Chapter Fourteen

Ralph rematerialized and quickly dressed, Bill holding the "Door Close" button until he was done. They picked up Pamela in the manager's office. The manager effusively shook their hands and thanked them over and over for preventing a tragedy in his hotel. Bill pulled the man aside and got him to agree to leave the presence of Ralph and Pam out of his answers to any enquiries he'd receive from the police or reporters. The man would have stood on his head all day if Maxwell had asked him to and nodded liked a bobble-head toy.

Back in their car, Bill rolled his eyes as Ralph got it going—"Will you fix that? Telekinesis the car into accepting the key again"—but Ralph was enjoying Bill's irritation so much he didn't yet try to remedy the situation. He just blew out his finger with Bill mumbling something about yanking it off.

It was 6:00 a.m. when they arrived at Hartman's hideout. Bill parked the car a hundred feet down the block.

Bill spoke, "Alright, we've taken out two, but there's four more there. We've got the house and garage to cover. Ralph, you start with the house. I'll go to the garage."

"What about me?" Pam asked.

"You stay put."

"You're always telling me to stay put."

"Which is why you're still around to stay put."

Pam couldn't deny here was a bizarre sort logic in there.

"Honey, I have to agree," Ralph said. "We know they're willing to kill. Look at Bill's suit." He snickered.

"Do you mind?" Bill asked. "Enough, please, with the suit. Alright, let's go."

Bill and Ralph left Pam alone in the car. She rationally knew she should stay in it. Ralph had the suit, Bill had his experience, his gun and his sharp-shooter aim, and she had nothing but her well wrought worry.

With three jaunty hops Ralph lifted airborne as Bill snuck onto the property and slinked around the house, heading to the largish, 30X 40 foot one story garage. Ralph made a tight circle in the air over the block and then lowered himself down to crash through a bedroom window. He landed on the bed with some little force, the spring of the mattress thus bouncing him into the wall. He slid down onto a bent leg. The wall cracked where he had splattered sprinkling him with bits and pieces of plaster, and a cheap little picture of a cowboy on a horse flew off its hook and fell directly on Ralph's head.

The noise was considerable. Ralph stood up brushing the dust off his suit and the plaster out of his tight blond curls. The fellow with the crowbar came into the room, screamed out "You again!" and launched himself at Ralph. Ralph snatched the crowbar out of his hand and with his other grabbed hold of the front of his nemesis's shirt throwing him into a rickety bookcase holding a smattering of brokenly bound books. Ralph rolled the crowbar up into a compressed little round ball, hating the object that had nearly killed Bill. He dropped it to the carpet and flattened it with his foot, then kicked it through the baseboard next to the man. He dodged away from the nifty hole in the wall the crowbar puck had made.

Ralph strode to the felon, who sat covered with a couple of thin fake wooden shelves and books, and lift him up again by the front of his clothes until his feet were off the ground.

"What? How?—" the man queried, his shock keeping his conversation to one syllable words.

"I don't like you," Ralph said, and controlling his strength he slammed the man vehemently into a wall, knocking him out but not greatly harming him. Ralph let him slide down to the floor and then looking around found a couple of belts and tied him up extremely tightly. Perhaps even a teensy bit painfully so.

Suddenly Ralph heard gunshots coming from the back of the house and his communicator spilled out urgent words. "Ralph! Ralph! I need some help, Kid!"

Ralph dashed through the house to the back door and ran to the garage. At the wide bay entrance he saw Bill squatting down behind some boxes as bullets ripped into the front of them. Bill leaned out a little and sent off several shots, catching one of the men in the arm, which caused him to twisted about and plummet to the floor hollering in pain.

Ralph strode over to the other fellow, covering up his face with his forearms as the man shot at him. The bullets pinged and panged off his arms ricocheting throughout the room. When the trigger sounds were empty clicks Ralph grit his teeth, tore the gun from the man's hand, and tossed him ten feet back. He smacked against the wall and landed hard on the cement floor, unmoving.

Bill raced up to Ralph's side, reholstering his gun. "Great going, Kid!" He then noticed Pam standing by the entrance. "Counselor, that is not staying put!"

"The gunshots troubled me." She walked in to them. "It's over?"

Bill looked at the two incapacitated men. "Ralph tie them up somehow. I'm out of cuffs." Ralph did so with rope he found on a work table, also tying a relatively clean cloth around the arm wound of the man Bill had shot. "That's two," Bill continued. "You got the other two in the house, right?"

"No, just one before you called for help," Ralph replied, returning to his partner and wife.

"But, Ralph we know there were four." He pointed to the men, "One, two, your three. Where's number—"

Suddenly a shot rang out and Bill's head spontaneously arched sideways like a whip snap, until his right ear almost touched the top of his shoulder. Some blood spurted out of his temple, which landed in a pattern of dots on Ralph's cheek. Bill stumbled clumsily into Pam's chest, her arms instinctively wrapping around him.

"…Four…uhhh…" he croaked. His eyes closed, his head sagged loosely on his neck and he sank downwards.

Pam yelled out "Bill!", her arm strength thankfully enough to slow his 6'2", 170 pound descent and prevent his head from violently striking the floor. "Oh, my god!" she cried, as she arranged him on his back.

After a second of wide-mouthed alarm Ralph spun around to the entrance with unmitigated anger in his eyes. The man shot at him and the bullet bounced off his chest. Ralph pointed his hand at the man and then swiping his arm in a half circle the man's gun was pulled from his hand by an invisible force and was cast away across the room. Ralph then did the same with the man and he shouted out "AAHH!" as he was lifted by nothing and tossed about like a rag doll by nothing, hitting various objects until he was unconscious. Then Ralph let go with his mind and gravity brought the criminal down on his stomach, a tooth or two popping out of the man's mouth as his face smashed into the floor.

Ralph, breathing heavily, wiped Bill's blood from his face, his stomach revolting at the action, his body minutely shivering. Kneeling down next to his friend, he tenderly touching the bullet wound, a small, round visible hole above Bill's left ear. Pam was on the other side of his body, her hands fiercely holding onto him, as if refusing to let his life flee from her.

"Oh, god, he's been shot in the head!" Ralph cried. "We've got to call for an ambulance!"

As Pam began to rise, Bill's eyes flickered open, and he voiced a raspy "Ugh." His hand encircled his forehead, "What happened? What am I doing down here?"

Ralph and Pam exchanged curious looks. Didn't being shot in the head usually cause grave morbidity and oftentimes have fatal consequences? They looked back down at Bill, who was looking up at them.

"What?" he asked, apprehensive about their peculiar gazes. "What's going on?" Before either of the surprised Hinkleys could get their mouths to function, Bill added in, "Boy, do I have a headache."

"Bill," Pam said, slowly and deliberately, "you've been shot in the head."

Bill's face registered the comment, his eyebrows falling into a thoughtful line. "Shot? In the head?"

"Yes," Ralph said. "We're going to call for an ambulance."

"Are my brains on the floor?"

Pam answered, her long, straight black head hanging above him, "No… which might justify some of my previous comments about you—"

"Counselor, do you mind not insulting me while I have a bullet in my head?"

"Yeah, Pam, come on."

She regretted her joke. "Sorry," she said, contritely. "Habit."

Bill's hand meandered over to the left side of his skull and felt the blood inching down his scalp. "Holy…Sit me up," he urged.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," Ralph said.

"If I can say it, I can probably do it," Bill answered. He held up his arms. "Upsy-daisy."

They pulled him up and he sat there, wiping blood out of his ear and cleaning his hand off on his suit.

"How do you feel?" Ralph enquired, holding onto him in case he fainted again.

"A little dizzy. Where's the gun?"

"The gun?"

"Of the guy who shot me. Where is it? Bring it over here."

Ralph got up and following the trajectory of his telekinetic action he found the gun pretty quickly lying in a corner. He brought it back to Bill.

Bill examined it. "Must be my lucky day," he said. "This is a .32 caliber. Where'd they get this? GunsRUs?"

"Bill, we don't know anything about gun calibers," Pam said.

Bill held the gun up and explained. "A .32 caliber has the stopping power of a moth. From where he shot me, I guess the bullet didn't get into my brain."

"Could just be a very small target…" Pam said smiling widely until Bill and Ralph glared at her. She curtailed her expression. "Sorry. Habit."

"Could you skip the inevitable 'blockhead' comment, too?" Bill queried.

"Really, I'm sorry."

"You mean it's stuck in your skull?" Ralph asked.

Bill wondered, "Seems that way." His face deformed into a massive grimace. "Boy, it sure does make a whopper of a headache, though. Counselor, go call the police from the house. Ralph, stand me up. I think I should get to a hospital and have them pull the bullet out."

"Why not wait for an ambulance?"

"Nah, don't like 'em. Siren's too noisy."

Ralph and Pam sighed in resignation. He could be impossible at times. Pam left the garage to make the call.

"Are you sure you can stand?" Ralph asked.

"With your help."

Ralph wrapped his arms around Bill's back and pulled him up, holding onto him until he was sure Bill was steady on his feet. For a few seconds, Bill's eyes dulled over and he held his arms out to his side as if he was terribly off balance. A few moments later he got his bearings and stabilized his stance.

"I guess the green guys were right," Ralph said, still close beside him.

"Huh?"

"You are pretty bad at ducking," he grinned.

"That's because I rely on my suit wearing partner to prevent me from having to duck. Four bad guys, Ralph."

Ralph had no answer to that.

Bill closed his eyes tightly and suddenly grabbed hold of his friend. "Get me to a box to sit on, or I think I'll fall down again. Then tie that fourth guy up, and get yourself dressed," Bill said, nodding his head at the still unconscious shooter. Ralph got him to a box before the world turned fully grey and Bill eagerly sat, hands solidly planted to each side, his vision clearing. Watching Ralph bind the criminal he scoffed, "A .32. One step above a water gun. Boy, the class of criminals nowadays is really getting stupider."

Ralph looked at the blood still dripping from his friend's wound, coloring his ear red and soaking into a part of his shirt collar that had not, as yet, already been stained in blood. He had seen too much of Bill's blood today, enough hopefully to last for the entirety of their partnership. Bill's face was pale, he was shaking a little, and a light sheen of sweat bubbled on his forehead as an emotional stress reaction kicked in to his having been shot. There he was, the indefatigable Bill Maxwell, an utter mess, his suit unsalvageable, bullet stuck in his skull, yet still alive and soon to be well.

It's a good thing, Ralph thought, relinquishing proper grammar as had his partner. Stupider criminals is a very good thing.