"…And that's the whole story, Charles." This person-to-person direct call coast-to-coast was going to cost the earth, but with luck, it would be well worth it.
"Erik, are you truly trying to tell me Roberta Rowan is the mother of your children? Roberta Rowan, who was in Sparks Fly Upward and The Scarlet Witch? The woman who was voted Best Legs in Hollywood in 1953?"
"By adoption, Charles, by adoption. I had no idea you were such a movie fan."
"I go every now and then. She's quite memorable."
"All joking aside, Pietro and Wanda have been through—what I have prayed no child of mine should ever go through. And I fear—Robin herself has suffered ill-treatment. Without going into indiscreet detail over the phone, it is the sort of problem you are most apt to help her with."
"I see…You and she are on such terms that you call her Robin."
"I have seen her every day for the last two weeks. We're on—friendly terms."
"'Friendly', you say." Xavier repeated. "Well, as your friend, if you have need of my assistance, you know where to find me."
"Thank you. Now I must be going—it'll be time to get the children soon."
"Good-bye. Whatever happens, call soon and let me know how you're making out. Oh. I apologize, I didn't mean that to come out the way it did…"
"Quite all right. Good-bye, Charles." As Erik Lensherr hung up and headed for the shower in his hotel room, across town, something terrible was taking place. Fritz Bremer was about to make a terrible mistake…
The call had come in about fifteen minutes before—Miss Rowan was going to be detained at the studio, and could Fritz pick up the children half-an-hour early?
Fritz did not recognize the voice on the other end, but that was all right. Such calls had come in before—not often, and not since Mr. Lensherr had come on the scene, but he was not a suspicious man. Had he been told to take the children to an unfamiliar location, he would certainly have asked to speak to his employer. But a request to pick them up and take them home—that was entirely conventional.
Nor was the school to blame. They were responsible people, well aware of the dangers to the children in their care Fritz was on the list of people authorized to pick up Pietro and Wanda Rowan, and so they summoned the children, and sent them off…
It was not far to the Rowan residence—in fact there were only two traffic stops. At the first stop, a man stepped up to the car and pulled open the driver's side door. Fritz was about to tell him off when he saw the gun.
"Don't hurt anyone, please." said the houseboy. He was not a young man any longer, and he knew it; yet neither was he a coward—nor yet a fool.
"Move over." commanded the thug. "I'll do the driving."
"Who's going to hurt somebody?" Pietro asked, looking up from his papers. "Who's that man?"
"Just be good, quiet little children, and you won't find out." The gunman. "See, I've got a gun, just like in the movies. You know what that means?"
Suddenly solemn, the two children nodded silently, drawing together in the back seat.
Their abductor negotiated a series of turns, quickly taking Fritz into an area with which he was not immediately familiar. Meanwhile, in the back seat, a frantic hissed conversation was going on between the children.
"Mama said never to—."
"Mama isn't here!"
"But we could get in trouble—."
"Worse trouble than this?"
"Quiet back there!" barked the man with the gun, the man who held all three of their lives hostage. A cold drip of sweat ran down Bremer's back; he knew who had value here, and who did not. He would not be held for ransom, if such was this man's intent—that would be the roles assigned to Wanda and Pietro.
If he were lucky, he would be dropped off somewhere, with instructions for Miss Rowan as to how she could get her children back.
If he were unlucky, he would serve as an example of how deadly serious the kidnapper was…
The thug pulled over on a barren side road, deserted but for one car and three men who waited around it. "Here we are," remarked their captor, throwing open the passenger's side door.
"Good," commented one of the men, reaching in and pulling Fritz out by the collar. He, too, had a gun. Reversing it in his hand, he struck Fritz across the head with it, cutting his scalp. "Tell Lensherr Hans Richter sends his regards." Wanda screamed, a high-pitched, almost hypersonic sound such as only small children can produce.
Fritz fell to his knees, clutching his torn scalp. He felt dizzy, sick—a lump was already forming under his hand, and blood leaked out between his fingers.
Another opened one of the back doors, and slid in with the twins. "Hello, children." he oozed stickily. "We're going to take a nice little ride together, and then we're going to wait for your mother and father to join us. Especially your father. Won't that be nice?"
"No." Pietro said.
"That's just too bad." he said, shutting the door. A second man slid in on Wanda's side, blocking them in.
"Do you need more help?" asked the man who had hit Fritz, wiping the hair and blood from the handle of his weapon.
"For two kids? Hardly." snorted the oozing talker. He removed a pair of scissors from his pocket. "Hold still." he ordered the twins.
Cutting a lock of hair from each of their heads, he deposited them carefully in an envelope and handed it to the bully, the only one of the gang still standing on the street.
"Thanks. In that case, I'll go get things ready for 'Mama' and 'Poppa'. See you later."
"See you." They drove away with the children while the remaining man got into his own vehicle and drove off, leaving Fritz alone and bleeding on the asphalt.
Moaning, Bremer swayed, and lost conciousness.
A/N: I do like reviews... Please feed the writer's ego!