Heroic Measures (continued)

“Walter?”

Raynes’ voice interrupted the flow of his thoughts without diverting it completely.

“How are you feeling?”

Walter considered this for only moment. “Fine,” he said. “Sleepy . . . a little.”

“That’s very good,” Raynes responded softly. “Are you experiencing any pain or discomfort?”

Walter conducted a quick mental inspection of his body. Nope, he decided, nothing felt uncomfortable. He felt mildly drowsy, though. It felt something like the feeling he got on a warm summer afternoon, and yet was not like that at all.

“Walter?”

He blinked, and then realized that he must not have answered the question aloud.

“Yes,” he replied, and then considered that he might have answered it wrong. “No,” he said, starting again. “No pain.”

“Good,” Raynes said.

Was that relief in his voice?

“Okay, Walter,” Raynes told him. “We’re going to get started now.”

“Okay.”

Walter was pretty sure that he had actually spoken aloud that time. When a few seconds passed and Raynes did not prompt him again, he felt more certain.

“Walter,” Raynes began, “I need you to think back to that night at the Promenade.”

Walter thought back to that night. He tried to form the image of it with his thoughts. The scene built itself slowly, like an online photograph resolving itself to maximum resolution. Suddenly, it was sharp there in his mind. Every detail felt strangely acute.

“I’m there . . .” Walter whispered.

“Tell me what you see.”

#

Seven weeks earlier . . .

Walter moved through the streets, trying to stay to the shadows. It was not so much that he was seeking concealment in the hopes of a capturing a criminal, as it was that he was exhausted and simply did want to be noticed. The thought that some elderly citizen might see him and ask that he help rescue their cat from a tree, or express a few firm words with their noisy neighbors upstairs, was almost too much for him to bear.

Some nights, he pondered tiredly, being a hero’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

He was tired, and his feet hurt. His boots, while stylish and highly protective, they also needed much better arch supports. Even without looking at his watch, he knew that it was probably long past time since Abigail had gone to bed. There would be no loving foot massage tonight; he was on his own.

Just before reaching the corner at Third and Cavanaugh, he paused in the cover of a deep doorway and rested for a moment.

No wonder so many of the heroes are so young. I’m only in my twenties and look at me. I can’t even imagine being . . .

His weary musings were interrupted by a sharp metallic echo. The sound faded quickly and was gone. He lifted his head, trying to remember which direction it had seemed to come from. The noise might have been nothing of import; his intuition was telling him otherwise.