The shimmering blond sister
David Handler
PROLOGUE
The Masked Avenger waited until he was absolutely positive she was asleep before he slipped soundlessly out of bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom-a man on a mission. Maybe his most critical mission to date.
Hell, there was no maybe about it.
His home lay in darkness. Outside, all was still and silent, even though it wasn’t that late. Dorset was a bedrock New England town. Early to bed, early to rise, makes you healthy, wealthy, and… astonishingly boring. The Masked Avenger let himself out the back door and started across the lawn, his ears straining for a noise, any noise. He heard only the crickets.
He’d assumed other superhero identities over the years. Two of them. Secret identities that not a single living soul knew about. His first had been the Silent Thief, back when he was six years old. The Silent Thief operated in the quiet of Sunday mornings at dawn. He’d rise in the early light and creep down the upstairs hallway in his pajamas to the closed door of his parents’ bedroom. Six mornings a week they awoke before he did. Sundays they slept in. He’d ease the door open carefully. Listen for their deep, steady breathing. Assured that they were asleep, he’d enter their room. An ocean of carpet lay between the Silent Thief and the chest of drawers next to his father’s side of the bed. Mindful of the creaks in the floorboards, he’d slither his way across the room on his stomach, working his way deep into enemy territory, his heart pounding, mouth dry. It would take the Silent Thief five, sometimes ten, minutes to make it all the way around the bed. Then came the truly dangerous stage of his mission. The part that was absolutely not for the faint of heart. With a deep breath, the Silent Thief would spring to his feet and-standing there in full view of them now-steal the loose change that was scattered atop the dresser with his father’s keys and wallet. Quarters and dimes, the occasional nickel. He didn’t dare open the wallet and go for any bills. His father might notice those missing. Coins he never did. The Silent Thief would soundlessly snatch at least a dollar’s worth with his small, moist fingers, then drop back down to the floor and slither gleefully back to his room-mission accomplished.
He kept his loot in an old tobacco tin hidden in the back of his closet. After two years of Sundays, he’d amassed a secret fortune of $107.25.
Until that morning when the Silent Thief was finally exposed-by his mother, much to his humiliation. She lay there that fateful Sunday morning, her breathing deep and steady as usual. Except one eye was wide open, watching him as he slithered along the floor. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” she whispered.
“I-I was looking for Jocko,” he gasped hoarsely. Their cocker spaniel.
“Jocko sleeps in the cellar, not in here,” she said reproachfully. Because she knew. Though she never said so.
He darted out of their room and never, ever dared go in there again. He spent his loot judiciously in the coming months on cheeseburgers, onion rings, and chocolate milk shakes at the fragrant diner near home, where he was forbidden to go because mother insisted that the food they served was unhealthy for a growing person.
But the Silent Thief was gone-never to return again. Superhero identities? Those were for little kids.
Until that warm summer night when he reappeared as the Midnight Watcher, a crusader vastly more cunning than the Silent Thief had ever dared to be. He was, after all, a sophisticated man of fifteen now. The Midnight Watcher didn’t merely tiptoe out of his bedroom, he slipped out of the whole house. Waited until his parents had gone to bed. Then leapt out of his own bed and donned his special costume: black jeans, black windbreaker, black Converse Chuck Taylor high tops. He looked very cool in it. His bedroom window opened out onto the roof of the back porch. Out the window he’d go, then down the trellis to the patio, and off into the dark of night.
It seemed like a quiet neighborhood. Not much going on. But the Midnight Watcher knew better. He knew that a mere one street over from his own resided the beauteous, the incomparable, the one and only Donna Durslag. He knew that Donna’s first-floor bedroom faced her parents’ driveway, its window partially shielded by a large rhododendron. He knew that if he stood there in the Durslags’ driveway, nestled in that rhododendron, he could watch Donna through her open window, completely undetected.
She was a dark-eyed dream girl with gleaming black hair and giant boobs. A senior at the same high school he went to. Not that she had any idea who he was. Donna was popular. Donna was a cheerleader. Donna dated the quarterback of the football team. Almost always, she’d be talking on her bedside phone when the Midnight Watcher arrived at his post. That was what she did. She talked to her girlfriends on the phone. Her room was very girlie-girl. Her bed was covered with stuffed animals, her walls with posters of insipid bubblegum music stars. Often, she’d be playing their awful music on her stereo. Which meant he couldn’t hear a lot of what she was saying. But he could watch her, inflamed by his passion, as she lay there on her bed in a sleeveless top and shorts, talking and talking. She liked to lie on her tummy with her knees bent and her bare feet up in the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth. The Midnight Watcher was positively hypnotized by the sight of Donna’s naked, succulent, pink toes.
He saw the rest of her naked only one time. Entirely, deliciously naked. It was a memorable night. It was also the night that marked the Midnight Watcher’s final adventure. A summer heat wave was on. It had been a sweltering 98 degrees that day. The thermometer still hovered near 90 even late at night-and him all costumed from head to toe in black. Donna didn’t have air-conditioning in her room. Just a ceiling fan. It must have been very warm in there. And her parents must have gone to bed early. Because when she came padding into the bedroom that night, fresh from her shower, Donna was stark naked. No T-shirt. No nightie. The Midnight Watcher couldn’t believe his eyes. Donna Durslag was the first girl he’d ever seen naked. He was overwhelmed by the rich abundance of her curves. By the way her full, mouthwatering breasts jiggled as she walked. She came directly over to the window and flung open the curtains. Rested her arms right there on the windowsill. He stood there, inches away from her in the darkness. He didn’t dare swallow or blink or breathe. She was so close he could see the dewy droplets of water on her rosy nipples. And smell her fresh, soapy scent. Donna. Standing there like that, he began to get incredibly excited. His heart pounding. His fifteen-year-old hormones raging out of control. That pulsating anaconda in his jeans so huge, so alive that he feared his entire being would explode in a pulp all over Donna’s window. And so he, well, he did what any healthy, red-blooded American boy would do. Took matters into his own hand.
Unfortunately, it was at that very moment that the Durslags’ next-door neighbors happened to turn on their porch light-backlighting the Midnight Watcher as he stood there in the rhododendron, one fist gripping his engorged pole. Naturally, Donna saw him. It. And so she, well, she did what any healthy, red-blooded American girl would do. Screamed her head off.
Her parents came running. Lights went on everywhere. Dogs barked. The Midnight Watcher sprinted away. Or tried to, hobbled as he was by his inflamed condition. So panicked that he ran away from home, then around the block twice. When he finally got home, he shimmied up the trellis and dove into bed with all of his clothes on, sweating and trembling. Praying she hadn’t looked up at his face. Which she hadn’t. He was lucky. Very lucky. But after that, the Midnight Watcher was no more. In fact, he said good-bye to superhero identities forever after that. Renounced them as a childish thing that he’d outgrown. And, frankly, was fortunate to have survived.
Until two weekends ago, when the Masked Avenger was born.
Out of necessity, he felt. To get even. Pay back each and every one of those rich old ladies who’d been looking down on him. He’d tried to shrug off their casual slights. Ignore their whispers. He’d turned the other cheek, been the bigger man. Sure, he had. But a man can only swallow so much. And then he must act. Has to act. Or he’s not a man.
His costume of choice? A nod to his youth. Black nylon windbreaker, black jeans, black Chuck Taylor high-tops and-here was the new twist-a black wool ski mask. The Masked Avenger was a giver of gifts. His favorite means of announcing himself was the front doorbell. He’d left a dead skunk on Amy Orr’s welcome mat because of that way she had of turning up her nose at him. And that no-good Kathy Fulton, the undertaker’s wife, got a special gift, too. A customized addition to the sign outside of the Fulton Funeral Home. Right underneath the sober words Burials and Cremations, the Masked Avenger had scrawled: And don’t forget our homemade BBQ! But those were special
