Twenty-two years have passed since Evan Crammer’s attempted abduction of Jennifer DeSoto.  Twenty-two years in which Crammer has never forgotten the man who thwarted his efforts that night. 

      It’s the summer of 2000, and Evan Crammer has returned to achieve the one thing he’s driven to accomplish – seek revenge against John Gage.  The passage of time has changed things, however, and Johnny no longer lives in Los Angeles.  He hasn’t seen, or spoken to, his old friend Roy DeSoto since July of 1985.  Crammer’s quest for Johnny will force him to travel far from California.  Despite the distance that now separates Gage and DeSoto in both miles and their personal relationship, Evan Crammer will be the terrifying catalyst that reunites them.     

       Dancing With The Devil is an Emergency fan fiction drama that’s packed full of action, adventure, hurt/comfort, a liberal sprinkling of humor, and most importantly, Johnny and Roy.  Find out how life has changed for both men since they last saw one another, and discover what tragedy tore their friendship apart.  After fifteen years of separation do our favorite paramedics still have what it takes to triumph over adversity, while at the same time reconstructing the bond between them that was once so strong?  The answers to those questions and more will be revealed within the pages of Dancing With The Devil.

Dancing With The Devil

By: Kenda

Dancing With The Devil is a sequel to He Who Dances With Rattlesnakes. It contains some violence and strong language, and is rated R. Some of the events in this story were also inspired by No Easy Choice, another piece of Emergency Fan Fiction that can be found in Kenda’s Emergency Library.

Though the city of Eagle Harbor, Alaska, is fictional, the facts surrounding it including population, and how the fire department is set up and run, is based on research of the actual sixth largest city in the state of Alaska. The depiction of where current paramedic training within the Los Angeles County Fire Department takes place is fictionalized for story purposes, as is the rank of the paramedic instructor. Also for story purposes, neither Johnny nor Roy had attained the rank of captain within the LAFD during the year depicted by the TV series.

Big thank you's go out to Doctor MaryBeth Lamb and Patricia Embury for answering a large variety of medically related questions. Any errors are solely the author's. Thanks to my proofreader in every sense that word encompasses, Debbie Giljum. And thanks to you, the readers of He Who Dances With Rattlesnakes, who filled my mailbox with messages. It's because of your requests for a sequel that a further tribute to John Gage and Roy DeSoto was written.

Prologue

Early June, 2000

        The map was old and held deep creases from the many times it had been folded, unfolded, and then refolded again. Evan Crammer smiled as he eyed the yellowed piece of paper taped the length of the dashboard in his van. Gold stars glittered from every state in the union but one. Alaska. And soon enough, he'd put his gold star on the state nicknamed, The Last Frontier.

        Evan crossed the border between the United States and Canada just north of Fairbanks. He had a lot of miles to drive yet as he headed south to Eagle Harbor. Before he got there Evan, and his van, would have to travel by ferry since the hamlet, like most Southeastern Alaskan communities, was only accessible by air or sea. That made little difference to the man. The effort would be worth it in order to obtain that last gold star. And this star would be the most unusual and finest yet, because it had nothing to do with Evan's penchant for little girls. This star would result from revenge. Sweet and glorious revenge. When the fiftieth star was placed on Evan's map it would mean one thing, and one thing only.

        That John Gage was dead.

Chapter 1

        Roy DeSoto slipped the test papers in his backpack and zipped it shut. He watched as his class gathered around the coffee pot talking, in the same way the men of Station 51's A-shift used to gather in that exact spot.

        Roy had risen to the rank of captain within the Los Angeles County Fire Department in 1983. He'd been assigned to Station 26, where he'd served for ten years before being promoted to Battalion Chief. Roy's soft-spoken demeanor, solid work ethic, and strong sense of fair play, made him a respected leader. He'd had a good working relationship with all the men who had served under him during those years, in the same way Hank Stanley had forged a positive working relationship with his men on the A-shift.

        Roy's years as Captain DeSoto, and then Chief DeSoto, had allowed him to put his children through college without major financial strain. Yes, his kids had to take part time jobs as teenagers in order to help with their educational goals, and once the youngest DeSoto, John, was a freshman in high school, Joanne entered the work force, but primarily it was the salary Roy earned that saw his dreams for his children come true. Nonetheless, though Roy never admitted it out loud to anyone, he had missed being a paramedic during those years. In 1996 the rumor reached Roy's ears that a new station was being built to replace the aging Station 51, and would be christened Station 53. Station 51 would then be converted to a paramedic-training center, and would be in need of a good instructor. Roy talked it over with Joanne first, as had long been his practice whenever he contemplated altering his career in some manner, then submitted his application for the paramedic teaching position to headquarters. Three weeks later Roy got word the job was his. Eight months later, when Station 53 was open for business, Roy was reassigned to his old stomping grounds. His rank of chief remained intact. No longer were paramedics, and those who taught them, underpaid or under appreciated for the knowledge and skills they had. Roy was grateful to finally be living out what had long been a dream. To teach young men and women the things he could do in his sleep in order to save a life, while still being able to retain the rank he'd worked so many years to achieve.

        Roy accepted a cup of coffee one of his students brought him as he half listened to their chatter. It was hard to believe that he had, at one time, been so young himself. They all looked like kids to him now, most of them not any older than Roy's youngest son, who had turned twenty-one in January.

        The kitchen and day room hadn't changed much since Roy's time at Station 51. The appliances, furniture and TV had all been replaced with updated versions, and there was now a microwave oven, but other than that the layout of the rooms was the same. The engine bay was now a classroom that housed desks, a large pull down white screen, an overhead projector, a stage that held a lectern and desk for Roy, and a VCR along with a thirty-six inch television on a stand in one corner. Hank Stanley's old office was now Roy's. It hadn't changed much other than pictures of Roy's wife, children, and grandchildren now hung in the places that used to be reserved for Hank's family.

        The dorms and locker room went unused for the most part, and seemed lonely whenever Roy walked into them. He supposed attaching such sentiment to those two areas was foolish, but he could never walk into the dorm without seeing a dark headed man, his unruly hair often longer than regulations stipulated, lying on the last bunk on the right with his left arm thrown over his eyes. Nor could Roy enter the locker room without the sound of playful bickering reaching his ears. Sometimes when he pushed the door open he swore he was going to find Chet and Johnny inside, squared off in their familiar battle stances as they adamantly argued over something that really didn't matter to either one of them. But these were just ghosts of what once had been and was now long buried. Ghosts Roy knew he was better off to leave in the past.

        Roy shook himself out of his reverie. He glanced at his watch, seeing it was almost two-thirty. One advantage to his teaching position was the hours. His day started at eight a.m. and was over by three. He was just one part of the instruction process now given to incoming paramedics. His classes ran for nine weeks, then he had eight weeks off before another session started. In many ways Roy DeSoto, at the age of fifty-six, was semi-retired. He couldn't say he wasn't enjoying every minute of his free time. It sure beat being called out to a fire at three o'clock in the morning.

        “I'll see you tomorrow,” Roy said to his class as he walked his coffee cup to the dishwasher. An automatic dishwasher. Chet Kelly would have loved that.

        “See you tomorrow, Chief.”

        “Bye, Chief.”

        The good-byes continued from Roy's class of thirty as he headed back through what had been the engine bay. He straightened desks as he passed by on his way to his office to pick up a text book he'd left on his desk.

        Just like he always did when Roy was in this room, he refused to allow his eyes to wander to the north wall. That wall that had once held a map of the territory Station 51 covered, now contained pictures of the paramedics who had graduated from the program in 1971. In large gold letters above those pictures were the words: We Honor The Men Who Started It All.

        Roy was amongst those young men who started it all, as was John Gage. But Roy hadn't spoken to, nor seen Johnny in fifteen years. He'd vowed on that fateful night in 1985 he'd never have contact with the man again. And though Roy now harbored a multitude of regrets over that vow, he'd never broken it.

Chapter 2

        Chris DeSoto grabbed his canes, slipping his arms through the wrist supports and resting his hands on the sturdy metal bars that jutted out from the steel objects. He struggled to his feet, then moved across the room with the awkward side-to-side gait he'd possessed ever since his injury fifteen years earlier.

        Chris released his right arm from a cane and opened a file cabinet. He scanned the names on the computer generated labels until he came to the client he was looking for. He pulled the manila folder out, then started the journey back to his work station, his aluminum leg braces making a slight creaking sound as he walked.

        Chris's dream of being a paramedic had died the night he was shot by the gunman intent on killing the first men responding to his phony 911 call. But, as the expression went, when God closes a door he opens a window. Thanks to a gunshot wound to his spinal cord, Chris's legs were no longer of much use to him, meaning the type of physical work required to be a member of the Los Angeles County Fire Department was out of the question. But Chris had never been one to complain about his misfortunes. Yes, he went through a long period of depression after his injury, followed closely by other emotions that ranged from anger, to sadness, to an almost mourning-like grief. But through it all his family, and his girl friend, had been supportive. That girlfriend, Wendy Adams, whom he'd met his freshman year in college, was now his wife. They were married in June of 1988 with Jennifer serving as maid of honor, and John, at nine years old, serving as the junior groomsman. That fall Chris returned to college to earn degrees in computer science and business administration. His father had insisted on helping Chris pay his tuition, though Chris kept telling Roy that wasn't necessary.

        “I'm a married man now, Dad. I'm out on my own. I don't want you doing this. You've got enough bills to pay with Jen in college. She plans to go to medical school, you know. If she doesn't change her mind that's going to cost a bundle.”

        “I'm well aware of what it costs. Regardless, it's always been my hope that all my children will graduate from college. That's why I worked so much overtime the last twenty years. You got. . .sidetracked, the first time you went to school, and now you're back on the right path. I want to help you out, Chris. It would mean a lot if you'd let me.”

        To this day his father always referred to Chris's brief time in paramedic training as getting 'sidetracked.' Speaking of it in any other way would mean indirectly speaking of Uncle Johnny. Chris hadn't heard his father utter Johnny's name in fifteen years, and for that he felt terrible. It had been Johnny whom Chris had coerced into talking to his dad about the fact Chris was dropping out of college after his freshman year. It had been Johnny whom Chris had coerced into telling Roy that his oldest son had signed on with the fire department to go through paramedic training. Not that Roy wasn't proud of having been a paramedic himself, and wouldn't be proud of Chris if he attained that goal, too. But above all else Roy DeSoto wanted his three children to earn college degrees. Chris had been told the importance of a college education ever since he could remember. So during his senior year of high school, Chris did what was expected of him. He applied at USC and was accepted. He entered in the fall of 1984 without having a clue as to what he wanted to study, or what he wanted to be when he 'grew up,' other than what he'd always wanted to be. A paramedic. And when the day came Chris couldn't stand to be in college any longer wasting his parents' money on an education he didn't want in the first place, he talked Johnny into breaking the news to his father. That event, however indirectly, eventually came to destroy the friendship Chris's father and John Gage had shared for so many years.

        Chris shook those old thoughts, and old feelings of guilt, from his head. He glanced at the wall clock, seeing it was almost three. He had to leave soon to pick up the girls. Brittany Joanne was four years old, and Madison Christine, whom Wendy had been sure would be a Micah Christopher until the moment she was born, was two. They attended preschool three days a week so Chris could work without interruption from his home office. His wife was the marketing director for a sporting goods company downtown, while Chris designed and maintained websites for clients who ranged from the LA County Fire Department, to Rampart General Hospital, to the firm that employed Wendy, to small businesses, and multi-million dollar companies. Chris was good at what he did and loved it in a way he'd never imagined he would. He made a comfortable living for his family that, combined with Wendy's income, meant they had no financial worries. Wendy worked primarily at this point to provide them with health insurance. Maybe in the future Chris's income would even make that unnecessary if she wanted to stay home with the girls. That thought made Chris smile. In truth he couldn't picture the vivacious redhead he'd married ever wanting to stay home on a full time basis. Wendy had too much energy to be confined to one space for very long. Chris still marveled at their enormous love for one another. They were total opposites in so many ways. Wendy was boisterous, while Chris was soft spoken like his father. Wendy was impulsive, while Chris, again like his father, was a deep thinker. Wendy possessed an outrageous sense of fun, while Chris's sense of humor was dry and often unexpected. Again, like his father's. Though both of their daughters favored Wendy more in looks than they did Chris, it was Brittany who favored her father in personality, while Madison favored her mother.

        The room Chris worked from was vast in width, length, and height, with windows that rose from the floor to the ceiling. He and Wendy had purchased the house just one year earlier, and it was this 'California' room that had been the selling point. The minute Chris saw it he knew it would make the perfect office. It had a separate entrance from the rear of the house, had access down a short hallway to a bathroom, was well lit due to the windows, high ceilings, and sky lights, and had an oak hard wood floor which meant he could maneuver around it easily using his canes, or the wheelchair he often relied on.

        Roy had helped Chris transform the room into an office shortly after he and Wendy moved in. The only wall without windows now held one long length of Formica countertop at a height just right for Chris's wheelchair to fit under. Above the countertop was a low row of cabinets, again at a height that Chris could easily reach without having to stand. This was Chris's main work area. The countertop held his computer and printer, while the cabinets contained technical manuals and all necessary supplies from ink cartridges, to discs, to paper. Another nook in the room contained a section of countertop and three cabinets, plus a small refrigerator, that allowed Chris access to coffee and soda so he could offer refreshments to his visiting clients. The middle of the room was dominated by a grouping of four overstuffed blue easy chairs gathered around a circular oak coffee table.
    

    Chris recalled the two weekends he and his father had spent installing the cabinets and countertops, and the amount of good-natured cussing that had gone along with those jobs. At one point both men were on their backs trying to secure the countertop to the wall. Recalling how skilled John Gage was when it came to carpentry work, Chris had said without thinking, “This sure would be a lot easier if Uncle Johnny was here.” As usual whenever Chris, or one of his siblings, slipped up and made mention of Johnny's name, they were met with nothing but stone cold silence. Chris had learned a long time ago there was no use pushing the issue, and wasn't surprised when his father went on working as though he hadn't heard a word Chris said.

        Chris set the file he was carrying now on the countertop, then eased out of his canes and into the plush blue chair that sat in front of his computer. His wheelchair was nearby, always waiting for him when he grew weary from the exertion of using the canes.

        The man opened the file in front of him and began updating a client's bill. Chris's fingers flew over the keyboard as he entered data in a row of columns. He kept one eye on the clock, knowing he'd have to leave at three-thirty to pick up the girls. By then they would have had their afternoon naps and be ready for fun with Daddy before their mother arrived home at six.

        It was a knock on the door that turned Chris's attention from his computer screen. He swiveled in his chair, giving a puzzled smile when he recognized his visitor through the large glass pane. He beckoned with one hand calling, “Come in, Detective! It's open!”

        Troy Anders had never paid Chris DeSoto a house call before. He'd been a young man of twenty-nine when his then partner, the now retired Mark Bellmen, worked on the case involving the man who had attempted to abduct Jennifer DeSoto while on a camping trip with her brother and John Gage. As fate would have it, it was Troy who had been assigned to track down the man who had shot Chris fifteen years earlier. Because the Los Angeles Police Department was a client of Chris's, Troy would occasionally run into him at headquarters where they'd exchange quick, “Hello's,” as they passed one another in the hall.

        Chris pushed himself to his feet using the counter for support. He hung onto its lip with his left hand while extending his right. “How are you?”

        “I'm fine, Chris. Just fine. And yourself?”

        “No complaints.”

        Troy smiled and looked around the room while Chris grappled for his canes. Once he was secure within their grasp, he led the way to the chairs.

        “Can I get you something? A cup of coffee? Or a soda?”

        “No. Nothing,” Troy shook his head, while thinking how much Chris looked and sounded like his father. He had the same sandy blond hair that was just beginning to thin at the crown, and the same quiet, somewhat gravelly voice. “Thank you.”

        “Have a seat.”

        “All right.” Troy grabbed the material on the thighs of his black dress slacks and hitched them up a bit as he sat. He was fifty-one years old now, but still as boyishly handsome as he had been back in 1978. Or so his wife often told him. His white-blond hair had touches of silver in it, but his eyes were just as steely blue as ever, and only a few crows' feet had taken up residence around his mouth. “Nice place you have here, Chris.”

        “Thanks. Wendy. . .my wife, Wendy and I just purchased it last year. It's everything we'd been looking for. Quiet neighborhood. Big yard. Spacious house. And then, of course, this room for my office.”

        “I hear you're doing well. Or at least the department is happy with the work you do for them.”

        “Thanks for telling me.” Chris eased himself to a chair, but didn't bother to take his hands out of his canes as he allowed them to rest loosely in front of him. “I enjoy what I do very much. I've got the best of both worlds.”

        “How so?”

        “I have a job that allows me to support my family, while at the same time I can play stay-at-home-dad to my girls.”

        “I heard you had a couple little ones now. How old are they?”

        “Brittany is four, Madison is two. They go to preschool on Monday's, Wednesday's and Friday's, and are home with me on Tueday's and Thursday's.”

        “Your wife works then, I take it?”

        “Yes. For Lotman's Sporting Goods.”

        Troy nodded his familiarity with the name. “Big company.”

        “Yes, it is. She's the marketing director.”

        “Busy woman then.”

        “Very. But she wouldn't have it any other way. She's a high energy kind of gal.”

        Troy chuckled at Chris's words, and at the devotion that lit his blue eyes at the mention of his wife's name. Troy was glad the man was happy. Chris was a good guy. He deserved whatever happiness life brought him.

        Troy straightened the maroon tie he was wearing within his black suit jacket. When he didn't pick the conversation up again Chris said, “So, Detective--”

        “Call me Troy. Please.”

        “Okay. If you insist. So, Troy, what brings you by here today? Last I knew you were the head of the detective division, not the head of public relations.”

        Troy smiled. It was the head of public relations that Chris worked with in regards to maintaining the department's website.

        “I'm still head of the detective division.”

        “Which means you're here on official business,” the perceptive Chris guessed.

        “Yes. That's what it means.”

        “And it has something to do with Scott Monroe.”

        “It does.”

        “He's out, isn't he?”

        “As of yesterday.”

        Chris took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. It was the only visible sign of emotion he allowed himself to show as the hazy memories swam in his mind. The squad rolling up to the dark house with Johnny driving. Both of them getting out at the same time. The 'pop!' 'pop!' 'pop!' of gunfire shattering the two o'clock in the morning stillness. The burning pain in his back, Johnny shouting his name, then his legs crumpling beneath him because he could no longer feel them. There were other memories, too, these even more vague. Johnny grabbing the shoulders of his turnout jacket and dragging him to the other side of the squad while bullets continued to rain upon them. Johnny putting the oxygen mask on him, ripping open a blanket pack and covering him, then contacting Rampart. Other treatment followed that Chris was barely aware of. He'd later been told Johnny had stayed hunkered down with him, protecting Chris with his own body, for more than two hours. The arsenal in that house would have put the United States Army to shame. A high-powered rifle shot out the squad's tires and windows, penetrated its radiator and tore the compartment doors from their hinges. The gunman kept even the SWAT team at bay until he finally fled out a back door. He was at large for two weeks before Troy Anders tracked him down.

        Chris recalled parts of the ride to Rampart in the ambulance, and how Johnny kept assuring him he'd be all right. It was funny, but he could still remember how calm Johnny had been. How ready he was with that reassuring smile every time he caught Chris looking at him. What Johnny didn't realize was that Chris was cognizant enough to see the fine tremor of his hands, and to notice how pale his face was. He'd wanted to say, “I'm okay, Uncle Johnny. I'll be okay. It's not your fault,” but by then he'd been too weak to do more than look up at his father's best friend through half closed eye lids.

        The motives of the gunman still weren't clear. There had been vague ramblings about a brother unnamed paramedics had let die, but then there had also been vague ramblings about Jesus Christ, Adolph Hitler, and Abraham Lincoln trying to conquer the world together. He'd been high on several drugs at the time of the shooting, though he was so mentally unbalanced it was hard to say which played a greater role in his attack on Johnny and Chris, the drugs or dementia. Scott Monroe had pleaded guilty before a judge, found criminally insane, and sentenced to incarceration at a state mental health institution. Though Chris had hoped Monroe would be locked up for life, he knew, under the current laws combined with government money constraints, that was probably a long shot. He now focused on the man seated across from him.

        “So Monroe's out. What's that mean?”

        “I hope nothing.”

        “Pardon?”

        “He's been ordered to have no contact with you or John Gage.”

        “Is he in the area?”

        “He's staying at a halfway house in the city until he gets back on his feet. They'll help him find a job, and eventually a place to live. A room to rent, or an apartment maybe, depending on his monthly income.”

        “Is he mentally capable of holding down a job and living on his own?”

        Troy shrugged. “I don't know, Chris.”

        “A judge ruled him insane, and now they let him out. Just like that. He ambushed me and Unc. . .” Chris paused to correct himself. Old habits died hard, and even at close to thirty-four years of age he could rarely speak Johnny's name without putting the title of uncle before it. “Me and Johnny. He ambushed us. He could have killed us. God knows he tried.”

        “He did,” Troy nodded. “I realize that. Believe me, Chris, I don't make the rules, or the laws. If it was up to me ninety-nine percent of these guys would never again see the light of day.”

        “I know. And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insinuate any of this is your doing.”

        A brief silence fell over the room before Troy broke the rest of the news to Chris.

        “I hate to have to tell you this, Chris, but while Monroe was locked up he made some threats.”

        “What kind of threats?”

        “Threats against you and Mr. Gage.”

        “I see,” Chris said. He didn't bother to ask for details. He could easily guess what those threats entailed. “He wants to finish what he started that night.”

        “So he says. But then again, he also says Captain Kirk is the president of the United States and that Kruschev is going to nuke us at any moment.”

        A small smile danced at the corners of Chris's mouth. “He's a little behind the times, isn't he?”

        “A couple decades or so, yes.”

        “What can I do?”

        “About the threats?”

        “No. About keeping my family safe.”

        “Do you have a home security system?”

        “Yes.”

        “That's a good start. Does your wife carry a cell phone with her when she drives anywhere?”

        “Yes.”

        “That's a good start, too. You should do the same.”
        
        “I do.”

        “Good. Other than that, just be observant of your surroundings. I noticed your back yard is fenced in. I'd keep the gate secured, especially when your children are out there playing.”

        “We do.”

        Again, Troy said, “Good.”

        “Anything else?”

        “Not really. Monroe has to report to a psychiatrist twice a week. He's on medication as well. I've talked to his doctor. My understanding is that Monroe's delusions, and the threats that accompany them, are generally non-existent provided he takes his medication.”
        
        “Let's just hope he does then.”

        “My thoughts exactly, Chris.”

        “Would he be a threat to the rest of my family? My sister and brother? Or my parents?”

        “I suppose it's possible, though as far as I know he's never made threats against any of them. Nonetheless; it might be a good idea to let them know what's going on. Does Jennifer have children?”

        Chris started to say, “Two,” but a slight prick of pain in his heart reminded him to say, “One,” at the last second. “A daughter. Olivia. We call her Libby. Her birthday was last week. She turned ten.”

        “Then I think Jennifer needs to be aware of this for the sake of her child. I don't want any of you to let fear rule your lives, but I'd rather see you err on the side of caution for a while.”

        “I'd prefer that to the alternative,” Chris agreed, as he thought of his precious daughters and his beloved niece. Libby was so similar to Jennifer in looks and personality that it was like watching his little sister grow up all over again.

        “What about your brother? John? Is that his name?”

        “Yes. John,” the man acknowledged in reference to his younger brother. John Gage had always been referred to as Johnny by the DeSoto family, therefore his namesake had always been called John as a way of distinguishing between the two of them.

        “John's what. . .about twenty now?”

        “Twenty-one. He lives in Wyoming. He's a ranger at Yellowstone Park.”

        “A ranger?” Troy cocked an eyebrow as he recalled the energetic six year old who had bounced around Chris's hospital room making everyone, especially the patient, laugh at his antics. Troy knew that in this modern area a ranger at a national park was trained to be everything from paramedic, to police officer, to search and rescue man, to firefighter, to tour guide, to wildlife expert. “That's great.”

        “Yeah, he loves it. He's good at what he does, too. And so damn smart.” Chris's words spoke every bit of proud big brother. “He graduated from college in December, six months ahead of his class. He already had the job secured. The day after Christmas Mom and Dad helped him move out there.”

        “Is he married?”

        “No. As a matter of fact he was quite the ladies man in high school and college. Dad used to tease him and say he couldn't keep track of whom John was seeing from one week to the next. But in the last three months every e-mail he's sent any of us, and with every phone call he's made, he's mentioned a fellow ranger by the name of Shawna. Mom's so certain an engagement announcement is about to come she's got Dad on a diet so he'll look good in a tux.”

        Troy chuckled. “That sounds like a mother who's convinced her baby will only be well taken care of if he finds himself a good woman.”

        “Yeah. That's my mom all right. Especially where John is concerned.”

        The detective sobered. “I don't foresee Monroe being a threat to your brother, but it might not hurt to give him a call and fill him in on what's happening. And your parents as well. They should be informed, too.”

        “I'll talk to my brother and my folks,” Chris assured.

        The detective pushed himself to his feet.

        “Well then, Chris, I've taken up enough of your time. I apologize for not having better news to bring you, but considering the long acquaintance I've had with your family, I wanted to talk to you personally.”

        Chris planted his canes firmly on the floor, then stood as well. He walked with his visitor to the door.

        “I appreciate that. I know this isn't a job a man of your position usually performs.”

        As the detective opened the door to let himself out Chris stopped his movement by beckoning, “Troy?”

        “Yes?”

        “Have you been in contact with Johnny about this?”

        Troy gave a slow nod, anticipating the question to come. “I have.”

        “Did he. . .can you. . .could I. . .” Chris felt like a fool. Here he was stammering like an eight year old excited about receiving news on a favorite uncle. “Can you tell me where he is? How I can get in touch with him, I mean?”

        “I'm sorry, Chris, but no. No, I can't.”

        “Why?”

        Troy felt bad about the pain his answer would cause the younger man. “Because, quite frankly, he asked me not to.”

        “Oh. Oh, I see.”

        “I'm sorry.”

        “That's okay. I understand.” Chris offered the man a small smile. “It's all water under the bridge, I guess. The friendship he and my father once shared. The. . .what he meant to me, Jen, and John. It's. . .it's been a long time now. I suppose it's best to put some things in the past and leave them there.”

        “I suppose,” Troy agreed, while pulling three business cards out of the pocket of his suit coat. He had only a vague idea as to what the man was talking about, but knew that Chris's injury had, for some reason, caused a major rift between Roy DeSoto and John Gage. “Here. You keep one of these, and give one to your sister and parents. If any of you need to contact me, day or night, feel free to call me. My office number is on there, as is my home number and pager number.”

        “Thank you.” Chris accepted the cards when Troy held them down to the level of the right cane's hand support. “I appreciate it.”

        “You're welcome.”

        With a final goodbye Troy stepped out the door. Chris made sure he threw the deadbolt lock in place, then set the business cards on the coffee table as he passed it. He made his way through the house until he came to the laundry room. He took his car keys off a row of small hooks hanging by the washer. He set an alarm panel by the wooden door that led into the garage. He locked the door and shut it behind him as he headed for the big Ford van that was equipped with special hand controls that allowed him to drive. He climbed in the vehicle, freed himself of his canes, hit the remote control that would open the wide garage door, then backed the van into the street. As Chris headed for the preschool just three miles away, his thoughts strayed to everything Troy Anders had told him. Chris wondered how he was going to break this news to his family, while at the same time wondering something else he'd wondered since September of 1985. Where was John Gage?

        As a teacher's aid walked Chris's little girls to his vehicle, the man decided to concentrate his energies on how to break the news to his family of Monroe's threats because, after all, contemplating the whereabouts of Johnny Gage was an effort in futility. Or so Chris had learned over the past fifteen years.

Chapter 3

        Eagle Harbor, Alaska was heaven on earth. Or so John Gage often thought.
This hamlet of ten thousand people was the sixth largest city in Alaska. After living in Los Angeles for seventeen years, and then Denver for close to eight, it was laughable to Johnny that a quaint town of ten thousand, that was nothing more than a peninsula that jutted into the Pacific Ocean, could be the sixth largest city in a state. But then, that was Alaska for you, full of nothing but pleasant surprises. Or such was Johnny's opinion since the day he'd arrived here in May of 1993 to start his new job as chief of fire and rescue services.

        Though he'd never admitted it to anyone, Johnny had been a bundle of nerves his first six months on the job. He'd been a firefighter for twenty-six years at that time, and a paramedic for twenty-two. From January of 1983 to September of 1985 he'd been the head paramedic instructor for the Los Angeles County Fire Department. From September of 1985 until early May of 1993, he'd had the title of Senior Paramedic with the Denver Fire Department. His responsibilities included everything from responding to fire and rescue calls, to instructing trainees, to teaching CPR and first aid classes to the general public. When his friend and partner within the Denver department showed Johnny the ad in a firefighter's trade journal for the position in Eagle Harbor, and told Johnny he'd be perfect for it, Johnny had scoffed at the idea.

        “Come on, John,” Greg Kulmeyer had urged, as they sat around the kitchen table at the station they were assigned to. “You've got the experience they're looking for. And you've been saying for the last six months you'd like to get out of the city and move into 'wide open spaces,' as I think you refer to it.”
        
        “Yeah. And I've also been saying that I don't want to take a cut in salary, which is the draw back to doing this job in a small town or remote community.”

        “Maybe you won't have to take a cut in pay. They list a lot of responsibilities here. Maybe they're willing to pay a guy with your years of experience the money you're worth.”

        Johnny had taken the journal Greg handed him and read the ad. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. I don't think I'm who they're looking for.”

        “You never give yourself enough credit.”

        “What do you mean?”

        “You're not stupid, John. Far from it. But you. . .well, if you want the opinion of a good friend, sometimes you don't have enough confidence in yourself.
I don't know what happened to knock you so hard on your ass that you're still struggling to find a way to stand up again, but if you want my advice, get over it.”

        If Johnny could have voiced all his hidden hurts that day he would have said, “Well, Greg, old buddy, try growing up a half breed in Montana in an era where prejudice toward mixed marriages, and the offspring they produced, ran high. Or try having your wife and daughter murdered right in front of your eyes when you're twenty years old. Or how about feeling responsible because your best friend's child, a young man you watched grow up and thought of as a son, is now physically disabled. And then, after all that, start over in a new city where you meet a woman you consider the love of your life, only to have her walk out on you. If you had experienced everything I have in the past twenty-five years, maybe you wouldn't have to ask why I'm still struggling to get to my feet.”

        But Johnny never said any of those things that day, because the only part of his life Greg knew about was the life that had existed for Johnny since arriving in Denver. Which meant Greg knew Ashton, and knew she had recently left him, which was also what likely prompted Greg to think Johnny was looking for a fresh start.

        It's amazing how well a friend does know you when you're at a loss to figure yourself out. Yes, Johnny was looking for a fresh start, but hadn't even realized it yet. On a whim he took that journal home with him when he went off duty. It took him two days to decide to call the phone number listed for the Eagle Harbor Police and Fire Commission. A week later he was on a plane bound for Alaska where he underwent a long, grueling series of interviews with more people than he could count. He returned to Denver four days after he'd left, not hopeful that he'd get the job, but proud of how well he'd held up under the questioning and scrutiny. He'd fallen in love with Eagle Harbor on his first day there. It was a sea-side community flanked on the east by snow-capped mountains and the Eagle Harbor National Forest, and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. The fire department and all its entities covered five thousand square miles of township, water, and wilderness, including Barner and Yusik Islands, the islands having combined populations of roughly three thousand people. Taking over such an operation would be daunting, but also rewarding. Five days after Johnny's return to his condominium in Denver the phone call came from Alaska. The job was his, along with a salary twenty thousand dollars higher than what he was presently earning, and a rent-free house that was a pleasant addition to his benefits package. A month later John Gage arrived for work in the one place he would come to consider home in the warm way he hadn't thought of that word since leaving Los Angeles. White Rock, Montana had been where he'd grown up. Denver had simply been an eight-year stopping point. But Los Angeles, and the friends he'd made there, had been home. Now, seven years into his tenure as fire chief in Eagle Harbor, Johnny could say that same thing once again. He was home. This was where he planned to stay until he retired, and probably well beyond. He was done searching for happiness and inner peace. Despite Alaska's rugged exterior, Johnny had found contentment and his rightful place in the huge state they called The Last Frontier, just like many men before him had.
        
        Johnny's office was in a modern brick building in the middle of town that had been erected just ten years earlier. The police department was housed on one side of the building, the fire department on the other. The building was one story, but sprawled for two blocks in each direction. Twelve men and two women made up Johnny's full time employees, while one hundred and twenty volunteers made up the rest. Eagle Harbor was proud of the men and women who volunteered their time and efforts. These people were specially trained in areas that included firefighting, emergency medical care, land search and rescue, water search and rescue, and dive rescue. The fire department covered a massive amount of territory, but didn't have the number of calls that would warrant paying a full time force of over one hundred people, so the volunteers were especially valuable. It was one of Johnny's jobs to keep these people current on their training, hold periodic seminars, and work beside them on rescues under every imaginable circumstance.

        When Johnny had arrived seven years earlier the department was in dire need of a dedicated leader. The volunteer force was down to just thirty members, and they were struggling to keep veteran full time employees on staff. Johnny found out later that a series of fire chiefs had come and gone in the 1980's and early 1990's, who either didn't have the work ethic necessary to wear so many hats at one time, or who didn't have the personality to deal with such a large group of employees from such varying backgrounds. Johnny hadn't realized the members of the Police and Fire Commission were holding their breaths his first few months on the job, just praying he was finally the man they needed to get their fire department back on the right track. It wasn't until several years later that the police chief, and now his close friend, Carl Mjtko, told Johnny of the less than ideal circumstances within the fire department prior to his arrival.

        It was Carl who stood in the doorway of John Gage's office now and watched his friend work. John was turned sideways facing his computer. He wore his silver wire-rimmed reading glasses as he input data for an upcoming Police and Fire Commission meeting.

        Carl was a native to Eagle Harbor, having been born and raised here. His father, now deceased, had been a fisherman. His mother, who was quite healthy and spry at age sixty-seven, had done a variety of jobs throughout her life to help make ends meet when the fishing wasn't good. Carl's father had been a full-blooded Tlingit Indian, or Tlingit 'Eskimo' as those native to arctic North America were referred to. His mother was the daughter of a French fur trader and his wife. Carl's Grandpa DuBois had brought his young bride from France to Eagle Harbor back in 1929. Two days later he went off trapping and didn't return for six months. This was the pattern the man followed until the day he died when Carl was fourteen. Despite the fact he was away from his family more than he was with them, Gaston DuBois fathered ten children. Carl's mother, Clarice, was born in 1933 and was offspring number two.

        Like John, Carl knew the prejudices a child could face growing up racially mixed in the 1950's and 60's; though in Alaska being racially mixed was more the norm than anything else. Especially when it came to those of Indian, French, and Russian heritage.

        At six feet four inches tall, and weighing two hundred and eighty pounds, Carl Mjtko was a big man with broad shoulders and a thick chest. He was forty-seven years old, had never been married, and lived with his mother in the house the town of Eagle Harbor provided its police chief. Carl's once dark hair was now interspersed with gray, as was the bushy mustache he sported. He was a handsome man in a rugged sort of way, and never short for a date come Saturday night. If asked, Carl couldn't really pinpoint why he'd never married other than to say his job was his wife, lover, and mistress all rolled into one. He imagined the same held true for the single John Gage.

        God, what a find that man had been, Carl thought now as he silently watched his best friend peck away at the keyboard. Their fire department had been in a sorry state before Gage had shown up. Some of the members of the commission had been leery of hiring a man whose leadership experience didn't extend beyond training paramedics, but there was something in John Gage, some spark Carl sensed, that made him convince the commission Gage was just the person they were looking for. Carl remembered going home one night after a lengthy meeting that had run late and saying, “Mom, I've finally convinced them to hire John Gage. You know, the one we interviewed last week that you said was so good looking every single woman in Eagle Harbor would be after him, along with half the married ones? I sure hope I'm not wrong about him. I really went out on a limb tonight in order to convince everyone he's the man who's going to make this fire department what it used to be. God help me if I misjudged him. They'll probably hold the first public lynching Eagle Harbor has ever seen, with me hanging from the end of the rope, if Gage isn't the guy I think he is.”

        But John Gage had proven to be the guy Carl thought, and so much more. Today Eagle Harbor had one hundred and twenty well trained, enthusiast volunteers who would drop what they were doing the moment they were called into service just because Chief Gage asked them to. Gage's fourteen full-time employees would follow him to hell and back, that's how deep their loyalty to the man ran. But then, John brought the knowledge, people skills, physical stamina, charm, boundless energy, creativity, and sense of humor necessary to run an operation this vast and diverse. Carl often marveled at Gage's patience and the calm way he handled everyone, which made John laugh.

        “That's something I've acquired in my old age,” John would joke. “You should have known me about twenty-five years ago. No one would have described me as patient, or calm, back then.”

        “Well, I guess that just goes to prove we do gain something besides wisdom with maturity,” Carl had responded.

        “It would seem so,” John agreed with that crooked grin Carl suspected had charmed a fair number of women over the years.

        Amongst the children who had been born to fire department employees or volunteers since Johnny's arrival, there were now three little boys named John, twins named John Roderick and Roderick John, and one little girl named Gage. Carl loved to tease his friend about this last phenomenon, which would invariably make John roll his eyes and say, “Someday when that little girl's about sixteen she's going to come gunning for me because her parents didn't give her a normal name like Samantha, or Haley, or whatever's popular for baby girls these days.”

        Carl rapped on the frame of the open door now, making his presence known. Johnny looked up, then grinned as he turned in his chair and took off his glasses.

        “Hey, Carl. Come on in.”

        “Sorry for interrupting.”

        Johnny massaged the bridge of his nose as he set his reading glasses on the desk. “If it's an interruption then it's a welcome one.”

        “You're getting faster on that keyboard every day. Pretty soon they'll have you taking notes at the meetings.”

        “Ha, ha. Don't even suggest it. It's taken me seven years to even half way master this thing, and I still 'hunt and peck' more often than not.”

        “You and me both, buddy.”

        Carl sat his large frame down in a chair across from Johnny's desk. Their uniforms were almost identical. They both wore the khaki trousers issued by the fire and police departments, though Carl's uniform shirt was chocolate brown while Johnny's was fire engine red. The full time men and women under Johnny's command wore navy blue shirts with their khaki trousers, while the men and women on the police force wore light brown shirts with theirs.

        The police chief settled back in his chair. One wall of Johnny's office was decorated with civic awards and citations he'd earned since arriving in Eagle Harbor, while another wall contained two rows of shelves that held training manuals, fire and medical journals, and pictures. Carl had learned that amongst John's hobbies was photography. A fair number of the photos were shots of Alaskan wildlife and wilderness, but a smattering contained people as well. Carl's eyes wandered, settling on some old photographs that always rested on one end of the upper bookshelf, recessed within the books as though Gage didn't want anyone to notice the photographs but himself. Carl had no idea who the children were in those pictures, but by the age of the photos and the way the kids were dressed, he had long ago identified them as being children John knew when he'd lived in Los Angeles. Children he knew, but never spoke of.

        Carl didn't waste time beating around the bush, but came right to the heart of his visit.

        “How did your talk with Detective Anders go?”

        Johnny allowed a lengthy silence to fill the room. It was Carl who had told him three hour earlier that Troy Anders was on the phone. Johnny was well aware that Anders would have talked to Carl first. As the head of local law enforcement, Carl would be notified in regards to threats being made against a member of his community. Especially against the town's fire chief.

        When Johnny finally spoke his sentence was brief and noncommittal. “It went fine.”

        “You don't seem worried.”

        “I don't see much reason to be.”

        “So I guessed.”

        “You guessed?”

        “I heard you whistling after you were done talking to Anders. When you walked to the kitchen to get coffee.”

        “Milk.”

        “Pardon?”

        “I went to get a glass of milk. My doctor advised me to quit drinking coffee when I had my last physical, remember?”

        “And I imagine this is the first time you've ever taken a doctor's advice in your entire life.”

        Johnny grinned, thinking of all the times he'd caused Kelly Brackett or Mike Morton to lose their tempers with him because he was doing more than they wanted him to while recovering from an injury or illness.

        “You've got that right.”

        “But now that you've refreshed my memory, yes, I do seem to recall that no one could stand to be around you for about two weeks last November while you went through caffeine withdrawal. None of your people wanted to step in this office unless they were wearing a string of garlic around their necks and carrying a wooden stake.”

        Johnny laughed at Carl's teasing reference to the way a person supposedly wards off a moody vampire. “I can understand why. Those headaches that go along with caffeine withdrawal are a bitch.”

        “So, despite the whistling, what's the scoop on this Monroe guy?”

        Johnny's smile faded as he gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Exactly what Detective Anders told you.”

        “I wanna hear it from you.”

        “Look, Carl. . . it was a long time ago, okay? What Anders told you. . .well, that's what happened.”

        “I'd still like to hear it from you,” the stubborn Carl insisted.

        “Why?”

        “To give me a better idea of what to expect if Monroe does show up here.”

        “He's not gonna show up.”

        “How can you be so certain?”

        Johnny gave a frustrated sigh at the way his friend had backed him into a corner.

        “Okay. I can't be certain. But I'm not gonna lose any sleep over the possibility either.”

        “That's good. Now, just so I don't lose any sleep, tell me what happened.”

        Johnny stared at the man a long moment, hoping his silence would make Carl leave. He knew better than that. Carl wouldn't walk out of here until he got the information he came for. That's what made him such a good cop. Nonetheless Johnny had no desire to revisit that part of his life. When he finally spoke, he summed up that night fifteen years in the past with no inflection to his tone, and with no visible signs of emotion. Those things alone told Carl how upset his friend still was over the incident.

        “I was a paramedic instructor in L.A. at that time. I had a trainee with me that night. We got called out shortly before two in the morning. The only information the dispatcher gave us was 'unknown type rescue.' We pulled up to a dark house and were just getting our equipment out when Monroe started shooting. Chr. . .the young man who was with me was shot. I pulled him around to the other side of the squad, treated him as best I could considering the circumstances, and just waited there until Monroe finally quit blasting away at us.”

        “And how long was that?”

        “A couple hours.”

        “And the trainee who was with you?”

        Carl caught the fleeting glance Johnny gave to the pictures on the bookshelf.

        “He was hurt pretty bad. Ended up having an incomplete T-10 spinal injury.”

        “And that means?”

        “It means that he's disabled. . .partially paralyzed below the waist. Probably uses a wheelchair to get around. If he's lucky--” Johnny stopped there and had to gather his emotions so he could keep speaking as though he had no personal ties to the nameless trainee. “If he's lucky, he might be able to use canes on a limited basis. Maybe even still retain the ability to have a family the natural way. I. . .I really don't know.”

        “You haven't kept in touch with him?”

        “No reason to.” Johnny's eyes flicked to the pictures again, then back to Carl's face. “He was a student. Just a kid I. . .just someone I taught who I hope has found a way to move on with his life.”

        “That doesn't sound like you, John.”

        “What doesn't sound like me?”

        “You usually get pretty close to anyone you work with. Look at how you are here. You've gotten very close to most of the one hundred and thirty-four people under you. You know their kids' names, their spouse's names. . .hell, half the time you even know the names of their dogs.”

        Johnny smiled briefly, then sobered.

        “It was a bad night, Carl. Not the kind of thing someone wants to be reminded of. I'm sure Chr. . .I'm sure he doesn't want to remember it, and me contacting him would only be a reminder of something that never should have happened in the first place.”

        “It wasn't your fault. Anders told me about Monroe's mental state. He also told me what you did for your trainee while under fire. He said at one point the police beckoned you to run to the cover of a squad car, but you refused to leave the kid.”

        “I never said it was my fault. And don't let Anders make me out to be a hero. I wasn't.”

        “Your words might not say it was your fault, but your face does. I can see it written all over you, my friend.” Carl stood, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers. He walked over to the pictures, studying them in what appeared to be a casual way to pass time. “I've been meaning to ask you something for years now.”

        “What?”

        “Who are these kids?”

        At first, Carl didn't think he was going to get an answer. When Johnny finally did reply his voice was quiet and filled with a hidden longing.

        “My partner's children.”

        Carl turned. “Your partner?”

        Johnny gave a small smile. Old habits died hard.

        “From when I was a paramedic in L.A. A guy by the name of Roy DeSoto convinced me to join the program before we were even licensed by the state to treat people. He and I were partners out of Station 51 for eleven years. Then he moved up to captain his own station, and I become the head paramedic instructor for the trainees.”

        “So these are his kids?”

        “Yeah. Only they're not kids anymore. As hard as it is for me to believe, the oldest two, Chris and Jennifer, are now older than I was when I first started working with their dad.”

        Carl looked at the pictures again. A blond headed girl and boy who appeared to be about eight and ten, sat on the top railing of a fence, horses prancing in the background behind them.

        “What are their ages now?”

        Johnny didn't even have to think about that question. “Chris is thirty-three. He'll be thirty-four on October twenty-second. Jenny was thirty-one in April.”

        “And this little boy?” Carl pointed to a picture of an auburn headed child he guessed to be five. The boy was sitting in someone's backyard with his arms around the neck of a massive Alaskan Malamute.

        “That's John. Roy's youngest.”

        “Oh.” Carl grinned as he turned around once more. “So another kid named for you, huh?”

        Johnny shrugged and acknowledged, “Yeah,” while wondering how many times in the past fifteen years Roy had come to regret that choice of names for his youngest son.

        “How old is he?” Carl asked.

        “John?”
        
        “Yes.”

        “Twenty-one.”

        “You must be very close to them.”

        Johnny's guard immediately went up when he realized Carl was now fishing for information.

        “At one time I was. But they're grown now. Living their own lives. Not much interested in Uncle Johnny anymore I'm sure.”

        “Johnny?” Carl questioned with amusement. He'd always known John Gage as John. He'd never heard the man referred to as Johnny before.

        “That's what the kids called me. As a matter fact that's pretty much what everyone in L.A. called me.”

        Looking at the fifty-three year old fire chief in his starched uniform shirt, and his neatly trimmed hair that was just now beginning to show streaks of gray at the temples, Carl couldn't quite picture the man as a 'Johnny.'

        “Sorry,” Carl grinned. “But I just don't see it.”

        Johnny chuckled. “You'd probably be able to if you knew me back then. I was still fairly immature in some ways. Or at least Roy would be happy to tell you that. . .and provide you with a multitude of stories to back up his words. But actually, the nickname came from the fact that the first station I worked out of had three guys named John assigned to it before I arrived. One went by John, one went by Jack, and one was J.T. On the day I showed up they decided they had to have a way of distinguishing me, too. So, I was christened Johnny, and it just kind of stuck. Or at least until I moved to Denver.”

        “You left Johnny Gage behind in L.A., huh?” Carl teased.

        Johnny's smile faded as a look of both pain and sorrow crossed his face.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged softly. “Yeah, you might say that.”

        Carl let the subject drop there. He'd gotten the information he came for, and then some. John had slipped up twice when telling his story regarding Monroe and had almost said the name Chris. The police chief now had a fairly good idea as to the identity of the trainee who had been injured that night, and had a fairly good idea as to why John Gage had left Los Angeles.

        Carl was just about to promise his friend that if, on the off chance Monroe did show up in Eagle Harbor, the man would immediately be under twenty-four surveillance, when the sounds of running footsteps came from the hall just like they did every day at this time during the school year.

        “Hi, Papa! I'm here!”

        The sorrow John Gage's memories brought him immediately left at the sound of that young voice. He stood and circled around his desk, a grin of pure delight spreading across his face. Despite the backpack the boy was wearing, he jumped into Johnny's arms as had long been their habit when the child stopped by the fire station on his way home from school.

        Carl couldn't help but smile as he watched John hug the eight-year-old whirlwind of energy. John Gage was a loyal friend and an excellent fire chief, but above all else, he was a wonderful father to his young son, Trevor Roy.

        
Chapter 4

        
        Evan watched John Gage and his son exit the Eagle Harbor Police and Fire Station. The boy was holding his father's hand, swinging it back and forth as he alternated between hopping, trotting, and skipping to a waiting sport utility vehicle. Evan sipped at his coffee while observing the activity through a large, plate glass window. The location of Donna's Diner couldn't have been more perfect. The small restaurant was located directly across the street from the station, and was often a gathering spot for police and fire personnel when in need of a hot meal. Evan had even been sitting right at this very table yesterday at noon when John Gage walked in with the police chief for lunch. Gage had barely taken notice of Evan, and even if he had given Evan more than a passing glance, the man knew Gage wouldn't recognize him.

        Though Evan couldn't do anything to change his six and half foot height, he'd lost one hundred pounds since his last encounter with Gage, had grown his thinning, gray-brown hair to his shoulder blades, and sported a goatee that was also peppered with gray. Evan looked every bit the part of the free-lance photographer he was passing himself off to be. Between the goatee, the pewter colored hair he kept pulled back in a pony tail, and the round, wire rimmed spectacles he sported when the mood struck, he appeared just artsy enough to make people believe him when he said he was a photojournalist whose work had appeared in Life Magazine and National Geographic among other publications, while appearing rugged enough to blend into the Alaska countryside. Besides, it was hardly as though a free-lance photographer was an unusual phenomenon to Eagle Harbor. Alaska's beauty drew many visitors each year, all coming for a wide variety of reasons, and all from a wide variety of backgrounds.

        Evan had traveled throughout the United States, Canada, and Mexico since that night in April of 1978 when he'd attempted to abduct Jennifer DeSoto. His father had been a well-heeled psychologist who had given Evan access to a multi-million dollar trust fund when he turned twenty-one. His father had passed away in 1974 and his mother had died in 1986, meaning Evan had since inherited the rest of his parents' sizable estate. Thanks to all that money, Evan had never worked a day in his life. The man's IQ put him in the genius range. He used his abilities to invest wisely in the stock market in order to make his money grow further. Evan had no intention of ever enslaving himself to any man or corporate entity simply to bring in a paycheck. He was fifty years old now, and the thought of working for a living was laughable. He came and went as he pleased. Moved from town to town, indulging in his love of travel and sightseeing, and in his love of little girls when the mood struck. Lately though, the yearning for little girls had taken a back seat to the yearning for revenge. Evan had a score to settle with John Gage. The fire chief had prevented Evan from having what he wanted twenty-two years ago, - Jennifer DeSoto. He'd wanted that little angel so bad. It was Gage who pulled the girl from his arms. It was Gage whom Evan had attacked repeatedly with a knife. And it was Gage who had somehow lived through that attack, only to again protect the child when Evan returned the next day for a second abduction attempt that was ultimately thwarted by the police and Jennifer's father.
        
        Those actions on John Gage's part had festered inside Evan all these years like an open wound that just wouldn't heal. Evan was used to being the victor, as opposed to the loser. Despite the passage of time, he was far from ready to concede defeat to a stupid fireman.

        Evan smiled at the young waitress who refilled his coffee cup. If she'd been eight, instead of eighteen, he might be interested in her. But she wasn't eight, so he simply said, “Thanks,” and allowed her to move on to the only other customer in the diner. He returned to staring out the window. Evan had always been a meticulous planner, even as a child. He knew everything he needed to about John Gage, from his daily habits, to the existence of his little boy. The boy's name was Trevor, he'd turned eight years old on May 14th, and in two days would successfully complete his second grade year at Eagle Harbor Grade School. At this time each day during the school year Gage walked the child to the waiting vehicle driven by the police chief's mother, Clarice Mjtko. The sixty-seven year old woman was Gage's housekeeper, cook, and served as nanny for the boy when Gage was on duty. Evan watched as Gage bent to give his son a hug, then kiss him on the mouth before opening the door to Clarice's hunter green Ford Explorer. Evan couldn't hear what Gage was saying to the child, but based on the research he'd done on the man, and the things he'd been told by various people in this town while engaged in seemingly innocent conversation, he could easily imagine the words were, “Be good for Clarice. I'll see you later this evening. I love you.”

        A sad smile tugged at Evan's lips. His own father had never hugged him, kissed him, nor ever told Evan he was loved. It must be nice for a kid to have a dad like John Gage. By the way Trevor was smiling and waving as the Explorer left the parking lot, there was no doubt the feelings between father and son were warm and strong.

        For just a brief moment Evan regretted what he ultimately had to do. Not for Gage's sake, but for the child's. But then that brief moment passed, and with renewed vigor Evan returned to plotting his revenge.

Chapter 5

        Jennifer DeSoto Sheridan, who went by Doctor Jennifer Desoto in her professional life, swung her midnight blue Toyota Camry into her brother's driveway. She glanced at her watch to see it was already twenty-five minutes after seven. Chris had called her at Rampart's Emergency Room at four-thirty that afternoon to see if she could make it for dinner. All he gave in way of explanation was to say, “Mom and Dad will be here, too. I'd like to talk to all of you at the same time if that's possible.”

        Chris knew enough about his sister's busy schedule as a Rampart ER physician, and enough about her busy schedule as a single mother, to know getting his family together on the spur of the moment was rarely possible. If Jennifer hadn't heard the odd little catch in her brother's voice that she couldn't quite identify, she would have told him this get-together would have to wait until Sunday when she had the day off. But instead she said, “I'll try to be there by seven, Chris. If I'm running late, go ahead and eat without me. Oh, and would you please call Dad and tell him to bring Libby along? There's no point in them sitting around and waiting for me to pick her up, only to have all of us meet at your place twenty minutes later.”

        “Will do,” Chris had promised.

        Jennifer parked her car next to her parents' silver Plymouth mini-van. Her mother drove a white Chrysler Sebring, and her father still had the beloved sports car he maintained in mint condition. The mini-van had been purchased several years ago so outings with the grandchildren were easier.

        Thank God for Mom and Dad, Jennifer thought as she exited her vehicle. If it wasn't for her parents, especially her father, she didn't know how she would have survived the demands and long hours of her career. Jen loved her chosen field of emergency medicine, but even more so she loved her daughter, Olivia Kate. It wasn't easy being both a doctor and a single mother. Roy's flexible schedule meant Libby resided at her grandparents' home just about as many hours a week as she resided in her own home. That was one reason Jennifer bought a house in her parents' neighborhood after her divorce a year and a half earlier. Regardless of where she was spending the night, her own home or at her grandparents' house, Libby could walk to Spring Meadows Elementary, the school her mother and uncles had attended as children. Her neighborhood playmates were also the same children regardless of which home she was staying at. If nothing else, Jennifer had peace of mind knowing she'd finally been able to give Libby stability after several years of a life that was far from it.

        As Jennifer walked to the front door she heard the distant shrieks of children at play somewhere in Chris's neighborhood. In three more days school would be over for the summer. Fortunately, not even that event would adversely affect Jennifer's routine, or that of her daughter. Spring Meadows Elementary had a summer day camp Libby would attend during the morning hours. Four days after school drew to a close, Roy's teaching session would also end until a new class of trainees started in mid-August. Libby would still attend day camp in the morning, but rather than go to a friend's house in the afternoon she would go to her grandpa's. Libby and her grandfather had a deep bond that warmed Jennifer's heart. Her former husband, Daniel Sheridan, was an orthopedic surgeon who had moved to Ohio two months before their divorce was final. Dan's contact with Libby was now infrequent at best, especially since his remarriage and the recent birth of a son. Libby tried to hide the pain her father's absence caused her, but Jennifer sensed it each time Libby checked the mailbox only to find no letters from her dad, or each time she checked their e-mail, only to find no messages despite the many she'd sent him.

        Jennifer couldn't help but smile as she walked through the front door. Her father was on the living room floor, playfully wrestling with his “three little princesses,” as he referred to his granddaughters. The blue headband in Brittany's strawberry blond ringlets was askew, and little Madison's flaming red curls bounced on her shoulders as she ran in circles around her grandfather giggling, “No, Ampa! No!” each time Roy reached out to grab her. Libby was almost too old for this game now, and Jennifer could tell she was just joining in to be part of the group. When Libby looked up and saw her mother she ran to her with open arms.

        “Hi, Mom! I thought you'd never get here.”

        “Sorry, sweetie.” Jennifer bent to place a kiss on her daughter's forehead, then ran a hand over the straight, honey gold hair that fell to Libby's waist. Jennifer's hair used to be that long, and that color, too. Now her hair was cut in a full bob at her jaw line, and the only 'honey gold' left in it came from the highlights her hair stylist added every three months. “I got tied up--”

        “At the hospital. I know. Uncle Chris said we'd wait to eat until you showed up. But Grandma and Aunt Wendy gave me and the girls a snack 'cause we were hungry.”

        “I bet you were.”

        Roy pushed himself to his feet, scooping a giggling little red head under each arm. He walked over to his daughter and kissed her cheek.

        “Hi, sweetheart.”

        “Hi, Daddy. You look a bit winded there.”

        “Is that an indirect reference to these extra twenty-five pounds you and your mother keep telling me I need to get off?”

        Jennifer chuckled. “No. Not at all.” The doctor bent to kiss each of her nieces on the nose. “That's an indirect reference to these three beautiful girls you have fawning all over you.”

        “Yes, these three beautiful girls do wear me out.” Roy winked at Libby while gently depositing Brittany and Madison on their feet. “Come on, ladies, let's go see what awaits us in the kitchen. Something good I hope.”

        “Yeah, something good!” Brittany cheered as she ran ahead of her family.

        “Yeah, somfing ood!” Madison echoed, toddling after her sister.

        Roy and Jennifer laughed at the girls while Jennifer took Libby's hand. They entered the spacious kitchen with its dark cherry cabinets, snack bar, and breakfast nook, only to immediately be ushered into an even larger formal dining room that had a table big enough to seat the entire family.

        Because of the amount of time he spent working from home Chris had become an accomplished cook in recent years. Though his meals tended to lean toward 'country cooking' more than gourmet dining, he always got rave reviews from his family. Tonight's barbecued chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls received nothing but high praise. Jennifer teased her big brother.

        “I need to hire you to come to my house and cook about three times a week just so Libby and I eat something that doesn't come out of a box.”

        Around a drumstick Libby muttered, “No kidding.”

        Jennifer feigned mock indignation while Roy cocked an eyebrow at his daughter.

        “You only have yourself to blame, Jennifer Lynn. Libby is as honest and willing to speak her mind as you were at the same age.”

        Jennifer knew any attempts to argue with her father would be met by immediate protests given by her mother and brother. Libby shot Jennifer a barbecue rimmed smile.
        
        “See, Mom. I'm like you. Right?”

        Jennifer picked up her napkin and wiped her daughter's mouth before playfully running the napkin over Libby's nose. “That you are, my little girl. Or so I have it on good authority.”

        Whatever news Chris had for his family he kept to himself until after strawberry shortcake, ice cream, and coffee had been served. When the girls were done eating they were sent to the family room on the other end of the house to watch a movie from Brittany and Madison's extensive Disney library. As soon as Chris heard the muted sounds of the television set he began talking in a voice that was so like his father's.
        
        “Let me start off by saying that I really hate to have to tell all of you this, but at the same time I don't think we have anything to worry about.”

        “What don't we have to worry about, honey?” Joanne asked from her seat on Chris's left.

        Chris's eyes traveled from his mother, to his wife, to his sister, and then finally to his father. He looked at Roy a long moment before finally pulling his gaze away. His father had been through so much on his behalf. Chris hated to put the man through more by bringing up old and painful memories, but right now he had no choice. If Chris was going to keep his family safe, then he had to tell them about Troy Anders visit.

        Ten minutes later Chris finished revealing everything Troy had told him, as well as passing on the precautions the man advised all of them take.

        “I'll call John tomorrow,” Chris said in reference to his younger brother. “Detective Anders doesn't think he's in danger, but regardless, John needs to be told.”

        “Yes, he does,” Roy agreed.

        “You don't really think Monroe will go after John, do you?” Joanne asked her husband. “Or Chris? Or any of us for that matter?”

        “I don't know, Jo. Obviously there must be some concern in that area or Troy wouldn't have stopped by to see Chris today. On the other hand, it is routine procedure to let a crime victim know when his assailant has made threats against him. I don't believe it's necessary for any of us to lose sleep over this, but we do need to make certain we take the precautions the detective mentioned to Chris.”

Jennifer put on a brave face for her mother's and Wendy's sakes. “I agree with Dad. Let's not worry ourselves sick over it, but at the same time let's use our common sense and do the things Detective Anders advises. If Monroe is taking his medication like the detective mentioned, then at least he's on the right track to keeping his mental health in balance.”

        Wendy reached for her husband's hand. “That sounds like a big 'if' to me.”

        Everyone present could vividly recall the many hours they spent at Rampart General fifteen years earlier, first waiting for news on whether or not Chris had survived surgery, then waiting to be told just how much mobility he might someday regain. God knows they didn't want to go through something like that again.

        Joanne was as practical now as she had been the first day Roy met her. She did her best to smile at her family.

        “There's no use in worrying about what might come to pass. From my long experience, most of what we worry about never happens, so let's simply be cautious as we go about our daily lives these next few weeks. If anything else surfaces with Monroe I'm sure Detective Anders will let us know. Otherwise, like your dad says, there's no point in losing any sleep over this.”

        Chris and Jennifer exchanged glances. They knew fully well their parents would, in fact, lose sleep over the possibility of Scott Monroe harming one of them, John, or the grandchildren. But, it would do little good to try to get either Roy or Joanne to confess that, so for the time being Chris and his sister simply nodded their heads in agreement.

        The women stood, ushering the men from the dining room.

        “It's a beautiful summer night,” Wendy told her husband and father-in-law. “You two go sit on the front porch while we women gossip in peace.”

        Neither Chris nor Roy argued with that offer. Chris grappled into his canes, then led the way through the wide-open dining room, living room, and then out the front door. He took a seat in a wicker rocking chair while his father sat down on the porch swing.

        Roy was so proud of his son and all he'd accomplished since his injury. Chris had a loving, hard-working wife and two beautiful daughters, all of whom were a joy to be around. The elegant home Chris and Wendy now owned was in an upper middle-class neighborhood near excellent schools, and certainly held more room than their little family could ever grow into. Especially since they had no plans to have more children.

        It was dark now, and the neighborhood quiet. Dim lights shined through windows from houses across the street, but other than an occasional passing car father and son sat undisturbed. It was Chris who finally broke the silence the pair had fallen into.

        “I don't want you and Mom worrying about this.”

        Roy gave his son a soft smile. “It's a parent's prerogative to worry. I would think you'd know that by now.”

        “I do. But my girls are little.”

        “Chris, don't fool yourself into thinking that when the day comes Brittany and Madison are grown women you'll quit worrying about them.”

        “I won't. I mean, I know that's always part of being a parent. But still--”

        “Still nothing. It's simply a fact of life. Grandma DeSoto is seventy-eight years old, and she still worries about me and your aunts.”

        “I realize that. It's just that you and Mom have been through so much because of me. And Jenny, too. You've been through a lot in recent years because of her. . .hard times. I just. . .I hate to see either of you hurting because of us.”

        Roy shrugged. “When your children hurt, you hurt. Parenting Prerogative Number Two.”

        Chris grinned at his dad. “I'm just not going to win this argument, am I?”

        “If by not winning you mean you're not going to be able to stop me from worrying about you, then you're correct. You're not going to win.”

        Chris stared straight ahead, watching bugs do their summer dance beneath the streetlights for a few minutes before speaking again.

        “Detective Anders said that Monroe made threats against Uncle Johnny, too.”

        Like Chris expected, his father didn't respond.

        “I asked Troy if he'd been in contact with Johnny and he said yes.”

        Again, Chris paused for a response he didn't get. His father simply went on pushing lightly against the wood of the front porch so the swing would glide back and forth.

        “I asked Troy if he could tell me where Uncle Johnny is, but he said no. He said Johnny specifically requested that he not give me that information.”

        Roy finally made eye contact with his son. “If nothing else it sounds like Gage has gotten smarter in his old age.”

        Chris watched as his father pushed himself to his feet.
        
        “I'd better say goodnight to my granddaughters, then see if your mother's ready to go home. She and I both have to work in the morning.”

        Roy brushed by Jennifer on his way into the house. Chris looked up at his sister as she stepped onto the porch. “You heard, huh?”

        “Yes. I heard.”

        “I wish he would have told me, Jen. I wish Troy would have told me how we can get in touch with Uncle Johnny.”

        Jennifer leaned back against the porch railing, a sad smile flitting across her mouth. “After all these years he's still Uncle Johnny to us, isn't he?”

        “He always will be. That's how I think of him anyway.”

        “Me, too. And I'd venture to say our little brother does as well.”

        “I just hope that wherever Uncle Johnny is, he's okay. Happy, you know? Happy and healthy.”

        “I know what you mean, Chris.” Jennifer bridged the space between herself and Chris to lean down and hug her brother. “You can't imagine how many times I've thought of Uncle Johnny in the past fifteen years. And each time I do, I say a little prayer for both his happiness, and his well-being.”

        Chris wrapped his arms around his sister's back. He could easily guess that right at this moment Jennifer was praying for John Gage.

___________________________

        
        
        Roy tried to keep his tossing and turning to a minimum as the digital numbers on the clock radio turned to midnight. His efforts not to awaken Joanne proved futile when her voice broke the stillness in their bedroom. She didn't waste time rehashing all they'd discussed about Scott Monroe, and their concern for Chris's safety, while driving home and then while getting ready for bed. Instead, the woman went right to the heart of another matter she knew was preventing her husband from sleeping.

        “Why don't you call Troy Anders tomorrow.”

        “Call him for what reason?”

“To see if he'll give you Johnny's phone number.”

        Roy gritted his teeth. “I don't want his phone number.”

        “Maybe you don't, but Chris and Jennifer do.”

        “They don't need it anymore than me.”

        Joanne hiked herself up on one elbow. “Roy, Chris's injury wasn't Johnny's fault fifteen years ago, and it's not his fault today. You know that as well as I do.”
        
        “I never said Christopher's injury was Johnny's fault.”

        “I seem to remember you saying that to Johnny the morning we got word of Chris's condition.”

        “I. . .it was a long time ago, Joanne. Just. . .just drop it, okay?”

        If Joanne had a dollar for every time she'd tried to broach this subject with her husband since July of 1985, she'd be a rich woman today. And each time she tried to speak to Roy about it, tried to get him to admit that he'd lost the best friend he'd ever had the day John Gage left Los Angeles, his standard reply was, “Just drop it, okay?”

        “All right. I'll drop it. But if you want my opinion, you shouldn't.”

        “I shouldn't what?”

        “Drop it. Roy, call Detective Anders and get Johnny's phone number.”
        
        “I just told you--”

        “I know what you told me. And I also know that, at times like this, you still miss Johnny terribly.”

        “And just what times would that be?”

        “Times when you need to talk to your best friend.”

        Roy tossed back the covers and shot from the bed. He didn't bother to shove his feet in his slippers as he grabbed his bathrobe and stomped toward the door.

        “Where are you going?”

        “I've got test papers to grade. As long as you're not going to let me sleep I might as well do something useful.”

        Joanne shook her head in a cross between amusement and aggravation as her husband left the room.

        Oh, so now I'm the one who's preventing us from getting any sleep. Roy, give up this game of charades you've been playing where Johnny's concerned. You'd be so much happier if you found out where he's living and got in touch with him. Why can't you see that? Why, oh why, can't you see that?

___________________________

        
        The fourth and smallest bedroom in the DeSoto home had at one time been Chris and Jennifer's playroom. After John's birth it had become his bedroom. When John left for college the room had been turned into an office for Roy and Joanne.

        Roy didn't bother to flick the overhead light on when he entered. The screen saver on the computer, that was a picture of his granddaughters sitting in a pumpkin patch, was all the light Roy needed to see by. Which again, Joanne would find amusing since Roy said he was going to grade papers.

        The man bypassed the computer desk and it's L-shaped work area to instead flop down on the white metal day bed Joanne now kept in here. He picked up one of the decorative oblong throw pillows and idly flipped it end over end. Though Roy tried to will his mind away from the night Chris was injured, it insisted on traveling there anyway.

        Roy supposed there was nothing that sent a parent's heart racing faster than the ringing telephone during the wee hours of the morning. The call came into the DeSoto house at four thirty-five. Right away Roy knew something was wrong when it was Dixie's voice on the other end of the line.

        “Roy, it's Dixie. Chris and Johnny have been involved in a shooting. You need to get down here as soon as you can.”

        Roy wasn't even sure where he found the voice to question, “Dix?” At that moment he had no idea if it was his son who was injured, or his best friend, or maybe even both of them. All he knew was that, no matter the scenario, he was terrified at what the woman might say next.

        “It's Chris, Roy. It's. . .it's serious. You and Joanne need to be here.”

        Roy remembered babbling an explanation to Joanne as he hung up the phone, but how much of what he said to her made sense he still wasn't certain. If nothing else his own urgency caused her to hop out of bed and throw some clothes on. They were met in the hall by a tousled sixteen year old Jennifer who had been awakened by the commotion. Roy said nothing more than, “Chris has been hurt. Your mother and I have to go to Rampart. You stay here with John.”

        Jennifer trailed her parents down the hall asking questions that she received no answers to. Joanne had given the girl's hand a squeeze right before she climbed in the car.

        “Just do as Daddy asked and stay with John. We'll call you as soon as we know anything.”

        Under normal circumstances Roy would have grounded his daughter for disobeying him. But these weren't normal circumstances, so when she showed up in the waiting area of Rampart's surgical floor an hour later with John and Wendy, who was Chris's girlfriend at that time, Roy let the transgression pass.

        The DeSotos hadn't seen Johnny since their arrival. Dixie said he was in a Rampart conference room giving a statement to the police. Roy alternated between sitting next to Joanne on the sofa and pacing the waiting area's floor. His eyes continuously flicked to the elevator as though willing Johnny to walk out the doors so Roy could get his many questions answered.

        As the minutes turned into hours Roy muttered to his wife, “Where is he? Where's Johnny?”

        “Probably still talking to the police.”

        Roy looked up at the wall clock to see it was now ten a.m. Over five hours had passed since Johnny had arrived at Rampart with Chris.

        “No. Not this long. It wouldn't take this long. He should be here by now. Why isn't he here? Why won't he come talk to me?”

        Joanne had no answers for her husband. As his lips tightened to a grim line and he ran his hands through his thinning hair, Joanne knew what he thinking. That Johnny was avoiding them for some reason. It would be several months later that Joanne would find out from Dixie McCall that after the police had finished questioning Johnny he'd retreated to Rampart's chapel where he sat alone in the dark quietly crying for his best friend's son. By then giving that news to Roy did little to change the situation. Johnny had long since left Los Angeles.

        Roy could still recall his thoughts from that day. Johnny's avoidance spoke of nothing but guilt to him. Johnny knew he was to blame for Chris quitting college and joining the paramedic program in the first place, something Roy had been vehemently opposed to. Johnny knew it was his fault Chris had been injured. And above all else, Johnny knew it was his fault Chris would never walk again.

        It was this last bit of news that Doctor Brackett brought the DeSoto family at eleven o'clock that morning. Roy had raced to meet the doctor as soon as Brackett stepped from the elevator. The man refused to answer any of Roy's questions other than to say, “He made it through surgery, Roy. Now come on, let's go to the waiting area where I can talk to everyone at once. It looks like Chris has a number of people here who are worried about him.”

        On that fact, Kelly Brackett spoke the truth. By now Wendy's parents had arrived, as had Chris's best friend since first grade, Dean Cheveron, as well as three of Roy's B-shift crew from Station 26 where he was captain at that time. Only after Roy reseated himself next to Joanne would Kelly Brackett begin.

        “Because of the length of time it took the police to get Chris and Johnny out of that situation, Chris lost a lot of blood before he got here. Johnny did an outstanding job of keeping him alive, but nonetheless, Chris was in deep shock by the time they arrived. We gave Chris five units of blood before we took him into surgery, and four more while he was on the operating table. The precarious location of the bullet meant the surgery was an extremely delicate and time consuming procedure.”

        “But he'll live?” Wendy asked, while clinging to Jennifer's hand. “He'll pull through?”

        “I can't make any promises at this time,” Brackett stated with his usual caution. “However; he's young and he's strong. I believe, barring unforeseen complications, that yes, Chris will pull through.”

        “But there's something you're not telling us,” Joanne stated while studying the doctor's face. “There's something else, isn't there?”

        Roy knew there was something else, too. He'd known Kelly Brackett too long not to detect the sorrow around the man's eyes. At that moment Roy was barely aware of Johnny walking quietly around the corner, still dressed in his blood splattered turnouts. The man remained behind Roy and held himself back from joining the group despite six year old John's wave to him and sunny invitation of, “Come sit by me, Uncle Johnny.”

        “What else, Doc?” Roy remembered asking in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “What else is wrong with my son?”

        Brackett's eyes took in the upset parents, before traveling briefly to the pale face of John Gage. He took a deep breath as he spoke to these three people who loved Chris so much.

        “I'm sorry, Roy. Joanne. If I could have done more I would have. I promise you that.”

        “Done more about what?” Roy asked.

        “The bullet damaged Chris's spine. We already know he's suffered some degree of paralysis to his lower extremities.”

        Roy swallowed hard as he tried to find his voice. “Permanent?”

        “Yes, Roy. It's permanent.”

        Fifteen years later Roy could no longer summon the raging emotions that made him attack Johnny in the waiting room that morning. All he knew was that one minute he was seated next to his wife, and the next minute he was pounding out his pain and grief on Johnny's face and chest. It was with a sense of deep shame now that Roy recalled his hate-filled words.

        “You bastard! You did this to him! It's your fault my son will never live a normal life. He's nineteen years old, Johnny! He's just a kid! If you hadn't interfered, if you hadn't encouraged him to drop out of school, this would have never happened! You knew how much I wanted him to finish college! You, of all people, knew how important that was to me! He should have been in class today! He should have walking around campus instead of answering a call in the middle of the night! It shouldn't be Chris who's laying there paralyzed, it should be you!”

        Roy was certain he'd shouted other equally hurtful things before hands pulled him off Johnny, but whatever else he said he no longer remembered. The realization that Johnny had never tried to defend himself wouldn't come to Roy until years later, after he'd reviewed this scene many times in his mind. He did recall the moment Johnny's eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor. Ironically enough, it was Roy who caught the man before he could hit the ground. Brackett yelled for a gurney, and amidst shocked mumbles, and young John's startled cries at the violence he'd just witnessed on the part of his father, Johnny was whisked to the emergency room. Two hours later Joanne and Jennifer returned from the ER to say Brackett was treating Johnny for exhaustion, shock, and mild dehydration, and would be keeping him at Rampart for the next twenty-four hours. Joanne pulled her husband away from those people still gathered in the waiting area so she could speak to him privately.

        “Johnny hasn't had anything to eat or drink since five o'clock last night when he and Chris had supper at the station. They were out on several runs before their final one this morning at two. Doctor Brackett says between those things, the stress Johnny was under while he was taking care of Chris at the scene, and your. . .attack on him, all of it has been more than Johnny's body could take.”

        “I didn't attack him.”

        “Just what do you call it then?”

        “I don't call it anything.”

        “Well, it certainly looked like an attack to me. A physical and verbal one if you want the honest truth. How could you, Roy? Chris made his own decision about dropping out of school and joining the paramedic program, Johnny didn't make it for him.”

        “Maybe so. But Christopher confided in Johnny long before he confided in me. As far back as when he was sixteen years old. You heard Chris say that yourself. Johnny should have told me then. And he should have discouraged Chris. He knows I want our kids to finish college. He knows I don't want Chris or John hauling hose like I did while trying to make ends meet for a growing family. We struggled, Joanne. When the kids were small we struggled a lot of times to make it from payday to payday. It's only been since I made captain that things have gotten better. I don't want that for my children. I don't want them to struggle to make a buck and Gage knows that. He knows I wanted more for my kids. He knows I wanted the kids to have a future. A bright future. But now, thanks to him, Chris's future is over before it's even begun.”

        “Roy--”

        Roy had turned away from his wife then. “No. Just drop it. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

        “But Johnny--”

        “I don't care about Johnny. I don't want to talk to Johnny, and I don't want to hear his name spoken again in my home. All I care about right now is Chris. All I care about is giving Chris every possible chance to get well. Maybe even to walk again.”

        “But Doctor Brackett said--”

        “Doctors have been wrong before. Even Brackett.”

        And with that Roy had walked away from his wife. The months that followed were difficult at best, and heartbreaking at worst. Roy continued to cling to the hope that Chris would one day walk again without the use of braces and canes, and when he finally had to accept that hope would never come to pass, he grieved almost as heavily as he would have had Chris died that night. He watched his son struggle through months of painful rehabilitation, and was always there to help Chris in whatever way he could. The worst part came when Chris, too, finally had to accept he'd never walk again. He sunk into a depression that lasted for two months. A depression so devastating for Roy to see that he cursed John Gage's name all the more.

        Five months after he'd been shot Chris was released from the rehab center. He didn't return to the apartment he'd been sharing with two other young paramedics, but instead, returned to his parents' house. He took a job offered him by fire department headquarters at the 911 Dispatch center, but only saw it as a way to pass the time, and as a means of financial independence. What he ultimately wanted to do with his life, Chris wasn't certain. If nothing else, his job at the dispatch center is what first sparked the young man's interest in computers.

        Chris proposed to Wendy on Christmas Day, 1987. She was to graduate from college in May of the next year. She and Chris agreed that they'd be married after that milestone was reached. Many times throughout the years Roy had thanked God for his daughter-in-law. A lot of young women in her position would have walked away from the prospect of being married to a paraplegic. But Wendy Adams possessed an amazing amount of fortitude, and the high spirits necessary to go along with it. She laughed as often as she lost the temper she blamed on her flaming red hair, and both those aspects of her personality seemed to bring Chris nothing but joy.
        
        The fall after Wendy and Chris were married Chris returned to college. When he graduated four years later Roy sat proudly in the front row and watched his oldest son shuffle across the stage using his canes in order to receive his degree. How Roy wished it all could have been easier for his boy. He wished so much that Chris had simply stayed in school the first time he'd entered. If that had been the case, Chris wouldn't be hampered by canes and a wheelchair. Once again, Roy found himself blaming Johnny for Chris's condition, though he hadn't seen his former friend in six years by that time.

        Roy looked over at his computer now, seeing the cherubic faces of his three granddaughters popping up from amongst the pumpkins. He smiled slightly, remembering the day last October when he and Joanne had taken the girls to a pumpkin farm. It was after the three girls had been tucked into bed at Grandma and Grandpa's house that the phone rang. It was John, calling from college in Casper, Wyoming where he was studying forestry and environmental science. Roy picked up the extension in the master bedroom while Joanne talked from the phone in the kitchen.

        “I've got enough credits to graduate in December so I'm going for it.”

        “Good for you,” Joanne had said.

        “That's great, John,” Roy echoed. “We're very proud of you, son.”

        “And, huh. . .listen, Dad, just so you know. . .”
        
        “Yes?”

        “If. . .if I get that job at Yellowstone like I hope to, I have to. . .well, I have to. .”
        
        “You have to what?”

        “I, huh. . .I have to take paramedic training.”

        There was a long silence before Roy said, “I see. Well, that makes sense considering what's expected of a forest ranger these days. I'm sure you'll do fine, John.”

        “Yeah,” John agreed. “I'm sure I will. I mean, I'm not worried about it or anything. After all, if I have questions, or need help with my studies, I can always ask the best, right?”

        “The best?”

        “You, Dad.”

        Roy smiled a little that night in spite of himself. “Sure, John. You can always ask me. I'll be more than glad to help you in any way I can.”

        After good-byes had been said Joanne appeared in the bedroom. She studied her husband a moment, before saying quietly, “He was nervous about telling you.”

        Roy looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed. “Telling me what?”

        “That he had to take paramedic training.”

        “I don't know why he'd be nervous. The only thing I ever asked of our kids is that they finish college. What they do after that is their business.”

        “He was nervous, Roy, because he remembers that day at Rampart. Granted, he was only six years old, but it made a big impression on him.”

        “What made a big impression on him?”

        “Your attack on Johnny.”

        “I wish you'd quit calling it that. For one thing, it wasn't an attack. And for another, let it go, Joanne. It happened over fourteen years ago.”

        “I know. But John remembers it as though it was yesterday. It scared him, you know. It scared him very badly. He'd never seen you act like that.”

        “Joanne--”

        “If you think about it, it's rather funny.”

        “What's funny?”

        “The fact that all these years you've blamed Johnny for Chris's interest in the paramedic program, when you should have been blaming yourself.”

        “Blaming myself?”

        “Yes, Roy. Yourself. Chris's interest in the program, John's interest in the program, and Jennifer's interest in medicine. Are you so blind that you can't see who really influenced our children when it came to their choices of careers?”

        As usual when this subject was broached, Roy refused to discuss it with his wife. He especially hated to discuss it when she was right.

        So now, on this night in early June of 2000, Roy sat alone in his office with nothing but his memories, and the surprisingly strong desire to get in touch with an old friend just to make certain he was all right.

        I hope you didn't laugh it off when Troy Anders called you, Johnny. If I still know you as well as I did at one time, you just shrugged your shoulders at the news about Monroe and walked away from the phone whistling some annoying off-key tune. Johnny. . .please. Please take Anders seriously. Do what you have to in order to keep yourself safe. It matters to my kids, Johnny. Even after all these years, your well-being really matters to them.

        Roy tossed the throw pillow back on the bed. As he pushed himself to his feet he tried, and failed, to block out his final thought.

        And it matters to me, too, Johnny. It matters to me, too.

Chapter 6

        
        John Gage pulled in the long driveway that led to his home. He lived three miles outside the town of Eagle Harbor in a luxurious house surrounded by Sitka spruce trees that had been built with fire department money in 1986. Carl had told Johnny it was the hope of the members of the Fire and Police Commission that a new home would attract a fire chief who would stay around longer than a year or two. Well, that new home had attracted several fire chiefs, but none of them had worked out until Johnny came along, and he couldn't really imagine why. Yes, the responsibilities were far reaching and demanded a man give a lot of himself to this town, its people, and the surrounding areas. He supposed the isolation of this waterfront Alaskan hamlet made it difficult on some of the wives of past fire chiefs, or so Carl had hinted at one time when he'd said, “And if a wife is unhappy, then her husband is unhappy. She makes certain of that, let me tell you.”

        To Johnny, the isolation and small town atmosphere of Eagle Harbor was one of its most valuable assets. He liked being able to walk down the street and greet people by name, only to in turn be greeted with just as much familiarity and warmth. He liked the fact that his son went to a public elementary school that only held one classroom per grade, with approximately fifteen children per class. He liked the fact that he could walk in that school at any time during the day and be welcomed by the staff, as opposed to having to go through security checkpoints and be frisked for a weapon. He liked the fact that the Eagle Harbor National Forest was just beyond his backyard, meaning he and Trevor could camp and hike to their hearts' content. He liked the fact that he and Trevor could ride their bikes into town on a summer afternoon for lunch at Donna's Diner, then bike along the Pacific coastline before returning home again. He liked the fact that he and Trevor could kayak in the Pacific during the summer months, and snowmobile over miles of pristine wilderness in the dead of winter. If there was anything Johnny didn't like about his job, or Eagle Harbor, Alaska, he had yet to discover what it was.

        
        Johnny used the remote control clipped to his sun visor to raise the garage door. He pulled the red Dodge Durango he was driving into the garage and parked it next to a black Land Rover. The Land Rover Johnny owned. The Durango belonged to the fire department and was fully equipped with a radio, flashing lights, a siren, a wide variety of tools and medical equipment, and a logo on both sides of the vehicle that identified him as Eagle Harbor Fire, Rescue, and Paramedic Chief.
        
        As Johnny got out of his vehicle he could hear horses pawing in their stalls on the other side of this structure that was both garage and barn. He opened a door, flicked on the overhead lights, and poked his head in. The two horses that resided here, Champ and Omaha, had been fed and bedded for the night. Trevor's rabbits, Happy and Hoppy, were content in their cage, both with fresh water, a dish of rabbit food, plus a carrot, and plenty of leaf lettuce. Johnny looked in the other direction to see the cats' dishes also contained food and fresh water. How many cats his son now owned Johnny wasn't sure, though the count generally stayed around fifteen by the time one considered new litters born each summer, and the fact the mature males generally wandered away in search of more alluring females. Cats of every color and size gazed down at Johnny from their perches on top of hay bales and in the rafters. Johnny had long ago given up on being able to identify them all by name, but Trevor could certainly do so if asked. Johnny was proud of his son. At eight years old Trevor already knew the responsibilities that came with owning animals, and willingly carried out those responsibilities even when his father wasn't present to remind him of his chores.
        
        Johnny walked through the barn and shut the windows Trevor had left open. The temperature had reached seventy degrees that afternoon, but now it was down to fifty. The summer time temperatures in Eagle Harbor rarely climbed higher than seventy-five. Winter temperatures averaged between zero and fifteen degrees. Of course, it sometimes got colder, but it was rare for the temperature in Eagle Harbor to drop very far below zero and stay there for extended periods of time like happened farther north in Alaska.

        Johnny hit the light switch as he passed it, stepped back into the garage, and shut the door. That this home possessed three acres of land and the small barn had been a plus. Johnny hadn't owned any horses, or any other animals for that matter, while living in Denver. A condominium complex was hardly accommodating to animals that belonged on a ranch. Before leaving Los Angeles Johnny had sold his four horses; Cody, Cheyenne, Niabi, and Yuma, to his neighbor, Bob Emery. Johnny's collection of barn cats and Joe, his beloved Alaskan Malamute who had been a gift from the DeSoto family, went to live with Bob and his wife as well. Leaving Joe behind had been even harder than leaving the horses, but Johnny knew all his animals would have a good home with Bob. They were familiar with the man because Bob took care of them when Johnny was on duty. Johnny hadn't had any contact with Bob since the day he left L.A. for Denver, but he knew Joe must have passed away some years ago now since the average life span of a Malamute was roughly twelve years. As far as the horses went, they could easily live twenty-five years or longer. Johnny supposed it was possible Bob might still have some of his horses, but then again, Bob had been sixty-four years old in 1985, so for all Johnny knew he could be dead now, too.

        Johnny smiled when the pair of Malamutes he now owned ran to greet him. The female had been spayed so she and her male friend couldn't bear any puppies. Trevor had christened the male Nicolai and the female Tasha. Both were Russian names familiar to the boy. In this area of Alaska some degree of Russian words still seeped into every day language. The dogs had been sleeping on the back deck, where they slept each night except in the middle of winter when the barn was their home. They were Trevor's loyal companions and ardent protectors. Johnny always knew where his son was at simply by discovering the location of the dogs.

        The fire chief took the time to pet each dog. He crouched down so they could nuzzle his face while he stroked his hands over their coats. It was almost eleven o'clock at night, and the sun had just set. Alaska's long days had begun with the coming of June. Eagle Harbor was too far south to get twenty-four hours of sunlight throughout the summer months as happened in the northern quarter of the state; nonetheless, the sky stayed light this time of year far longer than it did anywhere else Johnny had ever lived.

        Johnny walked past his son's wooden play set that included four swings, a slide, a teeter-totter, and a fifteen-foot length of crossover bars. There was a tire swing hanging from a nearby tree, and then the wooden fire tower/fort Johnny had built for Trevor two years earlier that rose eight feet off the ground and included a rope, a ladder, and a gleaming fire pole that went right up the center of the wooden building.

        The fire chief rubbed a hand over his tired eyes as he inserted his key in the door lock, then stepped from the deck into the laundry room. He bent to untie his boots, pulling them off one by one and placing them on the mat next to Trevor's tennis shoes. He opened the door that allowed him to enter from the laundry room into the vast kitchen/dining area. A wood beamed ceiling rose twelve feet above Johnny's head. He didn't bother to flick on the light. He knew Clarice would have left his mail on the countertop by the toaster, but other than that the big room would be spotlessly clean, as was the rest of the house.

        Thank God for Clarice, Johnny thought not for the first time since arriving in Eagle Harbor. He still remembered the conversation he had with Carl the day in early April of 1993 when the man called him in Denver to say the job was his, and to ask Johnny if he could start in mid-May.

        “I can start then, but as I told you I'm a single father with an eleven month old son. The Denver Fire Department is large enough that it has a twenty-four day-care service I make use of for Trevor when I'm on duty. I'll need to make some type of similar arrangements for my boy in Eagle Harbor. Can you give me names of any women, or day-care facilities, I can contact?”

        “I can do you one better than that. I'll let you talk to my mother.”

        “Your mother?”

        “Yep. To begin with, she's employed by the fire and police departments as the housekeeper for their chiefs. Now in my case that makes things pretty simple considering she lives with me. In your case that means she'll come by twice a week to clean the house the department provides for you. If you'd like to speak to Mom about hiring her to take care of your son, and maybe do some cooking for you, or laundry, or run errands when necessary, I'm sure she'd be interested.”

        Johnny didn't know what to say. It sounded like the ideal situation, yet he didn't put Trevor in just anyone's care. Carl must have sensed this because he said, “Mom's baby-sat for about every kid on Eagle Harbor. She comes with excellent references. I'll let you talk to her. She can give you some names and phone numbers so you can check her out.”

        “Uh. . .thanks. And I. . .well, I don't mean to sound like I don't trust your mother, but--”

        “But a parent can never be too careful. Hey, I'm the police chief. Believe me, I know. And so does my mother. She won't be insulted by your inquiries. In fact, she'll tell you to ask around about her.”
        
        And that's just what Clarice did. Johnny got nothing but glowing reports about the woman and had never regretted hiring her. She was, in fact, his housekeeper, cook, nanny, and errand runner. He didn't know what he'd do without her, or what Trevor would do without her. She was a cross between mother, grandmother, and trusted confidant to the boy whose own mother lived such a busy life in New York City that she could only clear her schedule for her son two weeks out of each year.
        
        Johnny padded lightly from the kitchen into the sunken great room. A massive stone fireplace resided on one wall, a home entertainment center complete with big screen TV on another. Thick beige carpeting lined the floor and felt good under bare feet on a cold winter night. This ceiling, as well, rose twelve feet in the air and was beamed. The outside of the house was sided with rugged cedar and trimmed with red shutters and red doors. Though the rooms were large and open; oak trim, oak cabinets and oak flooring, along with plush carpeting, two fireplaces, and polished pine planking on the walls, gave the home a feeling of warmth that Johnny dearly cherished.

        Johnny smiled at the sight of Clarice asleep in a recliner with the open newspaper in her lap. Clarice's short legs barely reached the middle of the recliner's footrest. She stood five-feet one inch in height and weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds, thirty pounds more than she had when she'd married Carl's father at the age of nineteen. Or so she often told Johnny when she was bemoaning the fact that she'd like to lose weight. At those times Johnny would always tell the active woman she looked great, and he meant every word of it. He could hardly imagine his petite housekeeper being the mother of the hulking Carl. She wore her light brown hair in a wedge cut that came to the middle of her cheekbones, and was only now allowing the gray streaks to slip through after years of keeping it colored. When Carl's hair had started turning gray, his mother decided she might as well let hers do the same.

        “After all, who am I kidding?” She'd told Johnny with her usual humor. “It's not like anyone on Eagle Harbor doesn't know my age, or that I'm the police chief's mother.”

         Quietly, Johnny now beckoned, “Clarice.”

        The woman startled awake, then chuckled at the fright Johnny had unintentionally given her. She reached for the lever that would drop the footrest.

        “I didn't hear you pull in. Nicolai and Tasha must not have barked.”

        “They didn't. But then they don't usually once they recognize it's me.”

        The woman folded the paper and set it in the wooden magazine rack. She looked up at the man she'd come to think of as another son.

        “You look tired, John.”

        “I am.”

        “Long night?”

        A sad frown tugged at the corners of Johnny's mouth. “Yeah.”

        “Bad call?”

        Johnny nodded. “Car accident involving two teenagers. One was dead when we arrived, the other. . .I thought he might have a chance, but he died while they were trying to extract him.”

        “You were in the car with him?” Clarice guessed just by looking at Johnny's face.

        “Yeah. I got two IV's going, had oxygen on him, and had pressure bandages on his abdomen where he was bleeding out, but. . .well, it just wasn't enough.”

        “Who were the boys?”

        “Justin Tindell and Alexi Neeshem. I went to tell Alexi's father. That's why I'm so late. He's the one. . .Alexi's the one I couldn't save. Carl was going to talk to Justin's parents.”

        Tears filled Clarice's eyes. There were many good points to living in a small community, but one of the bad points was when tragedy struck you knew the families involved, meaning it felt like tragedy had lighted upon your own family. Carl had grown up with Justin Tindell's dad and mom, while Alexi's father was a member of John Gage's volunteer fire force.

        “I'm sorry. I know how hard tonight must have been for you.”

        “You'd think after almost thirty years of doing this kind of work it would get easier.”

        “Death never gets easier, John. As much as we all think the more death we experience the easier it will be to accept it that never quite seems to come about. Especially where children are concerned. I suppose the boys were doing something foolish.”

        “They were,” Johnny acknowledged. “Drag racing a couple other kids. What sixteen year old boys have been doing at the beginning of summer vacation ever since Henry Ford invented the Model T. Nonetheless; that doesn't mean they deserved to die.”

        “No, it doesn't. But only God decides these things. Even you, with all your medical knowledge and skills, can't change the timetable God has set for each one of His children.”

        “I guess not.”

        Clarice patted the man's arm. “You eat the supper I left covered on a microwave dish in the refrigerator for you. Roast beef, potatoes, and corn. Three of your favorites. There's fresh peaches in the refrigerator, too, and ice cream in the freezer if you want dessert. Then you get some sleep. That's what you need right now. Food and rest.”

        Johnny gave the woman a small smile. “You take good care of me, Clarice.”

        “Someone has to.”

        “So I've been told more than a few times in my life.”

        “And I'd guess usually by older women such as myself who have declared it their jobs to mother you, am I correct?”

        Johnny smiled again as he thought of Dixie McCall and Joanne DeSoto. Not that Joanne was that much older than him, only three years, but nonetheless the feeling was the same.

        “You're correct.”

        “I thought so. Therefore, do what I say. Eat and get some sleep. Trevor's been in bed since eight-thirty. He was a little upset when he found out you weren't going to make it home in time to read a chapter of Harry Potter with him, but he understood you had a job to do.”

        “He always does. It's been a way of life for him since the day we moved here.”

        “What has?”

        “Never knowing for certain what time I'll be home, or if I'll get called in on my day off. Sometimes I wish I could change that for him, but all in all I wouldn't trade the life we have here for anything.”

        “And neither would he. He understands, John, and Trevor's very proud of his papa. You're a good father to him. Some men can be home with their children twenty-four hours a day and still be lousy fathers. Don't you think for one minute that what you do each day for this town, and the people who live here, isn't making a big impression on your son. He loves you very much and wouldn't have you doing anything else for a living but what you are. He knows how happy helping people makes you.” The woman patted Johnny's arm one last time. “Now I need to get home to my own son. I imagine he'll be in need of a little pep talk as well. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon when I pick Trevor up from the station. Oh, and by the way, he's counting down the minutes until school's out. I could hardly get him calmed down enough to go to sleep tonight.”

        Johnny chuckled, well remembering his own excitement at the close of each school year. With only two days of school left he was certain Trevor was counting down the minutes.

        Johnny said good-bye to Clarice as she headed for the back door. She had her own key so she could come and go as needed. And sometimes that need came in the middle of the night when Johnny was called out to the scene of a fire, or accident, or to search for a missing hiker. He could always count on Clarice hurrying into his house as he was hurrying out of it. She and Carl lived three blocks from the police station along the waterfront. A scanner in their home kept Clarice informed of the goings on in both the fire and police departments. Johnny had long ago converted a ten-foot by twelve-foot butler's pantry this house originally contained into a bedroom for Clarice. The short hallway off the rear of the formal dining room, which was on the opposite side of the kitchen from the great room and contained the home's second fireplace, held the converted bedroom and a half bathroom. Since Clarice spent so much time in his home, Johnny wanted her to feel comfortable here and have an area to call her own.

        The fire chief entered his kitchen and turned on the lights. The center work island served as a snack bar as well, and was where Johnny took his meals whenever he ate alone late at night. On this night though, the man had no appetite, so rather than eating flipped through his mail. Two bills, and a postcard from his father. No longer did Chad Gage ranch in Montana on a full-time basis. In what came as a surprise to both Johnny and his older sister Reah, in 1990 their father had married their deceased mother's best friend, Marietta Scovel Parker. Marietta had always thought of Johnny and Reah as the children she'd never had, and Johnny and Reah loved her like a favorite aunt, so her adjustment as stepmother to Chad's adult children was an easy one for all concerned. Marietta had continued to run the White Rock Cafe, and Chad had continued to ranch, until the death of Chad's father, Roderick, two years ago at the age of ninety-seven. The old man's passing had saddened Johnny greatly. They'd always been very close. Yet Johnny knew his grandfather had lived a long and productive life, and he was happy that Trevor had gotten to know the man and would have memories of him.

        Shortly after the passing of Johnny's grandfather Marietta sold the White Rock Cafe, Chad leased out his land, and the couple bought a motor home. Johnny had never pictured his father as a gray-headed RV'r, but that's exactly how Chad and Marietta spent six months of the year. Marietta's goal was to visit every state and all of Canada, too, and Chad seemed content to partake in that goal as long as he got to spend the other six months of the year on his beloved homestead. From Johnny's vantage point when they came to see him and Trevor for two weeks each December, the couple appeared happy with one other and their lifestyle. Johnny certainly couldn't ask for anything but that for his father, and he knew Reah felt the same way.

        Johnny read the short message on the back of the card written in his father's small, cramped script.

        Just left Pennsylvania. Headed for the northeast and Niagara Falls. Tell Trevor Grandpa Chad and Grandma Marietta say hello and that we miss him. Take care of yourself. Love, Dad.

        Johnny laid the postcard back by the toaster so Trevor could add it to the collection he was making of Grandpa Chad's travels in a scrapbook. The fire chief left his kitchen, walked through the great room, and headed toward his office at the rear of his home. The office had been a master bedroom that housed a master bath. Johnny preferred to sleep in the bedroom upstairs that was down the hall from Trevor's, so had used this spacious room as his home office since moving in seven years earlier. He walked over to his massive oak desk, and turned on the lamp that rested there. He sat down and hit the space bar on his computer. His screen saver of racing fire trucks and frolicking Dalmatian puppies gave way to icons. He clicked on Outlook Express and waited while the modem dialed. When he got into his e-mail he saw he had two new messages. The first one was from his sister. Reah had taken her obstetrical nursing skills beyond White Rock, Montana, and was now using them in northern Newfoundland. Like she had in Montana, Reah provided medical care to pregnant women for whom such things as prenatal and infant care were a luxury. As the closest person to a doctor many of her patients ever saw, she traveled on a frequent basis from one isolated community to another. Though Reah had been involved in two serious relationships during her adult years, she had never married, and as far as Johnny knew had no regrets about that fact. Like his father and Marietta, Reah visited Johnny and Trevor each December over the Christmas/New Year holidays.

        Johnny read his sister's message, which was simply a light, carefree note meant to say hello, and then moved down to the next message.

        Hi, John,

        I hope all is well with you. I'm sending Trevor's plane ticket in tomorrow's mail. Franklin and I will pick him up at the airport on the 29th of July. We'll spend a few days at our apartment in New York so we can take him to a Broadway show, the Central Park Zoo, and the museum, then we'll head for our home in the Hampton's. My mom and dad are going to meet us there so they can spend a few days with Trevor, too. He'll be arriving back in Anchorage on August 12th as we previously agreed upon. As always, you're more than welcome to come with him.

        Please let me know if the above plans meet your approval. Franklin and I are leaving for Paris on Sunday, so I'd appreciate it if you'd get in touch with me before then.
        
        Take care,
        Ashton

        Take care. The way she signed all correspondence she sent to him. At one time, prior to Trevor's birth, it had always been, All My Love, Ashton. But Johnny hadn't been the recipient of all Ashton Riley's love in a good number of years now. Eight years after their breakup he could look back upon their relationship and see so clearly the many reasons why they weren't meant to be together in the first place. Nonetheless, at one time they had loved each other very much.

        Ashton had been a first year resident at Denver's Central Hospital when Johnny met her. He tripped over her in a crowded trauma room, and was immediately taken with her stunning beauty. Her shoulder length hair was the color of cherry Coke, her eyes wide and a combination of gray and green. She was thirty years old, tall and leggy with a model's build and the kind of sculptured face usually reserved for the cover of Vogue. Johnny somehow worked up the courage to ask this elegant woman, who was nine years younger than himself, out for dinner when the patient, and the blood, had been cleared away. Johnny had been living in Colorado for just three months at that time. The pain of his departure from Los Angeles, and the events surrounding that departure, were still fresh. Ashton herself had just broken her engagement with her former fiancé who was a doctor at Denver's St. Mary's Hospital. She'd caught the man cheating on her when she walked into their apartment one night to find him in their bed with another woman. Ashton's pain at this betrayal on the part of the man she loved was, as well, still fresh. Johnny supposed they were simply two people in need of healing, and were able to find that healing with one another. Four months after they met, Ashton moved into Johnny's condo. The last time he'd loved a woman like he loved Ashton was when he was married to his long deceased wife, Kim.

        Johnny thought what he and Ashton had as a couple their first few years together was meant to last a life time. But then he began to see signs that should have told him the two of them didn't have enough compatible goals in order to make a life together work. He wanted to get married, she didn't. She wanted to move to New York City to pursue her training in cardiovascular medicine, while Johnny longed to own a ranch again. She wanted to travel all over Europe and Asia, while Johnny just laughed at the notion that they could ever afford to do such things on a paramedic's salary. Johnny wanted children, she didn't. Then she got pregnant with Trevor.

        It took every bit of Johnny's persuasive skills to convince Ashton not to abort the baby. He asked her over and over again to marry him, and over and over again she refused.
        
        “This isn't what I wanted for my life, John, and you know it! I don't have time for children! My career means I'm gone more than I'm home. That will only get worse when I'm on staff somewhere as a surgeon.”

        “But we can make this work. I know we can,” Johnny pleaded night after night as Ashton's belly grew bigger, and her depression and anger over the situation grew worse. “Please, Ashton. Let's give it a try. Once we're married you'll feel differently. Once we're married--”

        “No, I won't feel differently because once we're married you still won't want to live in New York, and I still won't want to live on a ranch in Podunk, Colorado, or wherever the hell you want to drag me that probably won't even have a telephone! Let's face it, John, this isn't going to work. You'll never be happy being married to a woman who's gone more than she's home, and who's the main breadwinner in the family. It already ticks you off that I spend so many hours at the hospital and make more money than you do.”

        “It does not!” Johnny had denied, though deep down he knew Ashton was right. His male ego might eventually be able to resolve itself to the fact that his wife earned a higher income than he did, but the hours she would be putting in on her job when the day came she was a heart surgeon were always going to cause constant conflict between the two of them.

        The pair had these same arguments week after week, and Johnny realized now it was miracle that they'd stayed together until Trevor was born. Johnny had thought that event, the birth of their child, might change Ashton's mind where motherhood was concerned, but it didn't. Just hours after Trevor was born Ashton handed him to Johnny as though he meant nothing more to her than a sack of flour.

        “Here. He's yours. You wanted him, you raise him.”

        “But--”

        “No buts.” The woman was sitting up in her hospital bed. She turned her face away from Johnny, but not before he saw the tears in her eyes. “This. . .this isn't easy for me, but I know. . .hell, John, I'll be a crappy mother. I never even played with dolls when I was a kid. I never even played with other kids when I was a kid. My mother says I was born a grown-up, and in a lot of ways I guess she's right. You'll. . .you'll give him everything he needs. The love. . .the love and attention a little boy needs to grow up to be a good man.”

        “So this means what?” Johnny had asked while holding the sleeping infant in his arms.

        “It means I'm not coming back to the condo. I'll be moving in with a friend for the time being. In two months I head to New York to take a position with Metropolitan Hospital. Before I leave I'll see a lawyer. I'll grant you full custody of the baby.”
        
        And that's exactly what happened. It wasn't until Trevor was three that Ashton expressed an interest in getting to know her son. She had gotten married that year to an esteemed cardiovascular surgeon, and medical college professor, twenty-five years her senior. She didn't have to worry about hooking up with another man who wanted children. Franklin Barnes was divorced and his own children long grown. Now a grandfather of nine, he had no desire to hear the pitter patter of little feet unless those little feet were just visiting for a short period of time.

        At first Johnny was hesitant to allow Ashton contact with Trevor. He'd read of too many cases where suddenly a non-custodial parent starts fighting for custody and eventually wins the right to rip the child from the only home he's known. It was Clarice who talked Johnny into a mother and son meeting.

        “John, he needs to know who his mother is. For Trevor's sake, allow him to have a relationship with her, even if that relationship never goes much beyond what an aunt would have with a favored nephew. From what you've told me about Ashton, I really believe you have nothing to worry about.”

        Clarice's intuition regarding the situation proved accurate. Ashton had no desire to be a full-time mother and, in fact, the relationship she now had with her son today was more like that of a favorite aunt who spoiled Trevor with an abundance of gifts and money on his birthday, at Christmas, on Valentine's Day, on Easter, and during the two weeks he spent with her and Franklin each summer. She sent Trevor e-mail messages at least once a week, and called him once a month, so if nothing else Trevor felt secure in her love, but at the same time never questioned her absence from his life. For as far back as Trevor could remember his mother had lived in New York City, while he and his father lived in Eagle Harbor, Alaska. He knew his father and mother had never been married because Johnny had been honest with him about that fact, but Trevor had also been told many times by Johnny that he was loved very much by both his parents. The boy had no reason to doubt his father's words, and was happy with his life as it was. Trevor couldn't imagine not living with his papa. He loved his mother, but his world revolved around his cherished father.

        Johnny was too tired tonight to respond to either his sister's message, or Ashton's. He'd e-mail both of them in the morning. He sat back in his chair, allowing his mind to wander to the accident scene he'd been at three hours earlier. He hated it when he lost a patient, and even more so when that patient was a kid. As he'd told Clarice, he thought he'd be more accepting of the loss of a victim by now, but he wasn't. He wasn't, and Johnny doubted he ever would be as he recalled the vacant look to Alexi's father's eyes when Johnny told him his only son was dead, and then remembered the way the man crumpled against him and sobbed when his brain finally absorbed the tragic news.

        Without thinking about it, Johnny tugged on a deep bottom drawer and pulled out a photo album. He laid the thick binder on his desk and opened it, turning each page slowly one by one. Johnny's smile held a hint of nostalgia as he looked at the old pictures. His long, unruly hair had been cut short ten years ago now simply because he'd grown tired of wearing it to his shoulders. Hank Stanley would probably be thrilled to see the neat, trim cut he currently sported. If the man had said, “Gage, get a haircut,” once, he'd said it a thousand times while Johnny worked for him. And Kelly Brackett would be happy to see that Johnny had put on ten pounds since his days at Station 51. At every annual physical Johnny endured while with the L.A. Fire Department Brackett would always say, “Johnny, you're too thin. You need to put on a few pounds, but don't do it by eating junk food.” Well, Johnny had put on those few pounds the old-fashioned way he supposed, by getting older. He was a little thicker in the waist than he had been twenty-five years ago, but also broader in the shoulders and chest thanks to the weight room at Eagle Harbor's police and fire department headquarters. Nonetheless; Johnny still weighed eight pounds less than was considered normal for a man his height, and probably always would based on the fact that his build was identical to his father's and late grandfather's.

        Johnny looked up when he sensed a presence in the doorway of the room.

        “Hey, what are you doing out of bed?” The man asked, while at the same time wheeling his chair back so his son could climb in his lap. Like Johnny had been at the age of eight, Trevor was all 'knees and elbows' as the expression went, and also a few pounds underweight for his height despite the fact that he had the infamous Gage appetite.

        “I woke up and came down to see if you were home, Poppy.”

        Johnny smiled at the nickname his son often used for him. Because of the French influence, most of the children on Eagle Harbor called their fathers 'Papa.' Trevor was just learning to talk when they moved here, and Clarice always referred to Johnny as, “Your papa,” when she was speaking to Trevor about his father, or would say, “Papa's home,” when Johnny's vehicle pulled in the driveway. By the time the boy was two Johnny was always “Papa.” By age four it was sometimes, “Poppy.” Now, at eight, it could be either of those names, along with, “Pops,” which had been added to the repertoire in recent months.

        “Well, I'm home. Now you should go back to bed. It's after eleven and you've got school tomorrow.”

        Trevor rolled his eyes. “Don't remind me.”

        The boy turned in his father's lap so he could take charge of the photo album. He flipped the pages for Johnny as they talked.

        “Did you have any homework?”

        “Yep. Spelling words to memorize and a math paper.”

        “Is everything done?”

        “Pops, you know Clarice works me like an indentured servant. Of course everything is done.”

        Johnny smiled at the back of his son's dark head. If there was any of Ashton in the boy it was hard to see. Everyone, including Chad and Reah, told Johnny that Trevor was his spitting image. Trevor inherited a large portion of his personality from his papa as well, though Johnny didn't know if that was genetics, or simply because Trevor was only party to his mother's influence two weeks out of each year.

        “Where'd you hear the term 'indentured servant'? ”
        
        “Read it in a book. It was a hard word at first, but Clarice helped me sound it out. Then she made me look it up in the dictionary so I'd know what it means.”

        Trevor loved to read and was an excellent student for whom school came easy. For those things Johnny was grateful. The boy was not without his shortcomings, however. Like his father, Trevor had a hard time sitting still for very long, and his teachers often complained to Johnny that Trevor tended to talk out of turn and often forgot to raise his hand in his eagerness to supply an answer. Johnny was working with his son to improve those skills, but he doubted he'd ever be able to completely cure Trevor's 'motor mouth' as Carl affectionately referred to the boy's ability to talk, and talk, and talk, and then talk some more.

        “So if everything is done then you're going to get a one-hundred on that math paper tomorrow and on your spelling test?”

        “Naturally. I'm very smart, you know.”

        “Oh, you are, huh?”

        “Sure. Miss Hillman tells me that all the time. Right before she tells me she's gonna tape my mouth shut if I don't be quiet. But that's not a bad thing, Poppy, so don't scold me.”

        “Why is it not a bad thing?”

        “Because Miss Hillman will pass me to the third grade for sure.”

        “How do you know that?”

        “There's no way she's gonna want a talkative kid like me in her class again next year. She likes quiet kids. I'm just too much for the poor woman.”

        Johnny had to choke back his laughter in order not to give the impression to the precocious Trevor that he approved of his behavior.

        “Well, maybe I'll need to tape your mouth shut some this summer so that
by the time you start the third grade this problem will be cured.”

        Trevor simply shook his head as he studied a picture of the Station 51 A-Shift as assembled in the engine bay in 1973. “Oh, Poppy, you're such a kidder.”

        The boy pointed to the men in the picture and correctly identified each one. “That's Mike Stoker. He was the engineer. A quiet guy who didn't say much, but boy, could he drive a fire truck. And Hank Stanley. He was your captain. A great boss who really cared about his men. And that's Marco. He was nice guy and a real good cook. And Chester B. Kelly. The Phantom. A pain in the rear, but a decent man overall. And Uncle Roy. That's Uncle Roy standing next to you, right, Poppy?”

        “Right.”

        “And my middle name is the same as his first name 'cause he's your best friend in the whole wide world and you named me for him, right?”

        Johnny gave a slight nod. “Right.” Ashton hadn't even cared about partaking in choosing a name for their son. It took Johnny two days to finally settle on Trevor. He thought it sounded strong and independent. He figured it was a good name to give a little boy who was starting out life with an absentee mother. Why Johnny chose Roy for Trevor's middle name he still didn't know for certain other than to say he often thought of Roy when he wanted to confide his troubles in a trusted friend, or bounce his thoughts off of someone who knew him almost as well as he knew himself. For so many years that someone had been Roy, and at the time Trevor was born Johnny longed for Roy's rock-solid guidance and advice. When a nurse came to Johnny requesting the baby's name for the birth certificate, Johnny said without even having to think about it, “Trevor Roy.”

        “Poppy, Uncle Roy isn't my real uncle, right?”

        “Right. To be your real uncle he'd have to be my brother.”
        
        “So why do we call him Uncle Roy?”

        “I don't know. I guess because his kids always called me Uncle--”

        “Chris, and Jennifer, and John?”

        “Yes. Chris, Jennifer, and John. Anyway, they always called me Uncle Johnny, so if you ever meet Roy, I'd want you to call him uncle out of respect for all he and his family meant to me.”

        “Then how about I meet him this summer?”

        “This summer?”

        “Sure. We always take a vacation in August after I get home from Mom and Franklin's. Instead of going camping up on Watson Lake like we usually do, let's go to California and see Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne.”

        “It's not that easy, Trev.”

        Trevor heard the sadness in his father's voice. The same sadness he always heard whenever the subject of Roy DeSoto was brought up.

        “How come it's not easy? We'll just get on a plane and fly down there.”
        “Maybe some other time.”

        Trevor was perceptive enough to realize Johnny was putting an end to this particular line of conversation. He turned another page of the photo album. He'd long ago learned that when his father pulled this book out he was upset about something.

        “Did something bad happen tonight, Poppy?”

        “Yes,” Johnny acknowledged quietly as he hugged his little boy against his chest and placed a kiss in his hair. “Something bad happened.”

        Trevor sighed. Whenever something bad happened his father always looked at pictures of Uncle Roy. He just wished Papa would pick up the phone and call the man. Trevor was sure that would make his father feel better.

        Before Trevor had the opportunity to suggest that, he was picked up and carried to bed. His father snuggled with him on the mattress, waiting for him to fall asleep again. In the quiet darkness of his bedroom Trevor said, “Poppy, you know what I think?”

        “No, Trev, I don't. What do you think?”

        “I think you should call Uncle Roy. You'll feel lots better if you do.”

        Johnny refused to answer his son, or admit that Trevor was right. He would feel better if he talked to Roy. The only problem was, Roy would have no desire to talk to him.

        When Johnny was certain Trevor was asleep he rose from the boy's bed and headed back downstairs. He walked into his office, closed the photo album, and put it away. Not for the first time, John Gage discovered memories were better kept in a drawer than brought out in the open.

Chapter 7

        As halfway houses went, this one wasn't bad. Scott Monroe had his own room that included a bed, small desk and wooden chair, dresser, thirteen-inch television set, and an easy chair that sat angled in one corner. There was a community kitchen, dining room and living room. The house was old but clean, and contained eight bedrooms, four on the first floor and four on the second. Scott's room was on the second floor, the last one at the end of a long L-shaped hallway. He shared a full bathroom up here with three other men. Like everyone currently in residence he was kept busy with assigned household chores, a weekly visit to his probation officer, a twice-weekly visit to his state-appointed psychiatrist, and daily visits with one of the in-house counselors. Soon they would have him out looking for a job. He was ready for such an undertaking. Or so Warren, his counselor, kept telling him.

        Scott shut the door to his room and walked over to his dresser. He stared at the bottles of pills resting atop it. At first they didn't allow Scott to take the pills on his own accord. Warren would dole them out to him and watch him swallow them. But as time went on Scott proved himself compliant and trustworthy, and was now in charge of his own medication. Warren still asked Scott each day if he'd taken his pills, and each day Scott would dutifully reply, “Yes, I did.” In reality, sometimes that was true and sometimes it wasn't. The pills gave him a headache and made his stomach hurt. He couldn't see taking something that was supposed to help you if it only caused your head to pound and made you feel like throwing up. After all, if you felt worse after taking the pills how was that helping you to get better?

        Scott fingered the three bottles, but didn't uncap any of them. He threw his arms out and turned aimless circles a moment, then walked over to his desk. He brushed a long lock of pale brown hair out of his eyes. He'd been twenty-five years old when he'd gone to prison for shooting at those two firemen in 1985. He was forty now. He'd spent fifteen years of his life locked up because of John Gage and Chris DeSoto.

        The man tried to remember why he was so mad at Gage and DeSoto, and what made him shoot at them in the first place. He couldn't recall his reasons, but they must have been good ones. But then again, maybe not. Sometimes he just got angry and heard voices in his head like he was hearing now. The voices nagged at him, telling him to do things until the only way to shut them up was by doing what they demanded. He thought maybe that's what happened the night he shot Chris DeSoto, but again, he couldn't remember for certain.

        Scott slid a hand into a narrow slit on the underside of his mattress and pulled out his secret paper. He knew he'd be in trouble if Warren ever found it. He unfolded it and spread it out on the desk, then sat down and picked up a pencil. He was good at drawing and always had been. It was the one thing his mind seemed to be able to focus on for long periods of time. He'd spent days sketching a family tree. It was very well done if he did say so himself. On the very top were the names Roy and Joanne DeSoto. Branching off from them were the names Christopher, Jennifer, and John, all printed in an obsessively neat block-style lettering done by Scott's own hand. Beside Christopher's name was the name Wendy. Below that were the names Brittany and Madison. Next to Jennifer's name was the name Daniel Sheridan with the word 'Divorced' in parentheses. Below Jennifer and Daniel was the name Olivia. Next to Olivia was was an empty space that the man would fill in if he ever learned the other Sheridan child's name. Scott hadn't been able to locate John Gage yet, but when he did he'd draw a family tree for that man, too.

        Scott stared down at his artwork as he circled the name Olivia with his pencil. He'd learned that the family called the girl Libby and he liked that. He liked it because he liked songs. Songs were fun to sing over and over in your head because they blocked out the voices. The name Libby made him remember an old commercial jingle from the 1970's. He sang it softly now, smiling at the silly rhyme.

        “When it says Libbys Libbys Libbys on the label label label you will like it like it like it on your table table table, when it says Libbys Libbys Libbys on the label label label.”

The man sang the song over and over while he circled Libby's name. He couldn't get the tune, or the pretty little girl he'd caught a glimpse of yesterday as she left school, out of his head.

Chapter 8

One week after Jennifer DeSoto had dinner at her brother's home she was sitting down in Rampart's cafeteria to eat a quick lunch with Dixie McCall. Dixie was seventy years old now, but didn't look a day over sixty. She was still fit and trim, and her hair still honey blond, though Dixie would be the first to admit her hairdresser assisted with that illusion. Gone were the false eyelashes she'd favored twenty odd years ago, and also gone was her long hair. Now she wore her hair in a loose, casual style that stopped midway down her neck and was easy to take care of. Gone also was the prim nurse's cap and white uniform of the 1970's. Today Dixie was dressed in pale pink scrubs and white New Balance running shoes. She loved what now passed for nurses' uniforms. The comfort when compared to the old dresses and thick stockings was a God-send.

        The woman who had for so long run Rampart's Emergency Room had retired eight years earlier. Dixie wasn't certain what she wanted to do with her time, but knew she needed to get away from the stress her job brought her. Dixie's 'get away' lasted one year. She grew bored and soon found herself turning to her old career in order to maintain both her mental health and physical stamina. She worked part time now as a nurse in Rampart's ER, coming in two or three days a week for whatever hours she was needed. Sometimes those hours didn't exceed six, other times they stretched as long as ten. Dixie found it was just the mix she was looking for in her golden years, and greatly enjoyed her semi-retired lifestyle.

        Dixie smiled at Jennifer as the young woman took her seat. She'd known the doctor since she was a little girl of three years old. It was hard for Dixie to imagine so many years had passed since the first time Roy had brought Chris and Jennifer to the emergency room to meet her, and hoisted his small daughter and young son up to sit on the countertop of the nurses' station.

        “I missed you last week,” Jennifer told the older woman. “Were you away?”

        Dixie nodded her head as she bit into her tuna croissant. “I went with two friends to Seattle. Every year we go somewhere none of us has been before, and this year Seattle was it.”

        “Sounds nice.”

        “It was.” Dixie wiped her mouth with her napkin, then took a drink of iced tea. “So, any new gossip come up while I was gone?”

        “Around this place?” Jennifer laughed. “Always.” The doctor's eyes rose to the ceiling a moment in thought. “Let's see. Rumor has it Sam Matthews and Andrea Vincent are seeing one another.”

        Dixie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really? That's interesting considering they're both married to someone else.”

        “Well, you know how it goes around here. You aptly dubbed it 'Peyton Place' back when you worked with my dad.”

        “That I did.”

        Jennifer forked a piece of lettuce and a chunk of tomato from the chef's salad she was eating. “Oh, and Doctor Brackett was on a rampage over what I don't know. We haven't been told yet, but based on the mood he was in I sure wouldn't want to be called into his office any time soon.”

        Dixie gave a knowing smile. Kelly Brackett was sixty-four years old and the hospital administrator. His temper was just as tenuous these days as it had been when he was younger.

        “So, when you find out what's going on you'll have to let me know,” Jennifer said.

        “When I find out?” Came Dixie's innocent question.

        Jennifer did nothing other than give the woman a smug grin. She suspected, like her father had before her, that Dixie McCall and Kelly Brackett had a relationship that went far deeper than the one of 'friendly colleagues' they presented to the outside world. Why they'd never married, or been open about their romance, Jennifer wasn't certain, and she doubted she'd ever know. Maybe they were simply two independent people who enjoyed living separate lives while still having a deep love for one another. Or maybe they knew if they married their strong personalities would be their undoing. Jennifer had gone through the pain of a divorce and wouldn't wish it on anyone. She had naively thought marriage was forever, or at least thought her marriage would last forever just like her parents' had, but that wasn't how it turned out. You couldn't make someone stay with you who wanted nothing more than to go. Go away from his home, away from his wife, and away from his child. Go as far away as he could in order to escape the sorrow he could no longer bear.

        Jennifer shook herself free from the thoughts of her ex-husband. She focused on Dixie again as the woman steered their conversation in a direction other than Kelly Brackett.

        “I haven't seen your dad for a while. How is he?”

        “Fine. He just finished teaching another paramedic session, so now he's on summer vacation as Libby refers to it.”

        “I'm sure he'll enjoy that.”

        “I don't know,” Jennifer chuckled. “He's got a number of household projects to do as supplied for him by Mom, and he'll be taking care of Libby for me during the afternoon hours. In the morning she goes to day camp at her school.”

        “He might not appreciate your mom's chores for him, but I know Roy loves spending time with his granddaughter.”

        “That he does. And I'm glad. She needs him as much as he needs her.” Jennifer took another bite of her salad as she finished her father's summer itinerary. “A couple weeks before Dad has to go back to work again he and Mom are going to head out to Wyoming to see John.”

        “How's John doing?”

        “Great. Loves his job. Loves Wyoming. And most of all loves some girl named Shawna.”

        “Oh, so another DeSoto wedding on the horizon, is that it?”

        “We think so, but time will tell, of course.”

        “And Chris? How's he doing?”

        A slight frown tugged at Jennifer's mouth that Dixie would have missed had she not been looking right at the younger woman's face. “Jennifer?”

        “He's fine. He's . . .he had all of us over for dinner last week. All of us except John naturally. He had some. . .troubling news to share with us.”

        “Troubling news?”

        Jennifer pushed her half eaten lunch aside. She played with her glass of Diet Coke while telling Dixie about Troy Anders visit with Chris. She finished by saying, “I'm worried, Dixie. About Chris's safety, I mean. And Johnny's. . .Uncle Johnny's, too.”

        Dixie nodded while reaching across the table to give Jennifer's hand a squeeze. The doctor looked at the woman with pleading eyes.

        “If you knew where he was you'd tell me, wouldn't you?”

        “Yes, Jennifer. If I knew where John Gage was I'd tell you. But I don't, sweetheart. I haven't heard from him since the morning he left Los Angeles fifteen years ago. He called me here to say goodbye.”

        “He did?”

        “Yes, he did. I tried my best to talk him into not going, but by then his ranch was sold and his things packed in a U-haul van. He promised he'd keep in touch with me, but I haven't heard from him since.”

        “He promised me the same thing,” Jennifer whispered, while trying to hide her pain at that broken vow. “I. . .no one knows this other than Chris and John, but I went to see Uncle Johnny the day before he left. I took John with me. I. . .I was so mad at my father over everything that had happened, and because he forbid us to have any contact with Uncle Johnny. It was only by chance that I found out Uncle Johnny was moving away. I saw Lori Stoker. . .Mike Stoker's daughter. . .”

        Dixie nodded her acknowledgment of the man who used to be the engineer for Station 51's A-shift.

        “Anyway, I ran into Lori Stoker at the library on a Saturday morning. We didn't go to the same high school, but we were the same age and had always played together at the fire department picnics, and at gatherings our families held. It was Lori who asked me if I knew Uncle Johnny was moving. She'd overheard her parents talking a few nights before that. I ran out of the library and raced home in that old Pinto Chris and I used to share. I knew Mom and Dad would be going to the rehab center later that afternoon, and that I would be left in charge of John. As soon as they were gone John and I got in the Pinto and headed for Uncle Johnny's. He. . .at first he seemed mad at me for coming over, but even then I could tell it was an act. He just. . .he was hurting so much over everything that had happened, Dixie. I was only sixteen, but I knew it. I knew it just by looking into his eyes.”

        “It was a hard time for all of you,” Dixie said.

        “Yes, it was. A very hard time.”

        “So what happened while you were at Johnny's?”

        “Uncle Johnny and I sat on the deck together while John rode Cheyenne around the corral. I begged Uncle Johnny not to leave. I told him I was sure Daddy wouldn't stay mad forever. He just kept shaking his head and saying this was for the best. He made me promise to finish college, and then go onto medical school. He gave me that crooked grin of his and said, “Some day I'm gonna walk into Rampart's ER, and when I ask to have Doctor DeSoto paged you'd better show up.” I started crying then, because it all sounded so final. I knew. . .somehow I knew I'd never see him again, even though he promised he'd write to me when he got settled wherever it was he was going.”

        “And he never told you that? Where he was going?”

        “No. I tried to get him to, but he kept saying he didn't know. I didn't believe him, Dixie. I think he knew perfectly well where he was going, but just didn't want to say.”

        “I'm sure Johnny felt he was doing the right thing. He wouldn't have wanted to come between you and your father.”

        “I know that. Or at least now I do. When I was sixteen it was difficult to understand.”

        “And that was it?”

        “Pretty much. Uncle Johnny gave me a letter he'd written to Chris that he was going to mail. He asked me to deliver it for him instead. Chris has since let me read it.”

        “Can I ask what it said?”

        “You can,” Jennifer nodded. “Uncle Johnny apologized to Chris for not being able to do more for him the night he was injured, thanked Chris for letting him be a part of his life for so many years, said he had great confidence that Chris would have many successes, and then told him he'd always think good thoughts for him.”

        “That was nice.”

        “Yes, it was. I know Chris still has the letter. I can't imagine that he'll ever throw it away.” Jennifer took a sip of Coke, then finished her story. “Shortly after that John and I left. It wasn't until then that it really sunk in with John that we'd never see Uncle Johnny again. He clung to him for a long time and cried while begging him not to leave. Johnny finally had to put him in my arms and walk away. He turned his back on us very quickly, but I. . .I could tell he was crying, too. I just. . .Dixie, I just wish I knew where he was now. I just want to know that he's okay. I just want. . .all I want to do is tell him hello. He was far more of an uncle to me and my brothers than our own uncles ever were.”

        “I know,” Dixie said, having vague knowledge of the fact that Joanne's only sister had never married, and that Roy's two younger sisters, while married for many years now, lived out of state and only returned at Christmas each year to visit their mother and brother. “I wish I knew where John Gage was, too, honey. First I'd box his ears for not keeping in touch with me like he promised he'd do, and then I'd hug that charming, wayward paramedic until he couldn't breathe.”

        Before Jennifer could make a response a page came over the loud speakers.        

       “Doctor DeSoto. Doctor Jennifer DeSoto to the emergency room please.”

        A sad smiled lighted upon Jennifer's mouth. “If this was a soap opera I'd go to the ER right now and find Uncle Johnny waiting for me. But it's not a soap opera, so I might as well wipe that thought out of my mind and see what I'm needed for.”

        Dixie watched the young woman hurry from the cafeteria. She sighed as she pushed her own half-eaten lunch aside and murmured softly, “You're right, Jennifer. This isn't a soap opera, and Johnny won't be waiting for you. I wish I could change that fact, but even this old nurse doesn't have that kind of power.”

___________________________

        At the same time Dixie and Jennifer were eating lunch on that Tuesday in June, so were Roy and Libby. Shortly before noon Roy had walked the four blocks to Spring Meadows Elementary School and waited for his oldest granddaughter at their agreed upon meeting spot by the front gate. They walked back to Roy's house together, Libby chattering the entire time about the morning activities at day camp.

        After lunch was eaten Libby helped her grandfather put their glasses and sandwich plates in dishwasher, then asked if she could invite her friend McKenzie over to swim in the DeSoto pool. Roy granted his permission, watching as Libby raced out the sliding doors, down the deck stairs, and next door to McKenzie's house. Within ten minutes both girls had changed into their swimming suits and were playing in the above ground pool John Gage had given the DeSoto children as a Christmas present back in 1983. Each time Roy thought of tearing the pool down in order to reclaim his backyard, Joanne would remind him of how much the grandchildren now enjoyed it, and convince him the old pool still had a lot of life left in it.

        Roy sat on his deck allowing the summer sun to warm his bare arms while keeping an eye on the girls. If Libby had been in the pool alone, or if Brittany and Madison were in it, he would have jumped in the water, too. But Libby and McKenzie were content with floating on two blowup whales while jabbering about the Backstreet Boys, and 'N Sync, and the young actor who played Malcolm on the TV show Malcolm In The Middle. Roy had no desire to get caught in the middle of all that girl-talk, so was satisfied to recline in his chaise lounge and read the newspaper. After all, he deserved the break considering the repair job he'd done on the washing machine that morning for Joanne, and then the two loads of clothes he'd taken care of once the machine was running again.

        At three o'clock McKenzie's mother called for her to come home. The girl climbed out of the pool, saying, “Good-bye, Mr. DeSoto. See you tomorrow, Libby.”

        “Good-bye, McKenzie.”

        “Bye, McKenzie. See you tomorrow at camp.”

        Libby picked up a big beach towel off the picnic table and wrapped it around her thin body. She stood beside Roy's chair, shivering now that she was out of the pool.

        “Why don't you dry off and change into your clothes, Libs? Then we can have a snack.”

        Libby playfully patted her grandfather's stomach. “Grandma says no more snacks for you.”

        “What your grandmother doesn't know won't hurt her, unless you want to spend your entire summer eating an apple and carrot sticks with me when snack time rolls around.”

        Libby made a face. “No way.”

        “That's exactly how I feel about it. So get changed and then we'll steal some cookies from the cookie jar. After that, we can go for a bike ride so Grandpa can work off those extra calories he's not supposed to have.”

        “Then will it be time to start dinner?”

        “Just about.”

        “Can we grill something and eat out here on the picnic table? Maybe all of us; you, me, and Grandma, can go swimming together after supper.”

        “I don't see why not.”

        “When will Grandma be home?”

        “Around five-thirty if she doesn't get held up in traffic or delayed at the bank.”

        Joanne had started working at a bank a few miles from the DeSoto house seven years earlier. At first she kept her hours to part-time in order to be home when John's high school classes let out. After John went away to college she'd gone full-time, and was now the assistant supervisor in the personal banking department. Joanne loved her job in a way she never imagined she would. She had enjoyed her years at home with her children, but now was enjoying the opportunity to have a career of her own. Roy didn't begrudge his wife that. If she was happy, then he was happy. She'd always been supportive of any career decision he'd made, so now it was his turn to be supportive of her.

        “And my mom is on-call so I'm staying all night with you and Grandma, right?”

        “Yes, Button, that's right.”

        “Okay,” Libby nodded, secure in the knowledge of which home she'd be spending the night at.

        Roy stood and folded the paper. He placed it under his arm so he could put it in the magazine rack for Joanne to read later, then led Libby into the house.  “Now go on and get changed, then Grandpa will brush the tangles out of your hair.”

        Libby ran down the hall to the room that had been Chris's. Two twin beds still resided in there, though Joanne had redecorated the room so that her grandchildren would feel at home in it when staying overnight. The formerly blue walls were now pale yellow, and the bedspreads and curtains were decorated with characters from the Disney movie, The Lion King, a favorite of all three granddaughters.

        Roy put the newspaper in the rack, then got out three Chips Ahoy cookies for Libby and two for himself. He put them on napkins and placed them on the table. He grabbed two glasses from a cabinet and set them on the counter next to the refrigerator. He'd wait to pour milk until Libby returned.

        When ten minutes had passed and the girl had yet to appear Roy walked down the hall calling, “Libs? Libby, are you changed yet?”

        “I'm in here, Grandpa! In your office.”
        
        Roy walked in the room expecting to find his granddaughter playing one of the games he had loaded on the computer for her. Instead, she was sitting on the floor with two photo albums stacked in front of her. Libby was dressed now in a pale blue T-shirt and denim shorts. She hadn't put her socks or tennis shoes on yet, and the brush her grandfather was to use on her hair rested beside her suntanned thigh. Roy got down on the floor behind her, groaning as he bent his body to do so.

        “You're going to make this difficult on your old grandpa, aren't you?”

        “You're not old, Grandpa.”

        Roy chuckled at the child's loyalty to him. He picked up the brush and began gently running it through her long hair. “That's nice of you to say.”

        “I only speak the truth.”

        “What are you doing with the photo albums?”

        “I have to bring some family pictures to camp tomorrow and tell a story about them. I don't have to write it down or anything. It's not like homework, we don't do that in day camp. It's just for fun. I wanted to take some pictures of Brandon and tell the kids about him. Is that okay with you?”

        It took Roy a moment to find his voice. “Sure. Sure, as long as you don't lose them.”
        
        “I won't lose them. And I'll put them in an envelope to keep them nice. Do you have some cardboard I can put them in-between?” Libby asked as she began paging through the album.

        “I'm sure we can find some around here somewhere.”

        “Good.”

        Roy averted his eyes from the pictures as Libby studied page after page. If her younger brother, and Roy's only grandson, was still living he'd be eight. He had died two years earlier of cancer. At the tender age of two, Brandon Roy Sheridan had been diagnosed with a fast growing cancer that had invaded his brain. He managed to survive several operations, and multiple chemotherapy sessions, so his family could have four more years with him. But then his small body couldn't fight any longer, and in the middle of a warm April night he clutched Roy's hand and said, “Grandpa, I'm not afraid to see the angels. I wanna go now.” The boy lapsed into unconsciousness after speaking those words, and soon thereafter slipped into a coma. He died just as the sun was rising over Los Angeles Children's Hospital.

        Roy had cherished his grandson and still couldn't speak of him unless forced to do so. The stress of the boy's illness had taken its toll on Jennifer and Dan. Roy had been close to his son-in-law. The breakup of Jennifer's marriage had only been one more sorrow for Roy's heart to bear . Why Dan had since chosen to move away, and had maintained only sporadic contact with Libby, Roy couldn't guess other than to say he supposed Dan was trying to avoid any reminders of Brandon's existence. Unfortunately, it was Libby who was paying the price for her father's denial.

        During the time since Brandon's death and Jennifer's divorce, it was Roy who remained strong for his daughter and granddaughter, and was the rock Jennifer leaned on back when getting through each day was almost impossible for her. She'd been under enormous stress since she married Dan while still in college. He was a twenty-five year old medical student, Jennifer a nineteen year old college sophomore. Roy and Joanne had liked Dan, but were not happy to see Jennifer marry at such a young age and with so much schooling ahead of her. She promised Roy she was going to attain her goal of becoming a doctor, and also assured him she knew what lay ahead by marrying while still having so much schooling left to complete. Roy was certain back then, just as he was certain now, that Jennifer hadn't known at all what lay ahead. Certainly her pregnancy with Libby just a year after she was married wasn't planned, but through it all; Libby's arrival, then Brandon's birth, and his illness, Jennifer managed to complete her education and then begin her residency at Rampart. It hadn't been easy for Roy to watch his daughter subject herself to so much pressure, but if nothing else he'd finally learned that his adult children were going to make some decisions he didn't approve of, nor have any control over.

        “How about this one, Grandpa? Isn't this a good picture of Branny and you?”

        Roy tore his thoughts from his daughter to look at the picture Libby was holding up. It was taken a year before Brandon died. He and Roy were standing in a mountain stream fishing. The boy had been in remission at that time, and the family had been hopeful he just might beat his cancer. His white-blond hair had grown back, and with his big smile and sparkling blue eyes he looked a lot like his Uncle Chris at that same age.

        “Sure, honey. That's a good picture of Branny. You take it if you want to.”

        “Okay. I will. And I'm gonna take this one of me and him in the swimming pool with Grandma. I wanna tell the kids how much I love you and Grandma, and how you take good care of me when Mom's at work.”

        Roy smiled as he stroked the brush over Libby's drying hair. “Grandma and I love you, too, Button.”

        “I know.”

        Libby set the pictures aside and then reached for the other album she'd pulled out. She giggled when she opened it to the first page.

        “You look funny, Grandpa. You were skinny and you had long sideburns. Your hair wasn't white yet, either, and your bald spot isn't there.”

Roy set the brush on the floor beside him and looked over his granddaughter's shoulder. She had pulled out the album that was filled with pictures from twenty-five years ago or more.

        “I looked funny, huh?” Roy questioned with mock indignation as he gently poked his granddaughter in the ribs.

        “Yeah. I think you look better now. Much more handsome.”

        “Why, thank you, Miss Sheridan.”

        “You're welcome, Mr. DeSoto.”

        Libby turned the pages of the book. She personally knew four of the men her grandfather used to work with at Station 51 because they came to the reunion picnic Grandpa and Grandma hosted for them each July. There was Mr. Stanley, and Mr. Stoker, Mr. Lopez, and Mr. Kelly. Mr. and Mrs. Stoker always brought their six grandchildren, who ranged in age from nine to three, and whom Libby and her cousins enjoyed playing with. Mr. Kelly was divorced and usually brought his sons, Ryan and Collin, who were big boys of fourteen and sixteen, but always nice to Libby and the younger children. For some reason that fact surprised her grandfather because Libby once heard him say to her grandmother, “Whoever would have believed Chet Kelly would have such well-behaved, polite kids. Or that he'd enroll them in a Catholic school because he wants them to have firm discipline. Boy, what a change from the days when the Phantom lurked around the station.”

        Libby wasn't sure who the Phantom was, but her mother had told her Mr. Kelly had liked to play practical jokes on his co-workers, most especially on Uncle Johnny.

        Libby stopped turning the pages when she came to a picture of Roy and Johnny leaning against the front of the squad with a then five year old Jennifer and seven year old Chris seated on its hood in-between them.

        “Can I take this picture to camp, too, Grandpa?”

        “I guess so. But why do you want to take that one?”

        “ 'Cause I wanna tell the kids about you being a fireman and a paramedic. And I also wanna tell them the story about Katori. That's the coolest one yet.”

        “Katori?” Roy questioned, as though he had no idea to what his granddaughter was referring.

        “Yeah. He Who Dances With Rattlesnakes. Uncle Johnny. That was Branny's favorite. He liked it better than any story that ever came out of a book.”

        This was the first Roy was aware that Libby and her brother had ever been told anything about John Gage.

        “What do you know about that story, Button?”

        Barely pausing to take a breath in-between her sentences, Libby rattled off the story she knew by memory, and loved to hear as much as her younger brother had.

        “That Uncle Johnny took Mom and Uncle Chris camping one weekend when you and Grandma were celebrating your wedding anniversary. Mom was nine years old, and Uncle Chris was eleven and a half. A man came into their camp late at night after they were sleeping and tried to kidnap Mom. Uncle Johnny saved her. He kept the man from taking her, but he got hurt real bad while fighting the man. The man had a knife and stabbed Uncle Johnny over and over again, before Uncle Johnny's dog scared the man off. Uncle Chris rode down the mountain to get you on a horse named Cody, while Mom stayed with Uncle Johnny and did her best to take care of him. She was real scared, but she knew Uncle Johnny would die if she didn't give him all the help she could. The bad man came back and Uncle Johnny hid Mom underneath the blankets that were covering him. The bad man was beating Uncle Johnny with a club and yelling, “Where's the girl? Where's the girl?” but Uncle Johnny wouldn't tell him. Pretty soon you showed up with some police officers and the bad man ran away. Uncle Johnny was very sick for days and days and almost died, but then he got better. When Uncle John was born, you named him John in honor of what Uncle Johnny had done to keep my mom safe. Uncle Johnny's Indian name is Katori. It means, He Who Dances With Rattlesnakes. There's a neat story that goes with that name I'm gonna tell the kids. Do you wanna hear it, too?”

        Roy gave the child a soft smile. “Not today, sweetheart. I already know the story.”

        Libby looked down at the picture she was holding, then paged farther into the book. More photos of John Gage appeared, some taken at Station 51, others taken right here in her grandpa's home. Most of those pictures had her grandpa in them, too. Sometimes Uncle Johnny was clowning for the camera while Grandpa was trying to look serious. Other times you could tell the two men were playfully arguing over something. There were more pictures of John Gage with Libby's Uncle Chris and her mother, then some of him with her Uncle John when he was a little boy. Rather abruptly, any pictures containing the man suddenly came to a halt.

        “Grandpa, how come Uncle Johnny is never at your Station 51 reunion picnic?”

        Roy chose to answer Libby with as close to the truth as he was willing to give her. “Because I don't know where he lives.”

        “Then you should find out.”

        “Why?”
        
        “So you can mail him an invitation, that's why. I bet Mom, and Uncle Chris, and Uncle John, would really like to see him. And you, too. Mom says he was your best friend. I don't think you have another best friend 'cause I never see anyone around here like these pictures show Uncle Johnny being here. He moved away a long time ago now, huh?”

        “Yes, Libby. A long time ago.”

        “How come you don't know where he lives?” Libby asked, as she worked her way backwards through the album, again viewing the pictures she'd just seen.

        “I just don't.”

        Libby tried to understand how a person could not know where their best friend lived. She'd moved from her old neighborhood with her mother shortly after Brandon died, but she still had contact with her best friend from her former school, Lindsey. McKenzie was her best friend from her new school, but Lindsey would always be a best friend, too.

        “But Uncle Chris knows where Dean lives and they've been best friends since first grade. And Mom knows where Amy lives and they've been best friends since they were four years old, so how can you not know where your best friend lives?”

        “Olivia, I just don't. Now that's enough of this subject. Put the books away, and let's go find some cardboard and an envelope for those pictures.”

        It wasn't often that her grandfather spoke sternly to Libby, or called her Olivia, so she knew she'd said something wrong in regards to Uncle Johnny. Nonetheless; she had her mother's fortitude, and wouldn't let a subject rest until she'd said all she intended to on it.

        The girl did as Roy instructed and closed the albums. She picked the albums up and carried them back to their shelf. When she turned to face her grandfather, who was still seated on the floor, she told him, “Mom says Uncle Johnny could always make you laugh. You hardly laugh at all since Branny died. It makes me sad when you don't laugh, Grandpa. It would make Branny sad, too. I wish you'd find out where Uncle Johnny lives and call him. Maybe he could make you laugh again.”

        And with that Libby turned and left the room. Roy remained where he was a long moment, then struggled to get to his feet. As much as Roy tried to push his granddaughter's words from his mind, they echoed in his head as he walked to the bathroom to return the hairbrush to a vanity drawer.

        
        You hardly laugh at all since Branny died. It makes me sad when you don't laugh, Grandpa. It would make Branny sad, too. I wish you'd find out where Uncle Johnny lives and call him. Maybe he could make you laugh again.

        Roy supposed if anyone could make him laugh again, truly make him feel like laughing again, that person would be John Gage. But like he'd told Libby, he didn't know where Johnny was, and he had no intention of finding out. Besides, even if he did make contact with Johnny, the man would probably tell him to go to hell.

        And the sad thing was, Roy would deserve every scathing word his best friend desired to throw his way.

Chapter 9

        Evan sat at the desk in the small log cabin he was renting outside of Juneau. Though using Juneau as his home base meant there was the inconvenience of having to take the ferry in order to get to Eagle Harbor, it also meant he wouldn't arouse any suspicions when he left the area the same day John Gage disappeared. The cabin was one of several owned by an elderly couple that were rented out to vacationers, free-lance writers, photographers, hunters, or other people who were visiting for whatever reason. Evan had never even met the couple personally. All he had to do was mail them a money order that covered the amount owed for the time period he planned to use the cabin. A week later he received a set of keys in the mail along with a self-addressed stamped envelope that he'd put the keys in when he left and drop in a mail box. This is what Evan loved about Alaska. The people were so trusting. Throw-backs to an era long gone in the lower forty-eight states.

        Crammer's temporary home was cozy and comfortable. It contained three rooms with all the amenities he needed. The biggest room in the cabin was centrally located and served as living area, kitchen, and dining area. It included a fireplace, refrigerator, stove, double sink, and knotty pine cabinets with a complete set of dishes, drinking glasses, eating utensils, and an assortment of pots and pans. Down the hall a large bedroom was on the right, and a small bathroom on the left. The brochure Evan had received after inquiring about the cabin had stated that guests were required to provide their own bedding and towels. That was fine with Evan. It meant no one came to the cabin to clean it while he was present. After his stay ended the woman the couple hired to prepare their cabins for the next round of visitors would be in to vacuum, mop, dust, and disinfect the bathroom. Not that Evan was a sloppy guest by any means. Why, they'd hardly know he'd been here, which was exactly the point.

        The one advantage to being an entrepreneur, and that's exactly what Evan considered himself, was that you had all the time and money necessary to indulge in your interests. Being in the upper percentile of the intelligence scale didn't hurt anything either. Which, Evan supposed, was where all this started if he really thought about it. As a child he'd been bored with school, with his playmates, and with the normal activities most kids pursued. His mind turned to other outlets for fun. It had only been in recent years that he'd come to decide it wasn't so much little girls that brought him satisfaction, but rather the challenge of not getting caught. Now that was satisfying. That was what brought Evan to his sexual high. Eluding the police and F.B.I. What could prove Evan smarter than that?
        
        When you were about to undertake something as complicated as kidnapping a grown man, not to mention a well-respected fire chief from a close-knit community, it paid to spend time meticulously planning each step. But then, the art of meticulous planning was second nature to Evan. You didn't engineer a thirty year killing spree that covered forty-nine states and not get caught by being sloppy. Or by doing faulty or inadequate research. And these days research was made so much easier thanks to the Internet. Evan had always been fascinated with technology, and supposed if he had to work for a living he would have gone into some type of field related to computer science. So many people his age were scared of computers, which Evan found funny considering twelve year olds were teaching themselves to be proficient hackers right under their parents' noses.

        Evan sat down at the dining room table and opened the lid on his laptop. He had some hacking of his own to do. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he went through a figurative back door into Records Storage at the Los Angeles Police Department. He felt his heart begin to race with excitement. He was on his way to initiating a trail so phony that even the most seasoned detectives would be going right, while all the while Evan would be going left.

Chapter 10

        
        There was nothing John Gage hated worse than a summer cold, and he had a bad one. Trevor had a minor sore throat and a slight case of the sniffles a week before school let out. It hadn't made the boy feel ill enough for Johnny to keep him home from class, but that cold virus Trevor passed on to his father certainly had the fire chief in misery.

        It was nine-twenty on Wednesday morning, and Johnny had come off a twenty-four hour shift at eight a.m. The fire station was manned around the clock by two full-time firefighters on a rotating basis. Unlike past chiefs, Johnny didn't exclude himself from this duty rotation. Including Johnny, there were fifteen full-time employees at the Eagle Harbor Fire Station. Other than the two people whose turn it was to work a twenty-four shift, the others worked more traditional hours of eight a.m. to six p.m., with two days off per week. All of the full-time employees had scanners in their homes, and carried beepers and cell phones. Most of Johnny's one-hundred and twenty volunteers armed themselves with the same equipment. If help was need at one a.m. on any given night, Johnny could always count on plenty of people arriving at the scene of a fire or accident within minutes of the call going out.

        Carl poked his head in Johnny's office as he passed.

        “Hey, I thought you were off duty as of eight this morning?”

        “I am,” came the nasally reply. Johnny turned his chair away from his computer in order to face his friend. For the first time Carl got a good look at Johnny's puffy eyes, red nose, and pale complexion.

        “You look like shit, Gage.”

        “Thanks. I feel like shit.”

        Carl chuckled. “Then if you feel like shit, go home and get to bed.”

        “I'm heading home in a few minutes. I wanted to finish this report.”

        “It can wait. Besides, isn't that what you have a deputy chief for? Give it to Phil to take care of.”

        “Nah. I'm almost done.”

        “Suit yourself. But my mother's gonna take one look at you and put you right to bed with Vick's VapoRub smeared all over your chest.”

        “At this moment that doesn't sound as bad as you might think,” Johnny responded while rolling his head from side to side. His sinuses were so plugged he could barely get any air through his nose, his chest was tight, and he ached from neck to ankles. Not to mention that between his cold, and the two calls they'd had during the night, Johnny hadn't gotten more than an hour of restful sleep.

        “Now I know you're sick. I'll call Mom and tell her to take Trevor to our house for the day so you can sleep.”

        “No, don't do that. I'm not that sick.”

        Johnny's answer didn't surprise Carl. Clarice stayed with Trevor at Johnny's home when the man was on his twenty-four hour shift, but despite the fact that she brought the boy to the station to have supper with his father on those nights, Johnny was still anxious to be reunited with his child when the shift came to an end.

        “Are you sure? Mom won't mind. You know she thinks of Trevor as the grandchild she never had. She reminds me of that on a rather frequent basis, as a matter of fact.”

        “Yeah, like every time she tries to set you up with some eligible woman still of child bearing years,” Johnny grinned. “And yes, I'm sure. Trev and I will be fine together.”

        “Suit yourself.” Carl looked at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go. I've got a meeting with my staff in five minutes. You take care of yourself, ya' hear?”

        “I will.”

        “If you need me to feed the horses or something, give me a call.”

        Johnny shot his friend a mild glare. “Carl, I'm not an invalid. I can take care of a couple horses. It's just a cold.”

        “I know that, but like I said before, you look like shit. It wouldn't hurt you to take a couple days off and do nothing, you know. The world isn't going to stop turning without you.”

        Not for the first time Johnny thought of how similar Roy DeSoto and Carl Mjtko could be at times. Maybe that explained why Johnny quite easily formed with the police chief a friendship that had grown closer with each passing year they knew one another.

        “I know the world will keep turning, but like I said, I'm fine. I just need to see my son and then get a couple hours of sleep. But thanks for the offer.”

        “Anytime. When are you back on duty? Friday?”

        “Saturday. I switched days off with Phil so I could help coach Trevor's Little League game on Friday afternoon.”

        “Okay. See you Saturday.”

        “Yeah, see you Saturday,” Johnny sputtered in-between coughs that were so harsh they hurt his chest.

        “That cough sounds bad. I've been telling you that since Sunday. Maybe you should see Doc Benson before you head home.”

        “Or maybe not.”

        “Gage, why are you so damn stubborn?”

        “I'm not stubborn. It's just a cold, for crying out loud! If every person who has a cold went to see a doctor there'd be no time for patients who are really sick.”

        “You are really sick, Gage. In the head that is.”

        Johnny's eyes glittered with a hint of amusement. “And you think you're the first person who's told me that?”

        “I rather doubt it.”

        “You're right there.” Johnny coughed again as he turned back to face his computer. “Now get out of here and let me finish this so I can go home.”

        “Okay, okay. I'm gone.”

        And with that, Carl disappeared down the hall. Ten minutes later Johnny shut his computer down and headed out of the building. He walked through the engine bay to say goodbye to his employees that were present, consulted with his deputy chief for a few moments, then made his way to the parking lot. Johnny was totally oblivious to the fact he was being watched by the man ambling down the sidewalk with a camera hanging around his neck.

        Eagle Harbor's fire chief pulled in his driveway a few minutes after ten. Trevor and the dogs came running to meet him as he stepped from his vehicle. Despite the soreness that seemed to have settled in his bones, Johnny picked his son up and spun him around three times. He planted a kiss on the boy's cheek before setting him back on his feet. He ruffled Trevor's shaggy dark hair as they walked hand in hand for the back door, Tasha and Nicolai at their heels.

        “How you been, kiddo?”

        “Fine, Pops. But you sound awful. Like a frog who's about to croak.” Trevor laughed at his own joke. “Get it, Poppy? A frog who's about to croak?”

        Johnny groaned at his son's humor. “Yes, I get it.” He ruffled the boy's hair again, then asked, “Am I going to get a good report from Clarice about your behavior?”

        “Of course. You'll get a wonderful report.”

        Johnny had to admit that was usually true. Though Trevor was an energetic, active boy, he rarely misbehaved. He'd only felt his father's hand on his rear end a few times in his young life, and even at that the swats never exceeded two or three and were Johnny's way of saying, “Knock it off right now, Trevor Roy,” when that exact verbal warning had been ignored.

        “What about the animals?” Johnny covered his mouth with one hand and coughed. “Did you do your morning chores?”

        “Yes, Sir,” the child replied in a respectful tone uncommon for the times. Johnny had taught his son to employ such niceties at a young age. He knew that children of officials in small towns were often held to higher standards than other kids. While that might not be fair, it was a fact of life. Johnny never wanted to be ashamed of Trevor's behavior, and did his best to see that Trevor understood there was a time and place to be 'all boy,' and there was a time and place to act like a young man.

        “Did you leave the barn windows open?”

        “Yep. And I turned Champ and Omaha out into the corral.”

        “Good boy.”

        Clarice met father and son at the back door. She took one look at the fire chief and said, “You look--”

        “Awful. Yeah, I know. Your son already told me that, to be followed by my son saying the same thing.”

        “Then get in here and get to bed. I'll make you some chicken soup. Trevor can come with me and--”

        “I wanna stay here and take care of Poppy!”

        “No, you'll come with me so your papa can rest today. Maybe by tomorrow--”

        Johnny held up a hand, too tired to fight with both his housekeeper and his son, even if they did have his best intentions in mind. “No one needs to take care of me. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Johnny coughed as he bent to untie his boots, causing Clarice to frown.

        “I don't like the sounds of that cough, John Roderick. You know how susceptible you are to bronchitis and pneumonia. You told me yourself one time that it's not unusual for firefighters to have a lot of upper respiratory problems because of years of inhaling smoke. Then add to that you don't have your liver--”

        Johnny couldn't help but laugh at the woman, even if it did cause him to cough again. “My spleen, Clarice. I don't have a spleen. If I didn't have my liver I'd be dead.”

        “Spleen, liver, whatever. Makes no difference at this point. Just remember, because of that, a cold seems to hit you a lot harder than it does most people. You always get so sick whenever you have one, even if you do insist that's not the case.”

        Trevor looked up at his father. “Why's that, Poppy? What makes you get so sick? What is a spleen anyway?”

        Johnny padded into the kitchen in his stocking feet with his little entourage behind him. “The spleen is an internal organ that filters and stores blood.” Johnny touched the upper left portion of his abdomen, just below his diaphragm. “It's located right in this area. You've seen the scar I have there, Trev.”

        “Oh, yeah.” Trevor looked at Clarice. “It's really cool. Ask Poppy to show you.”

        Johnny blushed while Clarice laughed. “I don't think that will be necessary, love. I'll take your word for it.”

        “So how come not having a spleen makes you get sick, Poppy? And what happened to yours?”

        “Another function of the spleen is to help the body combat infection, which is why a person without one can sometimes get lots of colds and other viral infections. I don't have mine because it was ruptured years ago when I was hit by a car. The doctors had to remove it.”

        Trevor's brown eyes grew round. “You were hit by a car?”

        “Yep.”

        “When?” Trevor asked, as he took a seat beside his father at the oak kitchen table that sat four. The bay window behind them looked over the front yard. The open rounded shape of this area made for the informal dining nook where Johnny and his son ate the majority of their meals. One window panel was cranked open, allowing the smell of pine, cedar, and spruce to waft through the room.

        Clarice put a plate of scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, and toast in front of Johnny. She gave Trevor a piece of toast, too, smeared with her homemade strawberry jam, even though the boy had eaten a bowl of cereal several hours earlier. This mid-morning father and son breakfast was a tradition on the days Trevor didn't have school when Johnny came off a twenty-four hour shift.

        “Oh, about twenty-six years ago now. When I was a paramedic in L.A.”

        “Was Uncle Roy there?”

        “Yep.”

        “Why'd he let you get hit by a car?”

        “He didn't let me get hit by a car, Trev. It just happened. I stepped out into the street to put something away in one of the squad's compartments and a car came zooming along and hit me.”

        “Wow! Neat.”

        “Not so neat when you're flipped on top of a windshield, then thrown to the ground like a rag doll,” Johnny said as he picked at his eggs. Clarice was a wonderful cook, but his throat hurt and his stuffy head meant he had little appetite.

        “Milk, John?” The woman asked, guessing that orange juice was not going to be welcome on a scratchy throat.

        “Yes, please. But I can get it. You head on home now.”

        “No, I'll stay until you're done eating so I can clean up the kitchen for you. You're sure you don't want me to take Trevor with me?”

        “No. We'll be fine together.”

        “I'll take real good care of him, Clarice,” Trevor promised, as the woman brought him and his father glasses of milk.

        “I'm sure you will, honey, but maybe Papa would like to rest without a busy little boy underfoot.”

        “No, Papa wouldn't,” Johnny negated. “The busy little boy can fetch things for Papa.”

        “Like a dog,” Trevor giggled. “I'll fetch whatever you want me to, Pops.”

        Johnny was content to let Clarice and Trevor carry the rest of the conversation. He didn't eat all his eggs, and allowed Trevor to snitch two pieces of his bacon, but managed to get down enough of the meal to suit his housekeeper. He finished his toast and drained his glass of milk dry. He started to carry the dishes to the dishwasher, but they were taken from his hands.

        “You go upstairs and stand under a hot shower. Then get to bed. I'll take care of these things.”

        “All right. Thanks a lot.”

        “You're welcome a lot. I'll see you Saturday morning. If you need me before then, you call me.”

        “It's just a cold, Clarice.”

        “I realize that. But if you--”

        “Yes, I'll call you. Thanks for the offer. I don't know what I'd do without you.” Johnny looked at his son. “You help Clarice clean up the kitchen, please. Then come upstairs and see me before you go back outside.”

        “Okay, Papa.”

        Johnny walked through the great room and grabbed the wooden railing of the open staircase that would take him to the upper story. Usually he took the stairs two at a time with a pep more reminiscent of a twenty-three year old man, as opposed to one of fifty-three. But today the fire chief felt every one of those fifty-three years as he trudged up the stairs on heavy legs.

        Johnny unclipped his cell phone and beeper from the waistband of his uniform pants and laid both items on his nightstand next to the clock radio. He walked over to his dresser, emptying his pockets of change, wallet, and key ring, before placing those items on top of the dresser. He pulled off his watch and put it on top of the dresser as well. He opened a drawer, pulling out a pair of white socks, a white handkerchief, and a pair of navy blue boxer shorts, then crossed the floor to his walk-in closest. He grabbed a pair of faded Wrangler jeans and a short sleeve tan safari-style shirt from within its depths.

        The second story of the fire chief's home held two bedrooms, a full bathroom, and a long, wide hallway/balcony that overlooked the great room below. Johnny had that hallway set up as a reading and homework nook for Trevor. A small desk sat against one wall with shelving units on each side of it. The shelves contained a dictionary, a set of encyclopedias, and children's fiction books by a wide variety of authors. A big easy chair resided in one corner that he and Trevor sat in when they read together. Johnny knew the end of those days was growing near, and that within the next year or so Trevor would be too old to want sit and read with his father any longer. Sometimes it was hard for the man to face the fact that his son was growing up a lot faster than Johnny wanted him to.

        The fire chief poked his head in his son's room as he passed by, just to verify that the bed was made and the room picked up. He smiled to himself, knowing fully well his years with various fire departments had molded him into a tough taskmaster in his little boy's eyes. The room was awash with sky blue paint on the walls and white, billowing mounds of snow. Dog sleds pulled by teams of Malamutes and Huskies, and guided by bundled-up mushers, flew over that snow and circled the room in a still-life race. Johnny had hired an artist from Eagle Harbor to transform the room to a young boy's wonderland. A treasure-style chest sat at the end of Trevor's cedar captain's bed and was filled with toys. Johnny had put a shelving unit on one wall that held games, stuffed animals, and the kinds of things an eight year old picks up on his daily travels like shiny rocks, pinecones, and a claw that had broken off from a black bear. A bank in the shape of a Malamute that Trevor referred to as his 'doggie bank' sat on top of the boy's cedar dresser. The navy blue quilt on the tall captain's bed, that housed a pullout trundle bed beneath it for overnight guests, needed only a few wrinkles smoothed out. Johnny opened the matching curtains on the windows while he was in here to let the sunlight in the room.

        Johnny left his son's room and headed for his original destination. He shut the bathroom door and stripped off his uniform. He slid the shower doors back and turned on the faucet. When he had the spray of water as hot as he could stand it he climbed in and allowed the steam to envelope him.

        The fire chief soaped his body and washed his hair, then stood under the hot water another ten minutes. When he climbed out he was at least able to breathe through his nose, which was an improvement over when his shower had begun. Johnny shut the water off and stepped out of the tub. He dried himself with a thick bath towel, got dressed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and shaved. He gathered up his dirty clothes, throwing his boxer shorts and socks in the hamper. He folded his uniform pants and shirt, placing the bundle on top of the hamper. He knew Clarice would pick the clothing up on Saturday when she made her rounds throughout the house and take the bundle to the dry cleaners for him.

        Johnny exited the bathroom. He returned to his bedroom where he opened the closet door and grabbed a blanket from the shelf. He spread it out on his queen-sized bed, then climbed beneath it. He had just gotten settled against his pillows when he heard Trevor coming up the stairs. The boy had a box of Kleenex in one hand, a glass of water and two Comtrex cold tablets in the other.

        “Clarice says you might need these things.”

        “Thanks.” Johnny took the yellow tablets from his son and washed them down with three gulps of water. He handed his glass back to his son. “Set this and the Kleenex on the nightstand for me, please.”

        “Okay.” Trevor placed the items on the table next to his father's bed. He loved his father's room. Even on the grayest of winter days it was light because of the big windows that faced the south. The walls were paneled with rough, pale barn planking, just like the walls in Papa's first floor office. The carpeting was beige, as was the carpeting throughout the entire house. The bedspread was a big patchwork quilt of slate blue, rusty orange, and dark brown squares made by Grandma Marietta. The curtains were patchwork, too, and matched the quilt. The bed had four thick wooden posters that rose from each corner and a massive foot and head board. The the dresser was half again as tall as Trevor. It was a very comforting room to a young boy when he awoke from a bad dream, or when he was sick and wanted to be near his father. Everything about it was masculine, and seemed like the kind of room a father should have.

        The only pictures in the room, with the exception of one, were of Trevor himself. There was almost a quarter of a wall devoted to him. Another picture resided on one corner of the dresser. It was of a young woman and a twelve-month-old baby girl. Trevor knew the woman had been his father's wife, Kim, and the girl, if she were still living, would be his big sister Jessie. But they'd been dead a long long time, and Trevor didn't know much about them because Papa rarely spoke of them.

        Johnny's voice drew Trevor's attention from the half sister he'd never known, and who would be thirty-four years old if she was alive today. “Did Clarice go home?”

        “Yeah. She just left.” Trevor climbed up on the mattress and crossed his legs Indian style. “Pops, what happened when you got hit by that car?”

        “I already told you.”

        “Did Uncle Roy help you after the car hit you?”

        “He sure did. His actions probably saved my life.”

        “Really?”

        “Really.”

        “He knew just what to do, huh?”

        “Yep. Your Uncle Roy was a real level-headed guy, Trev. He always knew what to do even in the worst of situations.”

        “And that was a pretty worst situation, right?”

        Johnny smiled at his son's vocabulary. “Yeah. That was a pretty worst situation all right. Except I think you want to say, 'bad situation.' It was a pretty bad situation.”

        “Yeah, that's what I wanted to say. But you knew what I meant.” Trevor glanced into the hallway. “Do you want me to read to you for a while?”
        
        “Sure,” Johnny agreed, knowing that would give his sore throat a rest since Trevor would be occupied doing something besides asking him questions.

        The boy hopped off the bed and came back with Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. He climbed up next to Johnny once more, resumed his former sitting position, opened to the page he had marked, and started to read.

        Johnny's long years in the fire service allowed him to drop off to sleep regardless of any disturbance going on around him. He dozed, only dimly aware of the cadence of Trevor's voice while the boy read. Whether Trevor had been reading for fifteen minutes or thirty, when the phone rang, Johnny wasn't sure. He opened his eyes to see his son reaching for the jingling instrument that rested on the nightstand. Trevor's hand hovered with indecisiveness a moment, until he finally decided it was the house-phone that was ringing, as opposed to his father's cell phone.

        “Hello, this is Fire Chief Gage's residence,” Trevor greeted politely, just like Clarice had taught him since Johnny received many business related calls at home. “This is Trevor speaking.”

        By listening to the one-sided conversation Johnny quickly discerned that Trevor was talking to a friend. Within seconds the boy put the receiver against his shoulder and looked at his father. “Papa, can I go over to Dalton and Dylan's to play? Mrs. Tierman invited me to stay for lunch, too.”

        Dalton and Dylan Tierman were identical twins in Trevor's class, and two of his closest friends. They lived a half mile from Johnny's home, and were over here playing as often as Trevor played at their house.

        “I guess that's okay if it's okay with Mrs. Tierman,” Johnny rasped.

        Trevor put the phone back to his mouth. “It's okay with your mom, right?” He looked back down at his father. “It's okay with Mrs. Tierman.”

        “All right. You go ahead then. I'll call over to their house by four o'clock for Mrs. Tierman to send you home. If she wants you home any earlier than that you call me.”

        Trevor nodded, knowing the routine well. His father and the twins' parents had long ago worked out a system that allowed the boys to ride their bikes back and forth between each other’s homes. The hosting adult would walk a quarter of a mile down the road to watch for the visiting child's arrival. Though the road they lived on was rural, not often used, and cut directly through a thick grove of Sitka spruce trees, it didn't have any sidewalks meaning Johnny and the Tiermans were cautious about how far the boys were allowed to travel on it unsupervised. Trevor knew by the time he got to the end of his driveway he'd be able to see Mrs. Tierman and the twins in the distance waiting for him.

        Trevor spoke into the phone one last time to whichever twin he was talking to. “I'll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up the phone and closed his book.

        “You want me to leave Harry Potter here for you to read?”

        “No, you can put him back on the shelf. We'll read more later.”

        “Will you be okay while I'm gone?”

        Johnny chuckled at the boy's concern. “Yes, Trev. I'll be okay while you're gone.”

        “Maybe we can get a pizza tonight, huh, Pops? 'Cause I bet you don't feel like cooking at all.”

        Johnny cocked an eyebrow at his boy. “Are you knocking my cooking again?”

        “Let's face it, Poppy, you're good at a lot of things, but cooking isn't one of 'em unless a kid wants to eat hamburgers and hot dogs for the rest of his life.”

        Johnny reached out a hand and tickled his son before Trevor squirmed away. “For that, I just might let you starve.”

        Trevor laughed, then gave his father a fleeting kiss on the cheek as he scrambled off the bed.

        “See you later.”

        “Yeah, see you later. And don't go out on the road until you--”

        “I know, I know. Until I see Mrs. Tierman waiting for me. Bye!”

        “Bye, Trev. Have fun.”

        “I will.”

        Johnny hiked himself up on one elbow. “You'd better lock Tasha and Nicolai in the barn or they'll follow you.”

        “Okay!”

The boy returned his book to the shelf, then scrambled down the stairs. He paused in the laundry room long enough to put his tennis shoes on, then ran out the back door without locking it. He raced for the garage with Tasha and Nicolai right behind him. He gave both the dogs a hug, then opened the door that led into the barn.

        “Go on,” the boy urged to the dogs who hesitated. “Go in the barn. Papa will let you out later.”

        The dogs crossed the threshold, Trevor walking in after them. He took a pail off the shelf and ran to the water spigot. He allowed some water to run into the pail, then shut the spigot off and walked to the area of the barn where the dogs' dishes were kept. He filled their deep rubber pan with fresh water before returning the pail to the shelf where it belonged. With one final pat to the Malamutes' heads Trevor ran out the side door, shut it, and locked it.

        The boy climbed on his bike and rode it out of the garage. Trevor loved summer vacation better than he loved almost anything. The days were long, he could play with the twins all he wanted to, he didn't have any homework, and best of all, he got to spend time with his father whenever Papa had the day off. He knew they'd go horseback riding together, and go hiking together, and play baseball, and go bowling, and kayaking, and camping, and all kinds of fun things before school started again in late August.

        Trevor pedaled down the gravel driveway, easily taking the wide curve just south of the house before steering straight once more. He applied his brakes when he came to the end of the drive and looked both left and right. In the distance to his left he could barely make out the forms of Mrs. Tierman, the twins, and the twins' three year old sister Delannie. A white van was slowly coming Trevor's way, so he stayed off the road and waited for the vehicle to pass. The vehicle didn't pass by, however, but rather stopped beside Trevor. The driver rolled down his window and smiled.

        “Is your father home, son?”

        “Yes. But he's sleeping.”

        “Oh,” the driver feigned disappointment. “I see.”

        “He's got a bad cold.”

        “I'm sorry to hear that.”

        “He'll be okay. He just needs to rest.”

        “I'm sure he does.” The man chewed on his lower lip a moment as if trying hard to make a decision. “Listen, I'm an old friend of your dad's from California. Do you think it would be okay if I go up and just say hello? I won't stay long.”

        Trevor studied the man. He wasn't Marco, or Mike, or Cap, or Chet, or Uncle Roy, but maybe his father had other friends in California he'd never talked about, or that Trevor had never seen pictures of.

        “That would probably be okay. If you only stay for a few minutes I mean,” Johnny's little protector emphasized. “Do you know my Uncle Roy?”

        “Your Uncle Roy?”

        “Roy DeSoto. Do you know him?”

        “Oh . . .DeSoto. Sure. Sure I know him.”

        Trevor strained to see inside the van. “He's not with you, is he?”

        “No, no. He's not with me.”

        “That's too bad.”

        “Why?”

        “ 'Cause I think my papa would like to see him.”

        “Oh. Well, maybe I can arrange that.”

        “Really?” Trevor grinned, thinking a visit from Uncle Roy would be a wonderful surprise for his father.

        “Sure,” the man smiled in return. “But hey, I'd better let you go. Looks like you were heading somewhere.”

        Trevor pointed to the people in the distance. “To my friends' house. Dalton and Dylan. They're twins.”

        “I'll let you go then. Maybe I'll see you later.”

        “Yeah, see you later. We might get pizza for supper. You can come with us if you want to, Sir.”

        “Well, thank you, Trevor. It's really nice of you to invite me.”

        Trevor waved to the man, then turned his bike onto the road while the van pulled into his driveway. He briefly wondered how the stranger knew his name, but just as quickly that concern left his mind. If the man stayed for dinner Trevor would ask him then.

        I'm glad one of Papa's friends from California is here. And one who knows Uncle Roy. That will make Papa happy.

        The boy pedaled his bike toward the twins, all thoughts of the unexpected visitor pushed aside as a day of summer fun loomed ahead.

______________________________

        
        Thanks to some help from the Comtrex tablets, Johnny had fallen asleep by the time Trevor was having his conversation with the stranger at the end of the driveway. He never heard the van come to a halt by the house, nor did Tasha or Nicolai because the barn contained no windows on the side that faced Johnny's home.

        Evan Crammer listened carefully for any other cars that might be coming up Johnny's driveway as he headed for the back door. The location of the house couldn't have been more perfect. It sat a quarter of a mile off the road, and was hidden from view by rows and rows of Sitka Spruce, Blue Spruce, and Cedar trees. Crammer left his camera equipment in the van. Now that Trevor had told him Gage was sleeping, Evan had no need to use the story he had planned to give his old foe, that he'd been sent here by the Police and Fire Commission to take some pictures of the fire chief's home.

        That the boy was gone was a plus. Crammer hadn't been sure what he was going to do with the kid had he been here, but Evan certainly wasn't against killing him if need be. He was glad that need hadn't arose. Trevor was a handsome little bugger, and polite, too.

        The boy called me Sir. How many kids now days use that form of address for an adult?

        Evan chuckled when he the thought of the dinner invitation the kid had extended him. Unfortunately, Trevor Gage would be dining without his father tonight. The man smiled at the thought of what was to come as he slipped a pair of black leather gloves over his fingers and tugged them snugly around his palms. He'd never left evidence behind at any past crime scene, expect for the bodies, of course, so he had no intention of getting careless at this late stage in the game.

        Crammer carried Mace in one hand and a black medical-style bag in the other. The Mace was for the dogs. Evan watched for them, but they never appeared. He wondered if they were running somewhere in the forest behind Gage's home, or if they were in the house.

        With that in mind Evan put a light hand on the doorknob. Though he had the necessary tools in his bag that would allow him to gain entry, it didn't surprise him to find the door unlocked. Once again, these Alaskans proved to be a trusting bunch. Or maybe the door was simply unlocked because an eight-year-old boy was the last one to go out it. No matter. It made Evan's job easier.

        The man entered into the laundry room and closed the door behind him. He paused, straining to pick up any sounds coming from the main floor. When he didn't hear anyone moving about, or the sounds of a television or stereo, he turned the knob on the laundry room door and peered into the kitchen. The room was spotless and empty. Evan looked to his right to see the great room in the same condition. He eased his way into the main part of the house, keeping his Mace ready should he encounter the dogs or Gage.

        Without making a sound, Evan crept across the great room carpeting and risked a glance into what looked like a home office. Again; clean, empty, and quiet. He retraced his steps, heading up the stairs. When the man got to the landing he turned to his right and smiled. He could see directly into Gage's room. The fire chief was lying on his back, his upper body propped up on two pillows, and his left arm thrown over his eyes.

        Evan took a few steps backwards, ending up in Trevor's room. He set his bag on the boy's Captain's bed and unlatched it. He placed the Mace inside, and pulled out a thick square of clean cloth and a plastic bottle. He took those two items with him, leaving the bag behind for now. It had a number of things in it he'd need in a few minutes, but first things first. He had to incapacitate John Gage so the man couldn't fight back.

        Evan crept past the bathroom and through Trevor's study area toward Johnny's room. The carpeting assisted in making his journey down the long hallway soundless despite the man's hiking boots. When he was six inches from Gage's bed he uncapped the bottle and gave the cloth a liberal soaking.

        Though Johnny's sinuses were far from clear, it was an odd chemical smell he couldn't quite identify that woke him. Or at least not identify as belonging in his home. He started to move his hand from his eyes when his arm was pinned to the bed.

        Johnny's eyes flew open, all the while thinking he must be dreaming until he caught sight of the stranger looming over him.

        “Hey!” Johnny shouted, struggling to break the man's hold. “Hey, what are you--”

        Johnny's shouts were cut-off as he fought against the man's strength to get to a sitting position. Now he knew what the smell was. Chloroform.

        Johnny's head twisted from side to side as the cloth was pressed against his nose and mouth. He bucked his body upward, but the man was on top of him, sitting on his chest.

        With one last effort Johnny tried to lurch himself free. The man held him to the bed, pressing the suffocating cloth more firmly to his face. Johnny's assailant smiled down at him.

        “You probably don't recognize me, but fate brought us together in the past. One Saturday night in April of 1978 to be exact, Uncle Johnny.”

        Despite the chloroform, for one brief moment Johnny's eyes opened wide as recognition dawned. He heart rate increased even more, but his body was unable to react. The last sound Johnny heard as unconsciousness claimed him was that of Evan Crammer's laughter.


        

Chapter 11

        
        Trevor paid little attention to the time as he spent the day romping with the Tierman twins. It wasn't until he followed the boys into the house for some cookies, and he smelled supper cooking on the stove, that he glanced at the wall clock. It was ten minutes after five. He briefly wondered why his father hadn't called for him to come home yet. Normally, if Papa said he was going to call by a certain time, then he did. Before Trevor could ponder this further, Mr. Tierman's blue Ford pickup truck pulled in the driveway.

        The twins and their little sister ran to the door to meet their father. The man was a truck driver for a logging firm north of Juneau. He was often gone for weeks at a time, before returning home to his family for a few days in-between lumber deliveries.

        Bill Tierman playfully roughhoused with his children a moment, then walked over to where his wife was standing by the sink and gave her a kiss. He smiled at Trevor and ruffled his hair.

        “Hi, there, Trevor Gage.”

        “Hi, Mr. Tierman.”

        “How's your pops doing these days?”

        “He's fine. He's got a cold, but he'll be okay.”

        “That's good to hear. We can't have our fire chief down sick, now can we?”

        “No, Sir.” Trevor looked up at Brenda Tierman. “Mrs. Tierman, can I use your phone to call Papa? He said he wanted me home by four, but he hasn't called yet, has he?”

        “No, sweetie, he hasn't. He probably got busy doing something and lost track of the time. You go ahead and call him.”

        Trevor walked over to the phone that was hanging by the refrigerator and dialed his number. He let it ring twenty times, then finally hung up. He shrugged his shoulders as he turned around.

        “He must be outside doing chores. Or maybe he's still sleeping. He was taking a nap when I left. The answering machine didn't pick up, so that means he's around there somewhere. He only turns it on when we leave the house.”

         Brenda looked at her husband. “Bill, why don't you and the boys walk Trevor home?”

        “Will do.” The powerfully built man with the red beard spread his arms and gathered up the three boys. “Come on, guys. Let's get young Mr. Gage back where he belongs.”

        Trevor thanked Mrs. Tierman for lunch, and then gave Delannie a hug goodbye. Because he had no siblings of his own, and possessed a good deal of his father's charm where pretty girls were concerned, Trevor lavished attention on the twins' baby sister.

        Brenda smiled as she watched her husband and the boys walked out the door. John Gage was certainly doing an outstanding job of raising Trevor alone. Brenda, like most residents of Eagle Harbor, didn't know the details behind John Gage's single status. Many of the town's people knew Trevor's mother lived in New York City, but how long she and John had been married, or if they'd been married at all, or how he'd come to have custody of Trevor, remained a well-guarded secret by those few close friends John had confided in. None of that mattered anyway. Brenda had grown up in Eagle Harbor, and could honestly say John Gage was the most dedicated, hard-working, knowledgeable, and well-liked fire chief they'd ever had. Bill was a member of his volunteer force and thought the world of the man.

        Brenda smiled down at her daughter while handing the little blond girl three plastic glasses. All thoughts of the Gage family left her as she instructed, “Help Mommy set the table, Delannie.”

____________________________

        Bill and his boys walked Trevor three quarters of the way home. As soon as they could see the Gage driveway Trevor climbed on his bike. “I can go on from here, Mr. Tierman.”

        “Are you sure you don't want us to walk you all the way just to make sure your papa is there?”

        “No, that's okay. Like I said, he's either doing chores or sleeping.”

        Bill nodded. He knew John Gage was a conscientious and protective father. If he'd gone into Eagle Harbor for some reason he would have called and asked Brenda to keep an eye on Trevor a little while longer, or he would have picked the boy up on his way past the Tierman home.

        “All right, then. But if you get home and he's not there, you call us. I'll come and get you. You can stay at our house until your papa gets back.”

        “Thanks. But he'll be there.”

        The twins said goodbye to Trevor next.

        “See you,” Trevor waved, as he began pedaling his bike toward home. “Maybe you guys can come to my house tomorrow.”

        The twins promised to ask permission to do just that. As soon as Bill saw Trevor arrive safely at his driveway, the man took each of his sons by a hand and started walking in the opposite direction from the Gage homestead.

        Trevor pedaled the bike right into the open garage. He noticed his father's Durango was still parked in front of the garage, and that the Land Rover was parked in its usual spot inside the structure. Trevor brought his bicycle to a halt next to his father's bike. He knocked the kickstand down with a toe of his tennis shoe, making sure the bike was balanced on it before walking away. He'd once gotten a swat on the rear end for allowing his bicycle to fall against the Land Rover, when he was in too much of a hurry to secure the bike properly. He'd learned well from that lesson. If there was one thing Papa didn't like, it was a scratch in the paint of his vehicles.

        The boy paused when he heard Tasha and Nicolai whining from the other side of the door. He walked over and opened the door, laughing as the dogs danced around his feet and lavished him with kisses.

        “Wow. Papa must be really sick if he hasn't let you guys out of the barn yet.”

        The dogs bounded out of the garage, happy to regain their freedom. Trevor looked toward the house, but all remained quiet.

        I'll surprise Papa and have all the chores done for him before he comes outside.

        Trevor spent the next twenty minutes feeding and watering all the animals. He left Champ and Omaha in the corral, knowing that his father would stall the horses before night fell. He poured equal amounts of dog food in Tasha's and Nicolai's dishes, even though the dogs were outside at the moment. They'd come back to eat once they worked off their pent-up energy.

        The boy brushed his shaggy bangs out of his eyes as he reached in the cage Hoppy and Happy shared. He stroked a hand over the rabbits' soft white fur, then scratched both of them behind their long ears.

        “I'll let you guys out to hop around the yard tomorrow,” Trevor promised. Hoppy and Happy loved their freedom when it was granted, but Trevor had to keep a watchful eye on them so they didn't disappear into the thick groves of trees that surrounded the house.

        Trevor secured the rabbits' cage door. He stopped to pet some of his cats who were eating from their feed pans, then skipped out of the barn and ran for the house. He jumped up and grabbed his crossover bars, swinging all the way to the end like a monkey. He leaped to the ground, flew up the ladder to the top of the slide, then ran down the metal structure with his arms spread wide. He raced for the back door, remembering just in time not to slam it as he entered, just in case his father was still sleeping. He slipped off his tennis shoes, opened the door that led into the kitchen, and stepped inside.

        The eight year old fully expected to find Johnny sitting in his recliner in the great room watching TV, or maybe in his office working on something he'd brought home from the fire station. The main floor of the house was quiet, though. Quiet in an eerie sort of way. All Trevor could hear was the faint hum of the refrigerator.

        “Papa,” the boy called just above a whisper. “Pops.”

        When no one answered Trevor he headed up the stairs. He resisted the urge to run; again, not wanting to wake his father if Johnny was still sleeping.

        He must be really sick. Really, really sick. Papa never lays around in bed. Clarice says he's got too much energy to stay in one place very long. Like me. Maybe I should call Clarice and ask her to come over. She'll know what to do for Papa. She can even get him to go to the doctor when no one else can.

        Trevor stopped when he got to the same spot where Evan Crammer had stood seven hours earlier. His father wasn't lying on the bed, though the quilt was wrinkled. The blanket that had been covering Johnny was gone, as was the box of Kleenex that had been on the nightstand.

        Trevor's heart pounded in his chest. His father had never left him home alone before. He didn't like this. He didn't like it one bit. Both vehicles were in the driveway, but Papa was gone. No longer caring if he woke anyone, Trevor shouted.

        “Papa! Poppy! Poppy, where are you?”

        Trevor ran into his father's room. Just like he suspected, it was empty. He turned around and raced for the bathroom.
        
        “Papa! Poppy! Poppy, are you in there?”

        The bathroom was empty, too, as was Trevor's own bedroom. He flew down the stairs and ran through the house calling for his father. He slipped his feet into his tennis shoes once again, but didn't bother to tie the laces as he rushed out the back door.

        “Papa! Poppy, where are you? Poppy!”

        Trevor raced from one corner of the yard to the other, then to the garage, barn, and to the border of the national forest beyond. He cupped his hands around his mouth so his voice would carry.

        “Poppy! Poppy, where are you? Poppy!”

        Trevor's panic increased with each second that ticked by without a sign of his father anywhere.

        “Poppy! Poppy, please! Don't play a joke on me.”

        Tears ran down the little boy's face. His father liked to have fun, but he'd never played a practical joke on Trevor before. Trevor knew fully well that because of Station 51's Phantom, his father wasn't overly fond of practical jokes.

        “Poppy! Poppy, please! Please, where are you?”

        For just a moment Trevor had no idea what to do, other than to stand by the barn and cry. He was alone, he didn't know where his father was, and he was frightened. Far more frightened than he could ever remember being in all his eight years. There was something wrong. Something terrible had happened to his papa. Trevor didn't know what made him come to that realization, but for some reason he was certain of it.

        The boy swiped at the tears on his face. He had to do something besides stand here and cry like a baby. His papa had taught him how to react in the event of an emergency, and Trevor was pretty sure this was an emergency.

        Stay calm, get to a phone, and call for help, Trevor told himself, mimicking the words in his head he'd often heard his papa say.

        The eight year old ran for the house once more. He gave little thought to what Clarice would say if she found out he'd been in the kitchen with his shoes on.

        Trevor reached for the cordless phone that rested in a stand on the counter. He dialed Clarice's number by heart. When the answering machine retrieved the call, and Carl's voice began intoning the message, he hung up. Trevor's fingers trembled as he dialed the number that would ring in his father's office at the fire station. He knew after ten unanswered rings the call would roll over to the phone in the deputy chief's office. Phil picked up on the second ring.

        “Eagle Harbor Fire Station. Deputy Chief Marceau.”

        “Mr. Marceau, it's me. Trevor Gage.”

        “Hi, Trevor. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

        “Is my papa there?”

        “Your papa?”

        “Yes. Is he there?”

        “No, he's not. Isn't he home with you?”

        “No, I don't know where he is.” Trevor's voice rose as his fear once again threaten to take over. “Is Carl there? Can I talk to him?”

        “Just a minute, son. I'll check. You hang on, okay?”

        “O. . .okay.”

        Trevor watched a full minute tick by on the clock that hung over the stove, before he finally heard Carl's voice.

        “Trev, what's wrong? Phil said you don't know where Papa is?”

        “No. I was playing at Dylan and Dalton's all day. Papa said he'd call for me to come home by four, but he didn't. Finally Mr. Tierman walked me home a little after five. The chores weren't done so I did 'em by myself. When I was finished I came in the house to look for Papa, but he's not here, Carl. I've looked everywhere.”

        “Maybe he's outside someplace.”

        “No! I've looked. I've looked and looked, and I've called over and over again, but he doesn't answer.”

        “Are both the vehicles there? The Land Rover and the Durango?”

        “Yes.”

        “And the horses? Are Champ and Omaha there?”

        “They're in the corral.”

        “Trevor, I'll be right over. You lock the doors and you stay in the kitchen, do you understand me, son?”

        “Yes, Sir.”
        
        “Don't answer the door for anyone unless it's me or your papa knocking, okay?”

        “O. . .okay.”

        “I'll be there in five minutes, Trev. Don't cry now. Everything will be all right.”

        Carl hung up the phone after reiterating to Trevor the importance of locking the doors. He scooped his keys up off his desk and ran for the door.

        “What?” Phil questioned, as he took a step back so Carl could get by him. “What's going on?”

        “Nothing, I hope. Trevor arrived home an hour ago from playing with the Tierman boys, and hasn't been able to locate his father.”

        “But John would never leave Trevor home alone.”

        “I know that.”

        Phil ran to keep up with Carl as the man rushed for the white Durango he drove that identified him as Eagle Harbor's Chief Of Police.

        “Are both the vehicles there?”

        “Trevor says they are.”

        “And the horses? I heard you ask him about the horses. Are they there?”

        “Yeah. In the corral.”

        “Then he can't be far. He's got to be around there somewhere. I mean, unless someone came by and picked him up, where could he have gone to? Especially considering the way he was feeling when he left here this morning. He said he was going to take a nap, and then just relax and watch a video with Trevor or something.”

        “I can't answer any of your questions, Phil, because until I get out there I have no idea what's going on. Hopefully, John just took a little hike into the woods. Maybe by the time I arrive he'll be back.”

        “But the look on your face says you don't think that's the case. You're upset, Carl. Really upset. How come?”

        Carl slid his bulk behind the wheel of his Durango with the name Scott Monroe assaulting his brain. He shook his head at Phil. “I'll tell you later if need be. Think good thoughts, huh?”

        “Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Phil agreed, as he watched Carl wheel the Durango out of the parking lot.

        The deputy chief wasn't exactly sure why he was supposed to be thinking good thoughts for John Gage. After all, it wasn't like grown men got kidnapped. Especially not in Eagle Harbor, Alaska. But Phil did as Carl requested, and offered up a prayer for the boss he admired and called friend.

        

Chapter 12

        
        Getting John Gage out of Alaska was so easy it was almost a disappointment for Evan. After all the work he'd put into this, a little excitement would have been nice.
        
        Once Evan had incapacitated Gage with the chloroform, he'd gone to the man's closet and grabbed a pair of black and red Nike running shoes from the floor. At some point Gage would be doing a little hiking for him. Evan didn't want that trek slowed by bloodied feet or stubbed toes. There'd be plenty of time for blood later on.

        Evan put the shoes on Gage's feet and tied them. He then put the blanket covering the fire chief over the man's head. Evan grabbed Johnny's arm, pulled his limp body into a sitting position, crouched down, and loaded the man over his shoulder. Evan smiled as he hauled Gage out of his house.

        A fireman's carry for a fireman. How appropriate.

The big white van Evan drove had no windows other than the windshield, the pane of glass in the driver's side door, and the pane of glass in the passenger side door. Evan slid the panel door back and tossed his burden onto the floor. He shut the door and locked it, then ran back into the house. He picked his satchel up from where it still rested on Trevor's bed. He hurried into Johnny's room and collected his chloroform and cloth. He put them in his bag, then grabbed the box of Kleenex off the nightstand. It wasn't that he was overly concerned about his captive's comfort, but he had no desire to watch snot run out of Gage's nose until he finally killed him.

        Evan latched his bag and ran a hand over the quilted bedspread to straighten it. He looked around the room, satisfied that it appeared completely undisturbed. He made sure the rest of the house was in the same condition as he exited. He didn't want it to look like foul play had occurred, or that anything had been disturbed should Gage's housekeeper or boy return. Evan needed to buy enough time to get out of Eagle Harbor, so for now it was best if it appeared as though Gage had simply gone for a walk.

        When Evan was outside again he unlocked and slid open the side door of the van, then set the Kleenex box and his bag on the floor next to his captive. He opened the bag again and pulled out two lengths of rope and silver duct tape. He tossed the blanket away from the fire chief's body, then tied one thick strand of horse-hair rope around his ankles, and the other around the wrists he clasped behind Johnny's back. He made sure the knots were tight and secure. Gage was not going to get away from him this time. Evan dug in his bag until he felt a pair of scissors. He cut six inches of tape from the roll and slapped it across Gage's mouth. He brought the thick blue blanket back up and pulled it over the man's head. Between the high bench seat in front of Gage, and the blanket, the likelihood that anyone would realize the fire chief was back here was so low Evan didn't even worry about it.

        Crammer latched his bag again and slid it under the seat in front of Johnny's head. He slid the box of Kleenex under there for the time being as well. He shut the door, relocked it, and ran around to the driver's side. He drove up by the barn and turned around. He could faintly hear the sound of barking dogs as he did so, and realized now the Malamutes were locked in the building.

        Lucky them, because a couple of dead dogs would mean nothing to me, but the sight of their lifeless bodies might have upset that nice little Trevor.

        Gravel crunched beneath the van's tires as Evan headed down Johnny's driveway. He pulled onto the road and turned left. He laughed as he drove by a home and spotted Trevor playing in the front yard with two look alike boys.

        “Say goodbye to Papa, Trevor,” Evan muttered as the van flew by.

        There were only two ways off of Eagle Harbor, by water or by air. Evan had long ago decided his only option after kidnapping Gage would be to leave by water. He drove down to the ferry landing, parked and waited. At noon the monstrous ferry would pull out for Juneau. As soon as Evan saw other vehicles get in line to board, he started the van and put it in drive. He got in line behind a pale blue Ford Taurus and waited his turn. He paid the gatekeeper for a one-way fare to Juneau, then slowly inched the van onto the deck. He kept a watchful eye on the teenager who was directing traffic. He did exactly as the young man's hand gestures instructed, and parked in the spot the boy indicated. Evan wasn't going to do anything stupid that would cause him to get caught with Eagle Harbor's fire chief unconscious and tied up in the back of his van by a sixteen year old kid in bad need of a tube of Clearasil.

        The hour ride to Juneau was uneventful. By one-fifteen Evan was driving the van off the boat. He laughed as he passed Eagle Harbor's police chief, Carl Mjtko, guiding his Durango onto the ferry.

        Stupid Eskimo. I'm kidnapping his best friend from right under his nose.

        Evan drove straight for the small airport on the south end of Juneau. The main airport in this part of the state was the Anchorage International Airport. Juneau had a smaller airport that catered to private pilots. Evan had long ago learned that money can buy you just about anything, and there were plenty of immoral and dishonest people in this world who would take your money in exchange for performing a service without asking why. In this case, Evan had hired a pilot to fly him and his burden to California. He pulled the van up to the Cessna's side entry door, put it in park, and jumped out. The skinny pilot with the scraggily brown beard wasn't more than twenty-eight years old. Evan only knew him by Fritz, and had no idea if that was the guy's first name, last name, a portion of his last name, or none of the above. It didn't matter, because Fritz had no idea what Evan's name was at all. The money had already changed hands. All Fritz had to do was fly his plane south.

        “Want me to help you with that?” Fritz asked, as he watched Evan load Johnny over his shoulder as though he was totally unaware there was a man beneath that blanket.

        “No. Don't need any help. Just open that door for me.”

        Fritz did as Evan requested. He unlatched the short stairway, and brought it to rest on the pavement. Evan climbed the stairs and dumped his captive on the floor. He hurried out of the plane and back to his van. He cleaned it of all personal items, including his suitcase, camera case, and the leather case that held his laptop computer. He looked at the square building across the tarmac.

        “That's the office?”

        “Yep.”

        “Think anyone will mind if I make use of a phone line for an Internet connection?”

        “Don't think so. Iverson. . .the guy who runs the place, goes home for lunch from noon until about two-thirty, so no one's around 'cept me.”

        Evan's personal research had already garnered him that information, but he acted as though it came as a pleasant surprise.

        “Great. Thanks. I'm going to put most of this stuff on the plane, then I'll be in the office for a minute or two.”

        “Okay. Ready for me to get rid of this van now? My buddy's here to take it.”

        Evan suspected as much. He'd seen a man in the distance hanging around the parking lot smoking a cigarette.

        “Yeah. Get rid of it. And your buddy knows the score, right?”

        “Yep. Change the plates. Sell it to a chop shop in Fairbanks. And keep his mouth shut.”

        “Good. You gave him his share of the cash we agreed upon?”
        “I did.”

        Again, Evan said, “Good.”

        Crammer boarded the plane while Fritz drove the van away. He put his suitcase, medical bag, camera case, and the box of Kleenex against one wall. He got down on one knee and opened the black bag. He picked up the damp cloth from within its depths, pulled out the chloroform, uncapped it, and soaked the cloth again. He was careful not to breathe in any of the fumes as he pulled the blanket away from Johnny's face and held the cloth against his nose for a count of twenty seconds. Evan didn't plan on his captive waking up for quite some time yet. He knew he had to be careful in regard to the use of the drug. Too much chloroform and Gage could go into respiratory failure and die. It could also cause liver damage, cardiac irregularities, or bring on a fever. Evan cared little about those last three things. Actually, he didn't care if Gage died either, because ultimately, that was exactly what was in store for the man. He just didn't want the fire chief to die yet. If that happened it would take all the fun out of this little adventure.
        

        Evan put the cloth and bottle back in his bag. He threw the Kleenex box inside the bag, too. He latched it, picked up his laptop case, and headed out of the plane. He sprinted across the tarmac to the small square brick building the airport's owner used as an office. The building held two rooms. The central one contained a cluttered desk and yellowed walls that were scarred and in bad need of a fresh coat of white paint. The other room was in the rear of the building and contained a toilet and sink.
        
        Crammer's eyes followed the computer cables until he spotted the phone jack. He pulled the gray wire out that was connected to Iverson's tower, then unzipped his case. In one minute's time Evan was dialing into the Internet using his laptop. He had composed the e-mail several days earlier when he was staying in the cabin north of here. He had saved it in his drafts folder, and took a moment to reread it now.

        Hello Chris DeSoto. You'll be sory you mesed with me. Sined, Your Old Friend.

        Evan laughed as he hit the send button. God, this was so easy. Hacking into the LAPD's records system had given him all the information he needed about Scott Monroe, from the man's mental status, to the fact that he was a poor speller, to the fact that he had made threats against Christopher DeSoto and John Gage.

        “I'm telling you,” Evan muttered to himself as he unhooked his phone line connection and repacked his computer, “this is like taking candy from a baby. But never fear, it will get more exciting. Oh, Uncle Johnny, I promise you. It will get more exciting.”

Chapter 13

        Controlled chaos reined over the Gage household the rest of that evening. Within ten minutes of arriving, Carl had done a thorough search of the house, garage, and barn. With Trevor clinging to his hand, Carl hiked a mile into the forest calling Johnny's name, though right from the start he suspected that was an effort in futility. Just like the Tiermans' and Phil Marceau, Carl knew John Gage would not leave his son home alone.

        Carl swung Trevor to his hip and carried the boy into the house. Trevor fought back the urge to cry.

        “Where is he, Carl? Where's my papa?”

        “I don't know, Little John,” Carl said, using the nickname he'd given Trevor years earlier because of the striking resemblance the child bore to his father. “But don't you worry. I'll find him.”

        Trevor stood next to Carl as the man began punching numbers into the receiver of the cordless kitchen phone. Explanations and instructions flew from Carl's mouth as he talked to first to his deputy chief, and then to Johnny's deputy chief. By the time Carl had tracked down his mother fifteen minutes later at his Aunt Marie's house, vehicles that ranged from police squad cars to battered pick up trucks were pulling into the Gage driveway.

        Trevor listened to Carl's side of the conversation with Clarice.

        “Mom, I need you at John's as soon as you can get here. No. . .no it has nothing to do with John being sick. I need you to come and take care of Trevor. Yes, something's wrong.” Carl looked down at the boy whose big brown eyes held a combination of fear and trust. “Trevor came home late this afternoon from playing at the Tiermans' to find John gone. I've searched the house and the outside property, and I can't locate him either. Yes, I know that's not like him. Yes, I know he wouldn't leave Trevor alone. I'm not certain what's going on at this point, but I'm sure we'll come across him. I just need you here to take care of Trevor for me, okay?” Carl did his best to muster a smile for the eight year old while tweaking the end of his nose. “He's been a big help to me, and he's doing a great job of being a brave boy, but he could sure use a friend right now.”

        Carl never had any doubt that his mother's response would differ from the one he got.

        “I'll be right there. You tell my Trevor that Clarice is on the way.”

        “I'll do that. Thank you.”

        Carl hung up the phone and cupped a big, callused hand underneath Trevor's chin. He looked into the boy's face. “My mother said to tell you she's on the way, Little John. Everything will be okay. Don't you worry, we'll find your papa.”

        Before Trevor could answer his father's friend, people began pouring in the house. Under normal circumstances Trevor would have pointed out to Carl that Clarice didn't allow shoes to be worn inside, but these weren't normal circumstances, and he sensed that in this case, Clarice would overlook any mud that marred the floors or carpeting.

        Trevor had often heard Clarice say the citizens of Eagle Harbor thought the world of his father, and that night her words were proven true. By eight o'clock one hundred and eighty people ranging from police officers, to every off-duty firefighter, to firefighters and EMT's from Johnny's volunteer force, to neighbors, shopkeepers, fishermen, and teenagers, were combing the woods surrounding the Gage house, and walking shoulder to shoulder through the Eagle Harbor National Forest with the hope of finding some clue that would lead them to their missing fire chief.

        “Maybe he just wandered off,” Trevor heard Clarice say a number of times to Carl. “John was sick when he came home. I didn't ask him if he had a fever. Maybe he did and it got high enough that he didn't realize what he was doing, or where he was going. If that's the case someone's bound to find him not too far from here. You should get Doctor Benson out here, Carl, so that when John is found, he'll be here to treat him. You know how easily he gets bronchitis and pneumonia. Doc Benson will probably put him right in the hospital.”

        For some reason Trevor got the impression the police chief thought this situation went far beyond his father simply wandering off in a daze as a result of a high fever. He watched as Carl pulled Clarice into the great room. Carl turned his back on Trevor, who was sitting at the kitchen table, and spoke softly to his mother. He heard Clarice gasp once at the explanation she was being given, and picked up the name, “Monroe,” though he had no idea to whom Carl was referring.

        It was after that conversation ended that Carl took Trevor by the hand and led him to Johnny's office. He wanted to get the boy away from the bustling activity going on in the kitchen each time police personnel came into or went out of the house, or each time the phone rang, or a handie-talkie squawked to life.

        Carl beckoned for his mother and his deputy chief to follow him. He sat Trevor on Johnny's desk, facing the boy away from the door. Carl sat in Johnny's chair, with his mother sitting behind him on the padded seat of the deep bay window. Carl's deputy chief, Anton Baklanov, stood behind Trevor and out of the boy's line of sight. He pulled a pen and small spiral notebook from the pocket of his uniform shirt. Without Carl having to tell him to do so, Anton was prepared to record every word Trevor said.

        The police chief placed a gentle hand on Trevor's blue jean clad knee.

        “Trev, I need you to help me find your papa. Can you do that?”

        Trevor gave his head a vigorous nod. “I can do whatever you ask me to. But I already helped you look everywhere we could think of. Do you want me to look again?”

        “No, Little John, this time what I need you to do is tell me everything that happened after my mother left the house this morning.”

        “You mean everything me and Papa did?”

        “Exactly.”

        “But there isn't a lot to tell, Carl.”

        “It might not seem like a lot to you, but maybe it will seem like a lot to me. So let's start at the beginning. What happened after my mother left here?”

        “Papa had just gotten done taking a shower. He was dressed, but layin' on his bed under a blanket when I went upstairs with the things Clarice had given me for him.”

        “What things were those?”

        “A glass of water, some cold pills, and a box of Kleenex.”

        “What was Papa wearing, Trev?”

        “Wearing?”

        “What clothes did he have on?”

        Trevor thought a moment. “His safari shirt. You know, the tan one with the four pockets on the front.”

        “Short sleeved?”

        “Yeah.”

        “What else?”

        “Blue jeans, I think, but I'm not sure 'cause his legs were covered by the blanket. But usually he wears blue jeans unless he's at work, or has to dress up for something special, like when Clarice makes him go to church with us on Easter or Christmas Eve.”

        Clarice couldn't help but smile a bit at the boy's remark. John Gage wasn't a church-goer, but he'd never objected to Clarice taking Trevor to the small Methodist church she attended in Eagle Harbor. Like most children his age, Trevor enjoyed attending Sunday School, and had fun participating in the activities offered there.

        “And white socks,” Trevor added. “He had on white socks 'cause I saw one of his feet sticking out from under the blanket.”

        Carl hadn't seen any blanket on the bed upstairs.

        “Was the blanket gone when you came in the house from doing your chores this afternoon?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Where does Papa normally keep it?”

        “On the closet shelf in his room.”

        “What color is it?”

        “Blue. Dark blue like the ocean in September when it first starts to get cold.”

        “Did you notice anything else missing?”

        “The box of Kleenex Clarice had me give to Papa.”

        Carl made a mental note to take Trevor upstairs later so they could look in the closet together to see if the blanket was there, or to see if Trevor noticed anything else that might be missing.

        “What happened next, Trev?”

        “I read to Papa. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Abzacan. I think he might have fallen asleep while I was reading, but I'm not sure. His eyes were closed though, and he didn't correct me when I said the hard words wrong, so I'm pretty sure he was asleep. Then the phone rang.”

        “Who was it?”

        “Dylan. Him and Dalton wanted me to come to their house to play. Mrs. Tierman asked me to stay for lunch, too. Papa said it was okay, so I left.”

        “Did your papa say anything to you before you left?”

        “Just to lock Tasha and Nicolai in the barn so they wouldn't follow me.”
        
        “And did you do that?”

        “Yes.”

        Those words on Trevor's part explained to Carl why the dogs wouldn't have attempted to chase someone off bent on foul play.

        “Did Papa give you any other instructions?”

        “To stay at the Tiermans' until he called for me to come home. Or, if Mrs. Tierman wanted to send me home before he called, I was supposed to call Papa. He doesn't let me ride my bike on the road by myself.”

        Carl nodded, fully aware of the routine Trevor and the Tierman boys followed when traveling between their homes.

        “Did your papa say what time he'd call for you?”

        “Four o'clock. He said he'd call by four.”

        “But he never did?”

        “No. So when Mrs. Tierman started making supper I knew I'd better leave 'cause she only invited me for lunch. I called Papa, but he didn't answer the phone. I thought he was outside doing chores. Mr. Tierman and the twins walked me most of the way home, then I came the rest of the way by myself.”

        “And Papa wasn't outside?”

        “No. He wasn't anywhere. I did all the chores by myself 'cause I thought he was still sleeping. But when I came in the house he wasn't here either.” Though he tried to hold back his tears, Trevor couldn't keep them from spilling over to run down his face. “I ran back outside and yelled for him. I yelled and yelled and yelled, but he didn't answer. That's when I got scared and called you.”

        Clarice walked around her son and gave Trevor a hug that the boy immediately returned. “There, there, love. Don't cry. Carl's going to find Papa. Don't you worry. So many people are out looking for him right this very minute.”

        Trevor's words came in hiccupped gasps. “But where. . .where could he be, Clarice?”

        “I don't know, sweetie, but he'll turn up. I promise.”

        “May. . .maybe he went with his friend.”

        Carl sat up straighter in the chair at those words. “His friend?”

        Clarice released her hold on Trevor so the eight year old could make eye contact with Carl.

        “The man in the white van.”

        “What man?”

Trevor swiped a hand across his face in order to brush his tears aside. “When I was leaving for Dylan's and Dalton's, he stopped me at the end of the driveway.”

        “Stopped you?”

        “Yeah. He wanted to know if Papa was home.”

        “Did he say why he wanted to see your papa?”

        “He's an old friend of Papa's.”

        “And old friend?”

        “From California.”

        “Is that what he said?” Carl asked, as his heart rate sped up.

        “Yep. Only I didn't recognize him.”

        “What do you mean by that?”

        “I've seen some pictures Papa has of his friends in California. The guys he used to work with at Station 51, and some of the doctors and nurses from Rampart Hospital, but the man who was coming to see Papa wasn't any of those people. But he knows my Uncle Roy, so I think he might have been a fireman at another station.”

        Carl swallowed hard as he pulled a picture out of the left breast pocket of his shirt that Troy Anders had sent him. He turned the picture so the person in it was facing Trevor.

        “Trev, is this the man who was driving that van?”

        “No.”

        “No?”

        “No,” Trevor shook his head.

        “Are you certain?”

        “I'm certain.”

        “What about if he was wearing a wig, or had disguised himself in some way?”

        “No. It still wouldn't be him 'cause the man who was driving the van was older. And he didn't have a wig on.”

        “You're sure?”

        “Yeah. His hair was long. Like to the middle of his back. And in a pony tail. But he didn't have a lot of it on top of his head. It wasn't a wig, Carl.”
        For the first time since the interview started, Deputy Chief Baklanov spoke up. “Monroe could have hired someone to do his dirty work, Carl.”

        “I'm already thinking the same thing.” Carl turned his attention to Trevor one last time. “Trevor, did that van pull into your driveway after you left?”

        “Uh huh. The man was coming to see Papa. I already told you that. I told him Papa had a bad cold, but he said he'd only stay for a few minutes.”

        Without a further word to the boy, Carl stood and motioned his deputy chief out of the room with him.

        “I've gotta call a detective in L.A. by the name of Troy Anders. And I've gotta call the FBI.”

        “You're ready to start treating this as a kidnapping?”

        “You damn well better believe I am.”

        “Don't you think you're jumping the gun a bit?”
        
        “I sure as hell don't.”

        Whatever other words the men exchanged were lost on Trevor as looked at Clarice with wide, terrified eyes.

        “My papa's been kidnapped?”

        “We don't know that for sure, love.”

        “But Carl just said--”

        “I know what Carl said, but it's his job to be cautious and explore all possibilities.”

        “Why would someone want to kidnap Papa? He never hurt anyone in his whole life, Clarice. He only helps people. Papa. . .he's not mean, and he doesn't do bad things, and he likes to laugh, and have fun, and the people in Eagle Harbor depend on him to run the fire department. Why would someone take him away?”

        All Clarice could do was once again wrap her arms around the distraught boy. She stood in front of Johnny's desk, gently rocking Trevor back and forth as he clung to her and cried.

        “I don't know, sweetie. I just don't know. But everything will be okay. I promise you, everything will be okay.”

        Despite his own upset, Trevor could hear the tears in Clarice's voice. She was just as scared as he was for Papa, and she didn't really think things would be okay. Trevor could tell she didn't think things would be okay at all.

        When Clarice had dried her own tears and then Trevor's, she took the boy to the kitchen and made him eat supper. Trevor could do no more than pick at his food. His brown eyes only further accented his pale features as he listened to every word spoken by each law enforcement official who came into the house. At ten o'clock he was finally carted up to bed by a young firefighter who worked for his father, and who was one of Trevor's favorite people in the way John Gage had been a favorite of the DeSoto children.

        After brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas, Trevor pretended to fall asleep quickly so the young man would leave his room. After the firefighter was gone, Trevor climbed out of bed and crossed to the window that overlooked the backyard. There was still enough light that the boy could watch the activity unfold before him. He could faintly hear people calling his father's name as they searched the national forest. He added his own voice to those urgent calls, whispering, “Papa. Papa, please come home,” until the sun finally set and he was too exhausted to stay on his feet any longer.

__________________________________

        Los Angeles Police Detective Bickle had always thought he'd been handed a bum deal. From the moment he was born and his mother had christened him Bernie Boris Bickle, his life had been hell. He'd been a pudgy baby, an overweight child, and was now a fat adult. Every accolade he'd ever strived for was snatched from his grasp by some smart, thin, good-looking guy. The kind the girls were lusting for in high school, and continued to lust for after high school ended. The kind like Troy Anders. His boss. Anders was still balling chicks in the back seat of his father's Thunderbird when Bernie was paying his dues as a street cop. The sixty-year old detective had resented Anders for more years now than he could remember. The guy had the job that should have been his, all because he'd kissed Mark Bellmen's ass twenty-odd years ago when Bellmen was lead detective of the division.

        Seniority, and the union, was how Bickle had survived in the department this long. His work was as sloppy as his demeanor. He was intelligent enough to do a good job, but too lazy to care. He was coasting to retirement, a blissful two years away now.

        Shirt buttons strained across Bickle's ample belly as he reached for his can of Dr. Pepper. He knocked a stack of files off his desk in the process, but he'd pick them up later. He tore the wrapper off a Butterfinger candy bar and took a large bite. He hated working nights, but he had to get this report done for Anders or the guy just might make good on his threat to have Bernie patrolling the streets again on foot. Bernie was the only person in the squad room. The florescent lights cast a bright glow over the battered metal filing cabinets and pock-marked desks. It was late, almost ten-thirty, and dark outside.

        Bernie wiped the chocolate from his fingertips onto the shirt he was wearing that used to be white. Coffee and grease stains had long ago settled into stay that no laundry detergent could ever hope to wash out. His red tie wasn't in any better shape. The man turned toward the keyboard of his computer and began to type using his cumbersome hunt, peck, and stare-off-into-space-a-moment method. His face was round and puffy from years of too much fast food, and his jowls hung heavy against his bloated neck making it impossible for him to button the top button on his shirt. When the phone rang he took a welcome break.

        “Special Investigations. Detective Bickle here.”

        “Hello. I'm Carl Mjtko, police chief in Eagle Harbor, Alaska. Is Detective Anders there by chance?”

        “Nope.”

        “Can you give me his home number?”

        “Nope.”

        “Pardon?”

        “I said, nope.”

        “Look, this is an emergency in regards to a case Anders spoke with me about a couple weeks ago. It's important that I get in touch with him.”

        “I'm sure it is, but he's on vacation for a couple days. That's why I can't give you his home number. Wouldn't do you no good. Him and the missus went outta town. You know, a little getaway kinda deal.”

        “Is there anyone else I can speak to about this?”

        “You can speak to me.”

        “And you are again?”

        “Bickle. Detective Bernard Bickle,” Bernie stated, using the first name he thought sounded more authoritative than his own. “Whatchya' got?”

        “I've got a missing fire chief is what I've got. A man by the name of John Gage. I suspect his disappearance ties into Scott Monroe.”

        “Oh. Monroe. Sure,” Bernie acknowledged, though in truth he had no idea who Carl was talking about. “Go ahead. Tell me the rest.”

        Bernie listened as Carl relayed the details surrounding Johnny's disappearance. When the police chief was finished Bernie said, “Seeing how Troy is out for a couple days, I'll get right on this and get back to you.”

        “Okay. And you'll tell Troy as well?”

        “You bet. He'll check in with me sometime while he's gone,” Bernie said, making it sound as though Troy was obligated to touch base with him, as though Bernie was Troy's boss instead of the other way around. “I'll tell him when I talk to him.”

        Bernie could almost hear the sigh of relief in Carl's voice.

        “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

        “Not a problem.”

        Bernie wrote down Carl's name and phone number as the man rattled it off. He badly botched the spelling of Carl's last name, writing out Mitchko, as opposed to Mjtko, because he was too lazy to ask the correct spelling in the first place, and wouldn't have cared to learn that the name was Tlingit Eskimo in origin anyway.

        They said good-bye with Bernie promising to stay in touch. When their call disconnected the obese detective reached for his candy bar and soda. His hand hit the aluminum can and sent Dr. Pepper sailing all over his papers, including the slip he'd just written Carl's information on. He swiped up everything that had just gotten wet and threw it in the garbage with no regrets.

        After all, Bernie certainly had no desire to work a case that should have been his in the first place, and what did he care about a stupid fire chief in Alaska?

__________________________________

        Chris DeSoto had been busy most of the day meeting with clients. He'd picked his girls up from preschool at three-thirty, and played in the backyard with them until Wendy got home at six. By seven Chris and Wendy were dropping the girls off at his parents' home. Roy and Joanne had volunteered to keep their granddaughters that night so Chris and Wendy could celebrate their twelfth wedding anniversary. Chris would pick them up the next afternoon, and along with his father, take his daughters and Libby to the zoo.

        The couple went to dinner, then to a late movie. They arrived home shortly before one in the morning, collapsed on their king sized bed, and made love. When their passion came to a satisfying end Wendy fell asleep in her husband's arms. Chris, however, was suffering from a bout of insomnia that had plagued him on and off since the day Troy Anders had called upon him.

        Being careful not to disturb his wife, Chris grabbed his pajama pants from the end of the bed and pulled them on. He moved from the bed to his wheelchair, and propelled himself out of the room. He headed for his office, where he'd do some work until he got too tired to stay awake any longer.

        The man wheeled himself to his computer counter. He placed his fingers on the mouse and dialed into the Internet. When a connection was established Chris checked his e-mails. Just by looking at the addresses he identified all four messages. The first one was from his brother John, the second two from clients, and the third one a weekly advertisement that came from Amazon where he sometimes purchased books. He clicked on that one with the intent of skimming it, then deleting it. He never quite got as far as 'delete.' Chris's eyes widened with shock as he read it.
        
        Hello Chris DeSoto. You'll be sory you mesed with me. Sined, Your Old Friend

        Chris's hands started trembling. He fumbled to open a cabinet on his left and pull out his address book. It took him three tries before he was able to pluck Troy Anders' business card from a pocket in the inside cover. Not only did the card have Anders' work and home numbers on it, Chris had added the number of the detective's hotel room in Carmel the other day when Troy had called to say he'd be out of town until the following week.

        Chris hated disturbing the detective on his vacation, but Anders had said to call him if anything at all came up concerning Monroe. Based on the e-mail Chris had just received, something had just come up. Something big.

        The man reached for the portable phone. He punched in the number that would ring in Anders' hotel suite. When he heard the man's sleepy voice answer he said, “Troy, this is Chris DeSoto. I'm really sorry to bother you at this hour of the morning, but I just checked my e-mail and I've got a message from Scott Monroe.”

        Chris didn't have the chance to say anything else. He heard Troy's response of, “It will take me about four hours to get back to L.A. I'll leave here as soon as I get dressed,” and then the line went dead.

        Chris hung up the phone and sat in silence staring at his computer screen. He didn't know how Monroe got his e-mail address, and he didn't know how the man had managed to hack into Amazon in order to make it look like they were the sender. Both those events unnerved Chris. Monroe was a hell of a lot smarter, and far more devious, than he ever would have imagined. And that was frightening to Chris. It was extremely frightening.

Chapter 14

        John Gage slowly regained consciousness with a muffled moan. Like the other times he'd come to a dazed awareness, at first he thought he was dreaming. Or in the midst of a nightmare was more like it. But when he felt the ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles, and the sticky tape covering his mouth, the events of the past two days washed over him in a foggy blur of jumbled details.

        Johnny's first round of consciousness had come to him on an airplane. He hadn't remained that way very long before his captor was placing the chloroform soaked cloth over his stuffy nose again. The second round had been in a hotel room late at night. What night, Johnny wasn't certain. The sound of quiet footsteps, combined with the unfamiliar mattress beneath him, caused Johnny to conclude he was in Eagle Harbor Community Hospital.

        Damn, pneumonia again, had been Johnny's thoughts as he rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. My temperature must be sky high 'cause that was some wild hallucination.

        When Johnny finally found the strength to open his eyes, he wasn't looking into the face of one of the nurses or doctors whom he knew by name, nor was he looking into Carl's face, or Clarice's face, or his son's face, as had been the case when he'd been hospitalized in the past with pneumonia. Instead, he looked into a face that frightened him to the depths of his soul.

        “So, you remember me, Uncle Johnny,” the man had said at the recognition in Johnny's eyes. “That's good. That's very good. I want you to know exactly who I am throughout our stay together. Now I'm going to help you sit up on this bed, and if you behave yourself, I'll take the tape off your mouth and give you some water and food. Do you understand?”

It was all Johnny could do to nod. His head felt like someone had cinched a leather band around his skull, and he was so hot and congested all he wanted was a strong dose of penicillin and a cool shower. The after-effects of the chloroform made his ability to think muddled at best, and almost non-existent at worse.

        Johnny gratefully took deep gulps of the cold water from the glass that was tilted to his lips. He turned his head away to cough when he'd drained the glass dry. The cough was tight and unproductive, and its force brought his upper body off the mattress.

        “Oh, that sounds nasty. I hope you're not getting sick, Uncle Johnny.”

        Johnny glared at the man. “Yeah, I can see you're real worried about that,” came the fire chief's hoarse remark. “What the hell do you want?”

        A finger was shaken under Johnny's nose. “Don't get testy with me, Gage. I'm not one of your firemen, nor one of those idiots in Eagle Harbor, Alaska who thinks the sun rises and sets on you. You owe me, Uncle Johnny. You owe me big time, and I've been waiting twenty-two years to pay you back.”

        “Pay me back for what?” Johnny questioned, more to buy time to formulate a plan than for any other reason.

        “You know for what. For keeping me from Jennifer DeSoto, you stupid redskin.”

        “It was a long time ago. Whatta ya' got your shorts in a bundle over it now for?”

        “I've had my 'shorts in a bundle,' as you so eloquently phrased it, ever since the night you wrestled little Jennifer out of my arms. I don't take kindly to failure, Gage. I don't take kindly to it at all.”

        Johnny didn't waste anymore time. As the man started to rattle on about his triumphs versus the one failure John Gage had brought him, the fire chief launched himself off the bed. Johnny's plan had been to head-butt the man in the center of his stomach, and hopefully ram his skull against the wall behind him. But Johnny underestimated his body's weakness. His head-butt did nothing but cause his assailant to laugh.

        “Now you've pissed me off, Gage, and that's not good. Or at least not for you.”

        Johnny struggled as he was lifted back on the bed. Before he could yell, tape was slapped over his mouth again. Thirty seconds later he felt the prick of a needle in the crook of his right arm. Five minutes after that Johnny was in the throes of such violent stomach cramps all he could do was curl into a ball and bite back the urge to scream through the tape. He felt the man pat his back.

        “Don't worry, Uncle Johnny, my little drug here won't make you sick. It will only make you wish you could get sick just so you'd feel better.”

        The man was right. For the next three hours Johnny actually wanted to vomit. The drug did make him feel like if he could get sick, he'd then be on the road to recovery, similar to the way a person feels when the stomach flu is just starting. But Johnny never did throw up, which in one sense was good considering his mouth was taped shut. When the agony the drug caused him finally started to subside, all the fire chief's body was capable of was lapsing into a fitful sleep.

        The hours that followed that episode were once again a blur of passing time to Johnny that made little sense. He remembered being taken to the bathroom on three different occasions where he'd been allowed to use the toilet and then wash up at the sink. He remembered being given more water to drink, and had a vague recollection of some vegetable soup being spooned into his mouth from a thick Styrofoam container like you'd get at a restaurant, but these events seemed to take place in a dream world. Whether that was from the drug he'd been given, or the chloroform, or from his fever, Johnny wasn't sure.

        The fire chief looked around the space he was lying in now. It took him a moment to realize he was on the floor in the rear of a big van. There were no windows back here, meaning if he did manage to get off the floor no one would see him anyway. The driver kept glancing in the rearview mirror. When he saw that Johnny was a awake he smiled. “Glad you decided to join me, Uncle Johnny. I wouldn't want you to miss my next act.”

        Johnny had no idea what the man was talking about, but the van soon rolled to a gentle stop against a curb. Johnny's assailant reached over the seat and grabbed one end of the blanket that was covering the fire chief. He pulled it over Johnny's head.

        “Be right back. This should only take a minute.”

        It was a child's screams that first brought Johnny out of the doze he'd fallen into.

        Trevor! He'd got Trevor. I'll kill the bastard. I'll swear I'll kill him if he hurts my son.

        Ever since he'd come to awareness the first time, Johnny's boy had been the most prominent thing on his mind. The man had never mentioned the child, and Johnny could only pray Trevor had arrived safely at the Tiermans' before his assailant entered the house. He'd resisted the strong urge to ask about his son for fear of drawing the man's attention to Trevor. For John Gage had no idea where he was. He could still be in Alaska, but on the other hand he could be in Brazil for all he knew.

        The shrieks Johnny had heard were muffled now, as though someone's hand was covering the child's mouth. Johnny felt a small body bump against his, then felt the child's feet lashing out.

        Good for you, Trev! Give the bastard what he deserves. If you get away from him you have to run! You have to run as fast as you can, son, and get to safety just like I've told you to do a thousand times if a stranger ever tries to take you off your bike, or snatch you from a sidewalk in town.

        The floor of the van shook beneath Johnny's body as the child kicked the man, then tried to roll out the open side door. The man got a firm grip on the child before that happened and slammed the door shut. He slapped tape over the child's mouth, then bound the child's feet and ankles in the same way Johnny's were bound. He clambered to the front of the van, threw it in gear, and took off with a lurch that threw the child into Johnny's body. When the child pushed away from Johnny the blanket fell off his face. He glanced up, fully expecting to see his son. Instead what he saw, shocked John Gage even more. The heart shaped face was so familiar, as were the sky blue eyes and long, golden hair. Just looking at the sobbing girl took Johnny back twenty-two years. He knew this wasn't Jennifer DeSoto, but he'd bet money on the fact that this little girl was Jennifer's daughter. What was a bad situation to begin with had just gotten worse.

        Oh, no. Oh, God, no. How can I protect this child from him with the shape I'm in? Oh, God, why? Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making me relive this? And most of all, why are you making Roy's family relive it?

        And with that final thought, Johnny turned his face away from the little girl so that she wouldn't see the silent tears trickling down his cheeks.

___________________________

        Friday was a good day for Evan Crammer. It was the day he'd kidnapped Olivia Sheridan right from the sidewalk in her safe, middle class neighborhood just four blocks from her grandfather's home. He had rented a house down the block from Roy DeSoto during the winter months. The location of that home made it so easy for Evan to watch the comings and goings at Roy's home, and for him to identify every family member that went in and out the front door, including precious little Libby.

Since arriving in Los Angeles in the pre-dawn hours of Thursday morning Evan had sent two more e-mails to Chris DeSoto. He'd hacked into E-bay to send the first one, and hacked into Priceline dot Com to send the second. The gist of both messages was similar to the first one he'd sent from Alaska. Evan knew that by now the cops would be combing the streets looking for Scott Monroe, who had conveniently disappeared on Wednesday morning thanks to careful engineering on Evan's part.

        A red van, identical to the white one he'd been driving in Alaska, had been waiting for Evan when Fritz had landed at the private airport just north of L.A. The license plates were registered to a bogus name, just like Evan had registered under a false name when procuring the motel room where he'd kept John Gage until noon on Friday.

        With his captives in the back of that van now, Evan drove for an hour, then pulled into a McDonald's. As he eased the van into the drive-through lane he turned around in his seat. He fished a gun from the plastic food holders in-between the driver's and passenger's seats, and pointed it over the high-backed bench seat behind him that would block Johnny and Libby from view of most passers-by.

        “You two stay right where you are, and stay quiet. Either of you moves, and the other takes a bullet to the skull. Got it?”

        Libby was too scared to even nod her head, but Johnny managed to do that action for both of them. The man stopped the van in front of the speaker and ordered three Big Mac meals with Cokes. He drove ahead to the window, paid for his order, and accepted the bag and drink tray he was handed. He gave a cheery, “Thanks!” to the teenage girl who'd waited on him, as if he wasn't holding a gun on two kidnap victims seated in the rear of his van, but rather just out for an afternoon of summer fun.

        As Evan drove from the McDonald's parking lot he turned in his seat once more and smiled at Johnny.

        “Well, Uncle Johnny, we're on our way to ending it where it all began.”

        Johnny had no idea what the man meant. With the tape still secured on his mouth, he was unable to ask even if he'd wanted to. He looked into Libby's tear-filled eyes. He saw a sudden hope there he didn't quite understand, and that Libby was unable to voice because of the tape over her own mouth.

        Uncle Johnny! It's Uncle Johnny! Katori! He'll take care of me, just like he took care of my mom when that bad man tried to kidnap her.

        For the first time since this ordeal began, Libby Sheridan's fear left her. Uncle Johnny was here. He'd take care of her. Everything would be okay. Uncle Johnny would never let anyone hurt her.

        Unbeknownst to Libby, Uncle Johnny didn't have nearly as much faith in himself, and his abilities, as she did. Because to Uncle Johnny, this was far more than a favorite bedtime story. It was a terror he'd lived through once that he'd never wanted to experience again. The scars he still bore from the knife wounds to his back reminded John Gage all too frequently of his captor's capabilities.

        No food was passed back to Johnny or Libby as the van drove north, though their kidnapper did eat one of the sandwiches, a container of French fries, and washed it all down with one of the Cokes. The food made little difference to Johnny anyway. He had no appetite as he continuously coughed into the tape that covered his mouth. He attempted to form a plan of escape as they traveled. The trouble was, by the time the van stopped an hour later and Johnny was blindfolded, he hadn't come up with one.

Chapter 15

        Troy Anders had arrived at Chris DeSoto’s house at six on Thursday morning. By six-thirty he knew that Scott Monroe was missing. By seven the entire DeSoto family, save for John, were gathered in Chris’s kitchen. Libby, Brittany, and Madison were sent to the family room to eat breakfast on TV trays while watching 101 Dalmatians. The adults sat around the kitchen table. Wendy poured coffee into yellow ceramic mugs while Joanne put a platter of blueberry muffins and a plate of banana bread on the table.

        “How could Monroe just disappear?” Roy asked, as he paced the floor behind the table. “Tell me, Troy. How could he just disappear?”

        “I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t. The last time he was seen was Wednesday morning. Monroe’s counselor dropped him off at a job interview.
He never came out of the building. When the counselor went in to find him an hour later, no one had any record of Monroe ever being there.”

        “But this counselor saw Monroe enter the building?”

        “He did.”

        “The how the hell could he--”

        “I already told you, Roy, I don’t know.”

        “Dad, calm down,” Chris urged his upset father. “It’ll be okay.”

        Roy ignored his son to once again focus on the detective. “What’s being done to keep my boy safe? To keep Chris and his family safe?”

        “To begin with we have an all-points-bulletin out on Monroe. As well, as we speak there’s an unmarked car parked across the street from this house. Chris and his family will be under twenty-four hour surveillance until I say differently.”

        “But I have to go to work,” Wendy protested. “I can’t be a prisoner in my own home.”
        
        “Until this is over with maybe you should take a leave of absence,” Roy said.

        “Dad, no,” Wendy shook her head. “I can’t. For one thing, I carry this family’s health insurance. I can’t risk losing my job. For another, I’m not going to let this guy control my life.”

        Roy didn’t like Wendy’s answer, but he hadn’t expected any less from his formidable daughter-in-law.

        Troy put an end to the potential argument. “I’ll have someone follow you to work, and follow you home. Is that agreeable to you?”

        Wendy nodded her head. Chris wasn’t so sure it was agreeable with him. Like his father, he’d prefer Wendy stay home until they knew something more specific about Monroe, but like his father as well, his wife’s insistence on going to her job didn’t surprise Chris.

        “What about my girls?” Chris asked. “Would it be wise for Wendy and I to send them to her parents’ house for a few days?”

        “It’s not a bad idea. Where do her parents live?”

        “Santa Barbara. They’re both retired. They’d take the girls in a heartbeat. Especially when they hear what’s going on.”

        Troy looked from Chris to Wendy. “Call them,” he instructed the red headed woman. “You arrange a place for them to meet you and the girls. I don’t want your folks coming here to get Brittany and Madison in the event Monroe is watching the house, and I don’t want to risk him following you to their home. I’ll have someone take you and the girls to the meeting point in an unmarked car.”

        “All right.” Wendy left to use the phone in Chris’s office while Joanne headed for the girls’ bedrooms.

        “I’ll start packing the girls’ clothes, and a few of their favorite toys, movies, and books,” she said to her son.

        “Thanks, Mom.”

        “What about the rest of my family?” Roy asked. “Joanne, Jennifer, Libby, and John?”

        “It would be wise to notify John and let him know what’s transpired. But I really don’t think he has anything to be concerned about. As far as the rest of you go; play it safe, Roy, but again, I’m not overly concerned that Monroe will target any of you.”

        Roy looked down at his son. “Maybe you should go to Marion and Pete’s, too.”

        Chris shook his head at the mention of his in-laws names. “No. I’m not going to let Monroe chase me out of my home, Dad. I have a business to run. I can’t just go up to Santa Barbara and sit around waiting for the all-clear signal.”

        Roy heaved a sigh of frustration. His entire family was so damn stubborn. All but him, of course. The man turned his attention to the detective again.

        “Has someone gone through Monroe’s room?”

        “No yet. We have to get a search warrant first.”

        “A search warrant! The guy’s on parole and living in a half-way house for God’s sake!”
        
        “I know it, Roy. But he has rights, too.”

        Roy ran a hand through his thin hair as he resumed his pacing. “I can’t believe this. I just cannot believe it. First Monroe gets my son’s e-mail address somehow. Then he makes threats against Chris. Then he disappears while on a job interview. And now you have to get a search warrant in order to enter his room! Of all the stupid--”

        “Daddy, calm down,” Jennifer said, as her brother had just a few minutes earlier. “There’s no point in getting upset over what’s already happened. Let’s find out from Detective Anders what we can now do to prevent anything else from happening.”

        It took a moment, but Roy finally took a seat at the table with his children and nodded his head. “Okay, Troy. Let’s have it.”

        “As I said, we’ll keep an unmarked car on the house at all times, and we’ll have someone follow Wendy to and from work. We’ll do the same for Chris if he needs to leave the house. Keep the doors locked, Chris, the windows locked, keep your home security system on, and carry your cell phone with you.” The detective looked from Chris to Jennifer and Roy. “That last bit of advice goes for all of you. Jennifer, do you have a home security system?”

        “Yes.”

        “Good. And your daughter stays where when you’re at work?”

        “In the morning she goes to day camp at Spring Meadows Elementary School. In the afternoon she stays with my dad. If I’m working the night shift, or get called in on my day off, she stays with my parents, too.”

        Troy nodded his approval, knowing it wasn’t necessary to tell Roy to be cautious where Libby was concerned until Monroe was apprehended. The detective had no doubts the fire chief would keep a watchful eye on his granddaughter. He did say to Jennifer, “Talk to the day camp director and make it clear that only you, your father, and whatever other family members or friends you choose to delegate, are allowed to pick Libby up.”

        “I will. I’ll do that this morning when I take Libby there.”

        Troy shifted his attention. “Roy? How about you? Do you have a home security system?”

        “No.”

        “You might want to consider getting one. If and until you do, keep the doors and windows locked. Make sure Joanne carries a cell phone in the car with her wherever she goes.”

        “She already does.”

        “You should carry a cell phone with you, too,” Troy said as he reached for his coffee mug.

        “I already do, too.”

        “Glad to hear it. Other than that, just stay very alert. As I said, I don’t believe Monroe is concerned with anyone else in the DeSoto family but Chris. Nonetheless; it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

        When no one asked the detective any other questions, or voiced any other concerns, Jennifer spoke up. She didn’t care that her father was in the room and probably had no desire to hear what she had to say.

        “Have you notified Uncle Johnny?” She asked Troy.

        “John Gage?”

        “Yes. Does he know that Chris received this e-mail from Monroe?”

        “Not yet. But someone will get in touch with him this morning.”

        Jennifer’s eyes flicked to her father, but Roy refused to look at her. Her eyes returned to Troy.

        “Can you give Uncle Johnny a message for me?”

        Though Troy sensed the tension in the room at the mention of John Gage’s name, he nodded his head. “Sure.”

        “Tell him Jenny Bean said to be careful.”

        Troy cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the woman.

        Jennifer’s smile spoke of nothing but fond memories. “That’s the nickname he gave me the first time Dad brought him home for dinner when I was three years old.”

        “I’ll tell him,” Troy promised.

        Five minutes later Chris was seeing Troy Anders to the door. Jennifer looked at her father, who refused to take his eyes from his coffee mug.

        “It’s not a bad thing, Daddy.”

        The man looked up. “What’s not a bad thing?”

        “For me to ask Detective Anders to tell Uncle Johnny to be careful.”

        “I never said it was.”

        “But you act like I did something wrong.”

        Roy wasn’t about to get into this discussion with his daughter. Especially not today. He pushed his chair back and stood.

        “I’m going to help your mother pack the girls’ bags.”

        Jennifer shook her head with frustration as she watched her father walk out of the room. She sighed, then stood to clear the table. When the kitchen was cleaned up she kissed Brittany and Madison goodbye, then collected Libby in order to drop her off at day camp on the way to Rampart.

___________________________________

        Eight things demanded Troy’s attention the minute he stepped foot in the squad room. The phone on his desk was ringing. A new stack of reports awaited his review and signature. Three of his employees wanted to talk to him. His commander requested to see him pronto, and he needed to call John Gage. As the minutes passed and that last need kept getting pushed to the back burner, he looked at Bernie Bickle.

        “Bernie, I’ve got a number in my Rolodex for a John Gage. That’s G-A-G-E. Call him and let him know Chris DeSoto received a threatening e-mail from Scott Monroe. If you can’t get a hold of Gage, talk to a police chief by the name of Carl Mjtko. M-J-T-K-O. He’s in my Rolodex, too.”

        Bernie nodded as Troy shouldered into his sport coat and rushed from the room, headed for the commander’s office. He stood as if he was going to Troy’s desk, but just as quickly sat back down in his chair after Troy had left the room. Now that Troy was back from Carmel, Bernie just had to finish out today, then he was on vacation for two weeks. He had no intention of getting caught up in a case that might cancel his plans. If Troy asked, Bernie would simply say he hadn’t been able to get a hold of either Gage or Mjtko, but had left multiple messages for both men to call Troy.

        The fat man stood and crossed to the candy machine. He put in two quarters and a dime, then pressed the number six so a Milkyway would drop. He walked out of the squad room, in search of a place to eat in peace.

___________________________________

        Jennifer and her parents agreed that Libby wasn’t to be told about Scott Monroe and the threats he’d made against her Uncle Chris. The girl was old enough to realize something was amiss when she was taken to Uncle Chris’s on Thursday morning before day camp, then shooed into the family room with the little girls while the adults talked to a man she didn’t know. When Libby asked her mother what was going on she was told, “Nothing for you to worry about, Peaches.” Which was exactly what her grandfather said to her that afternoon when Libby had asked him that same question, only he called her by the nickname he’d given her long ago, Button.

        Regardless, it wasn’t lost on Libby that her grandfather didn’t leave her side on Thursday afternoon while she swam in the pool with McKenzie, then played Barbie’s on his deck with McKenzie and some other neighborhood girls.

        On Friday Grandpa picked her up from day camp in his sports car. Usually he walked to the school to get her, or met her and McKenzie halfway between the school and his house. Libby thought this change in routine was strange, but when she commented on it Grandpa had said, “I had some errands to run this morning and just happened to be driving by the school when camp let out.”

        Grandpa took Libby to lunch at Rampart that day. They met her mother and Dixie in the cafeteria. Libby loved eating in Rampart’s cafeteria, even though the adults made fun of the food. She thought it was neat to slide your tray down the long counter and pick out whatever you wanted as you passed by. Filling your own glass with soda from the machine was fun, too. Especially when soda ran over the side of the glass because you’d accidentally on purpose filled the glass too full.

        When Libby’s mom and Dixie had to return to work she and Grandpa went home. The neighborhood was quiet, and Libby asked permission to go to McKenzie’s house.

        “All right,” Grandpa had agreed. “But you call me before you leave McKenzie’s to come home so I can walk over to get you.”

        “But she just lives next door, Grandpa. I’ve come home from there like a thousand times by myself.”

        “I know, but today I want you to call me before you come home.”

        “But--”

        “Just do as I say, Olivia Kate, and don’t argue with me, please.”

        “Okay,” Libby agreed. Even though her grandpa had used her full name, he didn’t really sound mad. He sounded worried. But why, Libby had no idea.

        Roy walked out the front door with Libby that day. He watched as she knocked on the front door of the Harris home, and was then granted permission to enter the house. He waited a few seconds longer, and when she didn’t come back out he went into his own home.

        Within five minutes of going into McKenzie’s house, Libby was leaving it again. McKenzie’s mom said she was at the school playing on the swings and slides with some other girls.

        “She tried to call you at your Grandpa’s after day camp, Libby, but no one answered the phone.”

        “Grandpa took me to lunch at the hospital. We ate with my mom and one of the  nurses...Dixie, who’s a good friend of Grandpa’s from when he was a paramedic.”

        “Well, that was a nice treat for all of you, I bet. Why don’t you go down to the school and meet McKenzie and the girls there?”

        “Okay.”

        Libby skipped out of the house. She looked at her grandparents’ home, and momentarily thought of running inside to tell Grandpa of her change in plans. But she was in hurry to meet up with the girls before they ran off somewhere else, so headed in the direction of the school.

        I’ll be back soon. I’ll invite the girls to swim in Grandpa’s pool. They never turn that down. Grandpa won’t even know I’m gone.

        Libby skipped down the sidewalk in her favorite stone-washed denim shorts, her pale purple t-shirt with the narrow deep purple stripes, and her white Reebok sneakers with the purple swirls. When she was halfway to the school she changed her pace to a hop scotch jump. She paid no attention to the van slowly trailing her, nor did she hear it stop a few feet behind her. It wasn’t until the man grabbed Libby and ran with her that she knew something horrible was about to happen. She got out two healthy screams before a hand was clamped over her mouth. She was thrown in the van, and landed against something that was covered with a blanket. Before she had a chance to yell again silver tape was smacked across her mouth. Her legs lashed out at her assailant, but within seconds a thick rope was wrapped around her ankles and tied in hard knot. The same was down to her wrists.

        By the time Libby realized how grave her situation was, the van was speeding out of her neighborhood, and she was looking into the face of her Grandpa’s best friend.

___________________________________

        When Libby hadn’t called Roy by four-thirty, he looked up McKenzie’s phone number in the small address book Joanne kept attached to the bulletin board with a thin gold chain. The girl’s mother answered on the third ring.

        “Hi, Dawn. It’s Roy DeSoto. Would you tell Libby I’m going to walk over and get her now?”

        “Libby?”

        “Yes. She’s there with McKenzie, isn’t she?”

        “No, Roy, she’s not. She stopped by around one-thirty, but I told her McKenzie and some of the other girls were playing at the schoolyard. She headed off in that direction.”

        “Oh.” Roy did his best to keep the anger out of his voice at his granddaughter’s disobedience of his directive. “Well, are they still there? I can drive down in the mini-van and pick them up.”

        “McKenzie’s right here. She came back about an hour ago or so. Just a minute. Let me ask her where Libby went.”

        Roy waited while his neighbor talked to her daughter. He could hear their muffled conversation, but couldn’t pick up any words.

        “Roy?”

        Roy immediately sensed something was wrong simply by Dawn’s tone of voice.

        “Yes?”
        
        “Roy, McKenzie says Libby never showed up at the school.”

        “What?”

        “She never showed up there, Roy. McKenzie hasn’t seen Libby since this morning at day camp.”

        Roy’s reply was terse as he tried to hide both his anger and fear.

        “Thanks for your help, Dawn. I’ll go out and look for her now.”

        “I’m sure she’s just playing at someone’s house. Check at Sarah’s. If she’s not there, try Brianna’s or Zoe’s.”

        “I will.”

        “Oh. . .hang on. McKenzie said you could try Gretchen’s house, too.”

        “Gretchen?” Roy didn’t even know any Gretchen.

        “The new family who moved into the Perkins’ home a few weeks ago. Remember, it was rented out this winter to that free-lance photographer?”

        Though Roy had never met the renter Dawn was referring to, he’d caught an occasional glimpse of the man during the winter months leaving or entering the neighborhood in his black Ford Explorer.

        “Yeah, I remember. The guy isn’t the person who bought the place?”

        “No. He left in early April. Gretchen and her family moved in just as the school year was ending.”

        “All right. Tell McKenzie thanks for the tip.”

        “I will. And give me a call when you find her.”

        “You’ll probably know when I find her.”

        “How so?”

        “I’ve never spanked any of my grandchildren before, but you may just hear that little girl howling as my hand gives her bottom a few good whacks.”

        Dawn chuckled. “I understand. But still, let me know, okay?”

        “Okay.”

        Roy hung up the phone and headed for the door that would take him to the garage. He dug his car keys from the pocket of his jeans and climbed in the mini-van. He could feel his panic rising, but kept telling himself he was being foolish. More than likely Libby had wound up at little girl’s house in the neighborhood and had lost track of time. Well, when he was through with her Libby would realize that what Grandpa said when he was in charge of her was the law.

        An hour later Roy was no longer angry with his wayward granddaughter, he was worried sick. He’d been to the school yard, and then to the home of every friend Dawn and McKenzie had named. He’d driven around the neighborhood three times, and even gone to Jennifer’s house in the off chance he’d find Libby there for some reason. When he ran out of places to look, Roy drove back to his own home. He parked the van and ran for the door, fumbling with his keys until he got them to turn in the lock. He flew through the living room and with trembling hands picked up the phone in the kitchen. His eyes went to a business card of Troy Anders’ that was pinned on the bulletin board He dialed the man’s direct line and was relieved when Anders picked up on the second ring. Roy babbled out an explanation that he was amazed the detective could make sense of. But the man must have made sense of it, because Troy said, “I’ll be right over,” before hanging up the phone.

        The next call Roy had to make was the most difficult one of his life. When the Rampart receptionist picked up the phone he closed his eyes and requested softly, “May I speak with Doctor DeSoto, please? This is her father. It’s. . .it’s an emergency.”

Chapter 16

        It wouldn’t have been easy for Johnny to escape considering his hands and feet were bound, but the minute the panel door on the van slid open he would have tried had it not been for one thing. Roy DeSoto’s granddaughter. Even if an escape attempt had been possible for himself, Johnny would have never left the child behind. Johnny suspected his captor knew this. He was grabbed by the shoulders and spun around before he got more than a glimpse of the landscape beyond the van. A red bandanna was tied around his eyes and knotted at the back of his head. The tape was yanked off his mouth in one tug, making it all Johnny could do not to yelp in pain. But he’d never do that. He wouldn’t give this bastard the perverse satisfaction it would bring him to know he’d hurt his captive.

        “We’re going for a stroll, Uncle Johnny. You, me, and this sweet little girl here. If you try to run, I’ll kill her. You got that?”

        It took Johnny a moment to find enough saliva to answer the man. When he did, his voice came out in a harsh croak he barely recognized. “I got it.”

        The ropes binding Johnny’s ankles together were untied. He was wrenched from the van, his head slamming against its frame. Despite the bandanna, he momentarily saw stars. Within seconds he felt a warm trickle of blood running down the side of his face.

        “Ooops. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

        “I bet,” came Johnny’s dry retort.

        The man laughed. “Gage, there’s one thing I like about you, and that’s your sense of humor. I don’t like much else about you, but your sense of humor does amuse me.”
        
        The bandanna prevented Johnny from seeing what was happening, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. When Libby started sobbing again he growled, “Keep your hands off her, you bastard. If you hurt her--”

        “I’m not hurting her. Or at least not yet. I’m simply untying the ropes around her ankles. I told you we’re taking a little stroll.”

        Evan tied a length of rope around Libby’s waist, and another length around Johnny’s. He gave both ropes a tug.

        “I would hope both of you realize attempting to run would be an effort in futility. If either of you is still unwise enough to try it, I promise I’ll kill the one left behind. Do you understand me, Gage?”

        “I understand you,” Johnny answered, though he wondered where the man thought he’d run to anyway, considering his hands were bound behind his back and he was blindfolded.

        “And you, Miss Sheridan? Do you understand?”

        Libby’s voice wasn’t louder than the squeak of a frightened mouse.
“Ye. . .yes.”

        Evan shouldered into a large backpack, then grabbed the McDonald’s bag and drink tray. Libby’s hands were bound in front of her so he thrust the food at her. “Here. Carry this.”

        Johnny was prodded with a push between his shoulder blades. “Get moving, Fire Chief Gage. Walk straight ahead.”

        By Johnny’s estimate they traveled half a mile from the van until they reached the point where their kidnapper brought them to a halt. But how accurate his estimation was, Johnny was far from certain. He’d stumbled over logs and rocks, and walked into trees throughout this trek, much to the delight of the man who was sponsoring this game of Blindman’s Bluff. Johnny didn’t waste time feeling humiliated over what the man was doing to him, instead he listened to the sounds around him and paid attention to what he was traveling over. Leaves crunched beneath his Nike running shoes, and twigs snapped as he walked. Within minutes he knew they were in a heavily wooded area and climbing upward. He couldn’t hear any traffic, or any other noises that indicated human life was nearby, but he did hear the call of birds, and every so often heard something small scamper ahead of him like a squirrel or chipmunk.

        Johnny tripped going up a set of steps. His feet finally came to rest on what he guessed might be a front porch.

        “Gage, I’ve got my gun trained on the girl. Therefore, you’d better cool your heels while I open this.”

        Johnny nodded, though he had no idea what was being opened. His head was pounding from where he’d whacked it on the frame of the van, and he estimated his temperature was holding fairly steady at around one hundred and one. He wasn’t in shape at the moment to do much more than cool his heels. An escape attempt, if it was to come, couldn’t be wasted. Between the blindfold, and how he was feeling, Johnny knew an attempt to flee right now would be wasted. He’d be caught before he’d run three feet. Besides, there was still the little girl to think of. If he did get the chance to flee, she was going with him.

        Johnny was pushed into a building of some sort. He felt the rough wooden floor beneath his tennis shoes, and smelled years worth of dust and cobwebs. He heard a door close, then felt the rope around his waist being removed. The blindfold was removed next. Using his gun, the man gestured for Johnny to move to a far corner of the large room.

        “Sit down over there, Gage.” Evan looked at Libby next. “You too, Little Miss. You sit down next to your Uncle Johnny.”

        Libby did as the man instructed her. She slid down the wall on shaking legs, trying not to upend the food she was still carrying. When she was seated, the girl leaned into Johnny’s body without even realizing she’d sought that form of comfort and protection from this man she’d never met before, and was only a face in her grandfather’s photo albums.

        Johnny looked around the room. It was bare of everything but an old stone fireplace with a wide hearth, and a waist-high counter of some sort along one wall. The floor was wood like he’d suspected, and dotted with rodent droppings. The four windows it contained were boarded over with plywood. A doorway led to a smaller room in the rear of the structure. Johnny couldn’t see enough of that room to know whether or not it contained windows, but if it did he was certain he’d discover they were boarded over as well.

        Evan shouldered out of his backpack while being careful to keep his gun aimed at Johnny’s chest. The green zippered pack dropped to the wood floor with a thud.
        
        “There’s some things in here you might like to make use of.”

“What things?” Johnny asked.

         “Toothbrushes. Toothpaste. A razor. Shaving cream. Some odds and ends to keep the girl entertained. Things like that. Think of it as a care package from me to you, Uncle Johnny.”

        Johnny didn’t know what was worse. Expecting to die quickly, as he had been since the moment he’d realized who his captor was, or now coming to the realization that the man was playing some sick mind game with not only Johnny, but more than likely with the police as well. He wanted his captives alive and relatively comfortable, which meant when he finally killed them the joke would be all the more cruel.

        Evan pointed to a back room. “Around the corner there’s a bathroom of sorts. Make yourselves at home.” The man smiled at Johnny. “You might want to clean up a bit, Gage. You know; shave, brush your teeth, comb your hair. . .make yourself look presentable again.”

        “Why? You got a hot date lined up for me? If you do, keep in mind I’m a leg man, the longer the better. And at my age a woman about twenty years younger would be appealing.”

        Evan laughed. “There you go again with that sharp wit you possess.” Crammer shook his head. “No, Uncle Johnny, no date. Actually, if you must know the truth, I want them to recognize your body when they find you. After all, an important man such as yourself should have a proper burial, wouldn’t you say?”

        And with that, Evan backed out of the cabin. The thick door was shut, and Johnny heard a padlock snap into place. Within seconds, the tears that had been silently running down Libby’s face changed to sobs. Because his hands were still tied Johnny couldn’t pull the girl into his arms when she burrowed her face against his left biceps.

        “Sweetie, don’t cry. Don’t cry, kiddo. Come on now, we’ve got some things we need to accomplish if we’re going to get out of this situation.”

        “Get. . .get out. . out of it how?” Libby hiccupped into Johnny’s shirtsleeve.

        “I don’t know the answer to that question just yet, but I do know I need your help in order to find the answer.”

        Libby peeked up at the man. “My help?”

        “You bet.”

        “How can I help?”

        “First of all, we’re going to untie each other’s hands. Were you blindfolded like I was when we were brought here?”

        “No.”

        “Good. Then you’re going to tell me everything you noticed about this place, about the area around us, while we walked.”

        “But I was pretty scared. I. . .I didn’t notice much.”

        “Oh, I think you noticed more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

        Libby thought a moment. “There were lots of trees. So many you couldn’t see anything else.”

        “Good girl. You’ve already got the hang of it. But first let’s get untied and see if there’s a way out of this place.”

        “There’s a big lock on the door. It’s on the outside. The man had to use a key to open it.”

        “I figured as much.” Johnny nodded at the food in Libby’s hands. “Set that stuff down, kiddo, then let me see if I can untie you.”

        Libby did as Johnny instructed. He turned his back and told her to place her wrists next to his hands. “Okay, you tell me how I’m doin’ ‘cause I can’t really see what’s going on.”

        “You don’t have eyes in the back of your head like my grandpa does?”

        Johnny chuckled at the child’s comment and what it implied, as well as at hearing Roy referred to as ‘Grandpa.’

        “Sometimes I do. Or so my son, Trevor, thinks.”

        “How old is Trevor?” Libby asked, while Johnny’s fingers fumbled with the knots at her thin wrists.

        “Eight.”

        “That’s how old Branny would be if he was still alive.”

        “Branny?”

        “My brother. Brandon. Brandon Roy Sheridan. He died two years ago of a brain tumor.”

        “Oh.” Pain pricked Johnny’s heart at the thought of Jennifer losing a child. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

        “It made everyone very sad. Especially my grandpa. He. . .Grandma said it still hurts him to talk about Branny. My dad. . .my dad left after Branny died. I guess it hurt him bad, too. He lives in Ohio now. He has a new wife. They just had a baby a couple months ago. A boy. His name’s Garrett Daniel. I haven’t met him yet even though he is my brother. I might someday though.”

        “I’m sure you will.”

        “Maybe. Dad. . .he doesn’t call me much. And it takes him a long time to answer my e-mails. He’s a surgeon. An orthopedist. You know what that is, right?”

        “Yes, I do.”

        “Some people don’t, but I figured you did beings you were a paramedic with my grandpa and all. Are you still a paramedic?”

        “Among other things, yes, I am.” As the ropes around Libby’s wrists came loose, Johnny turned around. The girl was flexing her hands, trying to work out the kinks and get the blood flowing again. “But how do you know me?”

        “I heard that man call you Uncle Johnny. That’s when I stopped being so scared and really looked at your face. You’re lots older now than you were in the pictures Grandpa has in his photo album, and you’re not quite so scrawny, but I knew it was you right away, Uncle Johnny. My mom’s told me lots and lots about you.”

        Johnny smiled to himself. There was no doubt this forthright child belonged to Jennifer. “Good stuff I hope,” Johnny teased.

        “Good stuff? It was great stuff, Uncle Johnny. Exciting stuff. Funny stuff. Neat stuff.”

        Johnny shook his head as Libby scooted behind him and started untying his hands. Even after all these years, and all that had happened, he could still count on Jennifer for a little hero worship. “Your mother’s opinion of me is slightly over-elevated.”

        “Uh huh.”

        “What makes you say that?”

        “She told me all about you, Katori. I know the story. I know how you saved her from that bad man. And now a bad man has kidnapped me, and I know you’ll save me, too.”

        Johnny wished it were that easy. He wished being a hero to a little girl was as simple as Jennifer’s daughter made it sound. Johnny ignored the pins and needles sensation in his hands as the ropes fell away from his wrists and he pushed himself to his feet. Nor did he pay attention to the blood still trickling down the side of his face and soaking into his shirt collar. He held out a hand to the child. “Come on, let’s look around this place and see if there’s a way out.”

        Libby smiled up at the man. “If anyone can find a way out, Uncle Johnny, it’ll be you.”

        In an effort not to build up the child’s hopes, Johnny changed the subject.

        “You know my name, so it’s only fair you tell me yours. How about it, kiddo?”

        “Libby. Well, actually, Libby is my nickname. My real name is Olivia. Olivia Kate Sheridan.”

        Johnny turned away to cough, resisting the urge to clutch his chest as he did so. When he turned back to face Libby, he tweaked her nose just like he used to do to her mother. And just like he had done to her mother so many years ago now, Johnny christened the little girl with a nickname of his own.

        “Come on, Olive Oyl, let’s go exploring.”

        Libby giggled at that man. Her mother was right. Uncle Johnny was fun. Fun and nice both. She was still a little afraid, but not very much. Uncle Johnny would help her get back home.

___________________________

        If Libby was disappointed that Johnny didn’t find a way out of their prison she didn’t show it. But then she was perceptive for ten years old and realized he was disappointed enough for both of them. The thick plywood boards over the windows were held in place by screws, making it impossible for Uncle Johnny to pull the boards away even though he’d tried so hard his fingers had bled. He’d tried to kick the boards in, too, and then he’d thrown his shoulders against them until he winced with pain. He tried using the same methods on the front door, but to no avail. When he finally slid down the wall he was coughing so hard it scared Libby. She watched as sweat mixed with the blood from the gash on the top of his head and ran down his face. She picked a Coke up from the drink tray.

        “Here, Uncle Johnny. Take a drink.”

        Though the Coke was watered down with little ice left in it, Johnny gratefully took a long sip through the straw. Libby sat next to him and opened the food bag. The Big Macs and fries were cold, but she was so hungry she didn’t care. She spread the bag on the floor, then laid the food on top of it. She bit into a French fry and took a drink of her own soda.

        “I wish we had a microwave.”

        Johnny smiled. “Yeah, that would be nice. Your grandpa and I had more cold meals than I can count when we worked together. We would have killed for a microwave oven in the station back then.”

        “Couldn’t the fire department afford one?”

        “I suppose it could have, but microwaves weren’t invented yet.”

        “Wow! I didn’t know you and my grandpa were that old.”

        Johnny feigned outrage. “I think I’ve just been insulted by a munchkin.”

        Libby giggled, then took a bite out of her Big Mac.

        Johnny broke some sesame seed bun from his sandwich. He had no appetite, but knew he had to eat what he could in order to keep his strength up. He couldn’t very well protect Libby if he was unable to stand. “Libby, remember when I told you that you could help me?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Good. ‘Cause now I need you to tell me everything you recall about our journey here.”

        “I already told you there were lots of trees.”

        “I know. But what else? What did you see?”

        “Just trees,” Libby shrugged. “Lots and lots of trees.”

        “Oh, come on, Olive Oyl, you can do better than that. Close your eyes and concentrate. Think about what was out there.”

        Libby closed her eyes and thought really, really hard for no other reason than because Uncle Johnny asked her to. A full minute passed before she spoke.

        “Trees. Lots of trees. And no houses. I didn’t see any houses, or any people at all. We climbed. The path we were walking on was really steep. There was a gate. A big gate that had a sign on it that said, Keep Out.
        
        Johnny sat forward. “A gate?”

        “Yeah. Like. . .” Libby scrunched her eyes together and thought really hard. “Not like a fence, but just a gate. . .a metal bar shaped like a triangle that the man made us walk around. Pretty soon, we were here.”

        “Where’s here?”

        “Here. In this house.”

        “Does this look like a house from the outside?”

        “Kinda. More like a cabin I guess. It’s small.”

        “Is there a front porch?”

        “Yeah. A front porch with a wooden railing.”

        Their captor’s words from earlier echoed in Johnny’s head as the clues Libby was providing him with began to come together in his mind.

        Well, Uncle Johnny, we’re on our way to ending it where it all began.

        The mountains! Johnny’s brain screamed at him. We’re in the San Gabriel mountains! That’s what he meant. This is a ranger station. An old, unused ranger station they’ve boarded up. This would have been the main room that visitors could come in to get information or directions, and the back room was the ranger’s office.

        Johnny mulled this revelation over as he watched Libby moved away from the food to the backpack their captor had left behind. How their assailant had gotten a key to access the padlock on the door Johnny wasn’t certain, but he surmised the man had been up here in the recent past, cut the original padlock off with bolt cutters, and replaced it with a new padlock of his own.

        Libby’s voice interrupted Johnny’s thoughts as she unzipped the pack. “Should I see what’s in here?”

        “Sure.”

        The first things the girl pulled out would come in useful for the tiny bathroom off the back office. The toilet was nothing more than a hole that plunged right to the ground with a toilet seat mounted on top. The hole wasn’t big enough for Libby to climb down, if she’d even been willing, let alone big enough for Johnny to slither through. When the station had been open Johnny knew chemicals meant to dissolve human waste would have been liberally dumped down that hole on a frequent basis. Whether those chemicals still had any power, Johnny figured they soon find out. Especially if they were kept here more than a few days. There was also a sink in the room with a hand pump that still provided water, albeit water that was a bit on the rusty side.
        
        Libby held up a roll of toilet paper, two green hand towels, two green washcloths, a comb, a plastic bottle of shampoo, and a bar of Zest soap. “Guess these are for the bathroom.”

        “Guess so.”

        “Here’s a box of Kleenex, too.”

        Without Johnny having told her he was sick, Libby knew. She slid the box of Kleenex across the floor to the man who was suddenly seized by another round of tight coughs. It took Johnny a minute to quiet the coughing and catch his breath.

        “Thanks, Olive Oyl.”

        “You’re welcome. And can I ask you something?”

        “You can.”

        “Who’s Olive Oyl?”

        Johnny smiled. “A character from a cartoon called Popeye. Ever see it?”

        “Nope.”

        “Then I’ll have to speak to your mother about that fact because it was one of her favorites. I watched about as many hours of that with her as I watched hours of Sesame Street.”

        “Who was your favorite? On Sesame Street, I mean?”

        “Bert and Ernie.”

        “Mine, too. ‘Cept I’m too old for Sesame Street now.”

        “I can see that. How old are you, by the way?”

        “Ten.”

        Libby continued to dig through the pack. She came up with a bag that contained two toothbrushes, a tube of Crest, a disposal razor, and shaving cream.

        “More stuff for the bathroom,” she said, as though they were simply staying in the cabin for a weekend of fun, as opposed to being held here by a man whose name Johnny didn’t even know, but who would kill them both without blinking.

        Just goes to prove she’s as resilient as her mother. Jennifer was just this strong, this tough, the night I was attacked by this guy in these very same mountains.

        Libby pulled out a box of Ritz crackers next, along with a box of Quaker Chocolate Chip Granola Bars, four apples, and a flashlight. She pushed the button on the flashlight to see if it worked. It did. The beam shone off the wall above Johnny’s head. There was no electricity in the cabin, so as soon as the sun went down it would be black as night in here. Johnny assumed that’s why they were given the flashlight, though it mattered little to him one way or another.
        
        “Shut it off for now, Libby. We don’t wanna waste the batteries.”

        Libby nodded and did as Johnny instructed. Though the room was dim, there was still enough light seeping in through tiny cracks in the walls to give some visibility. Johnny guessed in thirty minutes or so they’d be in complete darkness.

        The last few items Libby pulled out were evidently intended to keep her occupied. A Baby-Sitters Club book, a coloring book, crayons, a one hundred piece Barbie puzzle, and a deck of Uno cards.

        “I like the Baby-Sitters Club books. Have you ever read any of them?”

        “No. My son would tell you they’re for girls.”
        
        “They are, I guess. Does Trevor like to read?”

        Johnny laid his head back against the wall and took another sip of watered down Coke. The top of his head still hurt in the area of the gash, but at least the bleeding had stopped. “Yep. Right now Harry Potter is his current favorite. He loves the Goosebumps series, too, as well as the Hardy Boys. And any book that contains a horse, a dog, a fire truck, or a baseball team.”

        “He’s a typical boy then.”
        
        “He is. Two hundred percent boy as my housekeeper says.”

        Libby flipped through the Xena, Warrior Princess coloring book, then set it aside. She took the items to the bathroom that belonged there before returning to the central room to pull the last item out of the pack. She held up the blue blanket that had been covering Johnny when he’d laid down to take a nap in his home however many days ago that had been. The fire chief had lost all track of time thanks to the chloroform and his illness.

        “Here,” the girl walked across the room and spread the blanket over Johnny. “I think you need this.”

        “Thanks.”

        Libby returned the food to the backpack and zipped it closed, then put the flashlight and the gifts their captor had packed for her in a neat pile against the wall. She started cleaning up their litter from supper. “Don’t you want to eat some more? You hardly touched anything.”

        “I’m not very hungry, sweetheart. Go ahead and put it all in the bag except the drinking cups. We can fill those with water from the pump in the bathroom.”

        “Good idea.”

        “Every so often I have one, despite what your grandfather might have told you.”

        Libby didn’t understand what Johnny meant, but she did pick up on the dry humor behind his remark.

        “My grandpa’s never told me anything about you, Uncle Johnny.”

        “I can’t say that surprises me,” Johnny murmured so softly that Libby couldn’t hear his words, though she did hear the pain that came out with them.
        
        When Libby had finished her housekeeping duties she sat down next to Johnny. He lifted the blanket, inviting her to cover up as well. She snuggled close to the man once again, and patted the blanket in place over them.

        “Libby, what day is it?”

        “It’s Friday.”

        “Write that down in the front page of that coloring book he gave you, okay? And the date, too.” Johnny quickly calculated the correct date. “June 16th.”

        “Why?”

        “Just so we can keep track of the passing time.”

        “All right.” Libby reached for the coloring book and box of crayons. She opened the box that held sixteen different shades of the rainbow and faced it toward Johnny. “What color do you like best?”

        “Sunset orange.”

        Libby smiled. “You’re good at this.”

        “My son likes to color. He ropes me into coloring with him whenever he can.”

        Libby plucked out the color Johnny had chosen. With a careful hand she wrote the word Friday in the front cover of the book. Next to it she wrote June 16th. When she had set the book and crayons aside Johnny asked, “Do you know about what time it was when he. . .when the man grabbed you?”

        “I guess around one-thirty, maybe quarter to two. Me and Grandpa went to the hospital and had lunch with my mom and Dixie. Then--”

        Johnny cocked an eyebrow. “Dixie still works there? At Rampart?”

        “Yep. Only just some hours, not lots of hours.”

        “Part-time?”

        “Yeah. Part-time. She’s my mom’s favorite nurse.”

        Johnny smiled with fond memory. “She’s my favorite nurse, too.” Johnny sobered. “And your mom? Is she a doctor?”

        “Yep. She works in the emergency room at Rampart. Doctor Morton is her boss. Do you know him?”

        “Oh, yeah. Lucky her.”

        Libby wasn’t sure what Johnny meant by that sarcastic remark. Doctor Morton was always nice to her whenever she visited the hospital.

        “Does Doctor Brackett still work there?”

        “Uh huh. He’s the admin. . .admin. . .I can never get that word right.”

        “Administrator. The hospital administrator?”

        “Yeah. That’s it.”

        Johnny nodded. It didn’t surprise him to discover that Brackett had risen that far. Johnny always had a great deal of respect for the man. It was because of Brackett, and Roy, that Johnny had become a paramedic in the first place. The by-the-book Brackett had frustrated the hell out of the young, rebellious John Gage thirty years ago, but the reason he was still a paramedic today was because of all he learned from Kelly Brackett back in 1971. Johnny’s love of emergency medicine and trauma care came directly from that man’s influence.

        “Is Doctor Early still there?”

        “I don’t know. I don’t know him”

        Johnny nodded. If Joe Early were still alive he’d be over eighty years old. The likelihood that he yet worked at Rampart was slim.

        Johnny and Libby fell silent as they watched a squirrel appear from the fireplace. The little animal looked startled to see his home occupied by intruders. He raised up on his hind legs, watching Libby and Johnny a moment before turning around and scurrying up the chimney. Johnny could hear the squirrel’s tiny feet scampering across the roof.

        “Libby, I need you to make me a promise.”
        
        “What?”

        “If something happens. . .if an opportunity comes that you can escape, if I can keep the man occupied so you can run out the door, you have to do that, do you understand?”

        “You mean by myself? You mean run through the woods by myself and leave you here?”

        “That’s exactly what I mean. I wish I could tell you how to find a road from here, sweetheart, but I can’t, because I’m not exactly sure where here is. I can tell you we’re in the San Gabriel Mountains. Do you know where those are?”
        
        “I’ve been by them in the car.”

        “But you’ve never camped up here?”

        “No. We don’t go camping.”

        Johnny couldn’t say that news surprised him. Though Roy and his kids had camped with Johnny a number of times twenty-five years ago, Roy was more inclined to rent a cabin and have a certain amount of amenities available whenever he went fishing, or spent a few days away from the city with his family.

        “If you can get out of here, Libby, you have to run until you come to a highway, or until you come across other people. Then you have to tell them who you are, and that you need them to call the police. Tell them you were kidnapped. I’m sure the police are already looking for you.”
        
        “Probably. I wasn’t supposed to leave McKenzie’s. Grandpa said not to. But Mrs. Harris, McKenzie’s mom, said McKenzie and the other girls were at the school playground. I was only going that far, but then the man. . .the man. . .he took me. Grandpa will be really mad. He might even spank me. He’s never done that before, but I think maybe he will this time.”

        Johnny put an arm around the girl, ignoring the pain that movement caused his bruised shoulder. He was getting too old to try to break through plywood with his body.

        “Don’t worry about it, Olive Oyl. I don’t think your grandpa will spank you. Besides, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
        
        “You will?”

        “Sure.”

        “You think it will help?”

        “Let’s put it this way, it got your mom out of some spankings on several of occasions.”
        
        “That must be why my mom likes you so much.”

        Johnny smiled. “Yeah, maybe.” He cupped the girl’s chin and forced her to look into his weary eyes. It was getting harder to talk without coughing. All he wanted to do was get a couple hours sleep. If he did he’d feel better. Stronger. And then maybe he could somehow help Libby escape. “Now remember. If I tell you to run you’re outta here as fast as your legs can carry you. If it’s dark, you scoop up that flashlight and take it with you. Don’t worry about the man coming after you. I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep that from happening. And remember that we’re in the San Gabriel Mountains. When you get to a police officer, or your grandfather, tell them we were being held in the San Gabriel Mountains at a boarded up ranger station. Can you do all that for me?”

        “Yes,” Libby said, though in truth it sounded scary. She didn’t think she could run through the woods by herself, especially after dark, but then she remembered that Uncle Chris hadn’t been much older than she was now when he’d had to leave Uncle Johnny to get help. “I guess. . .I guess I can do it. Like Uncle Chris did when he rode Cody down the mountain to get help for you a long time ago.”

        “Exactly like that. Exactly like your Uncle Chris did. How. . .how is your Uncle Chris?”

        “He’s fine. Him and Aunt Wendy bought a real nice house last year. I go there a lot to play with Brittany and Madison.”

        Johnny recalled that Chris had been dating a red headed beauty named Wendy Adams back in 1985. Evidently they’d gotten married.

        “Brittany and Madison?”

        “My cousins. Uncle Chris’s kids. They’re only four and two, but I have fun with them anyway. Sometimes I baby-sit for them when Uncle Chris is busy working in his office.”

        “What’s he do?”
        
        “Makes stuff on the computer.”

        “Makes stuff?”

        “Designs Web sites. Mom says he’s gonna get rich doing that. He’s really smart, you know.”

        “Yes, I know.”

        Johnny was so happy to hear that Chris had gone on to make a life for himself despite his injury, that he barely heard Libby rattling on about her Uncle John. By the time he tuned into her words Johnny was being told about John’s career as a forest ranger at Yellowstone, and about his girlfriend named Shawna who no one had met yet, but who Grandma was sure Uncle John would marry someday.

        “That sounds just like your grandma.” Johnny’s tone held nothing but affection for Joanne DeSoto. “Always trying to marry us bachelors off.”

        “Did she do that to you?”
        
        “On several occasions, yes.”

        “Did it work?”

        “No,” Johnny chuckled. “Much to her disappointment it never did. How is your grandma?”

        “She’s good. She works at a bank. Me and Grandpa go visit her there sometimes. She’s the nicest grandma ever.”

        “I’m sure she is. She was always one of my favorite people, I can tell you that.”

        If Libby noticed Johnny didn’t ask her about her grandfather she didn’t comment on that fact. Her chatter died away, and she soon wound down enough to allow sleep to claim her. She snuggled even farther into Johnny’s side as exhaustion took over. Not even the movement of Johnny’s chest each time he coughed disturbed the girl’s slumber.

        It took Johnny another hour to join Libby in sleep. The things she had told him about the DeSoto offspring, and especially about Chris, brought him a large measure of peace. Not to mention satisfying his curiosity in regards to what career paths they had chosen, and how their lives had turned out. It made him sad to think of Jennifer having lost a child, and having suffered through the break-up of her marriage, but Johnny, better than anyone else, knew you didn’t travel the road of adulthood without experiencing some devastating times along the way. He wished he could have spared the little girl he used to call Jenny Bean those heartaches, but he knew that was a foolish notion.

        Johnny looked down at the golden haired child wrapped in his arms. He couldn’t spare Jennifer her past heartaches, but he vowed he’d do everything he could to spare her a future one.

        I’ve got to get Libby out of here. Somehow, I’ve got to get her out of here.

        And that was the fire chief’s final thought before he fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter 17
        

        Trevor Gage wandered his home, aimlessly moving from room to room in his stocking feet. His papa had been missing for two days now. Clarice kept smiling at Trevor, telling him things would turn out just fine, and that Papa would be coming home soon. Nonetheless, Trevor saw the worry in her eyes, and the way her smile transformed to a sad frown when she thought he wasn't looking.

        By Thursday afternoon, just twenty-eight hours after John Gage had been kidnapped, most of the people searching for him had left the Gage property and surrounding area. The men from the crime lab in Juneau were gone, too. They'd dusted for fingerprints in the bedroom Carl had immediately cordoned off after discovering Gage was missing. Aside from the blanket and box of Kleenex, the only other item that appeared to be absent was a pair of Nike tennis shoes gone from the closet floor according to Trevor. The men spent hours walking back and forth in every room of the house, using infrared goggles to look for clues not readily seen by the naked eye. As Thursday drew to a close and Trevor watched vehicle after vehicle pull out of his driveway, he fought back tears and ran to find Clarice.

        "Clarice, where's everyone going? How come they've quit looking for Papa?"

        "They haven't quit looking, love. It's just that they've searched everywhere they can around the house. Carl will have them look other places now."

        "What other places?"

        "I don't know, sweetie. But don't you worry about it. Carl's taking care of everything. Papa will be home soon."

        "How soon?"

        "Soon."

        "But how soon?"

        "Soon, love."

        "But when?"

        “Very soon.”

        “But how--”

        Before Trevor could finish his question the phone rang. It had been ringing constantly since word of his father's disappearance had gotten out. People were calling to ask Clarice if she'd heard anything about Papa yet, but her answer was always a quiet, "No. Nothing yet."

        Rather than upset Trevor anymore than he already was, Clarice was staying at the Gage home with him as opposed to taking him to the home she shared with her son in Eagle Harbor. If they didn't find John soon that situation would have to be rectified, but for the next few days at least she would keep the child in the only home he remembered living in.

        Trevor paused behind his father's deep blue Lazy Boy as he walked a big circle around the great room. He knew it wasn't right to eavesdrop, but he stopped when he heard Clarice talking in the kitchen about Papa to her sisters. The women were here for the afternoon helping Clarice cook dinner. Carl, and at least two-dozen other people ranging from law enforcement officers to citizens assisting with the search for John Gage, would stop by later to grab a bite to eat. Trevor knew Clarice's sisters well. Nana Marie, Nana Colette, and Nana Josephine treated him like a grandson; which only made sense considering they'd known him since he was twelve months old, and he went to school with a good number of their grandchildren.

        "I'm just so worried about him," Clarice said as she rolled dough on the work island counter in the center of the big room. "I. . .John's like another son to me."

        The woman's sisters nodded their heads and made soft clucking noises that Trevor took to mean they understood how she felt.

        "Has anyone contacted John's father?" Nana Marie asked while sifting more flour over the dough that would soon be shaped into corkscrew noodles.

        "Chad. . .John's father, Chad and his wife are touring the country in their motor home. Trevor has a postcard John received nine days ago that said they were headed for Niagara Falls. Carl got their license number from the Montana DMV, and has notified various police agencies in the Northeast, but so far he hasn't heard anything. For all we know they could be in Canada, or could have changed their itinerary completely and headed in an entirely different direction."

        "What about John's sister?" Nana Colette stood at the sink washing dishes. "Reah? Is that her name?"

        "Yes. I've been trying to call her, but I can't get an answer. She's a midwife in northern Newfoundland. It's not unusual for her to be out of touch for several weeks at a time because of her practice and how far she sometimes travels. Or so John has told me. Trevor knew that John had her e-mail address so Carl got on the computer and sent her a message, but she has yet to respond to it."

        "And Trevor's mother?" Nana Marie questioned softly while throwing a glance over her shoulder. Trevor ducked down behind Papa's chair. He wanted to hear what Clarice said since no one had mentioned his mother to him up until this point.

        Clarice threw her hands in the air as if dismissing that subject before it even began. "She's in Paris. She and that rich husband of hers. It took us a while to track her down, but Carl started with the hospital where she works, and finally got in touch with her parents. Ashton. . Trevor's mother, called here last night after Trevor was in bed. She's worried about John, but not worried enough to cut her vacation short and fly back home to be with her son. I'm sure she doesn't want to be inconvenienced in any way."

        "What John ever saw in that woman I'll never know," Nana Josephine shook her head. "He deserved so much better than the way she treated him, and Trevor deserves better, too."

        "Don't ever say that to John," Clarice cautioned. "And most especially don't ever say it in front of Trevor. Despite the reasons behind their breakup, John is fiercely loyal to her where Trevor is concerned."

        "That's because he puts the needs of his son first," Nana Marie said. "Unlike her."

        Trevor wasn't certain who the 'her' was Nana Marie was talking about. He understood enough of the conversation to sense that Clarice was mad at his mother for some reason, but since his mother had never been to Eagle Harbor, and since his parents hadn't lived together since Trevor's birth, it was hard for the boy to fathom his mother flying here now. After all, she lived in New York, and he and Papa lived in Alaska. Papa said that still made them a family, only like a family who lived far apart from one another like they lived far apart from Grandpa Chad and Aunt Reah.

Nana Colette turned from the sink to face her sisters. "What will happen to Trevor if John. . .if John isn't found?"

        Trevor peeked over the chair, curious as to what the answer would be. Clarice caught sight of a mop of dark hair and said quickly, "He'll be found. Don't you worry about that." She smiled at Trevor while wiping the flour from her hands with a dish towel. She set the towel down and headed toward the great room.

        "What are you doing back there, love?" Clarice motioned for the boy to come out. She bent and tucked the tails of his blue chambray shirt into the thin waist of his Wrangler jeans.

        "I. . .I was looking for my Lego fire truck. I thought I left it behind Papa's chair."

        "No, I don't think so. I vacuumed in here today and I didn't see it."
        
        "Oh."

        "It must be in your room. Did you look in your toy box?"

        "No, but I will."

        "Are you sure you don't want me to take you to your Little League game?" Clarice glanced over at the grandfather clock in the corner to see it was one-thirty. "It starts in half an hour."

        "No. Not unless Papa will be there. He's supposed to help coach today."

        Clarice gave Trevor a soft smile. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but Papa won't be there today."
        
        Trevor dropped his eyes to the carpeting. "That's what I thought."

        "Is there something else you'd like to do? Someone's house you'd like to go play at? Or we could invite someone over here. How about the twins?"

        "No. They'll be playing baseball anyway."

        "What about your friend Caleb from school?"

        "No."

        "How about Matthew, or Emily? I bet Emily would like to come over and play with Happy and Hoppy."

        "Not today."

        Clarice walked over to the boy and cupped his chin in her hands. "Trevor, Papa would be hurt to see you so sad."

        Trevor fought to keep his tears from falling. He moved his face from Clarice's grasp. He didn't want to play with anyone, and he didn't want to hear Clarice and her sisters saying bad things about his mother, or wondering where he was going to stay if Papa didn't come home. Papa was going to come home so whether or not his mother flew to Eagle Harbor, or whether or not his grandfather or Aunt Reah were located, didn't make any difference as far as Trevor was concerned. Papa would be back. Papa would never leave him.

        Like his father, Trevor knew how to deflect an emotional moment he didn't want to be a part of.

        "Can I play a game on the computer?"

        "You may. But don't go on the Internet," Clarice reminded Trevor of his father's rule. He wasn't to be on the Internet unless Papa was in the office with him.

        "I won't."

        Clarice sighed as she watched the boy shuffle to his father's office with slumped shoulders. Trevor never shuffled anywhere. He bounded. He ran. He skipped. He hopped. He danced. But shuffle? Never. Just that subdued action alone told the woman how devastated the child was over his father's disappearance. She turned around and headed back for the kitchen. Not for the first time in the past two days, she prayed for John Gage's safe return.

_______________________

        Trevor had sought the sanctity of his father's office to be alone, more than for the desire to play a game on the computer. He wandered around the room just like he had wandered the great room, attempting to absorb the essence of his father in each item he touched. He finally sat down in Johnny's soft leather chair with the back that rose high above his head.

        The boy kicked his feet a few moments from where they hung over the edge of the maroon seat. He used a foot to push off the desk and twirl the chair around, but it wasn't much fun doing that when Papa wasn't here. Papa would spin him real fast until Trevor was dizzy and he laughed and begged Papa to stop.

        When the chair was facing the front of the clean desktop again Trevor scooted forward. He leaned down and pulled open the bottom right hand drawer. He got on his knees, allowing the right arm of the chair to support his middle as he bent for the photo album. With a quiet grunt, the boy hoisted the album up to the desk.

        Maybe I can help Carl find Papa. Maybe if I look real hard I'll see Papa's friend from California in one of these pictures.

        Trevor wasn't certain how the nameless man who had been driving the white van fit into his father's disappearance, but everyone had sure gotten upset after Trevor had mentioned him on Wednesday night. The boy slowly turned each page, carefully studying every face in every photo. He whispered names aloud as he correctly identified people his father had pointed out to him many times.

        "Mike Stoker. Captain Stanley. Marco Lopez. Chet Kelly. Uncle Roy. Dixie McCall. Doctor Brackett. Doctor Early. Doctor Morton."

        Trevor started over each time he came to a new picture. But on only rare occasions did a face show up he couldn't identify by name. Yet even then, none of those faces were of the man who had questioned Trevor at the end of his driveway.

        Soon pictures of firemen, and of doctors and nurses, gave way to photos of the DeSoto family. Again, Trevor correctly identified each member.

        "Aunt Joanne. Chris. Jennifer. John. Uncle Roy. Aunt Joanne. Chris. Jennifer. John. Uncle Roy."

        Trevor repeated the names in whatever order the person appeared in a photo. When he came to the end of the book he gave a frustrated sigh. Nowhere did he spot the man he was looking for.

        The boy's eyes wandered the room a moment before focusing on the open desk drawer again. Two legal sized manila envelopes Trevor had never seen before had been under the photo album. The boy bent over the arm of the chair again and snared them. He brought them to the desk, pushing the photo album out of the way.

        Trevor turned the envelopes over and undid the metal clasps that held them closed. Neither envelope was sealed, so he tipped one upside down and let its contents spill out on the desk.

        The eight year old pawed through his find. Pictures from coloring books, children's drawings, thank you notes printed in crayon, and homemade cards crafted by young hands was what the envelope contained.

        Trevor looked at each item, unconsciously immersing himself in a part of his father's past. The DeSoto children who had always been faces in a photo album, now took on a life of their own for Trevor. There was a Crayola colored picture of someone named Fred Flintstone with words written beneath the fat cartoon character in red. 'Yaba Daba Do, Uncle Johnny! Love, Chris." There was a folded paper thank you note with a stick horse drawn on the front. Inside were printed the words, 'Uncle Johnny, Thanc U for the Tonka trucks for my birthday and for taking me to lunch and for leting me ride Shyann all day long. Love, John.' Then there was get well card after get well card. 'I'm sory you broke your arm, Uncle Johnny. Get wel soon. Love, Jennifer.' 'I'm sory your broke your leg, Uncle Johnny. Get wel soon. Love, Jennifer.' 'I'm sory you broke your other arm, Uncle Johnny. Get wel soon. Love, Jennifer.'

        "Boy, Papa, you sure were clumsy," Trevor said, as he continued leafing through the cards and drawings that indicated how much the DeSoto children had loved his father.

        When Trevor had thoroughly studied the many items that envelope contained he pushed everything aside. He tipped the remaining envelope upside down. Newspaper clippings slowly floated to the desk.

        Trevor shuffled through the clippings, facing everything right-side up so he could read them. Some of them contained pictures of his father, or Uncle Roy, or both men, but a lot of them were just words with no pictures. Trevor skimmed the clippings, quickly coming to the conclusion they were all about fires or rescues his father had been a part of, even though his father's name wasn't always mentioned. When the boy came to the last clipping in the pile his eyes widened and he let out a soft gasp.

        "Oh, Papa."

        By the length of his father's hair Trevor knew the picture had been taken a long time ago. Papa appeared to be asleep, and was hooked up to all kinds of medical equipment, including a tube that came right out of his mouth. He was lying in a bed, and wasn't wearing a shirt. Whether or not he had pants on Trevor couldn't tell because the picture stopped at mid-stomach. The headline above the picture was printed in bold letters.

        A HERO FIGHTS FOR HIS LIFE!

        Trevor read the article beneath his father's picture. Papa had never told him this story before. Papa was a hero. The paper even said so. He'd saved a little girl the paper didn't name from a kidnapper, and he'd gotten hurt really bad while doing that, but he'd never told Trevor anything about it.

        Trevor read the article a second time, then he caught sight of a final piece of paper beneath it. He set the article aside and picked up the police artist's sketch of Evan Crammer. Trevor squinted as he stared at the man's face. There was something about him that was familiar. The face was rounder, and the hair thicker, but. . .it was him! It was the man who had stopped Trevor to ask about Papa! This was him!

        Trevor read the words beneath the sketch that had been circulated to police departments throughout the state of California in April of 1978.

        Wanted In The Attempted Abduction Of Jennifer DeSoto. White Male. Approximate Height: 6 feet 6 inches. Approximate Weight: 300 pounds. Age: Early 30’s
        
        The boy dropped the sketch back on the desk and ran for the kitchen.

        "Clarice! Clarice! Papa's a hero!"

        Clarice looked up from her baking. "Yes, love. He is."

        "No, I mean a real hero! I found a newspaper article, and a picture, and I think the
man—“
     

        Before Trevor could finish the phone rang. He danced from foot to foot as Clarice talked.

        "Clarice," the boy stage whispered while tugging on her elbow. "Clarice, I need to tell you--"

        The woman put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Trevor, your papa has taught you far better manners than this. You know you're not to interrupt when I'm on the phone."

        "But--"

        "No, buts. Now go back and play on the computer."

        "But--"

        "Trevor Roy, what did I just say?"

        The boy turned to Clarice's sisters as she started talking on the phone again.

        "Nana Marie, it's true! Papa is a hero! Come look at what I found!"

        "In a minute, honey. I have to finish these noodles."

        "But--"

        "If you've gone through your father's personal papers you'd better put them away," Nana Josephine scolded. “No good ever comes to a nosy boy.”

        "But--"

        "Trevor, why don't you let me take you to play with Zach for the afternoon?" Nana Colette suggested, making reference to her seven-year-old grandson.

        Trevor should have known women would never understand. This was guy stuff. This was the kind of thing he needed to talk to Carl about. He turned and left the room without answering Nana Colette. Once again the women made those soft clucking noises.

        "He's so upset."

        "He misses his papa so much."

        "Poor dear. He'll be lost if they don't find John."

        Trevor hugged the wall in his father's office, listening until he heard Clarice's phone call come to an end. He crossed to his father's desk and picked up the phone there. He didn't know the number in Carl's office at the police station, so like he'd done on Wednesday, he dialed his father's number at work.

        This time one of the female firefighters picked up on the sixth ring.

        "Eagle Harbor Fire Department. Firefighter LaDon speaking."

        "Monique, can I talk to Carl please?"

        "Trevor?"

        "Yeah. It's me. I need to talk to Carl."

        "What?" The woman teased. "I'm not good enough for my favorite boy today?"

        "No. I mean, yes. I mean I just need to talk to Carl please."

        "All right. I get it. It's a guy thing, right?"

        Trevor could hear the amusement in the woman's voice. She wasn't going to take him seriously either. "Right. That's what it is. A guy thing. Please, Monique."

        "Okay, Little Chief, keep your turn-outs on. I'll see if Carl's here."

        Trevor waited on hold five minutes. Just when he was about to hang up and call back, Monique's voice came over the line.

        "Carl's not here, Trevor."

        "What about Chief Baklonov?"

        "Nope. He's not here either."

        "Well...how about Sergeant Miners?"

        "Nope. Gee, kinda makes ya' wonder who's protecting Eagle Harbor, huh?"

        Trevor rolled his eyes. Normally he loved Monique's sharp wit, but today he wasn't in the mood for it.

        "Do you want me to leave a message for Carl to call you?"

        Trevor thought a moment. He turned and glanced at the clock on the wall behind. Gus's plane left in two hours. There wasn't time for any messages.

        "No. That's okay. Thanks, Monique."

        Trevor hung up before he heard the woman's reply. He knew who had his father, and knew where the man had taken him. California. He must have taken Papa to California so he could kidnap Jennifer DeSoto again, too. Trevor had read lots of Hardy Boys books. He knew all about mysteries, and what bad men did to people, and how you went about tracking those men down.

        The boy gathered up the things he'd left on Johnny's desk. He grabbed a photo out of the album, one of his father and Uncle Roy smiling while leaning against the open compartment doors of Squad 51. Then he plucked up some of the things the DeSoto children had made for his father, and grabbed the newspaper article about the kidnapping along with the police sketch. He shoved everything else back in the envelopes where they belonged, put the envelopes in the desk drawer, then tossed the photo album on top of them. He pushed the drawer shut with his foot, grabbed the items he'd left on the desk, and ran from the room.

        If everyone was too busy to listen to him, then Trevor would find Papa by himself. As he flew up the stairs to his bedroom, Trevor had one destination in mind. California. He was going to California, the Golden State.
        

Chapter 18

        
        Roy rubbed a hand over his bloodshot eyes as he paced the cement floor of Station 51 at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning. As soon as word had gotten out about his missing granddaughter, fire department headquarters volunteered their services to the L.A.P.D. in whatever capacity they could be used. Troy was in need of a command post, and the paramedic-training center that was idle until August fit the bill.

        After Roy hung up the phone from speaking with Jennifer Friday afternoon, he placed a call to Dixie, who was off work that day. He was fortunate to reach her at home. Dixie kept busy and wasn’t always easy to get in touch with. Roy had made Jennifer promise she wouldn’t try to drive by herself. She anxiously waited at Rampart until Dixie picked her up. Roy himself waited at his home until Troy arrived to take his statement.

        The remainder of that afternoon and evening passed with a flurry of activity, just as had occurred in John Gage’s house on Wednesday night. Roy made phone calls to Chris, Wendy, and Joanne, summoning his family home. Police detectives interviewed McKenzie and her mother, then canvassed the neighborhood speaking to every person who answered their door. At some point that night, when it was well after dark and apparent to all concerned that Libby hadn’t simply gone to someone’s house to play and lost track of time, Joanne placed a call to John in Wyoming. He wanted to take the next flight home, but Jennifer got on the phone and urged him to stay where he was for the time being. For one thing, the doctor didn’t want anyone else in the family to be put in a situation that might prove dangerous. They didn’t know where Monroe was, or who he might focus his wrath on next. For another thing, there wasn’t anything John could do that wasn’t already being done.

        John was reluctant to abide by his big sister’s wishes, but finally agreed, knowing she didn’t need additional stress or worry. Before John said good-bye to Jennifer he told her he loved her, and that everything would turn out just fine, and that Libby would come home safe and sound. Then he asked to speak with his parents. He made Roy and Joanne promise to keep him updated. Joanne agreed to that promise. It wasn’t lost on either her, or John, that Roy hadn’t been able to speak until he pushed forth a quiet, hoarse, “Goodbye, son. Be extra careful, please.”

        The next phone call went to Jennifer’s ex-husband in Ohio. Once Dan was told Libby was missing he started yelling at Jennifer, accusing her of being a neglectful mother. Chris took the phone from Jennifer’s trembling hands. He let his former brother-in-law know he was out of line with his accusations, and that if he wanted to do something positive for the daughter he hadn’t seen in two years, then he needed to fly out to Los Angeles and aid in the search for her. Chris hung up on the man, and they hadn’t heard from him since.

        On Saturday morning a representative from fire department headquarters picked up two thousand fliers from a printer’s office that Troy Anders personally approved. Libby’s school picture was blown up on the front. Above it in large, bold print were the words, Have You Seen This Child? Below the picture the flyer read; Missing: Olivia Kate Sheridan Nickname: Libby Age: 10 Hair: Blond Eyes: Blue Height: 4 feet 5 inches Weight: 60 pounds. Libby Sheridan is a 10 year old female with a slender build. She was last seen in her Carson Heights neighborhood at 1:30 p.m. on Friday afternoon, June 16th, 2000. If you have any information regarding Libby, please call Detective Troy Anders, the Los Angeles Police Department, or the Los Angeles Fire Department Paramedic Training Center, now being used as the Libby Sheridan Command Post.

        Phone numbers were listed for all the above, but as of yet no one had called with any solid leads. On Saturday afternoon another e-mail came into Chris’s home. This one from Toys R Us.

        I have your angel. Sined, Your Old Friend.

        The desks in the training center had been pushed aside to be replaced by tables and chairs. A bank of phones rested on one long table, with volunteers from the fire department sitting in front of them willing them to ring. Though phone calls came in, none of them proved to be helpful as of yet. Either the child the caller described seeing had the wrong hair color, or was much younger than Libby, or in one case was even a boy. Troy had warned the DeSoto family these types of calls would come in. Some would prove to be hoaxes, while others were simply citizens eager to assist in any way they could who, in their zeal to helpful, ignored the detailed description on the fliers.

        It was volunteers from the fire department, and the company that Wendy worked for, who distributed the fliers throughout the city. Employees from the bank where Joanne worked kept bringing food by the command center for the army of police officers, FBI agents, and volunteers there, and were also taking turns manning the phones. Old friends were helping in whatever way they could, too. Marco and Chet were present on this Sunday morning, as were Kelly Brackett and Dixie. The foursome had been out putting fliers in business windows all around the city. Mike Stoker, who was a battalion chief himself now, had called Roy to offer whatever help was needed. Hank Stanley and his wife had moved to the ocean-side community of Monterey after his retirement from the fire department. That distance didn’t keep Hank from calling Roy and also volunteering his services if needed once the news reached him.

        “Thanks, Cap,” Roy said softly into one of the phones. Despite the passing years, Hank would always be ‘Cap,’ to the men who had served under him at Station 51. “But right now everything is being done that can be. I appreciate you calling though. It means a lot to me.”

        “Grace and I are praying for Libby, Roy. You tell Joanne and Jenny that for me, too.”

        “I will. Thank you.”

         Roy spent most of the morning walking the long floor in the station house where the big engine used to sit when he worked here. He jumped each time a phone rang, and held his breath until the call ended. His guilt only intensified with each passing minute that brought no word on Libby.

        I should have been watching her more closely. I shouldn’t have let her go to McKenzie’s. I should have kept her in the house with me. Oh, God, why didn’t I keep her in the house with me?

        Roy looked over at the table where Jennifer sat with her head resting in her palms. Chris was on one side of her in his wheelchair, rubbing a hand up and down her back. Dixie was on the other side of Jennifer, with Wendy and Joanne seated across from them. Roy’s daughter was holding up remarkably well considering the circumstances, but Roy knew that was only a facade. Jennifer had already buried one child. What would it do to her if she had to bury another?
        
        The paramedic chief walked up behind his daughter. He ran a hand over her hair, then let it fall to her shoulder. Without turning around Jennifer reached up and squeezed her father’s fingers.

        “I’m sorry,” Roy whispered, not for the first time since Friday afternoon.

        “Daddy, please don’t say that any more. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

        “But--”

        “You watched Libby go into McKenzie’s house. You told her not to leave McKenzie’s without calling you first so you could come get her. She disobeyed you, Dad. She was just. . .she was just being a normal little girl who wanted to go find her friends. It’s me who’s at fault. I should have told her about Monroe and the threats he made. I should have explained why we all had to be cautious. I just. . .I didn’t want to scare her. I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping it from her.”

        Jennifer’s understanding words didn’t soothe the ache in Roy’s soul. If Libby wasn’t returned to them healthy and whole he’d never forgive himself. He’d go to his grave knowing he was the one responsible for not keeping his granddaughter safe. He wondered if there was even a remote possibility he could live with that overwhelming guilt.

        When Roy couldn’t bear to look down at his daughter any longer, his eyes traveled the room, landing directly on the picture of John Gage on the wall across of him. Now he knew how Johnny had felt the night he fought so hard to protect Jennifer in the San Gabriel Mountains. Roy recalled Johnny telling him twenty-two years ago, how he would have never been able to forgive himself had something happened to Jennifer while she was under his care. Roy took a shaky breath, sucking in his lower lip as the desire to have Johnny here by his side grew so strong it was almost overpowering. Johnny, better than anyone else in this room, would have been able to offer Roy the comfort he needed. Johnny, the incessant talker who could ramble on for hours about whatever his current pet peeve was. Johnny, the impulsive man who so often leaped before he looked. Johnny, the man for whom the term ‘common sense’ might as well have been spoken in Greek on many occasions. And Johnny, the best friend who could grow remarkably quiet, calm, supportive, and level headed, when he sensed that’s what Roy needed from him.

        Damn, Johnny, but I wish you were here.

        For the first time in fifteen years those people closest to Roy; his wife, his children, Dixie McCall, and Kelly Brackett, heard him speak John Gage’s name without disdain or detachment. This time they heard the name spoken with a hint of worry Roy tried, but failed, to hide as he turned to look at Troy Anders.

        “John Gage?” Roy asked.

        “What about him?”

        “Has anyone gotten in touch with him?”

        “No. One of my men has left messages for him, but he has yet to return our calls.”

        “That’s because he’s not worried,” Roy said.

        “Pardon?”

        “Johnny. He’s not worried. He thinks he’s invincible. That nothing can happen to him. He’s fifty-three years old now, and probably still faces the world with the gusto of a teenager on most days.”

        “Maybe so. I really don’t know.”

        “Where’s he at?”

        “I can’t tell you, Roy. As I told Chris, John asked me not to.”

        “What’s he do? For a living, I mean? Is he still with a fire department somewhere?”

        “I can’t tell you that either. John prefers that you don’t know.”

         “Fine,” Roy snapped, embarrassed for harboring feelings of friendship for Johnny. Especially since those feelings evidently weren’t reciprocated considering the request Johnny had made of Troy. “If that’s the way he wants it, then that’s the way it will stay. Whether Gage is safe, or in danger, isn’t my concern anyway. I’ve got enough problems right now without worrying about a grown man who could never stand in one place for more than two minutes, and who always seemed to attract trouble without even trying.”

        Joanne knew now was not the time to point out to her husband it was him who had wanted things this way. It was him who had said he didn’t want to know where Johnny was. She always knew there’d come a day when Roy regretted severing all ties with Johnny, but she’d never imagined it would be under such dire circumstances.

        If Roy had anything else to say on the subject of John Gage it was cut-off when a young detective ran into the building through the kitchen with a piece of paper in his hand.

        “Troy, I was told to bring this to you right away. They found it in Monroe’s mattress at the half-way house.”

        Troy unfolded the paper the man handed him. He studied it a long moment before bringing it over to the table where the DeSoto family was gathered. He laid it out for all of them to see. They already knew this was found in Monroe’s room, so there wasn’t much more Troy could say.

        Jennifer gasped, then started to sob. Tears of shock and despair poured down the faces of Joanne and Wendy. Roy could feel tears welling up in his own eyes. Though Scott Monroe had been the prime suspect in Libby’s kidnapping from the start, this DeSoto family tree he had drawn only cemented everyone’s belief that he had the little girl in his clutches. For over and over again, the name Olivia was circled in pencil by the hand of the man who had wanted revenge so badly against Chris, that he had evidently grabbed the most convenient target - an innocent child who was unable to protect herself.

        Tears spilled over Chris’s eyes. He pulled his sister to him and allowed her to cry into his chest. He felt his father place a hand on his shoulder, and saw the other hand go to Jennifer’s shoulder. Then his father’s cheek was placed atop both their heads. Together, as a family, they cried for the little girl they silently doubted would ever be returned to them alive.

_______________________________

        Trevor Gage was quite pleased with himself as he sat at a McDonald’s in Los Angeles, California on Sunday eating lunch. Leaving his home undetected Friday afternoon hadn’t been as difficult as he thought it might be. As he bit into his hamburger, Trevor’s mind reviewed his journey from Eagle Harbor.

        After leaving his father’s office Trevor had gone up to his room and pulled his black Scooby Doo backpack from his closet. Scooby was dressed in yellow turn-outs, wearing a helmet, and driving a big red fire engine with the rest of the Scooby gang clinging to the truck’s sides.

        To the distant sound of the women talking in the kitchen below him, Trevor thought about what to take with him on his journey. He knew California was far away, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get there on Gus’s plane, or how long he’d be staying once he arrived. He went to his dresser and pulled out two pairs of blue jeans and two T-shirts, one red, and the other green with the name of his Little League team on it. He grabbed two pairs of boxer shorts and two pairs of socks from another drawer. Combined with what he was already wearing, Trevor figured that would be enough clothing. He debated whether or not to take his summer boxer p.j.’s with him - knee length white boxer style shorts with red fire engines on them, and a short sleeve pajama top to match, then decided he should. After all, he wasn’t sure yet where he’d be staying. If there happened to be girls there, he didn’t want to be caught sleeping in his underwear. The boy went to his closet next and pulled out his denim jacket, hiking boots, and his Los Angeles Dodgers baseball jersey. He might need to wear the boots when looking for Papa, and the baseball jersey would help him fit in where he was going. No one would expect a kid from Alaska be to be wearing a Dodgers jersey.
        
        Trevor ran out into the hall and grabbed his Harry Potter book from the shelf, along with a new Goosebumps he’d gotten for his birthday that he hadn’t read yet. He scurried back to his room, thinking for a moment about what else he’d like to take. The problem with going in search of Papa was not knowing how long you’d be gone, or what you might need to keep yourself entertained while you waited for clues to come your way. The boy opened his toy box, pondering its contents a long moment. He finally took out his Buzz Lightyear action figure, his carrying case with his fire department Legos, and a battery operated video game of mushers racing in the Itidarod.

        Papa likes this game. I’ll bring it in case he wants to play it after I find him.

Trevor went to his bank next. He opened the bottom and started pulling out bills. Papa normally made him put half of any money he earned, or received as a gift, in his savings account at the Eagle Harbor National Bank. But Papa hadn’t taken him to the bank since school had gotten out which meant Trevor had quite a bounty. His mother had sent him ten dollars for every A on his report card, and since Trevor had earned all A’s, that alone garnered him sixty dollars. She also sent him ten dollars for every Excellent he got in his citizenship grades. He’d earned three of those. The only one that was marked Needs Improvement was the one where Miss Hillman wrote, ‘Trevor must remember to raise his hand and not speak out of turn so often. He also must learn to sit still.’

        Trevor’s mother had overlooked his transgressions and sent him ten dollars for that mark anyway. In the note she’d enclosed she’d written, ‘You did wonderful, Trevor. Mom’s so proud of you. And don’t worry about needing improvement in your ability to sit still and be quiet. The lack of that ability on your father’s part was what made me fall in love with him in the first place.’

        Papa had gotten a sad look on his face when he read that part of Mom’s note, but what that sad look meant Trevor wasn’t certain. When Papa noticed Trevor staring at him he smiled softly and said, “Your mother spoils you. Now get on the computer and send an e-mail to her and Franklin thanking them for the money.”
        
        Between the money Trevor’s mother had sent, what he had in his bank from his allowance, and what he’d earned when he’d run some errands for an elderly lady in Eagle Harbor last week, Trevor had one hundred and twenty dollars. He scooped it all up and shoved it in the right front pocket of his jeans.

        Trevor ran to the bathroom next and got his toothbrush. He found an unopened tube of Colgate in the medicine cabinet and took it, too. He hurried to his bedroom where he began to pack. He had camped often enough with his father that Trevor had the skills to load his backpack neatly and efficiently. He zipped it closed, then slipped the things he’d taken from his father’s office in one of the smaller compartments. He zipped that closed as well.

        Trevor opened the bedroom window that faced the backyard. He leaned out as far as he dared and tossed his backpack with enough force that it cleared the deck attached to the rear of the house. He breathed a sigh of relief when the pack hit the grass with a soft ‘plunk.’ Had it hit the wooden deck the noise might have been enough to alert Clarice.

        The boy headed down the stairs. He entered the kitchen and opened the drawer where the plastic grocery bags were kept.

        “I’m going pretend camping, Clarice. Can I pack some snacks?”

        Clarice was so happy to see Trevor smiling that she wouldn’t think to say no.

        “Sure, love. You pack whatever you want.”

        The four sisters, who were still busy putting a big meal together, paid little attention to the boy. Trevor took three bananas out off the fruit bowl on the counter and placed them in his bag. He opened the refrigerator, using his body to shield the fact that he grabbed four Motts Apple Juice boxes. He crossed to a cabinet and swiped an entire box of Fruit Roll Ups, then slipped three oatmeal granola bars from their box. He considered the logistics of fitting a bag of Oreo cookies in his pack, but decided it would be full enough once this much food was added.

        Trevor made sure to keep his bag in front of him as he turned his back on the women.

        “I’m goin’ outside now.”
        
        “Where will you be?” Clarice asked as the boy opened the door that would take him to the laundry room.

        “Where will I be?” Trevor echoed.

        “Yes. Where will I be able to find you?”

        “Well . . um. . .,” Trevor stammered as he tried to think of a believable lie. And tried not to think of what his father would do to him for lying. Papa didn’t like liars, and had always told Trevor that no good came from telling a fib.

        Sorry, Papa, but I have to lie this time.

        “I’ll be. . .I’ll be behind the barn setting up my campsite. Yep, that’s exactly where I’ll be.”

        “All right. Don’t go any farther than that without telling me.”

        “I won’t.”

        Trevor had closed the laundry room door with that promise. He bent and put his tennis shoes on, making quick work of tying them. He ran out the back door, down the steps of the deck, and over to his backpack. He scooped it up and raced for the barn with Nicolai and Tasha at his heels.

        The boy stopped when he reached the garage. He went in the side service door since Carl had shut the overhead door. For now, both the Land Rover and Durango were parked in the garage. Trevor unzipped his pack and placed his food bag inside, then led his dogs to the barn. He hated locking them up, but knew he had no choice. They’d follow him otherwise and ruin everything.

        Trevor made sure there was water for the dogs, then opened a cabinet and took out a pad of paper and a pen. He pressed down hard as he printed a note in his childish hand.

        Carl and Clarice,

        I went to look for Papa. Don’t worry about me. I will be fine. I have money, food, and clean underware. Carl, please feed the animals for me while I’m gone. I will pay you my alloance for it. Papa and I will be back soon.

        Love,
        Trevor Gage

        
        Trevor placed the note over a nail hanging on the wall, gave his dogs a long hug, then exited the barn. He shut the door behind him, then ran for his backpack. He picked it up and shouldered into it. He swiped at the kickstand on his bike. He rolled the bike to the service door, peering out at the house. When he saw no signs of movement in the backyard he rolled the bike out of the garage and shut the service door.

        Once in the open Trevor had taken a deep breath, grasped the handlebars of his bike, and ran for all he was worth toward the thick trees on the opposite side of the yard. If Clarice, or any of her sisters, happened to look out a back window he was doomed.

        The boy sighed with relief when he made it to thick woods without hearing, “Trevor Roy, where do you think you’re going?” shrieked out the back door.

        Trevor climbed on his bike at that point and started pedaling. He steered around trees and over logs until he came to the road. Under normal circumstances he knew he’d be in big trouble if his papa caught him out here without permission. But Papa wasn’t around to be mad, and Trevor hoped Papa would be so happy to see him that he’d forget to punish him for all the rules he was going to break today.

        The boy had turned his bike in the opposite direction of the Tierman home. As soon as he could he turned off onto a logging road that was rarely traveled. Almost everyone in Eagle Harbor knew who he was. He couldn’t risk being seen if he could avoid it.

        Twenty minutes of hard pedaling brought Trevor to Eagle Harbor’s small, private airport. The airport had just eight aircraft hangered there permanently, and five were owned by August Zimmerman, including a helicopter. Because Papa sometimes brought Trevor here to watch Gus’s plane take off, the boy knew Gus flew to California every other Friday during the summer months with produce for a farmer’s market. He made stops along the way with other cargo, but Trevor wasn’t exactly sure where those stops were made, or what other cargo he carried.

        Trevor rode his bike through the groves of pine trees adjacent to the airport. He hopped off the bicycle three feet from a tool shed and hid it behind the building. He stayed secluded behind the shed, too, watching and waiting until he determined it was safe to make a run for the old World War II era cargo plane Gus flew on these trips.

        When five minutes passed and Trevor didn’t see signs of anyone, he took off at a run, his backpack bumping against his head each time his feet hit the ground. Gus was tall and lean like Trevor’s father, and had rusty red hair that was turning gray, and a rusty red mustache that was speckled with gray as well. He was a friend of Papa’s, and flew people to Juneau in his helicopter who Papa said were critically injured and needed more care than the small hospital on Eagle Harbor could provide them. Trevor had been on Gus’s plane before with Papa, so he wasn’t afraid as he raced up the open stairway now. He’d flown before by himself, too. The last two summers when he went to New York to visit his mother Papa hadn’t come with him. A flight attendant had been in charge of Trevor once Papa put him on the plane in Anchorage, and stayed with him until he was deposited safely in his mother’s arms at the airport in New York City. The reverse was true when he was sent back home to Papa two weeks later.

        Trevor had smiled when he’d seen wooden crates of sealed cargo stacked high in the plane, and filling its entire width. He slithered his way along one wall to the rear, then hunkered down behind crates that rose five feet above his head.

        Ten minutes after Trevor had hidden he heard Gus trotting up the stairs. Trevor didn’t move or make a sound while the man went through is preflight check. He put his hands over his ears when the old engines roared to life. He closed his eyes as the plane taxied down the runway, and he smiled as it started lifting ever so gracefully into the air. At that moment Trevor felt calm for the first time in two days. He was finally doing something productive as he started the journey to find his father.

        Now, as he sat in McDonald’s eating his lunch, Trevor knew the hard part was just beginning. Gus had made several stops on his way to Los Angeles, but Trevor had slept through most of them except the times he’d been forced to sneak off and make use of a tree, or other secluded spot, for a bathroom. Where Gus had stopped Saturday evening Trevor didn’t know, but he heard a man greet Gus and talk about them going to dinner and then back to the man’s house. Trevor had looked out of the plane’s windows after Gus had left, but didn’t see any lights that would indicate to him he was in a big city. He decided to stay put for the time being. It was scary spending the night on the plane, but the thought of being reunited with his father kept the boy’s fears under control. Besides, if Papa was brave enough to fight off a kidnapper who had stabbed him so many times, then Trevor couldn’t be a baby about spending one night alone on an airplane.

        At eleven-thirty on Sunday morning Gus landed at a private airport in Los Angeles. The only reason Trevor knew they were in Los Angeles was because he heard a man say, “Welcome to L.A. again, Gus.”

        Trevor held his breath when the man asked Gus if he wanted to unload the remaining cargo first, or get a bite to eat.

        Please say you wanna eat. Please, please, please.

        “Oh, let’s get something to eat. I don’t work too good on an empty stomach, and breakfast was awful early this morning.”

        Trevor had sighed as the men walked away from the plane. He counted to one hundred, then peered out. This airport was a lot busier than the one in Eagle Harbor, but no one seemed to notice him as he scurried down the stairs. As soon as he was away from the plane he simply strolled over the airport’s grounds as though he belonged there. It was when he got off the airport’s property that he spotted the McDonald’s down the block. Trevor’s stomach was hungry for something other than Fruit Roll Ups, and he longed to wash his hands and face at a bathroom sink and brush his teeth, which Clarice would never believe in a million years.

        Trevor had straightened his backpack on his shoulders as he walked in the restaurant. No one here seemed to think he was out of place either, like would have happened in Eagle Harbor. At home, every person in the place would have asked Trevor where his papa was and why he was by himself in town. But not one person questioned him as he strolled to the bathroom to wash up and change out of his chambray shirt and into his Dodger’s jersey. Nor did the teenage girl behind the counter seem to care that no adult stood with him when he placed his order a few minutes later. He paid her four dollars for the Happy Meal he asked for, and held out his hand when she gave him his change.

        As Trevor sipped the last of his Coke he wondered how he’d get to Station 51. He was pretty sure that was the best place to look for Papa first. If Papa had gotten away from the man, then he would have gone to see Uncle Roy as long as he was in Los Angeles and all. Trevor supposed he could take a taxi. He’d ridden in taxis in New York several times, and knew you had to pay money based on the distance you traveled. But, Trevor had no idea how far Station 51 was from here, and how much it might cost him to get there. He thought some more, then hit upon an idea when he caught sight of two young men walking out of the building wearing Los Angeles County Fire Department uniforms.

        Trevor grabbed his backpack from the floor. He threw his garbage in a container as he passed by without even saving the Happy Meal’s toy, and ran out of the restaurant. He trailed the men as they headed for a shiny red squad similar to the one his papa and Uncle Roy had ridden in twenty-five years earlier.

        “Excuse me! Excuse me!”

        The men turned, both of them smiling down at Trevor.

        “What can we do for you, son?” One man asked. “Do you have an emergency?”

        Trevor could tell he was being teased in the same way Papa liked to tease him sometimes.

        “Kind of.”

        The man crouched down in front of Trevor. “What’s the problem? Are you hurt somewhere?”

        “No, I’m okay.” Trevor thought a quick second, fishing for another believable lie. Boy, Papa was going to be really angry with him for all this fibbing, but Trevor hoped his father would understand the lies were for a good cause.

        “See, it’s like this. I stayed overnight at my friend’s house, and his mom dropped me off here because this is where my baby-sitter is supposed to pick me up. Only she hasn’t come yet and I’ve been waiting a long time. I even tried to call her, but I can’t get any answer. Sometimes she’s forgetful. She’s kinda old. . .and her hearing’s pretty bad, too, so maybe she didn’t hear the phone ring. Anyway, my papa is visiting at Station 51 today. I was wondering if you could take me there.”

        “Your papa, huh?” The man said, chuckling at the phrase the boy used for the term ‘dad.’

        “Yeah.”

        “Well, Station 51 is a training center now. What would your da. . .papa, being doing there?”

        “Visiting my Uncle Roy.”

        The man looked up at his partner. They knew Roy DeSoto’s granddaughter was missing, and that the training center was being used as a command post. This boy’s father was quite likely one of the volunteers who was helping out or, since he’d referred to Chief DeSoto as his uncle, maybe the kid’s dad was a relative of DeSoto’s.

        “Sure, we can take you there,” the man agreed. He stood up and placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “Come on, climb in the squad.”
        
        Trevor scrambled to the center seat and laid his backpack on the floor in front of him. The other paramedic, who had yet to speak to Trevor, climbed in the passenger side. He noticed Trevor’s unusual Scooby Doo pack.

        “Where’d you get that?”

        “At a store in Juneau.”

        “As in Juneau, Alaska?”

        “Yep.”
        
        “My son would love to have one like that. How’d you get a backpack all the way from Alaska?”

        Trevor gave a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve got friends there.”

        The boy was quite proud of how he made small talk with the men without revealing how far he’d traveled. When they pulled in the rear parking lot of what Trevor took to be Station 51, he picked up his pack. The man sitting on his right, who had introduced himself as Jason, got out. Trevor scrambled out behind him.

        “Thanks a lot for bringing me here. My papa thanks you, too.”

        Jason reached for Trevor’s hand as his partner climbed out from behind the wheel.

        “We’ll take you inside just to make sure your father’s here.”

        Panic began to build within the eight year old. He only wanted to peek inside. If Papa wasn’t here, then he had to leave and start looking other places. He thought Rampart hospital might be a good place to go if Papa wasn’t at Station 51. But if these men found out Papa wasn’t here, and figured out that Trevor was traveling alone, they might call the police. Trevor knew that meant he’d be on a plane back to Alaska before the day was over.

        Before Trevor could negate Jason’s suggestion with a believable lie, a ‘beep, beep, beep,’ came from the squad’s radio. The men paused to listen.

        “Squad 36, man down at 2265 Salsmen Drive. 2-2-6-5 Salsmen Drive. Time out; 13:05.”

        Jason reached for the mic. “Squad 36, 10-4.” He pointed at Trevor as he climbed back in the squad. “Are you okay from here?”

        Trevor gave Jason and his partner the charming Gage grin and a big wave. “Sure. I’m fine. Thanks a lot!”

        “You’re welcome.”

        With sirens blaring and lights flashing the squad roared onto the street.

        Trevor turned to face the brick building and saw a back door. He picked up his pack, carrying it by the straps. When Trevor reached the door he carefully turned the knob. He opened the door just a crack and peered inside. He didn’t see anyone, so opened it a little farther.

        The boy immediately recognized that he was viewing a combination kitchen/day-room. The Eagle Harbor Police and Fire Station had one similar to it, only bigger. He stepped inside the empty room, easing the door shut behind him. He could hear voices coming from somewhere in the center of the building. He hugged the wall and moved in their direction.

        Trevor was almost to the doorway that looked into the old engine bay when Chet Kelly walked into the kitchen. He spied the startled child and yelled, “Hey, you!” as Trevor turned to run. Chet blocked Trevor’s path for the door, leaving the boy no choice but to flee in the other direction. Chet chased Trevor into the makeshift command center.

        “Hey, kid! Get back here!”

        Trevor raced around the tables with Chet Kelly at his heels. The rest of the adults watched with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, not certain what drama was unfolding that only Chet could be the center of.

        “Kid, you’d better stop running right now!”

        “Get away, Phantom! You’re not gonna play mean tricks on me!”

        Chet made a grab for Trevor, getting a hold of one sleeve of his baseball jersey. Trevor had never kicked anyone before in his life. In an effort to free himself he drew back his foot and he gave Chet a solid whack to the shin.

        “Ouch! Why, you little. . .”

        “What’s the matter, Chet?” Marco teased. “Can’t handle one lively little boy?”

        “The kid’s a monster! He kicked me!”

        Trevor stopped at the far end of the table where Chris DeSoto was seated in his wheelchair, but out of arms reach of any adult in the vicinity.

        “I am not a monster! But you started chasing me without even asking me why I’m here, or who I am, and I know you were gonna play a trick on me! I came a long ways to look for Papa, and I don’t wanna be hit by one of your stupid water bombs, or flour bombs, and you aren’t putting itching powder in my clothes either!”

        Chet stood there dumbfounded, shaking his head. He looked at Marco.

        “Who the hell is this kid?”

        “I don’t know. You were the one chasing him. What did he do?”

        “Well . . .nothing I guess. He was just standing in the kitchen peering around the corner looking at everyone in here. I wanted to know what he was up to, but before he gave me a chance to ask he took off running.”

        “Perhaps hollering, “Hey, you!,” and chasing him wasn’t the most productive way of getting that information,” Dixie intoned dryly.

        Troy approached the boy who took a wary step backwards. Roy circled from Trevor’s right side, while Kelly Brackett approached from the rear. Trevor’s eyes darted from one man to the other, then to other semi-familiar people in the room. Everything was so confusing. Some of these people he knew from Papa’s pictures, but while they looked the same in some ways, in other ways they didn’t. None of them seemed as friendly as Papa said they were. No one greeted him with a smile and warm hello like he thought they would, even though some of them appeared to be getting a good laugh at his expense, which only made Trevor angrier. He’d heard his Aunt Reah say more than once that he had Papa’s temper. It was all that stupid Phantom’s fault. He’d only wanted to see if Papa was here, then be on his way if Papa wasn’t. He didn’t have time to be delayed. A bad man had Papa. It was up to Trevor to find him.

        Trevor weighed his options. He wasn’t quite certain who his Uncle Roy was; the man sitting in the wheelchair, who looked just like the pictures Papa had of Uncle Roy, or the man slowly approaching on his right, who looked like an older version of Uncle Roy. Trevor looked from Chris to Roy.

        “Which one of you is Uncle Roy?”

        Roy had no idea why this skinny, headstrong child had phrased his question that way, but he answered with, “I’m Roy DeSoto. Do you have a message for me?”

        Troy Anders nodded his head at the paramedic chief. He, like Roy, strongly suspected Scott Monroe had sent this boy to them bearing a message of some sort about Libby.

        “No, I don’t have a message. I’m just looking for my papa. I thought he might be here with you. Have you seen him?”

        “I don’t know who your papa is, son.”

        At that denial on Roy’s part tears sprung to Trevor’s eyes. He’d traveled so far, and taken so many chances, only to have his father’s best friend deny knowing him. Maybe Papa had been gone so long from California that none of these people remembered him, or would even care that he’d been kidnapped. At that point the temper Trevor inherited from his father blew.

        “You do too know who he is!”

        “Son, I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
        
        “You do too, and I’ll prove it.”

        “Be my guest,” Roy invited. He wasn’t in the mood to play host to a child who was in bad need of a spanking. If the kid had news about Libby, then Roy wanted that news and he wanted it now.

        At Roy’s words Trevor squared his shoulders and marched over to the table where Roy’s wife, children, daughter-in-law, and Dixie were still seated. He stopped at Dixie’s elbow and plopped his pack on the surface of the table with an angry thud. He unzipped a small pocket and started pulling things out. Troy, Chet, Marco, Doctor Brackett, and Roy gathered near. Trevor’s eyes flew from man to man, their proximity scaring him.

        “Oh, would you men back off,” Dixie scolded in the same tone she’d used when she was head nurse of Rampart’s ER. “He’s just a little boy for Heaven’s sake.”

        “Maybe a little boy with a message from Scott Monroe,” Troy reminded. “Maybe a little boy who even knows where Monroe is.”

        Trevor flinched at the name ‘Scott Monroe.’ That was the same man Carl had asked him about.

        “He flinched!” Chet pointed a finger. “Did you see that? He flinched. He’s guilty as sin.”

        “Guilty of what, Chet?” Dixie asked. “Beating you at a foot race?”

        The corners of Trevor’s mouth curved into a tiny smile. He looked at the woman and declared, “I already like you as much as Papa does.”

        “Well, sweetie, I’m happy to hear that,” Dixie smiled, though like Roy, she had no idea who this child was talking about when he kept referring to “Papa.”

        Roy had no patience for delays prompted by a boy no older than eight intent on flirting with Dixie.

        “I thought you were going to prove something to me,” Roy demanded. “That I know who your dad is or some such nonsense.”

        “He’s not Dad. He’s Papa. And it’s not nonsense. It’s the truth.”

        “You certainly are stubborn,” Roy remarked. “Can we get on with this please?”

        At Roy’s insistence Trevor began laying his treasurers face down on the table. “I don’t know why Papa thought you were such a good friend. You’re kind of grouchy. Like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas in my Doctor Seuss book.”

        Despite the gravity of the last two days, Joanne was forced to choke back a laugh at what the child said. Her subdued laughter ended, to instead be replaced by wide-eyed shock at the familiar items the boy was now turning face up on the table one by one.

        Trevor pointed to the first item as Jennifer and Chris leaned forward in their chairs, their surprise as great as their mother’s. Trevor’s words were directed at Roy.

        “This is Papa and you in front of Squad 51 right here in this station. You almost never let Papa drive, but that’s okay, because he didn’t really want to anyway. He just liked giving you a hard time about it. And these,” Trevor pointed to the colored picture of Fred Flintstone, a homemade get well card, and a thank you note with a stick horse drawn on the front, “were to my papa from Chris, and Jennifer, and John.”

        Trevor wasn’t sure why the room had suddenly grown so quiet, and everyone standing around the table had their mouths agape. They should have been looking for Papa all along. Didn’t they know who had him?

        The boy fought to bite back his tears as he flipped up the old newspaper clipping that proclaimed John Gage a hero. “I found this at the bottom of Papa’s desk drawer on Friday, but no one would listen to me when I said I knew who had taken Papa.”

        “Who had taken Papa?” Troy questioned.

        “Yeah,” Trevor nodded. “From our house on Wednesday. The man stopped me at the end of the driveway when I was goin’ to play with the twins. Dylan and Dalton. They’re my best friends. The man stopped me on my way to their house and asked me if Papa was home. I said yes, but that he was sleeping ‘cause he had a cold and didn’t feel good. The man said he’d only stay and visit a few minutes, and that he was Papa’s friend from California. I asked him if he knew my Uncle Roy, and he said he did. But I still didn’t know who the man was. I didn’t recognize him from any of Papa’s pictures. He wasn’t Mike, or Cap, or Marco, or Chet, or any of the doctors or nurses from Rampart. Then. . .then when I came home later in the afternoon. . .Papa. . .Papa was gone.”

        Dixie rubbed a hand up and down the boy’s back as Trevor’s tears started to fall. With trembling fingers Trevor turned his last picture over. He held up the police artist’s sketch of Evan Crammer and fought to keep his voice steady.

        “This was him. This was the man who took Papa from our house in Eagle Harbor. That’s real far from here in Alaska. But no one would listen to me when I tried to tell them, so I hid on Gus’s plane and flew here. I came to find Papa, and to tell Uncle Roy that maybe the man will try to take Jennifer, too, so she needs to be real careful.”

        Jennifer’s whispered, “Oh my, God,” was the only sound in the room as the realization of who had actually kidnapped Libby sunk in. Everyone gathered around the table stared at Trevor in stunned silence until Troy Anders murmured, “Shit. Oh, shit.”

        The detective ran for a phone while barking orders at one of the FBI agents present to get in touch with an agent named Quinn Dailey.

        “Tell him it’s about a man dubbed the Kankakee Killer! He’ll know exactly who I’m talking about.”

        As activity in the room started to speed up again Trevor was sure he’d done something wrong. Everyone seemed so upset, when all he was trying to do was get them to understand he came to find Papa. He looked at Dixie.

        “You mean my papa isn’t here after all?”
        

        “Honey, why don’t you tell me your name before I try to answer that question.” Dixie’s hand moved in a circle over Trevor’s back now. Based on the evidence they’d just seen, Dixie knew everyone standing around this table was well aware of who this handsome little boy with the mop of coal black hair and dark brown eyes belonged to, but she thought Roy needed to hear it said out loud.

        “Sweetheart,” Dixie urged again. “Your name?”

        “Trevor,” the boy said softly. “Trevor Gage.”

        And with that Trevor collapsed into Dixie’s open arms and cried for the father he’d tried so hard to locate. He was a long way from home, and no one seemed very happy that he was here, and now he knew it had been a mistake to leave Eagle Harbor. Where was he going to stay? Who was going to take care of him?

        “Papa,” Trevor murmured into Dixie’s shirt collar. “I want my papa.”
        
        Dixie pulled the boy into her lap. She’d never imagined she’d be comforting a child of John Gage’s, but she loved Johnny like a woman would love a pesky little brother, and couldn’t help but immediately feel love and admiration for this determined boy who had somehow traveled so far in search of his father.

        Dixie’s eyes met Roy’s as she rocked Trevor back and forth in her lap while cooing soft words of comfort. Roy simply shook his head.

        “Only a kid of Johnny’s could pull a stunt like this.”

        “You’re right, Roy,” Dixie agreed as she ran a hand over Trevor’s hair. “Only a kid of Johnny’s would have a heart big enough to travel from Alaska in search of his father, and in an effort to warn you that your daughter might be in danger. In light of all that, I’d say this little boy is one pretty special guy, wouldn’t you? Kind of like his father in that respect.”

        Roy turned away, but not before everyone gathered at the table heard him reply, “Yeah. . .yeah, kind of like his father, Dix.”

        Roy walked over to the wall and stood in front of Johnny’s picture. He reached out and touched the image of his smiling friend with a light finger.

        Exactly like his father, as a matter of fact. Stubborn, short-tempered, runs on at the mouth, paranoid of the Phantom, full of energy, life, and a sense of adventure. Funny, loyal, and big hearted. That about describes John Gage to a T. And now the man who tried to take Jennifer twenty-two years ago, and who injured Johnny so severely in the process, has my granddaughter and my. . .my best friend. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Not one goddamn thing.

        Without saying another word to anyone, Roy fled for the isolation of his office, leaving Trevor to cry out his grief in Dixie’s arms.

Chapter 19

        Any ability Libby had to pretend she was Laura Ingalls living in the cabin described in Little House In The Big Woods had left the girl by Sunday afternoon. She had colored half the pictures in her Xena, Warrior Princess book, and she didn't even like that TV show. She had read the Baby-Sitters Club book, she had put the Barbie puzzle together three times, and she and Uncle Johnny had played more hands of Uno than either one of them could count. Their captor had been back one time so far, after night fell on Saturday. He brought them Quarter Pounders this time, along with French fries and Cokes. Uncle Johnny made a remark about dying early from something called coronary artery disease if the man kept feeding him like this. Their kidnapper had only laughed while setting their food, and a battery operated lantern, on the floor.

        “You're destined to die early anyway, Gage, so you might as well enjoy whatever I bring you. After all, beggars can't be choosers."

        "No, they can't be," Uncle Johnny had acknowledged. "But now's the time for beggars to lay their proposals on the table."

        "And exactly what does that mean?"

        "Let Libby go."

        "I think not. I haven't had any fun with her yet, Gage."

        Libby wasn't sure what the man meant by 'fun,' but the way he phrased it, combined with the way he was looking at her, scared the ten year old. Her mother had always cautioned her not to go anywhere with strangers, and Libby had vague knowledge of what those strangers, especially male strangers, sometimes did to little girls. They touched them in places they weren't supposed to, and made them do things that only a grownup does with another consenting grownup behind closed doors. Libby had grabbed Uncle Johnny's arm then and hung on tight.

        "And you're not going to have any fun with her," Uncle Johnny declared, while giving Libby’s hand a reassuring squeeze. "Look, you've got me, so what more do you want? Libby wasn't even born the night you and I did our little tango in the woods. Why do you need her here?"

        "Because I need a DeSoto."

        "Why?"

        "Because I wanted Jennifer that night and you kept me from her. I don't like unfinished business, Fire Chief Gage. For twenty-two years it's stuck in my craw that you prevented me from triumphing. I don't intend to allow that happen again."

        "Hey, I like to win as much as the next guy. Matter of fact, Libby's grandfather would probably tell you I'm a bit on the over competitive side, so I can understand why you'd be narked off at me. But Libby has nothing to do with what occurred that night. Let her go. Let me return her to Roy. You can drive us there in your van. All I want is to see her safely to her grandfather's front yard. Then you can take off with me to wherever you wanna go."

        "You must think I'm stupid, Gage."

        "No. Actually I think you're an asshole, but I'm willing to give you the opportunity to be an honorable asshole if nothing else."

        The man had thrown back his head and laughed. "Gage, you really do amuse me. I'm going to miss you after I slit your throat from ear to ear, or put a bullet in your gut and watch you die slowly, or bludgeon you to death with a baseball bat, or however I choose to end your life."

        "If I get an opinion on the deal, I've always wanted to go in my sleep. You know, quick and painless."

        "Oh, Gage, I can promise you this. Your death will be neither quick nor painless. It will be anything but that, as a matter of fact."

        And with those ominous words hanging in the air, the man backed out of the cabin and locked the door.

        Libby had looked up at Uncle Johnny with tears in her eyes. "He scares me."

        Uncle Johnny put his arm around her and pulled her close until she could feel the heat from his fever warming her face. "Don't let him scare you, sweetheart. He's nothing but a bully like Brutus."

        "Who's Brutus?"

        "The guy who was always trying to steal Olive Oyl away from Popeye."

        "Did he ever manage to?"

        "Nope. Not even one time."

        Libby had nodded as she walked over to get their food and the lantern. "Do bullies always lose, Uncle Johnny?"

        "You bet they do," Uncle Johnny had said, though Libby didn't think he sounded too confident about that fact.

        Uncle Johnny hadn't eaten anymore on Saturday night than he had on Friday night, though he was really thirsty. After he'd drained his Coke, he'd gone to the bathroom and filled the cup with water. He drank that down, and started to push himself to his feet again, but Libby sensed his fatigue when a harsh coughing spasm gripped him and left him gasping for breath. She took the cup from his hands and filled it for him.

        "Thanks, Olive Oyl," he'd smiled at her when she placed the straw to his lips and held the cup for him. "You'll make a good nurse or doctor someday."

        "Paramedic."

        "Huh?"

        "I wanna be a paramedic."

        "Libby, do me a favor and don't ever say that in front of your grandfather if I'm anywhere within one hundred miles."

        Libby's eyebrows had furrowed at Uncle Johnny's remark. "Why?"

        "Never mind. I was just teasing you. Oh, and don't tell him I called that guy a bad word either."

        "Asshole?" Libby asked as she sat back down.

Uncle Johnny seemed to choke then, as though he was holding back a laugh.

        "That's the one. If you repeat that word in front of your grandpa, don't say you heard it from Uncle Johnny."

        “Uncle Johnny, are you afraid of my grandpa?"

        Uncle Johnny had laughed at that remark. "Sometimes I am, Libby."

        Now it was Sunday afternoon. and Libby was wandering the cabin like she'd seen Uncle Johnny do at least two dozen times since they'd been kidnapped. He was always looking for a way out, but so far hadn't found one. He still tried to break through the boards that covered the windows, but wasn't gaining anything from that but bruises on top of his bruises. Libby knew he was getting sicker, too, and she was worried about him. She'd seen him cough blood into a Kleenex several times that day, and he was beginning to look haggard despite the fact that he'd shaved his whiskers off this morning using the razor and shaving cream the man had left him, and had washed his hair. He'd helped Libby wash her hair, too, and had combed it out for her just as carefully as Grandpa always did.

        "Uncle Johnny, is it time for us to yell now?" Libby asked as she came to sit beside the man leaning against the wall they'd claimed for their own.

        Johnny opened his eyes. "Sure, sweetie. But I don't think I’m gonna be able to yell without coughing, so you need to yell for both of us. Can you do that for me?"

        "Yep."

        Libby spent the next ten minutes moving between the door and every boarded up window yelling, "Help! Help us! Help us, please!"

        The ten year old had been wearing a ‘N Sync watch when she was kidnapped. It hadn’t been taken from her, so Johnny made certain she kept it wound so he knew the accurate time. Early on Saturday morning Johnny had told Libby they needed to yell for all they were worth ten minutes out of every hour, and that they needed to listen very carefully in the event they heard voices. He hoped hikers, or bird watchers, or campers, would pass by the station during the weekend. He didn't put a lot of faith in that possibility, however. First of all, their captor was too smart to have put them in a traveled area, and second of all, Johnny knew some of these old ranger stations were in remote locations and had been used primarily as shelters for the rangers assigned to fire watch, or dispatched to search for lost hikers.

        As Libby yelled with all the gusto of a child who enjoyed being given permission to shout in an enclosed space, Johnny pondered their predicament. So far each time their captor had been in this cabin, he'd kept his gun trained on Johnny. If it hadn't been for Libby, Johnny would have thought, "Screw this," and taken his chances by rushing the guy. A quick death by a bullet to the heart beat all the other alternatives their captor had offered him so far. But there was no way Johnny could take that risk with Roy's granddaughter in his care. If the man killed him, then there'd be no one here to protect Libby. Johnny knew fully well what this man was capable of doing to little girls, what he had done to a good number of little girls in the past. Johnny would die trying to keep that same thing from happening to Libby, just like he'd been willing to die in order to prevent it from happening to Jennifer. The only way Johnny would consider fleeing was if Libby was clinging to his hand when they did so. So far that opportunity hadn't presented itself.

        Johnny's other concern was Trevor. Twenty-two years ago he didn't have a child of his own to worry about living for. But now, Johnny couldn't do anything foolhardy that might bring on his death. When his mind wasn't consumed with thoughts of possible escape attempts, or protecting Libby, then Johnny fretted about his little boy. He prayed Trevor was safe with Carl and Clarice. He knew they'd take good care of him, and it was those two people whom Johnny had designated as Trevor's guardians in his will should something happen to him before Trevor reached eighteen. Chad Gage would be eighty years old this September, so not the best candidate to become a father to Trevor. Reah's career meant her life wasn't well suited for the daily routine an eight year old needed in order to thrive. And Ashton. . .well Johnny hadn't even given her consideration. He knew fully well Ashton would be happy to discover he had made arrangements for Trevor's upbringing that didn't include her, other than the two weeks in the summer when she played 'Mom.' He couldn't bear the thought of what life with Ashton would be like for Trevor. Boarding school nine months out of the year, and summer camp for three. It would be a life so foreign to Trevor, and lacking in the love and attention he was used to getting from his father, that Johnny knew his little boy's spirit would whither and die within a week after being sent to live with his mother.

Carl and Clarice had not hesitated to say yes to Johnny's request when he had his will drawn up four years ago. Carl was a second father to the boy, and Clarice, of course, was the only mother Trevor really had. Johnny knew he could trust them to carry out his wishes of making certain Trevor had regular contact with Grandpa Chad and Aunt Reah, and could trust them to make certain Trevor’s relationship with Ashton wasn’t altered one way or another. Eagle Harbor was the boy’s home. Johnny desired that continue to be the case for his son. In the event of his death, Johnny wanted Trevor to be surrounded by the friendship, security, and love the people of Eagle Harbor had extended to them from the day they’d arrived in 1993.

        Because of his zest for life, Johnny had never been concerned that he was forty-five years old when Trevor was born. He recalled some of the guys at the Denver fire department teasing him about needing a rubdown with Ben-Gay the first time he played football with his son, or about how he’d be old enough to collect his pension when Trevor was first learning to drive. The few times Johnny ever had thought of the serious implications of being an older father they centered around dying of a heart attack, or cancer, or some other illness common to people as they aged. He’d certainly never thought a premature death would come his way as a result of being kidnapped by a guy who held a twenty-two year old grudge.

        All I ever asked for was to live as long as your Grandpa Chad has, Trev. If I can do that, then I’ll live to see you graduate from college, start your career, get married, and if I’m lucky, maybe even live to see my grandchildren. If I live as long your great grandfather did, or even come close, then all that will be possible and more. I don’t want to leave you now, son. I hope you’re old enough to realize that, no matter what happens, I never wanted to leave you, Trev.

        Johnny surfaced from his sorrow-filled thoughts when he felt a body slide down the wall next to his.

        “I can’t yell anymore, Uncle Johnny,” Libby rasped.

        “That’s okay. We’ll give your throat a rest and try again later. Go get yourself a drink of water.”

        “I did.” Libby held up one of her McDonald’s cups.

        “Take a few more sips and your throat will start to feel better.”

        Libby did as the man instructed. When she’d had all the water she wanted she set her cup down next to her. If nothing else her yelling had scared the squirrel back up the chimney that continued to visit them on a regular basis.

        Libby took her fingers and scooped her long hair behind her ears. “I thought my grandpa would have found us by now. He knows lots of important people who would help him look.”

        Johnny simply nodded, which prompted the girl to cock her head and study at him with open confusion.

        “You know something, Uncle Johnny?”

        “What’s that?”

        “You’ve asked me about lots of people since we’ve been here. My mom. My grandma. My Uncle Chris. My Uncle John. Dixie. Doctor Brackett. Doctor Morton. You’ve even asked me about lots of people I’ve never heard of. But you haven’t asked me about my grandpa. Not once. And he was your best friend.”

        “He still is.”

        “He is?”

        “Yep.”

        “But you never see him. Or call him. Or e-mail him. So how can he still be your best friend?”

        “It’s just a feeling I carry inside of me, Libby. Despite the years that have gone by, it’s how I think of your grandpa - as my best friend.”

        “That’s weird.”

        “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

        “No, I mean that’s weird, ‘cause I think Grandpa has that same feeling.”

        “Oh, I doubt that, Olive Oyl.”

        “No, really. I do. Grandpa and I were looking at old pictures together the other day and he. . .he seemed sad when I asked him questions about you. Like he was sorry about something. What does he have to be sorry for?”

        Johnny gave the girl a soft smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Absolutely nothing.”

        “But--”

        In order to get Libby off the painful subject of his and Roy’s friendship, and the painful way it had ultimately ended, Johnny said, “Okay, tell me, Olive Oyl. How is your grandpa these days, and what’s he up to?”

        “He’s fine. He used to be a baton chief, but now--”

        Johnny laughed at Libby’s verbal mistake. The thought of Roy in a band uniform high-stepping in a parade while a tossing a baton in the air, formed a mental picture in Johnny’s mind that bordered hilarious.

        “I think you mean a battalion chief, sweetie.”

        “Yeah, that’s what I mean. He was a battalion chief, though I’m not sure what a battalion chief does. Every time my mom took me to see Grandpa at work he was always sitting behind his desk talking on the phone, or writing up reports, or eating a Tums. That’s why he’s a little pudgy now. He did too much sitting around Mom says, and he ate too much when he was stressed out.”

        “Is he retired?”

        “Nope. He’s the chief paramedic instructor. He works at your old station.”

        “My old station?”

        “Station 51. It’s the paramedic-training center. A new station was built down the street to take its place.”

        Well, what do you know? After all these years, Roy’s working out of 51’s again in a manner of speaking.

        “I bet that makes him happy.”

        “It does. I think he likes it lots better than he ever like being a battalion chief. He’s even a little thinner now, and he doesn’t have to take Tums anymore.”

        “Knowing your grandpa like I do. . .or at least did at one time, I would guess he does like being the paramedic instructor better than he liked being a battalion chief. He has a lot of patience, and I know he’s an excellent teacher.”

        “How do you know that?”

        “What? That he has patience, or is a good teacher?”

        “Both.”

        “I know he has a lot of patience because he put up with me day in and day out for eleven years when we were partners at Station 51. And I know he’s a good teacher because he taught me a lot of things during our time together.”

        “He teaches me a lot of stuff, too.”

        “I’m sure he does.”

        Libby looked up into a face streaked red with fever.

        “Uncle Johnny, do you think my grandpa will find us?”

        Though Johnny’s immediate thought was, Sweetheart, we’ll be damn lucky if your grandpa even discovers who kidnapped you, let alone where to look for you. But for the girl’s sake, Johnny smiled, put his arm around her thin shoulders, and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

        “You bet I do, Olive Oyl. Your grandpa will find us.”

        Libby snuggled into Johnny’s side. She drifted toward peaceful sleep with a relieved smile on her face. “That’s what I think, too.”

        Johnny wished he had both the child’s innocence, and confidence. But he had neither, and what little sleep he got was far from peaceful.

        

Chapter 20

        
        When Roy exited his office ten minutes after entering he seemed to have gathered all the emotions tearing at his soul, in the same way Trevor Gage appeared to have gathered his emotions. Joanne was wiping the tears from the boy’s face with a Kleenex, then encouraged him to blow his nose. She tossed the Kleenex in a nearby garbage can before finger-combing Trevor’s bangs into place while gazing down at him with a fond smile.

        “You look just like your father, Trevor.”

        “That’s what everyone says,” the boy acknowledged from where he still sat on Dixie’s lap.

        “Well, everyone is right,” Joanne confirmed.

        Troy Anders was talking on the phone at a table behind the one Roy’s family was seated at. The detective waved a hand, beckoning for Roy and Joanne. As he pressed a button to put the call on speakerphone, he instructed, “Bring the boy, too.”

        Joanne held her hand out to Trevor. He jumped off Dixie’s lap and willingly went with her. Roy followed several paces behind.

        Troy placed his hands on his hips as he pinned Johnny’s son with a stern gaze. “There’s someone on the other end of this phone who would like to speak to you, Trevor.”

        Trevor had a sinking feeling he was in big trouble. “Me?” He squeaked.

        “Yes, you. Now come on. Let go of Mrs. DeSoto’s hand and come over here.”

        Trevor did as the detective ordered. He walked around the table and stood over the phone.

        “Say hello,” Troy instructed.

        “He. . .hello?”

        “Trevor Roy Gage, when I get a hold of you, young man, you. . .you. . .
you. . .well, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, but mark my words, you won’t like it!” A female voice scolded in full volume through the phone line. “Do you know how frightened I was?”

        “But, Clarice, I left a note!”

        “And you think that makes everything all right? You think a note makes lying to me, and sneaking out of the house, and riding your bike to the airport, and stowing away on Gus’s plane, all right?”

        Trevor hung his head. “No, Ma’am.”

        “You’d better believe it doesn’t! You had us so worried. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, has done nothing but look for you since Friday afternoon. Oh, Trevor, what will your papa say when he finds out? He’ll be so disappointed. You know how much your father dislikes a liar. He’s taught you far better than this. I have a feeling when Papa gets through with you, your punishment will extend beyond being grounded from riding your horse for a day, or losing the right to watch a favorite TV program.”

        “But, Clarice, don’t you see? I had to find Papa. I had to! You wouldn’t listen to me, and I couldn’t get a hold of Carl, and no one was paying any attention to what I said, so I had to come to California. Papa’s here, Clarice! I know he is! And I’m gonna find him, too!”

        “No, Little John, you’re not,” Carl’s voice came over the phone next. “You’re going to stay right where you’re at until I can send someone to bring you home.”

        “But I’m in a fire station, Carl! Station 51, the place where Papa used to work. I don’t think I can stay here. The Phantom will get me for sure.”

        Chet looked at Marco and mumbled, “What the hell has Gage been telling this kid?”

        “Obviously the truth,” Marco quipped.

        The two men quieted as Carl spoke again. “Detective Anders, I can’t get in touch with the man whose plane Trevor hitched a ride on. He didn’t file a flight plan, and it’s not unusual for him to make a variety of stops on his way back home. I know he’ll pick up Trevor in a heartbeat, but it might be a couple days before I can get him back there. We can make arrangements to put Trev on a commercial flight bound for Anchorage as soon as one’s available, or he can be put into protective custody and go to a foster home until Gus can get him.”

        “Oh, Carl, no!” Clarice negated. “John would never, never approve of that. He’d be heartbroken if Trevor was sent to a foster home. You know how protective John is of his little boy.”

        “It would only be for a couple days, Mom. I’m sure Detective Anders will make certain Trev is well taken care of.”

        “But--”

        Joanne stepped up to the phone while Carl and Clarice argued in the background. To the detective she questioned softly, “Who are these people?”

        “Carl Mjtko and his mother, Clarice. Carl is the police chief of Eagle Harbor, and a good friend of John’s. Clarice is John’s housekeeper, and acts as nanny for Trevor when John’s at work. Carl’s in his office at the station. His mother happened to be there with him when I called.”

        “And Trevor’s mother?”

        Before Troy could respond with, “I don’t know,” Trevor spoke up.
        
        “My mother is in Paris on vacation right now. She doesn’t live with us. Most of the time she lives in New York with her husband, Franklin. She’s a heart surgeon. But that doesn’t mean we’re not a family. We’re just a family who doesn’t live in the same house Papa says.”

        “Your papa’s right, sweetie,” Joanne acknowledged, assuming Johnny and Trevor’s mother were divorced. “That doesn’t mean you’re not a family.” The woman turned her attention to the phone. “Mrs. Mjtko?”

        Clarice halted her argument with her son. “Yes?”

        “My name is Joanne DeSoto. My husband Roy worked with Johnny for many years.”

        “Oh, yes, Mrs. DeSoto. John’s spoken of your family many times to me. He thinks so highly of you and your husband, and still holds much affection for your children.”

        “And we think highly of him. You don’t need to worry about Trevor. He’ll stay with Roy and me until arrangements can be made to get him back to Eagle Harbor.”

        “Joanne!” Roy beckoned in a strangled whisper. The woman ignored her husband as Clarice said, “You’re certain? I mean, this isn’t an imposition for you? Detective Anders told my son about your. . .granddaughter. I can imagine the worry and upset you’re living with right now. Perhaps an active little boy isn’t what you need to add to that.”

        Joanne smiled as she looked into Trevor’s brown eyes that had taken on a pitiful puppy-dog look, in the same way Johnny had been able to make his eyes take on that appearance when he was trying to gain a woman’s sympathy.

        “Oh, I think an active little boy is exactly what we need at the moment. Besides, Johnny never hesitated to take care of our children when an emergency arose. We could call him any time, day or night, and he’d drop whatever he was doing to come stay with the kids. The least Roy and I can do for Johnny’s son now is to return all those favors.”

        Everyone in the room could tell Clarice was relieved that Trevor was going to be staying with the people his father had once considered to be his closest friends. Nonetheless; she was polite enough to question one final time, “You’re certain?”

        Joanne jumped in before Roy could answer. “Yes, I’m certain.

        “All right then. Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing Trevor’s with you.”

        “I understand. I’m going to sleep a bit easier, as well, knowing that Johnny. . .that he’s with our granddaughter.”

        “I’m sure you will.” Clarice didn’t dwell on that subject further. Based on what Detective Anders had told her and Carl, the prospect of John Gage or Olivia Sheridan being found alive was slim. “Trevor, are you still there?”

        The boy leaned on the table. “Yes, Ma’am.”

        “You behave yourself for the DeSotos, young man. You show them what a good boy your papa has raised. You make him proud, Trevor. You know what Papa expects of you when you’re a guest in someone else’s home.”

        “I know. I’ll be good, I promise. And, Clarice?”

        “Yes?”

        “I brought lots of clean underwear, and my boxer p.j.’s, too, in-case there’s girls around.”

        Clarice chuckled. “You’re like your papa, Trevor. Always thinking.”

        “Yep, that’s me and Papa,” Trevor touched his fingertips to his chest using another gesture he’d inherited from his father. “Always thinkin’.”

        Troy wrote down Clarice’s phone number as the woman rattled it off for Joanne. He tore the slip of paper from his notebook and handed it across the table. Joanne took the paper, promising to keep in close contact with Clarice while giving the woman the DeSoto home phone number. Carl came back on the line next to say he’d let the DeSotos know just as soon as he’d made arrangements to get Trevor back to Eagle Harbor.
        
        As the call was coming to an end Carl said, “Good luck, Detective Anders. Please, keep me informed of your progress. I can’t begin to tell you how worried the people of Eagle Harbor are, and how badly they want their fire chief returned to them safe and sound.”

        Chet looked from Marco to Roy. “Gage is a fire chief? Our Johnny Gage? The man who could get lost going to a fire? Someone put him in charge of fire services for an entire town?”

        Carl’s laughter came over the line. “For the past seven years; yes, someone has. And not just fire services, but paramedic services, as well as search and rescue. Also, far more than just a town, but also five thousand square miles of forest, mountains, and ocean. Allow me to assure you, we’ve never regretted that decision for even one minute.”

        “Whoever would have believed it?” Chet shook his head. He’d worked so hard just to finally pass the engineer’s exam. His rank had never risen any higher than that, and today, four years away from retirement, Chet was the B-shift engineer for Station 53 down the road. To find out John Gage had all the responsibilities Carl had listed, and was popular with the town’s people to boot, was not something Chet ever expected to hear.

        “I, for one, would have,” Dixie said. “I always knew given a little time and maturity Johnny would go far.”

        “You always were in his corner.”

        Dixie cocked an eyebrow at Johnny’s old nemesis. “With you around, Chet, someone had to be.”

        Roy might have found the banter amusing if so many conflicting emotions weren’t washing over him. Pride over Johnny’s accomplishments. Fear for the safety of Libby and Johnny. And another fear, too. Fear over the affection he was already feeling for Johnny’s boy. An affection that he told himself would only cause him more pain in the end. Just because the child was the same age Brandon would be if he were living, and just because the boy’s middle name was Roy, like Brandon’s had been, and just because the child had a disposition similar to Brandon’s - sunny, warm, and outgoing; didn’t mean Trevor had earned the right to work his way into Roy’s heart. Regardless of what happened to Johnny, this boy would be returning to his home in Alaska. There was no point in getting attached to him. Roy didn’t want Joanne getting attached to him either. That attachment would only cause them further heartache that neither one of them needed.

        Roy was barely aware of Troy Anders ending the phone call with Eagle Harbor’s Chief of Police. For the next two hours he paced the concrete floor, listening as Troy briefed the FBI agents regarding the crimes pinned to a man known only to law enforcement agents as the Kankakee Killer.

        Jennifer paced the floor with her father, her anxiety level rising with each step. She and Chris, more than anyone else in the room, knew what the Kankakee Killer was capable of. They’d witnessed it with their own eyes that Saturday night in April of 1978. If John Gage hadn’t managed to pull her away from the man, Jennifer knew she wouldn’t be alive today. She turned her back on those in the room and stuffed her fist in her mouth to keep them from hearing the whimpers that came along with her tears. That man had her daughter. Her ten-year-old daughter. He’d raped and killed so many other little girls over the years. What was going to prevent him from raping, and then killing, Libby?

        Uncle Johnny. Uncle Johnny will take care of her, Jennifer attempted to soothe her nerves with those thoughts. He’ll do his best to take care of her. Uncle Johnny’s with her and he’ll take care of her.

        Jennifer shuddered as she recalled watching the man’s knife plunge into Johnny’s body. If he attacked Johnny like that again, the likelihood that the man would live was slim. The only reason he’d survived that night in April was because of a dog named Joe, and because Chris had the courage to flee down the mountain on horseback for help. The woman laid her head back against her father’s chest when she felt his hands knead her tense shoulders from behind. He kissed the crown of her head and promised softly, “It’ll be all right, Princess. It’ll be all right.”

        Jennifer simply nodded. She couldn’t hurt her father by reminding him that she was no longer nine years old, and his words couldn’t chase away every fear and worry. Instead, she patted his right hand and whispered, “I know, Daddy. I know.”

        It didn’t take long for Trevor to make himself at home in Chris’s lap. He was fascinated by the wheelchair and wanted to know how fast Chris could make it go, and if he ever popped a wheelie in it, and if he ever raced anyone. Chris wasn’t put off by Trevor’s questions, but rather welcomed them. He’d rather have someone ask him about his disability than pretend it didn’t exist. When Trevor pulled his musher video game out of his backpack it was Chris he shared the pleasure of playing it with. They alternated turns at the controls and kept score on a piece of paper Dixie dug out of her purse. Despite that fun, Trevor was attentive to the goings-on in the room. He’d tense up each time a phone rang. When the call didn’t result in positive news about his father’s whereabouts Trevor’s shoulders would slump with defeat. His eyes kept track of every movement Troy Anders made. It quickly became apparent to anyone who was observing that Trevor was trying his best to overhear the man’s conversations with the other law enforcement officials in the room. By the time four o’clock arrived Joanne decided Trevor’d had a long enough day, and that he needed the opportunity to relax, clean-up, and eat something besides the Fruit Roll Ups he’d brought out of his pack and offered to everyone at the table before eating two himself. Joanne approached her husband who was standing by himself in a far corner of the room.

        “Let’s go home now, Roy.”

        “I’m not ready to leave.”

        “Honey, we didn’t go home at all last night. We haven’t slept since Thursday night. We’ve done all we can here for today. Trevor’s tired and hungry. We need to take him to the house.”

        “If he’s tired and hungry it’s his own fault. He should have stayed in Alaska where he belonged.”
        
        “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Roy. He’s eight years old and worried about his father. Give the child a break, would you, please?”

        “He shouldn’t be coming with us, Joanne. It’s not our place to take him. He should. . .he should go into foster care like that police chief suggested. It’ll only be for a couple of days.”

        Joanne’s eyes flashed with anger as her hands went to her hips. “I can’t believe I’m hearing those words from you. If this situation was reversed, and that little boy was one of our children, who would have been the first person to take care of him, Roy? Huh? You tell me. Who would have taken our kids home with him and never, never in a million years, ever suggested they go into foster care until you, or I, or a relative, was able to pick them up?”

        When Roy refused to answer Joanne said, “John Gage. That’s who. And you damn well know it. Now come on, we’re taking Trevor home.”

        “Joanne, I’m telling you, this isn’t a good idea. Look. . .he seems to get along well with Chris. Let Chris and Wendy take him home.”

        “I will not.”

        “Then Dixie--”

        “No.”

        “Joanne--”

        “Roy, just what are you so afraid of?”

        “Nothing,” the man stepped around his wife to see a pair of brown eyes latched firmly on him. Even though he and Joanne were at the other end of the station, and Chris was trying to distract Trevor, Roy knew the boy had just been privy to every word of their exchange. “Nothing. I’m not afraid of anything. I’m simply making a request of you. But fine. If you don’t want to comply with that request then we’ll leave.”

Roy used two fingers to beckon to Trevor. “Come on, young man. Get your things together. We’re going.”

        Trevor hesitated a moment, not so sure he wanted to go anywhere with this gruff person he had for so long wanted to meet. Uncle Roy wasn’t anything like Trevor had expected him to be. He wasn’t at all the soft-spoken, easy-going man his father had often described.

        “I said come on!”

        Trevor hopped off Chris’s lap while Roy stormed from the room. He quickly gathered his things into his pack. Jennifer stopped his movements by placing a gentle hand atop his.

        “Sweetheart, don’t let my father scare you. He’s just tired right now, and very worried about Libby and your da. . .papa.”

        Trevor nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak for fear he’d start crying. He’d rather face Clarice’s wrath than go home with Roy DeSoto. Jennifer must have sensed this because she kissed the top of Trevor’s head and gave his thin shoulders a firm squeeze.

        “Your father was a very special man to me, Trevor. I loved. . .love him very much. Did he tell you that my brothers and I always called him Uncle Johnny?”

        “Yes.”

        “It makes me feel better knowing that he’s with my daughter. I know he’ll take good care of her.”

        “He will, Jennifer.” Trevor looked up at he doctor. “Papa takes real good care of me, and he takes care of everyone in Eagle Harbor. When Mr. Larson gets drunk, and Mrs. Larson won’t let him in the house, Papa lets him sleep off his bender in the fire station even though some of the people on the Police and Fire Commission don’t ‘prove of it. But that’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

        “I won’t,” Jennifer promised with a smile. “That sounds just like your father, Trevor. He feels very deeply for people.”

        “Yeah, he does.” Trevor handed Jennifer the get-well card she’d made for Johnny so many years ago now. “Here. You keep this until Papa and your daughter. . .Libby? Is that her name?”

        “Yes, it is.”
        
        “You keep this until Papa and Libby come home. It will help you remember Papa’s taking good care of her.”

        “Yes, it will. Thank you, Trevor. Thank you so much.”

        “You’re welcome.”

        Trevor said goodbye to those people to whom he’d been introduced. Dixie made him promise to see her again before he left for Alaska, and Kelly Brackett promised him a tour of Rampart Hospital if that could be arranged before he went home. The group smiled as the boy approached Chet. Just like his father, Trevor had a forgiving heart.

        “Mr. Kelly, I’m sorry that I kicked you.”

        “Oh, you are, huh?”

        “Yep. I shouldn’t have done that, but you grabbed me and it made me mad.”

        “I see. So, how much will you pay me not to tell your pops?”

        Trevor thought a moment before reaching in the front pocket of his jeans and pulling out a five dollar bill. “Is it worth this much to you?”

        “Geez, kid, Johnny must really make you tow the mark.”

        “Well. . .I’m not supposed to hit anyone, so that probably means kicking, too. Papa gets pretty mad at me if I break a rule. I might even get a swat on the behind. Maybe two. So here, take it.”

        As Chet reached for the money Dixie, Marco, and Joanne scolded, “Chet!”
        
        The Irishman snatched his hand back. “I was only teasing the kid. I wasn’t really going to take it.”

        Marco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, Chet.”

        Chet squatted down in front of Trevor. “Look, kid, we’ll call it even, okay? You apologized, so I won’t rat on you to your. . .papa? Is that what you call him?”

        “Yep.”

        Chet smiled. “That expression alone is gonna earn your papa weeks of teasing.”

        “Why?”

        “Because it sounds funny.”

        “But that’s what everyone in Eagle Harbor calls their father.”

        “Still sounds funny.”

        Trevor shrugged. “Not if you live in Eagle Harbor it doesn’t.”

        Chet held out his hand and Trevor shook it.

        “Okay, Little Pigeon, now we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

        “Little Pigeon?”

        Chet patted Trevor’s head as he stood upright. “Let’s just say I see a lot of your old man in ya’, kid, and leave it go at that.”

        Joanne gathered Trevor up then and scooted him toward the kitchen. She was well aware Roy was in there, and had been observing the goings-on. She hoped he was ashamed of himself for yelling at the child. God knew Johnny had never raised his voice to any of their kids.

        Roy led the way out of the station. He opened the side panel door on the mini-van and ordered Trevor to get in. He took the boy’s pack and set it on the floor.

        “Make sure you buckle up,” Roy instructed as he slid the big door shut.

        Trevor did as Roy said, but not without thinking the man was even grouchier than the Grinch. He considered voicing that opinion, then thought better of it. After all, it wasn’t wise to make someone mad who was going to put a roof over your head and warm food in your stomach.

        If it hadn’t been for Joanne the ride home would have been made in stony silence. She sat half-turned in her seat, asking Trevor questions about Eagle Harbor as Roy drove. By the time they pulled in the DeSoto driveway Joanne had a picture in her mind of an idyllic small-town where people greeted one another by name, where old-fashioned Mom and Pop stores were still the norm, where the number of children in an entire school grade was half the size of a typical classroom in a Los Angeles public school, and where John Gage had carved out the happy life for himself that he so richly deserved.

        Trevor’s eyes scanned the interior of the DeSoto house as Joanne led him to the bedroom that used to be Chris’s. He nodded his approval at the decor.

        “I like The Lion King.”

        “I’m glad to hear that,” Joanne said as she assisted Trevor in unpacking his bag and putting his clothes in an empty dresser drawer. “My grandchildren like it, too. I decorated this room just for them. When they visit, this is where they stay.”

        “How many grandchildren do you have?”

        “Three. Three little girls. Olivia, Jennifer’s daughter--”

        “The one who’s with my papa?”

        Joanne gave the boy a sad smile. “Yes, sweetie, the one who’s with your papa. She’s ten years old. Then Chris’s two girls are Brittany and Madison. They’re four and two. They’re staying with their Grandma and Grandpa Adams right now. We had. . .we had a grandson, too. Brandon. He was Libby’s little brother. If he was still living he’d be your age.”

        “What happened to him?”

        “He passed away from a brain tumor. Do you know what that is?”

        “Is it like cancer?”

        “Yes.”
        
        “Then I kinda know what it is. Grandpapa Jim. . .he’s Dylan and Dalton’s grandpa. . .they’re my best friends. . .well anyway, Grandpapa Jim had that, only he got better. It’s like when bad stuff grows inside you.”

        “Yes, that’s what it’s like. In Brandon’s case the medicine the doctors gave him was only able to help him for a little while.”

        “I’m sorry. You must be very sad. I was sad when Pacachu died.”

        “Gray Wolf? Your great grandfather?”

        “Yeah.”

        “When did he die, sweetheart?”

        “Mmmm, a couple years ago. I was in kindergarten.”

        “He lived to be quite old then, didn’t he?”

        “Yeah. He was close to one hundred. Like ninety-seven or ninety-eight. I don’t remember. Papa can tell you.”

        “I’m sure he can.” Joanne put Trevor’s backpack in the closet, then sat on the bed closest to the door. “And your Grandpa Gage, how’s he?”

        “Grandpa Chad?”

        “Yes.”

        “He’s fine. He and Grandma Marietta travel around in this big bus-like thing they have.”

        The last Joanne knew Chad Gage was a widower. Roy and Johnny had taken her and the children to White Rock, Montana on vacation in June of 1982. She had vague memories of meeting a woman name Marietta who ran a cafe there, and who had been Johnny’s mother’s best friend from girlhood on. She assumed the ‘Grandma Marietta’ Trevor now referred to was the same person.

        “A motor home?” Joanne asked for clarification.

        “Yeah, that’s it.”

        “Are they traveling now?”

        “Yep. That’s why Carl can’t find them. He wanted to tell them about Papa, but he doesn’t know where they are.”

        “What about your Aunt Reah?”

        “She lives in New Finland.”

        “Newfoundland?”

        “Yeah. Newfoundland. That’s where she lives. She delivers babies for women who can’t get to the hospital. Clarice tried to call her, and Carl sent her an e-mail, but we haven’t heard from her yet. She travels far from her house sometimes.”

        “I see,” Joanne said, beginning to realize that, for the time being, the only connection Trevor had to Johnny was herself and Roy. This knowledge made her doubly glad that she hadn’t allowed him to stay with anyone else.

        Joanne stood and held out her hand. “Come on, Trevor. I’ll show you where the bathroom is and let you clean up. Then we can get supper on the table.”

        “I can set it for you.”

        “Pardon me?”

        “The table. I can set it for you. It’s one of my jobs at home. Papa would expect me to do it while I stay here if you want me to.”

        “Well now, that would be a big help. You wash your hands, then come into the kitchen. Can you find it from here?”

        “Sure. Your house is easy to find places in. It’s not nearly as big as our house, and it doesn’t have an upstairs.”

        “No, it doesn’t, does it?” Joanne smiled. “All right then, I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes.”

        “Okay.” Trevor shut the bathroom door and made use of the facilities. When he was finished he washed his hands with warm water and soap like he’d been taught to do at home. He opened the door, took a left into the hall, and headed for the kitchen.

        The boy kept an eye out for his Uncle Roy, but didn’t see the man as he set the table for Joanne. When a salad had been tossed, and a glass pan of lasagna had been warmed in the microwave, Aunt Joanne walked to a door that opened into the garage. She called, “Roy, supper’s ready!” and within a minute the man appeared.

        Joanne pointed to a seat at the table. “Trevor, you can sit here. This is the exact chair your father used to sit in whenever he ate with us.”

        “Really?”

        “Really.”

        Roy sat at the head of the table with Joanne across from him. Trevor was in-between them on Roy’s left and Joanne’s right.
        
        Like his father, Trevor had the amazing ability to eat and talk non-stop at the same time, and generally with his mouth full since Clarice wasn’t here to remind him to swallow first. He chattered about things he’d observed in Joanne and Roy’s house, about things he’d observed on the ride to their home like palm trees and pink houses, and about the swimming pool he could see right outside their patio doors.
        
        “I’ve never been in an outside swimming pool before. Only the inside one at the YMCA in Juneau. We live by the ocean, so I guess we could swim in it, but its too cold to swim in even during summer.”

        “It is?” Joanne questioned.

        “Yep.” Trevor forked off another chunk of lasagna. Like his father also, he had a healthy appetite. “Eagle Harbor’s on a peninsula. Do you know what that is?”

        “It’s a piece of land that juts out into the water.”

        “You’re right!” Trevor raised one hand in the air as if to signal a victory. “You get a gold star, Aunt Joanne. Lots a’ people don’t know that believe it or not.”

        Joanne laughed at the boy’s enthusiasm. She tried to catch Roy’s eye, but he refused to look at anything but his plate.

        “Say, this is really good lasagna. It tastes like Joanne DeSoto’s lasagna. Papa has her recipe on a card, and he makes it sometimes. It’s so easy even he can’t screw it up.”

        “Trevor, I’m Joanne DeSoto.”

        The boy stared at Joanne, then grinned as it collated in his eight-year-old mind that Aunt Joanne, and Joanne DeSoto, were one in the same woman. “Oh, so you’re that Joanne DeSoto.”

        Joanne laughed again. “Yes, sweetie, I am.”

        “Then you make good sloppy joes, too. And really, really good chicken and rice.”

        “Well, thank you. Perhaps I can make those things for you while you’re staying with us.”

        “That would be nice, but whatever you wanna make is okay with me. I like to eat.”

        “And talk,” Roy cut-in. “You like to talk. Doesn’t that mouth of yours ever stop moving?”

        “Roy!”

        Trevor’s fork dropped to his plate. His head dropped with it as his lower lip quivered and tears filled his eyes.

        “Roy, that was totally uncalled for!”

        “It wasn’t if I want to eat my supper in peace!” Roy pushed back his chair, threw open a patio door, and stormed out of the house. Joanne stared after him, her mouth set with fury.

        When the woman managed to get a rein on her anger she turned to the child crying silent tears. She stood, walked over to him, crouched down, and wrapped her arms around his thin body.

        “He didn’t mean it, sweetheart. Your Uncle Roy is very concerned. . .very upset, about our granddaughter and your father. He hasn’t slept since Thursday night. I know that’s not an excuse for what he just did, but he’s tired and he’s worried. You understand, don’t you?”

        Trevor nodded. His voice was muffled when he said, “Sometimes Papa loses his temper when he’s tired. But later, he always says he’s sorry.”

        “And your Uncle Roy will say he’s sorry, too.” Joanne looked out the glass doors to see her husband standing at the edge of the yard with his back to her. “Believe me, your Uncle Roy will say he’s sorry.”

_______________________________

        Stars twinkled from the dark night sky when Joanne slid a patio door open and stepped onto the deck. After she’d gotten Trevor’s tears wiped away he’d helped her carry the plates and glasses to the dishwasher, then willingly taken a hot shower and changed into his pajamas. Joanne pulled from a closet shelf the old Operation game that used to be Chris and Jennifer’s. Trevor had never played the game before, and was excited to learn how. He and Joanne played three rounds together on the floor in the computer room. When the sun had set Joanne offered the boy a bedtime snack that he readily accepted. She took him back to the kitchen and had him climb on a stool that sat in front of the breakfast bar. Roy hadn’t made an appearance in the house since supper. That fact didn’t change as Joanne gave Trevor two cookies and a glass of milk. After he’d eaten she had him make a pit-stop at the bathroom to brush his teeth and empty his bladder one last time, then met him in the bedroom that would be his until he returned to Eagle Harbor.

        Joanne tucked the boy in while handing him the Harry Potter book she’d taken from his backpack.

        “No,” Trevor shook his head. He reached over and set the book on the nightstand positioned in-between the twin beds. “Poppy and I read that one together.”

        “Oh. Well, I saw another book in your pack. Do you want it?”

        “Not tonight.”

        “Okay, then.” Joanne bent and kissed the boy on the forehead. “Sweet dreams, honey. I’ll see you in the morning.”

        “Will my papa and Libby come home tomorrow?”

        Joanne smoothed Trevor’s dark hair off his face. “I wish I could answer yes to that question, but I won’t lie to you, Trevor. I don’t know if they will or not.”

        “I hope they do.”

        “So do I, hon. So do I.”

        Joanne stood from the bed and shut the light off as she passed the wall switch. She bent and turned on the Simba shaped night-light that was plugged in an outlet. She didn’t know if Trevor normally slept with night-light or not, but since he was in a strange room she thought he might find it comforting. With one last look at Johnny’s child, Joanne had shut the bedroom door three quarters of the way and went in search of Roy.

        Roy was standing on the deck looking up at the stars when Joanne approached him from behind. He didn’t turn around, but she knew he was fully aware of her presence.

        “Where did you go?”

        “I took a walk.”

        Joanne joined her husband at the deck’s railing. It wasn’t unusual for him to take a walk after sunset. It was a habit he’d started the day Brandon died. She didn’t know if those after-dark journeys gave him the opportunity to cry for the grandson he’d loved so much, or if they were simply an escape from the pressures of the everyday world where so many people; from herself, to Jennifer, to Libby, to Chris, looked upon him as the man they could lean on when the going got tough.

        Joanne knew their neighborhood, like Chris’s neighborhood and Jennifer’s street down the block, was surrounded by FBI agents in unmarked cars. Their phones had been tapped, too, in the event the kidnapper called any of them.

        “Did the agents try to stop you?”

        “From walking?”

        “Yes.”

        “One of them advised me not to leave the yard, but there wasn’t much he could do when I chose to ignore his advice. It’s not like we’re under house arrest, Joanne.”

        “I realize that. I just don’t think it’s wise for you to be out walking alone right now after dark.”

        Roy simply shrugged. That action told Joanne the subject was closed, so she took the opportunity to open another one.

        “I believe you owe Trevor an apology.”

        “For what?”

        “You know for what. For raising your voice at him.”

        “I can’t raise my voice at him when he deserves it?”

        “If he had deserved it, then yes, I guess you could. But he didn’t deserve it, Roy, and you know it.”

        “He shouldn’t be here. I told you he should have gone home with Chris. Or Dixie. Or we should have let Troy put him in a foster home.”

        “Don’t start that again. Trevor’s not going to a foster home. He’s staying here with us. With you and me, Roy DeSoto.”

        The man finally made eye contact with his wife.

        “He’s not ours to keep, Joanne. He’s Johnny’s son. He doesn’t belong to us. Just because he’s the same age as Brandon would be if he were living, and just because Johnny chose to give the kid ‘Roy’ as his middle name. . .why, I can’t fathom, but that’s Johnny for you, always full of surprises. But that not withstanding, the boy’s not Brandon. He can’t replace Brandon.”

        “I never said he was, or that he could.”

        “Well, you’re not acting like it.”

        “Oh, really? Gee, Roy, I thought it was the other way around. I thought it was you who was seeing the similarities between Brandon and Trevor. I thought it was you who was touched by the fact that your best friend used your name as his son’s middle name. And that’s what this is really all about, isn’t it?”

        “What?”

        “Why you’re so mean to Trevor. Why you had to leave the table tonight. Why you didn’t come back home until you knew I’d have him tucked in bed. You’re afraid to get close to him, Roy. You’re afraid, that if you get close to Trevor, he’ll be taken from you like Brandon was.”

        “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

        “No, it’s not. You’re afraid to get attached to Trevor. You’re afraid that each time you see a little bit more of Johnny in him, and that ‘little bit more’ causes your heart to open wider, that in the end you’ll be hurt when Trevor leaves us.”

        Roy chose to ignore his wife’s very accurate assessment. Instead he growled, “What about his grandfather? Chad? Why can’t he go stay with Chad? Or Reah? We’ve still got their phone numbers in the address book. Call one of them and see if they can come get the boy.”

        “Evidently that police chief. . .Carl, is trying to get in touch with Chad, but hasn’t been able to. According to Trevor he’s traveling in a motor home with ‘Grandma Marietta.’ I take it she’s the woman we met who ran the cafe in White Rock?”

        “I suppose.”

        “It sounds like they’re married. And it sounds like they can’t be reached. As far as Reah goes, Trevor says she lives in Newfoundland. Again, Carl tried to get in touch with her but hasn’t been able to.”

        “Then his mother. The boy should go stay with his mother.”

        “I’m sure if Carl thought that was an option he would have mentioned it. Evidently Johnny has custody of Trevor. Since we don’t know what that custody agreement entails, it’s hardly up to us to put that child on a plane to Paris.”

        Roy blew out a long, tense breath of air. “Only Johnny could screw his life up like this.”

        “That’s an unfair statement! You don’t know the circumstances surrounding Johnny’s break-up with Trevor’s mother, and if you want my opinion he’s done a wonderful job of raising that little boy on his own. I don’t think Johnny’s screwed his life up at all, and deep down inside, you don’t think that either. I saw the pride on your face when Carl said Johnny is Eagle Harbor’s fire chief. And I also saw how you scowled when Chet made fun of that fact.”

        Amongst the things a thirty-six year marriage brought Roy DeSoto, was the fact that his wife knew him too well. Nonetheless, that didn’t keep him from silently denying what he had no desire to admit to.

        When Joanne realized her husband wasn’t going to make a verbal response, she laid a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezed.

        “I’m so scared, Roy,” she whispered. “I’m so scared for Libby. . .and for Johnny. Like Jennifer, knowing Johnny is with Libby makes me feel a little better but I’m. . .I’m just so frightened when I think of what that man did to all those other little girls.”

        Roy put his arms around his wife and pulled her to his chest. He kissed her temple while hugging her as hard as he dared.

        “I know, Jo, I know. I’m scared, too. And. . .and like you and Jen, I’m glad Johnny’s with Olivia. If I can’t be there myself, then at least I’m glad to know she has him by her side. Even if he doesn’t realize who she is in relationship to us. . .to Jennifer, I know he’ll do his best to keep anything from happening to her.”

        “But do you think his best will be good enough this time?”

        “I don’t know,” Roy confessed softly as he thought of the horrific injuries Johnny had incurred the last time he’d encountered his captor. “I just don’t know.”
        

_______________________________

         Roy was too restless to consider going to bed when Joanne headed in that direction. Forty minutes after she’d left his side, Roy finally entered the house. He secured the lock on the patio doors, then made sure the other doors leading into his home were locked. He flicked the light on over the kitchen sink to let it burn all night as was the norm in his household. As he walked past the wall switch for the overhead kitchen light he shut it off.

        The man headed down the hallway for the master bedroom. A dim light shown through the partially open door of the room Trevor was sleeping in. If the hour hadn’t been so late, and the house hadn’t been so quiet, Roy would have never heard the sound of a little boy’s muffled sobs.

        Roy briefly thought of getting Joanne, but then chastised himself for being so foolish. After all, when his own children were growing up he’d never failed to comfort them when he found one of them crying late at night because of a bad dream, or feelings that had been hurt by a thoughtless remark from a schoolmate, or because they were sick with a cold or the flu.

        The paramedic chief hesitated a moment longer, then pushed the door open. The night-light illuminated the room in a soft, yellow glow. Roy could see Trevor was in the bed farthest from the door, the same bed Brandon used to sleep in when he stayed overnight. He wondered if Joanne had done that by design or accident, then decided that either way, it really didn’t matter.

        The boy’s back was to Roy as he lay curled in the fetal position. Roy quietly approached the bed. He kept his tone low and gentle when he beckoned, “Trevor?”

        Johnny’s son didn’t answer Roy, but rather curled up even tighter if that was possible while stifling his sobs. Whether Trevor was afraid of him, or angry with him, Roy wasn’t certain. He supposed he deserved either one of those emotions. Carefully, so as not to startle the child, Roy sat on the edge of the bed.

        “Trevor? Trevor, are you all right?”

        “Ye. . .yes,” came the nasally response.

        “You don’t sound all right.”

        “I’m. . .I’m okay.”

        “Why don’t you turn over on your back so I can take a look at you, son.”

         “How. . .how come?”

        “Because I want to make certain you’re not sick.”

        “I’m not sick,” came the response that was muffled by the fact that half of Trevor’s face was buried in his pillow. “And I’m not a crybaby either, in case that’s what you’re thinking.”

        “No, no. I’m not thinking that,” Roy assured in his most serious tone. “A boy who is as brave as you are. . .who stows away on a plane in order to travel to a strange city to search for his father, is certainly no crybaby in my book.”

        “Oh. Well. . .well, that’s good,” Trevor bluffed in the same way Johnny used to when Roy said something that caught him by surprise, yet he didn’t want to acknowledge that was the case. “ ‘Cause I’m not. . .a crybaby that is.”

        “Trev. . .is it okay if I call you that?”

        “I. . .I guess. That’s what Papa calls me lots of times.”

        “Then Trev it is. Trev, your father was. . .is, a very good friend of mine. My best friend actually. And if you’re sick, and I don’t take care of you, I’ll be doing him a disservice.”

        That remark caused Trevor to roll onto his back and look up at the man. He swiped at his tears with one arm. “What’s that mean? Disservice?”

        “It means I won’t be honoring his friendship in the way I should be. It means I won’t be properly repaying him for all the times he took care of my children when I wasn’t available to do the job.”

        “Disservice,” Trevor repeated. “I like that word. I’ll remember it and use it every chance I get.”
        
        Roy chuckled as he laid his open right palm on Trevor’s forehead. He couldn’t detect any fever.

        “Do you have a stomachache?”

        “No.”

        “A headache?”

        “No.”

        “A sore throat?”

        “Mr. DeSoto, before you ask anymore questions, I’m not sick. I don’t have none of that stuff, and I don’t have gout, arthritis, or irritable bowel syndrome either.”

        Roy couldn’t help but laugh at this child and his funny ways.

        God, Johnny, there’s no doubt this little boy belongs to you.

        “Now just where have you heard about gout, arthritis, and irritable bowel syndrome?”

        “Clarice’s sisters; Nana Marie, Nana Josephine, and Nana Colette - they have all those things and lots more.”

        “Oh, I see.”

        “But I don’t have any of them, Mr. DeSoto.”

        “I would hope not.” Roy plucked a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand. He handed it to Trevor so the boy could wipe his nose and eyes. When Trevor had done just that he leaned up on one elbow and tossed the tissue into the Simba garbage can. “And what’s with ‘Mr. DeSoto’ all of a sudden? What happened to ‘Uncle Roy?’ ”

        “I thought maybe you didn’t want me to call you that anymore. You. . .I guess you’re mad at me for coming here, huh?”

        “No, Trevor, I’m not mad at you,” Roy assured as the boy laid back down. He tucked the covers around Trevor’s shoulders, then gave his arm a fatherly pat.

        “But you said I should go live with the Fosters.”

        “Who?”

        “The Fosters. I heard you tell Aunt Joanne I should stay with them, but I don’t know any Fosters. I don’t think they were friends of Papa’s.”

        “No, they aren’t,” Roy said, shame rising within him. “They aren’t friends of your papa’s, but your Aunt Joanne and I are. So you’ll stay right here until you return to Eagle Harbor.”

        “But I don’t wanna go back unless Poppy comes with me. I came here to find him.”

        “I know you did, son, but--”

        “I’m not going back without him. I’m not.”

        “Trevor, you’re as stubborn as your father, do you know that?”

        “Aunt Reah says so sometimes.”

        “Well, your Aunt Reah is right.”

        “I can earn my keep if that’s what you’re worried about.”

        “Earn your keep?”

        “Yeah. While I’m here. I can make my bed, set the table, take out the garbage, feed your horses--”

        “I don’t have any horses.”

        “Oh. Well, do you have a dog?”

        “Nope.”

        “A cat?”

        “Not a one.”

        “Rabbits?”

        “Rabbits?”

        “Yeah. I have two rabbits at home. Happy and Hoppy. So if you have rabbits, I can take care of them.”

        “I see,” Roy thoughtfully stroked a thumb and two fingers across his chin as though he had to mull over whether or not he owned any rabbits. “Well, no, now that you mention it I don’t have any rabbits, but I’ll tell you what, I do have the swimming pool you can help me clean.”

        “Can I swim in it after I help clean it?”

        “Sure.”

        “Okay. And I can weed flowerbeds. I saw you have some of those. I do that job for Mrs. Karbenoff in town. She lives a couple blocks from the fire station, and she’s pretty old, and I weed her flower beds and run errands for her when she needs me to.”

        “It sounds like you’re a very industrious young man.”

        “If by that you mean I work hard, I do. Papa says you don’t get something for nothing, and he sure is stingy when it comes to my allowance.”

        Roy laughed again when he thought of the cheapskate reputation Johnny often had around Station 51. Which just went to prove, as much as some things changed, others stayed the same.

        “And while I’m here I’ll try not to talk so much,” Trevor promised, recalling the upset at the dinner table. “Or flirt with your wife.”

        Roy’s eyes widened at this last remark. “What did you say?”

        “Aunt Joanne. I’ll try not to flirt with her so much, ‘cause I know it probably upsets you. It’s a problem I kinda have. I see a pretty face, and I just can’t stop myself. It’s the ‘Gage charm at work’ Grandma Marietta says.”

        Roy didn’t know when the last time was he’d laughed this much. “Well, now, I guess I would appreciate it if you held off on the flirting with your Aunt Joanne. After all, I wouldn’t want to risk her leaving me for a younger man who has so much to offer what with his horses and rabbits.”

        “And two dogs and fifteen cats.”

        “Fifteen cats?”

        “Yep.”

        “What’s your da. . .papa say about fifteen cats?”

        “You really wanna know?”
        
        “Sure.”
        
        “And I won’t get in trouble if I tell you?”

        “Not from me you won’t.”
        
        “Okay.” Trevor pitched his voice low as he did his best to imitate Johnny’s tone. “Damn cats! Get out from under my feet!”

        Roy laughed again. Oh, Johnny, am I going to have my fun when I see you. I’ll finally get to enjoy a little pay-back for all the times my kids blabbed family secrets to you.

        Just as quickly as that thought came to him Roy sobered. Would he ever see Johnny alive again? Would he be lucky enough to get Libby and Johnny back free of harm?

        Trevor must have sensed the man’s worries. He wormed his right hand into Roy’s palm and squeezed. Roy squeezed back as he smiled down at the boy.

        “You go to sleep now, Trevor.”

        “Will you. . .can you. . .can. . .”

        Roy guessed at what the boy was trying to ask him. “Do you want me to stay here with you until you do?”

        “Yes. Please, Mr. DeSoto. If that’s okay.”

        “It’s fine, son.” Roy ran his free hand through the boy’s thick, black hair. “And how about if we go back to you calling me Uncle Roy, rather than Mr. DeSoto?”

        “Are you sure?”

        “Yes,” Roy smiled and winked at the child. “I’ve very sure.”

        “I think Papa would like that better.”

        “You do? Why?”

        “ ‘Cause he told me that’s what I was supposed to call you if I ever met you.”

        “He did?”

“Yeah, not that long ago when we were looking at some of his old pictures. He said if I ever met you I was supposed to call you ‘Uncle Roy’ out of respect for all you had meant to him.”

        “Oh. I see.” Roy had a hard time getting those words out. “Well. . .well then, we wouldn’t want you to go against your papa’s wishes, now would we?”

        “Uh huh. Take it from me, Uncle Roy, when a kid does that, he can find himself in big trouble.”

        Trying to picture Johnny as a disciplinarian was difficult for Roy. Considering Johnny used to instigate trouble with the DeSoto children more often than not, it was hard to imagine him being stern with a child of his own. Knowing Johnny like he did, Roy readily guessed it wasn’t always easy for his old friend to be firm with Trevor.

        Joanne’s right. Johnny’s doing a heck of a job raising this little guy on his own. I always figured if Johnny ever married again and had kids, his wife would be disciplining him right along with the children.

        Roy watched as the eight year old’s eyes closed, then opened, closed, then opened, until Trevor finally lost the battle to stay awake. Just as the boy was starting to sink towards deep sleep, he did something that caused Roy’s heart to constrict. He brought his left arm up and covered his eyes.

        Roy sat beside the child a few minutes longer, unable to believe how much of his best friend he could see in this little boy. From his sense of humor, to his penchant to run-on at the mouth, to the position he slept in.

        What have I lost? Roy wondered. What have I lost by not having Johnny as part of my life these past fifteen years?

        Roy’s last thought was the most bitter one of all. And is it too late to gain any of it back? Did I wait too long, Johnny? Did I wait too damn long to tell you I’m sorry?

        As Roy stood to leave the room he feared that just might be the case. That he’d waited too long to tell John Gage he was sorry, and that when the opportunity came for him to voice that regret, he’d only get to say it to a corpse.

Chapter 21

        At the same time Roy DeSoto was sitting beside Trevor Gage watching him fall asleep, Johnny was putting the only plan he had for escape into action.
        
        If their captor kept to his habit from Saturday night, he wouldn’t show up until ten o’clock with their food. Throughout his years as a paramedic, Johnny had attended several seminars on human psychology. Though far from an expert on the subject, Johnny did recognize a compulsive personality when he saw one. There was no doubt the man who had kidnapped him and Libby had been planning that action for many months. The success he’d had in spiriting them away in the first place, and now keeping them hidden together for over forty-eight hours, spoke of nothing but a meticulous, highly-calculating, and highly-intelligent mind. Johnny gave an internal shudder as he wondered just how long he’d been watched before the man made his move. With as organized and precise as their captor was proving himself to be, Johnny was willing to bet money that supper would once again arrive at ten p.m.

        At nine-fifteen, Johnny halted the game of Uno he and Libby were playing.

        “But neither of us has won yet, Uncle Johnny.” Libby looked at the back cover of her coloring book where they were keeping score. “We’re almost tied. I’ve won twenty-six games, and you’ve won twenty-four. You said you hate to lose. You told me it would drive you crazy if you didn’t come out ahead in the end.”

        “I know, sweetheart, but we’re gonna stop playing for now. I wanna talk to you about something important, Libby, and you need to listen very carefully to what I have to say.”

        Libby’s eyes lit up as she put the Uno cards back in their box. “Is it about how we’re gonna get out of here and get back to my grandpa’s house?”

        “Yes,” Johnny smiled. “Yes. That’s exactly what it’s about.”

        Though the plan was weak at best, it was the only one Johnny had. In some ways, he didn’t like having to execute it after dark, but in other ways that darkness might provide them with the cover they’d need if things didn’t work out quite the way he wanted them to.

        Libby was sitting with her legs crossed, so rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward indicating she was ready, willing, and able. “I’m listening.”

        “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m guessing he’ll show up at ten o’clock with our food. When he walks through that door we’re going to be waiting on the other side of it.”

        “And do what?”

        Johnny pointed to the heavy, battery powered lantern sitting between them.

        “I’m gonna hit him on top of the head as hard as I can. Meanwhile, you’ll be standing next to me holding onto the flashlight. If I knock him out, which I certainly intend to do, I’ll get the keys to his van. He must park it fairly close to this building when he comes up here at night. We’ll run out the door, hop in it, and drive away.”

        Libby grinned. “That’ll work for sure.”

        “It might or it might not,” Johnny stated with complete honesty. “But one way or another we’re getting out of here. If I only manage to knock him off his feet, but he remains conscious, it’ll be too dangerous for me to try to get his keys unless he drops them. In that case, we’re going to run out of here as fast as we can. Now, you have four jobs you have to do for me, Olive Oyl.”

        “What?”

        Johnny counted off on the fingers of his right hand. “Number one; you’re going to be the keeper of the flashlight. When we get out of here we’ll need it in order to see where we’re going. Number two; you watch to see if he drops the keys to his van. He might have them in a pocket, or he might be carrying them. If he’s carrying them, he’ll likely drop them when I hit him. You need to see where they fall so you can point them out to me.”

        “I can scoop ‘em up.”

        “No. You’re gonna stay right by the door.”

        “But--”

        “Honey, I can’t take the risk that he’ll get his hands on you. You have to listen to me on this one, Libby, and you have to obey me. Do you understand?”

        Libby nodded. Uncle Johnny had yet to be stern with her, but there was no mistaking the firmness to his tone. “I understand. I’ll just point to where the keys are.”

        “Good girl,” Johnny nodded. He turned his head to cough. He had long ago given up on not clutching his chest when that action occurred. As soon as he got some air back into his congested lungs he continued. “Number three. When I grab your hand you hang on tight. If we have the keys, we’re heading straight out the front door and looking for the van. If we don’t have the keys. . .well, I’m not sure where we’re going yet, but I’ll figure that out once I determine where we’re at.”

        “Where we’re at?”

        “When your mom was younger than you are now, I lived on a ranch in the foothills of these mountains. At one time I knew them very well. If I can figure out where we are, I’ll know how to get us to a road, or at least to a place where we can hide until daybreak.”

        “The Pow-Wow cave?”

        Johnny was surprised that the girl would mention the old cave he and Roy’s kids used to spend time in. “Yeah. Have you ever been there?”

        “No. But my mom and Uncle Chris talk about it a lot. That’s where they hid the night the man hurt you.”

        “That’s right, that’s where they hid. If we have to hide there, as well, then we will.”

        “What’s number four, Uncle Johnny?”

        “Huh?”

        “You said I had to do four things. That I had four jobs, but you only named three.”

        “That’s because number four will be the most difficult of all for both of us.”

        “Why? What is it?”

        Johnny never took his eyes from the girl’s face. “Libby, if I don’t get out of this cabin, if the man fights me and manages to keep me here, you have to run, sweetheart. You have to run as fast and as far as you can.”

        “But--”

        “We’ve talked about this before, kiddo. I know it’s scary, and I’ll try my very best not to make you have to go out that door alone, but if that is what happens, Libby, you have to be brave and run for me. You have to run until you get to a road. We’ve talked about this remember? By now I’m certain your picture and name have been all over the television. All you have to do is tell anyone who stops that you’re Olivia Sheridan, the girl who was kidnapped on Friday. Tell that person to call the police, Libby.”

        “But what about you?”

        Johnny smiled as he reached out to cup the side of the girl’s face with his right hand. “I’ll be fine, sweetie. This guy tangled with me once before and I lived to tell the story. Believe me, I’ll live to tell it again.”

        “But--”

        “No more buts.” Johnny dropped his hand from Libby’s face. “You have to do just what I said if it comes to that. You have to get out of here, Libby. You have to get yourself to safety.”

        “But what will I tell my grandpa?”

        “Tell him about what?”

        “About you?”

        Johnny thought a moment, then said, “Tell him Junior says hello.”

        Libby didn’t know what Johnny meant by that phrase, but she nodded as she committed it to memory. Maybe it was a secret code of some sort that would help Grandpa find Uncle Johnny. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the man’s neck.

        “I only wanna go if we can go together, Uncle Johnny. I promise I’ll do what you said. . .run from here by myself if that’s the way things turn out, but I don’t wanna leave you behind.”

        Johnny hugged the girl to his chest. “Don’t worry, Olive Oyl. I’ll do my very best to see that we get out of here as a team. You’re a brave girl, as brave as your mother and your Uncle Chris were the night they ran and hid in the Pow-Wow cave. I’m very proud of you. Tell your grandpa. . .make sure you tell him how proud Uncle Johnny is of you.”

        “I will.”

        Libby stayed wrapped in Johnny’s arms until he said it was time for them to hide by the door. She clung to his hand, trying to will her legs to stop shaking. She briefly wondered if her mother had been this scared the night Uncle Johnny had fought the man while trying to save her. Before Libby had time to mull that over further, a key was turning in the door’s padlock.

_______________________________

        
        As Evan Crammer approached the cabin he immediately noticed the glow from the lantern didn’t appear to be coming from the far northwest corner of the room like it had the previous night. Instead, it appeared to be suspiciously close to the door. Though just a bare amount of light seeped through cracks in the cabin’s walls, it was enough to tip the man off that Johnny was up to something. Evan smiled at his own intelligence. A man of lesser abilities, a man who paid only scant attention to his surroundings, would have never realized the light was in a different spot.

        Evan set the cardboard McDonald’s food tray he was carrying on the porch. He slipped a key into the door’s padlock with his left hand, and readied his gun with his right.

        When the lantern swung for Evan’s head the man countered its motion by lifting his right arm. Because he’d been anticipating the blow it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it would have otherwise. The lantern bounced off Evan’s forearm and hit the floor with a clatter. That didn’t stop John Gage, however. He was on the man before the lantern completed its journey through the air. Johnny was sick, but his will to get Libby to safety overrode his body’s weakness. He landed a punch to Evan’s jaw that knocked the man backwards. Evan stumbled, but remained on his feet. When Johnny charged him again Evan flipped the gun around and used the heavy handle to give the fire chief a powerful whack on the top of his head.

        Johnny saw stars as he dropped to his knees. He’d been hit in the same spot where he already had a gash from the van’s doorframe. That tender gash, so recently closed by mother nature’s healing powers, broke open. The room spun widely as blood poured down Johnny’s face. That didn’t keep him from diving for his assailant’s ankles while yelling, “Run, Libby! Run!”

        Because of the blood running into his eyes Johnny’s grab for his attacker was as ineffective as a blind man’s. Evan laughed while easily side-stepping the motion. As the terrified Libby bolted for the door Evan scooped her up as easily as most men would scoop up a two year old. Libby dropped the flashlight as she kicked and screamed, “Let me go! Let me go!”

        “Oh, no, little angel. None of that. No kicking.” Evan hugged Libby’s legs with one arm. “Your mother was a kicker. I remember. I remember things about all my girls most people would forget.”

        Johnny wiped the blood from his eyes. “Let her go!”

        “Let her go? Gage, come on. I haven’t had any fun yet.”

        “I said let her go!”

        Evan laughed again as he put one hand on Libby’s chest, right where her breasts would be if she was just a few years older, while the other hand went in-between her legs. Libby started crying and pleading, “No, no,” as she felt the man attempt to poke his fingers into places he shouldn’t be touching. “Uncle Johnny, please. Please help me,” the girl sobbed when Evan rammed his hand into her crotch.

        Despite the fact that the room was still spinning Johnny scrambled to his feet and raced for Libby’s attacker. Johnny would kill the man, or the man would kill him, but one way or another the assault on Libby was going to end.

        “Uncle Johnny, please.” Tears ran down Libby’s face as she bucked her hips away from Evan. “Please make him stop.”

        Before Johnny could reach the man Libby was thrown at him. The force of the girl’s body against Johnny’s caused them both to tumble to the floor. Johnny took the brunt of the fall, with Libby landing on his chest.

        Crammer pointed a warning finger at the fire chief. “Don’t fuck with me again, Gage, or next time, she really will get hurt.”

        The door was slammed and locked. Johnny heard the man pause on the porch as though he was picking something up, then heard him running down the steps.

        Johnny ignored his head injury to instead get to his feet and gather the sobbing Libby in his arms. Fortunately the heavy denim shorts she was wearing had prevented her assailant’s fingers from entering her. Nonetheless, the experience had terrified her, and rightfully so. Though Libby wasn’t able to put into words why what he’d done had frightened her, she simply knew it had, and that his actions weren’t right. That a normal man didn’t do those kinds of things to little girls.

        Johnny carried Libby back to their corner of the room. He wrapped her in his blanket, the slid down the wall with her in his arms. He rocked her back and forth while running one hand over her hair.

        “Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart, it’s all right. It’s all right now, Libby. He’s gone. He’s gone, and I won’t let him hurt you again.”

        Libby never brought her face out of Johnny’s blood stained shirt collar. “I was so. . .so scared, Uncle Johnny. I didn’t like. . .I didn’t like the way he was. . .was touching me.”

        “I know, sweetie. I know. What he did wasn’t right. I won’t let him do it again.” Johnny kissed the top of the child’s head. “I promise I won’t let him do it again.”

        “I want my grandpa. I wanna go home. I want Grandpa.”

        “I know,” Johnny whispered as they continued to rock. “I know. Believe me, Libby, right about now I’d like to see your grandpa, too.”

Libby’s tears soaked Johnny’s shirt with all the fear that could be bottled up inside a ten year old. As the girl cried, Johnny watched their squirrel. . .the one Libby had recently christened Acorn, scamper from the back room, across the fireplace hearth, and up the chimney.         

Johnny hated that damn squirrel. More than that, he hated its freedom. A freedom he’d wanted so badly for the sobbing child in his arms, and a freedom he’d die trying to give her.

Chapter 22

        
        Aside from Roy DeSoto and his immediate family, there were a number of people who hadn’t slept since Libby Sheridan disappeared, among them, Troy Anders. It was times like these when Anders wondered if he’d survive another decade until retirement. Or at least survive while doing police work. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his stomach protested each time he poured another cup of coffee into it, he had a headache that showed no signs of letting up despite the Excedrin he’d been downing on a regular basis since Saturday, and his throat was sore and scratchy from multiple briefings and phone conversations.

        As the sun came up on Monday morning they were no closer to finding Olivia Sheridan and John Gage than when it had set on Sunday night. If nothing else they now knew who had the pair, or at least had a strong suspicion as to who had them, but the main problem was that the man’s identity was still an unknown.

        By eight a.m. Station 51 was filling up with law enforcement officials, a TV news crew, and the DeSoto family. Troy scanned the crowd, but didn’t see Wendy or Joanne DeSoto this morning. He’d overheard the women say they were going to give some limited hours to their jobs this week, despite the fact Troy was certain they would both have been granted a leave of absence had they requested it. But, Troy didn’t fault them for trying to juggle their commitments to their jobs and their families. After all, wasn’t that what women had been doing ever since they’d entered the work force in record numbers back in the 70’s? Plus, Troy knew that in many ways, they were better off at work. What could they do here that hadn’t already been done except wait and worry, like Chris, Jennifer, and Roy were currently doing.

        It was after eleven o’clock on Sunday night before Jennifer had consented to going home with her brother and sister-in-law. Brittany and Madison DeSoto remained in Santa Barbara in the care of their maternal grandparents, and would until Chris and Wendy felt it was safe for them to return home, meaning Chris’s house was a quiet haven for Jennifer right now. She was back at Station 51 with Chris at seven on Monday morning. She didn’t look to be in any better shape than Troy himself was. She was pacing the floor with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hands while never taking her eyes from Trevor Gage. The boy had arrived that morning holding onto Roy DeSoto’s right hand, while carrying a shopping bag filled with snacks, games, and toys that had been brought from the DeSoto home in his left hand. Whatever had transpired between Roy and Trevor overnight had evidently been positive. Trevor was now very much at ease with the man he called Uncle Roy, and openly affectionate towards him. That affection on Trevor’s part was returned in kind by DeSoto. Jennifer seemed to take comfort in the boy’s presence, though whether that was because he reminded her of John Gage, or because being near such a happy child brought her some kind of peace where thoughts of her own daughter were concerned, Troy wasn’t certain.

        At eight-thirty an e-mail arrived for Troy from Carl Mjtko that had a picture attachment. Troy printed the color picture out, then walked it across the engine bay to where the DeSotos were seated.

        “Here, Jennifer. This will be shown on the news broadcasts along with the photo of Libby we’ve shown previously.”

        “Poppy!” Trevor cried when the picture was laid in the center of the table.

        The photo of John Gage was taken at the Eagle Harbor Fire Department just one month earlier. Though it only showed him from the ribcage up, you could tell he was seated at a desk.

        “Carl said this was taken about four weeks ago in John’s office for the Police and Fire Commissions’ Annual Report booklet.”

        Jennifer smiled as she studied the picture. She’d often heard women say, with considerable envy, that men aged well. In John Gage’s case she’d have to agree. Though her love for the man had never gone beyond the innocence of a little girl’s crush, and in later years really was the type of love a niece would have for a favorite uncle, she couldn’t deny that he was a very handsome man. Even handsomer than he had been in his younger days now that his boyish good looks had given way to a more mature appearance.

        “Except for the short hair he looks the same,” Chris said as he peered over his sister’s elbow. “A little gray around the temples, a few lines around the eyes, but pretty much the same.”

        “He looks like his father.” Roy flipped the picture around to see Johnny grinning up at him in a way that was so familiar it immediately erased fifteen long years of separation. “He looks just like Chad did the first time I met him.”

        Trevor hiked himself to his knees on his chair and leaned across the table. “When was that, Uncle Roy?”

        “When was what, Trev?”

        “The first time you met my Grandpa Chad?”

        Roy didn’t go into any details surrounding that first meeting, but simply said, “Oh, about twenty-two years ago.”

        “A long time then, huh?”

        Roy smiled while giving Trevor a pat on the back. “Yes. A long time.” He looked over at his son and daughter, suddenly seeing the children they had been. He remembered the enormous pride he’d felt over all they’d done to keep Johnny alive, and the enormous gratitude he’d felt for all Johnny had done in an effort to keep Jennifer from her attacker’s clutches. “Though in some ways, Trev, it seems like yesterday.” Roy looked back down at the picture of the man who appeared to be almost as lean as he had been the last time Roy had seen him, then at his own slight paunch. “I’ll be darned, but he hasn’t gained more than a few pounds either. And those were pounds he needed to gain. ”

        Chris and Jennifer chuckled at their father’s remark.

        “But he eats a lot,” Trevor contributed.

        Roy shook his head. “I’m sure he does. He always did. That’s what makes it even more disgusting to an overweight grandpa like me.”

        “You’re not fat, Uncle Roy. I think you’re just right the way you are.”

        “Well, thank you,” Roy said as he pulled the child to him in a side-ways hug. “Thank you very much.”

        Jennifer and Chris exchanged glances. They were both happy to see that Uncle Johnny’s son had won their father’s heart, and won it in a very large way, because God knew the boy had certainly won their hearts, and their mother’s heart as well.

        Thirty minutes later Jennifer was making another impassioned plea in front of a TV camera for her daughter’s safe return. This plea was slightly different; however, from the previous plea taped on Saturday morning. This plea included asking for the safe return of John Gage as well, and was directed at the man FBI Agent Quinn Dailey was certain had the fire chief and Roy DeSoto’s granddaughter.

        At sixty-one years old Dailey could now be resting on his laurels, enjoying his government pension while sunning himself on a Florida beach. But he wasn’t interested in resting on his laurels, nor working on his tan. He still lived in northern Virginia, where winters could be cold and snowy, and was now the head of the Bureau’s Child Abduction And Serial Killer Unit, or CASKU. Dailey had been after the man known only as the Kankakee Killer for thirty years now. What he knew about the man based on past profiles done he’d already shared with Troy Anders. IQ in the genius range. Unmarried. No immediate family to tie him down which, in part, contributed to his mobility. Endless money. Or at least that last was an assumption based on the ease this man had in hiding himself.

        “He’s smart, and he’s wealthy,” Quinn had told Troy while they rode together from the airport in Troy’s car on Sunday night. “Actually, he’s very smart and very wealthy. Two deadly combinations as we’ve seen proven time and time again where he’s concerned.”

        Agent Daily wrote the statement Jennifer gave to the press. “We’re going to feed his ego, Doctor DeSoto. This guy gets a natural high from believing he’s smarter than everyone else. From believing he’s outwitted the law all these years. His ego will cause him to make a mistake if we play our cards right. It happened twenty-two years ago, and we can make it happen again.”

        “What do you mean it happened twenty-two years ago?” Jennifer asked.

        “We’ve always surmised he spent many hours up in those woods watching you that weekend you were camping with your brother and John Gage. He decided he had to have you, and that he wasn’t leaving that mountain without you. He never anticipated how hard Mr. Gage was going to fight to keep you from him. He never anticipated that Mr. Gage would be willing to die in order to keep you free from harm. You were the first victim, and as far as we know the last victim, he ever tried to kidnap while being fully aware an adult was right next to her. When he wasn’t successful he left behind three very important things.”

        “What were those?”

        “Witnesses, Jennifer. You, your brother, and John Gage. As a result of that we at least had a face to put to the crime. Now, because of Mr. Gage’s son and that old picture, we know who has your daughter.”
        
        “We know who has her, but will we get her back? Her and Uncle Johnny both?”

        The agent had nodded as he vowed, “I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen. I’ve got a score. . .a very old score, to settle with this bastard. I want him, Jennifer. Believe me, before I turn in my badge and start collecting my pension, I’m going to get his guy.”

        Jennifer heard the commitment in the man’s tone, and had no doubts that he’d go to his grave trying to keep the promise he’d just made to her. But Quinn Dailey had been after the Kankakee Killer for thirty years. If he hadn’t caught the man by now, what guarantee did any of them have that event would ever come to pass?

        As the morning wore on Quinn and Troy sat at a far table quietly discussing how Scott Monroe had played into this case. They immediately drew several conclusions, the first being that it was a convenient coincidence that Monroe’s unstable mind had evidently fixated on Olivia Sheridan. Whether he would have actually carried a crime out against the girl neither of them could guess. Based on what Monroe’s counselor had discovered when Scott’s room was searched, they knew the man hadn’t been taking his medication in the dosages he should have. It still remained somewhat of a mystery as to how the real abductor of Libby and John Gage knew to use Monroe as a red herring, though Dailey suspected he’d hacked into police files in some way, and had several experts from the Bureau’s Electronics Crime Division going over the LAPD’s computer files with painstaking precision.

        “So you suspect it was him. . .the Kankakee Killer. . .God, I hate that name, - who was sending the e-mails to Chris DeSoto all along?” Troy asked.

        “Yes, I do.”
        
        Troy nodded. He now suspected the same thing. Detective Anders’ suspicions were confirmed at ten-thirty that morning when he received a phone call. He turned his back on those in the room. When he hung up five minutes later he looked at Quinn Dailey. Quietly, he said, “They found Monroe’s body. He’d been shot once in the head and stuffed behind a Dumpster in an alley five miles from where he’d gone to interview for a job. When an old woman who was taking her trash out noticed a smell she thought was a little stronger than normal garbage, she looked behind the Dumpster and saw him.”

        “How long has he been dead?”

        “Until the autopsy is done they can only speculate, but a doctor from the Medical Examiner’s office is guessing since around eleven on Wednesday morning.”

        “The same day he disappeared.”
        
        “Yes.”

        “And the same day Chris received his first e-mail. Only Chris’s e-mail came in at what time?”

        “Three o’clock in the afternoon.”

        “So if Monroe was killed on Wednesday morning, then as I’ve suspected all along, he didn’t send that e-mail.”

        “No, he didn’t.”

        “Which means?” Roy asked from across the room.

        “Which means, Mr. DeSoto, that the man we’re looking for is just as intelligent and cunning as I’ve always thought. But, as soon as he sees Jennifer on the news broadcasts, he’ll realize we know who really has Libby and Mr. Gage.”

        “And is that good or bad?”

        “It’s good. Believe me, it’s good. You see, to him this is all a game. Now the stakes have been raised. He’ll realize Monroe is no longer that ‘red herring.’ When that old sketch of his face appears on TV, he’ll know it’s him we’re looking for. And that’s when he’ll quite likely get careless.”

        Roy wanted to say, “Or maybe not. He’s outwitted you for this long, what’s going to prevent him from killing Libby and Johnny, and then going on to outwit you for years to come?” But because Trevor and Jennifer were hanging onto every word of this conversation, Roy simply nodded his head. He looked at his children and John Gage’s little boy, while doing his best to smile.
        
        “It’ll be okay,” Roy assured. “I know things will be okay. I know Libby and Johnny will be returned to us safe and sound.”

        God, Roy hated a liar. Even more so when the liar was himself.

_______________________________

        
        Dixie McCall sat alone in the nurses’ lounge eating a sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee while watching the twelve o’clock news. The lead story was about Libby and Johnny. The nurse glanced up when the door opened. She arched an eyebrow at Kelly Brackett. It wasn’t often that the hospital administrator had time to visit this lounge on the ER floor.

        “I thought I might find you here,” Kel said as he poured himself a cup of coffee and then moved to sit with Dixie at the table. Brackett was still the same self-assured, confident man he had been when he was head of the emergency room twenty-five years ago. The only things the passage of time had brought him was some gray hair, a collection of expensive suits, a large salary, and the stress that came with managing an entire hospital, as opposed to just one department within it. “Anything new on Libby and Johnny?”

        “Not much. There was a breaking story about Scott Monroe a few minutes ago. They found his body in an alley. Evidently he’d been murdered. But other than that they haven’t said anything we didn’t learn yesterday after Trevor arrived at. . .”

        Dixie let her sentence trail off as she and Kel watched the tape of Jennifer pleading with her daughter’s kidnapper to release Libby and John Gage.

        Libby’s picture flashed on the screen for several long seconds, then Johnny’s. Johnny’s picture stayed there while the anchorman’s voice filled the viewing audience in on who he was, his past connection to the alleged assailant, and why law enforcement officials surmised the same man who attacked John Gage in 1978 had recently kidnapped him from his home in Eagle Harbor, Alaska, and then kidnapped Olivia Sheridan from a sidewalk in her grandparents’ neighborhood.

        When the portion of the news devoted to Johnny and Libby came to an end Dixie aimed the remote control at the TV and shut it off. She pushed the remainder of her sandwich aside, no longer interested in eating. Brackett studied her a moment, then said in reference to the photograph that had been shown, “Johnny looks good.”

        “Yes,” the nurse nodded while gazing down at the black liquid in her cup. “The years have been kind to him. Shorter hair. . .as hard as that is to believe considering how obsessed he was with keeping it long. A little gray. A. . .maturity about his features that wasn’t there the last time I saw him, but he’s still sporting that same old grin that tells me he’s up to no good.”

        Kelly smiled. “I hope he never loses that grin. Every time I think of him, he’s wearing it.”

        “I know what you mean.” Dixie brought her eyes to the man’s. “You’re proud of him, aren’t you?”

        “Very. Considering what Trevor told me yesterday about Johnny’s job responsibilities in Eagle Harbor that makes him the only one of our paramedics from the class of ‘71 who’s still working in the field. You know what they say, Dix, it’s a young man’s job. Or more politically correct these days, a young person’s job. Most of our paramedics leave the program by the time they’re thirty-five. The stress, the erratic hours, the mediocre pay. . .all contribute to them moving in other directions within the fire department, or resigning from the department altogether to pursue other career paths. To know that Johnny, in his capacity as fire chief, is still a practicing paramedic. . .well, it means a lot to me. He and Roy were our best team. We’ve said that time and time again. Remember the last day they worked together before Roy started his new position as captain. . .the little party we had here for them in this very lounge?”
        
        “I do. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, including theirs.”

Brackett nodded. “It was a difficult day for all of us. After the party had wound down Johnny and I stood over in that corner talking.” The man pointed to a far corner next to the soda machine. “He told me he wouldn’t stop being a paramedic until he retired. I told him I didn’t believe that. That eventually he’d move on to bigger and better things. He simply shook his head and said, “Doc, there’s nothing bigger and better than this. Nothing.”

        “He loved the work,” Dixie said. “More so than Roy even. It doesn’t surprise me to discover he’s found a way to move up within a fire department, while still being able to use the skills you taught him almost thirty years ago now.”

        “We taught him, Dix.”

        “Okay. We taught him.” Dixie reached a hand across the table. Kelly met it halfway with one of his own. When their hands clasped, Brackett gave the woman’s a light squeeze. “What are the chances they’ll find Johnny and Libby alive, Kel? What are the changes they’ll get away from this guy?”

        Brackett shrugged. “I don’t know, Dix, but I’ll tell you this. If that guy had kidnapped any other man but John Gage, I’d say the chances are slim to none. But Johnny. . .well, if he’s still ‘our Johnny,’ which I suspect a good deal of him is, then he’s just unorthodox enough, and enough of a free spirit, to somehow get himself and Roy’s granddaughter to safety.”
        
        “The last time this happened, and he got Jennifer to safety, it almost killed him.”

        “You’re right, it did. I hope it doesn’t come to that this time, but if it does, you know the staff at this hospital will do everything in our power to get him through whatever injuries may bring him to us.”

        “If he gets out alive this time,” came Dixie’s grave reminder.

        The administrator nodded. “You’re right, Dix. If he gets out alive.”

        Brackett gave the woman’s hand a final squeeze before he stood to exit the room. Dixie was left with his coffee cup to wash as well as her own, which seemed to be the story of her life around this hospital. Today she didn’t silently complain, however. Instead, she used the quiet time in front of the sink to pray for John Gage and Libby Sheridan.

Chapter 23

        Joanne DeSoto arrived at the paramedic training station at one o’clock that afternoon with a mini-van full of pizzas. The hungry volunteers, cops, and FBI agents were grateful for the hot food. It took all Joanne’s persuasive skills as a mother to get Jennifer to eat a few bites of one piece. Jennifer was a thin woman to begin with, and didn’t need to lose any weight. Joanne was certain her daughter had shed several pounds since this ordeal began. She didn’t want to see her shed any more.

        Like the previous day, Roy and Joanne left with Trevor in tow at four o’clock. By then Wendy had arrived from work, and quietly promised Joanne she’d do her best to get Jennifer to come home with her and Chris by six.

        “Jenny needs a night of decent rest,” Joanne quietly told her daughter-in-law. “I hope she’ll take the tranquilizer Doctor Morton prescribed for her so she can sleep.”

        “She wouldn’t last night,” Wendy said. “I heard her walking the floor in the guest room until I got up to get ready for work. But maybe I can convince her to take a dose this evening. Chris is going to make a home cooked meal for us. He says he’s tired of all this take-out stuff we’ve been having since Friday. I’m hoping we can get Jen to eat, then go to bed.”

        “I hope you can, too, sweetheart. Thank you.” Joanne gave her daughter-in-law a firm hug. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Wendy.”

        Wendy returned the hug, then laid a light hand on Joanne’s arm as they broke apart. “You and Dad try to get some sleep, too.”

        “We will. I slept on and off last night. It wasn’t nearly as much as I need, but at least it was a couple hours here and there.”
        
        “What about Dad?” Wendy said, as she glanced at Roy who was helping Trevor put the Sorry game pieces back in their box.

        “He didn’t sleep at all. He came to bed for a while sometime around ten-thirty or so, but he tossed and turned until he finally got back up at midnight. He went to the living room and tried to read, but I don’t think he had any success in keeping his mind on his book. I found him early this morning in the computer room going through the photo albums.”

        “What was he looking at?”

        “Pictures of Johnny and himself taken during the years they worked together out of this station.”

        Wendy nodded. She hadn’t known John Gage that well, but she was certainly aware of the important place he had in her husband’s heart, and in the hearts of Jennifer and John as well.

        “He and Dad were very close, weren’t they?”

        “It’s an old cliché, but I’ll use it anyway. They were like brothers. Even more so because neither of them has a brother of their own. I really think Johnny filled that void for Roy, and likewise, Roy filled it for Johnny.”

        Joanne and Roy said goodbye to their children soon thereafter, gathered up Trevor and his bag of toys, and headed for their home.

        While Trevor helped Joanne set the table and get dinner ready, Roy set the VCR to tape the six o’clock news. He wanted to see it, but he didn’t want to watch it in front of Trevor. After the boy went to bed he and Joanne would sit down together and view it. Not that Roy was expecting to learn anything he didn’t already know, but nonetheless, there was always the hope within him that something regarding this case would break wide open.

        Joanne was grateful for Trevor’s constant chatter as they worked together in the kitchen. It took her mind off darker concerns. When Brandon was so ill Joanne thought she’d learned the meaning of the phrase ‘living through hell.’ But even that, for as horrible and heartbreaking as it had been, didn’t compare to this. She wondered how long a family put their lives on hold for a missing loved one. What if Libby was never found? Did you eventually hold a memorial service so some kind of conclusion was offered to those left behind; or without a body, or proof of a death, did you go on living hour after hour with the hope that she’d one day be returned to you? Joanne couldn’t imagine how families who’d been through similar situations - the kidnapping of a child or grandchild - coped with the uncertainty. But now she was one of those families, and she had no idea how they’d cope long-term either. Eventually she and Wendy would have to return to their jobs full-time, or risk being fired. For Joanne and Roy that wouldn’t necessarily be a major hardship, especially since John was now through college. But since Wendy carried her family’s health insurance benefits it could spell financial disaster for her and Chris. Under the Family Medical Leave Act Jennifer could take as much as twelve weeks off. Between unused vacation days and sick days she’d be paid for a portion of it, but when those twelve weeks came to an end she, too, would have to return to work or face financial ruin. If Libby wasn’t found by then, or if. . .if all Jennifer was given back was the body of her eldest child, how would she survive the emotional devastation? Where would this tragedy leave her? She’d already lost one child, and been through a painful divorce as a result. Libby was Jennifer’s whole life. That little girl was the reason she’d been able to go on after Brandon’s death and Dan’s abandonment. What would this ultimately do to her?

        Joanne wiped at the tears threatening to run down her face. She knew she was only making things harder on herself by thinking ahead, but how could she not think ahead? For all they knew Johnny and Libby might already be dead. In all likelihood, they probably were.

        Joanne was startled out of her reverie when a small hand was placed a top hers.

        “Aunt Joanne, are you crying?”

        Joanne looked down at the boy standing next to her.

        “No, sweetie, I’m not. It’s just these. . .onions.”

        “But you haven’t even started chopping them yet.”

        “I know. But just standing over them like this brings tears to my eyes.”

        “Oh,” Trevor said in a tone that broadcast his disbelief. “You wanna know something?”

        “What, hon?”

        “Poppy says some of the best times he ever had were right here in this house. Your house.”

        “Really?”

        “Really. He liked it here a lot. So ‘cause he liked it here so much, I know he’s gonna come visit you. And that means one of these days real soon he’ll walk in your front door with Libby.”

        Joanne caught Roy’s eyes as he came around the corner from the living room. By the look on Roy’s face she knew he’d heard everything Trevor had said.

        Joanne returned her attention to the child. “He will?”

        “Sure. Only well. . .maybe he’d knock first I guess.”

        Joanne smiled at the boy. “Trevor, if we see your papa and Libby coming up that sidewalk together, believe me, we won’t give them time to knock.”

        “And then can we have a party?”

        “You bet we can. We’ll have the biggest party this family has ever seen.”

        “Good. I like parties. Especially if there’s cake. Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and lots of cold milk to wash it down with. And that’s a hint, okay?”

        Roy laughed as he picked the boy up and swung him to his hip. “Gee, I wonder why it doesn’t surprise me to find out you like chocolate cake and cold milk, young Mr. Gage?”

        “ ‘Cause those are Poppy’s favorites, too?”

        “Yes. Because those are Poppy’s favorites, too.”

        Joanne wished the homecoming would be just as Trevor described. She’d look out the front window to see Johnny and Libby running hand in hand up the sidewalk. Then they’d have a party complete with chocolate cake and cold milk. Unfortunately, her grown-up heart knew Trevor’s words were nothing but a child’s fantasy. The look on Roy’s face said he knew it as well.

_______________________________

        Tonight it was Roy who kept Trevor occupied after supper. Joanne found a pair of baggy-style swimming trunks in a dresser drawer that used to belong to Brandon. With the help of the drawstring at the waist, they fit the skinny, slight-framed Trevor as though they’d been made for him. Roy and Trevor went swimming in the DeSoto pool once the dishes were cleared from the table. Joanne looked out the patio doors several times to see Trevor laughing as he rode on Roy’s back in the water, his arms loosely wrapped around the man’s neck.

        After the pair entered the house and changed clothes they ate a snack, then Roy saw Trevor off to bed. Joanne listened in the hallway as her husband told Trevor a bedtime story in the form of an actual rescue he and Johnny had been on together many years ago. When Roy’s story came to an end, and it was time to tuck Trevor in and turn out the light, the boy sat up and gave Roy a long hug and then a kiss on the cheek. Joanne saw the look on Roy’s face as he returned the hug while planting a firm kiss on the top of Trevor’s head. She knew then, that what she had to tell her husband was not going to be well-received.

        Once the bedroom door was shut, and Roy and Joanne were in the living room and seated on the couch, she said quietly, “I talked to Carl while you and Trevor were in the pool. That

pilot. . .Gus Zimmerman is his name, will be here on Thursday afternoon with Clarice to pick Trevor up.”

        “He doesn’t want to go,” Roy said. “He wants to stay until they find Johnny.”

        “I realize that, Roy, but I don’t think that’s possible. Or wise.”

        “But last night you--”

        “I what? I wanted to give Trevor a home until the time came for him to return to Eagle Harbor?”

        “Yes. You fought me in regards to sending him anywhere else.”

        “I did. And with good reason. But we knew it was only going to be for a few days, honey. We knew he’d be going back to Alaska. . .and most likely without Johnny, long before either one of us was ready to see that happen.”

        “Johnny would want him to stay here.”

        “No, he wouldn’t, Roy.”

        “Yes, he would. He’d want--”

        “Roy, Carl told me that Johnny has it stated in his will that he. . .Carl and his mother, are to be Trevor’s legal guardians should anything happen to Johnny before Trevor turns eighteen. They’re the people Johnny trusts to raise his son. Therefore, in Johnny’s absence, it’s up to them to decide when Trevor should return home.”

        Roy gave a heavy sigh as he laid his head against the back of the couch. “If things had turned out differently fifteen years ago it would be us.”

        “It would be us what?”

        “We’d be Trevor’s guardians, and he could stay here until Johnny is found.”

        “Maybe. Maybe not. If things had turned out differently maybe there wouldn’t have been a Trevor. If Johnny had stayed in California, then maybe he wouldn’t have met Trevor’s mother. Things turned out. . .well, how they were supposed to, I guess.”

        Joanne barely caught the tiny nod Roy gave. She wondered how many regrets were running through his mind at this moment, but the look on his face told her it was best not to ask. They clasped hands as Roy aimed the remote at the television set. He hit the ‘play’ button, and they watched together as the six o’clock news broadcast began.

_______________________________

        Evan Crammer watched the six o’clock news live that evening in his hotel room. The tape of Jennifer DeSoto’s plea to him was shown again. Evan had caught it at noon as well, along with the report that Scott Monroe’s body had been found. Money could buy Evan anything, even another man’s abduction and murder. He had known Monroe’s body would be found eventually. Of course, he hadn’t anticipated that they’d figure out quite this soon that Monroe had nothing to do with the disappearance of Libby Sheridan and John Gage, but thanks to Gage’s son, they had.

Evan leaned back against the pillows on his bed, laughing at the old picture they were showing of him. He didn’t look much like that sketch now, so he had to give the Gage kid credit for his sharp eye.

        “I probably should have killed the little bastard while I had the chance, but what the heck, I like a smart kid. Smart and polite. You’ve done a good job with the boy, Fire Chief Gage.”

        When the news ended Evan pushed himself to his feet and shuffled into the bathroom. Despite the fact that he’d slept most of the day he was tired. That scuffle with Gage the night before had taken more out of Evan than he wanted to admit. He looked at the pill bottles lined up on the counter, checked his watch, then reached for the medications it was time for him to take.

        In large part Evan’s one hundred pound weight loss over the past two years came as a result of his illness. Cancer was cruel. She didn’t care who she took, or how young you were when she struck. Evan had the money for the best possible care. He’d gotten it, too, at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. But shortly before the new year began it became evident that the treatments holding Evan’s cancer at bay would not keep him alive indefinitely. He’d undergone three surgeries to remove growths from his liver and intestines. He’d undergone multiple chemotherapy treatments as well. For a while, he was better. He grew stronger, and it appeared as though he had the Big C, as John Wayne used to refer to it, licked. But then it came back last December, and Evan was told he might live a year at the outside. Rather than mourning the loss of his life at an early age, Evan had gone home and immediately started plotting the revenge he had for so long wanted to put into action. If Evan was dying, then sure as hell John Gage would beat him to death’s doorstep.

        Evan downed four pills with a glass of water. It was all just a game really. And it sure had been fun. For over thirty years now he’d outsmarted everyone from small town cops, to big city police detectives, to the infamous Quinn Dailey. Evan knew full well he’d go to his grave with secrets. Those secrets contained little girls’ names, and burial locations, and the what’s, where’s, and why’s he’d never reveal to anyone. It would drive Dailey nuts knowing that, in the end, Evan Crammer had come out on top.

        The man pondered the news broadcast as he walked back into the main room of this old Howard Johnson’s motel - or ‘Motor Inn’ as its aging sign out front read. Certainly he could afford far better, but he’d learned over the years that the staff of motels like this one asked few questions of a person passing himself off as the proverbial traveling salesman. They didn’t find it strange that he kept odd hours, they didn’t pay attention to his comings and goings, they were simply happy to get his cash. He always made certain his room was on the ground floor and in a far corner. The nice thing about a motel was the separate outside entrance each room contained. Evan didn’t have to walk through a lobby when he left after dark, or returned during the early morning hours.

        Evan sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed a hand over his aching stomach. It was the cancer growing. He swore he could feel it getting bigger by the second. He hated to see his game of cat and mouse come to an end so soon, but he had to finish Gage off while he still had the strength. Evan knew exactly where he was going after Gage was dead. There was a beautiful little spot on Reindeer Lake up in Manitoba, Canada, where he’d purchased a log cabin. After he’d killed John Gage, Evan would return to his cabin and wait to die. He wasn’t afraid of death. Or at least he wouldn’t be once everything he needed to accomplish was finished.

        The man thought of Olivia Sheridan next. It’s too bad that his illness, and evidently his medications, had taken away his desire for little girls. Or maybe he was just getting old and soft-hearted. God knew she was a beautiful child, just like her mother had been. But really, what use did he have for her? He should probably kill her tonight and get it over with. Wouldn’t that act alone totally destroy Gage? Evan smiled briefly at the thought, yet a John Gage who had no desire to live, who wasn’t willing to put up a fight, sure wasn’t going to be much fun. Actually, Evan had a better idea. His research had given him a vast amount of knowledge about Gage’s personal life. He knew Gage had long been on the outs with his best friend, the man who was Libby’s grandfather. Evan knew Gage would fight for Libby Sheridan’s life, but would he fight for Roy DeSoto’s?

        Mmmmm, interesting thought.

        Evan sat on his bed another hour putting his newest plan into motion. Then he walked over to the laptop sitting on the room’s desk and accessed his e-mail program. He typed a message, then saved to his draft folder. Within twenty-four hours he’d send it, and shit, would Quinn Dailey look like a fool.

Chapter 24

        Monday was a long day for Libby and Johnny. The girl clung to the fire chief, seemingly afraid to let him out of her sight. Johnny realized how much the incident from the evening before had not only terrified Libby, but had finally brought to the forefront of her mind what their ultimate fate would likely be.

        As for Johnny, he could no longer fool himself into believing he had a bad cold. There was no doubt what he really had was pneumonia. Whether or not he had the start of it back in Eagle Harbor he wasn’t certain. Possibly with a couple days’ rest like he was supposed to have prior to the change of plans that came his way thanks to his kidnapper, Johnny might have gotten over the cold with no serious ramifications. Or at worst, if he’d still been feeling bad by the time he returned to work on Saturday morning, he would have simply stopped at Eagle Harbor Medical Clinic and seen his physician, Mark Benson. Mark would have been given him a prescription for an antibiotic, maybe a shot a of penicillin, a sucker for Trevor, instructed him to take a few more days off work despite Mark knowing his patient would ignore that order, and then would have sent him on his way. But Mark Benson wasn’t available to Johnny at the moment, nor was any doctor, which meant his fever was climbing higher and it was getting harder to breathe.

        Well, I suppose dying from pneumonia beats being shot in the gut or stabbed to death. Geez, wouldn’t it just piss that bastard off royally if he came in here and found me dead on the floor before he got a chance to kill me himself?

        If it hadn’t been for Libby, Johnny might have given up on the will to live right at that very moment. But as long as the little girl was with him, Johnny had no choice but to do his best to protect her.

        Some help I’ve turned out to be to her, Johnny thought as he watched the girl color. He smiled at her when she pointed to the squirrel who had just whisked down the chimney and sat on the hearth with his tail twitching in nervous rhythm. He studied the pair as though he couldn’t figure out why they’d invaded his territory, and was wondering when they’d be leaving.

        “Acorn can sure go up and down that chimney real fast.”

        “Yep, he sure can.”

        A harsh bout of coughing on Johnny’s part scared Acorn away. He flew up the chimney as fast as he’d flown down it. Johnny returned his attention to Libby and watched her color. He plucked the black crayon out of the Crayola box because it still had a sharp tip, grabbed the Barbie puzzle box to use as a hard surface, and asked Libby to tear a clean page out of her book.

        “One that has a lot of room to write on it around the picture, Olive Oyl.”

        “Why?” Libby asked as she began leafing through the pages.

        “Because I wanna write your grandpa a note.”

        Libby looked up with the first glimmer of hope to her eyes that Johnny had seen since the man attacked her the previous evening. “Do you think he’s gonna find us soon?”

        “Yes, sweetie,” Johnny lied. “I do.”

        Johnny was grateful that Libby didn’t appear to be interested in what he was writing. When he finished, he folded the paper into the fourths, wrote ‘Roy DeSoto’ on the outside, and stuck it in the right rear pocket of his jeans where his wallet usually resided.

        Libby looked up at the man when his movement jostled her. “Uncle Johnny, I think your head’s bleeding again.”

        Libby stood. They’d used a rolled up towel to try to staunch the flow of blood from the gash that had been reopened. They’d had some success, but the slightest movement on Johnny’s part started it bleeding again.

        “I know. I guess it could use a few stitches.”

        Libby retrieved the towel and gently placed it against Johnny’s head.

        “My mom will put them in for you. And because you’re Uncle Johnny, she won’t even send you a bill. Do you think you have a concussion, too?”

        Johnny cocked an eyebrow at the girl. “Well, well, well, Doctor Sheridan, I don’t think I need your mother. You can probably put those stitches in yourself.”

        “No,” Libby giggled. “My grandma’s trying to teach me to sew, but I’m pretty hopeless. I’d get ‘em in crooked for sure.”

        “You’ll learn.”

        “I guess.”

        “Your grandma sewed a lot of things in her day. Even for me.”

        “She did?”

        “Yep. She made me a couple of real nice shirts one time for my birthday that I still have, and made more than a few Halloween costumes for me and your grandpa.”

        “I can’t imagine my grandpa dressed in a costume for Halloween.”

        “Then I’ll have to show you pictures, because I’ve got some.”

        “Neat.” The girl carefully lifted the towel to take a peek. It looked like the bleeding had stopped again. She sat down on the floor next to Johnny with the towel still in her hand. “So, like I asked before, do you think you have a concussion?”

        “No, I don’t think so. I’m fine, sweetheart.”
        
        “You don’t sound fine. I think you’re pretty sick.”

        “You are by far, Miss Sheridan, not the first woman who’s tossed that phrase at me,” Johnny teased.

        “Huh?”
        
        “Never mind. I was only joking. Don’t worry about me, Olive Oyl. I’ll be fine.”

        “Are we gonna get outta here tonight, Uncle Johnny?”

        “What?”

        “Like last night. Can we try your plan again?”

        “Honey, I think he’ll be on guard when he comes back tonight. It would be foolish for us to try anything.”

        Libby looked at the floor so Johnny wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “Oh.”

        Johnny reached an arm out and pulled her against his side. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. I’m not going to let him hurt you again, I promise. And one way or another, I’m going to do my best to get you out of here.”

        “How?”

        I wish I knew, Libby. God, I wish I knew.

        Rather than voice his hopeless thoughts, Johnny cupped the child’s face and looked into her light blue eyes, vowing, “I will, Libby. I promise I will.”

_______________________________

        
        Olivia Sheridan got out of her prison that night, but not in a way John Gage had planned.

        When Libby heard the key in the padlock at ten o’clock she sidled closer to Johnny, if such an action was possible. The girl’s protector pulled her to him and assured softly, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t let him hurt you.”

        Johnny could smell the food before it was brought into the cabin.

        Oh, joy. McDonald’s again. If I live through this, I’ll scream at just the sight of the Golden Arches.

        Evan smiled as he shut the door behind him. He held his gun in one hand, and the food tray in the other. The battery operated lantern Johnny had used to attack Evan with the evening before sat a few feet in front of the captives shining brightly. Evan nodded toward it.

        “Well, well, well, I see you learned your lesson last night, Uncle Johnny, and you’ve finally decided to be a good boy.”

        “Go to hell.”

        “Tsk, tsk, tsk. You shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you, Gage.”

        “Okay, I won’t. I’ll do whatever you want, just let the girl go.”

        “No.”

        “Yes.”

        “No.”

        Johnny took as deep of a breath as his weary lungs would allow. He hated the thought of begging, but if it would earn Libby’s freedom he would.

        “Please. Please let her go. Let’s take her to her grandfather’s home like I suggested the other day, then you can do with me what you want. Please.”

        “I thought you had more balls than that, Gage. I can’t believe I’m hearing you beg.”

        “For her release I will, if that’s what it takes.”

        “Well, good try, but no dice. You humbled yourself for no reason. How does that make your Redman’s pride feel?”

        “It doesn’t make me feel one way or another because I did it for Libby.”

        The man eased himself to the floor, being careful not to upend the food.

        “You’re quite noble, I’ll give you that. And I guess, if I had been lucky enough to have an uncle when I was a kid, you’d be the kind I’d pick. But, you see, I never had an uncle. My father was an only child like I was, and my mother’s only sister never married. That’s too bad, though, because it would have been nice to feel like I belonged to someone besides them. Oh, but I forget. You’re not the DeSoto children’s real uncle, isn’t that right? You’re just, what. . .a fake uncle? And not even that for a good number of years now because it’s your fault that oldest boy. . .Chris, is a cripple. Your old friend Roy tossed you out of his life after that little incident, didn’t he?”

        Johnny refused to answer the man. Libby looked up into his face.

        “What’s he mean, Uncle Johnny? Did Grandpa get mad at you because Uncle Chris can’t walk?”

        “It doesn’t matter, Libby. It happened a long time ago.”

        “But not so long ago that it doesn’t still hurt, right, Gage? I can hear the pain in your voice.” Evan smiled at Libby. “Yes, Angel, your grandpa got mad at Uncle Johnny because your Uncle Chris can’t walk. You see, it’s your Uncle Johnny’s fault that Uncle Chris is a worthless cripple.”

        That comment brought fire to Libby’s eyes as her hands curled into tight fists.

        “He’s not a worthless cripple! He’s really smart, and he has his own business, and he’s. . .he’s. . .he’s a great guy! And I don’t care what you say, it’s not Uncle Johnny’s fault that my Uncle Chris can’t walk! My mom would have told me so if that was true!”

        Evan laughed. “You are a little spit-fire when riled. I like that in a girl. I like it indeed. Now come over here and get your supper.”

        Libby’s bravado left her as quickly as it had arrived. It was one thing to yell at the man from the safety of Uncle Johnny’s side, and quite another to have to go near him. The memory of the last time she was close to him was all too clear.

        “No. No. . .I’m. . .I’m not hungry.”

        “But I’m sure Uncle Johnny is.”

        “No, Uncle Johnny’s not,” Johnny said in a voice that was so hoarse his words sounded even harsher than intended.

        “Well, I can tell Uncle Johnny’s thirsty, Angel. And I have a nice, cold drink here for him. It’s not Coke because I thought that might be too hard on his throat. It’s apple juice. Nice soothing apple juice. Don’t you at least want to come get it for him?”

        Johnny shook his head at Libby. “I don’t need it.”

        “Gage, I’m not playing around anymore. Send the kid over to get the food and send her over now.”

        “If you want us to have the food so badly, then I’ll come get it.”

        Evan aimed his gun at Johnny’s forehead. “No deal. The girl. You send the girl, or I guarantee you within five minutes time she’ll think last night was a Sunday School picnic compared to what could be in store if she doesn’t obey me.”

        Johnny weighed their options, which were few. He had no choice but to send Libby to get the food. However; if the bastard so much as touched her, then Johnny decided he’d die right then and there trying to free her from his clutches.

        “Go on, Libby. Go get the food, honey.”

        Libby’s eyes filled with tears. “But--”

        Johnny bent and put his mouth to her ear. “I know you’re scared, but I won’t let him touch you. I promise. We need to do what he says right now. Now go get the food and bring it back here, sweetheart. I know it’s scary, but you have to do it.”

        Libby gave a reluctant nod. She felt like she was standing on two rubber bands, rather than her own legs, as she pushed herself to her feet. She walked across the room like she was venturing out on thin ice. She tried to keep her body from shaking, but couldn’t hide her trembling hands when she reached for the food tray that was offered her.

        “You’re just as beautiful as your mother, Angel, did you know that?”

        Libby didn’t like the way the man said that, or the way he smiled at her. But in order not to make him angry, she nodded.

        “Now you be a good girl and take that food over to your Uncle Johnny. He’s pretty sick, isn’t he?”

        Again, Libby nodded.

        “I bet that apple juice will feel good on his throat. And it will be good for him, too, don’t you think?”

        Libby gave another tiny nod of her head.
        
        “All right now, you go over there with him and sit down to eat.”

        The ten year old was more than happy to be given permission to return to Johnny’s side. She didn’t like it that the man was staying in the cabin with them. The other times he’d given them food he’d always left before they started eating, but she was too hungry right now to let his presence stop her from opening the bag. They hadn’t been fed after the previous evening’s upset, so all Libby had eaten today was Ritz crackers and granola bars. For as nauseating as Johnny was finding the smell of McDonald’s food, Libby thought it was heaven.

        It was easy to tell which drink was Coca Cola and which was apple juice. Libby pulled the Super Sized cup of juice from the tray and handed it to Johnny.

        “Thanks, Libby.”

        “You’re welcome.”

        The girl pulled the rest of their food from the bag while Johnny took big gulps of the cold liquid. He was hot, and the water he’d been drinking throughout the day just hadn’t been quenching his thirst the way this ice filled drink was.

        Johnny shook his head at the French fries and Big Mac Libby held out to him.

        “Just leave mine in the bag.”

        “But you need to eat.”

        “I will later.”

        “But--”

        “I will later, Olive Oyl. I promise.”

        Libby didn’t think that was a promise Uncle Johnny sounded like he intended to keep. She wished her mother were here. Her mother would know what to do in order to make Uncle Johnny feel better. Her mother could even get him admitted to Rampart Hospital if that’s where he needed to be for a few days, and then he could rest at their house when he was released. They had three bedrooms, and only two were used, so Uncle Johnny could have the guest room all to himself and Libby would be his nurse.

        “Go ahead and eat, Libby,” Johnny instructed as he took more sips from his straw. He kept his eyes on their assailant, who seemed content to just sit and watch them.

        What the hell is he up to now?

        Johnny had to admit the man’s scrutiny unnerved him. He got a sinking feeling this just might be their ‘last supper.’ He fought to keep all emotion off his face. For one thing, Johnny wouldn’t allow the bastard the satisfaction of knowing he was terrified, and for another, he didn’t want to scare Libby.

        Less than three minutes passed before Johnny realized just what his attacker was up to. A violent stomach cramp caused his drink to fly from his hands as his body automatically doubled over.

        You asshole! You goddamn asshole!

        Whether Johnny was swearing at himself, or his assailant, he wasn’t certain. All he knew, in-between the horrific waves of pain that were turning his mid-section inside out, was that the drug he’d been given on Thursday night via injection had been put into his drink.

        The room spun widely as Johnny hit the floor and pulled himself into a fetal position. He could feel blood running through his hair again, and knew he must have reopened the gash that had already been reopened too many times. He heard Libby calling out his name, than heard her cries change to screams of terror. He lifted his head to see her being scooped from the floor. He lunged his feet out despite the pain it caused him, but came no where near being able to knock her attacker down.

        “Uncle Johnny! Uncle Johnny! Help me! Help me! Uncle Johnny, please help me! Please! You said you wouldn’t let him touch me! You said you’d take care of me! Please! Please help me! Oh, Uncle Johnny, please! Please!”

        Libby’s screams built to a crescendo that echoed around the cabin while Johnny flopped on the floor like a fish out of water in an attempt to pull his tortured body upright. Long after Evan Crammer had locked the cabin door and fled into the night with Libby, Johnny still heard the girl pleading with him to save her.

        “Uncle Johnny! Uncle Johnny! Help me! Help me! Uncle Johnny, please help me! Please!”
        
        Johnny rocked back and forth on the right side of his body with his left arm wrapped tightly around his violently cramping stomach. His right fist pounded the floor boards in frustration and anguish until the skin was torn open and blood trickled down his arm.

        Oh, God, why? Why? Why did you let me fail her? Why didn’t you let me keep my promise to her? All I wanted to do was get her back to Roy. That’s all I asked. Oh, God, why? Why?

        Johnny tried not to think of what as happening to Libby at that very moment, but his mind couldn’t push away the images of other little girls who had been raped, and then murdered, by the man the police only knew as the Kankakee Killer.

        When Johnny finally allowed himself to scream, it wasn’t because of the intense physical pain assaulting his gut, but rather because of the intense pain assaulting his heart.

Chapter 25

        
        
        Roy was still up roaming the house on Monday evening long after Joanne went to bed. He didn’t even attempt to lie down with her. He knew he’d only keep her awake with his tossing and turning until he finally gave up on trying to sleep.

        It was eleven o’clock when Roy shut the television off and headed for the computer room. He grabbed his cell phone from the kitchen counter so he’d have it in the event one of his children tried to call using that number. It was the only phone in the house that wasn’t tapped, simply because cell phone calls were difficult to trace according to Quinn Dailey, and therefore the only one that Roy and Joanne could have a private conversation on. Not that Roy was expecting a call from any of his kids. John had phoned while Roy and Trevor were in the swimming pool to get his nightly update on the situation regarding Libby, and shortly thereafter Wendy had called to say she and Chris had gotten Jennifer to leave Station 51 at a relatively early hour, and that no, there was no further news regarding Libby and Johnny.

        Roy shut the door to the room and flicked on the light. He had no desire to read tonight, or sit at the computer for any reason, or look through old photo albums. He was exhausted. He was exhausted and he wanted this nightmare to end.

        The man plopped down on the day bed and thought of the child sleeping in the room down the hall. He and Joanne had agreed they wouldn’t tell Trevor he was returning to Alaska until Thursday morning. Roy had no idea if that was the right thing to do or not. He tried to guess what Johnny would prefer they’d do, but because he hadn’t been in contact with Johnny during these years since he’d become a father, Roy was forced to admit he had no frame of reference on which to base his decision. He finally decided to go by his gut instinct. Trevor was so much like Johnny that Roy had a feeling the boy would be extremely upset upon being told he was going home without his father, thereby making it nearly impossible to calm him down. Besides, Roy could hardly bare to dash Trevor’s hopes. If nothing else why not give him two more days to believe that somehow, Johnny would return to Alaska with him.

        Thirty minutes passed with Roy sitting in that room staring at Libby’s face amongst the pumpkins on the computer screen. His thoughts weren’t that different from those Joanne had several hours earlier in the kitchen. Eventually this had to come to an end one way or another. How would they go on without Libby in their lives? How would Jennifer go on? Losing Brandon had almost destroyed her, but it had almost destroyed Roy as well. No one knew that. The one person he might have confided in; Johnny, wasn’t in his life to talk to when Branny passed away. For the rest of his family, most especially for Joanne, Jennifer, and Libby, Roy had to be strong. He didn’t know if he had it in him to bury another grandchild. He didn’t know if he had it in him to put up another pretense of strength and stoicism. After Brandon’s death Roy had come to understand why no one wanted to outlive their children or grandchildren. That’s not the way it was supposed to be. Your children and grandchildren were supposed to outlive you. Or at least that was every parent’s hope.

        I never fully understood what Johnny must have gone through when he lost his first wife and little girl. Was I sympathetic enough when I first found out? Did I. . .did I say the right things? Or did I just take for granted that he was past the bulk of the pain because it had happened eleven years earlier? After that day in the White Rock cemetery he never spoke to me of Kim and Jessie again, and I never attempted to get him to. Now I realize that even today, thirty-three years after their deaths, it must still cause him pain to think of them. It must still hurt him when he remembers the baby daughter who died in his arms. I’m glad he’s got Trevor. He deserves a child like that little boy.

        The ringing of his cell phone brought Roy out of his reverie. He picked it up, hit the ‘talk’ button, and said, “Hello?”

        “Grandpa! Grandpa, please come get me!”

        Roy shot off the couch.“Libby!”

        “Grandpa, please!”

        “Libby, where are you? Libby, sweetheart, tell me--”

        A man’s voice came over the line next.

        “Roy DeSoto?”

        “Yes?” At first Roy wondered if it was Johnny’s voice he was hearing, but quickly discounted that possibility when the man spoke again.

        “Listen to me, and listen good. If you don’t want this pretty little girl to get hurt, you’ll do exactly what I say, got it?”

        “I got it.”

        “All right. In two hours I want you to meet me at the San Celemente Observatory. Do you know where that is?”

        “I do,” Roy acknowledged of the planetary observation center all his kids had been to on school field trips. Roy had helped chaperoned the trip John’s class went on when the youngest DeSoto was in the fifth grade.

        “There’s three parking lots. Meet me in the southwest corner of the one labeled C.”

        “Will I get my granddaughter back if I do?”

        “DeSoto, you’re in no position to bargain, so just shut up and listen. If you tell the FBI or police about this call, I’ll kill the girl. If anyone follows you, I’ll kill the girl. If you’re wired, or bugged in anyway, or bring a cell phone along, I’ll kill the girl.”

        “But they’re watching my house. If I drive away in one of my vehicles then they will follow me.”

        “That’s your problem, not mine. If you want Olivia back safe and sound you’ll come up with a plan that gets you out of there undetected.”

        To prove his point, the man did something that caused Libby to scream.

        “All right, all right, don’t hurt her!” Roy thought fast. “I. . .I’ll have someone drive me there.”

        “No cops!”

        “No. A friend. Someone I can trust to do exactly what I say. I promise.”

        “You’d better promise, because killing this kid won’t mean a thing to me, DeSoto. It won’t mean a damn thing.”

        “I know,” Roy said through clenched teeth. “And Johnny. . .John Gage?”


        “What about Gage?”

        “Are you bringing him, too?”

        “Hell, no,” the man laughed. “Gage is already dead.”

        Before Roy could fully process that news he was told, “Two hours, DeSoto.
If you’re not there in two hours, and under the conditions I’ve named, Libby dies. And believe me, her death won’t be a pretty one.”

        The call had barely been disconnected before Roy was dialing a number from memory. He could tell he’d woken Chet up when the man answered on the fourth ring with a sleepy hello.

        “Chet, it’s Roy! I don’t have time to explain a thing, but meet me at the reservoir north of my house. You know, the one where Johnny fished John out of the water about eighteen years ago.”

        “Roy, what the hell--”
        
        “Chet, please, I can’t explain right now. I’ll tell you everything when I see you. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t a life or death situation.”

        “Is this about Libby and Johnny? Did you hear something?”

        “Yeah, I did, but I can’t go into it right now, and you can’t tell anyone. There’s a park across the street from the reservoir. Pull your car into the lot there. I’ll find you.”

        “All right. Let me throw some clothes on. I should be there within thirty minutes.”

        “Great. See you then. Oh, and don’t bring a cell phone.”

        “What?”

        “A cell phone. Don’t bring one.”
        
        “But--”

        “Chet, just don’t. I’ll tell you why when I see you.”

        As Roy disconnected the call he prayed he wasn’t leading Chet into trouble.

        The man extinguished the light in the computer room, then opened the door. If any FBI agent was watching the house, like Roy suspected several were, it would now appear as though he and Joanne were in bed for the night.

        Roy silently moved into the hallway. He paused at the closed door to the room he and Joanne shared. He didn’t risk opening it, but since his wife hadn’t come to the computer room when the cell phone rang, or when he was talking to Chet, he knew she must have finally fallen asleep.

        No sound came from the room Trevor was in, which meant the call hadn’t disturbed the boy either. Roy didn’t allow himself to think of what news he might be bringing back to the child. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the man’s words of, “Gage is already dead.”

        He could be bluffing. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he could be bluffing.

        Not knowing what awaited him, or what condition he might find Libby and Johnny in if he was lucky enough to be given either one of them, caused Roy to silently open the linen closet and pull his medical bag off the shelf. It contained everything from a B/P cuff, to a stethoscope, to a box of Band-Aids, to gauze, a tube of Neosporin, a bottle of Bufferin, a bottle of Children’s Chewable Tylenol tablets, to a handful of other miscellaneous items that could be used to treat minor injuries or discomforts. He grabbed two medium sized towels off another shelf, the ones Joanne referred to as face towels, and rolled them up so they’d fit in the bag. He placed them inside it, then closed the latch.

        Roy carried the bag with him to the laundry room, easily maneuvering through his dark house. The light from above the kitchen sink allowed him to find his tennis shoes. He slipped them on, then tied the laces. He went back to the kitchen and scrawled a note to Joanne. He had no idea what to say to her, so settled for, ‘Couldn’t sleep. Took a walk. Be back later. All my love for now and forever, Roy.’

        Roy didn’t put the time on the note, and he hoped Joannne didn’t find it odd that he signed it, ‘All my love for now and forever,’ if she woke up and discovered it any time soon. The last thing he needed was for her to run out to one of the unmarked cars parked on his block when he was headed to meet Chet. But, if he didn’t return for some reason, it was important to Roy that those were the last words he gave her. She was the love of his life. She had been since the fourth grade. This was his way of telling her he’d take that love to his grave.

        The paramedic chief silently opened the door that led to the garage, and just as silently closed and locked it behind himself. He turned right, heading for the service door that opened onto his backyard.

        Roy eased the rear door open and cautiously peered out. He didn’t expect to see any law enforcement agents in his backyard, and was relieved when that was the case. Because his house was sandwiched between a home on the right and a home on the left, it was easy for Roy to cross the yard undetected. He simply kept on using that method, jogging from backyard to backyard, until he was far enough away from his neighborhood that he felt it was safe to be on the sidewalk. Even at that Roy would duck behind bushes if he saw headlights coming his way. He felt like a teenager out past curfew, but that mattered little if he got to Chet without being noticed by one of Quinn Dailey’s men.

        Roy breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted Chet’s red Jeep Cherokee in the lot of the small park across from the reservoir. He ran up to the Jeep and hopped in the passenger side while setting his medical bag at his feet. Though Chet’s curls weren’t nearly as long as they had been twenty-five years ago, and his hair was more gray than its former brunette, he had kinky spikes sticking straight up from his head making it obvious to Roy he had thrown on some clothes and headed right to the park.

        “What’s going on?”

        “Just drive to the San Clemente Observatory. Do you know where that is?”

        “Yeah, but--”
        
        “Chet, just drive. I’ll tell you on the way.”

        Chet eyed Roy as though the man had lost his mind, but at the same time he had too much respect for his former co-worker not to do what Roy requested. If Gage was making this request it would be another thing altogether. With Johnny, you never knew what hare-brained scheme you were getting dragged into, but Roy had always been the level-headed one, the one everyone trusted to do the right thing and make the right decisions. To this day Chet still trusted Roy, and thought of him as one of the most stable men he had ever known.

        “You didn’t have the boys tonight, did you?” Roy asked, suddenly remembering that Chet and his ex-wife shared joint custody of their sons meaning the boys spent two weeks out of the month with Chet in his three bedroom bungalow, and two weeks out of the month with their mother in her three bedroom condo.

        “No. They’re with Jeannine. Besides, it wouldn’t have mattered if they were with me. Collin’s old enough to be left in charge all night when necessary. He handles things just fine when I’m on-duty.”

        “They’re good boys, Chet. You raised a couple of good kids there.”

        “Yeah, well, as much as I hate to admit it Jeannine did her part in all that, too. A big part as a matter of fact.” Chet pulled the Jeep out onto the desolate street. “Now what’s going on, Roy?”

        Roy told Chet about the phone call he’d received, including the list of do’s and don’ts that had been spelled out by the kidnapper.

        “Are you sure it was Libby?”

        “I’m sure.”

        “Roy, it coulda’ been a crank call.” Chet glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. “Right now. . .with what you’re going through, any little girl who sounds upset on the phone and calls you grandpa might be able to fool you into thinking she’s Libby.”

        “Chet, it wasn’t just Libby I talked to. It was him. The man who has her.”

        “Or it was a crank call,” Chet insisted.

        “No one has my cell phone number but my children, my wife, and Libby. No one, Chet.”

        “Yeah, but it wouldn’t be impossible for someone to get if they just happened to find the right papers in your trash, or ran across your contract with your provider, or--”

        “Chet, it was Libby. I know it was.”

        “Okay,” Chet gave in for the time being, “let’s say it was Libby. He’s just going to give her back to you? Just like that?”

        “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

        “Roy--”

        “Chet, I don’t know! I don’t know, okay? But she. . .she begged me to come get her. I don’t. . .maybe all he’ll give me is her body. Maybe he won’t even be at the observatory when we get there. Maybe he’ll never show up. Maybe he’s sending us on a wild goose chase. But she’s my granddaughter, Chet. My granddaughter. I can’t just ignore the call. I can’t just ignore her cry for help.”

        “I realize that, but--”

        Roy ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair. “Look, Chet, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you. This. . .well, it could be dangerous. For all I know the guy might put a bullet through my skull the minute I step out of this vehicle. I should have never gotten you involved. If you wanna pull over and let me out by that pay phone up there I’ll call a cab.”
        
        “And have it take you where?”

        “To the observatory.”

        “Not home?”

        “No. To the observatory.”

        Chet never said a word when he drove right on by the pay phone Roy had been referring to. When he spoke again he asked, “Did he. . .the guy who called you, did he say anything about Johnny?”

        Roy looked out the passenger side window. Chet had to strain to hear his soft reply.

        “Yeah. He said. . .he said Johnny’s dead.”

        Chet blew out a deep breath. He didn’t know what to say, and the Jeep sped on through the night without either of its occupants exchanging another word.

Chapter 26

        
        Libby was so petrified she was sure her heart would hammer right out of her chest. She’d kicked and screamed as the man ran from the cabin with her, but his iron grip hadn’t budged an inch. She was thrown in the back of the van, then tied up just like she had been the day her assailant had taken her from the sidewalk in her grandpa’s neighborhood. This time a blindfold was added, too, and instead of duct tape being put over her mouth a bandanna handkerchief was used as a gag.

        Libby didn’t know how long the man had been driving before he stopped the van. She started crying harder when she felt him sit beside her. He yanked the gag down from her mouth and said, “Does your grandfather have a cell phone?”

        “Wha. . .what?”

        “A cell phone. Does he have one?”

        “Ye. . .yes.”

        “Do you know the number?”

        “Ye. . . yes.”

        “Give it to me.”

        Libby’s mind was in such a whirl it took her a moment to calm down enough to be able to remember the number. She stuttered over the digits, and heard the man dialing as she did so. The next thing she knew a phone was pressed to ear and she was commanded, “Talk to your grandfather, Angel.”

        Libby got out her plea for help before the phone was taken away, then the man pinched her arm hard and made her scream. When the man quit pinching her Libby heard him tell her grandfather to meet them at the San Clemente Observatory. She knew where that was. Her mother had taken her there one day the previous summer. She also heard the man say Uncle Johnny was dead. That news made Libby start crying again, even though she wasn’t completely certain the man was telling the truth. She knew Uncle Johnny had been in a lot of pain, and she was suspicious as to why now that she thought about how insistent the man had been that Uncle Johnny drink the apple juice, but when she was whisked from the cabin she was sure Uncle Johnny was still alive.

        But maybe Uncle Johnny’s dead now. Maybe the man knew he’d die while we were gone.

        The gag was put back over Libby’s mouth. She felt the man move away from her, and then the vehicle started moving again. She might have been able to cry herself to sleep if she wasn’t so excited over the prospect of seeing her grandfather. She tried hard to remember everything Uncle Johnny had said she was supposed to tell him, especially about the ranger station and the San Gabriel Mountains.

        An hour later the van came to a stop again. The silence that surrounded Libby was almost scarier than anything else. Uncle Johnny wasn’t here to snuggle up against and assure her that everything would be all right. She knew the man was in the van with her, but he didn’t say a word. Finally, he came to sit beside her again.

        “Libby, if you want to live to see your mother again you’ll do what I say, do you understand?”

        Libby nodded her head.

        “Your grandfather is pulling in the parking lot right now. We’re going to climb out and meet him. I’m going to be holding onto you. You don’t do anything, not one thing, unless I say it’s okay. Is that clear?”

        Again, Libby nodded.

        The man removed the ropes, gag, and blindfold. He grabbed Libby by the left arm, threw open the van’s panel door, and climbed out with her. When Roy DeSoto jumped out of the Jeep the man placed his gun against Libby’s skull.

        “That’s far enough, DeSoto. Stay right there!”

        Libby blinked as the bright lights in the parking lot assaulted her eyes. She wanted to yell, “Grandpa!” but then remembered she wasn’t to do anything until the man told her it was okay. Instead, she started shaking and her lower lip trembled as tears ran down her face.

        Grandpa! Grandpa! Oh, Grandpa, please come get me. Please!

_______________________________

        Roy’s blood ran cold when he saw the revolver pressed to Libby’s temple. He stopped right where he was, with one foot out of Chet’s vehicle, and one foot in it. Chet had brought the Jeep to a halt the second they’d seen the man step out of the van with Libby, and were now one hundred yards from him.

        “DeSoto, who’s that with you?” Evan Crammer shouted across the desolate lot.

        “A friend!”

        “What’s your friend’s name?”

        “Chet Kelly!”

        “A cop?”

        “No. A fireman!”

        “Tell him to get out of the Jeep, walk to the front, and stand spread eagle with his hands on the hood!”

        Roy didn’t have to relay the message. Chet had heard the instructions and willingly got out of his vehicle, despite the fact that he feared being shot in the head at any moment.

        When Chet was in the position he was ordered to take, his back was to the activity. He memorized what details he’d seen, which didn’t extend much beyond the make of the van, its approximate year, and that it was a dark color. The man had parked it in an unlit corner, meaning it was heavily shadowed by the trees that surrounded the parking lot.

        “All right, DeSoto, come over here!”

        “I have a medical bag in the Jeep! Can I bring it?”

        “No! Now come over here!”

        When Roy was halfway between the Jeep and the van, Evan released his hold on Libby.

        “Run to Grandpa, Angel. Run! Run really fast before I change my mind.”

        Libby didn’t need to be told again. She flew across the parking lot and into her grandfather’s arms. She felt herself being picked up, and started sobbing as she buried her face in her grandpa’s strong shoulder.

        “I. . .I. . .I’m sorry, Grandpa. I. . .I’m so sorry for. . .for disobeying you.”

        Roy had tears in his eyes as he gently bounced the child up and down in his arms as he’d done when she was an infant and fussing for a bottle that warming.

        “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay, Button. It’s okay. Grandpa loves you so much. All I care about is that you’re okay. That’s all I care about. Nothing else matters. Nothing else at all.”

        Libby pulled away from Roy’s shirt. She leaned back and looked down into his face. She was still crying, but was able to assure, “I’m okay. I. . .the man tried to hurt me. . .he touched me through my clothes in places Mom said no one should, but Uncle Johnny. . .it made Uncle Johnny mad.”

        Roy could feel his blood pressure skyrocket. “Is that all he did to you, Libby? The man didn’t hurt you. . .he didn’t touch you, in any other way?”

        “No. He hit Uncle Johnny on the head with his gun so Uncle Johnny couldn’t help me. But Uncle Johnny yelled at him to let me go and tried to get me away from him. The man finally let me go. Uncle Johnny. . .he took care of me, Grandpa. He tried so hard to take care of me, even though he’s really sick.”

        Sick. She said sick, not dead.

        “Sick?” Roy looked around Libby’s body at the man who seemed to be enjoying himself. The gun was aimed at Libby’s back, meaning Roy didn’t dare try to flee to the Jeep with her. Roy turned his attention back to Libby. He brought a hand up and stroked it over her tangled hair. “How is Uncle Johnny sick, Button? What’s wrong with him?”

        “I thought he had a cold at first, but he just kept getting worse and worse, and now he’s coughing up blood.”

        Probably pneumonia. Trevor said Johnny was taking a nap. . .that he was in bed with a cold when he was kidnapped. It’s probably turned into pneumonia.

        “Then the man. . .I think he gave Uncle Johnny some bad medicine in his apple juice before we came here.”
        
        “Bad medicine?”

        “Uncle Johnny was so sick, Grandpa. He was in real bad pain, but I’m not sure where he was hurting. He was curled up on the floor. You have to help him, Grandpa. You have to. He helped me not be scared. And he said I was a brave girl. And he played Uno with me, and we colored pictures, and he held me when I cried. . .and he. . .he calls me Olive Oyl. I love him, Grandpa, just like my mom did when she was a little girl.”

        “I know you do, sweetheart. Don’t worry, Grandpa will make sure nothing happens to your Uncle Johnny. I’ll do everything I can to make him feel better until we can get him to Rampart and--”
        
        “DeSoto, your little reunion has now officially come to an end! Put the girl down.”

        “And then what?” Roy asked as Libby wrapped her arms around his neck, determined not to go back to her assailant.

        “Then you come over here. You see, this is like a baseball team, and I’m making a little trade. The girl for you. You come with me, and Libby goes with your friend.”
        
        “Roy, no!” Chet yelled.

        Evan laughed because he knew Roy had no alternative. The man came with him, or Evan would kill DeSoto, his friend, and his granddaughter all in the blink of an eye.

        Roy didn’t turn to face Chet as he shouted, “Chet, I’m going to send Libby to you! Take her to Joanne!”

        “Roy--”

        “Chet, just do it!” Roy spoke to the girl in his arms next. “Libby, you have let go of me and leave here with Mr. Kelly.”
        
        Those instructions only made Libby cling tighter to her grandfather. “No, Grandpa. Please no.”

        “Mr. Kelly won’t hurt you. You know that. He’ll take you to Grandma.”

        “But--”

        “No buts. None of us have any choice. Now I want you to do as I say and go to him, do you understand?”

        Libby lifted her face from Roy’s shoulder once again. She studied him a long moment, then gave a solemn nod. Right before Roy set Libby on her feet she kissed his cheek and said softly, “Uncle Johnny told me to tell you, ‘Junior says hello.’ I don’t know what that means, but it’s the message I was supposed to give you if I was able to get away.”

        Libby wasn’t sure why that message brought more tears to her grandfather’s eyes, but it did. He returned her kiss and replied, “Don’t worry. I know what it means.” Roy pointed toward Chet. “Now you go over there and stand by Mr. Kelly.”

        Libby gave her grandfather one last, long look, then did as he ordered.

        Evan yelled instructions to Chet. “You remain as you are, Fireman! And keep the girl by your side! After DeSoto and I leave you count to one hundred before you get in the Jeep. Don’t you dare make any stops to use a phone on the way home, because I’ll know it if you do! I’ve got someone watching you, and he’ll blow your brains out just as soon as you make the wrong move. Understand?”

        “Yeah!”

        Evan kept one eye on Chet and Libby while beckoning Roy to come to him. He handed Roy the blindfold and gag.
        
        “Put them on, DeSoto, and tie ‘em tight. The put your hands behind you with your wrists crossed. No funny business, either. I’ve got my gun aimed at your granddaughter’s skull. I’ll blow it right off if you try anything.”

If it hadn’t been for Libby, there was a number of things Roy would have tried despite the warning against it, but he hadn’t snuck out of the house to get his granddaughter only to have her killed now. He did as the man instructed, then felt a hoarse-hair rope encircle his wrists that contained a sturdy slipknot.

        Roy was pushed in the back of the van. His feet were bound in the same manner as his hands. The slipknots meant the man didn’t have to let go of the gun in order to get the ropes in place, but at the same time he’d made sure they were pulled tight enough so that Roy couldn’t work them loose.

        When the paramedic chief was blind, mute, and unable to move, Evan slid the side door shut and ran around to the driver’s side. He peeled from the parking lot, the tires squealing as he raced for the road.

        Chet was too scared not to do what he’d been ordered. He felt like a fool counting to one hundred while spread eagle across the hood of his Jeep, but he well remembered the condition John Gage was brought to Rampart in twenty-two years ago, and knew what this guy was capable of. There could be someone watching him like the man had said, but then again, maybe not. Nonetheless, Chet wouldn’t take any risks. Especially not since he’d been put in charge of Roy’s granddaughter.

        When Chet reached one hundred on the fastest count possible, he picked the crying Libby up and carried her to the passenger side of the Jeep. He secured the seat belt around her, then raced for the driver’s side. He threw the gear shift in ‘drive,’ and sped out of the lot without bothering to check for traffic. He’d been ordered not to stop at any pay phones along the way, and he wouldn’t, but if he drove upwards of eighty miles an hour he just might get lucky enough to be pulled over by a cop.

        As often happened, when you wanted a cop one was never around. Or at least not until Chet pulled into Roy’s driveway at three-thirty that morning. Joanne, Jennifer, Chris, and Wendy were standing in the garage talking with Troy Anders and Quinn Dailey when the Jeep’s headlights landed on them. Libby flew from the vehicle with outstretched arms crying, “Mom! Mom!”

        The next thing Chet knew he was being yanked from the Jeep by three burly men who threw him against the hood and pressed guns to his ribcage. How much farther this rough treatment would have gone Chet didn’t know, for at that moment Joanne DeSoto yelled, “Stop! Stop! He’s a friend of ours!” and Troy Anders bellowed, “He’s all right! I know him! Bring Mr. Kelly over here, right now!”

        Five minutes later Chet was being led into the DeSoto house by a furious Troy Anders and Quinn Dailey. He knew he was in deep shit, but seeing the look of unabashed joy on Jennifer’s face when she was reunited with her daughter was worth any trouble this stunt brought him.

        Much harder than facing Anders and Dailey, was facing Trevor Gage. The commotion had awakened the boy. He padded into the kitchen barefoot and dressed in his pajamas. He immediately recognized Libby from pictures hanging in the hallway. He looked up at Chet with those deep brown eyes so much like Johnny’s.

        “My papa? Did you bring him home, too, Mr. Kelly?”

        Chet swallowed hard as he shook his head. “No, Trevor, I. . .I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”

        Trevor raced down the hall with tears streaming from his eyes. Even after he arrived in the distant room where he’d been sleeping, everyone could clearly hear his sobs and the heartbreaking pleas of, “Papa. Papa. Please, Papa. Please come back to me. Please don’t leave me all alone.”

        With the support of his canes, Chris shuffled toward his old room to comfort Trevor. After all, now the boy and he had something in common. Both of them were missing a father.
        

Chapter 27

        
        The blindfold around Roy’s eyes meant the first turn out of the observatory’s parking lot disoriented him, leaving him with no reference as to where they were going.

        I should have tried to ask Libby more questions. She might have been able to tell me something about the place he was keeping her and Johnny.

        The man didn’t say a word to Roy throughout the journey that Roy estimated to last roughly three hours. When the van came to a stop and the door was slid open, Roy knew it was just before daybreak, and that he was no longer in the city. He could smell early morning dew on grass and hear birds chirping. Yet, no sunlight seeped through is blindfold, so he estimated it to be somewhere in the vicinity of four to five a.m.

        The ropes were cut from around Roy’s ankles, and the gag removed from his mouth. The ropes at his wrists, and the blindfold, stayed in place. A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him from the vehicle. The cold metal of the gun was placed against his temple.

        “We’re going to be doing a little hiking, DeSoto. Think you’re up for it?”

        “I am.”

        “Good. Your granddaughter and Gage managed okay, so I figured you could to.”

        Roy was pushed forward and instructed, “Walk.”

        Like Johnny had when he took this very same hike on Friday, Roy found the going rough considering his bound hands and the blindfold. But also like Johnny, Roy knew they were climbing, and heard the soles of their shoes snapping twigs and crunching leaves, and noticed the lack of noise from traffic.

        “Why?” Roy asked at one point when he stumbled over a log and had to push himself back to his feet using only his knees for leverage.

        “Why what?”

        “Why this? Why kidnap John Gage and my granddaughter, then why release my granddaughter in trade for me?”

        “Well, let’s see. That was a multi-part question, which is good, because there are multiple answers to it. So, number one. Why this? Because it’s fun.

        “Number two. Why kidnap John Gage? Because he kept me from what I
wanted so badly twenty-two years ago. . .your daughter Jennifer. I don’t like to lose, DeSoto. I don’t like to lose at all. I vowed that day Gage would pay for what he’d done. It took me over two decades to make good on that vow, but there’s certain things a man has to do before he. . .before he moves on.

        “Number three. Your granddaughter. Why did I kidnap her? Because I wanted a DeSoto and she reminded me so much of her mother. Besides, I knew it would drive Gage crazy knowing I had her, and that at any moment I could do whatever I wanted to her, and that he couldn’t stop me. I’ll tell you this, that dumb shit Gage is still a good friend to you, even though you kicked his ass out of your life years ago now. He was a like a hen with one chick when it came to that girl. He kept trying to get me to take her back to you in exchange for keeping him, and doing whatever to him I desired. Now, is that an idiot for you or what? You’ve cursed his name for fifteen years, DeSoto, and that shit head fire chief is still loyal to you. Can you believe that?”

        Yeah, I can, Roy thought with a multitude of sorrows and regrets while wondering how this man knew so much about something so personal. But then Roy realized the kidnapper had likely been watching his family for months. Evidently he’d been doing research and asking questions, too.

        “Okay. Last question. Why did I trade you for your granddaughter? Well, let’s just say I’m getting soft in my old age. Plus, the game was getting boring. No one was looking for me. Or at least not anywhere near finding me. And, it’s my ultimate goal to make Quinn Dailey the supreme fool in this on-going chess match of sorts we engage in. He’s wanted me for a long time, you know. Since 1969. Though never fear, he’s not going to catch me. But, I knew it would be fun to pluck you from right out under his nose, which I did. So now,” the man paused as he nudged Roy up a short flight of steps and onto a wide deck of some sort, “I’ve got two fire chiefs at my disposal. And speaking of that, do you think you and Gage can still put out a fire, DeSoto?”
        
        “If we have to, I’m sure we can.”

        “Mmmm. That’s interesting. I’ll enjoy watching that event unfold.”

        Roy had no idea what the man meant, and before he could ask further questions he heard a padlock snap open and was shoved through a doorway.

        The paramedic instructor immediately heard someone wheezing, as though the person was fighting to draw in air.

        Johnny! It has to be Johnny!

        The ropes were cut off Roy’s wrists, and then his blindfold removed. It took his eyes several long seconds to adjust to the light glowing from a lantern.
Roy immediately realized he was in a cabin of some sort, and his brain assimilated the boarded-over windows. But once Roy’s wandering gaze fell on Johnny curled up in a far corner, his observations of his surroundings narrowed to focus solely on the person who needed his help.

        Without asking permission first Roy ran to Johnny’s side. He only had to rest one hand on Johnny’s arm to feel the heat radiating from the man’s body. Johnny’s eyes were open, but were glazed and unseeing as he clutched his stomach and moaned. Roy saw the bloody right hand that had repeatedly pounded the floor boards after Libby was whisked away, and now the bloody lower lip that Johnny was biting in an attempt to fight the pain.

        Roy swiveled from his crouched position next to his old friend.

        “What the hell did you give him?”

        “It’s just a little homemade drug I manufactured. Don’t worry, DeSoto, it won’t kill him. It will only make him wish he was dead for another hour or so.”

        “Look--”

        “Look nothing. I’ll leave you two alone now.” Evan smiled. “I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do. About fifteen years worth, wouldn’t you say, Roy?” The man’s eyes flicked from Roy to Johnny as his smile grew boarder at some thought he refused to share. “And I’d advise you to say what needs saying, because you never know if the opportunity will come again. You know how it is, DeSoto, all good things must come to an end. Or so they tell me.”

        If the gun hadn’t been pointed at Johnny, Roy would have attempted a dash for the door. But the gun was pointed at him, and besides, right now Johnny needed Roy by his side more than he needed Roy to make an escape attempt that would likely be thwarted before his feet got off the steps.

        As soon as the door closed and the padlock snapped back in place Roy went into paramedic mode. Johnny was in urgent need of an easier way to breathe. Roy grasped his upper arms. “Johnny, I’m going to help you sit up. I want you to lean back against the wall for me, okay?”

        Johnny didn’t attempt to focus on Roy’s voice, nor did he make any acknowledgment of the man’s instructions.

        He doesn’t know who I am, if he’s even cognizant enough to realize someone is with him at all.

        That thought didn’t keep Roy from telling Johnny everything he was doing, just like he would have any patient.

        “Okay, I’m going to get you to a sitting position on three. I want you to help me if you can. Here we go. One, two, three.”

        On the word, ‘three,’ Roy lifted Johnny’s upper body up and leaned him back against the wall. Johnny gave a strangled, “Ahhh!” at the change in position. Roy didn’t try to get him to uncurl when his knees came up to his stomach again. He knew for the benefit of Johnny’s air intake, it would be better if he could get the man to lay his legs flat on the floor and sit with his back straight against the wall, but for now Roy would accept what they’d accomplished.
He wormed his hand in-between the one Johnny had pressed against his abdomen and counted respirations.

        Fast and shallow.

        Because he had no thermometer with him Roy had to estimate Johnny’s temperature by placing his open palm beneath the man’s bangs. The skin was flaming hot to Roy’s touch.

        Probably one hundred and three if not higher.

        Roy gently parted the matted hair on the top of Johnny’s head. He saw a long gash that would need stitches. His fingers probed the area surrounding the gash. He found a good-sized bump, and if he parted the hair just right he could see an array of purple and green bruises. He recalled Libby saying that Johnny had been struck with the man’s gun. It actually looked like the wound had been reopened, making Roy wonder what else his friend had been hit with during his captivity. Roy silently categorized everything he knew so far.

        Pneumonia. Scalp laceration. Possible concussion. Abrasions on his right hand. And given a drug of unknown origin. Oh, this is swell. We’re locked in a cabin of some sort. I have no way to treat him. And that guy could come back at any moment and kill the two of us with a couple of well-placed bullets. Some reunion this is turning out to be, huh, Johnny?

        Roy allowed his hand to fall to the side of Johnny’s face. He rested it there a moment as he looked around the room. A couple McDonald’s bags stuffed with garbage were against one wall, as was a backpack. A coloring book, crayons, a deck of Uno cards, a blanket, a puzzle box, and a Baby-Sitter’s Club book were scattered about. A McDonald’s cup was lying on its side in the middle of the floor, with what looked like apple juice discoloring the area around it. There was a blood stained towel on the floor, and the tan safari-style shirt Johnny was wearing had bloodstains on the collar and shoulders.

        Probably from the head wound, Roy concluded as he looked his friend over without finding any other injuries. He pushed himself to his feet and made a quick circle of the room, then of the room in the back. Like Johnny had on Friday, Roy quickly realized escape through any of the boarded up windows would be impossible. He saw the small bathroom and entered it. A relatively clean towel was hanging from an old wooden rack in here. Roy soaked it with cold water from the pump, then wrung it out. He hurried back to the main room, knelt by Johnny’s side, and started sponging his face.

        Johnny’s eyes were closed now, and they remained that way for the next two hours as Roy worked to bring his fever down. The stomach cramps appeared to be subsiding. When Johnny allowed his hand to drop away from his abdomen, and allowed his legs to straighten to the floor, Roy stripped his dirty shirt from him. He made use of two of the empty McDonald’s cups he spotted neatly lined up against the same wall that held the backpack. He rinsed them well, then filled them with water and brought them back to Johnny’s side. He continuously dipped a portion of the towel in one, and used it to wipe Johnny’s face, neck, shoulders, and chest. The other one he’d bring to Johnny’s lips every few minutes, stick the straw in his mouth, and encourage him to take a drink. Johnny’s level of awareness didn’t appear to be increasing, though several times he called for Libby in a hoarse voice filled with fear.

        “She’s okay, Johnny. Libby’s okay,” Roy quietly assured his semi-conscious friend. “Libby’s fine thanks to you. You took care of her for me, just like you took care of Jennifer all those years ago. You did good by me, Johnny. You did good by me. . .just like you always do.”

        When consciousness began to surface for John Gage again, he was aware of four things. A cool, wet cloth that was heaven against his hot skin. Cold water going down his throat bringing welcome relief to the dryness there. No searing pain in his gut any longer. And a quiet voice that kept telling him Libby was all right.

        It took Johnny another five minutes to find the energy to open his eyes. He sensed a presence beside him, but he had to look down to locate it. A man had an ear pressed to Johnny’s bare chest. From this angle all the fire chief could see was thinning white hair and a round bald spot on the crown of the man’s head.

        “Geez, Roy, it’s nice to know you missed me, but a simple phone call would have been enough.”

        Roy looked up, embarrassed to be caught doing something that, while innocent and well-intended, requires the intimacy of friendship to make it acceptable. He shot Johnny his best glare, then urged him to lean forward by placing one hand on Johnny’s back and one on his chest.

        “I can see the passing time hasn’t changed much where your sense of humor is concerned.”

        “Yep,” Johnny agreed in a raspy voice. “My endearing sense of humor is still with me.”
        
        “And the infamous Gage charm?” Roy questioned as he laid an ear against Johnny’s back.

        “Most definitely the infamous Gage charm. How do you think I’ve survived to reach fifty-three?”

        Roy laid a light hand on the gash on Johnny’s scalp. “Is this a result of your charm at work?”

        “Well, you might remember that it did fail me every so often.”

        Thinking of all the nurses who had dumped Johnny while they worked together caused Roy to say, “I do seem to remember that.” He sobered as he requested, “Take a deep breath for me, Johnny.”

        Johnny did as Roy instructed. He could tell the breath he attempted to take wasn’t nearly as deep as he should be capable of, and he could tell Roy knew it, too. The man moved his ear to four different spots on Johnny’s back, making the same request of him each time. When Johnny was gently leaned against the wall once more he asked, “Since when did you stop working with a stethoscope?”

        “Since I wasn’t allowed to bring my medical bag along.”

        “What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

        “It’s a long story.”

        “Oh.” With a weak wave of his hand Johnny gestured to the padlocked door. “And you think I’m gonna walk out on you while you tell it?”

        “No. It was usually me who walked out on you in the middle of a story.”

        “That’s right,” Johnny nodded in remembrance. “You did. And just for that, considering we’re locked in here and all, meaning you can’t walk out on me, I should make you sit through a hell of a really long one, but right now it takes too much effort to talk, so consider yourself lucky, Roy, and fill me in on what’s going on while I’m forced to a be a good listener.”

        “Never your strong suit,” Roy said as he sat on the floor facing his friend. “Listening, that is.”

        “Not generally. So hey, I’m all ears. Lay it on me.”

        Roy’s story started with the phone call he’d received from Libby at eleven o’clock the previous evening, and ended when he told of being brought to this cabin.

        “It’s not a cabin,” Johnny said between harsh, wet coughs that Roy didn’t like the sound of. “It’s a ranger station.”

        “A ranger station?”

        “Yeah. We’re in the San Gabriel Mountains.”

        “Are you sure?”

        “I’m sure.”

        “How do you know? Did you see something that looked familiar?”

        “Haven’t seen a damn thing. He brought me up here blindfolded, like he did you. But based on something he said, I know that’s where we are.”

        “What did he say?”

        “That it would end where it all began. I didn’t know what he meant when he said it, but later, after Libby told me about our surroundings. . .she wasn’t blindfolded when we had to hike up here, and after I figured out this is a ranger station, then I knew where we were. I told Libby. I told her we were in the San Gabriel Mountains, and that if she got away she had to tell you that.”

        “She didn’t have time to tell me, but I’m sure she’ll tell the FBI. Chet was taking her to my house. By now the cops are bound to be looking for us.”

        “Is she okay? He didn’t. . .that bastard didn’t hurt her, did he?”

        “No. Or at least not that I could tell, and not that she said beyond him touching her here in the cabin.” Roy assured.

        “I’m sorry. . .I’m real sorry that happened, Roy.”

        “From what Libby said there wasn’t much you could do to stop it.”

        “I should have tried harder. I should have--”

        “Johnny, he damn near cracked your skull! Considering that, you did everything you could. Besides, Libby’s okay. Tired. Upset. In need of a warm bath, a hot meal, a long hug from her mother, and a good night’s sleep, but other than that I think, given time, she’ll be fine.” Roy reached over and patted Johnny’s arm. “Don’t worry about it. Jennifer has already looked her over about two dozen times I’m sure, just like Jennifer’s going to do to you when I bring you into Rampart.”

        “I don’t need to go to Rampart.”

        Roy laughed. “I’m not going to waste my breath arguing with you on that. For one thing, I know you’ll deny you’re sick until you pass out in my arms, and for another, when you get a look at yourself in a mirror, I think you’ll realize a couple days in Rampart is a given.”

        “Maybe,” Johnny conceded when another coughing spasm took his breath away. God, did he feel like shit. “But no girl doctors. Especially not Jennifer.”

        Roy laughed again. It was then that he remembered what Libby had told him a week earlier.

        “Mom says Uncle Johnny could always make you laugh. You hardly laugh at all since Branny died. It makes me sad when you don’t laugh, Grandpa. It would make Branny sad, too. I wish you’d find out where Uncle Johnny lives and call him. Maybe he could make you laugh again.”

        “I’m not kidding, Roy. I don’t want Jennifer for a doctor.”

        “What?” Roy said with mock indignation. “You don’t think my daughter is a good physician?”

        “Quite the opposite. I’m sure she’s the best. I just don’t want. . .I mean. . .you know. . she’s Jenny. The little girl I used to twirl around in my arms. The little girl I used to take to the zoo, and read stories to. I don’t. . .well. . .I just. . .”

        “You don’t want her to see you in your birthday suit?”

        Johnny felt his face grow even hotter if that was possible. “Yeah. Something like that.”

        Roy laughed again. Only Johnny would worry about such a thing at a time like this. They were locked in a cabin with no way out, in danger of being murdered at any moment, and he was worried about what doctor at Rampart might see him in the buff.
        
        “I’m sure, if Jennifer is your doctor, she’ll make certain your dignity is preserved.”

        “Probably. But I still don’t like the thought, so just have Morton look at me okay? Libby said he’s head of the ER now.”

        “He is. And I can’t believe you’re actually volunteering to have Mike Morton take a look at you.”

        “I’m not. Volunteering that is. But if I do pass out in your arms, and you take me to Rampart against my will, which I well remember is one of your tricks. . .well, Morton’s a guy, and he’s already seen me naked, so I can live with that.” Johnny paused, then added, “Though he’s probably still as big of a pain in the ass as he was fifteen years ago. Probably will lecture me up one side and down the other about taking better care of myself, even when I remind him that it’s not my fault I got kidnapped by a frickin’ maniac. I mean there I was, taking a nap in my own bedroom, minding my own business, when some nut shoves chloroform up my nose. Now you tell me, Roy, just how is that my fault? Huh? Just how?”

        Roy shook his head with amusement at the typical Johnny tirade. He grabbed the blanket from the floor while Johnny ranted on and covered him with it. He looked at the man, taking note of the exhaustion that made his brown eyes dull and lifeless, the hair matted in clumps by blood and sweat, the broken skin on his lips and right hand, and the streaks of ruby red that ran across the high cheek bones that seemed far more prominent than they had in the picture Roy had just seen Monday morning.

        He’s lost a good five pounds since this started, if not more.

        Johnny caught Roy’s worried gaze, so did his best to continue on a light-hearted note, even though just breathing was starting to be a big undertaking, let alone talking.

        “What about Chet?”

        “What about him?” Roy asked as he started a neuro check on Johnny to determine if he had a concussion or not. “Follow my finger with your eyes, Johnny.”

        “You said he helped you. That he drove you to the observatory. What’s he up to these days?”

        Roy didn’t answer Johnny immediately. Instead he asked Johnny to tell him how many fingers he was holding up, then asked if he’d vomited or was dizzy.

        “No. I’m fine. I don’t think I have a concussion.”

        “I don’t think you do either,” Roy agreed, “but you do have a pretty good sized bump on the top of your head that a doctor needs to look at. As for Chet, he’s working out of Station 53. . .the new station that replaced 51, as their engineer. He’s got two boys now. You probably remember Collin. The younger boy is Ryan. They’re sixteen and fourteen. Good kids, actually, especially considering they belong to Chet.”

        “Must get their redeeming qualities from their mother. What was her name? Janet? Janice? Jeanie?”

        “Jeannine. And she and Chet are divorced. Have been for about 10 years. They share custody of the boys. Chet’s got them enrolled in a very strict Catholic high school believe it or not.”

        Johnny smiled with irony. That was pretty hard to believe. He vaguely remembered seeing Chet’s oldest boy on a couple occasions. By the time Chet had married and Collin was born, Johnny and Chet were no longer working together. Johnny had met Chet’s wife exactly once, at their wedding. Chet had brought Collin by Johnny’s ranch a few times, but the boy would have only been a year old when Johnny moved to Denver.

        “And the other guys?”

        “Mike’s a battalion chief, still happily married to Peggy, and a grandfather six times over. Marco is still single. His mom lives with him and--”

        “How is Mrs. Lopez?”

        “Good. In excellent health as a matter of fact. Anyway, Marco retired from the department five years ago and owns a catering business now. Does a lot of weddings and other parties for members of the Hispanic community. He’s doing very well for himself actually.”

        Johnny nodded at the news that came as no surprise. He couldn’t imagine anyone not liking Marco, and could easily picture the man, who had been Station 51’s best cook, running his own catering business. “And Cap?”
        
        “He and Grace bought a beautiful little place up in Monterey. Joanne and I spent a weekend with them last fall. Retirement seems to suit him. His daughters have both moved away from L.A., and the three grandsons are grown and on their own, too. There wasn’t much holding Cap to this area anymore, so he and Grace decided to live on the ocean like they’ve always wanted to.”

        “He deserves an enjoyable retirement after all those years of putting up with me and Chet.”

        Roy chuckled. “That he does.” He tucked the blanket around Johnny’s shoulders, then dipped the towel in water again. As he began running it over Johnny’s face he teased, “Well, I’d say the last fifteen years have been good to you, Johnny, but judging by the looks of you right now I’d be lying.”

        Johnny chuckled, his eyes closing briefly at the relief that cold towel brought him. “Most of the years have been good. It’s just the last few days that have sucked.”

        “I can imagine.”

        Johnny tugged at the blanket, but Roy wouldn’t allow him to remove it. Johnny didn’t realize he was shivering, though Roy was fully aware of that disturbing fact.

        “Hot.”
        
        “I know. Let me work on cooling you off here. Just leave the blanket like I have it.”

        “Hot,” Johnny insisted again while tugging at the blanket.

        Well, he’s still as stubborn as ever; like I could have been lucky enough for that aspect of his personality to change.

        “So, what kinds of things did you and my granddaughter talk about while you were stuck in this cabin together?” Roy asked in an effort to distract Johnny from his misery.

        “Mmmm, well. . .lots of things,” came Johnny’s hoarse response. “She pretty much filled me on everybody. You. Joanne. Jenny. John. Told me about all your grandkids. I. . .I’m sorry about Jenny’s son, Roy. Libby. . .Libby told me he passed away a couple years ago as a result of a brain tumor?”

        “Yes.” Roy dropped his eyes from Johnny’s face as he dipped the towel in water again. “Brandon was six when he died. He was first diagnosed at the age of two. We. . .for a while we had hope. But then. . .well, during the last year of his life it became apparent it was only a matter of time.”

        “I’m sorry.”

        “You already said that.”

        “I know. But I am.”

        “I know you are,” Roy said as he brought the towel back to Johnny’s face. “And thank you. I. . .there were. . .there were a lot of times during Brandon’s illness when I. . .when I wanted to talk to you but. . .well, never mind. That’s my own fault, certainly not yours.”

        Johnny shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

        “Don’t.”

        “Don’t what?”

        “Don’t let me out of the apology I owe you. I want to. . .I have to give it to you, only I’m not ready.”

        “I understand.”

        “No, that’s not what I meant,” Roy said quickly, having caught the fleeting hurt in Johnny’s eyes. “I mean. . .I want the words to be right. To be. . .enough, you know? I don’t want it to sound trite or insincere. It’s got. . .well, you know, I never was the talker amongst the two of us, so when I have something to say I want to make sure I say it right the first time. And I want to make sure it encompasses all it has to. I want to make sure it covers all it should.”

        “You don’t have--”

        “Yes, I do, Johnny. And I will. Only there will be a better time and place than this.”

        Johnny wasn’t so certain of that considering their current situation, but he didn’t remind Roy of that fact because it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Roy was here with him, and if Johnny died today he’d go to his grave knowing he had Roy’s friendship once again.

        “Chris,” Johnny said the name next that he’d purposely avoided mentioning earlier. “Libby told me about Chris. I’m so glad. . .so damn glad he’s found success.”
        
        “He has. And a wonderful wife and two beautiful little girls to go along with it. You remember Wendy, don’t you?”

        “Yeah. Didn’t know her very well, but I remember her.”

        “They’re very happy. I’m so proud of him, just like I’m proud of all my children.”

        Johnny nodded. “A father should be proud of his children.”

        “Yes, he should be. And you certainly have every reason to be proud of your son.”

        Johnny cocked an eyebrow at his friend.

        “Trevor,” Roy supplied.

        “Yeah, I know his name. But the question is, how do you know it?

        Roy smiled as he dipped the towel in cold water once again. As he ran it over his friend’s face and neck he said, “Because he told me.”

        “He told you?”

        “Yep. Right about the same time he told me I was a grouch like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Now, let me see. . .was that before or after he kicked Chet? After. Definitely after. And--”

        Johnny batted the towel away and sat up straight. “Roy, what the hell are you talking about?”

        “Your son.”

        “My son doesn’t tell people they’re grouchy, and he most certainly doesn’t go around kicking anyone.”

        “Oh, yeah? Well, I think Chet’s got the bruises to prove you wrong.”

        “But--”

        Roy laughed, enjoying the opportunity to say seemingly outrageous things to John Gage, rather than it be the other way around, which had been the norm when they worked together.
        
“Trevor stowed away, Johnny.”

        “Stowed away on what? What are you talking about?”

        “On a plane owned by some guy named Gus. The man. . .the man who’s holding us here, stopped Trevor at the end of your driveway when he was on his way to play with some boys--”

        “The Tierman twins. Dylan and Dalton. What do you mean the guy stopped him? Did he hurt my boy?”

        “No,” Roy shook his head. “No, not at all. Evidently he just talked to Trevor about you. It was through that conversation that the guy determined you were in the house alone sleeping. He told Trevor he was a friend of yours from California. Trevor got a good look at his face. I’m not exactly sure what unfolded after that, but sometime on Friday afternoon Trevor found the newspaper article about you and Jennifer. . .the one that had your picture on the front that was taken in the ICU?”

        Johnny nodded.

        “Well, Trevor found that, along with a copy you had of the police artist’s sketch. He recognized the man in the sketch as being the one who had stopped him in your driveway. He said he tried to tell several people, and call the police chief, but no one would listen to him. So, like his father often did, at that point he threw caution to the wind, packed himself a bag, and snuck out of the house. On Sunday he landed in Los Angeles. While he was eating lunch at a McDonald’s he caught sight of a couple paramedics and charmed them into giving him a ride to the training center. . .Station 51. For some reason he thought he might find you there. The department let us set the center up as a command post for Libby, so it was full of cops, volunteers, my family, Marco, Chet, Doc Brackett, and Dixie, when Trevor showed up. It was through what he told us that Troy Anders realized it wasn’t Scott Monroe who had Libby like we first thought, but rather the same guy who had kidnapped Jennifer all those years ago.”

        Johnny sunk back to the wall in stunned silence. At this moment it was too overwhelming to think of all that could have gone wrong during this little. . .jaunt his eight year old took. For now he was just grateful Trevor made it safely to Station 51. When he finally found his voice the worried father asked, “Where is Trevor now? Where is he, Roy?”

        “He’s staying with me and Joanne. Don’t worry. Joanne will take good care of him until we get back.”

        The relief Johnny felt at those words slowly turned to anger. “That little bugger. . .when I get my hands on that boy he’ll find out for the first time in his life what a good old-fashioned spanking is all about. He’ll be lucky if he can sit down for a week. When I get through with him--”

        “Johnny, don’t.”

        “Don’t what?”
        
        “Don’t spank him.”

        “Why the hell not? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put him over my knee and tan his rear end for him.”

        Roy shrugged, while trying to hide his smile. “I don’t know. I don’t have one, I guess. But I’ve always wanted to say that to you, considering how many times you pleaded with me not to spank one of my kids.”

        Johnny’s own smile broke through, despite his best efforts to prevent that action. “Okay, okay. Pay back time. I understand. I probably won’t spank Trevor anyway.”

        “I didn’t think you would.”

        “I have, you know. A few times. So don’t think I can’t if he needs it.”

        “I know. He mentioned having received a ‘swat on the behind’ now and again. But he’s a good boy, Johnny. A nice boy. Very polite. Very well-behaved. A ‘little sweetheart’ as Joanne calls him. And funny as hell. He makes me laugh.”

        “He makes me laugh, too, even when I shouldn’t be sometimes.”

        “Kids will do that to you.”
        
        “Yeah. So I’ve learned.” Johnny felt the towel wipe across his flushed face again. “Thanks, Roy. For taking care of Trevor, I mean. Thanks to you and Joanne both.”

        “No thanks is necessary. First of all, you took care of our kids countless times and would never take a dime for any of those baby-sitting duties. And second of all, believe me when I say it’s been a pleasure. It’s been. . .it’s been nice to have a little boy in the house again.”

Johnny gave a small nod. He didn’t need to ask any questions. He realized Roy was referring to the grandson he’d lost. Because he could sense the subject of Brandon was a painful one for Roy, Johnny switched gears.

        “I have some good friends in Alaska. Carl Mjtko, and his mother Clarice. Carl’s the police chief you mentioned Trevor tried to call. If anything happens to me Trev should be sent--”

        “Nothing’s going to happen to you, but we already know.”

        “Already know what?”

        “That Carl and his mother are named as Trevor’s legal guardians in your will. Carl has made arrangement for his mother to fly down with Gus on Thursday to pick Trevor up.”

        “Oh. Okay. I. . .my dad’s getting up there in years, you know. He’ll be eighty in September. And Reah. . .well, her lifestyle with her career and all just isn’t accommodating to a little boy who’s been used to a solid routine.”

        “I understand. Trevor told Joanne about your dad and Marietta, and about Reah, too.”

        “Carl and Clarice. . .they’ve been a constant in his life since I moved to Eagle Harbor from Denver.”
        
        “Is that where you went after you left. . .left L.A.?”

        “Yeah,” Johnny nodded, barely able to keep his eyes open now. “Lived there until May of ‘93. Trevor had just celebrated his first birthday when we moved to Eagle Harbor.”

        “You and your ex-wife?”

        Johnny cracked his eyes open and looked at his friend. “Huh?”

        “Do you mean that’s when you and your ex-wife moved to Eagle Harbor.”
        
        “Ashton’s not my ex-wife. We were never married. And no, she didn’t move there with me. She. . .she walked out of my life two days after Trevor was born.”

        “Oh. I. . .I’m sorry to hear that.”

        “Nothing to be sorry about. I should have seen it coming. We were. . .good together for a long time. Had a lotta good years together. But then, a year or so before Trevor was born, it started becoming apparent that we didn’t want the same things out of life. I wanted us to get married, she didn’t. I wanted kids, she didn’t. She was working a lotta hours. . .she’s a cardiac surgeon. . .I wanted her to cut back. She wanted to live in an apartment overlooking Central Park, I wanted to buy a ranch outside Denver. It all came to a head when she got pregnant with Trev.”

        “I take it that wasn’t planned?”

        “No.” Roy supported Johnny as he turned away, covered his mouth, and started to cough. It was getting harder for him to talk now, harder to breathe, but he was determined to finish his story. When the coughing subsided Roy helped him lean against the wall once more. “Anyway, I had to do some fast talking to keep Ashton from getting an abortion. Trevor was just a couple hours hold when she put him in my arms and said he was mine to raise. She went to a lawyer, had papers drawn up that make me Trevor’s custodial parent, and moved to New York. She didn’t have any contact with him. . .us. . .after that until Trev was three. I don’t know. . .to this day I really don’t know what changed her mind at that point. She sees him once a year now. Each summer he goes to New York to spend two weeks with her and Franklin. . .the rich old fart she married.”

        Roy chuckled. “Rich old fart, huh?”

        “Yeah. He’s seventy years old, she’s forty-five. Go figure. But, I guess he gives her all those things I couldn’t, or didn’t have the desire to. Can you picture me sunning myself on the French Riviera, or staring at a buncha stupid paintings in some art museum in Rome?”

        “No. Can’t say as those are things I’m able to imagine.”

        “Me either. But that’s the kinda stuff she and Franklin are into. Oh, what the hell, I know I sound bitter and I shouldn’t be. Old Frankie’s actually not a bad guy, and when Trevor visits them Franklin spoils him like Trev’s one of his own grandchildren. . .treats him good and all, so what right do I have to complain?”

        You have the right to complain because you still love Ashton. I can hear it in your voice, Johnny. You still love her, and even all these years later you still wish things had worked out between the two of you.

        “Johnny, can I ask you a question?”

        “Ask away.”

        “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but how come Trevor’s mother isn’t his guardian if something happens to you?”

        “She wouldn’t want him. Not on a permanent basis anyway. She’d ship him off to boarding school before I was cold in my grave. Don’t get me wrong, like Franklin, she spoils Trevor to death when he visits. . .treats him good, but she. . .she’s not into kids. She doesn’t want to devote the time necessary to raise him. She’s more concerned about her patients, and her career, and making a name for herself, and publishing articles in medical journals, and traveling abroad, than she’s concerned about her own son. Doesn’t make her a bad person, it just makes her. . .who she is. So no, Trevor’s not to live with her. Carl and Clarice. They’ll take good care of him. He loves them and they love him. That’s who’s supposed to raise him if I die before he’s eighteen.”

        “Well, you’re not going to die before then so don’t worry about it.”

        “I think you better reevaluate our position, Roy, before you go making promises you can’t keep.”

        “I’ll tell you what, you promise me you’ll hang in there for me, and I’ll promise you we’ll get out of here.”

        Johnny was so exhausted that he was willing to promise anything, even though he was aware that the promises Roy was discussing didn’t have a chance in hell of coming true.

        “Sure. Whatever you say.”

        “Do you think you could put a little conviction behind that?”

        “Sorry. Feel like shit. Whatever that stuff is he gives me packs a powerful punch.”

        “I know,” Roy said as he dipped the towel again. “You try to sleep for a while. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

        Johnny smirked. “Only if we’re outta here when I do.”

        “Who knows? We might be. I’m sure the FBI is grilling the hell outta Chet at this very moment.”

        “Damn. And I’m missing it. I’d love to be there watchin’ ole’ Chester B. squirm.”

        Roy shook his head. “You and Chet will never change where one another is concerned.”

        “Doubt it. That’s what makes Trevor kicking him so pissy.”

        “Why?”

        “ ‘Cause now I have to apologize to Chet for it.”

        “Not really. Trev already did. Besides, Chet deserves a few swift kicks from someone named Gage, don’t you think?”

        “More than a few. Now that I remember all those damn water bombs, a lot.”

        “My point exactly.” Roy stood and headed for the bathroom. “Be right back.”

        When Roy returned he had the towel completely wet again, rather than just a small portion of it. He made Johnny lean forward enough so that he could sit behind him. Roy pulled his friend against his chest, and placed the towel to Johnny’s face.

        Johnny took as deep of a breath as he could. It was easier to get air this way, with the back of his head resting on Roy’s shoulder and tilted upwards. As his eyes started to drift shut to the feel of cool relief against his face, he heard Roy’s quiet voice.

        “Johnny, why did you chose Roy for Trevor’s middle name?”

        The pause in conversation lasted so long that Roy was certain he’d get an answer, when Johnny finally said, “Because I wanted to. Because there was no reason not to.”

        “But I--”

        “I just told you, there was no reason not to. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”

        “For now, okay. Later. . .no. Later. . .well. . .”

        “I know, I know. You’ll come up with a long, poetic hearts-and-flowers apology. You already told me.”

        “I didn’t say it would be long.”

        “Good. ‘Cause I hate it when you talk too much. Cuts into my end of the conversation.”

        Johnny drifted to sleep to the sound of Roy’s laughter. If he didn’t live to see another day, then he could accept it. He didn’t want to leave his son, but if nothing else he knew Trevor was safe, being well taken care of, and would be returned to Carl and Clarice. Add to that, Libby was safe, and the scattered building blocks of a once solid friendship had been put back in place. There wasn’t anything else John Gage could think to ask for, other than Roy somehow being able to return to his family. Johnny didn’t even realize he’d made his thoughts known when he mumbled, “If you can get away, Roy, you gotta run. You gotta leave me and run like hell.”

        Johnny was asleep when Roy patted his shoulder and vowed, “No way. I go, you go. That’s how things always were between us, partner, and that’s how they’ll be again.”

        Roy didn’t get an answer, but then he wasn’t expecting one. He did his best to keep Johnny’s fever under control as dawn broke on the outside world. Roy tried not to think of what this day would bring if they weren’t rescued. He prayed that if he and Johnny were destined to die, that it was quick and painless for both of them. Roy had a sinking feeling that wouldn’t be the case, but he could pray. Yes, he could pray, because unfortunately, in this locked and boarded up cabin in the middle of the wilderness, there was no other alternatives left him.

Chapter 28

        Chet Kelly sat at the table in the dining area of the DeSoto home, repeating his statement for the third time. Not a word of it had changed from the first time he’d told it, nor from second time, and he was getting pissed that Anders was wasting time interrogating him as though he was Libby’s kidnapper. At least now, Anders finally seemed to believe him in regards to the way he said the events unfolded from the moment Roy had called him. By the look on Quinn Dailey’s face, Chet knew he was damn lucky his story was corroborated by what Libby had relayed, and by information Joanne DeSoto supplied.

        Joanne had woken at midnight to find Roy’s side of the bed empty. When it was still empty at twelve-thirty, and when she didn’t hear the faint sound of the television set, or hear him pacing the house, she got up to search for him. After looking in the room Trevor was occupying, the computer room, the bathroom, and what had been Jennifer’s old bedroom, she moved through the rest of the house. By the time she reached the garage Joanne was in a panic. As she reentered her kitchen from the laundry room she spotted Roy’s note on the counter. She found the way he signed it odd, considering he was just going for a walk.

        All my love for now and forever.

        But on the other hand, things had been tense between them on and off since Libby had disappeared. Joanne assumed this was Roy’s way of saying he was sorry, and letting her know that, through good times and bad, she would always be the love of his life.

        “I love you too, Roy,” Joanne had said with a soft smile as she placed the note in a drawer where she kept cards, letters, and other items that held sentimental value to her. Without turning on any lights, she went into the living room. She curled up on the couch and reached for the remote. She half watched an old episode of The Honeymooners while waiting for Roy to return. Joanne realized she’d dozed off when she woke up an hour later, chilled. She called quietly, “Roy,” but got no answer. She toured the house again, worry kicking in once more. She had no idea what time her husband had left on his walk, but knew he’d still been in the house when she’d gone to bed a few minutes after ten.

        He should have been home by now. He’s never gone longer than forty-five minutes.

        Joanne quietly opened the door to Chris’s old room to check on Trevor again. The glow from the night-light allowed her to see he was sound asleep on his back, with his left arm thrown over his eyes. She’s seen Johnny sleep like that on her couch on more than one occasion, and had to smile at the remarkable number of resemblance’s Trevor shared with his father. She didn’t allow herself to think of Thursday, when Trevor would be leaving them. His departure was going to be just as hard on her as it was going to be on Roy. Even more sad, and frightening, was wondering what the future held for any of them. Would Trevor get his papa back? Would she and Roy get their granddaughter back?

        Joanne had shut the bedroom door again, then flicked on the hall light. She opened the linen closet in order to grab a light blanket off the shelf. She intended to wrap up in it and wait on the couch for Roy’s return. It was then that she noticed his medical bag missing.

        But it was here this evening. I know it was here because I put the clean sheets and towels away after supper while Roy and Trevor were in the pool.

        Joanne ran for the kitchen. She pulled opened the drawer and grabbed Roy’s note. Though she didn’t know what was going on, she had a feeling there was something more final to his ‘All my love for now and forever’ than she’d realized earlier. She found Roy’s cell phone in the computer room and called Chris. Within thirty minutes Chris, Wendy, and Jennifer were at the house, as was Troy Anders. Police officers searched the neighborhood for Roy. When they couldn’t find him along any of the routes Joanne said he normally walked, Quinn Dailey was called. An hour after Agent Dailey arrived Chet Kelly pulled in the driveway with Libby. As a result of that event, the first big break in the case finally occurred.

        Like Roy had told Johnny would be the case, Jennifer looked her daughter over from head to toe multiple times. When they’d finished hugging and crying in each others arms, and after Libby had been thoroughly hugged by her grandmother, uncle, and aunt, Jennifer insisted upon taking Libby to her old bedroom prior to anyone questioning her. At that point the doctor determined what her father had in the parking lot of the observatory, that Libby was in need of a bath, a decent meal, and a long, soundless sleep, but was otherwise in good condition. She questioned Libby thoroughly regarding what the man had done to her. Libby told her mother the same thing she’d told her grandfather; that the man had touched her through her clothes in places he shouldn’t have, and that Uncle Johnny had gotten mad about that and tried to stop it. As a parent, Jennifer wanted nothing more than to cry over what that man had done to Libby. Granted, it could have been much, much worse, yet still, a part of Libby’s innocence had been taken from her in a way no child should ever experience. Jennifer’s profession as doctor meant she knew several good child psychologists. Just like she and Chris had benefited from a few sessions with a child psychologist after their experience twenty-two years earlier, Jennifer knew Libby would benefit from some sessions as well.

        For the time being, thoughts of a bath, a meal, sleep, and sessions with a psychologist, had to be put on hold. While Chet was questioned at the kitchen table, Libby was questioned in the living room with her mother seated on one side of her on the couch, and her grandmother seated on the other. Jennifer and Joanne held onto Libby’s hands as she answered all the questions Quinn Dailey asked her. It took thirty minutes for the man to reconstruct, through Libby’s words, everything that had happened since she’d been kidnapped on Friday afternoon. She made sure she told Dailey three times, “ And Uncle Johnny thinks we were in an old ranger station in the San Gabriel Mountains. He said it was important that I remember that and tell someone if I got away.”

        When the questioning finally came to an end, the exhausted Libby leaned into her mother’s side. “Uncle Johnny was so good to me, Mom. He helped me not to be scared, and he said I’m a brave girl. He wouldn’t let the man hurt me.”

        Jennifer ran a hand over her daughter’s tangled hair. “I know, honey. I know.”

        “I love Uncle Johnny a whole lot.”

        “I know you do, sweetheart. So do I.”

        Libby looked at Quinn Dailey. “When you find my grandpa and Uncle Johnny, and when Uncle Johnny asks if Olive Oyl is okay, that’s me. He means me.”

        “All right,” Dailey nodded with a distracted smile as he dialed another number on his cell phone and began barking orders.

        Jennifer smiled at her daughter. “Is that a nickname Uncle Johnny gave you?”

        “Yep. Almost as soon as I told him my name. . .my full name, he started calling me Olive Oyl. He said some cartoon named Popeye used to be your favorite, and that Olive Oyl was on it.”

        “Uncle Johnny’s got a good memory.”

        “Yep. He remembered lots of things about you, and Uncle Chris, and Uncle John.” The girl turned to her grandmother. “And he said you’re one of his very favorite people, Grandma. And that you were always trying to get him married off.”

        Despite her worry for her husband and Johnny, Joanne chuckled. “I guess I was. It never worked though.”
        
        “That’s what Uncle Johnny said.”

        Troy Anders entered the living room with Chet, while Wendy remained in the kitchen getting breakfast started for anyone who wanted to eat. Troy and Chet were followed shortly afterwards by Chris and Trevor. Chris sat down in his father’s big recliner, set his canes aside, and took the teary-eyed Trevor into his lap.

        Libby eyed the boy with open curiosity. She didn’t know who he was, but there was something familiar about his sad brown eyes that told her she should recognize him.

        “I wish Roy hadn’t gone off like he did,” Troy said to Joanne. “If he’d only contacted us--”

        “If Roy didn’t contact you then he had a good reason not to,” Joanne defended her husband.

        “The man would have killed me,” Libby volunteered. “I heard him tell Grandpa that.”

        “See,” Joanne said. “Roy had no choice.”

        Troy shook his head. “He had other choices, he simply ignored them.”
        
        “Because he felt he had to, Troy!” Jennifer was tired of the endless questioning. Between the information the men had gotten from Chet, and the information they’d gotten from Libby, they should have a good idea as to where her father and Johnny were. “Instead of standing here telling us that my father was in the wrong, would you please put your time to better use by finding him and Uncle Johnny.”

        “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Agent Dailey said as he disconnected his call. He looked at Anders. “We’re setting up a base camp on the north end of the mountains. Near the ranch Gage used to own. My guess is the guy has Gage in territory familiar to both of them. Or at least he did have Gage there.”

        “Did?” Chris asked.

        “Your father’s intervention could mean the guy has moved Gage.”

        “No,” Libby shook her head. “Uncle Johnny was sick. . .he made Uncle Johnny sick with the apple juice, I told you that. He made Uncle Johnny sick and left him in the cabin.”

        Quinn didn’t bother to argue with the girl. By now the man could have moved her grandfather and John Gage to a new hiding place. He looked at Troy again.

        “I’ve got a man in contact with a ranger right now. We’re getting locations of all abandoned stations. Three-dozen agents are headed up there. They’ll immediately launch a search.”

        “You’ll need a doctor at your base station in case you find them,” Jennifer said.

        “I’ve already got a paramedic unit on call.”

        “But a doctor would be even better. From what my daughter has said, I can tell you Uncle Johnny has pneumonia at the very least. Considering what he’s been through since Wednesday, I can guarantee you he’ll need immediate treatment, and a fast ride to Rampart.”

        “We can put a Flight For Life chopper on stand-by, too.”

        “Good idea. And you can have a doctor there as well.”

        “Jennifer,” Troy said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should stay here with your daughter and--”

        “No, Mom,” Libby interrupted. “Go to Uncle Johnny and Grandpa. I can stay with Grandma. I promised Uncle Johnny you’d stitch the cut on his head for him. You gotta be there to help him.”

        Jennifer gave her daughter a kiss and a long hug. “Uncle Johnny is right. You are a brave girl. I love you so much, Libby, and I’m very proud of you.” The woman stood. “Gentlemen, I’ll get my bag out of the car and then join you.” She looked at her mother. “Do you mind?”

        “No. You go. I’ll take care of things here. Just. . .be careful. It’s bad enough I have to worry about your father and Johnny. I don’t want to be worrying about you, too.”

        “You won’t be,” Troy assured. “This is one DeSoto I’m not letting out of my sight.”

        Trevor caught Jennifer’s eyes as she turned to leave the room. “Are you gonna bring Poppy home to me, Jennifer?”

        The woman bent and put a hand behind Trevor’s head while kissing his cheek. “I’ll do my very best, sweetheart.”

        “And you’ll take care of him so he’s not sick anymore?”

        “I sure will.”

        Trevor reached up and wrapped his arms around the woman’s neck. Quietly he said, “When you see Poppy, tell him I love him, and that I miss him real bad, okay?”

        Jennifer had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could answer. “Okay. I’ll make sure I give him the message.”

        Five minutes later Jennifer was headed for the San Gabriel Mountains with Troy Anders and Quinn Dailey.

        Before Joanne had the opportunity to suggest that Libby eat a plate of the scrambled eggs Wendy had cooking and then soak in a warm bubble bath, the girl hopped off the couch and walked over to her Uncle Chris. She stared at Trevor a moment, then reached out a hand and placed it on his arm. She’d heard what her mother had called him, and although she had no idea how the boy from Alaska had ended up in her grandparents’ house, she now realized who he was.

        “Don’t worry, Trevor. Your daddy will be okay. My grandpa and my mom will take good care of him, just like he took good care of me.”

        Trevor didn’t correct the girl when she used the term ‘daddy,’ but rather gave a solemn nod of his head. He didn’t pull away when she hugged him either. He’d never been hugged by a girl before. Grown women like Clarice, his mother, Grandma Marietta, and Aunt Joanne, yeah. But not a girl. Normally he would have pulled away with a loud, “Yuck!” but for some reason he didn’t. It only took a few seconds for Trevor to understand why. Being hugged by Libby Sheridan wasn’t like being hugged by a girl, it was like being hugged by a friend. A friend who had spent coveted time with his papa when Trevor himself was unable to.

        The boy returned Libby’s hug. When they broke apart the children were led into the kitchen for breakfast. Neither one of them ate much, and while Libby took her bath Trevor retreated to his room once more, where he sat on his bed crying for his father.

        

Chapter 29

        Evan Crammer’s motel room was three miles from the old fire road that led part way to the abandoned ranger station where he was holding Gage and DeSoto. He bustled through the room now, packing his bags. He already had everything else he needed in his van to give Gage and DeSoto a send-off befitting two veteran firefighters.

        Evan placed his bags by the door, then took one last look around the room to make certain he’d left nothing behind. He silently applauded his brilliance. From the moment he’d kidnapped John Gage, the cops had been like dogs running in circles chasing their own tails. They’d wasted a lot of precious time searching for Scott Monroe as a result of Evan’s own ingenuity.

        The man’s laptop computer was open on the low countertop where the TV rested. He walked over to it, dialed into the Internet, and sent the message residing in his draft folder. By the time Quinn Dailey returned to Virginia and got the message, Evan would be safely encased in his luxurious little Canadian hideaway where his life would eventually end. And oh, but what a glorious ending it would be, because victory was his. Evan laughed as he packed up his computer and thought of the message Dailey would read.

        How appropriate. How very appropriate it is.

        Hi, Quinn. Fooled ya’, huh?

        And really, what more could Evan say but that? He’d been fooling Quinn Daily for thirty years now. He’d soon make his last strike against humanity by killing his old foe, John Gage, and then he, Evan Crammer, would be declared the winner.

Evan put his bags and laptop case in the van, then hopped in the driver’s side. He headed the vehicle toward the San Gabriel Mountains, and the last duty he would carry-out before heading home to die.

_______________________________

        It took Johnny a minute to orient himself when he first woke up. He knew he’d slept deeper and heavier than he had in days, which indicated to the man he possessed a sense of security that had been lacking since he’d been taken from his home. When he shifted his head, and realized he was leaning against someone’s chest, it all came back to him. The deep sleep had been a result of not having to worry about Libby, and of his subconscious mind knowing Roy was here to listen for a cop calling their names, or searchers walking near the cabin.

        Johnny felt the cold towel move from his face as he carefully sat up.

        “Feeling better?” A quiet voice asked.

        “Yeah. A little.” The man moved away from his friend, shifting his body so he was sitting against the wall beside Roy. “How long did I sleep?”
        
        “About two and a half hours. I think you would have slept longer, but you’ve been coughing a lot. That probably woke you up.”

        “Probably.” Johnny tried to get a glimpse of Roy’s watch. “What time’s it?”

        The paramedic instructor turned his left wrist so he could read the watch’s face. “Nine o’clock.” Roy shoved a full cup of water into Johnny’s hands. “Here, drink this. All of it.” He reached for the box of Ritz crackers he’d dug out of the backpack. “And I want you to eat some of these.”

        Johnny made a face. “Do you know how horrible Ritz crackers are without anything to put on them like cheese, or a slice of sausage, or that really stupendous crab dip Joanne used to make?”

        “No, I don’t. But eat a few anyway. And Joanne still does make that ‘really stupendous crab dip’ as you put it, so if you’re a good boy, and you ask her nicely, I’m sure she’ll make you some to use on the leftover crackers you carry out of here when we’re rescued.”

        “Chicken and dumplings,” Johnny said as he took a drink of water. “Right now Joanne’s chicken and dumplings would be heaven. I’ve got the recipe, but I can never get the dumplings to turn out like they should. Trevor says they taste doughy.”

        “Is he right?”

        “I tell him it’s his imagination and to eat ‘em anyway, but yeah, he’s right.”

        “Then maybe Joanne can give you a lesson on how to make them while you’re here.”

        “Good idea. I’ll have to ask her.”

        “Now shut up and eat some crackers.”

Johnny did as Roy ordered, though dry crackers definitely weren’t enticing when you were sick and had little appetite to begin with. But, Johnny knew he needed to keep up what strength he still had. The last decent meal he’d consumed had been the previous Wednesday, six days earlier now, when he’d eaten the eggs Clarice had cooked him for breakfast. Since he’d been brought to this cabin he’d downed a few French Fries, a small portion of the McDonald’s sandwiches he’d been given on Friday and Saturday night, an apple, and half a granola bar. Hardly enough to maintain good health for any man, not to mention one with a naturally high metabolism.

        “Have you heard anything outside?” Johnny asked in-between bites of crackers and sips of water. “Anything that would indicate they’re searching for us? A chopper going overhead? A flare gun being shot off? Anything at all?”

        “No. Nothing. And I did a thorough inspection of this place while you were sleeping. There’s no getting out of here. Those windows are boarded up tight. And I do mean tight.”

        “Tell me about it. I damn near busted my shoulder trying to break the boards.”

        “Oh.” Roy glanced at Johnny’s vividly colored right shoulder. “So that’s where those bruises came from.”
        
        “Yeah. I also tried to bust down the door. . .it used to seem so easy when we kicked doors in twenty-five years ago. Either I’ve lost my touch, I’m getting old, or that door’s solid as granite.”

        “Probably a bit of all three.”

        “Ha, ha. You could have at least assured me I’m not getting old.”

        “Sorry, but I noticed the gray hair at your temples, and the fact that you’re the spitting image of your dad the first time I met him. Face it, Johnny, you are getting old.”

        “And this from a guy who’s sporting a bald spot the size of a softball.”

        “Joanne thinks my bald spot is sexy.”

        “Of course she’d tell you that.”

        “What do you mean, of course she’d tell me that? She’s sincere.”

        Johnny snorted as he threw a piece of cracker to the squirrel who had suddenly appeared from the chimney.

        “A friend of yours?” Roy asked.

        “Kind of. I think Libby and I invaded his territory. She named him Acorn.”

        “I see.”

        Johnny and Roy watched as the squirrel disappeared up the chimney with the cracker in his mouth, only to appear again less than a minute later. Johnny tossed him another chunk of cracker.

        “He must be running off somewhere and storing what you give him,” Roy observed.

        “Yeah.” Johnny’s tone was suddenly distant and distracted. “Yeah, it sure looks that way.”

        Johnny stared at the fireplace as Acorn appeared once again, then disappeared, then appeared once again, then disappeared, all the while using the chimney as his means of escape.

        “Damn!” Johnny pushed himself to his feet. “Damn, damn, damn! How stupid could I have been? How absolutely stupid could I have been?”

        “What are you talking about?” Roy stood as well. He watched as Johnny crossed the floor to the fireplace. “Johnny, come back and sit down.”

        Johnny ignored his friend to instead bend and stick his head up the chimney. When he reappeared he was coughing, and his hair was layered with cobwebs he fought to free himself of.

        “Well, now, that wasn’t a very swift move considering you don’t need anything else in your lungs to hinder your breathing at the moment. Now get back over here and sit--”

        “Roy, come here!”

        By now Roy was certain Johnny’s fever was rising again and he was half delusional, or that his six days of captivity had finally pushed him over the brink.

        “Johnny, let’s go over against the wall and sit down together. I’ll get you some water and have you eat a few more crackers. Then you can go back to sleep and--”

        “Sleep! Roy, are you nuts? There’s no time to sleep.” Johnny grabbed his friend’s arm. “Come here. Look up there!”

        “And see what? A bunch of cobwebs and a squirrel’s behind?”

        “No. Look at how big the chimney is! I never gave it a thought before now that I might be able to fit up it. I never gave it a thought that the fireplaces in these old stations weren’t necessarily designed to hold in heat. Hell, why do you need to worry about keeping heat in a building in Southern California? They were designed more for show than anything else. We can climb up it, Roy. We can climb up it, climb out on the roof, and then ‘poof’ we’re outta here.”

        Doubt crossed Roy’s features as he peered up the chimney a second time. “I don’t know. It looks fairly wide down here, but it narrows as it goes up. You might be able to make it, but I’ll get stuck.”

        “No, you won’t. You’ll fit.”

        “Johnny, have you taken a good look at me? I’m twenty-five pounds heavier than I was fifteen years ago.”

        Johnny slapped Roy’s stomach with the back of his hand. “See, that’s why it pays to stay fit and trim.”

        “You stay trim because you’ve got the metabolism of a jack rabbit. Some of us aren’t that lucky.”

        “Look, we don’t have time to debate the merits of a high metabolism.” Johnny crossed the floor and picked up the shirt Roy had taken off him earlier. “We’re getting out of here.”

        “I don’t know if you’re strong enough to make,” Roy said as Johnny was seized by a coughing spasm that almost knocked him off his feet. Roy grabbed his arms and kept him upright. “If you start this coughing in the middle of your climb you’ll fall.”

        “I won’t fall.”

        “You might.”

        Johnny slipped his shirt on and began buttoning it. “If I do, I’ll fall on you, so you’d better hope I don’t.”

        “I already told you I can’t fit up there.”
        
        “Roy, you’ve gotta try! I’m not gonna leave you behind, but now that I’ve finally found a way out, I’m not stickin’ around either. This has sucked, okay? It’s really sucked. If baring my soul to you will get your ass up that damn chimney then I’ll do it. I’ve just spent four days goin’ out of my mind with worry that I wouldn’t be able to get your granddaughter back to you alive! I’ve just spent four days wondering what would happen to my little boy if I didn’t get out of here alive! I’ve spent six days at the mercy of some asshole whose name I don’t even know, and I’m damn tired of it. And yes, I’m sick. I know I’m sick. I feel like I’ve got one foot in the grave, and the other one’s not far behind. But now that I know we can get outta here, I’m not waiting around for him to come back. I’d rather die running from him out in those woods, than give him the satisfaction of killing me in here like some caged up animal. And I’ll be damned if he’s gonna kill you! I’m not takin’ your body back to Joanne, Roy. I’m not.” Johnny grabbed Roy’s wrist. “Now come on. We’re gettin’ outta here.”

        Coughing the entire way, Johnny dragged his friend to the fireplace to the sound of Roy’s muttered words.

        “I’ve let you talk me into a lot of foolish things over the years, but this one just might take the cake. Especially if I get stuck.”

        “If you’re stuck in the chimney when he comes back, and that means he can’t find you, then believe me, it won’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened.”

        “Johnny, you can hardly breathe as it is. There’s no way you’re going to be able to climb up a dusty old chimney layered with who knows how many years worth of soot and dirt, climb out on a roof, jump to the ground, and then run down this mountain.”

        “Oh, yeah?” Johnny cocked an eyebrow, that gesturing suddenly reminding Roy of how much his old friend loved nothing better than a challenge. “Watch me.”

        “Johnny--”

        “Roy, I’m goin’. And if you’re smart, you’re comin’ with me. If not, then wait here and I’ll come back with help.”

        “I think we should both wait here until--”

        “Until what? The cavalry shows up? Roy, I’ve been waitin’ to see someone on a white horse come over the hill since last Wednesday, and that hasn’t happened yet. I’m not holdin’ out a whole lot of hope that it’s going to happen now. As my Grandma Hamilton used to say, the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

        “I didn’t know you were a religious man,” Roy quipped.

        “You know how they say there’s no atheists in fox holes?”

        “Yeah?”

        “Well, believe me, there’s none in boarded up ranger stations either. Now for once would you be the one to quit talking so we can get out of here?”

        Roy looked around the room a final time. Johnny was right. There was no way to escape but through the chimney. He still didn’t hold out much hope this was going to work, but Johnny’s torso had already disappeared within the stone shaft, and he was lifting his right foot in order to begin his climb.

        Roy grabbed his friend around the knees. “Here, let me give you a boost.”

        “Just a second.” Johnny coughed as he looked up. Enough sunlight was coming in through the top of the chimney to cast dim rays for him to see by. “Let me find a spot to grab onto.”

        The sixty-year-old fireplace had been made with large rocks of varying shapes and sizes gathered from the mountain. That fact alone was to the men’s advantage because it meant there were hand and toeholds.

        “Okay!” Johnny called. “Boost me now!”

        Roy did as Johnny instructed. Johnny found a narrow ledge on each side of the chimney to rest his feet on, and two more rock ledges to grasp with his hands. He bent down as much as he dared and held out a hand to Roy.

        “Come on. I’ll help pull you up now.”

        “Johnny, I--”

        “There’s nothing to it. It’s just like rock climbing.”

        “I’ve never been rock climbing.”

        “Oh. Well, then it’s no different than climbing up the side of a building.”

        “Except we’re without safety belts, ropes, and a pulley system.”

        “Oh, come on, Roy, where’s your sense of adventure?”

        “I should have known I’d be forced to find it again as soon as you showed up,” Roy grunted as he was hoisted through the fireplace’s opening.

        Johnny climbed a little higher to give Roy room to do the same. He looked down, watching as Roy struggled to find hand and foot holds. “To your left. There’s a ledge to your left, by your shoulder that you can grab. And another one to the side of your right foot.”

        As Roy’s fingers fought to maintain a grip on a slender ledge of rock he muttered, “This isn’t as easy as you made it sound.”

        “At the moment it beats all other alternatives if you ask me.”

        “You’ve got a point. A small one, but a point nonetheless.”

        “You know what you need, Roy?” Johnny climbed a little higher. The shaft was narrowing, but he was thin enough to fit without a struggle.

        “What?” Roy asked as he lifted his right foot and hand, grappling to find a new perch for both.

        “Another baby.”

        “A what?”

        “Another baby. You and Joanne need another kid.”

        Small stones and loose mortar showered down on Roy as a result of Johnny’s movements, causing him to cough. When he was able to talk again he asked, “Just why do you think Joanne and I need another kid?”

        “Because kids keep you young. I mean, heck, I was forty-five when Trev was born, and everyone gave me a hard time about how old that was to become a father, but it’s been great.”

        “Johnny, number one, there’s a big difference in becoming a first time father at that age, as opposed to becoming a father at that age after you’ve had several other kids who are almost grown. I was thirty-five when John was born and let me tell you, considering Chris and Jen were twelve and ten, that was a big enough struggle. And number two; in case you’ve forgotten, I’m fifty-six years old and the grandfather of three. Even if it was physically possible for Joanne to get pregnant, which it isn’t, we are not having another baby.”

        “Okay, okay. Sheesh, it was only a suggestion. I just thought maybe if you had another kid it would prompt you to get back in shape.”

        Roy didn’t know whether to be insulted, whether to take Johnny seriously on this issue of another child, or whether to chalk this conversation up to one of the many insane paths John Gage’s mind could travel when allowed too much idle time. Roy chose the latter, deciding that for the sake of his own sanity it was best to let this particular conversation thread die.

        Johnny continued to cough as he climbed. His fingers trembled as they grabbed onto rocks, but he made no mention of his weakness to Roy. First of all, Roy was well aware of it, and second of all, Johnny was bound and determined he was going to win his freedom. When he was a little more than halfway up the chimney, Johnny paused to rest. He laid his face against the cool rocks and allowed his eyes to close.

        Just a little while longer. Just a little while longer and then it’ll all be over with. We’ll get help, and then I can take a hot shower and crash on Roy’s couch. He’ll want me to go to Rampart, but what the heck, for her Uncle Johnny, Jennifer will probably make a house call.

        Johnny started when he felt hands on the seat of his blue jeans. He looked down, just able to see the whites of Roy’s eyes.

        “Roy, you keep doing stuff like that and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’ve been missing me way too much in a weird sort of way.”

        “I was just trying to give you a boost for crying out loud!”

        “Oh, sure. I knew that’s what you’d say as soon as you got me alone in a dark place.”

        “Johnny!”

        “All right, all right, I was just kidding. I’m going. I’m going.”

        Johnny climbed higher, gingerly making his way to the chimney’s opening. When he was almost there he heard, “Uh. . .Johnny?”

        “Yeah?”

        “I. . .I’m stuck!”

        Johnny looked down to see Roy three feet below him. “No, you’re not.”

        “Yes, I am.”

        “Just suck your gut in and climb.”

        “I do have my gut sucked in!”

        “Okay, just a sec. Let me come down a little.”

        “No. Keep going.” Roy looked up. “You’re almost there. Just keep going and get out.”
        
        “No way. You’re coming, too.”

        “Johnny, what part of ‘I’m stuck,’ don’t you understand?”

        “None of it, because you’re not.”

        “Just because John Gage says I’m not, doesn’t mean it’s true, you know.”

        “Oh ye’ of little faith.” Johnny dropped his right hand. “Here. Take my hand.”

        “And then what?”

        “On the count of three I’m pulling while you suck your stomach in.”

        “I don’t think it will work.”

        “It’s got to. Now come on. On three.”

        Roy grasped Johnny’s hand. He could again feel the heat radiating from his friend’s skin and wondered how Johnny had made it this far.

        Every so often I guess that Gage stubbornness comes in handy. . .for both of us.

        “Ready?” Johnny asked.

        “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

        “One. . .two. . .three!”

        It took a considerable amount of groaning, swearing, and straining on the parts of both men, but finally Roy was able to move. Johnny continued his own climb then. He reached up and grabbed the lip of the chimney. With what strength he had left he hoisted his upper body through the opening.

        For a moment Johnny allowed himself to breathe in the fresh, mountain air. The sun kissed his dusty, soot-smeared face. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, drinking in the smells and sounds of this mountain range he used to call home.
        
        Because they couldn’t afford the luxury of wasted time, Johnny pushed aside his enjoyment of the outdoors for more pressing concerns. He wriggled his way out of the chimney and climbed onto the roof, then looked down into the hole from which he’d just emerged.

        It was a struggle for Roy to make it the rest of the way out. He got stuck two more times, and for a long minute was certain he was destined to remain half in, and half out of chimney until Johnny returned with help. But somehow, with Johnny’s assistance, along with a liberal dose of his stubborn perseverance, they finally got Roy free and onto the roof as well.
        
        Johnny plopped down to the old asphalt shingles with exhaustion. Roy sat next to him, forced to catch his breath, too.

        Johnny gave his friend a sidelong glance. “I’d say Mrs. Claus needs to put you on a diet before Christmas rolls around, Santa.”

        Roy brushed cobwebs from his hair while wondering if his face was as dirty as Johnny’s. “Oh, you’re just a laugh a minute.”

        “Well, Roy, I wouldn’t want ya’ to think I’ve gotten too straight-laced in my old age.”

        “Don’t worry. There’s no danger of that.” Roy grabbed Johnny’s right wrist and started taking his pulse. “Now what?”

Johnny yanked his wrist away.“First of all you quit doing that. Second of all, we get the hell out--” Johnny stopped talking and sat straight up.

        “What?”

        “Shhh.”

        “Wha--”
        
        Johnny clamped a hand over Roy’s mouth as he flipped onto his belly and laid flat. “Down,” he whispered. “Get down! Lay flat! Lay down flat.”

        It was then that Roy spotted the red van parked half a mile away, at the end of a fire road. He shaded his eyes and squinted, but didn’t see anyone around it, and was about to suggest to Johnny that they get off this roof and run like hell in the opposite direction of the vehicle, when he heard what Johnny had. Footsteps on the cabin’s front porch. Their assailant’s voice was heard next.

        “Well, gentlemen, it’s been fun! Gage, I appreciate the challenge you’ve brought me! Not to mention the laughs!”
        
        Johnny heard the man walk off the porch. His voice moved, as though he was circling the cabin. At first Johnny thought the man had spotted him and Roy on the roof, but as their assailant continued to talk, Johnny realized the man was under the assumption they were still locked in the cabin.

        “Now I suppose I should answer a couple questions just to satisfy your curiosity! If I was you, I’d be wondering the name of the quite brilliant man who orchestrated this little sojourn you’ve been on! My name is Crammer. Evan Joseph Crammer!”

        Roy and Johnny exchanged glances. If the man was supplying his name, then there was no doubt he didn’t intend for them to live to tell anyone that fact.

        “As for Scott Monroe. . .well, now there was stroke of genius on my part! I had him killed you see. It was me who sent Christopher those e-mails, not Monroe! It’s amazing just how much information a computer hacker can obtain if he simply has the time and talent!”

        Johnny only half listened to what the man was saying. He was more concerned about the smell that was suddenly wafting up from the ground surrounding the ranger station.

        Gasoline! He’s pouring gasoline!
        
        The look on Roy’s face told Johnny his friend had come to the same realization. As Crammer continued to talk, Johnny buried his face in the crook of his left elbow in an effort to stifle the sound of his coughs. Roy put a hand on his back and rubbed it up and down, whether in a gesture of comfort or reassurance, Johnny wasn’t sure.

        “Hey, DeSoto, remember when I asked if you thought you and Gage could still put out a fire? Well, now you’ll get your chance to find out!”

        From their positions on the roof Johnny and Roy couldn’t see Evan pick up a thick branch and soak the end with gasoline. He tossed the empty gas can on the small back porch the station contained, then held the branch away from his body. The man fished a Bic Lighter from the front pocket of his jeans. He flicked it open, and carefully held the flame to the end of the branch.

        The wood ignited with a powerful “whoosh!” Evan tossed the flaming torch at the cabin he’d splashed with gasoline. Within seconds fire was climbing the outside walls. Evan threw his head back and laughed at the thought of the men. . .the firemen, who would soon be incinerated.

        Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, Fire Chief Gage.

        Johnny risked lifting his head. The sound of fire crackled below as black smoke filled the air. He knew this old weathered cabin would burn fast. He and Roy had to get off the roof. Johnny glanced below, trying to locate Crammer.

        If we’re lucky he’s running for his van.

        Roy was having similar thoughts. As flames shot up the outside walls Roy pointed to the woods behind them. The loud crackling of burning wood no longer made talking at any volume a concern.

        “We’ve got to get off this roof and head in that direction!”

        Johnny nodded. He didn’t see Crammer at the back of the cabin, and the direction Roy indicated was opposite of where the van was parked.

        The men grasped each other’s arms and helped one another to a crouched position. They’d only be nine feet from ground after they duck-walked to the corner of the roof, meaning jumping wasn’t a big concern. However, jumping through fire with no turn-out gear was.
        
        “Okay, Johnny, you first! And don’t forget, ‘stop, drop, and roll’ if you have to.”

        Johnny nodded at the instructions that were given to school children should they ever catch their clothes or hair on fire.

        The fire chief got as close to the edge of the roof as he dared. The tar in the shingles was already beginning to bubble. Johnny could feel the heat beneath the soles of his tennis shoes, and knew it was now or never.

        Johnny stood and took a running leap off the roof. For just a moment he felt the intensity of the flames as they licked at his clothes and bare arms, and then he was headed for the ground. Johnny did his best to tuck and roll. He grunted when his bruised shoulder hit the dirt, but when he scrambled to his feet he was in surprisingly good condition other than minor burns to his hands and arms.

        Roy came down next. He tried to employ the ‘tuck and roll’ method, too, but didn’t have Johnny’s agility to turn in mid-air. Roy took the force of his landing on his feet. His right foot turned, the ligaments screaming in protest.

        Roy had no time to worry about a sprained ankle. Johnny grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the thick woods behind the cabin.

        “Come on! Let’s get out of here!”

        Fire roared behind the men, as the air filled with noxious fumes that only made Johnny cough harder. Roy gritted his teeth and hobbled along beside his friend.

        God, what a pair we make. Johnny’s got pneumonia, I’ve got a sprained ankle, and both of us think we can run through these woods like we’re thirty years old again.

        Unbeknownst to either Johnny or Roy, Evan Crammer had seen their escape. He had considered shooting each of them as they jumped off the roof, but that would be too easy. Like killing a stupid, unaware animal. No, Evan wanted Gage and DeSoto to know it when they died. He very much wanted them to know it as a matter of fact.

        Evan took off after the fleeing firemen. He had three advantages over Gage and DeSoto. He didn’t have pneumonia. He didn’t have a sprained ankle. And he had a gun.

Chapter 30

        Though Jennifer DeSoto had ridden in several four wheel drive vehicles in her life, she'd never ridden in one that bounced over logs, flew over rocks, and roared up a mountain trail just like it was advertised on television that an SUV could do. She was in the back seat of Troy Anders’ dark blue Ford Expedition. Before she had ever been dropped off at the FBI's base camp, an agent had contacted Quinn Dailey to report smoke was billowing from the vicinity of one of the abandoned ranger stations. The two men momentarily forgot about Jennifer as Troy jammed the accelerator to the floor. The doctor hung on tight and kept her mouth shut. Her medical bag was beside her, and her portable phone rested within. If her father and Johnny needed anything more than minor care, additional help would only be a phone call away.

        Troy took the Expedition as far as the mountain terrain would allow. When the trail got too steep, and the trees too thick and close together, he was forced to stop. The men jumped out and unholstered their guns. Jennifer exited the vehicle as well with medical bag in hand.

        "Oh, no," Troy said. "You wait right here."

        "But--"

        "Jennifer, wait here."

        The woman put a hand on her hip. The smoke from the burning ranger station was blanketing the air with a thick, gray fog-like haze. "Don't you think I'll be safer if I go with the two of you rather than staying here by myself?"

        Troy was forced to admit the doctor had a point. He glanced at Quinn before giving a tight nod of his head. "Fine. Come with us." He pointed a stern finger. "But you do exactly what we tell you to, when we tell you to. Understand?"

        "I understand."

        Jennifer was glad she was wearing jeans and thicksoled running shoes as they hiked up the mountain. The men made her walk behind them as the trio tromped through bushes, bramble vines, and overgrowth. Thorns scratched Jennifer's bare arms. She was wearing a short sleeve Kelly green polo shirt, and despite the warmth of the June day, found herself wishing she'd brought a jacket, just like she imagined the men, who were also wearing short sleeved shirts, wished the same thing. As Jennifer and the men got closer to the cabin they could hear the roar of the fire and see flickers of the shooting flames through the trees.

        Oh, Daddy. Uncle Johnny. No. Please no.

        Though the trio was still several hundred yards away, Jennifer watched as the first wall of the structure begin to buckle. She knew if her father and John Gage were locked in that cabin, there was little chance they were still alive. She heard Troy get on his radio and instruct the dispatcher to call the fire department.

        "I also want a paramedic unit up here. Someone will have to bring them in an SUV, but I want them here pronto. I've got a doctor with me, but she'll need their equipment. Keep the Flight For Life chopper on stand-by."

        "Do you really think it will make a difference, Troy?" Jennifer asked with no inflection as she stared at the distant burning building. "If my father and Johnny are in there, do you really think a paramedic unit will make a difference?"

        The detective didn't answer the woman. He clipped his radio to his belt, put a hand on her elbow and said, "Come on," as they resumed their hike.
        

_______________________________

        
        John Gage now knew what a person caught in the throes of a violent asthma attack felt like. The cords in his neck strained as he gulped for air while running for his life. He knew Roy had hurt his foot, but there was no time to worry about the extent of the injury. He never let go of Roy's wrist, but rather pulled his friend along with him.

        If he hadn't been so ill, Johnny would have easily been able to outrun Evan Crammer. As he'd told Roy, Trevor kept him young. Though Johnny still had a taste for junk food, and indulged in that taste every so often, Trevor's existence had given Johnny every reason in the world to take care of himself. He wanted to live to see his son grow to manhood. He wanted to live to see his grandchildren born. Thus, he ate right, exercised regularly, didn't smoke, drank a beer or a glass of wine only on rare occasions, and followed whatever advice Mark Benson gave him each year at his annual physical. But Johnny was ill, and the air was filled with smoke, and he hadn't eaten a decent meal for six days now, so the fire chief found himself struggling to stay on his feet. If this was a child's game of cops and robbers he'd simply turn around, raise his hands high, and declare, "I give up." But it wasn't a child's game, and Johnny knew giving up meant dying. Not only him dying, but Roy dying as well, and that last scenario just wasn't an option as far as Johnny was concerned.

        Roy winced as he half ran, half limped through the woods. He could hear Johnny gasping for breath and knew they'd have to stop soon. His eyes frantically scanned the area, looking for any place they could seek shelter. Roy wondered if they were anywhere near the cavern his kids and Johnny used to call the Pow-Wow cave. Johnny would be able to locate it far better then he could, but Johnny hadn't lived here for fifteen years, so whether or not he knew where they were in relationship to that cave Roy had no idea.

        Johnny's hand came free of Roy's wrist as he tripped over a log. He faltered a moment, but regained his footing. He looked over his shoulder to see Roy right behind him.

        "Johnny. . .Johnny. . ." Roy panted as sweat rolled down his face. "We have to. . . have to stop. You need. . .you need to rest. . .to rest a minute."

        What the hell am I saying? I need to rest a minute.

        Johnny wasn't able to stop coughing, so had to make due with replying by giving a vehement shake of his head.

        "Johnny--"
        
        Johnny grabbed Roy's arm again and tugged. "Come on, come on," he gasped between coughs. "The woods. Fire! Come on!"

        Roy turned around to see the trees behind them burning. That didn't surprise him. Summer in Southern California meant little rain. It also meant torching a cabin in a heavily wooded area was, by far, not the wisest of ideas.

        Despite the years Johnny had been away, he had a rough idea as to where they were. If they continued to head west, he estimated they'd reach Highway 65 with three more miles of travel, maybe less depending on how they cut a path through the woods.

        Though Johnny willed himself to keep going, his body was giving out on him. Whatever speed he'd possessed to initially make this flight was rapidly dwindling. His lungs cried for air as he gasped for anything he could give them. His eyes burned and teared from the thick cloud of smoke enveloping the mountain. He never saw the rock that caught his right foot and sent him sprawling. He landed full-force with an "Umph!" Before he could even lift his face from the dirt he felt Roy's hands grasping his upper arms, then heard, "DeSoto! Get away from him! Now!"

        When Roy hesitated to do as Evan Crammer ordered, the man barked, "DeSoto! I said, now! If you don't want his brains splattered on your shoes, you'll do as I ordered."

        Roy slowly rose and moved away from Johnny, his eyes never wavering from Crammer's gun. The man stepped farther out from behind a tree. Johnny coughed dirt from his mouth as he looked up. Crammer was standing fifteen feet away. How the man had gotten in front of them Johnny didn't know. But between his illness, and Roy's bum ankle, Johnny figured it hadn't taken much for Crammer to outrun them.

        He must have seen us jump off the roof. Damn, when one thing goes wrong, everything goes wrong. It's the story of your life, Gage.

        "Fire Chief Gage, on your feet."

        Johnny pushed himself up, though 'on his feet' was a relative term since he remained bent over at the waist, coughing and gulping for air both at the same time. He heard the crackle of burning wood and leaves, though how close the fire was at this moment wasn't Johnny's biggest concern, nor did it appear to be Evan Crammer's.

        "As I said earlier, gentlemen, it's been fun. Far more fun even than I would have imagined. The amount of entertainment you've provided me with exceeded my wildest expectations. Now; however, I must bid you a final farewell." Evan aimed his gun at Roy. "Because Mr. Gage and I aren't quite finished. . .allowing him to die easy just doesn't set well with me, you'll go first, Mr. DeSoto. Since you haven't pissed me off too much, I promise to make it quick."

        Roy shot Johnny a sideways glance. His friend was still doubled over coughing, so whether or not Johnny had even heard what Crammer said Roy wasn't certain. His heart slammed against his chest with fear rather than from exertion. Nonetheless, Roy schooled his features, willing that fear not to show. Just like Johnny had vowed to himself days ago, Roy would not let this bastard have the satisfaction of knowing he inspired any emotion, much less that of pure terror.

        Roy bid a silent goodbye to his wife, children, grandchildren, and best friend. He hoped that whatever happened after the bullet entered his skull, Johnny would somehow still manage to get away. He resisted the urge to close his eyes as Crammer sighted the firearm to the center of Roy's forehead.

        The thunderous crash of burning trees falling shook the ground and momentarily drew Crammer's attention from the men. That was all the opening John Gage needed. He charged, determined to wrestle the gun from Evan, or at least give Roy a chance to flee before the gun went off.

        Roy cried, "Johnny!" as he saw his friend sail through the air and the gun rise to meet him. The concussion of the blast caused Roy to wince. He saw Johnny fall to the ground, and expected the next bullet to enter his own body. Instead, Crammer sped past Roy, shoving him aside with a stiff-armed tackle as he flew toward the center of the fire.

        Johnny groaned and rolled onto his back. Feet pounded past him. He turned his head to see two men chasing Crammer, one of them yelling, "Halt FBI! Halt!"

        As blood streamed from his left shoulder Johnny scrambled to his knees. Despite all that Evan Crammer had put him through, it was still John Gage's job to rescue a person from a fire. He stumbled forward, only to be snared by Roy.

        "Johnny, stop! Sit down! Sit! You've been shot. You need to sit."

        "No!" Johnny fought to free himself from Roy's grasp. "No. Gotta. . .gotta help him! Gotta. . .gotta--"

        At that moment Evan Crammer ran right into a flaming section of forest. As fire ignited his clothing, he raised his arms and shouted, "Victory!" His shout changed to a series of endless screams that echoed over the mountain as his skin and hair began to burn. Troy raised his gun in order to put the man out of his misery, but Quinn stopped him. He shoved the gun barrel toward the ground.

        "No! Let the bastard burn, Troy. Let him get used to what hell feels like, because that's exactly where he's headed."

        Johnny couldn't bear the sight before him. He watched as Crammer became a human torch and did a bizarre, pain-crazed dance in the depths of the flames, like an ostrich trying to fan the fire out. Johnny finally averted his face, burying it in Roy's shoulder. He felt Roy cup a comforting hand to the back of his head. Roy might have said one of three things at that point, or he might have said all of them.

        "It's okay, Johnny. It's all over now."

         "Come on, you need to sit down."

         "Jennifer's here, Johnny. Let's have her take a look at you."

        Johnny never was certain of Roy's exact words, because at the very moment Evan Crammer died, John Gage passed out in his best friend's arms.
        

Chapter 31

        
        Jennifer and Roy DeSoto were crouched low to the ground, but even that didn't keep the thick smoke from irritating their throats and stinging their eyes. It would be hours later, when the smell of smoke was still clinging to her clothes and hair, and the taste of it was still in her mouth, that Jennifer would gain even further respect, if that was possible, for the job her father and John Gage had devoted their lives to.

        Jennifer's focus was immediately on her patient. She gave little thought to the fire beginning to rage in earnest in behind them, nor was she distracted by the additional law enforcement officials dressed in camouflage gear who crawled out of the woods like ants scampering to their hill. Jen and her father had never worked together before. If the situation hadn't been what it was, she would have allowed herself time to savor that. As it was; however, time was a luxury neither they, nor Johnny had.

        "Daddy, are you all right?" Jennifer asked as she helped her father ease Johnny to the ground.

        "I'm fine. Maybe a sprained ankle, but otherwise, I'm fine."

        The doctor unbuttoned Johnny's shirt and peeled it from his bloody shoulder. She looked around, but didn't see what they needed - the paramedic unit Troy had called for. She opened her medical bag and tossed Roy her blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

        "Get his vitals for me while I try to control this bleeding."

        Jennifer knew the two rolls of gauze she had in her bag weren't going to be nearly as effective as a pressure bandage, but for the time being she made do with what she had.

        Roy wrapped the b/p cuff around Johnny's right arm and pumped the ball. He rifled in Jennifer's medical bag with his free hand until he found a pen and small notebook. He called the vital signs off to his daughter as he wrote. Everything he said told Jennifer what she already knew. That Johnny was losing blood rapidly, that he was fighting hard to get oxygen, and that his temperature was well above normal.

        Roy gave her a quick run down of his other ailments. "I'm sure he's got pneumonia. He's also got first-degree burns on both hands and arms, abrasions on his right hand, and a gash on the top of his head. No spinal or neck injuries, and no broken bones other than the probability of his shoulder as a result of the bullet."

        The woman looked up from her patient again, this time making eye contact with Troy Anders who had just arrived at her side.

        "We've got to get him out of here. The bullet's likely hit the subclavian vein. I can't control the bleeding with what little I have available."
        
        "Can we carry him to my vehicle?"

        "If we have to we can."

        Troy got on his radio and told the dispatcher he'd be transporting an injured man down the mountain in his Expedition. He instructed her to radio that information to the paramedics, and instructed her to have a section of Highway 65 blocked off so the helicopter could land.

        Quinn Daily called his people away from the scene. Until the fire department arrived and got things under control, it was too dangerous for anyone to stay in the vicinity. He ran to Jennifer's side to see if he could help. Like everyone else present, water streamed from Daily's eyes and soot smudged his face.

        "I'd don't know how you guys do this," he said to Roy. "Take in all this smoke, I mean."

        "Years of practice," was Roy's distracted answer.

        Jennifer kept pressure on Johnny's shoulder wound while giving the men instructions. She felt his blood soaking the gauze and seeping through her fingers.

        "Troy, you take his upper body. Quinn, you take his legs. I'm going to keep my hands on the gauze covering these bullet wounds."
        "Wounds?" Troy questioned.

        "The bullet exited out the back of his shoulder, which means right now that's just one more place he's bleeding from." Jennifer looked at her father as he quickly packed up her medical bag. "Daddy, can you make it on your own, or do you need help?"

        "I made it this far, little girl."

        "Fair enough," Jennifer nodded. "When we get Uncle Johnny off the ground I want you to support his head. Keep his airway as open as possible so we can aid with his breathing."

        "Will do."

        Quinn reached out a hand and took Jennifer's bag from Roy. "I can carry that."

        "Okay, gentlemen, on the count of three," Jennifer said. "One, two, three."

        On three Johnny was lifted from the ground. He gave a low moan at the pain the movement caused him, but never opened his eyes. Roy limped beside his friend, cradling the back of Johnny's head and neck in his hands. He kept Johnny's head tilted back as much as possible as they moved, just like he'd do if he was going to perform mouth to mouth resuscitation.
        
        Roy bit the inside of his mouth each time his right foot hit the ground. He didn't think the sprain was a bad one, but the ankle was definitely letting him know it did not appreciate being walked on. He could feel it swelling over the top of his tennis shoe, but ignored the discomfort. Jennifer's hands were covered with Johnny's blood, meaning that right now there were more important things to worry about.

        Later, Roy would be certain the trip to Troy's Ford was the longest mile he'd walked in his life. The fire chased them down the mountain as they rushed Johnny to the vehicle. With Roy's help, Troy maintained his grip on Johnny's upper body while fishing his keys from a pocket of his jeans. The detective opened the big rear hatch, then wiggled in on his butt while bringing Johnny with him. He reached a hand behind himself, hit a button, and dropped the back seat in order to make room for the injured man and those tending to him. He dug through a beach bag that had been sitting in a corner behind the bench seat.

        "My wife and I were up in Carmel last week, but never did get to the beach before I got the call from Chris." Troy pulled out two thick towels and a blanket. "These things should be clean."

        "Clean or not we'll use them." Jennifer climbed in, her hands still tightly pressed to Johnny's shoulder. "Just get us off this mountain as quickly as you can."

        When everyone was situated Troy climbed over the seats and got behind the steering while Agent Dailey, who remained in the back with Roy and Jennifer, reached up and shut the hatch. Roy sat behind Johnny's head. With Quinn's help, Jennifer positioned Johnny so his upper body was leaning against Roy's chest. She knew this position would make him bleed more, but at the same time he was in desperate need of air as he gasped to draw in each breath.

        Quinn helped Jennifer fold the towels into fourths, then covered Johnny with the blanket. Jen pressed the towels to the entrance and exit wounds on Johnny's shoulder while she talked to the unconscious man.

        "You hang on for me, Uncle Johnny. I know better than anyone else what a tough guy you are. Don't you dare give up on us. There's too many people who are depending on you. Your friends in Eagle Harbor. Your friends here in L.A. Trevor. My father. Don't you dare give up. Do you hear me, Uncle Johnny? Do you hear me?"

        Jennifer kept up a steady stream of conversation while the Expedition bumped down the mountain, rocking their bodies from side to side like a crazy carnival ride.

        "You said you'd come back and have me paged. You never did though. Never. Now come on, I'm expecting you to do that. I'm expecting you to walk in Rampart one day and have me paged. I'll even treat you to lunch if you do. Dixie and I both will. Boy, I bet she has a lot to say to you. Especially after you promised to keep in touch with her but never did. You don't want to miss out on that, do you? I know she's going to be so happy to see you. She took to Trevor right away. We all did. He's part of the family, just like you, Uncle Johnny. Just like you."

        Johnny's eyes opened a mere slit during the woman's monologue. Though it was her voice that brought him around, he was too shocky, and in too much pain, to recognize her. Instead, his right hand lifted and fished for the person behind him.

        "I'm here, Johnny." Roy took the hand. Being mindful of the burns and abrasions, he gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm right here. We're on our way to Rampart right now. You're going to be fine. You just hang on a little while longer. You're going to be fine, I promise."

        Johnny wanted to tell Roy that he didn't think he was going to be fine. As a matter of fact, he had little hope of surviving to make it to the hospital. He was working so hard to get air into his lungs, and was as weak and chilled as a newborn kitten. Despite his fever, Johnny shivered. He gave Roy's hand a squeeze in return with such a slight amount of pressure Roy could barely feel it.

        "Than. . .thanks, Roy," Johnny whispered as the world started going black again. The rest of the words he mumbled were lost on Roy as Johnny's eyes drifted shut. Roy looked at his daughter.

        "What did he say?"

        Jennifer hesitated, gathering her emotions before meeting her father's gaze. "He said. . he said, 'Thanks, Roy, for being my best friend.' "

        Roy was forced to blink water from his eyes. He told himself the salty moisture that suddenly blurred his vision was caused by smoke, as opposed to being caused by John Gage's words.

        Jennifer did her best to offer her father a reassuring smile even as blood stained the white towels red.

        "He'll be all right, Daddy. Uncle Johnny will be all right."

        Roy wanted to remind his daughter that he'd taught her better than to lie, but because he couldn't find his voice at the moment, he simply gave a small nod of his head while squeezing Johnny's hand again.

Chapter 32

        Johnny's arrival at Rampart via helicopter caused quite a stir. There were still a number of people on the medical staff who had worked with him when he was employed as a paramedic by the L.A. County Fire Department. Any of them who were available immediately volunteered to assist with his care in whatever way needed. As it was, Johnny ended up with the cream of Rampart's crop - Jennifer DeSoto, Mike Morton, Dixie McCall, and even the hospital administrator, Kelly Brackett, - working together to save his life.

        The minor burns he'd suffered to his arms and hands when jumping from the flaming cabin could be easily taken care of, as could the dehydration he was suffering due to his illness and captivity, as well as the gash on the top of his head that required a thorough cleaning and twelve stitches. The damage caused by the bullet from Evan Crammer's gun required surgical repair, and physical therapy would ultimately be necessary in order for Johnny to regain full mobility.

        For the time being physical therapy was the least of everyone's worries. The major hurdles Johnny had to overcome were the three things taxing his body's reserves; blood loss and shock from the gunshot wound, pneumonia, and the high fever accompanying it. After Johnny was rushed to a treatment room the oxygen mask he was wearing had been removed and he was placed on a ventilator. IV's of blood, Ringer's Lactate, and antibiotics were running wide open, a Foley catheter was inserted, and X-rays of his skull and shoulder taken.

        Despite the pain his ankle caused him, Roy had assisted in the treatment room in whatever way was needed. It was only after Johnny was stabilized and taken to surgery that Roy allowed Mike Morton to look him over.

        Like Johnny, Roy had a few minor burns that needed cleaning and ointment. His ankle was X-rayed, but no broken bones were found. The sprain was 'light' as Morton put it. The ankle was wrapped, and Roy was advised to stay off it for a couple days, elevate it, and ice it. Other than that, Doctor Morton recommended rest, food, and liquids to the man who had been taken in exchange for his granddaughter ten hours earlier. Then he arranged to have a pair of crutches brought to Roy.

        "I know you're planning to hang around here a lot longer than I'd advise you to, so the crutches will allow you the mobility you need without further injuring that ankle. Just get some rest while you wait for word on Johnny, and have something to eat and drink, okay?"

        "Okay," Roy smiled. "And thanks, Mike. Thanks a lot."

        "You're welcome," Mike patted Roy's arm as he turned to leave the treatment room. "I'm happy to see him again, too, Roy. I'll be even happier to see him when he's sitting up in a bed giving me a hard time by contradicting everything I say."

        "Yeah, me too," Roy agreed, thinking of the pale, soot-covered, disheveled man wrapped in blood soaked bandages who'd been whisked to the OR thirty minutes earlier.
        
        Roy called Joanne from the phone in the nurses' lounge. She'd already been informed by Troy Anders that her husband was safe at Rampart General Hospital, and had suffered only minor injuries from his ordeal. All Troy would say about Johnny was, "He's in pretty bad shape. Roy will be able to fill you in much better than I can." Joanne wanted to load everyone in the mini-van and head right down to Rampart, but the detective had told her no, that Roy requested she wait until he called her.

        After assuring his wife he was fine, Roy told her everything he knew about Johnny's condition. He then asked her to bring a change of clothing to Rampart with her, along with toothpaste, a toothbrush, his razor, soap, shampoo, and a comb.

        "Mike Morton said I could shower in the doctor's locker room. If you want to wait while I clean up, then we can go to the cafeteria and eat something. Johnny won't be out of surgery for a couple hours at least."

        "What about Libby and Trevor?"

        "Don't bring them. Jenny said Chris and Wendy were at the house with you. Are they still there?"

        "Yes."

        "Leave the kids with them. Don't. . .Joanne, don't tell Trevor anything about Johnny just yet if you don't have to."

        "I won't. Neither he nor Libby know you and Johnny have been found. They're both sleeping right now."

        "Good. Just tell Chris. . .well tell him and Wendy to keep Trev and Libby occupied after they wake up. Let them go swimming, watch a video, take them to the park. . .whatever. There's no use in getting Trevor's hopes up until we know more."

        "Does this mean you. . .you don't think Johnny's going to live?"

        "I don't know. He. . .he's in rough shape, Jo. The gun shot wound or pneumonia either one would be enough for him to battle, but both. . .I don't know, sweetheart. I just. . .I just don't know."

        Despite Roy's dirty face and clothes, and the smell of smoke permeating from him, Joanne didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around him when she located him in the nurses' lounge. She cried quiet tears into his shoulder. She couldn't put into words the relief she felt knowing this ordeal had finally come to an end for her family.

        Roy returned the hug. He kissed his wife's cheek and forehead while assuring he was fine. "It's over, sweetheart. It's over. Don't cry. Please don't cry. You know how I hate it when you cry."

        "I know." Joanne eased out of Roy's embrace and wiped her eyes. "I just. . .do you know how lucky we are, Roy? How lucky we are that neither you nor Libby were seriously hurt or even. . .killed?"

        Roy caressed his wife's face with the back of his hand. "Yes, I know how lucky we are."

        Joanne fought to gather her emotions. She had a feeling the next few days were going to be difficult at best, and that Roy and Trevor were going to need her to be strong for them.

        "Has there been any word on Johnny?"

        "No, not yet. Dixie's keeping tabs on what's going on. She'll let me know as soon as she has anything to report."

        "Jennifer's with him?"

        "Yes. She's assisting Doctor Cho with the surgery. So is Brackett."

        "Wow." Joanne raised an eyebrow. "I bet it's been a long time since he's donned surgical scrubs."
        
        Roy smiled. "Quite a while. But he said Johnny earned VIP treatment."

        Roy adjusted his crutches beneath his armpits and followed his wife out of the lounge. They headed down the hall toward the men's locker room. When they reached the swinging door Joanne handed her husband the New Balance zippered sports bag she was carrying.

        "Everything you need is in here. I'll sit in the waiting area while you shower."

        "Thanks."

        "There's a grocery sack in there you can put your dirty clothes in. Roll the top down on it before you put it in the sports bag, otherwise everything else in there will smell like smoke."

        Roy smiled his admiration at the woman he'd been married to for over three decades now. "You think of everything."

        "I've been married to a fireman too long not to."

        "That you have," Roy agreed as he and Joanne exchanged a final kiss before he entered the locker room. Not for the first time in all his years of marriage, Roy DeSoto realized what a lucky man he was. 'Lucky in love' as the phrase went, and that he certainly was.

        An hour later the smoke and soot was gone from Roy's body, and he was dressed in clean clothes. Joanne had even brought a different pair of tennis shoes for him. He didn't bother to put the right shoe on after he showered. He rewrapped his ankle and pulled a sock over the Ace bandage, then made use of the crutches again. Though Roy didn't feel much like eating, he did make an effort. If nothing else the three glasses of ice water he drank, and the barbecued chicken sandwich he got down, did take some of his weariness away.

        When they finished eating Roy and Joanne headed to the waiting area on the surgical floor. Dixie joined them when she went off-duty at three. The only news she had was that, "Johnny's holding his own."

        Two hours later Jennifer and Kelly Brackett got off the elevator together. Bracket had changed from his scrubs into his street clothes, while Jennifer wore a white lab coat over a fresh pair of blue scrubs since her jeans and polo shirt were covered with soot and smelled like smoke. She rolled her head from side to side as she walked, trying to relieve the tension in her neck and shoulders. She felt like she could sleep for a week, and was looking forward to a night in her own bed for a change. But for now, that rest she craved would have to wait. Jennifer's father was coming toward her with the aid of crutches. By the look on his face she knew he was anxious for a full run down on Johnny's condition.

        Jennifer put an arm on her father's back and spoke the words Roy needed to hear.

        "He made it through surgery, Daddy."

        Roy breathed a sigh of relief, then questioned, "And?"

        "And. . ." Jen's eyes traveled to her mother and Dixie as she, her father, and Doctor Brackett arrived at the waiting area. "And, he's got some challenging days ahead of him. I can't make any predictions. We've repaired the damage to his shoulder and have it immobilized. As you know, he's been through a lot since last Wednesday, and was already very ill. He didn't need the additional trauma from the gunshot wound, but that's Uncle Johnny for you, always in the middle of trouble." Jennifer smiled. "Or so you often said, Dad."

        Roy nodded. "He. . .he was shot because he jumped in front of the gun. Crammer had it pointed at me. But Johnny. . .well, the damn fool. . .he. . .I guess he thinks I'm too old and fat to jump out of the way for myself."

        Jennifer chuckled, as did her mother, Dixie, and Kelly Brackett. "I doubt that. Knowing Uncle Johnny, my guess is he did it out of. . ."

        Jennifer let her sentence trial off, but Roy finished it for her. "Friendship? He did it out of friendship? Is that what you were going to say?"

        "Um. . .yes. Yes, something like that."

        Roy turned and looked out the window. "Well, you're right. I'm sure that is why he did it."

        "What do we tell Trevor?" Joanne asked her daughter. "Can we bring him to see Johnny?"

        "No, not now." Jennifer shook her head. "As for what we tell him, Trevor's too smart for us to be dishonest with him. I think the best approach is to let him know his father's seriously ill, but that when he's better and can have visitors, we'll bring Trevor to see him."

        Roy faced his daughter again. "And if he doesn't make it? If Johnny. . .if he doesn't pull through?"

        "If he gets worse and I have concerns he won't survive, then yes, we'll bring Trevor to say. . .to say goodbye. But I promise you I'll do everything in my power to keep that from happening, Dad. Uncle Johnny's got to do his part though. He's got to fight right along with the rest of us."

        "Don't worry, I'll see that he does. You just make sure the ICU staff knows they'll be seeing a lot of me over the next few days."

        "I had a feeling that request was coming," Kelly Brackett said. "Therefore, it's already been taken care of."

        "Thanks, Doc."
        
        "You're welcome." Brackett smiled. "Just chalk this one up to old time's sake."

        "I'll do that."

        Roy looked at Jennifer. "Is he still in recovery?"

        "Yes. He'll probably be moved to ICU in an hour or so. Once he's settled there I'll let you know. I'm guessing you'd like to see him for a few minutes before you go home."

        "Who said anything about going home?"

        "Daddy--"

        "Jennifer, he's got no one else. His father and sister aren't here, Trevor's too young to be here, his friends. . .his close friends now are the people he knows in Eagle Harbor. When Johnny lived here we always said he was part of the family, and he was. If he was my brother I wouldn't leave this hospital until I knew he was out of danger. Well, in many ways, your Uncle Johnny was more than a brother to me over the years. Because of that, I'm staying until you can assure me I can go home and give Trevor the best news he'll ever be told."

        "All right, you win. But only if you get some sleep on one of the cots in the doctor's lounge, and only if you promise to eat decent meals and take care of yourself."

        "I will."

        "He will," Dixie echoed.

        When Roy looked at the woman she smiled. "And just where do you think I'm going?"

        "Dix, you don't have to stay."

        "Why not? It's not like I've got anyone at home keeping track of where I am, and I'm not on-duty again until Friday. Besides, I figure you can use the company."

        "I'd argue with you, but years of experience tell me I'd be wasting my time."

        "That you would be."

        Once that was settled Kelly Brackett bid the group goodbye.

        "I need to get back to running this hospital. But, believe me, I'll be keeping a close eye on our old friend."

        Roy shook the man's hand. "I'm sure you will. Thanks for everything."

        "You're welcome."

        The women departed shortly after that. Dixie was headed home to pack an overnight bag for herself, while Joanne assured Roy that she and Chris would handle things at the DeSoto house, including breaking the news to Trevor about his father.

        After Jennifer's parents had kissed good-bye, and her mother and Dixie were walking toward the elevator, the doctor dug a piece of paper from the right pocket of her lab coat.

        "Here."

        "What's this?"

        "A nurse found it in a pocket of Uncle Johnny's blue jeans. It's addressed to you."

        Roy accepted the folded piece of manila paper. His first and last name was written on the outside in black crayon. Jennifer made her leave then as well.

        "I'm going to check on my patient. I'll let you know when he's been moved to ICU."

        "Thanks, sweetheart."

        As Jennifer turned for the same elevator her mother and Dixie had just made use of, Roy beckoned, "Jennifer?"

        The doctor faced her father once more. "Yes?"

        "I'm very proud of you. The way you handled yourself out there today. The skills you employed under less than ideal conditions in order to get Johnny here alive. I always knew you had what it takes, but getting to work with you. . .well, it was an honor for your old man, you know?"

        "Daddy, number one; you're not old." Jennifer kissed her father on the cheek, then finished with, "And number two; the honor was all mine."

        Roy gave a slight shake of his head as his daughter walked away. Once again he found himself wondering where the years had gone, and how his children had grown up so fast.

        With the aid of his crutches, Roy hobbled over to the sofa where Joanne had left his sports bag sitting. The waiting area was deserted. Roy took advantage of that fact and gingerly propped his injured ankle on the coffee table. He stacked the crutches against the arm of the sofa, then unfolded the paper he was holding.

        Roy's first reaction was to smile. Only Johnny would write a note on a page from a coloring book using a crayon. Not that he probably had anything else at his disposal, but nonetheless it emphasized the unorthodox thought processes that made Johnny who he was. If John Gage had something to say, then by God he was going to say it, even if his last words were written on the page of a Xena, Warrior Princess coloring book.

        Roy's eyes traveled over the writing he would have immediately been able to identify as Johnny's even if the letter hadn't been addressed to him.

        Roy,

        It will probably come as no surprise to you that I find myself in a big mess once again. A really big mess as a matter of fact. The man who tried to take Jennifer that weekend in 1978, has kidnapped me and your granddaughter Libby. I promise you I'll do my very best to keep Libby safe. She's a sweet little girl, just like her mother was. But, I'll be honest with you, Roy, right now it feels like I'm fighting a losing battle. I've told Libby she has to get away if she can. I think we're being held at an old ranger station in the San Gabriel Mountains. If someone finds me, or my body rather, but Libby is nowhere around, start your search in the mountains. Libby knows she's to try to get to a road, and from there, get help for herself. I wish I could do more for her, Roy. I hope you know that I wish I could do so much more for her.
        
         I have a son now. He's eight years old and his name is Trevor. We live in Eagle Harbor, Alaska. Trevor should be under the care of the police chief there, Carl Mjtko. Please get a message to my boy for me. Tell him his papa loves him more than he can imagine. Tell him to be good for Carl and Clarice, and to make his papa proud.

         I guess there's a lot more things I could say, but writing with crayon is a bitch. Thanks for all the years of friendship you gave me. I'm a better man because of that friendship, and the times we shared together as partners in Squad 51.


        John Gage



        Tears ran down Roy's face as he read the letter through a second time. He could sense the despair and failure Johnny was feeling as he wrote, even though the man never directly spelled out those emotions.

        Roy stared down at the letter long after he'd swiped his face dry. He finally folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. No matter what happened, he'd keep it for the rest of his days. For this letter was a symbol of the bond that had formed between himself and Johnny close to thirty years ago now, and without either one of them realizing it, had never actually been broken. Cracked a little bit at one time, yes. But broken, no. And one way or another, Roy would make sure Johnny knew that.

Chapter 33

        

John Gage drifted in and out of awareness. Time had no meaning to the man who lay on a bed in the ICU, sometimes burning with fever, other times suffering through a bone-penetrating chill. A kaleidoscope of thoughts floated within the sedated fire chief. He could feel the IV needles in his right arm, and the cooling blanket that was sometimes on him. He was aware of the sling immobilizing his left shoulder, and he could hear the beep of monitors and the buzz of conversation. But he couldn't move, or open his eyes, and his brain said, "cis-atracurium," which he knew was a paralyzing drug being used to sedate him so he wouldn't cough, and therefore put further stress on his system.

         The answers Johnny was seeking - "Where am I?" "What happened?" "How'd I get here?" came in small segments. He was periodically released from his paralyzed state and brought up from the sedation in order to squeeze a hand on command, or open his eyes when told to do so. The young blond woman who seemed to be the physician in charge of his care smiled at him in a way that told Johnny he should know her, but as hard as he attempted to put a name to her face he couldn't. When the woman would leave his side, Roy instantly reappeared.

        Even when Johnny wasn't able to open his eyes, he could feel Roy rubbing his right arm, or gently squeezing his hand. Sometimes the things Roy said made sense - that Libby was all right thanks to her Uncle Johnny. That Trevor was anxious to see his papa, but understood he had to wait until Papa was feeling better. That Joanne was taking good care of Trevor and Johnny wasn't to worry. But at other times Johnny had no idea what Roy was talking about. At those times he had no clue as to who Libby or Trevor were, or how he was supposed to know them. That always frightened Johnny as images of a night twenty-two years in the past would then assault his mind and he'd give an internal scream of, "Jenny! Jennifer!"

        Somehow, Roy always seemed to know when he was scared or confused, because Roy was right there rubbing his arm, or his shoulder, or squeezing his hand while saying, "It's okay, Johnny. You don't have anything to worry about. Everybody's fine. I'm taking care of everything. You just rest. You rest now."

        By day four of Roy's vigil he could at least walk without crutches, though his ankle was tender and it remained wrapped in the Ace bandage. It was Saturday, and Trevor Gage was still staying with the DeSotos. Joanne had called Carl and Clarice on Tuesday evening. After explaining all that had happened, and telling them Johnny was in the Intensive Care Unit at Rampart General, Carl and his mother agreed with Joanne that it was best if Trevor remained near his father instead of flying home to Alaska on Thursday as planned. Clarice wanted to fly to L.A., but Joanne and Carl convinced her to wait until Johnny's doctors knew more one way or the other about his condition. As Carl told her, "There's no use in you sitting around that hospital, Mom. Roy is with John, and Trevor's being well taken care of. Joanne will let us know when John needs us to be there, too."

        Evan Crammer's death was the lead story on the TV news and in the papers. Troy Anders had come by Rampart to get a statement from Roy, and had taken a statement from Libby as well. He'd need a statement from Johnny, but that event had to be put on hold.

        Roy had a lot of time to think while he sat beside his old friend. The realization that Johnny would have willingly died while trying to protect Libby hit him hard. Roy knew Johnny would have crawled to him with Libby in his arms if need be, despite being fully aware that Roy might take her from him and then turn his back on Johnny like he had fifteen years earlier. For that's the kind of man John Gage was. A loyal friend to the bitter, bitter end.

        "What an anomaly you are," Roy had told Johnny while rubbing a hand over his right arm early on Saturday morning. "A guy who would borrow my pick-up truck and was too cheap to fill it with gas when he was done using it, but would show up on my doorstep on Christmas morning with so many presents for all of us, Joanne and me included, that I was sure you'd mugged Santa Claus.

        "A guy who made me sleep in his God-awful convertible chair rather than offering me his bed, but was the first person at my house whenever there was an emergency. Do you remember climbing up on the roof with me at two o'clock in the morning in what seemed like a typhoon to nail down those loose shingles? Or the time you let me roust you out of bed at midnight to come stay with Chris and Jenny when Joanne's dad had his heart attack?

        "I'd practically have to tip you upside down and shake the money from your pockets when I bought lunch and you were supposed to pay me back, yet you'd never accept a dime from me when you took my kids to the zoo, or an amusement park, or to see a movie.

        "You were the best paramedic I ever worked with. Ever. A guy who could memorize and comprehend a huge range of medical conditions and treatments with almost lightning speed, yet you never seemed to remember the Phantom was always lurking with his water bombs. A guy who would run into the station's kitchen to snitch the last cookie from the cookie jar before anyone else could have it, yet when it was somebody's birthday you'd order pizzas for lunch and wouldn't let the rest of us go in on the cost with you. Johnny. . ." Roy had to swallow hard in order to continue. "Johnny, you've got. . .you've always had a big heart, even when. . ." Roy chuckled, "even when I wasn't certain where your brain was sometimes. And it's because of that big heart that I know. . .I know that whole thing. . .that thing between you and me over Chris. . .well, I know it must have hurt you deeply. I've got a lot. . .a lot of things I need to say to you, and I think I finally have them organized in my mind so I can say them, but you've got to do your part and get well so you can hear them. I'm not gonna say them now. That's not fair to you. You deserve better than that. You deserve the opportunity to look me right in the eye and say, 'Go to hell, DeSoto.' And if that is what you say, I'll accept it. I really will. I just. . .you know I just want you to get better. What happens after that. . .well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay, Johnny? Does that sound like a good idea to you?"

        Because Jennifer would be making her rounds soon Johnny's sedation had been allowed to lighten, and the cis-atracurium was wearing off. Nonetheless, Roy didn't expect any response to his monologue, but he got one when he saw the fingers of Johnny's right hand twitch. He reached for the hand and cupped it within his own. Johnny's eyes never opened as he gave Roy's palm a weak squeeze.

        Roy smiled and returned the pressure. "Am I supposed to take that as a yes?"

        Again, Johnny's fingers moved just a fraction within Roy's strong grip.

        "Okay, then, yes it is." Roy turned around in his chair when he heard footsteps behind him. "Listen, Jennifer's here to take a look at you, so I'm going to shower and get some breakfast. I'll be back in a little while."

        Roy paused beside his daughter as she read Johnny's chart. Jennifer looked at her father and smiled. "He's improved some overnight."

        "A lot?"

        "Not a lot, but some."

        "Some is good right now."

        Jennifer nodded. "Yes, it is. We'll accept 'some' for the time being, because I know he can surpass that once he puts his mind to it."

        Roy smiled at the faith his daughter had in Johnny. But then, it was a faith they all had in him. Imagining anything but his eventual recovery was just too difficult to accept right now.

        Roy patted his daughter's shoulder. "Take of your Uncle Johnny for me."

        "I will," Jennifer promised. "Don't worry, Dad, I will."

        

_______________________________

        Doctor Jennifer DeSoto made good on her vow to her father. She, along with other members of Rampart's medical staff, gave John Gage their best care, and finally, after he'd been with them nine long days, Jennifer pronounced him on the road to recovery.

        By Sunday Jennifer had been able to convince her father that his round-the-clock vigil was no longer necessary, and that he should spend some of his time at home. Therefore, when Jennifer walked in her patient's room on Thursday morning he was alone, and his eyes were open. Johnny was still on the ventilator, but Jennifer planned to take him off it the next day if he continued to do well. And though his level of awareness had been increasing, Johnny had given no indication yet that he knew who Jennifer was.

        "Good morning," the woman greeted, purposely not adding 'Uncle Johnny.' "We've met a. . .few times, but you may not remember my visits. I'm your doctor."

        Johnny held his right hand up in the form of a greeting. He then moved the hand in a scribbling motion.

        "You want something to write on?"
        
        Being mindful of the tube in his mouth, Johnny gave a slight nod.

        Jennifer took a notepad and pen out of the pocket of her lab coat. She slipped the pen in-between Johnny's fingers while holding the pad for him. She could feel the pen pressing against the paper. When he was done she turned it around. Though the letters were shaky and hard to read, she could easily decipher the message.

        Hi, Jenny Bean.

        Jennifer put the pen and paper back in her pocket, then took Johnny's hand in hers and smiled. "Hi, Uncle Johnny."

        A small sparkle lit Johnny's eyes - the best he could do for a smile right now. He gave her hand a light squeeze. Jennifer squeezed back.

        "I can't thank you enough for what you did for Libby. For how you took care of her. I know how frightened she must have been. I. . ." Tears filled Jennifer's eyes as she recalled the twenty-four hours of terror she had experienced with Johnny in the San Gabriel Mountains when she was nine. It was a terror she wouldn't have wished on any other child, and certainly a terror she'd never wanted her own little girl to experience. "I'm just so glad. . .so very glad, that you were with her."

        Johnny wiggled his hand from Jennifer's grasp. Again, he indicated that he wanted to write. She helped him get the pen in-between his fingers, then held the paper for him. She waited patiently while he labored to scribble his thoughts out, then read the message.

        No thanks needed. Couldn't do less for my best girl.

        Jennifer smiled, then bent and kissed his forehead. "Yes, thanks are needed. We'll talk about it later when you're stronger."

        As Jennifer straightened Johnny once again indicated he wanted to give the woman a message. Jennifer flipped to a clean sheet of paper for him. When she turned the pad around this time she laughed as she read out loud, "This is why I told your dad no girl doctors."

        "Oh, so you don't like your doctor kissing all over you, huh?"

        Johnny wavered his hand back and forth in a gesture Jennifer took to mean, "Not while I'm in the hospital. And it would depend on who that doctor is. Certainly not one I think of as a daughter."

        "Okay, Mr. Gage, then we'll get down to business," Jennifer said with mock seriousness. "No more kisses. But when you're back on your feet, both my daughter and myself owe you a couple of very long hugs, and we're not taking no for an answer."

        Again, Johnny's eyes sparkled his smile at Jennifer. When she had completed her examination of her patient, Jennifer patted his arm.

        "If you continue to improve today we'll take you off the vent tomorrow."

        Johnny made the writing motion with his hand. His message this time was, My son?

        "Trevor's fine, Uncle Johnny," Jennifer assured, even though she knew her father had told Johnny the same thing numerous times over the past nine days. "He's staying with Mom and Dad. Trevor and Daddy have become best buddies. It's going to be hard for Daddy to say good-bye to him."

        Johnny wrote something else.

        Behaving?

        "Yes, he's behaving himself. He's a sweetheart. He misses you terribly though."

        Another message was scrawled.

        See him?
        
        "Soon. I promise he'll be able to visit very soon. Let's just give you a few days to get a little stronger, okay?"

        Johnny wrote one last thing.

        Tell Trevor Papa loves him. Misses him, too.

        "I'll give him the message." Jennifer put the pen and paper back in her pocket. She squeezed Johnny's hand as his eyes began to droop. "You rest now."

        Johnny gave a small nod of his head as he drifted back to sleep.

        Jennifer left the room and headed for the phone at the nurses' station. This time when she called her parents' house to update everyone on Johnny's condition, she'd be able to give a very special message to little boy who was anxious to be reunited with his father.