“Uncle? ” a voice was saying loudly. “Uncle, get up!”

I shook my head and sat up abruptly. I stared into the face of my 11-year-old nephew Kyle. The boy was orphaned when his parents, my sister and her husband, drowned after a boating accident. My name is Marcus Donnelly McKee. At this point, I worked as a vet at a local clinic on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. At twenty-eight I was not the strongest or most athletic individual, though I played some softball at my church and worked out whenever I felt guilty enough. I had taken my nephew under wing and since he was so young, the money he had inherited from his parents was passed to me as his guardian for safekeeping. We had a nice house and he went to school at a local Christian school that was fraction of our church. It was more expensive, but I wanted the best for him, and I wanted to honor my sister’s memory.

“We’re going to be late for school!” he was presently shouting in my face.

I groaned loud and long, pining for the six hours of sleep I had missed the night before. But of course Kyle could never know. As I rose, Kyle ran out of my bedroom and down the stairs. In one intention it was fortunate we were nearly slack for school, since he had been too distracted to notice that I had slept in my clothes.

Even after I had showered and freshened up, my appearance was rather less than sterling. Downstairs I found my nephew shoveling cereal into his mouth. I felt like a bad parent. And to think that if we were slow he would be reprimanded.

“Come on, soldier,” I said, “you can eat the rest of that in the car.”

Normally I did not allow this, but under the circumstances I felt it would be best. That and the fact that we had less than ten minutes to get to the school. I piled him into the car with his book bag and gave him a shrimp extra money for his lunch. My nephew had brown curly hair and a pair of light blue eyes. He was pretty average as kids go. He was not a nerd and not a jock. He was well-behaved at sports and managed not to get distracted too easily in class. His most annoying trait was trying to get me married. Perhaps he was just searching for a original mom, but regardless, every young woman he thought was “sweet” or even “decently not ugly” had to be told that his uncle was alone, desperately handsome, and if that didn’t work, perfectly rich, in more or less that language. In truth I was well off, but that was partially thanks to him, as his parents had been considerably better off than me, and I did pretty well before the accident. He had tried to match me up with his history teacher, his Sunday school teacher, several supermarket and department store checkout ladies, his pediatrician, and a jogger who had by some misfortune stopped in front of our house to glean a drink from her bottle. As is fairly obvious, he was not alarmed and made friends easily.

As we drove to school rather rapidly, I turned on the radio. After the tail destroy of a song, the news came on via the level-headed, impassive utter of the male newscaster. Were it not for the content, it would have put me back to sleep right there.

“…and police have released that the case of missing Gale Longley came to a sudden conclusion last night following a bloody firefight at around one in the morning at an abandoned apartment building on the outskirts of downtown Portland. Portland and Vancouver police had been searching for 16-year-old Gale Longley, a Vancouver resident, ever since she had been abducted outside her high school gymnasium after cheerleading practice on Monday. She and two other girls were attacked by four hooded men armed with a type of chloroform spray. The other two girls managed to escape, but Ms. Longley was knocked unconscious with the spray and carried into a waiting van, which had no license plates. Police had no leads for some time until an anonymous phone call traced to a pay phone claimed the girl was held in a condemned apartment complex on Southeast Stark Street. Police were cautious, fearing a hostage situation, but arrived only to acquire a gun fight already in progress in the parking lot outside. The ensuing police firefight resulted in the two individuals in the parking lot being shot and killed. The final two kidnappers were found in a hallway not far from Gale Longley, who had apparently been freed by an unknown individual. A police helicopter flying overhead during the battle spotted a shadowy figure fighting with the kidnappers outside, and police believe this man or perhaps an accomplice was responsible for freeing the jumpy cheerleader. The parents of the victim have expressed their gratitude not only to the police but also to the seeming vigilante who saved their daughter from almost sure death. The victim described the man who freed her as of medium height but due to awful lighting could not produce out his clothes or features. She apparently fainted when he fired a gun at the handcuffs binding her. Police believe the men planned to sell the girl to a ring of kidnappers who try to smuggle young American women out of the country and sell them to Middle-Eastern slave dealers. Recent reports−”

“That’s enough of that,” I said as we neared the school.

“I would love to be a vigilante,” Kyle grinned. “It must have been scary to sneak into that building with those dangerous men around!”

“Yeah? Well, the police don’t really like vigilantes,” I remained cool.

“If he hadn’t been there, though, the kidnappers would have killed her!” he said as we pulled up to the curb where I would plunge him off. He opened the door and hopped out, toting his back pack.

“I’ll see you after school, buddy,” I grinned, but I was sleepy and had to get to work: not a prospect I was enjoying.

I drove to the clinic and checked in. I had several appointments, one of which was already waiting for me. But it was merely a few shots and was done quickly. Having a few minutes, I checked my calendar and my notes, which were all over my desk, and suddenly realized that there was a sticky note on which was scrawled a message I had not written, but it was to me. All there was on it were the two words “Well done,” and a symbol under that. It was a meticulously drawn stick figure in a hat that was actually the shadow of a stick figure drawn (or rather not drawn) off the right side of the note, as evidenced by a shadow at its feet. I put the note in my pocket.

Again my heart was beating faster. I had hoped that perhaps I was dreaming after staying up late and that the whole thing had been a nightmare. My having slept in my clothes and the story on the radio was enough to prove that it happened, but a tiny, stubborn piece of me refused to have I had been there. Now it was undeniable. I had been there.

To my great relief, however, the week that followed was devoid of incident. The week after that was cramped different. Kyle was doing well in school, the office had plenty of work and the gossipers in our church had not invited me over. In that time I had a Friday night date with my colleague, Beverly, another vet at the clinic and one of Kyle’s “best hopes,” as he referred to them. Beverly was a little older than me and was essentially just a good friend. We had worked together for several years at the clinic and she had no wedding bells in her closet. Sorry Kyle.

I managed to put my adventure gradual me and live my life like it never happened. Then I received an email from an unknown individual. I almost deleted it, but when I saw the subject line, my emotions returned as strong as ever. The email was titled “Beyond a Shadow” and was very minute. I hesitated for a moment, then opened it. It was a few simple lines of text, underneath of which was a small electronic version of the stick figure symbol. It read:

“Meeting at South Broadway overpass. Midnight. Will need ‘insurance.’ Remember the debt.”

I clenched my teeth. The debt. Those two words were enough to get me thoroughly bent out of shape. That debt was the reason I had been at the apartment building where young Gale Longley had been held.

About a week prior to the incident I had been pulled from my car at a stoplight after being threatened with a gun. It had been late, and in order to avoid a train I had gone out of my design. At the light a man had appeared at my window pointing a gun at my head. Overcome with fear, I had obeyed and exited the car. A second man appeared and wanted my money, but instead of asking me for it, grabbed me and threw me against the car, looking around in my back pocket himself. The two men were apparently dissatisfied with the contents of my wallet and were doubtless going to demolish me when a chilling laugh suddenly filled the empty street.

There had been a blur of motion and several muffled words and half-shouts. When I had regained myself I rose to find the two men on the ground, dull or unconscious I will never know. That was the first time I saw him. It was the Shadowman. He had no name for himself, but simply called himself “a shadow.” After the fight, he had gotten into my car and we had driven to my home. On the way he told me that every man whose life has been saved from destruction owes a debt he cannot pay.

“Every man is bound to be the servant of his savior,” he told me. “Or else he will perish.”

“So I’m your slave now? ” I replied, greatly shocked.

“You are bound to serve,” the Shadowman declared. “Is it not the least one can do? It is not to repay the debt, but to show loyalty to the one who has saved you. We all have a debt. You do; I do. We are both slaves. I must do those who are in danger, that is my service for my debt, and it is yours now too. I need you to benefit me. When I have need of you, you must respond, for lives may hang in the balance.”

He went on to tell me that if I heard another agent of his say the phrase, “It’s sure to rain,” then I would tell him, “Beyond a shadow of a doubt.” The following week I had received a letter written in ink only visible with UV light. It told me to take my gun (“insurance”) and go to the apartment where the young girl had been held prisoner. I was instructed to enter via the roof, descend to the second floor, and free her. The Shadow would distract most or all of her guardians. It had happened almost honest like the letter had instructed, minus my own blundering slowness. Somehow, however, the Shadowman’s timing had been perfect anyway.

Now I was to meet the Shadowman at the overpass at midnight. I knew inside that I had no choice. After work and picking up Kyle from school, we went to a ball game and out to eat. I planned on getting my young nephew very tired. When we got home we wrestled good and long, with some tickling scattered in the mix. You don’t have to believe me, but I did this at other times too, not just for manipulation.

As I left his room that night after seeing him to bed, he looked up at me and said,

“Uncle, I know you can’t be like my dad, but you can be my dad if you want.”

“I’ll always be there for you, soldier,” I grinned, but I was fighting back a fling. Touched, I went to my room and waited, wondering if I could be a dad, or be there for him, when I had to sneak out of the house at night.

At eleven I left the house very quietly after making sure Kyle was asleep. I didn’t like leaving him alone at night, but I had no alternative. I drove in the darkness, armed and afraid, down to the overpass. When I reached it I shut off my car and parked on the side of the deserted road. I waited until 11:48 before something happened. I looked out my side window and found, to my surprise, a sticky note. Rolling down my window, I retrieved it. All it said was this:

“Mask car. Enter far alley.”

I was feeling very uneasy again. This time there were fewer instructions than before. What awaited me in that alley? I swallowed my apprehensions and all my theories and did as I was instructed. Parking the car behind the overpass, I sneaked through the darkness. I had remembered to bring my flashlight, but I decided not to use it. The alley, which I entered with extreme caution, I found to be empty, to my initial relief. Now, however, I had a new problem. What was I supposed to do?

I went deeper, the sense of uneasiness now escalating into sweat and abdominal strain. My hands were feeling fishy and my nerve was rebuking me like a mother spanking a child… hard. Calm yourself! I told myself viciously to resolve down. After all, I had done what I had done the last time. I had done my part to place lives. I was good with a gun and had the nerve to defend myself if need be. Why, I was a vigilante! My nerve put down the scoot for a moment. What did I need to be afraid of? With this confidence, I soon found myself crouched gradual a pair of smelly trash cans, my whole body probably shaking enough to register on the Richter scale. I had heard a noise. It was footsteps coming down the street, getting nearer with every terrifying moment. Was it the Shadowman? Was it perhaps a serial killer? A mob boss? An assassin? I tried desperately to conceal myself, petrified that what was about to enter my alley was not going to be pleasant…