PART 6
Chapter One

While she was giving her spiel and even as they were climbing the stairs leading up to the loft, he had been expecting something like this. The moment had to come sooner or later. He guessed, this was the 'later.'

Picking up her empty wine glass, he was hoping to buy time by offering her more, whereupon she asked if he had any red wine instead.

"Uh, Brigatti...Toni...about seventeen steps downward I have a whole barful of wine, whatever you'd like. Up here, I have a bottle of this white zinfandel and a good, dry red that the wine guy gave me to try. How about cabernet?" Usually he was a beer man, but there is always a cry for something more, more...ah...gentile to offer a lady.

"I'm Italian, Gary, or did that slip by you? Cabernet is fine. Thanks."The wine glass he brought to her was an eight ounce one, half filled with the deep red fluid. She admired the color and bouquet, then gave the slightest of initial sips. Encouraged by the sampling, she took a larger swallow. It should have been a smaller swallow because the wine hit the back of her throat, initiating a choking, coughing reaction, during which the wine glass and contents overturned onto her blouse and pants. When her throat finally calmed down, the tan and white ensemble that looked so right for her figure and coloring had a new, red design down the front of it.A few unpleasant epithets were uttered as she stood up to survey the damages. "Oh, not red! Anything but red! I'll never get it out."

As he was apologizing and wondering why he was doing so, Gary brought a towel and tried to figure where to begin blotting when Toni gave him an 'I dare you' look and warned, "Don't even! You touch me with that towel and you'll be flat on your back!"

He entertained the tempting thought for a moment and mused aloud, "Now that' s an interesting proposal," to which she glared.

She took the towel from him, wondering, herself, where to start.

Visually surveying the damage, he felt helpless except to suggest, "Why don' t you take your things off? I'll run down to the bar and bring up some club soda to help with those stains."

She leered at him for a second, "And just what do you think I should wear.or was that not a concern?" Her eyes sent a dangerous challenge that he was not about to accept.

Without responding he went to the drawers in his wardrobe and pulled out a sweatshirt and some sweatshorts. "You can change in the bathroom. The shorts have a drawstring, the shirt sleeves can be rolled up...or...or something."

Toni reasoned that he was just trying to help, not trying to humiliate her, lucky for him, "Thanks. Get the soda; I'll change."

By the time that he returned, she was just coming out of the bathroom. The expression on his face was meant to be admiring, but this feisty little detective mistook it, "Just don't say anything." She took the club soda and went back to remedy the problem. "Hey," she called out, "this works pretty well. Do I leave it in, or wash it out again?"

Like an authority, Gary called back, "Ya gotta rinse it out. Don't wring it. I'll give you something to hang it over the bathtub with.

"Where's the dryer?"

"Dryer? Ah, ah, I don't...have one up here...and the one in the kitchen's not working. Sorry, but it should dry pretty fast in there."

She asked, almost to herself, "There's more to this embarrassment? Why can' t this be easy?" At that, she tended to the outer clothing and then rinsed out the stains that had bled through to her bra. After hanging them over the shower curtain, she rejoined Gary on the couch. He was just about to put the newspaper out of sight when she caught the movement, "Don't do that, Hobson. I want to talk to you about the paper. By the way, how'd you become so expert with stains?

With a silly grin, he explained, "I was married to a career woman.remember?" He placed the paper on the coffee table, but at a distance from her. "Just tidying up a little. Are you okay?" She looked like a little girl sitting there, dressed in his clothes. Well, not exactly like a 'little' girl. The shapely legs beneath those amorphous shorts. Somehow that sweatshirt had changed completely, tempting his imagination. He allowed his eyes to search her new look...a little too long.

"What?" she asked as she checked her attire, self-consciously.

"Oh, noth...nothing. I was just...thinking."

"Thinking what?" she pushed, curious, but actually feeling more complimented than irritated.

His silly grin returned, "I guess.I was thinking how innocent and...and...pretty you look. I was...I was..." He never finished his thoughts, but the saliva had collected in his mouth, causing him to swallow audibly.

She dismissed further examination of her appearance and, once again, sat back against the cushions on the couch with him. "Let's get back to..."

"You need something to drink?" he offered again. "Something not red?" He went to retrieve the white wine from the kitchen, setting it and the glasses on the coffee table. He filled them and handed one to her.

"Gary! You were going to tell me something. I'm ready."

"You sure you want to hear this? You're not gonna get mad at me?"

In answer she glared her impatience, twirling her hand at the wrist, indicating a desire to go on.

He took a deep breath, saying to himself, 'Okay then, this is it. Could she hate me more?' He argued within himself, then he began, "It's like this, you know I had just separated from my wife; that is, we were divorcing. I was living in an old hotel not far from here. One morning I was awakened by a...a cat." He proceeded to explain the very beginnings, the background of his exposure to the newspaper and his discovery of the responsibilities inherent to it.

She suddenly asked, "Do you mind if I ask how you and..." her voice and expression exposed her distaste as she continued, "Fishman ever teamed up? Or even why? You two are pretty unnatural as a duo."

He described the long time friendship that he and Chuck had built up since childhood. So far she had not gotten visibly angry with his far-out explanation. Continuing again after he refilled their wine glasses, he explained, "Chuck is what he is, whether it's mad or bad, but I've known him a long time. He scolds me like a big brother.I guess that's really why we' re friends. He's my brother by choice. There're only months between us in age, but he will never make the job description of 'little' brother no matter what his stature is." He wanted to continue, but saw that her interest had waned.

That subject seemed to be out of the way and allowed him to return to a history of his experiences as the Sun-Times servant-at-large. He tried explaining the righting of wrongs and the averting of dangerous situations. The difficult part was in explaining without making himself sound super-human. Actually, he made it sound as though it was an everyday occurrence that all people do all of the time, as if willingly risking your life was a normal and common happening. He touched on some of the injuries he had sustained, but worked hard to give them a humorous twist.

To Toni, listening to this fairly long list of almost fatal mishaps was sobering and she shivered. Stopping him by nudging his arm, she commented, "So, that's why you're not a stranger to most paramedic people.or most cops either. They all seem to know you by name...and reputation, of course."

Concern crept into her voice when she asked, "Can't you be a little less involved physically in these, what did you call them, 'saves'?"

His reply was steeped in emotion, as he insisted, "No, I tried that a coupla times."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"What happened?" he gave indications that he was going to get up from the couch.

'Oh no, my friend,' she thought as she leaned against him to keep him seated, 'you're not going to start marching around the room and lose this moment.'

He was surprised by her attempt at hindering his movements and he sat back again. As he did, he automatically raised his arm and placed it around her.

Now it was her turn to be surprised, but in a manner so unlike her, she cuddled closer beneath it, urging, "What happened, Gary?"

"What happened is things didn't go well. Things went wrong! I have to be there! The consequences are too much for me to live with." In his mind he was revisiting his past experiences of trying to have others do what he should have been doing. Remembering a situation in which Chuck and Marissa took his place in trying to stop a vehicle theft, which would have included a small child. He was confined to the hospital after a hit and run accident. What could go wrong? What indeed? Chuck was not the right person to have entrusted the assignment to. Almost despondently he muttered, "No, I can't, I can't."

She placed her hand gently on his chest, hoping to soothe him. He seemed to be strongly affected by this subject. "Gary," she said calmly, "what about the hospital? You had me help that old man. Me! You didn't have to be there then."

"There was no time. I...I...had to be in the chapel."

"Why? Was that in the paper too?"

"No. Yes. Someone was going to have a gun. I couldn't allow you to... I had to be there. I couldn't be both places. I couldn't let you be hurt." Toni had a sudden chilling awareness, not yet confirmed, that Gary knew someone was going to be shot...and he had substituted himself for her. He tightened his arm around her, protectively. She looked up at him as he lowered his eyes to meet hers.

It was at that moment, their eyes conversing silently, that she realized that they had more than an acquaintanceship between them. As her heart confessed it to her mind, her hand reached up to his cheek, almost in a consoling motion, but more. He didn't wait for a second invitation; his face leaned downward and met hers as he searched out her lips. Hungry, passionately hungry, they kissed, devouring each other in a continued embrace, his hands running up and down her back, clutching her tighter and closer. After a while they sat back, as if catching their breath. He reached for the wine bottle to refill their glasses, but found it empty."Never mind the wine," she breathed the words out, "We haven't had lunch; any more of that wine and we'll both be in trouble."

"Well, I know that I'm already in trouble," he confided. He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, trying to figure out what they had just done. He closed his arms around her again, whispering in her hair, "Any problem with both of us being 'in trouble'? You know I've wanted to have you...this close to me even when we were in that hotel room a few years ago, especially then. I know that you knew...when I watched you remove your stockings. No one could make that mistake. We could have really gotten into the part of...of, ah, 'husband and wife' on that case, although those two words I'm only using to replace another word."

Not quite understanding, she asked the obvious question, one that she would never have asked if she had known what he would answer, "I'm not following, what word?"

He put his mouth close to her ear, kissing it and whispering, "Lovers."Without answering his not so subtle offer, she rose from the couch and headed for the bathroom to check the condition of her clothes. The condition? Wet. Too wet to step outside in. It had been imperative that she leave his presence, especially as the conversation had taken a somewhat intimate turn. She needed the intermission afforded by the bathroom in order to get herself back in control of her emotions. As it was developing, it wouldn't have taken much to...

The cat took that minute to mew out its call to the paper. Almost absentmindedly, Gary commented, "You're too late, cat. Everything's been taken care of," adding wistfully, philosophically, "it's all done; it's over."

The animal still yowled at him from its seat on the paper. "Okay, okay, I' ll look, but this is not high on my list of priorities at this time." He scanned from page to page until he saw what the cat's complaint centered around. "TODDLERS WANDER AWAY, KILLED BY SPEEDER." He was no longer interested in lounging after he read about the toddlers wandering away late in the afternoon and stepping out in front of a speeding pickup. The driver lost control of the vehicle after hitting the children and he too was fatally injured in the ensuing accident.

He called out to Toni, "I've got to go out for a while. Do you want me to drop you off at home?"

"What's up, big guy? Last minute dentist appointment?"

"I'm sorry, Toni, I have to attend to something in the paper. Forgive me, but it's important."

"Don't ask me to forgive you, Gary, I'm coming with. It's time you allowed someone into this part of your life. Besides, I'm interested in seeing this paper in action."


CHAPTER TWO

The neighborhood was in an older section of Chicago. The houses were built around 1910, but not ramshackle. The line of similar houses, built at the same time across the street, had long since been torn down. A strip park bordering the cross-town expressway replaced them. Two men sat at one of the benches near the fenced-off play yard in which their toddler girls were playing. The men, somewhere in their mid-thirties, were in rapt discussion of their favorite Cubs players of all time and reminiscing about their most memorable games. The tree-lined street was quiet. Once in a while a car would pass by, but, like most families, these residents were home from work and in process of preparing for dinner. You could smell the odors of meals being prepared. You could hear the TV's and, from a house towards the middle of the block, someone was practicing on a trumpet.

Toni and Gary drove down the one-way street, searching for the children-and a place to park. In desperation, they double-parked and exited the van.The youngsters had already left the play yard and were wandering along the green strip, unnoticed by their fathers. As two little girls are prone to do, they were jabbering away and punctuating their conversations with giggles. One stooped to pick up a couple dandelions and shared one with her friend.

At some point one of the men consulted his watch and exclaimed, "Gee, the time! I've got to get Cammy and go home. Nice talkin' to you. See ya!" He suddenly became aware of the emptiness of the sandy play area. Total emptiness! At about that time the other man, too, came aware of the missing children. Their eyes picked up on the girls' location at the other end of the block and they hurried in that direction, calling their names.

One of the little ones spied a blue ball at the curb and went to get it. As she neared it, a small terrier crossed the street and picked up the ball. The little dog carried it out into the middle of the street, set it on the asphalt roadway, and challenged them to get it, yapping playfully.

Their fathers, seeing the girls leaving the sidewalk to chase after the dog, picked up their pace and began running towards them, now frantically yelling to the children. Gary and Toni were fairly close to the girls, much closer than their dads. Toni called out to her new partner, in the manner of a fielder 'calling' a ball, saying to Gary, "The girls are mine; you get the dog."

He didn't stop to question her taking command. She grabbed one toddler under each arm while he stomped his foot on the dog's leash and walked it to the sidewalk. They both were able to secure their goals a good thirty seconds before the pickup even appeared on the street. Two very upset fathers were only too eager to receive possession of their happy youngsters. Oblivious to any danger having passed, the chief complaint of the girls was that they wanted to play 'that' game again.

After the two Samaritans were once again ready to drive off, Toni turned to Gary, saying jubilantly, "Wow! What a high! Okay, what's next?" This was new, an adventure to her, but it was just another errand completed for Gary. All of the 'errands' affected him deeply, but this was his life, not a one-time thing.

"What's next is we go back to the loft and have something to eat. I'm starved. Your clothes are probably dried by now." Something was different about having assistance, willing assistance, on a save. Did he like it or not? Better yet, would the 'paper' allow such a thing? Time would tell. Life is lived differently when someone or something else is in control.

CHAPTER THREE

Toni Brigatti rode back with him in a state of elation. Was this why he did all the crazy things he did? This feeling was.euphoric, was...life, was...satisfaction! When did she ever feel this way about catching a criminal? He received the paper, what, one day in advance? He had one day in which to change things. Her job seldom reached conclusion in less than a week, a month; sometimes never!

What else was there about this? What was the secret ingredient that made it so special? Realization dawned on her like a clap of thunder. The CPD position that she held and loved allowed her to do something positive for society. It brought what she hoped was justice to wronged parts of the community. It brought...what? She was struck by the heavy weight of the truth that all she did was clean up after the fact! Gary, on the other hand, though most people would never know about it, prevented the need for her. He kept things from happening, but something more too. He made a difference in other ways, important ways. He allowed the mistakes of both the general public and criminal elements alike to rethink their actions without the dire consequences attached. It allowed the perpetrators to have a second chance, possibly to make a wiser choice the next time.

That was it! That was the difference in their 'occupations.' To ponder it further, she closed her eyes. There was no chance to be sleepy; she was as wide-awake as she had ever been. Whether it was the ending effects of adrenalin from their 'save' or the dawning of the true implications of the whole concept. It didn't make a difference; her mind was intoxicated with her day's events.

They went into McGinty's as if this had been any common errand. No fanfare, no special notice. They sat at one of the booths and Marissa slid in to join them. Toni had more of an appetite than usual and enjoyed the meal. Marissa and Gary made some small talk and Toni excused herself 'to check on her clothes.' He handed her the key to the loft and lingered for a while in the booth with his partner. Later he would regret that they both hadn't gone directly up instead of stopping to eat.

"Uh, Gary? Is there something I should know? Or was that something I shouldn't have heard?" Marissa asked, her eyebrows arched in curiosity.Gary had been checking the newspaper for one last time when he caught her tone. "What?"

"How can you sit there and ask me 'what' when a female, Brigatti, by name, has just mentioned that she was going to check her clothes in your living space? And, while we're on that subject, just what was she wearing if she had to 'check' on her clothes, Gary? You casually hand her the keys and that's all? What am I missing here? Are you two an item? Is it a secret? Or only a secret from me?"

She could hear him sliding out from the booth. This usually told her that she had overstepped her bounds; she had gone too far over into Gary's private life, if there was such a thing. Before escaping, he took the time to explain, "Toni went on an errand for the paper with me today."

He ignored her, 'Oh?' and further elucidated, "We took care of two little girls and a dog. Everything turned out fine. She's checking on her clothes because she spilled some wine on them. Yes, she's wearing clothes...mine! Anything else before I go see how she's doing?" He turned to go, but Marissa had one more question.

"You told her about the paper? The paper? What was the occasion? Temporary insanity? What?"

He leaned down close to her ear and whispered, "I had to, ya see, I needed her to help me when I was in the hospital. She saved an old man; he's alive because of her. She took to the assignment just fine too. In fact, she was the one who insisted on going along to help. She's okay, Marissa."

Standing up, he put his hand on her shoulder gently and said, "I'm gonna see how she's doing."

Just before going upstairs, Gary took a small detour behind the bar. He searched out a bottle of a more-than-decent brandy. As he asked Stan if the coffee was fresh, Stan turned abruptly and caught Gary across his middle, no, make that across his wound site...and...with a large serving tray. Stars flashed in Gary's head at the insult to his side.

"Sorry, Mr. Hobson. I'm really sorry," Stan repeated, penitently, as he helped his boss straighten up from his bent over stance. "You surprised me."

Gary waved him off and, leaving the brandy, headed for the stairway and his loft-apartment. It was disappointing to find that Toni had left without leaving a note for him. Hoping to baby his aching side, he spread out on the bed for a nap. It was intentioned as a nap, but he slept there, without benefit of blankets, through to the next morning.

--------------------

At the station house, the following morning, Armstrong was conferring with Brigatti and Crumb. No 'case' developments had surfaced and no new attempts on Hobson's life were evident. The trio was pretty much in agreement to drop the protection element, or at least, to loosen the surveillance on Hobson.

Toni Brigatti felt much more at ease about Gary's safety than before, since she felt that he probably would receive some prior notice of danger by way of the paper. She found that she had far more questions about this magic little paper-wonder than she had answers.

Crumb and Armstrong had been carrying on a running discussion of the situation when they became aware of their female colleague's preoccupation with other thoughts. She first noticed their attention when Paul asked, "We keeping you, Brigatti?"

"Huh? What?" she jumped as his voice forced her back to the present.

"Sorry," she said as she realized that she had been daydreaming.

The telephone rang and Paul picked it up, identifying himself. He held out the hand set to Toni and smiled, knowingly. "For you...Toni," his tone sickeningly sweet.

Her eyes shot daggers at Paul's smile as she guessed who it must be. They heard her announce, "Brigatti." Then she lowered her volume and they heard a softening of her attitude as well as she heard Gary's voice. She answered, "Yeah, I had to go." Silence as she listened, then "I took them with me...to wash." She self-consciously glanced up at the two men witnessing this call. Her face burning, she turned away from the two and whispered, "I'll bring them by around lunch. You free?" Silence again. "That thing you gave me to use?" He must have questioned her about its identity because she added, "You know...the wine incident...to clean the... Yeah, anyway, I put it in your fridge. See ya."

As she handed the phone back to her partner, she thanked him. He and Zeke Crumb were in the process of playing a game of communication with their eyes. The message was not lost just because it wasn't verbal. They were both trying, without success, to conceal their amusement.

Wanting to get past this episode in a hurry, she asked "Okay, so where does this leave us?"

Crumb cleared his throat, then asked, "Was that Hobson?" It was a nervy thing to ask, if not downright nosy.

Her guilty look and her nod was his answer.

"How's he feelin'? Any repercussions? Any new incidents?"

A simple 'no' answer was her response. What would these friends and business partners say if she were to tell them why and how Gary managed to always be in the thick of trouble? They'd probably put her away. Nothing implicating the paper would be believable.

Before the threesome broke up, Paul needed to make a point with her and he began, "Toni, you're a topnotch police detective. There aren't that many females accepted at the detective-level. You deserved the position and always give your all, and more. Just a word of caution regarding your, ah, friendship with Hobson, don't let yourself get too involved." He could see that she was just ready to tear into him for his audacity and he hurried to add, "Now, don't get all worked up. All I'm saying is Hobson is trouble. That's all. He's trouble to everyone he gets near. If you allow yourself to...to...get too close, his shenanigans may just spill over onto you. For what it's worth, I like him, but I won't trust him with my career!" That said, he put on his business demeanor once again.

"Zeke, I hope you'll still keep an ear tuned to the mood and happenings at the bar. I'm gonna try to pry some information out of some contacts. Toni, maybe you can garner some luck; I haven't had any success with searching for leads from Hobson's previous involvements with cases. For one thing, there are so many involvements. The other thing is many of his forays into the criminal world didn't leave a group of people, witnesses or not, standing around waiting to be interviewed, if you catch my drift. We can't devote all our time to this one case, but sooner or later there should be a weakness in the wall. Watch for it! I'm out for the rest of the morning; see you later."

Zeke Crumb was the last one out of the door and he casually called Paul back after Toni left, "Do ya think she's got a thing for the kid?"

Paul scratched his head, "You got me. I hope not, though. She's too smart to let herself fall for someone who just might cause her career to take a dive. God knows she deserves a good man to take care of her, whether she knows it or not, but...Hobson?" He thought about it briefly, shaking his head in wonder, "Not Hobson!"

CHAPTER 4

Gary's errands that morning had him going at a jogging pace for the last couple of hours. The kids playing with the souvenir swords on one side of town at 9:30 this morning had been the first assignment. The second was across town from there, in the basement of a small hospital where a workman was about to accidentally cause a fire of large magnitude. Now, on his final 'save' of the morning, he needed to head in another direction on the run. This time he needed to be able to convince an aspiring boxer to lay off of the heavy punching bag. It was hanging from a chain anchored in the I-bolts secured in the ceiling of the gym. Those bolts were fine, but the wood of the crossbeam had weakened with the years and dry rot. The seventy-five pound bag was due to fall and cause serious injuries to another man training near him.

The boxer took exception to Gary's interference with his training schedule. Gary was about four inches shorter than the fighter. Hoping not to give the impression that he was challenging the boxer's manhood, Gary stood in front of the bag trying to reason with him. He was running out of arguments. It wasn't enough to just say, "The bag is going to fall." He tried that. The athlete mentality focused only on improving the body; the mind had somehow missed out on any training.

Finally the boxer had lost whatever patience he may have previously possessed and he gave Gary a push backward into the bag in question. In an automatic response to keep from falling, Gary grabbed the punching bag, trying to gain his balance. His weight was the straw that broke the camel's back and the bolts pulled out of the ceiling crossbeam, sending the bag to the floor with the barkeep on top of it. There would have been no problem and no harm except for the chain which came raining down. As Gary rolled off of the bag onto the floor, the chain slammed down across his chest, and, of course, his aching side...again!

At first, he just lay there, trying to get a breath, his eyes wide with the shock and the pain. The accident had attracted most of the people working out. All activity came to an abrupt end as the members gathered around the young man lying on the floor wearing the chain across his body. One of the trainers went to Gary's rescue in removing the chain, and offering him a hand up. Unable to focus through the pain on what they wanted him to do, he hesitated accepting the assist. They asked whether they should call for medical help. 'Medical' assistance, to Gary, usually meant 'hospital.' That was enough to bring him to his senses. He shook his head, 'no,' vigorously. At his decision, two men literally picked him up under his arms then, standing him on his feet and keeping a hold on him until it was more of a certainty that he could remain standing. They watched as he made an unsteady departure.

He knew he was not going to get home the way he arrived at the gym so he called for a cab and let the vehicle do the expending of energy while he sat back and yearned for a hot, hot, hot shower and maybe a couple of aspirin. He was fairly sure that no bones were broken, but, in the same way, he was certain that he would be loaded with bruises the next day.

Bruises were a part of his daily life. If the truth were told, he considered bruises much preferred to some of the other 'souvenirs' of his errands.

Arriving at the loft, he opted for a bath instead of the shower. Bathing in the middle of the day seemed almost decadent to him as he lay in the soothing water. The hotter-than-normal water temperature was working therapeutic wonders on his body. When he emerged, after almost an hour, he felt...almost...normal, whatever that was.

As he was donning fresh clothes he noticed the bruising already appearing red across his chest and, somehow, ugly purple at his scar site. He'd have to be careful, he thought, about having anyone, especially his mom, seeing that. Since his folks were off to some festival in Wisconsin, he felt that he was pretty safe.

PART 7
CHAPTER 1

The paper had additional assignments, taking him from 3:30 until almost 6 o' clock. By the time he finished the last one, he, himself, was finished, too. Every part of him cried out for an end to the day. Six o'clock and he felt that he was too tired to do much more than shed his clothes and collapse on the bed.

Upon entering McGinty's, his first priority was at the bar where he stopped to ask Stan for something. Before he could go any farther, Marissa's voice called out to him. She had the uncanniest sense of awareness of any human person, whether seeing or not.

Obediently, he wandered over to the booth and greeted her, "Hey, Marissa."

As he got closer, he saw that she had a dinner partner. He added, "Hi, Ton...er Brigatti. Business or pleasure?" he asked, too tired to really care.

"Hi. Business ended at 5 pm today and Marissa offered to buy me some dinner. Why don't ya join us? You look like you could use something to eat."

"Thanks. Not hungry."

At about that time, Stan arrived at the table with the bottle of aspirin and glass of milk that Gary had requested. With her usual frankness, Toni had to inquire, "Is that your idea of dinner these days? I've always felt the need to ask, what food group does aspirin fall under? No wonder you look like you were taken out of the dryer before you were fully dry."

As if to make it a tag team effort by her and Toni, Marissa asked suspiciously, "What's wrong with your leg, Gary?"

"What makes you think something's wrong with my leg?" He hesitated, but after seeing the smirk on her face, he figured his evasive game was not going to work and he volunteered, "You know...the usual hazards of the trade. I was trying to hurry away from a rolling 5 gallon bottle of water. A delivery truck had overturned and the bottle won the contest." He checked to see if he was satisfying her curiosity, then hurried to add, "No lasting damage, Marissa. It's just sore, that's all."

He knew he was in for more nagging if he didn't get them off of the subject of Gary Hobson so he asked, "Did Jerry come by today with that new countertop? He promised to install it before the holiday weekend."

"Sit down, Hobson, before you fall down." Brigatti was giving the orders now, but in one of her gentler moods, almost a purr.

She slid over to make room for him in the booth. As he sat down, she asked, "You done for the day?"

He wasn't quite used to her knowing about the paper and he stared off at Marissa to check her take on the question, then answered, "Yeah. It's been one long day, but I think the water truck was the last item." Even as he spoke the words, the cat began pawing at his pants leg and growling most uncatly.

"You think?" Marissa asked, sarcasm thick in her tone, "When did you last check the paper, Gary?"

It was bad enough with his business partner acting as his mother, but now Toni was picking up on the role as well, "You probably should check it again. You want me to look it over for ya?"

He clutched the Sun-Times in a death grip, "No! I mean thanks, but I'll look it over."

Gary scanned the front page, then turned to the back page and read forward from there. His search ended just about midway through, "Oh, not the train yards! I hate the train yards!"

Toni immediately questioned him, "What've ya got?"

"I've got a sore leg, a chest full of aching ribs, a beginning headache, and a set of eyes too tired to stay open. Other than that, the paper has some vagrants sleeping in an open boxcar that's about to be crushed by a loose caboose. That's what I have and I've got about 45 minutes to get them out of there."

He stood up carefully, "I'll see you two a little later."

Before he could get out of the door, he felt a hand on his arm. "Wait up, Gary, I'm going along. You might be able to use an extra set of hands, especially when one of them can flash a badge as you confront those homeless guys."

He turned to examine this diminutive person, barely up to his shoulder-in heels-telling him that she would help. He knew she could, actually, but having her in the vicinity of danger at his request, was unacceptable to him, now or ever! The fact that she was police trained, that she could probably fight better than he could, made no difference. His parents would have had his head if they were to find out he put a woman in danger. Then again, though, she did carry a badge of authority, not to mention a handgun. That had both good and bad aspects to it. With a gun present, there was always the chance that someone might be hurt or killed.

There was no time to argue. He had no strength left to debate the point. "Come along. I'll drive. I'm certainly familiar with that area in the train yards.and you should be too!" A shiver went through him as he remembered how he became familiar with the Cicero train yards. He remembered, along with it, Frank Scanlon's death, a nightmare in his life.The last vestiges of light were leaving long shadows among the train cars. It took them almost the limit of time to find and evict the men from their haven for the night. The tremendous noise made by the collision of the caboose and the boxcar came seconds after they took refuge behind another set of cars. What was left of the boxcar could have been used for toothpicks.

When Toni and Gary returned to the McGinty's van to check the paper, they both released sighs of relief upon finding no further 'errands' to attend. In leaving the trainyards, after a few blocks of driving, Toni was surprised when Gary pulled over to the curb, got out, and asked her to drive."You okay? What? You need a doctor?"

He flashed her an exasperated look and said, with some irritation, "Maybe I' m just tired. Okay? Maybe I would just like to rest as you drive us back.""I don't think so. What's the matter?"

He saw that he had to give her more than the 'tired' bit so he added, "I'm not feeling so great, okay? My stomach is giving me some discomfort and I just don't want to drive feeling this way."

If he hadn't felt so rotten, he would have found it humorous watching her adjust the van seat to her small frame. After a couple blocks of driving, he opened the window as wide as possible and leaned his head out, hoping to keep his stomach from rebelling. A little farther and she pulled over in a residential neighborhood. He looked out. Not McGinty's. He was about to ask where they were when he remembered a nightmare of an evening when he had visited this neighborhood and this particular address looking for refuge.Gary turned to ask something when she answered in advance, "You need help; I brought you here." She didn't need to explain where 'here' was; she had no intention to make explanations anyway. They were in front of her house. "You need to lie down. You really don't take very good care of yourself. Anyone ever tell ya that?"

"Yeah, Marissa tells me 'that' all the time. And, I happen to recall my parents accusing me of 'that' too. I'm doing the best I can. Why can't you and Marissa accept that?"

He was wound-up and needed to go on, speaking slowly, mulling it over as he did, "Sometimes, when I'm tired or hungry or just, just feeling down, I have to run off to someone's rescue. These people can't wait until I take a nap, or have dinner, or feel better. Their lives can't be put on 'hold' or brought back at my convenience. I get tired even having to defend myself or my actions when lives are at stake." He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes at the wave of nausea just passing.

Toni had come around to the passenger side of the van and opened the door, gently tugging at his arm, her attitude leaning toward the sympathetic as she offered, "Aspirin with a milk chaser is not 'dinner.' Come on, I made some minestrone last night. It's better after it sits a day."

CHAPTER 2

It didn't take much convincing to have Gary stay the night. He was in no shape to negotiate the stairway at his loft anyway. Toni gave him use of her bed for comfort's sake while she used the daybed in the den. That night the house felt different with him there. It was.well, she couldn't exactly put her finger on it, but it felt different.

Early the next morning, an insistent knock at the door woke her. Grabbing her robe, she went to the door and was uncomfortably surprised to see Paul Armstrong through the peephole.

Opening the door, she asked, "Hey, Paul. What's up to get you here so early? Another hour and a half and I would've been at the office."

He didn't apologize and he didn't wait for an invitation to enter, but opened the door wider and walked past her to come in and settle down on the couch. "I'm not going to be in the office today until after lunch, maybe not even then, but there's something I wanted you to know." He took a moment to observe her disheveled, 'just woke up' look, thinking that she was one of those rare women, like his own Meredith, who needed no make-up to look radiant. It was not in Paul's 'makeup', though, to compliment Brigatti; after all, they were partners.

She took the upholstered chair and asked him what she needed to know this early.

"You know that search we were doing about people who've been in contact with Hobson through cases we've handled in the past few years;" she nodded and he went on, "We found a Blake Heron among the records. We'd been looking for 'Blake' for a surname, not a given name. This case wasn't a newsbreaker at the time, hardly an earthshaker. But there was a Blake involved in that incident where Hobson was blinded in the train tunnels a couple years back.

This Blake was just a teenager. He and a couple of other juveniles had been shaking down a nine-year old regularly until the kid rebelled and tried to escape from them, hiding in an old warehouse. They barricaded the little guy in a room on an upper floor of the building and accidentally set the place afire. Hobson was instrumental, even though blind at the time, in helping the kid escape the burning building." She was listening intently as he went on.

"It may not be 'the' Blake, but it's the only lead we found. I think it fits."

"What happened to that Blake?" Toni pushed.

He kind of shrugged as he said, "That Blake was sent to a reform facility, a sort of minimum security farm setup near the Indiana border, where he seemed to be doing pretty well." He left the sentence open, inviting her question.

"Until?" She kept at him.

"Until one morning he was found beaten and thrown into a silo to die from his injuries. Incarceration is not a nice place to be, even if it is minimum security." Paul waited for this to sink in. "By the way, that prison farm was closed shortly after that for lack of budget funds. The remaining juveniles were absorbed into the Beloit facility. Nothing plush about that one."

After hearing the facts and outcome of the name search, Toni was sure that this was, indeed, the Blake that the attacker had referred to when he was assaulting Gary in the hospital.

"Did he have family in this area? How about his parents?"

Paul shook his head, "No living relatives here. He has a half-brother somewhere, but not much is known about him outside of his police records. We know that his name is Blandings Marsden. Quite a moniker, huh? He has a number of alias' including 'Dan', 'Marsh', and a couple others. He's got a record for extortion in Pennsylvania. Served a couple years. Did his probation successfully, then disappeared. End of our search!"

At that point a loud thump sounded from one of the rooms. "Termites, Brigatti?" Paul asked, with an amused smile.

Toni excused herself and hurried down the hall to the bedroom where Gary was sleeping. 'Was' sleeping was the crucial word because, when she entered the bedroom, she saw him on the floor. "Damn alarm," he growled as he slowly picked himself up from the floor, groaning as he did so. A little disoriented with the unfamiliar wake-up site, he looked down to see that he was in his boxers and T-shirt. 'Where' he was became quite clear to him when he saw Toni standing there looking so concerned.

"Sorry," she said as she turned the alarm off, "I forgot about that alarm. Awful, isn't it? I'll have some coffee made in a minute." She was about to tell him about Paul when Gary picked up his pants from the chair and, still with a slight limp, hobbled out, trying to close his zipper as he walked along. He was heading towards the living room when he looked up to see Paul standing there just as shocked to see him as he was to see Paul.

"Ah, ah," he stammered, finally able to secure the zipper, "Hi, Armstrong. This.this is not what it looks like, ya know."

With a silly smirk on his face, Paul assured him, "No problem, Hobson." To Toni, he called out, "I'll be going, Toni. We can go over this again when I get back. I've got a funeral to attend. I apologize for disturbing you, ah, two. Sorry."

After Paul left, Toni, her face glowing red, stood shaking her head, wishing for a more merciful death than this. She moaned, uttering a couple prime swear words, and stomped off to take a shower.

CHAPTER 3

After she emerged from the bathroom, showered and dressed, Toni joined Gary at the table. He was busy paging through the Sun-Times. "I see you found the paper that Paul brought in with him."

"Umhmm," he murmured, his attention immersed in the special edition.

"What?" he said as what she had said registered. "Paul brought it in? Was he reading it?"

"Slow down, big guy, he hadn't even unfolded it. Just handed it to me as he burst in."

Gary visibly relaxed, hoping that he wasn't going to have to explain his 'wonder paper' to anyone else.

As they lingered over the coffee, Toni read with him from her side of the table.

"What in hell must Paul be thinking about us? He'll be having the whole CPD, city-wide, thinking that we're having a, a 'thing.'"

He looked up as she bemoaned her situation and all the upcoming jokes she knew her name would be attached to. "He wouldn't. He won't," he argued, trying to convince himself, "He'll probably just forget about it. Don't worry."

"Don't worry? Have you ever heard how they already kid about yo." She stopped as he interrupted his reading to devote his attention to what she was saying.

"About me? Don't they have anything better to do? If they're going to discuss us 'having a.thing,' well, we may as well have one!" He looked up, eyebrows raised, checking for her reaction.

Neither of them spoke as what he had said sank in. He couldn't tell whether her gaze said, 'Are you crazy?' or 'Let me think it over.'

"Well?" he broke the silence.

"Well, what? What do you want me to say? You want us to 'pretend' to have a, an affair?"

Very softly then, almost casually, he answered, "No. Not pretend."

She hated the feeling of being backed into a corner as she was now. She knew that she could just say, 'Stuff it, Hobson,' and kick him out. Toni was studying his eyes, his face, his eyes, his mouth, his eyes!

Too many times she had reacted harshly and impulsively when her alarms sounded-as they had just now-and her protective barriers were set in place. This time, this time. She stood up, took one last sip of coffee, grabbed her purse and said, "Let's talk about this later. Get your shirt. I'm gonna be late. I'll drop you at McGinty's so I can get my car."

During the trip, they talked about traffic, the cloudiness, the van's transmission noises, anything away from 'the' subject that held their thoughts prisoner.

She parked the van. Sitting behind the wheel of her own vehicle, she called him back from entering the bar, asking, "This..'thing' you want us to have, ya mean like goin' steady, as in high school? Or like dating now and then? That type of 'thing?'"

"Not exactly," he answered cryptically, certain as to what he meant.

"What kind then?" Her tone betrayed her curiosity and it held a trace of 'hopeful.'

"What I had in mind," he said as he was about to enter McGinty's, "was more of the 'courting' kind." At that, he disappeared into the bar, leaving a stunned Antonia Brigatti sitting dumbfounded in her car. She was definitely going to be late for work.

CHAPTER 4

Gary only stopped to pour a glass of orange juice at the bar before proceeding upstairs to his loft, bent on a shower. The phone message light was blinking, indicating one call had come in while he was out. Usually people left their message with someone in the bar. He sat down comfortably before pushing the button. A male voice, obviously disguised, said, "Hobson, I'm gonna give you a chance to do something noble. Since you're not here for me to tell ya, I'll call back at 4:30."

He was left not knowing who had called. The voice was muffled enough that he barely understood the message, let alone recognizing the caller.

The paper had no further warnings of disaster so he did his showering at a leisurely pace, then took up residence on the couch where dozing seemed preferable to watching the news.

The telephone startled him awake. Picking it up, he bobbled it and announced in his nervousness, "Hello..Hobson."

"Don't ya think I know who I called?" Something about his voice, this time, sounded familiar.

"Who's this?" Gary asked, hoping it would elicit an automatic betraying response.

"Oh, you'll know soon enough, that's for sure," his voice teasing Gary's memory. "As I promised, you're gonna have a chance to do something noble."Gary asked once again, "Who is this?"

"Just listen...cause I won't be repeating ANY of it. I have a friend of yours: a little guy with a big mouth. Recognize the description?"

Gary recognized this very vague, yet succinct description of Chuck and tried for answers again, "What do you want?"

"You're full of questions when you really don't have much time. Or, should I say, he doesn't have much time? You damaged something of mine and now it' s my turn."

"Wai...wai...wait!" Fear gripped Gary, even without knowing the truth of the situation. "What do you want? What did I damage?"

"Actually, Hobson, I want you, but I have Fishman, so he'll have to do."

Gary's heart was pounding as he meekly asked, "Can, can we make a deal? A trade? Me for him?"

As though the telephone adversary had not considered that someone would make such an offer, he was silent for a long time, increasing the worry for the barkeep. Finally he hesitantly spoke again, "Well..now, that's an interesting proposal. This little weasel is no fun at all. He squeals like a pig and tends to pass out when I want to have some fun with him. Say, Hobson, did you ever know that Fishman has a very low pain threshold? Practically none, in fact."

"Hey, I'm serious," Gary began his pleading, "Tell me where to be and I'll be there. I don't know what your game is, but if it's with me, then, then, let it be with me!"

"You're not making the rules here," he started, then waited, "I don't know." The voice was definitely mulling it over, "Maybe it would be more effective to take it out on this guy since you seem to be so concerned about him."

"Please. I..I'm willing to change places with him. Why would you want to pound around on him when it's me you want? Where's the fun?" Gary considered that he was talking to a lunatic of some sort-a sadistic one at that.

"Okay. Why the hell not? Hold on a minute while I figure out a safe exchange place." The line was still. At last he returned to the phone, "Get someone to drive you down to Navy Pier and drop you off at 6:30 tonight. After they drive away, walk to the Ferris wheel entrance. I'll be watching from a distance. If someone's with you, or watching you, or anything funny at all, you'll find your friend in a dumpster somewhere nearby-and he won't be breathin' anymore!"

The words brought a chill to Gary. "I'll be there. You better keep the deal or..."

"Don't waste your breath. I'm the boss here. Just be there!" These final words were spat out just before Gary heard the line go dead.

CHAPTER 5

When did this world go so crazy? In Hickory, Indiana, there was no such thing as telephone threats. No hostage situations. No Navy Pier where he would be called up to trade his life for Chuck's. This was not the way things were supposed to be.

Something about the conversation bothered him-other than the threat element. Something in what the caller said. Something in his phrasing. What?Whatever it was, he had to be there, so he'd better not just sit here. He needed a ride. He went down into the bar, asking for Vadim. Stan volunteered that Vadim had felt ill and left for home at lunchtime. Stan and Robin were the only ones remaining as likely chauffeurs. He eliminated Robin strictly on the premise that she might have been in the way of danger. There was no way he could justify allowing that to happen.

"Stan, could I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, boss, what do ya need?"

"What I need is a ride to Navy Pier. If you can just drop me off, that's all I need."

"You're going there alone? Navy Pier?"

Tired of the involvement of explanations, Gary said, "So maybe I like carousels. Let's just go." He had his jacket on his arm as he headed out the door.

By the time Stan came out, Gary was already in the van's passenger seat. In the bartender's arms were a thermos and two cups. He poured some coffee in Gary's cup and handed it to him.

"You look like you need some coffee to wake you up."

Gary was going to refuse the offering, but changed his mind and began sipping at the hot liquid. He was tired, but his nerves were strung out enough to keep him awake without any help. The coffee, while tasting good, was not going to do anything for his constitution. "What's with the flavoring?" he asked after the first taste. He normally didn't bother with additives to his coffee.

"I put a small amount of Kahlua in the cup." Before Gary could object, Stan added, "Don't worry, it's less than half a jigger. And, there's none in mine; you're safe with me. Like it?"

"Yea...yeah, it's fine. Just drive."

The Kahlua was just enough to neutralize the caffeine a bit and even calm him down, if that was possible. His mind was bouncing from one thought to another. Chuck was topmost through it all. They had been friends for so long that there was no question, no hesitation in allowing the victim switch.

After asking Gary to choose a spot to be dropped off, Stan said, "How about I pick you up at some special time? Or, you can call me; I'll be at McGinty 's until late."

"No. I'll be fine. Just pull over and let me out when we get there. Tell Marissa that I left a note for her under the office phone. If Toni Brigatti calls, tell her...tell her..." His mind wandered off, wondering how he could say what he wanted, through a third party, "Never mind. Never mind."

The coffee, just as Stan had promised, didn't make him more nervous. If anything, it calmed him down. 'It must have been the Kahlua,' he reasoned, mentally figuring that his bartender must have put more in than the tiny amount he claimed. 'Oh, well, he meant well.' He didn't think there was going to be a problem with staying alert tonight, considering how concerned he was about Chuck.

He leaned back as the van headed in the Lake Shore Drive general direction. Closing his eyes in thought, he pictured his life-long friend being held 'hostage,' of a sort, in lieu of the real thing.

Chuck was in the habit of calling him his 'buddy' or just plain 'my best bud.' He never understood why Chuck was so attached to him. They didn't share common traits, not that anyone noticed anyway. Their ideas of morals and ethics were vastly different. Just ask the girls they dated in their high school and college years.

The ties of friendship, even a kinship, grew from childhood without the need for similarities. This 'friendship' usually involved him going to his friend's rescue from someone or something. There was even one occasion where Chuck dragged him out of the lake when he developed a cramp that threatened his ability to swim back to shore. He's the one who should have had the white-faced look of panic on his face, but Chuck stood there, shaking with fear after he managed to get Gary to shore. Gary had to listen to multiple lectures all the way back to the dorm room at Northwestern that the two of them had shared.

The 'coffee' was working. Stan's passenger was dead to the world and failed to notice anything strange about the route his driver was taking. He never woke when Stan stopped behind a gas station, for the sake of any onlookers, pretending to check the van's tires. Instead, he reclined the passenger seat and placed a pair of handcuffs on his boss' hands then rebuckled the seatbelt over his arms and hands before continuing on towards his destination-and Gary's.

The van headed south, out of the city, taking a steady-and legal-rate of speed, keeping just west of the Indiana border. This was no time to be stopped for any reason, least of all, speeding.

It was very near to 10:30 when Stan slowed to turn onto an unmaintained road. It had, at one time, been a well-cared-for access road. Now the cement was cracked and weeds filled them in random patterns. One side of the entry gate was hanging on its rust-weakened hinges while the other side was laying flat, just off the side of the road.

A number of two-story buildings flanked the road. Bars appeared in each of the windows. Other buildings were without bars and appeared to be barns and equipment sheds. An island of flowers and bushes had once separated the road between the buildings, but was left long unattended and overgrown. No lights shone.

The eerie silence of the night was only broken by the sound of the van as it searched for a pre-selected place of concealment in one of the abandoned equipment sheds.

Stan parked and soon appeared at Gary's door. He removed the seat belt and loaded the bar owner's inert body onto a maintenance cart, much like a large box with wheels. No formality was observed. Gary was pulled roughly out of the van. He grunted as Stan flung him into the cart. "Wha? What's goin' on? Stan, what's..what's...?" he asked, the fog still stirring around in his head.

Stan didn't bother to answer, but pushed the cart along towards one of the two-story buildings. He entered by bracing open a set of double doors and pushing the cart in. Once through the double doors, he dumped his 'load' on the debris littered and cracked terrazzo floor.

Once again his passenger grunted as he hit the floor, but the impact roused him to become more aware of his situation. As he attempted to stand up, Stan grabbed on to the chain connecting the handcuffs and pulled him off of his feet in order to drag him along to one of the 'rooms.'

A room it had been. It had a door originally, one that was solid wood and locked from the outside only. Stan had remodeled the opening to the room to accommodate a makeshift prison door fashioned from the metal bars of an animal pen. Still dragging Gary, who by now, was struggling to gain his feet, he pulled him into the room. As Stan turned to leave, Gary kicked out, knocking Stan's booted feet out from under him. Gary had barely made it to a standing position when his abductor hopped up again, placing a roundhouse blow at the side of Gary's head, hard enough to knock him off of his feet again. Stan strode out of the door, locking it with a sturdy chain and padlock and left his boss, now his prisoner, in the dark.

CHAPTER 6

Gary woke up when the light was just barely peeking in the almost glassless barred window. The overcast sky promised rain with its accompanying chilling wind preceding it. At first he thought he must be dreaming.

Judging by his surroundings, he was in jail. Jail! The word alone sent shivers through him with no need of the wind's help. He sat up from the blanketless cot and promptly bumped his head on the upper bunk.

'Dreams don't hurt,' he reminded himself in a mumbled whisper, rubbing the place where his head connected with the wooden shelf of the overhead bunk. He allowed only an instant to wonder when it was that the handcuffs had been removed, more thankful than concerned. He stood and gazed out of the window, wondering where in the world he was-and how he could have arrived at the location.

His only furnishings were the bunk bed, a low stool, and a rust-stained sink and commode. An almost-flat mattress pad was all that covered the bunk shelf upon which he had slept. On the floor near the bars that formed the door were two one-liter water bottles, one of them half empty, a decidedly stale roll and a piece of cheese that would have been larger except for the tiny nibbles something obviously took from it as he slept.

He yelled out, "Hey!" at the top of his lungs, then he listened. The wind rustled the trash littering the floor in the hall. "Hey, anyone here?"

From somewhere away from him he heard something groan and some movement. It encouraged him to yell again, "Hey!"

A hesitant and familiar voice called back, "Gary? That you, Gary? I'm farther down the hall. 'Bout time you got here. Get me outta this place."Chuck's request changed Gary's attitude from one of hope to one of defeat.

"Uh, Chuck, there's something you should know about our, ah, situation."

"I don't care about any 'situation,' Gar, just get me outta here and get me to a place where I can have a hamburger and fries, the sooner, the better!"

"What you should know is that I'm not in any position to help anyone at the moment. Where are we? What're we doin' here?"

Fishman called out from his location, "You locked up, too?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Aw, Gary, just when I needed for you to come to my rescue. With food. And a coke..or..make that a beer."

"Chuck?"

"Yeah."

"Seriously, where are we? From the way I feel, I was drugged when someone-Stan, actually-dumped me in here."

"This place appears to be an abandoned former prison." Chuck reached to pat the brick walls, "I'm talkin' solid walls here." At the sobering words, they stopped talking for a few minutes, each taking the time to consider their mutual predicament. Something suddenly occurred to Chuck, "Be careful of Stan," he warned with no humor in his voice, "He's off in some other world. He rants and raves about my friend-you-damaging something of his. He's doing this all the while he's beating me up, mind you. No more explanation except that Gary Hobson did some damage to something of his! What the heck did you do? Couldn't you have chosen someone a little saner to do it to?"

Gary sat down on the bunk to take a drink from one of the bottles, the one that was half empty. Grabbing at memories of his past saves, he wondered which one had something in it that he damaged. A better question might have been 'which one didn't have something in which he witnessed or participated in causing damage?'

"Chuck," he had an urgent need to let his friend know that he had tried, "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. What?"

"He was supposed to let you go."

"Well, I can attest to the fact that he didn't. And I have the bruises to prove it!" As if an afterthought, Chuck added, "Gary, be sure you don't drink from any opened containers. He puts drugs in them."

Gary looked down at the, now, mostly empty bottle in his hand. "Nice time to tell me, Buddy, nice time! I just made a big dent in the half bottle he left."

"Well, just settle back, Gar, you're gonna catch up on some much needed rest. I warn you, whatever's in that water packs a punch. Get comfortable and.." He was suddenly aware of a deadness in their conversation. "Gary? Gary! Oh well, goodnight," he called out, but his friend was no longer hearing him as he snored into the silence of his imprisonment.

CHAPTER 7

Gary woke to a gnawing that was different from the one that caused the holes in his cheese. He had put the cheese in a pocket for safekeeping. The gnawing he was conscious of right now, one powerful enough to wake him, was in his stomach. He lay there, trying to remember when and what he had last eaten. As near as he could tell, it had to be pretty close to 24 hours ago.

Taking out the cheese, he examined it critically, trying to determine how dangerous those rodent germs could be. Throwing caution to the wind, he took a bite from the least chewed-on part. He really meant to just take a taste, but hunger got the best of him as he ate the entire square of cheddar. Even with rodent mouth prints, it was really good. Too bad there wasn't more of it!

"Chuck!" he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth to get more volume, "Chuck?"

"Funny thing, Gary," his friend yelled back, "I'm still here. I tried to dream myself on the French Riviera with three gorgeous French girls rubbing sunscreen on me. I thought you could use a friend, though, so I decided to stick around."

Ignoring the sarcasm that seemed to come naturally to his friend, Gary asked, "Chuck, when does Stan come back? Does he bring food?"

Chuck all but screamed, "Gary, are you crazy? When Stan comes back, he brings PAIN! PAIN! Pray that he gets in a fatal accident on the way back. Dying in here of hunger is vastly preferable to having the big ape pound on you for hours!"

"Sorry, Chuck, I just meant..I just wanted to know...I, I'm sorry, Chuck."The old prison went back to being silent except for the sounds of distant thunder, promising rain.

Stan didn't return that evening. The rain did, though, in buckets! It was as though someone released a drenching flow right over the area.

After the drinking water was gone, Gary cautiously reached his hand past the shards of glass that remained as his window and held out the bottles to be refilled by the driving rain. He tried holding his mattress pad in front of the window for a while, trying to hold back some of the water, but his arms eventually tired and he gave up on trying to seal out the wetness. His cell and everything in it, including him, was drenched. The best he could do was position himself in one of the corners and huddle there until daylight.

By morning the rain had slowed to a persistent drizzle. Gary had lain down on the soggy mattress, managing to doze off, even with the deluge.

He called out, "Chuck! You there?" As bad as their common predicament was, he was glad to hear his friend's response.

"Where did you think I'd be?"

"Are you okay? Did you stay dry?"

"Where do you think I slept? I'm in a cell, remember?"

"So am I, but I wondered if you had any protection from the rain."

"Gary, my friend, my window's not open. Have you thought about closing your window?"

"You may have a window that closes, but I have a permanently open window. This place is practically floating." He looked down at the puddles covering most of the walking space. "You may have slept in a room, but I slept in a 'yard' with a roof." He examined the hinges and chain of the door confining him to this 8x10 space. With a voice filled with worried conviction, he said, "We've got to find a way out of here!"

In a softer voice from the end of he corridor, he heard Chuck utter facetiously, "Now, why didn't that occur to me?" In a decidedly louder and, even hopeful voice, he asked, "What's your plan, Gar?"

"I was hoping you might have one. Any suggestions?"

"Gary, look out the window. Someone's driving up in a white Buick. They're stopping here. Can you see anyone?" As soon as he said it, he gasped, "Uh oh, it's Stan. Be careful what you say; I meant it when I said he's really a psycho."

No more conversation was exchanged between the two men as they awaited the visit by their captor. All too soon the man they had just termed 'psycho' entered. He strode past Gary's enclosure and proceeded down to where Chuck was fearfully waiting.

The big man ordered Chuck into a corner as he opened the bars and began delivering a beating to the occupant of the cubicle. Gary cringed as he heard Chuck's pleadings and the grunts when the punches landed. One more 'thump' and he could hear Chuck's barred portal being closed and locked as before.

Now the bully was approaching Gary's cell. He growled, "Get yourself over to that far corner and face the wall."

"What do you want from me, Stan?"

The bartender repeated the order.

Gary kept pushing him, hoping for answers, "Just tell me what you believe that I did. What is it that you think I caused?"

Stan reached to the back of his belt and produced a small caliber pistol. As he aimed it directly in the face of his prisoner, he snapped, "Turn around. Now! Get your ******* body into that corner and stand still. Move!"

Gary complied and stood facing the wall as he heard the lock disengage and the door swing open. The sloshing of Stan's boots in the water puddles revealed how close the big man stood. The devastating punch Gary felt in his back stole his breath as he grasped the upper bunk to keep himself standing. Before another punch could be landed, Gary swung around and buried his right fist in his adversary's stomach. It hardly fazed Stan. Before Gary could follow up with a left, Stan grabbed a hold of his victim's hand as he returned with a body punch, spinning Gary around to slam him against the cell wall and send him falling to the floor. As he lay there commandeering some strength, he saw Stan moving closer, ready to deliver a kick with those lethal-looking, western-style boots. He brought his hands up to protect himself and caught the boot in mid-swing, twisting the foot and throwing his sadistic attacker to the floor.

While Stan was still on the floor, Gary rolled towards the open bars, gaining his feet to step out of the cell and swing the makeshift bars shut. As a final insult to his captor, he attached the chain, completing this unexpected exchange of prisoners. He knew the advantage would be short-lived, since Stan retained the key, but whatever chance he could take that sweetened the odds, he was determined to take.

"Stop right there, Hobson! This gun is aimed right for your head. Take another step and you're dead!"

Without time to do anything but react, Gary ducked low and took off running towards the outside door and freedom. There was no way that Chuck could be helped right now without getting them both recaptured. As he was about to leave the building, Stan fired off one shot that hit the doorway near the fleeing man's face. The second shot, the last one fired while Gary could still be seen, struck him in the shoulder. His hand automatically grabbed at the source of the piercing pain and he ran.

He ran.. out through the doors and, staying next to the buildings, kept running to gain as much distance as possible before his antagonist's gun could find him again. Past the first structure, he darted between buildings, always working towards gaining as much distance as possible before his crazed pursuer could locate him. He had the panicked feeling that a fatal bullet from Stan's gun would be preferable to whatever punishment would be meted out to him if he were caught.

Stan's voice bellowed out his name, muffled to some extent by the distance and the rain. He stopped for a minute, begging for a second wind to assist him in his escape. A shot rang out, but Stan was too far to have been able to see him. "Hobson!" he yelled again, but Gary was on the run once more, at a slower pace now. Where could he hide? Undoubtedly, Stan was familiar with all the features of the compound. It was only a matter of time before he was caught unless he kept on the run. He knew that was unlikely. His shoulder began to bother him-a lot-and he could feel the blood dripping down his chest, soaking his shirt. It was doubtful that he could just keep running. Someplace, anyplace, he needed somewhere to rest. At this moment in his life, even a dreaded hospital would be welcome.

PART 8
CHAPTER 1

As Paul Armstrong entered the station and approached the desk, he inquired, "Has Detective Brigatti come in yet?"

In addition to giving him the information that, yes, she was in, the desk sergeant warned him to be careful. "What're you saying?"

"Just a suggestion, that's all, Detective. No meaning at all," Sergeant Berman answered with eyebrows raised.

"Morning, Toni," Paul greeted her upon entering the office that they shared. It had originally been meant as a one-man office, but with the expansion of the Force's manpower and the budget strains, the two detectives worked closely whether they liked it or not. That wasn't to say that they didn't get along; they did. In fact, the closeness came in handy when a case needed frequent conferences and coordinating of efforts.

All Paul received from his greeting was a grunt. That pretty well explained the prior warning Berman gave him. "Something bothering you, Toni?""Nothing important, Paul, nothing at all." The response was frosty and begged for further delving as far as her partner was concerned.

"Come on, tell Uncle Paul. Bad night?" He allowed a tense silence before continuing his line of questioning. As if he were changing the subject, he asked, "How's Hobson? I haven't seen his name on the police reports for, what, a couple days?"

"Get to your point, Paul; just come out and ask if Gary and I have a problem in what you think is a relationship." Then she added, "Otherwise just shut-up."

A sensible man would have taken the clue, but, even though he was married and should have known better, Paul pushed onward into forbidden territory. "What do you hear from him?"

She knew he wasn't going to let up and she needed someone to confer with, even if it was Paul Armstrong. Sitting back in her chair, expelling an exasperated breath, she began, "If you really want to know..I'm kinda worried about the, the, about Hobson. There is an unfortunately innocent explanation for why he was at my place when you stopped by. And, to set the record straight, we did not share a bed that night, regardless of how it appeared."

Paul gave a smile to her need to 'set the record' straight, but didn't comment.

"I haven't heard from him since then. When I call, no one at the bar has seen him in days. You don't suppose that the aspiring assassin is involved with the disappearance, do you?"

"Frankly, no. I felt for some time that the danger episode was over. The person or persons have probably moved on in their lives. It happens, especially when the police hover in the vicinity of the intended victim. You say no one has seen him? Who's 'no one?' Marissa? The waitresses? Bartenders? Fishman? Who've you spoken to?"

It was helping to talk with him. She was beginning to take a more detached look at the situation. "I was able to talk with Marissa only briefly. She' s pretty concerned, mainly because, I think, Chuck Fishman is also missing.""Well, there you are. They're probably off together, not fishing with all this rain certainly, but wherever one is, you'll likely find the other. Did anyone see them together before he was noticed as missing?"

"Marissa didn't think so."

"Is anyone else missing at the bar?"

"No, I asked about that when Marissa and I were talking. His loft hasn't been used in days and no physical evidence of a crime was apparent. Just the same, I'm uncomfortably worried. Don't ask me why.."

He jumped right in on that note, "I don't have to ask, Toni, I can see."

Her eyes sent daggers in his direction. "What do ya mean, you can 'see?"

Paul uncharacteristically went over to her to place his hand on her shoulder, compassionately. "You're more involved than you'd like, aren't you? Does he know?"

She shook her head 'no.'

"Why not? Why don't you tell him? You might find that you're not alone in this, ah, affection.

She closed her eyes, not knowing how to answer him. She couldn't even acknowledge the feelings she had to herself; how could she tell Gary? Tell him that being close enough to smell his aftershave made her weak in the knees? Tell him that she hungered for so much more than they had ever shared? She couldn't. She couldn't.

"Paul," she said as she stood up, moving towards the door, "I've gotta go. I should never have opened this subject at all. Thanks for being so kind, but I...I...I gotta go!" She left the office and the building, not bothering to get her car. She needed to walk. She needed desperately to think. She needed distance!


CHAPTER 2

The walk was helping get her thoughts in control. It didn't erase the feeling that something was wrong, but it calmed her down, taking some of the stress away. At first she walked at a mad pace, her strides long and fast.

In time, her pace normalized into a moderate gait. She found herself being drawn into a familiar neighborhood. The EL ran overhead. The old buildings, discolored by a century of the city's polluted air, stood guard over the constant traffic. The..remodeled firehouse! She was surprised to find herself on the corner in front of McGinty's. Without hesitation, she entered and asked for Marissa.

She announced herself as she greeted the sight-impaired woman in the small McGinty's office. Marissa had to ask before Toni began, "Have you heard from Gary? Or Chuck Fishman?"

Toni's non-answer spoke volumes; the question sobered the usually cheerful bar manager, "I'm really worried, Toni. Is there anything you can do?"

Shaking her head, she commented, "He's done this disappearing act before, but only when something was really wrong." She fidgeted with the paperclips as she went on, "Can you ask for police assistance?"

"The only thing they will do is issue a bulletin to watch for the two of them and they'll check the local institutions for someone matching their description. With two of them being missing, I doubt a hospital check will show any results." Toni reached over to Marissa's hand to pat it, "He'll..they'll show up." To soothe Marissa, she changed to a more official tone, "They had better have a good explanation for putting us, I mean, you through this!"

Marissa covered this tough lady's hand with her other one and asked, "You care more than you'd like to, don't you? Gary has a way of doing that to people."

"Well, if there's been a crime..I mean, I'm a detective after all...he's, he 's..."

"I know," Marissa said in a calming voice, "I love him, too, not in the same way you do though." She could feel the other woman's hand tense at the word, but continued, "Take my word for it, he feels the same or more so."

"No, he doesn't. He.."

Marissa asked, then, "Do you trust me, Toni?"

"You're one of the most trustworthy people I know. Yeah, I really do trust you." Upon saying this, she added a disclaimer, "Maybe I don't trust you as much when Gary's in danger, like in the Scanlon case, but, most of the time, I trust you."

"Then trust me when I say that it wouldn't take much for Gary to relax and admit to his 'feelings' toward you. When he gets back here, give him a chance to tell you. I think he will."

In retracting her hand, Toni brushed Marissa's coffee cup over and onto the desk where it spilled, mostly on Toni. The coffee was almost cold, but there was a large coffee-colored stain where it had splashed-and right on her new skirt. Just what she needed. She wiped up the mess, then borrowed the McGinty's office phone to notify the station that she would be going home to change and not to expect her for an hour.

Upon entering her home, she noticed, first, the quiet. It was what she liked about living here. The busyness of Chicago stayed outside, but was available when she needed it. The next thing she noticed was an odor invading her nostrils. Surely not what it smelled like, surely not..."Mrowr!"

The cat. Gary's cat was sitting smugly on one of her dining chairs. She was both afraid to pick up and read the paper upon which the cat was sitting, and anxious to read it to check for possible answers. Shooing the cat, she sat down and began hurriedly scanning the pages. It was there, causing a shiver to rush up her spine. Expecting to see something like

"Bar-owner Missing," she was appalled and horrified to read, "TWO CHICAGO MEN FOUND DEAD AT REMOTE PRISON COMPOUND." Reading on, she trembled inside as it disclosed that Charles Fishman and Gary Hobson, both 35, were found murdered at a disused minimum-security prison compound ten miles north of the Danville Correctional Facility. The police found Fishman shot to death in one of the cells on the property. Hobson had been tortured, beaten, and then left to die outside. A pair hiking in the area had come across the grisly sight and reported it to the Danville police.

Her next course of action was to call Paul asking, begging really, for him to pick her up and to use the fastest means possible. Meanwhile, as she waited impatiently, she called the police near Danville, requesting them to have a back-up vehicle meet them at the compound.

CHAPTER 3

Gary awoke feeling as though he were being watched, that awful sensation that you weren't alone that everyone experiences now and then. The feeling was confirmed as he opened his eyes to see two beady black eyes staring back at him. The black nose was wiggling, making the long whiskers wiggle as well. The rat was trying to decide whether the warm-blooded creature in front of him was something it could use for food or not. The trouble was, Gary, at the same time, was entertaining thoughts along the same line involving the rat. Seeing the long-tailed rodent within a foot or two of his face caused him to jerk suddenly and the animal ran off.

Gary Hobson had taken shelter from the rain among the collapsed ruins of a pump house located between the last in the row of prisoner housing structures and the equipment sheds. The only shelter the remains afforded was the roof that had collapsed mostly intact. The fugitive had crawled under the roof forms and slept. The old pump house hadn't been used for water since the state facility had been opened. Old rusted pipes were preventing the whole structure from disappearing into the landscape from rot.

By the time he crawled out from under his shelter, he was covered with mud. The compound was quiet. Only the constant wind seemed to be moving at the time, chasing the clouds around the overcast sky.

The wounded shoulder seemed to have stopped bleeding while he rested. If it was still the same day or if it was morning..he had no idea. He knew he ached. What didn't ache, pained. The rain had abated his thirst; but his hunger knew no bounds. Even a bowl of the cat's food would have appealed to him at the moment.

There really was no time to think of his discomfort. Where was Stan? Where was Chuck? By the time he peeked cautiously around the corner of the building, one of the questions seemed to be answered; Stan's car was gone. The whole compound looked deserted. Had he abandoned his passion for revenge? Gary would love to have walked straight to the building where he and Chuck had been imprisoned, but it seemed prudent to approach in a more stealthy manner.

He decided to take a path behind the buildings that faced the one he was targeting. It was hard to determine whether he was weak from hunger or weak from his injuries. Either way, he paused to lean against each building as he made his progress. It would have been wonderful to enter one of the buildings and just, just lie down for a short rest. No! He couldn't be thinking like that. What if Chuck needed his help? He trudged on, his eyes riveted on every shadow and his ears attuned to the least sound.

By the time he was near enough to think about crossing the street, his strength was just about played out. He took extra time to observe the open area before beginning to cross over to find Chuck. As he was crossing the center divider and its overgrown plantings the dreaded voice of his tormentor called out, "Okay, Hobson. Just stand still, right where you are. There's no where to run and my gun is trained right on you."

Gary closed his eyes in defeat. Run? Was that an option? IF he had the strength, which he didn't, he might have gotten a good ten feet-maybe. He stopped and raised his arms as best he could.

"Get down on your knees!" When his victim hesitated, he growled, "NOW! Do it!"

The bar-owner sank to his knees as ordered. "What now?"

"That's not for you to ask. I'll let you know what I want you to know. Now, on your hands and knees, crawl over to that flagpole." Gary glanced at him as if about to ask why when his captor yelled, "Don't look at me like that; just do it!"

His shoulder prevented him from moving in that manner with any speed and that brought about another complaint from Stan. "Come on, Hobson. Make an effort! We ain't got all day. I gotta be to work tomorrow." His boss was not finding any humor in Stan's reference to McGinty's.

When they reached the flagpole, Gary was instructed to stand with his hands behind the pole. Stan attached the handcuffs and knocked Hobson back to his knees.

Fear ran through every pore as Gary asked, "What do you want from me? I don't even know why I'm here. If you're going to all this bother, just tell me what you feel I've done."

"You *******!" he yelled in Gary's face as he landed a blow to the side of his head, one that jolted one of his back teeth loose. "It was your fault that he was sent to prison. Right here! He was sent right here! And he died right here, too." Another punch sent blood running down his face.The man's eyes betrayed the insanity in his anger. He brought out his gun, placing the barrel of it at Gary's forehead.

When he could speak, he asked Stan, "Who? Who died here?"

"My brother!" he shrieked madly. "My brother died from the beating his cellmates administered. You're to blame for him even being here. All he did was have a little fun with the kid. The fire wasn't his fault. He told me so. They were just kids themselves and they were just having a little fun with the kid." He grabbed a handful of Gary's hair and used his other hand to move the gun to the soft area just under the chin.

It was far from hot, but the prisoner was sweating and shivering at the same time. A psycho was holding a gun to his chin. He was certain that he wouldn't even hear the shot when it happened. It would be sudden..and final. This was the moment. Funny, he wasn't scared, exactly. It was more like, like apprehensive. Which second? Which moment? Would Stan say something like, 'One, two, three?' Or 'Take that, you mangy coyote' like they did in those old black and white movies? How about 'Ready, set, now you go?" 'Hell, I won't have anything to say about it, whatever he says.'Fire raged behind Stan's eyes, but Gary needed to know something before he died, "What was your brother's name?"

That was it! That was enough. Stan put his gun back in his belt and swung out, intending to kick Hobson in the head. He missed his target, impacting instead with the wounded shoulder. It brought a yelp of pain from Gary and he passed out, sagging forward as far as the handcuffs allowed. Stan stood back. He had an inspiration born from his sadistic mind.

For several minutes he was gone. When he came back he was toting two buckets, each filled with water he had scooped out of the rain- and debris-filled culvert. He set them down near the target of his wrath. A satisfied smile betrayed the smugness he felt.

Gary was on the verge of consciousness as he opened his eyes and saw the madman's feet in his view. Close, very close. He moaned slightly and looked up to see Stan advancing towards him with a pocketknife in his hand. Before he could ask about what he was sure was going to happen, Stan seized a handful of Gary's shirt and jacket and began cutting it away. He kept at his chore until his prisoner was completely stripped above the waist.

"You're awake, huh? Good." He used the knife to point to the shoulder wound, commenting, "It's bleedin' again. Too bad. I'd like you to stay with me here for some more games." Gary's sagged in weakness and defeat at the tone of Stan's invitation. Grabbing a hold of the mat of wet hair to raise Gary's head, Stan shouted in his face, "You hear me, Hobson? Stay awake!"

"Kill me now; that's what you're planning anyhow. Go ahead, you crazy.." His voice trailed away as his head again was allowed to droop.

"Oh, no, Hobson." Stan's voice took on a tone of pure malevolence, "You have plenty of time for our little socializing before I let you die. You're not going to have a nice clean shot. That's way too lenient. The cops told me that my brother, half-brother actually, had been slowly beaten to death. Blake and I were never close, but, ya know, brothers are brothers."

A whispered, "Blake? Blake Heron, the kid in the train tunnel?" The truth seeped through the pain surrounding his brain. "I never was even called to testify against him. They had so much evidence submitted from other sources that they never needed mine!" He was trying to stay with his defense, but his weakness threatened to mercifully steal consciousness away again.

Stan reached down to one of the buckets. Standing just beyond what would have been the 'splash point,' he threw the contents of the bucket at the sagging figure at the flagpole. A loud gasp was heard as the water drenched Gary with its iciness. His whole body was alert at the shock.

Stan laughed as he saw his, now ex-, boss visibly shivering in the cold, and now, wetness. He adopted an artificially sympathetic attitude as he explained, "You needed help with your shower. Admittedly, the water isn't the cleanest, but some of the grime is gone. Now, where were we? Yeah, we were discussing my stepbrother. A kid with no sense of right and wrong, but, like I said, a brother's a brother. Who'd stand up for him if I didn't? He only had friends because they were scared not to be his friends."

There was nothing safe to add to Stan's remembrances; Gary let him do all the talking. He had never been so cold and miserable in his life. Well, cold maybe. Especially when he had to go into that storm drain after the little girl, Allie, that time. She was so frightened that he couldn't allow himself to think about the cold-until he carried her out of the water. Her mother was there with the paramedics waiting for him-and her. The happy ending was worth the discomfort.

The penetrating cold renewed itself with every breeze. Hoping to draw his tormentor's attention away from the purpose at hand, he asked, "So you, you were his protector when you were growing up, then?"

As if he had interrupted an important conference, the sadistic man before him answered, scowling, his smile never reaching his eyes, "Protector? He needed a protector! Nah, we were twelve years apart and I didn't care what happened to him. What did he know about gettin' along in this world? He needed to learn that you gotta fight and that if you didn't, you'd be the one who got beat up. He learned."

"Boy, did he ever!" Gary made the mistake to editorialize with the wrong man.

A backhanded swat struck his face hard enough to send stars into his vision. Was that another tooth loosened? The surprise took his breath away. The guy had upper-body strength, he had to give him credit for that. And who better to judge than the person on the receiving end of the blow? 'No more comments, Hobson,' Gary reminded himself. 'Just let him do the talking, you do the breathing.'

Stan pulled Gary up to a standing position. "There, that's better. Think you can manage to stay that way?" He didn't care and he didn't wait for an answer, but began pummeling his victim, mostly in the midsection this time. The irritating part about his boss, was, except for an involuntary grunt at each impact, he wasn't giving Stan the satisfaction of begging for the beating to stop. That put the workout in the category of being no more than that, a workout. A workout, on its own, was boring. While he was immersed in working at the gym with the heavy bag, there was only the resistance of the weight of the bag. Hitting on Hobson was becoming the same. He knew it was effective, though, because the man had felt them and they had struck with enough force that Hobson once again sagged with unconsciousness.

A drenching splash from another bucket of water once again brought Gary awake. He felt Stan trying to stand him up again, but his legs wouldn't accept the weight of his body. His eyesight was a blur and he couldn't hear whatever it was that Stan was saying. He thought, for a moment, that he saw his vindictive bartender-employee move away and..and run? It didn't matter to Gary. Nothing mattered. An aspirin might matter to him. A steak dinner might matter. No, no steak until those teeth became more solid in his mouth again.

He definitely heard a shot, no, three shots. Taking stock of his aches and pains to check whether any of the bullets had struck him, he was puzzled when something, someone, someone smelling like..no, he had to be hallucinating. He felt someone move down to his level and hold him. At the same time he felt his hands being released from the metal cuffs. It was beyond his strength to maintain his balance and he fell onto whomever, whatever was holding him.

A soft voice then, "Gary? Gary?"

Two pair of stronger, masculine hands picked him up and he was laid flat upon a hard and, seemingly, dry surface. A blanket covered him and it felt like heaven had descended upon him. Did those shots find their mark and he was dead? He couldn't move; something was restraining his arms and legs. Someone was leaning over him, their breath sweet in his nostrils, "Gary? Please, can you hear me? Just let me know."

He knew he should try harder to communicate. That blur that had filled his vision before was now invading his whole head. "Can't," he exhaled, hoping that whomever it was doing the asking would be content with the one word.Gary Hobson wasn't aware of the bumpy transfer to the ambulance, nor the transporting to the nearest hospital. He wasn't aware of his hand being held, caressed, kissed, nor of the tears that made it wet. His awareness ceased when he heard someone comment at the prison yard that they had found Fishman too.

CHAPTER 4

His visit to the emergency room was done as an inanimate object, as was the recovery room after the bullet was removed in the O.R. All he knew of the next few days was voices too faraway to hear. Muted pain, yes, but there was warmth. Oblivion. Well, not quite oblivion; someone held his hand in a vise-like grip.

The small, private room was his first awareness. Beeping sounds were present; they were familiar from his hospital stays. He glanced around, recognizing the IV as well as the other unpleasantries involving hospital confinement.

Paul Armstrong and Toni Brigatti came into his room, obviously pleased to see his eyes open. "Hey, Hobson, how do you like the facility?" Paul asked in humor. "They keeping you comfortable?"

Gary was cautious in nodding his head, "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for coming by."

Toni stood slightly behind Paul. She was relieved to see a smile on the patient's face though the evidence of the brutal beating was still discoloring most visible areas. The equipment of a hospital always upset her when it involved someone she cared for, er, that is, knew.Knowing the purpose of their visit was not the same as saying he welcomed the questions that he knew would follow the niceties. Paul motioned Toni towards the lone chair, smiling inwardly as she reached over to take Hobson' s hand. Gary's smile was not inward. He clasped her hand and was immediately reminded of the feel of that same hand during his non-wakeful hours of lying there. Paul hoped that Toni could sense the smile emitting from his eyes.

"We don't want to tire you, but you know the procedure," he began as he took out a small pad of paper and his pen. "Can you tell us what happened at the compound? Let's start with how you happened to be there."

Gary began his remembrances of Stan driving to 'Navy Pier' and ended with the coffee. Then he began again with being dragged into a cell at the facility. He was about to mention Chuck's participation in the beatings, but stopped abruptly. "Chuck!" He released Toni's hand and attempted to sit up. "What happened to Chuck? Where is he? He's okay..no, what's wrong?" He was struggling to sit up despite Paul and Toni's efforts to hold him back, causing alarms to go off in the equipment.

A nurse hurried in and saw the trouble the two were having keeping her patient confined. She promised a speedy return and left. When she returned she held a filled syringe in her hand. "What's been going on in here?" she asked, concerned with his agitated state. Gary paid no attention to her as he fought against being held back in his attempts to get out of bed.

"Mr. Hobson! Mr. Hobson! You have to remain in bed. You'll feel a small sting as I give you this to help you calm down." She administered the shot before Gary had a chance to object.

"Don't..don't do that," he was attempting to say, but the deed was done and there was no going back. "I need to, to, to find out..to find..Chuck. I need to.." His voice trailed off as he relaxed and was helped to settle back into the bed. He mumbled a few more words about Chuck and his concern about his friend's welfare, then drifted into a calming sleep.

"You two," the nurse began accusingly, "you're police, aren't you?" They nodded in unison. "Whatever you did, don't ever do this again! If you do, I'll have the doctor ban you from this room! And don't think I can't!"

She was furious as she went about making her patient comfortable, checking his connections-of all kinds-before she departed the room.

Their visit at an abrupt end, Paul let her know that he was heading back to Chicago. They had come in separate cars; he knew that she was intending to stay. "See ya tomorrow. Tell him I'm sorry if he wakes up while you're here."

"Don't worry, Paul. No one could have predicted his reaction to the questions, I guess. Drive carefully."

She sought out Gary's hand again as she settled back on the chair to wait. And think.

Continued in Installment 3

Email the author: arcane@nethere.com
 

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