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 . . .