Act Two, Part One ~~~~

With nary a ripple, the placid waters of the Potomac flowed onward under the bridge. Stillness and silence reigned. Not even the crickets were stirring. Calm was the river, calm was the night, in utter and absolute serenity.

And then something erupted from under the surface with a monumental gasp. For a long moment the waterlogged figure rested on the surface of the water, floating, breathing, recovering - and also listening. Finally judging that the coast was surely clear, the figure rolled over and struck out for the bank, swimming until the water was shallow enough to stand. He then waded, shivering, out onto the shore.

"And the breath-holding champion wins once again," he muttered to himself, still feeling nonetheless very much like a drowned rat - not to mention, extremely sore from head to toe.

"Mr Gordon!"

Artie spun to face the source of the voice which had just called out his name and wearily got ready to defend himself anew. He saw someone - no, make that three someones - running toward him. Artie no longer had either his jacket or his boots, having sacrificed both to the river in exchange for buoyancy, but he did still have one more smoke bomb hidden in his waistband. He pulled it out.

"Oh, Mr Gordon!" called the voice again. "We were watching from cover and saw you go over the side. We were afraid we'd lost you!" Two of the three someones ran out onto the bridge and away in hot pursuit of the fleeing minions. The remaining someone came up to Artie, thrust out a hand, and began pumping Artie's in a vigorously enthusiastic handshake.

Artie disengaged his hand before the other fellow's earnestness could pop the smoke bomb, then peered at the newcomer in the dim light of midnight, and ultimately placed him.

"Richard… Uh, Richard Henry, isn't it?"

"Yes sir, Mr Gordon, sir!" replied the eager young agent. "Colonel Richmond sent us along. Just in case, you know."

Artie's eyebrow arched. "The ransom note said for me to come alone."

"Yes sir. It also said they would return the little girl to you."

Hmm. Touché.

"Wow, Mr Gordon!" the young fellow continued. "You sure are almighty wet!"

"Yeah, well, falling into a river will tend to do that to you, you know," said Artemus. "I don't suppose you have any word on what happened with Jim, do you?"

"No, sir."

"But some of you young fellows were sent out to keep watch over him as well, right? For just in case?"

Sheepishly, young Richard admitted that this was so.

Artie shivered some more. On the one hand, he wanted to go back to the Wanderer to get into some dry clothes, while on the other hand, he knew he ought to go check in with Colonel Richmond, give him his report on what had happened here, and, he hoped, hear what had gone on with Jim. "Mother hen," he muttered at himself.

In the end, duty (and perhaps curiosity as well) won out over comfort. Clapping young Richard on the shoulder, Artie said, "Well, let's go see the colonel."

…

"He what? You what?"

No, the Boss was not understanding about the little bobble in springing the trap on Artemus Gordon. No indeed, not for one moment.

"Idiots! Imbeciles! Cretins! You have cost me half of my prize!" Glowering, the Boss glared at the six minions in disbelief. Then he began pointing a shockingly long finger at them. "By your own account," he said, in his anger enunciating each consonant with crystal clarity, "you two he had gassed into unconsciousness, while the two of you he had managed to inflict concussions upon. Which leaves the pair of you." Those electric blue eyes bored into them as the Boss continued with, "Either you or you are responsible for killing a man whom I did not wish dead - yet. And now I ask you: Which of you two knocked Mr Gordon over the side of the bridge and into the river?"

Instantly each of the pair pointed a finger at the other.

If anything, the Boss's eyes gleamed even more brightly. Through clenched teeth he hissed at them, "I hate liars!" Abruptly he spun away from them, crossing to the doorway where he gave a snap of his fingers. "At least I have another team who did not disappoint me," he added as a man of incredible size ducked his way in through the doorway. Smiling up at the giant, the Boss asked pleasantly, "And where is our most recent guest?"

The giant made a gesture, pointing down the hall.

"Ah, excellent! Some people, at least, know how to complete an assignment properly! These two, however," he indicated the pair who were still, ludicrously enough, pointing at each other, "have proven themselves to be unreliable." He smiled at the giant. "You know what to do."

Eagerly the giant nodded, taking a step toward the hapless duo.

"However," the Boss added, forestalling him with an upraised hand, "please, I beg of you, do be quiet about it! That infernal brat has apparently finally dropped off to sleep. I do not want her awakened!"

Again the giant nodded, a big happy grin on his great expanse of face. The Boss ambled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Rubbing his hands together, he told himself gleefully, "And now to see about my dear Mr West!"

…

James West groaned and opened his eyes. Hs snapped them shut again, gave it a three-count, then opened them once more. Well… that was marginally better, but still blurry. Hmm…

Now he tried blinking rapidly. There, that was better. He checked his surroundings: a large room, a laboratory judging from the equipment. And yet there was a… piano? or harpsichord? and other furnishings that gave it the flair of a Victorian sitting room. The lights were dimmed and no one was present.

Except… yes, he could hear breathing. Soft, slow, regular breathing it was, as if someone was in here sleeping. He still saw no one, but the breathing was definitely off to his right. He looked in that direction and saw a cage, about the appropriate size to hold a large dog. Jim got up to take a closer look at it, and a chain rattled.

Chain. It was attached to his waist and made it impossible for him to stand fully erect. The other end was of course firmly embedded in the wall. Hmm…

Jim sat down again and took a personal inventory. Both legs were in reasonable working order; there was some scattered soreness, but not enough to incapacitate him. Both arms were the same. The rest of the body was none the worse for wear as well. But the head… ah, the head. Semi-detached? No, just the normal consequences of having been on the receiving end of a clout from…

From Voltaire!

The lights brightened abruptly. "Ah, Mr West!" came an all-too familiar voice. "So good of you to join us!"

In he strolled, that little man. His eyes were bright, his smile broad, his hands folded across his middle as he sauntering forward, relaxed and happy, the genial host. And with him, a few steps behind, was the genial hostess.

"Dr Loveless," said James.

With an acknowledging bow, the little man confirmed, "Dr Miguelito Quixote Loveless, at your service."

Oh, if only it were so! "And attending you, as expected," Jim added, "the ever-lovely Antoinette."

The brunette smiled and gave a slight curtsey, then seated herself at the harpsichord and began to play a soft accompaniment.

"Well, Mr West," said Loveless cheerfully, "at the risk of sounding so very cliché, we meet again!"

"We knew it was you," said West.

"Oh," the doctor chuckled merrily, "I'm sure you did." His smile was dazzling. "Because I make a habit, you see, of going about kidnapping small children." And he waved a hand idly toward the cage at Jim's right.

Ah. Then the source of the sleepy breathing was little Missie Sparrow.

"No," Jim replied, "because you make a habit of trying to eliminate Artie and me in order to carry out your nefarious schemes."

"Nefarious!" Loveless exclaimed. "Why, Antoinette, Mr West has the idea that I intend to be nefarious! What a delicious word, Mr West." His eyes sparkled jovially. "Delicious - but sadly inadequate. I intend, you see, to be fiendish. Devilish. Demonic! Oh yes, and beyond your wildest dreams, Mr West. Merely nefarious is far too tame for the towering genius of Dr Miguelito Loveless!"

"Uh-huh," said West, and he yawned.

Loveless snickered. "Oh, we're playing that game again, are we? Pretending indifference in the belief that such apathy will unlock my tongue? Well, it's not going to work this time, Mr West. Because this time, I truly do not care if you know what I am up to or not. By the time anyone knows what my plans are, it will be far, far too late." He grinned, and his grin was horrific.

Loveless turned and strutted over to Antoinette, beamed fondly at her, then joined her in lovely harmony, singing:

Are you going to Whittingham Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
Remember me to one who lives there,
For once she was a true love of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Without any seam or needlework,
Then she shall be a true lover of mine…

They sang on and on for a great number of verses, far more verses than Jim bothered to count. Perversely, the agent closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Loveless might play at not caring if West knew his plans, but the little man's giant opinion of himself would not be able to bear it for long; he would brag on his intellect, his superiority, and eventually, yes, his plans.

The last note faded away. The musical pair smiled at each other affectionately. Then, as Antoinette continued to play, Loveless glanced at his shamming captive, chuckled, and crossed to a counter of laboratory equipment, mounting the steps of the mobile staircase alongside it. Humming along to the music, Loveless assembled a few items: test tubes, some flasks of varicolored liquids, and also a block of what appeared to be marble. With occasional glances at the seemingly indifferent West, the little doctor donned a pair of safety goggles and some thick, sturdy gloves. He then mixed some of the components together in a shallow glass dish. The liquid began to seethe. Sneaking another peek at the Secret Service agent, Loveless used an eyedropper to siphon up some of the bubbling liquid. He held the dropper over the block of marble, leaned well back, released a single glistening drop…

Fwoosh! The liquid instantly sank into the marble, melting it. Within moments the entire block was crumbling and liquefying into a runny gray slurry, a twisting column of greenish vapor curling up from the residue.

Loveless chortled merrily. "Imagine it, Antoinette!" he said. "With this substance, I can dissolve marble. Statuary, monuments, buildings…" Again he peeked at the supposedly sleeping James West. "All I need do is load this liquid into an atomizer and spray it throughout the streets of Washington D.C., and voilà! No more Capitol building. No more White House. No more…" his maniacal laughter rose into a gleeful crescendo, "No more Washington D.C.!"

Antoinette, still playing, queried, "But what will happen, dear Miguelito, to the people who are inside those buildings when your marvelous liquid hits the marble and destroys it?"

Still laughing, he replied, "Why, Antoinette my sweet, I suppose they will…" another glance at West, "…drown in their own buildings!"

"How clever of you, Miguelito!"

"Yes. Isn't it? Don't you think so, Mr West?"

No answer.

Loveless glanced at Antoinette, then gave her a wave of his hand, dismissing her. She rose from the harpsichord, came and touched his shoulder fondly, then retired.

Loveless watched her go, then turned once more to his prisoner as he stripped off the heavy gloves and the goggles. "By the way, my dear Mr West, as you may or may not have noticed, something is missing." He gestured now to the agent's left.

Jim, however, continued to feign sleep.

Suddenly the doctor was right in his face. "Mr West! I am telling you something important!"

James blinked at him and made a huge yawn. "Hmm? You said something?" he murmured.

"Yes, Mr West, I was saying," Loveless continued loudly, "as you may or may not have noticed, something is missing!" And once more he gestured to the agent's left.

Jim looked. A few feet away from him was a second chain bolted to the wall, terminating in a large loop just like the one about his own waist, but the other chain was empty.

"This," said Loveless, taking up a convenient walking stick and using it to prod at the empty chain, "was intended to accommodate your great good friend Mr Gordon. Alas, that is not to be. In the course of attempting to, ah, pick up Mr Gordon, it seems that my minions inadvertently managed to kill him instead." The doctor's eyes watched West intently, eagerly, ghoulishly.

West merely stared at him; the little doctor had pulled the dead-Artie prank on him before. "If Artie's dead," said Jim blandly, "then where is his body?"

"At the bottom of the Potomac, I'm afraid," said Loveless. "Oh, but don't worry. Those whose incompetence compassed the premature death of our Mr Gordon have, shall we say, paid for their error."

"How judicial of you," said West.

"Yes, wasn't it?" said Loveless brightly. "In fact, I cannot think of anyone more suitable to administer jus…" He had swung about in the midst of his declaration, and now his eyes fell on something that caused him to break off suddenly in mid-word. "You!"

Loveless was staring at the cage. Jim turned to look as well.

The big brown eyes were wide open now, framed by the blonde curls above and the fingers in the mouth below. "So," said the little doctor, striding over to the child in the cage. "You can be silent after all!"

Pop went the fingers. Scowling, the child complained, "I sleepin' an' someone started talkin'. Wakeded me up. Where my Mamma?"

The doctor thrust his head forward. "She isn't here," he stated spitefully. "She isn't coming. And what's more, your Pappa isn't coming either." And he glared in triumph at the child.

"Papa?" said little Missie. "Why'd Papa come here anyway? He wif G'amma in Chicago."

"No, he isn't!" Loveless insisted. "He was going to be here tonight! But he's dead!"

"No!" Missie insisted right back. "Papa in Chicago wif G'amma!"

"You infuriating little minx!" cried the doctor. "I'm telling you…!"

"Ah, Dr Loveless…" West interrupted.

"What!" hissed the little man, whirling toward him.

"When Missie says 'Papa,' she means her grandfather. And he lives in Chicago with her grandmother, just as she told you. Now, if you're trying to tell her that her father is dead, she already knows that."

Missie nodded. "My daddy die 'fore I got bornded. Mamma tol' me."

"Well, your Mamma lied!" Loveless proclaimed. "Because your father died this very night! My men killed him!"

"Huh?" said the little girl, looking utterly and completely baffled.

"What?" said Jim. He stared at Dr Loveless, and then, incredibly, he began to laugh. "You are absolutely out of your mind, do you know that? Her father was a man named Craig Sparrow, who died in Chicago three years ago."

"Her father," Loveless fumed, "was none other than Artemus Gordon, who drowned in the Potomac not two hours ago!" And now Loveless stormed over to rail at James West. "I saw him! I was spying on your varnish car and I saw the way Gordon greeted that brat and her mother! I saw how, how affectionate he was toward them! I saw!" He slapped himself in the chest in his passion to prove himself right. "Why else would a man greet a woman with a little child in such a very loving manner?"

"Because they are cousins," Jim retorted, "and hadn't seen each other since before the War." He shook his head. "You always think you're the smartest man on the face of the earth, Loveless, but you certainly blew this one. Artie's not Missie's father - but he was looking forward to getting to play the role of doting uncle for her."

Loveless scoffed and turned away. "You just refuse to face the fact that your best friend was a despicable cad with a hidden love child!"

Jim sat in silence, partly stunned at Loveless' misinterpretation of Artie's feelings for the girl and her mother, but mostly shocked at the doctor's assertion that his best friend was dead. I need proof, he thought, and a lot more proof than the say-so of that evil little man! Drowned? A good swimmer like Artie? A man who prided himself on his ability to hold his breath? No, I won't believe it. I don't believe that Artie is dead!

A sound interrupted his thoughts. "Unca… Unca… Oddie?" said a tiny young voice. Little Missie had finally put together the things Dr Loveless had been saying. "Unca Oddie… dead?" And the little girl began mourning at the top of her lungs, grieving with all her heart for her beloved Uncle Artie whom she'd only met once.

At the resumption to the child's howling, Loveless threw back his head, gave vent to a tremendous howl of his own, slammed his hands over his ears, and fled.

Hmm… kid sure knows how to clear a room, thought Jim.

Left alone with the wailing child, West moved as close to her cage as his chain would permit him, reaching out his hand to bridge the remaining gap. "Missie," he called to her. "Missie!" And when her wrenching sobs did not abate, he tried instead, "Peanut!"

"Huh?" She turned her sorrowful little face toward him.

"Missie, do you remember me? I'm Uncle Artie's friend. Remember?"

She nodded.

"My name is Jim West. Remember?"

"Uh-huh."

He smiled at her. "Missie, don't let Dr Loveless know this, but I don't think Uncle Artie's dead."

"He… he innit?"

"No."

She leaned against the bars of her playpen at the point closest to the nice blue-eyed man. "Den why dat nasty man tell me he dead? An' how come he tink Unca Oddie my daddy? He stupid or somethin'?"

Jim smiled at the logic of the child. "Yes," he agreed. "Or something."