Heroic Measures (continued)

That he could pause and replay live television broadcasts were still a miracle to him. That he could record programs with the touch of a button, without having to set clocks or keep a supply of videotape cassettes, was a bounty beyond reason—and a skill he had managed to somewhat master.

He pressed such a button now. The image on the television obeyed and ceased its movement. Gingerly, he tapped the rewind button, slowly applying just the right amount of pressure—as the thing had a maddening tendency to dash far past the scene he wanted to see—he coaxed it into replaying the past several seconds of the news broadcast. He stopped the playback again, squinting at the now-frozen image on the screen.

Standing among the small crowd gathered behind the two young men dressed in green, partially hidden from view by a knot of people, was another figure. Clad almost entirely in red, he remained slightly aloof as others passed him. He did not seem to be seeking attention, but appeared intent on being near the action that was taking place. There was something about the way the figure stood that called at Walter’s memory. He leaned forward, peering more closely at the image on the screen. There still lacked enough detail for him to clearly discern the man’s face.

It couldn’t be, he told himself, following the denial with shallow chuckle. It’s been years. Years. Almost as many as it’s been for me.

Still, the memory nagged at him, demanding recognition. Walter studied the buttons on the remote control again. I thought for sure I’d seen a “Zoom” button on here somewhere. After a moment, he found it. Aiming the remote control directly at the screen, he pressed the button. The image on the television screen enlarged, but still not enough. It also lost some of it sharpness, making it that much more difficult for Walter to be certain of what he was seeing.

Experimentally, he pressed the button again. The picture doubled again in size. The man’s head now filled the center of the screen. The image had grown even more indistinct. Walter was no more certain than he had been before whether the red-clad man was the person he thought it might have been.

Red’s not that rare, he tried to convince himself. Primary colors have always been popular. And red tends to stand out in a crowd.

Walter settled back, still staring at the enlarged image. What would he be doing back out there? And why now? He frowned, still trying to reason his increasing certainty away. He’s got to be off in some nice warm place like Florida. Or even California. He always did seem to like those hippie types.

But Walter knew it was not true. Even his eyes refused to acknowledge it, something deeper in his mind did: Red was back in town.

#

October 28, 1979 . . .

Even over the roar, and occasional cheer, from the gathered crowd, Walter heard something creak behind him. Without relaxing his grip on the frilled shirt front of the man he had just pulled aside, he ducked and shifted his balance just slightly. Something whizzed past his head and then shattered on the concrete in front of him. Keeping his face turned aside, he clenched his eyes closed tight, wincing at the sharp stings as the shards of wood or glass—he could not be certain—pelted his face. None seemed large enough, or hit with enough force, to be more than a temporary annoyance, but any annoyance—even a temporary one—was something he could do without.

Halloween was still two days away, but that did not keep those determined to celebrate the occasion (or get as much mileage as possible out of even the most garish homemade costume) from doing so. The parties usually began as early as Friday night, but it has rained the night before, keeping most of gatherings indoors and, generally, any resulting mayhem somewhat contained. The day had dawned with a nearly cloudless sky, and unseasonably warm. Many of evening’s celebrants took advantage of the opportunity to carry their often inebriated festivities into the outdoors.

It had not been Walter’s first choice to get involved in the sudden fracas. He had no real idea about who had started it, what might have said to who to instigate it, or why. He did, however, take exception to someone taking a swing at him simply because they believed that he was in some way either related to, or in support of, whoever had made one of the original offending statements. It was particularly irritating because all he had been trying to do was to follow up on the rumor of a fresh beer keg somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

The youth he still held gripped in his fist squirmed, trying at the same time to gain some traction and also release Walter’s hold on his shirt. Walter obliged him, releasing his hold abruptly, causing the young man to land solidly on the damp cement. Dark stains appeared on the young man’s white linen shirt (or what appeared to be linen; it might have been polyester for all Walter knew). The youth raised his hands to wipe at it and then stopped, swearing inaudibly as he noticed that they were no cleaner than his shirt. Walter might have felt some measure of sympathy for the youth, if he could understand why he had opted to dress like an effeminate pirate. There was probably more to costume than he realized, but in truth, Walter did not really care.

Pausing only a moment to make certain that he had, in fact, not bruised anything more than the youth’s ego, Walter rose to deal with the person who was, with some determination tugging at his shoulder. Whoever it was, they had been doing so for some time, with either the intent of hoping to pull him away from rather hapless pirate, or to simply get his attention, he did not know. He turned, ready to face yet another drunken assault, and then stopped, unable for several moments to breathe or speak.

The face that stared back at him was definitely female. She seemed flushed, but it might have been a result of lighting. Her dark hair hung in loose waves far below her shoulders. Her eyes seemed equally dark and bright. There was far too much makeup around them for Walter’s taste; he hoped it was merely part of her costume. What there was of her costume, he noted. The neckline—or was it called a bodice?—was cut low enough that there was little doubt concerning the authenticity of her generous cleavage. Walter’s hormones shouted at him to be heard over the surrounding din; he accepted their call.

After a moment, or several separate ones, he forced himself to look away and back up into her eyes. She seemed not to notice that his attention had originally been focused elsewhere. Or, if she did, she gave indication of it. Not particularly surprising, Walter decided, as both her posture (or lack of one) and the rapid blinking of her eyes told him that not only had she probably already discovered the location of the fabled keg, but also perhaps the source of a one or two other recreational condiments.

The colors and cut of her outfit made him suddenly realize that she had probably arrived with the make-believe buccaneer he had just hopefully subdued. That thought made him turn, sudden wary that he might be forced to impress the captivating wench by pummeling some sense and decorum into her date. Probably a no-win situation in any case, he realized.

He was relieved to find that his earlier assailant was gone. At least, he no longer sat on the ground in a puddle of unidentified liquid. Nor did he seem to be nearby. Maybe he finally gathered some fashion sense, Walter considered, nearly breaking into a giggle. For what would not be the first time that evening, he wished that he had not drained that second beer.

Turning back around, he found the luscious pirate wench still staring at him. She was clearly conscious, although perhaps not terribly sober, but seemed to find him the most fascinating thing in her universe. Walter held no desire to divert her attention, except possibly to some place more private where he might be able to convince her to take a journey of exploration together.

Her lips moved. At first, Walter thought she was going to speak, but instead she just smiled. It was enough, though. His stomach seemed to drop from its place; his head buzzed pleasantly in a way that he knew had nothing to do with the cheap brew. This could work, he thought. I’ll bet we could . . .

He never got a chance to make the wager. Before he could finish the thought, he was knocked suddenly sideways. Shifting his weight, he caught himself before he landed on one knee. He turned to look back up. She was still there, but the link was now broken.

“Sorry about that, mate,” someone said from his right. The accent sounded faintly British. No, Australian, Walter corrected himself. He turned his head, ready to rise and potentially defend himself.

A young man, who looked to be about his own age, stood there brushing his hands down along his pants. In the dim light, it was difficult for Walter to tell whether the young man’s efforts were making matters better or worse. What he could tell was that the young man had red hair, although whether that was its natural color or dyed for the occasion, he could not determine.

The young man greeted Walter with a wide smile that revealed somewhat large, but nearly perfect teeth.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said, offering Walter a hand back up to his feet.

Walter shook his head as if to clear it and straightened, disregarding the proffered hand. “Nah,” he said. “It’d take more than that.” He glanced around, but the dark-haired maiden of the seas was gone. His expression must have betrayed his disappointment.

“Something the matter?” the young man asked. His concern seemed genuine.

Walter allowed himself a sigh. “Not really,” he replied. “There was just a girl here . . .”

The young man’s eyes brightened with interest.