Heroic Measures (continued)

There was a long moment of tense silence.

“We could end this quickly,” Harrison asserted, his teeth were clenched as he spoke. “Before there are any more civilian casualties.”

Uriana’s dark eyes shone with anger.

“There’s no irrefutable proof that there were,” Westin stated evenly, inserting himself back into the argument.

“There’s no proof there wasn’t!” Harrison countered, slamming his palm against the table. “The General says . . .”

“The General is an ass.”

Everyone fell silent. All eyes turned toward Red. His expression was almost unreadable behind his mask, but, standing next to him, Walter could see the muscles of Red’s jaw slowly tighten.

After the surprise faded from her expression, a faint smirk formed on Uriana’s lips. “He wants a victory—needs a victory—in order to keep from looking like an incompetent fool.” A sneer replaced her earlier smirk. “Elections are right around the corner,” she concluded. “And he wants to keep his job.” She looked almost smug.

Harrison’s eyes smoldered. But he could give voice to his thoughts, though, Red spoke up once more.

“Close,” he said calmly. “But not quite.”

It was Uriana’s turn to fix a fiery gaze on Red.

“Powell’s not that kind of fool,” Red explained. Although there was emphasis in his words, it sounded more like he was delivering an energetic college lecture than a potentially inflammatory polemic. What was it he did again? Walter asked himself. “And, to be fair,” Red went on, “he knows what kind of men are in line to replace him.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Westin hissed.

“Perhaps nothing,” Red responded enigmatically. “Maybe everything.”

Walter felt his forehead wrinkle in confusion. Why was Red speaking in riddles? He was certain that the red-haired was not drunk. There was no detectable slurring of his words or other obvious signs of inebriation. While Walter knew that Red might bait any of them just for the thrill (and potential entertainment value) of the ensuing argument, this seemed a strange occasion for such behavior.

“We can’t let this turn into another ‘Nam,” Harrison persisted.

“No,” Red agreed. “We cannot.”

This admission seemed to calm Harrison down somewhat.

“None of their heroes have been involved,” Westin asserted.

“That we know of,” Harrison countered, sneering.

“And when the President asks . . . ?” Walter ventured, speaking out for the first time.

“He won’t.” Westin stated firmly.

“He already has,” Harrison said. There was no disguising the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Covertly.”

“Then I’m wrong,” Red admitted calmly, without any hint of defeat. “The General isn’t an ass—the President is.” He paused only a moment for effect. “But then we knew that.”

This earned him a renewed glare from Harrison; Red ignored it. There were faint smiles from some of those gathered around the table.

“It is essential that we should act in some way,” Sen announced softly. There was something in the quiet pitch of his voice that focused attention on him when he spoke.

Harrison straightened, almost arrogantly proud, buoyed by the hint of renewed support.

“But perhaps not in the way that Mr. Harrison suggests,” Sen went on, giving no sign that he had observed Harrison’s reaction. He now had everyone in the room’s attention.

“We’re listening, Sen,” Uriana said, clearly annoyed by the man’s unnecessary dramatic pauses.

“When we first gathered as a group, we did so for reasons of safety, security, to prevent the abuses of power, to be together so we would not have to stand alone,” his eyes flickered across those at table, “as so many of us have done.”

Several people nodded slowly in agreement; a few shifted uncomfortably at revisited memories.

“In the end, though, Sen went on, his voice never rising much above a whisper, “we must each answer to our own conscience.”

There was more shuffling as those present considered his words. Walter understood. It was easy enough to follow a group—any group—and then take solace in believing that it, as a whole, made a wrong decision. It was quite another thing to stand up on one’s own and claim the same responsibility. Was that what Harrison was trying do? It seemed more to Walter that he wanted the others on his side—by his side—to face the consequences of this decision.

“There will be times when we will not agree on a course of action as a group,” Sen continued. “Some of us will be forced by our own beliefs to act alone.” He paused, but met no one’s eyes. “I believe this is one of those times.”

“Are you saying that we should let Harrison here run off by himself and play soldier-boy?” Uriana demanded peevishly.

“That’s unacceptable,” Westin snapped tightly.

“I am saying,” Sen responded with habitual calmness, “that we must allow Mr. Harrison follow the dictates of his conscience. As I must follow mine.”

A long silence followed Sen’s statement, broken only by the faint sounds of people shifting positions as they exchanged momentary glances with others around the room.

“Well I’m not going,” Uriana finally announced. Much of the earlier vehemence was now gone from her words.

“Me either,” Westin affirmed. He stared at Harrison with narrowed eyes.

“Fine,” Harrison relented through clenched teeth. “Who is with me?”

Glances passed among those gathered at the table; few were willing to meet Harrison’s gaze. No one spoke, letting their silence answer for them. Even Sen gave no indication of that he would follow.

Harrison responded with a heavy snort of disgust and stormed from the room. Although Sen watched calmly as Harrison left, he did not follow him.

Another wave of fleeting looks went around the table.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Uriana said with a faint snarl. Yet her voice betrayed a barely concealed undertone of concern.

“Better him than all of us,” Westin agreed.

Walter turned toward Red. What he saw in the red-clad man’s expression reflected his own uncertainty. The issue had not ended here. In fact, it might just be the beginning.

#

April 8, 1982 . . .

Walter could not remember the last time he had been this nervous. He had little trouble recalling other events that provoked similar anxiety—even ones when his life or the lives of others had been threatened. All those seemed to pale in comparison to what he planned to do today.

He checked his appearance in the mirror for probably the fiftieth time that afternoon. His reflection revealed no flaws—at least none that were not normally there—but that knowledge refused to relax him. Clara would arrive at any moment and then . . . and then . . .

He found that his palms were once again damp with nervous perspiration. He reflexively started to wipe them on his pants, but stopped himself. That wouldn’t do. Retrieving a small towel from hall closet, he more properly dried them with that. He placed it nearby, though, knowing full well that he would continue to need it.

Everything else was ready. Was it? he wondered. He had just begun running once more through his mental checklist when there was a quiet knock on the door. Walter froze, and then fought to swallow past his sudden paralysis. It lasted only a moment, though, and he was able to convince his legs to carry him to the door and his hands to open it.

Clara stood there, her face haloed by the muted illumination of the porch light. She looked beautiful. Her hair looked like soft golden waves; her eyes sparkled like emeralds. Walter realized that he was staring. Clara smiled, appearing to suppress a quiet laugh, although clearly relishing his focused attention.

“Can I come in?” she asked softly.

Walter managed to smile and then nodded his assent when he realized that he was once against staring mutely. He moved aside, allowing her to enter the small house.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said as Walter closed the door behind her. “Dr. Cavender needed some test results faxed before the office closed.”

“That’s okay,” Walter said, nodding.

Although he had been watching the clock almost steadily for the past two hours, he had not expected her to arrive precisely on time. Her supervisor, the medical center’s office manager, was known for not closing the office until at least five-thirty each evening. Still, he had not dared to count on her being late.

She followed him out of the foyer and down the short hallway to the kitchen. Pausing in open doorway, she closed her eyes, sniffed lightly, and smiled. Walter echoed her smile, relieved that she seemed pleased by his menu choice for the evening. He offered her glass of wine. She motioned her acceptance, waiting while he poured it into a goblet for her. He had briefly considered champagne, but had settled on a decent vintage of chardonnay instead. As he passed it to her, he noted in the refracted light through the glass that the wine was almost the same color as her hair.

Clara sipped at the wine, nodding slowly to indicate her approval of it.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Walter said.

[insert more here]

The meal was filled with bits of idle conversation, most of which Walter could not remember from one minute to the next minute.

“Walter?”

It took a moment for his mind to recognize the word. He then realized that Clara was addressing him directly.

“Walter?”

He looked across at her, his eyes focusing on her face. It looked lovely in the subdued lighting of the dining area. “Yeah?”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the past ten minutes, have you?”

Walter searched his memory. He could make a light-hearted attempt to claim that it was a lingering effect of the lightning strike, but he sincerely doubted that she would appreciate such an evasion at that moment.

“Some about cats?”

“CAT scans,” Clara said. Walter saw her lips tighten, betraying her annoyance. “They’re talking about getting a CAT scan machine.”

Walter nodded, the conversation filling back into his memory. He made a mental note to stay out of the back office in the future.

“Okay,” Clara said, setting her fork down on the edge of her plate. “You’ve clearly got something on your mind.” She leaned forward, steepling her arms on the table and resting her chin on their top. “What’s wrong?”

Walter took a slow breath. She now seemed more concerned than angry. He wanted to meet her eyes, but could not yet bring himself to do so. He had rehearsed this speech many times over the past few weeks—several versions of it, in fact—but none of them seemed to quite fit the moment.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, watching her expression became stone. He could imagine the thoughts that now raced through her mind: He wants to break up. He’s found someone else. He’s married. He doesn’t really love me. He’s an escaped felon. In some ways, he wondered if any, at not all of them, might be easier to accept than the truth.

He finally looked at her, seeing her watch him, still waiting for whatever pronouncement he intended to make. He thought he glimpsed a flash of fear in her eyes. He wished he knew that what he was going to tell her would make it go away.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said.

Clara gave a short, sharp intake of breath. Her lips closed together, the lower one protruding slightly.

“I mean I am,” he went on. “But I’m not.”

Her eyes shifted, beginning to brighten. She was now moving toward anger. Walter can understand. The explanation so far sounded lame even in his own ears.

“It might be easier if I show you,” he said, rising from the chair. He headed for closet in the bedroom and pulled out the medium-sized box he kept hidden there.

He gave Clara an opportunity to take another sip of wine and gather herself before returning to the table. Placing the box at her feet, Walter felt her eyes fixed on him, and then the unmarked box the entire time. He lifted the lid and looked up at her.

Clara stared uncomprehendingly at the container. Her eyes moved to Walter’s face and then back down to the contents of the box. Reaching inside, Walter lifted an item from it and held it up for her. Clara studied it for a long moment in confusion and then recognition dawned for her.

“Where did you get that?” she asked. Her voice carried an air of amazed awe.

“It’s mine.”

Clara’s eyes widened and then narrowed in disbelief.

Continuing to hold the mask aloft, Walter shifted the contents of the box to expose the gloves. He looked back up at Clara. Her eyes were large as she fought to accept what she had been shown.

“Yours?” The word came out as an forced whisper of breath.

Walter nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.