Heroic Measures (continued)

They walked together in silence. Walter tried to thinking of something either sympathetic or witty to say, but his imagination failed him. Nearly every phrase his mind produced sounded awkward or lame when he considered saying it aloud. Besides, a part of him just wanted to bask in the warm internal glow of being in the close proximity of this girl, with her aware of it there for a change. He could only imagine what she might be thinking, or feeling, but his mind interpreted every shift of her posture and expression as a sign that she found his presence welcome, or at least reassuring.

Her car was parked two blocks away: one block further south and then one block west. The street there, like most of the ones in that section of town, was poorly lit. Most of the street lights appeared to work, but many of them cast a very dim, heavily diffused light. The area where her car was parked was deep in shadows. It had probably been fine during the day when she had arrived, Walter thought, but he was glad that he had offered to accompany her here. There were too many places for someone to hide, too many opportunities for her to get ambushed before she could react.

She was holding her keys and quickly unlocked the door car they reached it. She dropped her purse on the seat and then withdrew a pen and small slip of paper. After writing some on it, she held it out to Walter. He accepted it, looking quickly down at it. It was a business card from the printing shop. He turned it over to find a telephone number written there.

“Call me sometime.” She gave him a smile that caused him to start to tingle from his toes.

He managed to nod and her smile brightened further. Another silent moment passed between them and she climbed into the car. She stared up at him as she closed, and then locked, the door. Her eyes turned away, somewhat reluctantly Walter thought, and she started the car. It started quickly and he stepped back, giving her plenty of room. She glanced back at him one final time before putting the car into gear and pulling away. Walter waited, watching the red glow of her tail lights as they grew distant and then vanished when she turned a corner.

Standing alone in the once again street, Walter realized that he wore an enormous grin. He felt some embarrassment at that, but knew that there was no one to witness his undoubtedly ridiculous expression. Feeling suddenly conspicuous, he headed back into the shadows and back for home.

#

August 9, 1981 . . .

Walter sat at the table, toying idly with the business card that the girl had given him. His sandwich remained mostly neglected, with only a few bites taken from it. He flipped it over to view the handwritten telephone number and then back to the printed side.

Clara Monahan, Printing Sales Associate, it read. It appeared that she disliked the use of her first name. Good to know. He could not really blame her, thinking how Bernadette, and its obvious permutations, had a somewhat outdated sound to it. Not much different from “Walter”, he mused.

He turned the card over again. The number was neatly, if somewhat hurriedly, written there. He wanted very much to call it, but afraid that she might actually answer. What would he say? It was not as though he had been the most articulate conversationalist during their previous two direct encounters. Well, he supposed, he could start by introducing himself. He had the advantage of knowing her name, but she did not, as far as he knew, know his.

That thought stopped him abruptly. He could not tell her his name, not if he wanted to keep his personal identity secret. She knew him only as a costumed hero—one that had come to her rescue twice now, but only as a person behind a mask. If he were to call her now . . .

He felt a sudden ache of loss. Her face had persisted in his thoughts for weeks now, and yet she would have to remain as beyond his reach as ever. It was possible that he might be able to share his secret with her. He desperately wanted to, but almost certainly for all of the wrong reasons, he recognized. If she possessed any interest at all in him, it was with the hero who had saved her, not him. If he wanted her to fall in love with him, he would have to start over. He would have to allow her meet Walter, the ordinary human being, not the avenging hero.

All was not completely lost, he suddenly realized. There might be a way for her to come to know both of them—at least for now. Over the phone she would have no way of knowing who he really was. He could still check on her, hear her voice . . . maybe even talk to her. Somehow, that made it both a little easier and much difficult for him. It would not really be him that she was speaking to, but on the other hand, he would always need to sound bold and confident whenever he called. Can he do that? Walter wondered. The alternative would be to allow her to slip away completely to someone else—assuming that there was not already someone else.

Walter frowned. The knot tightened further in his stomach. He had not considered that possibility before. A girl as attractive must surely have a boyfriend—or at least several young men vying for her attention. For all he knew, she gave her number out to almost anyone she found interesting.

He took a slow breath, trying to calm his roiling emotions. Something deep inside him told Walter that at least the last assumption was not true. As for the rest, he could not be sure—at least not yet. And there was only one way to begin to be certain, at least without continuing to shadow her every move. He eyed the phone mounted on the wall next to kitchen. Now might be his only chance to do this with any measure of privacy. His mother had left to run some errands, leaving him alone in the house. Feeling the knot reform in his stomach, Walter got up, lifted the phone from its cradle, and dialed.

Each distant ring at the other end seemed more prolonged than the previous one. He was about to give up on the eighth ring when there came the sound of someone answering.

“Hello?”

The voice was female, but it did not sound like Clara. Yet, Walter he could not be certain that it was not hers. He knew that telephone lines could distort voices in deceptive ways.

“Hello,” Walter said, forcing a deep, hopefully mature tone. He took a quick breath that he hoped could not be heard over line or, if it was, would be interpreted as static. “I’d like to speak to Clara Monahan, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

Walter froze, his voice blocked by a sudden lump in his throat. It must be her mother. He had not considered the possibility that someone else might answer the phone when he had called. Some hero you are. You really need to learn to think ahead. Stymied already by your future mother-in-law.

“Yes,” Walter replied, managing to regain most of his voice. “I helped her with her car last night.” He waited, silently praying that somewhat vague and mysterious answer would be enough and not just raise more questions.

“Oh.”

He could not quite tell how the person at the other end had reacted to his statement.

“Just a moment,” the voice finally said, after what might have been some muffled discussion at their end. “Let me get her.”

Walter let out a slow sigh of relief. This was not going quite as he had expected.

“Hello?”

It felt as though Walter’s heart skipped several beats. The lump had reformed in his throat. It was undeniably Clara’s voice. It might have been his imagination, but she sounded pleased to be hearing from him.

“Hi Clara,” Walter said, feeling a bit more confident. “I, uh . . .” he cleared his throat, forcing a deeper sound of it. “I just wanted to check to see how you were doing. You know . . . after last night.”

Walter rolled his eyes. “You know?” Yeah, that really sounds like a hero talking . . . and then he hoped that no one was listening on another line. That last phrase could be taken wrong in so many ways . . .

“Yeah,” Clara said, obviously trying to sound casual about it. Walter had the feeling that she had not told her parents about the incident. “I’m fine.” There was a brief pause before her voice returned. “Thank you for calling to check.”

Walter hesitated. What as the right thing to say here? There were certainly things he wanted to say, but none of them seemed appropriate.

“It’s the least I could do,” he finally said. It was true . . . on several levels.

“Oh.”

Walter thought he detected a definite air of disappointment with his response. Okay, he thought. There’s always the more honest approach.

“A beautiful girl like you should be more careful out alone at night like that.” Walter tried very hard to make it sound as conversational as possible, not at all like a rebuke.

The long silence that followed made him think that it had not worked. It was either that, or he had managed to completely freak her out.

“Yeah,” her voice came over the line again. If he read it correctly, it sounded as if she had accepted it with good-natured embarrassment. “Roger keeps telling me that.”

Roger? A boyfriend? Older brother? Either could be a bad omen, Walter thought. His curiosity now nagged at him. Was there any way to find out? Well, he decided, there’s always the direct approach.

“Roger?” He hoped his tone was, while inquisitive, sufficiently neutral.

“My boss at the shop,” Clara laughed. “He always tells me not to me the last one out. Or to at least move my car closer while there’s still someone else there.”

“Sounds like good advice to me,” Walter agreed, laughing himself. “You might consider taking it.” Oops, he thought. Too heavy-handed?

“After last night,” Clara said, “I will.”

“That’s good to hear.” Not that it doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to watch out for you.

There was a long silence. Walter felt he should say something else. Again, various remarks flitted through his mind, but none of them seemed like the right one. Maybe I’d better just hang up.

“Will I see you again?”

Walter paused, caught off-guard. It was not a question that he had anticipated. What was the right way to answer it?

“Not under the same circumstances, I hope,” he replied, opting for something lightly humorous.

“I hope that’s not what it would take.”

Walter’s cheeks felt warm. The conversation was venturing into areas he had not truly expected. I’d better end this quick, he thought. Before it really gets out of control.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, following up with a laugh that sounded too forced even to him. “I need to go,” he continued, “but I will keep in touch.”

“I hope so.”

There was definite sincerity in her tone that both tightened the knot in Walter’s stomach as well as warmed him inside.

“Good bye, Clara,” he said. “And be careful.” He hung up before she could respond again. Dang it, he scolded himself. I should have said “Ms. Monahan” . . . more official. Still, he held little disappointment over how the call had turned out. That she wanted to see him again, even if it was the hero version of himself, was definitely a good sign. That meant that he had some kind of a chance.

He placed the handset back into the cradle, staring at it thoughtfully. When would he see her again? And what would he do when he did?

Heroic Measures (continued)

Nothing noteworthy had happened during the previous four nights he had watched out for her. Twice, one of the male co-workers had remained behind and walked her to her car. From what Walter could see, he did not appear to be particularly fit or capable of protecting her if they were accosted, but his mere presence by her side might have been enough to deter anyone looking for easy prey. The other nights she had walked to her car without incident, although there had been a tense moment when Walter two figures approach her from the opposite direction. They turned out to be a couple walking back to their car after a late dinner. Walter had wondered then who had been more unnerved by that encounter: the girl or himself.

From the shadows were he waited, he continued to watch the building. Even at this hour, the evening remained warm. A warm breeze rustled the dry leaves of the trees that dotted the city street. Their shadows made flickering mosaics of black and gray on the sidewalks and streets below him. Walter scratched at the collar of his outfit. It itched, not only there, but pretty much anywhere that he tended to perspire. I really need to find a new material for this thing. He grimaced as he realized that he was considering the relative merits of clothing fabrics. It was not something that a young man his age should spend his time thinking about. The persistent itch behind his knees told him otherwise.

There was little traffic on this street at this time of night. Few of the businesses established here remained open much past early evening, with shop were the girl worked being the chief exception. There were none that, such as the glut of gaudily-lit bail bonds offices located several blocks away near the city jail, remained open all night. Most of the restaurants, nightclubs, and bars were located three or more blocks further north. This area rarely even saw use for parking at night unless there was a major event downtown that drove customers this far from the venue in an attempt to locate free parking. It would remain almost empty until early morning when the first of the offices reopened for business.

Two longer shadows suddenly cut through the shifting patterns. Walter looked further ahead to see two dark-clad figures moving down the sidewalk. Their movements appeared furtive. They kept mostly to the dark bands of shadow that ran along the façades of the buildings. One appeared to be carrying something that he attempted to hide from casual view. They paused at the front of each office, peering none too casually into the front windows. One then did something unseen near the door, presumably checking the door, Walter guessed, while the other one kept checked to see if anyone else was nearby. More than once, the figure had glanced in Walter’s direction, but had apparently seen nothing. Probably, Walter decided, because they expected no one to be there.

Walter watched their progress as they made their way down the street. So far, they had not done anything strictly illegal, at least nothing Walter felt was worth taking a chance at getting shot at it for confronting them about. If his guess was right, at least one of them was probably in violation for carrying a concealed weapon. In truth, though, he thought the figure was doing a poor job of actually trying to conceal it. That did not mean that the other person was not carrying a weapon as well, but at the moment he had no proof of it.

The two figures kept moving, stopping for no more time than was absolutely necessary at each door. Walter felt his tension increase as they neared the shop where the girl worked. He hoped that, with the business closed for the day, the front door would be locked. Even if they realized that she was still inside, the pair might be deterred by having to make their way through the locked door to get at her. Walter had no idea, though, of what they were after. If there were simply after cash, then they might be willing to smash their way, get what they could, and then hurry away before the police could arrive.

The faint scrape of metal drew his attention back the scene ahead. The girl stepped into view at the doorway of the building. She turned, apparently fumbling with a handful of keys in order to lock the door. The sounds she made had caught the two figures’ attention as well. Now two doors away, they paused, one visibly nudging the other one. A very brief conversation followed and the pair quickly closed the distance between themselves and the girl.

Walter flexed slightly, stretching his cramped muscles, preparing for the leap that would carry him to her aid. Ahead, the girl heard the approach of the two figures, and turned around. Before she could react further, one of them grabbed her, forcing her arms behind her with one arm while wrapping its other arm around her throat. The other figure pointed the weapon at her. The shape of its dark silhouette told Walter that it was probably a shotgun of some type: not the kind of firearm one wanted to encounter at close range. He gave the girl silent credit for neither struggling nor screaming, although it was possible that she was in no position to do either. Guns had a nasty habit of going off when one of the perpetrators panicked at the uncooperative behavior of their intended victims.

Waiting no longer, Walter dropped down from his hiding place, hitting the ground with a reassuring lightness. Staying crouched low to the ground, he glanced toward the scene at the doorway. Their positions remained unchanged; they had not seen him. A silent smile danced momentarily across his lips. So far, so good.

Now came the hard part. He would have to rely on surprise, speed, and a good measure of luck. Judging from their relative sizes, he could probably manage the one holding the girl by himself, but the other man was larger—and clearly armed. He was not. And there were two of them. He had no idea whether the girl could be of any help, so he left her out of the equation, also hoping that she did not do something foolish that might put them both in jeopardy. Walter held no illusions that he was any kind of expert on criminal psychology. All he knew was that, as often as not, they might react violently in situations that had not yet become such. He rather preferred to keep any blood from being spilled—particularly if it came from him or the girl. His primary objective was to keep her safe. Everything after that was of lower priority. If the thugs got injured during any ensuing melee, well, they had started it.

Walter broke into a run, hearing loose gravel crunch beneath the soft soles of his boots. He raised his arm, sighting along its outstretched length, and released the first charge. A blue-white bolt lanced out, connecting with the weapon the one figure held. The man yowled and dropped the weapon. It landed with loud crack on the concrete and Walter silently prayed that he had judged right and it would not go off. He did not slow his approach, though, feeling relief when no abrupt explosion followed. Continuing on his own trajectory, he collided with the man, hopefully with enough force to, if not knock him down, at least thrown him off-balance enough that Walter would have a few seconds to deal with other man.

He felt a mild rush of victory as the man went down. Walter thought he heard the crack of the man’s head hitting the pavement, but he did not wait to find out. He spun over the sprawled figure of the man, quickly rolling back onto his feet. He found himself in the doorway, behind the man who held the girl. It was not quite where he had expected to land, but it would definitely work.

The man still had his back to Walter. He struggled to turn around while still keeping one arm tight around the girl’s throat. She began to struggle now, which did not improve matters for her assailant. Walter did not give him time to gather his bearing, driving a kick behind the figure’s knee. The man collapsed, pulling the girl down with him. She landed on top, though, and kicked and clawed her way free. His hand reached into his jacket.

“Don’t.” Walter snarled a warning through clenched teeth.

The attacker met his eyes and then decided to ignore Walter’s advice. Walter did not hesitate. He grabbed his assailant’s arm and, before the man could try to pull free, released another blast of current. The man’s body bucked, but Walter held onto his arm, making certain that he had achieved the desired effect. After a moment, he released his hold and the man’s body fell limp to the sidewalk, small spasms still moving through some of his muscles.

The girl was backed into the corner by the door, staring wide-eyed at her now-senseless attacker. Her eyes moved toward Walter and then narrowed in confused recollection.

“You . . . ?”

Walter smiled, rising to his feet. He dusted off his pants and gave her a small, somewhat theatrical bow. From behind him sounded the scuffling noises of the first man trying to rise. Fury flashed onto the young woman’s face and she lunged forward with a sharp kick across the side of the man’s head. His head snapped back, he seemed to hang motionless for a moment, and then sagged back to the ground.

The girl glared defiantly at her now-unconscious assailant (at least Walter hoped that he was only unconscious—she had kicked him pretty hard) and then at the second man. Her eyes then turned back to Walter. Her anger dissolved and she broke into laughter. There was a sharp, hysterical edge to it that alarmed Walter. This time, though, he did hesitate, uncertain of what to do next. He stood there, feeling awkward and powerless.

Her laughter soon transformed itself into heaving sobs. She sank down to her knees, her back scraping against the masonry around the doorway, and her arms clutched tightly around her stomach. Walter could only stare. Even under conditions where he knew a girl well, he was often at a loss on how to handle situations like this. His breakup with Abigail had been driven more by her anger than tears, and that he had been able to deal with. This, though, was completely of out his realm of experience.

You’d better get a grip, he warned himself. You’re not going to be much of a hero if you can’t comfort them as well. He gave a mental sigh and decided to trust his instincts. His reasoning mind was coming up empty.

He reached out a tentative hand to her, not entirely sure what he was going to do with it. She stared at it wordlessly for a long moment and then took it, allowing Walter to pull her to her feet. The motion felt strangely effortless to Walter, but he had no time to consider it further before he found her clinging to him tightly, crying into his shoulder. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close against him. Her breath was warm against his neck and she smelled faintly of pleasant spices.

Walter, he chided himself. No.

He held her like that for a long time until she seemed to regain her composure. She pulled away from him, although not too quickly, and wiped at her eyes. Walter wished he had a handkerchief to offer her and made a mental note to start carrying one. She patted under her nose with the back of her forefinger, sniffed, and then looked down, hunting for something. Her eyes found it and Walter turned his head to look. It was her purse, still untouched, laying upright on the ground.

Swallowing with surprising nervousness, Walter bent and picked it up, presenting it to her with both hands like a regal offering. She accepted it with a weak smile. Opening it, she dug inside it for a moment before pulling out a package of tissues.

Walter waited in self-conscious silence while she wiped her eyes and then, with surprising daintiness, blew and wiped her nose. She then tucked the soiled tissues into a pouch on the outside of her bag. Walter felt a bit like a heel for not taking them from her, but what was he supposed to do with them?

They stood there in timid silence for several moments. Their eyes occasionally met, but neither of them seemed willing to make the next move. Finally, Walter decided that, as the man and hero in this situation, he should speak up.

“I’ll, um, walk you to your car.” He said, trying not to roll his eyes at the awkward tone.

She gave him a quick, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Walter wondered if he should offer her his arm. The matter was decided for him when she touched it lightly, apparently wanting the contact for emotional support, but made no additional effort to indicate that she wanted more than that from him at that moment.

They began moving down the street, leaving the two assailants behind them, forgotten.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The drunken young man glared at Walter. Walter could already see the man’s hands forming into fists. His first instinct was to run, to try to avoid the inevitable confrontation, but he knew that he would not get far through the tightly-packed crowd of partying students. Some, already, had turned to see what had caused the sudden commotion. The situation was close to being a complete cliché, but Walter felt that he might be more amused by that if it were not that he was in a central figure in the unexpected drama.

Walter turned back to face the furious young man. A dark stain started above his stomach and spread down well below his waist. It could definitely appear to the uninformed observer that, in his drunken state, the somewhat bulky young man he had lost control of his bladder. Walter suspected that his own appearance was not all that different, but that was of less concern to him than not being beaten into a bruised and bloody mess on the first night of his vacation. That was certain to interfere with any potential activities he might have alone with Abigail later.

He opened his mouth with the intention of making a conciliatory offer of getting the damp young man a towel. His sodden adversary chose that moment to take this first swing. Walter tried to dodge it, but stumbled on the coffee table positioned in front of the sofa. The youth’s fist caught him in the shoulder, sending him off-balance, causing him to land hard with his back against the table. The cups, plates, and other items scattered under his impact, but the table itself supported his fall.

Looking up, Walter saw his opponent stare down at him in apparent surprise. Oh good, Walter considered hopefully, maybe he didn’t really mean to hit me. He watched as a series of thoughts passed slowly through the man’s mind. His face finally settled on a smile, but to Walter’s disappointment, it was not the expression of someone experiencing remorse at his unexpected and unfortunate actions. It was the anticipatory grin of a self-assured predator.

Walter felt like a beetle that had been caught rolled onto its back. He probably looked like one, he realized, as he waved his arms and legs in an effort to get back on his feet. He managed the feat just as his enraged opponent grabbed for the front of his fleece jacket. Rolling roughly aside, he prevented his assailant from getting a good grip, with only the youth’s fingers managing to find purchase on the fabric. Walter shook himself loose easily and started to back away, being much more aware of the location of the previously offending coffee table.

He did not get far, as his back collided against a growing crowd of spectators. Reluctantly, he took a small step forward, knowing that there was small chance that they would let him through easily, and certainly not before his pursuer had a firm grip on him. He sighed, mentally resigning himself to the conclusion that escape was not going to be an immediate option. Like it or not, he was going to have to find a way to stand up to his alcohol-fueled assailant—and preferably keep standing. It was not that he was in particularly poor physical condition (although he not been exercising as regularly during the last few weeks of the school term), but it was obvious that his opponent out-massed him by a significant margin. His agility and skill might eventually win out but, as Walter knew from the few Physics courses that he had been forced to endure, those did not complete the entire equation. Even a few moderately well-placed blows from the bulky youth would carry enough force to do some serious damage to more than just his ego.

The large youth swung again. Fortunately for Walter, the young man’s intoxicated condition greatly hampered his coordination. His arm missed Walter’s head, impacting instead against his shoulder. Walter stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet—barely, and then ducked as the man’s other arm arced in from the other direction. Walter felt its passage ruffle his hair and he rolled aside, trying to get a glimpse of the man’s next move.

His attacker glared down at him, clearly not pleased with how this supposedly easy little beat-down was proceeding.

“Just hold still, you little pussy,” the youth hissed. His consonants were noticeably slurred.

Walter’s cheeks burned. He had the occasional outburst of inane insults from the drunken youth, but that one just pierced him directly in the heart of his male ego. While perhaps he was not the most masculine student on campus, he certainly would not be mistaken someone majoring in Theater Arts.

Momentarily distracted by his inner rage, Walter misjudged the path of his opponent’s next swing. It caught squarely him in the abdomen. Walter bent over, gasping, and trying not to retch. He fought for breath, forcing himself to try to breathe past the temporary paralysis. His vision filled with a crimson haze of pain and short-lived oxygen starvation. He managed to lift his head in time to see a dark blur begin to ascend toward his face. Assuming that it was his assailant’s fist, he allowed himself to drop down out of its trajectory.

The fist passed well over his head. Walter did not wait for the youth’s next attack, however. He rose abruptly, both hearing and feeling his head crack against the young man’s jaw. If the stupid, drunken man suffered a fractured jaw or broke some teeth as a result, then so be it, Walter thought. After all, he attacked me first.

The heavy youth appeared stunned for a long moment and then staggered backward, landing hard on the couch. Behind him, several of the students scurried to get out of his way. His head swayed and blood began to trickle from his mouth. Walter felt a twinge of regret at the sight; he had meant only to defend himself, not actually draw blood—regardless of the intent of the other man.

The dazed youth coughed. His eyes began to focus once more. They fixed on Walter and a bestial snarl formed on the young man’s lips. He spat out a gobbet of blood, aiming it toward Walter, but it fell short to leave a dark globule to slowly stain the carpet. He began to rise, still seeming to have some difficult maneuvering his bulk, but Walter could see the renewed determined in the youth’s eyes. The urge to flee reasserted itself, but Walter was afraid that the enraged youth, now maddened by unanticipated sight of his own blood, might turn his anger against someone else.

I have to end this now, Walter decided, although he had no clear plan on how exactly to do that. He was still outmatched in size and weight, and there was a good chance that his opponent’s fury would fail to temper his attacks until Walter was an unconscious, pulped heap on the carpet.

Not waiting for his opponent to get back to his feet, Walter lunged, knocking him back onto the sofa. He was not certain, but he thought he felt it bounce under their combined impact. His hands dug into the doughy flesh of the youth’s shoulders, experiencing some mild surprise when he felt thick muscles underneath. He stared into the young man’s face.

“Stop it!” he commanded in a deep growl.

The youth’s eyes widened in surprise and then he tried to free himself from Walter’s firm hold. Something inside Walter finally snapped and he screamed down at the youth.

“I said, ‘STOP IT!’”

Like a dam breaking under unforeseen pressure, a wave of energy surged through Walter. He could feel it passing through his body, cresting like a huge swell of current, and then flowing out through his hands. Underneath him, the youth’s body thrashed and then went completely rigid, his back curved inward in a wide arch. His eyes bulged and gurgling noises came from deep within his throat. Blue-white sparks danced along his eyelids and lips. His features grew taut as the muscles beneath continued to constrict.

He felt a hand pull hard on his shoulder and a voice penetrated the swirling miasma that filled his mind. The connection was broken and Walter managed a shuddering breath before willing his fingers to release their hold on the youth’s shoulders. There were certain to be bruises, he thought with sharp pangs of remorse.

“Walter!” the voice sounded again. It was Abigail. Not only did she not sound happy, there was frightened undertone to her voice.

Walter pulled himself away and stood, swaying on weak legs. He looked down at the still form of the youth on the couch. He felt numb, drained. The young man’s head lolled to one side, his tongue hanging limping from one side. His skin looked pale and pasty.

Oh my god.

Staggering slightly, he began to move toward the youth to check his breathing and pulse when the burly young man coughed and then abruptly vomited blood. Most of it impacted his shirt, pants, and the sofa. He then coughed again, hard, expelling more bloody mucus. His eyes fluttered open and his eyes slowly brightened into awareness.

Walter started forward again, but then felt the light pressure of someone’s hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Abigail staring at him, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes held the flat glaze of someone in shock. Walter felt as though someone had crushed his chest. He looked back at the slumped figure of the youth on the couch. Someone had brought several towels and a girl was trying to get him to take a sip of what Walter hoped was water and not vodka. He turned back to Abigail, saw her expression, and closed his eyes.

#

August 8, 1981 . . .

Walter crouched in the shadows, keeping watch on one particular doorway. It was late, and well past closing time for the small shop. The last of the other employees had left nearly an hour earlier, so he knew that she was there alone. She. He knew her name now, and a few other things about her. It had taken some careful research—not to mention a considerable amount of luck—to find those things out. He had memorized the license plate of the car on the first night that they had met and then used that as a starting place from which to learn her identity.

Bernadette Clara Monahan. She lived with her parents on Laurel Avenue in a modest house that spoke neither of wealth nor poverty. She attended the same college as he did, although he could not ever remember seeing her there. Still, with the hundreds of students that crossed its grounds every day, that was hardly surprising, particularly if her major did not happen to intersect with his own. The classes within the same disciplines tended to be fairly isolated from one another.

He had learned entirely by accident that she worked part-time at printing shop downtown, usually during the closing shift. He considered that this might give him the opportunity to speak with her again, perhaps under less serious circumstances. Despite his best efforts, he could not remove the image of her face from his thoughts. He had encountered her in person for less than an hour, yet her presence had left an indelible mark on his memory.

As he waited, he admitted to more than a tinge of guilt. Although it felt in some ways like he was stalking her, he told himself that he was, in fact, trying to protect her. This was not a particularly safe part of town at night for a young woman to be walking alone. Even armed with knowledge of basic self-defense techniques and a can of Mace (neither of which Walter knew whether she possessed), she could easily be overcome if confronted by an adequate number of assailants. Two had been sufficient the night he had first come to her rescue, although she had been mildly drunk at the time, so less capable to coming to her own defense.

Heroic Measures (continued)

January 26, 1980 . . .

[insert more here]

Walter stood before the chipped and dusty mirror, examining his reflection. A tracery of narrow silver-gray strips now rested loosely against the contours of his body. He turned to the side and flexed slightly, not really noticing much overall change in his appearance. Turning again, he surveyed how the thick mesh fit over him, noting a few places where adjustments would probably need to be made. He ignored the fact that he was otherwise dressed only in winter-weight longjohns, but feeling much less conspicuous than he had during Raynes’ initial set of tests. Not that he was particularly eager to be seen in this state of dress, but decidedly less concerned than he would have been clad only in his boxer shorts.

A few paces away, Raynes watched as Walter inspected the web of conducting material that now adorned his body. He tried to appear studious and critical, but Walter guessed that he was also trying to avoid looking both pleased and a little smug. Walter was just fine with that. If Raynes’ construction did even half of what he claimed it could, than the researcher could flip cartwheels across the laboratory as far as he was concerned. As long as he did not use his real names in any papers he might publish, Walter felt the man was more than entitled than a certain measure of superiority.

“How’s it feel?” Raynes asked.

Walter lifted his arms and then rolled his shoulders, rotating his arms. He turned moved them in the opposite direction before crossing them loosely over his chest.

“I hardly feel it at all,” Walter said. “It’s almost like there’s nothing there.”

“Good,” Raynes nodded happily, his smile betraying his eager anticipation. “Excellent.” He walked around behind Walter. “How about your hands?”

Walter held out his arms, palms turned upward, and looked down at the narrow bands than ran along the inside of each forearm. They each ended in a circular disc slightly larger than a quarter. Walter flexed his fingers toward his palms so that the fingertips touched the round contact and then opened them again. He repeated the action several times.

“They seem okay,” he answered with a slight shrug.

Raynes was nodding again, walking slowly around Walter, making him feel like a mildly interesting specimen.

“You should be able to wear under your clothing without anyone noticing,” Raynes said. “But you might want to avoid the beach.”

Walter fought back a sigh. The researcher’s sense of humor—if that was what it was—had not grown on him. Walter had even stopped making an obligatory acknowledgment of the researcher’s jokes most of time, although he seemed to not have noticed.

“The concept is very simple,” Raynes explained. “”We need to give the electrical energy your body produces a controlled path to follow—essentially an oversized circuit. We—you—can set it to discharge regularly, draining it off continually so that it never has a chance to overload.” An outstretched finger followed the line of one of the bands that ran along Walter’s shoulder and down his arm. “Or,” he went on, “it should also allow you to direct it should you discharge it in a particular direction.”

Walter nodded in understanding, although only half-listening to the researcher’s words. He was studying the details of the bands when the implications of Raynes’ last statement jolted through his thoughts.

“You mean I can aim it?” he asked, looking down at the silvery disc resting against his palm.

Raynes nodded with obvious enthusiasm. “With practice,” he agreed.

Walter flexed his fingers again, thoughtfully, staring down at the metallic contact. “When?”

Chuckling, Raynes patted Walter on the shoulder. “Soon,” he said. “But there’s still one more thing.”

He walked over to one of the work areas and picked up a squat metallic box. It looked definitely handmade, constructed out of what looked like an assortment of originally discarded components and held together by a wide band of some kind of construction adhesive tape.

“It’s only a prototype,” Raynes explained, almost needlessly it seemed to Walter. “But it should tell us if I’m right.” He held it out toward Walter.

Walter took it, nearly letting it tumble from his hand. It was heavier than it looked. He studied it, turning it over and around in his hand. This examination told him nothing more about what it was or what it did.

“It’s a capacitor,” Raynes said. “Essentially.” He allowed Walter to study it for a moment longer before holding out his hand to take it back. “You should be able to store a limited amount of energy in it before you have to discharge it.”

The researcher’s hand stroked one side of the unit. “This is the second one I’ve built.” This was a hint of mild chagrin in the researcher’s voice that told Walter that the first one that Raynes had constructed had failed in some unexpectedly dramatic way.

“There are connections here,” Raynes said, pointing to the clips mounted on each end, “and here.” Seeming to study it idly, he continued, “There are leads on the grid for it,” he said, “so it can form a complete circuit.” He gestured toward Walter. “You should be able to wear it somewhere near your waist.”

Walter’s mind was buzzing with the possibilities elicited by what Raynes had just told him. This was no longer just about trying to lead a normal life; it was about potentially harnessing the powers that now controlled him. He looked over at Raynes, but the researcher seemed engrossed in his study of his handcrafted component. Nothing in his demeanor seemed to reveal that he possessed any comprehension of what his work implied for Walter.

“When can we start?” Walter asked, trying to keep his tone even and calm.

Raynes appeared startled by the question.

“Right away,” he managed to reply. “If you want.”

Try to stop me, Walter thought, taking the makeshift capacitor from Raynes’ open hands.

#

March 18, 1978 . . .

Walter sank back on the couch, careful not slosh out the contents of the two plastic cups he carried. He was tired, but had kept his word to Abigail that they would attend this particular party, although he was certain that it would be far from the only one held that week. He suspected, though, that it was merely the inauguration of a single party that would probably last the entire week, with the occasional ebb and flow of activity as supplies needed to be replenished.

After a week filled with intense studying, final examinations, and too little sleep, he had been looking forward to several days of sleeping in, watching television, and reading from something other than textbooks. Abigail, though, had developed other plans. Several of her friends were planning to share a family cabin in the mountains and she thought was a far better place to spend the bulk of their Spring Break than at home with their boring families. She had talked Walter into it. Although, in truth, it had not taken much effort for her to do so, particularly when she hinted what he might get out of it—or rather, into. So, they had driven almost seven hours after he had finished his last exam (she had been finished hers before noon), arriving well after dark.

The party was well underway by the time they crunched their way through the frozen snow to the cabin. Someone Walter did not know, but who seemed to be at least an acquaintance of Abigail’s, greeted them, passing them each a drink as they entered. Abigail had excused herself immediately to find the bathroom, as they had only stopped once on their way up the long mountain road. She had been adamant about both not stopping in the dark and relieving herself by the side of the road. Although it had been dark through most of the last half of their trip, she had been convinced that the moment she exited the car, someone would come around the next curve with headlights glaring, and spotlight her in the act.

She watched Abigail make her way through the tightly packed crowd toward the hallway that led to the back of the house and, presumably, its bathrooms. Walter hoped there was more than one, considered the number of people here. He had just started to close his eyes, hoping that he did not actually doze off before Abigail returned, when someone dropped down on the sofa next to him.

Walter glanced over with annoyance. The young man who imposed his presence ignored Walter’s existence. Instead, he stared out into the room with clearly inebriated, but intense interest. Walter was about to resume his previous position of repose when the sweatshirt-clad figure spoke.

“That’s a nice piece of ass,” he mumbled, loud enough that Walter could hear him clearly even over the surrounding noise of music and animated conversations. “I might try to get a piece of that.”

Walter sighed silently, willing himself to let the remarks pass. He probably thinks some girls find that to be a compliment. Walter considered that there were probably some who did, but any of the ones that he would normally associate with. Abigail certainly would not and . . .

Something caused Walter to look along the line of his unwelcome companion’s gaze. It bisected the room and ended somewhere in the hallway ahead—at a point that corresponded to Abigail’s retreating back.

Walter’s fatigue vanished. He fought back the urge to dump the contents of both cups onto the lout. For a brief moment, he even planned it out: pouring one over the crass idiot’s head and the other one into his lap, thinking the ice cubes might have a sufficiently chilling effect on the oaf’s libido. He satisfied himself with only the thoughts of the unfulfilled retaliation. While Abigail might approve is his chivalry, she would most likely not appreciate them having to find somewhere else to sleep for the night.

Unfortunately, Walter’s restraint proved to be of little value. The boorish young man decided to shift his not inconsiderable bulk into a more comfortable position. In the process of doing so, he shoved against Walter, sending most of the contents of one cup into Walter’s lap. The impact of the ice-cold beverage hitting those parts of his body caused Walter to instinctively leap up from the couch, spilling the contents of the other cup onto the offensive young man. Things happened even more quickly after that.

The now-sodden young man staggered to his feet, roaring with indignation. Walter knew that, from currently being in the same situation, the primary harm was chiefly to one’s ego rather than anything more serious and permanent. Their pants—and private parts—would eventually dry out and be warm again. However, Walter had the distinct impression that a sincere (if somewhat reluctant) apology was not going to quickly assuage the situation with this braying beast.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He was the one who looked up first.

#

July 4, 1981 . . .

It seemed to take him a long time to focus on Walter’s dark form, further divulging his level of intoxication. Mumbling something that sounded like a curse, he tried to rise. He was hampered by the tangle of his pants. As the man struggled to pull them back up, Walter saw that his genitals were full exposed and erect. Walter’s face burned with anger. In a single motion, he tapped the control mounted at his waist and raised his right hand, palm open toward the still-staring assailant. He felt the tingling of the charge as it gathered through the network of contacts underneath his suit. His lips curled back in a furious snarl and he released the charge through his outstretched hand.

He was knocked aside and the charge scattered small bits of brickwork into the air. They rained like heavy ash onto the ground. Walter rolled, avoiding the other man’s next blow. He had not been injured by the first one, but it had thrown him off balance. Turning around as he gained his feet, he saw that the first man was now standing. The woman was trying to get away, sliding along the ground on her buttocks as she tried to sit up.

“We were just having a little fun,” the man husked. “But you ruined it!” There was clear, if drunken, menace in his voice.

Walter shifted his position, turning his head so he could determine the location of the second man. He was lunging at Walter again from left. Walter leaned away and then caught the man’s arm as it failed to connect with his shoulder. Gripping it tightly, he released another charge. The convulsing muscles in the man’s arm told Walter that he had been successful. The man grunted through clenching teeth and then slumped to the ground, the other muscles of his body continuing to spasm, when Walter released him.

Something whooshed past Walter’s head, passing far too closely for Walter’s comfort. He rolled in the opposite direction and came up in a crouch, his hands upraised in a defensive posture. The first man had managed to find a stick or length of pipe. He swung it again, but Walter saw it coming this time and avoided it easily. The man’s intoxicated state did little to aid him, but Walter knew that proper aim was only part of the problem. With enough strength behind it, even a glancing blow might be enough to hurt him badly.

Walter hated this part. He preferred to hang back and subdue miscreants from a relatively safe distance; dealing with them hand-to-hand was much more the forte of others like Iron-Clad or Crimson. Still, he was grateful for the training given to him by Sen. Granted, he would never be as adept as the skilled Oriental, it still gave him some advantages whenever the fighting conditions turned to melee.

The man charged at him again and Walter shifted lightly to one side, using his hand against the man’s back to assist him with the slamming into the nearby wall. The man grunted, cursed again, and started to turn back in Walter’s direction. This time, the charge met him as originally intended.

Silver-blue sparks formed a flickering nimbus around the man. He went instantly rigid and then dropped to the debris-covered ground, his body shuddering uncontrollably as it ceased to obey him. Walter caught the whiff of a fetid odor as the man lost control of his bowels. That was never a good sign, he knew, and realized with only a very small twinge of chagrin that he might have struck with a little too much energy. Reasonably certain that neither man would be disturbing anyone for quite some time, he turned his attention to the woman.

He found her huddled against the wall near the alleyway entrance. She had apparently regained her feet, but seemed to be angrily sobbing, brushing down repeatedly at her knee-length skirt, as if making sure that it properly covered her. Although for some possible bruises and dirt, Walter did not think that either man had had the opportunity to do more than push up her skirt and possibly grope at her underwear.

Moving toward her slowly, he raised his hands up in plain view, trying to wordlessly indicate that he meant her no harm. Her eyes, which appeared dark in the faint light available from the street outside, shone brightly. They watched him warily as he approached. Although she was clearly shaken and upset, she made no move to run from him.

She appeared younger than he expected: about his own age, rather than in her early thirties as he had originally thought. Her hair, was he had at first thought was dark, seemed to be a dusty blonde in color. It was difficult for him to tell for certain in the shadowy light. It was her face, though, that held his attention. Beneath the tears and street grime, he could see that she was beautiful. Slightly rounded cheeks on an oval face led to a pair of wide, perfect lips. Walter found himself staring.

The young woman looked away, clearly unnerved by his unexpected scrutiny. Walter felt a sharp wrench of disappointment, for he had wanted to study her face for much, much longer. He started to reach out to her and then stopped, sealing his lips against the words that had almost slipped out.

Are you alright? Walter mentally sighed, chastising himself. Of course she’s not. Why don’t you try to say something, you know, useful.

He tried again, extending his hand once more. She eyed it warily. Walter could understand why if she had witnessed what had happened to the two men after he had grabbed onto them.

“Let me help you,” he said, continuing to offer her his hand. “It’s okay,” he told her. “I won’t hurt you.”

After a tentative moment, she reached out and took it. When nothing bad happened, she grabbed onto it more tightly.

Nice grip she’s got there, Walter mused. He kept the remark to himself, but gave her what he hoped was a small, reassuring smile.

She allowed him to help her fully to her feet. Walter saw that she was not quite as tall as he was. She continued to stare at him, as if searching his eyes for some clue as to his real intentions. Evidently finding nothing of further threat to her there, she released his hand and brushed at her skirt again.

“Let me take you to the emergency room,” he said. “You should get checked out.”

Her eyes went wide, staring fixedly at him, as if suddenly frightened. Walter tensed instinctively, listening for sounds of movement around them. Hearing nothing, he glanced down at the forms of the two men. Although both had stopped shaking, neither was attempting yet to rise.

Her eyes repeated his sweep and then looked out toward the open end of the alleyway.

“I just want to go home,” she said. Her voice was soft and weary.

“You’re sure?”

She looked away from him and nodded.

Walter moved to the alleyway opening and then, remaining in the shadows, waited for her. She hesitated for only a moment and then stepped back out onto the sidewalk. She stopped, glancing back at him, clearly wondering whether he was going to follow her or not.

“It’s not far,” she said. “My car’s just over there.” She waved toward a cross street just ahead.

Her statement filled Walter with welcome relief. He had no intention of allowing her to walk alone back to her car, but he was going to be very conspicuous walking along with her under the streetlights. His outfit was certain to draw looks; Independence Day here was nothing at all like Mardi Gras in New Orleans. He felt, though, that he could manage it for that short distance, and he could still keep somewhat to the shadows while still keeping an eye on her. Walter nodded. She gave him a quick smile, one that completely won him over, and began walking.

He remained about three paces behind her: close enough that she would know that he was there, but far enough that he could maintain some level of concealment. They traveled to the corner and then about two-thirds of the way down the next street before she stopped before a dark-colored, late model car. It did not appear to be brand-new, but appeared to Walter to be no more than a few years old.

The young woman dug into her pockets for her keys, produced them with a triumphant smile, and inserted one into the door lock. Walter heard the audible click of the doors unlocking. She removed the key and turned toward Walter, still smiling. This one, though, was clearly intended for him. Brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, she met his eyes one more time.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly, and looked down and away.

Walter opened his mouth, but words failed to emerge. She opened the door and climbed into the car. She then immediately closed the door and locked it. Walter waited while she located the ignition in the dark and started the car. Its engine rumbled quickly to life. Reassured by that, she pulled the seatbelt into place and fastened it. She then turned and looked at Walter through the window once more. She smiled and waved at him tentatively with the fingers of one hand and then pulled away.

Walter watched as she headed down the street until she turned a corner and disappeared from sight. He remained there, staring at the last spot where he had seen her. A distinct, warm glow filled him.

He did not know how long he stood there, but at some point he starting feeling rather foolish. Glancing around, he was relieved to see that there seemed to be no one else around to see him. Moving back into the nearby shadows, he began searching for a pay phone to inform the police of the location of the young woman’s assailants.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The camera angle on the screen shifted to a tighter shot of the reporter. “We now take you live downtown, where we here that the hero known as ‘Crimson’ has been taken into police custody.”

The view shifted again. The image was more chaotic, evidently being shot by a mobile camera. Several police cars could be seen in the background. A tangled mass of uniformed officers, SWAT personnel, and figures in dark business suits swarmed through the entire scene. The picture zoomed in on the doorway of an unremarkable house in one of the cities suburbs. An officer, his assault rifle clearly visible, stepped through. He was followed by Crimson, still in his outfit, trailed by two additional officers, also with their weapons raised.

Crimson was cuffed, his hands secured behind his back. Walter now that for the farce it was. The man could have broken from those bonds as if there were formed from soft butter. The bullets from the massed forces around him, however, were another matter. The thin layer of armor within the suit would probably protect him from any serious harm, but such situations often led to panic and misguided choices by the officials involved. Crimson might survive the consequent assault; the surrounding neighborhood might not be so fortunate.

They walked him slowly toward one of the squad cars. It was a large armored SUV rather than a traditional sedan. Not only could it better support any armor that was needed, it was better fit for Crimson’s large bulk. Even so, the officers had trouble placing him inside. After several attempts, and the growing awareness that they were beginning to seem comical, it was Crimson who came to their aid.

In a single abrupt motion, he snapped the cuffs apart. For a moment, he remained standing, almost defiantly looking in the direction of the cameras. He kept his hands positioned behind him, trying to still appear as non-threatening as possible.

“Let me save you the trouble, gentleman,” he said. His voice was scarcely heard over the sounds of the surrounding activities. With one hand, he reached up and peeled down the mask that he still wore.

The hands of the officers surrounding him tightened on their weapons and then froze, some going slack, as recognition set it. There were few who did not know the dark-skinned face that had been concealed behind Crimson’s mask: Foster Greene. A professional football player for many years, he had been sidelined for several months after a mysterious injury that was never fully explained. He had never returned to the field, but continued to remain in public eye as both a commentator and goodwill ambassador for several children-related charities. A rarity among his kind, he had never been accused of adultery, misuse of performance-enhancing substances, or any kind of violence. He had been a role model of the type from past days, respected and admired both.

Around him on the screen, much of the noise abated as the others present tried to see what was happening. There was a momentary hush, followed by several shouts.

“Get him to the car!” It was an authoritative voice. Walter could not tell whether it had come from one of the uniformed officials or government agents.

Crimson did not resist as he was pressed back into the SUV. The door was slammed shut behind him and it tried to move away, its lights flashing. It took several minutes for it to work its way through the tangled confusion of vehicles and people before heading down the street and then disappearing from view as it turned a corner.

The camera moved back to the reporter, who was obviously shaken by revelation brought about by these events. Walter allows himself a faint swell of smug gratification. It was satisfying to see the press stumble for direction when proceedings were not as carefully orchestrated (and edited) as the events presented on programs such as Unmasked.

Kenniston turned his massive head toward the others.

Raynes nodded his reassurance. “It’s been taken care of,” he said. “They were moved to Safehouse two nights ago.”

Kenniston’s expression, rarely readable any more, seemed even more grim than usual.

None of them knew exactly where this Safehouse was. They never used the same one more than once and its location was shared with no one. Even Raynes did not know the details. The trip would be broken into at least two segments, each involving a different transport team, so no one group involved knew all of the details of the rescue.

“Then that’s that,” Westin sighed.

A hushed quiet filled the room, broken only by the muted television noises coming from the overhead speakers.

“So what now?” Orlovsky finally asked. He seemed to have lost interest in his tumbler of authentic Russian vodka.

“We wait,” Red replied.

“For what?” Westin demanded tightly.

Red met his gaze evenly. “For what happens next.”

“Do you think they’ll do it?” Orlovsky asked.

“Of course not,” Westin snarled angrily. “We’ve changed nothing.” He gestured with his head toward the screen. “Except toss Greene to the wolves.”

“We’ve bought time,” Raynes offered calmly. Walter could see Red nod slightly in agreement.

“Time for what?” Westin snapped, turning his barely suppressed fury now on the researcher.

“Time,” Raynes answered evenly. “To prepare.”

#

July 4, 1981 . . .

Walter moved cautiously along the low rooftops. The buildings in this part of the city were old and not built very high. The tallest of them went to four stories (plus whatever levels were below ground level), but most stopped at two floors. Although his outfit was dark, he tried to stay to the shadows. Being seen, even for a moment, could eliminate his opportunities for surprise.

The evening was warm, but perfectly seasonable for mid-summer. His outfit itched in several places and was generally too warm for this kind of weather. It would be ideal for autumn, he thought, but he needed something of much lighter weight for the hotter months. Where one went on a college student’s budget to have such a thing created he did not know, although he had made a mental note to talk to someone in the Theater Arts department when classes resumed in the fall.

Crouching in the cover provided by a large air conditioning unit, which hummed noisily, he peered toward the horizon. There was a narrow band of fading umber as the last of the sunlight faded. His eyes now turned toward the east. The numerous fireworks displays would not be starting for a little while yet, but he would have one of the best views. That was his only chief concern over getting caught up here: that someone else might realize the spectacular views to be had from up here as well.

The aroma of barbequed meats wafted up from the streets below. Walter could hear laughter and shouts from people celebrating the holiday. He had been invited to several parties, usually indirectly, but he just did not feel like putting forward the pretense of being sociable. Ever since Abigail had left, he had generally avoided most such events, although his interest in—and appreciation of—the opposite sex had not diminished by the same degree.

Noises from across the city, a mixed cacophony of voices and vehicles, were carried through the summer night air to him. There was the occasional blare of a horn, or screams from a siren, but it all meshed together into a familiar blend of sound. Walter listened, searching for something outside the normal nighttime patterns.

In the alleyway below, he heard a woman’s voice, high-pitched and laughing. Walter frowned. There was a nervous undercurrent to her laughter that nagged at his unconscious. During his months patrolling the night streets alone, he had come to listen to that silent voice. It had been right often enough that he dared not try to dismiss it through sheer reason.

Remaining low to the gravel-strewn roof, Walter picked his steps cautiously, trying to minimize the sounds of his passage. It was impossible to be completely silent, but if was sufficiently careful, he could move so that the sounds of his movement were masked by the ambient noises around him. Reaching the edge, found a corner filled with shadow and peered down into the alleyway.

Three figures were gathered just inside its entrance, out of easy view from the street. Although he could not tell for certain in darkness, he guessed from how each one moved that there were two men and one woman. He watched the trio, guessing that the woman whose voice he had heard. There motions appeared somewhat exaggerated and erratic. Drunk, Walter decided, although the woman seemed far more in control than her two companions. One of them looked as though he stumbled into her. She said something sharply to him, pushing him away.

Walter wished he could move to a lower level so he could hear what was being said, but there were ladders or wide enough ledges on this side of the building. Moving closer might also increase his chances of detection. He lowered himself to the concrete rim of the roof, gaining a few more precious inches that might help. A few of their words now came more clearly up to him. His mind filled in the gaps from the sounds of the missing ones to form complete sentences.

“You should you would . . . you promised!” It was a man’s voice rising slightly in what Walter heard as a manipulative whine.

“I was drunk!” The woman laughed again, but it was clear that she was losing patience with the topic under discussion. She tried to make her way back onto the street.

“So?” the man insisted, his words slurring noticeably. “A promise is a promise.” He shifted to prevent the woman from reaching the opening of the alleyway. “’sides, Joey was looking forward to you . . . it.”

“No!” the woman shouted, her voice rising sharply. She lunged toward the street, but then fell as something unseen tripped her.

The two men hesitated, appeared to exchange a glance, and then both went toward the woman. She started to cry out, but her yell was instantly muffled. Walter could hear the sounds of her struggling. They began to come more frequently, and from much higher in her throat. Someone within Walter made up its mind and he leapt down, aiming for a slender platform that he somehow knew was there.

His boots hit it expertly and he flexed at his knees to absorb the impact. The metal of the narrow balcony rang out in the darkness. The sounds of struggle below him paused as the sharp echo faded. Walter did not wait and dropped the final distance to the ground.

His landing this time was less precise, as his footing was uneven and his boots slid on small bits of unseen debris. Before him, the three figures formed dark silhouettes. One of them, the woman presumably, lay sprawled on the filthy asphalt. The two men knelt over her, one of them between her feet.

Heroic Measures (continued)

There were thoughtful nods around the table. In a brazen attempt to grab rating, a female afternoon talk show host had recorded a segment during which a male guest had revealed his secret crush . . . on another man. The matter had seemed to have been handled on-screen reasonably well by all parties involved. Three days later, however, he was murdered by the other guest. While the television network chose to never air the segment (although bootleg copies of it had leaked out), and issued a public apology, many people seemed to feel that the legally antiseptic wording of the press release lacked any real sense of remorse.

There was another long moment of silence. Several of them toyed with their glasses without drinking.

“It’d be nice if they spent as much effort trying to unmask the crooks as well.”

There were mumbled sounds of agreement from around the table.

“They’re scared,” Kenniston grumbled.

Orlovsky nodded. “Or owned.”

While it was widely thought that most corporate leaders clearly practiced on the wrong sides of the moral and ethical lines, evidence of their legal transgressions was always a bit more murky. Having a flock of corporate attorneys did that, Walter concluded dourly. Still, Orlovsky’s claim caused him to consider the matter in a new way.

If the media conglomerates were guided under the hand of—or at least influenced by—meta-humans on the wrong side of the law, then they would be well-served by seeing that the identities and reputations of all heroes possible were revealed and then thrown into disrepute. There was little way, Walter realized, in which the heroes could fight back against such a tactic. It was already thinning their ranks, forcing many former heroes to go underground, and kept many new ones from joining the struggle against the evils in the world.

“People just aren’t allowed to have heroes any more,” Orlovsky declared flatly. “It’s open season on anyone in the spotlight.”

 

. . .

 

A burgundy-clad figure appeared behind the podium. He was flanked by several unidentified officials and two other costumed heroes. They stayed in the shadows behind the rostrum, allowing the spotlight to remain focused on the man on the raised dais.

The colors and design of his outfit were subtle, but immediately identifiable. He was dressed in his signature vivid auburn outfit. His black gloves and boots shone from recent polish. His cape, which seemed to shift in color between a deep maroon and black, gathered behind him in the growing wind. He stepped forward and his dark gloves gripped the edges of the lectern. After waiting a moment, Crimson addressed the waiting audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press,” he began. “It is time that we came to an agreement.”

His voice was even, but perfectly pitched to carry across the crowd without forcing him to shout.

Puzzled glances passed like a wave through those gathered there. There had been no preview, no leading press release; none of them knew what to expect here. Conjecture had been rampant, Walter knew, and often almost comical in its speculations of what be announced here. He and other heroes were scattered throughout the audience, dressed in civilian clothing. They had all felt the need to be present, even if they were not the physical focus of the event. He was fairly certain that there were additional heroes here as well, as news of the press conference had spread. One might even be sitting next to him right now, he mused, one whose alter-ego he knew well, but had never encountered personally.

“Although most of us are not official members of any of your national or local law enforcement agencies,” Crimson continued. “We nevertheless took our own oaths to protect you and the rights given to you under your laws.”

The speech had been carefully crafted, and endlessly rehearsed. There had been much debate over the language, with the majority of the heroes involved coming down firmly on either side. There was grave concern over continuing to foster an “us vs. them” mentality: “most of us” and “your laws”. In the end, though, it was argued that the general public could never view themselves truly as heroes, so the heroes would always stand apart—be apart. In a way, they decided, it helped. It allowed them to maintain their status as something greater, of something to be admired. Even this resolution did not sit well philosophically with some of the heroes, but nearly all of them quickly recognized that they could not be as effective in what they did without this extra mystique.

“Such protection has come to you without price,” Crimson went on, “for we have never asked for payment or recognition for our efforts.”

He paused, sweeping his gaze slowly over the crowd. The only sound heard over the speaker system was that of his cape flapping in the breeze.

“Until now.”

Surprised murmurs rippled through the crowd, slowing growing in strength. Several questions were shouted to Crimson, all of which he ignored. There might be time for those later, Walter thought, although there had not been a clear decision on whether or not to allow them here and now, or wait for a different venue after the initial fervor had abated.

Crimson waited calmly for the tidal wave of confusion and concern to subside.

“We ask only that you leave us alone.”

There was a moment of bewildered silence. When the noise level finally began to rise again, Crimson raised a single hand. The crowd quieted, awaiting his explanation.

“Under the guise of ‘The public has a right to know’, and your interpretation of your rights under the First Amendment, you have destroyed private lives . . . and put public lives at risk. And then taken no tangible responsibility for it.”

Voices were raised again. Walter sensed a definite undercurrent of outrage, but noted with satisfaction an equal measure an air of uncomfortable introspection.

“In the interest of program ratings, in the interest of profit, and—yes, even in the occasional exercise of personal vengeance—you have exposed the personal lives of heroes and those around them. The consequences have been, more often than not, dire and, all too often, fatal.”

Walter waited, listening to the clamor around him. There was no doubt that the words were intended to be inflammatory and get their attention. All previous attempts at reason and reasonable compromise had failed or been, in the end, ignored. Inciting the members of the media, while their behavior was being observed by the very audiences they catered to, had been a risky move. It would all come down to how the public reacted to today’s proceedings. Although they might not realize it now, Crimson was appealing to them as well.

“Just as every private citizen is entitled, under law, to the sanctity of their own personal lives, so are we—and so are our families and loved ones. It is they that we are trying to protect here today, not solely ourselves.”

There, Walter thought, Crimson had spoken to and for the citizenry. Whether it would influence the media remained to be seen.

“And what if we don’t do this?” someone shouted.

Across the mass of heads in front of him, Walter could not see who had spoken. Undoubtedly, one of the other heroes present had witnessed who it was. They had been certain that the question would be asked, as it needed to be asked. One of the heroes had even suggested that they plant the question with someone in the audience, but Red had reassured them with a knowing smile that they would be no need. Human nature would take care of the matter for them. He had, of course, been right.

There was an uncomfortable wash of quiet.

Now came the tricky part. In truth, the heroes had nothing but their reputations and support of the public to bargain with. Although some of the heroes had suggested that they boycott in assisting certain cities or essentially go “on strike”, they all knew that they would be unable to maintain such an embargo on their activities. Their personal code of honor, and the risk to the general population, made such a stand untenable. Even if offered as bluff, it would be a pointless gesture, for all parties concerned would know it for the pretense it was, thereby rendering it completely ineffective as a negotiating tool.

Crimson straightened and spread out his large, black-gloved hands out over the crowd as if offering a benediction.

“Then we will continue to serve you,” he said. His voice was composed, providing each sentence as a statement of fact, nothing more. “But there will be fewer and fewer of us,” he went on, “and fewer will join our ranks in years to come.” He paused, lowering his hands back to the surface of the lectern, this time using his gaze to sweep over the audience. “And you,” he finished, “will have to live with your consciences.”

Crimson waited, studying the crowd for a long moment. “Thank you for your time.” Without waiting for questions, he turned and stepped down from podium, disappearing back into the shadows of the building.

Walter turned his head, looking over the crowd. Around him, an audio commotion ensued as nearly everyone spoke at once, trying to analyze and understand what had just happened. Several of them, he noted, were already looking at ways to exploit the situation. The heroes had known that would happen, he knew, but he still found it sadly disappointing to behold that dire prediction being carried out around him. He already knew what they see in the media in the days to come. They had prepared for it . . . but that did not make it any easier to bear witness to.

#

April 18, 1995 . . .

That evening, as expected, nearly all of the media outlets reported on the press conference. It was the subject of seemingly endless debate, analysis, and countless special programs focused on heroes and their deeds . . . and misdeeds. Much of it was based on reruns of old programs and archival footage, but there was a renewed interest in many long-forgotten heroes. Many of these were not so much forgotten as faded from continual media exposure, now usually operating in smaller, more remote regions of the country that received much less media attention than the larger metropolitan areas.

Many of the heroes now gathered in the one of the large conference rooms at Thomas Raynes’ institute. They would have preferred to have congregated at one of the local bars, but that many of them in one place would surely have attracted unwanted attention, as well as would have limited their ability to speak openly. However, Raynes had managed to open the executive board room to them (rank having its privileges), which included a small, but premium-stocked bar. Walter was pleased to find a decent Highland single-malt Scotch stored there.

Raynes helped himself to something at the bar. Walter could not tell what it was from where he stood, other than that it was clear and contained something carbonated. The researcher dimmed the lights slightly and activated a large display screen mounted on the wall at the far end of the room. Pale red, green, and blue washes of light flowed and blossomed on the screen, brightening as they moved. Raynes picked up a remote control out of a nearby drawer and aimed it toward the ceiling. The image on the screen shifted, becoming the scene of a newscast that continued to grow sharper as they watched.

The sound was muted, barely audible over the sounds of the room’s air conditioning. There were fuzzy images, though, apparently shot from some distance, of Crimson delivering his speech. The scenes changed quickly, apparently recorded from several different locations. Raynes pressed another control and the volume increased to a clearly audible level.

“. . . has given new life to the debates over whether heroes are needed and their activities sanctioned by local law enforcement.”

Below the reporter’s image flashed the line: “Hero or Vigilante: Where Do We Draw the Line? A Special Report tonight at 7:00.”

Walter’s lips formed a tight line. He then sipped at his drink, allowing himself to relax slightly as he felt the Scotch melt its way down his throat.

This result, too, had been expected. For many years, there had been a tacit, informal understanding between the heroes and most law enforcement agencies. Most heroes, for a variety of legitimate reasons, did not wish to be formally deputized, but were heavily protected in most states by laws covering the act of a “citizen’s arrest”. However, there had been a significant amount of concern raised—the majority of it generated by the media, in Walter’s opinion—about the potential abuse of power. While the rare mistake did get made—heroes were ultimately human after all, and subject to the occasional human error in judgment—they tended to garner a disproportional amount of media coverage.

What it came down to, the heroes had finally determined, was this: the public expected them to catch criminals, so those actions became less newsworthy, except in particularly notorious cases; they did not expect them to make mistakes. It was the same expectations they held for standard law enforcement officials, except elevated to a higher level.

Heroic Measures (continued)

#

March 11, 1995 . . .

Walter sat at the raised table in the restaurant bar. He was early. Having reached a point in his work where he could make no further progress that day without staying considerably later, he had decided to call it a day. It was a luxury that he rarely afforded himself, short of other scheduled events such as doctor appointments. Even with those, he tended to attempt to make up for the time lost.

As evening fell, and sun outside set, the bar’s management had lowered the lights as well. He supposed that it was meant to lend a sort of ambiance to the place, he supposed, but he found that it just filled its interior with shadows, making it more difficult to see. Maybe that was the intent, he decided, to provide an impression of privacy where secrets could be told. And, during the recounting of such tales, more drinks were purchased.

He had chosen it for none of those reasons, but ones of his own. It was in a convenient location, about midway between his workplace and home. The neighborhood in which it was placed was a good one, safe enough to walk in the dark even in late evening. Those who frequented the bar, attached as it was to a fairly reputable restaurant, tended to be either transitory or regular customers. The former tended to be customers waiting for a table; the latter were typically businessmen stopping by for a quick round or two before heading to wherever they called home.

In all of the years during which he had stopped here (although those times had become less frequent of late), he could scarcely remember more than a handful of instance when someone belligerently drunk, or clearly intransient and in search of a free drink, had made even a brief appearance. The clientele tended to be generally polite, occasionally good-naturedly boisterous, and rarely overly loud for extended periods of time. The bartenders—and there had been a few over the years (all men, curiously enough)—had all been quick, good, and professional.

He had taken only one sip from his drink since it had arrived, and that just to ensure that the quality of the Scotch was acceptable. Sampling a drink in the bartender’s presence seemed to Walter to be the same kind of polite courtesy as admiring an artist’s work upon completion or tasting from the meal that a chef had just brought personally to the table. It was perhaps a foolish affectation, he knew, but it harmed no one and that small gesture of appreciation just might make someone else’s day just a little bit better.

A wide shadow passed across the table and then settled into the seat on his left. Without looking, Walter knew that it had to be Kenniston. While the large, broad-shouldered man was difficult to miss, he was capable of moving with a measure of surprising quiet, given his size.

“Walt,” he said, acknowledging Walter’s presence with something just a notch above an unintelligible grunt.

The bartender arrived a moment later, placing a dark cocktail napkin on the table next to Kenniston’s hand. Before the man could speak, Kenniston glanced quickly at Walter’s glass and then placed his order.

“Bourbon and water,” he said. His voice was brusque and deep. “A double.”

The bartender nodded, seemingly unfazed by his customer’s apparent manner. Walter knew that it was part façade and part just who Kenniston was. The large man could not help that his voice sounded like the growl of a cave bear mistakenly awakened from hibernation. There had been times, in fact, when roars of challenge from the hulking man had ended conflicts with various crooks before they had truly begun. Right now, though, he settled back in the chair (which it creaked somewhat ominously under his bulk) with seeming contentment.

“How you been, Walt?” he asked, keeping his voice low. It helped somewhat. “How’s the wife and kids?”

Walter found himself smiling. “They’re doing very well. Jerry’s . . .” He was about to say more when someone approached the table.

The figure seated itself next to Kenniston. Walter nodded, greeting Orlovsky. He was dressed in a dark-colored trench coat with short tails. After gesturing to the bartender for a beer, he slid out of the coat, leaving it to hang behind him off the back of the chair.

“Johan won’t be joining us tonight,” he announced flatly. In answer to his companions’ inquiring looks, he nodded toward one of the television screens mounted near the bar.

It flashed a quick series of scenes featuring a dark-clad hero sporting a vivid pale blue pattern on his outfit. Walter recognized the design immediately. The screen now showed a hazy close-up of the hero’s face—Johan’s face. A moment later, a word was stamped over it: UNMASKED. Below it then appeared: “Tonight at 8:00 Pacific/7:00 Central” and then below that was added: www.unmaskedtv.com.

Walter felt a chill pass through him, culminating in an icy knot in his stomach. He saw Kenniston’s fingers clench into a tight fist, but the large man said nothing as the bartender returned with his drink and a full Pilsner glass for Orlovsky. After placing the two drinks, he did a quick check on the contents of Walter’s glass and then left the table.

“Don’t they realize what they’ve done?” Kenniston rumbled in a low tone.

Orlovsky looked grim.

“I tried to reach him,” he said.

“Too late,” a new voice intruded.

Walter started and looked around in sudden alarm, nearly knocking over his drink. He tried to cover it by picking up the glass and holding it while the new arrival sat down. It was Westin, who was typically even more prompt than Walter when it came to coming to these gatherings.

“He’s gone,” Westin went on. “Even the family.” His expression looked defeated and troubled. “It looks like they took some things with them, but the furniture and other . . . stuff is still at the house.”

Walter understood. With his identity soon to be public, Johan’s home, his workplace, anywhere he had ever been reported to visit, would now be watched for any signs of his presence.

“I’ll call Rachel,” Orlovsky sighed, starting to rise.

Westin waved him back down. “It can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “And probably should. Maybe even for a few days after that.”

Orlovsky’s expression betrayed his conflicting emotions, but he sank back into his chair.

It was becoming an unfortunately well-practiced routine. Rachel would arrange for a moving company to pack the family’s belongings—before they were looted by souvenir hunters and other, even less savory, scavengers—and move them into storage until the family was located and their possessions covertly returned to them. It was a tricky business, but they had so far been successful in not revealing the new whereabouts and identities of the recently exposed heroes.

“This has to stop,” Westin announced, not for the first time.

“Yes,” Kenniston agreed in a tone that sounded like heavy gravel.

There was a long silence. The four men sat, sipping from their respective drinks in an effort to fill the awkward moment. Like himself, Walter thought, everyone at the table had so far been spared the fate of public exposure of their secrets. None of them were immune or safe; they had merely been lucky to not have drawn the attention of some media reporter. Yet.

“They don’t care,” Westin stated. “Look at what happened on that talk show.”

There were thoughtful nods around the table. In a brazen attempt to grab rating, a female afternoon talk show host had recorded a segment during which a male guest had revealed his secret crush . . . on another man. The matter had seemed to have been handled on-screen reasonably well by all parties involved. Three days later, however, he was murdered by the other guest. While the television network chose to never air the segment (although bootleg copies of it had leaked out), and issued a public apology, many people seemed to feel that the legally antiseptic wording of the press release lacked any real sense of remorse.

“People just aren’t allowed to have heroes any more,” Orlovsky declared flatly. “It’s open season on anyone in the spotlight.”

“That’s a pretty cynical view, don’t you think?” Walter remarked. While he might not entirely agree, he could see that other man’s point. He found the insight both edifying and chilling.

Westin eyed him coolly. “If you have a sunnier interpretation,” he rejoined. “I’d like to hear it.”

Walter regarded the other man’s stare. He did not have an alternate explanation—at least none for which he had any facts to support. There had been several cases brought by heroes, or their representatives, against the networks for violating their privacy, among other violations. In every case so far, the court had ruled against the hero. It equated heroes as a type of celebrity and, citing numerous precedents, stated that those with celebrity status were not entitled to the same level of protection against such violations because of their highly public image. This did not absolve media outlets from all accountability. It simply made it that much more difficult for them to be sued for such alleged violations.

I don’t, Walter admitted silently.

“We need to make them stop,” Kenniston rumbled quietly. “Make them understand.”

“We need to make a public statement,” Orlovsky agreed. “All of us together.”

“And then we’ll be next on their lists,” Westin concluded glumly.

“Not if there’s just one representative.”

“That person’s life as a hero will be over,” Westin warned.

“Someone would have to volunteer,” Orlovsky said, clearly having no intention whatsoever to do so.

There was another long silence. This time the men only stared down at their drinks without touching them.

“I’ll do it,” a voice said. “It’s about time for me to retire from this business anyway.”

Everyone at the table looked up, searching for the source of the statement. A large man, masked somewhat by shadows, stepped toward the table. He was not nearly as large as Kenniston, but still provided an impressive display of muscle and brawn. In one hand, he carried a nearly empty glass of an amber liquid. He down what remained in a single swallow.

“What do you have in mind?”

#

April 18, 1995 . . .

It had taken them many discussions to settle on the proper venue for the press conference. Too many, in Walter’s opinion. Eventually, though, it had been chosen and reserved. The City of Los Angeles Hall of Justice would serve as both the location and as a statement about what was about to be said here.

The afternoon was bright and clear. The morning’s clouds had long since blown away, leaving a brilliant cobalt sky. There was a slight breeze that still spoke of late Spring, ruffling the hair and pages from paper notepads of the mass of assembled media reporters. A small number of peace officers stood nearby, but their function was more ceremonial than necessary.

There came movement from the doors behind the podium. The sounds of the gathered crowd faded to a hush. A moderately-clad figure appeared behind the podium, his cape gathering behind him in the growing wind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press,” he began. “It is time that we came to an agreement.”

Heroic Measures (continued)

January 12, 2009 . . .

Walter pulled at one of the grapes in the bunch piled in the small bowl. It came free and he pinched off the remnant of its stem and wiped it neatly on the napkin. He popped the grape into his mouth and, munching on it quietly, turning his attention back to the television set. The series of commercials were just finishing and he felt inwardly smug at his ability to time his return to his chair just right.

Outside, rain pattered down, occasionally pressed against the windows by intermittent gusts of wind. It had been raining consistently for nearly a week, but not in such large amounts that flooding had yet become a problem. Still, Walter had no particular desire to venture out into it. While his supplies of fruit, tea and biscuits held out, he would be reasonably content.

It had been a little more than a year since Clara had died. There were still times when the house felt almost unbearably empty. On a day like this one, she would have asked him sweetly for a nice fire, and then settled in on the couch with a blanket across her legs. She would spend the afternoon absorbed in a book, perhaps knitting a gift for someone having child, or even occasionally dozing in the warmth of the hearth.

Today, though, he could not bring himself to light a fire. He knew that there were some artificial logs left over from the previous Christmas, but their colors and scent would bring back too many memories. It was too soon, he thought. Too soon. Instead, he pulled his thick sweater tighter around him and settled back in his chair.

The television program had ended, he realized, without remembering what it had been. The last of the closing credits rolled past on the screen. They were replaced by quick series of scenes featuring a dark-clad hero sporting a vivid pale blue design on his outfit. Walter did not recognize the hero, but found that hardly surprising. New ones were cropping up all of the time, would bask their proverbial fifteen minutes of fame, and then as quickly fade into the vast collection of forgotten heroes as another one caught the attention of the public.

The screen now showed a hazy close-up of the hero’s face. A moment later, a word was stamped over it: UNMASKED. Below it then appeared: “Tonight at 8:00 Pacific/7:00 Central” and then below that was added: www.unmaskedtv.com.

Walter’s head sank back against the padded chair. He tried to muster enough indignation to be angry, but found only despair. Another hero ruined . . . exposed. For what? For one night’s worth of sensational news? There was a reason their real identities were secret, damn it! he raged silently, surprised at the intensity of his rising fury.

He had retired from active participation in heroic activities before this despicable trend had firmly taken hold, but that had not prevented them from finding him.

While he had hardly been part of the “A-List” of celebrity heroes, he had not been unknown. No movies had been made of his adventures, or tales published of his heroics feats (although his name did appear in passing in a small handful of such books), but, back then, when he was younger, he had achieved some small fame.

They had approached him outside the exit from a shopping mall. He had been shopping for Clara’s birthday, and some items she had wanted for the house. Normally, she would have accompanied him, but she had been five months pregnant with Jeremy and not felt up to the outing.

“Walter Eastman?” a woman shouted, pushing her way to the front of the small knot of people.

Walter blinked in stunned bewilderment at her sudden intrusion into his presence.

Didn’t they realize what these exposés did to the friends, family, and loved ones? The heroes were not the only ones exposed in these stories. Everyone connected with them, however remotely, was thrust into the judgmental glare of the public eye. They became the subject of public scrutiny, their faults revealed for no other reason than because they were somehow associated with the hero being “outed”.

The increases in suicide, or other self-destructive—if less immediately fatal—behaviors among the heroes and their loved ones following these reports was often the source of news, particularly if they followed closely on the tails of the initial report. Later on though, when interest had waned, those events would warrant little more than a brief mention on days when there was little other news to report.

Although rare, or at least not widely publicized, were those times when those close to an exposed hero

Why can we no longer have heroes? he wondered []. He had noted long ago that these shows were scheduled to air at times when children might still be watching. Why must we take heroes away from the children?

Now, it had now been more than a decade since anyone had even cared.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter fidgeted with only slight impatience as he waited for Raynes for finish writing his notes. His anticipation of the researcher’s report made it difficult for him to remain still, and yet he did not want to disturb the man. Instead, he looked around the interior of the office, glancing over the spines of the books that filled the shelves and the labels on the narrow boxes that probably contained scientific journals. Most were long and complex titles; some even appeared to be in languages other than English. Walter wondered whether Raynes had actually read them all or had simply collected them there because it was something in his position should do.

Tapping the end of his pen rapidly against his pad, Raynes gazed thoughtfully at the printout. His expression was something like a frown, but also that of a man faced with an intriguing, but potentially enjoyable, mystery. He put the printout aside and looked up at Walter.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, giving him an easy smile. “I imagine this is one of the last places you want to be tonight.”

Walter gave Raynes a weak and grudging smile of his own. It was true, but there were also a lot of places he would not have wanted to be. That the amiable researcher might have some answers for him was more than motivation enough to have returned to the campus, though.

Raynes gave a soft chuckle of understanding and then studied Walter for a long moment. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts, deciding how to explain to Walter the results of his tests. Walter discovered that he was only mildly anxious, finding himself to be more curious than concerned.

Leaning back in his chair, Raynes rested his elbows on the armrests of the chair and raised his hands, enlacing the fingers together so that his forearms formed an inverted “V” over his stomach. He continued to study Walter for a moment before speaking.

“Let me start by telling you that you were right,” he said. “Something did happen to you during that lightning strike—something that altered your body in way that was very difficult to detect.” He paused, musing on some thought. “Okay, perhaps not to detect,” he acknowledged, knowing what had brought Walter to him in the first place, “but certainly to discover.”

Walter waited for researcher to continue. He felt as though he was attending some kind of fundamental physics class, but not understanding a word of what was being said. In truth, Raynes words all made sense; he just did not seem to be actually explaining anything.

“Homo electricus,” Raynes announced casually, as if that explained everything.

Walter shook his head slightly, gesturing with his hands that he did not understand. Raynes chuckled again, a bit more deeply this time.

“An electric eel,” he explained with good-natured patience. “Electrophorus electricus. Or, in your case, an electric man: Homo electricus.”

Walter understood now, but he was not particularly amused. Raynes appeared to sense this and his expression grew more serious.

“It appears, Walter,” he went on, “that your body has adapted in such a way that it can now store electricity. When prompted with the proper stimulus, it can discharge it.”

Although the researcher had lapsed into what sounded like scientific jargon, Walter thought he understood what Raynes had said. It was not a particularly profound conclusion, as he had been living with it for more than two years now. He determined that the most effective way to get the answers he wanted was through direct questions. If he sounded foolish and ignorant, so be it.

“Do you know what caused it?”

“The lightning strike,” Raynes replied, almost playfully.

Walter fixed him with a glare.

Raynes raised his hands defensively in mock surrender. “Not exactly,” he admitted.

Walter sagged in his chair.

The researcher gave him a sympathetic look. “Don’t look so sad,” he said. “It’s just that my equipment isn’t designed for that,” he explained. “I can measure the effects, but not necessarily tell you the cause.” He leaned forward and whispered loudly, “And I really don’t think you want me cutting you open to find out. That’s more Dr. Zan’s department.”

Walter cringed inwardly. Zan was purportedly a highly respected research scientist in the field of adaptive biology. Whatever his reputation might be among his colleagues, he was known among the undergraduate population as “Zan Zero” for his reputation of returning test scores with that value.

Raynes flashed Walter a comforting smile. “Let me make a few calls,” he said. “I’m sure I can arrange something.” His smile dimmed slightly. “But it will have to wait until after the holidays, I’m afraid,” he said.

Breathing a small, almost inaudible sigh, Walter nodded slowly. That was really not much of a surprise, and Raynes had already done far more than he had needed to.

“I do understand, Walter,” Raynes offered gently. “But there’s probably only three of us left on campus right now anyway,” he went on. “You, me, and the poor wretch waiting for us to leave so he can finish emptying the last of the garbage cans.”

Walter managed a meager smile at the small joke. “What do I do until then?”

Raynes’ expression grew thoughtful again. “From what I can tell—from what you’ve told me and this,” he said, tapping the pen on the stack of printouts, “it appears that your body slowly builds up a charge, like a trickle charge on a battery, until it reaches a certain threshold. At that point, the built-up energy has to get out—sometimes violently.” He thrust open his hands, his fingers outstretched, to demonstrate. “I suspect that’s what happened in the hospital lab.”

“Why didn’t it happen here?”

Smiling with a certain air of smugness, Raynes winked at Walter and replied, “Because I’m more careful.”

Evidently, Walter thought, the researcher found himself ceaselessly amusing. Walter kept his opinion to himself.

Raynes stared off in distant thought for several moments. “I’ll bet,” he finally said, his eyes looking over the wall behind Walter at nothing in particular, “that before you would find ways to discharge yourself here and there, probably without even knowing it.”

It was Walter’s turn to become thoughtful. He could recall any specific incidents when that might have happened, but, as Raynes had said, he might not have noticed. At least not until lately, which is what had forced him to finally seek out help.

Raynes’ finger tapped the air. “How long have you been wearing the gloves?”

Walter looked down at his hands. It had been for the last several weeks, after . . . and then his mind reached the same conclusion that Raynes had. The researcher saw the realization come to Walter.

“It’s been even worse since then, hasn’t it?” he asked, although already confident in the answer.

Walter’s eyes widened as he considered it. The effects had been worse since he had started wearing the gloves all of the time. He had thought it had just been force growing stronger. While that might also be true . . . the solution now seemed so simple and obvious.

“By wearing the gloves,” he reasoned aloud, “they insulated me, keeping the charge from getting out, so it built even faster.”

“Exactly,” Raynes agreed, displaying some of the confident pride he might show a prize student.

“So what do I do?”

“For now,” Raynes responded cautiously, “be careful. From what I can tell from these,” he tapped the printouts again, “you can build up a fairly formidable charge.” He nodded slowly, his expression becoming almost grave. “You could hurt someone, I think,” he said, “particularly if they have a pacemaker or something like that.”

Walter thought about that and the upcoming holidays and the endless family gatherings. As far as he knew, the only member of his family who had such a device was his uncle Richard, but he was far away in Oklahoma. Still, getting an unexpected zap from him would probably not do his grandmother or great-aunt Ethel any good either.

“Don’t give up,” Raynes told Walter earnestly. “We’ll figure something out.” He made another one of those gestures with his hands. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in some sort of Faraday cage.”

Puzzled lines formed wrinkles on Walter’s forehead. He felt a cold knot in his stomach. Cage? The pictures that his brain conjured up were not at all pleasant. In his mind’s eye, he saw sudden flashes of disreputable carnivals and freaks put on display.

Raynes let out another soft chuckle. Walter found nothing at all amusing in those mental images.

The researcher started to indicate a shape with his hands by holding them up in parallel about ten inches apart. He then shifted them into new positions, and then once more before giving up. Walter had a sense that the researcher now itched for a chalkboard, but he instead just leaned forward to explain.

“It’s an enclosure created out of some kind of conducting material. It’s designed to block out external electric fields,” Raynes explained. “Or, in your case, keep them contained.” His gaze lost focus again and he made quiet, thoughtful sounds.

Walter shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Nothing in the researcher’s explanation had helped to ease his renewed fears.

Raynes’ eyes regained their clarity and, for a moment, he seemed surprised to find Walter there. He gave Walter a quick, mildly embarrassed smile.

“Well,” he said, rising from the chair. “That’s definitely something to think about.”

Walter quickly came to the conclusion that he and Raynes were no longer following the same lines of thought.

Raynes came out from behind the desk. “We will find an answer, Walter,” he affirmed sincerely. He offered his hand to the young man. Walter accepted it after a moment. “Have a happy holiday break.”

Their hands parted and Walter reached for his jacket. It was evident that the meeting, as generally useless as it had been, was over. Raynes’ voice surprised him.

“I understand that you’ll be taking my Advanced Electromagnetics course in the Spring.”

Walter froze. His mind frantically ran through his class schedule for the next term, knowing that Raynes had to be mistaken. He was not ready for Advanced anything in his required science courses. The momentary paralysis left him and he turned to stare somewhat blankly at Raynes.

The researcher met his gaze with the hint of mischievous smile on his lips. After a moment, Walter got it. If they were going to work to solve this problem together, and with any reasonable possibility of not arousing suspicions, then he would need to officially become one of Raynes’ students. The prospect only added to Walter’s growing list of worries, but he saw no better solution. He sighed, not caring whether Raynes saw it or not, and gathered his coat.

“Good night, Walter,” Raynes said with a quiet cheer.

Walter headed for the door.

“And Walter?” Raynes called out evenly.

Walter paused. But, as rude as it might seem, he did not turn around.

“Lose the gloves.”

Walter fought back a quiet laugh. And, with a smile on his lips, he headed down the corridor.