Disclaimer still in Part 1.

I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to review, especially the people who got sucked into the story as it went along. :) Thank you!

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Chapter 8

Friday, March 25, 2005

In the CalSci administration building, the night watchman looked at the clock hanging over the bank of monitors in front of him. 11:50. Good. Johnson would be here in 10 minutes, and then it was home for the night. This was a long enough shift, even when your partner wasn't out with the flu, leaving you to keep your attention from flagging for eight hours all by yourself.

His light brown eyes swept over the eight television screens, each rotating between four different cameras, ten seconds each. He prided himself on actually paying attention to the monitors, unlike some of his colleagues. The 10-inch TV in the corner was always off on his watch. Well, except when the Lakers were on, but that was different. The game had ended a couple of hours ago, and so his attention was devoted to what the security cameras had to show.

A flicker of movement caught his eye from the lower left-hand camera, and it wasn't the usual flash as the camera changed from one view to the next. Two figures were on screen where they hadn't been forty seconds ago. He recognized the background as the loading dock behind the math building, and that caught his attention enough that he pressed the button to keep the view from rotating out. He'd seen his share of undergraduates seeking a little privacy, but the loading dock was a helluva choice for a midnight rendezvous. Besides, these weren't students.

He watched as one of the men deposited an armload of papers in the trunk of a car, then turned to face the other as if waiting for instructions. The watchman's eyes stayed on the first figure as he took a step back. Then he looked at the other guy, and his eyes widened. Was that a gun?

Bolting upright, he typed a few commands into the keyboard. The small camera perched over the stairwell exit swiveled half an inch, then zoomed in. Yes, that was a .22, unless he missed his guess. The man with the gun started to move, and the guard pulled the view back out. As he saw the first man being tied up, his hand moved to the phone. This was the kind of thing you called the police for. He knew how to deal with drunken students and the occasional homeless guy wandering onto campus. An armed kidnapping was not something he was comfortable taking on by himself.

While the call was connecting, he maneuvered the camera again so it focused on the rear of the car. As the victim was being forced into the trunk, he zoomed in on his face. "Holy shit," he muttered. It was that math guy who was always on campus so late. He'd seen him wandering around any number of times, had escorted him back to his office and joked that it was a good thing campus security was around to protect him from muggers hiding in the bushes. The guy had always laughed and thanked him very politely. Damn it, what was his name?

"Pasadena police dispatch," came the voice through the phone.

"Uh, yeah, this is Mark Mitchell, security at CalSci. I need to report a kidnapping."

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Don sat down at his desk with third cup of coffee of the night. The San Marento case had been taking up way too much of his time, putting him behind on other things and keeping him here well past quitting time. At least Terry was still around, too, wrapping up her work from San Diego. It was nice to have a little company after even the cleaning staff was gone for the night.

The flashing red light of his cell phone caught his eye. He snatched it up and pressed the voice mail button. When he heard Charlie's voice, he sighed in exasperation. Why couldn't he just leave this alone?

Then he started paying attention to the words, and his eyes grew wide. Reaching for a pen, he jotted down some notes, muttering under his breath, "Come on, Charlie, get to the point." After what seemed like minutes of detailed explanation, he heard, "Because the kicker is --" And then the line cut out.

Don pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. A 2 minute, 18 second call. No reason the voice mail should have cut off. A tendril of fear started to work its way up his spine. He speed-dialed Charlie's office, and was unsurprised, though no less worried, when there was no answer. "Damn it, what's going on?"

"What's up?" Terry had come up behind him, bearing her own cup of caffeine.

"It's Charlie. I think he figured something out, but his messsage got cut off, and I've got a bad feeling…" He trailed off as he searched the computer database for a phone number. Finding it, he rapidly dialed. "Hello? CalSci security?"

"Yes, this is the security desk. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, this is Special Agent Don Eppes with the FBI in Los Angeles. This might sound a little strange, but I'm calling about my brother, Professor Charles Eppes in the math department -- "

"Oh, yeah. Wow, they got a hold of you fast."

Don frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I just got off the phone with the police. They must have contacted you right away."

The tendril wrapped itself tighter. "What are you talking about? What happened?" Behind him, Terry put a hand on his shoulder, but he barely noticed.

There was an exhalation on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, sir, I thought you knew. Look, Professor Eppes has been kidnapped. I saw it happen on the security camera, and called the cops right away. We got the plate, and they're tracking him down now."

"I'm sorry, did you say 'kidnapped'?" Terry's hand convulsively tightened, and he winced.

"Someone forced him into the trunk of a car behind the math building. I have pretty good footage of the scene, if you want me to send it to you."

"Of course!" Don read off his e-mail address, then paused before putting forth the question that he had to ask. "When you say 'forced,' what do you mean?"

"You'll see on the tape. I don't think he was injured, but he was being held at gunpoint. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything more, but I don't have any backup here tonight."

Don briefly closed his eyes, trying to block out the image the security guard's words had brought to mind. "All right, it looks like the e-mail is coming through…" He paused while the video downloaded, tapping his fingers impatiently. Terry had pulled over a chair and was waiting to take any necessary notes.

The video started playing, and his fist clenched as he saw Charlie being tied up. The camera moved to the other man's face, and Don's head jerked back. "Son of a bitch!"

"You know who the guy is?" came the guard's voice.

"Yeah, we do. Listen, thanks for your help. You did a great job keeping watch, and getting the information in. I really appreciate it." Don distractedly replied to the "Good luck!" that the watchman signed off with, and hung up before realizing he didn't even know the guy's name.

"Charlie must have figured it out. That's what he was trying to tell me on the phone, before he got cut off. It must have been Penneman who -- " Don pounded a fist against his thigh, trying not to think about what had happened only a few minutes ago, miles across town. "Damn it, why didn't I have my phone with me? Why didn't I believe him?"

Terry laid a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm going to contact the Pasadena police and see where they are in finding the car. Then we're going to get out there and find him, okay?"

He nodded grimly. "And if he's hurt, I'm going to kill Penneman with my bare hands."

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The car turned a corner, and Charlie winced as he rolled against the back of the trunk. It was at least a twenty-minute drive to San Marento, about ten minutes of which had already taken place. And most of the trip was on the freeway. Even if there was some way to open the trunk, he couldn't exactly hop out at 65 miles per hour. And once they got there…

He closed his eyes and fought back a wave of panic. He was not going to freak out. He was going to figure out a way to get out of this trunk, despite the fact that his hands were tied behind him, and he was trapped here by a man who was planning to kill him, and no one knew where he was or even that anything was wrong. Right, there was no reason to panic.

The car accelerated. He figured that meant they were on the 210, heading northwest. He tried again to see anything in the pitch darkness, but to no avail. The car must have been old enough that it wasn't equipped with a fluorescent emergency release handle. So much for that idea.

The spiral wire on one of his notebooks was digging into his shoulder, and he thought his arm was starting to go numb from having his weight on it. Maybe he could at least do something about that. He started wriggling around, trying to fold up his legs so that he could bring his bound hands around in front of him. For the first time in a long time, Charlie was grateful for his small stature, as he narrowly avoided whacking his elbows and knees into the sides and lid of the trunk. After a few minutes of grunting and cursing, he succeeded. "For all the good that does me," he muttered, staring up at the trunk lid he couldn't see.

His struggles had taken more time than he thought. He felt the car decelerate, and he knew he was running out of time. He started groping around in the trunk for anything he could possibly use as a weapon, but the only objects in there were his notebooks and papers. Frantically, he started working at the knots in the rope, but after two broken fingernails, he realized that was futile as well.

The car slowed further, and he could feel that they were going up a steep slope and rounding some tight corners. They must nearly be there. Sure enough, in a few more minutes, the car came to a stop, and Charlie tensed his muscles. He had no illusions about the likelihood of overpowering his captor, especially when the man was armed, but he wasn't about to go down without a fight.