Notes: Oh my gosh, the real Davy Jones is dead at 66. That is way too young to die. I'm still very stunned and shocked by this tragic development. This chapter is posted today in his honor. We love you and miss you, David Jones.

The next day Micky was up early to practice on the drums. The other Monkees were still sleeping, so instead of actually hitting the instruments, Micky mimed it. Right now the main thing he wanted to see was how long he could go at it without his wounds bothering him. If he could successfully play for an hour or more, then he was confident that he would be able to last during a concert.

After about thirty minutes, Micky's shoulder was starting to ache. Narrowing his eyes in frustration, he ignored his previously set goal and continued to work. He probably should not keep at it, but really, the wounds were healing nicely and he was so tired of being left at home while the others were working hard to make money. The last thing Micky ever wanted was to be a burden.

Maybe if he could not play for a full set, he could play for half the time and Davy could play for the rest. Davy knew enough about the drums to play them during a couple of their songs when Micky needed to play something else. He just did not feel confident enough in his abilities to play them for a whole concert. And anyway, the girls would probably not like it if Davy was back there the whole time.

Before long the motions were almost mechanical and Micky's thoughts were beginning to wander as he continued his unorthodox practice session.

What about the figure he had seen at the window the previous night? He was certain that it had truly happened and that he had not been simply seeing things. And in that case, he needed to tell the others in case it meant they were still in danger. Maybe it had even been Baby Face.

But actually, the prowler had been quite a bit shorter than Baby Face.

The drummer's eyes widened, then narrowed as he contemplated this. There was no one in Baby Face's current gang who was that height. It was a wild thought, but could it have been Tony who had been watching him? If so, why? What interest would Tony have in him?

He shuddered. Could Tony be mistaking him for Baby Face again? The last thing he wanted to do was to deal with Baby Face's former associate. Tony made him extremely nervous.

His reverie was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. With a start he eased himself up and slowly moved over to where the red device was still incessantly announcing a caller. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered. To his surprise, he managed to reach it before it ceased ringing. "Hello, this is the Monkees' place," he said as he answered and leaned back on the couch.

"There's four Monkees, aren't there?" a gravelly voice asked.

Micky frowned, not liking the sound of this at all. "Yeah," he admitted. "Why? Who is this?" It was not likely that someone would call this early about a job, so perhaps it was instead someone who did not have good intentions. He did not recognize the voice, but it did not sound friendly in the least.

"Nevermind," snapped the voice's owner. "Just stay on your toes if you wanna make sure that there continues to be four of you."

"Hey! Is this a threat?" Micky demanded. It certainly sounded as though it were one. Why else would someone say such a strange thing? Subconsciously he gripped the telephone cord. "Are you working for Baby Face?"

A dry laugh was his answer. "As if I'd work for him, or any other mobster. I wouldn't wanna be tied down like that." Now there was a pause and heavy breathing on the other end of the line, as if the person were anxious. When the man spoke again, his voice was considerably lower. "If you wanna catch the guy, and his mob, there's still some stuff hidden in the Evanses' house. Linda put it there right before she and Henry left."

Micky was stunned. "She did?" he exclaimed, then frowned in suspicion. "How do you know that?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

Micky had never liked being told that by a stranger, and he was especially sensitive on the matter at this point. "Look, whoever you are," he snapped, "my friends and I were betrayed by Linda and Henry Evans, when we'd thought they'd been our friends for years! But they set me up to be killed by Baby Face Morales. So now you call, I've never heard you before at all, and you want me to trust you? If I can't even trust people who were my friends, why should I trust some guy who's never even talked to me before?"

Now there was another pause, longer than the first. "Okay, okay, I see your point," the caller growled. "But I still can't tell you anything about me. So don't trust me. Just go check out the house, or get the police to do it, and see what you find. And even though I'm not threatening you, it's possible that someone else might. You mess with the Mob, you're bound to get burned."

Micky was more confused than ever. "So you tell us to be careful so someone won't get killed, and then you tell us about investigating the Evanses' home? How can we be careful that way?" Maybe this entire call was a prank. Maybe it was a complete waste of his time and he should have hung up ages ago, when the person had first given their "threat," or warning, or whatever it had been supposed to be.

Instead of an answer, now there was what sounded like indistinct arguing on the other end of the line. Then the sound of either a car backfiring or gunshots filled the receiver and there was a sharp click.

Micky started and cringed. "Hey!" he called. "Hello? Hello? Hey, are you still there?"

But there was neither a reply or a dial tone. At last he let the receiver slip from his hand and back into the cradle, stunned and bewildered and more than a little unsettled. What on earth had that been about? And . . . could the man he had been speaking with have been murdered? In frustration he set the phone aside and then turned around to see the others coming down the stairs.

"Micky, what's going on down here?" Davy asked sleepily.

"Yeah, you don't usually get up so early," Mike noted.

"He probably got woke up by the telephone," Peter surmised, and looked to Micky for confirmation.

Micky was too rattled to argue. "Nevermind that!" he exclaimed. "Something weird's going on, guys!" With that he proceeded to explain about the Peeping Tom he had seen last night and then about the telephone call that had just come through. The other Monkees listened, shocked and speechless. It was so much to be happening all at once.

"You don't have any idea who you were talking to?" Mike wanted to know.

"No!" Micky retorted.

"And there weren't any background sounds that would help determine where he was calling from?" Davy asked.

Now Micky had to pause to think. "I didn't think there were," he said slowly, "but now that you mention it, it kinda sounded like there was a rushing noise."

"A rushing noise?" Peter said in confusion.

"Yeah," Micky replied. "You know, like water or something." He began to pace about the room. "The ocean's calm right now, so he couldn't have been calling from somewhere on the beach," he thought out loud, "and anyway, it didn't sound like that kind of water." He gazed up at the ceiling as he tried to think of a way to describe it. "It was more like it was falling down from somewhere," he said finally.

The other Monkees looked at each other, then back at Micky. "You mean like a waterfall?" Davy suggested.

Micky snapped his fingers. "A waterfall! That's it!" he declared.

Davy frowned. "But are there any waterfalls around here? We're just on the edge of a metropolis."

"There's some in the canyons not too far away," Mike mused. "Maybe the guy has a cabin up there somewhere."

Micky nodded. That sounded logical. "Well, maybe we need to have the police check it out," he said slowly. "It sounded like he was being shot." He sighed. "I guess he's probably dead, but we should probably still try to get help for him, just in case." He went over to the spiral banister and leaned on it. "And we need to figure out what we're going to do about what the guy said about the Evanses' house."

"Do you really need to wonder?" Davy retorted.

"Monkees are notoriously curious, after all," Peter smiled.

"Let's call the police about that guy and then go," Mike said firmly.

xxxx

Searching the Evanses' home proved to be quite an unpleasant task. Most everything had been moved out and the house was bare, but the Monkees still had the memories of the times spent there when Linda and Henry had been their friends. It was hard to go back now and to look through the abode, remembering those good times and also what had come after that.

Peter was especially affected. "I remember the last time they had us over for dinner," he said, his voice quiet, as he and Micky finished their check of the dining room and headed upstairs. "Then we played for them and they sang along. . . ." His shoulders slumped. "Was none of that sincere?" he wondered. "Were they never our friends? Or did they just turn against us later, when Baby Face found out that they were our neighbors?"

Micky sighed, pushing open the door to Henry's office. "It's really hard to say, Pete," he answered, surveying the completely empty room. Henry had made certain to take every bit of his collection, including the closet's occupant. But Micky wandered in anyway, deciding to check the walls for trapdoors. "Does it really matter now?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Peter. "I mean . . . they sure aren't our friends any more."

Peter followed him in and began feeling along the opposite wall. "I think it matters," he said sadly. "I mean, wouldn't it be worse if they really had been our friends and then they just turned against us? That would be like . . . like any of us turning against the others."

Micky stopped what he was doing and looked back at his friend. Sometimes the insights that Peter came up with amazed him, not that he tended to admit when that was the case. But this was one of those times; Peter had a point.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I guess so."

Peter sighed, turning to look at him. "Sometimes I still think about that time when we all fell for April, the girl from the laundromat," he declared. "Do you remember that, Micky?"

Micky groaned. "Don't remind me." None of them had been at their best during that escapade. April had almost been the unwitting cause of the quartet's friendships completely falling to shreds. Micky was annoyed when he recalled that time now, and disgusted at the way he and the others had behaved.

Peter resumed checking for secret panels as he talked. "Well, we almost all turned against each other," he said. "What if . . . what if something like that happens again sometime?" That was one of his worst fears. He could not stand the thought that anything would happen to break up their friendships, but now after the experience with the Evanses, it worried him more than ever—and that was the real reason why he was so concerned about whether the couple had ever actually been their friends or not.

Micky froze and then glared at the wall. He hated that Peter even had to worry and wonder about something such as that. If the misadventures with April and with the Evanses had taught him anything, it was that they could not let anything destroy their friendships. They had become a family, and that was something that should not be treated lightly in any way, shape, or form.

"Oh come on, Peter!" he cried now, perhaps sounding more harsh then he had intended. "That's not going to happen."

Peter bit his lip. "I hope not," he said softly.

Micky sighed and went over to the blond Monkee. "It won't, okay?" he said firmly, but in a softer voice. "We care about each other too much to let it."

Peter tried to smile. "Okay," he agreed.

Micky patted him on the shoulder, then went to the door. "I can't find anything in here. Let's try the bedrooms," he suggested.

As they walked into the hall there was a shout from Davy on the first floor. Startled, Micky stopped and Peter slammed into him.

"I think I found something!" the British Monkee announced. "You fellas had better get down here."

xxxx

Linda looked into the mug of cocoa that she had been nursing for the past half hour. Her hair, still damp from the rain, hung over her shoulders and framed her face. Tony was sitting across the table from her, looking impatient, but Linda ignored him. Her mind was in a whirl, still processing the information that Vince had given her the previous night and wondering what she should do about the other mob.

Suddenly her eyes lit up.

"What is it?" Tony growled.

He had never particularly liked Linda, especially when she became overly emotional. He had not been happy when Vince had brought her back to the hideout and said that she was leaving Baby Face's mob, but he had decided to let her stay for at least a short while just in case she had something worthwhile to tell him.

He knew, however, that she would not remain long. If she was serious about trying to get out of the Mob, then she would not want to be with Tony's operation any more than she wanted to be with Baby Face's.

"I hid some papers in my house!" Linda exclaimed, looking up at him.

Tony was not impressed. "What kind of papers?" he demanded.

"Documents about the kinds of things Henry and Baby Face are doing," Linda replied, growing more excited. If she could get hold of those papers again, she could see to it that the entire gang was brought to justice.

Now Tony was starting to become interested. He did not care about sending the mob to jail, but having those papers could prove useful to him. He might be able to use them to manipulate his former ally and lead him into a fatal trap.

"How long ago was this?" he wanted to know.

"It was right before Henry and I left, when we took Micky to Baby Face," Linda answered, walking out from behind the table. "I hid them behind a panel in the family room. They should still be there!" She looked back to Tony, seeing his eyes flash with contemplation. Then she knew. "You want them, don't you?" she said quietly.

"What good is getting them thrown in the pen?" Tony responded as he stood up and went over to her. Linda was not the smartest person around, but at times she could be good at discerning what people were thinking. "They'll only get out again. I want to fix it so that Baby Face can't come back at all." He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "That's what you want too, isn't it?"

Linda swallowed. She hated to admit that it was true, but in her heart she knew that it was. She wanted Baby Face out of the way permanently. In some way, she felt like that was the only way that she would be able to make up what had happened to Micky. Having Baby Face die, when he was a notorious, heartless murderer, would never be the same thing as killing a guiltless person such as Micky.

"Don't bring in the police," Tony went on, observing from her actions that she was coming to terms with the fact that he was right. "We'll go with you to your house and get the papers, and we'll use them to lead Baby Face into a trap that he won't walk away from."

After a moment she looked up at him again. "You don't want him to die for the same reasons that I do," she said quietly.

Tony's eyes narrowed in frustration. "You know that you could never see that he dies by yourself," he retorted. "You need us along or it will never happen." He knew that he and Linda had different motives, but that did not concern him. If Linda was desperate enough to see that Baby Face died, then he was certain that she would work with him. And if she still refused, well, he could get the papers away from her—or even bluff to Baby Face about having them himself when he did not.

But at last Linda slowly nodded. "You're right," she acknowledged. "I couldn't even stop my husband from taking Micky to Baby Face. I'd never be able to outwit a heartless mobster on my own." Her stomach twisted, and somehow she had the feeling that she still was not doing the right thing, but she ignored her conscience and looked to Tony with eyes of determination and steel. "Let's do it."

Tony nodded, satisfied. "I'll tell Vince to get the car," he said, walking out of the room.

xxxx

As it turned out, by the time they arrived at Linda's old house the police were already there. They stared at the black-and-white cars in disbelief and bemusement.

"How'd they get here?" Vince wondered.

"Drive around the block before they can see us," Tony instructed.

Vince immediately complied.

To his and the others' relief, none of the police officers seemed to take note of their car. They were much too occupied with the reason they had been summoned.

Tony looked at Linda, annoyance burning in his eyes. "It looks like the cops have already got to whatever you put there," he snapped. "You should've gone and got it last night instead of trying to run off to those musicians."

"I didn't remember at the time!" Linda gasped. "I was so distraught. . . ."

Tony rolled his eyes, not impressed at all. "It should have been the first thing you thought about when you ran off!"

Vince kept quiet during their argument. Even though Tony did not completely go berserk the way Baby Face was prone to, it was always better to not anger him further when he was already upset. Vince understood how overwhelmed Linda must have felt the previous night, but he was irritated with this setback as well. How could Linda have not remembered about the documents before she had mentioned them?

Abruptly Tony cut into his thoughts. "Alright, there's not any point in getting ticked off about this." He leaned back in the seat, a new plan beginning to form. "There's no reason why Baby Face has to know that we really don't have the papers."

Vince blinked. "You mean we'll make him think we do?"

"That's right," Tony nodded. "The police probably won't broadcast that they have them, so Baby Face won't know we're bluffing. And by the time he realizes we are, it'll be too late."

Linda was liking the sound of this less and less. She had wanted to get away from the Mob, and while she had broken ties with Baby Face's gang, here she was getting involved with those who had once been part of it and were plotting to kill someone else.

Was it right to try to kill even Baby Face? She was no longer sure. But she could see that she had already dug herself into a deep pit from which she could not easily get out of. She shrank back into the seat, wishing that she could disappear. It probably would have been better, she decided, if she had been killed by the car last night.

"What about Henry?" she asked finally.

Tony looked at her. "What about him?"

"Are you going to try to kill him too?" Linda searched his eyes, but she could not find the answers there. "I . . . I still love him, even though I'm upset with what he's been doing."

"We'll have to see." Tony glared out the window. "I don't know what's going to happen." It was not his intention for Henry to die—unless he interfered.

But Linda's bad feeling only increased.

xxxx

In spite of the amount of trouble they had been having lately, Mike found himself relaxing somewhat as the police officers looked over the documents.

"How about that?" he mused. "They said there's enough stuff there to get the whole mob behind bars." Of course, that was providing that they could find Baby Face and his mob in the first place. Other police officers and search-and-rescue teams were in the canyons, trying to find the cabin from which the phone call could have been made. So far, they had not had any luck.

"That would certainly be a relief," Davy agreed, crossing his arms. They had just finished going over the rest of the house to make certain that nothing else was hidden there in some other place, but it looked as though they had gotten everything there was to find.

Peter blinked, suddenly noticing a piece of paper on the ground. "Hey," he said, reaching to pick it up, "it looks like they dropped something."

"What is it?" Mike asked, glancing over.

Peter frowned, turning the paper first one way and then another. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "It's a map of some kind, I think."

Immediately Micky snatched it from him and looked it over. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "This is a map showing how to get to a cabin in the canyons!" He smiled, looking up at the others. "Coincidence? I think not."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Davy declared. "Let's show this to the police and go there!"

xxxx

Naturally, the police did not want the Monkees to accompany them to the cabin. It was much too dangerous, they said, and civilians should never be involved if they did not have to be. The Monkees had already had more trouble than they should have had from the mess. They were advised to sit back and allow the police to handle the rest.

The Monkees, however, had different ideas.

"It's true that we've ended up with more than our fair share of trouble with Baby Face and his mob," Mike said as they drove up the highway leading to the canyons, "but that's all the more reason why we wanna see this thing through to the end."

"That's right!" Davy cried.

Mike frowned at the sight of a sharp turn up ahead. "You better brace yourselves, guys," he called. He whipped the Monkeemobile around the curve as quickly and as safely as he could.

Davy's eyes widened as the swerve caused him to crash against Mike.

"But what about the warning we were given?" Peter asked. He was too involved in his thoughts to even pay much attention to the effects of the turn.

"You mean from that guy?" Micky asked. Slowly he let go of the seat in front of him as the car straightened out again.

"Yeah!" Peter nodded. "He told us to stay on our toes."

"Well," Mike quipped dryly, "we're not ballerinas." He rounded another, gentler corner. "What's the map say, Micky?"

The drummer glanced down at the paper that was spread open on his lap. "It looks like we go around a couple more times and then get off the road. There's supposed to be two tall pine trees that mark where we turn. . . ." He trailed off as he saw something out of the corner of his eye. "Actually, uh, that looks like them there," he said with a sheepish smile.

Mike sighed. "Are there any other cars around?" he wanted to know.

"I don't see any," Davy replied. "Everything looks deserted!"

Mike glanced about himself before carefully making a U-turn and going off the road at the spot where the two trees were. Though he did not say anything, he was thinking that it would probably be better if Micky did not serve as their navigator. This was not the first time he had nearly sent them on the wrong course.

They drove through the woods for quite some time before anything resembling civilization came into view. Then a cabin appeared, but it was not the one on the map. Confused, the Monkees drove on further and saw another cabin, and another.

"I didn't realize this was such a hot spot for people to build their cabins," Mike said with a slight frown as they drove by the sixth such abode.

"It's almost like a village," Peter smiled, thinking it seemed very quaint.

Micky sighed, leaning on the window. "Well, none of these places are right," he remarked. "They're not by a waterfall." Perhaps they were not in the correct area at all. He rubbed his eyes, frustrated and hoping that he had not led them on a wild goose chase.

"Hey," Davy said, leaning forward in the seat to look ahead, "there's another cabin way over there, right on the edge of that cliff. And does anyone else hear that rushing noise?" He was baffled, as he could not see where the source of the sound was coming from. And yet it was a very obvious and loud noise. The other Monkees heard it as well.

"Maybe it's on the cliff that the house is on," Peter suggested. The others looked at him as if they thought he was quite mad, and he sighed and looked down.

"Actually," Mike said after a moment, "I think Peter might be right. I'm gonna park us over here, where they can't see us." Expertly he maneuvered the car into a hiding place among the thick pine trees near the first cabin. "And it looks like the police aren't here yet," he muttered to no one in particular.

"You know we're getting into a very potentially dangerous situation," Davy remarked as Mike shut off the engine.

"And I think I saw the curtain move!" Peter exclaimed, staring intently at the first bungalow.

Micky sighed, shaking his head. "They must have heard us coming," he muttered. "I just hope the ones in the cabin by the cliff didn't."

Mike nodded in agreement. "Let's walk through the, uh, village while we can," he suggested, "and then keep to the trees when we're past it."

"Maybe someone here knows what happened," Peter remarked as they walked over to the small white houses.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask," Davy said with a shrug, wandering to the nearest door and knocking. After a moment of not getting a response, Mike shook his head and turned away.

"Let's go," he said. "There's probably not anyone home. Maybe none of these cabins are occupied right now, except the one that guy was calling from."

Davy was about to turn and follow when the door suddenly flew open. Then his eyes widened and he stared in disbelief at Toto, Dragonman's lackey. "You!" he gasped, while Toto was looking at him and the other Monkees in confusion.

"Am I supposed to remember you from somewhere?" he asked. It seemed that all Americans still looked alike to him.

"You fool!" came Dragonman's angry voice from inside. "It's The Monkees, the musicians who took Doomsday bug formula!"

Mike immediately grabbed Davy and dragged him off the porch while Micky and Peter were also fleeing. "Well," the Texan said now, "it looks like we came at a bad time, so we'll just be on our way."

"Sorry for bothering you!" Davy added.

"After them!" Dragonman yelled.

In a panic, the quartet ran to the next cabin and knocked, hoping for help. But in this they were disappointed, as the door was thrown open by Rudi Bayshore. "Hey, Master," he called, "it's those four guys that you tried to make into your mind slaves!"

"Really? You don't say," Oraculo could be heard to reply. "Don't let them get away, Rudi!"

"What is this?" Micky gasped in disbelief as they ran away from that cabin, pursued by Dragonman, Toto, Chang, Oraculo, and Rudi. "It looks like all of our old enemies are hanging out here!"

"Maybe we should try the next cabin," Peter suggested, much to the other Monkees' displeasure and alarm.

"Let's just run!" Davy gasped, flying over a log in his path.

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire," Mike remarked, thinking of what was probably awaiting them at the bungalow on the edge of the precipice.