Godzilla and The Smog Monster

Craig’s gaze remained fixed upon his patient’s cardiac monitor. He was afraid to look away…afraid that when his gaze returned that damn flat line would be back.

Everyone jerked, startled, as John’s chest suddenly heaved with a labored breath.

“Respirations are spontaneous, Doctor!” the nurse who’d been ventilating him relievedly declared and continued to assist his labored breathing.

Breathing all that pure oxygen had done wonders for John’s appearance. His skin was no longer such a deep hue of blue, so he didn’t look quite so…well…dead.

Tyler turned to the other nurse. “All right, Fran, go find out if Dr. Herron and Dr. O’Neil need anymore help with his ‘other’ victims. Oh…and see if you can do something about those damn alarms, would you?”

The doctor addressed the paramedic next. “Craig, can you take over for Nancy?”

“Nance, draw some blood and then get it to lab—right away! I want a complete work-up, blood gases, cardiac enzymes—the works!”

Tyler crossed over to the wall phone and began making calls. He ordered someone to summon both the ER’s and the ICU’s next shifts in to work. He placed a page for Dr. Kurtz and Dr. Gerard, and reserved an O.R., just in case.

The doctor completed his calls and then crossed back over to give their recently revived patient a thorough medical examination. “I don’t suppose you could stick around for awhile?” he inquired of the vertical paramedic. “We’re a little short-handed at the moment.”

The paramedic was staring directly at his fellow fireman’s still form as he spoke. So Tyler couldn’t tell if Craig was addressing him…or Gage.

Dave Bellingham cautiously poked his head into ICU’s Room 604. “You okay, Brice?”

Brice nodded and motioned him into the room. “You can put us Code 8, here at Rampart. We’re going to be assisting with an emergency shortage of hospital personnel.”

After seeing the four unconscious nurses, Dave was so relieved to find his partner in one healthy piece, that he was willing to curb his curiosity—for the moment. “That’s nice.”

“Take over ventilations for me,” Craig requested. “So I can get a set of vitals.” The ambu-bag was transferred into Bellingham’s hands. “He’s breathing on his own. He just needs a little assistance.”

Everybody jerked, startled, as the head of hospital security suddenly burst into the room with his gun drawn.

“No, Mr. Storey,” Tyler smartly replied. “Everything is not okay in here. But we’re working on it…”

Mr. Storey lowered his weapon and his gaze. His wide eyes moved from the bloody pillow at his feet…to the crash cart…and then over to the motionless body. “What happened?”

“Oh-oh nothing much,” Tyler told him. “Someone just waltzed in here and suffocated this critically injured patient as he was lying heavily sedated in his hospital bed.” The physician glanced up from his examination. “I don’t suppose you caught the creep that did it?”

The head of hospital security quickly regained his composure. “What did he look like? Did anybody get a good look at him?”

“The four nurses who were on duty in this ward were all knocked out cold,” the doctor regrettably replied. “It may be some time before they’ll be feeling up to answering any questions. And he was long gone, by the time I got here.”

“I saw him,” Craig confessed. “But I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look at him. He had his back to me most of the time. All I actually saw were the backs of his head and his coveralls.”

Brice nodded. “Bright blue…with a large, embroidered emblem sewn on the back. The emblem was white and it had ‘Shaefer Vending, Inc.’ printed across the center of it in big blue letters. I’m guessing he’s already shed the coveralls, though. So you might try just looking for any suspicious acting man about 5’10” or 5’11”, with a medium build and dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Though he may have been wearing a wig and phony beard, as well. Like I said, I didn’t get a very good look at him—from the front.”

The guard unclipped a handy-talky from his gunbelt and passed the assailant’s description on to the rest of his security team.

“Don’t send everyone off looking for the suspect,” Tyler urged. “I want someone posted outside this door—in case that guy decides to go for a third try!”

“Bu-ut,” the head of hospital security was completely confused, “I thought you just said he was dead?”

Mr. Storey gave both medical men—and their sophisticated-looking crash cart contraption—deeply respectful stares. Then he re-thumbed the call button on his handheld radio. “Kelsey! I want you and Branoff to report to ICU Room 604, on the double!”

Tyler swapped glances with Brice again. “Better late than never,” he grumbled and returned to his medical exam.

Roy DeSoto drove up to Rampart General Hospital and parked in the lot, directly across from the entrance to Emergency Receiving.

Roy stared at the patrol car’s flashing dome lights, and figured he was going to be getting a speeding ticket. When the vehicle’s two occupants exited and began jogging towards the ER’s doors, he went racing after them. “What’s goin’ on?”

“We don’t know what, yet!” one of the officers confessed. “We just know where! ICU! Do you work here? Can you tell us the quickest way to get there?”

“I can show you the way! I was just heading up there, myself!” the fireman informed them and fought back the fear that was now gripping his gut. “I’m a paramedic with the Los Angeles County Fire Department. My partner’s in Room 604,” he went on to breathlessly explain, as the three of them entered the ER at a run.

The two officers followed their escort out of the elevator and onto the sixth floor’s ICU Ward.

Dr. O’Neil was standing in the open doorway to the Visitors’ Lounge. He spotted the policemen and pointed down the corridor. “Room 604!”

Fear tightened its grip on Roy’s gut. One of the police officers gripped his right arm and he was pulled to stop.

“You’d better stay here, til we see what we’ve got!” the officer ordered. Then he and his partner drew their revolvers and cautiously proceeded down the corridor—minus their police escort.

DeSoto exhaled an exasperated gasp and glanced over at the ER doc, who was now kneeling beside one of the three barely moving nurses lying on the soggy floor of the lounge. “They gonna be okay?” he anxiously inquired and crossed over to the room, to see if he could offer some assistance.

O’Neil saw DeSoto’s terror-stricken expression and felt obligated to set the paramedic’s understandably troubled mind at ease. “They’re okay—and he’s okay. At least, for now. Craig Brice ran the guy off and they got his heart going again. How on earth did you get here so fast? Did somebody call you about it?”

The paramedic’s mouth dropped open and he staggered back a step or two ‘Got his heart going again?’ Roy mentally repeated and managed a numb nod. “A friend,” he mysteriously replied and went running down the hall toward Room 604—and his ‘friend’.

“It’s okay!” one of the cops told the two guards who were denying DeSoto access to the room. “He’s with us!”

The two hospital security men who were now guarding the door to 604 stepped aside and allowed the breathless blond guy to enter.

Brice was keeping the palm of his right hand upon the patient’s heaving chest and his gaze fixed upon the dial of the watch on his left wrist. “Respirations are becoming rapid, shallow and irregular,” he informed the only physician in the room.

The doctor, who now had his eyes re-glued to the cardiac monitor, cursed beneath his breath. “What’s the rate?”

Roy crossed quietly over to his unconscious friend and stood silently at his side.

Tyler took his eyes away from the monitor screen for a moment to see who had just entered the room. “I don’t know how you managed to get here so soon, but you couldn’t have picked a better time to show up!” he truthfully told John Gage’s partner. “What? Did you get a call from someone here at the hospital?”

“You might say that,” Roy solemnly replied. The paramedic placed his right hand over his partner’s. “I’m here, Johnny. I got here just as soon as I could…”

The people within earshot of the fireman’s quiet comment arched their eyebrows. Well, all vertical listeners, that is.

The rapid, erratic ‘beeping’ that was coming from the patient’s cardiac monitor gradually began to slow and grow more regular and rhythmic.

“Respiration rate is down to 24,” Craig commented and exchanged an anxious glance with the doctor. It was too soon to tell if the sudden, drastic changes were for the better…or for the worse.

All eyes suddenly riveted upon the hospital bed, as the body in it began to toss and turn.

Tyler cursed again. Those two large doses of epinephrine were obviously overriding the patient’s sedatives.

Gage began gagging on his airway and it was expertly removed. The patient exhaled a rather pitiful, deep-throated moan and then started groaning. One low groan with each labored exhalation—18 groans per minute.

DeSoto cradled his partner’s head in his hands and prevented him from tossing it from side to side. “Johnny, I need you to lie very still for me. Okay?”

He didn’t stop groaning, however and Roy gave Tyler a rather desperate, pleading glance.

The doctor was about to prescribe something for pain, when two of his colleagues came charging into the room. Ben knew Paul would come. Kurtz always stuck close to the hospital for the first 48 hours following a patient’s surgery. Fortunately, Lee Gerard had done likewise.

“Okay, someone fill me in!” Dr. Kurtz requested and quickly assumed a position directly across from one of his groaning patient’s ‘brothers’. The surgeon stared down at his distraught patient in disbelief. His surgical dressing was soaked with blood! “What the hell happened?” he angrily demanded. “Where’s his drainage tube? Why isn’t he sedated?”

“A man came in here, stuck a pillow over his face and kept it there til he went into full arrest,” Craig unthinkingly answered. “We counter-shocked three times and were finally able to get a conversion.”

DeSoto’s hands immediately shifted to Gage’s shoulders, as the patient suddenly attempted to sit bolt upright in his hospital bed.

Apparently, his partner’s voice was not the only voice that John Gage was capable of hearing.

“Relax, Johnny! Relax!” Roy urged, and his alarmed friend obediently settled back down on his bed. DeSoto gave Brice a ‘Way to go!’ glare.

The paramedic appeared appropriately apologetic. “Sorry. I forgot he could be listening…”

Tyler silently passed the pissed off surgeon their alert patient’s medical chart.

Lee Gerard leaned over his colleague’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go scrub,” he whispered into his associate’s ear. “I’ll see you in the O.R.”

Kurtz nodded and directed his gaze to the guy who was still firmly gripping his still groaning patient’s shoulders. The bond between the two men was apparent, as well as the sedative effect the blond fireman’s presence had on his recently revived patient. “If you would care to accompany your ‘brother’ into surgery, you certainly won’t get any objections from me…”

“I most certainly would!” Roy’s eyes glistened and he gave Johnny’s understanding surgeon a look of undying gratitude. “Thank you.”

Paul flashed the fireman a sympathetic smile. “Thank you-ou!” That said, the surgeon turned and hurried off to scrub.

There was something terribly scary about a world where people went around trying to kill firemen.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Anesthesiologist Alan Doherty listened, in stunned silence, as Paul Kurtz ‘filled him in’ on their surgical patient’s current physical condition.

Doherty gazed at the doctor in total disbelief. “His lungs have already been compromised…he was just in complete respiratory and cardiac arrest…his system has been pumped full of sedatives and adrenaline…This patient is not a prime candidate for general anesthesia!”

“Agreed!” the surgeon snapped back. “But we don’t really have a choice!” They needed to get back in there and repair these latest damages, and, in order to do that, the patient would have to be placed under anesthesia. “We’ll work as quickly as we can!” Kurtz compromised.

The OR’s doors flew open and a hospital bed was guided into the room. The bed’s groaning occupant was promptly transferred to the operating table.

The anesthesiologist heard the groans and sighed in relief. At least the patient hadn’t been pumped full of painkillers. “Who-o are you-ou?” Alan asked the surgically-garbed blond guy standing at the groaning young man’s side.

“His brother,” Kurtz replied. “I didn’t want to push anymore drugs into him. So I told him he could accompany the patient…to keep him calm.”

Doherty accepted the doctor’s explanation. “Better keep it short!” he advised, following a thorough examination of the groaning guy’s lungs and vital signs.

Doherty stared directly at the guy’s brother and pointed to the doors. “Shoo!”

Roy turned to John’s surgeon, curious to see if the grumpy guy had the authority to order him out of the room.

Kurtz turned to the adamant anesthesiologist and pleaded the vertical fireman’s case. “I really think you should let him stay, Alan…”

But Doherty didn’t budge. “He’s in my way!” he determined, and reinserted their patient’s missing trach’ tube.

The surgeon gave the fireman’s brother a sympathetic glance…and a helpless shrug.

DeSoto gave his partner’s right hand a reassuring squeeze…and obligingly left the room.

Alan’s eyes widened in alarm, as their surgical patient’s previously steady respiration and heart rates suddenly—and quite dramatically—increased! He exchanged anxious glances with the two masked doctors and then proceeded to procure a fresh set of vitals.

It was just a co-incidence! The guy was unconscious, for cryin’ out loud! How could he possibly tell that his brother had just been escorted out of the OR?

Doherty glanced at the waiting surgeons again and then aimed his troubled gaze toward their two surgical assistants. “Somebody wanna go bring that blond guy back in here?”

Kurtz didn’t even give the anesthesiologist so much as an ‘I tried to tell you’ glance. The surgeon simply smiled—behind his mask.

The OR’s doors swished open and ‘that blond guy’ was ushered back up to the operating table.

The paramedic promptly placed his right hand over his unconscious friend’s blue diamond stamped appendage.

Much to Doherty’s consternation, their surgical patient’s condition instantly started to stabilize. So-o…it wasn’t just a co-incidence, after all. ‘But…ho-ow…?’ He managed an exasperated gasp and then, begrudgingly, gave the ‘go ahead’.

William Jenner ended his second ‘urgent’ phone call with Chief Robert Brevik, in as many days. “There was another attempt made on the fire fighter’s life last night—er, I should say, earlier this morning,” the Fire Department Head informed his worried wife. “It seems someone just strolled into his hospital room—bold as brass—and suffocated him as he slept. The doctors managed to get his heart going again. But they had to take him back into surgery. I’m going to the hospital. He may not even be alive, by the time I get there,” he finished, bitterly.

Martha got up from their breakfast counter, to answer it. “Good morning, Clara darling,” she greeted her friend and next door neighbor, and guided the woman into her kitchen. “And Happy New Year!”

“Good morning, Martha! Good morning! And a very Happy New Year to you, too!” Clara cheerfully exclaimed. “Where’s Bill?” she inquired, as her search of the kitchen and dining areas came up empty.

Clara was confused. “Wha-at? On a Sunday?” A look of dawning understanding suddenly came over her. “Oh-oh. Something to do with that dreadful shooting yesterday. Right?”

“Tell me, why would anyone ever want to shoot a fireman? I mean, a policeman, maybe…but not a fireman! I tell you, the whole world is going crazy!” Clara declared in one lo-ong breath. “Still,” the woman continued, when she got her ‘second wind’, “if a fireman had to be shot, it’s just as well it was that young man. He has no wife and kids, you know. At least, that’s what the papers say. But, can you imagine if he’d a’ been married? Some poor woman almost losing her husband like that? Or, some poor kids almost having to grow up without a father? And all because some ‘sicko’ decides to shoot a fireman! I mean, as if the damn job isn’t dangerous enough, as it is!”

Martha heaved a heavy sigh and sank back down onto her stool. She could very well imagine that! That ‘poor woman’ could have been Bill’s niece!

Craig approached Paul Kurtz and Lee Gerard, as the two doctors came limping stiffly out of the OR, sliding their surgical garb off.

“We stopped the hemorrhaging—again, and got his drainage reestablished,” Kurtz informed the worried fireman. “His condition—for the moment—is stable.” The surgeon saw that his audience was only the slightest bit relieved and realized the guy was still waiting—er, still hoping for some assurance that his ‘brother’ was gonna make it. The doctor exhaled an exhausted sigh and stood there, wishing he could make such an assurance. But he couldn’t. Not this time. “I can assure you that he will be getting the best care possible, and that we’re going to be doing everything we possibly can for him. Right now, I’m afraid it’s all just a matter of waiting…to see how well he responds to this latest surgery. He’s in good hands. And, the longer your brother’s condition remains stable, the greater the odds are in his favor.” The doctor suddenly noticed that the fireman looked about as beat on his feet as he was feeling. “Leave a number where you can be reached, and then go get some rest. Waiting can take a whole lot out of you.”

Both doctors smiled and nodded and started walking off down the hall, heading for the elevators.

The doors to the OR opened once more. Two surgically garbed people locked them in position and then turned back to help guide a gurney out into the corridor.

Brice stepped quickly up to the motionless figure on the stretcher. “Hang in there, John!” he quietly urged.

“Don’t worry, Craig,” a very familiar voice came back. “I intend to stick around and see to it that he sticks around.”

Craig recognized the blue eyes behind the surgical mask. They belonged to John’s partner.

Roy was still standing at their brother’s side, still holding onto his partner’s right appendage.

Chief Jenner and his aide, Chief Brevik, entered Rampart General’s Emergency Receiving.

“Chief, am I glad you’re here!” Rudy Dalbert began. “Something important’s just come up—”

“—And Dr. Brackett says we can use his office to discuss it,” LAPD’s Lieutenant Eugene McCord interrupted.

The three men turned and hurried off down the hall, in the direction of the doctor’s office.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Later that same morning…

“He-e’s hangin’ in there,” Roy solemnly replied and greeted them both with a forced smile. “They’re keeping him heavily sedated,” he continued, seeing they were staring rather anxiously down at his perfectly still—and silent—partner. “But I know he knows I’m here,” he added and gave his sedated friend’s hand another reassuring squeeze.

The pair gave the vertical paramedic grateful glances and some forced smiles of their own.

But then Cheryl’s worried frown returned and deepened. “There’s a policeman on the other side of that door. So they must feel John’s still in danger…”

“Dr. Kurtz tells me that you are considered an essential cog in the recovery machinery around here,” his Captain quietly reported. “So I’ve requested a special leave of absence for you.”

Hank stared down at his critically injured crewman—and friend—in complete and utter disbelief. “Do they really feel someone may try to kill him—again?”

William Jenner was standing in the room’s open doorway. “Until they either give up…or finally get it right,” the Fire Department’s Head Honcho added, a bit morbidly, and stepped the rest of the way into the hospital room. “Request granted!” he informed John’s Captain. Then his solemn gaze shifted to Gage’s partner. “DeSoto, isn’t it?”

“You can hang around here for just as long as you like!” Jenner assured him.

DeSoto’s gloom-filled face brightened—considerably. “Thank you, Sir!” he told the chief Chief. Then he turned to the nurse. “Looks like you won’t have to relieve me, after all.”

“I’ll come by later on this afternoon, then. That way, you’ll be able to go home for a few hours and spend some time with your ‘other’ family,” Cheryl proposed, sounding extremely pleased with her plan. The pretty woman’s foreboding frown returned. She stepped up to the unconscious young man with the heavily bandaged head, and placed her right appendage over his free hand. “Take care, John…and I’ll see you a little later,” she promised in a whisper. “If either of you needs me,” she reminded the fireman’s partner, “don’t hesitate to call!”

The nurse gave the horizontal paramedic one last, lo-ong parting glance—and his hand a final squeeze—before reluctantly leaving the room.

Hank turned to their Supreme Commander. “Do the police have any leads yet, Chief?”

Jenner just stood there, staring solemnly down at the motionless young fireman, lying so perfectly still in his hospital bed—too still.

The unbandaged portion of the paramedic’s face bore a death-like pallor. His respirations were so shallow, they were barely even perceptible. Why, if it weren’t for the steady ‘beep’ ‘beep’ ‘beep’ ing of the fireman’s cardiac monitor, the Chief would have sworn the young man was dead!

“I think I can trust the two of you to be ‘discreet’,” the Chief reasoned. “But, nothing I tell you must ever leave this room!”

So Jenner proceeded to brief them. “The Fire Marshal’s report states that the structure fire, that Gage—and the rest of Station 16—responded to the other night, was caused when someone cut the power to the burglar alarm system, in the building’s basement.

Two of the live wires came into contact with one another and started arcing. The 1500-degree heat that was generated by those sparking wires ignited combustible building materials in the wall surrounding the alarm box.

The fire then spread rapidly through the walls. Eventually, the entire east end of the building’s basement and first floor became involved.

It was at that point that passing motorists noticed the smoke and reported the fire.

Station 16 was first in. Captain Mason sent his Engine crew—fire fighters Chris Fowler and Curtis Hill—in to begin battling the blaze. He sent his Rescue Squad crew—paramedics Craig Brice and John Gage—in to make a routine sweep of the building.

The police report states that the building is one of many owned by Leevers & Langley, Inc.—which rents office space to a variety of private businesses.

The office John ended up searching—and getting shot in—along with the rest of the offices on the second floor, is currently being leased by a ‘Special Investigations’ agency, which specializes in investigating cases of insurance claims’ fraud.

Mr. Peter Canton, one of the agency’s co-owners and operators, claims that several pieces of irreplaceable evidence—crucial to one of the cases his company is currently working on—are now missing. The documents were taken from the same office in which John was shot.

I really can’t tell you any more about the case, except that it involved ‘special investigations’ into a nation-wide arson ring, supposedly being run by an organized crime syndicate, supposedly based somewhere right here, in Los Angeles.

The guy must’ve been wearing gloves in that office…and when he came here, this morning…because there isn’t a print to be lifted anywhere.

However, late last night, the police discovered John’s turnout coat and helmet stuffed inside a trash bag. I’ve been informed that there were several clear sets of prints on both the helmet and the trash bag, and they’re running a check on them now—” Jenner stopped speaking, as the door opened and his aide poked his head into the room.

“Excuse me. Chief?” Robert Brevik requested, and motioned with his head for Jenner to join him out in the hall.

“It’s okay, Bobby,” the Chief assured the secretive gentleman and motioned with his head for Brevik to step into the room. “We can talk in here.”

‘Bobby’ stepped inside and stared cautiously around the hospital room before continuing. “The police just made a positive I.D. on the prints. They belong to a Carl Iverson—an ex ‘enforcer’ for the ‘mob’.”

“Ex enforcer?” Jenner inquired, sounding as confused as he currently looked.

“Up until just now, Law Enforcement agencies had him filed as ‘deceased’,” Brevik explained. “Iverson was supposedly killed six months ago, while planting a bomb in Councilman Robert Browning’s car. A man—matching Iverson’s description—had been seen tampering with something under the vehicle, moments before the explosion. So it was assumed that it was Iverson’s charcoaled remains that were found among the wreckage.

The police have that alley—and a four block radius around it—under constant surveillance, and they’ve all got pictures of the guy, now,” he added and passed his boss a photocopy of the killer’s image. “If he shows up anywhere near there, the authorities are bound to nab him!”

Jenner glared disgustedly down at the goon’s picture. “Have the police released any of these photos to the press yet?”

Brevik shook his head. “They don’t want the guy to know that they’re on to him. If he is in the area they’re currently covering, it could spook him.”

“But, if he sees he’s already been I.D.’ed, then he won’t have to kill John to keep him from identifying him,” the Chief reasoned.

“The cops already thought of that. They believe Iverson will still want him dead…to keep him from testifying. Gage, here, is still the only one who can actually place Iverson in that office. According to the police, the fingerprints on the helmet and trash bag don’t prove a thing. Iverson could always say he found the coat and helmet lying on the sidewalk, and then decided to toss them out.”

“I hadn’t thought of tha-at,” Jenner glumly confessed. He passed the disgusting photo of the paramedic’s assailant on to his partner. “Take good care of him,” he gently urged, and then added, a bit more gruffly, “That’s an order!”

Jenner gave the critically injured fireman—and his crewmates—a final farewell glance, and then left the room with his aide.

“I’m gonna go call the rest a’ the guys,” Stanley determined and started heading for the exit, “and let them know how he’s doing.”

DeSoto watched his Captain disappear out the door. The fireman then resumed his vigil at his perfectly still partner’s side. He gave John’s limp hand another reassuring squeeze.

Roy looked extremely pleased—and not the least bit surprised. “I knew you knew I was here!” he smugly stated and gave his friend’s warm hand another slight squeeze.

Again, John acknowledged his friend’s grip with a rather feeble—yet definite—squee-eeze of his own.

Chapter Twenty-Four

In ICU’s Room 604, later that fever-filled afternoon…

Worried about the young man’s steadily rising temperature, Dr. Kurtz had ordered the nurses to begin administering a new combination of powerful antibiotics. The doctor had also reduced the dosage on his traumatic brain injury patient’s sedatives.

Roy DeSoto was seated comfortably in a chair beside his brother’s hospital bed. There was an open—unbelievably thick—hardcover book in his lap, and he was reading aloud from it. “Chapter Forty-Eight,” he continued, following the flip of yet another of the mystery novel’s many pages. “Inspector Greenley was not looking forward to returning to Brighton Hall. Especially since Miss Sutherland’s tragic—” the paramedic paused, right in mid-sentence, and redirected his gaze, as his partner suddenly gripped his right hand, hard—really hard!

ICU nurse, Robin Torris, was in the process of replacing her patient’s latest drained IV bag. She heard a distinct change in the quiet, steady ‘bleep’ing coming from the cardiac monitor over her head and glanced up.

The book went flying, as its reader immediately leapt to his feet. “He-ey…take it easy, Johnny…” Roy calmly requested, when his feverish friend began tossing his heavily bandaged head rather frantically from side to side. The paramedic cradled his panicking partner’s hot face in his cool hands and did his level best to keep him from thrashing about.

The RN carefully pulled the trach’ tube from her choking patient’s throat. After pressing the room’s ‘call’ button, and giving John’s chart a quick glance, she turned toward the med’ stand and proceeded to prepare a hypodermic syringe.

With no trach’ tube left to fight, DeSoto’s distraught partner calmed down—considerably.

The moment his airway was removed, Gage had begun groaning. Emitting one heart-wrenching groan with each labored, ragged breath.

Roy swallowed hard and kept a comforting, and calming, grip on his pained partner.

The nurse tapped the air bubbles from her fully loaded syringe. Then she tossed the bed sheets back and promptly emptied the hypo into the hurting young man’s left thigh. With the pain med’ now on board, the woman set about reestablishing her pneumonia patient’s supply of much needed O2. Once Mr. Gage’s oxygen mask was in place, and functioning properly, Nurse Torris began gathering a fresh set of vital signs.

Mr. Gage’s muffled groans gradually turned to muffled moans. Within a matter of minutes, the patient had ceased making any sounds, at all. Finally, the fireman’s feverish head rolled limply to the left and he was perfectly—peacefully—still, once more.

Normally, John Gage exuded energy. It was most disturbing, not to mention downright unnatural, to see his—usually in perpetual motion—partner remain so still for so long.

Roy heard footsteps coming down the corridor and looked up in time to see Johnny’s surgeon, Dr. Brackett, and two other nurses, step through the room’s guarded doorway.

Miss Torris pulled the tips of her stethoscope from her ears. “He came to about five minutes ago and started gagging,” she informed the new arrivals. “I removed the airway and administered his prescribed pain med’. The patient is now resting comfortably. He was in sinus tach’, but his vitals have now stabilized and his heart rate has returned to normal.”

The two physicians stared up at their critical patient’s cardiac monitor, looking tremendously relieved.

Paul placed the back of his right hand against the fireman’s left cheek and cursed beneath his breath. “He’s still burning up!”

Kurtz cursed again and turned to his colleague. “Remember those ‘complications’ we’ve been ‘barring’?”

“It takes time, Paul,” Brackett reminded his bitter associate. “It’s only been four hours. The new drug combo just hasn’t had a chance to kick in, yet.”

The surgeon exhaled a gasp of complete exasperation and then had a long—and thorough—listen to the fireman’s lungs. After all that this poor guy had already been through, he sure didn’t need to have to deal with a particularly stubborn bout of aspiration pneumonia! Kurtz swore again, this time, aloud. The young man’s lungs remained severely congested. If the latest combination of antibiotics didn’t ‘kick in’ pretty damn quick, the doctor was concerned that his patient could be ‘cashing it in’, pretty damn quick. Paul pulled a metal clipboard from a hook at the foot of the bed. After discussing various treatment options with his equally concerned colleague, the doctor jotted down a few more changes to John’s medical orders. Kurtz replaced the chart and turned his attention to the exhausted looking guy that was keeping a firm grip on his feverish—but no longer pained—patient’s hand. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to go home and get some sleep?”

DeSoto lifted his solemn gaze from his friend’s impassive face to the physician who had posed the question. “No. No-o, I don’t suppose you could.”

Kurtz exhaled an exhausted sigh himself, and then he and Brackett exited the hospital room.

DeSoto pulled his partner’s arm straight up and slowly began to rotate it. Besides reading to his bed-ridden buddy, Roy had begun exercising Johnny’s inactive arms and legs for him, in the hope that he wouldn’t be so stiff and sore, once he was brought out of his heavy sedation. The paramedic had watched the physical therapist stretch his motionless pal’s limp limbs long enough to know exactly how it should be done.

John Gage found himself seated at a large, round card table in a gloomy, candlelit room.

He saw that his buddies were all staring down at the center of the table…at a Colt .45 pistol.

Nobody said a word. It was like they were all in some kind a’ hypnotic trance, or something.

John continued to watch, as Gary Woolen gradually reached out and picked up the gun.

Gary slowly inserted a .45 caliber cartridge into one of the slots in the revolver’s chamber. He gave the gun’s chamber a spin. Then he cocked its hammer and raised its barrel to his right temple.

John watched, in horror, as his friend’s finger began to tighten on the trigger. His jaw dropped open, to protest. But he couldn’t make any words come out. The paramedic’s body seemed to be paralyzed.

The horrified fireman shut his eyes—tightly—and held his breath. John jerked, as the gun’s hammer hit the empty chamber with a loud, metalic ‘click’. He exhaled an audible sigh of relief and slowly raised his eye’s lids.

Gordon LaSalle spun the Colt’s chamber, recocked its hammer, and then placed the tip of its barrel upon his right temple.

As Gordy’s finger started to squeeze the pistol’s trigger, no one spoke a word—or made any attempt to stop him.

Gage shut his eyes tightly and jerked again, at the loud ‘click’ of the weapon’s hammer striking another empty chamber. The fireman released his held breath and forced his eyes back open.

Dennis Rygel went through the same insane ritual…and then passed the gun to Phil.

John clamped his lids down over his eyes and placed his hands over his ears. But he couldn’t block out the sickening sound of that loud, metalic ‘click’. His already elevated blood pressure shot through the roof and his already rapid respiration rate increased—considerably. The paramedic’s hands began to tremble and his rigid body broke into a cold sweat. He opened his eyes just in time to see Phillip Lucas hand the weapon over Rog— the fireman’s racing heart skipped a few beats.

Instead of his stuntman friend, Roger Eavens, a stranger was now seated beside him, and, instead of raising the gun’s barrel to his own temple, the man turned and pointed it right at the petrified paramedic’s head.

Roy was right in the middle of a knee bend. Suddenly, Johnny’s limp left leg went rigid on him. Moments later, the cardiac monitor’s steady, rhythmic ‘bleep’ ing turned totally chaotic. He gave the stiff leg’s owner an anxious glance and was alarmed to find that—besides going completely rigid—it seemed his sedated buddy had also ceased to breathe.

DeSoto immediately shifted from ‘physical therapist’ into full paramedic mode. He pinched his partner’s nostrils shut and then began breathing for him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Roy was in the process of forcing another life-giving breath of air into his completely rigid friend’s non-functioning lungs.

His non-breathing buddy suddenly inhaled sharply and sat bolt upright in his hospital bed, knocking DeSoto aside.

Roy regained his balance and immediately stepped back up to stand beside the bed. He gripped John Gage’s trembling shoulders and promptly placed his smiling face in his feverish friend’s line of sight. “Hey…I-It’s okay. You’re gonna be all right.”

It took a moment or two for Johnny’s terror-filled eyes to focus. A look of recognition, closely followed by tremendous relief, replaced the fear and delirium—right before his plummeting blood pressure caused him to pass out.

Roy pulled his collapsing partner into his arms. His blurring blue eyes closed. “You’re gonna be all right,” he repeated in a somewhat shaky whisper. “I’ve never lied to you, Johnny,” the paramedic quickly continued. “And I’d appreciate it, if you could do your part…to keep it that way.” That said—er, whispered, he reluctantly ended his reassuring hug and gently began easing his now peacefully breathing buddy back down onto his hospital bed.

The cop guarding the door to ICU’s Room 604 was caught completely ‘off-guard’ by the crowd of people coming down the corridor towards him.

So he stepped aside and allowed them—and their rolling medical equipment—to pass, un-impinged.

Roy had no sooner got his partner’s heavily bandaged head re-situated on his pillow, and his O2 mask back in place, when an onslaught of hospital personnel came spilling into the room. “I was going through some range of motion exercises with him,” he informed the two physicians in charge of the rescue party. “All of a sudden, he stiffened right up—and then stopped breathing. Following a dozen, or so, breaths, he came two for a few seconds. When he sat up in the bed, his BP must've bottomed out. Respirations are still spontaneous,” he relievedly added, and reluctantly stepped out of the way.

DeSoto listened, as the doctors discussed probable causes for the patient's sudden respiratory arrest. 'Anaphylactic shock isn’t the only shock someone can suffer from,' he silently pointed out. 'Besides, I had an excellent air exchange, while administering AR.'

Brackett was leaning more towards a combination of wet lungs and too many sedatives.

Roy recalled the terrified look in his friend’s feverish eyes. Dare he mention his ‘traumatic shock’ theory? Dare he not! “I think something scared him,” he bravely blurted out, “…to death,” he solemnly tacked on, and tried to hide.

The two doctors traded thoughtful glances, and then turned to the vertical—and suddenly very vocal—fireman.

“Because there was no indication of any respiratory distress. His whole body just suddenly went completely rigid,” Roy replied. “A-and…because his eyes had the same look in them that they had a few days ago…when we suddenly realized the room we were searching was about to ‘flashover’ on us.”

The signs certainly did point to the paramedic being right about a psychological, rather than physiological cause for the patient’s sudden respiratory arrest.

Paul Kurtz exhaled an exasperated sigh. Any one—or all three—could've been the probable cause!

Ideally, the surgeon would have liked to keep this particular patient in a drug-induced coma for another four or five days—at the very least. The pneumonia, and resultant depressed respiration rate, had already forced him to cut waaaaay back on the barbiturates. Now, just to be on the safe side, it appeared he would have to cut them out—entirely.

One of John's nurses read the new order and frowned. "What are we supposed to do if the patient becomes agitated?

Kurtz smiled down at his patient's 'brother'. “We’ll just have to rely on Fireman DeSoto, here, to keep him sedated. His presence seems to have a soothing effect on him.”

Fireman DeSoto flashed both doctors a bashful smile. Then his grin gradually vanished and his concerned gaze returned to Fireman Gage’s impassive face. “He’s always had just the opposite effect on me.”

Roy swallowed hard and glanced up from the book in his lap. There was a Styrofoam cup filled with ice water setting on the medicine stand beside him. He took a sip, and then gave one of the mystery novel’s many pages another flip. “Colonel Buford dropped the bloody knife and stepped back from Lawry’s bod—” The reader heard a feeble groan and immediately set his book aside. He then sprang to his feet and pressed the room's call button.

Roy breathed a silent sigh of relief, as his feverish friend’s eyes finally fluttered open, but then exhaled an exasperated gasp, as it seemed to be taking forever for them to actually focus.

The cobwebs gradually cleared from John Gage’s feverish head and the fuzziness finally cleared from his vision. He saw his friend’s familiar blue eyes smiling down at him. The paramedic didn’t suppose everybody’s eyes could ‘smile’. But his partner’s sure could. John also noted the deep lines of fatigue on his buddy’s face. His fireman friend looked like he’d just finished pulling a triple shift—in a hundred-degree heatwave!

DeSoto pulled the oxygen mask down and pressed an ice chunk up to his partner’s non-moving mouth.

The patient gave his thoughtful ‘nurse’ a look of undying gratitude, as the frozen object immediately began to melt and lubricate his parched lips. “You-ou…” he managed to croak, and made a valiant attempt to clear his hoarse throat. Gage grimaced. It was astounding the amount of pain such a pitiful little cough was capable of producing. He forced his tightly clamped eyes back open and tried again to communicate. “You look…about like how…I-I feel.”

Roy’s mouth joined his already ‘smiling’ eyes. “I’m rea-eal sorry to hear that.”

A small smile played upon his partner’s pursed lips. Johnny swallowed hard and winced. “Sorry…for who?” he wondered in a hoarse whisper. “Me-e?…Or you-ou?”

“Both,” Roy teased, but then the smiles disappeared from his entire face. He’d caught the grimace and the wince, and he could clearly see the pain in his hurting friend’s half-open eyes. He pressed another ice chunk up to his partner’s parched, pursed lips and shot an anxious glance toward the room’s open doorway—the room’s empty open doorway. Where was that nurse?

Almost as if on cue, an RN came scurrying into 604, carrying a loaded syringe. The woman whipped the bed sheets back and emptied the hypo into Johnny’s left thigh.

“Could you…open a window…or somethin’?…It’s really…hot…in…here.”

Roy glanced around the windowless room. “Sh-Sh-Shush. Sleep now,” he suggested, and slipped the O2 mask back into place. “There’ll be plenty of time for talking later.” His smiles returned, as his friend followed his advice and drifted off into blissful—pain-free—slumber.

Roy DeSoto was sleeping, slumped in a chair beside his partner’s hospital bed. His blond head was resting on his folded left arm and his right hand was resting on his feverish friend’s right hand—er, correction, his no-longer-feverish friend’s right hand. The paramedic’s eyes snapped open and he straightened stiffly up in his seat. He picked the hand beneath his up. His partner’s limp appendage was now ‘cool’ to the touch.

DeSoto placed the back of his left hand against Gage’s right cheek. It, too, felt considerably cooler.

Roy waited for the woman to remove the tips of her stethoscope from her ears before speaking. “His fever’s broken!”

Nurse Lindbrook recorded her latest findings. Then she glanced up from her patient’s medical chart and grinned. “About a half an hour ago. He’s breathing a whole lot easier, and his vitals have been steadily improving, too.” She hung the metal clipboard back onto the hook on the end of the hospital bed. “Dr. Kurtz finally went home. So he must figure the worst is over. You could probably go get some proper rest yourself now…” she hinted.

“That may not be for some time ye—” the nurse’s comment was interrupted by a pitiful groan.

Roy glanced down and was surprised to find that Johnny’s eyes were wide open. He jumped up out of his seat and gripped his groaning friend’s shoulders.

“Hold him still!” the RN requested and started heading for the door. “I’ll go get his pain meds!”

John Gage’s bruised brain began registering information again. His nose was picking up the distinct odor of disinfectant—mingled with freshly starched linens. Suddenly, he was aware of his surroundings: he was in a hospital…Rampart General, in all likelihood. Which, as gawd-awful as he was currently feeling, probably wasn’t such a bad surrounding to find himself in. His blurred vision gradually focused in on the shiny grey object that was mounted on the ceiling, directly above his bed. It was a closed-circuit television camera. He wasn’t just at Rampart, he was in the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit! The patient grimaced and groaned again, in both pain and frustration.

Roy saw his friend frowning up at the ceiling and realized that he must’ve finally figured out that he was in ICU—or, as his partner preferred to call it: I See You.

Johnny had renamed the hospital ward ‘I See You’, on account a’ all the cameras and the constant video surveillance.

DeSoto promptly placed another chunk of ice upon his pained partner’s parched lips.

“Fire?” Johnny inquired, and gazed up at his partner through pain-filled eyes.

DeSoto determined that he wouldn’t dodge his friend’s questions—entirely. He would merely answer them in his own ‘indirect’ way. “My ass is sore—from sitting for so long. What’s paining you?”

Johnny closed his eyes, and then lay there, reluctantly taking inventory. “Hurts ta think…hurts ta swallow…hurts ta breathe.”

DeSoto nodded understandably. “It hurts to think, because you have a depressed skull fracture and a mild concussion. It hurts to swallow, because you’ve had a trach’ tube rammed down your throat, for the better part of a week now. And it hurts to breathe, because you still have a touch of aspiration pneumonia.”

Johnny was willing to accept all but the explanation for why it hurt him to breathe. He started to shake his hurting head, but then thought better of it. “Not…my lungs,” he announced. “My ribs.” He grimaced again and started reaching for his aching right side. “Feels like…someone’s been…doin’…chest compressions…on me—” he stopped abruptly, as something suddenly occurred to him. His brown eyes flew back open and immediately filled with dread. “Has someone…been doin’…chest compressions…on me?”

At some point, his heart had stopped beating! ‘Da-amn!’ He may not have ‘bought’ the farm, but he’d apparently managed to make a pretty sizeable down payment on it! “Fi-ire?” he re-inquired, curious to hear what had...'killed’ him.

Gage gave up on his partner’s cryptic comment and tried to wrap his bruised brain around something else—something a little less alarming, or confusing. “I been here…almost a week?”

Johnny suddenly recalled his friend’s ‘sore ass’ comment. “You been sittin’ here…the entire time?”

“Actually, I haven’t missed any work—at all. I’m on ‘special’ assignment.”

Curious as to what Roy’s ‘special’ assignment could possibly be, Johnny lifted his head a little and had a brief look around. He spotted the police officer standing beside the room’s open doorway. “What’s he doing there?”

Gage gazed up at his evasive friend and gasped in frustration. “What…the hell…happened?

Nurse Linbrook returned just then and saved DeSoto from having to be even more evasive.

John felt something prick his left leg. The pain in his head, throat and chest began to recede...and he…began to float.

“What’s up?” Dr. Mike Morton anxiously inquired, as he came rushing into the room.

“His fever broke about thirty-five minutes ago,” Roy replied. “He came to, about five minutes ago, complaining of head, throat and chest pains. He’s still cognizant of people and his surroundings,” he added with a grin.

Morton finished his exam and glanced up. “He’s sleeping. And, that is what I expect you to be doing—in whatever time, from now, that it takes for you to travel from here to your home! As of this moment, this room is off limits to any—and all—visitors! And it will remain off limits for the next 24 to 48 hours! Is that understood?”

DeSoto looked tremendously disappointed. “I’m on ‘special’ assignment he—”

“—Is that understood?” Morton interrupted, speaking a little gruffer—and a whole lot louder.

Roy reluctantly nodded his unwilling acceptance of the determined young doctor’s unfair decree.

Mike looked pleasantly surprised. The physician figured the only way John Gage was ever going to be able to get any real rest would be if there was nobody around for him to talk to. He knew how badly Roy wanted to remain in the room, so he wasn’t expecting the man’s unconditional surrender. “Goo-ood!” He flashed the overly fatigued fireman a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry. Someone will call you, if there’s even the slightest change in his condition. And I promise to see to it—personally—that you will be first in line, when he’s finally allowed visitors again.”

The privileged paramedic gave the good doctor an appreciative smile, which all-too-quickly faded into a worried frown. What if he went into respiratory arrest again? What if that maniac came back? What if—? Roy gave Johnny’s limp right hand one last reassuring squeeze…and reluctantly followed Dr. Morton out of the room.

Chapter Twenty-Six

DeSoto managed to take several steps down the ICU corridor, before finally grinding to a halt. The paramedic could count the number of times he’d disobeyed a doctor’s direct orders on two fingers. Well, three fingers, now, because he’d just gone as far from his friend’s room as he was gonna get. “Dr. Morton?”

“First…The instant Joanne heard that I was gonna be on ‘special assignment’ here, at the hospital, she packed the kids in the car and went to visit her mother. The only ‘family’ I have—right now—is lying in a bed back there, with a bullet hole in his head. Second…I don’t know if you’re aware of this, or not. But Gage went into full respiratory arrest earlier this afternoon, and his doctor ordered the nurses to discontinue any—and all—sedatives. Dr. Kurtz ‘prescribed’ my ‘company’, instead. He’s relying on me to keep his patient as calm and quiet as possible. So, you see, I’m not just a ‘visitor’. And, third…I think he’s beginning to remember what happened, and I wanna be there for him, when he does.”

The young doctor considered the fireman’s comments over carefully. “Why didn’t you mention any of this earlier?” he wondered and motioned to the open door to Room 604.

“Johnny had just drifted off. I didn’t wanna risk disturbing him. He needs all the rest he can possibly get.”

Morton regrettably recalled how he had repeatedly raised his voice in the room, and suppressed a smile. “So do you!” he stubbornly restated. “Set up a cot in Room 604,” he requested of a passing hospital worker.

The physician focused his attention back on the ‘beat on his feet’ fireman. “As soon as it arrives, I expect you to be in it!” he sternly decreed, and finally released the smile he’d been suppressing.

John Gage suddenly found himself standing in a back lot of Universal Movie Studios. It was early evening. The fireman was dressed in his civies and he was talking with one of his stuntmen friends, Gary Woolen.

Judging by all the food and drink and the festive look of things, there appeared to be a ‘lot’ party going on.

Gary—and his crew of stuntmen—were celebrating the completion of a film they’d been working on.

“We just spent the last four months on location in the Mojave Desert,” Gary informed his fireman friend.

“We were shooting a sequel to Star Wars,” Woolen went on. “I had to stand in for all of Luke Skywalker’s heavy action shots.” Gary grimaced and flexed his left shoulder. “Ol’ Luke had waaaaaay too many heavy action shots in that movie!”

“We’re gonna be right here in town for awhile, shooting one a’ those ‘tailored-for-TV’ movies. Get a’ load a’ the title: ‘Who’s Killing The Stuntmen?’”

“No lie!” Gary agreed. “Yah know, I don’t even know what it’s about. The guy I stand in for gets knocked off in the first five minutes of the movie.”

Several members of Woolen’s stuntman crew came strolling up to where the two friends were standing.

“John!” one of them exclaimed and extended a hand. “Good ta see yah again!”

“Gordy,” Gage acknowledged. He took and shook the young man’s hand. “It’s good ta see you guys again, too!”

The three young guys that the hands were attached to grinned and nodded. “John,” they said, in unison.

“I’ve been trying to keep myself out of trouble,” the paramedic replied. “I just got back from five very cold days in Seattle, Washington.”

Gordy looked tremendously disappointed. “When you gonna quit that dangerous occupation and come and work at something nice and safe…like us?” he teased.

Gage grinned and rolled his eyes. “You guys have definitely been out in the desert too long.”

“Gordy’s right, John,” Dennis Rygel admonished. “You should quit playin’ fireman and come work with us. This is where the real money’s at.”

John just smiled. “Thanks for the offer, Denny. But you couldn’t get me to do what you guys do—for all the money in the world!”

Gordy looked confused. “What d’yah mean? You already do what we do—for about a tenth of the pay!”

Gage shook his head. “Unh-uh. No way! There’s a world of difference in our work.”

“How do you figure?” Gordy inquired. “We all risk our necks. We all play the same game of Russian Roulette with our lives. Only, in our job, we can take the time to minimize the risks. You can’t. So, therefore, your job is a lot riskier! And, the longer you work at it, the greater the risk is for you to draw the ‘loaded’ chamber.” LaSalle placed the barrel of an imaginary revolver up to his right temple and squeezed its trigger.

Gary saw that the conversation was getting a little too morbid for a party and decided to try and lighten the mood back up. “John only risks his life for another life,” he reminded the members of his crew.

“But never for money,” Denny sadly summed up. “Now, what he has against money, I’ll never know.”

The fireman rolled his eyes again. “C’mon, you guys. We all know that you aren’t in it for the money. You just happen to love taking risks. You’re natural born gamblers. And, the greater the stakes, the more ‘interesting’ the game becomes. The more daring you can make your lives, the more you seem to value them. Now, I admit, I’m as addicted to adrenaline as you are. I mean, I can’t picture any of us quitting today, to go sell shoes tomorrow. Right? But, there’s a big difference between excitement and risks. And the biggest difference between us is in how we feel about taking risks. I risk my neck because I have to. You guys do it because you want to. And, heck…we’re all happy, aren’t we?”

“Well, that’s the only really important thing,” Gage turned to his friend Gary and grinned. “Enough philosophizing! This is supposed to be a party! Let’s eat!”

John went on to have an enjoyable evening. But he couldn’t seem to get the image of his friend’s finger—squeezing that imaginary gun’s trigger—out of his head.

He kept hearing Denny’s words replaying, over and over and over. “…the greater the risk is for you to draw the ‘loaded’ chamber…the greater the risk is for you to draw the ‘loaded’ chamber…the greater the risk is for you to draw the ‘loaded’ chamber…”

The fireman suddenly found himself in an inner office. He set his flashlight and chalk down on the tiny room’s tiled floor so he could have his hands free to ‘sign’. He straightened back up again and started signing ‘fire’.

Gage watched, in sort a’ slow motion, as the barrel of the gun was raised and then carefully aimed—directly at his helmeted head. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t get any sound to come out of his gaping mouth. The gun’s muzzle flashed and there was a deafeningly LOUD explosion.

“NO-O!” the paramedic pleaded. The sound of his own scream jolted John awake from his nightmare and, once again, he snapped bolt upright in his hospital bed.

Roy was off his cot and at his partner’s side in seconds. This time, he was able to get his buddy back into a horizontal position—before his BP could drop completely off the charts and cause him to lose consciousness. He released his traumatized friend’s trembling right shoulder just long enough to tug one of the room’s back wall lights on. When he looked back down, he saw that Gage’s terror-filled eyes were, indeed, still open and focused up at the ceiling.

“That…son-of-a-bitch…shot me,” Johnny muttered rather dazedly, once his respirations had returned a little nearer to normal. His hurting head slowly turned in his rescuer’s direction and the two of them locked gazes. “Didn’t he.”

DeSoto’s vision blurred and he gave each of his buddy’s still slightly shaking shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah,” he shakily replied, in a voice barely above a whisper. “That son-of-a-bitch shot you.”

Confusion—mixed with pain—promptly replaced the anger in the gunshot victim’s own blurry eyes. “Why-y?”

“To keep you from identifying him. Yah see, up until just now, the authorities thought the guy that shot you was dead. He obviously wanted them to keep thinking that. So he had to get you ‘out of the way’.”

“Yeah…well…He wouldn’t a’ had to shoot me. Because I didn’t really get a good enough look at his face, to be able to identify him. When I entered the office, the guy had his back to me. When he finally turned around, the first thing he did was pull this big gun out of his pocket. Believe me, from that moment on, all of my attention was fully focused on his gun—not his face.” The paramedic stopped speaking and gritted his teeth. The pain he was now experiencing was quickly becoming unbearable.

A nurse hurried into the room and up to his hospital bed. The woman administered his pain med’ and then took a quick set of vitals. Following a brief, but thorough, patient evaluation, she replaced his chart and then turned to leave.

The patient’s eyes followed his pretty caregiver, as she stepped past the armed police officer that was still posted beside his door—and then disappeared.

“The cops must think he’s gonna try to kill me again, huh…” Gage glumly realized.

“That’s because he did try to kill you again,” Roy reluctantly informed him. “In fact, he did more than ‘try’.”

His buddy’s bandaged head swung back in his direction and the two of them locked gazes again.

DeSoto gave his shocked amigo an exceedingly grim nod. “The second day you were here. He snuck into the hospital, knocked out the nurses on this floor and…suffocated you. Bryce was able to chase the guy off and start CPR. By the time I arrived, he and Dr. Tyler had your heart going again.”

John considered all that over for a few moments. Then his sad face suddenly filled with concern. “The nurses! They okay?”

Roy couldn’t help but smile. “They’re all fine. In fact, they’re already back on duty.”

His partner looked tremendously relieved, and then curious. “Did Brice call you?”

Roy gave his blond head another shake. “You’re prob’ly not gonna believe this,” he predicted, “but it was you. I’d fallen asleep on the couch. I heard you calling my name, and woke up, fully expecting to find you standing in my living room. When I didn’t see you there, I figured I must a’ been dreamin’. So I tried to go back to sleep. But then I heard you calling me again—just as clearly as could be. Pretty crazy, huh?”

“Wanna hear somethin’ even crazier?” Johnny quickly countered. “Remember last year, when you fell through the floor in that lady’s kitchen? Everybody was looking for you at the front of the house, because the guy’s from Truck 12 said they’d seen you go in that way. But I knew that you were in the basement. I kept…seein’ ‘things’. I could actually see that pool table, and that water heater…and that furnace. I actually felt the heat on my chest, from those burning boards that were layin’ across you. And I was wide awake, at the time.”

“I always wondered how you guys were able to find me so fast. When I asked Cap’ about it, he said that you had heard me calling for help. Couldn’t quite figure out how I’d managed to do that, though. Since I was unconscious.”

“Well, I had to come up with something. I mean, I couldn’t very well tell him that I was seein’ ‘things’.”

Seeing that his partner was no longer pained—or petrified, Roy tugged the wall light off. He returned to his comfortable cot and quickly climbed back beneath his covers. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

“Cool!” Johnny exclaimed. “This is just like bein’ back at the Station. Goodnight, Roy.” He allowed his increasingly heavy eyelids to drop.

DeSoto was awakened at around six o'clock in the morning, by a series of low moans. The paramedic popped bolt upright on his comfortable cot and his sleepy head swung in his pained partner's direction.

'Johnny must be moaning in his sleep,' Roy silently realized. His bare feet instantly hit the floor and his right index finger immediately reached for the red button on his now-groaning amigo's call buzzer. His hands then moved to the sides of his hurting friend's tossing head.

Within seconds after being summoned, two people appeared in the doorway to ICU's Room 604.

"Good morning," John's surgeon said with a smile, as he stepped up to the foot of his pained patient's hospital bed and snatched up the metal clipboard that was hanging there. "Your brother, here, seems to be experiencing some discomfort."

A nurse had accompanied Paul Kurtz into the room. Upon seeing the physician's nod, she emptied one of the two loaded hypos in her hands into the groaning young man's IV port.

Roy felt his friend's body beginning to relax and released his steadying hold on his heavily bandaged head. "When he came to yesterday afternoon, he was complaining of pain in his head, throat and chest."

"That's perfectly understandable," the doctor decreed. Kurtz completed a careful perusal of the medical chart and passed it on to the nurse, so he could begin his own patient evaluation.

The nurse placed the remaining syringe down on the patient's med' stand and carefully recorded each of the physician's findings.

Midway through the surgeon's verbal assessment, the grimacing gunshot victim's eyes fluttered open.

The doctor smiled down at his slightly sedated—and apparently still pained—patient. "Hi there. Paul Kurtz. I'm the one who's been poking around in that hole in your noggin."

Gage grimaced even more, at the mental image. "Did you put a 'metal plate' in my head?"

"Silly putty," the surgeon teased, and finally succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from the gravely injured young fireman. "Fortunately, I was able to recover all of the bone fragments. I just love to work jig-saw puzzles."

"You're welcome, John," Kurtz quickly corrected. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being the least and ten being the most, what number would you assign to your pain level?"

The physician's smile returned. The sedative, alone, hadn't worked. So he nodded for the nurse to administer the analgesic.

The woman obediently emptied the contents of the second syringe into the patient's IV port.

His physician's smile slowly faded, as well. "John, there is someone outside, who insists on seeing you. I've been putting him off for the past week now. But he claims that it is extremely important that he speak with you—as soon as possible. Do you think that you feel up to speaking with him?"

Gage locked gazes with his partner and the two of them exchanged a puzzled look. "I dunno…I suppose so."

The surgeon crossed over to the open doorway to 604, stuck his right arm out into the hallway and motioned for someone to approach. "You've got two minutes," Kurtz icily informed the business-suited fellow who came scurrying down the corridor and into the room.

"Right," the gentleman gratefully acknowledged. "Special Agent Daniel Rousseau," he introduced, stepping up beside the vertical paramedic's hospital bed. He was carrying a portable tape recorder in his right hand and several 8X10 photos in his left. "I'm with the government's Organized Crime Task Force. If you're feeling up to it, I'd like to talk to you about the night you were shot."

"Sure," Gage unenthusiastically agreed, following another glance in his partner's direction.

"Excellent!" Agent Rousseau declared. He placed his portable tape recorder down on the patient's hospital bed and hit the RECORD button. Next, he pressed the first of four glossy photos up to the eyewitness' frowning face. "Please, let me know if you recognize any of these men…"

Roy recognized Carl Iverson's photo, immediately. It was the third one in the stack.

His partner apparently recognized his assailant, after all, because he momentarily stopped breathing. "That's him."

John nodded. "I don't recall too much about the guy's face. But I got a real good look at his eyes. I'll never forget those eyes—as long as I live." He had stared into those cold, callous orbs, begging—pleading—for his life. "That's definitely the deaf guy who was in that office."

It was Agent Rousseau's turn to stop breathing. "Are you certain the man that shot you was deaf?"

Gage gave him another nod. "He was deaf, all right. Didn't hear me shouting at him—or the blaring of the smoke alarms. That's why he was so startled to see me, when he finally did turn around."

"Excellent!" Agent Rousseau re-exclaimed and clicked off his tape recorder. "Thank you, Mister Ga—"

Roy was more than a little perplexed. "If you know who the guy is, and what he looks like, why haven't you been able to find him?"

John exchanged a puzzled glance with his partner, and then posed a quick question of his own. "Then, why is that cop still standing outside my door? Why haven't you arrested the guy?"

"Mr. Iverson is a 'person of interest' in an ongoing criminal investigation," the government agent reluctantly informed them. "He has ties to a nationwide arson ring. Because of that, we have been keeping him under 24-hour surveillance. Iverson's every move is being continuously monitored. If he attempts to come back here, then we'll pick him up." He glanced at his watch. "You've been a big help, John. I wish you a speedy—and complete—recovery." With that, Special Agent Rousseau was gone.

Carl Iverson was fond of planting bombs in people's cars. What if he decided to plant one there, at Rampart? He could blow up the entire hospital! Hell, he wouldn't even have to 'plant' the bomb, himself. Iverson could just drop it in the mail!

DeSoto was no longer just worried about his best friend. The lives of everyone in the hospital were now in danger! The paramedic gripped his partner's left wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "How do yah feel?"

Roy's already upset tummy took another tumble, as he realized Johnny had gotten that just about right.

Around seven, that same morning…

Roy was standing beside his peacefully sleeping partner’s hospital bed, contemplating what Special Agent Rousseau had told them. The agent’s assurance, that John’s assailant was being kept under 24-hour surveillance, just didn’t set right with him. The deeply troubled paramedic was determined to pass his concerns on to their Captain—ASAP!

He heard footsteps out in the corridor and turned to see who was coming to visit them.

Chet Kelly stopped just outside John Gage’s hospital room. He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and flashed his Los Angeles County Fire Department badge and I.D. to the guy with the gun, who was standing guard at the door.

The officer gave the badge and official photo I.D. a careful scrutinization and then motioned for the fireman to proceed into the room.

As Chet entered ICU’s Room 604, he crooked his head toward its open door and incredulously inquired, “The cops still haven’t caught the creep?”

Roy gave the policeman being pointed out a quick glance. Recalling that he and his Captain had been sworn to secrecy, he simply replied, “Apparently not.”

Kelly stepped right up beside Gage’s hospital bed. “Look, if you wanna go shower and shave, or grab some breakfast, or call your old lady, or somethin’, I can stay with our boy, here…”

DeSoto flashed his fellow firefighter a grateful grin and eagerly took him up on his offer. “Thanks, Chet! I’ll be back in two hours,” the vertical paramedic promised and immediately made his departure from the room.

The recent arrival directed his full attention back to the body in the bed. ‘Sheesh…’

Chet gazed glumly down at the thick white bandage that covered his extremely frail looking friend’s forehead. “Hey, Chief…Interesting headband yah got…goin’ there…” The last few words of his light comment got caught in his throat and he had to cough them the rest of the way out.

His paramedic pal’s eyes failed to flutter open, and the rest of him remained perfectly still, as well.

Kelly’s damp eyes suddenly filled with a profound sadness. ‘Gawd…’ What he wouldn’t give to hear the ‘Chief’ make—er, attempt to make a witty comeback. “Look, you know I would never intentionally wish you any harm. Right?” The remorse-filled fireman gripped the sidebars on his badly injured buddy’s hospital bed and forced himself to continue. “I didn’t really mean to bet against you. Honest! When I said that only one of you would be left standing at the end of the shift, and it wasn’t gonna be you, you know I was just joshin’…Ri-ight?”

Kelly closed his tear streaming eyes tightly and bowed his head. “I am so-o sorry this had to happen to you, Johnny…”

Johnny was currently engaged in a desperate battle with the drug that was coursing through his veins. He finally managed to fight its sedative effect off enough to make his mouth move—although it did so in slow motion. “No matter…how many…missiles…are launched…against him…Godzilla will…always…prevail.”

Chet’s eyes snapped open and his head snapped back up. “How long have you been listening?”

“Since you…called Joanne…an…‘old lady’…I don’t think…she’s gonna…like that…She might even…smack you.” Gage somehow got his sedated mouth to form a lopsided smile, but—try as he might—he still couldn’t raise his eyelids.

“They’ve…got me…se-sedated…Besides…I hear that…confession…is s’posed to be…good for…the soul.” The sedated patient’s lopsided smile put in another appearance.

“Oh yeah? Well then I got another confession to make. If you weren’t already flat on your back, I’d be tempted to smack you.”

Kelly’s latest comment caused Gage to giggle outright. “Oh-oh…lighten up,” he lightly urged. “I never took…what you said…that morning…in the parking lot…seriously, Chet…I knew…you were just…jokin’…arou—” The paramedic’s mouth suddenly stopped moving and he was perfectly still, once more. The patient may have won a minor ‘drug battle’, but he’d definitely just lost the ‘sedative war’.

Relief flooded through Chester B.’s body and he smiled down at his peacefully sleeping—sedated—chum. “Get well soon, will yah, Gage. I tell yah, it’s just too damn quiet around the Station.” That said, John’s visitor backed away from the bed and plunked himself down in DeSoto’s vacated seat…to assume his vigil.

Less than an hour later, the sound of more scuffling shoes could be heard out in the hall.

Kelly pulled his nose out of the mystery novel he’d been perusing to see who was approaching.

Two uniformed, gun-toting cops came down the corridor, stepped right past the guard and clear into the room.

“Officer Dennis Harmon, LAPD,” the taller of the two intruders introduced. “This is my partner, Benjamin Rivard.”

Denny exchanged a quick glance with his comrade. “We, uh, just wanted to return Fireman Gage’s wallet,” the cop paused to pass Kelly the paramedic’s billfold—and badge.

“Yeah. And his paramedic stuff,” Ben added and set a clear plastic evidence bag filled with the contents of a paramedic’s assessment kit down on the hospital bed.

“We had planned to drop this stuff off when we pulled duty here,” Denny announced.

“There’s a’ list—five pages long—of officers who have already volunteered to pull guard duty on that door,” Denny explained and pointed to the ICU room’s exit.

“Yeah,” Denny agreed. “Tell your friend that we’re real sorry for what happened in that alley. I guess we were a little rough on him.”

“I will,” a totally bewildered Chet Kelly promised. The vertical fireman took and shook the apologetic police officers’ re-proffered appendages…and then the two cops quickly took their leave. Kelly’s completely puzzled gaze promptly resettled upon the peacefully sleeping paramedic. “Good grief, Gage!” His buddy had better ‘get better real soon’, cuz he had a whole lot of explaining to do.

Chet heard more footsteps approaching and glanced up from his book—er, Roy’s book just in time to see two more uniformed, gun-toting police officers step past the cop at the door and into ICU’s Room 604. The seated fireman’s mustache twitched a couple of times and his bushy eyebrows arched clear up into the middle of his forehead.

The younger of the two cops stepped quietly up to his buddy’s hospital bed and then stood there, staring silently—and sadly—down at the peacefully sleeping paramedic. “He sure looks a whole lot better, lying here in this bed, than he did back in that alley,” Johnny’s visitor solemnly determined, keeping his concerned voice hushed.

“Most definitely!” the older officer agreed, as he stepped up beside his colleague.

The younger guy finally glanced up. “Officer Nick Fedrizzi. This is my partner, Officer Alexander Michaelson.”

The interrupted reader set Roy’s book aside and stiffly got to his feet. “Fireman Chet Kelly,” he re-introduced. He took and shook both officers’ hands and then stood there, experiencing a major case of deja` vu.

“I’m a lineman,” the mustached fireman informed him. “Johnny and I are shiftmates.”

“We just wanted to see how your friend was doing,” Fedrizzi explained. “Yah see, we’re the guys who found him that night…and brought him in.”

The younger officer’s sorrowful face filled with even greater sadness. “We damn near didn’t get him here in time.”

“I, uh, also came to apologize,” Mike quietly confessed. “We—er, I mistook your fireman friend here for a ‘hype’, and I’m afraid we—er, I treated him rather…badly.” The officer gazed glumly down at the sleeping paramedic. “Looks like I’ll have to come back another time…”

“They’ve got him ‘sedated’. So he can’t talk, but I’m fairly certain he can still hear you,” Kelly assured John Gage’s latest gun-toting visitors.

“In that case,” Mike bent over the railing on the side of the sedated paramedic’s hospital bed and sincerely said, “I’m…sorry I acted like such a jack-ass.”

“He wasn’t acting,” Nick teased, and received an elbow in the ribs from his bent over buddy.

Officer Michaelson fought back a smile and forced himself to continue. “I was…pretty rough on you that night, and you certainly didn’t deserve to be treated like…that.”

“Nobody deserves to be treated like that,” Nick reminded his fellow officer and immediately backed away from the bed, before his partner’s elbow could reconnect with his ribcage.

Mike flashed his young friend a sad smile and then focused his full attention back on the bed-ridden fireman. “Nick’s right,” the ‘set in his ways’ police officer sadly and solemnly realized. “Nobody deserves to be treated like that…”

Once again, John Gage was able to fight the drug’s sedative effects and struggle to the surface. “You…don’t…owe me…any…apologies,” the fireman assured the repentant cop, speaking in sort a’ s l o w motion. “I…owe…you guys…my…life.”

The two astounded police officers watched as a hint of a smile appeared upon the sedated paramedic’s face.

“Thanks,” Gage told his two rescuers. Then his slight smile disappeared and he was perfectly still—er, sedated…once again.

“You’re welcome!” Nick warmly replied, with a slight smile of his own making. “We gotta go now. We had to promise the nurse at the desk that we’d only stay a couple a’ minutes. But we’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “We, uh, sure hope that you will get well—real quick!”

Kelly re-shook the two officers’ extended hands and then quickly re-took his seat. ‘Sheesh!’ he silently re-exclaimed as their latest gun-toting visitors exited the room. The now even more mystified fireman picked the mystery novel back up and promptly resumed his reading.

Nancy Pearson was sitting at her station in ICU’s Room 600-A, calmly sipping her coffee. The RN’s alert blue eyes continuously roved from one wall-mounted television monitor to another. The alarming scene up on the #4 screen caused the nurse to set her steaming cup down and straighten in her seat. The woman’s eyes remained riveted to the #4 screen. Her freed right hand deftly began reaching for the unseen ‘send’ button on the room’s intercom. Her fingers found it and pressed it. “The patient in 604 is seizing!” she dutifully reported. “Page Dr. Kurtz!”

The reader raised his gaze up from page 147 and watched, with growing alarm, as the paramedic’s body suddenly stiffened and then began to jerk—uncontrollably.

Chet tossed the book aside and leapt up out of his seat. He pressed the room’s ‘call’ button and then slid the hospital bed’s side rail down. The fireman braced his buddy’s heavily bandaged head with both hands and used his forearms to hold John’s jerking shoulders down on the bed. “Hang on, babe,” he gently urged. “Help is on the way.”

Officer Lee Turinen’s eyes about doubled in size, as a whole herd of hospital staffers suddenly came stampeding down the corridor. His right hand dropped instinctively to his hip, but then he just sighed—in surrender—and quickly stepped aside.

Kelly reluctantly turned his head and shoulder holding duties over to an orderly and began backing away from his buddy’s hospital bed. The fireman pressed himself up against the wall and then watched, helplessly, while drugs were injected into the seizing patient’s IV port.

John Gage’s jerking limbs gradually stilled and a fresh set of vital signs were gathered.

The medical information was no sooner recorded, when a white-besmocked doctor type came racing into the room. The new arrival skidded to a stop at the foot of Johnny’s bed and extended his right hand.

The doctor perused its contents for a few somber moments. Then he pulled a pen from one of his smock’s front pockets, scribbled something down on the chart, and passed it back to the nurse.

The fact that no one was saying anything had an already deeply-concerned Chet Kelly feeling even more concerned. “Is he okay?” the worried fireman finally came right out and inquired.

“Chet Kelly. I’m, uh, John’s friend…and fellow firefighter. Roy’s takin’ a break…”

The physician flashed Roy’s replacement a warm smile. “Paul Kurtz. You’re ‘brother’ is gonna be fine. This was just John’s concussed brain’s way of telling me that it’s too soon to try tapering off his anti-seizure medication.” Seeing that the questioner still looked a bit concerned—and confused—Kurtz quickly continued. “That bullet struck his left temple with so much force, it sort a’ scrambled his brain’s electrical circuits. We’ve been keeping him on anti-convulsants, to give his badly injured brain time to heal. The seizure was just his bruised brain’s way of showing us that it needs more time.”

Kelly had the irresistible urge to quip: “Gage’s brains are always ‘scrambled’.” But then he recalled how his last ‘light’ comments concerning the paramedic’s health had turned out, and quickly bit his tongue. The reader slowly sank back into his seat and the crowded hospital room gradually emptied.

“Sorry I’m so late getting back,” Roy apologized, as he came rushing into the room. “Cap and I were having coffee, down in the Doctor’s Lounge, and I sort a’ lost track a’ time. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

Chet raised his gaze up from Roy’s book and pretended to appear lost in thought. “Hmmm…Lets see…First, the cops held a freakin’ convention in here…and then he went into convulsions. Other than that, it’s been relatively quiet,” John Gage’s ‘sitter’ summed up, his words oozing with sarcasm.

DeSoto studied the notorious ‘kidder’ carefully, but couldn’t tell if Kelly was serious, or not. So he picked up his ‘still peacefully sleeping’ partner’s medical chart and studied it, instead.

Roy’s worried gaze immediately returned to Chet. “What did the police want?”

“Seems they gave Gage, here, a really rough time the other night. Near as I can tell, they came to apologize. Oh, yeah—” the still completely mystified reporter paused to point a finger at the nearest med’ stand, “they, uh, also returned his wallet and his ‘paramedic stuff’.” Kelly was pleased to see that Gage’s partner appeared to be every bit as ‘mystified’ as he was. “I, uh, guess I’d better be going,” the reader reluctantly realized. The fireman closed the book in his hands and got stiffly to his feet. “But, I can come back—and give you another break—tomorrow morning,” he readily volunteered.

Roy flashed the eager volunteer a warm, grateful smile. “Ahhh, Chet…you really do care.”

“Nah-ah. I’m just anxious to find out ‘who dunnit’,” Kelly—the kidder—jokingly corrected and handed the vertical paramedic back his half-read mystery novel. He gave DeSoto’s peacefully sleeping partner one last deeply-concerned glance…and then quickly took his leave.

“Hey, Roy,” Greg Garnett solemnly acknowledged, as he came stepping into the ICU room. Their paramedic colleague was obviously ‘on duty’, as he was wearing his uniform and carrying an HT.

“How’s Johnny doing?” Garnett quickly queried, his hushed voice filled with concern.

“The nurse, down at the desk, said it was okay—just as long as I didn’t stay more than two minutes.” Greg’s deeply-concerned gaze resettled upon his partner’s peacefully sleeping form. “How the hell could this happen?!” he angrily demanded. “I am soooo sorry, Johnny.” He glanced back up at Roy. “That should be me, lying there in that bed.”

Gage caught Garnett’s disturbing comments and, once again, felt compelled to speak. “What did…Pam say…when you…popped…the question?”

Garnett was surprised to find that the ‘traumatic brain injury’ patient was conscious…well, kind a’ conscious. “Johnny! Man! I am soooo sorry! I don’t know how I’m ever gonna make this up to you.”

A slight, forgiving smile formed upon the horizontal paramedic’s lips. “You can…start by…buyin’ me…a…new pair…a’…black jeans…” the fireman informed his deeply-troubled friend, “and a…new…white…dress shirt.”

Greg heard the request and was forced to smile. “Thanks, Johnny. Pam said ‘yes’.”

Johnny’s smile broadened a bit, but then quickly faded, as he lost the ‘fight’ and succumbed to the sedative.

“Get better soon,” their ‘on duty’ visitor urged and turned to take his leave.

Roy picked up the wall-mounted phone’s receiver and placed a call. “Yes. This is Roy DeSoto, in ICU Room 604. Could you page Dr. Kurtz and have him call me?”

Paul Kurtz exited the elevator on the sixth floor and stepped up to the ICU’s Nurses’ Station. “Nurse Shelby,” he addressed the pretty, petite blonde RN who was currently on duty there, “I understand that you have been allowing the patient in Room 604 to see visitors…”

“Yes,” the woman admitted. “Since you allowed Special Agent Rousseau in to see him, I assumed Mr. Gage was now allowed visitors—just as long as they didn’t stay more than two minutes, that is.”

“Well, Nurse Shelby, you assumed wrong. I may have upgraded John’s condition from critical to serious, but I assure you, he is definitely NOT in any shape—yet—to be dealing with visitors. With the exception of Roy DeSoto—and Mr. Kelly—this patient is NOT to be ‘disturbed’. Understood?”

Kel Brackett exited the elevator and strode up to John Gage’s doctor. “What’s up?” he anxiously inquired. “I heard you being paged—again. How’s he doing?”

“Considering that, at one point, the patient was clinically dead, I’d say he’s doing remarkably well,” Paul assured the young paramedic’s good friend.

Brackett breathed a big sigh of relief, himself. “Can I buy you a cup a’ coffee?”

Kurtz readily took him up on his offer. “Thanks. I could sure use a caffeine fix right about now.”

Once again, Carl Iverson found himself in a bit of a quandary.

Each day, he would pick up his morning paper, hoping to see a ‘Fireman Found Suffocated in His Hospital Bed’ headline, but no mention was ever made of his latest dastardly deed.

As difficult as it was for him to believe, Carl finally concluded that, once again, the ‘deed’ had not been completely accomplished.

The cold-blooded killer further concluded that that young fireman had to be one, unbelievably tough bastard.

Oh well…That would teach him to try to kill somebody in a ‘hospital’.

Carl cursed his bad luck.

Now, the cops would be keeping his quarry protected.

Now, in order to succeed, the killer realized he would need to be much more ‘creative’—er, destructive.

Iverson doused the brown wig in his hands with baby powder. The long brown strands of nylon instantly turned gray. He placed the powdered item beside the nearly ankle-length dress, and the ridiculously large purse, that he had purchased at a local ‘Thrift’ store, the day before.

Carl smiled down at his latest ‘clever’ disguise.

Tomorrow, he would ‘eliminate’ that damn fireman—once and for all!

He turned his attention to the electrical components, rolls of tape and stacks of plastic explosives that were resting on his coffee table. The ex-mob enforcer’s sick smile broadened into an even sicker grin. ‘Along with most—if not all—of the hospital’s sixth floor,’ Iverson silently—and sickly—predicted.

After a ‘minor miscalculation’ had caused both of his own eardrums to be blown out, Carl wasn’t exactly keen on working with ‘explosives’ again, but the cops would never allow him to get close enough to kill the fireman any ‘other’ way. So his options were extremely limited.

Over coffee, Roy DeSoto had voiced his concerns—about the government’s decision to leave Carl Iverson ‘on the loose’—with his Captain.

Hank Stanley’s discussion with his senior paramedic led the equally concerned fire officer to place an urgent phone call to headquarters.

A countywide call was put out for ‘off-duty firemen who would be willing to take on a special assignment.’

Once word of what the ‘special assignment’ was got out, headquarters quickly had far more ‘willing bodies’ than were needed.

All of that ‘advance organization’ apparently paid off, because, by 06:00 the following morning, the first shift of volunteers had arrived at Rampart.

Handy-talkies were handed out, that would allow the firemen to communicate with Rampart’s own security people, everybody was briefed, and, by 06:15, there was an off-duty LA County fireman in position at every single one of the huge hospitals many entryways—and exits.

Along with an HT, each of the off-duty firefighters had been handed a photocopy of Carl Iverson’s mug shot.

The volunteers had vowed that they were not going to allow Mr. Iverson to make a third attempt on their brother’s life.

At approximately 09:00 that same morning, an old woman exited Carl Iverson’s apartment building and climbed into a waiting cab.

Nobody paid the dowdy old broad—or the bulging handbag that she was carrying—the slightest bit of attention, including the Organized Crime Task Force’s two special agents, who had been assigned to keep a certain ‘person of interest’ under constant surveillance.

Once again, Craig Brice just happened to be ‘in the right place, at the right time’.

The paramedic had accompanied his stroke patient to the hospital and was now standing in front of the ER’s Nurses’ Station, waiting for his partner to come and pick him up.

Craig was relieved to find Rick Belmont, from 48’s, posted at the ER’s entrance, when their ambulance pulled up. If the paramedic hadn’t been ‘on duty’, he would have had his own ‘special assignment’.

The bored fireman watched an old lady—with an absurdly huge handbag—step onto the elevator and wondered if the woman was smuggling contraband food items up to one the patients.

Less than two minutes later, the elevator doors reopened and the old woman reappeared.

The old lady bore a strong resemblance to John’s assailant. In fact, the woman could’ve been Carl Iverson’s moth—Brice suddenly recalled that John’s killer was fond of disguises. ‘O-or Carl Iverson, himself!’ he silently realized and determined he would take a ‘closer’ look. The paramedic started heading toward the old hag—on a collision course.

Sure enough! The two moving bodies collided in the middle of the crowded hospital corridor.

Craig’s ‘up close and personal’ collision with the old lady allowed him to both see the five o’clock shadow on her—er, his homely face and feel the hard weapon that was concealed beneath her—er, his buttoned up bosom—er, chest. “Pardon me, Mam,” the paramedic promptly apologized. “I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right?”

Carl saw the fireman’s lips moving, but couldn’t hear what was being said. Iverson simply nodded and then quickly took his leave.

It was then that Craig realized that both of the man’s hands were now empty. He swallowed hard and hurried over to where Hank Stanley was standing.

The off-duty Captain was coordinating the department’s ‘creep watch’ in Emergency Receiving.

“Carl Iverson is here, Captain,” Craig solemnly reported. “He’s dressed like an old woman. I saw him step into—and out of—the elevator. He just took off down the hall.” The paramedic suddenly looked even more solemn than he sounded. “Captain, Iverson came down without his handbag,”

Stanley’s already lurching stomach suddenly formed an enormous knot. He passed the on-duty paramedic his radio. “You try to find him! I’ll try to find the handbag!”

Craig nodded and went racing off down the crowded hospital corridor, in the direction Iverson had just vanished in.

Hank did an about face and began heading for the elevator—also at a dead run. “We need to get everybody off the sixth floor!” the fire officer loudly declared, as he went racing past Dr. Brackett.

The physician’s face instantly filled with both understanding—and alarm. Kel ran over to the Nurses’ Station and snatched the phone up from its counter. “Yes! This is Dr. Brackett! Begin an immediate emergency evacuation of the sixth floor!”

Craig caught back up to the cold-blooded killer just in time to watch him disappear into to the basement’s stairwell. He halted just outside the closed door and raised the radio in his right hand. “Brice…in Emergency Receiving,” he breathlessly reported in. “Mr. Storey…Carl Iverson just ran down…into the basement…near the Lab…Iverson is dressed…like an old lady…and he is…carrying a gun!”

“Roger that, Brice!” the head of Rampart General Hospital’s security acknowledged. “Storey out!”

Hank Stanley stood in the ridiculously slow-moving elevator, his entire being willing it to operate faster. “C’mon! C’mon!” the Captain continued to urge, this time, speaking to it right out loud.

Stanley stepped out onto the sixth floor and addressed the nearest nurse. “That old woman who was just up here—where did she go?”

“She stepped into the visitor’s lounge for a couple a’ seconds—and then left,” the bewildered woman obligingly informed him.

Stanley stopped, just inside the lounge, and his darting eyes began a quick, but careful, reconnoiter of the relatively small space. The Captain’s racing heart suddenly skipped a beat.

There, setting on top of the coffee vending machine, was the old woman’s ‘purse’.

Hank didn’t bother to ‘crank’ one of the room’s two windows open. He just hurled the little lounge’s coffee table through one of them. The fire officer carefully removed the bulging handbag from the top of the coffee machine and proceeded to fling the thing—just as far as he possibly could—out the ‘opened’ window. The cringing Captain then threw himself down onto the carpeted floor and covered his un-helmeted head with both of his arms.

Patrolman Jack Stafford had been standing guard outside the open door to Room 604 for the past four-and-a-half hours. He heard the eardrum-shattering sound of something powerful exploding and felt the whole building rock. The officer immediately drew his weapon and then proceeded to retreat into the injured fireman’s hospital room.

Roy had just returned from his two-hour break and Chet was just about to take his leave, when the explosion occurred.

Kelly heard the blast and felt the floor shake beneath his boots. “What the hell was that?” he asked Gage’s armed guard, as the guy suddenly ducked into the room.

“Sounded like somebody may have just set off a rat-trap!” Roy alarmedly determined and directed an extremely anxious gaze in the hunk a’ cheese’s direction. The paramedic was even more dismayed to discover that his lightly sedated buddy’s eyes were both wide open. He reached out and pressed the nurses’ call button.

Kelly considered the vertical paramedic’s nonsensical reply over for a few moments. Then his mustached face scrunched up a might. “Huh-uh?”

“Please…tell me…that guy didn’t…bring a bomb…into this hospital…” the horizontal paramedic pleaded, looking and sounding somewhat panic-stricken.

Gawd, how DeSoto wished he could tell him that.

But, at the moment, a bomb was the only logical explanation for the explosion they’d just heard—and felt.

Roy’s silence caused his already extremely upset-looking partner to appear even more agitated.

Johnny’s slightly sedated brain suddenly registered something and his distraught face filled with a look of absolute horror. His being there had placed the whole damn hospital in danger!

The patient struggled to sit up. “First, he attacks the nurses…on this floor! Now, he’s attacking…everybody in the building!”

Roy and Chet did their damnedest to keep their highly agitated, severely injured buddy in his bed.

Captain Stanley uncovered his head and gave it a quick shake. The rattled fire officer exhaled an audible sigh of relief and carefully picked himself up off of the floor of the lounge.

He saw that the space he had been occupying on the carpeting had been outlined by shards of broken glass, and gave his head another quick shake.

Hank then crossed—er, crunched over to the little room’s blown out—er, blown in windows and took a quick look.

Well, the table he’d tossed out hadn’t hit anybody, and there were no ‘bodies’ visible down below.

Because the handbag had exploded in mid-air, and because the blast did not occur in a confined space, and because the ICU’s Visitors’ Lounge was located at the back of the building, the powerful bomb’s damage appeared to be limited to just a lot of shattered windows—and nerves.

“Ga-age!” Stanley muttered beneath his breath and went racing back out of the room.

Hank halted just outside the ICU Ward’s double-doored entrance and cautiously pushed one of the swinging portals open a crack. “Captain Hank Stanley!” he called down the deserted corridor. “Los Angeles County Fire Department!” he added for good measure and flashed Gage’s armed guard his badge and photo I.D..

“Come ahead!” the cop called back. “But keep your hands open and your arms out to the sides!”

The Captain re-pocketed his wallet, slowly entered the Ward and did just as he was directed.

Prior to allowing the Captain access to Room 604, the armed cop gave the fireman’s credentials a much closer inspection. Finally satisfied, as to their visitor’s intentions and identity, the police officer waved the fire officer into the room.

Hank heaved another audible sigh of relief and stepped into Gage’s hospital room. Alas, his relief was short-lived.

Two of his guys, along with an orderly and a nurse, were currently engaged in a struggle with the room’s critically injured occupant.

Well, the only thing the nurse was actually struggling with was the recently filled hypodermic syringe she was wielding.

“You guys…gotta get me…outta here!” the bed-ridden paramedic implored and attempted, once again, to rise up from his hospital bed.

“At ease!” Stanley sternly ordered and stepped right up beside his antsy, injured crewman.

Whether it was as a result of the syringe’s contents, or his command, the patient suddenly went completely limp.

That is, until the hypo’ed paramedic happened to notice the lacerations on his boss’ arms. “Ca-ap…you’re bleeding…all over my bed!” he anxiously exclaimed and tried, once again, to sit up.

Stanley shoved him back onto his pillows. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he replied with a warm smile. Hank gave his injured forearms a disinterested glance. “Guess I must a’ got hit with some flying glass.” He glanced around. “Everybody okay in here?”

“We are no-ow,” Roy relievedly replied. “Here…You better let me have a look at those cuts,” the fireman further realized and sat their bleeding Captain down on his cot.

Craig had been perfectly content to remain on ‘his’ side of the basement door. That is, until he recalled that the hospital’s Lab was filled with technicians, and that those technicians could be used as hostages.

So the fireman had stealthily slipped into the stairwell and cautiously made his way down to the Lab.

Brice had the laboratory evacuated and was just about to follow the last of its fleeing workers back up the stairs, when the sound of running feet came echoing down the deserted hallway.

Craig raced up the basement stairs—two steps at a time. He had no notion of how he was going to accomplish his task. He just knew that the armed killer had to be kept out of Emergency Receiving.

Unfortunately, there was no way to lock it, and nothing within close proximity was heavy enough to block it. He glanced around.

The ER was already in a state of complete pandemonium, on account of the explosion.

He dreaded to think what the ward would be like once Iverson arrived waving—and perhaps even firing—his weapon. Craig gasped in exasperation and peered through the portal’s narrow glass window.

If the fireman timed things just right, he just might be able to knock the bad guy back down the basement steps.

Brice waited until the heavy wooden portal was almost halfway open, before charging into it—full force.

“Ahhh-ahhh!” Carl Iverson shrieked, as he was suddenly shoved back and off-balance. His left arm flailed desperately, in search of a handhold.

So the cold-blooded killer continued to sail backwards—and right off the top of the landing.

Craig grimaced and grabbed his bruised right shoulder. The pained paramedic then snuck another quick peak through the extremely hard portal’s little, narrow window. He watched in satisfaction as Iverson went toppling—head over heels—back down the basement stairs.

“Don’t move!…Or I’ll shoot!” Storey screamed—er, threatened at the top of his heaving lungs, as he—and three armed members of his security detail—caught up with their fleeing quarry at the base of the basement stairway.

Craig jerked, as a shot suddenly rang out and up from the basement stairwell. He reached out with his left hand and slowly pulled the heavy portal back open. “Anybody down there require medical assistance?” he anxiously inquired.

Brice was not the slightest bit heartbroken to hear that particular bit of news. If fact, the paramedic heaved his third sigh of relief, in as many minutes.

Brice’s first stop, after being waylaid by Dr. Brackett, was ICU’s Room 604.

The paramedic strolled into John’s hospital room with his right shoulder immobilized and his right arm in a sling. He saw that the person he’d come to see was either asleep, or sedated. “I, uh, just wanted John to know that Carl Iverson won’t be hurting anyone…anymore.”

Craig gave his injured arm a glum glance. “I had a little ‘run-in’ with a door. What’d you do to your arms?”

“I had a little ‘run-in’ with a bomb,” the Captain replied, using the paramedic’s own vernacular. Hank stared at the new arrival, looking somewhat astonished. “How on earth did you ever manage to recognize Iverson?”

“I saw Belmont with a photo in his hands, when I first arrived,” Craig calmly replied. “Logic dictated that it was a picture of John’s assailant.”

Stanley was even more astounded. “You were able to I.D. Iverson—right through his disguise—just by glancing at his photo for a second?

Craig nodded. “A quick glance was all that I required. You see, I have a photographic memory.”

‘Humph. He actually is a walking rulebook,’ Roy realized, solely to himself.

“A photographic memory,” Hank dazedly repeated. “A fact for which we can all be eternally grateful!” The Captain’s gaze fell upon his peacefully sleeping paramedic. ‘Especially you, pal…’ he solemnly, and silently, mused. “Especially you,” he quietly restated, right out loud.

Later that same explosive day…

His backside was unbelievably sore, from having to lie in that damn bed for so long, and the rest of his muscles ached with fatigue. In short, the fireman felt like he’d just finished pulling a double-shift. Yup! The patient awoke feeling mighty miserable.

That is, until his blinking, bleary eyes focused upon his room’s doorway—his room’s empty doorway.

The ‘hunk a cheese’ slowly turned his heavily bandaged head and aimed his hope-filled gaze in his reading roommate’s direction.

His partner went on to explain how Brice had positively identified Iverson and then alerted their captain to both Iverson’s presence and the bomb’s. Roy then further related how their captain had neutralized the bomb threat and how Craig had helped hospital security neutralize the killer.

Following his morning ‘wrestling match’, John Gage had suffered another seizure, and his physician was becoming quite concerned.

The doctor strolled down the deserted hallway, into Room 604 and right up to the foot of his traumatic-brain-injury patient’s hospital bed. “Hi, Roy.”

“Hi, Doc. Much better. Now that I know they got the guy that’s been doin’ his damnedest to kill me.”

The patient pointed to the closed-circuit TV camera that was mounted on the ceiling directly above his bed. “There’s no privacy in ‘I See You’. A person can’t even burp, or fart—or pick their nose—without somebody watching…or listening.”

Dr. Kurtz was amused to no end. “You do a lot of ‘burping’, ‘farting’ and ‘nose-picking’, do you?”

“No!” his patient adamantly stated. “At least, no more than the average person. But, what little I do do, I’d like to be able to do it in private.”

There was a metal clipboard hanging from a hook on the bed’s footboard. Paul picked it up and began perusing its contents. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to remain here for awhile. You are not completely out of danger…yet. This latest seizure proves that.”

The look of extreme disappointment on the young fireman’s face was quickly replaced by one of confusion. “This latest seizure?” John nervously repeated and shot his roommate a questioning glance.

‘Sheesh! No wonder my muscles are so sore,’ John silently realized, and then asked aloud, “What does that mean—exactly?”

“For one thing, it means that your badly bruised brain needs more time to heal. It also means that, if your lungs can handle it, I’m going to be placing you back under heavy sedation…for the next four to five days—at least.”

“Because this whole ‘light sedation’ approach is obviously not working.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed into two stern slits. “And because you can’t fight your sedative—or your caregivers—when you’re in a chemically-induced coma.”

Kurtz’s stern gaze softened—some, and he continued. “Fact is, if you hadn’t developed a moderate case of aspiration pneumonia, and gone into full respiratory arrest on us, you would be under heavy sedation right now. It was only on account of your acute respiratory distress, that the barbiturates were discontinued.”

His patient contemplated that latest bit of news over, and continued to refrain from commenting.

“I’ve ordered another EEG and a respiratory consult. As soon as I have the results, I’ll be back,” Paul promised.

Kurtz flashed the young fireman a sympathetic smile—and then quickly took his leave.

John’s surgeon stepped off the elevator and into Emergency Receiving. Paul was pleasantly surprised to spot a pretty, familiar face. “Dixie!”

“Hi!” Miss McCall returned the handsome young doctor’s greeting with a grin. “What brings you down here?”

The nurse nodded, and the two old friends started heading for the Doctors’ Lounge.

“I hear you had a bad case of the flu. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

The nurse gave him another nod and her pretty face filled with concern. “How’s he doing, Paul?”

Kurtz couldn’t help but smile. He knew that Dixie knew such information could only be shared with next of kin, or medical personnel directly involved with the patient’s case. “Don’t tell me,” he teased. “He’s your ‘brother’. Right?”

“Your fireman friend comes from an exceedingly large family,” the doctor deduced and returned the woman’s grin. “He survived that psychopath’s latest attempt to ‘do him in’. But he became pretty agitated,” Paul winced, as he recalled the surveillance video he’d just reviewed, showing his traumatic-brain-injury patient embroiled in a battle with his caregivers. “The nurse finally managed to get him sedated. But I’m afraid all that exertion brought about another seizure. I’ve ordered an EEG and a complete respiratory work-up. If his lungs can handle it, I intend to keep him completely ‘zonked out’ for the next four to five days, to give ‘things’ a better chance to heal.”

“Would it be okay for me to go up and sit with him for a few minutes?” John’s worried ‘sister’ suddenly wondered.

John’s doctor smiled and nodded. “He’s awake right now, for his lung-function tests. Just try to keep him as calm and as quiet as possible.”

“John Roderick Gage, what am I going to do with you?” Miss McCall insincerely scolded, as she came stepping up to her dear friend’s hospital bed.

The paramedic exchanged a mischievous glance with his partner. “I don’t know, Dix. What are you going to do with me?”

Dixie was relieved to find that her young fireman friend was on the mend. She could always tell when John Gage was feeling better, because he would begin to flirt with her—again. “Not much, I’m afraid,” she flirted right back. “I’m under strict orders to keep you as calm and as quiet as possible.”

“Sorry I haven’t been up to see you sooner. I’ve been out, almost an entire week, with the flu.”

“See-ee,” John insincerely scolded back. “I told you you looked sick!…Goo-ood, but sick,” the paramedic wisely clarified.

And it was Dixie’s turn to grin. The RN’s smile quickly faded, however. “My first shift back sure started off with a ‘bang’.”

Gage suddenly looked equally glum. “Yeah. Well…My whole year started off with a ‘bang’.”

Dr. David Bentley entered the room just then, closely followed by Samantha Greyling, and saved Dixie from having to comment.

Dr. Bentley was a pulmonologist and Sammi was the respiratory therapist who had loaned Johnny her Sign Language books.

“John,” Bentley cooly acknowledged, “Dr. Kurtz has asked me to examine your lungs.”

Miss Greyling pulled her equipment-filled cart right up beside the patient’s hospital bed and warmly returned his greeting. “Hi, Johnny! I spent the Holidays in Acapulco. Just got back last night. I show up for work this morning, only to find out that you are in ICU. Well, I’m gonna do my very best to help get you out of here.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that,” John assured her. “By the way, I had my first conversation with a deaf person.”

“Not too good, actually. Not too good. In fact, the guy tried to blow my brains out.”

“When I signed ‘fire’…” the gunshot victim paused for effect, “he did!”

Sammi’s eyes about doubled in size and her pert little bottom jaw dropped open.

Dr. Kurtz paid his TBI patient another visit—as promised. Paul was both pleased and displeased to find the young man awake. “Your lungs are good to go!” the doctor declared as he stepped back up to the foot of the fireman’s hospital bed. “Your latest Electroencephalogram shows elevated alpha wave activity.”

The paramedic exchanged a confused glance with his partner. “Is that what’s causing the seizures?”

“Not necessarily. Your TBI slowed down alpha wave production. Fatigue, emotional and physical distress, such as being nearly ‘blown up’, and even severe pain, can all contribute to the production of more alpha wave activity. One, or more, of your medications may also be a contributing factor. We’ve been pumping massive amounts of penicillin into your system, and extremely high doses of antibiotics have been known to trigger seizures. Hell, anything that disturbs the normal pattern of electrical activity in the brain can lead to a seizure…including, seizures. Which is why they need to stop. You’ve suffered two tonic-clonic seizures—so far. I don’t want to wait for you to suffer a third one. A-and, since anticonvulsants, alone, don’t seem to be doing the job…”

His patient completed his train of thought for him, “You want to place me in a chemically induced coma.”

His patient pretended to appear pensive. “Let’s see…Do I wanna spend the next four to five days in here conscious?…semi-conscious?…or unconscious?” the paramedic glared up at the prying eye on the ceiling above his bed. “If you wanna knock me out, Doc, go right ahead. I have no problem—whatsoever—with that.”

John’s entire body began to involuntarily ‘tense up’. He turned to his roommate, looking for reassurance.

“Hey,” Roy gave his apprehensive partner’s left wrist a reassuring squeeze, “don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

Johnny gave his understanding buddy a look of undying gratitude and forced himself to relax…some.

The RN removed a fully loaded hypodermic syringe from the tray and promptly emptied its contents into the patient’s IV port.

Roy continued to keep a comforting grip on Johnny’s right wrist, until long after his buddy had drifted off into oblivion.

When John Gage re-opened his eyes—five days later—he discovered, much to his delight, that there was no longer a closed-circuit TV camera on the ceiling, directly above his bed. He blinked and looked around.

Sure enough! He had been moved out of ‘I See You’ and into a regular hospital room.

The thick bandage that had completely encircled his head was gone. A much smaller, but equally thick, 4x4-gauze patch was now taped over his left temple.

The recovering TBI patient received a string of visitors that morning, that left him smiling.

Dr. Kurtz came by twice: once, during his usual patient rounds, and then again, a half-hour later, to give John Gage the results of his latest EEG. Brain wave activity now appeared perfectly normal. There had been no further seizures, and Paul had been tremendously pleased to announce that, the previous day, he had upgraded the paramedic’s condition from ‘serious’ to ‘stable’. The physician finally felt that the young fireman was out of danger.

The LACFD’s Chief Engineer also dropped by. Jenner told John that he just wanted to say ‘Hi’.

Special Agent Rousseau stopped by to say how sorry he, and the entire Organized Crime Task Force, was, to hear that a third attempt had been made on John’s life.

Johnny was still smiling when Roy and Chet showed up in his ‘regular’ room, early that evening.

Johnny thanked his pals—profusely—for their support. He thanked Roy for putting his family life on hold for him…and for getting their captain involved in that whole ‘Iverson’ business. He said that he shuddered to think what would have happened if Captain Stanley hadn’t contacted HQ. He told Roy that, in a roundabout way, he had really saved his life, and that he was extremely grateful for that fact.

Just as his shiftmates were about to leave, Craig Brice poked his head into the room. “Hope you don’t mind. I heard you were allowed visitors…”

Judging by the uniform he was wearing and the HT he was carrying, the paramedic was ‘on duty’.

“And I heard that you saved my life—again. Thanks, man!” Gage flashed Brice a grateful grin and extended his un-IV’ed hand.

Brice took it and shook it. “If you hadn’t intervened, it is quite possible that I may have been seriously injured—or even killed—outside of the Diamond Groove Disco that night. I was merely returning the favor.”

Brice was completely taken aback by the question. “I…I don’t know,” he truthfully stated. “I’ve never done it before.”

Johnny gave his newest visitor a strange stare, but his enthusiasm remained un-dampened. “Well, I don’t know if our ‘off duty’ schedules will ever line up. But, if they ever do, we’d be glad to teach yah,” he offered and motioned to his two regular fishing companions.

Roy heard the offer and just had to grin. “If you expect Craig, here, to learn anything about ‘catching fish’, he prob’ly shouldn’t be hanging around the three of us.”

John gave his grinning partner a ‘Ha. Ha. Very funny,’ look, and then turned back to Craig. “Don’t pay any attention to him. We have been known to bring a few fish home…on occasion.”

“Yeah,” Kelly quickly concurred. “On the occasions we can find a local ‘Fish Market’ that’s open.”

Gage’s gaze locked upon Kelly and he gave the purveyor of ‘gloom and doom’ an irritated glare, as well. “Don’t listen to him, either,” he strongly urged.

“I think I might like that, John…” Craig realized, much to his amazement, and actually smiled.

Kelly suddenly felt compelled to pinch himself. “Godzilla…going fishing…with the Smog Monster,” he dazedly declared, and slowly and sadly shook his head. “Ma-an, I must a’ stumbled into an ‘alternate universe’!”

Johnny beamed a broad grin in his mind-boggled buddy’s direction. “Chet, you exist in an ‘alternate universe!” he teased right back, and then turned to his fellow firemen. “Every once in awhile, he just manages to stumble into the ‘real world’.”