Comic Book Hero Chapter 10

When Tom’s plane arrived in Sacramento three weeks later he first retrieved his luggage, and then found a payphone. He called Mike’s number and talked to Cathy, who greeted him warmly and asked the obligatory questions about Japan and his son Benny. Finally she told him that Mike was over at Murray’s, “working on that movie thing of his”. A few careful questions showed that she had no idea what his brother was working on, and wasn’t really interested either. Tom thanked her and rang off, then considered calling Murray’s warehouse but decided against it. Instead he shouldered his travel bag and caught a cab, which dropped him in front of Murray’s a half hour later.

Peering through the fence Tom saw both Mike’s mini-van and Murray’s PT Cruiser parked in the back lot next to his own pickup, which had been sitting there since he had left for Japan. Slipping into the alley where he couldn’t be seen from the road Tom threw his shoulder bag over the ten foot cyclone fence, and then vaulted over himself with ease, his body temporarily weighing less than the luggage that had preceded it. Picking up the bag he walked around to the backdoor, stood under the surveillance camera and rang the bell, and then waited. The intercom remained silent, but after about a minute the door buzzed and unlocked, allowing the flying man to enter.

Tom wended his way through the mini maze of Murray’s warehouse; his brother’s shouted voice guiding him to a worktable in the back of the building. Mike and Murray had obviously been working on something, his brother with a computer terminal and Murray with a soldering iron and a circuit board. They greeted him with enthusiasm and some hearty backslapping, and by unspoken consent took the gathering to the area by Murray’s desk, where they had first broken the secret of Tom’s flying power to the little man.

The place had changed, he saw, as he threw his bag on the floor and flopped down on a couch. It was one of two that now formed half of a square, with Murray’s desk on one side, and a whiteboard on an easel and a big screen TV on the fourth. Esoteric diagrams and scribbled words adorned the whiteboard, and a Windows Desktop display shown on the big screen. Tom correctly assumed that the television was hooked up to show what was on the terminal on Murray’s desk. An old once-white refrigerator now stood to the side, humming softly. It was obvious to Tom that the area had been set up for meetings and discussions, a stark contrast to the hermit-like environment Murray had always favored before. It was an encouraging sign, indicating that the reclusive little man was becoming part of the team. In fact, the attitude of both men could be described as…eager?

“You’re looking good, man. You lost some more weight?” said Mike, helping himself to a Tuborg Gold from the refrigerator. He snagged two more for the others, popping their tops with a church key bottle opener hanging from a string tied to the refrigerator’s door. He passed one to his brother and gave the third to Murray, who had taken his seat at the desk. He sat down on the other couch, tipped his drink in a silent toast, and took a deep draught, the gesture echoed by the other two. All conversation stopped as the three men indulged in the ages old ceremony.

Tom’s drink was the lightest, and when he was done he set the bottle down. He wasn’t planning on flying that night but he also didn’t feel like getting inebriated. He could feel the jet lag dragging at his limbs, and he knew it wouldn’t take much of the beer to put him out. He was looking forward to getting home soon, and sleeping in his own bed.

“You’re right, Mike. I think I lost another five pounds,” Tom said, answering his brother’s earlier question. “Either the flying uses up a lot of calories, or maybe it’s just all the fresh air and exercise. Plus Benny ran me ragged all over Osaka.”

Mike grinned, pleased at mention of his nephew. “So how is the little sucker, anyway? Does he still remember his old Uncle Mike?”

“Yeah, and he says you still owe him fifty cents. I offered to pay him for you, but he just got stubborn and said it was your debt, and he wasn’t going to let you weasel out of it.”

“Huh. Sounds like my kind of kid,” Murray said. Like the last time Tom had seen him, Murray was dressed in a costume from one of his movies, this time as a U.S. sailor in dress whites, complete with the bell bottomed pants that hadn’t been worn since the sixties. On his sleeve he wore the hash marks of a chief petty officer. “So what about your ex, Flyboy. How’d she react to you showing up unannounced?”

“Typhoon City,” Tom said, grinning. “It was a complete ambush. I knocked on the door, and when she answered it I just walked on in and called Benny’s name. Before she could throw me out, he was all over me. It would have taken military intervention to pry him off, and she knew it. I swear I could hear her teeth grinding all night.”

Mike grinned hugely. “HA! I’ll bet she did. What happened when you told her you wanted Benny to come here for the summer?”

“About what you’d expect, she threw a fit. Screaming, spitting, lots of foul Japanese words. Said she’d see me in court, then threw her paycheck in my face again. You know, ‘my lawyers are more expensive than your lawyers’.”

From his seat at the desk Murray snorted. “I take it you hadn’t yet shared the good news about your recent windfall.”

Tom grinned, answered, “Must have slipped my mind. Fortunately, I just happened to have the deposit slip for the $2.7 million in my pocket. You know, I have never seen her turn that particular color before.”

Mike laughed out loud, a quick bark of delight. “Oooh, man, I hope you took pictures! So what’s happening, are you guys gonna duke it out in court?”

Tom shook his head, firmly. “No way. Miko and I both agree, neither of us wants to drag Benny through something like that. No, I just pointed out that I now have enough money to retire and move to Japan. And, with all that time on my hands, I’d probably spend a lot of it hanging out at the company she works for. You know, the big ugly American, wearing ragged jeans and a ‘Surfers Do It Standing Up’ T-shirt, camping out in their lobby. Telling everybody that my ex-wife Miko Takahashi works there. She went all white and trembly for awhile, but after that the conversation got a lot more reasonable.”

The other men laughed, and the conversation devolved into tales about women they had known, and the problems they had brought. Tom cocked an eyebrow, more than a little surprised at the easy banter between his brother and his best friend. When he had left two weeks ago the two men had been bickering like children, freely resorting to name calling and stopping just short of threats of violence. But now in sharp contrast was an easy camaraderie, that of two friends who were comfortable in each others presence.

Oh Christ, they’ve bonded!

Tom smiled at the thought, then asked his brother, “Cathy told me that you’re working on some movie thing with Murray, so I guess you took my suggestion for a cover. But just so I don’t put my foot in it, what exactly did you tell her you’re doing over here?”

Mike and Murray glanced at each other, sharing a grin. Mike explained, “Actually, we just told her the truth. Murray got me some programming work on a couple of sci-fi movies, and man, Tom, do those guys have too much money! I work eight hours a week writing code, and I get paid more than when I was working forty. Cathy and the kids are happy, and I’ve still got plenty of time to work on the planning committee with Murray.”

Tom grinned, and made a toasting motion to Pablo. “Good going, man. I guess now I don’t have to pay this guy.”

“Hey,” Murray replied, shrugging. “They wouldn’t pay him if he didn’t know what he was doing. And the Rockstar here is right, they do have too much money. So, are you ready to see what we’ve got?”

The last words were said nonchalantly, but Tom saw the sparkle in Murray’s eyes, a shine that was reflected in his brothers’. Outwardly the two were trying to appear calm and cool, but he could feel the excitement they were barely keeping under control. Like two kids waiting to show off their newest toys.

They led Tom to an area in the back of the warehouse, to a section he had never seen before, where a curtain wall completely concealed the last third of the building. Murray opened a door in the wall, paused to flip on the fluorescent lights overhead. Tom jerked to a stop, startled by the ominous figure standing before him. He blinked, then realized that it was only a manikin, dressed in a black and hooded outfit, so like the one he wore when he flew.

But not quite identical, he saw. The hooded and sleeveless sweatshirt hung lower, almost like a jacket, with a slit up both sides to the waist to allow for greater movement. And the hood was wider, more open than a regular sweatshirt. In fact it seemed to flare some, as if the edge had been strengthened with wire.

The mask behind the hood looked different, too. It was the same style as the hunting mask he had worn before, and yet it seemed almost… ‘skeletal’ was the only word that seemed to fit. The ski goggles had been replaced with a pair that he knew was of a higher quality, with close fitting bent lenses that angled off to the side, providing for better peripheral vision. Shiny black metal rims gave it a look of both strength and sleekness, and he could tell that they were top of the line.

The rest of the outfit looked the same, except that the black cargo pants had been bloused military style, and the footwear looked different from his old army jump boots. Tom reached out to touch the fabric of the sweatshirt, blinked in surprise. His fingers had encountered an unexpected weight. He looked back at the other two, found them still grinning.

“That’s right, Tom,” Murray said smugly. “That jacket is made out of bullet resident fabric. We took it out to a private shooting range I use, and we tried everything up to a .44 Magnum and double aught buckshot. It bruised and tore a little, but there wasn’t any penetration at all. This puppy rocks, Tom.”

Tom fingered the shirt, considering. “How come this thing is so light? I tried Kevlar body armor when I was in the Army, and this doesn’t feel anything like it. And what’s this crinkly stuff on the back?”

“Because it’s not Kevlar, that’s why,” Mike replied. “Kevlar’s old school, Tom. This stuff is called Spectra, the Honeywell Corporation makes it. It’s ten times as strong as steel, and about 40% lighter than Kevlar. Hell, it’s so light it even floats.

“See, Murray has a machine that makes chain mail armor for costumes, so we put some titanium wire in it and made up a couple of panels for the front and back, and then used a polymer glue to fix it to the inside of the jacket. Nobody else has even thought about doing that! We wore out a whole set of dies in the machine, but it was worth it.”

“Shit, that is so cool. But what’s this with the hoody? Why is it flared open like that?”

“So you don’t blow up, dummy,” Murray answered. His excitement was now under control, and a bit of his customary banter was coming back. “Remember the bomb in your back? The one that goes BOOM when you get too hot? Well newsflash for ya, Tom. Ballistic cloth is hot, it’s like wearing a rubber suit. But we designed this jacket to give you a way to bleed off excess heat and cool down. Here, take a look at the back.” Murray reached out and pulled at the manikin, and Tom saw that it was mounted on a turntable which allowed the little man to turn it 180 degrees, to face away from them. Across the shoulders and half concealed by the hood was a strange lump, which extended up underneath the neck.

“The hunchbacked thing is called an aero hump, they use them a lot in motorcycle racing. The idea is that when you’re moving fast you can just duck your head a little, and it acts like a vent, channeling cold air under the jacket and over the back. That’s why we made the hood bigger and flared it, it acts like a ram scoop to funnel in more air.”

“And the chain mail?”

“It acts like a honeycomb. It vents excess body heat and helps keep it from pooling. Otherwise, you might get hot spots, little places where the heat just builds and builds.”

“Yeah,” Mike added. “And there’s another reason for the mail. Ballistic cloth is great for stopping bullets, but for some reason it’s susceptible to blade penetration. A bullet won’t get through, but a knife will, but then it won’t be able to get thru the chain mail. It’s kind of heavy, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you, dude, not as long as it’s tight enough to be covered by your gravity field.”

“Okay, I’m impressed. But what’s to keep the hood from flying off when I hit high speed? That wind can get pretty fierce.”

“Velcro,” Mike said, grinning. “My idea. We sewed a strip on top of the mask and the matching piece under the hood. It aught to hold it secure, even in a high wind. And hell, dude, if it gets too windy for you, just pull the damned drawstring.”

Tom grinned, then bowed his head. “Okay, you win. Once again I am awed by your genius, and humbled by the mightiness of your intellect. Please, oh great ones, allow me to worship at your feet.”

Murray turned to Mike and asked, “That’s sarcasm, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah. He used to give us a lot of crap like this when we were kids, but I’d thought he’d outgrown it. Just ignore him, and he’ll stop.”

Tom laughed, it was good to be back home. “Alright, so tell me about the rest of the outfit. Like why does the mask look like Dr. Doom?”

“Padding,” said Murray, reaching out to touch the black hunters mask. “I sewed it over the high points of your face, the jaw line, cheekbones, eye brows and nose. Those are the places most likely to get hit in a fight. And you know you’re right, it will make you look like Doc Doom.”

“Look at the goggles, Tom,” said Mike, pointing. “We figured ski goggles weren’t really what you needed, so we got some English aviator goggles. We also modified them a little. Like ski goggles, it has these little air vents that you can open and close, to cut down on lens fogging. But the vents leak, so we put some gaskets on them so they have an airtight seal.”

Tom frowned. “Why airtight? It’s not like I’m planning on being underwater, that kind of makes my flying useless.”

Murray picked up a small blue and white object from a workbench, tossed it underhand to him and said, “Carbon air filter. You slip this into a pouch I sewed in the mask, flip the goggle vents closed, and you’ve got a pretty damned good gas mask. You said you wanted non-lethal weapons, so we worked up some teargas bombs and pepper spray. Also some butanethiol, but I don’t know how much good that will be.”

“Buta-what?” Tom asked, puzzled.

Mike and Murray exchanged conspiratorial grins, a shared secret. They had done that several times tonight, and Tom was beginning to feel annoyed.

“Never mind, man,” Mike said, still grinning. “We’ll tell you later. Check out the gloves and the pants.”

Tom did, looking first at the gloves. At first glance they looked like the batting gloves he had worn before, although maybe a couple of inches longer, as they disappeared under the cuff of the shirtsleeve. But with a second glance he realized that they were different, or at least something different had been added to them. What looked to be a thick black pad, shaped like a hollow square, had been attached to the backs of the hands, and four rectangular pads had been attached to where the knuckles would be. Another rectangular pad, longer, had been attached to the outside edge of each hand. Tom touched the right hand glove, fingered the pads, found them to be quite hard. He imagined it would hurt a lot to be hit by a fist wearing one of those gloves, which of course was the point.

Mike said, “Hard rubber backed by steel mesh, just like a radial tire. Like built in brass knuckles, only more flexible. And look at the shirt sleeves. We put in a pouch on each sleeve, and put in some long flat lengths of hard Spectra Shield. Gives you a little extra protection in case you have to block a baseball bat or something.

“We also sewed a couple of plies of Spectra onto the front and back thighs of the pants, and over the knees. It’s not as bullet resistant as the jacket, but it’ll still give you a hell of a lot more protection than a layer of cotton.”

Tom squatted down, examining the pants. He could see the reinforced panels on the thighs and knees, underneath the cargo pockets, right where you would expect to take some damage in a fight. The double stitching seemed to be tight, very professional. He said as much.

“This is some pretty good threadwork here. Was it hard, sewing through this stuff?”

“Naw, not too tough,” Murray replied. “You just need to go slow, and use a good machine. And with all the costumes I’ve had to trick out over the years, believe me I know what I’m doing. Besides, I originally got this stuff to make protective clothing for stunt people, so I already knew how to work it.”

“Well you did an excellent job, Pablo. And I like that you’ve bloused the cuffs, sometimes when I’m flying the wind would whistle up my shins. By the way, where’d you get these boots? I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Pretty cool, aren’t they?” said Mike. “Those are professional wrestling boots. They’re lighter and more comfortable than the military types, also more flexible. We figured you’d be doing more fighting than walking, so these made more sense.”

“Yeah, and I redid the tread on them,” added Murray. “I recast the soles using the same kind of tacky rubber rock climbers use. It aught to give you a lot more purchase on those wet rooftops.”

“Yeah, but don’t forget, the wrestling boots were my idea.”

“Your idea?” Murray squeaked, rounding on Mike. “You Van Halen wannabe, I came up with the wrestling boot angle. The whole thing was my idea.”

“Hey Murray, that was my idea and you know it! It was the night we were watching the WWF Superslam, Hulk Hogan had just drop kicked the Undertaker into the ropes, and I said ‘Look, we aught to get those kinds of boots for the costume’. And now you’re trying to steal my idea. You sawed off little gnome, I aught to drop kick you!”

“That’s revisionist history, dammit. It wasn’t Hulk Hogan, it was Sgt. Slaughter who kicked the Undertaker, and it was me who said we should use the boots. And before you start getting too brave, deadhead, remember that I fight dirty.”

“You have to fight dirty, you can’t reach above the belt!”

The squabbling and name calling continued. Tom smiled, thinking it was just like old times. Now that’s more like it!

*****

Tom tried on the outfit and took it for a spin through the rafters of the old warehouse, and found it to be even more comfortable than his old one. Mike and Murray had wanted to show him the weapons they had designed, but Tom begged off, claiming jet lag. He made a few suggestions about the outfit, and Murray took some measurements for alterations. They left him then with his Singer sewing machine, the two brothers heading for Mikes place and dinner with his family.

It was a good night, Cathy seemed genuinely happy to see Tom, and he found that he was able to play with the girls without missing Benny. He had never before realized just how uncomfortable he had been with them, and tonight they seemed to sense the change in him, too. The rough house wrestling after dinner was a joyful play, and he enjoyed it as much as they did.

When Tom announced that he was going to call it a night, Mike followed him out the door to his truck. For a while they leaned against the vehicle in silence, both men contemplating the huge changes that had taken place since the last time they had stood thus. Finally, Tom spoke.

“You and Murray did a fantastic job on the outfit, Mike. It’s amazing, I don’t think there’s another suit like it on the planet.”

“Yeah, well, you said no Spandex or capes, so we just had to go with practical. You gotta admit though, it looks great.”

Tom chuckled, “Yeah, it’ll scare the hell out of anybody who sees me coming out of a dark alley. Tell me one thing though, what’s this ‘Land Warrior’ program you guys were talking about?”

“A military project. Nothing new, the Army’s been working on it for about ten years now, and there was a show on the Discovery channel I taped for you.

“The idea is making an ‘electronic soldier’, wiring up guys in the field so they can send and receive data from each other and from a central headquarters. High tech stuff, heads up computer displays, real time video, infrared and low light cameras, the works. We figure we can monitor you when you’re out, act as your backup, process clues, that sort of thing. And we don’t even have to be in the same city, we can just send it out over the net, receive it at the warehouse, or heck, even here.”

Tom gave a long, low whistle. The possibilities began tumbling through his mind, like dice in a players’ cup. He had resigned himself to pretty much being alone in this, being completely separated by time and the speed of events from the only two people who knew what he was doing, and what he had become. But now new vistas seemed to be opening. Through the miracle of modern technology, Mike and Murray could be there with him virtually, even during the most dangerous of times. They didn’t even have to be in San Francisco, hell they didn’t even have to be in the same country. A laptop and a hotel room with Internet access was all they needed, and they could be in Moscow for all that mattered. The possibilities were amazing, and the potentials almost endless.

Tom shook his head. “This is too much, man. You guys have blown me away. Listen, I’m beat and I really have to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow, and then the three of us can make some plans. Thanks again for dinner and, you know, all this other stuff. I don’t know what I’d do without you, man, I really don’t.”

Mike nodded, quietly accepting his brother’s thanks. “Hey, you never told me what happened with Miko. Is she gonna bother you about Benny anymore?”

Tom smiled, and gave a slight shake of his head. “No, there’s not going to be anymore problems. Now that she wasn’t calling all the shots, she was a lot more reasonable. To tell the truth though, I think she just saw how much happier Benny was with me in his life. We kind of buried the hatchet.

“She’s going to transfer to Asano’s office in L.A. about two weeks before school starts, so she’ll send Ben to stay with me until—what the hell are you smiling at?”

Mike was looking at his brother, a huge grin spreading over his face. He said, “Oh, man. You did it, didn’t you? You got lucky. You got lucky with Miko. ‘Buried the hatchet’. Ha!” Mike howled with laughter as a red faced Tom tried to quite him down, but it was no use. “Tom, you slept with your ex-wife!”

Tom shook his head and sighed, but then started to grin himself. He waited for his brother to stop laughing, and then admitted the truth.

“Okay, dammit. Yes, I slept with Miko. We covered a lot of ground while I was there, and on my last two nights in Osaka we, um, ‘made up’. Stop grinning, dammit! And no, we’re not getting back together. We just decided we’re not going to keep cutting at each other anymore. We both love Benny, and he has a right to have both of his parents in his life.”

Mike grunted, but he was still smiling. He said, “Tom, you never cease to amaze me. I’m glad you guys are finally making peace. I’ll see you tomorrow, man.”

They stood up and the two men embraced, and then Tom got into his truck and drove off. Mike stood there for a while, watching the red taillights disappear into the night, just as he had on that night a month ago. Now as then, he wondered just what it was that they had started.

He also wondered what it was like, having sex in zero-G.

*****

Tom arrived at his apartment and pulled into the lot, where he parked in his assigned space, turned off the engine, and yawned. He yawned again when he pulled his bag out of the truck and slammed the door, and he was yawning yet again as he crossed the lot, and so failed to see the figure that came at him from the shadows.

The blow struck him on the left shoulder, knocking him against a car and paralyzing his entire arm. The shock drove the breath from his lungs, and before he could draw another a second blow struck him in the thigh. The pain from his injuries washed over him like a tidal wave as he collapsed to the ground, rolling on his back, a black haze blocking his vision. He could barely see the shadowy figure that was moving in on him, its arm raised to deliver another punishing blow.

Tom raised his good arm to protect himself, but the club or pipe or whatever it was that the figure used glanced cruelly off it. Because of the angle the blow wasn’t nearly as strong as the first two, which is all that kept the more fragile arm bones from shattering, but still it brought a cry of agony from Tom’s lips.

“You fuckin’ college boy pansy, I’m gonna kill you! I lost it all, I got warrants out on me, and I could go to jail all because of a candy ass like you!” the dark figure snarled, as it took another swing at Tom’s head. He ducked, and the club slammed into the trunk of the car he huddled against, leaving a fit sized dent. Tom frantically scrambled backwards, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the figure in dark clothes, and for the first time realized that his attacker was Carlton Biggs.

Tom desperately wanted to fly, to take to the skies and get away from this madman the quickest way he could. His body screamed with the need to escape, but another voice in his head was screaming just a tiny bit louder. The voice kept telling him that he couldn’t, that he didn’t dare let Biggs see him fly. To show himself, to be exposed, was a guaranteed trip to a dissection table.

So Tom scrambled, and Biggs towered over him, a childhood nightmare come to life in a darkened parking lot. With a savage motion Biggs threw the club thing away, and Tom briefly noted the sound of breaking glass wherever it landed. But Carlton Biggs wasn’t finished, he had just decided to get more personal with his assault. He kicked him, his foot taking Tom up under the ribs, lifting him up and driving the breath from his lungs explosively. He stalked Tom, kicking at him again and again, driving him back across the parking lot, his foul curses mixing with Tom’s cries of pain. Twice Tom was kicked in the face, the second time snapping his mouth shut with a sound of cracked some teeth. He tasted his own blood, and with it was the iron taste of fear.

Tom saw Biggs’ face, and the ugly mask of hate he wore. He knew that if he didn’t do something, the crooked ex-cop was going to kill him.

Biggs took another kick, but this time Tom kicked back with his one relatively good leg. It was a lucky blow, striking Biggs’ upraised foot and throwing him off balance. The large man stumbled, and for a second his eyes were off the tattered form beneath him.

Tom had been forced into the space between two vehicles, one an SUV with a very high wheelbase. When Biggs fell, Tom lifted his body, raising himself an inch off the ground, and then slid as if on ice underneath the SUV and out the other side. He kept on going, hovering inches above the dry asphalt with its oily smell, frantically winding his way through the maze of parked cars. By the time Biggs got to his feet, Tom was long gone.

Biggs cursed and prowled through the lot for a while longer, kicking at the cars in his frustration and shattering at least one headlight. But the beating and subsequent search had set off more than one vehicle alarm, and people were beginning to come out to see what was wrong. Biggs finally gave up and left the lot on foot, making his way to where he had parked his car two blocks away. The people who had come down to the parking lot saw the vandalism done to their cars and called the police, right after they called their insurance agents. Two patrol cars arrived an hour later, and statements were taken and a report was started.

Nobody saw the still and unconscious figure up on an apartment roof, that silently bled onto the shingles.

*****

“When I came to, I saw the parking lot was full of cops and a bunch of my neighbors. So I floated down into a dark corner, and came stumbling out. I pretended that I had crawled under a car in the corner and passed out, but other than that I told the truth. They’ve added assault charges to the warrants out on Biggs, but it won’t make any difference. He’s long gone by now.”

It was three days after the assault and Tom, Mike and Murray were at the warehouse. Tom had first told his story to Mike from his hospital bed the day after it had happened, but this was the first time Murray had heard all the details. He stared now at the bandages on his friend’s body, the visible ones and the ones that created bulges underneath his clothing. The doctors had pronounced Tom fit enough to leave the hospital that morning, with no broken bones and no lasting affects from his concussion. Murray knew that his friend was going to be fine, but he still couldn’t help looking at those bandages and wincing.

Mike had no such problem, the look on his face was just plain sour. He had had plenty of time to get over the frantic worry engendered by the call from the hospital two days ago, his mood now was a combination of anger and disgust. He said, “You can’t go back home, Tom. You can’t go home, and you can’t stay at my place either, not until they catch this guy. If he knows where you live, he probably knows where I do too, and sooner or later he’ll come looking for you there.

“You were in Osaka for three weeks, dammit, and he must have been watching your place that whole time. And that’s with the cops looking for him! That’s some serious kind of crazy, Tommy, that psycho really could have killed you. I’m saying it again, you’ve got to get out of town.”

Tom heaved a sigh, looked at Murray who was nodding his head, agreeing with Mike. Tom said, “Look, you guys, it’s not as bad as you make it sound. Biggs may hate me, but he hasn’t been hanging around my apartment for three weeks just hoping I’ll show up. Some of those files that I took from him show that he sometimes hired underground hackers to find dirt on people. The police think he just got one of them to run a trace on my credit cards. He knew I was in Japan, and he’d know when I bought a ticket to come back, so he probably wasn’t staking out my place more than half a day before he caught me.

“And you’re wrong, Mike, I was never in any danger of getting killed. I could have flown away at any time, and I would have, if it came down to that. I just couldn’t let him see me flying unless there was no other choice. But you’re also right, I do have to get out of here.

“Look, I’ll stay with Murray for a couple of days, and then I’ll move down to the San Francisco loft. I’ll get a few thousand in cash out of the bank, and I won’t use my credit cards, so he’ll have no way of finding me. And I don’t think it would be a problem, anyway. The police think that now that he’s gotten his licks in, he’ll hang low, probably get out of town, especially since they now know it was him who attacked me. Hey, this was just payback for me tipping the cops to some of the things he’s done. He’s not going to risk a murder charge just to get back at me, and sooner or later he will get caught. So stop worrying about it.”

Mike grumbled some more, but in the end he agreed that Tom was probably safe, especially after he moved to San Francisco. But Murray was strangely silent, and Tom noticed the measuring look he was giving him. Finally, Murray spoke.

“Tom, this shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice solemn. “Even without the outfit, or the flying, this guy shouldn’t have been able to pound you like that. I bet you didn’t even get in a single punch, did you?”

Tom looked away, embarrassed. “No,” he finally admitted. “You’re right, Murray, I didn’t get in one shot. Dammit, it happened way too fast.”

“ ‘Way too fast’ is not an excuse. Tom, you’re going to go up against some really nasty characters; gangsters, smugglers, drug dealers, you name it. When you put on that outfit, there’s no telling who you might go head to head with. And yet you can’t even defend yourself against some overweight security guard with a lead pipe! For chrissakes Tom, didn’t anybody ever teach you how to fight?”

“Awww, give him a break, Murray!” put in Mike. “Sure, our Dad taught us how to box, and we both took Tae Kwan Do lessons in high school, and the Army probably taught him some judo in basic training. But he just learned he could fly two months ago, he never had any reason to be Bruce Lee before.”

“And he’s sure as hell not Bruce Lee now. Face it, Tom. You may have an edge with the flying, but you were also pretty lucky with the Psychos that night. And you can’t depend on luck forever, you have to get some training before somebody else tries to hand you your head.”

Tom was nodding. He raised a placating hand and said, “I agree, Pablo. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the last two days. And I’ve got a feeling we’ve both come to the same conclusion, haven’t we?”

Murray was nodding, but Mike just looked puzzled, as he glanced back and forth between his brother and the little special effects master. “What, what are you two talking about?”

“I can’t just go out and start taking karate lessons, Mike,” answered Tom, wincing as he shifted in his chair. “I’d have to create a whole new martial art, based around my flying power and what I can do with it. Something that can maximize what I do. But to do that, I’d need to already be an expert in at least one of the martial arts, just so I could know what I could adapt to my new style.”

“More than one, Tom,” chimed in Murray. “You’d have to be familiar with at least a half a dozen different schools. It would take years of training, just to learn the basics in that many styles.”

“And I can’t take that much time. What we need to do is get somebody who already knows this stuff. Somebody I can work with who can help me develop this new style. I need—”

“Wait a minute!” Mike yelped, springing to his feet in alarm. “You’re not seriously thinking about bringing somebody else in on the secret, are you? Tom, that’s crazy! The more people who know about you, the more likely the secret gets out. We can’t tell anybody about this, dammit!”

“Relax, Mike. We’re not talking about handing out a business card with my name and address on it. I can keep the mask on, and not tell him anything, not who I am, or how I got the power. All he needs to know is what I can do and what my limitations are. The rest is immaterial.”

“Immaterial? You’re going to show up at some guys dojo wearing a mask, tell him that you’re a superhero, ask him to teach you how to fight bad guys, but not let him have a peak? Dude, who the hell do you think is… oh.”

“Yeah,” put in Murray, nodding. “That’s right, Rockstar. We get somebody who already owes us. Or at least, who owes Tommy here.”

“Murray,” said Tom, the firmness of a decision finally made in his voice, “Tell us everything you know about Dieter and Holly Reisbach.”