Heroic Measures (continued)

“She did it,” Harrison snarled. “We just need to make her admit it.”

His voice was a gravelly baritone. He was still recovering from their assault on what their intelligence operatives had reported to be one of the Dark Matter chief lairs. Swift action by Random had saved his larynx, but it would be some time before his voice returned to normal. With an uncomfortably perverse sense of satisfaction, Walter realized that he preferred Harrison this way: it made it almost impossible for him to shout out orders.

“We’ve tried,” reported Westin. His tone clearly communicated his displeasure at their lack of success.

“Let me guess,” Harrison said. “You’ve tried talking to her.” He snorted, glaring at their captive.

Walter had not been happy about that. He had brought her here from the destruction of the abandoned bakery shop, hoping they could locate evidence to support her claim of innocence. Instead, upon hearing Walter’s story, and seeing her talons, Westin had held her while Harrison put her in restraints, cuffing her to a chair in one of the small conference rooms. Sen and Red had arrived shortly afterward. Their voices, combined with Walter’s, prevented the other two men from taking more extreme action—but just barely. Walter considered the young woman lucky that they had been there. He was not convinced that Harrison might not have stripped her naked and then left her to hang by her wrists in some secret basement chamber.

“Often,” Sen offered quietly, “more is learned when one listens than when one speaks.”

Harrison made a show of rolling his eyes at the oriental hero. Sen, as usual, paid it no heed.

Walter suppressed a smile. It was extremely difficult to get mad at Sen. Even if you could, it was almost impossible to stay that way. The man’s calm and seemingly inscrutable demeanor made it difficult to take offense at his remarks. It did not help that his observations were nearly always dead on accurate.

There was a moment of tense silence. Walter glanced over at the young woman, expecting to find her nervous and scared. Instead, she seemed resigned and exhausted. If there was any apprehension lurking there, it was masked by her fatigue. It made him wonder just how long she had been on the run.

Heroic Measures (continued)

#

“I didn’t do it.”

Walter was certain that he had heard her correctly. While still keeping his distance, he studied her.

His eyes went first to the talons. They hung loosely at her side, scraping along the ground. The wings, he had already determined, were real. What he had thought were feathers, though, seemed to be some kind of textured membrane. The blended colors, he saw, could give the illusion of feathers from a distance.

Although she remained hunched over, he guessed that he had been about right about her height. Her hair, cut in some kind of ragged style, fell just above her shoulders. It was tangled and coated with dirt and dust. Cleaned up, Walter thought, she might be pretty—in a pert and coltish sort of way. Right now, though, she simply looked weary and ragged. Walter wondered if he was making a mistake, possibly giving her time to regain her strength.

He heard sirens in the near distance, guessing that they were probably heading toward the now-demolished bakery shop. As far as he knew, no one had paid any particular attention to him as he had pursued this woman across the rooftops and through the alleyways. Certainly, someone had seen him, but whether that was remarkable enough to be reported, he did not know.

The woman’s arms released her middle and dropped to her sides. She was still breathing heavily, but no longer panting. Walter watched her warily. She did not move from where she knelt. She stared dawn at the ground, her head bowed, giving Walter the eerie impression that she was expecting him to execute her.

Sirens screamed along the opening behind him. He heard the sound of cars moving fast along the street. None of them seemed to stop.

“Come on,” he called to her.

He offered her his gloved hand, grateful that it had at least one layer of protection from those metal claws.

She looked up at him in surprise. Her eyes, at first wide, now narrowed with suspicion.

“You can either face the police,” he told her. “Or me.”

She studied him for a brief moment and then her fingers clutched his hand. Walter helped her rise and then pulled her toward the opposite opening. She allowed him to guide her and then released her hand from his. Walter thought she might bolt, but she remained where she was.

“Where?”

“Just follow me,” Walter told her. “Stay close.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then she nodded.

Walter broke into a slow jog, heading for the street ahead. He heard her light footsteps behind him and did not turn around. If she decided to flee again, he was pretty certain that he could stop her this time. He had the feeling, though, that she was tired of running.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Exiting onto the street, he quickly surveyed the neighborhood, looking for any signs of his target. Using a mental technique that Sen was trying to teach him, he attempted to filter out of his perceptions the passing cars and other distractions from his awareness, allowing his mind to recognize only people who matched a specific size, shape, and color. His surroundings faded into an indistinct blur around him, but one object stood out, outlined in almost perfect clarity. It was the winged being, entering another alleyway across the street. Walter noted, in a somewhat distant and detached way, that it seemed to be moving much more slowly now.

I wonder if it got hurt when the antenna collapsed?

His environment snapped back into focus. He dashed across the street, once again dodging moving and stationary obstacles. Entering the alleyway on the other side, he saw that his quarry had not yet made it all the way through. He grinned in anticipatory triumph and urged himself on faster.

Ahead, the winged figured staggered and then fell to its knees. Walter slowed, cautious now. He approached it slowly, but it remained that way, hunched over, until he reached it.

Its arms were wrapped tight around its abdomen. He saw that its wings were, in fact, real. There were no straps or braces holding them in place. It was panting, breathing hard, but it sounded like more than exertion. It held that undercurrent of pain.

Maybe it really is hurt . . .

Walter continued to approach cautiously, keeping an eye on the polished metal talons. If this was a ruse, he needed to be ready to leap out of their range before they could impale him. He had seen what they had done to their other victims.

The being turned its head slowly toward him and Walter found himself unable to move. The face was that of a young woman. She appeared to be about his age, although he could not be certain through the streaks of grime and perspiration that masked her face. Her eyes were wide and pleading. She seemed to be terrified of him.

She said something to him, but it was lost in the ambient noise of the street beyond. It sounded as if it might have been a foreign language, but Walter could not be sure. The young woman seemed to rally her strength and spoke again.

“I didn’t do it.”

She met his eyes for only a moment and then sagged again, clearly exhausted from the chase. Walter stared at her, unable to speak.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Keeping his eyes on the staggering figure, Walter dashed across the street. He dodged four pedestrians, two bicyclists and, only barely aware of it, a pickup truck that had decided to race the changing yellow light at the intersection.

Closer to the scene, he realized that dust was thicker here than it had appeared from across the street. It was thinning, but still made visibility much poorer than he would have liked. He considered that he should have waited a little longer before continuing his pursuit, but then his quarry might have gotten away.

The dust ahead swirled and, to his right, Walter he saw a figure moving fitfully through the haze. It stumbled over some obscured debris, then pulled itself upright and kept moving. Walter could not tell whether it had seen him or not. Unless it possessed avian eyesight to match the wings, he guessed that it had not. He was having enough trouble looking through the settling dust without being in the middle of it.

The figure made its way to the perimeter of the building, pausing in the shadow of one of the remaining outer walls. Walter thought he heard it coughing. It was not a deep-sounding cough, making him think that it probably came from the winged creature he had been pursuing. Slowly, he moved in closer, trying both keep an eye on his footing, and be as quiet as possible, despite the layers of uneven debris underfoot.

He was successful, coming within about five yards of his target, when his foot slipped on what had seemed to be a solid and stable piece of lumber. It snapped under his weight, causing him not only to stumble, but also issuing a sharp crack that penetrated the noise around them.

The figure froze for a moment, performing a very accurate imitation of cornered prey. It looked in Walter’s direction, but he could not tell whether it actually saw him or not. Nevertheless, it bolted, heading along the wall toward the street that ran behind the building.

Walter swore, mumbling, and took off after the creature. He stumbled several times, having trouble keeping his footing on the uneven debris, made finally made it to the area of the outer wall where he had last seen the creature. He stared down the short pathway and then broke into a renewed run.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Well,” he murmured aloud. “So much for that idea.”

He was reaching for his radio again when a portion of the bakery rooftop exploded. There was no gout of flame. Instead, there was a burst of dust and gravel. It reminded Walter of scenes he had seen of buildings being demolished, although on a smaller scale.

Before the dust began to settle, a metallic shriek echoed from across the street. Walter watched as the antenna tore free from its moorings and fell onto the rooftop. It seemed to happen as if filmed in slow motion, but Walter guessed that was an illusion caused by the delay as the antenna pulled away from each brace that fastened it onto the building.

It toppled onto the roof, raising a new, although smaller, dust cloud, before disappearing from sight. In his mind’s eye, Walter could see it smashing through charred and rotten roof into what remained of the structure inside the building.

Walter swallowed, deeply grateful that he had not attempted the same thing on the tire shop. Abandoned though the bakery might be, he had definitely created a mess. Belatedly, he hoped that no transients or homeless had taken refuge inside it.

I guess I don’t need to bother to call it in now . . .

The warble of distant sirens confirmed his assumption.

He stared across the building, watching the dust settle, feeling more than a little guilty at the damage and destruction he had wrought—however unintentionally. Without a doubt, he realized, he would get reprimanded by someone on the hero council. The anticipation of that alone formed a sour knot in his stomach.

Breathing a deep sigh, he watched as the dust thinned, thinking that he should probably wander across and see if there was anything he could do to help clean up the mess he had made. Straightening his shoulders, in what he hoped was a confident and heroic posture, he took a single step forward and then stopped as he spied something beige and gray stumbling from the haze.

He squinted, trying to peer through the dust-laden haze.

The creature?

He felt relief that he had not killed it, followed by annoyance when he realized that it meant that the chase might still be on. Pivoting on his boot heel, he turned in the direction of the figure, and began to run.

Heroic Measures (continued)

It’s probably watching me, waiting for me to go away.

Walter was not ready to give up yet, but he also had no intention of staying there all afternoon until the creature showed itself again.

He studied the rooftop of the condemned bakery and those of the buildings adjacent to it. Tony’s Tires abutted to it. To reach any of the other buildings would require the creature to make a leap, or short glide, in order to reach it. That would be the only moment when it might be clearly vulnerable.

From his vantage point on the street below, he had no way to know which rooftop it might really be on—if it was on any of them at all. What he needed to do, he knew, was to drive it from its hiding place before it regained too much of its strength. Ideally, he would like to frighten it out. That way, it might be thinking less clearly, and more likely to make a mistake that might allow him to down and capture it.

He noticed a television antenna still mounted to the side of the bakery. It was blackened and charred, but still looked to be mostly intact. That it had survived the various winter storms since the fire told Walter that it was probably mounted quite securely to the building. Whether any of the wires still run from it, and were connected to anything, was something he could determine from his position on the ground. Still, the antenna itself was mounted onto the building itself . . . and that might be enough.

The tire shop has several more of them, but Walter was afraid to make use of them. For one, he did not want to accidentally fry their electrical systems and face later, possibly nasty and legal, reprisal. He also knew that there were many different types of flammable liquids stored there. A mistake on his part could make the fire that took down the bakery look like a Boy Scout campfire in comparison. He was reasonably confident that anything still remaining inside the bakery had long since burned out.

Here goes . . .

He took aim at the antenna, half-prepared for little more to happen than perhaps a few sparks across a few of the metal supports. Still, he fired well above medium power, chiefly because he wanted to make sure to clear the distance between himself and the antenna

For a moment, as he expected, nothing much happened. He saw the charge connect, a brief dance of St. Elmo’s fire, and then the antenna stood as it had before.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He kept running, trying to think as he dodged curious pedestrians and other obstacles on the sidewalk. The creature was headed toward Plymouth Avenue. Once the creature crossed it, there would be more high-level buildings. Before then, though, there was nothing before it reached Overton except for a gas station, antique store, and few other small shops that shared the building there. It might be just chance to drive the thing to ground.

Turning onto Plymouth, he scanned the rooftops, looking for any sign of the fleeing creature. He saw nothing at first, trying to see past the rooftop signs and machinery. If it was up there, it was managing to stay hidden.

Probably trying to catch its breath too.

He turned, looking along the lines of buildings, trying to mentally calculate the path the winged creature might have taken. From what he had seen, it seemed only capable of short glides, not full-fledged flight.

If it could, wouldn’t it have flown away?

Based on his best guess, it was either on the rooftop of the Tony’s Tire Shop or that of the abandoned bakery. The bakery had been empty since the fire, but Walter did not know whether or not the roof might still be intact.

A helicopter would be nice about now. Or even a model airplane with a camera.

He was about to give up and call his report in, even reaching for his two-way radio, when he spied movement on top of the burned-out bakery. When he stopped to stare at it, though, he saw nothing that had not been there before.

He remained absolutely still—much to the annoyance of several passing pedestrians—trying to see if he had imagined it. After waiting for what seemed like a long while, nothing happened and he started to turn, and then froze.

There it was again: a flickering motion in his peripheral vision. He looked at the building again, sweeping his gaze along the line of the roof and then again across what he could see of the rooftop. Again, he saw nothing.

Let me guess: it can turn invisible as well as fly.

That idle bit of irritated speculation did not worry him that much. Very few meta-humans possessed more than one useful ability.

If it could turn invisible, then why didn’t it do it before, instead of leading me on this stupid chase?

It was up there; he was sure of it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

It recovered, stared down at Walter for a moment, and then leapt for the roof. Walter ran forward, trying to fire off another bolt, but assorted bits of metalwork and masonry got in the way. By the time he found a clear shot, all he saw was the figure’s legs as it disappeared onto the roof.

Finding himself pretty much in the exact center of the alleyway, he glanced at the openings at each end, trying to decide which one to use. Based on no rational reason he could explain, he chose the one opposite from the entrance he had used and darted off to follow the creature. As he reached the street, he saw it glide across to the rooftop on the other side. It was gone before he could raise his arm to aim, but he had a good idea now which way it was headed. He considered calling in his sighting of the creature—he could certainly use the help tracking it down—but he was afraid that by even slowing down to do so might allow the creature the time it needed to escape him.

He run down the street, turning left onto Sycamore. If he remembered correctly, there were almost no buildings taller than two stories in the direction the creature was heading. He wondered if the creature knew it as well.

It took him a moment to spot it. At first, he was afraid that it might have managed to outrun him, or decided to remain out of sight on one of the rooftops until it had a better chance of escape. That might even work, Walter thought, even with air reconnaissance, as the creature seemed small enough to be able to find refuge in the shadows of any large rooftop equipment. Only a thorough building-to-building search might locate it, but that would take a lot of time.

He dashed toward the next building. The sign above it read: Delaney’s Donuts. Being several miles from his house, Walter had never been there, but knew it by reputation. It was a family-owned pastry shop, rumored to have the best donuts in this part of the city. Getting its hands—claws, he corrected himself—on the best crullers in the neighborhood did not seem to be on the creature’s agenda. It darted across the roof and then glided to the next building.

It seemed to be slowing, Walter thought. Even with the power of flight, it did not seem to possess unlimited stamina. Neither did he, Walter realized, but he hoped his would outlast the fleeing creature.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Peering into its shadowed depths, he wished that he had thought to pick up a long stick, a length of pipe, something. His electrical powers were primed, but it was still possible for someone—or something—to surprise him at close range before he could react. He might not be able to do a lot of damage to it, but it might help to slow it down so he could better defend himself.

He flipped on the flashlight mounted on his right wrist. Bathing the darkness with its beam, it exposed nothing more than assorted mounds of garbage and a trio of startled cats. At least he hoped they had been cats. He hated to think that the rats had grown that large in this part of the city.

Waving the beam upward revealed only ashen layers of matted cobwebs. From what he could tell, they had not been disturbed in a long time. Feeling somewhat relieved, he moved back onto the street and headed for the next alleyway.

The second alley proved to be equally vacant, missing even the wandering cats. It was also narrower than the first one, making him a bit trapped and claustrophobic. He was glad to be done with that one.

He moved toward the third opening, wondering if he had missed his chance. The sound had not returned since he had begun his search. Of course, he considered, that might just mean that, whatever it was, it was now lying in wait for him. He turned on the flashlight again, wondering whether he should even bother checking the other side of the street.

Maybe third time’s a charm . . .

Aiming the beam directly ahead, he stepped into the alleyway.

#

Walter stopped immediately, surprised by what he saw.

A creature stood hunched over a limp shape on the filthy concrete. Its wings looked beige and ashen in the light of his flashlight. Startled by his intrusion, it turned its head and looked at Walter, blinking in the diffuse glare of the flashlight’s beam. They stared at one another, frozen and speechless, before it gathered its wits first and rose to its feet.

It was not as tall as Walter had first guessed—perhaps no more than five-and-a-half feet tall. Its wings gave it the illusion of greater height, but not by much. Its body might even be smaller than it appeared. It turned, exposing long talons that brightly reflected the yellow-white beam of the flashlight. They appeared to be polished metal and, Walter suspected, razor-sharp.

I think I’ve found our mystery murderer . . .

He was not sure whether to be proud or terrified. It took no effort at all to recall the condition of its other victims. He had no desire to be transformed into an extra-large strip steak.

Walter tensed, expecting it to shriek or charge at him. It did neither. Instead, it looked down once more at the dead prey at its feet and then lunged upward. Its wings carried it to the narrow wrought-iron balcony one story above him. Perched there for only a moment, it turned and leapt for the one across the alleyway, one more level up.

Walter came to his senses, firing a single charge that missed the creature, but did manage to briefly electrify the metal ledge it had aimed for. The creature made a sound, but nothing like the screech Walter had heard earlier. It spasmed, stumbling along the narrow ledge like a drunkard, but somehow managed to keep itself from falling the three stories back to the ground.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Knowing that he would be little help on the chase, Walter made his way deeper into the wide alleyway. Spotlights from the squad cars filled the space with harsh swaths of light. He made the mistake of accidentally staring into one as he passed and then spent several moments trying to blink away the dark spots that now swam before his vision.

He saw several people crouched over a dark shape sprawled along the ground. It seemed to be clad in a dark cloak, and then he realized, as one of the figures sealed it, that it was a coroner’s body bag. The brief glimpse he had gotten told him enough, though. Someone had been sliced into shreds, just like the bodies that he had found with Torino and, several months later, with Red.

Their murderer had returned.

#

Walter raced down the sidewalk. The scream had come from somewhere in this area of the neighborhood. He turned the corner on Fifth and Sampson, nearly colliding with a matronly woman pushing a stroller and trying to keep the hand of a young child. He offered his heartfelt apology as he sped by, once certain that he had not harmed any of them. The woman responded with something in what sounded like a rough, East European languages. Walter guessed that it was not complimentary, but he kept moving.

The shriek sounded like that from an enormous bird of prey. A sharp chill pulsed through Walter. Its cause, he realized, was probably as much instinctively primal as it was from the memories it evoked. Scenes of the corpses that he had encountered with Torino and Red snapped through his mind like a slideshow.

Another brutal attack?

At least this time, he was appropriately dressed and armed. He was, however, also alone. As far as he knew, no one had ever seen that creature that had shredded those bodies. His mind was more than willing to offer up images of what it might be. They did nothing to ease his growing apprehension.

He slowed as ran down Sampson, listening for a new occurrence of the sound. When it did not come, he began looking for alleyways from where it might have originated. He spotted three possible ones on his side of the street and at least two others on the opposite. Having no better idea, he decided to start with the first one.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“There!” someone shouted.

Walter did not take the time to identify who it was, but turned his gaze in the direction where was pointing.

Above them, framed against the sky in the gap between the two buildings, was a winged shape. Too large to be a bird, Walter knew that it had to be a person with wings.

Damn.

The silent curse conveyed both frustration and amazement. The figure was too far away for him to be able to affect. He might be able to produce an arc from one of the steel balconies above, but he suspected that it would be too weak to accomplish anything useful.

His amazement came from the fact that person was able to fly at all. While a mainstay of comic books and movies, the miracle of self-powered flight was something that Raynes had not yet accomplished. There were a very small number of verified heroes who could move through the air without the aid of equipment, but in almost all cases, it was a matter of their ability to affect the environment around them, usually through the manipulation of gravitational forces or air density.

Of all of heroes that Walter knew of who sported actual wings, none of them, as far as knew, were capable of unassisted sustained flight. Either the wings themselves were too heavy to be useful, or too fragile to hold their owner aloft without shattering under the weight. That did not mean, he knew, that it was impossible; he had just never seen any proof of it.

Rocket boots and jet packs, however, were another matter. Several heroes included these among their repertoire of equipment. Walter had tried a pair of boots—once. He decided immediately thereafter that he would need far more training and supervision if he wished to prevent himself from becoming a dark smear along the asphalt.

He heard shouts and the roar of small rockets being ignited. A trio of heroes, each sporting a different construction of flying apparatus, moved into the sky. The winged shape, Walter saw, was dwindling in the sky and heading toward the east. He doubted that any of them would catch it before it disappeared out of range.

Patriot was shouting something about using missiles, and apparently receiving equally vocal [] against the idea. Walter had to agree. Whatever act the winged being might have committed, going after it with an ICBM seemed like overkill to Walter: somewhat equivalent to swatting a mosquito with a sledgehammer. It might be terribly effective, but it was even more likely to inflict even greater damage—and still not get the job done. Walter suspected that Patriot would lose that argument and, as usual, being in a particularly sour mood thereafter. He would make it a point to avoid the star-spangled military hero, especially after the second Scotch.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Red gave him a puzzled expression. Walter figured that his friend probably thought he was reacting to the scene in front of them. He felt no need to correct that impression.

The flash of memory from his previous encounter, coupled with the still-sharp ache of Torino’s loss, beat back any remaining queasiness. His mind felt curiously clear, in a strangely disassociated sort of way. He knelt to get a closer look at what remained of the body.

It was twisted in such a way that he could not see its face. He was reluctant to touch it, both because he did not want to disturb the crime scene, and he was not at all certain that he was prepared for what he might find.

He heard Red shuffle closer behind him.

“Anyone we know?”

Walter studied the mangled form.

Nothing about clothing looked familiar. That was not really much of an indication, he knew, other than to eliminate the likelihood that it was one of his acquaintances that tended toward very unique fashions: Val, for example.

“I don’t think so,” Walter answered in a deep whisper.

He heard Red take a slow breath of relief.

Walter passed the beam over the ground near the corpse. There were no obvious footprints or other indications of where the attacker had gone. He pointed the flashlight upward, but once again saw nothing but vaguely ominous shadows.

“You’d better go call it in,” he told Red.

“Are you sure?”

Walter nodded. “Yeah,” he answered. “I’ll stay here.”

“Okay,” Red agreed. Walter could hear the reluctant skepticism in his friend’s voice. “If you’re sure.”

I’m not.

“I am,” Walter said aloud. “Now go . . . before I do change my mind.”

He heard Red’s footsteps move away, their cadence increasing as he cleared the alcove’s opening.

Walter remained kneeling, but shifted the flashlight so that it no longer shone directly on the shredded corpse. He held the beam so that it left the grisly form as just an indistinct dark mass. He wanted to keep an eye on it, as if afraid that it might suddenly vanish.

Red returned a few minutes, or at it seemed like only a few to Walter. He was breathless and Walter was worried that he might have been unable to locate a telephone nearby.

“They’re on their way,” Red reported in between panting breaths. “Westin said to stay put.”

Walter looked up at Red in surprise.

Walter had assumed that Red would contact the police. It took him a moment to realize that it made sense for Red to have contacted the hero organization instead.

“Okay,” he nodded, and arose from his kneeling position. With Red there, he longer felt the need to keep as close a watch on the mangled corpse.

The stiffness of his knees and burning of his thigh muscles told him that he must have been crouching there for longer than he had thought. As he stood there waiting, staring into the darkness, he realized that he never had found out what had happened to the one that he and Torino had found.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Red remained upright. He moved the flashlight’s beam away so that it no longer illuminated the grisly form. They could still tell that there was something there, but could no longer see any of the unpleasant details.

“What is it?” Red gasped.

Walter shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He was reluctant to ask Red to shine the beam back at it. The image in his mind was probably far more horrible than what was actually there, but he had little desire to test the theory.

“That was no dog,” Red remarked in a raspy tone.

That observation cleared some of the fuzz from Walter’s mind.

“Give me back the flashlight.”

He felt Red slide it back onto his palm. Walter played the beam along the ground, avoiding the mutilated shape, and then up along the walls. Whatever had made those sounds, assuming that it was not the dead creature ahead, had fled. Or was hiding in wait for its next prey?

Walter felt exposed in his street clothes. Sure, he could still summon up a charge if he needed to defend himself, but had only a few thin layers of cloth between himself and whatever had torn apart that poor creature. Red was not much better off, having only the additional advantage of a lightweight jacket.

It did not feel right to Walter to just abandon the scene without investigating it further. They might not be capable of completing a full investigation, but the two of them should be able to determine whether or not there was actually anything worth reporting—and to whom.

Swallowing hard, he aimed the flashlight at the grisly mass and took several steps forward. He was fighting back a rising wave of nausea when the memory returned, filling his mind. It was more than déjà vu, for he had actually been here before. Not in this deep alcove, exactly, but in very, very similar surroundings. He remembered the shredded body that he and Torino had found. A dull ache echoed around his heart at the memory of his young colleague.

“What is it?” Red asked.

Walter shook his head, not wanting to answer, not yet.

Heroic Measures (continued)

All he saw immediately were more shadows and small drifts of garbage and debris. Whatever purpose the alcove served, it did not look as though anyone had swept it out for quite some time. Walter took a hesitant step forward, feeling somewhat reassured when he heard Red’s footstep echo softly behind him.

Swallowing back an acid lump in his throat, Walter took a few more steps into the space. He played the faint beam along the ground. Its pale yellow light revealed nothing more. Walter heard Red’s shuffling steps just behind him and dared to take a few more of his own. Shining the light ahead exposed a dark mass about the size of a medium-sized animal. The faint light provided no details. He could not tell whether it might have been the creature who had issued the howls that he and Red had heard earlier, or simply a bag of discarded garbage.

It’s actually an ideal place for a transient to hide, Walter realized. There’s only one entrance to keep an eye on.

He just hoped that the hypothetical transient had not met its end at the jaws of whatever creatures he had heard.

Walter moved closer, but more slowly now. He sniffed carefully at the air. There was the scent of moist garbage . . . and something else. Recognition of the odor flitted at the edges of his consciousness, but he could not manage to grasp it before it darted away. It was associated with darkness somehow, he sensed.

A place like this? he wondered.

He aimed the light directly at the dark shape on the pavement. Bits of it shone in the faint light. He took it first for bits of plastic still clinging to the remains of a large garbage bag. It looked to have been torn apart, allowing its contents to . . .

Walter spun away. The beam from the flashlight washed crazily over the brick walls that surrounded them. Walter nearly dropped to his knees as he fought back the compulsion to vomit.

“Walt? What’s wrong?”

His ears rang and Red’s voice seemed to come from a far distance. Walter gagged, but managed not to succumb to his body’s instinctive reaction.

“Walt?”

Walter pressed the tiny flashlight into Red’s palm and waved him in the direction of the dark shape. A moment later, his friend’s strangled gasp told him that Red had seen it too.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He caught up with Red quickly. Red was humming a light tune that Walter did not recognize. It sounded vaguely classical, but might have been the refrain from a television theme song for all Walter knew. Whatever it was, it told him that Red seemed to be in a particularly good mood.

Whoever she was, she must have been something special . . .

Walter was about to comment aloud when they both paused. From somewhere ahead came a warbling low-pitched growl.

At least two or three of them, it sounds like.

He looked over at Red. His friend shrugged and they turned and headed in the direction of the sound.

From what they could tell, it came from narrow alcove between two old brick buildings. Walter knew that the gap did not connect to the street on the other side. It ended in a concrete barrier just a few yards inside. Still, it was deep enough that its end was hidden in shadow.

Walter stood and peered into the darkness. He could see nothing clearly, but caught the occasional glimpse of something that might have been a reflection off of bared teeth—very large teeth. He exchanged a look with Red, saw him swallow.

“Sounds like dogs.” Red’s voice was a soft rasp. All of his earlier jauntiness had fled from his expression.

Walter nodded.

“Sounds like they’re fighting over something.”

Red nodded his agreement.

“Should we check it out?” Walter asked.

Red glanced down the short alleyway into the darkness and then turned back to Walter.

“Why? Are you supposed to bring take-out home for dinner?”

Walter’s stomach tightened at the thought. He fought back a wash of bile at the back of his throat.

The depths of alcove suddenly went silent.

Both men now stared into its depth.

“That can’t be good,” Walter whispered.

They waited in anticipation for several moments, not at all certain what to expect. When the sounds did not resume, Walter found that he relaxed only slightly.

“Here,” Red said, tossing Walter a length of rotting wood that he had apparently pulled off of one of the window ledges.

Walter stared down at the ragged piece of wood. It was better than nothing—but not by much. Still, it was something he could use to beat off an attack with other than his bare hands.

“Do you have a flashlight?” Walter asked Red.

Red shook his head. Walter stared into the darkness of the short alleyway, quite certain that he did not want to venture into it with some kind of light source.

“Wait a sec,” he said. “I just remembered . . .”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. Attached to them was a tiny flashlight that Abigail had given after watching him fumble for the correct key one too many times in the dark parking lot. He pressed the tiny button to turn it on, and then squinted in the daylight to see whether it was actually working. He turned it toward the alleyway. Its faint beam barely penetrated more than a few inches ahead, but it was enough to provide some indication of what lay within.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter did not know how long he sat there. When he looked down at his glass again, about half the ice in it had melted and the water was nearly gone. He could not remember drinking it. Looking at the clock told him nothing, for he could not remember what time he had sat down. He did find, though, that he felt a bit more at peace. However long it had been, he had needed those minutes within himself, something he had been denied until that evening.

He drained the water from the glass, feeling the sharp chill of the remaining ice against his tongue and lips. The faint tingling that followed as they warmed again reminded him that he was alive. As long as there was life, he believed, there was hope.

And with that thought, he rose and headed into the kitchen. He would clean the dishes, gather a book, and then rest beside his beloved. It was possible that they might not have many nights left together, but he would cherish each and every one of them.

As he turned on the water, waiting for it to warm, he released that there was another thing he must do. In some ways, it would be even more difficult than what he had already suffered. There was no doubt in his mind, though, that it had to be done.

Sometimes, he considered, there are simply no other choices.

#

“What about the red-haired girl from last night?”

Red turned to Walter. He puzzled for a moment over the question and then his eyes brightened.

“Oh, her.” He grinned and shrugged.

“What? Didn’t you get her name and phone number?”

Red stared back at Walter with an expression of exaggerated thoughtfulness. After a moment, he shook his head once.

Walter stopped, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“But . . . I thought . . .” he swallowed and tried again. “I thought you two . . . ?”

Red nodded slowly. He smiled with obvious satisfaction at the memory.

“We did.”

“And you didn’t even know her name?”

“Nope.”

Red began walking again. It took Walter a moment to recover before he trotted to catch up with Red.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Walter stared at Red again, but found himself seeing only the back of his friend’s head as he continued walked away.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter left the bedroom, pausing a moment to turn off the light. He turned and pulled the door closed, leaving it open just a crack. Through it, he could see the silhouette of Abigail’s sleeping form. She appeared to be resting more comfortably now, gaining more genuine sleep than that afforded to her by the potent painkillers that had been prescribed for her at the hospital. Her strength seemed to be returning as well, but Walter knew that it would be some time yet before she was ready to care for the house as she had done before.

He passed through the hallway and entered the kitchen. The dinner dishes still needed to be washed, but he just wanted to rest for just a bit before he tackled that. Removing a short glass from the cupboard, he dropped three ice cubes into it from the refrigerator door dispenser, and turned toward the short cabinet where he stored their small supply of liquor. He stopped with a sigh without opening it. He found that he did not really want a drink. Even a single dram of some of his best Scotch held little appeal for him. He settled for water instead and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it.

His eyes turned toward the direction of the hallway. From where he sat, he could not see the door that led to the bedroom. He could see it with absolute clarity in his mind’s eye, even to Abigail’s dark silhouette on the bed as she slept. It rested there for only a moment, reassuring him that she remained all right, before returning to the warm yellow light of the kitchen.

This wasn’t how I planned it, Abby.

He had fought hard not to feel sorry for himself. After all, it was Abigail who was suffering, not him. Still, it was difficult not to imagine how their dreams for the future had been altered. He knew that death was the eventual fate for both of them, but he had foreseen decades ahead for them before either of them had been forced to face that reality head-on.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter and Isabel made it about a dozen paces down the corridor before Walter broke down. He had tried valiantly to hold it in, to keep his emotions under control until he could at least make it to the privacy of a restroom. Isabel guided him into an empty room a short distance away and he collapsed into an empty chair as she turned on the lights.

She stood silently, resting a hand gently on his shoulder as he sobbed. Occasionally, she would offer him a fresh tissue. He accepted each without a word, unable to speak past the tears. Time passed, although he did not know how much, before the worst of it passed. He found it difficult to breathe, but fought past it until it was reduced to residual sniffles.

Isabel’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder in a silent show of support. Her expression bore nothing but compassion. Of all of the people who he might have allowed to see him break down like this, she was one of the few. As judgmental as she could be on occasion, she never failed to demonstrate genuine compassion when it was needed.

“I’m sorry,” Walter said with a sigh, unwilling to meet Isabel’s eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said softly.

Walter took a deep, slow breath, but did not respond.

They sat for a long time in silence, Walter lost in his thoughts. He had no idea where Isabel’s mind traveled. For himself, he fought back images of futures in which Abigail was no longer a part. He had known that he loved her, but until that moment he had not truly understood its depth.

“About that coffee . . . ?” he finally managed to whisper.

“Sure,” Isabel said. “I’ll buy.”

A hoarse chuckle sounded from Walter’s throat, followed with a thin, weak smile. He started to rise and Isabel stepped back, giving him room. Walter held the door for her as they left. It was not until he was several steps down the hallway that it registered on his conscious mind what the sign outside the door had been: OB-GYN EXAM.

He was not certain whether to laugh or to faint.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He looked back down toward Abigail. Reaching down, he gingerly took her hand, cautiously avoiding the various tubes and wires that were present. All he could manage was to grasp her fingers, but that small form of contact was enough.

Abigail’s eyes found Walter’s and held onto them. Her smile, although still weak, grew. Walter just stared down at her, fighting back tears. He was scared, in a way he had never felt before, and unable to give voice to his fear.

Her eyes dulled for a moment and she closed them. Walter looked down at her chest, reassured by the steady rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Whatever had brought her here, she did not seem to be close to death. He needed to believe that, and nothing anyone had told him so far had made it sound not to be true.

A long sigh issued from Abigail. At first, Walter thought he might be wrong, that it might be her last breath. But she breathed again and her eyes opened. They focused on him, although still not firmly.

“Tired . . .” she whispered. She seemed suddenly weak.

Walter looked toward Isabel. Her lips were drawn into a tight line.

“We should let her rest,” Isabel said, resting a hand on Walter’s arm.

Walter glanced back at Abigail, wanting to protest, but saw that she seemed to be asleep. He sagged slightly, conflicted between not wanting to leave her side and knowing that staying would likely accomplish little more than making him feel better—and he was not even certain about that.

“Come on,” Isabel persisted gently. “Let’s get some breakfast.” She gave him what he was certain she felt was intended to be a reassuring smile. “The food’s not too bad here . . . as hospital food goes.”

That seemed to Walter to be a very weak recommendation.

“Some coffee might not hurt,” he conceded, feeling a sudden wash of fatigue.

“Exactly,” Isabel nodded.

Walter allowed her to guide him from the room, pausing at the door to turn and take another look at Abigail. The nurse, who had hung back during their all-too-brief visit, had returned. She adjusted Abigail’s blanket and then checked the readings on the various pieces of equipment. Walter sighed and slowly left the room.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter slowly approached Abigail’s bed, afraid of what he might find. He caught sight of her and felt a wave of relief wash through him. Although she still looked pale, the waxy sheen was gone from her skin. The deep lines of pain he had seen were barely visible. She turned toward him. Her eyes, dull now, seemed to have trouble finding him.

“Walter?”

Her voice was a soft whisper. He was barely able to hear it over the sounds of the monitoring equipment and the movements of the other people in the room.

He moved closer.

“I’m here, Abby.”

He tried for a brave smile, but could not manage it. It came across as a half-hearted frown.

A weak smile formed on her lips, but it was real and that brought one to Walter’s. Her eyes wandered again, closed, and she took a deep sighing breath. Walter started, feeling a rush of renewed concern.

He felt a hand rest of his arm. Looking up, he found Isabel looking down at Abigail. She looked toward Walter, nodded and gave him a quick, reassuring smile.

“It’s the sedation,” she told Walter. “It’s perfectly normal.”

Walter met her gaze flatly, not comforted.

Heroic Measures (continued)

They were forced to wait for an elevator. All of them were in use, and none seemed to be in any hurry to arrive back on their floor. Walter said nothing, eyes fixed ahead on the closed elevator doors, silently willing them to open. Beside him, Isabel said nothing. Her feet shifted position constantly while they waited. She seemed ready to leap into the elevator car when the chime sounded and its doors slowly slid open.

Two lab coated-physicians entered the elevator behind them as Isabel pressed the button for the second floor. Neither of the two doctors regarded them as one of them punched for the eighth floor. The doors closed.

No one said a word as the elevator rose. The only sound was the motors that drove the elevator and, after what felt like an unreasonably long time, the chime indicating that they had reached the second floor of the hospital.

Walter and Isabel exited, nearly colliding with another physician and a female orderly who, for some reason, had been standing too close to the doors when they opened. Isabel stepped onto the floor, checked the map mounted on the wall next to the elevator once briefly, and then led Walter down the corridor.

Room 228 seemed to be located around the far end of the floor from the elevator. At least it felt that way to Walter. He quickly lost his sense of direction, for all of the rooms and corridors looked alike, and he was not entirely convinced that Isabel had chosen the most direct route. Before he could voice his opinion, though, they arrived outside Abigail’s room.

They paused outside the door. Walter took several slow, deep breaths to steady himself.

I need to be brave for her. Be strong.

He nodded once to Isabel and they entered the room.

Walter was surprised to find that Abigail was not alone. He was not particularly surprised to find a nurse tending to her, but he had not expected to find a second, occupied bed in the room as well. He fought back a swell of anger, telling himself that it would accomplish nothing right at that moment. Forcing himself to ignore the person who occupied the other bed, although he caught the glimpse of someone who appeared to be very old, he moved as quietly as he could manage toward Abigail’s bed.

The nurse looked up, seemed to recognize Isabel, and stepped aside. Walter could not be certain, but he thought he caught a glimpse of something like disapproval or distaste in the nurse’s gaze. It was something he could puzzle over later.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Isabel and Red returned several minutes later. Red looked as though he had showered and put on a clean set of clothes, but Walter could not honestly remember what Red had been wearing when he had arrived. Each carried a white foam cup in each hand.

Isabel offered one of hers to Walter. He smelled the sharp aroma of institutional coffee. He accepted it silently, holding it between both palms as if warming his hands with it. Red held one out to Vivian. She shook her head in refusal. He seemed perplexed by this and stared down at the cup in each of his two hands. After a moment, he placed one of them down at the narrow table beside Vivian’s seat.

“Any news?”

Walter shook his head in response to Isabel’s question.

She nodded once and took a tentative sip from her cup. Grimacing, she swallowed it down. Red stood awkwardly, not really fidgeting, but seeming unwilling to sit. Walter glanced up at him, distracted by his friend’s shifting movements. He was about to say something when he heard a repeated trilling sound from the admissions desk.

Walter looked up as the nurse answered the phone. She listened for a moment, nodded, and then placed the headset back down on its cradle. After making some kind of notation in an unseen file on her desk, she looked up at Walter.

“You can go in now, Mr. Eastman. Room two-twenty-eight.”

It took Walter a moment to fully comprehend the woman’s message. He rose and found Isabel standing beside him.

“I’ll take you,” she said quietly. Her tone in those few words spoke volumes of [] and compassion.

Walter nodded and began to follow her toward the doors. He paused and turned to face Vivian. Her eyes met his and she could tell that was troubled. He gave her a weak smile and then turned his gaze toward Red.

He was standing more calmly now. From what Walter could tell, though, Red did not seem to be fully aware of his surroundings. He had seen Red drunk, hungover, dazed, and feverish, but never quite like this. It was something he would have to puzzle over later. Vivian could keep watch over him and, if anything happened, they were already in a hospital.

Isabel was waiting for him, standing between the open glass panels of the two doors. She watched him with concern, her eyes following him as he passed her into the corridor beyond.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“We need to run some more tests,” he told Walter.

Walter knew the man was stalling, preparing him for harsher news. He nodded his understanding, hoping that the doctor would continue quickly. It felt crueler to drag it out with standard statements and disclaimers.

The physician met his eyes. His lips tightened as he spoke. “We suspect it’s some kind of abdominal cancer. That’s why we need the tests: to determine which organs are affected.”

Walter felt Isabel’s hand tighten around his. He swallowed with difficulty past the lump that had formed in his throat.

“How soon?” Walter’s voice was a rough whisper.

The doctor’s gaze softened, revealing a deep well of compassion.

“We should have preliminary results in a few hours.”

“Can I see her?”

“Not just yet. She’s heavily sedated and we’re still working our way through the tests.”

Walter nodded slowly. It was not the answer he wanted to hear, but he understood. Isabel’s grip relaxed, but she did not let go.

“Someone will come get you.”

The physician rose and passed back through the twin sliding doors. He did not look back. The retreating rear of his white lab coat was the last Walter ever saw of him.

“I’m so sorry, Walter,” Vivian said, reaching for the hand that Isabel had not claimed. Her eyes were bright.

Walter’s eyes moved to Isabel’s face. Her expression was sympathetic, but determined.

“Walt.”

Red was looking in his direction, but not looking directly at him. He gave a tight shrug of his shoulders and then sagged, unable or unwilling to say anything more.

Isabel studied Red intently. Something like disapproval crossed her expression. With obvious reluctance, she released Walter’s hand and rose.

“Come with me.”

When Red hesitated, Isabel gripped his forearm and guided him with understated force toward the double doors. She paused for a moment as the doors slid open and turned her head. Her eyes flicked in Vivian’s direction before settling on Walter.

“We’ll be back shortly.”

Walter just stared. He still remained much in shock to question her actions. Silently, he watched as the doors closed, cutting of his view of them. Vivian slid closer to him and he felt her presence there. He thought that perhaps he should look at her, but all he could was to stare numbly at the floor.

Heroic Measures (continued)

About fifteen minutes later, enough time for Walter to being to get agitated again by Isabel's failure to return, Red strode in through the outside doors. Walter did not recognize him at first, as he was dressed in a long dark overcoat and his hair was unusually long and unkempt. As he approached, Walter tried to remember just when it was that he had last seen Red in person. He had heard reports of his activities through the various communication channels, but had trouble recalling when they had been together in the same place.

Red appeared to momentarily suffer from the same lack of recognition. His gaze passed over Walter and Vivian as he came through the doors, only settling on them after his eyes had swept the entire reception area. He appeared distracted or disoriented, but Walter gave that only his scant attention. His thoughts were on the events taking place beyond the closed hospital doors.

“Walt,” Red said, stopping to stand in front of Walter and Vivian.

Walter looked up. It took him a moment to recognize his friend. It required less time than that for Walter to notice the sour odor that seemed to be emanating from fellow hero. He started to say something, but the metallic sighing of the hospital doors interrupted him.

Walter’s eyes immediately moved away from Red. He saw Isabel come through the doors. Her expression was grim, her lips drawn into a tight line. Walter started to rise quickly, and then slowed as he saw a figure in a white medical coat following a few paces behind Isabel. Something told him that it was no coincidence.

Isabel met his eyes when she reached him. There was something she wanted to say, but seemed unable to find the words before the physician reached them. Isabel sat down next to Walter, sitting close so that her leg pressed lightly against his. Her eyes traveled to his hand on his opposite side, still clutched by Vivian.

“Mr. Eastman?”

It took Walter’s eyes a long time to travel upward to the doctor’s face. He found that they had trouble focusing once they were there.

“Yes.”

The voice sounded like his, but it seemed to come from a far distance.

The doctor took a deep breath.

“The good news is that we have your wife stabilized. We’re managing her pain and she’s resting comfortably.”

Walter blinked. That’s the good news . . .

The doctor glanced over at Isabel and then back at Walter.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter was surprised, but later realized that he should not have been, to find that Osprey arrived at the hospital before he did. He had been unable to ride along with Abigail in the ambulance, the EMT citing some new rule involving liability to passengers if something happened en route. So, Walter had been forced to drive himself, which meant that they had already admitted her by the time he got there and found a parking space.

The nurse at the admissions desk was no use. She begrudgingly admitted that, yes, Abigail had been admitted, but only after Walter showed his insurance identification. Other than that, she repeatedly informed him that he should take a seat and the doctor would come talk to him as soon as he was available.

Vivian gave him sympathetic looks throughout, but did not interfere. Walter wanted to be annoyed for her for not at least trying to help him out, but knew that she was likely to have had even less success as she was not even a member of Abigail's immediate family. Eventually, he sat down, his eyes continually moving toward the doors that led inside the hospital. Vivian sat beside him, saying nothing, hoping to offer him strength and support through her presence.

Isabel arrived less than a half-hour later. Walter gave her a brief summary of what had happened. She asked a few questions, all of which just made Walter realize how little he had to offer in terms of useful information. Her frown grew a bit more with each barely informative answer. Finally, she moved away and exchanged some words with the admissions nurse. Walter guessed that she had experienced as much success as he had when she returned a few minutes later.

"I'll see what I can find out." She squeezed Walter's hand and, to his surprise, passed through the sliding doors and entered the hospital interior.

Walter stared after her, too astonished to speak. He turned to look at Vivian, who shrugged back at him with a slight smile.

"She is a registered nurse," she reminded him.

Walter's head turned back toward the twin sliding doors that remained impassable to him.

Yeah, I guess she is.

He sighed. Now he had to wait for two people to bring him the answers he sought.

Why Ay Novel (continued)

"I looked everywhere, Mom!"

She gave me that stare. You know, the one that clearly asks, "Everywhere?"

It was true: I hadn't checked every room in the house. It didn't make sense to me to check places where Rebecca would never go, such as the garage or the garden shed. She had no interest in cars or tools, and was terrified of spiders.

Mom made a sound like a disgusted rhinoceros and dropped the towel she was holding onto the counter.

"That girl . . ."

Her tone hinted at the consequences to Rebecca when we found her. I couldn't help but smile—just a little.

Dad chose that moment to enter the kitchen. He had a folded newspaper tucked under one arm. Yes, a real newspaper, printed on paper. Sure, they were handy to have around when we were house-training Buster when he was a puppy. Aside from that, I never saw the point. Why didn't he just get the latest updates from one of the countless newsfeeds?

"Jonathon," Mom said, trying to sound patient and calm and, I thought, not succeeding very well. "Michael can't find Rebecca."

Thanks, Mom. Put the blame on me!

I started considering ways to exact my revenge on Rebecca after we found her. Not immediately afterward, as Mom would already be mad from dinner being late, but when I could.

Something involving spiders . . . or snakes. Maybe Chen-Tzu would let me borrow one of his tarantulas . . .

Dad looked at me and then back at Mom.

"You've checked the house?"

Mom gave him the same look that she had given me just a few minutes. Unlike me, however, Dad just ignored it.

"Well," he said, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. "Let's go take another look."

Dad led me back into the living room, not bothering to look back to see what expression Mom wore now. I followed him up the stairs. I guessed that he was heading back to Rebecca's room.

"She left her phone in there," I told Dad as he entered the bedroom.

Dad nodded. "Then she must be around here somewhere."

That made sense to me. While my sister didn't act as if her phone was glued to her hand like almost every other girl I knew, she almost never left the house without it.

Dad picked up her phone, which was silent now, and looked it over. He didn't look at what was on the screen, just at the entire phone. I don't know what he was hoping to find—fingerprints, maybe?

He frowned and let out a short, monotonous hum. He put the phone back down and looked around the bedroom. Like me, he didn't see anything that seemed to be out of place. He walked over the window, which was closed, and looked out over the rooftop that ran across from it.

Dad played with the latch. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it had been fastened. That meant that, wherever Rebecca was, she hadn't snuck out the window. There's no way she could have locked it behind her. I know, because we had tried to unlock it before from the outside. That was not one of Mom's happier moments to discover us on the rooftop shortly after midnight—even if it hadn't been a school night.

"We’d better check the basement," Dad said.

"I already did."

He looked at me for a moment and then must have decided that I was telling the truth. His frown deepened.

"Where's Buster?"

As stupid as it sounds, I looked around for him. It was only then that I realized that he had not been following on our heels and getting in the way as we searched for Rebecca.

I shrugged. "I dunno."

He made that sound again, the one he makes when he's trying to think hard about something.

"We'd better tell your mother," he finally said. He didn't look any happier about it then I did.

Mom did not take the news well. She mutters things about how hard she had worked on dinner, the lack of respect child had these days, and some other things I didn't entirely understand. It almost sounded like she was more upset about the roast beef than about Rebecca.

Dad just looked sympathetic, but didn't try to soothe her. He even held the door for her as the three of us headed out to begin searching the neighborhood for my stupid sister and the even dumber dog.

Why Ay Novel

- 1 -
Lost and Found

"Michael, go get your sister. Dinner'll be ready in a few minutes."

"Okay, mom," I mumbled, not nearly loud enough to be heard.

I switched screens on my iPad, sent her a text, and then went back to playing my game.

"Did you get her?"

"I text'd her."

"Go. Get. Her." I knew that tone. She made each word like she was singing a song—it was not a happy song.

Grumbling under my breath, definitely not wanting to be heard, I got up from the couch and went in search of Rebecca.

"Why can't you be like every other girl in the world and take your phone everywhere you go?" I said more aloud.

I climbed the stairs to the second level of the house and stopped outside her bedroom. I reached for handle and then stopped. Mom had told me that needed to stop barging in on her: something about her becoming a young woman or something. She still seemed like the same insufferable brat she's always been . . . just taller.

Rapping on the door, I listened for sounds of movement inside.

"Becks?"

When no answer came, I knocked again harder.

"Becks?" I repeated, louder this time.

She didn't answer, so I figured I was allowed the open the door now.

Her bedroom was empty. Well, not exactly empty. All of her furniture was there—bed, dresser, nightstand, desk—but no Rebecca.

There was a sudden noise and I looked down. Her phone buzzed to itself on her nightstand.

I breathed a deep sigh. This was now becoming inconvenient. I looked around her room again, making sure that she really wasn't in there somewhere.

She wasn't.

I turned and left the room, closing the door a bit harder than I needed to. I winced, knowing I'd hear from it Mom later.

Looking down the hallway, I headed toward the bathroom, telling myself that I should have checked there first. She was a girl, after all. I started to knock on the door, but saw that it wasn't really closed. The inside was dark as well.

Now I was becoming seriously annoyed. Not just because I had been forced to end my winning streak, but because I also knew I'd get it from Mom for not looking hard enough. I decided to try the basement before telling Mom that I couldn’t find her. I didn't check upstairs, as there was no reason to think she'd be in my parent's bedroom. We were not allowed to be in there without explicit permission. Most of those times, I'd rather have been almost anywhere else.

I made it down both sets of stairs without drawing Mom's attention. I realized about halfway down to the basement that I was still holding my phone.

It's not like she's going answer it . . .

I slipped it into my pocket and climbed down the rest of the steps.

Someone had left one of the lamps on, but it didn't look like anyone had been down here in days.

"Becks?" I called out. I don't know why I hesitated. There was something about the lighting, I guess, that made the place seem unusually creepy.

"Becks?"

I turned on one of the overhead spotlights. It did banish the darkness, but did nothing to reveal the whereabouts of my missing sister. I flipped the light back off and slowly started back up the stairs, trying to figure out what to tell Mom.

Heroic Measures (continued)

That's odd.

Continuing on toward the hallway that led to their bedroom, he was both relieved and surprised to see that the light was on. It would not be the first time that she had fallen asleep with the light on, but it was unusual. She usually complained when he left the bedside lamp on to read. The last time she had slept like this was . . .

Walter felt a faint smile and a glimmer of hope. Although they were both a little older now, it was still possible . . .

He approached the bedroom with a lighter heart, but stopped abruptly when he saw that the bed was empty. The covers had been pulled back as if she had been lying there, or planning to, but there was no sign of Abigail.

Walter's frown returned. Something was definitely wrong here. Abigail would not have left without leaving him a note—and certainly not without locking the front door. It was a safe enough neighborhood, having a respectively low crime rate, but she was not one to tempt fate.

Walter moved into the bedroom looking for any other signs that Abigail had been here. He was nearly to the bathroom when he caught sight of a bare foot partially hidden by the partition wall. His mind filled with an image of her laying there that caused a scream to sound unbidden from his throat. He raced through the bedroom, nearly tumbling over edge of the mattress.

He knelt before her, breathing heavily. His pulse slowed as he realized that there was no blood to be seen.

"Walter?" Her voice was a weak whisper.

"I'm here, Abby."

He took her hand gently and ever so carefully rolled her onto to her back. His breath caught when he saw her.

Her skin was pale and waxy. He started to bend over her, but stopped when he saw her stomach tighten. Her arms hugged her abdomen weakly. A sharp, but nearly silent moan escaped her lips.

"Abby," Walter said, his voice rising to match his growing concern. "What happened?"

She tried to speak, but failed. Instead, she shook her head and then her arms clenched around her middle once more.

Walter turned to look for the telephone, but he did not want to leave her there alone, not even for the brief moment it would take him to gather it.

Abigail's breath came in short, shallow bursts. Her eyes refused to focus on his and he knew that he had no other choice.

He nearly leapt to his nightstand where the phone rested and was punching 9-1-1 even as he moved back to her. Time seemed to stretch into eons before the dispatcher answered the line.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter fumbled with the door handle, missed it, and dropped his keys. It was not until he knelt to grope in the dark for them that he realized that Abigail had not left the porch light on for him. While highly unusual, it was not the first time it had happened.

Damned thing is probably burned out again.

Walter mumbled vague curses under his breath as his fingers roamed the gritty concrete for his fallen house keys. Still crouching, he scooted forward, nearly landing on his knees. He reached out to balance himself against the door, his hand fortuitously finding the handle for support. It turned suddenly beneath his hand.

This time he did fall, banging both shins against the metal threshold as he tumbled into the foyer. He gritted his teeth against the stabbing pain in his legs. Slowly and clumsily, he made his way to his feet. Only then did he realize that the door had been unlocked. The foyer was dark as well.

Walter frowned and turned on the light. Part of his mind expected to find the living room ransacked by thieves, but it appeared as it always did: every cushion, magazine, and piece of decorative bric-a-brac was in its place. That actually concerned him more.

It was late enough, he supposed, that Abigail might have fallen asleep waiting for him. For that reason, he did not call out for her, fearing that he might wake her. If she were sleeping, she could stay that way. He would disturb her only when he was ready to join her.

He saw that the light in the kitchen was still on and paused. No noises came from there. There were no sounds of running water or from the metallic banging of pots and pans being put away. Walter stopped in the doorway to find that the dinner dishes had not been done. They were still stacked on the countertop next to the sink, but still covered with the remnants of the meal.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Raynes waited patiently, almost without moving, while Walter regained control. It took some time, but he accomplished the feat. It required more of his personal strength than perhaps any heroic feat he had ever performed.

He took two deep breaths and was able to face Raynes again. He was certain that his eyes still revealed the depths of his despair.

"I need to go," Walter said, rising from the chair. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Walter."

Walter froze in the doorway, but did not turn around.

"I'll do everything I can," Raynes said. "You have my word."

Walter's fingers tightened along the door frame. He said nothing. His chest tightened, feeling as though it might strangle his heart. Somehow, he managed to find his next breath. Like he knew he would have to in the months—and likely years—ahead, he placed one foot in front of the other and kept moving.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"You have to do something!"

Walter fought back the urge to scream at Raynes. It took nearly every ounce of his self-control, but he managed it.

"Walter," Raynes said quietly, almost apologetically. "There's nothing I can do." He released a short, soft sigh. "I'm a physicist, not a physician."

"You must know some," Walter pleaded, not caring that his voice had began to rise. "There must be someone you can call . . ."

Raynes looked down at his desk. His expression clearly carried his anguish at being unable to help Walter.

"There is," Raynes admitted, "But all they'll be able to do is sit by with you and wait."

"How do you know that?"

There was a long pause before Raynes answered.

"Because I already called them."

Walter found himself stunned into silence. He stared at Raynes, not blinking.

"What . . . ? How . . . ?"

Raynes' lips formed a thin smile. "I have my sources."

Walter stared at him, speechless.

"Then they can do something?" Walter's voice was a weak whisper.

Raynes shook his head slowly.

"It's too late," he said quietly. "There's nothing they can do."

Raynes looked up and met Walter's eyes.

"Walt," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I really am."

Walter's eyes searched Raynes'. He found nothing but sincere regret and compassion there. Walter turned his eyes away, staring now at the desk in front of him.

"I . . ." he trailed off, unable to find the words he needed. "I can't."

He breathed a heavy sigh that sounded almost like a sob.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"He was probably praying for his miserable little life," Grant announced.

"Maybe so," Raynes responded coolly. "But watch his eyes."

The image zoomed back slightly so they had a better view of the man's entire face.

Walter studied the perpetrator's eyes. There were two of them, as was to be expected. They seemed to be an unusual shade of gray-green, but it was difficult to know for certain with the shifts in the lighting. They were vaguely bloodshot, which Walter did not find surprising. Still, there was nothing particularly unique about them that Walter could see—and yet he felt as though he was missing something important.

Which is why Raynes is the genius leader of this group and you're not, Walter reminded himself with rancor.

"Yeah? So? There are two of them." Grant grumbled. "Get to the point, Raynes."

Raynes favored Grant with only the briefest of bemused looks.

"I know you might find this hard to believe, Grant," Raynes explained. "But they weren't looking at you."

"Yeah? So he was too scared to look. Would you?"

Walter realized then that Raynes was right. The man's eyes not only were not focused on Grant, which was surprising enough in itself, but they did not even seem to recognize Grant's presence.

"We're for waiting for the toxicology results from the autopsy," Raynes went on. "I suspect we're going to find some very interesting results."

"So the guy was spaced out on dope," Grant offered dismissively. "What of it?"

"I don't think that's what we're going find," Raynes said.

Everyone fell silent at that. It was not often that Raynes was wrong, so when he offered opinions that ran contrary to what one would expect, people tended to listen.

"What are we going to find then?" Westin asked impatiently.

"When the autopsy is complete," Raynes replied, "we'll see. And then we'll know."

Both Westin and Grant scowled when it became clear that Raynes was going to offer no further explanation at that time.

"Fine," Westin growled. "Then what about the prayer—or whatever it was the man was saying? Don't tell me the autopsy will tell us that."

"It won't," Raynes agreed. He turned and stared at the now-still image on the screen. "That we're still going to need to work on."

Heroic Measures (continued)

"What's he saying?" Westin demanded.

"Dunno," Kenniston replied. "Can't hear him over the noise."

Whatever Westin said next was lost in the shouts of people and the smashing sounds from bits of the furnishings as thugs were thrown into them or they were used as projectiles to bring down the ones who tried to flee.

Iron-Clad lifted the man in question and held him close to his armored helmet. The [criminal] seemed unaware of his predicament, continuing to mumble repeated phrases that none of them could make out.

"No, Grant!"

Walter did not know who had called out, but it was too late. Iron-Clad toss the man aside. It seemed to cost him little effort. Walter watched as the man sailed across the room, smashing against a set of metal racks mounted against the wall. They rang out as the thug hit them. Walter was certain that, had he been closer, and in less noisy surroundings, he would have heard bones break.

The thug rebounded hard against the vertical rack supports and then slid to the ground in a limp heap. It reminded Walter of an oversized bean bag. There was no doubt that the man was dead. Walter felt a sick wave of nausea at the sudden brutality of the man's death. He had no time to dwell on it, though, for he heard renewed shouts coming from the main melee deeper in the warehouse. Walter took one more quick glance at the limp form of the dead man, and then turned and sped away.

#

"We've processed the voice logs and video feeds from the mission recorders," Raynes announced.

On the large screen behind him played out the scene from the warehouse from the vantage point of Westin's camera. The sound was muted, or else playing too softly for Walter to hear. The image shifted to one from Iron-Clad camera. Raynes touched a control and the playback paused.

"It some time to process the audio tracks due to the ambient noise . . . and other factors."

Raynes aimed a sharp stare at Grant. Grant was either oblivious to it or choose to ignore it. Walter would have put the same odds on either option.

The playback was resumed at a slower rate. Walter saw the head and face of the now-deceased thug come into view. He still found it hard to believe that only a few moments after this scene was played out, the man would be dead.

The view of the man's face was magnified and then moved even closer on his mouth. His lips moved in extreme slow-motion, but that did little to help Walter better identify what the man might have been saying. There was a deeper rumble in the foreground that must have been Grant speaking within his helmet.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"I filed a report," Walter said softly.

Red nodded. He seemed suddenly distant. Walter had to call his name three times before the red-haired young man turned his attention back to Walter.

"Sorry, Walt," he said with a wry, apologetic smile. "What were you saying?"

"I asked if you were all right."

A small smile quirked the edges of Red's mouth. "Sure," he said. "It just reminded me of something."

The look of concern returned to Walter's face. "Something bad?"

"I don't know," Red replied vaguely. "It was something I remember reading somewhere . . ."

"Werewolves?"

"Huh?" Red looked genuinely puzzled and surprised. After a moment, he recovered and chuckled softly. "No, I don't think so," he said. "Not this time, anyway."

Walter felt a wash of relief flow through him. Science he understood; it was his specialty. Paranormal and mythical happenings unsettled him . . . at least until he could understand the underlying scientific causes. Unfortunately, those were not always readily apparent.

"You know something." Walter's assertion came out as a statement, not a question.

Red shook his head. "No," he said, "I don't know anything . . . just something I heard. But it was a while ago."

Walter frowned. Studying Red's face, he could tell that his friend would reveal nothing more for now. He rose from the bench.

"I'm going to head out," he told Red. He glanced at his watch and his eyes widened. "Damn it! I'm late."

Walter grabbed his bag and dashed for the doorway. He did not turn around, but he knew that Red was shaking his head and laughing softly behind him.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"Seriously," Red started again. His expression molded into one of genuine concern. "Are you okay? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Walter's lips tightened. "It was kind of like that." He pulled his shirt on over his head.

"What do you mean?"

Walter sighed and dropped down onto one of the short plastic benches.

"He was dead."

Red looked genuinely perplexed. It was not expression that Walter saw often on his friend's face. He felt a tiny swell of pride at, however unintentionally, managing the feat.

"Who was?"

Walter sat silently for a moment before answering. The scenes from earlier in the evening with Torino played back through his mind. He did not want them to, but reviewing them was the only way he could answer Red's question for any accuracy.

"The guy we found," he said. "Me and Tory."

Red nodded, understanding now.

"Pretty bad?"

Walter's head bobbed slowly.

"I'm sorry." Red's tone was sincere and heartfelt.

Walter looked down at the floor for several moments, staring at his bare feet, but not seeing them.

"He was dead," he repeated. His voice sounded flat, but carried an undertone that betrayed his torment. He swallowed hard.

"You said that," Red said quietly.

Walter's head lifted and his eyes found Red's face. There were focused, though, on his memories.

"He was dead," Walter whispered. "Torn apart."

Red frowned. His expression took on a look of deep concern.

"Torn apart? How?"

Walter slowly shook head. "Like an animal."

"I see." Red's voice was hushed whisper. His eyes moved away from Walter's as if he too were seeing memories instead.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter did not hear Red enter the changing room. Startled, he fumbled with and dropped his underwear. Snatching them from the ground, he used them to shield his private parts from sight until he could put them on. When he recognized Red, Walter relaxed somewhat, but did not lower his hands. He had never felt comfortable being naked around other boys. The locker rooms at school had been a nightmare; a recurring one that had managed suffered through . . . somehow.

Red studied him curiously.

"Are you all right?"

Walter swallowed and stared back at Red.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

Walter nodded. It was not entirely true, but he did not wish to discuss it with Red—or anyone—while standing there in nothing but his skin.

Red eyed him dubiously.

When Red made no move to either turn away, or at least avert his eyes, Walter said, "Do you mind?"

Red seemed puzzled by his request. Walter flashed his gaze downward, hoping that Red would get the point without him having to state it. Red's eyes followed his and then went back to Walter's face. His expression became one of faint bemusement.

"What?" Red said, laughing lightly. "You think I've never seen one before?"

Walter implored him with his eyes and then finally pleaded aloud.

"Please?"

Red rolled his eyes, but pointedly looked away, finding something on a nearby wall for them to examine. Walter quickly slid into his underwear and pulled on his jeans. He was only slightly more comfortable being bare-chested with other men, but he could tolerate it as it was necessity while swimming.

"Okay," Walter said, reaching for his shirt.

Red's gaze took their time returning to him. For some reason, this made Walter feel better.

"I've seen smaller," Red said.

Walter's cheeks burned.

"I'm kidding!"

Walter could not decide whether that made him feel better or not. He let it pass as he really did not want to pursue the matter. He was almost certain that Red did not walk both sides of that street, but one could never know for sure . . .

Heroic Measures (continued)

It took some time, but their mutual hilarity passed. Walter was relieved to see that Abigail seemed to have forgiven him for his tardiness, along with whatever transgressions he had apparently been guilty of.

Abigail took a deep breath and her smile faded. Walter's heart beat hard in his chest as she took his hands once more. She met his eyes, but he saw no anger there, only concern and what might have been disappointment.

"Walter," she said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Walter wanted to look away, but was afraid that it might send the wrong message.

Well, he thought, there's this whole thing about secret identities. . .

"I . . . couldn't," he told her. He hoped that she interpreted the awkward hesitation in his voice as symptom of his embarrassment. "I didn't want you to know."

Abigail frowned. "Why not?"

Walter shrugged and finally looked away. He felt Abigail's hands tighten on his.

"Walter, I don't care whether you're a garbage collector or a research assistant, " she said. Her voice was soft and comforting. "I'd prefer research assistant," she smiled playfully, "but I understand."

Walter studied her dark emerald-green eyes for a moment.

Would you, I wonder? If you knew that truth?

Someday, he knew, he would have to tell her.

But not tonight. Not yet.

Abigail rose and gathered her plate. She smiled at him, looking every bit as much she usually did: cheerful and lovely. When she approached his chair to take up his dishes, Walter caught the scent of her perfume. It was light, subtle . . . and terribly effective. As she brushed past him to gather his plate and silverware, she gave him a soft smile. Walter suspected he read far more into it than was probably there—he did not care.

"I made something special for dessert," she told him as she turned away.

You, I hope.

Walter watched her retreating back as she headed back to the kitchen, aware that he was becoming aroused by the thoughts that now floated through his mind. He considered that he should banish them as being ungentlemanly, but then allowed them to linger.

It's not as though she can read them.

He suspected that she would not have been at all surprised by them if she could.

Abigail appeared a few moments later carrying a fresh set of plates. She placed one before Walter and then another before her place at the table. She granted Walter a soft, coy smile before returning once more to the kitchen.

She returned almost immediately bearing a short platter and a small container. She placed both on the table in front of Walter.

It was his one of his favorites: fresh peach pie and what looked to be homemade whipped cream. He knew that she preferred a small scoop of vanilla ice cream on hers, but he had never taken to that particular combination of textures and temperatures.

Abigail's mouth formed a pleased smile at Walter's grin. Walter stared up at her, more in love with her than ever.

Wow, he considered wryly. Maybe the way to a man's heart really is through his stomach.

He watched as Abigail expertly sliced the first piece out for him. Her perfume wafted in among the aroma of the still-warm pie. It was a delightful combination. She smiled at him again as she placed the slice on his plate. Walter desperately wanted to reach up and kiss her.

Abigail served herself next and then sat back down across from Walter again. She studied him for a moment and then smiled with amusement satisfaction.

"I believe you."

Walter blinked.

"About the job," she explained, laughing softly. "And there not being someone else." Her eyes turned down toward his plate. "You'd rather look at me than at your food."

Walter felt himself flush. It was true, and there seemed no point in offering even a mock rebuttal. Instead, he looked away and slowly began eating the dessert.

The dessert was every bit as good as he remembered it being in the past. It was, he decided, perhaps even better now that the tension had passed between Abigail and himself. He still felt a tickle of guilt a keeping his hero activities from her, but it detracted from his enjoyment of the meal—and Abigail's company—by only the smallest amount.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Better yet, he was fairly certain that he even knew the right ones.

Walter extended his arms across the table and reached for Abigail's hands. She watched his hands, but did not move. It was as if had become detached from her body and she no longer possessed the volition to move them. Walter gripped them lightly in his and stared deep into her bright emerald eyes.

"Abby," he said. Sincerity and honesty wrapped every word that followed. "You are the most beautiful girl I know," he told her. "And I love you very, very much."

It took a moment, but Abigail's features flowed into a smile. Tears still threatened to spill from her eyes, but Walter was sure that they were due to a much different reason than before. Her fingers tightened around his hands and she pressed them lightly against her lips. Abigail's eyes closed and she breathed a deep sigh.

Walter's mind buzzed and his body tingled. It felt a lot like when he built up a charge, but different—different in a much, much better way.

Abigail's eyes opened. She lowered Walter's hands, but did not release them.

"I don't understand," she offered softly. "You keep being late . . . or away."

Walter looked down toward the table, trying to think of an explanation.

I can't tell her . . . not yet.

"I . . ." he began, and then paused to gather his thoughts again. "I have another job."

"Oh," Abigail said quietly. Curiosity replaced the concern in her eyes. "Where? Doing what?"

"I, um," Walter said, trying hard to choose his words carefully, "help clean up stuff . . . around the city."

"Oh," Abigail repeated softly. Sensing his embarrassment in confessing this to her, she gave him a small, comforting smile. "I understand."

She released her hold on his hands, but let them continue to rest in hers. Her eyes remaining on Walter's, her expression was unreadable as she said, "You did wash them before dinner?"

Walter stared across the table at her for a long moment before Abigail's question sank in. He broke into deep laughter. Abigail joined him a moment later.

They both laughed until tears threatened to spill from the corner of Walter's eyes. It was probably quite as funny as all that, but it was exactly what he needed after the tension of the day and the past hour. Abigail grinned at him from across the table, clearly pleased with the impact her little joke had had.

I really need to marry this girl someday, Walter told himself.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter frowned. He knew he had been late, had not called, so this was his fault. The problem was: he did not know how to fix it. He had not even thought to bring flowers. Well, in truth, he had. The idea crossed his mind very briefly before being dismissed, as he figured that doing so would make him even later. In retrospect, though, adding those few extra minutes would probably have greatly diminished the impact of his tardiness.

He put his fork down and tried to find Abigail's eyes. They eluded him, but he spoke anyway.

"Look, Abby," he said with sincere contriteness. "I'm sorry I was late. Really sorry."

Now she met his eyes with a fixed gaze. Walter could see the pent-up anger within them. He swallowed hard, trying not to let it show.

"I . . ." He trailed off, not at all sure what he wanted to tell her.

Abigail placed her own utensils down on the edge of her plate and faced him. Her hands were folded together in front of her on the tabletop.

Walter swallowed again, hoping his voice would sound more confident than he felt.

"I, um," he started again. "There was something I needed to do."

Abigail stared back at him. Her mouth moved ever so slightly; her eyes narrowed.

Walter stopped. He did not know what else to say without revealing everything. The silence between them grew until Abigail straightened in her chair. Her eyes brightened—whether with tears or anger, Walter could not tell.

"Walter," she said. Her voice carried a thin edge. "Is there someone else?"

Walter found himself struck speechless. Of all the questions she might have asked him, that one had never occurred to him.

"Umm," he stammered, trying to find his voice once again.

He felt himself begin to perspire, convinced that she was interpreting his hesitation as a clumsy admission of guilt.

"No!" he managed to blurt out.

There must have been something in either his expression or posture that convinced Abigail of sincerity. Her features relaxed from their tight anger, shifting now into a gentle sadness.

"What is it then?" she asked him quietly.

Her eyes were bright and Walter could tell that she was on the verge of crying. They spoke to him the questions that she could not say aloud.

Am I not interesting enough any more? Not pretty enough?

Heroic Measures (continued)

She eyed him curiously for a moment before sitting down. It took Walter a second, but then he realized guiltily that he should have remained standing and held out her chair for her.

Bad form, Walter. Really bad form.

Walter was certain that his discourteous oversight did nothing to ease Abigail's already irritated mood. He gave her a vague, apologetic smile which, as he expected, was ignored. Without a word or another look at him, Abigail began eating her meal. Walter watched her silently for a moment and then started working on her own.

The delicious aromas wafting up from his plate made Walter realize just how hungry he was. He remembered breakfast (a bowl of oatmeal with peanut butter toast), but could not recall whether he had eaten lunch. As he fast-forwarded through the events of his day, he could find no gaps when he might have stopped to eat. His stomach gurgled its opinion and Walter snuck a quick look at Abigail, hoping that she had not noticed.

The meat was some kind of pork, he guessed. It was lightly marinated and spiced with ingredients that he could not identify. It did not really matter: it was good. The vegetables were a mixture of spinach and something else green that he did not recognize. These were lightly buttered and sprinkled with some kind of seasoned salt. The mashed potatoes were perfect and coated with melted butter. Walter would have wondered what wonderful surprises awaited for him for dessert, but he was too busy enjoying the meal in front of him.

Quiet filled the room as they ate. There were no sounds but the soft clatter of their silverware against their plates and the heavy sighing of the air conditioning. Finally, Walter could take it no longer. He felt the need to say something . . . anything.

"This is really good."

He was surprised at the lack of conviction that came across in his tone. His uneasiness over Abigail's silence had tempered it, but he truly had been sincere in his praise for her cooking.

Abigail paused in her eating, looked up from her plate, but did not meet his eyes.

"Thanks." Her voice was flat.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter knew that he was late. It was less than half an hour past the time he promised to be there, but he was still late. Unlike most women, Abigail tended to be punctual. If she said that she would be ready by eight-thirty, she would be—possibly even a few minutes earlier. For once, Walter envied the other men who complained that their wives and girlfriends always took much longer than they said they would.

He slowed his pace as he approached the house. When he reached the front door, he paused. He took a moment to calm his breathing.

It'll be all right. It'll be all right.

This brief litany for control also served to ease his anxiety . . . somewhat. Not for the first time, he was grateful to Sen for politely, but firmly, insisting that he participate in his training sessions with the other heroes.

Walter rapped on the door. He did so firmly, fearing that doing it tentatively might both rekindle and betray his apprehension.

There was a kaleidoscope of pastel colors beyond the paned and patterned glass of the front door. Walter heard the sounds of the locks being turned and then the door opened.

Abigail stood there. Her eyes met Walter's and he could tell instantly that she was not happy. Nonetheless, she offered him a polite smile and motioned for him to enter. Walter swallowed hard and moved through the doorway. Abigail closed the door behind him and then strode back toward the kitchen. Walter followed, taking her silence as a very bad sign.

From the doorless entry that led from the kitchen, Walter watched as Abigail filled two plates from several pots and pans. He was relieved to see that steam still rose from most of the dishes. Apparently his tardiness had not entirely ruined the meal. She placed each of them on the table, which Walter noted was set with good dishes and candles.

"Sit down," Abigail told Walter. "It'll get cold."

Walter obeyed, looking at Abigail, but deliberately avoided meeting her eyes. He seated himself and waited politely until Abigail came back to the table.