TV Versus REALITY

Part 2

 

 

Meanwhile, clear across the county...

 

Joseph ‘Rocky’ Rockford pulled up to 29 Cove Road, Malibu.

 

The elderly gentleman parked his battered green pick-up truck on the paved lot beside a snazzy new silver Firebird. He climbed stiffly out of the truck and up onto the top porch step of his son’s house trailer.

 

Rocky pulled a key from a pant pocket and unlocked the abandoned-looking abode's front door. “Jimmy?” he quietly called out and then entered without knocking. The man was more than a little surprised to find his son standing there in his kitchen, staring back at him.

 

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

 

“Welcome home, Son!” Rocky exclaimed, when he’d finally recovered, and quickly passed the trailer's occupant his mail.

 

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

 

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

 

“Actually, I was just going back to bed,” Rockford corrected. “And no, you didn't wake me,” he assured his dad. “It was the phone. ‘Somebody’ must’ve turned off my answering machine…”

 

That ‘somebody’ stood there for a few seconds, feigning innocence, then he held the cold, empty container in his right hand up. “You want a cup?”

 

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

 

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

 

Jim suppressed a grin and then informed his disturbing dad, “Some fireman.”

 

His dad's eyebrows arched. “A fireman? What did he want?”

 

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

 

Rocky’s face suddenly lit up. “Was that on the level?”

 

Jim released his grin and nodded.

 

His father looked hopeful. “Does this mean you'll have some time for that fishing trip we've been talking about,” he paused, “for so-o lo-ong?”

 

“Gee. I don't know, Rocky,” his son teased. “I just got back and I am awfully tired. Why, I'm so exhausted I'm not sure I could even hold on to a fishing rod.” He saw his father's expression turning glum again and quickly added, “But I'd sure be willing to give it a try!”

 

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

 

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

 

“This afternoon's fine!” Rocky assured him. He saw his son reaching for one of the many unfolded newspapers stacked up on his kitchen table. “You can catch up on the news after you catch up on your sleep! Now, go back to bed! I want us to get an early start this afternoon!” His father started heading for the exit.

 

“What about the coffee?”

 

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

 

Rockford returned his grin. “See yah, Rocky! Oh, and Rocky?”

 

His dad glanced back again.

 

“Don't make it too early, huh?”

 

Rocky rolled his eyes. “Goodni—morning, Son!” he exclaimed, and quickly locked himself back out of the trailer.

 

Jim Rockford smiled and began yawning his way back to his bedroom.

 

 

Later that afternoon, in the sleeping quarters of LA County Fire Station 51, two men were sprawled out on some bunks.

 

One was lying on his stomach...and had his face buried in a pillow.

 

The other was lying on his back...and had his face buried in a book.

 

The Station’s tones sounded.

 

“Squad 51…”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Back at 29 Cove Road, Malibu, Rocky came honking up to the house-trailer and parked beside his son's shiny new silver Firebird again. Once again, he got out and hurried up onto the porch. Only, this time, he didn’t need to reach for his key.

 

Jim jerked the front door open for him. “What took you so long, Rocky?” he kidded. “I thought you'd never get here!”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And it was Jim’s turn to roll his eyes. He poured them both some coffee. Then he took his steaming cup and collapsed onto a chair at his kitchen table, which, he noted in amazement, was piled high with yesterday's news...and the day's before…and the day's before that...etc., etc.. 'I've been gone a lot longer than I realized,' he realized and pulled one of the papers from the stack.

 

His dad reached over and grabbed three or four of the unread papers, himself.

 

“What are you doing?” Rockford cautiously inquired.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Jim’s replied with a question of his own. “Who said anything about reading? I just like to look at the pictures,” he confessed and glanced down at the front page of the paper in his hands. “A picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words, anyways...” his voice trailed off and he sat there, staring down at the touching photo of an LA County Fire Department paramedic leaning over Victor Nardis.

 

He noticed the numbers 5 1 on the helmet in the fireman's lap. 51... Wasn't that the number of the Station that Captain said had the problem? 'If Victor Nardis has gotten you guys involved with Nicholas Gardino,' he silently told the fireman in the photo, 'you would have a problem all right...a BIG one!'

 

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

 

“Sorry, did you say something, Dad?” Jim wondered, snapping back to reality.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Clear back across the county, at Station 51…

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes, it certainly would!”

 

“I was afraid of that.”

 

“Why?”

 

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

 

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

 

“The paramedic in the picture?”

 

“Yes.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Thank you, Mr. Rockford!”

 

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

 

Stanley repeated the number and copied it down.

 

“Oh, and Captain?”

 

“Yes?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Same to you!” Hank declared in dead earnest.

 

The phone went dead.

 

Stanley got the dial tone back and started punching in the numbers he'd just been given.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What can I do for you, Captain?”

 

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

 

“—What plane wreck?”

 

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

 

“—You have information concerning that?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I believe we do—”

 

“—Then I suggest you contact either the CHP or the LA County Sheriff’s Department.”

 

“You don't understand. We—”

 

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

 

The phone in his hand went dead. Stanley frowned and slammed it down. “The twit kept interrupting! He wouldn't let me explain anything!” he glumly explained to his engine crew.

 

He and his disappointed men suddenly tensed, as the Station’s alarming alarm went off.

 

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

 

 

Less than a minute later, two sinister looking black sedans pulled up and parked in the little paved lot of the furniture mart across the street from the Fire Station. They arrived just in time for their occupants to see Engine 51 disappear off down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

 

A man got out of one of the cars and stepped up to the passenger window of the other.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Lenny picked the Station’s back door lock. Then he and Phillip pulled their guns and quietly entered the building.

 

The two creeps crept across the deserted garage.

 

Lenny unlocked the front door and let their six equally creepy companions in.

 

Phillip motioned for them to be quiet.

 

Then they fanned out to search the place.

 

 

In the day room, Henry was lapping away at his water bowl. He heard footsteps in the garage and froze. The hair bristled on his back. As Phillip and Lenny stepped cautiously into the room, the dog recognized the blond man from the park that morning and gave the guy another, low, deep-throated growl.

 

The two bad guys beat a hasty retreat as the growl quickly gave way to vicious barking.

 

Henry let out a howl and went racing off after the men.

 

 

The rest of the Station’s unwelcome visitors regrouped in the garage and then headed over to investigate all that barking.

 

They found their boss, and his chauffeur, treed on a desk in the Captain's office.

 

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

 

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

 

The firebug slammed the door, shutting the dog up inside the room.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Twenty minutes later, DeSoto backed the Squad in.

 

He and Brice sat there in the Station’s apparatus bay, staring at the two strange gentlemen standing in front of their call desk.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Captain Stanley and his skeleton engine crew came stepping up.

 

“What's with Henry?” Hank demanded, over the dog's constant and annoying yapping.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

The six firemen obligingly joined the Captain in his office.

 

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

 

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

 

“Station 51…”

 

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

 

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

 

They passed the extremely cautious Captain their official Fire Department photo I.D.s.

 

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

 

 

One hour and fifteen minutes later, a cab pulled up, in the pouring rain, and deposited its passengers in the parking lot behind Station 51.

 

Kelly paid the cab's driver off and the vehicle vanished.

 

Chet hurried over to his car and started rolling his windows up. That's when he spotted an unfamiliar automobile parked in the space beside his. His stomach knotted. But then, he noticed it was sporting official Fire Department plates. Kelly relaxed, for an instant, and turned his undivided attention back to John—who was standing by the back door, hunched over his laundry basket, using his body to shelter his just dried uniforms from the pelting drops of water.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Uh-uh...I'm John,” Gage confessed.

 

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

 

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

 

Sensing that neither of their two disappointed visitors had the slightest desire to talk to him, Chet turned to follow his vanishing friend.

 

A loud, annoying buzzing sound went off, repeatedly, and caused a slight detour in his course.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled under his breath and headed over to answer the front door.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

John crossed over to the Station’s front door and pulled the heavy portal open.

 

A little dark-haired girl in a purple raincoat with a matching hood appeared. She was standing there on the porch, holding onto the handlebars of a brand new, bright yellow 10 speed, and looking a little nervous.

 

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

 

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

 

“He-ey! Wait a minute!” John called after her. “What—?” he saved his breath.

 

The bike was a 10 speed all right, and the girl was already halfway down the block.

 

He stared after the kid in confusion for a few moments and then unfolded the slip of paper in his right hand.

 

It was a note...addressed to him...and it said—John’s jaw dropped, his heart skipped a beat or two and his blood ran cold.

 

The realization that Stinky was probably watching him was the only thing that kept him from staggering back into the call desk.

 

He regained his composure enough to be able to walk and went striding off in the direction of the washroom. He saw his shadow standing in the doorway to the locker room, shooting him a questioning glance. “You were right! I bought some magazines from her last week and she forgot to give me my receipt,” he lied and waved the slip of paper, that was still in his right hand, through the air.

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

Kelly poked his head into the washroom and irritatedly inquired, “What's takin' yah so long in the john, John?”

 

There was no reply.

 

He stiffened and stepped inside to find out why. The room's frosted glass window was wide open and there were no feet visible beneath any of the stall doors. He picked a crumpled slip of paper up from the floor in front of the window, uncrumpled it and read:

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

John raced up to the entrance to the Municipal Park in Charter Oak and slid to a halt on the rain-slick pavement.

 

He noted the time on his watch and realized he'd just set a new World Record for covering five city blocks in a downpour. He squinted off down the street and saw a sinister-looking black sedan approaching, at a crawl.

 

The car stopped twenty yards away and one of its back doors opened.

 

His landlady was shoved out onto the sidewalk, where she dropped to her knees.

 

The elderly woman’s wrists were bound, her mouth was taped shut, her eyes were blindfolded and her complexion was cyanotic, the paramedic noted as he ran up and dropped to his knees beside her. “Ah-ah, Annie!” he gasped breathlessly and stared at the traumatized woman through blurred vision. “I'm sorry. I'm so-o...sorry!”

 

Then, before John could do or say anything more, two mean-looking dudes latched onto his arms and started dragging him away from her.

 

“Let me go-o!” Gage gasped breathlessly. “She can't breathe…She's got asthma…She needs...a doctor!”

 

The landlady's protesting tenant was forced into the sedan's back seat and the car sped off, tires squealing.

 

 

Less than 30 seconds later…

 

Chet pulled up in his car and screeched to a stop.

 

He scrambled out and hurried over to the only soul in sight. “Mrs. Gereau! Are you alright?” he inquired and tenderly removed the tape from her mouth so she could answer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

In the back seat of the sinister-looking black sedan…

 

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

 

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

 

Their hostage had heard enough...enough to know he didn't wanna be a hostage! John decided he was going to part company with these sickos—the very next chance he got!

 

 

Which turned out to be at the very next stoplight.

 

When the mean dude on his left released his arm to pull a hunk of rope and a blindfold from his coat pocket, John elbowed the guy—hard. Then he shoved the gun barrel out of his ribs and made a break for it.

 

Gage got the door open and one foot on the pavement before someone grabbed him around the waist. A blunt object was pressed, very forcefully, into one of his kidneys and he got jerked back into the car.

 

'Ahh-ah man!' Gage groaned mentally. 'Now I've got them upset with me!' he gasped, as the guy he'd elbowed elbowed him back—only ten times harder! At the same time, the guy on his right shoved the barrel of his gun into his ribcage so forcefully that it felt like he must be trying to give him another navel. Gage gasped again and then doubled over. 'Ahh-ah man!' his mind morbidly repeated, 'This just keeps getting worse an' worse!'

 

 

Clear across the county…

 

The steady downpour had cut the Rockford Family’s fishing trip short.

 

A soggy, but somewhat successful, James Rockford returned to his trailer at 29 Cove Road, Malibu and changed into some dry clothes.

 

He then picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. “Hello, Dennis? How would you and Peggy like to come over to my place tonight for a fish-fry?”

 

“Thanks, Jim-bo,” Dennis answered. “But I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain-check. I gotta work tonight.”

 

“Oh? Sorry to hear that. What's up?”

 

“Kidnapping...assault...all kinds of good garbage,” Dennis glumly informed him.

 

“Speaking of garbage,” Rockford said with a snap of his fingers, “have you fingered Nick Gardino's henchmen for that plane wreck, yet?”

 

There was a brief pause before Becker came back. “What do you know about that?”

 

Rockford looked confused. “Didn't that fireman call you?”

 

“Yeah...yeah. Now that you mention it, a fireman did call.”

 

Rockford's confused look turned to one of annoyance. “Ahh-ah, Dennis! Didn't you even bother to listen to him?”

 

“It was out of our jurisdiction! I told him to call the CHP. And, besides…” Dennis declared in his defense, “I was right in the middle of a booking!”

 

Rockford looked tremendously disappointed, and then even more annoyed. “Dennis, that paramedic's testimony can help with the case. Gardino's men have been harassing hi—”

 

“—How do you know all this?” Becker butted in.

 

“Because that Captain called me first.”

 

“I see, but you couldn't help him because you were too busy fishing, right? So you sent him ta me! So, now I suppose it's all my fault!” Dennis determined, sounding more than a little annoyed himself.

 

“So now what's all your fault?” Jim cautiously inquired.

 

There was another, longer silence from the detective's end of the line. “Gardino's men assaulted a little old lady and then used her to get to the paramedic.”

 

Rockford grimaced and rubbed his suddenly throbbing forehead.

 

Dennis waited a moment or two for that bit of bad news to sink in and then solemnly continued. “We think they'll be bringing him here.”

 

Jim sank into a chair, drew a deep breath in and let it slowly escape as a sigh of deep regret and frustration. “Gardino's not that stupid!” the private detective reminded the police detective.

 

“He was stupid enough to assault an old lady and kidnap a fireman!” Dennis reminded him right back.

 

“I suppose...” Rockford conceded and then he sat there, looking thoughtful. “If I hadn't gone fishing, who knows...?” his words trailed off.

 

“Yeah,” Becker sadly concurred. “And if I had taken the time to listen to that Captain...”

 

“Okay, Dennis. We'll share the blame for what's happened and work together on this one. You got any leads?”

 

The Sergeant sighed. “Let us handle it from here out.”

 

“Dennis, I told you. I feel kind a' responsible. A few names and addresses can't hurt. You know I'll get them on my own…eventually,” he confidently added and picked a pad of paper and a pencil up from his phone table.

 

Becker exhaled another sigh, of surrender. “All right, but, if anybody asks, I didn't give them to you.” There was another silence. “Phillip Langley. Gardino's nephew. 214 West Leaver. Apartment 12…”

 

Rockford propped the phone up with his shoulder and started writing.

 

 

At Nick Gardino's beach house, five miles north of Rockford's place on Malibu Beach…

 

The black sedan pulled up and parked in the cottage's paved driveway.

 

Its identical twin pulled up a few moments later and parked right behind it.

 

Phillip turned around to examine the condition of their cargo, and cursed. The hostage was blindfolded only! “I told you I wanted him tied and gagged, too!”

 

“Yeah...well...the tape's in the other Lincoln,” the guy on Gage's right arm explained.

 

“And the rope must a' fell out on the street when Captain Courageous here stepped out of the car for a few moments back in Charter Oak,” the guy on his left added, completing their two good excuses.

 

Phillip gave them both a 'Do I have to do everything?' look. Then he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket and passed them—and their keys—back over his shoulder, along with another order. “Get him inside! I'll call Doc McKenzie.”

 

“HELP! POLICE! HE-ELP!” Captain Courageous screamed as he was dragged—blindfolded—from the car and shoved up the driveway towards the front door.

 

Given the remoteness of their location, Phillip wasn't all that bothered by their hostage's screaming. In fact, he found the paramedic's impassioned pleas for 'HE-ELP!' somewhat amusing. As he exited the car and stepped out into the rain, that sickening smile of his reappeared. “Get rid of these and get us some fresh wheels!” he told the two cars' drivers before turning and running for the cottage's front door himself.

 

“Fresh wheels?” one of the driver's grumbled disgustedly under his breath. “Who does he think he is, anyways?”

 

“John Travolta!” Lenny replied with a grin.

 

 

They dragged their uncooperative captive into the beach house.

 

'Doc McKenzie?' John thought as he was carted, kicking and screaming, down—what seemed to be—a long hallway, past—what felt like—a large window, and into a back room. 'Probably a nickname for a mob hit man!' Gage grimly guessed and struggled even harder to pull free.

 

The fireman was shoved back onto a mattress and then—while four or more very strong men held him down—somebody handcuffed his wrists to the bed's brass headboard. He struggled until he heard the handcuffs 'cli-ick', locking his wrists in place. “If you guys let me go,” the prisoner gasped breathlessly, “I promise I won't press charges!”

 

Somebody gave his metal restraints a yank to make sure they were secure and then everyone began filing out of the room.

 

John waited until the sound of his captor's heavy footsteps faded off down the hall. Then he swung around, braced himself and kicked at the metal bar holding his wrists. It didn't do anything but hurt his foot. But he kept kicking it, anyway.

 

“Cut the racket!” someone ordered down the hall.

 

Gage ignored the order and kept kicking.

 

The heavy footsteps returned.

 

The group of meanies grabbed his legs and jerked him roughly back around, nearly snapping his wrists.

 

“Please! You gotta let me go!” the prisoner pleaded, as his ankles were tied to the corner posts of the bed's brass footboard. “Honest! I don't know anythi—” he stopped suddenly, hearing the unmistakable sound of tape tearing. “No-o!” the paramedic pleaded and started thrashing his head from side to side.

 

A pair of vice-like hands latched onto his sopping wet hair and held his head still.

 

“No-o! Do-on't!” he repeated in a panic.

 

Someone else forced his jaw shut.

 

“No-o!” he continued pleading through tightly clenched teeth. “Plea—mmm-mmm-mmm!” His words trailed off, as his mouth was taped shut.

 

The group filed out again, leaving the prisoner all alone—and in total darkness.

 

John lay there, breathing very hard through his nose. The paramedic realized he was hyperventilating, but, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to catch his breath.

 

Gage grew more and more light-headed and, finally, passed right out.

 

 

James Rockford stepped up onto the porch of Nicholas Gardino’s main residence, dressed in a deliveryman's uniform. He stood there, in the pouring rain, ringing the mobster's front doorbell.

 

A maid wearing a frilly apron and white cap finally answered the door. “Ye-es?”

 

“Package for Mr. Langley…Mr. Phillip Langley,” Jim declared and held out a clipboard and pen. “I need a signature...line 16.”

 

The woman looked unsure as to what she should do. “Wait here,” she requested and disappeared from the doorway.

 

Rockford eased the door open and stepped in out of the rain.

 

“Looking for someone?” another woman's voice asked.

 

Jim looked up and saw a lovely young lady coming down the stairs in the entrance hall. “Mr. Langley,” he repeated. "Mr. Phillip Langley!”

 

The girl winced. “I wouldn't say that name so loudly if I were you. If my father hears you say that name, he'll have a fit! In fact, you should probably go before Martha tells him you're here,” she advised.

 

“Can't somebody just sign for this package?” the deliveryman wondered and motioned to the box under his left arm.

 

“Sorry,” the girl paused, hearing footsteps approaching in the hall. “You'd better go!” she re-advised.

 

Rockford took her advice. He hurried out the door, down the steps and into his borrowed delivery van. Jim glanced back towards the house.

 

Nick Gardino was standing in the open doorway, clenching his teeth and his fists. The obviously furious fellow used one of his fists to pound the doorpost.

 

'Better the doorpost than my face,' Jim realized, rather relievedly, and drove off.

 

“So-o?” Dennis said, shooing Rockford off his desk in the Detective Squad's office complex at the LAPD's main precinct, downtown LA. “Gardino and her cousin had a falling out. So-o?”

 

“So-o, this Langley character must've been acting on his own when he kidnapped the fireman.”

 

Dennis tossed some papers onto his desk and sat down. “So-o?”

 

Jim shot his police pal a look of extreme annoyance. “So-o, that would explain the stupid moves he's made.”

 

Dennis was dying to say 'So-o?' for a fourth time, but—seeing the look on his friend's face—decided against it. “I still fail to see the significance of your discovery!” he exclaimed instead, expressing the same basic sentiment as 'So-o?'.

 

“So-o, what's to keep him from making another stupid move?” Rockford frowned and lowered his gaze. “Like killing the fireman...” he finished, softly.

 

Becker lowered his eyes and the volume of his voice as well. “U-us! Gardino's men are being rounded up as we speak.”

 

Rockford shot the detective a 'Pardon me if I don't seem too impressed' look. “You don't even know where they are!”

 

“Neither do you!” Becker reminded him.

 

“No-o...” Jim thoughtfully conceded, but then smugly added, “at least, not yet!”

 

It was Dennis' turn to look unimpressed.

 

 

Back at Gardino's beach house, early the next morning...

 

John was still lying—wrists cuffed and ankles tied—in one of the back bedrooms. His eyes were still blind-folded and his mouth remained taped shut. In fact, the only two things that had changed were that his rain-soaked clothes and hair were a little less damp, and his breathing was a little less labored.

 

He'd had a fitful night. Between the discomfort caused by his restraints interfering with his circulation and being chilled to the bone by his wet wardrobe, the paramedic had pretty much spent the entire evening tossing his head back and forth in pain and shivering.

 

Gage decided he'd been lying there long enough.

 

Doc McKenzie would probably be arriving to…convince him at any moment.

 

He had nothing to lose by trying to make another break for freedom.

 

The prisoner started clanking his handcuffs against the metal bar of the headboard—making a terrible racket.

 

“Cut the clanking already!” someone shouted into the room.

 

“My maf mu mo mu ma ma-an!” John mumbled through the tape covering his mouth.

 

“The ca-an?” the person in the doorway repeated, sounding amused.

 

John nodded.

 

“Ma-ark?! Give me a hand in here!” the person called off down the hall.

 

“Now what?!” Mark irritatedly inquired as he stepped into the bedroom.

 

“He has to go to the ca-an!” the person explained, speaking through his nose in an attempt to mimic their hostage.

 

“That's a lousy idea, Andy!” Mark determined. “Langley sai—”

 

“—I don't get paid to empty bedpans!” Andy emphatically stated, but then his manner softened. “Besides, the two of us can handle this scrawny little guy!”

 

Mark reluctantly untied Gage's feet, while Andy freed his cuffed wrists from the bed's brass headboard.

 

The prisoner lay perfectly still while the cuffs were reattached. 'This is your big chance!' John kept reminding himself, 'So don't blow it!'

 

Andy jerked him up off the bed and onto his feet.

 

The two men shoved him out of the bedroom and started hauling him off down the hall.

 

John felt a warmth on the right side of his face and realized they must be passing the window.

 

That was when the scrawny little guy shoved his guards.

 

After freeing himself from his armed escort, the captive crossed his raised arms up in front of him to protect his face and then escaped his prison as well—by diving out the window.

 

There was the ridiculously loud 'clinking', and 'clattering' of glass shattering...followed closely by even louder cursing.

 

 

John continued to protect his head as he continued to fall, making an unbelievably lengthy and bruising head-over-heels descent down what could only be a rather steep—and very deep—embankment.

 

John reached the bottom of the two-hundred-and-twenty-foot cliff that Nick Gardino's beach house was built on and into.

 

“U-umph!” he grunted in agony as his tumbling body finally came to rest—on a rock . He carefully rolled off of the rock and then lay there, moaning and groaning and taking inventory.

 

No broken bones—just a lot of bruises. His dizzy head cleared enough for him to sit up, so he did.

 

He pulled the blind-fold from his eyes and winced at the sudden onslaught of blinding sunlight. He sat there, squinting off across the sandy beach at all the blue sky...and sunshine...and white-capped waves rolling in off the Pacific Ocean.

 

Under less miserable, lousy, crappy circumstances, he would have enjoyed the view. Right now, he found it depressing.

 

The views on either side of him—of endless stretches of deserted beach—were equally disheartening.

 

However, the view that greeted him when he turned around was the worst one of all. He stared up at the two hundred and some foot cliff he'd just tumbled down and watched as two men with guns came tearing around the side of the house he'd just vacated.

 

They peered cautiously over the edge of the precipice and spotted him.

 

“Ou-ouch!” John muttered, tearing the tape from his mouth. He shook some of the sand from his hair and some more of the dizziness from his head. Then he scrambled to his feet and took off down the beach at a dead run, thankful that the heavy rains had packed the sand down some.

 

 

At the top of the cliff, Mark pulled his right arm up and drew a careful bead down his gun's barrel.

 

“Don't!” Andy declared and knocked his associate's arm back down. “He's moving! You might hit something vital!”

 

“He's getting away!” Mark reminded him, looking and sounding infuriated.

 

“C'mon! We'll take the car!”

 

 

Meanwhile, over at an office in the L.A. County Courthouse...

 

A man came out of a filing room and set a slip of paper down on the counter in front of Rockford.

 

Jim examined the list of properties on the slip of paper and then inquired, “This is it?”

 

“Those are the properties he pays taxes on,” the clerk assured him.

 

Rockford glanced up from the list. “Thanks, Leo. I really appreciate this.”

 

“Find the bums before they kill that poor fireman,” Leo came back, “and I'll be really appreciative, too!”

 

Jim nodded uncertainly and then started backing towards the exit, scrutinizing the list all the while.

 

 

John ran down the beach—non-stop—for at least a mile, before dropping to his knees for a breather.

 

He kept glancing back over his shoulder.

 

He found the fact that no one was chasing him both pleasing and puzzling...maybe even downright worrying.

 

He knelt there for a minute or two, gasping and gulping in huge lungfuls of the exhilarating—and salty—ocean air. Then he got back to his feet and started running again.

 

 

Back at the LAPD's Detective's Squad room...

 

James Rockford stepped up to Sergeant Dennis Becker's desk. He brushed his coat back and rested his hands on his hips. “You haven't found any of Gardino's men yet, have you...” he told, rather than asked, his sullen friend.

 

“Don't stand there gloating,” Dennis advised. “We found the cars...We'll find them. We've got over a dozen stake-outs—” he stopped as Rockford set a slip of paper down in front of him.

 

“You'll find them at one of those places,” Jim stated confidently and pointed to the list of properties on the officer's desk.

 

“All right, we'll check 'em out,” the policeman promised.

 

Rockford looked pleased—but impatient. “Now?”

 

Becker's shoulders sagged in surrender. He pushed his chair back, got to his feet, grabbed his coat and the list and stomped past the pushy private eye. “Now.”

 

 

John ran until he couldn't run anymore. Then he dropped to his knees again—exhausted.

 

His aching lungs were threatening to burst.

 

He looked up at the cliff to his left and stared at all the fancy beach homes lining its ridge. “I've got to get…to a phone!” the getting nowhere fast fleeing fireman finally figured—right out loud.

 

Then he struggled back onto his feet and staggered over to one of the many wooden, zigzagging staircases leading up to the houses. He dumped the sand from his shoes and started climbing—grateful that the cliff wasn't nearly as high on this particular stretch of the beach.

 

 

Gage reached the top of the hundred and thirty-five foot cliff.

 

Three quarters of the way up, his already spent legs had given out on him, so the fireman had to finish the climb on all fours.

 

The panting paramedic pulled himself up onto the wooden deck at the top of the staircase and then crawled over and collapsed against one of the patio door's glass panes.

 

Inside the cottage, a woman in her housecoat heard the sound and stepped cautiously up to investigate its source. She spotted the panting person plopped outside her patio door—and his handcuffs—and started screaming.

 

“Help me!…Please?” Gage gasped, loudly enough to be heard through the glass.

 

“GO AWAY!” the woman ordered and started backing off. “GO AWAY, OR I'LL CALL THE POLICE!”

 

John nodded. “Call the police!” he shouted breathlessly. “Please…call the police!” he repeated and started getting to his feet, using the door for support.

 

The woman screamed again and disappeared into another room.

 

Gage gasped again, this time in exasperation.

 

He climbed over the deck railing and then hurried over to another house…where he climbed over another deck railing and banged on another back door. “Please?! Let me in! I have to call the police!”

 

“Who are you?!” a frightened voice called out from the safety of an inner room. “What do you want?!”

 

“My name is John Gage! I'm a Los Angeles County fireman paramedic! Some men kidnapped me! I got away! They're going to kill me! I need to phone the police! Look, if you won't let me in—at least phone the police for me! Please?” he pleaded.

 

He was not above begging.

 

Several silent seconds passed.

 

The Los Angeles County fireman paramedic exhaled another sigh of complete exasperation and headed off to try again.

 

 

Gage reached the back deck of the house next door, and decided to try a fresh approach.

 

So, the paramedic pasted a disarming smile upon his panic-stricken face and nonchalantly knocked on the patio door.

 

A teenage girl stepped up and stood there with a steaming cup in her hand and a beaming smile on her face.

 

“Good morning,” John told her. “My name is John Gage. I'm a Los Angeles County fireman paramedic. I was wondering if I might use your phone?” he inquired very politely.

 

“Why are you wearing those handcuffs?” the girl wondered.

 

Gage glanced down at the metal restraints on his wrists and grimaced. “Uh-uhhh, it's a long story. Yah see, I was helping this guy in this plane wreck...and some men think he told me something before he died...but I don't know what...but these men think I do...and whatever it is must be pretty important...because they kidnapped me…and they handcuffed me and—” the paramedic paused, “—they're going to kill me if they catch me again...and I really have to call the police…so can I please use your phone?”

 

“That wasn't so long,” the young lady determined. Then, upon hearing the desperation in the visitor's voice, she further determined, “You're really serious, aren't you.”

 

John nodded. “Deadly serious!”

 

The girl's bright eyes widened in amazement. “Man! That's really heavy!”

 

“So-o...” Gage glanced nervously around, “can I use your phone?”

 

“If we had a phone, I'd let you use it. My dad bought this place to get away from it all. So he never had one installed. Wanna cup a' herbal tea? You look hungry.”

 

John's already slumped shoulders sagged even more. “That's not hunger. That's fear. And thanks for the offer, but I gotta go—”he stopped talking as something suddenly occurred to him. “Can I borrow your car?”

 

“If I had a car, I'd let you take it, but my folks just went out for breakfast...” the agreeable young lady explained.

 

Gage gave the girl a grateful smile and then hurried off.

 

He had this sinking feeling that they were closing in on him and that he was going to run out of time long before he ran out of houses.

 

 

John ran up to a fourth house.

 

He decided he was going to force his way in and use the phone—with or without the home-owner's permission.

 

He stepped up and rang the bell.

 

A middle-aged housewife answered the door in her robe. “Ye-es?” she cautiously inquired .

 

“Please, don't be frightened!” the fireman urged, pushing the door open and brushing past her.

 

Once inside, John closed and locked the door he'd just passed through—uninvited. “I'm not going to hurt you,” the paramedic calmly continued. “I just need to use your phone. I'm a fireman,” he strained with his cuffed wrists to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He got it out, flipped it open and held it up for her. “See...I'm telling the truth.”

 

She took the wallet, examined his Fire Department photo I.D. and untensed—a little.

 

“Where's your phone?” he inquired and glanced about the living room. “Some men are going to kill me if I don't find a pho—” the fireman stopped suddenly as the front doorbell chimed for the secondth time in as many minutes.

 

John dropped to the carpeted floor and went crawling off to hide in the kitchen.

 

The chimes rang again.

 

The woman stepped back up to the front door, but didn't open it. “Who is it?!”

 

“Police!”

 

The lady sighed in relief and started reaching for the lock, but then something suddenly occurred to her, and her hand froze. “What do you want?!”

 

“We're looking for an escaped lunatic! Your neighbors said he came here!”

 

The woman stared thoughtfully down at the photo in her other hand for a few moments.

 

The escaped lunatic was crouched behind her kitchen counter, holding his breath.

 

“He was here!” the lady lied. “I sent him away!”

 

“Which way did he go?”

 

“He was heading south! You should probably check next door!”

 

There was a long silence.

 

“Quick!” the woman urged, stepping into her kitchen and passing a portable phone to the Los Angeles County fireman paramedic. “They'll be coming back!”

 

“Thanks!” The paramedic gave the lady a look of undying gratitude. Then he flipped the phone over and pressed 9 1 1.

 

“Emergency operator. May I help you?”

 

“Yes. This is John Gage. I'm at—” he shot the woman a questioning glance.

 

“321 Cove Road, Malibu,” she replied.

 

“—321 Cove Road, Malibu,” the paramedic repeated. “Some men are going to kill me! Send the police! Please hur—” he stopped talking as the front door was suddenly busted in.

 

Three big goons barged into the lady's living room with guns drawn.

 

John dropped the phone and made a mad dash for the cottage's back door. He pulled the portal open and ran right into the open arms of two more big, mean-looking dudes. He struggled desperately to get away.

 

One of the goons latched onto the chain of his hand-cuffs and jerked him roughly around.

 

The other grabbed his arms and they started shoving him—kicking and screaming—through the house and out the busted front door.

 

“Let me go-o! I told you I can't tell you anything! HELP! PLEASE?! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

 

 

The second piece of property on the list turned out to be Nicholas Gardino's beach house.

 

James Rockford was standing in the cottage's hallway, staring thoughtfully out a shattered picture window at a small, dark object lying in the sand on the beach two hundred and twenty feet below.

 

Dennis Becker came crunching up—the shards of already broken glass on the hall floor shattering even further beneath the thick leather soles of his shoes. “He was here, all right,” he told the pensive private eye. “Looks like they had him tied to a bed in the back. And—judging by the food still cooking on the stove and the fresh pot of coffee—they must a' been in an awful big hurry to move him!”

 

“They didn't move him!” Jim declared as he finally figured out what it was that he'd been staring at. “He escaped!”

 

Becker thought Rockford's explanation for the missing pane of glass over for a few moments and then summed up his opinion of it into two words, “That's ridiculous!” He then postulated on a more probable cause. “I figure the window must a' broke as they struggled with him down the hall here.”

 

“He's headed south!” Jim stated further, noting the fresh set of footprints in the rain-washed sand—leading away from the object.

 

Dennis looked more dubious than ever and reminded Rockford that, “NOBODY in their right mind would ever dive out a' this window!” He emphasized his point by pointing out the near vertical drop of over two hundred feet just outside it.

 

“They might...if they knew they were on the ground floor...and they thought they were going to be landing on the lawn,” Rockford reminded him right back and pointed to the small, dark object on the beach below them. “I'll bet you a hundred bucks that's a blind-fold!”

 

Becker was about to take the bet when a uniformed officer came hurrying down the hall towards them.

 

“Sarge! Headquarters just called! We got a lead on the paramedic!” the officer announced. “He placed a 911 call from 321 Cove Road about two minutes ago!”

 

“321 Cove Road...” Jim repeated, as the three of them turned away from the broken window and started heading off down the hall in the direction of their cars. “I, uh, believe that's about three miles south of here, isn't it?” he inquired, sounding very smug.

 

Becker shot his annoyingly accurate fellow detective a sideways 'O-oh brother' glance. “So, how is he?!” Dennis demanded. “Is he okay?!”

 

The uniformed officer shrugged. “The operator didn't know. The call got...cut off...” he let his grim words trail away.

 

The three men glanced solemnly at one another and then picked up their pace.

 

 

At a nearby phone booth...

 

Langley was on the line with Doc McKenzie.

 

“No! I will not meet you at the beach house in five minutes!” McKenzie adamantly stated. “I just drove by there! The police were crawling all over the place!”

 

Phillip looked shocked, then confused and then thoughtful. “Then be at 1868 North Dragoon Drive in two hours!” he told McKenzie and slammed the phone down.

 

Andy came driving up in a dark green sedan. They dragged Gage out of the tan car and forced him into the back of the green one. Andy sped off.

 

 

Over at 321 Cove Road, Malibu...

 

Sergeant Dennis Becker was standing in the room the paramedic was in when he was kidnapped...again. He was busy taking the housewife's statement down in his little black notebook.

 

The woman handed the detective the paramedic's wallet and the car's license number. “He seemed like such a nice young man,” the lady told the detective, between questions. “He was so scared. He said they were going to kill him...” She blinked her watering eyes and then aimed them at the police officer. “Is that true?”

 

“We're doing everything we possibly can to see to it that it isn't,” the Sergeant assured her, but Becker didn't look or sound so sure. “Thank you very much Mrs. Stafford. You've been a big help. When you get dressed, we'd like to take you down to headquarters to look at some pictures.”

 

Mrs. Stafford nodded her willingness to comply and hurried off to get dressed.

 

Becker closed his notebook and went back out to his unmarked police car.

 

 

Dennis picked up the car's radio mic' and thumbed its call button. “This is Sergeant Becker. I'd like an APB on Ocean Ida 7731. Vehicle is a '76 tan, four door, Lincoln Continental and was last seen traveling north on Cove Road. Suspects are armed and dangerous. They're holding a kid—re-kidnapped fireman hostage in the back seat. Run a make on the car's plates and get back to me.”

 

“10-4.”

 

Dennis replaced his radio and then watched as Rockford came driving up in his silver Firebird.

 

Jim held a slip of paper out of his car window and waved him over to take it.

 

“What's this?” the officer asked as he snatched up the proffered piece of paper.

 

“The license number and description of the other car and the creeps who were in it,” the private eye helpfully announced. “Compliments of a Miss Cathy Ann Brickman. She's going to talk her father into having a phone installed—for emergency use only. Unlike the other two upstanding citizens he approached for help, she—at least—was willing to dial 911. Cathy says she's really bummed the creeps caught him.”

 

Becker had been studying the Fire Department photo I.D. in the open wallet in his left hand. “Not nearly as bummed as me...” the police sergeant sadly confessed, and went over to put out another APB.

 

 

1868 North Dragoon Drive turned out to be a cute little six-room cottage on a deserted stretch of Castle Rock Beach, ten miles up the coast from the beach house in Malibu.

 

The two dark green sedans pulled up and parked. All nine of their occupants exited.

 

Two brawny bad guys carted Gage—kicking and screaming—into the cottage.

 

“HELP! HE-ELP! POLICE! ANYBODY?! HEL—!” John stopped in mid-shout, as the door was slammed, and put all of his energy into trying to pull free.

 

The two meanies tightened their already vice-like grips and jerked him—kicking and thrashing—into another back bedroom—where he was shoved back onto another mattress.

 

It took four of them to hold him down while Andy took out a key and reattached his handcuffs to another headboard. They grabbed his ankles and Mark fastened them—securely—to the corner posts of the foot of another bed.

 

Speaking of being really bummed...

 

Gage grimaced and thrashed around, frustrated at finding himself back in the same exact BAD situation he'd just escaped from. Well, maybe not exactly the same. He stopped struggling, shut his eyes and started groaning. “Oh-oh, no-o...No, no, no-o...” Someone grabbed his head and forced his mouth shut. He opened his eyes and watched Andy press some more tape over his mouth.

 

There! All that was missing now was the blind-fold!

 

Langley leaned over their recaptured prisoner and gave him a backhanded crack in the face. “That was for all the inconvenience you've caused us!” he explained with a scowl.

 

The blow was more humiliating than hurtful and Gage found himself glaring defiantly back up at his attacker.

 

This seemed to upset Langley because he pulled his arm back to strike again.

 

“Hey, Phillip!” Andy said, grabbing the angry guy's arm. “There's no sport in that!”

 

Phillip gave Gage a look that made his blood run cold. Then he straightened his tie and went stomping out of the room.

 

The others followed.

 

John breathed a nasal sigh of relief and closed his eyes.

 

Alas, his relief was short-lived, as it occurred to him why they weren't bothering to keep him blind-folded anymore. Even if the…convincing...didn't kill him, they obviously intended to shut his eyes—and his mouth—permanently!

 

John hadn't recovered from the horror of that thought, when something even more horrifying happened. He noticed he was having a difficult time breathing. Something was plugging his nose. He snorted and turned his head—and caught a glimpse of something red out of the corner of his eye. 'Oh, grea-eat!' he thought. 'I'm gonna drown in my own blood!' He shook his head, but couldn't clear his nostrils. He started to panic.

 

 

Andy heard Gage thrashing around. He crossed over to open door and poked his head into the room to tell their prisoner to settle down. He spotted the paramedic's dilemma and hurried over to tear the tape from the fireman's mouth.

 

Gage gasped and sucked in a huge lungful of air...and another...and another. “Thanks!” he told Andy, when he finally got his breath back.

 

Andy nodded, snatched a couple of Kleenexes from a box on the nightstand, and wiped the prisoner's bloody nose.

 

John studied his nurse for awhile and then wondered, “How much…are they paying you…to keep me here?”

 

His captor looked curious. “Why?”

 

“Because I'll pay you double—triple…to let me go.”

 

Andy stared dubiously down at him. “Now, where would a fireman get a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

 

John just lay there for a few moments—too shocked to speak. Then he cleared his throat. “They're paying you fifty thousand dollars?”

 

Andy nodded.

 

The prisoner contemplated his reply over and then inquired, “A piece?”

 

Andy managed another nod.

 

The amazed paramedic did some quick mental calculating and suddenly appeared even more stunned. “That's gotta be at least a half a million dollars!” he exclaimed and then looked curious. “What am I supposed to know that's worth that much?”

 

Andy didn't answer.

 

“What am I supposed to know that's worth that much?” the paramedic pleaded.

 

“That much,” Andy reluctantly replied, “PLUS two and a half million more.”

 

John was stunned into silence again. 'Three million dollars is a LOT of money!' the paramedic was forced to concede. 'More than enough money for some men to kill someone over...' he glumly realized. “Oh, well...” the forlorn fireman muttered, “at least now I know why they're going to beat me to death.”

 

“They’re—we’re not going to beat you to death,” Andy assured him.

 

The paramedic looked ecstatic—and then skeptical. “But Phillip said that you were going to…convince...me to talk.”

 

“And so we are!” Andy further assured him. “Doc McKenzie'll be here any minute now.”

 

Their captive looked terribly uneasy. “What's he going to do when he gets here?”

 

Andy saw the fireman's nose had finally stopped bleeding. “You'll see...” he promised and pressed a fresh piece of tape over the prisoner's mouth—to prevent further questioning. “You'll see...” he rather ominously repeated and then exited the room, leaving the good doctor's victim alone with his thoughts.

 

Gage swallowed hard and lay there, trying hard not to think of what Doc McKenzie's specialty might be, but 'Scalpels?' crept across his mind anyways...and he shuddered.

 

 

The wall clock in the LAPD's Detective's Squad room read just after two.

 

Sergeant Becker had been kept too busy to eat. He hung up his phone, got up from his desk and started reaching for his coat, draped over the back of his chair. He suddenly remembered something and picked his phone back up instead. Dennis dialed a number from memory.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi, Rocky. Is Jim there?”

 

“Just a second, Sergeant.. I'll go get him.”

 

“Dennis?”

 

“Yeah, Jim. Just thought you'd like to know. We found the cars.”

 

“Abandoned?”

 

“And wiped clean! They were both rentals, too. So, now we're right back where we started.”

 

“Which was nowhere! What was the name of the rental agency?”

 

“What do you want that for?” Becker asked and began shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk.

 

“O-oh, just a hunch.”

 

“Speaking of hunches, Captain Mosley was impressed with your lead. If the gutsy little guy hadn't already escaped, it would have led to his rescu—Here it is! Rodale Car Rentals. 444 West Fair Avenue.”

 

“What? No phone number?”

 

“You have a directory. Let your fingers do the walking!”

 

“Okay. Thanks, Dennis. I'll let you know if this leads to anything.”

 

“Thanks, Jim.” Becker replaced his phone.

 

It rang.

 

The sergeant's stomach growled. He sighed and picked the phone up, instead of his jacket. “Good Afternoon. LAPD. Detective Becker speaking...”

 

The party on the other end of the line identified himself.

 

The police officer cringed and stood there, looking extremely guilt-ridden. “Oh, yes, Captain. What can I do for you?...No. I'm afraid I don't have anything new to tell you, aside from the fact that we just found the cars they used to kidnap him the second time...We have every available person on the force out looking for the guys who grabbed him. Hopefully, when we find them—we’ll find him...” The cop cringed again. “Yeah, I hope we find him alive, too...Right! I promise I'll get back to you the moment we hear anything...Right. Goodbye, Captain.” Dennis hung up, grabbed his coat and turned to leave. His desk phone rang again. He decided to take the call. He'd pretty much just lost his appetite anyways. “Good Afternoon. LAPD. Detective Becker speaking…”

 

“Dennis,” Rockford said, “we're looking for two dark green, four-door, '77 Lincoln Continentals. License numbers OI3311 and OI7483.”

 

Becker held the phone away from his ear and stared at it a moment, before pulling it back up. “We are?” the incredulous cop inquired and jotted Jim's latest little revelation down.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And how can you possibly know that?”

 

“Simple. I noticed that all four of the rental cars they used were the same make and model. So I asked the Rodale people if the guy who rented the tan Continentals had specifically asked for Continentals. They said yes. I began calling other agencies and asking them if anyone had rented any Continentals, lately. Turns out a place—just down the block from Rodale’s—rented two out this morning. They described the guy who came in—sounds like Andrew Ruger—and gave me a description of the cars and their plate numbers.”

 

There was a long silence as Becker pulled the receiver down again and shot the private investigator a look of admiration via the phone.

 

“Dennis?...Are you there?” Rockford wondered.

 

Becker smiled and pulled the instrument back up to his mouth. “Yeah! Jim-bo, have I ever told you what a great detective you'd make?”

 

“Get some APB's out on those cars and find that fireman before those yahoos kill him—and I'll tell you what a great detective you'd make!” Rockford teased right back. “If you want me, I'll be at the courthouse.”

 

Becker couldn't help but grin. “Why?”

 

“You've got all those places on the list staked out, don't you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And they haven't shown up at any of them yet, have they?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, they have to be somewhere! I'm gonna try to find some more wheres for them to be. See yah!”

 

Dennis heard a click. He got the dial tone back and placed a call to Central Dispatch. He smiled again as he realized he'd just gotten his appetite back.

 

 

Part 3