Copyright Jens H. Altmann
E-Mail: Jens.Altmann@excite.de
But be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.
(William Shakespeare,Twelfth Night)
* * *
“Why, I'm the Midnight Sentinel, of course,” Alexander Nichols said, rolling up the bottom of his full-face mask to sip his drink. This full-face mask had been a dumb idea; it itched and it made eating and drinking difficult. But a half-face cowl didn't fit the way he'd supposed it should.
“That's a dumb name,” the redhead in the semi-barbarian fur bikini replied.
“All the good ones are already taken,” Alex said. His smile faded. It had taken him almost a week to come up with a name to fit the costume he had designed for the party. It was a dark blue bodysuit with black shoulders and a decorative black stripe that ran down along his arms to the black gloves. A similar black stripe ran from his black boots up to his waist, where they expanded and met in something of a decorative pseudo-belt. He wore a black full-face mask. A silver crescent moon decorated his chest where the black tapered down.
“And do you have any superpowers?” the redhead asked.
I have the power to detect a slight slur in your voice
, Alex thought, already scanning the crowd for some other conversation. Not that he minded slightly tipsy curvaceous females. Not as a rule, anyway. Somehow, though, after five or so minutes of brainless babble, he began to lose his patience with her. He wondered how much of that babble was due to alcohol.“None,” he replied with forced cheeriness, wondering how interested he really was in getting this woman into the horizontal. He decided he wasn't interested enough. “I'm more like the Batman. Baseline human, but dedicated.” He looked at the huge timepiece over the doorway. “Excuse me,” he said. He pulled down his mask and put his glass into the redhead's hand. She stared at it vacuously. “There is a crime happening somewhere.”
Bowing with a flourish, he left her standing. Threading through the crowd, he made his way to the exit.
Once outside, he leaned against the wall. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the cool night air. What managed to pass through his mask, that is.
He had known this was a dumb idea when Pete and Jennie put him up to it.
“Come to the costume party,” they'd said, pressing the ticket into his hand. “You'll have oodles of fun. Perhaps you'll even get to meet a nice girl. At any rate, it'll help you get over Cathy.”
“A paid-for party full of strangers,” he had replied. “I need that like I need nosebleed.”
Pete and Jennie had talked until he had relented. Looking through his closet, he had found the Star Trek Next Generation uniform he had worn to another costume party two years before. The one where he had met Cathy.
It took two weeks and countless needle stabs into his fingers before the Star Trek outfit looked like a superhero costume. Another week had gone by before he had settled on a name: Midnight Sentinel. Dumb, but it would do for one party. By the time everything was ready, he even looked forward to Pete's and Jennie's reactions when they saw the costume.
Of course they had canceled.
It isn't as if they're missing out on anything
, Alex thought glumly. This party was dull. The people weren't his kind. By now, Alex wasn't even sure he should stay for the unmasking.When he heard the cry, his first thought was that he was imagining things.
When the cry was repeated, he knew better.
He dashed off to check up on it before he could think better of it. It wasn't smart to get involved, everybody said that. The newspapers were full of stories of people who got hurt or killed or sued because they got involved.
Seeing the two men and the woman banished all doubt. One of the men was holding the woman down on the hood of a car, stuffing something into her mouth, while the other was trying to pull her trousers down. He wasn't very successful at it, the woman struggled too hard. By now the screams had stopped; Alex thought he could see some cloth in the woman's mouth.
Alex stopped running before he reached them.
Don't panic
, he thought. Remember, you know what you're doing.Yeah, right.
“I suggest you stop that,” he called out in his best commanding voice.
The men stopped. They looked around, saw him, looked at him and laughed. The one who was trying to get the woman's trousers off let go of the woman. He bent to pick up something. Alex shifted his stance.
“Fuck off, superhero,” the man said. “'Less ya wanna get hurt.” He raised his baseball bat, swung it experimentally. Alex mentally reviewed all the moves he had been taught to use against an armed attack. Running was not an option, obviously. He couldn't leave the woman unprotected.
He'd have to tough it out.
“Put that thing down before I take it away from you and show you how to really use it,” he replied, advancing, keeping to his superhero voice. It felt natural, somehow. It hid some of his fear.
The other raised the bat. This was it. Alex ducked under the swing, bent his knees, straightened up and jammed his elbow into where the other guy would really hurt. It worked. The would-be rapist dropped the bat and went down to his knees. A jab took him out.
It had taken perhaps two seconds.
Before the other would-be rapist had a chance to react, Alex took a flying leap that landed him right next to the car. He straightened. His opponent turned toward him, still half-lying on the car's low roof. Two elbows ramming into his solar plexus took care of him.
The woman stood up, gaping as much as the gag would let her.
Alex stood beside the car, beside the gasping thug, marveling at what he had done. Marveling not only that he had saved the woman, but that he had survived the attempt.
Guess all those years of martial arts training weren't wasted after all
, he mused. He remembered the woman. She was too stunned to shy away when he reached out and took the gag from her mouth.“I'll need your stockings,” he told her. “Please.”
“No ...” Now she backed away.
“I need something to tie them up with,” he explained, pointing at the two thugs. They were already beginning to stir again. The woman looked at them, nodded and pulled her two stockings off. She handed them to Alex without a word.
Alex tied both thugs up, as quickly and efficiently as he could manage. It wasn't easy, the way his hands shook. But he managed.
“That should hold them until the police arrive,” he murmured. Remembering the woman, he turned toward her. “If you go over there,” he said, pointing at the hall where the costume party was still going strong, “you will find a telephone. You would do well to call the police. These scum should be locked away.”
Somewhere, a nearby bell struck midnight. Time to unmask.
Better not
, Alex decided. He had better things to do than be hassled for assault and battery of two would-be rapists. He nodded at the woman and ran off.At the edge of the parking lot, he turned and looked. The woman was already running toward the hall. Under his mask, Alex smiled. He changed direction and ran for his car.
He managed to drive off before the costume party crowd came out to inspect the scene.
* * *
“Did you go yesterday?” Pete asked. Alex shook his head no.
“You know how much I like parties where I don't know anyone,” he said. “So, when you and Jennie stood me up ...” he shrugged.
“You missed something,” Pete said.
“How'd you know? You told me you weren't going either.”
“Geez, don't you read the paper? Or watch the news this morning? Seems like there was a real-life superhero at the party.”
“Which one?” Alex said, stifling a yawn. “Wonder Woman? Captain Spyder?”
“Very funny, hah hah,” Pete said. “No, someone who called himself Midnight Sentinel, if you can believe it.”
“If it wasn't Cavewoman, I'm not interested,” Alex protested feebly. Pete proceeded to tell Alex all about the previous night anyway. Alex pretended to listen while he fetched himself a mug of strong, black coffee. It was better to let Pete talk than to actually react to anything he said.
As he sat down and booted his computer, Alex contemplated what had happened to him. After the fight, he had driven around the city instead of going straight home. He wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline, or perhaps a delayed fright, but he had felt wide awake. He had spent a couple of hours berating himself for his stupidity.
He could have gotten himself killed.
But he hadn't.
Yes, but he had acted before thinking.
If he had stopped to think, the woman would have died.
Besides, what was he crying about? Everything had worked out for the best.
Yes, but only because he had been lucky.
At that point, his hands had shaken so much he had had to stop the car. After that, he had headed straight home. Sleep hadn't come anyway, he was too keyed up.
Now he faced eight hours in the treadmill without the benefit of sleep.
Oh well, at least I got good reviews
, he thought with a smile. He wouldn't admit to Pete if it killed him that he had read the newspapers, and watched the TV news. They were making a big thing out of his little escapade. They had interviewed the woman he had rescued. She gushed over with gratitude. They'd interviewed the police detective who came to the scene and took the case. He was less than thrilled at the prospect of having a masked vigilante about town. Alex was tempted to call the man and tell him not to worry, that he was strictly a one-hit-wonder. The newspapers had even found and interviewed the redheaded cavegirl he had told his “superhero name” to.As a result, the newspapers used “Midnight Sentinel” as his official name. At least the 'artist's rendering' of his costume was moderately accurate.
Reading the newspapers, he had decided not to tell anyone about the night before. Not even Pete. Heck, especially not Pete. There was no telling what Pete might do. He wouldn't be able to resist milking something that relegated even Slash's latest victim to page three.
* * *
His name wasn't Slash, of course. He considered himself The Artist. And screw that lame singer, he had taken the name first. Only the media got it wrong. They called him Slash, after the diagonal cut across the chest which he did to open his victims up. He hadn't bothered to correct them. No, he was the artist, and all of New Harbor was his canvas. Still, let the media get his name wrong, so long as they got him on the front page. He'd show them all when he was ready to go public with his work. They didn't get the point, of course, but they would once he would explain it to them. Which he would once he was finished. Until then, let them get it wrong. Both his name and his intention. As long as they kept putting him on the front page. It was a trick he had learned from Dali and Beuys, that if you were outrageous enough the media would present you to the public over and over again until you became a household name.
If only that name weren't Slash.
Someday he would have to kill the reporter who'd stuck him with that lame handle. Someday, not just yet. The rest of the press would most likely object and not write about him any longer.
Then again
, he thought as he opened this morning's newspapers, eager for the reviews on last night's performance, it might not really matter.They had dared to put his latest masterpiece on page three, choosing instead to devote their front pages to some costumed fool.
“Midnight Sentinel,” he spat. Taking his woodcutter's knife, he applied it to the 'artist's rendering' of this idiot who chose to spend his spare time running around in underwear and saving virgins who in all probability even weren't that anymore. Slowly, he cut the eyes out of the drawing. “Dumb name,” he muttered. Remembering his own dumb stage name, he spent a second wondering who at the newspapers made those names up. Perhaps he could join up with this Midnight Sentinel for a little creative chastising?
No, the guy sounded too much like a goody-two-shoes.
The Artist cast the newspaper aside and picked another from the stack. This one had buried his masterpiece even further inside. Was New Harbor so jaded they thought his work didn't matter anymore? Was he already becoming old news? Was this Midnight Sentinel stealing his thunder?
The Artist prepped his chin on his fist and stared long and hard at the drawing of this masked meddler. It was the same drawing the other newspaper had used. The Artist cut this one's eyes out too. He wondered what it would be like to do it to the real thing.
He paused, cocking his head to one side.
What if it was no accident? What if this Midnight Sentinel had come expressly to stop him from completing his masterpiece? If not physically, then at least by banishing him to the back pages of his newspaper.
He could not allow that.
He would have to do something about it.
The Artist leaned back in his chair. Folding his hands behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling.
So Midnight Sentinel was stealing his front pages. What would Beuys have done?
Obviously, Beuys would have done something outrageous to get people to talk about him once again.
A wide smile crept across The Artist's face. He leaned forward on the table again. Picking up the newspaper, he stared at where the eyes had been on the masked oval that passed for a head.
“Where is it?” he muttered as he leafed through the newspaper. There. There it was. The article. The one with the pictures.
The Artist's smile grew even wider. His fingers caressed the pictures the newspaper had printed with the article.
Yes, this was the perfect idea.
* * *
Alex, back from work, let himself drop into his favorite easychair. He considered turning the television on. Or was he too tired even to consume mindless drivel? Almost.
“The news, anyway,” he muttered. A quick glance through the tv guide informed him which channel was about to run news. He switched that channel on. He closed his eyes for a moment. Would he hear it again? He hoped not. He expected to.
He opened his eyes and his fears were confirmed.
“... the gruesome murder of Valerie Whitaker,” the anchorwoman said. A large picture of the redhead from the costume party appeared behind her. “Later today, our newsroom received a fax from New Harbor's notorious serial killer Slash, claiming the credit for this murder and, once again, challenging the Midnight Sentinel to a duel.”
Alex switched the tv set off.
Not another one
, he thought. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The third in as many days, all to prove some stupid point. No, not even that. All just to challenge the Midnight Sentinel.First there had been a murder on the parking lot where he had saved the woman. Slash's handwriting, the news claimed. Alex believed them. The only divergence from Slash's modus operandi had been a note pinned to the victim. On that note, Slash had challenged the Midnight Sentinel. “Stop me if you can,” or some similar drivel. Alex didn't remember the exact phrasing. He could have looked it up if he'd wanted to. He'd cut it out and pasted it into his Midnight Sentinel scrapbook.
The night after, the police had been called to another murder. Again, Slash. This time, the victim had been the woman Alex had rescued. There was no note, or at least the police didn't admit there was one. The message, however, was clear.
Tonight, Slash had struck again. The redhead from the party, who had told the newspapers his name. That Slash had bothered to fax his confession and challenge to the media indicated that the police had simply withheld the note from the second murder.
Listen to me
, Alex thought, rising to fetch himself something to drink. I'm starting to think like Sherlock forking Holmes.Slash wanted the Sentinel. But what for? Well, to kill, obviously. But why? What could his motivation be?
Well, Slash was insane. Perhaps he simply didn't like the costume's color scheme.
“What am I gonna do?” Alex asked the TV set. Which remained silent. Midnight Sentinel was retired, dammit. That had been a one-time-only event. He had no intention to take up crimefighting as a career.
Alex went to the bookshelf and took the scrapbook out. He opened it on the first page and leafed through. There had to be a method to Slash's madness, some kind of pattern.
So he wanted Midnight Sentinel to come out and play, did he. The pattern wasn't all that difficult to follow, so far. The first murder had occurred where Sentinel had appeared. The second murder had been the woman Sentinel had saved. The third was the woman who had named him.
Who would be the fourth? There would be a fourth, no doubt about it. Slash would go on killing until Midnight Sentinel responded to his challenge. Heck, Slash would go on killing even after that, unless he was stopped.
Alex slammed the book shut.
“What am I doing here?” he heard himself say. He chuckled. It was almost as if he were trying to solve this case.
That's what the cops get paid for.
He opened the scrapbook again, scanned through the articles again. He was sure this was how Slash had picked his victims. The only question was, which of these articles did Slash use for reference? And how come Slash had picked Midnight Sentinel for an enemy?
Resting his head on his hands, Alex stared at the headlines, hoping for inspiration.
Headlines.
“Headlines!”
Of course, that had to be it. Sentinel had banished Slash to the back pages. Slash was mad. Slash wanted his prime billing back. Slash challenged Sentinel. It made a perverse kind of sense.
For a second, Alex wished he had saved the newspapers instead of only clipping the articles. Then he remembered he had, sort of. Things had been so busy recently, he hadn't yet gotten around to taking the old newspapers out. The stack was still in the closet.
Seconds later, Alex tore through old newspapers. Which one was it? Which newspaper was the one that had pushed Slash back the farthest?
The New Harbor Sentinel
had its report on Slash's murder the night Midnight Sentinel had first appeared on page five. Midnight Sentinel covered the first and third page. The Sentinel had apparently taken a liking to Midnight Sentinel because of the shared name.The feature was also lovingly illustrated. It had photos of the crime scene, it had a picture of his helpless victim. The name was given as Sharon P. There was a picture of the redhead. Her name was given as Valerie W. There was a fourth picture, captioned Detective David Hammer.
“Bingo,” Alex muttered. Clutching the page, he went to the phone. He picked up the receiver. His hand hovered over the dial before he remembered he didn't know the police station's number.
He put the receiver down.
“Stupid,” he chided himself. He couldn't call the cops from home. They'd trace the call and know who he was.
Minutes later, Alex stood in a phone booth. It took a moment for the desk sergeant to put him through. The man had trouble believing who he was talking with.
“Hammer,” someone barked into the other end of the line.
“Hi. I'm ... Midnight Sentinel.” Alex barely remembered to disguise his voice. He tried to make it sound deeper, more heroic. He wasn't sure how successful he was. “I'm calling about Slash's murder spree.”
“Why? You wanna accept his challenge? Go home, kid, and leave it to the pros.”
“I plan to, detective,” Alex said. Hammer harrumphed. Alex frowned. “Really. That night was sort of an accident.”
“Which is why you had a costume on, right?”
“Look, I won't argue with you,” Alex sighed. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. This gave him a headache. “I think I've figured out Slash's pattern.”
“Yeah, right,” Hammer said. “And from the goodness of yer heart, yer gonna let us in on it. Right?”
“I'll let you in on it, as you put it so quaintly, because I feel guilty about this. Slash does this because I shoved him off the headlines last week, and he wants them back.”
“Tell us something we don't know yet.” Hammer sounded bored.
“I think he picks his victims from the article in the New Harbor Sentinel,” Alex said. “I think he's got you pegged as his next victim.” Alex waited. He heard Hammer breathe at the other end. “Now do I have your attention?”
“Tell me more,” Hammer said.
* * *
The Artist thought, If this is what passes for security around here, they're pathetic. On the other hand, it was interesting that they even had a security detail on this place. They hadn't had one when he'd been here earlier, to case the place. Apparently, someone had figured out his pattern. The Artist allowed himself a smile. Not the cops, surely. They didn't have a single brain between them, or they would have caught him long before. No, it had to have been the Midnight Sentinel. A worthy opponent, the man.
Even more reason to get rid of him.
The Artist decided not to kill any of the guards, unless necessary. He was here for only one man, and he always made a point not to cast his talent before the sows. Only the chosen few received his gift, became part of his work.
Tonight, Detective David Hammer was the chosen. Unless Midnight Sentinel deigned to show himself, but all these cops might frighten him away.
Better to concentrate on Hammer.
Sneaking past the guards into the house was simplicity itself. So simple, he worried that it might be part of a trap. Just how crafty was tonight's opponent? It would be better not to underestimate them. Of course, overestimating them could be equally fatal. It was difficult to keep on the middle ground. Especially when things were so simple.
It took less time than anticipated to reach the bedroom, where he supposed Hammer would be at this time. Peering into the darkness, the Artist was delighted to find his theory confirmed. Someone was indeed lying in the bed.
Someone ... or something.
The Artist stood beside the doorway for almost a full minute, watching the bed.
This wasn't right. Whatever it was under the blankets, it didn't move. Human bodies always moved, even when they were asleep. They breathed, they turned, sometimes they even twitched.
This one was still. Unnaturally so.
This was a trap.
The Artist smiled. He hadn't had so much fun since he forgot when.
He decided to approach the bed.
Sure enough, when he had nearly reached the bed the lights came on.
“Freeze,” a deep voice said. The Artist turned.
“Detective Hammer, I presume?”
“Damn right I am. And you're under arrest.”
“I don't think so.”
The Artist knew that his movement was quicker than the eye could follow because it caught Hammer by surprise. Before the poor cop knew what had happened, his gun was in the Artist's hands.
“Say bye-bye,” the Artist said.
“I don't think so,” another deep voice said. The Artist whirled around. He had to squint to make out the dark shape in the darkness.
The Midnight Sentinel stepped forth, his revolver aimed at the Artist.
“I suggest you surrender,” he said.
“Fuck you,” the Artist said, squeezing the trigger twice.
* * *
If he hadn't signaled the bartender for another refill, Alex would probably never have looked at the TV on the wall. He would never have seen the picture of two men standing behind a shattered window. Or the word live at the bottom on the screen.
One of the men looked like Hammer. The other wore the kind of make-up Alex had seen only in war movies.
“Could you turn the sound up?” Alex asked the bartender instead of asking for his refill. The bartender shrugged and complied.
“...sh has taken police detective David Hammer hostage,” the newswoman said into her microphone, looking earnestly into the camera. “The serial killer keeps repeating his demand to exchange his hostage for the masked mystery man known only as Midnight Sentinel. A police spokesman stated that they had anticipated Slash's strike against Detective Hammer as the lastest in a series of murders. Apparently, Slash successfully eluded the police upon his entry, but now finds himself unable to leave.”
“What's the world coming to,” the bartender muttered.
“They'll get him,” Alex said. “They'll send a sniper up on another roof and take him down.”
“Wonder what Midnight Sentinel's waiting for.”
“Excuse me?” Alex frowned.
“You heard the woman. Slash wants the Sentinel. Sounds to me like that's the only one who can stop this sicko.”
“Or Slash kills Sentinel,” Alex countered.
“Maybe. But that's what superheroes do, isn't it? Save people? Like he saved that woman last week? And then Slash went and killed her. If I were the Midnight Sentinel, I'd go after him.”
“I think it's smart he doesn't. Let the pros handle it.”
“Hey,” the bartender said. “They can't. And seeing as how Slash's been taking down people who had something to do with the Sentinel, I wonder how the man can sleep nights.”
“How'd you know ...”
“I read the papers. I can figure out what's going on. I see the pictures, I get the pattern. Get it?” Alex nodded, smiling. The bartender leaned forward on his counter and continued, “Now, all these deaths were only because of the Sentinel.” He looked straight at Alex. There was a hint of accusation in his eyes. “If I knew someone killed people because of me, I don't think I could sleep nights. Could you?”
“What time is it?” Alex asked. The bartender glanced at the clock behind the counter.
“Quarter past eleven. Why?”
“Nothing,” he said. “It's what, Wednesday?”
“Another 45 minutes anyways.”
Alex heaved a heavy sigh.
“Tomorrow's a workday. I'd like to pay up.”
“Sure.”
“You're right, you know,” Alex said as he counted off bills. He put them on the counter before the bartender. “I don't know how he could sleep nights either. Keep the change.”
Alex could feel the bartender's gaze as he left the bar. He got into his car. Should he drive? he wondered. He couldn't see why not. He had had only a single beer. Somehow, he had been too depressed to drink himself unconscious.
Putting the car in gear, Alex headed home.
* * *
“I guess he doesn't want to save you,” the Artist said.
“If he knows what's good for him,” Hammer spat. The Artist smiled. He looked at his watch.
“We don't have that much time left, you know. I have to get out of here fairly soon. If he doesn't show up before ...” The Artist shrugged, watching Hammer from the corner of his eye. The detective didn't flinch. The Artist was almost impressed. The man's hands were handcuffed behind his back. His legs were tied up. And yet he didn't give up.
It would be a pleasure to kill him.
“You won't get out of here alive,” Hammer said. “You realize that, of course. If you try to leave, one of the sharpshooters'll get you.”
The Artist laughed.
“What do you want to hear? Something demented like, they'll never take me alive? Or perhaps, if I die so will you? I'll kill you anyway, Dave. I may call you Dave?” The Artist enjoyed the glare the question earned him. “Don't you worry, I have it all worked out. I know how I'll get away.”
“Yeah, the profiler said you're probably too anal retentive to leave anything to chance,” Hammer said. The Artist smiled at him, condescending, indulgent.
“You can't provoke me, Dave. You're of too little consequence to provoke me.”
“Am I really? Or are you just feeling too small? Is that why you try to bring everybody around you down?”
The Artist tuned Hammer's psychobabble out. The man was only parroting what the shrinks most likely theorized about him anyway. Badly, at that.
The Artist turned his head toward the door. He raised the revolver he had taken from the fake Midnight Sentinel and pointed it at the door.
“Enter freely and of your own will,” he whispered.
Behind him, someone crashed through what he had left of the window.
* * *
Alex hit the man with the gun feet first. The man, thrown forward by the impact, fell on his belly and dropped the gun. Alex fell on his butt. Unlike the other guy, Alex had expected that. He recovered first. Leaping ahead, he managed to push the revolver out of the other's reach.
The other guy laughed and rolled away. Rising, he drew a wicked-looking knife.
“You're the real thing,” he said. He glanced at the corpse of another man in a Midnight Sentinel costume, but not long enough for Alex to use it.
“How'd you know he was a fraud?” Alex asked.
“The gun. Real superheroes don't use guns. They don't need them.”
This guy's even loonier than I'd expected
, Alex thought.“You're Slash.”
“The Artist. I am an artist. Why won't anyone understand that!”
Slash — the Artist — shook an angry fist at Alex. Alex used the distraction to leap at Slash. He almost succeeded in knocking the knife from the psycho's hand. Slash, who clutched his weapon tightly in his fist, hit the side of Alex's head. Alex shook the blow off. It wasn't all that powerful, he'd been hit worse in the dojo. Alex clutched the wrist and wrestled the knifehand away from him. Slash looked delighted. He bopped Alex on the nose and leaped back.
“You and I, Sentinel,” he crowed. “It's no chance you appeared just as I was about to crown my masterpiece. You. You are the shining representative of goodness. Your death will be the culmination of my masterpiece.”
“You really have a screw loose,” Alex said, taking three steps back. Slash followed. They began to circle one another, looking for an opening.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” Slash screeched. “Your death, the destruction of what you represent, it will be a dark spot on the canvas that is New Harbor. People will finally wake up and see what this city has come to.”
Alex couldn't help it. He had to laugh.
“What I represent? My god, are you in the wrong movie. I'm just a fool in a stupid costume. Nothing more, nothing less. What's your excuse?”
Slash roared. He thrust his knife at Alex, who sidestepped easily, turned the sidestep into a high-velocity kick aimed at Slash's head. Slash ducked, swiped his knife at Alex's leg.
Connected.
Cut.
Alex lost his balance, fell. He felt his leg. His hand came away bloody.
Before he could think of anything to do, Slash was on top of him, stabbing down. Alex struggled, tried to deflect the stabs, ignored the pain of the stabs and cuts on his arms and hands, tried desperately to find an opening to save his life.
Suddenly, Slash's weight lifted off him. Something threw Slash to the left. Alex rolled away to the right.
Gasping, he came to his feet. The pain was terrible. All he wanted was to go home and heal.
Slash stabbed the knife into Hammer's side. So it had been the detective who had thrown himself against Slash to knock him off Alex.
Somehow, Alex had to use the chance before Slash killed the detective. But how? He was hurt. He felt weak as a kitten. He looked around. Saw something. Leaped.
He clutched the revolver's grip with both hands, fumbled to pull the hammer back. The gun tried to slip out of his blood-slick fingers. Without the gloves, he couldn't have held on.
Alex aimed the revolver at the general direction of the melee, raised it and pulled the trigger.
The gun jerked in his hand. It made a satisfyingly loud noise.
Slash stopped stabbing Hammer. He looked at Alex, wide-eyed. Alex aimed the gun at the psycho. Slash pushed Hammer off him. Alex wished he had a glance to spare the detective, to make sure the man still lived. But it took all the willpower he could spare to focus on Slash.
“Real superheroes don't use guns,” Slash said as he got to his feet. It sounded almost like an accusation.
“Tough,” Alex said. He pulled the trigger.
Slash jerked back. He dropped the knife. He touched his left hand to the hole in his right shoulder, looked shocked and surprised at the blood he discovered on his hand.
“You cheated,” he said. This time, it really was an accusation.
“Whatever it takes,” Alex said. He dropped the gun and went three steps closer to Slash.
A straight jab broke the killer's nose. Slash went to his knees and cried.
Alex couldn't tell whether it was for real or faked. He decided to play it safe. Bending down as low as he dared, he punched Slash's solar plexus. Gasping, Slash fell on his back.
Alex tied Slash's wrists together with the killer's own belt before he dared check on Hammer. He pressed two fingers against the cop's neck. The pulse he found made him smile. He untied Hammer's feet.
Hammer came to with a cough.
“Thought I told you to leave it to the pros,” the detective said. Alex smiled beneath his mask.
“Well, when was the last time a masked vigilante ever listened to what a cop had to say? I mean, does Batman ever listen to Commissioner Gordon?”
“You're not Batman.”
“That's true,” Alex said. He almost sat down, but caught himself. “He's all yours. I gotta go. I'll send the medics up on my way.”
“Don't expect me to thank you.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
“And don't show your face in my city again.”
Alex laughed.
“How'd you know?”
* * *
According to the newspapers, Hammer was a hero. So was the police officer who had died wearing the Midnight Sentinel costume. There was no mention of the involvement of the 'real' Midnight Sentinel. For which Alex was secretly glad. He didn't need the grief more media exposure would cause.
Hammer was in a hospital, recovering. Alex had sent him a box of cigars, anonymously. He wished he could have been there to hear the cop swear.
Slash was behind bars. Nobody doubted he would be sentenced to death. Alex didn't really care. The important thing was that he wouldn't hurt anyone else, ever again.
Alex sighed and put the newspaper down. He looked at his bandaged hands. The cuts had been superficial. Even the leg wound hadn't been as bad as it had first appeared. Alex knew he had been lucky. He had called in sick, claiming the flu. It would buy him a couple of days to come up with an excuse for the wounds.
Alex rose and stretched. He went to the window.
God, that sunset's beautiful.
It was funny how much more he appreciated life, now that he had walked on the edge.
Still, it was an experience he would prefer not to repeat. Not ever again.
Turning away from the window, Alex went to his closet. He opened it and took out a cardboard box. He opened it and inspected the repairs he had made on his Midnight Sentinel costume. It looked good as new.
I should throw this away
, he thought. I really should.Smiling at his own stupidity, he put the box back into the closet.
THE END ?