“TV Versus REALITY”

by

Rosanne Esbrook-Iho ( J Ross ) 

The following story is a crossover between “EMERGENCY!” and “The Rockford Files”.

I lay no claim to any of the main characters and I gain nothing financially by writing this…da-arn! L

In the hospital corridor outside Rampart General Hospital's ICU room 604, a uniformed maintenance worker knelt before an exposed electrical outlet. His partner had just gone off to fetch a pair of wire strippers.  And, until his return, work on the shorted out sockets was halted. He exhaled a sigh of sheer boredom and glanced at his watch. A frown appeared on his previously impassive face as he realized he was about to miss his favorite TV program—and he never missed ‘The Rockford Files’. The man cursed under his breath and sat back on his heels. Now he'd have to wait for the rerun. Suddenly something occurred to him which caused his countenance to brighten—considerably. “Just 'cuz I can't watch it don't mean I can't listen to it,” he realized aloud and started getting stiffly to his feet. The worker stretched and yawned and then disappeared into the nearest hospital room. He reappeared—just moments later—and re-assumed his wait, leaving the door behind—and beside—him slightly ajar. The now quite pleased looking workman stood there with his right hand tapping his holstered tools, and his right foot tapping the polished hall floor, to the rather catchy beat of the program's theme music. There followed several messages from the show's sponsors, extolling the superior qualities of their brands of after-shave and aspirin. The sounds of a noisy nightclub came drifting out of the room and then gradually faded, replaced by traffic noises. A car door opened and closed. It's engine came to life and its tires squealed off down some unseen street. A minute later, the car's engine died. Planes could be heard, landing or taking off, in the distance. The car's door slammed again, along with it's trunk. The sound of footsteps on pavement echoed out into the hallway.  

“Harry?!' a man called out.  

“Ready whenever you are, Mr. Nardis!” Harry called back.  

“Good. Then let's get out of here!”  

The sound of a large door sliding on rails was heard, followed by more banging doors and finally the click of seat-belts. Harry radioed the control tower for permission to take off. He received clearance and started taxiing out to the runway. The sound of the plane's engine grew steadily louder and then was joined by the sound of two or more racing car engines—and gunfire! The plane's engine noise faded and the cars screeched to a halt. Someone's hand slammed against one of their dashboards.  

“Mister Gardino isn't going to like this...” a man said quietly, following someone else's muffled curse.  

“Uh-oh...” Harry suddenly muttered over the plane's droning engines, “We're losing fuel—fast! We're going to have to land right now!”  

“No!” Mr. Nardis screamed.  

“We don't have any choice!” Harry shouted back, “We either land or we crash!”  

“Okay,” Mr. Nardis relinquished, “Find a clearing.”  

“That's dangerous enough with two tires!” a rather horrified Harry reminded him.  

“Yeah? Well it's a whole lot safer than that airport back there!” Mr. Nardis reminded him right back.  

“There are too many power lines!” Harry deduced, “We've got to go back!”  

“No! Keep looking!” Mister Nardis insisted.  

“We're running on fumes!” the pilot informed his stubborn passenger.  

“There!” Nardis determined, “That field along that highway! That looks plenty big enough!”  

The plane's droning engines began to sputter. “It had better be!” Harry declared, “Cuz' we're going down!”  

The hospital maintenance man cringed at the sound of a crashing plane. 

 

 

Inside ICU's room 604, the body in the bed stiffened and a grimace appeared on the un-bandaged portion of the paramedic's pale face. The workman wasn't the only one listening. John Gage tried—in vain—to make some sense out of the disturbing sounds. But, the thoughts that were reeling through his foggy, groggy brain remained disjointed, and he gradually slipped back into semi-consciousness.  

The next thing John knew, he was seated at the dinner table in L.A. County's Fire Station 51 with the rest of A-shift, and Chet was asking Marco to please pass him the gravy bowl. Marco reached for the requested object, but then stopped, as the alarm went off. All six of the famished firemen tensed up and listened. 

“Station 51…” the dispatcher began. 

The firemen frowned, then got up—en masse—and started heading for the garage and their trucks. 

“…Police report two men trapped in the wreckage of a light aircraft...six miles south of the Corona Freeway/La Brea Canyon Road Junction...Six miles South on La Brea Canyon Road...Ambulance responding...Time out…17:15.” 

“Station 51...KMG—365,” Captain Stanley answered, then handed DeSoto a copy of the call slip. 

Roy passed it to his partner. 

“Hang a right!” John told him.

DeSoto did.  The Engine exited the Station, and followed the Squad off down the street—lights flashing and sirens blaring.   

 

Ten minutes later, on the La Brea Canyon Road, two California Highway Patrolmen motioned for the fire trucks to pull over onto the highway's shoulder. The rescue vehicles groaned to a halt and their drivers cut the sirens.  

Seeing they were still four or five hundred feet from the plane, Stanley leaned out and yelled, “Can't we get any closer?!” 

“It's too rough!” one of the officers called back with a shake of his helmeted head.  “You'll either break an axle or get stuck!” 

John and Roy packed their equipment into a stokes and started off for the accident site on foot. The engine crew grabbed fire-extinguishers and the necessary rescue gear and followed them. 

“Do we have a fuel spill?” Stanley wondered along the long way. 

Again the patrolman shook his head, “The fuel tanks were empty on impact.” 

Seeing the Captain's somewhat astonished look, the patrolman's partner added, “Judging by all the bullet holes in the fuselage, somebody shot this bird clean out of the sky!” 

Captain Stanley and his men glanced uncertainly at one another and continued traversing the incredibly rough terrain, toting their increasingly heavy tools of their trade. 

 

At long last, they reached the plane—or, at least what remained of it. The emergency landing had obviously been as rough as the terrain. The aircraft had apparently flipped several times before coming to rest—upside down and practically wingless. The firemen noted that there were, indeed, several bullet holes clearly visible in the plane's crumpled fuselage, and its fuel tanks.  

Gage and DeSoto tugged at the cockpit doors. They didn't budge. 

Stanley motioned for Stoker and Lopez to give the paramedics a hand. 

Mike stepped up to the pilot's door with the porta-power and a pry bar attachment. The metal gave like paper. 

Roy shot the tool's operator a grateful glance and leaned inside to examine his victim. 

At the same time, Marco pried open the passenger's door with the Ajax tool. Again the already strained metal yielded easily—this time, to hydraulic pressure. 

“Thanks…” John mumbled and dropped to his knees to examine the plane's upside down passenger. He saw his partner kneeling directly across from him and shot him a questioning look. 

Roy frowned and slowly shook his head. 

Gage removed his right hand from his victim's carotid artery, “Get Rampart!” At least the plane's passenger still had a pulse. 

His partner nodded and backed out to use the bio-phone. 

“Better request a chopper!” John advised and continued his initial patient survey, expertly running his hands over the victim's body, checking for injur—he froze, feeling a hard lump under the man's coat jacket. He reached in and pulled out a .45 caliber pistol?! His jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up, “...uhhh, somebody wanna get rid of this for me?!” he nervously inquired. One, of the patrolmen relieved him of the weapon. He gave the guy a grateful glance and then relieved his gun-toting victim of his wallet as well, “Somebody wanna get a name and check for medical information?” he additionally inquired, passing the bill-fold back over his shoulder. 

“His name is Victor Nardis,” the officer informed him, moments later, “He's 47 and single...no medical information.” 

“Mister Nardis, can you hear me?!” John asked upon completing his initial exam. No response. “Cap, his legs are pinned between his seat and the instrument panel.” 

“Chet! Marco!” his Captain called out. 

 

Two minutes later, Gage had the upper half of his upside down victim immobilized and his friends had the poor man's pinned legs freed. John released the seat belt and they carefully extricated the passenger's crumpled body from the plane's crumpled cockpit. The paramedic dropped to one knee beside the stokes and proceeded to procure his now horizontal patient's vital signs. He finished and passed the info on to his partner, who passed it on to Rampart via their phone. Gage opened several cases and began removing various bits of medical paraphernalia he knew the doctor would be ordering them to use on poor Mr. Nardis, who—it seemed—had fractured both legs, both arms, his neck, his back, and possibly some ribs as well…judging by the large bruise over his sternum. John had also noted a rigid, distended abdomen and blunt trauma to the head. 

“Roger Rampart,” DeSoto acknowledged. “We'll update the victim's vitals before we transport…” he paused and glanced back over his shoulder to identify the source of the siren that had just pulled up, “Ambulance has just arrived...” 

“10-4, 51…” Dr. Brackett acknowledged back, “Oh, and if I can free up a medi-vac chopper in the next few minutes, I'll send it your way!” 

“We'd appreciate that, Rampart!” Roy signed off and set the phone down to help 'all the king's horses and all the king's men' try to put 'Humpty Dumpty' back together again. 

 

 

Several hectic minutes later, the two P.M.s had their patient's IV's flowing, traction splints applied, trauma trousers inflated, throat intubated, oxygen administered and safety straps in place. They gathered their remaining gear and the stokes containing their secured victim and began trudging back across the tricky, treacherous terrain towards their trucks and the waiting ambulance…and a sizable crowd of spectators. They had almost reached the highway when their passenger regained consciousness and started choking on the tube down his throat. They quickly and gently lowered the stokes to the ground. 

“Take it easy, Mr. Nardis!” John pleaded and expertly slid the endo-trache tube from the choking man's throat. 

Mr. Nardis stopped choking and started groaning. 

“Rampart…” Roy spoke into the bio-phone, “Squad 51.” 

“Go ahead, 51...” 

“Rampart, victim has regained consciousness and is in a great deal of pain. Stand-by for an update on vitals...” 

“51, administer 100 milligrams Demerol, IV...” 

“Roger, Rampart,” DeSoto gratefully acknowledged. “100 milligrams Demerol, IV!” He glanced in Gage's direction. 

John nodded and, after passing his partner the updated vitals, he proceeded to administer the prescribed painkiller. “Hang on, Mr. Nardis...” the P.M. gently urged, “We've given you something for the pain.  You should feel it start to kick in right away.”  He saw the man's mouth moving through the clear plastic of his oxygen face mask and raised the thing just enough to make out what he was trying to say. The victim's volume was still too low, so John lowered an ear so he could hear. 

“I...I....can't see!” Mr. Nardis told him thru tightly clenched teeth. 

'Buddy, that is the least of your problems!' the P.M. morbidly, and silently, reminded the poor man. Someone suddenly snapped a picture of him, leaning over his whispering patient. The light from the unbelievably bright flash temporarily blinded the paramedic. “Will somebody get him out of here?!” John requested, sounding extremely annoyed. 

The same patrolman who had relieved him of the gun and the wallet relieved him of the extreme annoyance as well, ushering the protesting reporter out of close-up range. 

John stared down at the bright blob, which moments before had been his patient's face. “How's the pain?” he asked softly and once again lowered an ear so he could hear. 

“...better...am I...gonna die?” his patient pondered rather pitifully. 

The paramedic winced and hesitated a moment or two before answering. “We're going to take you to Rampart General, Mr. Nardis. Rampart has some of the finest emergency physicians in the country,” was all he'd say. After all, he didn't wanna lie. 

“Okay, Johnny…” Roy interrupted.  “He's stabilized. We can go ahead and transport.” 

Johnny looked visibly relieved and climbed up into the ambulance with their victim. 

 

Several more busy minutes—and miles—later, in the back of the speeding ambulance, John finished taking and transferring his now barely conscious victim's latest set of vital signs and frowned. “Mr. Nardis?! Is there anyone you want us to notify? A relative?...Friend?” he forced himself to ask. 

“...no....relatives...” Mr. Nardis quietly informed his concerned questioner, “......no...friends...except...for you ...” he added. 

The paramedic pulled back a bit and saw a slight, somewhat sarcastic, smile forming on his no longer pained patient's pursed lips. 'I wish there was more I could do for you...' he sadly and silently confessed and placed his hand over his dying victim's. 

“...since you've been...so...nice...to me...” Nardis quietly continued, over the ambulance's annoyingly loud siren sound, “...I'm gonna do...something...nice...for you...” 

Seeing the tremendous effort it now took for his new friend to talk, the fireman felt obligated to speak as well, “That's not necessary, Mr. Nar—” 

“—Victor!” Mr. Nardis quietly corrected. 

“You just take it easy...Victor,” John gently urged. Then he reluctantly released his hold on his victim and stuck his stethoscope back in his ears, to satisfy Rampart's sudden request for yet another, newer, set of vital signs. 

Victor ignored his caretaker and kept right on chatting...completely oblivious of the fact that he was now talking to himself. 

Again John noted the energy draining from his critical patient and again he felt obligated to dispense with some advice. He replaced the bio-phone and took the dying man's hand back into his, “Save your streng—” the paramedic saved his breath, seeing as how his victim, er...Victor had just lapsed back into unconsciousness. 

 

 

John exited the Emergency doors of Rampart General Hospital and watched as Roy backed their rescue Squad right in beside the ambulance.  

DeSoto stepped out and shot him a questioning look. 

Gage frowned and shook his head, “I lost him...somewhere between the Corona Freeway and Highway 71...” his words trailed off. 

“I'm surprised he made it that far,” Roy solemnly said and placed a hand on his partner's slumped shoulder.  “He wouldn't have made it in the chopper either, Johnny.” 

John lifted his hanging head and shot his mind-reading friend a grateful glance. Speaking of friends... “He said that I was the only friend he had in the world,” he sadly announced. 

“Yeah, well…” Roy paused, looking rather philosophical, “What he lacked in friends he more than made up for in enemies. C'mon! If we hurry up and restock maybe we can still salvage some of our supper!” 

DeSoto's carefully chosen comments hit home. Gage snapped out of his glum mood and hurried to catch up to his hungry, philosophical companion. 

 

 Back at Station 51, in the day room, the engine crew was engaged in a very lively dinner discussion. Gage and DeSoto stepped in from the garage and they stopped talking to shoot the pair questioning glances. 

“He didn't make it,” John informed them and felt that glum mood beginning to descend upon him…again. 

“We heard,” Stanley said and pointed to the oven door, “We've been keeping your food warm for you.  It's been on the radio. We've been trying to figure out why someone would want to shoot that plane out of the sky.” 

Roy placed he and his partner's plates down in their respective places, “So…” he said, tossing a pair of hot pads over his shoulder and assuming his seat, “What did you guys come up with?” 

Marco's eyes narrowed, “I think they were drug smugglers.  They were headed for the border.” 

“Maybe Victor Nardis was some sort of spy…a double agent…trying to get out of the country,” Mike theorized. 

“I bet he's a cat burglar,” Chet declared, “I bet those suitcases were full of hot merchandise and he was taking the stuff to a fence in Mexico.” 

DeSoto shot the imaginative engine crew some deeply skeptical glances and then turned to their commander, “What do you think, Cap?” 

“I think these guys have been watching too much television and seeing too many movies!” Stanley stated with a grin. 

His men grinned and then turned to Gage, who was still just standing there, looking and feeling rather glum. 

“What about you, Johnny ?” Mike Stoker inquired aloud, as their questioning glances failed to illicit a response, “Why do you figure it was shot down?” 

Johnny saw all five of his fellow firefighters just sitting there, waiting patiently for a reply. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to give them one. 

The alarm went off. The disappointed diners tensed up and listened. 

“Squad 51...Burn victim...480 West Collins Drive...Cross-street Birmingham Avenue...480 West Collins Drive...Ambulance responding...Time out…18:47.” 

“We got it, Cap!” Roy volunteered, and started heading for the call desk, his partner on his heels. 

“Thanks!” Stanley stared down at the two still untouched, rapidly re-cooling plates full of food and promised the paramedics, “We'll, uh, keep it warm for you!” 

 

 

In the corridor in front of Rampart's Emergency treatment room 3—one rather hectic run later—John Gage was pacing back and forth in front of the door, jiggling a very fussy baby in his arms.  

Nurse Dixie McCall stepped out of the room and spotted the infant. Her eyebrows arched, “Yours?” 

“I'm a bachelor!” the paramedic reminded her. 

Dixie's curiosity remained undaunted, “Yours?” she repeated, and then rather smugly reminded the fireman with the fussy baby that, “There are bachelor fathers, you know...” 

“Yeah, well, I'm a bachelor bachelor,” John assured her and paused in his jiggling to shoot the nurse a look of complete desperation. 

Dixie saw the look and came to his rescue. 

“Thanks, Dix!” Gage sighed as he was relieved of his bawling burden. 

“Being a bachelor, you probably didn't think to bring diapers and a bottle...” Nurse McCall teased. The infant stopped fussing. 

The freed fireman appeared somewhat insulted by her accusation, and pointed to a bag full of baby supplies resting on the counter in front of the nurses' Station, “I may be a bachelor, but I'm not a complete bozo!” 

“No comment...” Dixie muttered, looking more than a little amused. 

Just as John was about to comment on her no comment, Roy came out of the treatment room and joined them, “Has anyone figured out what to do with her yet?” 

Dixie nodded, “Bonnie Freeman just went off duty. She's volunteered to baby-sit until her father gets here.” 

“Great!” Desoto determined, “Then we can go!”

“Wai-ait!” Gage latched onto his departing partner and pulled him to a stop, “How's Mrs. Weston?” 

“She's gonna need some skin grafts and cosmetic surgery, but Morton says Candy's mommy is going to be just fine!” Roy replied. 

“How'd it happen?” Candy's caretaker inquired. 

“She was standing in front of a gas range, cooking dinner,” John solemnly explained.  “She reached for something in the cupboard above the stove, and her shirt caught fire.” 

Seeing as how everyone's curiosity now seemed to be satisfied, Roy turned again to go, taking his still stalled partner in tow. 

“Johnny?!” the head of Rampart's Emergency Receiving suddenly called down the hall. 

The two P.M.s halted and turned to stare off in the voice's direction, at the tall, dark-haired, white be-smocked doctor, standing in the doorway to his office. 

“Can you step in here a minute?!” Dr. Kelly Brackett casually requested. 

Roy passed his partner their HT, “I'll, uh, wait in the Squad,” he announced and started heading for the exit. “Oh, and you probably should clear us!” DeSoto called back over his shoulder. 

John raised the radio and thumbed the call button, “L.A., Squad 51...Available.”  

L.A. acknowledged him and he acknowledged the good doctor by complying with the physician's request for the presence of his personage in his office. 'Now what have I done?' the P.M. glumly wondered along the way. 

He reached the good doctor's office. Brackett ushered him inside and then closed the door.  

Two strange gentlemen in sinister black suits started getting stiffly to their feet. One had blond hair--the other, brown. The blond-haired guy stepped forwards. 

“Johnny, this is Steven Nardis,” the doctor stated, introducing the stranger of the two.  “He's asked to talk with you.” 

“My brother, Victor, was in a plane wreck earlier this evening,” Steven Nardis announced and extended his hand. 

The paramedic looked extremely skeptical and rather reluctantly proffered his right palm as well. Their hands met for a moment. The paramedic shuddered, visibly, and then quickly released the liar's cold and clammy appendage. 

“Doctor Brackett tells me that you were with my brother at the end. I was wondering if he said anything to you before he died?” Steven nonchalantly inquired. 

'Hardly grief-stricken...and absolutely no family resemblance..' John mentally noted. He also noticed that both men's bulging suit jackets were buttoned shut. 'To hide their guns no doubt...' he silently figured out. Gage gave Victor's so-called brother a stare as cold as his handshake and a slight nod, “He told me he didn't have any relati—” he stopped talking as something suddenly occurred to him. 'What if Victor was the one who was lying? What if this guy really is his brother?' One of them was lying...but which one? The completely confused looking fireman figured there was one quick way to find out. “Can I see some identification ?” he calmly requested. 

Steven Nardis stiffened suddenly and exchanged a nervous glance with his equally stiff companion. 

'That's what I thought...' Gage silently gloated, and then he, too stiffened as the radio in his left hand sounded an alarm. 

“Station 51...Station 16...Station 23...Battalion 14...Structure fire…” 

“Sorry, Doc! But I got a run!” the on duty paramedic apologized and raced out of the room. 

 

 

Back at Station 51, later that same evening, the troops returned from battling a four alarm blaze.  

DeSoto backed the Squad into the garage, shut the ignition off and shot his silent, sooty partner a worried stare, “What's with you, Johnny? You haven't said one word since we left Rampart.  Is it something Dr. Brackett said?” 

John shook his head, “It's somethin' I said...that I wish I hadn't. I should've never asked them to show me some identification. The Cap's right.  I watch too much TV and way too many movies. You see, I saw this movie once where they did that and I thought it would be a good thing to do when you didn't think someone really was who they said they were,” he quietly and quickly explained—in  one long breath. Perhaps too quickly, he realized, seeing as how his partner now appeared completely perplexed.  “There were these two guys in Brackett's office,” Gage began again, “One of 'em wanted to know what his brother's dying words were. Only, Victor said he didn't have a brother.  So  I knew someone was lying…and  I wanted to find out who—”

“—So you asked to see some identification,” Roy finished, finally comprehending his colleague's confusing comments. 

“Considering the circumstances,” Captain Hank Stanley suddenly piped up, “That was a pretty smart thing to do.” 

The Squad's startled passenger recovered and turned to stare out the vehicle's open window at Engine 51's entire crew, who had—judging by the Cap's comment—apparently been eavesdropping the entire time. 

“So, who was lying?” Stoker wondered curiously. 

“Yeah!” Chet chimed in, “Did they show you some identification?” 

Their questions caused John's highly annoyed look to return to one of gloom—and doom, “They couldn't...because they weren't really who they said they were.” 

“Who were they—really?” Marco wanted to know. 

“I don't know who they were,” Gage glumly confessed, “But I know who they weren't! They weren't anyone that I ever wanna meet up with again, that's for sure!” he emphatically, and quite dramatically, stated. Then he looked up at his Captain and solemnly added, “Sometimes a person can be too smart for their own good.” 

Stanley was about to ask what the apparently deeply troubled paramedic meant by that, when the alarm went off. 

“Squad 51…” 

Roy climbed out to take the call. 

“The two of you should probably hit one of those fast food joints next chance you get,” Stanley helpfully suggested.  “In fact, you can consider that an order!” 

The P.M.s nodded. Then DeSoto piled back in and they pulled out of the Station, lights flashing, sirens blaring...and stomachs growling. 

 

Gage and DeSoto were kept busy all night. They—and their still empty stomachs—returned from their umpteenth call, forty-five minutes after the shift change. The alarm went off. 

“Squad 51...assist Engine 51 at their vehicle fire...1220 West Raymond Street...Repeat...1220 West Raymond...Cross-street North Philips...time out…8:45...” 

The two exhausted P.M.s piled out of the Squad and their replacements piled in. They watched the truck pull out into the street and then started shuffling off across the big, empty garage in search of their street clothes. 

 

A few minutes later, Roy was standing in front of his locker, tucking in his shirttails, and listening to the loud rumbling of his empty tummy. “I sure hope Joanne has breakfast waiting for me when I get home,” he told his uncharacteristically quiet companion, and then wondered, “You still worrying about those guys in Brackett's office?” 

“To tell you the truth, we've been so busy I haven't even thought about them,” Gage casually confessed, but then annoyedly added,  “Until no-ow...” 

DeSoto looked appropriately apologetic and then slightly worried himself. “You're welcome to come home with me.” 

John glanced up from the shoelace he was tying and gave his friend, with the very generous—and touching—offer, a grateful glance and a warm smile, “You're worried about me?” 

“Only if you're still worried about them,” his friend informed him. There followed a long silence. Which DeSoto finally broke, “So...Are you?” 

“Yes...and no,” his partner replied and then proceeded to elaborate just a bit on his answer. “If what I imagine is really real, then yes. But, if what I imagine is only imaginary, then no. Problem is...I don't know for sure.” 

“Maybe you should talk to Vince,” Roy solemnly suggested. Vince Damion is a mutual friend of theirs. He is also a very fine police officer. 

John contemplated his helpful associate's seemingly sound advice over for a few moments and then flashed him a grateful grin. “I just might swing by and pay him a visit this morning,” he announced, “Thanks, Roy!” Gage grabbed his jacket from his locker and then turned to leave. 

“See yah, Johnny!” DeSoto called after him. 

“I hope!” Johnny called back, and then disappeared. 

 

At a sunlit intersection several blocks from the fire Station, John pulled up to a red light and stopped. He noticed his rear-view mirror was slightly askew and reached up to adjust it. A rather sinister looking black sedan appeared—right on his back bumper. The fireman's heart skipped a beat or two and his raised right arm froze. The vehicle's two visible passengers were bedecked in buttoned up suit coats and very dark glasses. He didn't recognize either of the car's occupants, however, so he just figured his movie imagination must be getting the better of him…again. He exhaled a welcome sigh of relief and allowed his arm to drop back onto the steering wheel. The light went green. John hit his turn signal and then changed lanes. His blood ran cold, seeing as how the black sedan remained on his back bumper. In fact, it followed him clear over to the Charter Oak Police Station.

The P.M. pulled up and parked…just as close to the building's front door as he could possibly get! He gave the shady guys who had been shadowing him a couple of icy glares, then went dashing inside and up to the desk sergeant. 

“What can we do for you, today?” the sergeant asked the concerned-looking citizen that had just skidded to a halt in front of his desk. 

“I'm, uh, looking for Officer Damion--” Gage gasped, “Is he here?” 

“You just missed him. He just left for home about twenty minutes ago, and he doesn't come back on duty 'til tomorrow afternoon sometime. Is there something I can help you with?” the sergeant asked, upon noticing that their gasping visitor now appeared completely devastated. 

Gage gasped again, this time in exasperation, “Uhhh...yeah! I'm a paramedic with L.A. County. I pulled someone out of a plane wreck yesterday who was carrying a gun. The guy didn't make it. Then these two other guys wanted to know what the dead guy told me before he died. Only I had to leave on a run before I could tell them. And now I'm being followed!” 

The sergeant just sat there, staring at their long-winded guest, looking both dazed and amazed. “You mean that plane that was shot down?” 

Their understandably nervous visitor gave him a glum nod. 

“Has anyone threatened you?” the sergeant wondered, sounding somewhat nervous himself. 

“No...” John told him, “At least, not yet!” 

“I'm sorry, but unless they've threatened you—or broken the law somehow—there’s really nothing we can do. It's not a crime to follow someone,” the officer added, seeing someone's look of absolute disbelief…and horror, “I'm sorry,” he apologized once again, “But we just don't have the time, or the manpower, to cover non-criminal investigations.” 

Gage exhaled another gasp of total disbelief, “But, by the time a crime has been committed—” he stopped suddenly. He couldn't bring himself to say it. Heck! He didn't even want to think about it. Because by that time, it just might be too late! “Thanks.  I won't take up any more of your valuable time,” the fireman muttered, his hushed voice an equal mixture of insincerity and sarcasm. 

“When I see Vince tomorrow, who should I say was looking for him?” his unhelpful host inquired. 

The paramedic paused on his way to the door, “John Gage…” he called back over his shoulder, “Station 51.” 

“Good luck, John!” the officer called after him. 

 

John Gage pulled up and parked in the lot behind Station 51. He left his car and locked all its doors. Then he hurried up to the brick building and unlocked the back door of the garage just long enough for him to pass quickly through it. 

“Hold it!” B-Shift's Captain advised, stepping from his office. “Oh, John, it's you...” he added rather relievedly, as the intruder turned his familiar face toward him.  “What on earth are you still doing here?” 

The paramedic's only reply was a quick question of his own, “Can I stay here tonight, Cap?” 

“Why? They fumigating your apartment or something?” 

“...or something,” Gage glumly acknowledged, but then looked hopeful, “Can I?” 

B-Shift's Captain thought the P.M.'s request over for a few moments and then inquired, “Do you snore?” 

“No.” 

“Then, you can stay!” the Station’s proprietor permitted with a grin, “And…” he added, “you can thank me by rounding me up this morning's paper!” Then Donnelly, and his grin, disappeared into the day room. 

John stood there for a few moments, safely locked inside the Station, trying to muster up the nerve to leave and retrieve the newspaper. “This is ridiculous!” he realized aloud, as anger replaced fear. He faced flames, cave-ins, dizzying heights, near drownings, car crashes, mud-slides, and generally explosive situations, on a regular basis! 'What are two men in dark glasses compared to that?!' he reasoned further, and decided he was just going to forget all about this following business. If he ignored them long enough, his shadows would—hopefully—just go away. He took a deep breath and headed for the front door, looking very...determined. 

Gage reached Station 51's front entrance, unlocked the portal and pulled it open. The sinister-looking black sedan appeared in the parking lot of the furniture mart directly across from the Station. True to his resolve, John completely ignored it—and its occupants—and headed off across the porch in search of his quest. He saw the paper protruding from one of the shrubs on the Station’s front lawn, and bent down to retrieve it. The paramedic stopped—right in mid stoop—and stared down at the front page of the L.A. Times...and the picture of him, leaning over Victor Nardis! 'PARAMEDIC COMFORTS CRASH VICTIM' the photo's caption read. However, it was the paper's headline that really got Gage's attention: 'MOB COURIER KILLED'. The paramedic cringed and his resolve began to dissolve. His whole body went sort a' numb, except for his stomach…which felt like it was tying itself into one big, giant knot again.  “...Ahh-uhh,   ma-an!” the P.M. pouted.  “This just keeps gettin' better an' better!” 

 

John entered the day room and appreciatively passed the paper in his numb right hand on to the Station’s Captain...as per his request.  

“Humph! I figured there'd be something in here about that plane wreck,” Donnelly announced, “But I didn't expect to find it on the FRONT PAGE!” 

The rest of B-Shift's curious crew gathered around their Captain. The men stared down at the paper and then up at the off-duty P.M., looking as astonished as their leader sounded. 

“This, uh, wouldn't by any chance have anything to do with you wanting to stay here tonight, would it?” Donnelly asked, his voice filled with sarcasm. 

“No-o!” Gage stated, equally sarcastically, and then added, “It has everything to do with it!” 

“What?” B-Shift's engineer's eyes sparkled with amusement.  “Are you hiding out in here cuz' you figure the Mob is after you?” 

The paramedic's already slumped shoulders sagged even further.  “I really don't know who they work for,” he glumly admitted. 

“They?” P.M. Bob Curen repeated with arched eyebrows. 

“The guys who are following me...” John elaborated, sounding even glummer. 

The B-Shift firefighters exchanged deeply skeptical glances. 

“What makes you think someone's following you?” Curen's partner wanted to know. 

“Yeah,” B-Shift's engineer came back, “You sure it's not just your imagination?” 

“See for yourselves...” Gage glumly invited, and then annoyedly added, “My, ahh, imagination is parked just across the street.” 

The firemen looked even more skeptical, but began filing out of the room. 

Donnelly glanced back over his shoulder, “Aren't you coming?” 

John frowned, “I'm sick a' lookin' at 'em!” he glumly replied, but then reluctantly followed along. 

 

In the parking bay, the seven L.A. County firefighters lined up on the pavement in front of the apparatus, and then stood there, gazing out the garage door's windows at the sinister black sedan and as its shady occupants.  

Gage watched as his six associates' jaws dropped. Their eyes widened, their brows shot up, and then their heads turned in his direction…all in perfect unison. Under lighter circumstances, the amazing sight might have even been amusing. 

“C'mon!” Captain Donnelly suddenly ordered, and pressed the OPEN button. The garage's heavy door began grinding its way up. “Let's go see what they want!” 

The firemen glanced uncertainly at each other but then obediently fell in behind their boss. 

“C'mon, John!” Donnelly re-invited and motioned for the lone straggler to join their brave band, “They say there's safety in numbers! So, c'mon! We'll either get you some answers…or we'll scare 'em off!” 

Gage gave his fellow firefighters grateful glances, and then left the garage to join their little group. 

 

 

The firemen lined up across the end of the driveway and then stood there, waiting patiently for a safe moment to cross the street. 

“This reminds me of a movie I once saw,” P.M. Sonny Patterson suddenly realized. 

“The Godfather?” his partner pondered. 

“The Magnificent Seven!” Patterson proudly declared as they stepped into the street. 

The Magnificent Seven exchanged smiles and started striding towards the sinister-looking black sedan. 

The sedan's passenger saw the firemen approaching, en masse, and elbowed its driver into action. The car's engine came to life and it pulled out of the parking lot, gears grinding and tires squealing. 

Donnelly stared after the rapidly vanishing vehicle for a few moments and then turned to the one member of their group who was in street clothes, “Get changed!” he ordered.  “If we get a call, I want you with us!” Then, since John was slow to respond, B-Shift's concerned Captain quickly added, “Step on it, Gage! I don't know who those jokers work for, either. But, it's a safe bet it ain't the GOOD GUYS!” 

Gage grimaced and then started heading back towards the garage at a much brisker pace than he'd left it. 

“The Godfather...” Bob Curen glumly concluded, feeling less magnificent by the moment. 

 

Later that same morning, Engine 51 returned from battling another blaze. B-Shift's engineer backed the truck into its stall and then flicked off the ignition. However, instead of climbing down and heading for the day room, he and the rest of the firemen just sat there, staring off across the street.  

“They're ba-ack...” Carl Jansen glumly declared for the third time in as many hours. 

The truck's engineer turned to his front seat passenger, looking curious, “So, Cap…we gonna scare 'em off again...or what?” 

Donnelly turned his troubled gaze from the unmoving car to his unmoving men, “Let's face it, firemen just aren't a very scary lot. Present company excepted,” he quickly corrected.  “But, policemen? Now, I bet those two would find policemen truly terrifying!” 

“Been there...” the truck's spare passenger glumly piped up, “...Done that.” 

“You've already called the cops?” Allen Briggs inquired incredulously. 

“Even better,” the on-duty off-duty fireman informed him, “I drove over to the Station-house this morning and spoke to the desk sergeant in person.” 

“So?” Carl Jansen urged, “What'd he say?!” 

“He said that following someone is not a crime.  And, that the police can't step in until a crime has been...committed,” John glumly replied and suddenly realized the Captain was right. Policemen could be truly terrifying, indeed! 

“That's it?!” Briggs demanded, sounding even more incredulous. 

“No-o,” their truly terrified colleague continued, “He, uh, also wished me good luck.” 

Donnelly overcame his absolute amazement, and complete disgust, and started climbing down out of the truck. “C'mon! First, we'll run 'em off…and then we'll eat! And, if we have to, we'll run 'em off again after lunch!” 

“Angry firemen can be pretty frightening,” Carl quietly concluded when their Captain finally finished his order shouting. 

He and his sparked into action associates exchanged forced smiles and followed their frightening commander out of the garage, matching the mad man's gait—angry stride for angry stride. 

“Hey!” Allen Briggs suddenly said, “I got a riddle for you.  Why did the firemen cross the roa—?” his voice trailed off, drowned out by the loud groans of his companions. 

 

 Forty one extremely fatiguing hours later, B-Shift's crew—plus one—made it back from a particularly strenuous call, the culmination of a particularly action-packed shift.  

Captain Donnelly hauled his half-dead carcass down out of the engine and then he and the others watched as the descending door swallowed up their view of the now silhouetted, and even more sinister-looking, black sedan parked in the little lot across the street. “What's it gonna take to get rid of those guys?” he wondered rather wearily. 

No one commented on their Captain's question. They were all too tired to talk. And anyways, none of them knew the answer. 

Well, actually, one of them had a pretty good idea of what it was gonna take.  But, he was not about to share it with anyone. 

“Lights out in ten minutes!” Donnelly warned and started heading for the washroom. 

The rest of B-Shift shuffled out of the garage as well, stifling yawns and sliding suspenders from of their aching, slumped shoulders. 

John lingered there in the apparatus bay for awhile and then crossed over to the day room. 

 

Just before dawn, Gage, who was still seated on the brown, leather-covered sofa in the day room—staring blankly off into space—exhaled a weary sigh and glanced down at his watch. No wonder he was so tired!  He'd been up for over 72 hours! 

“C'mon!” he told the heavy, happy-looking Bassett hound lying in his lap, “We might as well get it over with.” 

Henry grumbled disgustedly as he was brushed off of the fireman and then shoved down onto the floor. The dog watched disinterestedly as the couch hog shoved himself up and off of the sofa's comfortable cushions and then started heading for the door. However, when the man's hand started reaching for the hook which held its leash, the normally comatose canine actually came to life! When Henry was happy, he wagged his tail. When Henry was really happy, his entire body wagged. And it was wagging now. 

“Hold still, will yah!” John quietly requested. The dog did and he was finally able to get the leash clipped to its collar. The completely pooped, stooped fireman exhaled a gasp of relief and then slowly started straightening up. 'Apparently too slowly...' Gage glumly realized as the impatient pooch started dragging him off across the garage. 

 

The pair reached Charter Oak's municipal park fifteen minutes, five blocks, twelve bushes and twenty-seven light poles later. The paramedic—and the formula one beast that had been pulling him—passed through an open gate. It was beginning to get light enough to see by now, so the fireman found what his squinting eyes had been searching for. 

Gage ground to a halt, dragged the dog over to the nearest bench and then collapsed exhaustedly down onto it.  “You make...way too many...pit stops!” the breathless P.M. complained to his wagging, dragging, walking companion. 

The Bassett hound completely ignored the complainer. The dog's snout, and all of its attention, remained riveted on the ground . 

Seeing as how the canine seemed to be caught up in a bit of a fit of a sniffing frenzy, the paramedic felt obligated to issue it a health warning, “You better watch it, kid...or you're gonna get a nose blister—” his words trailed off as Henry's head suddenly snapped up and he started growling...a low, deep-throated, menacing growl. “Mr. Nardis?!” John inquired, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of Henry's snarls. 

“You were expecting me?” the blond-haired liar from Brackett's office inquired back and stepped out from behind the bench, being careful to stay just beyond reach of the leash. 

“I'd like to finish that conversation we started back at the hospital,” the paramedic calmly continued.  “Your...brother didn't tell me anything .” 

“The reporter who took that picture said he saw Victor talking to you...” the blond-haired guy smugly announced and gave the still seated fireman a sickening smile. 

“I meant anything important! ” the paramedic clarified. 

Mr. Nardis' smile faded fast and his eyes narrowed, evilly.  “Why don't you just tell me everything that Victor said...and let me be the judge of what's important and what's not!” 

John heaved an exasperated sigh and then started searching through his groggy mind's memory banks. “He, uh...said he couldn't see.  He asked if he was going to die.  He said he didn't have any relatives or friends…except for me.  He wanted me to call him Victor.  Oh yeah, and he said he wanted to do something nice for me.” 

“Like what?!” the self-appointed judge pondered, apparently finding the fireman's last comment important. 

“I don't know.  If he said what, I ain't aware of it. I was kind 'a busy at the time...” John annoyedly added, by way of a reminder. 

The judge looked deeply skeptical, “Too busy to hear to a dying man's last words?!” 

“My job is to try to keep people from having last words!” the paramedic angrily announced. “Look,” the P.M. continued, lowering both his raised voice and his rising temper, “I've told you everything Victor Nardis said…that I'm aware of! If I could help you, I would! I swear!” 

“If that's true,” the judge told him, looking and sounding smugger than ever, “then, why were you so unwilling to talk back at the hospital?! And why were you keeping yourself holed up in that Fire Station?!” 

The fireman flashed the flunky an 'Are you for rea-al?' look, “Your…brother was carrying a gun! His plane was shot down! You were lying to me! Your...unfriendly friends were following me! And the paper called Victor Nardis a Mob courier! How else was I supposed to act?! I was scared half to death! The only reason I'm sitting here talking to you right now is because I haven't slept in three days and I'm just too tired to be terrified anymore. Now, you'll have to excuse me…” the too pooped to be petrified P.M. informed the flunky and started rising, slowly and stiffly, to his feet.  “Cuz' I got a lot of sleep to catch up on. Goodbye…Mr. Nardis,” Gage further stated, looking very determined and sounding very final. “C'mon, boy...” he added, giving the leash a tug. 

Henry gave the blond guy one last menacing growl and went trotting off with his leash's handler. 

“I'll be in touch!” the blond guy called after them.  “Just in case you should happen to remember anything else!” 

“There isn't anything else to remember!” the paramedic shouted back over his shoulder and just kept right on walking. 

 

 

At a phone booth just outside the municipal park in Charter Oak, a few minutes later, the blond-haired guy grimaced and pulled the receiver away from his ear as the person he'd been speaking to suddenly let go with a long, LOUD string of curses. 

“That fireman was the last link between Nardis and my money!” the curser finished screaming. 

The man in the booth pulled the phone back up to his mouth, “I think he still is a link, Uncle Nick! I think he knows more than he's telling! I think we should lean on him a little and see if his memory impro—” 

“—I don't pay you to think, Phillip!” the angry guy on the other end of the line interrupted, “I pay you to do what I tell you to do! And I'm telling you to back off! If you're right, and Nardis did tell him where it is, sooner or later he'll go for it. And when he does, I'll take it ba—” 

“—But, you don't know this guy!” Phillip, alias Steven Nardis, interrupted right back.  “You wouldn't believe what he does for a living! The kind of work he does?! He could get killed before he goes for it!” 

“That's all the more reason to leave him be! The quicker you back off, the quicker he'll go for it!” his uncle, and boss, repeated. “Phillip, I know you've seen too many movies! I know you sometimes forget how things are done in the real world! So, don't do anything stupid! I don't care if you are my wife's nephew, you botch this and I-I'll...” the man on the other end of the line suddenly went silent, letting his threat just hang there in the air. “Now, go do as you're told!” 

“Yes, Uncle!” Phillip insincerely acknowledged and then winced as he got a phone slammed down in his ear. He stood there for a few moments, raging silently over having been scolded once again by his arrogant relative. For the last time, judging by totally fed up look on his face. “No-o, Uncle!” Phillip angrily restated, and slammed his phone rather forcefully down as well. He left the booth and casually climbed back into the black car that was parked, with its engine running, just outside it. 

The brown-haired stranger from Brackett's office was seated on the driver's side. He sat there, impatiently drumming the wheel with his fingers. “Well?” he wondered finally, “What'd he say ?!” 

“The next chance we get,” Phillip reported back, “we grab him!” 

The driver turned and stared disbelievingly across the front seat, “We what?!” he exclaimed, putting the astonishment he felt into words. “You sure about that? Mr. Gardino wants us to grab him?!” He got an affirmative nod. “Then Gardino doesn't believe this guy's story, either?” 

“He didn't say that. He just wants us to lean on him a little and see if his story changes any. C'mon, Lenny!” Phillip encouraged, failing miserably to hide his growing excitement, “Let's go get the rest of the boys!” 

Lenny obligingly slipped the car into gear, and they headed off for the…round up. 

 

Speaking of round ups...As each member of Captain Stanley's crew came straggling into the garage, Captain Donnelly directed them into the day room. When asked what was going on, and why they'd been called back to work—two days early, all B-Shift's commander would say was that they'd find out once everybody got there. 

Roy was relieved to see his partner's vehicle in the parking lot when he pulled up. He was even more relieved to find him collapsed—all in one piece—on the rec room couch. He sank into the armchair directly across from his somewhat dazed associate and felt obliged to comment on his nearly comatose comrade's confusing wardrobe. “Either you were really early...or I am really late,” he teased and succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his extremely fatigued looking friend. 

Craig Brice stepped into the room, spotted the paramedic he was supposed to be replacing and annoyedly inquired, “If you're here, then why am I here ?!” 

“You'll find out soon enough,” the Captain who had requested his presence promised, and then popped his head back out of the room. “Hey, Hank!” Donnelly called out the door as his counterpart entered the garage, “Can you step in here for a minute?” 

“Sure, Pat!” Stanley called back and changed his course, “What's up?” he wondered, following his fellow Captain, and close friend, into the day room. He stopped in the open doorway and stared for a few amazed moments at the dozen or so firemen seated around the room. The only member of his crew in uniform was Gage...and it wasn't even the right one! 

“Don't worry, Hank…” Donnelly remarked, as if reading his mind, “You and your boys'll have plenty of time to change. I've declared an in-house emergency. This Station is Code 8 for the next hour or so.” 

The dozen or so members of the Captain's captive audience exchanged amazed glances themselves...and then gave Donnelly their undivided attention. 

 

As promised, Brice, and the rest of A-shift, had the whole saga of the sinister-looking black sedan explained to them.  Well, most all of it, anyways. For the longest time, nobody said a word. The flabbergasted firemen just kept glancing from Gage, to Donnelly, and then back to Gage again. John grimaced and then sank even lower into the sofa's seat cushion. 

Chet Kelly was the first to overcome his amazement. He cleared his throat and then quietly commented, “Will somebody pinch me? I gotta be dreamin' all this! Cuz things like this just don't happen in the real world!” 

“Gee...” John turned to the mustached gentleman occupying the cushion next to his and gave him a grateful look, “Thanks, Chet! I feel a whole lot better now that I know this is all just a dream!” he sarcastically stated. Then his barely open eyes narrowed even further and his mock gratitude turned to annoyance, “Next time you come up with a dream like this, I'd appreciate it if you would leave me out of it!” 

“Never mind him,” DeSoto advised, finally finding his voice as well, “What are you going to do about...them?!” 

Gage glanced around the room, saw the expressions of gloom and doom on his friends' and fellow workers' faces and quickly dispensed with a little advice of his own, “Hey, cheer up, you guys! I think I got rid of them,” he optimistically announced. “At least, I hope I did...” he glumly added, looking and sounding a lot less certain. 

“How?” Captain Stanley asked nervously. 

“I explained that they were wasting their time,” the sleepy paramedic replied, “Because Victor Nardis didn't tell me ANYTHING that might even be remotely interesting to them.” 

Captains Donnelly and Stanley stepped up to the couch and stared down at the drowsy fireman, looking absolutely furious—and completely dumbstruck. 

“You spoke with them?!” A-shift's commander inquired incredulously, being the first to recover. 

John cringed and nodded. 

“When?!” Donnelly angrily demanded, “And where?!” 

“This morning,” the terribly tired P.M. timidly told them, “in the park.” 

“You went down to the park this morning?!” B-Shift's Captain fumed, recovering first this time. 

Again, Gage cringed and nodded. 

“Alone?!” Donnelly further fumed. 

“Of course not!” John said and saw they seemed somewhat relieved. “Henry was with me,” he quietly explained, accurately anticipating their next question. 

The firemen stared at the motionless mutt sprawled across Gage and Kelly's laps for a few moments. 

“You went down to the park alone?!” Donnelly annoyedly restated, “After what I told you about there being safety in numbers?! They could’ve—” 

“—That’s just it, Cap!” John interrupted, “They could've...but they didn’t—” 

“—But they could've!” Donnelly interrupted right back and remained extremely annoyed with him. Maybe even downright angry. 

“That was a dumb move, John!” Stanley joined in, “A person can be too stupid for their own good, too, you know!” 

“Sorry,” Gage groggily acknowledged.  “I told them I was too tired to be terrified anymore...guess I'm also too tired to think straight anymore,” he glumly realized. 

Stanley flashed the remorseful, overly-fatigued fireman a forgiving smile and then shot his fellow Captain a somber glance, “What did headquarters have to say about all of this?” 

“Internal Affairs said they'd be sending someone over this afternoon,” Donnelly announced, and then suddenly looked curious, “What are you going to do with him in the meantime?  He's obviously in no condition now to ride along.” 

“Yeah...” Hank Stanley glumly conceded.  “But until I know for sure what's going on out there, I'm not leaving him alone in here! Kelly, your job—until further notice—is to keep Gage company!” 

“Aye, aye, Cap!” Chet readily acknowledged. 

“Unh-uh!” Gage began protesting, “There's no way I'm getting you guys involved in thi—” 

“—Stow it, Mister!” Stanley advised, both good-naturedly and no-nonsense-edly. “Besides, we're already involved in this. This isn't just your problem. It's the Station’s problem, too.” 

Gage saw the rest of the guys nodding in agreement and shot them all a look of gratitude mixed with equal parts of admiration. “If anything ever happened to any of yous, I'd never forgive myself...” he sadly surmised. 

“We'll, uh, keep that in mind, pal...” his Captain promised, with another warm smile. 

“Cap,” John's partner suddenly interjected, “How are you ever going to know what's going on out there if the cops won't investigate this?” 

Stanley's smile vanished and he stood there, looking completely stumped. 

Kelly looked thoughtful. “We could hire a private cop...” he helpfully, and hopefully, suggested. 

Noting that the men were nodding again, and that Chet had used the word we, John felt obliged to inform them that, “Private investigators are awfully expensi—” 

“—We get a really good one,” Kelly interrupted, “He should be able to get us all the information we need in one day. It's worth a couple a' hundred bucks, ain't it?” 

Once more, the men nodded—unanimously. 

Captain Stanley crossed over to the phone book, picked it up and began thumbing through the Yellow Pages. “So-o, Chester B.,” he said, upon seeing the dozens and dozens of possible employees, “How do we go about picking a really good one? They're not exactly listed here under really good, mediocre and waste of money...” 

The guys grinned. 

Chester B. shot his commander an 'oh, brother' look.  “You don't find really good ones in the phone book, Cap. You gotta ask around. You know, get a couple a' references.” 

“Okay,” Stanley closed the book in his hands and looked around the room, “Anybody know any really good private investigators?” Silence. “Anybody know of any private investigators?” Again, nobody spoke. “Anybody know of anybody else who might know a private investigator?” Stanley tried one last time. 

“My friend, Angela, is a lawyer,” Craig Brice suddenly confessed.  “Lawyers sometimes use private investigators. Shall I call her?” 

“Go ahead!” Stanley invited and stepped out of the way. 

Brice picked up the phone and started dialing. 

Gage redirected his glazed gaze and suddenly noticed that his normally somber partner looked even more somber than usual...maybe even downright horrified. John's sleepy eyes widened and he leaned forwards in his seat, “What's wrong, Roy?!” 

“Nothin',” DeSoto assured his concerned friend, but then quietly confided, “I, uh...just realized that I almost stepped up to the passenger's door of that plane...” 

“Any one of us could have been with Victor Nardis when he died,” Captain Donnelly clarified, waving his arm around the room. 

Captain Stanley nodded solemnly in agreement and gave the fireman sitting in the hot seat another warm smile, “And that is another reason why this isn't just your problem, pal!” 

Gage gave the group of guys gathered around him—and with him—another look of admiration and gratitude...which they pretended not to notice. 

Brice hung the phone up and handed Stanley a slip of paper with a list of names and numbers. “Angela said they might be too busy to handle our case. She said the best investigators are always busy.”

“Thanks, Craig!” Stanley acknowledged, looking somewhat amazed, and amused, that Brice had called the case our’s. He picked the phone back up and started dialing. 

 

Five minutes and seven phone calls later... 

“Alright...I see...Thanks, anyway...Yes...Goodbye!” Hank Stanley hung up the phone and crossed the last name off the list. “Well, that does it! They must be the best investigators.  They're all too busy to help us.” 

“In that case,” Craig told his glum Captain, “Angela says we should try James Rockford.” 

Stanley looked skeptical, but started flipping through the Yellow Pages of the phone book. “Here he is…” he looked up at his fellow firefighters, “Shall we call him?” 

“Sure, Cap!” Kelly urged, “The guy's bound to be good!” Then, seeing his colleagues staring questioningly at him, he added, “They say when you're second best you try harder.” 

The guys groaned. 

Stanley stood there for a few moments, smiling. Then he picked the phone back up and started dialing. It rang a long time. 

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered at last. 

“Hello. James Rockford?” the Captain inquired. 

“Yeah...” 

“Mr. Rockford, this is Captain Hank Stanley. I'm with the L.A. County Fire Department. We, uh, have this…problem over here at Station 51—”  

“—Captain,” Mr. Rockford interrupted, “I'm sorry but, even if it wasn't only 8:00 in the morning, I'm not taking any new cases right now.” 

“Let me guess,” Stanley requested with a frown, “you're too busy, right?” 

“No. I'm too tired. I've been out of town, working on a case, and I just got in about an hour ago. I'm taking some time off. But if you still need me in a few days, I'll be glad to help then...” 

“Thanks, but we need someone right away.  And we've run out of names,” Stanley glumly realized, but then brightened, “Say, you wouldn't happen to know any good unemployed private investigators, would you?” 

“That's a contradiction, Captain,” Rockford reminded the fireman, but then came up with one potential candidate, “Mike Fedrizzi might be available. Would you like his number?” 

“He's not in the Yellow Pages?” 

“No,” Rockford replied, “He lost his license for awhile. But, I heard he got it back last week. It's Garden 499-7387...You got that?” 

“Yes.  Thank you, Mr. Rockford. Enjoy your vacation!” 

“Thanks, Captain. I hope everything works out over there.  Good-bye...er, morning.” There was a click. 

Stanley sighed and replaced the receiver. “I wonder if third best tries at all...” he mumbled to himself and then turned to face his men. 

“We may as well wait for the Internal Affairs guys, now...” B-Shift's Captain glumly surmised.  “They'll probably do just as good a job sorting through this...mess.” 

Seeing the others nodding thoughtfully, Stanley drew his slumped shoulders back and informed everyone, “Alright, then I'm putting the Station back in service. Pat, thanks for calling us in, and thank you, and your crew, for all your help. We promise we'll keep you posted. Kelly, see to it that our tired friend here makes it to his bunk! And then, I want you to stay with him! In fact, I want you sticking to him like stink on bologna! Is that understood, gentlemen?!” the Captain inquired of both parties involved. 

“Yes, Cap!” the now cowering couch potatoes answered in unison. 

Kelly was more than okay with the order. He just wasn't so sure he liked their Captain's little comparison. 

Gage shoved his half of their lap dog off of him and started climbing slowly and stiffly to his feet.  “C'mon...Stinky,” he teased and turned to extend his frowning friend a hand. 

The firemen were filing from the room. Kelly saw the guys within earshot exchanging grins. “Right behind yah, Baloney!” he quickly came back, and those within hearing range snickered. Chet disposed of his end of Henry. Then he latched onto the grinning, groaning P.M.'s proffered appendage and got pulled triumphantly to his feet. 

 

 

Clear across the county, at James Rockford's house-trailer at 29 Cove Road, Malibu, James Rockford Sr. pulled up, parked his green pick-up truck next to his son's silver Firebird, climbed out and hurried up to the front steps. He took out a key and unlocked the abandoned-looking abode's front door. 

“Jimmy?!” he quietly inquired and then entered without knocking. James Sr. was more than a little shocked to find his son standing there in his kitchen, staring back at him. 

James Jr. saw the look on his father's face and was forced to grin, “Hi, Rocky!” 

“Welcome home, Son!” Rocky said, when he finally recovered, and handed the trailer's occupant his mail. 

“Thanks!” Jim acknowledged and started sorting through the thick stack of unopened envelopes in his hands. 

“Mostly bills...” his father informed him, “You look like you just woke up,” he commented further and checked the coffee pot out. Yup! It was cold. “I didn't wake you, did I? I've got a brand new muffler!” he added, in his defense. 

“Actually, I was just going back to bed,” Rockford corrected.  “And no, you didn't wake me,” he assured his dad, “It was the phone.” 

“You want a cup?” Rocky wondered and held the cold, empty container up in his right hand. 

“No. But you can make a pot if you want.” 

Rocky started making the coffee, but then something occurred to him and he stopped to stare disbelievingly at his disturbed offspring, “Who on earth would be calling you at this ungodly hour of the morning?!” 

Rockford stared disbelievingly back at his disturbing dad. “Some fireman...” he said, suppressing a smile all the while. 

His indignant dad's eyebrows arched, “What did he want?” 

“I don't know,” Rockford replied, this time suppressing a yawn, “I didn't give him a chance to say. I told him I was taking a few days off.” 

His father's face lit up, “Was that on the level?” 

Rockford grinned and nodded. 

Rocky looked delighted.  “Does this mean you'll have some time for that fishing trip we've been talking about…” he paused, “for so long?!” 

Rockford looked very thoughtful, “Gee. I don't know, Rocky…” he teased, “I am awfully tired. Why, I'm so weak I'm not sure I could even hold on to a fishing rod…” he saw his father's very disappointed expression, “But I'd sure be willing to give it a try!” he quickly added. 

“Oh, Son!” Rocky blurted, his face now beaming with joy, “We're going to have a wonderful time! You'll see!” he paused again, “When can we leave?” 

“This afternoon soon enough?” Jim wondered.  “I, uh, still have some lost sleep to catch up on,” he added rather wearily and flexed his slumped, aching with fatigue shoulders a few times. 

“This afternoon's fine!” Rocky assured him. Then, seeing his son reaching for one of the many unfolded newspapers stacked up on his kitchen table, he added, “You can catch up on the news AFTER you catch up on your sleep! Now, go back to bed! I want us to get an early start this afternoon!” he declared and started heading for the door. 

“What about the coffee?” Jim teased. 

“No thanks!” Rocky called back over his shoulder, “I don't have time for coffee right now. I've got too much packing to do! I'm going fishing with my son!” he finished with a grin. “See you later, Jimmy!” 

Rockford grinned, “See yah, Rocky! Oh, and Rocky?” 

His father glanced back again. 

“Don't make it too early, huh?” 

Rocky rolled his eyes, “Goodni--morning, Son!” he hintingly exclaimed, and then locked himself back out. 

Rockford grinned again and started heading for his bedroom. 

 

Later that afternoon, in the sleeping quarters of Station 51, two firemen were sprawled out on some bunks. One was lying on his stomach and had his face buried in a pillow. The other was lying on his back and had his face buried in a book. The alarm went off. 

“Squad 51…” 

John Gage jerked awake. His head snapped up off of his pillow and he stared groggily across the aisle at a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. 'What is Chet doing in Roy's bu—'  “Da-amn!” he interrupted himself, right in mid wonder, and let his head drop back down onto his pillow. 

Kelly heard the curse, lowered his book and gave the body he'd been guarding for the past—he glanced at his watch—ten and a half hours?! a quick, concerned once over, “What's the matter, John?!” 

“Nothin'!” came back John's muffled reply, “I was just hoping that you were right about this all being just a dream, is all...” 

Chet shot his disappointed bunkmate, who seemed bent on suffocating himself, a sympathetic glance and then quickly changed the subject, “Man, I gotta hand it to you, Gage. When you said you were tired you weren't just joking! I mean, this is like the twelfth alarm we've had today, and it's the first one you've even noticed!” 

“Twelve alarms?!” the paramedic repeated into his pillow, but then snapped his head up again.  “What time is it?!” he wondered, seeing as how his vision was still too blurred with sleep to clearly focus on his watch. 

“A half past four,” his topic changing friend readily informed him. 

“Wrong answer!” John teased, rolling onto his side and giving his covers a toss.  “It's time for the two of us to get back to work!” 

Kelly reluctantly closed his book, and even more reluctantly followed his well rested, and only half dressed, associate out into the garage. 

 

 

Back at 29 Cove Road, Malibu, Rocky came honking up to the house-trailer and parked beside his son's silver Firebird again.  Again he got out and hurried up onto the porch. Only this time, Rockford opened the door for him. 

“What took you so long, Rocky?” Jim teased, “I thought you'd never get here!” 

“And I thought I'd find you still in bed!” his father teased right back. 

“What do you mean?” Rockford asked, pretending to be insulted, “Why, I'll have you know that I've been up for over…” he glanced at his watch, “two whole minutes now!” 

Rocky shot James Jr. an 'I thought so' look and then turned his attention to the automatic coffee maker which, he noted delightedly, had just stopped dripping. “Why, thank you, Son! I'd love a cup!” he hinted sarcastically. 

Rockford rolled his eyes and poured them both some coffee. Then he took his steaming cup and collapsed onto a chair at his kitchen table, which, he noted amazedly, was piled high with yesterday's news...and the day's before…and the day's before that. He'd been gone a lot longer than he realized, he realized and snatched one of the papers from off of the stack. 

Rocky reached over and grabbed three or four of the unread papers himself. 

“What are you doing?” Jim wondered. 

“You'll never have time to read all these,” his father figured.  “I thought I'd bring some along to wrap our fish in.” 

“No way!” Rockford adamantly stated and snatched them back.  “I don't pay a hundred and fifty-five dollars a year for fish wrapping!” 

“When are you ever gonna find the time to read all those?!” Rocky wondered, rephrasing his initial statement of fact into a good question. 

“Who said anything about reading?” Jim asked innocently.  “I just like to look at the pictures,” he confessed and glanced down at the front page of the paper in his hands.  “ A picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words, anyways...” his voice trailed off and he sat there, staring down at the touching photo of the L.A. County Fire Department paramedic leaning over Victor Nardis. He noticed the numbers 5 1 on the helmet in the fireman's lap. 51...Wasn't that the number of that Station that Captain said had the problem? 'If Victor Nardis has gotten you guys involved with Nicholas Gardino,' he silently told the fireman in the photo, 'you would have a problem alright...a BIG one!' 

Rocky looked irritated, “If it takes you that long just to look at the pictures, you might as well read the whole story!” 

“Did you say something, Rocky?” Jim wondered, snapping back to reality. 

His father looked even more annoyed, “Yeah! I said, why don't we go before it gets too dark and we won't be able to see to bait the hooks!” 

“Great idea!” Rockford conceded, getting up and crossing over to his desk, “But first, I've got to make a phone call.” 

Rocky frowned and gave his perpetually busy son's back an 'It figures!' glare. 

 

Over at Station 51, Marco got up and answered the ringing phone on the rec room wall. “Station 51. Fireman Lopez . Yes he is. Hang on,” Lopez turned to the Station’s commander, “Cap?! It's for you...” 

“Thanks, Marco,” his Captain acknowledged as Lopez passed the phone to him. “Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking...” 

“Hello, Captain? This is James Rockford speaking...” 

“Oh...yes...Mr. Rockford. What can I do for you ?” 

“Well, this morning you said you had a problem over at your Station. That problem wouldn't happen to have anything to do the story on the front page of Tuesday's paper, would it?” 

“Yes, it certainly would!” 

“I was afraid you'd say that...” 

“Why?!” 

“Let me see if I can guess what your problem is.  Someone has approached you because they think Victor Nardis may have given you something before he died, right?” 

Stanley lowered the phone and stared down at it in amazement for a few moments before holding it back up to his ear, “ You've got it right except for one thing. It's not happening to me. It's happening to one of my men.” 

“The paramedic in the picture?” 

“Yes.” 

“Captain, I suggest you tell him to go to the police. Victor Nardis' companions don't make for very nice company. He could be in BIG trouble!” 

“He's already been to the police. They said they can't do anything unless some crime has been committed.” 

“A crime has been committed. I'd be willing to bet the men who are causing your problem are the same guys who filled Victor Nardis' plane full of bullet holes. Now, I'm going to give you the number of a Sergeant over at the L.A.P.D.. Call him and explain your situation over there. Once he hears what's going on, I'm sure he'll help you.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Rockford!” 

“You're welcome. His name is Sgt. Dennis Becker and you can reach him at Ventura 787-6212.” 

Stanley repeated the number and wrote it down. 

“Oh, and Captain?” 

“Yes?” 

“Tell your man to watch his back. Until the police act on this, I don't think he could possibly be too careful. The guys he's up against play awfully rough!” 

“Thank you, Mr. Rockford,” Stanley repeated.  “I'll tell him. Does this mean that you've changed your mind about taking some time off?” 

“No-o, no. This is just a friendly phone call…to ease my conscience. I'm going fishing with my father.” 

“In that case, I hope you catch your limit! And I want you to know that I think you belong on the TOP of the list!” 

“Why, thank you, Captain...” Rockford acknowledged rather uncertainly.  “Goodbye and good luck!” 

“Same to you!” Stanley said, speaking in all earnest. The phone went dead. He got the dial tone back and started punching in the numbers he'd just been given. 

“I didn't see the car last time out,” Mike commented to Marco.  “You think he really did get rid of them?” 

Lopez shrugged and turned to the person in charge, “Do you think they're still out there, Cap?” 

“I hope not.  But I still don't know for sure. Mr. Rockford seems fairly certain that the guys who were following Gage are also responsible for that plane wreck. We have the license number and some pretty good descriptions...Who knows? Maybe we can help the police solve their ca—” he stopped talking to Lopez and started speaking to the person who'd finally picked up the phone, “Sergeant Becker?” 

“Yes, this is Becker. Who's calling, please?” 

“This is Captain Hank Stanley, Los Angeles County Fire Department Station 51.” 

“What can I do for you, Captain?” 

“It's rather complicated. I guess I should start with the plane wreck—” 

“—What plane wreck?” 

“The one on the front of Tuesday's pa—” 

“—You have information concerning that ?” 

“Yes, I believe we do—” 

“—Then I suggest you contact the C.H.P..” ( California Highway Patrol ) 

“You don't understand. We—” 

“—Captain, the L.A.P.D. isn't involved in that case. So, you see, even if I wanted to, I couldn't help you. It's out of our jurisdiction. Now, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. I'm right in the middle of a booking. Goodbye.” 

As the phone in his hand went dead, Stanley frowned and slammed it down. “The twit kept interrupting! He wouldn't let me explain anything!” he glumly explained to his engine crew and then tensed, as the Station’s alarming alarm went off.

“Engine 51…” the dispatcher began and they began filing from the room. “Refuse fire...” 

 

Less than a minute later, two sinister looking black sedans pulled up and parked in the little paved lot of the furniture mart across the street from the Fire Station. They arrived just in time to see Engine 51 disappear off down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring. A man got out of one of the cars and stepped up to the passenger window of the other.

Phillip pushed a button and the Lincoln Continental's window lowered. 

“I set a fire in an alley a few blocks from here,” the man standing outside the car confessed.  “Should keep them pretty busy for awhile.” 

Phillip nodded approvingly and started exiting the car he was in, “You sure he's in there?!” 

The arsonist nodded, “Mark's been watching the back door and Brent's been watching the front.” 

“Then, let's go!” Phillip ordered, looking and sounding positively delighted. 

Both cars emptied and eight evil-looking, gun-toting goons started off across the street. 

 

Lenny picked the Station’s back door lock, then he and Phillip pulled their guns and quietly entered the building. The two creeps crept across the deserted garage. Lenny unlocked the front door and let their six equally creepy companions in. Phillip motioned for them to be quiet. Then they fanned out to search the place. 

 

In the day room, Henry was lapping away at his water bowl. He heard footsteps in the garage and froze. The hair bristled on his back. As Phillip and Lenny stepped cautiously into the room, the dog recognized the blond man from the park that morning and gave the guy another, low, deep-throated growl. The two bad guys beat a hasty retreat as the growl quickly gave way to vicious barking. Henry let out a howl and went racing off after them. 

 

The rest of the Station’s unwelcome visitors regrouped in the garage and then headed over to investigate all that barking. They found their boss, and his chauffeur, treed on a desk in the Captain's office. 

The arsonist grabbed the office door's knob and yelled, “Make a run for it!” 

The two trapped men hesitated for a moment, but then dove off the desk and raced back out of the office with the Bassett hound snapping viciously at their heels. 

The fire bug slammed the door, shutting the dog up inside the room. 

Phillip gave his grinning rescuer an icy, un-amused glare. 

“He, uh, must a' been on the floor of the fire truck,” the arsonist sheepishly determined, wiping the grin from his face. “Do you want us to check his apartment?” 

Their angry leader suddenly brightened.  “We're going at this all wrong! C'mon! I've got a better plan...” he announced and started heading for the deserted Fire Station’s front door. 

Mr. Gardino's men exchanged highly skeptical glances, but then obediently followed their boss' nephew back out of the big empty garage. 

 

Twenty minutes later, DeSoto backed the Squad in and then he and Brice sat there in the Station’s apparatus bay, staring at two strange gentlemen standing in front of their call desk. 

“Can we help you?” Roy wondered nervously, speaking out his open window…over the sounds of muffled barking and a noisy, descending garage door. 

“Internal Affairs,” the taller of the two cryptically commented, and they both flashed fire department badges. 

No sooner did the garage door finish its descent, when it clicked and began ascending again. 

The paramedics exited their Squad and then watched as Stoker began backing Engine 51 into its parking bay. 

“Why did you lock our dog in the Captain's office?” Craig inquired, over Henry's incessant muffled barking. 

“We didn't!” the shorter I.A. guy assured them.  “He was in there when we arrived.” 

Captain Stanley and his skeleton engine crew came stepping up. “What's with Henry?!” he demanded, over the dog's constant and annoying yapping. 

“He's probably sore cuz' you guys locked him in your office,” Roy reasoned. 

“We didn't lock him in my office',” his Captain clarified and crossed over to let the complaining mutt out. 

Henry went charging over to the front door and then stood there, barking and barking. 

“There was no one here,” the taller I.A. guy told them.  “So we let ourselves in...Hope you don't mind...” he added, seeing that the Station’s Captain already seemed overly annoyed. 

Brice, who had been studying the oddly behaving Bassett hound, turned to stare at their apologetic guest in confusion.  “No one here?!” he numbly repeated. Then he stiffened and turned to his Captain, “They must have kidnapped John!” he reasoned rather alarmedly. 

Stanley gave Craig an 'oh, brother' look.  “We dropped Gage and Kelly off at our call address over on Gordon Avenue,” he announced for the benefit of the two shocked strangers, and the alarmed paramedic's rather pale looking partner. “John wanted to go back to work, but he didn't have a clean uniform. They took a cab to the nearest Laundromat. I expect the both of them to be back here within the hour,” he further informed them. Then he stared at their apologetic guest looking more than a little confused himself, “What do you mean you let yourselves in?!” 

“No one answered the buzzer...and the door was open...so we walked in,” the shorter uninvited visitor recapped for the Captain, and flashed him his badge. 

“What's wrong, Captain?!” the I.A. guy's taller companion inquired, seeing their host staring off across the garage at the Station’s open door. 

“Nothing,” Stanley assured him.  “Except that the doors were all locked when we left!” 

Their secretive guests glanced solemnly at each other as the significance of the Captain's last statement slowly sank in. 

“Humph...” Stanley muttered, as something suddenly also dawned on him, “I believe breaking and entering is a crime! Maybe now the police will find the time to help us out here!” he reasoned, his voice filled with bitter sarcasm. “Excuse me while I make a phone call,” he requested and stepped into his office to do just that.  

“You guys wanna step in here a minute?!” Stanley called out a few seconds later, to the guys still in the garage. 

The six firemen obligingly joined the Captain in his office. 

Stanley was just standing there, staring solemnly down at—two perfect sets of dusty footprints on his desk! “Good thing John wanted to go back to work...” he realized quietly. 

His guests exchanged equally solemn glances and then stiffened as the alarm went off. 

“Station 51…” 

“Go on, Captain…” the tall Internal Affairs fellow urged, “We'll phone the police and then stay with Gage and Kelly until they get here!” 

Stanley was about to leave when something suddenly occurred to him, “No offense, fellahs…But can I see some identification? Besides your badges…” 

They passed the extremely cautious Captain their official Fire Department photo i.d.'s. 

Stanley scrutinized them, most carefully, before handing them back and heading for the garage. 

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, a cab pulled up, in the pouring rain, and deposited it's passengers in the parking lot behind Station 51. Kelly paid the cab's driver off and the vehicle vanished. Chet hurried over to his car and started rolling his windows up. That's when he spotted an unfamiliar automobile parked in the space beside his. His stomach knotted. But then, he noticed it was sporting official Fire Dept. plates. Kelly relaxed, for an instant, and turned his undivided attention back to John—who was standing by the back door, hunched over his laundry basket, using his body to shelter his just dried uniforms from the pelting drops of water. 

Seeing as how his hands were full, Gage was expecting his lollygagging friend to get the door for him. And, when Kelly failed to do so—in an expeditious manner—the growing soggier by the second paramedic exhaled an impatient gasp. “Get the door, will yah!” he griped. But then politely tacked on a “Please?” 

“I'm your bodyguard—not your butler!” Chet reminded him, as he came trotting back up, soaking wet. “But, since you used the magic word...” Kelly pulled a set of keys from his pocket and started fumbling with the lock. He stopped suddenly and tried the knob. “Just as I thought!” he announced as the door swung open. “The Internal Affairs guys must've left it unlocked.”  

“What Internal Affairs guys?” Gage wondered, elbowing his way in out of the rain. He straightened up to shake the water droplets from his sopping wet hair and saw two official-looking Fire Department dudes staring back at him. 

“Those Internal Affairs guys!” his companion smartly replied and pointed a dripping finger at their dry visitors. 

“John Gage?” the taller I.A. guy inquired of them. 

“Uh...I'm John,” Gage confessed. 

“We need to talk,” the tall dude's vertically challenged associate announced. 

“Look,” John told them as they held their Fire Department photo i.d.s up in front of his rain-streaked face, “Right now, I gotta go jump in the shower. You can talk to Chet, here…” he motioned his soggy head in his mustached shadow’s direction,“…til I get out.” Then he carted his laundry basket off across the garage and disappeared into the locker room. 

Sensing that neither of their two disappointed visitors had the slightest desire to talk to him, Chet turned to follow his vanishing friend. A loud, annoying buzzing sound went off, repeatedly, and caused a slight detour in his course. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled under his breath and headed over to answer the front door. 

 

 

“You got another visitor, John...” Chet annoyedly commented as he came into the locker room, “She's standing out on the front porch right now, waiting for you…”he added, hintingly. 

Gage had his clean clothes stowed away and was starting to strip. “She?!” he pulled his half-off t-shirt back on.  “She who?!” 

Kelly shrugged his own shirt off and started getting into his uniform, “I dunno... Some grade school kid. She probably wants to sell you a magazine subscription or something.”

“And you left her waiting out on the porch?” the paramedic pulled his shirt back on but left it unbuttoned. 

“It's got a roof!” Chet said in his defense.  “Besides, she didn't want to leave her bike out on the lawn.” 

“Yeah, well...It's a good thing you're not my butler,” John teased.  “Or I'd have to fire you!  Leavin' some poor little kid standin' out in the rain,” he mumbled in mock disgust. Then he grinned and disappeared out the door. 

Kelly gave the mumbler's back an annoyed glare, but then he grinned and stepped over to stand in the doorway to the garage, so's he could keep a close watch on his charge. 

 

 

John crossed over to the Station’s front door and pulled the heavy portal open. A little dark-haired girl in a purple raincoat with a matching hood appeared. She was standing there on the porch, holding onto the handlebars of a brand new, bright yellow 10 speed, and looking a little nervous. 

Hoping to put the kid at ease, John flashed her his most charming smile, “Hi! I'm John. You wanted to see me?” 

The girl pulled a slip of paper from one of her coat's flapped pockets and passed it to the paramedic. Then she hopped back up on her bicycle and started to leave. 

“He-ey! Wait a minute!” John called after her, “What—?!” he saved his breath. The bike was a 10 speed alright, and the girl was already half-way down the block. He stared after the kid in confusion for a few moments and then unfolded the slip of paper in his right hand. It was a note...addressed to him...and it said—John’s jaw dropped, his heart skipped a beat or two and his blood ran cold. The realization that Stinky was probably watching him was the only thing that kept him from staggering back into the call desk. He regained his composure enough to be able to walk and went striding off in the direction of the washroom. He saw his shadow standing in the doorway to the locker room, shooting him a questioning glance. “You were right! I bought some magazines from her last week and she forgot to give me my receipt,” he lied and waved the slip of paper, that was still in his right hand, through the air. 

Noting that Gage was headed for the washroom, Kelly commented, “You can't shower in there, John.  Unless you're about two feet tall,” he thoughtfully tacked on. 

“First things first,” John calmly came back, completely ignoring the urinal crack. Then he smiled and disappeared behind the bathroom door. 

A couple minutes later, Chet, who was pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom door his charge had disappeared behind, finally determined that two minutes was too long for the body he was supposed to be guarding to be out of his sight. Besides, he figured the paramedic needed protection more than privacy anyways. 

Kelly poked his head into the washroom and irritatedly inquired, “What's takin' yah so long in the john, John?!” There was no reply. He stiffened and stepped inside to find out why. The room's frosted glass window was wide open and there were no feet visible beneath any of the stall doors. He picked a crumpled slip of paper up from the floor in front of the window, uncrumpled it and read:

' John, If you want your landlady to live, be at the park entrance in five minutes. ALONE! '

Chet inhaled an audible gasp of horror! His first impulse was to crawl out the open window and run after him. But then he remembered that Gage was a high school track star. Even if John didn't have a two minute head start, he'd never catch up to him on foot. So he raced out of the washroom via the door.

“Call 911!” he shouted into the day room, “Have 'em send the police over to the Charter Oak Municipal Park!” And then, to save time on explanations, he passed their appalled-looking guests the un-crumpled slip of paper. “Tell 'em to hurry!” he urged and then headed for his car. 

 

John raced up to the entrance to the Municipal Park in Charter Oak and slid to a halt on the rain-slick pavement. He noted the time on his watch and realized he'd just set a new world record for covering five city blocks in a downpour. He squinted off down the street and saw a sinister-looking black sedan approaching, at a crawl. The car stopped twenty yards away and one of its back doors opened. His landlady was shoved out onto the sidewalk, where she dropped to her knees.  

The elderly woman’s wrists were bound, her mouth was taped shut, her eyes were blindfolded and her complexion was cyanotic, the paramedic noted as he ran up and dropped to his knees beside her. “Ah-uh, Annie!” he gasped breathlessly and stared at the traumatized woman through blurred vision, “I'm sorry....I'm so-o...sorry!” Then, before he could do or say anything more, two mean-looking dudes latched onto his arms and started dragging him away from her. “Let me go-o!” he breathlessly demanded, “She can't breathe!...She's got asthma!...She needs...a doctor!” The landlady's protesting tenant was forced into the sedan's back seat and the car sped off, tires squealing. 

 

 

Less than 30 seconds later, Chet pulled up and screeched to a stop. He scrambled out of his car and hurried over to the only soul in sight. “Mrs. Gereau! Are you alright?!” he inquired and tenderly removed the tape from her mouth so she could answer. 

However, the elderly lady did indeed have asthma and her breathing was too labored for her to speak. 

Kelly removed the blindfold from her eyes and the rope from her wrists, “Take it easy, Annie. You're gonna be alright...” he promised and put his arms around her. 

“I know, Chet…” the woman wheezed, “But, what about John?!” 

'Yeah...what about John?' Kelly morbidly contemplated and continued to comfort the now wheezing and crying woman. 

A patrol car came skidding up, with its lights flashing and its siren blaring. 

“Call an ambulance!” Chet told the two police officers who piled out of it with their pistols drawn.  “You CAN help now can't you?!” he angrily added, “Now that a crime has been committed!” 

 

 

In the back seat of the sinister-looking black sedan, John was sandwiched between two—even more sinister-looking—men. He tried to pull his arms free of their vice-like grips and got a gun barrel rammed into his right rib cage. He gasped, in both pain and frustration and then glared at the back of the front seat passenger's blond head. “Why'd you have to hurt her?!” he angrily demanded, “I told you…I can’t help you!…Why can't you believe me?!” 

“Funny,” the blond fellah said, not sounding too amused, “she said she couldn't help us, either. Turns out she just wouldn't help us. Until we convinced her otherwise.  Maybe all you need is a little convincing, too?” he slimily suggested. Then he tilted the rear view mirror and aimed a sick grin back at their angry hostage. 

Their hostage had heard enough...enough to know he didn't wanna be a hostage! He decided he was going to part company with these sickos—the very next chance he got! Which turned out to be at the next stoplight. When the mean dude on his left released his arm to pull a hunk of rope and a blindfold from his coat pocket, John elbowed the guy—hard. Then he shoved the gun barrel out of his ribs and made a bre