"Well, are you gonna put me out of my misery?" Dominic Santini shouted over the noise of the idling engine, and fixed Stringfellow Hawke with a glare, hands planted firmly on his substantial hips, as he waited for the younger man to answer his question.
Santini was standing beside the brightly painted Santini Air Bell Jet Ranger helicopter, which he had flown up to Eagle Lake to collect Hawke from the cabin, blocking Hawke's way to the passenger side with his bulk.
"What did Archangel have to say?" he asked again, with a look of exasperation on his face.
"I'll tell you on the way to town! If you think I'm gonna stand here and shout over that," Hawke indicated with his thumb, to the idling main rotor over head, which was kicking up dust and creating waves on the lake, the noise deafening.
Reluctantly Santini moved out of the way, returning to his own side of the chopper and climbing in. When Hawke was settled in his seat and had put on his headphones, Santini gently lifted the chopper up off the jetty, and pointed the majestic machine back out over the lake the way he had come.
"Well?"
Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep sigh.
"She's real, Dom."
"Say what?"
"She's real. She really exists."
"Wow!" Santini whistled through his teeth. "How's about that! But, you knew, didn't you?"
"I had a feeling," Hawke clarified.
"It was more than just that, and you know it! You got her address? Phone number? What?"
"I have an address she gave to the DMV, six months ago."
"So what are you gonna do about it?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
"What!" Santini roared over the radio, his tone incredulous.
"At least I know I'm not going crazy. At least she isn't just a figment of my imagination. Maybe I should just be satisfied with that, Dom."
"And what happened to your notion that she's the girl of your dreams? Pardon the pun! You can't just let it go at that. You have to go see her."
"Maybe."
"Maybe, he says! Maybe! Oh boy, String, sometimes I wonder about you," Santini sighed expressively. "Do you want that dream to become reality or not?"
"Yes. But, it's not that simple, Dom. I can't just turn up on her doorstep and say, hi, remember me?"
"Why not, the worst that could happen is that she would slam the door in your face and call the cops."
"Exactly."
"Or, she might just be curious enough to invite you in, to hear your story. You ain't such a bad looker, ya know, String. Maybe she'd find it amusing. An ingenious pick up line! Hell, she might just do it to enjoy the view! At the very least, it might get your foot in the door!"
"Or a slap around the chops," Hawke sighed deeply when Dominic Santini let out a loud guffaw at this remark. "It's not funny, Dominic."
"No, I know," Although Santini continued to chortle to himself. "I can see the fix you're in,"
"Damned if I do, and damned if I don't," Hawke intoned solemnly.
"You want me to come with you and hold your …. Coat?"
"Now that you mention it, a little moral support wouldn't go amiss," Hawke sighed. "Dad."
"You mean that?" Santini suddenly sobered. "You want me to come with you, you only have to ask."
"Maybe it isn't such a bad idea? I could need someone to post bail for me," Hawke sighed expressively again, and forced himself to smile sheepishly at Santini. "Oh, Dom …. Is it the right thing to do? To go looking for her?"
"Hell, String, how should I know?"
"I thought you knew everything, Dad."
"I like you calling me that, String, but you can have too much of a good thing, especially if you want me to give you good fatherly advice," Santini grumbled.
"Ok. Dom."
"Just remember what happened to my kid."
"That wasn't your fault, Dom."
"No? We both know I wasn't there for her, when she needed me."
"You've always been there for me, Dom. Even when I was at my most moody and 'ornery, and nobody else could even stand to be in the same room with me. You understand me, Dom, better than any other man alive. Including myself some times. Can I ask you a question?"
"You tryin' to change the subject?"
"Only for a minute."
"Ok, what do you want to know?"
"The night I was born, were you with my Dad, at the hospital?"
"Of course I was. Back in those days a guy needed all the moral support from his best buddy, he could get."
"And what did you and Dad do while you waited?"
"Where are you going with this, String?"
"Just answer the question, Dom."
"We talked. 'Bout our escapades in the war, and we paced. Up and down, and back and forth, for hours, oh yeah, and your Dad smoked two packs of Camels that night, practically one after the other like candy, but you know your Dad didn't usually smoke, right?"
"Yeah, I know. Always wondered why he couldn't stand to be around people who did. Did you ever tell me that story before?"
"No. Now that you mention it, I don't think I ever did. Man, oh man, was your Mom mad with him. He got so sick, he was outside throwing up when the doctors told us he could go in and see you. I had to go in and tell Connie that he was feeling a little, off colour."
"And she asked you to be my Godfather, and let you hold me."
"Yeah. How in the hell did you know that?" Santini turned his head briefly to look at Hawke aghast. "I never told you, that. I never even told Steven, that. He was my best buddy, and I always felt a little guilty that I got to hold his newborn son before he did."
"The dream Dominic Santini told me," Hawke confided softly. "Told me that, that was when he knew that I was going to be the closest thing to having a real son that he was ever going to get. Said my Mom asked him to be my Godfather, and gave me to him to hold, while Dad held Skyler. My twin sister."
"I'll treasure the memory of that moment until my dying day," Santini confessed hoarsely. "You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Oh yeah, I had held St John, loads of times, but that night, it was different. You came into my arms straight from your Momma's, and I was only the second person in all the world, to see those beautiful, innocent, trusting, blue eyes, see that scrunched up, angry little red face, relax and gaze back up at me with such trust and love …. Yeah, that moment was very precious to me String, and I never told anyone about it. I don't think Connie ever told Steven either, not wanting to hurt his feelings."
"No. I don't think she did either, Dom."
"So, how the hell do you know about that?"
"I don't know, Dom, but as soon as the dream Dominic told me, I believed him. I knew it was true. There, and in the real world too. It was obvious that he had formed a deep bond with the newborn child."
"I know I felt very honoured and privileged to be allowed to hold you that night. Connie knew that. She knew how much I cared for the two of them. Steven was my best buddy, and I loved him like a brother, but I loved her just as much. Like a sister," he clarified hoarsely.
"Dom, I'm not trying to say that there was anything between you and my Mom. I know that you're not my real Dad. But …. If there was anyone in this world who was destined to step into his shoes, when he was gone …. It was you."
"Gee, String."
"And you did a great job, Dom. We don't talk about it, mainly because I don't find it easy to open up. But, after that dream, after what I felt, as Stringfellow Santini, after experiencing the kind of loving, affectionate relationship they had as father and son. And after what I felt, Stringfellow Santini felt, when they laid his newborn daughter in his arms for the first time, that heady rush of love and pride and elation …. I've done a lot of thinking, about what you really mean to me Dominic, and although I may never have said it, you've been more of a father to me than I ever had any right to expect, and I haven't exactly been the model son."
"You weren't so bad. Gave me a few bad minutes, now and again," Santini tried to brush it off, surprised by the younger man's sudden eloquence, and slightly embarrassed by the sudden unusual show of emotion from him.
"If I never say it again, Dominic Santini, know this. I love you, every bit as much as if you were my real father. You are very dear to me. Thank you, for everything that you have done for me, and will do for me in the future. I am so proud to have you in my corner, Dad."
"I'm proud of you too, son, and I have loved you like my own, since the day your mother put you in my arms," Santini confirmed in a rough voice, deeply touched by what the younger man had just said, for he knew how difficult it must have been for him to find the words to express his true feelings.
"Now, getting back to the woman of your dreams," he decided to change the subject before Hawke became embarrassed with his confession of love and withdrew into himself, and Santini himself gave into the tears that threatened at the back of his throat.
"I don't know."
"Ah, c'mon String, there's no time like the present."
"What about work, Dom?"
"Cait can hold the fort. I know she won't mind. Look, String, she's been as worried about you as me, and I know she can't wait for you to get your head straightened out, and get back to your usual sweet tempered self," Santini grinned then and was rewarded by one of Hawke's sour looks and a deep, shoulder shrugging sigh from his companion.
"We both know that you didn't go to Archangel for help simply to prove that you weren't going loco. What's the address?"
Hawke told him, and Santini grinned as he realised where it was.
"That's not too far from the airfield String, so maybe you did run into her in the grocery store line?"
"I don't think so, Dom. She wasn't familiar to me in the dream. I knew in the dream that I had never seen her before," Hawke confided.
"So?"
"Ah, Dom."
"C'mon. Give yourself a break, kid. Who knows what might come of it?" Hawke nodded gently, knowing that the older man was right. He also knew that now that he knew the address, the old man wouldn't leave it alone until he did go and take a look.
Knowing also that Dominic might even take it into his head to go take a look for himself. Curious to know, what kind of woman Hawke had conjured up, as his daughter in law.
"All right!" Dominic Santini chuckled, and Stringfellow Hawke let out another deep sigh of exasperation.
What did he have to lose?
Back at the hangar, Dominic Santini and Stringfellow Hawke safely set down the chopper and headed straight for where the Santini Air jeep was parked. Caitlin O'Shannessy came rushing out to greet them, but was forced to stand, hands planted firmly on her hips and her jaw hanging open in astonishment, as she watched both men climb into the jeep, Santini in the driver's seat, gunning the engine and grinning broadly at her as he waved.
"What the!" Caitlin yelled over the sound of the engine.
"Things to do, places to be, people to see!" Santini laughed loudly.
"But, hey! What about?" Cait shouted after them, but it was pointless, her words lost to the two men in the jeep, as Santini slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and headed for the airfield exit.
"Hey Dom, take it easy will you," Hawke had to shout to make himself heard. "Don't want to get us killed before we get there."
Still grinning, Dominic Santini slowed down a little and found his way on to the freeway.
In a little under half an hour they were cruising slowly down the street that Helen Maynard had given as her address for her driver's licence. It was part residential and part retail, small shops with small apartments over the top, and Helen Maynard's apartment, when they found it at last, was situated over a second hand book store that looked tired and run down, and badly in need of a lick or two of paint, but from the volume of traffic going in and out, it was well patronised.
Santini and Hawke investigated the alley down the side of the building, and discovered that there was a side door, leading onto a flight of stairs up to the apartment, and while Santini stayed outside, Hawke slowly climbed the stairs and stood outside the door, hand poised to knock, palms sweating and his heart knocking against his ribs.
"Whatchya waiting for?" Santini called from the bottom of the stairs and rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation, Hawke finally knocked on the solid wooden door.
There was no answer.
He leaned in closer to the door to see if he could make out any sounds from within, but all was quiet.
He knocked again and when again there was no reply he turned and glanced back down the stairs at Santini, who shrugged.
"Could be she's out at work?" He suggested.
"Now why didn't I think of that," Hawke muttered darkly, and sighing deeply, hurried back down the stairs.
"Maybe the guy in the store knows something?" Santini again suggested helpfully, as Stringfellow Hawke joined him outside in the sunlight once more. "Maybe they got the same landlord?"
"Maybe he is the landlord?"
"Yeah."
"Can I help you gentlemen?" the man behind the counter in the book store asked as Santini and Hawke did a poor job of trying to look like a couple of interested customers. Santini leaned casually against a row of book shelves filled with old books, and watched as Hawke walked casually up to the counter.
"We're looking for someone. The lady who rents the apartment upstairs."
"Mrs Walters?" The storekeeper frowned. "She's away this week, visiting her cousin in Cleveland. You the guys who promised to paint her apartment last week? Ya know, just because she's old and a little deaf, don't mean you can take advantage of her. She was real sore you guys didn't turn up last week."
"Do we look like decorators?" Hawke asked, raising one eyebrow sardonically, then before the other man could answer asked: "This Mrs Walters, would her name be Helen by any chance?"
"No, Maud," the storekeeper informed with a frown, then, a look of realisation crossed his face. "You mean Helen Maynard?" Hawke nodded then.
Now they were getting somewhere.
"Gee, man, she ain't been around here for months," the storekeeper told him.
"Oh?" Hawke frowned.
"Nice lady."
"Young, slim, maybe early thirties, dark hair and green eyes?" Hawke quizzed, wanting to be sure that they were talking about the same woman at last.
"Yeah, that's Helen, but, like I said, she ain't been around for a while."
"How long a while?"
"I'm not sure. A few months. Someone came by and collected her things, paid up what was left of the rent and that was that."
"Didn't they leave a forwarding address for her mail?"
"No. Who are you guys, anyway?" the storekeeper grew suspicious now.
"Friends." Hawke growled. "Who collected her things?"
"Some dame."
"What dame?"
"Some dame she worked with, I think."
"Where'd she work?"
"Couple of blocks from here, the offices of, Dr William Doyle. He's an Orthodontist, Helen was his receptionist."
"Thanks. Couple of blocks from here?"
"Yeah, take a right at the end of the street and just keep going, can't miss it."
"Nice technique," Dominic Santini quipped as Hawke joined him at the door to the street.
"Ya think?" Hawke threw him a withering look.
"You were a little rough on him, weren't you?" Santini commented as they emerged from the shop into the sunlight once more.
"Was I?" Hawke glowered at Santini as he set off down the street. "Got us what we wanted, didn't I, and he's still vertical."
"We're obviously in the wrong job, String," Dominic Santini commented, whistling his approval of the plush, glass fronted Orthodontist's office through his teeth, as the two men stood on the street outside, reading the shiny, silver plaque on the wall. "Must be a lot of money in teeth," he grinned, revealing the small gap between his own top front teeth.
"Dr Doyle doesn't share his wealth with his employees," Hawke observed with a sour look, indicating the obvious difference between this neighbourhood, and the one where Helen Maynard had lived up to a few months ago. "You coming?"
"Nah. I'll just wait out here."
"Ok. Stay out of trouble."
"Why don't you practice what you preach for a change?"
Hawke left Santini on the sidewalk outside the dentist's office, with a scowl, but once inside, he peeled off his mirrored shades, and walked toward the receptionist's desk with purposeful stride.
The middle aged woman behind the desk was dressed in a light weight grey business suit and crisp white blouse, her short mouse brown hair was freshly washed and neatly styled in a fashionable bob, and she peered at Hawke over the top of gold rimmed spectacles, as he stood before her and cleared his throat.
"Name?" she enquired politely, fingers poised over a computer keyboard, ready to type in his details.
"Stringfellow Hawke," he obliged her with the information, and watched in awe as her fingers flew over the keyboard with lightning speed.
Less than twenty seconds later she was peering back at him with a frown.
"Ah, sir, it appears that you do not have an appointment, Mr …. Hawke?"
"I know that," he sighed deeply.
"You don't even appear on our computer system. Are you wishing to register with us as a new patient?"
"No."
"Then …. I, er, I don't understand. How may I assist you, Sir?"
"I'd like to speak to someone about Helen Maynard."
"Oh."
Hawke noted the change in her expression immediately, but it was not the irritation or annoyance that he had been expecting. Her expression grew solemn and sorrowful for a moment, and then suddenly there was anger dancing in her grey eyes.
"Have you caught the bastard yet?" she asked through gritted teeth. "It's been more than four damned months, and nothing from you guys. I sometimes wonder why we pay taxes. To protect and serve my eye! Huh!"
Hawke listened to her grouching just long enough to ascertain that she was under the impression that he was a cop, and was wracking his brain, trying to find a way to use that to his advantage.
"That poor girl! It's criminal what happened to her, and you guys never once came by to find out if anyone had seen anything, knew anything."
"Wow lady, back up a little," Hawke stilled her by raising his hand slightly, and she stopped in mid flow, regarding him haughtily. "Slow down, ma'am, and start at the beginning," he advised gently.
"Wait a minute," the woman was frowning again and regarding him with open hostility and suspicion now. "You're not the police."
"I never said I was, ma'am."
"Then …. Then …." she stammered.
"A concerned friend," Hawke wondered where he was going to go with this, and just how good he was at thinking on his feet.
He suspected that the only way to get the woman on his side was to appeal to her better nature and arouse her sympathy.
Oh boy!
Here goes ….
The things we do for love, huh?
"I lost touch with Helen, when she moved out here, six months ago, and as I happened to be in town, on business, I thought I would look her up," he explained casually. "Only when I went to the address she gave me, the one over the bookstore, the guy downstairs told me that he hadn't seen Helen for several months. He also told me that someone had kindly been to pay any rent she owed and to collect her belongings."
"That was me. Dr Doyle asked if I would mind. I told him of course not."
"Where is she, ma'am?"
"Why should I tell you? I have no idea who you are," she began to protest.
"I told you already. A concerned friend."
"I don't recall Helen ever mentioning you, and, pardon my bluntness, with a name like that, I would certainly have remembered."
"Can you at least tell me what happened to her?"
"I don't know," She faltered, regarding him with a pained expression. "I don't know."
The woman looked genuinely torn, Hawke acknowledged silently to himself, realising that part of her wanted to protect her friend, not wanting to expose her to some unknown danger, and that the other part wanted to confide in him and share with him her concerns for her friend.
"Look, lady," he raised his eyebrow in enquiry and she let out a soft sigh.
"Martha."
"Look, Martha," Hawke also let out a deep sigh and pinned his most crestfallen, hangdog expression on his face, as he regarded her with steady, deep blue eyes.
"It's a long story," he began, feeling very uncomfortable under her suspicious grey gaze. "And I doubt very much that Helen would have mentioned me."
All true, so far as it went, Hawke thought to himself, crossing his fingers in front of him, grateful that with the desk between them, the woman named Martha could not see.
"You know how it is, Martha, Helen and I, we were just getting close, and then she upped and left to come here. Got a little upset because I couldn't just drop everything, and come with her. I had business commitments, that kind of thing, and I guess that maybe my lack of commitment hurt her more than I realised. Martha, I just wanna talk to her. Try to straighten things out with her," he paused for a moment and drew in a deep, shoulder raising breath, expelling it on a deep sigh a second or two later.
"I love her, Martha," he confided in a low voice, squeezing his crossed fingers together hard.
Not really a lie.
But, not altogether the truth either.
He had come to love an image.
No.
Love wasn't quite the right word.
He had become infatuated with an image.
An idea.
A woman in a dream, but, he had no idea how he would react when confronted with the real Helen Maynard.
"Help me out here," he appealed softly.
Martha's mouth worked, briefly, but no sound emerged and Hawke regarded her with soulful blue eyes.
"Martha, if she's in trouble, maybe I can help her?"
Suddenly her expression grew hard once more and Hawke's heart sank.
You blew it!.
"Maybe I would have an easier time believing that, Mr Hawke, if you'd showed up here four, or even five months ago! Now, I think it is time that you left, or maybe I should just call the cops and have you removed?"
Damn!
He had really thought that he had her.
Must be losing my touch!
"Martha, I didn't come here looking for trouble," he told her frankly. "And I can understand how you feel. You want to protect Helen. Well, ok, fine. That makes you a good friend in my book. I can also understand if Helen is pissed with me. I was a dumb jerk, who didn't know what a wonderful thing he had, until she was gone," he let out another deep sigh and hung his head briefly.
Hawke didn't know where he was dredging this stuff up from, but it sounded pretty plausible to his ears.
"And maybe I let my pride, and my ego, get in the way of my coming after her sooner. But, Martha, I'm here now, and I'm worried about her. I've got this horrible feeling in my guts, that something bad has happened to her."
"You got that right!"
"Martha, please, put me out of my misery here!" he implored.
"I don't know."
"Is there someone else? Is that it? She found someone else out here? And you're worried I might wade in there, like the jealous old boyfriend and cause trouble? I promise you, Martha, that won't happen. Helen deserves happiness, and if I'm not the one she wants it from, then I will wish her well with her new guy."
The older woman hesitated and Hawke had an awful sinking in his stomach.
He was losing her again.
"Martha?"
"No. No, nothing like that," Martha told him, somewhat reluctantly.
"Then, if you're Helen's friend, if you know her well, you must also know that there probably isn't anyone else in the whole wide world who gives a damn about her. But I do," Hawke reiterated.
"Helen has no family, Martha, she's an orphan, just like me. But, she doesn't have to be alone anymore. I can, and will, be there for her now. So help me out, Martha."
"Well," he could see that she was beginning to soften toward him now.
Just a little.
"Please, Martha," Hawke implored in a low, sad voice. "I swear to you, I am not here to harm her. I care for her, very much. I …. I love her," Hawke faltered, just for a moment, surprised by just how easily the words tripped off his tongue, and just how sincere they sounded.
"And I came here to ask her to forgive me. I came here to ask her if we could start over. I came here to …. Well, I came here to ask her to marry me."
Oh boy!
However, Hawke could see from the twinkle in her eyes that Martha was buying his sincerity at last.
Struggling with her conscience, now, and her need to open up, to someone.
She really wanted to believe him.
She just needed the right kind of encouragement.
"I …. I …."
"Please," he beseeched in a low voice, hoarse with emotion now.
"I don't know," hhe hesitated, uncertainty written all over her face.
"Martha, if you don't help me, I don't know where else to go, who else to ask, except you said something about the cops? Maybe they will be more willing to help me?"
"I doubt it. Next to useless. They don't seem to care about poor Helen."
"But I do, Martha," Hawke reminded her. "And, I guess, so do you."
Martha nodded gently then and her eyes brimmed with tears.
"Let me buy you a cup of coffee, and you can tell me all about it," Hawke offered. "You won't get into trouble, I promise. I'll square it with Helen, but I think you need to talk to someone. Someone who will understand. Someone willing to share the burden. You've got me real scared now, Martha, thinking all kinds of horrible things about what has happened to my lovely Helen …."
"I get a break for lunch at twelve thirty," She finally caved in, tears streaming down her pale cheeks now. "I'll meet you at the diner down the block."
"Thank you. You won't regret it."
"Don't push your luck, sonny, because I think I already do," she told him sharply, brushing her tears away impatiently with the back of her hand. "Now get out of here, Mr Hawke."
"Ok. Martha. You're doing the right thing," she gave him a pointed look then and he added for good measure. "For Helen."
"I hope so, Mr Hawke, I sincerely hope so. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do," she became all businesslike now, and Hawke knew that he could not push her any further. At least not right now.
Maybe if she had time to think it over ….
Time to consider what he had said.
Time to ponder on what that might mean for Helen Maynard.
Suddenly Hawke had a flash of inspiration.
Sometimes, working for a covert government agency had its uses.
"Look, Martha, if you're still unsure, call this guy, he'll vouch for me," Hawke handed her a business card inscribed with the name Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, and an official looking logo embossed into it.
"He's my boss," he informed when she frowned at him over her spectacles. "Kind of. I'm a pilot, and I sometimes work for the government. He'll tell you I'm a stand up kind of guy Martha. He'll tell you that you can trust me."
Martha regarded the card suspiciously for several long seconds, then, took it grudgingly from between Hawke's fingers.
"Who are you? Really?" she asked, grey eyes boring into him.
"Someone who really cares, about Helen Maynard," he told her bluntly then. "Isn't that enough?"
And with that Hawke turned on his heel and walked out of the dentist's office, without looking back.
"Well?" Dominic Santini asked as he joined him on the sidewalk.
"Martha is going to join us for coffee at the diner down the block. She gets off for lunch at twelve thirty …."
Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, telephone to his ear, frowned as he listened to the operator from the main switchboard, who was telling him about some woman, calling from Los Angeles, wanting to speak to him about Stringfellow Hawke.
"Who?"
"Martha Bassett."
"Did she say what it was about?"
"Well Sir, apparently Hawke gave her your card, and said that you would vouch for him."
"Then I guess I better had," Archangel sighed deeply, wondering what Hawke was getting himself into now.
"Mrs Bassett?" he responded to the soft melodic voice on the other end of the line. "Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, how may I assist you?"
He listened again, briefly, a smile beginning to tug at his moustachioed lips, and from the other side of the room, Marella raised an eyebrow in enquiry.
"Mr Hawke's methods might be a little, unorthodox, but I assure you, he is a good man. You can trust him, Mrs Bassett."
So, Hawke's search for Helen Maynard continued, and he was obviously on to something.
"Yes, he has worked for me. For the government, from time to time, and we have found him to be most trustworthy and reliable," Archangel wondered why he was having to give this woman a reference. It wasn't like Hawke was looking for a job ….
His smile grew wider.
He could well imagine the kind of hard time Mrs Bassett had given Hawke, if he had had to resort to pointing her in Archangel's direction for reassurance that he was on the level.
The smile on his lips grew wider.
It was a good thing he didn't tell her the truth.
That Mr Hawke was a thief and a liar and blackmailer ….
After all, he had stolen Airwolf, lied about where he was keeping her and demanded information on his brother's current whereabouts before he would give her back.
He was also a hero, but Archangel couldn't tell the woman that either.
"Do I know why he's there? Well," Archangel lowered his voice now, aware of Marella's presence on the other side of the room, and that she had no idea about what Hawke was up to.
"I believe that it is a personal matter, but, I am aware that he is searching for someone. A young lady, by the name of, Helen Maynard. Mrs Bassett, if you can help him, please do so. Maybe then he'll be able to concentrate on his work."
He paused for a moment, raising his eyes to find Marella staring at him with wide eyed curiosity.
"You'd be doing your country a huge favour," and with that he ended the call, grinning broadly as he wondered what the woman would make of that last comment.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Marella?"
"What was that all about? Is Hawke in trouble?"
"No, no. It was just something, personal."
"Oh …."
"Now, where were we?"
Hawke and Santini were on their fourth cup of coffee, and Hawke was glowering at the door in between glancing down at his watch, fingers drumming impatiently on the laminated table top.
It was twelve forty, and there was no sign of the woman called Martha.
After watching his young friend's impatience for another five minutes, Dominic Santini reached out with a large hand and stilled Hawke's drumming fingers.
Hawke looked up at him in surprise, and noting the look on the other man's face, let out a deep sigh.
"She ain't comin'," was all Santini could utter.
"Guess not."
"Maybe there was an emergency?" Santini suggested, watching his young friend's expression brighten as something suddenly caught his eye.
"Then again, maybe she's just running late," Hawke smiled with relief as Santini followed his blue gaze to the street door, and to the woman pushing it open and entering the diner, looking a little flushed and flustered, as she sought them out and made her way over to the table, looking firstly at Dominic Santini, who smiled pleasantly up at her from his seat on the leather bench, and then pinning Hawke with a suspicious look, as he slid out of his seat to make way for her.
"Martha?"
"Bassett. Martha Bassett."
"Martha, this is Dominic Santini. A very good friend of mine," Hawke introduced the older man. "He's helping me, but if you'd rather just talk to me," he offered, knowing that Dominic would be disappointed, but he didn't want to scare the woman away.
"No, I guess its ok," Martha Bassett sighed softly and slid carefully onto the leather bench and then Hawke slipped back in beside her.
"Coffee, right?" Hawke lifted his hand to beckon the waitress over.
"Yes, thank you."
"You want something to eat with that?" Santini offered politely.
"No, thank you. I, er, I'd rather just get on with it, if you don't mind. Dr Doyle isn't very happy about this, said I shouldn't trust you, but, I guess there was just something about the way you spoke about Helen. But, I still decided to call that number you left with me, and your boss said some nice things about you."
Hawke hid his surprise well, and silently thanked Archangel.
"So tell us about Helen," he invited, trying not to seem too impatient, but needing to know.
He had been sitting there for almost an hour and a half, brooding on what she had said about the police somehow being involved, and his mind had conjured up some pretty vivid pictures of what could have happened to Helen Maynard.
"Look, Mr Hawke, I really have no idea what you're real interest in Helen is, but the simple truth is, you do seem to be the only other person who cares for her, as much as I do, and even I haven't been that good a friend to her. My family, work commitments," she grew solemn then and at that moment the waitress arrived with her coffee, so Hawke had to wait until the girl had moved away from their table before he could prompt Martha to continue.
"Maybe you can do something after all. Maybe you can persuade the police to get off their asses and do something."
"Do something about what, Martha?" Santini asked gently then.
"Why don't you start from the beginning," Hawke prompted. "Take your time, but tell us everything."
"All right. Four and a half months ago, Helen Maynard was involved in an accident. She was mowed down, in the street, not far from the office. The driver of the car didn't even stop, just drove off, and apparently nobody saw anything of any help. Poor Helen, she's been in a coma in Northridge Hospital for the last four and a half months …."
"Ohmygod!" Hawke let out a deep sigh.
Was it possible that whilst he had been lying in the same hospital, unconscious, he had somehow been able to tap into Helen Maynard's thoughts?
Dreams?
"And the cops have done next to nothing to investigate who did this to her. They're no closer to finding the bastard," Martha Bassett paused briefly then, to draw in a long calming breath before continuing.
"Her physical injuries were not life threatening, a few broken bones that soon healed, but the coma, now that's a different matter entirely. In the beginning, they were quite hopeful, because there didn't seem to be any kind of brain damage, but as time has gone on. There was some talk of taking her off the ventilator and switching off all the machines, but when they did, much to everyone's surprise, Helen started breathing on her own. She's a real fighter, and I know that she's not ready to die yet."
Tears welled up in Martha's grey eyes then and she hung her head briefly, reaching out to take a sip of her coffee, until she had composed herself once more.
Meanwhile Hawke and Santini looked at each other in awe and confusion.
"I think you're right, Martha," Hawke reached out then and gently took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I think the only thing on Helen's mind, is living," he told her with sincerity and such certainty, Martha Bassett could not help but believe him.
"Poor child. It breaks my heart to think of her lying there, spending so much of the time alone, but I couldn't go to visit her as often as I wanted to. I have a husband, kids, and several young grandchildren to consider, and, if I am honest, in the end, it was too upsetting for me, to just sit there, watching her sleep, not knowing how to reach her."
"You did the best that you could for your friend," this from Santini now.
"And she's not alone anymore," this from Hawke. "I don't know what we can do to find the driver, after all this time, but, if there's anything at all we can do to help Helen, rest assured, it will be done."
"You know something, Mr Hawke? For the first time, I am beginning to believe that you really do care for her. Love her."
This comment drew a sharp look from Dominic Santini, but Stringfellow Hawke once again reached out and squeezed Martha Bassett's hand gently.
"Thank you, Martha. For trusting us."
"Just make sure you look after her."
"If she'll have me," Hawke smiled softly as Martha indicated that she wanted to get out from behind the table.
"I'm sorry, I can't stay longer. I have to get back to the office because the doctor has a surgical procedure at one o'clock, and his usual nurse had to leave early because her daughter is sick. Give Helen my love, when you see her."
"I will," Hawke promised and watched with a heavy heart as Martha Bassett walked out of the diner and back up the street toward Dr Doyle's office.
"What now?" Santini regarded his friend with curiosity.
"What do you think?"
"I think I just entered the Twilight Zone," Santini sighed deeply. "String?"
"I know Dom, I don't understand it either, but suddenly, things are beginning to make a little more sense."
"Ya think?"
"No. I made it up!"
"Clown," Santini grew serious then. "You ok, son?"
"Yeah."
"I know it's not exactly what you wanted to hear, String. I'm sorry."
"She's still alive, Dom, and there's still a chance that she might wake up. I did. In the dream."
"In the dream, yeah, but this is real life, String."
"I know that Dom, but maybe the dream is some kind of prophecy?" Hawke mused, rubbing absently at his chin with his index finger. "Maybe the dream is part reality, part Helen's dreams, and part prediction? Hell, what do I know?" he sighed deeply then. "Somehow her life and my life, her dreams and mine, got tangled up together, and the end result was that wonderful idyllic life I remembered when I woke up."
"Well then, I guess there's nothing else for it."
"No. I guess you're right."
"We have to go to the hospital."
"Right, we have to go to the hospital, but first, I want to call Archangel, see if he can't get the local cops to get up off their butts and investigate the accident that put her in the hospital."