Chapter 11: REPUTATION
The newspaper arrives Tuesday morning. My face is on page three.
LOCAL DEPUTY STOPS BANK ROBBERY
The photo catches me mid-interview. Serious expression. Badge visible. The caption reads: Deputy Marcus Webb, hero of yesterday's dramatic bank robbery intervention.
Hero.
I fold the paper. Set it aside. Pour coffee.
Lucas enters, already showered and dressed. He sees the paper. Smirks.
"Fame suits you."
"Fame is dangerous."
"Dangerous for the cover or dangerous for whatever you actually are?" He pours his own coffee. "Because that fight was superhuman, Ben. Four armed men. You barely got scratched."
"I got shot."
"Grazed. And it's already healed." He points at my arm. "I saw the bandage yesterday. I don't see one today."
I don't respond. What can I say?
Lucas sits across from me. "We need to talk about this. About what you can do. Because it's getting obvious."
"To you."
"To anyone paying attention. Siobhan's paying attention. Brock noticed at Moody's. Now the whole town thinks you're some kind of action hero."
"Better than them thinking I'm a supernatural thing wearing a deputy's skin."
"Is that what you think you are?"
The question is serious. Curious, not accusing.
"I think I'm adapting," I say carefully. "The body heals. It fights. It does things normal bodies can't. I don't know why. But I'm learning to use it."
"Learning fast."
"Survival trait."
Lucas sips his coffee. Studies me. "You enjoyed it. The fight. I saw your face afterward. You weren't scared or shocked. You were satisfied."
The observation cuts close to truth. I did enjoy it. The clarity. The perfection. The way violence unfolded exactly as my instincts predicted.
"Maybe I did," I admit. "Is that wrong?"
"Depends. You enjoy helping people or you enjoy the violence?"
I consider the question honestly. "Both. I like winning. I like being good at something. But I also like protecting people. Those hostages—they lived because I was there."
"Noble and practical. You're a real Boy Scout." His tone is dry. "Just happens the Boy Scout can break arms and heal bullet wounds."
"Makes me effective."
"Makes you dangerous." He stands. "I've got meetings. County coordination on the robbery. You're supposed to be at the station by nine—reporters want follow-up."
"Great."
"Play it humble. Deflect credit. Don't give them reasons to look closer." He grabs his keys. "And Ben? Be careful. The more visible you become, the harder it is to hide what you are."
He leaves. I sit with the newspaper and my coffee. My face staring back from cheap newsprint.
Deputy Marcus Webb. Hero.
The man in the photo doesn't exist. Marcus Webb died in a car crash. I'm just wearing his name.
But the people reading this don't know that. To them, I'm real. Their deputy. Their protector.
The responsibility settles uncomfortably. I didn't ask for this role. Didn't earn it legitimately. But I'm living it anyway.
Might as well do it well.
I shower. Dress in the spare uniform. Head to the station.
The walk takes fifteen minutes. People nod as I pass. Some wave. An old woman stops me, thanks me for "keeping us safe." I accept graciously. Play the role.
At the diner, the waitress recognizes me from the photo.
"Coffee's on the house. And pie. You like apple?"
"I do. Thank you."
She brings both. I sit in a corner booth, eating slowly. The pie is good—homemade, sweet, perfect crust. Normal. Human. The kind of simple pleasure that grounds me.
For a moment, I'm just a man eating pie. Not a deputy. Not a supernatural thing. Just... existing.
The moment breaks when Brock slides into the booth across from me.
"Morning, hero."
"Don't."
He grins. "Town's talking about you. Four armed suspects. Solo takedown. People are impressed."
"People should be talking about Siobhan. She contained the perimeter."
"They are. But you're the one who went in." Brock's expression sobers. "I ran those suspects' backgrounds. All four connected to organized crime. Philadelphia based. Castellano family."
My Criminal Instinct pulses. Castellano. Philly mob. Regional power. Not random.
"They came to Banshee specifically?" I ask.
"Looks like it. Small town bank, minimal cash on hand. Makes no sense as a target unless—"
"Unless it wasn't about the money."
"Exactly." Brock leans forward. "I think they were testing something. Or someone. New law enforcement, maybe. Seeing how we'd respond."
"Who ordered it?"
"Don't know. Federal task force is investigating Castellano operations. I flagged it for them. But the four suspects aren't talking. Lawyers already involved."
I file this information. Philadelphia mob testing Banshee's new deputies. Why? Random probe or directed interest?
"Keep me updated on the investigation," I say.
"Will do." Brock stands. "You did good work yesterday, Marcus. Really good. But be careful. You made enemies with that takedown. The people who sent those men don't like losing."
He leaves. I finish my pie slowly. Process the implications.
Someone in Philadelphia sent four men to test Banshee. They failed. Now someone's angry about that failure. And my face is on the front page.
Perfect.
I return to the station. Alma greets me warmly.
"The hero returns. You've got three interview requests. Local news, county paper, some blogger."
"Tell them all no. Yesterday's statement stands."
"You sure? This is good PR for the department."
"I'm sure. Thanks, Alma."
I head to my desk. There's mail—mostly routine. But one envelope stands out. No return address. Hand-addressed to "Deputy M. Webb."
I open it carefully.
Inside: a photograph. Black and white. High quality. Professional.
The image shows me. Yesterday. At the bank. Shot from across the street. Telephoto lens. The angle captures me exiting the bank, weapon drawn, blood on my sleeve.
No note. No explanation. Just the photo.
Someone was watching. Someone documented the event. Someone wants me to know they were there.
I check the envelope again. Postmark: Banshee. Mailed locally. Yesterday evening.
Shit.
This isn't random. This is a message. "We see you. We know what you did. We're watching."
I pocket the photo before anyone notices. Casual movement. Nothing suspicious.
But my mind is racing. Who sent this? The Castellano family? Someone else? And why the photo? Threat? Warning? Intelligence gathering?
Too many unknowns.
I work through the day mechanically. Paperwork. Phone calls. Routine deputy business. But the photo sits heavy in my pocket. Physical weight of being watched.
At lunch, I drive to the post office. Show my badge. Ask about the envelope.
"Dropped in the box sometime Monday night," the clerk says. "No camera footage—box is outside. Could've been anyone."
Dead end.
I return to the station. Lucas is back from county meetings.
"Need to talk," I say quietly. "Private."
We step into his office. Close the door.
I show him the photo.
His expression darkens immediately. "When did this arrive?"
"Today's mail."
"Someone was conducting surveillance during the robbery." He examines the photo. "Professional quality. Good lens. Experience."
"Castellano?"
"Maybe. Or someone else interested in our new deputies." He sets down the photo. "This is a problem."
"I know."
"No, I mean a serious problem. If someone's watching us this closely—documenting events, mailing evidence—they're building a file. Intelligence operation."
"Who runs intelligence on small-town deputies?"
"People who suspect those deputies aren't what they claim to be." Lucas meets my eyes. "This could be about you specifically. Your abilities. Or it could be about me. Someone who knows my history."
The Carrie situation. Of course.
"What do we do?" I ask.
"Assume we're under surveillance. Watch our movements. Look for tails. And don't do anything that confirms suspicions." He hands back the photo. "Keep this. Compare any future deliveries. Pattern recognition might tell us who's behind it."
"Okay."
"And Ben? Maybe dial back the heroics. Every display brings more attention."
"Noted."
But we both know it's too late. The attention is here. The eyes are watching. Whatever comes next, we're already in it.
I leave his office. Return to my desk. The photo stays in my pocket.
At 5 PM, I clock out. Walk home through town. Checking for surveillance. Watching for tails. Paying attention to parked cars, lingering pedestrians, anything unusual.
Nothing obvious. But that doesn't mean they're not there. Good surveillance is invisible.
The apartment above The Forge is empty. Lucas working late. I pour bourbon. Stand at the window. Watch the street.
Somewhere out there, someone is watching back.
Philadelphia mob? Maybe. But my instinct says something else. Something closer. More personal.
The photo wasn't a threat. It was an introduction.
Someone wants me to know they exist. That they see what I am. That they're interested.
Fine. Let them watch.
I can't hide what I am forever. The powers are manifesting. The reputation is building. Eventually, everyone learns the truth.
The question is: who learns first? And what do they do with that knowledge?
I drink. Think. Plan.
Tomorrow brings new complications.
Tonight, I just watch the watchers watch me back.
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