Chapter Twelve

Bedford

7:08pm

Sam got back into his private taxi and was about to ask Connie to return him to the car park in town when a squeal from Ziggy made him pause.

Al leaned forward from his perch in the rear of the car and yelled triumphantly in Sam's ear, "Bingo! Sam, we got 'em buddy! We got a lock on the girls. Ziggy says they're alone, but not for long. Move it, Sam – Manor Farm, Wilhampstead. Go, Go, GO!"

Sam had started at the auditory onslaught.

Connie looked at him with concern. "You okay, ducks? You looks like yer seen a ghost."

Al spluttered with indignation, "Ghost, indeed! Huh!"

Sam glared at him over his shoulder.

"Oi'm fine, m' dear. Now Oi know where de girls are. Do you know where Manor Farm, Wilhampstead is, by any chance?"

For a moment Constance looked confused, repeating the name to herself until the penny dropped. "Oh, you means Wilstead. Yeah, I knows it right enuff. One family reunion coming up."

Fastening his seat belt, Sam felt a surge of optimism stronger than any he'd allowed himself before. He was going to rescue the girls. They would live.

Thanks be to God; and Ziggy; and Connie.

QLHQ

Rusty was homing in on Control. Deprived of sensory input even Ziggy's advanced microchips were unable to track his progress, or indeed to predict his intended destination.

The idea of its own vulnerability did not occur to the computer. It had been invaded by a hacker once before and dealt with him in short order, since when digital access had been restricted still further. A full frontal physical assault was outside the parameters of plausibility, and so was not considered worth preparing for. Yet this was precisely what was about to happen.

Rusty had dispatched four further colleagues who'd had the misfortune to get in his way. They lay bleeding and helpless, and he neither knew nor cared if they would live or die. Now he'd turned his attention to the door ahead, just at the end of this corridor, which led to Ziggy and his ultimate triumph.

The not-so-all-powerful daemon was about to meet its Nemesis.

Gushie, edgy still from lack of sleep yet blissfully unaware of the madman only moments away from his workstation, was restless with excitement. He'd been scribbling away at his calculations all through the night, pausing only when Ziggy or Al demanded his attention. Tonight, he seemed inspired and everything was falling into place.

Now, with the approaching dawn, he felt truly enlightened.

He knew the answer.

He was convinced of it.

So confident was he that he didn't bother to submit his hypothesis to be analyzed by Ziggy. He didn't need the computer's cautionary quotation of the odds – he knew it would work, and the timing was perfect. In fact he was both amazed and annoyed that he hadn't seen it before.

It was so simple really.

Gushie was beside himself with impatience, he had to contact the Admiral and prepare Sam. It was crucial not to let the right moment slip past.

Bedford

Al mustered all his self-control not to let the excitement or more accurately the elation, sound in his voice as he asked Gushie to repeat his assertion. He knew all too well the effect that false hope could have on his friend. Gushie's enthusiasm was infectious, however, and the Observer was soon hooked on the idea of Sam's imminent return.

The subject of this earnest exchange was about to bust a gut – overhearing one guarded half of the conversation, unaware of its implications and prevented by the presence of Constance from cross-examining the infuriating hologram behind him.

Then, after what seemed like forever, Al decided to let him in on the news he'd waited so many years to hear. "Sam, it's incredible. We, uh I mean Zig… that is Gushie…" Al's tongue was tripping over his teeth trying to find the words he was so eager to impart.

Sam adjusted the sun-visor, which had been left lowered and contained a vanity mirror. Though the hologram produced no reflection, Sam knew Al could see his face, and the hundred questions etched therein.

Catching the gesture, then the expression, Connie spoke reassuringly, "Don't fret, ducks. We'll soon 'ave it sorted."

Sam conferred upon her a 'brave face' sort of half smile. Not only were her words comforting, she'd given him an opening of sorts. "Oi just wish Oi knew what the divil was goin' on, dat's all."

"Retrieval," blurted Al. "Gushie's finally got the numbers to add up and he says the timing is just right. Looks like you're on your way home, pal." All this in one breath.

Sam was aghast.

This was positively the last thing he expected to hear. He ran a whole gamut of emotions in a matter of seconds. Then, once his disbelief had turned to joyous acceptance and anticipation and his thrilled heart had caught the beat it missed, his ecstasy turned to resignation.

It wasn't that easy. It never was.

Ever mindful of her passenger's odd behavior, which she attributed to stress and the eccentricities of the Irish, Connie was once more the chirpy Cockney. "Chin up, dearie, look 'ere. We's on the Cook's Tour of Bedford. Over to our left, ladies an' gents, we 'ave the magnificent Cardington 'angers, 'ome to the ill fated R101 airship."

Sam, found himself – as so often before – able to answer both companions in a single well-phrased statement. "At any other time, Oi'd be delighted to hear all about it. But Oi'm afraid Oi can't t'ink about anyt'ing else until Oi've got my wee poppets back safe 'n' sound. Dey're all dat matters now."

"B-but Sam, we're talking retrieval. Do you…"

Sam cut him off with a look flashed over his shoulder. He didn't want to hear. Couldn't afford to be distracted by temptations so strong as to be almost irresistible. Almost. To anybody but the 'terminally selfless' Dr. Beckett, as Al was putting it.

Sam's reply was that of all bored children on cross-country holidays or long distance visits to Grandma's. "Are we nearly there yet?"

"Not far now, ducks," supplied Connie, while Al was still checking. "Fings'll be better soon, you'll see."

In actuality, things were about to get a whole lot worse.

0o0

In the Turnpike, Henry stared gloomily into the dregs of yet another beer and decided it was time to graduate to whiskey. His nerves were shot to pieces. It was all going wrong and he hadn't a clue what to do. So he just sat and waited: the bag of money nestled under his seat like an egg he was trying to hatch. It had been going so well, perfect down to every detail just like Honor had promised – until he'd tried to give her the signal that he'd got the cash. When she'd failed to answer the phone he was sure his heart was going to quit on the spot. What if she'd been caught? What if the cops had her? What if they caught him with the money? They'd lock him up and throw away the key.

Perhaps he should just walk out and leave it where it was. He hadn't touched it, had he? 'Course not. His prints weren't on it. He was sure they weren't.

Well, sort of sure.

In which case he could slip out unnoticed. Go and let the girls loose himself. Go home and act like nothing happened.

Except Honor was much too smart to stay caught, even if she'd been caught, and he didn't see how she could've been caught. So she'd be looking for him sooner or later and how could he tell her he'd screwed up and left all that money in the pub? She'd never forgive him.

So, he went back to the payphone in the vestibule and he tried phoning again.

Still no reply.

He resumed his seat and ordered another drink.

What was he supposed to do? Honor knew thinking wasn't his strong point. She'd told him so often enough. So why wasn't she around to tell him what to do now? He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand this waiting. His palms were all sweaty. He rubbed them on his jeans and downed the whiskey the barmaid had brought him, signaling for a refill. Then he changed his mind. "Bring the whole bottle," he ordered, slamming a couple of notes down on the counter. After all, there were plenty more in easy reach; and his own 'bottle' had most definitely gone. As in totally lost it.

0o0

Connie had turned down an unlit winding side road and slowed her car to a crawl.

"Can you pull in somewhere outa sight?" asked an ever-cautious Sam.

"Sure as eggs is eggs, ducks," grinned Connie as she complied. She was really quite enjoying the adventure. All it needed was a "follow that cab" and she'd really feel like she was in a movie.

Not that she didn't appreciate the seriousness of the situation, she did. But the gravity of the girls' predicament could not totally eclipse the thrill of being involved in their rescue. She'd not had this much excitement since the day she'd been evacuated as a child.

Of course, Mary went and burst her bubble with the classic line, "Wait here in the car where it's safe."

And unlike the giddy young heroines in the films, she'd do as she was told. Going off to find the hero - or heroine in this case, but the idea was the same - always resulted in lots of screaming and a need to be snatched from the jaws of death – or worse.

Connie had her head screwed on better than that.

"They also serve who only stand and wait," she rejoined.

Mary gave her a thumbs-up and got out of the car, heading purposefully back round past the Dutch barn towards the house as if she were following someone. Considering it was dark and muddy underfoot and the old girl was a stranger to these parts, she moved with surprising confidence, thought Connie. The girls were lucky to have her on their side.

In daylight, and in other circumstances, Sam would have loved it here. His happiest memories – of the precious few that he still had – were of his childhood years back on the farm in Elk Ridge.

In its heyday as a working farm, this one too had a wonderful atmosphere. Lambing sheds, configured in a huge letter E, replaced the milking sheds of his youth, but a farm is still a farm and this one had everything to make it special, and wonderful, and just like home. It had – character - from the low sheds to the quaint little pond and the crooked tree.

Then there was the house itself. What tales it could tell.

A sign over the door boasted that SW had restored it in 1911, though the identity of SW was uncertain. Unknown to Sam, behind it was hidden the secret of a six foot square cubbyhole bricked up to conceal who-knew-what. Had Honor known of it, she'd no doubt have placed the girls inside, but it was well disguised and even the previous – and subsequent – owners had not worked out how or where to access its interior, though builder's plans clearly showed it to exist. For all anybody knew, it could have been a priest hole and may yet contain the skeletal remains of some unfortunate buried alive within.

The brick-and-stone clad exterior formed an L shape, and from the back the hangers at Cardington were clearly visible. The interior was a mix of huge rooms and little alcoves, high ceilings and low, with many interesting nooks and crannies. The front door was a solid wooden portal studded with wrought iron knobs and an enormous lion's head knocker, which Sam didn't use. He tried the handle, but without any real hope of it's yielding to his grasp.

It didn't.

"Oi don't t'ink this'd open wit' a credit card, even if'n Oi had one." Sam commented to Al as he tested it with his shoulder. It didn't even rattle. "So how in God's name am Oi supposed to get in?"

He was tired. His head throbbed with the relentlessness of a ship's engine – hollow and persistent and wearing on the nerves. The rain, which had eased for a time, now deluged him with renewed vigor. He was soaked through and aching all over and thoroughly miserable.

Never before had the conflict between duty and desire been felt so keenly.

Retrieval – dreamed of, longed for, blessed retrieval.

To have his own life back at last. To soak in his very own bath, rest in his very own bed; shave his own face in the morning.

There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to go Home.

Nothing in the world except to get back the lives of two innocent children whom he'd placed in deadly peril. Two children who were so close he could almost hear them breathing.

Yet, perhaps both goals could be achieved.

Perhaps he could save the girls and Leap. Leap all the way. Leap his last final glorious Leap.

Home.

If he was quick.

Al had said that timing was important, but perhaps, just maybe, there was enough of a window of opportunity for him to do both.

Window; yes – a window. There may be a window open somewhere. There had to be. He began circumnavigating the building, trying every casement he passed. Driven by this new sense of urgency, he raced around the house, heedless now to the rain; the rough gravel underfoot; his blistered feet; his aching head. All he could think of was gaining access to the building and saving the children and still being home in time for tea.

Al didn't need telling what was going on in his friend's mind. His own thoughts were running along much the same lines.

"Mind if I take a short cut?" he asked Sam, waving his hand-link at the wall. "I could, uh, find out where you're headed?" he suggested, with a casual grin.

"Be my guest." Sam paused to make a small mock bow, and then sped on.

"Gushie!" commanded Al predictably, "Center me on the girls."

Al found himself on the opposite side of the house, in the dark, dank cellar. He took one horrified look at the girls – still in their nightclothes which had spots of blood on the front from where they'd had their teeth pulled – and their grim surroundings, and leapt back over the building in a single bound.

Sam was just trying the kitchen window. Al's sudden appearance made him jump backwards a good foot or two, gasping and clutching at his chest.

"Gee-sus, Mary an' Joseph! What d'ya wanna go an' do a t'ing loike dat fer?" he hissed.

In spite of his genuine regret for startling his friend, Al sniggered at Sam's outburst. He couldn't help it – that accent and phraseology were just so un-Sam. The mirth was short lived, curtailed both by Sam's stern glare and by the seriousness of the situation.

Al waved at the window with the hand-link as if it were a remote control capable of unlocking it.

"This way leads through, Sam. They're in a cellar and the accommodations leave a lot to be desired." He gave Sam a telling look.

Sam braced himself and heaved at the window, trying to raise the sash. It rattled, but didn't open.

"Try again, buddy," encouraged the Observer.

Grim determination lent Sam strength. Every muscle in his body went taut with the effort, and his face turned several shades of scarlet. Then all of a sudden the window responded with a jolt so sharp it almost knocked him off his feet. Sam hoisted himself up and scrambled in. The hem of his tweed skirt caught on a tap in the kitchen sink as he entered and he tumbled onto a cold hard tiled floor, legs and arms akimbo.

Al slid gracefully through the wall to find Sam rubbing his shin.

"You really must hone your B & E skills, Sam," he admonished as the Leaper picked himself up from the floor and huffily straightened his clothing.

Something between pride and stubbornness cured his limp after the first couple of steps.

0o0

"Wh-what was th-that?" whispered a terrified Shelly-Anne to her sister.

"It didn't sound like th-them," replied Tori, trying to feel reassured by the thought.

Shelley was inclined to agree with the comment, but found no comfort therein. It had been so utterly quiet for so long that she had thought never to hear a sound from outside again. Had thought she'd welcome one if it came to break the stifling stillness. Yet now the new sounds brought with them a whole new set of terrors.

Something had come crashing in to the room outside, above them, and now seemed to be coming closer. Something breathed heavily and seemed to snarl and growl and whimper like a wounded animal. Something sounded mean and dangerous.

Something was rattling and banging at the door. It sounded angry and frustrated at not being able to get in. Shelley was glad now that they were locked in – that the Something was locked out. Shelley was in no hurry to be eaten.

0o0

Something was rattling and banging at the door. It sounded angry and frustrated at not being able to get in. Gushie was glad of the Security lock – which kept him in and the Something out. He was in a state of extreme nervous agitation, keyed up for the retrieval attempt and annoyed at the delay in implementing it. He could do without this unwarranted distraction.

What was keeping Dr. Beckett? He should have freed the girls and been ready to Leap ages ago. Surely he wasn't going to let a little thing like a locked door stop him now?

Rusty was not about to let a little thing like a locked door stop him now.

Not when his ultimate goal lay just beyond: The Daemon's Lair. The personification of Evil that called itself Ziggy.

He would hack it to pieces as it wallowed in its pit, thinking itself invulnerable.

It had another think coming.

Rusty laughed maniacally as he struck at the palm operated security pad, which admitted only authorized personnel. He was the invincible one, and nothing; nothing was going to keep him from fulfilling his mission.

At his bidding the stone rolled away, revealing the cave of the Hideous One within.

"Eureka!" he cackled triumphantly as he burst through the doorway.

0o0

Sam had tried pushing the door; pulling the door; hefting the door with his shoulder 'til it ached; kicking the door with well placed flying kicks, which, hindered as he was by his attire, had merely resulted in his landing on his tushie – hard.

He was sweating and he was swearing, an activity he was not easily moved to.

Finally, exhaustion and reason led him to abandon his assault and join Al in a search for the key.

If the goons had it with them, he was scuppered.

Precious moments ticked by while they searched. They looked in obvious places like the ledge above the door, the drawers in the kitchen cabinets, even the cookie jar for heaven's sake. They looked on the coat pegs and under the front door mat. They looked in and under the plant pot where a poor neglected spider plant spread its dead brown tendrils across the counter top. They looked for signs of disturbance in the dust that coated everything, hoping somewhere it would show them recent usage. It was a slow process with only the multi-colored glow from the hand-link to guide their efforts.

Eventually Sam stopped in the middle of his umpteenth circuit of the area and asked for the fiftieth time, "Are you sure Oi can't get in through the cellar window?"

"It's too small!" Al's patience was wafer thin. "The key's here somewhere, Sam. Keep looking."

"Oi've looked everywhere!" snarled Sam, stamping his foot.

As good luck or God/Fate/Time/Whatever would have it, Sam's foot was in exactly the right spot to dislodge a loose floor tile with the gesture of frustration.

Man and hologram exchanged glances and wordlessly bent to examine it.

Sam turned it over almost reverently, as if afraid of further disappointment, or as if uncovering the treasure of some ancient civilization. Nestled in a little hollow was indeed a treasure, one greater than all of Tutankhamen's gold - a dull cold heavy beautiful key.

Sam bent forward slowly at first, reaching out and all but stroking it. Then suddenly he grabbed it and raced for the cellar door like a kid on Christmas morning descending on the tree.

"Eureka!" he chuckled triumphantly as he burst through the doorway.