A/N: I have gone back and forth in my mind about whether to change the rating on this story to M because of the event at the end of this chapter, but after consulting with my beta readers (thank you, my friends!), I have decided to leave it at a T and include a warning here: Be prepared for some minor violence. My fellow writers will understand when I say that a few of my characters completely surprised me while I was writing this chapter—I planned to go one way and they refused and took it in another direction. I've learned it's not much use to argue with them, so I just went along for the ride. I hope you enjoy the results!

"Well, guys," Vince said as they left Billy and Nita's trailer and Roy locked the door, "I'll meet you over at Rampart. I'm heading back to the station first to learn what I can about the Lansings. I'll also work on getting Detective Crockett on the case."

"Hang on, Vince," Johnny asked, stifling a yawn. After running on pure adrenaline all evening, exhaustion had suddenly slammed into him. He'd only dozed for a couple of hours that morning, and his sleep had been restless, troubled by bad dreams that fled his memory the instant he awoke, leaving only a lingering sense that it was better to stay awake. It didn't help that he'd missed lunch and left his dinner in the Pacific Ocean. Even so, he was determined to see the evening through. He and Roy had two days before they both went back on shift, and he would spend every minute necessary looking for Nita, even if it meant going without sleep. Part of him still hoped there had been a misunderstanding, that Nita had received the message about her brother and was even now at the hospital at his side, but deep down, Johnny knew this would not be the case. Even though he had two old friends backing him up at the moment, he felt helpless. For the moment, there was only one concrete thing he could do for Nita and her brother. He pulled his checkbook and a pen out of his shirt pocket, glad he'd thought to grab them out of the Rover's glove compartment before heading into Rampart earlier. "Will y'all come next door with me for a moment?" he asked his friends.

"Sure," Vince and Roy agreed, almost in unison. Together, the three men crossed the path between the trailers. Johnny stepped up to the door and curled his fist to knock. As he suspected, the manager must have been watching them out the window—she opened the door before he even touched it.

"Did you find my rent check?" she asked, glaring at him.

Johnny couldn't help thinking that if her eyes could shoot daggers, he would be dead by now. He kept his tone stiff but cordial. "No, ma'am, we did not. But I have no doubt Nita would have put it in your box as promised if she had been able. You see, ma'am, our people are no different from most people. We believe in working hard and paying our debts and doing the right thing. We're not perfect, but most of us go through each day just doing the best we can. Now, how much do the Folsoms owe you?" He opened his checkbook and held the pen poised above it, ready to write.

She didn't hesitate. "$200, plus a $15 late fee and $35 for utilities."

He did the math and started filling out the check. "And to whom should I make it out?"

"Windward Village Mobile Home Estates," she said.

A moment later, Johnny signed, then tore the check along the perforated line and passed it over to her. "Here's a check for $485. Now, I want you to write up a receipt showing that the Folsoms are paid up for two months and give it to Officer Howard here. He'll pass it on to either Nita or her brother. And I want your word you won't tell them who made this payment."

She nodded as she accepted the check. "I… I promise. I'll be right back." She went away from the door for a moment, then returned with the requested receipt, which she handed to Vince.

Johnny noted with satisfaction that something in her eyes seemed to have softened. "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "I'm sorry we troubled you tonight."

Vince folded the receipt and placed it in his wallet for safekeeping. "Good night, ma'am," he said with a nod.

"Good night," she said softly. She remained standing in the doorway to watch them go.

On the way back to their respective vehicles, Johnny extracted a promise from both Vince and Roy to keep the rent payment secret. "I don't want them to feel obligated to repay me," he explained. "Their father didn't believe in accepting help from anyone, and I'm guessing he passed that on to them."

Vince clapped him on the back. "John Gage, you are a class act."

Johnny just shrugged away the attention. "They have enough to deal with. They don't need an angry landlord on top of everything else."

Vince patted him on the shoulder, then climbed into his squad car and headed for the station.

Johnny climbed in the passenger seat of Roy's truck, slammed the door shut, and sat back. He yawned again, this time unable to hide it.

"Rough date with Chet and the twins?" Roy asked as he turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

Johnny chuckled. His eyes were heavy and he needed sleep, but he was determined to fight it. "He told you about it, huh?"

"Well, he told me he hoped you'd agree to go. I was pretty sure you would."

"I'll let Chet give you the details," Johnny said. "For now, let's just put it this way—the twins were nice gals, but the date was a disaster… starting from the part where I got seasick and ralphed up my dinner and several bottles of ginger ale, and ending with both of the ladies admitted to Rampart. With that, on top of a sleepless night on shift, only a couple of hours dozing at home this morning, missing lunch, and everything else that happened tonight… well, a few yawns are no surprise."

"Wow." Roy's fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel. "Look—you might as well close your eyes and get some rest."

Johnny shook his head adamantly. "No, I'm fi—" The need to yawn again cut him off.

Roy suddenly flicked on the right turn signal and turned into the parking lot of an old gas station. He stopped, then pivoted in the seat to give his full attention to his friend. "Listen to me, Junior," he said. "I know how it is when you go into rescue mode—you have a tendency to neglect your own needs, so I figure part of backing you up means making sure you take care of yourself. You clearly need some sleep and something to eat and drink. So here's the deal. You're going to close your eyes now and get that sleep. When we get to Rampart, I'll go inside and find out how Billy and Mr. Lansing are doing. If there's any reason to wake you up, I'll come back out and get you, but the most likely scenario is, we won't be able to talk to them till morning anyway."

Johnny bristled, even though he knew what Roy was saying was true. "Fine, Dad" he surrendered, unable to swallow the sarcastic tone.

Roy shifted out of park and pulled back onto Santa Fe, and Johnny leaned his head against the door frame and closed his eyes. Within seconds, Johnny was asleep. His sleep wasn't peaceful, though. Roy kept his eyes on the road, but he could hear his friend fidgeting next to him. Just as Roy turned into Rampart's parking lot about 10 minutes later, Johnny suddenly sat straight up, shouting, "Kiyo! Kania!"

"Johnny?" Roy quickly pulled into a parking spot and turned to his best friend, whose eyes were now wide open, though he did not seem fully awake. He was shivering, his face pale and sweaty, and gasping for breath. Roy instinctively grabbed his wrist to check his pulse, then gave his shoulder a firm shake. "Johnny," he barked, "wake up."

"Ishkitini yvt chilika ka haklo li tuk," Johnny said, then shook his head hard as if to clear it. He blinked and looked around. "I… I'm sorry, Roy… it was… a bad dream."

"I'd say so!" Roy agreed. "You were shoutin' somethin' like 'kee-yo' and 'kanya.' I'm not sure about the rest."

"Kiyo. Kania," Johnny repeated, and then translated. "No. Go away. Ishkitini yvt chilika ka haklo li tuk. I heard the horned owl screech." He shivered.

"The horned owl?" Roy was curious.

"Among the Choctaw, owls are considered an omen of a coming death. The screech of a horned owl foretells a sudden death, like… like a murder or an accident." Johnny looked to his friend, anguish filling his eyes. "I can't lose her, Roy. Not before I even get to see her again. I have to find her."

Roy wasn't sure how to respond, but he gave Johnny's arm a comforting squeeze and fished for the right words. "We will find her. It was a dream, that's all. Most likely it's just the worry gettin' to ya."

Johnny swallowed hard. "I sure hope you're right, Roy." He stifled another yawn, then reached for the door handle. "Come on. Forget sleep. I'm goin' in with you."


Dixie looked up from her work at the nurses' station to see Johnny and Roy approaching side by side. "Now," she said with a tired smile, "there's a sight for sore eyes. It isn't often the two of you come in together these days. I miss it."

"Hi, Dix." Johnny grinned, but Dixie's practiced eye could see that his color was off and the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I thought you would've headed home by now. Weren't you on day-shift? You were already well into overtime before I left."

"Well, yes," she conceded, innocently blinking her green eyes at him, "but maybe I stayed for the sake of a friend. Joe said you were pretty shaken up about Billy Folsom, and I wanted to give you the news myself. Billy's up in ICU. Joe determined that no surgery was necessary, just careful monitoring. The fracture should heal on its own. Did you find his sister? Joe didn't want to leave without talking to her. He said I should get him when you come back."

Johnny shook his head. "Sorry, Dix. She's missing. We found evidence that she was at the same house where Billy was injured, but she wasn't found in the house and no one knows where she went from there. I wish we could talk to Billy, though it's a fair guess he won't remember much of anything from the fire. What about Mr. Lansing? Vince Howard said he was talkin' about someone trapped inside."

"I'm sorry." Dixie watched his face fall and wished she didn't have to tell him no. "Kel left strict orders that Mr. Lansing was to be kept sedated through the night. You won't be able to talk with him until morning."

"Did his son ever show up?" Roy asked.

Dixie sighed heavily, glancing at Johnny again as she answered Roy's question. "No, he didn't." She could see that something about this case had hit Johnny hard, and sensed that it went beyond one of his men being injured.

When Johnny slammed a fist on the counter in frustration, Dixie stepped back, startled. "Now, Johnny," she scolded gently as she stepped around the counter and placed a hand on his back. "Come on. I'd offer you a cup of coffee, but you look like you need sleep more than caffeine. I'm going to get Joe."

"Thanks, Dix, but I don't need sleep, and I'm not goin' home. Coffee'll do just fine," Johnny said stubbornly.

For the moment, she chose not to argue. Johnny had been one of her favorite paramedics before his promotion to captain—Roy was her other favorite—and she still felt a strong sense of responsibility for him. She also knew him better than he realized. Unless she missed her guess, Johnny felt something special for his linesman's missing sister. "I'm going to get Joe. Roy, see if you can convince him to sit down," she ordered.

"Yes'm, Dix," Roy agreed. Taking Johnny by the elbow, he guided him to the lobby.


As soon as Dixie disappeared down the hall, Johnny pulled his arm out of Roy's grip and began pacing the same circuit Chet had walked just hours before. "Forget it, Roy," he growled. "I'm not sittin' down and I'm not goin' to sleep. If I do, that damned owl will just show up again. If I keep movin', I can stay awake."

A moment later, Dr. Early came toward them, Dixie at his side. "What's up, Johnny?" he asked. "Looks like you've had a rough few hours since I saw you last."

"Ask Roy," Johnny said sharply. He instantly regretted it. His father's admonition from decades before floated through his mind. A true man masters his emotions instead of being mastered by them. Over the last couple of days, he had in several instances allowed his feelings to get the better of him, and because of it, he had just spoken crossly to two people he greatly admired. He took a deep breath and brought his emotions under control. When he spoke again, his tone was contrite. "I'm sorry, Doc… Dixie. It's not your fault. Just… let Roy explain, please. He can tell you whatever he thinks you need to know. I'm all wrung out. I'm goin' to the lounge for some coffee. Come get me when you're done."


Roy hoped that, by the time he finished explaining the situation and how it related to Johnny's past, exhaustion might take the upper hand and they would find Johnny asleep on the sofa in the lounge. "This is really gettin' to him, Doc," he said after he finished the story. "He needs sleep, but now he's havin' nightmares. He had one in my truck, and when he woke up, it looked like he was havin' a panic attack."

Joe's eyes caught Dixie's. "He needs a good talking to, I think," he said, a smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. "And that's your area, Dix."

"You have been known to dish out a good lecture when it was needed, Joe. Remember Nurse Graves?" Dixie raised an eyebrow, and Joe winced at the reminder of the hostile nurse who had worked at Rampart years before.

"I'd rather not," he said with a wry grin. "What Johnny needs is a good dose of Dixie-style mothering. While you're at it, get some fluids in him. After all that throwing up, he's bound to need them."

"He does tend to listen to you, Dix, when he won't listen to anyone else," Roy agreed.

"That's because I outmatch him in sheer stubbornness," Dixie quipped. "You fellows stay here. I'll be in the lounge."


When Dixie entered the lounge, she found Johnny pacing, a cup of coffee steaming in his hands. She took hold of his arm, led him to the sofa, and made him sit, then plucked the cup of coffee away before he could resist. Then she took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and gave it to him. "Like I said earlier, Johnny Gage, you need sleep more than you need caffeine. Now drink that—doctor's orders."

"I'm not tired, Dix." Johnny yawned in spite of himself, and Dixie rolled her eyes. "All right, all right… I'm wiped out," he admitted, "but I can't sleep, and if Roy told you everything, you know why." He drained the glass and handed it back to Dixie, who refilled it and handed it right back.

"He did tell me everything," she confirmed. Placing a hand on his arm, she fastened her caring eyes on his. "I know you're worried, Johnny. All these years, you've carried this girl in your heart and you're afraid of what might happen to her. But you can't help her if you push yourself to the point of collapse.

"I'll just have more nightmares," Johnny protested.

"Maybe," Dixie said. "But Johnny, think of this—you were seasick and throwing up, so possibly a bit dehydrated, and you haven't eaten properly since breakfast so your blood sugar is probably low. Combine that your anxiety over Nita and her brother, and it's no wonder you're having nightmares. We need to get some more fluids and some nutrients into you. Then you should be able to sleep better."

Johnny breathed out heavily. "I suppose you're right," he agreed. "But I'm not leavin' till I talk with Vince."

"Fair enough." Dixie refilled his water glass once more, then moved to the refrigerator. In a drawer at the bottom were several apples. She took one, then pulled out a Tupperware container with her name on it and a jug of milk. In short order, with the help of the microwave Kel and Joe had bought for the lounge the previous Christmas, she had prepared a bowl of oatmeal topped with apple slices and cinnamon. She set it on the table, along with a mug of warm milk. "Your color looks better already," she commented. "Now come over here and eat. I'll go see if Vince is here yet. Then I'm going home—it's long past my bedtime. I'm counting on you to keep your promise."

"Thanks, Dix," Johnny said, and he dug in. "I will."


Just as Johnny finished his bowl of oatmeal, the door creaked open and Roy and Vince stepped into the lounge. Roy sat down next to his best friend and reached for his wrist. With an exasperated sigh, Johnny pulled his hand away. "Stop mother-hennin' me. I'm all right." He turned toward Vince and leaned forward in his chair. "What have you found out?"

Vince had been watching Roy with a bemused grin. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks, can you, Roy?" At Johnny's look of disgust, he pulled out a small notepad and riffled through it till he found the page he wanted. "This is an active investigation," he began, "so there's a lot I can't tell you. But here's what I can share. Jerome Lansing owns a luxury car lot over in Long Beach. He started out in Denver about a decade ago, but moved his operation to the West Coast in 1978. His record is clean—not even a parking ticket—but I'd like to do a bit more digging into his time in Colorado. His mother, Sarah Lansing, died about five months ago. According to the coroner's report, she fell from a stepstool and hit her head while home alone. By the time Jerome and his father returned and called for help, it was too late." He stopped to draw in a deep breath, then dropped his voice to a lower tone even though no one else was around to overhear. "I shouldn't be telling you this yet, but by morning it will hit the news, and I'd rather you hear it from me. We suspect that the fire at the Lansing house was arson. Based on the reports from 110's and 105's crews, it seems that the fire started at the stove—as Jerome Lansing indicated—but an accelerant was used to quicken the spread of the flames."

Johnny just stared, speechless for a long moment. He and Roy had both lost friends due to firebugs. A wave of anger surged through him at the thought that Billy's and Jake's injuries were caused by an arsonist. "Do you think it was the son?" he finally asked.

"I'm not prepared to make that guess. The arson investigator is still working through the scene. Whoever did it was no expert, that's for sure. The job was real sloppy—evidence left all over the scene." Vince stood and gave Johnny a hard look. "All right, John. I've given you all the information I can. You need to go home, get some sleep, and let me do my job," he insisted. "You have my promise, this will not get pushed to the back burner. We will find Nita Folsom."

"Junior, you promised Dixie," Roy reminded him when his only response to Vince was a groan and an exaggerated eye roll. "I'll take you home and sack out in your guest room—I talked to Joanne while you were talkin' with Dixie. She finally got DJ to fall asleep on our bed and would rather I not come in and wake him up, anyway. We'll come back here first thing in the morning and see if Billy is awake."

Johnny knew when he was beaten. "Fine," he said, throwing up his hands in surrender. "But Vince, if you learn anything more, I want you to—"

"To call you. Don't worry. I will. Now go." Vince shooed them both out of the lounge.


Less than 20 minutes later, the two fire captains were climbing the stairs to Johnny's second floor apartment. Roy ventured for a moment into the bathroom, while Johnny turned on the TV at low volume, slid a VHS tape into the VCR, and stretched out on the sofa. He'd splurged on the device shortly after he first saw them in a store display, thinking back to the time when a response had made him miss the crucial part of an Adam-12 show, and then he missed the rerun months later for the same reason. This tape held a week's worth of Star Trek reruns.

"Space, the final frontier," intoned Captain Kirk's voice. Johnny watched as the Starship Enterprise zipped across the screen, but his eyes were too heavy now to stay open much longer. Against his will, they drooped to half-mast, and then closed. Before Kirk's brief monologue ended with, "to boldly go where no man has gone before," John Gage was sound asleep at last.

Roy watched him for a moment from the guest room door, then pulled the door closed and put himself to bed as well.


Nita woke with a start. Light had just barely begun to filter in through the warehouse windows, and the haunting call of sea birds drifted in. She listened with longing, vaguely wishing that she had wings to carry her up and out of this prison and back home where she could embrace her brother and rest securely. A door somewhere out of her line of sight creaked open, and she snapped her eyes shut, willing herself to breathe slowly, evenly, hopeful that whoever was coming might think her asleep.

At least two sets of clomping footsteps made their way to where the captives lay silently dreading whatever was coming next. "Those five go out today, with the shipment to Mexico," a gravelly male voice said, enunciating each word carefully, as if English were not his first language, though the only accent Nita could discern was a pronounced southern drawl. "The rest are marked for Paris. The boss will take them out on the skiff tonight and rendezvous with Zeke. He's got to lay low for a while."

"Way I hear it," said another voice—this one nasal and higher pitched, "his old man wouldn't shut up last night, got the pigs askin' questions."

"Shaddap, you idiots!" Nita recognized this voice, and it sent chills through her. It used the same sharp edge it had when telling her to learn her place. "Can the chatter and get the girls ready to go."

Nita could feel the air move as the men's legs strode amongst the captives. Her whole body tensed as a pair of those legs stopped next to her. The man knelt and his hand caressed her cheek. In one fluid motion, he put the hand under her back and pulled her upward. She wanted to retch as she felt his unshaven cheek brush against hers.

"Maybe I'll keep you for myself, my savage beauty," he breathed in her ear. The hard edge to his voice was gone, replaced by smooth silk. "Come on, girl… I know you're awake. Let me see those doe eyes."

She squeezed her eyes tight, the one act of rebellion she could accomplish, trussed up as she was. It earned her a vicious shake. Then he ripped a strip of duct tape off her mouth, and her eyes popped open at the burning sensation as the adhesive pulled away from her skin. Jerome Lansing's face filled her vision and he forced his lips hard against hers. As his tongue pushed its way into her mouth, she reacted instinctively, biting down as hard as she could. The coppery taste of blood made her want to gag, but, coupled with his strangled scream as he struggled to push her away, it also filled her with a deep satisfaction. She barely felt the stinging blow that forced her to unclamp her teeth, and the first thing she did when she found herself staring into his eyes was to spit his blood right in his face.

"'Amn… 'quaw…" he slurred, staring at her in shock as blood dripped from his gaping mouth.

Nita vaguely wondered where his cohorts were now. She could not see anyone else, and they weren't saying a word. Were they standing off to the side, gawking like spectators at a stickball match? "Hattak okpulo! [wicked man]," she spat out.

With an angry gesture, he beckoned to his assistants. "Hel' me, you i'io'sh!" he ordered, but his bark had lost its bite.

Nita watched as two men moved into view. She studied them carefully, committing each detail to memory. If she could manage to get free at some point, she wanted to know how to describe each of them. Both were shorter than their employer, one by only a few inches and the other by a full head. The taller one, whom she judged to be about 25, wore a blue Dodgers ball cap, and wisps of red hair stuck out from under it. What she could see of his pale face was covered with freckles. His dark grey jacket was emblazoned with the words "Lansing's Luxury Automobiles" on the right breast pocket. The shorter man, clearly older than either Jerome or the Dodgers fan, was a thickset fellow with a head of salt and pepper hair that he wore tied back. It hung to the middle of his back. His face—as dark as her own—was marred by a scar that stretched down his right cheek from temple to chin. His jacket matched the other man's, but he wore a broad-brimmed black cowboy hat with a turquoise-studded hat band. His right hand gripped the handle of an ornately carved cane. When he glanced her way for just an instant, Nita thought she saw a spark of approval in his hazel eyes. Was she imagining it? Or had she found a potential ally?

"Looks pretty bad, Boss," the Dodgers fan whined as he peered into Jerome's mouth, then offered a grimy handkerchief from his pocket. "Prolly needs stitches."

The cowboy yanked the handkerchief away before it could actually end up in Jerome's mouth. "That will only make things worse," he drawled. "It's filthy!" He produced a clean handkerchief from his own pocket. "Use this. You are lucky the little spitfire did not bite all the way through." This observation earned him a glare from the boss. "She got you good! Jake, take him over to Rampart hospital and I'll—"

"No!" That was the clearest word Jerome had spoken since his injury. "Nah Rampar'… S' Francis…"

"St. Francis?" Jake scoffed. "It's near twice as far!"

"S' Francis!" Jerome insisted, but his bark now was anything but intimidating.

"Fine, St. Francis," Jake agreed. "You'll get the girls ready, Tex?"

"Of course. You go now." Tex nodded towards the door, then stood silently watching as Jake led Jerome out of the warehouse. As soon as the door had closed, he turned to Nita.

"You are brave, like an ancient warrior woman," he praised. He knelt beside her and gently inspected her bonds, then offered her some water from a canteen he carried at his belt. "Here… rinse and spit, then drink deep. I am sorry for what is happening to you. When the boss offered me bonus pay for extra work, I did not expect this. There is no honor in this." His gaze swept across the group of hostages, and he raised his voice so they all could hear him. "I will do everything I can to help you," he promised. "You have my word."

"Thank you," Nita whispered. "Please… my brother, Billy Folsom… he's a fireman… Station 51 in Carson. My name… is Nita."

He nodded. "As soon as I can, I will get word to his station. I am sorry, but I have to give you this now. If I do not, the boss will know." He pulled up her sleeve and she felt the sharp sting of a needle poking into her arm. A sensation of warmth flowed into her veins. Her last conscious memory was of Tex gently tracing a cross on her forehead as he whispered, "Que Dios te bendiga." [May God bless you.]