TV Versus REALITY

Part 3

 

 

Meanwhile, in the back bedroom of the cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

 

John heard footsteps approaching. He turned his troubled gaze away from the window and watched as some goons entered the room and gathered around the bed he'd been confined to. He noticed that one of them was carrying a doctor's medical bag. A grimace appeared on the fireman's face and his erratically beating heart sank.

 

Doc McKenzie set his bag down on the nightstand.

 

The paramedic watched as the man opened the satchel and removed a plastic hypodermic case, along with a small drug bottle. John swallowed hard and continued watching as Doc filled a hypodermic syringe with the bottle's unknown contents.

 

“Roll up his sleeve and hold his arm still,” McKenzie ordered.

 

John shook his head 'No-o!' and started thrashing violently around on the bed.

 

Andy and Mark sat on his chest and gave his arms their vice-like grips.

 

Two more goons sat on his legs.

 

A fifth flunky managed to get the fireman's shirtsleeve rolled up, but their prisoner was still able to move around enough to prevent McKenzie from giving him the injection.

 

Phillip exhaled an impatient gasp. Then he stepped up to the bed and rammed the butt of his gun into their uncooperative captive's rib cage—very forcefully!

 

Gage gasped and groaned and was—momentarily—still.

 

Phillip nodded to the man with the loaded hypo.

 

McKenzie slowly emptied it into the vein of John's right wrist.

 

The paramedic felt the needle prick him—then everything went blank.

 

 

Four hours later, in the back bedroom of the little cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

 

The Mob's medicine man was seated in a chair beside his victim.

 

Phillip Langley was ranting and raving and pacing the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed containing their still unconscious captive.

 

“Don't blame me!” McKenzie shouted back. “I told you pentathol can be completely unpredictable!”

 

Both men stiffened as the prisoner suddenly tossed his head and groaned.

 

The doctor leaned forward. “Can you hear me?”

 

The prisoner failed to reply. His mouth was still taped shut.

 

Phillip ripped the tape from the fireman's mouth and gave him a few rough shakes. “Answer!”

 

McKenzie grabbed Langley's arms. “What's his name?”

 

“Ga-age! John Gage!” Phillip impatiently replied.

 

McKenzie gently but firmly nudged Langley away from the bed. “Let me handle this. John? Jo-ohn, can you hear me?”

 

John managed a slight nod.

 

The doctor looked pleased. “Goo-ood. What is your full name?”

 

The fireman licked his lips and replied in a whisper, “John...Roderick...Ga-age.”

 

“What do you do for a living, John?”

 

“Who cares!” Langley demanded. “I can answer that! Ask him about the MONEY!”

 

McKenzie struggled to remain calm. “I know what I'm doing, Phillip! So stay out of it and let me handle this!”

 

Phillip reluctantly backed off.

 

McKenzie turned his attention back to the prisoner. “John, what do you do for a living?”

 

“I'm a...a fireman...a paramedic.”

 

“Do you remember the plane crash Monday?”

 

The paramedic nodded slightly.

 

“Do you remember rescuing Victor Nardis?”

 

Another slight nod.

 

“Did Mr. Nardis say anything to you, John?”

 

Again, the prisoner motioned his head in the affirmative.

 

“What did Mr. Nardis tell you?”

 

“He said...he said he...couldn't see...anything...He...he wanted to know if...if he was...dying.”

 

“What else did Mr. Nardis tell you, John?”

 

“He told me…told me...to call him...Victor...Said he didn't have...any relatives...or friends...but me.”

 

“What else did Victor say, John?”

 

“He...he said since…I was so nice…to him...he was gonna do...something...nice...for me.”

 

“What was Mr. Nardis going to do for you, John?”

 

The prisoner didn't reply.

 

Phillip rushed up to the bed again.

 

McKenzie motioned for him to hold it. “John, what did Victor say he was going to do for you?”

 

Again, the paramedic failed to answer.

 

Phillip was having an incredibly hard time keeping his hands off of their silent captive's throat. “Ask him about the MONEY!” he re-demanded.

 

McKenzie sighed in surrender. “Where did Victor say the money was, John?”

 

Their captive moaned, but did not open his mouth.

 

Phillip motioned for McKenzie to ask again.

 

The doctor nodded. “John, where did Victor say the money was hidden?”

 

Still, John didn't answer.

 

McKenzie suddenly looked thoughtful and rephrased his question yet again. “Did you hear Victor say anything about the money, John?”

 

The fireman swallowed hard and shook his head no.

 

McKenzie looked somewhat amused.

 

Langley could no longer contain himself. He latched onto the fireman's shirt and shook him rather violently. “You're lying! You must have heard him!”

 

McKenzie and two other men pulled Phillip off of the prisoner.

 

The doctor straightened his suit and tie and reached for his medical bag. He stopped suddenly, looking curious. “One last question, John. Why didn't you hear what Mr. Nardis was going to do for you?”

 

“Rampart…requested...an update…on vitals...I...I had my...stethoscope...in my...ears.”

 

The doctor looked even more amused.

 

Phillip looked even more outraged. “He's lying I tell you!” he stubbornly re-insisted.

 

McKenzie opened his medical bag, pulled out his stethoscope, stepped up to Langley and went to stick the ends of the instrument in the furious fellow's ears.

 

“What are you doing?” Phillip protested and knocked the thing away.

 

“Go ahead!” the doctor ordered. “Put these in your ears.”

 

Langley reluctantly allowed McKenzie to insert the instrument's padded tips into his ears. He saw the doctor's lips moving, but couldn't hear what he was saying. He clenched his teeth, tore the extremely costly instrument from his ears and whipped the thing across the room. “You lousy fireman!” he shouted, pulling his restrained self free of his fellow goons' grasps.

 

Phillip stomped back up to the bed. “You lousy fireman!” he repeated. Then he grabbed the lousy fireman and gave him another backhanded blow to his impassive face. “Why couldn't you listen to him?” Langley struck their unresponsive prisoner a third time and then screamed the $3,000,000.00 question. “WHY COULDN'T YOU JUST LISTEN?”

 

The lousy fireman moaned in pain.

 

Remembering his little assurance, Andy latched onto Langley's arm just as the coward was about to lambaste their prisoner a fourth time. “You beat people unconscious, Phillip. You don't beat unconscious people,” he added, his witty words as much a warning as they were a reminder.

 

Their prisoner groaned again.

 

Langley gasped in complete exasperation and reluctantly released his hold on their totally useless hostage. “WASTE HIM!” he ordered and started heading for the exit.

 

“Where are you, going?” Mark wondered.

 

“To figure out another way to get my hands on three million dollars! We'll be at the apartment on Boroughs!” the bully called back over his shoulder. Phillip disappeared from the room, taking three of the five goons with him.

 

The three remaining men turned their attention back to the bed's occupant.

 

The paramedic licked a cut on the right corner of his mouth and then lay there, moaning. John slid his aching jaw from side to side and forced his eyes open. He saw a room full of people staring back at him...six Andy’s...six Marks...six Doc McKenzies...and a dozen unknown goons. He watched the six McKenzies place six stethoscopes into six medical bags. “You're a...a real doctor?” he asked, amazed.

 

Six McKenzies gave him six nods.

 

The fireman suddenly felt hopeful. “Then help me!...Get me…outta here!...Please?”

 

“I can't,” the McKenzies told him.

 

The paramedic groaned and closed his eyes. Then he snapped them back open and stared up at the half-dozen doctors standing over him, looking totally disgusted. “You're…a disgrace...to your…profession!”

 

The McKenzies ignored him and left the room, taking the dozen unknown goons with them.

 

John drew in several deep breaths to fight off the drowsiness he felt and focused on the remaining Andy’s and Marks. “Please...don't kill me,” he pleaded. “I won't press charges...or anything...if you just...let me go...please?”

 

The Andy’s glanced at the Marks. “I don't know about you, but I've grown kind a' fond of the little guy.”

 

The Marks nodded in agreement.

 

The Andy’s grinned and continued. “I just can't bring myself to hurt him.”

 

Gage saw the Marks nod again. He closed his eyes and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. When he reopened them, the Marks and the Andy’s were gone! “Hey...Hey, you guys!...Let me go!” he called out.

 

Silence.

 

“C'mon!...You can't just...leave me here like this!…I’ll—” he stopped as it suddenly dawned on him, 'That's the idea, dummy!' Gage gasped and started tugging on his handcuffs and ropes. “Don't leave me here!” he begged. “Please, don’t…leave me here!” He heard footsteps approaching and watched as the dirty dozen reentered the room.

 

“We almost forgot something...” the Andy’s announced, stepping back up to the bed.

 

The paramedic stared up at them, feeling very uncertain about what that forgotten something was. Until he heard a familiar tearing sound. “No-o...” Gage groaned as the Marks held his head still and the Andy’s taped his mouth shut—one final time. “Mmm-mmm-mmm!” their captive told them off, through the tape.

 

The Andy’s and Marks stared blankly back at him for a few moments and then strolled from the room, looking highly amused.

 

John gasped again and struggled with his bonds until his wrists and ankles were raw from the effort.

 

'A complete waste of effort!' the fireman finally realized and allowed his aching limbs to go completely limp.

 

'I can go for weeks without food...' John reminded himself. 'And, THEY say a person can last 3 or 4 days without water...They'll find me by then.'

 

He looked out six bedroom windows at six suns setting on six Pacific Oceans.

 

The view was spectacular as the suns' rays created brilliant hues of yellows, golds, oranges and lavenders.

 

'After all, THEY also say that LA has the finest police force in the country. Or maybe I'll get lucky and this place'll catch fire—an’ my fellow smoke-eaters'll come an' rescue me...' He paused, trying to recall the last time he'd had something to drink. 'A soda...at the Laundromat…' he tilted his head back and turned his wrists to squint up at six calendar watches. 'A little over 26 hours ago….' Heck! He'd be good for days, yet! 'Give or take a few…'

 

John swallowed hard and winced. It was already getting harder for him to swallow.

 

His vision blurred and the sunsets turned ugly.

 

'Ah-ah, ma-an! This just keeps gettin' worser and worser!'

 

 

Mark and Andy were driving along in one of the dark green Continentals.

 

The pair got to within a few blocks of the apartment on Boroughs, when a police squad car pulled them over.

 

They were frisked, read their rights, handcuffed and ushered into the back of the patrol car.

 

The two just sat there, looking un-amused and completely unconcerned.

 

 

Early that evening, at the LAPD…

 

Rockford passed Becker in the hall outside Central Booking.

 

Jim turned around and hurried to catch up to his friend. “Dennis! Wait up!” the private eye requested and had to almost run to keep up with him. “I struck out at the courthouse and I've used up all my other leads. You got anything?” he wondered and followed his friend onto an elevator.

 

Becker nodded and pressed 2. “Andrew Ruger and Markus Hanley,” the detective told him rather triumphantly and they began descending.

 

Rockford looked totally delighted. “Was the landlady able to I.D. them?”

 

“No, but hopefully our other witnesses will!”

 

The elevator stopped.

 

They got out, stepped down another long corridor and disappeared into a room.

 

 

Becker walked up to the woman who had helped the fireman that morning. “Mrs. Stafford, it was nice of you to come back down. Do you know why you're here?”

 

The lady nodded. “I've seen police line-ups on TV.”

 

The two detectives exchanged glances.

 

The Sergeant ushered the woman over to a window and thumbed an intercom on the wall. “Send 'em in!”

 

A door opened in the small staged room on the other side of the window and five men in business suits entered—single-file…two suspects and three plain-clothes police officers.

 

Becker thumbed the intercom button again. “Face front!”

 

The men in the line-up turned their faces towards the one-way window.

 

The woman studied them carefully.

 

“Do you recognize anyone?” Dennis inquired.

 

“I'm not sure. It all happened so fast…but I think number five was one of the men in my home this morning.”

 

“Number five, step forward please!” Becker ordered into the intercom.

 

Mark looked a little uneasy and took a step forward.

 

“A little more, please!”

 

Hanley reluctantly took another step.

 

The woman sighed in frustration. “They make this look so easy on television...”

 

The two detectives glanced at one another again.

 

Becker turned back to the window and stared at the other suspect. “Do you recognize anyone else?”

 

“No. I'm sorry. I'm not even 100% sure about number five. Have you found that poor paramedic yet?”

 

The Sergeant exhaled a sigh of frustration himself. “No, mam. Thank you for your help. You can tell the officer to take you home now.”

 

The woman nodded and left the room.

 

A teen-aged girl passed her in the doorway. “Wow!” Miss Cathy Ann Brickman exclaimed as she entered the room. “This is so cool! Just like on TV!”

 

The two detectives exchanged yet another glance.

 

 

In the little room with the one-way window, four eyewitnesses later…

 

Detective Becker glanced from number five to number two and back to number five again, looking tremendously disappointed. “They'll both be out on bail before the night is over!”

 

Jim’s jaw dropped. “You can't be serious!”

 

“They'll post bond on the concealed weapons charges and we don't have enough evidence to charge them with anything else!”

 

“Frenetti picked Ruger out and Mrs. Stafford I.D.'ed Hanley!”

 

“It's not a crime to rent a car. There's no evidence that vehicle was used in the commission of a crime. And Mrs. Stafford thinks it was Hanley. Her testimony would never hold up in court.”

 

“Their fingerprints must be all over the beach house!”

 

“Of course they are. These guys work for the man who owns it, remember?”

 

“You're beginning to sound like their lawyer!”

 

The Sergeant turned to glare at his accuser. “Those two kidnapped the fireman! Ruger rented the car that was used to do it! And Hanley was one of the men in Mrs. Stafford's home this morning! We both know that! We also both know that the law says they're innocent until proven guilty! Without evidence I can't hold them! You think it isn't gonna kill me to watch those two walk?” Becker bitterly pointed out and aimed a finger at the goons behind the glass.

 

Rockford glanced at the seemingly unconcerned suspects. “In the words of Miss Cathy Ann Brickman, it's gonna really suck!” He turned back to Dennis and forced a smile. “You'll let me know before you let them go?”

 

Becker returned the smile and nodded.

 

 

In the study of Mr. Gardino's home, later that same night…

 

The Mob kingpin was having a friendly little drink with one of his employees, a Dr. David McKenzie, to be exact.

 

Gardino laughed bitterly. “You mean, that imbecile went through all that—and that fireman really didn't know where the money was?”

 

The doctor nodded.

 

More bitter laughter. “Oh, that's rich!” his boss exclaimed, but then quickly regained his composure. “Did they...dispose of him?”

 

The physician stared thoughtfully into his drink. “I heard Langley give the order, but I didn't stick around to watch them carry it out. Being in close proximity to the ocean, I imagine that fireman is sleeping with the fishes right about now.”

 

“And he's gonna have company!” Gardino angrily assured him. He turned to one of his three personal bodyguards. “Have Spencer contact Carter. Tell him I want Langley. I'm not particular about how I get him. Let whoever does it handle the…details,” he determined with a sinister smile. “Assure them that I'll make it worth their while.”

 

The bodyguard nodded and left the room.

 

Gardino stared thoughtfully into his drink. Something suddenly occurred to him, and he glanced back up at the doctor, looking irate. “If you and the others thought you were acting under my orders, you must think I'm awfully stupid!”

 

Doc McKenzie swallowed hard and avoided his employer's malevolent glare.

 

 

 

Back downtown, around eight the next morning…

 

A silver Firebird was parked just down the street from the LAPD's main headquarters building.

 

James Rockford was seated behind its wheel—sound asleep.

 

A car horn awakened him. He stared out his windshield—at all that daylight—in both confusion and disbelief. His recently opened eyes squinted down at his wristwatch and his disbelief gave way to tremendous disappointment—closely followed by extreme annoyance.

 

The peeved private eye hauled his stiff, sore self out of his car and went storming into the building he'd been waiting—all night—outside of.

 

 

Inside the building, in an office complex four floors above the street he'd been sleeping in…

 

Rockford stomped angrily up to Sergeant Dennis Becker's desk in the Detective's Squad room.

 

The seated police officer was forced to raise his gaze from the folder full of photos he'd been studying.

 

“You were supposed to call me—” Jim angrily began.

 

“—Before we let 'em go,” Dennis acknowledged.

 

“So what happened?” Rockford practically shouted. “Did you misplace my mobile phone number?”

 

“We haven't let 'em go—yet!” Becker explained—speaking equally loudly, but then he quickly calmed back down and lowered his voice. “I talked to the DA. Turns out a paramedic once saved his son's life. So, he was willing to overlook the fact that we have no hard evidence—and push for an arraignment, anyways. The doctor photo I.D.'ed Phillip Langley and Leonard Morrow…” he continued and pulled the suspects' pictures from his folder. “Mrs. Stafford photo I.D.'ed Phillip Langley, Leonard Morrow and Brent Hobbson…” the detective added, singling out another snapshot. “Cathy—and the landlady—photo I.D.'ed Daniel Saunders, Wesley Atkins and Dean Lieberman. The Rodale guy photo I.D.’ed Saunders and Lieberman. And a couple of the firemen photo I.D.’ed Hobbson and Atkins, as well,” the detective announced and added three more pictures to the pile. “Judge Richards has already issued arrest warrants on all six of these guys, and—since Ruger and Hanley work hand in hand with them—the DA is pushing for guilt by association. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for 4:30 this afternoon,” the sergeant finished, and sat there feeling—and looking—quite pleased with himself. He glanced up from the folder and found his private detective friend staring down at him, looking tremendously displeased. The policeman's own look turned to one of confusion.

 

“Ah-ah, Dennis!” Rockford griped with a grimace and a groan. “You should a' let 'em go!” he lamented—rather loudly.

 

“What is it with you?” the confused cop inquired, his voice rising in both volume and vexation. “Last night, you had a hissy fit when you heard they were gonna be released! This morning, I tell you they're not gonna be released--and you have the exact same reaction! You can't have it both ways, Jim-bo!”

 

“Yeah, well...I've had time to think things through,” the private eye promulgated. “I finally realized that the fastest way to find the fireman is to let them go!”

 

“How do you figure that? They're not going to lead us to him! If he's still alive, his testimony could put them both away for life! And they're not about to contact their cronies, either!” Becker reminded him further.

 

“Actually, I'm more interested in who is going to be contacting them...” Jim mumbled back, half to himself.

 

But the cop caught the comment. “What makes you think someone is going to be contacting them?”

 

“Oh-oh...” Rockford quietly came back, “...just a hunch.”

 

Dennis stared thoughtfully up at his friend. “If my memory serves me, your hunches have all paid off.”

 

“So far...” Jim warned him.

 

“Yeah, well...you've made a believer outta me!” the officer informed his modest amigo. “And, after that beach house tip, I'm pretty certain Captain Mosley's a convert, too. That leaves the DA. I just begged the guy to buy us some time to gather enough evidence to make the charges stick! Now, I gotta go back and beg 'im ta let 'em go! I hate begging...” Dennis concluded, speaking beneath his breath.

 

But Rockford caught the comment. “You make me do it all the time!” the annoyed private eye pointed out, but then he broke into a broad grin.

 

“I do, don't I,” Becker suddenly—and sadly—realized. He sat there for a few moments, looking extremely remorseful. “Here's hoping it works on the DA as well as it works on me!” he proposed and finally returned his friend's grin.

 

 

Nicholas Gardino and his daughter were seated in the breakfast nook of his home.

 

Martha poured them both some coffee and then headed back to her kitchen.

 

The gangster glanced up from his three-minute egg. “How's your mother this morning? ”

 

“A little better,” his daughter replied. “I got her to eat something.”

 

“Great!” Gardino exclaimed. “Then you can go on to London like you planned! I'll have Nessman fuel up the Lear!”

 

“Thanks, Daddy. But I only fly commercial,” the girl reminded him and then annoyedly added, “Besides, I'd rather stay with Mother. She's still awfully upset about this thing with Phillip.”

 

Her father frowned. “You just said she's feeling better! I can take care of your mother! You need to honor another commitment, young lady!” he added, sounding very final.

 

The young lady studied her perturbed parent for a few moments. “Daddy,” she paused, looking a little worried, “what's wrong?”

 

“Nothing!” the gangster told her, trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice came out strained.

 

“Then, why do you want me out of the house?” his offspring inquired.

 

“I don't want you out of the house,” Gardino lied through his teeth. “Your mother and I—and your publisher—just want you to go on your book tour like you planned, is all!”

 

The girl lost her appetite and pushed her plate away. “Daddy, I know we have this...understanding…concerning your...business affairs, but I have to know. Did you have anything to do with the abduction of that poor paramedic?”

 

Her father almost swallowed his fork. The man coughed and tried his best to appear calm. “No-o! No. Of course not!” he replied—almost truthfully—but still avoided her eyes.

 

She wasn't satisfied with his answer, but she didn't press the matter any further.

 

For the umpteenth time, in her nineteen years of life, the girl decided just to ‘look the other way’.

 

Back at the LAPD, later that morning…

Detective Becker had just had another discussion with the District Attorney. He returned to his desk in the Squad room, reached for his phone—and dialed a number from memory. 

“Hello?” James Rockford answered. 

“Ji-im, I spoke with the DA.” 

“How'd it go?” Jim cautiously inquired. 

“The DA is an elected official,” Becker began. “And—being a typical politician—right now, he's more interested in remaining popular with his constituents than he is the plight of that poor paramedic.” 

“He wouldn't go along with it...” Jim deduced—dejectedly. 

“No, the DA agreed to let 'em go, all right. He just wants to wait 'til after the preliminary hearing. That way, it'll look like the judge is responsible for their release.” 

Rockford exhaled an impatient gasp.  “Well, I can think of at least two votes he's never going to get!” he bitterly proclaimed, casting a ballot for both himself and the missing hostage.  “That poor paramedic might not have...” he glanced at his watch, “six and a half hours to totally waste waiting!” 

Two hours later, in Nicholas Gardino's home…

The gangster spotted his offspring ascending the stairs in the entry hall.

Judging by the contents of her hands, his devoted daughter was bringing his upset spouse a lunch tray.

“Pamela?” Gardino called up to her. 

The girl stopped climbing and turned to him. 

“I wish you would reconsider taking the Lear...” he cajoled.  “Spencer checked. There are no commercial seats available until tomorrow afternoon sometime.” 

“Thanks!” Pamela called down.  “But no thanks! I told you—I always fly commercial.” 

Outside the L.A. County Courthouse, 5:20 that afternoon…

Jim Rockford was seated in his silver Firebird waiting for Gardino's two goons to be released. His car was parked a discreet distance from the courthouse steps. He tensed as the suspects suddenly came skipping down those stairs and began climbing into a black sedan with Noel Carter—one of Gardino's many sleazy, high profile lawyers. 

“The game's afoot...” the detective muttered, quoting a distinguished fictional colleague of his.

Inside the car being followed…

Mr. Carter turned to his clients. “Is he dead?” Gardino's legal eagle inquired rather matter-of-factly. 

The two goons in the back seat glanced at each other, then at their watches, then at their lawyer—and shrugged. 

The attorney in the front seat grimaced and sat there, looking like he was counting to ten. 

“Langley told us to WASTE HIM!” Andy lightly explained in their defense. “Relax!” he advised their still uptight counsel.  “It's not gonna take long for that scrawny little dude to WASTE away!” 

“Yeah!” Mark joined in with a grin.  “He's probably already WASTED!” 

Their scowling lawyer's frown deepened.  “It would have been smarter to finish him off!” 

“Relax!” Ruger re-advised.  “The home-owner's in Europe—for two weeks! They'll never find him in time! Besides, we grew fond of the little guy. He's got a lot a' nerve! We admire people like that, don't we...” the goon grinned and glanced at his fellow admirer. 

Hanley grinned and nodded. 

Carter gave them both contemptuous glares.  “Mr. Gardino wants Langley. He said he'd make it worth your while.” 

“No thanks!” Andy announced with a shake of his head.  “I've got friends in Toronto. I'm gonna be on the next flight outta here!” 

Mark looked thoughtful.  “How worthwhile would he make it for an address?” 

“Not very.” 

“I can't do anymore than that. The police will be tailing us.” 

Carter sighed and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. 

It was Hanley's turn to look contemptuous.  “I'd just as soon keep my mouth shut!” 

The lawyer reluctantly added four more bills of the same denomination.  “That's it!” 

Mark took the money.  “222 West Boroughs. Apartment 8. He still has five of the guys with him.” 

Carter tapped the car's driver on the shoulder. “Goodbye, gentlemen!” their attorney told them as the vehicle pulled up to the nearest curb and parked. 

Ruger and Hanley climbed out of the car.

It pulled away. 

“Thinking about that fireman has made me awful thirsty!” Mark suddenly confessed.  “I need a drink!” 

Andy nodded his approval of his pal's plan of action. 

The two parched-throated thugs stepped down the street and into a drinking establishment. 

 Back at the cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

John Gage had spent the day drifting in and out of consciousness.

He came to and lay there, moaning softly from the constant—and excruciating—pain in his upper arms and shoulders.

'Changes in mental status—such as excessive drowsiness, lethargy and loss of consciousness—are all symptoms of advanced stages of dehydration...' the fireman somberly and silently realized.

He, uh, also had to confront the fact that he must've allowed himself to become severely dehydrated long before he was even kidnapped.

The paramedic continued to moan—and to run down a mental checklist of symptoms—sort of a morbid ‘Preview of Coming Attractions’. 

'Acute renal failure...metabolic acidosis...electrolyte imbalance leading to cardiogenic shock—dangerously high levels of serum creatinine and potassium—contributing factors...uremic poisoning...swelling of, and decrease of sensation in, the extremities...nausea...vomiting blood...ringing in the ears...tremors of the hand...delirium...hallucinations...seizures...coma...and—eventually—death.' 

John would've swallowed hard—if he could've swallowed at all.

The prisoner forced his dry eyes open and gazed painfully off at yet another spectacular sunset.

Gulls were soaring freely above the surf...white-capped waves were crashing freely onto the beach...where a young couple stood, hand in hand, freely admiring the breathtaking beauty of it all.

If the captive's stinging eyes hadn't already lost their ability to produce tears, his vision would've blurred right about then.

Following a three-hour drive through downtown L.A.—designed to ditch any tails attached to it—the black sedan pulled up across the street from 222 West Boroughs and parked.  

Rockford had decided to let the police follow the flunkies on foot. He stayed with the black sedan—surprisingly enough—and was now parked a half a block behind it. The detective lowered his binoculars and picked up his car phone.  “Ye-es, mobile operator, get me Ventura 787-6212...” 

“LAPD.  Detective Becker.” 

“Dennis, you might want to send a couple of squad cars over to 222,” Jim paused, squinting through his binoculars in the dim streetlight, “West Boroughs. The pigeon has finally come to roost. Oh, and tell your boys not to make any noise. We don't want these birds to scatter—” he stopped talking as two men suddenly came out of 222 West Boroughs.

Rockford gazed through his glasses and was able to make out the familiar features of two of the flunkies in his friend's folder full of photos. “I gotta go. Saunders and Lieberman just showed up!” He hung up and slipped quietly out of his car.

Staying amid the shadows, he snuck off down the sidewalk.

“Danny!” Noel Carter suddenly called out. 

Rockford ducked into a doorway about twenty feet from the black sedan and crouched there, watching and listening. 

The two men across the street from him stiffened. 

“Come here!” Gardino's lawyer continued.  “I want to talk with you!” 

Danny and his companion reluctantly crossed the street and stepped up to the car. 

“Get in!” Carter commanded them. 

“No thanks!” Danny replied.  “We're fine out here!” 

The eavesdropping detective couldn't make out what the attorney said next, but he heard Danny say, “He's not in there! He said he was going to go find some protection. He took Lenny with him.” 

Rockford stayed put, not daring to get closer for fear of giving himself away. He saw two squad cars silently pull up and block both ends of West Boroughs off. 

The driver of the black sedan spotted them, too and the car's engine came to life. 

The two thugs talking to the lawyer decided to split. 

“Don't run, you fools!” the attorney yelled after them. 

A uniformed officer dropped to one knee and drew a careful bead on the fleeing flunkies, “FREEZE!” he warned.  “OR WE'LL FIRE!” 

The two stopped running and started raising their hands.

The men were frisked, handcuffed and read their rights. 

Rockford waited until their weapons had been confiscated before stepping out of the shadows and up to the black sedan. He reached out and pulled the front passenger's door open.  “You'd better call your lawyer,” he advised Gardino's attorney. 

Carter glared at the private detective, obviously un-amused.

He and his driver were pulled from the car, frisked and then handcuffed.

“I demand to know why I am being arrested!” Carter demanded. 

“Must be the company you keep!” Jim quickly came back, and pointed to the two other suspects in custody.  “Consorting with wanted fugitives? How about accessory to kidnapping? And, I hope for your sake it isn't murder!” he angrily added. 

Carter frowned. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” the arresting officer advised.  “You have the right to have an attorney present while being—” 

“—Oh, shut up!” the ornery attorney advised right back as he and his chauffeur were ushered over to one of the squad cars. 

Detective Becker came screeching up closely followed by two more patrol cars. 

“The paramedic might be in that apartment building,” Jim told the Sergeant as he exited his unmarked car. 

They entered the apartment complex.

The building's visitors made their way to the manager's apartment. 

Becker banged on the door and shouted, “Police! Open up!” 

It took a long time for the manager to answer. He cracked the door open, saw it was indeed the police, and slid the chain off.  “What do you want?” he wondered, pulling the portal wide open. 

Dennis held a photo of Phillip Langley up to the manager's face.  “Do you recognize this man?” 

The manager squinted and tipped the photo up to the hall light. He studied it a moment or two and then nodded.  “He's in 8. Along with about six other guys! Really strange. None of them ever sleeps here...they just come and go from time to ti—” 

“—Do you have the key?” the police detective impatiently inquired. 

“Well of course I got the key! I'm the manager, ain't I!” the manager reminded him, sounding more than a little impatient himself. 

“Can you please open 8 for us?” the private detective politely inquired. 

Five minutes of fast talking later, in the hallway outside of apartment 8…

The manager finally found the right key and opened the door.

The officers gave the place a thorough search. 

“He's not here, Sarge!” a disappointed patrolman determined at last. 

“And I don't think he ever was,” Rockford sadly surmised. 

 ____________________________________________________________________

 

Back at the LAPD's Detective's Squad room, five o'clock the following morning…

Sergeant Becker passed the private detective—collapsed in the chair in front of his desk—a steaming mug of coffee.  

Jim gave him a grateful glance and watched as the exhausted police officer collapsed into his own chair with his own steaming cup. 

“Saunders and Lieberman are in the hoosegow,” Dennis thoughtfully proclaimed, re-sorting through the photos in his folder.  “And Ruger and Hanley are still under surveillance. That leaves Atkins, Hobbson, Langley and Morrow still unaccounted for. By the way,” he paused in his picture sorting to shoot his detective friend a look of admiration.  “Mosley was most impressed with your latest tip. And, so was I. Sometimes I wonder why we just don't put you on the payroll.” 

Jim shot him another grateful glance and then stared glumly down into his half-empty cup.  “A lot a' good it did us! We still don't know where the fireman is! And, without him, most of the charges won't stick!” 

Becker smiled at Rockford's use of the words ‘us’ and ‘we’. 

The man with all the hunches drained the remainder of his coffee and started getting stiffly to his feet.  “All we seem to be catching around here are the small fry. I'm gonna go knock off for a few hours. And then I think I'll try trolling for some bigger fish...over in Gardino's pond,” he added and placed the empty cup down on the desk.  “Thanks for the coffee!” he told his friend and turned to go. 

“Jim?” Dennis called after him. 

Jim glanced back. 

“Be careful!” the concerned-looking cop urged. 

At Nicholas Gardino's home, around eleven that same morning…

James Rockford stepped up to the front door, rang the bell, and knocked.

The maid opened the portal. 

“Good morning, Martha!” Jim said, stepping into the entrance hall.  “I’m here to see your boss.” 

Martha seemed a bit distraught.  “Who are you?” 

“James Rockford,” the intruder replied. “I'm a private investigator.” 

“It's all right, Martha!” her boss called out as he came stepping casually down the curved staircase at the back of the hall—closely followed by his personal protection. 

“Yes, sir!”  Martha backed away. Then she turned and hurried off down the hall. 

Gardino and his entourage led the private investigator into the study. 

The bigger of the gangster's two bodyguards closed the room's thick wooden doors and then stood there, blocking any access to them. 

“All right, Rockford. What do you want?” his short-fused host demanded. 

Rockford didn't like the tone of the man's voice.  “No need to get ‘huffy’. I'm here to do you a favor. Well, actually, to exchange favors,” he corrected, seeing the mobster's look of extreme skepticism. “You tell me where the fireman is and I'll tell you what I know about Phillip Langley.” 

Gardino looked even more dubious.  “You're bluffing! You don't know anything about Langley!” 

“Oh-oh? Then you wouldn't be interested in his little plot to save his neck,” Rockford reasoned and turned towards the obstructed doors. 

“What little plot?” his interested host inquired. 

Jim turned back and shrugged. 

Gardino's eyes narrowed into icy slits.  “Don't play games with me, Rockford!” 

Rockford heeded the racketeer's warning.  “Langley and Morrow are working on a little scheme to gain themselves a some protection—from your wrath.” 

His host appeared to be even more interested.  “What little scheme?” 

Jim stared the mobster right in his sinister face and demanded right back, “Where is he?” 

His adversary didn’t bat an eye. “I don't know.”

Rockford's own unblinking gaze remained riveted on the kidnappers' boss.  “But you could find out...” 

“You have a lot of nerve coming here like this!” Gardino determined. The corners of his mouth turned up somewhat and he suddenly looked shrewd. “What's to keep me from getting the answer I want without giving you the answer you want?” 

“You mean who’s to keep you...” Rockford calmly corrected.  “Sergeant Dennis Becker and his boss—Captain Mosley know I'm in here. They're waiting for me—right outside.” 

Gardino's smug look vanished and his eyes dropped to his desk. “I'll have to think about this,” he nervously announced. “Don't call me! I'll call you!” 

Jim exhaled a silent sigh of relief and started to leave again.  “I'll, uh, let myself out...” 

The goon guarding the door gave him an icy glare and reluctantly stepped aside. 

The private investigator quickly exited the study, but then lingered out in the hall. 

“Making more deliveries?” a woman’s voice asked. 

Rockford looked up.

The same young lady he'd met before was coming down the stairs, carrying a conglomeration of camping gear, artist's supplies a portable typewriter and a small suitcase.

He hurried over to offer his assistance.  “Need some help?” 

She gave him a grateful nod.  “Could you grab that sleeping bag?” 

He grabbed the bag just as it slipped out of her arms. He took the suitcase, too and then opened the front door for her. 

“Thanks!” The girl struggled out the doorway with her gear. “I knew you weren't a real deliveryman,” she informed the handy fellow, as he helped her pack the gear into the opened trunk of her little white sports car. 

“Oh?” Rockford was impressed. 

She nodded, stowed the last item away and slammed the trunk. “Yup! You didn't seem like the deliveryman type. The lines of your face show you lead a much more exciting life!” 

Jim looked somewhat hurt.  “What da yah mean? A deliveryman's life is exciting! Have you ever been chased by a Doberman Pinscher? Why-y, you couldn't ask for more excitement!” 

The girl giggled. “Seriously, what do you really do for a living?” 

Rockford cocked his head.  “What do you think?” 

She studied him carefully for a few moments.  “Your eyes are too kind for you to be a criminal, and you have too good a sense of humor for a policeman.” 

The kind, good-humored gentleman chuckled and extended his hand.  “James Rockford,” he introduced. “I'm a…private investigator.” 

She took and shook his hand.  “Pamela Court...” she confessed. “I should've known!” 

“Court?” Rockford gazed at Gardino's daughter in confusion. The girl seemed a little young to be married. 

“I had my name changed,” the teenager explained. “Look, do me a favor and don't mention the sleeping bag to my father. He thinks I'm flying to London this afternoon.”  

“What sleeping bag?” the private investigator innocently pondered.  

Pamela smiled and sighed in relief.  “Well, I've got to get back upstairs. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rockford!” 

Jim returned her smile.  “It was nice meeting you, too, Ms. Court.” He glanced up at the sky.  “I hope the weather holds out for your camping trip.” 

Ms. Court started heading for the front door.  “Thanks!” she called back over her shoulder.  “If it starts raining again, I can always sleep in the cottage.” She waved and disappeared. 

 

Pamela drove up Castle Rock Beach late that afternoon.

She parked her car and then went to open up her cottage.

The girl froze, finding her front door already unlocked. Pamela cautiously pushed the portal open. “Is anybody here?”

No one answered.

So she swallowed hard and bravely stepped inside.

There were dirty dishes, empty food wrappers and newspapers scattered everywhere!

Her fear was momentarily overcome—by anger! “Well, somebody was here! A bunch of pigs by the looks of it!”

Pamela stomped into her kitchen—er, what remained of it, anyways. “U-ugh! It's gonna take me all weekend just to get this place cleaned up!” The girl gasped in frustration.  Then she pulled her pouting chin up and went back out to her car to get her gear.

Ms. Court carried her suitcase and sleeping bag through the front rooms and into the back bedroom—where she froze again.

There was a body lying in her bed!

Pamela’s heart stopped. She screamed and dropped her gear. 

The body on the bed moved.

“Mmm-mmm...” the guy moaned and began tossing his head from side to side. 

The woman swallowed hard and stared at the stranger with wide eyes.  “Who are you?”

The man on the bed just kept tossing his head…and moaning. 

The girl relaxed a bit, seeing the guy's wrists were cuffed and his feet were tied. 'He can't hurt you,' she assured herself and even took a few steps toward the bed.  “Can you hear me?” she called out loudly. 

The guy didn't show any sign that he could. 

Pamela clasped her trembling hands and stepped right up to the bed. 

“Mmm-mmm...” the guy groaned again and gave his handcuffs an involuntary jerk. 

The girl gasped and took a step back. 

Suddenly, the stranger stopped tossing his head and grew very still. 

Pamela stepped back up to the bed and then stood there, debating what she should do. 'Go for the police!' half of her urged. 'No! Stay here and help him!' the other half insisted.

The motionless man’s mouth was covered with duct tape. 

She reached out with a trembling hand, got a good grip on the sticky strip and started tugging.

The girl jerked, as the guy jerked and moaned—and started tossing his head again. 

Pamela drew a deep breath, held the moaning man’s head still and gently ripped the tape from his tightly pursed lips. 

“Ahhh—ahhh!” the guy groaned and slowly forced his dry eyes open. 

“Who are you?” the girl demanded once again.

Once again, her dazed-looking uninvited visitor didn't answer. The guy quickly closed his hurting eyes and then tried to swallow.  He couldn't. 

The girl returned, just moments later, with a tall glass of water. She tenderly raised the gentleman's head and carefully tipped the glass up to his bleeding lips. She managed to get one mouthful down him—before he began choking…and coughing. 

The man choked…and coughed…for quite some time. Then he reopened his hurting eyes and tried to get them to focus. 

The girl tipped the glass back up to his lips. 

The guy eagerly accepted several long gulps of the water.

Pamela lowered the man’s head back onto the bed.

The stranger lay very still for several minutes.

John had spent the greater portion of the past twenty-four hours totally out of touch with reality.

Now, it seemed, every time he opened his hurting eyes—a glass of water appeared! However, unlike a person lost in the desert and dying of thirst—who only sees a mirage of an oasis where the water's running free—he not only could see imaginary water, he could actually taste it!

His pained peepers opened again and he ran them up the figment of an arm in front of his face…to a girl—a pretty girl. 'If you gotta hallucinate,' the fireman told himself, 'it's nice that your hallucinations can be such lovely ones...'

The ghost of a girl gave him another drink.

His bleeding lips formed a crooked smile. He cleared his dry, scratchy throat and attempted to speak. “Th—Thank…you,” he told the pretty apparition, in a cracked, hoarse whisper. His aching dry eyes began to droop shut. 

The girl smiled back.  “You're welcome!” 

The body on the bed suddenly stiffened.  Whoa-oah!  Tasting imaginary water and seeing imaginary women was one thing, but hearing imaginary voices? It suddenly dawned on John that he just might be having a lucid moment. His burning eyes snapped back open.  “Wh—Who...are you?” 

“Pamela Court. Who are you?” 

“Jo-ohn...John Gage.  This your place?” 

Pamela nodded. 

The fireman’s parched lips formed another smile. “I feel like...Goldilocks.” His eyes were really smarting.  So he shut them to ease the pain. “Pa-am?...You gotta get me...outta here...They'll kill me...if they come back.” 

“Who'll kill you?” 

Gage shrugged and lumped the thugs into one, big, bad bunch. “Mr. Gardino's men.” 

Pamela's mouth dropped open and her eyes watered.  “You must be the paramedic!” She placed her hands on the fireman's chest and bowed her head.  “I'm sorry!” she sobbed.  “I'm so sorry!” 

The paramedic opened his eyes, saw the girl's tears and stared up at her in confusion.  “Pa-am?...I'd appreciate it...if you could…pull yourself together...Please?...I need your…help...You got a…phone?” 

The girl stopped crying, shook her head and sniffled.  “What do you want me to do?” 

“This bed...come apart?” 

She gave her pretty head another shake.  “It's built into the wall.” 

The fireman frowned, but then brightened.  “ I don't suppose...you got a...hacksaw?” 

Again the girl shook her head no. 

“Any kind…of a saw…at all?” he inquired and was tremendously relieved when the little lady finally nodded. “Get it...please?” he requested.

The girl hurried from the room.

John lifted his head and stared out the bedroom window at the sun setting over the ocean. 'I wonder how many suns have set, since the last one I saw?'  

Pamela returned, carrying a very small hand saw. She set the thing down and untied his feet. She tipped the glass up to his lips again. “How long have you been without food and water?” 

“What day…is this?” 

“Saturday.” 

Gage gritted his teeth and slowly pulled his freed legs up.  “Three days...” he quietly replied. 

Pamela noticed one of the fireman's shirtsleeves was rolled up. She spotted a deep purple bruise and a puncture mark over the vein in his right wrist. She also saw the bloodstains on her bedspread. Her vision blurred and her throat tightened. 

John saw the girl staring down at her wrecked bedspread. “I, uh…had a bloody nose,” he explained, sounding extremely apologetic. 

‘Yeah.  And it was my father who gave it to you.’ The girl grimaced and had everything she could do to keep from breaking down and bawling again.  “Where should I saw?” 

The paramedic slowly and painfully positioned himself so he could supervise the project. “Right through…this board—here,” he said, tapping the rather thick, ornate block of wood holding his handcuffed wrists to the bed. 

Pam started sawing. 

John shivered and just lay there, with his eyes tightly closed, listening to the sound of the saw. 

“Nicholas Gardino is my father,” Ms. Court quietly confessed. 

The paramedic's pained eyes opened—momentarily—and he gave the girl a sympathetic glance. 

“Two years ago, I changed my name and address, hoping I could somehow alter that fact, but I didn't. He's still my father...and I still love him.” 

Gage gave the girl a sympathetic smile.  “You don't have to…explain.” 

Pamela paused in her task.  “I want to. I want you to know that I support myself. I even bought this cottage with my own money.” 

The paramedic appeared duly impressed.  “That's quite an accomplishment...Considering you can't be...more than 20.” 

She forced a smile.  “I’m 19.” 

“What do you do...for a living?” 

“I write and illustrate children's books.” 

Gage smiled again.  “Sounds nice...” 

“It is. Want some more water?” 

The fireman nodded and took a few more sips. His electrolyte scrambled body rebelled by sending the muscles in his ribcage and abdomen into spasm. Gage grimaced and groaned involuntarily as two terrible side-aches suddenly racked his midsection. 

Ms. Court stared at the handcuffed hostage in confusion. The more water the guy guzzled, the worse his condition seemed to get. “You okay?”

John managed another nod.  “Just some...bad...cramps!” he explained teeth clenched tightly in pain. “Keep…sawing.”

The woman set the water down and returned to her task. 

The painful spasms finally passed. The shivering paramedic’s head suddenly sagged to one side and his arms and legs went limp. 

Pam saw that John was shivering. She set her saw aside and covered him with her sleeping bag, “You sure you're okay?” 

The fireman managed another slight nod.  “Just a...little...weak…Keep...sawing.” 

She picked the tool back up and started sawing—much faster.

Several exhausting minutes later…

The girl paused for a few moments, to give her aching arms a breather.  She glanced down at Gage.

He looked so still—so deathly still.

Pamela lowered her saw and gently nudged him.  “John?” 

The paramedic didn’t reply…or move. 

The alarmed little lady leaned in low over the fireman’s handsome face and felt his shallow breath on her cheek. Pam exhaled a huge sigh of relief and then started sawing again—faster than ever.

In the LAPD's Detective's Squad room…

Rockford leaned against Becker's desk with his arms folded.  “Gardino blinked first!” he smugly informed his concerned comrade. 

“Oh yeah? Well, I wouldn't feel so smug about your little showdown if I were you!” Dennis informed his cocky friend right back.  “You blink last with that guy and it's liable to be your last blink!” 

Jim was forced to smile.  “Anyways, I baited the hook. Now all I gotta do is wait for a little nibble.” 

Becker looked even more worried.  “I hope you know what you're doing. Gardino is no ordinary fish. He's more of a man-eating shark!” 

Rockford was forced to chuckle.  “And Pamela thinks policemen don't have a sense of humor—” he stopped talking suddenly and looked thoughtful. 

“Who's Pamela?” 

Jim completely ignored the question.  “I think I know where he is...”

“Who? The paramedic?” 

Rockford continued to ignore Becker’s questions. “Of course! The cottage!” 

“Of course!” Dennis sarcastically agreed. “What cottage?” 

“Pamela's cottage!” 

Becker remained confused. “Who's Pamela?” 

“Gardino's daughter. Pamela Court. Dennis, we've got to check it out!” 

“Fine!” the detective told him, springing to his feet and grabbing his coat. “What's the address?” 

Rockford shrugged. 

“How are we supposed to check it out if you don't even know where it is?” 

“I know this guy over at the county courthouse…” 

“Even if it wasn't after five, this is Saturday.” 

“Then we'll just have to go ask ‘Jaws’,” Rockford reasoned.

The sergeant now looked totally lost. 

“You know,” Jim teased, “‘Jaws’ Gardino!” 

Dennis rolled his eyes.  The sergeant then smiled and followed his still-grinning detective friend from the room. 

 

Back in the bedroom of the cottage on Castle Rock Beach, Pamela finally finished sawing through the board. She pushed the piece of wood back, freed the handcuffs and lowered John's arms. 

“Ahh-uhh!” the paramedic cried out in agony and opened his eyes. 

“I'm sorry!” Pam apologized, teetering on the brink of tears again.  “I didn't realize—your shoulders must be so sore!” 

The fireman stared down at his freed arms.  “No-o...” he lied, looking positively delighted.  “No. It's all right. Let's get outta here!” He tried to sit up, but his burning eyes crossed and he fell back onto the bed. 

Pam shook the motionless man’s shoulder.  “John? Jo-ohn?” 

Gage groaned and gradually came around.  He rolled slowly over onto his stomach and then hung his reeling head over the side of the bed. “Ah-ah...I don't feel so good.”

The girl gave the paramedic a sympathetic pat on the back.  “C'mon! I'll help you,” she encouraged. Pam draped the fireman’s handcuffed wrists over her head.  “We'll take it slow,” she promised and slowly began pulling him to his feet. 

John just sagged to his knees. 

“Stand up...” 

“I can't...” the fireman informed her.  “My knees won't lock...” 

“Then I'll just have to carry you.” 

“You'll have to…what?” 

“Carry you,” the girl repeated, pulling the collapsed fireman back to his feet. She sat the man on the edge of her bed, removed his handcuffed wrists from around her neck and then draped his weight across her shoulder.  “You're light enough for me to carry,” she assured her cargo. 

“You're crazy!” the 150-pound paramedic assured the 110-pound girl right back. 

“No-o,” Ms. Court calmly corrected. “I'm tough!” The woman straightened up and started carrying the amazed man out to her car.

Pamela opened her car’s passenger door, shoved the seat forward, and carefully set her burden down in back.  “You'll be able to lie down back there.” 

John collapsed onto the car’s cramped back seat.  

Pam noticed the paramedic's already pale complexion appeared even paler. “You okay?” 

Gage nodded.  “Let's get outta here!” 

His get-away driver slid in behind the wheel and thumbed the ignition.  The girl got the vehicle turned around. Then she drove off, in a cloud of dust, down the dirt road that led back to the Pacific Coast Highway.

About a mile down the dirt road, that passed for Dragoon Drive, Pam spotted another cloud of dust—approaching. “Uh-oh!” she exclaimed. “We've got company!” 

John tried to sit up, but he still couldn't clear the cobwebs out of his head. He fell back onto the seat. 

“It's my cousin, Phillip!” Pamela announced, recognizing her relative's vehicle. 

The paramedic got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  “Is your cousin...blond?” 

“Yes!” Pam answered and then swerved as Phillip tried to run her off the road. 

Gage braced himself and groaned. “O-oh no-o.” 

The girl jerked frantically on the wheel—desperately trying to regain control on the soft, dirt road. “I got by!” she announced, sounding more than a little surprised.

The car in her rear-view mirror skidded to a stop and started turning around.

Pam floored the gas pedal and kicked up more dust than ever. 

“They'll try to shoot out your tires,” the tremendously disappointed paramedic dismally predicted. 

“They'll never see them in all this dust!” the car's pretty driver promised and peered into her mirror again. She frowned, seeing her cousin was gaining on her.

They reached the end of the dirt road. Pamela ran the stop sign and pulled right out in front of a semi tractor-trailer. “Sorry!” she told its driver. 

The body in the back braced itself again. John lay there, listening to the sound of tires squealing on pavement. 

“Rats!” Pam exclaimed.  “They can see the tires now!”

The car in her rear-view mirror passed the truck and pulled right up behind them.

She spotted an arm—and a gun—sticking out of the window on the passenger's side! Her heart stopped—momentarily. She glanced at her car’s speedometer and her heart skipped a few more beats.  “A hundred and twelve!” the girl gulped.  “If we have a blow-out at this speed, we're really going to—” her words trailed off as her steering wheel suddenly jerked sharply—to the right. The car went careening sideways. Ms. Court clenched her teeth, gripped the wheel with all her might and tried—in vain—to pull out of the skid. The automobile slid off the highway, crashed through a wooden barrier, skidded sideways through a small gully and came to rest—on its driver’s side—at the foot of a low, sandy hill. The seat-belted girl took an inventory of all her body parts. Except for being a bit shaken up and extremely frightened, she was okay. “—rack up!” she exclaimed, completing her sentence. Pam released her shoulder harness, turned around and peered over the back of her seat to check on the condition of her passenger.  “John?” she called out.  “Jo-ohn!” 

The crumpled body in her back seat didn't move, but the paramedic's dry eyes opened—for an instant—and he gave her a wink. 

Pam was about to ask what he was up to, when she heard movement outside the vehicle. She turned her head back around and saw her cousin Phillip crouched in front of her windshield—with a gun pointed right at her face! 

“Out of the car, cuz'!” Langley ordered. 

The driver's door was buried in the dirt. Pam pointed to her blocked exit and then shrugged. 

Phillip—and the goon with him—rocked the wreck back onto its wheels. They spotted the motionless body in the back seat, and their mouths dropped open. 

“He's supposed to be DEAD!” Langley screamed, his voice filled with an equal mixture of anger and amazement. 

Lenny studied the car's lifeless backseat passenger for a few seconds and then speculated, “Maybe he is...” 

“Check him out!” Phillip ordered. 

Not desiring to be 'kidnapped' a third time, the paramedic held his breath and continued to lie perfectly still. 

Lenny picked up the paramedic's handcuffed right wrist and tried to find a pulse—he couldn't. He watched the fireman's chest for any sign of movement—there wasn’t any. “He ain't breathin'.” 

Pamela had everything she could do to keep from gasping. 

Langley treated his fellow goon's diagnosis with extreme skepticism. He motioned for Morrow to watch the girl. Then he went over and slammed the butt of his gun into the dead guy's ribcage. 

John jerked and groaned—involuntarily. 

The blond thug looked smug.  “Take him along, too!” 

The brown-haired flunky frowned.  “Why? Let's just kill him right here!” 

“We'll use him to deal with the cops,” Langley turned to his cousin and gave her his sick grin.  “And you to deal with your father!” 

Lenny latched onto the paramedic's handcuffed wrists and reluctantly pulled him from the car. 

Gage was still pretending to be unconscious.

So the thug was forced to throw him over his shoulder and carry him. 

Phillip pulled Pamela out the passenger's door of her car and then shoved her over to—and in to—the back of his car. 

Lenny dropped the paramedic on her lap, and they drove off.

Just after dark…

Rockford's silver Firebird and Becker's unmarked cop car pulled into the driveway of Nick Gardino's home.

An ambulance pulled in right behind them.

The homeowner and his bodyguards came hurrying out of the house and started heading for the black BMW that was parked in the middle of the drive. 

The two detectives ran over to the car and stopped the group from climbing into it. 

“What's goin' on?” Dennis demanded and flashed the mobster's two mean looking muscle men his badge.

The goons reluctantly backed off. 

Gardino blinked his watering eyes.  “It's Pamela! That maniac is after my daughter! Langley convinced our housekeeper to tell him where she is! She's supposed to be on a plane to London,” he paused, “but she didn't want to be that far away from her mother...” 

“How long ago did this happen?” Becker wondered. 

“How do we get to the cottage?” Rockford urgently inquired—at the same time. 

“I'm not sure. We just found her out ba—” 

“—How do we get to the cottage?” Jim repeated, the tone of urgency increasing in his voice. 

Gardino swallowed hard and glanced at his watch.  “It's no use. He probably has her by now!” 

“We think the kidnapped fireman may be there,” the police officer explained. 

“1868 North Dragoon Drive, Castle Rock Beach,” Pamela's father numbly replied. 

Becker went over to his unmarked car and grabbed his radio. The detective ordered a police helicopter and informed headquarters of the assault—and possible kidnapping. He replaced the radio and turned to Rockford. “You coming to the cottage?” 

His frowning friend gasped in frustration.  “I'm tired of always being a step behind! I have an idea on how to get a step ahead!” 

“Where're you going?” Dennis wondered as Rockford started heading for his car. 

“Fishing!” Jim shouted back over his shoulder.  “I have a hunch they might be biting—over on Shelby Street!” 

'Shelby Street is the site of our surveillance stake-out...' the officer realized. Becker heaved a frustrated sigh himself. The police detective wanted to follow the private detective—who was following another one of his hunches. After all, Rockford was on a roll. However, he'd already committed himself—and his forces—to the cottage lead. 

Gardino stepped up to the silver Firebird.  “Get my daughter back—unharmed—and I'll be extremely grateful...” 

Rockford shot the distraught man a sympathetic glance.  “I honestly didn't know anything about Langley's plans—or I would've stopped him.” He slid behind the wheel of his car and slammed its door shut.  “For Pamela's sake...” he added and drove off. 

 

Part 4