that she worked part-time at printing shop downtown, usually during the closing shift. He considered that this might give him the opportunity to speak with her again, perhaps under less serious circumstances. Despite his best efforts, he could not remove the image of her face from his thoughts. He had encountered her in person for less than an hour, yet her presence had left an indelible mark on his memory.

As he waited, he admitted to more than a tinge of guilt. Although it felt in some ways like he was stalking her, he told himself that he was, in fact, trying to protect her. This was not a particularly safe part of town at night for a young woman to be walking alone. Even armed with knowledge of basic self-defense techniques and a can of Mace (neither of which Walter knew whether she possessed), she could easily be overcome if confronted by an adequate number of assailants. Two had been sufficient the night he had first come to her rescue, although she had been mildly drunk at the time, so less capable to coming to her own defense.

Heroic Measures (continued)

January 26, 1980 . . .

[insert more here]

Walter stood before the chipped and dusty mirror, examining his reflection. A tracery of narrow silver-gray strips now rested loosely against the contours of his body. He turned to the side and flexed slightly, not really noticing much overall change in his appearance. Turning again, he surveyed how the thick mesh fit over him, noting a few places where adjustments would probably need to be made. He ignored the fact that he was otherwise dressed only in winter-weight longjohns, but feeling much less conspicuous than he had during Raynes’ initial set of tests. Not that he was particularly eager to be seen in this state of dress, but decidedly less concerned than he would have been clad only in his boxer shorts.

A few paces away, Raynes watched as Walter inspected the web of conducting material that now adorned his body. He tried to appear studious and critical, but Walter guessed that he was also trying to avoid looking both pleased and a little smug. Walter was just fine with that. If Raynes’ construction did even half of what he claimed it could, than the researcher could flip cartwheels across the laboratory as far as he was concerned. As long as he did not use his real names in any papers he might publish, Walter felt the man was more than entitled than a certain measure of superiority.

“How’s it feel?” Raynes asked.

Walter lifted his arms and then rolled his shoulders, rotating his arms. He turned moved them in the opposite direction before crossing them loosely over his chest.

“I hardly feel it at all,” Walter said. “It’s almost like there’s nothing there.”

“Good,” Raynes nodded happily, his smile betraying his eager anticipation. “Excellent.” He walked around behind Walter. “How about your hands?”

Walter held out his arms, palms turned upward, and looked down at the narrow bands than ran along the inside of each forearm. They each ended in a circular disc slightly larger than a quarter. Walter flexed his fingers toward his palms so that the fingertips touched the round contact and then opened them again. He repeated the action several times.

“They seem okay,” he answered with a slight shrug.

Raynes was nodding again, walking slowly around Walter, making him feel like a mildly interesting specimen.

“You should be able to wear under your clothing without anyone noticing,” Raynes said. “But you might want to avoid the beach.”

Walter fought back a sigh. The researcher’s sense of humor—if that was what it was—had not grown on him. Walter had even stopped making an obligatory acknowledgment of the researcher’s jokes most of time, although he seemed to not have noticed.

“The concept is very simple,” Raynes explained. “”We need to give the electrical energy your body produces a controlled path to follow—essentially an oversized circuit. We—you—can set it to discharge regularly, draining it off continually so that it never has a chance to overload.” An outstretched finger followed the line of one of the bands that ran along Walter’s shoulder and down his arm. “Or,” he went on, “it should also allow you to direct it should you discharge it in a particular direction.”

Walter nodded in understanding, although only half-listening to the researcher’s words. He was studying the details of the bands when the implications of Raynes’ last statement jolted through his thoughts.

“You mean I can aim it?” he asked, looking down at the silvery disc resting against his palm.

Raynes nodded with obvious enthusiasm. “With practice,” he agreed.

Walter flexed his fingers again, thoughtfully, staring down at the metallic contact. “When?”

Chuckling, Raynes patted Walter on the shoulder. “Soon,” he said. “But there’s still one more thing.”

He walked over to one of the work areas and picked up a squat metallic box. It looked definitely handmade, constructed out of what looked like an assortment of originally discarded components and held together by a wide band of some kind of construction adhesive tape.

“It’s only a prototype,” Raynes explained, almost needlessly it seemed to Walter. “But it should tell us if I’m right.” He held it out toward Walter.

Walter took it, nearly letting it tumble from his hand. It was heavier than it looked. He studied it, turning it over and around in his hand. This examination told him nothing more about what it was or what it did.

“It’s a capacitor,” Raynes said. “Essentially.” He allowed Walter to study it for a moment longer before holding out his hand to take it back. “You should be able to store a limited amount of energy in it before you have to discharge it.”

The researcher’s hand stroked one side of the unit. “This is the second one I’ve built.” This was a hint of mild chagrin in the researcher’s voice that told Walter that the first one that Raynes had constructed had failed in some unexpectedly dramatic way.

“There are connections here,” Raynes said, pointing to the clips mounted on each end, “and here.” Seeming to study it idly, he continued, “There are leads on the grid for it,” he said, “so it can form a complete circuit.” He gestured toward Walter. “You should be able to wear it somewhere near your waist.”

Walter’s mind was buzzing with the possibilities elicited by what Raynes had just told him. This was no longer just about trying to lead a normal life; it was about potentially harnessing the powers that now controlled him. He looked over at Raynes, but the researcher seemed engrossed in his study of his handcrafted component. Nothing in his demeanor seemed to reveal that he possessed any comprehension of what his work implied for Walter.

“When can we start?” Walter asked, trying to keep his tone even and calm.

Raynes appeared startled by the question.

“Right away,” he managed to reply. “If you want.”

Try to stop me, Walter thought, taking the makeshift capacitor from Raynes’ open hands.

#

March 18, 1978 . . .

Walter sank back on the couch, careful not slosh out the contents of the two plastic cups he carried. He was tired, but had kept his word to Abigail that they would attend this particular party, although he was certain that it would be far from the only one held that week. He suspected, though, that it was merely the inauguration of a single party that would probably last the entire week, with the occasional ebb and flow of activity as supplies needed to be replenished.

After a week filled with intense studying, final examinations, and too little sleep, he had been looking forward to several days of sleeping in, watching television, and reading from something other than textbooks. Abigail, though, had developed other plans. Several of her friends were planning to share a family cabin in the mountains and she thought was a far better place to spend the bulk of their Spring Break than at home with their boring families. She had talked Walter into it. Although, in truth, it had not taken much effort for her to do so, particularly when she hinted what he might get out of it—or rather, into. So, they had driven almost seven hours after he had finished his last exam (she had been finished hers before noon), arriving well after dark.

The party was well underway by the time they crunched their way through the frozen snow to the cabin. Someone Walter did not know, but who seemed to be at least an acquaintance of Abigail’s, greeted them, passing them each a drink as they entered. Abigail had excused herself immediately to find the bathroom, as they had only stopped once on their way up the long mountain road. She had been adamant about both not stopping in the dark and relieving herself by the side of the road. Although it had been dark through most of the last half of their trip, she had been convinced that the moment she exited the car, someone would come around the next curve with headlights glaring, and spotlight her in the act.

She watched Abigail make her way through the tightly packed crowd toward the hallway that led to the back of the house and, presumably, its bathrooms. Walter hoped there was more than one, considered the number of people here. He had just started to close his eyes, hoping that he did not actually doze off before Abigail returned, when someone dropped down on the sofa next to him.

Walter glanced over with annoyance. The young man who imposed his presence ignored Walter’s existence. Instead, he stared out into the room with clearly inebriated, but intense interest. Walter was about to resume his previous position of repose when the sweatshirt-clad figure spoke.

“That’s a nice piece of ass,” he mumbled, loud enough that Walter could hear him clearly even over the surrounding noise of music and animated conversations. “I might try to get a piece of that.”

Walter sighed silently, willing himself to let the remarks pass. He probably thinks some girls find that to be a compliment. Walter considered that there were probably some who did, but any of the ones that he would normally associate with. Abigail certainly would not and . . .

Something caused Walter to look along the line of his unwelcome companion’s gaze. It bisected the room and ended somewhere in the hallway ahead—at a point that corresponded to Abigail’s retreating back.

Walter’s fatigue vanished. He fought back the urge to dump the contents of both cups onto the lout. For a brief moment, he even planned it out: pouring one over the crass idiot’s head and the other one into his lap, thinking the ice cubes might have a sufficiently chilling effect on the oaf’s libido. He satisfied himself with only the thoughts of the unfulfilled retaliation. While Abigail might approve is his chivalry, she would most likely not appreciate them having to find somewhere else to sleep for the night.

Unfortunately, Walter’s restraint proved to be of little value. The boorish young man decided to shift his not inconsiderable bulk into a more comfortable position. In the process of doing so, he shoved against Walter, sending most of the contents of one cup into Walter’s lap. The impact of the ice-cold beverage hitting those parts of his body caused Walter to instinctively leap up from the couch, spilling the contents of the other cup onto the offensive young man. Things happened even more quickly after that.

The now-sodden young man staggered to his feet, roaring with indignation. Walter knew that, from currently being in the same situation, the primary harm was chiefly to one’s ego rather than anything more serious and permanent. Their pants—and private parts—would eventually dry out and be warm again. However, Walter had the distinct impression that a sincere (if somewhat reluctant) apology was not going to quickly assuage the situation with this braying beast.