TV Versus REALITY

Part 4

 

Fifteen minutes later, over on Shelby Street…

Rockford pulled up and parked behind an unmarked police car. He got out, walked over to the driver's side window and tapped on the glass. 

The plainclothesman seated inside reluctantly wound his window down.  “What are you doing here, Rockford?”

Rockford ignored the man's attitude—and his question.  “Ruger and Hanley alone?” 

The annoyed officer nodded. 

“Be ready to follow me,” Jim told him, and started off across the street towards an apartment building. 

“Rockford!” the perturbed policeman called after the private eye. “What are you up to?” 

Rockford disappeared into the building they’d been surveillancing.

Jim checked the complex’s mailboxes and discovered that Markus Hanley occupied Apartment 12. 

Moments later…

Rockford was standing in a hallway, knocking on Hanley’s door.  

“Who is it?” someone cautiously called out. 

“James Rockford!” Jim answered.  “Gardino sent me...”

The door opened a crack.

Rockford caught the glint of a gun’s barrel. 

Hanley eyed him—and the deserted hallway—up and down. Then he stashed his weapon back in his belt and reluctantly opened the portal. 

Rockford entered the apartment.  His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in surprise.

Andrew Ruger was nowhere to be seen, but Brent Hobbson and Wes' Atkins were standing in Hanley’s living room, looking larger than life. 'Alone, huh...'

Hanley crossed his arms and gave his uninvited guest an icy glare.  “What do you want, Rockford?” 

Jim glanced around the roomful of goons.  “Phillip Langley is going to kidnap—or has already kidnapped—Gardino’s daughter.” 

Mark grinned and grunted skeptically.  “The girl isn't even in LA!” 

“I just spoke with her this morning,” Rockford informed him.  “In person.” 

Hanley's grin vanished. 

“Smartest move that imbecile's made yet!” Hobbson declared. 

Atkins nodded. 

Jim cleared his throat and continued. “Gardino's offering a sizable reward to get her back—unharmed.” 

The thugs seemed both unimpressed and uninterested. 

Rockford cleared his throat again. “I, uh, think I know where he's taking her...” 

“Good! Then why don't you just run along and rescue her!” his suddenly antsy host suggested. Hanley started ushering Gardino's messenger towards the door. 

“I don't suppose you'd like to tell me where your other meeting place is?” the private eye pondered and applied his brakes.  “You know, the other apartment like the one on Boroughs Street?” 

“If there was such a place,” Atkins commented, “why would we wanna tell you where it is?” 

“I think Langley's taking the girl there,” Jim told him. 

The goons looked thoughtful. 

“He probably is,” Atkins had to agree. 

“And the fireman,” Rockford added. 

The three thugs reacted like they’d just gotten zapped with 4,000 volts, but then they relaxed.

Jim's heart sank.  'He must be dead,' he silently—and sadly—realized. Then again…maybe he’s not.

Only two of the goons had relaxed.

His already antsy host remained extremely uptight. 

“What fireman?” Hobbson innocently inquired. 

Rockford did some fast assuming—and positive thinking.  “The fireman you guys left at Pamela’s cottage. Surely you must know the one I'm referring to. I mean, you didn't kidnap more than one. Did you?” 

Mark pulled the gun from his belt.  “Why don't you step into the bedroom for a minute,” he told more than asked Rockford. 

Jim glanced down at the gun barrel leveled at his midsection and made his way over to the requested room.  “Why don’t I,” he agreed. 

Hanley relieved their uninvited visitor of his weapon.  Then he pushed the P.I. into the room and pulled the door shut.

The three thugs held a whispered conference. 

“He's bluffing!” Hobbson quickly determined.  “You and Andy WASTED that fireman!” 

Atkins nodded.  “He's bluffing!” 

Hanley didn’t look as certain.  He gazed down at his watch for a few moments, performed some rapid mental calculations and suddenly looked even more uncertain. 

His two associates glanced nervously at each other and then turned back to glare at their antsy buddy. 

“You did WASTE HIM?” Atkins practically shouted. 

“Not exactly,” Mark timidly told them. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hobbson did shout. 

“We left him cuffed to the bed,” Hanley explained.  “He was supposed to WASTE himself! He should've been dead by now! I've never seen such a tough little guy!” 

Meanwhile, in the bedroom…

Rockford had his ear pressed against the door, listening to some frantic whispering. He heard footsteps approaching. So he stepped back and then stood there, looking nonchalant. 

Mark opened the door and waved him out of the room—at gunpoint.  “We've decided to rescue Pamela after all.” 

Jim had everything he could do to keep from grinning.  There was a slight chance the fireman might still be alive! “Good. Goo-ood. I was sort a' hoping you might.”

In the dark alley behind Hanley's apartment building, Gardino's goons ushered Rockford into a car, and they drove off into the night. 

Over in the bedroom of Pamela's cottage on Castle Rock Beach…

Sergeant Becker jiggled the sawed in two board at the head of the bed and stared down at the ropes on the corner posts at its foot. “He was here, alright,” he told the uniformed officer standing at his side. He pointed to the bloody bedspread.  “And he's hurt. Maybe the girl took him to a hospital?” 

The patrolman nodded thoughtfully. 

Another uniformed officer came barging into the room.  “Sarge, they found the girl's car—abandoned on the Pacific Coast Highway—about six miles south of here!” 

The Sarge grimaced. “Then again,” he glumly began, his voice filled with sarcasm, “maybe Langley has him—and the girl—handcuffed to some bedpost somewhere! I can just see us, following this trail of bloody bedspreads—clear across the county! Leaving little notes pinned to the pillows…The fireman slept here! The fireman slept here!” 

The two uniforms had a hard time keeping straight faces. 

Somewhere on the outskirts of LA…

Phillip's car pulled up and parked in front of a ritzy looking apartment complex.

Pamela was sitting quietly in the back seat, with John's head resting on her lap. 

Langley exited the vehicle and flung the girl's door open.  “Everybody out!” 

His cousin looked up.  “Give me a hand...” 

“He can manage! Get out of the car!” 

“He's too weak!” Pam protested.  “Help me...” 

Phillip latched onto the fireman's cuffed wrists and jerked him out of the car. 

The paramedic crumpled into a motionless heap on the sidewalk. 

Langley glanced nervously around.  Then he picked the lifeless body up and stashed it back into the car. Phillip placed the tip of his gun’s barrel against the faker's left temple and threatened—er, promised, “If you don't get up and walk into that building, I'm gonna blow your brains out!” 

The prisoner showed no sign whatsoever that he had heard the threat—er, promise. 

Phillip grabbed the paramedic’s shirt collar and shook him.  “You hear me?” 

The rattled fireman's head flopped forward and he remained totally unresponsive. 

“Even if he could hear you,” his cousin began, “he can't walk! He's too weak!” 

Langley remained skeptical.  “I suppose he flew into your car!” 

“No,” his cousin corrected.  “I carried him!” 

Phillip eyed his petite relative up and down.  “You're crazy!” 

“No-o,” the girl quickly came back.  “I'm tough!” 

Lenny let out an impatient gasp and stepped up behind Langley.  “We gonna stand out here all night, or what?” 

Phillip's shoulders sagged in defeat.  “Carry him inside!” 

Morrow's mouth dropped open.  “You're the one who's crazy! If anyone saw me, they'd call the cops—for sure!” 

“Both of you carry him! We'll say he's drunk!” Langley decided.  He removed his suit coat and hung it over the paramedic's handcuffed wrists. 

Pam and Lenny each draped an arm around their necks and started dragging Gage toward the building’s main entrance.

Inside the apartment complex…

No one saw them get on the elevator, and no one saw them get off of it on the seventh floor, either.

However, as they stood in the hallway in front of Apartment G6, waiting for Phillip to unlock the door, a woman strolled past with her poodle and gave them—and their collapsed cargo—a suspicious stare. 

“Our friend, here just had a little too much to drink,” Langley explained.  “We had to bring him home. He couldn't drive…in his condition.” 

The woman hurried off down the hall and disappeared into her apartment. 

Phillip glanced anxiously around. Then he opened the apartment door and pulled the other three inside. 

Pam and Lenny dragged John into another back bedroom—where he was shoved down onto another mattress.

The girl lifted the fireman's limp legs up onto the bed with the rest of his motionless body and then turned to leave. 

“Where do you think you're going?” Langley wondered, latching onto the little lady's left wrist. 

“To get him some water,” she replied. 

“Forget it! He's fine just the way he is!” Phillip determined and handed the girl over to Morrow.  “Tie her up!” 

“He's going to die if he doesn't get some wa—” 

“—Pamela, shut up!” Phillip cut in, sounding very bored. “And gag her!” 

Lenny nodded and started dragging the girl from the room. 

“No-o!” Pam protested. “I want to stay with him!”  

The creep clutching her wrists completely ignored her. 

Not having the key to the handcuffs in his possession, Langley cut some drape cords and tied their unconscious prisoner’s manacled wrists to the bed's headboard. The paramedic’s ankles were quickly secured to the corner posts of its footboard. Phillip gave the fireman’s impassive face a fourth backhanded blow. The sadist exhaled a satisfied sigh and then strolled calmly back into the living room.

 

Pamela’s cousin picked a phone up from the coffee table, punched in some numbers and dropped back onto the sofa. He propped his feet up on the table and then plastered a sick grin upon his face. “Uncle Nick? Remember me? Your nephew—the carpet?” 

 

Outside the ritzy apartment complex…

Hanley pulled up and parked behind a black, four-door, '77 Lincoln Continental, with a MAFIA STAFF CAR back bumper sticker. 

“That's Phillip's car!” Mark announced. “C'mon! Let's go!” the gunman urged.

“Hold it!” Rockford advised, stalling for time.  “You can't just go barging in there! Langley probably knows you finked on him to Carter! He's not likely to just hand him over to you!” 

“So-o?” Hanley impatiently inquired. 

“So-o, there's liable to be shooting! The girl could get hurt—or killed!” Jim paused, looking shrewd.  “Now, I know you're not interested in Gardino's sizable reward, but how would you like his sizable punishment? He'd never forgive you if you hurt his daughter! Why he might even go so far as to have you killed!” 

There was a long silence as the three men mulled over Rockford's remarks. 

“Then how do you suggest we handle this?” Hanley finally asked the know-it-all. 

“Let me get the girl out,” the private investigator suggested. “Then you guys can go in for what you're after.” 

Mark grunted skeptically.  “What makes you think you can get her out without getting her hurt—or killed?” 

“Because I won't have a gun!” 

The three killers in the car with him cracked up. 

“I have a plan!” Rockford stated further, when the laughter finally died down. 

“Okay, Superman,” Mark said. “Let's hear it!” 

Speaking of hearing things…

Jim strained his ears, hoping to hear the sound of sirens—police sirens. 'Anytime now, Dennis...' he silently pleaded. 

Becker drove up to the stakeout on Shelby Street and parked behind his friend's silver Firebird. He got out and stepped over to another unmarked police car.  “He's still in there?” 

The car's driver nodded. 

The Sergeant glanced at his watch and frowned.  “I don't like it. C’mon! Let's check it out!” 

The two cops in the car exited.

The three of them headed off across the street and into the structure being staked out.

Less than five minutes later, Becker and his men returned to the street.

“Since when,” Dennis angrily demanded, “do you only stakeout half of a building?” 

The two car cops cringed and stared down at their shoes. 

Becker gave the pair a disgusted glare.  “He probably would have led us right to the hostages!”

His men continued to avoid his narrowed eyes.

Dennis gave them both a contemptuous grunt and stood there, thinking. 'My fishing friend is using himself as bait and there's no one around to reel him in!' 

Inside the ritzy apartment complex…

Rockford and the three thugs stood at the end of a long hallway on the seventh floor. 

Jim was still straining his ears, listening—er, praying for the sound of approaching sirens. 'Where is LA's finest?' he wondered for the umpteenth time.  'A few more minutes and I'm gonna really have to go through with this!' He shuddered at the thought of having to face Phillip and his friend unarmed. 

“What are you waiting for?” Mark impatiently demanded.  “Quit stalling and go get her!” he ordered and shoved the barrel of his gun into Rockford's back. 

Jim grimaced and swallowed hard.  “Remember,” he advised, glancing back over his shoulder, “don't come in 'til the girl's out!” 

The goons nodded 

Superman drew a deep breath and reluctantly started off down the hall. 'Oh brother!' he told himself.  'Are you gonna have to do some fast talking!'

Jim reached apartment G6 and put his ear up against its portal. He smiled, hearing music—loud music—playing. He pulled out his locksmith's kit and went to work on the door.

The locking mechanism moved with a loud metallic 'cli-ick'.

Rockford realized the music must've drowned out the sound—and sighed in relief. He grasped the doorknob and began turning it very  s l o w l y.  'Do you realize,' he asked himself, 'that your life depends on whether or not they dead-bolted or chained this door?'

The door 'cli-icked' open.

Jim froze, but again the music saved him from being discovered. He exhaled a silent sigh of relief and then continued to ease the door open ever so s l o w l y. 

“I'm gonna let him sweat a little first!” he heard someone say.  “Give him a taste of his own medicine!” 

'Must be Langley,' Rockford reasoned. 

“Why can't we just get the money and split?” Morrow inquired. 

“Because I'm not just doing this for the money!” Langley angrily explained.  “I'm getting a great deal of personal satisfaction out of this!” 

Morrow went over to the radio and started dial surfing. 

“Turn that thing down and go check on the fireman!” Phillip ordered. 

Rockford saw Lenny leave the room. He threw the door open, raced in and tackled Langley around the waist.

They tumbled to the floor.

Jim spun the thug around and slammed him in the jaw.

Phillip went limp.

Rockford frisked him and pulled the gun from his belt. “Ou-ouch!” he whispered with a grimace and shook his smarting right hand.

In the apartment’s bedroom…

John had untied the cord holding his handcuffs to the headboard. Next, he’d freed his bound ankles. 

Now, he was lying there on the bed with his right leg bent at the knee. He heard someone enter the room. 

Lenny stepped up to the bed. He saw the prisoner's bent leg, but didn't realize he was looking at a loaded weapon. 

Gage cracked his eyes open just a slit and saw someone's stomach. He clenched his teeth and then planted his right foot solidly into the middle of that tummy.

John heard an “Oo-oof!” sound and watched the doubled up flunky go flying back into the bedroom closet's sliding door.

The fireman sprang from the bed, grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from the nightstand—with both hands—and whacked the goon on the top of the head with it.

Lenny groaned and collapsed.

The paramedic stared apologetically down at the injured man for a moment or two—and then proceeded to pass out himself.

John slumped to the carpeted floor and was still.

Rockford pressed himself up against the wall by the bedroom doorway. He stayed there with Langley's gun raised above his head, waiting to knock out the other thug.

Back in the bedroom…

Gage groaned and gradually came around.

John struggled onto his hands and knees. Then he picked the heavy glass ashtray back up and started crawling toward the living room.

The paramedic reached the open portal, braced himself against the door's frame and began hauling himself up off the floor.

Somehow, he made it to his feet. He stood there, swaying slightly, using the wall for support—and holding the ashtray in his raised hands.

Gage had just thought of a way to get Pamela's cousin to come back into the bedroom, when his lightheadedness became a major problem. He tried shaking his reeling head, but it refused to clear. The fireman managed to stagger forward a step or two—before finally collapsing.

Somebody finally exited the bedroom.

Rockford began to bring his raised gun butt down, but then he spotted that somebody's handcuffed wrists, and stopped.  

The fireman dropped to his knees and went sprawling face first onto the carpeted floor of the living room, anyway.  

Rockford peeked into the bedroom. His brows arched.

The other goon had already been rendered unconscious. 

Jim crossed over to the passed out paramedic and stooped down beside him.  “You okay?” he anxiously inquired and carefully rolled the now groaning guy onto his back. 

The moaning fireman caught the question.  He forced his sore eyes open and tried focusing them on the person leaning over him. John was tremendously relieved to see that this gunman's hair was a dark brown. The room gradually stopped spinning. “Who…are you?”

“James Rockford,” the gentleman told him with a warm smile. 

‘The Private Investigator.’ Gage breathed a sigh of relief, but then he rolled onto his right  side and began moaning and groaning again.  “Ah-ah…I don't feel so good.” 

Rockford gave his left shoulder a sympathetic pat. 

The fireman stiffened suddenly and tried to sit up.  “Pa-am?” 

“Take it easy!” Jim advised and helped the ghostly pale paramedic into a sitting position. 

Gage sat there, swaying slightly. He spotted Pamela—gagged—and tied to a chair in the kitchen. He gave his dizzy head a few shakes and then started crawling over to her, inching along the floor with his handcuffed wrists. 

The detective got to his feet and flicked the radio off.  Then he crossed quickly over to the phone on the coffee table and dialed 911. “Yes, operator. This is James Rockford…” His smile reappeared.  “The kidnapped paramedic is alive! And, if you want to keep him that way, send the police to 2183 West Melstrand, Apartment G6! And tell them to hurry!” He replaced the phone and disappeared into the bedroom. 

John finally got the girl's wrists untied. 

Pamela pulled her bound arms free and untied the gag.  “Thanks, John!” she gasped and went to work freeing her feet. 

“Just...returning…the favor,” John told her, dropping back onto the floor. He had no choice. Either he lay down, or he fell down. 

Pamela shot her rescuer a concerned glance. Then she took her bonds and stepped over to her unconscious cousin. 

Rockford came out of the bedroom.  “Need a hand?” he asked the girl. 

Pam shook her pretty head.  “I can manage! I'm going to get a great deal of personal satisfaction out of this!” she added, quoting her misguided cousin. 

Jim looked highly amused as he headed for the apartment's open portal. He closed the door and then locked and bolted—and chained—it before going back over to Gage.  “Do you think you could travel if we have to?” 

The paramedic swallowed hard and looked confused.  “Why can't we just…stay here…and wait for the police?” 

Rockford looked rather uneasy.  “There are three thugs—just down the hall—who are gonna come busting in here, any second now…” he winced, “…to kill you.” 

John looked shocked and tried to sit up.  “Wha—?” The fireman's wide eyes crossed and he collapsed back onto the carpeting. He came to almost immediately and tried to sit up again, but Mr. Rockford held him down. “How do you know…they want to kill me?” he wondered.  “How did they even…find me?” 

Jim looked even more uneasy and avoided his confused questioner's eyes. “Here…” He handed John the gun he had taken from Morrow. 

The fireman made a face and dropped the weapon. 

Rockford's eyebrows shot up again.  “What's the matter?” 

“I hate guns!” Gage announced. 

“You don't have to shoot anybody! Just scare 'em a little!” Jim advised, and placed the revolver back in the paramedic's right palm. 

The fireman made another face and lay there, holding onto the weapon’s trigger guard with two fingers.  “I can't fire this thing! I won't fire this thing!” 

Rockford rolled his eyes.  “I don't believe you! There are three goons out there who are going to kill you...DEAD!” 

John just gazed up at the gun, looking miserable.  “I don't care! I won't fire this thing!” 

Jim wrapped the principled paramedic's fingers around the gun's butt.  “Then just point it in their general direction! Maybe you can bluff them!”  'This guy's a few eggs shy of a carton!' the detective determined and started to leave. 

Gage grabbed his ankle.  “Where are you going?” 

Rockford exhaled an impatient sigh.  “To prepare for an invasion!” 

“Let's leave!” John suggested.  “They can't shoot us…if we aren't here!” 

The detective stared down at the fireman on the floor, looking dumbfounded.  “We're on the seventh floor! What?…You gonna flip out your communicator and have Scotty beam us up?” 

Gage completely ignored the investigator's sarcasm and calmly put forth a more rational proposal.  “There's got to be a ledge! We can use the ledge…to get to another apartment!” 

Jim's jaw dropped.  He stared down at the paramedic looking positively dumbfounded. “You can't even sit up without passing out!” he exclaimed when he got his ability to speak back.  “And you want to crawl out on ledge on the seventh floor? You're a basket case! I'd rather face the guns!” 

“Suit yourself,” the paramedic said and started crawling off.  “Hide!” he told Pam as he passed her.  “They won't bother you!” 

“I'm going with!” the girl announced and followed the fireman on all fours into the bedroom. 

John gave the trussed up unconscious creep that he had cold-cocked a careful once over and another apologetic glance. Then he turned his attention to his shadow.  “Under the bed will be fine!” he told the girl, sounding very final. 

Pam frowned but then brightened.  “I have to go with you—or they'll use me to get to you!” 

The fireman looked thoughtful and frowned as well.  “You're right!” 

Pamela stepped back up to the private investigator—turned furniture mover.  The girl flashed the busy fellow her most persuasive smile.  “You will help us, won't you? Plea-ease?” 

Rockford's shoulders sagged in surrender. He always was a sucker for a skirt with a sob story. Jim exhaled another exasperated sigh and started heading for the bedroom.  “I've been risking my neck for a basket case!” he announced to no one in particular. The perturbed private eye shot the now grinning girl an annoyed glare.  “Two basket cases!” he corrected. 

By the time he and Pam reached the bedroom window, John was already halfway down the ledge to the next door apartment. 

The paramedic looked back over his shoulder and saw their heads sticking out of the window.  “C'mon!” he urged.  “It's wider than it looks!” 

Rockford watched with wide eyes as Ms. Court crawled cautiously out onto the ledge and began inching her way along it. 

John glanced back again and saw the girl looking down at the street and sidewalk seven floors below. “Don't look down!” the fireman strongly advised.  “ I do this all the time…and—believe me—it’s…a lot better…if you don't look down!” 

The handcuffed ledge crawler pried up on the first window he came across—locked.  The second and third windows he tried to raise were also secured. The fourth window had an air-conditioning unit in it. He reached out with his handcuffed wrists and tugged on the window—it gave! He exhaled a sigh of relief and raised it as high as it would go.  “Here's hoping nobody’s home!” he mumbled to himself, as he shoved the cooling appliance off of the window’s sill.  The heavy unit made an awful racket when it hit the floor, but nobody came to investigate the noise.  Gage heaved another sigh of relief and climbed.

John helped Pamela into the apartment. Then he staggered over to a bed and collapsed—face first—upon it. “Ah-uh...I don't feel so good.”

Pam flicked a lamp on and then assisted Jim in from the ledge. 

Rockford gave the girl a look of undying gratitude and then heaved a huge sigh of relief, himself.  “Well...That wasn't so bad!” he lied. The detective stared out at the ledge for a few moments and shuddered.  Then he took Pamela by the elbow and began ushering her away from the open window.  “C'mon! Let's get out of here!”

They pulled the moaning paramedic back up onto his feet and then did their best to keep him there. 

“Damn!” the swaying fireman suddenly exclaimed. 

“You okay?” Pam anxiously inquired. 

“Yeah...” John assured her.  “I just realized something, is all.” He paused. “If those guys get away, they're gonna to try to kill me again! I can't let them get away!” The determined sounding paramedic pulled his arms free of their grasps and started staggering toward the bedroom door. 

Pamela turned to Rockford and gave him a pleading, pitiful look. 

Again, the investigator's shoulders sagged in surrender.  “Stay here!” he ordered. 

The girl nodded.

Jim caught up to John in the living room.  “Let's let the police handle them, okay?” 

The fireman fell against the door to the hall. He paused there, trying to clear his reeling head.  “Mr. Rockford—” 

“—Ji-im,” Mr. Rockford interrupted. 

“Ji-im, what would you do…if you were me?” 

The question caused Jim’s frown to turn upside-down.  “I'd try to stop them from getting away,” he truthfully told him. 

The paramedic unlocked the door and peered out into the hallway. He didn't see anyone. He pulled the gun from his belt, stepped out of the apartment and crept off down the hall—using the wall for support. 

Rockford drew his confiscated weapon and followed him.

The pair reached the open door to G6 and stood there, listening to the irritated voices of three men. 

“Where are they?” Hobbson demanded. 

“I don't get it!” Atkins confessed.  “We were watching the door the entire time!” 

“They gotta be in here!” Hanley angrily exclaimed. 

John stepped into the apartment and aimed his weapon at the backs of the three befuddled flunkies. “Freeze!” he ordered, sounding very mean.  “Drop the guns…and put your hands above your heads!” 

The flabbergasted trio—reluctantly—obeyed. 

“Get their guns,” the paramedic told his companion. 

Rockford gave the transformed fireman a strange stare, but then obediently stepped over and stooped down to retrieve the requested firearms. 

“Now, go hide them,” the fireman further requested. 

Jim pulled his gun from Mark's belt and turned to shoot the basket case a look of confusion.  “Hide them?” 

John nodded and dropped to his knees. 

It went against Jim's better judgment to leave Gage alone. However, he recalled something he'd once read: 'Never argue with a crazy person. People watching might not be able to tell the difference.' The detective decided to humor the crazy person. He left the apartment to ‘hide’ the guns. 

The distant sound of sirens came drifting through the open bedroom window.

Gage untensed a little.

Right about then, the living room started spinning again.

He bowed his whoozy head.  It didn't help.  In fact, the room just spun faster.  “Uh-oh...” he muttered under his breath as he went sprawling—face first—onto the apartment’s carpeted floor…again! The gun flew from his handcuffed hands and landed at Hanley's feet. 

Mark stooped down and snatched it up—just as Rockford stepped through the doorway.  “Drop it!” 

Jim took in the situation. His shoulders sagged. 

“C'mon! Toss it over here!” Hanley told him. 

Rockford frowned and flung his weapon at Mark's feet. 

Seeing as how the sirens were getting louder and louder by the second, the two flunkies without guns went tearing out of the apartment. 

The remaining thug picked up Jim's gun and stuck John's in his belt. 

The paramedic groaned and started to come around. 

Mark took careful aim at the fireman's tossing head. 

Jim saw Hanley’s finger tightening on the trigger and dove for the goon’s gun arm. 

Mark redirected his aim and fired at Rockford. 

The moving target grabbed his own left wrist and changed his course to take cover behind the couch. 

The combination of the gunshot and the screaming sirens roused the moaning paramedic completely. Gage opened his eyes and got slowly to his hands and knees. He saw Hanley pointing his gun at Jim and started rising to his feet. “C’mon!” he told the thug.  “Give me the gun!” 

Hanley moved his aim back over to cover him. “You're DEAD, fireman!” he declared and started squeezing the trigger. 

The fireman just stood there, swaying. Then he took a few staggering steps toward his would be executioner. “Go ahead!” he dared, sounding somewhat amused. “ Shoot me!” 

Rockford's eyes widened and his brows shot up.  'A basket case!' 

The goon gave Gage a strange look. Hanley seemed to be in a state of shock over the fireman's reckless abandon. 

John rolled his eyes and snatched the weapon from Mark's hand. 

Jim blinked and swallowed hard. 

The thug stared at the crusty paramedic and declared—almost in awe, “You're either the nutsiest…or the gutsiest little guy I've ever come across!” 

“Neither!” the fireman assured him, looking rather smug.  “ I took all the bullets out!” he confessed, and waved the empty weapon recklessly through the air. 

“Both!” Rockford exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and snatching the gun from him.  “I hate to have to be the one to tell you this,” he said and pointed the weapon at Hanley, “but this is my gun!” He held up his bleeding wrist.  “And it's very loaded!” 

The paramedic’s smug look was replaced by one of disbelief.  “You sure?”

“Trust me,” Jim told him. “This is the gun I took out of my cookie jar this morning.”

John looked thoughtful.  “Then you didn't hide—” 

“—My gun?” Jim finished for him and shook his head no. “And he used your gun to get my gun!” He pointed to Mark's waist.  “That's your gun in his belt there!” 

The thoughtful-looking fireman stared at Hanley's waist and his weapon and suddenly felt rather faint. 

Rockford caught the collapsing paramedic under one arm and gently lowered him to the floor. 

Dennis came running into the room with his gun drawn. He stared at Hanley, then at Langley—tied and gagged, then at his friend—the fisherman.  “Looks like you caught your limit!” he said. He turned his gaze to the motionless fireman lying at their feet.  “He been hit?” 

Jim looked thoughtful and nodded. 

Becker frowned and dropped down beside the paramedic's crumpled body. 

“I hit him!” Rockford confessed—unashamedly. 

Dennis looked shocked—and then confused. 

The private detective's eyes sparkled.  “With a big dose of cold, harsh reality!” Jim's amused look vanished and he gave Dennis an annoyed glare.  “Where the heck have you been?” he demanded and finally did hide his gun. 

The paramedic groaned and saved Becker from having to answer. 

Gage rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. “Who are you?” he inquired, staring up at the new arrival—and his gun. 

“Sergeant Becker,” Dennis told him, “LAPD.” 

The paramedic propped himself up on his right elbow.  “How's Mrs. Gereau?”

“Who?” Becker wondered, looking at a loss. 

“My landlady.” 

“O-oh...yeah.  She's fine.  She's okay.” 

John smiled and breathed a long sigh of relief. 

Rockford watched an officer handcuff Hanley and escort him from the apartment. “Did you round up the other two?” 

Dennis nodded.  “They didn't even fire a shot!” 

The private eye and the paramedic glanced at each other, looking rather pleased. 

Gage started struggling to his feet. 

The police sergeant gripped the paramedic’s shoulders.  “Why don't you just stay down. The ambulance will be here any moment now to take you to the hospi—” 

“—No way!” the fireman exclaimed, pulling free and standing.  “I don't need a hospital! I'm just a little weak...and dizzy,” he added, swaying back and forth. 

Becker and Rockford helped the dizzy man over to the sofa and sat him down. 

Two ambulance attendants wheeled a stretcher into the apartment. 

“Who's this for?” one of them asked Becker. 

“If you're looking for a candidate,” John told them, “there's a guy in the bedroom with a nasty bump on his head.” He glanced up at the police officer.  “I didn't want to hit him with the ashtray, honest! I wanted to use my fists...but I just didn’t have the strength.” 

Becker gave the apologizing paramedic a strange stare and then turned to Rockford for an explanation. 

Jim pointed to his temple and twirled his finger. 

Dennis nodded thoughtfully. 

“Here, let me wrap this up for you,” the paramedic offered, latching onto Rockford's bleeding wrist and pulling him down onto the cushion beside him. He slid the detective's coat off, unbuttoned his shirt cuff and ripped the bloody sleeve open, exposing the bullet wound. “Just missed the artery!” he solemnly said. 

“It’s just a scratch!” Jim nonchalantly assured him. 

Gage tore the shirt's entire left sleeve off and started bandaging the wound with it.  “Still, I'd have a doctor look at this, if I were you…” He was having an extremely difficult time with his handcuffed wrists. He gasped in exasperation and held the manacles up to Becker.  “Can you get these things off?” 

Dennis examined the handcuffs.  “Not without a hacksaw,” he regrettably informed the fireman, “…or the key.” 

Gage grimaced. 

“I'll get them off for you,” the private eye promised. 

John looked delighted. 

“On the way to the hospital,” Rockford added, conditionally. 

The fireman frowned and opened his mouth to protest. 

“You may not need a whole hospital,” Jim conceded.  “Still, I'd have a doctor look at me, if I were you,” he teased. 

The fireman was forced to smile. “Here,” he said, turning his task over to the police sergeant, “tie this for me—not too tight. I'm gonna go find Pamela,” he announced and got up off the couch. 

Dennis dropped onto the vacated cushion beside his bleeding buddy. “When you use yourself as bait,” he shrewdly began, “I'm not surprised to see you get a little nibbled on!” 

Jim stared at his philosophical friend for a few moments and then rolled his eyes. 

As the paramedic stepped out into the hall, a police officer bumped into him. 

The startled cop drew his weapon.  “FREEZE!” he warned.

John stared at the gun barrel that was aimed directly at his face. A look of pure panic came over him. He staggered back a step or two and then collapsed in the doorway.

The two detectives ran over to the floored fireman. 

Becker stared at the police officer's drawn gun in amazement.  “What are you doing?” 

“The prisoner was escaping!” the officer promptly replied, and then added, “I didn't touch him—I swear!” 

His Sergeant sighed and rolled his eyes.  “That's the fireman!” 

The cop cringed and looked extremely apologetic.  “Gosh…I’m sorry.  I saw the handcuffs! I thought—” he stopped and holstered his weapon. 

Pamela exited the apartment down the hall and came running up to the unconscious paramedic.  “John?” The girl glanced up at Rockford.  “You didn't let them hurt him?” she fearfully inquired. 

Jim gave Ms. Court an 'O-oh brother!' look.  “Of course not!” he assured her and helped the stirring fireman back onto his unsteady feet, “See?” 

John shook his dazed head and aimed his dazed gaze at the jumpy cop.  “The policemen in England don't carry guns,” he told no one in particular.  “They can't go around scaring people half to death!” 

“Sorry!” the officer said, sounding sincere. 

Gage gave him a forgiving glance and looked a little less grumpy. 

“When they outlaw guns—only outlaws will have guns...” Rockford reminded the pistol-hating paramedic. He grabbed Gage's right arm, the girl latched onto his left and they started escorting the swaying fireman towards the elevator. 

“If you had hidden your gun with the rest,” John began, looking and sounding awfully smug, “you wouldn't have that hole in your wrist! 

They reached the elevator at the end of the hall. 

“You're right!” Rockford admitted as he reached out and pressed the DOWN button.  “The hole would have to be in my head!” 

Pamela giggled. 

Becker and the officer exchanged grins. 

The paramedic's smug look vanished as even he was forced to grin. 

“By the way,” Jim said, turning to Becker, “there are four guns ‘hiding’ in that fire hose case…” he added, pointing off down the hall. “You inspired me, John,” the detective confessed, and he and the fireman exchanged grins. 

The two police officers retrieved the weapons and then stepped up behind them again. 

“Krieger,” Becker told the uniformed officer, “I want you to drive these guys to the hospital and then stay with them and help them get through the reporters and cameramen.” 

“Right, Sarge!” Krieger acknowledged. 

The elevator doors opened. Jim and Pamela went to get on it, but John didn't budge. The private eye and the girl exchanged grim glances. 

“You're not gonna pass out on us again, are you?” Rockford nervously inquired. 

The stalled paramedic didn't reply. 

They pulled him onto the elevator and then held the doors open for Becker and the officer. The doors closed and the elevator started down. 

Pam gave Gage a worried look.  “What's the matter, John?” 

“I hate reporters and cameramen!” John quietly confessed. 

“Why?” the woman wondered. 

“Because they ask such ridiculous questions! And the flash from the cameras blinds me!” 

Rockford was both amazed and amused.  “You mean, you can dive off a two hundred and twenty foot cliff, climb out on a ledge on the seventh floor and walk up to a killer with a loaded gun—but you don't wanna face a microphone and a loaded camera?” 

Gage nodded glumly. 

Jim looked even more amused—and amazed. 

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. 

Krieger escorted them out of the building and over to his squad car. The officer opened his back door and the three of them climbed in. Krieger slid in behind the wheel, flicked his lights and siren on and drove off. 

Jim pulled out his little locksmith's kit and went to work. 

“Well, Superman had his kryptonite…” Pamela reasoned, “The Fonze had his liver…And you have your camera phobia.” 

The paramedic wasn't too comforted by that knowledge. 

Rockford paused in his handcuff lock picking.  “The way I see it, those reporters and cameramen are a lot like those men who were trying to kill you. If you don't deal with them—they’ll never leave you alone. Give them what they want—and they'll go away.” 

“I suppose...” John quietly conceded. 

Jim went back to his lock picking.  “It won't be so bad, you'll see. We'll think of somethi—” he heard a 'cli-ick'. The handcuff opened and fell from the fireman's right wrist. 

“All right!” the paramedic exclaimed, looking and sounding positively delighted. “Thanks, Jim!” he said, and sat there, rubbing his raw—freed—wrist. “Thanks a lot!” 

“You're welcome, John!” Rockford assured him with a warm smile and reached for the fireman's left wrist. 

 

Downtown LA…

The no longer kidnapped fireman was seated on an exam table in an emergency treatment room at Mason General Hospital.

A pretty, young nurse was standing at his side. 

Dr. Toby Wilson finished his examination.  “Considering what you've been through—you’re in remarkably good shape.” 

John looked pleased and then curious.  “Do you know a Dr. McKenzie?” 

Wilson shook his head.  “How do you feel?” 

“Hungry and thirsty,” the patient replied. “I am famished!” 

“You are severely dehydrated and your hemoglobin is dangerously low. Do you know what that means?” 

The fireman nodded.  “There's an insufficient supply of oxygen going to my brain, so when I stand up—I pass out.” 

The physician shook his head.  “That means I want to keep you here.” 

“No way!” Gage grabbed his shirt, jumped down from the exam table and started heading for the exit.  “I'm going home! Thank you, Doctor. Good night and good—” he went to push the door open and ended up using it for support instead. 

The doctor and nurse hurried over to the falling fireman. They grabbed John under the arms, helped him back up to the table and sat him down. 

Wilson folded his arms and stood there, looking very smug. 

Gage grimaced. “But…I wanna go ho-ome...” 

“Lie back!” the doctor ordered.  “We need to get some fluids into you.” 

The patient reluctantly laid back and pulled his legs up onto the table. 

“Nurse, I want you to start two IV's. One D5W and electrolytes. One normal saline. Run them wide open.” 

“Yes, Dr..” 

The pouting paramedic suddenly perked up.  “How 'bout a compromise? Start the IV's and send me home!” 

The doctor drew a deep breath.  “We'd have to send someone with you—” 

“—Would a paramedic qualify?” his impatient patient interrupted, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Yes, of course, but—” 

“—Great!” Gage interrupted again.  “Then start the IV's and let me outta here!” 

The doctor looked dubious.  “Where are you going to find a paramedic that'd be willing to go with you?” 

“No problem, Doc!” John laid back and closed his eyes.  “No problem at all...” 

The doctor sighed, shook his head again and left the room. 

Rockford passed the MD in the doorway. “How's it going?” the private eye pondered as he strolled up to the pleased-looking person on the table. He pulled his bandaged left forearm out of a sling and picked John's handcuffed left wrist up. 

The paramedic's eyes snapped open and he gave his visitor a concerned once over.  “How's your wrist?” 

“Fine,” Rockford winced as the nurse inserted an IV needle into the back of the fireman's right hand.  “It's just a scratch.” 

John looked even more pleased. “I'm going home!” he announced and then winced as the nurse inserted another IV needle into the crux of his left elbow. 

It was Jim’s turn to look pleased.  “When?” 

“Tonight!” Gage told him. 

The nurse finally finished taping all the needles and tubing in place. 

Rockford looked more than a little skeptical.  “They're going to let you walk outta here with all that garbage in your veins?” 

The nurse did not appreciate the private eye's opinion of her handiwork, and she shot him a sideways glance that said as much.  “Not without proper medical supervision, of course,” the girl assured him and then left. 

“Paramedical supervision?” Jim wondered with a wry grin as he finally caught on. 

“Of course,” the paramedic assured him, keeping a perfectly straight face, but then he broke into a rather wry grin himself. 

Rockford heard a 'cli-ick' and looked down in time to see the other handcuff fall from the conniving fireman's left wrist. He caught it and dangled it triumphantly up for the now completely free person on the exam table to see. 

“All right!” John re-exclaimed, sounding ecstatic. He stared up at his liberator, looking duly impressed.  “How'd you ever learn to do that?” 

“Desperation can drive you to do just about anything!” the private investigator informed him.

John looked thoughtful…and then curious.  “You really keep your gun in a cookie jar?”

“I know it’s a crumb-y place to keep a gun,” Rockford confessed, “but, yah see, I’m not all that fond of them, myself.”

Gage was forced to grin. 

Officer Krieger came into the room, pushing a wheelchair.  “I have orders to drive you home—via headquarters,” he told the fireman. Then he turned to the detective. “We've got your Firebird outside.” 

“Good,” Rockford told him.  “At least I can thank LA's finest for something!” 

Gage grinned again. Then he sat up and took the IV units from a stand at the head of the table. “I'm all set,” he said and plunked himself down into the chair.  “Let's go get Doc McKenzie!” 

The nurse stepped back into the treatment room.  “You can't leave without the paramedic!” she reminded the gentleman in the wheelchair. 

The fireman and the private eye exchanged glances. The corners of their mouths turned up slightly. 

“Not to worry,” Gage assured her.  “I promise I won't leave without him!” He and his chauffeur started heading for the exit. 

Rockford looked thoughtful. “Hold it!” he told them.

They did.

Jim went over to a counter and grabbed a roll of gauze bandage.  “We almost forgot something...” 

John stared up at him, looking curious.

Outside of LA's Mason General Hospital…

John was being wheeled out to the waiting cop car.

Pamela was on his left side and Rockford was on his right.

Gage couldn't see the throng of reporters and cameramen that had converged between them and the patrol car. He had a gauze bandage wrapped over his eyes.

John heard dozens of ridiculous questions being thrown at him and decided it was time to start answering some of the more reasonable ones. 

“What happened to your eyes?” 

“Nothing!” John answered truthfully. 

“They just put some drops in them,” Jim elaborated, er—lied.  “They'll just be extremely sensitive to light for a few hours.” 

“How were you treated during your captivity?” 

“Like a captive.” 

“Were you mistreated?” 

“I, uh, guess they could've been a lot worse.” 

“What were your thoughts while you were in the hands of those men?” 

“I thought of ways to get out of their hands.” 

“How do you feel now that it's over?” 

“Tremendously relieved...hungry...and thirsty. ” 

“Is it true you were kidnapped three times?” 

“I, uh, guess it is.” 

“Why did they keep kidnapping you?” 

“I imagine because I kept getting away.” 

“Do you attribute any of your success at escaping to your experience as a fireman?” 

“My firefighter training definitely helped. But mostly it was desperation.” He turned to Rockford. “It's amazing what you can do when you have to.” 

Jim smiled. 

“Why did those men kidnap you, Mr. Gage?” 

Mr. Gage smiled.  “I thought you'd never ask. They thought Victor Nardis had given me the whereabouts of three million dollars.” 

“Did he?” 

John shrugged.  “He might have.” 

“You're not sure?” 

“I was taking his blood pressure and had my stethoscope in my ears. I couldn't hear anything but ‘boomp—boomp’ ‘boomp—boomp’ ‘boomp—boomp’. I probably performed the most expensive examination in medical history. The three million dollar blood pressure check.” 

“How did you ever convince them that you didn't know where the money was?” 

“They used sodium pentathol on me—truth serum. I was afraid they were going to beat me to death.” 

“Once they found out you couldn't tell them where the money was, why didn't they just kill you?” 

“They hadn't given me any food or water. They left me at the second place thinking I would be dead—in just a few days.” John swallowed hard. “Pamela Court came to my rescue…” he reached out.

The heroine placed her open palm in his, and he gave her hand an appreciative squeeze.

“I, uh, would still be kidnapped, if it weren't for LA's finest,” he paused, grinning, “private investigator, Mr. James Rockford. Mr. Rockford took a bullet for me. He saved my life…” he wriggled his freed forearms, “and my wrists. He got those blasted handcuffs off for me. I'd like to thank my friends at Station 51 for getting Mr. Rockford involved in my case. I'd like to thank Pamela Court for all her...support. I'd like to thank the marvelous lady at 321 Cove Road for helping me and Dr. Wilson for letting me go.” He tried desperately to keep a straight face.  “Oh, and I'd like to thank the LAPD…for the lift home.” He pulled the bandage from his eyes and turned to Krieger.  “Let's get outta here—before they find out who the paramedic is.” John gave Pamela's hand another squeeze. “Goodbye, Pam. And thank you—again.” 

“Goodbye, John...” the girl said and kissed him on his bruised cheek. 

“Ji-im?” the paramedic turned to the private eye and extended a free hand. 

Rockford took it and shook it.  “Goodbye, John.” 

“Goodbye...and thanks—for everything. I hate to say this but I hope I never need to use your services again!” 

“That's quite all right,” Jim assured him and held up his bandaged arm, “because I feel the same way about you!” he teased, and the two friends exchanged grins. 

Krieger wheeled him through the media mob and over to his squad car. 

The reporters and cameramen turned their attention to Pamela and Rockford. 

Gage took his IV units and climbed into the back seat. 

The nurse came running up with a clipboard full of medical release forms. She looked around.  “Where's the paramedic?” she asked. 

Krieger pointed to the body sprawled across his back seat. 

The nurse looked thoughtful and then astounded.  “Mister Gage! Dr. Wilson will never go along with this!” 

“Yeah...” Mister Gage said, snatching the clipboard and pen and carefully signing the release forms.  “I know! And that is why he must never find out!” 

The girl smiled. 

The paramedic passed her back the clipboard, grinned and winked. 

She closed the car door and Krieger drove off. 

At Police Headquarters in downtown LA…

Becker gave Gage back his wallet.

John gave Becker his statement.

The Sergeant listened to the kidnap victim's story about Doc McKenzie.

The paramedic picked his kidnappers out of several line-ups, signed a mess of legal complaint forms, and asked about Andy.

Becker informed the fireman that Andrew Ruger was still at large. Dennis also told him that he would be notified by subpoena when it was time for him to testify in court.

The detective then sent his exhausted witness on his way—home. 

Around three o'clock in the morning, clear over on the other end of the County…

Krieger pulled up and parked his patrol car behind Los Angeles County's Fire Station 51. 

“You live here?” the officer asked his dozing passenger. 

The paramedic opened his eyes, stared out at the familiar site and smiled.  “Half the time, yeah...” 

The officer gasped in frustration.  “I'm supposed to take you home!” 

“You have,” John told him, reaching for the door handle.  There wasn’t one.  “You have. That's my car right there. I'll drive myself the rest of the way.”

Krieger pulled the back door open.

“Thanks.” John took his IV units and stepped out into the parking lot. “Why don't you stay here with me tonight?” he glanced at his watch. “This morning?” 

“Nahh...thanks anyway. But I don't want to disturb the firemen.” 

The fireman seemed amused.  “Don't worry about that! They're probably not even here. And, even if they are, it would take an alarm to disturb them.” 

“You sure?” the asleep on his feet—e-er, seat police officer asked. 

Gage nodded.  “Go on! Pull your car right in there next to mine and I'll get the door.”

John stepped up to the portal and stuck the IV units between his teeth. He pulled several sets of keys out of his pockets and held them up to the back porch light. 'Station 51,' he identified one as, and replaced the others. He inserted the selected key, opened the door and stepped into the big, empty garage

Krieger followed him into the building.  “How did you know they wouldn't be here?” 

The fireman led the policeman over to the sleeping quarters.  “For some strange reason—unknown to firemen—buildings like to burn at three o'clock in the morning! Which is usually why the only sleep a fireman gets is when he's off duty.” He saw the untouched bunks. “Must be a busy shift. They haven't even gotten to bed yet.” 

Henry was sleeping on John's bunk. He spotted Gage, let out a yelp of sheer delight and sprang from the bed to give him a spectacular ‘welcome home’ greeting. 

“Henry!” the paramedic stooped down to the wriggling blob of ecstatic dog's level.  “You missed me!” 

The really happy hound tried his best to throw his 55 lbs. into the fireman's outstretched arms. Then, failing that, he let out an odd whine—sort of a cross between a growl and a whimper. 

“Well,” John affectionately informed the dog, “I missed you, too, kid!” He turned to Krieger.  “Go ahead! Pick out a bunk and turn in.” He gave Henry one last scratch behind the ears and then started tearing the tape holding his IV's in place—off.  “I've got to get rid of this garbage,” he smiled, “and wash the sand out of my hair!” he added and headed for the showers. 

Henry trotted off after him, wagging his tail. 

Gage strolled back into the sleeping quarters of Station 51 fifteen minutes later. He was all cleaned up and rid of his IV paraphernalia.

He went over to his bunk and sat down. Henry followed him, jumped up onto the bed with him and rested his head on the fireman's lap.

John patted the dog and watched with wide eyes as the officer across the main aisle from him, set his holstered gun down beside his pillow before climbing into bed. “You're going to sleep with that thing?” 

Krieger nodded and pulled the covers up to his chin. “Good night—e-er, morning!” 

“In that case,” Gage swallowed hard and started stripping, “pleasant dreams!” 

________________________________________________________________________

 

Twenty minutes later, Captain Stanley and his crew returned to the Station. 

Chet climbed wearily down from the Engine. “I'm gonna go see if there's any news on Johnny,” he somberly said and started heading for the radio in the rec’ room. 

The rest of the soot be-smudged firefighters stared after him for a few solemn seconds and then silently filed off in the direction of the washroom.

The crew straggled into their darkened sleeping quarters ten minutes later, washed up, inside and out. After fighting a warehouse fire for nine hours straight, the firemen were literally asleep on their feet. 

“Why is it,” Marco asked no one in particular, “there's never anyone available to relieve us, but we're always getting called to relieve other crews?” 

Stoker groped his way over to his bunk and started sliding the suspenders of his bunker pants off.  “Chet's always bragging up our bionic bodies.  Maybe THEY are beginning to believe him?” 

Brice managed a skeptical snort. 

Roy stepped out of the bottom half of his turnouts and stared off across the aisle at his partner's bunk. Through the dim light filtering in from the doorway to the garage, he discerned a familiar form sprawled out upon the bed. DeSoto stood there in the dark, looking and feeling very depressed.  “Henry's still keeping his vigil...” 

John let out a weary, sigh.  “You guys wanna keep it down? You're gonna wake up Krieger!” he warned in a whisper.  “And he's got an awfully fast draw when he's startled!” 

The men had frozen at the sound of their missing friend's sleepy voice. They stood there for a few moments—too shocked to move or speak. 

“Ga-age?” Captain Stanley called out in amazement and numbly reached out to flick on the dorm lights. 

The room brightened and the guys stared down at Gage as though they were looking at a ghost. 

“Yeah, Cap?” John called back, propping himself up on his elbows and opening his hurting eyes a crack. 

Kelly came racing into the room.  “He's alive!” he enthusiastically announced.  “He's alive!” When no one reacted to his joyous revelation, he followed their gazes over to Gage's bunk...and did a beautiful double take!  “Baloney?” 

Gage grimaced and pressed a finger to his cracked lips.  “Shhhhhh!” he warned, then he pointed to Krieger's snoring form and whispered, “He's sleeping with a gun!” 

The firemen looked even more shocked. 

“What are you doing here? You okay? Who's Krieger?” his happy partner pondered in one whispered breath. 

The rest of Station 51's equally ecstatic crew congregated around Gage's bunk, anxiously awaiting his answers. 

“I was trying to sleep. I'm fine. And, that's Officer Krieger from the LAPD. He drove me home.” 

Stinky stood there with a silly grin on his face.  “I don't believe it...We thought you were dead!” 

“Well, I'm not,” John assured them.  “But you guys sure must be!” He fluffed his pillow, straightened his blankets and dropped back onto his bed.  “So what da yah say we all try ta get some...sleep,” his squinting eyes closed and he was instantly asleep. 

His friends just stood there for a few more moments, resting their hands on their hips and exchanging smiles and grins. 

Less than four hours later…

The morning sun came filtering through the dorm windows.

Henry got up from the foot of John's bunk, walked over the fireman's sleeping form and nuzzled him in the back of the neck.

Gage smiled and snickered. Then his eyes snapped open and he jerked awake. He stared across the aisle at the sleeping figure of his fellow firefighter and friend—and untensed. He flashed his unconscious partner a warm smile and then turned his gaze to the jumpy cop just across the center aisle. He saw Krieger sleeping with his head on his holster and his smile broadened into a grin. 

Henry whimpered and nuzzled the back of his neck again. 

“Okay! Okay!” John whispered irritatedly.  “I'm up! I'm up!” He went to get up. He couldn't move. “Henry, will yah get off my back!” 

The dog dropped obediently to the floor. 

The fireman still found it extremely difficult to get out of bed. He just didn't have the energy to move. Somehow he managed to slip into his clothes. He picked up his shoes and went to stand.

Waves of dizziness came over him. Gage shook the cobwebs from his whoozy head and started stumbling over to the door to the apparatus bay.

John sat down on the back bumper of the Squad to put his shoes on. “We're not gonna make it to the park this morning,” he told the whining dog and reluctantly got to his feet.

The paramedic pulled Henry's leash from a hook on the rec room wall and headed for the front door with it. 

The happy pooch beat him to the door and pawed excitedly at it. 

Gage clipped the leash to the dog's collar and watched as the Basset hound's entire body quivered with anticipation. He smiled, shook his head, dropped the leash and opened the door. 

The dog dashed out onto the front lawn and ran in tight little circles, sniffing the grass and wagging its tail. 

John sat down on the front porch to watch him. He took in several deep lungfuls of the crisp morning air. The extra oxygen helped clear his head. 

Henry sniffed every square inch of the lawn before trotting over and saluting the flagpole. He kicked up some turf with his hind feet and headed for the porch at a regal trot. The dog grabbed a hold of the fireman's pant leg and started backing up, growling and grumbling ferociously. 

John braced himself and hung onto the porch for dear life.  “Not today, Kid! I couldn't even make it across the street!” 

Henry stopped tugging and reluctantly relaxed his jaws. 

The paramedic's leg dropped and he pulled it back. 

The disappointed pooch trotted past Gage and back into the garage, grumbling disgustedly beneath his doggy breath. 

The fireman stared after the grumbling mutt, looking utterly amazed. Then he snickered, got slowly to his feet and went back inside the Station himself.

The first member of Captain Donnelly's B-Shift crew arrived at the fire station.

“What's that squad car doing out in the park—” Bob Curen stopped right in mid-question as he recognized who it was that he was questioning. His jaw dropped. “Johnny? You’re supposed to be dead…” 

Johnny gave his fellow paramedic an incredulous stare.  “Gee…Sorry ta disappoint you.”

The fireman flashed him back a grin.

Captain Stanley and the rest of his crewmates came stumbling into the garage just then—still looking half-asleep on their feet. They shuffled wordlessly past the two paramedics and disappeared into the day room. 

One of the two completely ignored persons appeared somewhat disappointed.  “Is Henry the only one around here who's glad to see me?”

Chet poked his head back into the apparatus bay.  “You were the first one up, John. Why didn't you put the coffee on?”

John looked rather indignant.  “Didn't anybody miss me?” 

“For Pete's sake, Gage!  You were only gone four days!” Kelly reminded the pouting paramedic and then he disappeared back into the day room. 

The ignored fireman looked even more forlorn. “Well…I missed yous,” he quietly confided. 

Curen gave his sad colleague a sympathetic pat on the back and then stiffened as a police officer came running out of the dorm with his shirt unbuttoned and his holstered gun slung over his shoulder. 

“Goodbye, Mister Gage!” Krieger shouted.  “And thanks for the use of the bed!” 

“Whoa-oah!” Mister Gage latched onto the policeman's arm as he raced past them, and pulled him to a stop.  “What's your rush? Stick around…have a cup a’ coffee...some break—” 

“—Can't!” Krieger interrupted and slipped his arm free of his gracious host's grasp.  “Becker'll have my hide if I don't get that squad car back in time for morning roll!” The officer backed out of the garage and bumped into Captain Donnelly.  “Excuse me,” he told Donnelly on his way out the door. 

Donnelly looked puzzled then he turned to John and gave him a pleasantly surprised look. 

“Humph!” Gage grunted.  “When he bumped into me, he pulled his gun!” The perturbed paramedic turned away from the back door and started heading for the day room. He bumped into his Captain who had gone out to fetch the morning paper. 

“Congratulations, pal!” Captain Stanley told him. “You made the front page—again!” He flashed the frowning photogenic fireman the picture, and then they strolled into the rec’ room together. 

John got a few handfuls of hastily made confetti dropped onto his head and a bottle of very cold water spilt down the back of his neck. 

“Ta da!” Chet shouted. 

Gage shivered. Then he lifted his soggy head up, shook some of the confetti from his hair and opened his eyes. He grinned, seeing his grinning friends huddled all around him.  “You did miss me!”

“Well, of course we missed you, yah twit!” Stanley assured him.  “It's been like a morgue around here!” 

There followed much backslapping, handshaking, and wisecracking. 

When things settled down some, John crossed over to the kitchen sink and poured himself a tall glass of water. He gulped it down…then another...and another. Next, he stepped up to the fridge.  “What's to eat in here? I'm famished!” 

“Relax!” Lopez told him. Then he took Gage by the shoulders, ushered him over to the table and sat him down.  “Chet's already fixed up something special—just for you.” 

Kelly placed a plate down in front of him. 

John stared down at the dish's contents and broke into a broad grin.

 

Chet's special something was a big bologna sandwich!

 

The famished fireman was about to thank Stinky for his first meal in four days, when a sharp, searing pain suddenly shot through his left temple.

 

Gage grimaced and shut his eyes—tightly—in an attempt to block out the horrendous hurting in his head, but the pain remained and soon became unbearable.

 

 

Meanwhile, in ICU Room 604…

DeSoto heard his partner groan and glanced up from the book he was reading.

In the four long days since he'd first begun his bedside vigil, Roy had heard many such groans.

However, this was the first one that was also accompanied by movement in one of the patient's extremities. The off-duty paramedic tossed his book aside and sprang from his seat. 

Gage groaned again, as someone suddenly latched onto his wrist and prevented him from touching the source of all his misery—his throbbing left temple. The now frustrated fireman forced his eyes open and was not surprised when they finally focused upon his partner. He'd somehow sensed it was Roy who was keeping a firm grip on him.  

The two friends locked gazes.  

“Welcome back, Johnny!” DeSoto declared with a grin, seeing the recognition in his partner's pain-filled eyes. Speaking of pain, the senior paramedic reached over and pressed the nurses' call button. 

Speaking of recognition…

Johnny groaned again, as he gradually became aware of his surroundings.

The white-walled, windowless room they were in smelled of disinfectant and freshly starched linen. There were side-rails attached to his bed and plastic tubes attached to his body.

Put them all together, they spelled RAMPART. 

Not a bad place to visit, but he didn't wanna live there! “What…happened…this time?” he wondered wearily, in a cracked, hoarse whisper. 

“What's the last thing you remember?” Roy inquired right back, and placed several small chunks of ice on his partner's parched lips. 

Gage managed a slight smile, as the ice began melting, and the cool, refreshing liquid began lubricating his parched palate and soothing his incredibly dry, irritated throat. He gave his thoughtful nurse a look of undying gratitude and then lay there, looking about as thoughtful as the persistent, painful throbbing in his forehead would allow. “I was just about to eat the sandwich Chet had made for me…when my head suddenly started hurting—really, really bad…like right now.” 

Roy contemplated his partner's confusing comments over for a few moments, and then quickly rephrased his question. “Can you remember anything besides that?” 

John nodded and proceeded to tell his questioner everything that he could remember—beginning with the plane wreck rescue—and ending with the bologna sandwich. 

DeSoto just stood there, through the entire narrative, with one eyebrow arched and his jaw slack.

There followed a long silence. 

Which the ICU Nurse shattered, by finally putting in an appearance. “Sorry it took so long,” she apologized.  “We had two code blues right in the middle of a shift cha—You’re awake!” the woman exclaimed upon peering into her patient's pain-filled, open eyes. “Roy, can you get a set of vitals? Great!” she determined, seeing DeSoto's nod. “Then I'll go find out what pain meds the doctor has ordered for him,” she announced and handed the vertical paramedic her stethoscope and a chart. 

Roy was really worried about his partner. However, he waited until the two of them were left alone again, before voicing his concern. “Johnny, you do realize that James Rockford is just a character on some TV show…Right?”

A strange look suddenly came over the horizontal paramedic's pale, pain-filled face…closely followed by one of embarrassment…and finally, by one of profound sadness. Johnny hated losing friends—even imaginary ones. “So then, what did happen?” he quietly inquired, finding it curious that he could remember something that had never really happened so clearly…and yet he couldn't recall something that really had happened at all. 

DeSoto paused in his patient assessment to give his rather lost looking partner a reply.  “We were working a structure fire Friday night. One of the rooms you were searching flashed and we figure you must a’ got brained by a piece a’ flying debris. You’ve been semi-comatose for the past four days.  Yah know, now that I think of it…when I came up to check on you that first night, I noticed that somebody had turned the TV on in here.  And, I’m pretty sure ‘The Rockford Files’ is on Fridays.”

The recently brained fireman thought all that over for a few moments and then said, “No wonder I'm so hungry! I haven't eaten anything in four days! Can you go rustle me up something, Roy? Like, say a nice, thick, chocolate malt?” 

Roy finished gathering vitals and flashed his perpetually famished friend a broad grin.  “You sure you don't want me to bring you a big bologna sandwich?” he teased, but then quickly tacked on, “Na-ahh…on second thought, you're already full of baloney!” 

Gage gave his grinning partner a 'ha ha…very funny' glare.  “Oh, and will you please unplug the TV?” he pleaded, a trace of desperation in his cracked, hoarse voice.  

“With pleasure, Johnny!” Roy assured his troubled friend, with another broad grin.  “THEY say, too much television can be hazardous to your health!” 

“Tell me about it…” Johnny grumbled back, just beneath his breath.  

The End 

 

Author’s note: Hope you enjoyed my “EMERGENCY!” story. It was written for giggles and grins—not glory. J Ross