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I RAN TO the kitchen area, yanked the window open and scrambled onto the fire escape. I closed the window behind me. It’s not that I didn’t think they’d look, but it might at least delay them. And the window was old, heavy and really hard to slide up and down. A police officer who didn’t have my heightened strength might not even be able to open it, despite my having loosened it a tiny bit.
I could hear the cops enter the room just as I ducked away from the window and headed up the stairs. The noise the cops were making was loud enough to cover any of the vibrating metal noises I made as I ascended the fire escape and headed to the roof.
Inside, I heard a bunch of voices yell “Freeze!” Monty swore again for good measure, then I heard the sound of handcuffs coming out, being slapped on wrists. Their city-issued footwear shuffled and scuffed as police officers swarmed into the room and checked to make sure they’d gotten everyone.
I counted between eight and ten officers based on the voices and shuffling I heard.
Down on the street below and about fifty feet off to my left I could see three police cruisers in the alley. There was another with its back half sticking out from the alley, and perhaps a fourth around the corner.
Standing on the fire escape and looking down, I sniffed around for any signs of Buddy, but couldn’t smell him in the vicinity. Couldn’t hear his distinctive voice, either.
No, knowing his desire to stay out of things, I imagine he would have put in an anonymous call about what was taking place, then hightailed it out of here.
Knowing my own desire not to get mixed up in such a brew-ha-ha, I imagine he didn’t mention me by name, but rather some of the things he’d witnessed and overheard.
No, Buddy must be safely far away from all this. I’d have to call him to let him know I was okay. And, of course, to thank him for, yet again, being in the right place at the right time. Perhaps there was more to his knack for doing that than simple coincidence.
But I didn’t have much time to reflect on that yet.
I didn’t hear any sort of “Hey look, up there on the fire escape,” sort of activity happening below, but didn’t want to take any chances.
And as I continued to hoof it to the roof, not really sure where I was going next, I could suddenly appreciate why Spider-Man fled the scene of a hold-up or burglary he had successfully foiled.
Yes, it’s true. I’d questioned Spidey’s judgement in those moments.
Sure, I’d been a fan of the Spider-Man comic books my entire life, had always enjoyed the web-slinger’s sense of responsibility, his desire to do the right thing. But I had always wondered why he would flee the scene, why he didn’t stick around to explain himself.
Every single time he nabbed the bad guys, he’d take off the second the police showed up, and end up being misunderstood and getting a bad rap for it.
I’d always thought he should have invested the time into staying and explaining how he’d discovered their plot, swooped in to save the day, and everything would be taken care of.
I figured Spidey could have saved himself an endless amount of aggravation and misunderstanding for his good deeds if only he’d stayed to explain.
But, thick in the middle of a similar mess, I knew that such vigilante activities are neither appreciated nor condoned. The police don’t need untrained citizens out there performing their own personal brand of justice.
That much I could understand.
And besides, at least Spider-Man had the secret identity by way of his red and blue costume to keep the police and public from knowing who he was.
I was a plain-dressed civilian, and a somewhat recognizable one at that, given my recent popularity based on the movie tie-ins of my work.
If my explanation didn’t go well, they’d know exactly who I was right away.
And that wouldn’t be good for my career.
Or would it?
I pondered that as I continued to hoof it up the metal stairs to the roof.
I mean, if people found out that this particular crime ring had been foiled by none other than Michael Andrews, writer and vigilante at large, perhaps the sales of my novels would explode.
I didn’t let those thoughts go too far, though.
The thought of people finding out about my werewolf abilities would also lead to fear. Fear, walking hand in hand with ignorance and prejudice, would mean I’d never again find a moment’s peace.
It was easy to visualize a mob bearing torches moving through the streets on their way to my apartment, chanting “Kill the wolf, kill the wolf!” and seeking to send me packing from the city and into the Canadian wilderness where I belonged.
Or perhaps they’d prefer to lock me up in a cage, or worse, some sort of lab, where secret government agents would perform endless experiments on me, try to see what made me tick, how the phases of the moon controlled the various heightened senses and abilities that ran through my veins. I’d be poked, prodded, hooked up to machines, experimented on, sliced open and then disposed of like some sort of lab rat.
No thanks.
It made me wonder if I might be better off to design some sort of costume, though, so when I did end up doing random good deeds, I didn’t have to worry about being recognized as Michael Andrews the mystery writer.
I shook my head with a sour expression.
I’d occasionally used my heightened powers to help people, but never had I spent a full day spiraling into such a bizarre series of crime-fighting activities as I had today.
As great as it was to clobber Howard, and know I’d put a stop to an organized crime ring, I would be happy when this day was over and I could go back to writing the next Maxwell Bronte novel.
Sigh. My novel.
I looked at the time.
It was 2:30.
Damn!
I needed to get back to my place, get back to writing the damn book and sending it to Mack.
I reached the top of the ten-story building and looked around, not sure which direction to head.
The river was to my left and south, that I could tell from the fishy/salty smell coming in from the bay. I needed to head to my right and north.
But the direct route north was a gigantic building that towered another ten stories higher with no convenient fire escape stairs to ascend.
My best choice, then, was the building across the small alley to the east. It led to a rooftop at my same level, and on it, there was another fire escape stairwell that led up another six or so stories. I saw I could leap across to another building to the north that was a story or two shorter, and from there, continue north to another building the same height. I figured if I moved at least four or five buildings north and east, I’d be far enough away that I could descend without anyone associating me with the cops-and-robbers stuff going on here.
I took a couple dozen steps back, swallowed a nice deep lungful of air, then sprinted to the edge of the roof and leapt.