Chapter IV

For a moment, Frank thought it must be Joe, making a joke, having followed him down to the Wharf. But when the metal cylinder pushed more deeply into his ribcage and the voice, still soft, urged him, "Now, please," he knew it wasn't.

Keeping his voice as calm as he could he said, "If you're after money, you're out of luck. I was already robbed once today."

"No money. Just a little conversation. Now, if you would be so good?" He didn't dare look, but he felt a hand grasp his left bicep. Someone else took his right elbow in a more tentative grip. Together they propelled him forward. "Just keep your eyes ahead." The voice was faintly accented, and Frank was racking his brains to place it. "This gun has a silencer, so killing you would not be a problem. An inconvenience, certainly. Now, into the car, straight ahead. No fuss."

Frank looked at the car parked ahead of them at the curb and jolted to an involuntary stop. It was a big, dark blue, late model Lincoln. Frank didn't stop to analyze what it might mean. His sudden halt had caused the more tentative guy to lose his grip on his right elbow, so if he were ever going to have a chance, this was it. He brought his right elbow up in a vicious jab, at the same time bringing his left arm down sharply, knocking the gun away from his ribs and dropping into a crouch, making his body limp and difficult to hold onto. Like a runner at the starting gate, he thrust himself low and forward. And almost made it.

The man on his left, though taken by surprise, reacted quickly, slamming the gun butt into the back of Frank's skull. He was hampered by his awkward position and his unwillingness to draw attention to them so it was a glancing blow, but on top of Frank's earlier injuries, it was enough. He sprawled face downward on the brick, fighting to remain conscious. He heard the murmur of voices around him and decided, with bleary satisfaction, that at least the gun was probably tucked away. And his collapse seemed to be drawing a crowd. Maybe his attackers would just slip away.

He felt someone grip his shoulder and roll him onto his back. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was shrouded with a heavy grey mist. The soft, accented voice, from very nearby, murmured something about "nephew" and "diabetic"...what kind of accent was that?...and insulin. Someone else was asking about an ambulance. He felt someone push at his left jacket sleeve, and sudden panic welled up inside him. What were they - ? Were they-? Wait a minute! He tried desperately to rouse himself, but his limp body disobeyed, lying resistanceless. He felt a prick inside his left arm and raised his right hand to push it away. But his heavy limbs wouldn't listen to the message his brain sent out and it missed, snagging instead somewhere around his wrist. A faint memory glimmered at the back of his brain and he tugged.

There was resistance, then give, then a cool slither across his wrist, followed by a faint tinkle on the bricks. It wasn't much, he thought hazily, but it was something for Joe and Callie to find...and they'd better find it, too, or Callie would kill him. His final, disquieting thought was that someone might have already beaten her to it. And then blackness.

*

Joe glanced from the Travel Guide he was pretending to read to the clock. After five. He frowned and threw a surreptitious look at Callie on the next couch. He and Callie had cleaned up and changed clothes for the evening. Joe had had to smile when he saw Callie's crisp blue dress - obviously chosen to help Frank forget the trials of the day. But that was nearly an hour ago, and Joe's smile had long since been replaced by a frown of concern. It seemed to him that his brother had been gone much too long.

They had finally tired of waiting in their rooms and had moved down to the lobby to catch Frank as he entered, but so far there was no sign of him.

Callie was leafing through the event folders gathered up by friendly passerbys, Frank having dropped them to pursue his thief. She looked unperturbed and Joe was mentally phrasing a casual reason to go hunting Frank when she looked up and met his eyes.

"I know you'll think I'm being silly, Joe, but I'm starting to worry about Frank. It's not like him to be gone all this time."

"No, it's not." Joe was relieved to be able to talk about it. "Maybe I'd better wander down to the Wharf and look for him."

Callie put the event folders in her purse. "Maybe we'd both better."

Joe shook his head. "You'd better stay here, in case he comes back. He can't have gone far with no money."

"And no identification." Callie went white. "Joe - you don't think - suppose that bump on his head is worse than we thought and he's in some hospital somewhere, with no way to identify him or contact us - "

"Don't let your imagination run away with you, Callie," said Joe sternly. "Frank's fine. He probably just - " his face lit up suddenly. "Callie! Suppose Frank stopped to watch some of those chess players! He could easily get involved with the game and forget all about us!"

Callie looked relieved. "Of course! I'll kill him!"

"I'll tell you what." Joe grabbed the Travel Guide. "You go to where we saw the chess players. I'll see if there's some electronics or computer or aeronautical place that might have caught his attention. We'll meet back here at - say - six thirty?"

Joe watched Callie start briskly down the street and started toward his end of the Wharf more slowly. He had marked everything in the guidebook that referred to computers or electronics or aeronautics, but the truth was that not much was open at this hour and most of it had an entrance fee of at least a few dollars. Frank was broke. Frank, he thought, if we find you gaping at some chess players, I'm going to murder you with my bare hands. And if we don't...he pushed that thought away. They just had to, that's all.

His exploration turned up nothing, and by the time he reached the hotel again it was after seven. Callie was anxiously awaiting him in the lobby.

She let out a gasp of relief at the sight of him. "I was so worried! I thought you'd disappeared, too!"

Joe's heavy heart tumbled the rest of the way to his feet. "Then you didn't find him."

Callie shook her head. "The chess players were going home for the day. I asked if they'd seen anyone like Frank in the last couple of hours. I even showed them a picture - but nobody had. You either?"

Joe shook his head slowly. "Nothing."

"Now what?"

"Well - " Joe glanced outside at the darkening sky, forcing down a growing sense of dread. "I guess the next thing to do would be to start calling hospitals."

He hoped he sounded calmer than he felt.

*

Joe woke from a fitful doze to see dawn filtering through the hotel curtains. It had been a short and unrefreshing night, divided between tense wakefulness and brief dozes haunted by dreams of Frank calling to him for help. He was half-relieved to be awake.

He and Callie had struck out with the hospitals and Joe couldn't decide whether he was disappointed or relieved. His first impulse was to put Callie on the next plane east so he could concentrate on looking for Frank, but Callie had balked in no uncertain terms.

"Just forget it, Joe. I'm not going anywhere without Frank."

"Callie, I just feel it would be the best thing. I can do a much better job, much faster, if I don't have to worry about you."

"Then don't worry about me. There's no reason to. Think of it as two heads better than one."

"Callie - "

"Joe. No way. Frank may be your brother, but he's my boyfriend and there is no way I'm leaving here without him. Imagine if I said that to you. Imagine if I told you to go home and wait for my call that you'd found him. What would you say?" Joe was silent. Callie nodded. "I rest my case. What do we do now?"

Joe had rubbed a hand over his face. "Go to bed. Start fresh in the morning."

That had precipitated a fresh argument, in which Callie had fiercely asserted that Frank would never rest if either of them was missing, and what kind of an unnatural brother was he, anyhow?

This time Joe let her talk herself out, then said, "It's late at night in a strange city where we don't know anyone. There's really nothing we can do except make sure we're fresh and alert for tomorrow. I'm sorry, Callie, but you're wrong. This is exactly what Frank would say to do."

Callie had finally reluctantly assented: partly because she knew he was right, and partly because she had no idea what else to do. Joe knew he was right, too, but the truth was that it went sadly against the grain.

So now it was morning and he felt anything but fresh and alert; but he also felt that he would go crazy if he didn't do something. So he rolled into the shower, then pulled on some clothes, and, avoiding looking at Frank's unused bed, left the hotel room.

He paused to listen outside Callie's door. It was silent. If she was managing to sleep he didn't want to disturb her, so he wrote her a quick note that said Gone to look around. Meet you for breakfast. Wait for me. and slipped it under the door.

The morning was fine - much less foggy than the preceding one - and ordinarily Joe would have enjoyed it, but today he was preoccupied. In his mind he was trying to narrow down his field of search.

He started down the street Frank had taken the previous day, keeping his eyes open for anything that might pass for a clue. Frank couldn't have gone far. First of all, he had no money. Secondly, despite his protests to the contrary, he wasn't feeling all that well after that knock on the head.

At the end of the street he saw the water across the Embarcadero and paused. The water was the kind of place Frank would go to think things out.

He knew he probably hadn't gone left, toward Ghirardelli Square, since he almost certainly would have stopped to watch, and probably speak to, some of the chess players. The right, toward the Wharf, was a good place to start, then.

He walked slowly along the Bay, trying to notice everything. A few of the vendors were already setting up for trade and he looked at them thoughtfully. One of them might remember Frank. It was worth a shot.

There was no doubt in his mind that if something had happened to Frank and he had had any opportunity at all, he would have left him some kind of signal. But what? And what would even survive an evening of traffic on the Wharf?

He sighed and started toward the nearest vendor. Something skidded under his foot and he was about to kick it away impatiently when he paused. And bent over. And went cold all over.

For there on the ground, scraped and bent by many feet, was an identification bracelet. He cradled it in his hand and rubbed away the dirt. Sure enough, one side said "Frank". The other, "Love, Callie".