Copyright Jens H. Altmann
E-Mail: Jens.Altmann@excite.de
Fools and Burning HousesA Midnight Sentinel Adventure
By Jens H. Altmann (and Akiko Ando)
“No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.”
Mary Woolstonecraft: A Vindication of the Rights of Men
* * *
The Midnight Sentinel barely managed to duck from the glass sphere that hurled toward him. Instead, it crashed into the wall behind him, splattering it with a liquid that caught fire instantaneously.
The Sentinel used the momentum of his move to roll towards the action. He hoped he moved fast enough to offer a less tempting target for Flashfire's throwing skills.
Then again, Flashfire was otherwise occupied.
The Avenger seemed to come out of nowhere. With an inarticulate scream, the black-clad man hurled himself at the arsonist. Both crashed through a fire-weakened wall and vanished from sight. The Sentinel considered to follow them, but the smoke that came from the hole persuaded him to reconsider.
Instead, he went back to the task for which he had entered the burning building: rescue the child that was supposed to be hiding in one of the apartments on this floor.
* * *
Imogen folded her arms across her chest. She looked Alexander Nichols up and down, shook her head and sighed.
“What's your excuse this time?” she asked. Alex frowned and glanced at the wardrobe mirror. There was nothing wrong with his appearance. He had avoided being hit this time, so no bruises. Flashfire's arson spheres hadn't come anywhere near him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You smell like you've been hanging around in a smokehouse. If so, where's the ham?”
Alex raised his sleeve to his nose and sniffled. He raised an eyebrow. The smell of stale smoke was faint, to him at least, but unmistakable. He had thought he had left it behind with his costume.
“Have you heard the news this evening?” he asked. Imogen nodded. “There was a house that burned. Lots of firefighters and cars and all. All that directly on my way home.” For a second, he considered telling her the whole story. How he had been caught in traffic on his way home. How he had noticed a woman crying about her child that had been left behind in the burning tenement. How the firefighters hadn't dared to go in, because the fire was out of control, the building too far gone and the apartment on too high a floor. How it was too unlikely they could have reached the child. How that had made it a job for the Midnight Sentinel. How he had rescued the child after all. How he had even almost caught Flashfire, the arsonist who supposedly caused at least every other fire in New Harbor.
But he didn't.
“By the time I got close enough to everything to see that I couldn't get through, traffic had backed up behind me and I was stuck.”
The lie came easy. It didn't even break his heart anymore. Neither did he feel much about Imogen's second sigh and shake.
It was necessary, lying to Imogen. It was to protect her. Therefore it was the right thing to do.
Wasn't it?
* * *
Fire was the common denominator.
Keeping his eyes on the monitor, Alex leaned back and sighed. He stretched his arms, feeling the kinks in the shoulders. His wrists hurt from all the typing and mouse-clicking. He wiggled his fingers and chuckled. Somehow, developing carpal tunnel syndrome hadn't occurred to him as an occupational hazard of a costumed vigilante.
“What would I do without the internet?” he muttered. He turned the computer off and sat up to study the printouts.
Flashfire was an arsonist, that was common knowledge. A psycho who loved watching things — and people — burn. That was Alex's personal impression. Alex fumbled a moment for the correct term, before he remembered it. Flashfire was a pyromaniac. Yes, that was the word.
All right, so that explained Flashfire. It didn't explain the Avenger's presence at almost every fire Flashfire had set. Not only Flashfire's. According to the material Alex had gathered on the internet, the Avenger seemed to be drawn to fire. He had been sighted at most of the big fires in the last half year, and at almost all the arson sites. Either the Avenger was an arsonist himself, which Alex didn't think after his brief encounter, or he had a grudge against arsonists.
Arsonists in general and Flashfire in particular.
What were the odds? Alex wondered. What were the odds that the Avenger was really after Flashfire in particular, and not just arsonists in general? What were the odds that the Avenger simply went to each reported fire in the hopes of getting his hands on Flashfire?
What were the odds, Alex wondered, that the police hadn't already figured all this out for themselves, checked it and discarded it? Pretty slim, he decided.
Even though the Avenger had bagged several other arsonists. Perhaps, to the police, the Avenger was just someone on a crusade against arsonists. Perhaps they hadn't made the connection between him and Flashfire.
Alex stood up and stretched. Connection or not, he wouldn't find out anything more at the computer. Especially not as tired as he was. It was really time to go to bed.
Alex showered, put on his pajamas and went to bed. Imogen stirred. Alex considered kissing her cheek but decided against it. He didn't want to wake her.
“Do you know what time it is?” he heard her say softly. She sounded sleepy.
“Pretty late,” he replied. “I guess I lost track of time. I'm, sorry.”
Imogen turned the lights on and sat up. Her eyes were a bit puffy.
“I don't know you anymore,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“We've been together how long now, two years, more or less. But you're not the man I fell in love with. That man was kind, considerate, thoughtful and honest. You? You stay up by yourself so late it can be called early. You go out and come back with bruises. Or smelling of smoke. Or even bleeding. And you refuse to talk about it. It's as if you lead some kind of secret life that I'm not a part of. That you don't want me to be part of. I don't think I can take that any longer, Alex. I don't think I want to take that any longer. It's not fair to me or Danny. Have you considered what kind of an example you're to him?”
“What are you trying to tell me? That you want to leave?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. I want to know what you do when you go out at night that is so dangerous. If you won't tell me, if you feel you can't trust me, then yes, it may be best if we leave.”
Alex sighed and stared down at the blanket for a moment. He sighed again.
“You're right,” he said finally. “There is something I think you ought to know.”
“I knew it!” Imogen let herself drop on the bed. She closed her eyes. “How bad is it?”
Alex sighed again and rubbed his face.
“Bad enough that I have to ask you for a few days time. I — oh heck, I have no idea how to tell you. I need some time to figure out how —”
“You know that this amounts to a confession.”
Alex laughed, a short bark.
“Just wait until you hear what I have to confess.” He sighed again and lay down. “And now let's go to sleep, all right? I don't really feel like any more problems tonight.”
Before he fell asleep, he heard Imogen mutter, “You think I do?”
* * *
When he had started out two years ago it had been quite by accident. He had come out of retirement to save Imogen's son, Danny, from a gang of drug dealers. That too had been supposed to be a one-shot event. But no. Not too much later, he had happened upon a group of white slavers, and his conscience hadn't let him rest until he had busted it.
Even when he had accepted his calling, he had refused to follow some of the clichés. He refused to patrol the city in search of criminals to fight. He had enough trouble that came looking for him that he didn't have to go looking for it.
Sometime in the last couple of months, however, he had acquired a police band scanner. It was an even better source of information than Detective David Hammer of the NHPD.
Right now, on his way home from work, he used it to listen for fires that sounded like Flashfire's handiwork. He suspected that the Avenger was doing the same thing. And he wondered how long it would take before he caught a lead.
His patience was rewarded on the third day.
* * *
The fire wasn't out of control, not yet. The Midnight Sentinel sat in his car around the corner, listening in on the police chatter.
Someone claimed they had sighted Flashfire. That was good enough for the Midnight Sentinel. If Flashfire was there, the Avenger should also arrive shortly. He was probably listening to the same program as the Sentinel.
The Midnight Sentinel left the car, locked it and sneaked around. Flashfire wasn't stupid enough to stay inside a burning house. The last time he'd been forced to stay there by two costumed vigilantes. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Even though he did like to enjoy his handiwork. No, he would be somewhere nearby, watching the building burn. The Sentinel only had to figure out where.
It wasn't that difficult to find. Flashfire might not be stupid, but he had gotten careless. Watching the firefighters from right across the street ... Then again, everybody was watching the burning tenement, and nobody else spared even a glance for the boringly safe building across the street — and the man with a hockey mask and goggles who looked out through one of the windows.
The Sentinel wondered if the Avenger was in the area already, also looking for Flashfire. How long would it be before he would find him?
The Sentinel went to the rear of the building and snarled in frustration. No back door. Instead, he had to clamber up the fire escape. The irony on that wasn't lost at him.
A window on the third floor was open. The Midnight Sentinel used it to enter the building. He felt lucky that there was nobody in the apartment he entered, nobody to explain himself to.
It wasn't until he reached the door that he wondered why the window was open, why the door was unlocked. Nobody kept their doors and windows open unlocked in New Harbor, especially not in this neighborhood, not even when they were in.
He pushed the thought away as he made his way up the stairs, to the fifth floor where Flashfire was watching.
It's probably how Flashfire got in, that's all
, he decided. Unless it's where the Avenger got in ...The thought was confirmed when somebody slammed into him from behind a corner. The impact knocked the wind out of the Sentinel, but he started to fight back before he even hit the floor.
“Keep it down, you idiot,” the Avenger hissed. “Do you want to warn him?”
“You,” the Midnight Sentinel whispered. “I was wondering when you'd show up.”
“Well, I'm here. So go home and stay out of my way. Flashfire's mine.”
“Yes, I thought it's a personal thing between you and him.”
The Avenger raised his head a bit and cocked it to one side.
“What are you talking about?”
“I don't think it's coincidence that you show up at all of his crime scenes. I think you have a grudge to settle with him. Am I right?”
“You're crazy.” The Avenger stood up and turned to leave. “Go away. Leave it to the pros.”
“I've been at this longer than you,” the Sentinel said, picking himself up. “I don't mind you joining in, though.”
“I said Flashfire is mine,” the Avenger hisses, spinning around, crouching low. “What part of that didn't you get?”
“Let's just get him and sort things out later, shall we?”
The Sentinel started to move past the Avenger. The Avenger grabbed the Sentinel's arm and held him back.
“Go home,” the Avenger said.
“What's your beef with Flashfire? Did he kill someone you loved? You're too emotionally involved.”
“I don't know what you have with Flashfire,” the Avenger said. “I'm after arsonists, period.”
“What?”
The Avenger pulled his full-face mask off. The Midnight Sentinel took a couple of steps back. He sucked his breath in sharply between his teeth, held it to keep his lunch down.
The Avenger's face was a grimace of scar tissue. Red and yellow, with only an occasional patch of hair on his skull. His ears and nose and lips were gone, leaving an almost death's-head like appearance.
“What ...” the Sentinel repeated.
“An arsonist burned down our house when I was ... younger,” the Avenger said. He put his mask back on. “I survived. Barely. I promised I'd never let that happen again.” He glared at the Sentinel. “I'm sure you look like George Clooney or Val Kilmer under that mask, but I'm wearing it so people don't retch when they see me. I'm down on arsonists in general. Flashfire? He's just the worst of the bunch. So now get out of my way. This time I'm gonna get him.”
This time the Midnight Sentinel grabbed the Avenger's biceps.
“How about we double-team him? That should improve the odds.”
The Avenger looked at him for a long couple of seconds.
“Just so long as you understand we're not gonna form a super-team or anything.”
“Wouldn't think of it.”
They discussed their strategy in hushed voices. One thing was obvious: Flashfire would start throwing his phosphor spheres as soon as he realized he was in trouble. Neither of the costumed vigilantes wanted to let this building go up in flames just to catch Flashfire.
* * *
What the Midnight Sentinel liked about the plan were its simplicity and its irony. He stood behind the corner, clutching his “weapon” and counted off the seconds the Avenger had said he would need to get in position. The Sentinel tried to moisten his lips, but his tongue caught on the cloth of his mask. He made a face.
Three — two — one — zero, he counted off silently. At zero, he skipped around the corner, yelling. As expected, Flashfire turned to look at the sudden and unexpected disturbance. One of Flashfire's hands went for one of his phorphor spheres.
The Midnight Sentinel raised the nozzle of the fire extinguisher and pulled the trigger. A cloud of chemical foam sprayed at Flashfire's face. The arsonists raised his hands instinctively to protect his face, forgetting for a moment that his face was protected by a mask and goggles. The second he needed to remember that, plus the second that he needed to wipe the foam from his goggles, were what the Avenger needed to charge at Flashfire from behind, tossing a fire blanket over his head.
Flashfire staggered back. He clutched at the blanket. The Avenger raised his fist, smashed it against Flashfire's face. Or, rather, the protective mask. The Sentinel thought he heard something crack. He wasn't sure if it was the mask or the Avenger's knuckles.
Flashfire managed to pull the blanket off. He tossed it aside with one hand while he pulled at one of the phosphor spheres with his other hand.
“No!” The Avenger cried, hurling himself against Flashfire. The impact knocked both men against the window through which the arsonist had looked out. Against it, and through it: the glass broke under the weight of the two men. As they fell, Flashfire managed to toss the glass sphere against a wall.
The Midnight Sentinel had no time to watch for the two men. He was the one with the fire extinguisher. He pointed the nozzle at the spreading flames and poured chemical fire-retarding foam on them until they went out.
When he was sure, seconds later, that the fire was out, he looked out of the window, and down.
Flashfire lay on the asphalt. At least the Sentinel supposed it was Flashfire. It was a man-shaped body that burned brightly. The Midnight Sentinel hissed through clenched teeth. It was obvious: the glass spheres had probably shattered on impact, covering Flashfire with his own infernal chemical mix, setting him on fire. Two firefighters had been sent to put out that fire. The Sentinel supposed they were too late. Even if the fire itself hadn't killed Flashfire, the combination of the fire and a fall from the fifth floor had to have finished him.
The Sentinel looked around for the Avenger. It took only a moment to locate him. Two paramedics were working on a horribly disfigured body. The Sentinel hoped they would save him. The Avenger had suffered enough.
The Midnight Sentinel checked the fire again. It was definitely out. He nodded to himself.
It was time to go home.
* * *
“The alleged arsonist miraculously survived the fall and the fire,” the anchorwoman concluded. Alex shook his head, sad for how things had turned out. Flashfire, alive but crippled. The Avenger, dead.
“Perhaps it's for the best,” he muttered. Flashfire would now suffer as much as the most unlucky of his victims, and the Avenger's suffering had ended. Perhaps this was a kind of justice after all.
Alex looked up and saw Imogen's shadow in the kitchen. They hadn't talked since he returned home. Alex looked at the TV screen again, and turned it off.
It could have been me, he thought. It could have been me, instead of him, who wouldn't come home after this. It could happen the next time.
What then? Alex tried to imagine how Imogen would react if someone, like Dave Hammer, came by and told her that her boyfriend was dead, that he had in fact been the Midnight Sentinel.
He decided he didn't want to imagine that. He also decided that he had not protected her by not telling her. He had been selfish. Imogen had the right to know just what her man did in his spare time.
Alex got up and went to the kitchen. Imogen looked up from cutting vegetables. She didn't say anything.
“There's something you need to know —” Alex began.
THE END