The Twin Caper

by Weimlady

[77 Sunset Strip crossover with The FBI. Yup, Stu meets Lew.] Stuart Bailey is kidnapped from the offices of 77 Sunset Strip and the FBI is called in to help find him. Who else would the feds send but their top agent, Lew Erskine?

Stuart Bailey balanced his pipe carefully in the ashtray. He needed both hands free to dig in the piles of file folders that, much to his chagrin, currently covered the top of his desk.

He riffled through one stack, then another. His deep brown eyes snapped with irritation as he attacked a third pile, and, not finding what he needed, slammed them vigorously down. He leaned on the desk and let his head fall forward. Then, straightening, he snapped his fingers and headed toward the interior door to his partner, Jeff Spencer's, office. He was at Jeff's filing cabinets in three long strides, pulled out the top drawer and with a triumphant grin extracted a folder.

As he headed back toward his own office, prize in hand, he heard a knock on Jeff's door. He sighed irritably, slapped the folder down on his desk, walked back past Jeff's desk and opened the door to the outer office.

"Mr. Spencer?" The man in front of him was tall and burly, at least ten years older than Stu and thirty pounds heavier. His thick lips were stretched in an ingratiating smile. Stu's trained eye registered his grizzled hair and boxer's flattened nose but he was distracted by a faint, sickly-sweet smell.

"Actually," Stu started, but before he could correct the question of identity, the source of the smell became apparent. A second man, small and wiry, jumped out from behind the door onto Stu's back and held a dampened cloth over his nose and mouth. Even as Stu's brain identified the smell, too late, as chloroform, the first man grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. Stu tried desperately to shake off his attackers, but the drug sent its mists into his brain quickly, and in moments he was slumped on the floor, unconscious.

The tall, burly man hoisted Stu over his shoulder like a downed deer and, followed by his partner, headed for the front door. They opened it a crack and peered out.

"The coast is clear, Harry. Let's get him out of here."

They quickly exited and hurried to Dino's parking lot, unattended at this hour of the morning. There, they dumped Stu in the back seat of a Buick LeSabre convertible. Harry pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment and cuffed Stu's hands behind him. "Just in case he wakes up before we get there," he explained to his partner, who nodded agreement. Harry started the big car up and roared off down the strip.

oooooooooooooooo

"Is Stu in yet?" Jeff Spencer asked, his curly brown hair still damp from his morning shower, his blue eyes worried.

"Yes, he was already in when I arrived this morning," Suzanne Fabray replied in her charming French accent. "He was in a very bad mood."

Jeff winced. "Great, and here I am late again. Why was he in a bad mood?"

Suzanne raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes. "Paperwork!" she said. Jeff grinned. He knew how much his partner hated the routine of documenting and filing the details of his cases. He knew to stay out of Stu's way when he was working on it, too. He put a finger in front of his lips and raised his eyebrows to Suzanne, who smiled understandingly. He then tiptoed with exaggerated caution to his office door, opened it quietly, and let himself in.

When he saw the open connecting door into Stu's office and smelled pipe tobacco, he dropped the act. "OK, you caught me. I overslept. Again." He walked into Stu's office and stopped in his tracks when he realized he was talking to himself. He frowned, walked around the high-piled desk, picked up the pipe and felt the bowl.

"Suzanne," he called out his door to the receptionist.

"Yes, Jeff?"

"I thought you said Stu was here."

"I thought he was. Isn't he?"

Jeff looked around the office again, as if perhaps he had overlooked Stu's presence after all. "No. But his pipe is here, and still warm. Did you see him leave?"

Suzanne met him at the door and also looked around the office as if to confirm Stu's absence. "No, I didn't see him at all. I just saw his car in the parking lot, smelled his pipe, and heard him banging things around in here. That's how I knew he was in a bad mood."

"Were you at the front desk the whole time?" Jeff asked.

"Yes, I was. Well, except when I walked over to Dino's to get a cup of coffee."

"How long were you gone?"

She thought a moment. "Oh, no more than a few minutes. No, I am wrong. Dino was there and wanted to chat. It was probably at least ten minutes that I was away."

"Did you notice anyone around the place? Anything different when you got back?" Jeff quizzed her.

She shook her head. "No, I did not. Everything seemed perfectly normal." She grinned. "But then you are the detectives, I am not!"

Jeff grinned back, but his heart wasn't in it. "Something's not right. Stu wouldn't just up and leave in the middle of doing paperwork. When he works himself up to tackling it..." An idea lighted his face and he strode quickly out of the office. In thirty seconds he was back and so was the concern. "His car is out there. If he went anywhere, it was on foot. Or in someone else's car."

"Maybe he went to Dino's for a cup of coffee, too," Suzanne suggested.

"Wouldn't you have seen him?" Jeff asked, but then turned on his heel and again left the office. This time, it was a few minutes before he returned. He leaned on the reception desk and shook his head. "Nope, no one at Dino's saw him at all this morning."

"Maybe you should call Lieutenant Gilmore," Suzanne suggested.

Jeff laughed ruefully. "And tell him what? That Stu's been missing for an hour? Honey, he'd laugh me out of town. People have to be missing way more than that before the police become interested."

"Then what can you do?" Suzanne asked.

"Wait," Jeff said. "And hope I'm wrong." He sighed. Their eyes met, and neither one spoke.

ooooooooooooooooo

Stu Bailey woke with a pounding headache and cold feet. He heard a soft moan and only belatedly realized it had come from him as he tried, in his drug-clouded state, to roll over. A clanking sound and the feel of metal on his left ankle helped him pull himself back to awareness.

He sat up and ran his fingers through his thick mane of dark hair, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He was sitting on a well-used cot mattress which was on the floor of a rough cabin. His feet were cold because they were bare. He looked around and saw his jacket ten feet away on the back of a chair that was pushed up to an old wooden kitchen table, his shoes neatly placed beneath the chair. He quickly patted himself down and checked his pockets. No watch, no ring, no wallet. No cigarettes or matches. Of course no gun. No holster either. In fact, no belt. Nothing with metal on it had been left on his person or in his reach-with one glaring exception.

He shifted his legs and again heard the clanking sound. He looked down at his ankles and saw that he was wearing a very solid shackle, which was attached to a very large staple by an extremely heavy chain. The staple was deeply embedded in the wooden wall of the cabin. He gave a halfhearted tug on it and felt no more give to it than he had expected. Baffled, still groggy, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, head held tightly between his two hands.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty wakes." The jovial voice made Stu wince and look up. His two abductors grinned down at him.

"You! Who are you? What am I doing here?"

"Never mind, Mr. Spencer. All of your questions will be answered shortly."

Stu glowered at the man. "I am not Jeff Spencer, as I could have told you if you hadn't attacked me before I could get two words out."

The smaller man reacted with shock. "Harry? What's he mean he's not Spencer?"

"Shut up, George," Harry said. "He's just trying to get us going, thinks maybe it will help him get away."

"Harry, did you check my wallet when you took it off me?" Stu asked in the voice teachers reserve for their most backward students.

Harry frowned, eyes narrowed, and walked over to the kitchen table. He pulled Stu's wallet from the pile of his belongings, and went through it. Then he slammed it down on the table.

"Damn! He isn't Jeff Spencer."

"Thank you," Stu said. "Now how about letting me go?"

"Hell no," Harry growled. "You obviously know Jeff Spencer or you wouldn't have been in his office. We let you go and you just run and warn him."

"Hmm, you're brighter than you look," Stu commented. "That's discouraging." He rubbed the back of his neck. "What do you want with Jeff? He's my partner. He's actually a pretty reasonable guy. If you want to talk to him, all you need to do is make an appointment."

"Shut up!" Harry snapped at Stu.

"Harry, what are we going to do? We snatched the wrong guy!" George was twitching with anxiety.

"We wait. Mr. C. will be here soon. He'll tell us what to do."

"Oh, he's gonna be mad, Harry," George whined.

The corner of Harry's mouth twisted down. "Yeah, he is." He took a sudden step and aimed a kick at Stu, who dodged quickly and just barely felt the wind of the blow. "And it's all your fault! What the hell were you doing in Spencer's office?"

"It's my office. Bailey and Spencer. I'm Bailey." Stu spelled it out for them. "Why did you want to kidnap my partner?"

Harry just glowered down at him. "That's none of your business," he growled.

Stu very pointedly looked at his shackled ankle, then back at Harry. "Seems to me it is," he replied.

Harry snorted in his general direction, then turned to help his accomplice unload groceries from the brown paper bags they had carried in from the car.

"Can I at least have a cigarette?" Stu asked, shifting himself around so he could lean against the cabin wall. He bent his knees and rested his forearms on them, hands hanging loosely.

"Sure," George said. He picked up a pack of Kents from the kitchen table, shook one out and tossed it to Stu. He caught it, sniffed the length of it appreciatively, tapped the end on the flat iron of the shackle to pack the tobacco, and put it in his mouth.

"How about a light?"

George started to pick Stu's lighter up off the table, but Harry smacked his hand and he dropped it like a hot coal. "Forget it," the bigger man said, not looking at Stu.

Stu frowned at Harry's back. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked, brandishing the cigarette.

Harry looked over his shoulder at his prisoner. "You can stick it up your butt for all I care."

"A nicotine suppository is not what I had in mind," Stu responded. "Why give me a cigarette and not a light?"

"The boss said not to let you have anything you could cause trouble with. You could cause trouble with a lighted cigarette."

Stu gave him an incredulous look. "How?"

"I don't know, set the place on fire maybe," Harry responded. "The boss said you were a real wise guy."

"The boss was talking about Jeff Spencer, Harry, remember?" Stu said in an encouraging tone, raising his eyebrows. "I'm not him." Harry didn't respond, so Stu continued. "He's right, Jeff is a really smart guy. If you gave him a pipe cleaner, he could probably take this cabin apart with it. He's the brains of the agency. I just do what he tells me."

Harry turned to look at him, his slow but steady train of thought chugging. "If Spencer's the brains, how come the business is Bailey and Spencer and not Spencer and Bailey?" he asked.

"Alphabetical order," Stu answered, his face a mask of innocence.

Harry wasn't convinced. "No light. We wait for the boss."

Stu tossed the cigarette away in disgust.

"Now, there's no call for that," George said as he picked up the discarded coffin nail. "Don't go wasting good smokes." He lit up, took a deep drag and exhaled. Stu also took a deep breath, trying to capture as much second-hand smoke as possible.

"How about some food?" he asked. "Chloroform always gives me such an appetite." Harry frowned at him. Stu gave him his most disarming look of wide-eyed wonder. "What trouble can I cause with food?"

"Let me give him something just to shut him up, Harry," George asked. Harry grimaced, then nodded. George opened a package of Wonder bread, took out two slices, slapped a thick slice of bologna and a thin slice of American cheese between them, and cautiously handed them to Stu.

"Gourmet delights," he muttered, but took a hungry bite. By the time the sandwich was half gone, though, he was swallowing hard to get it down. "This is pretty dry," he commented. Harry groaned but kept his attention on the hand of cards that George had dealt him after dishing up Stu's meal. "It doesn't pay to be subtle with you two, does it. Could I have something to drink? Coffee, tea, milk--I'm not picky."

"Jesus," George muttered. "Next time could we kidnap someone who's less trouble?" He threw down his hand, got up, pulled a glass out of the cupboard, and started to fill it with water.

"No glass, George," Harry said.

"Oh yeah." He pulled a paper cup out of the cupboard, poured the water from the glass into it, walked over and handed it to Stu. "Happy now?" he asked, and returned to the game.

"Delirious," Stu answered. He washed down the rest of the sandwich with the sulphur-scented well water, then held the paper cup out. "Want your cup back?"

"Whaddaya think I am, a waitress?" George griped. He walked over to Stu and took the cup.

Harry turned around and a slow smile spread across his broad face. "Yeah, that's it. A waitress."

George glowered at him. "Harry, that ain't funny."

"No, no, you're going to like this, George. Waitresses -- okay, make that waiters," he said in response to George's rising ire, "Waiters get paid for serving customers. Mr. Bailey here is our customer, for the time being. Let's see how much service he can afford." He put down his cards and picked up Stu's wallet.

"Hey!" Stu protested.

After a second, George got it and grinned. "How much, Harry?"

"Oh, Mr. Bailey can have quite a bit of service, quite a bit indeed." He thumbed through the bills, his lips moving as he counted. "That sandwich there, that was at least a five dollar meal, don't you think?"

"Oh at least," George agreed, giggling with delight. "And he looks like a big tipper, too, don'tcha think Harry?"

Harry made an exaggerated pretense of sizing Stu up as a tipper. "Oh, a huge tipper, George. Twenty-five percent at least."

"Just take the money," Stu said in disgust. "You're going to anyway."

Harry put his hand over his heart. "Oh!" he said in an injured tone. "He thinks we're thieves!"

"You'd think he of all people would know we're kidnappers, not thieves, wouldn'tcha Harry?"

"You'd think," Harry agreed. He counted out the take from Stu's wallet into two piles, handed one to George and pocketed the other.

Stu folded his arms and glared at them sullenly. They smiled and went back to their game.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel soon interrupted them. Harry and George exchanged looks of dread.

"Harry," George started, running his fingers through the few limp strands of hair that failed miserably to cover his liver-spotted scalp.

"Shut up, George," Harry hissed.

Stu stood up, back against the wall. His brown eyes were locked on the door.

It opened. Silhouetted against the light was a tall, slender man. He stepped into the cabin, then stopped dead as he caught sight of the disheveled, shirt-sleeved figure standing against the back wall.

"What the hell is he doing here?" His blue eyes caught fire as he glared at his cowering henchmen. "I told you to get Spencer. That is not Spencer!"

"We know that, Mr. C," Harry grovelled.

"Then why the hell..."

"We didn't know at the time," George chimed in. "Not till we got him here and checked his things."

"Not until they got me here and I told them I wasn't Jeff Spencer," Stu corrected him. His deep, steady voice provided a marked contrast to the whining and puling of the two terrified thugs. "Dan Carlson, wasn't it? Jeff handled your case."

"Bailey." Carlson took a deep breath. He looked Stu in the eye and shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry these bozos got you into this. I have nothing against you."

"If you wanted to kidnap my partner, I have something against you," Stu commented evenly. "Why do you want Jeff?"

"I want to provide him with the slowest, most painful, most degrading death a human being can experience," Carlson responded in the same even tone.

Stu's eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth twisted down. "Why?"

Carlson's features were momentarily seared by a deep, rocking pain. "Perhaps some day you shall know, Mr. Bailey. Today is not that day. At the moment, I must address the issue of salvaging this miserably fouled up plan." He turned to his hired guns. "Did you at least manage to get him out of there without anyone seeing you?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, Mr. C.," George assured him. "We waited for that dishy secretary of his to go for a coffee. Then we nabbed him. Got him out of there clean."

He nodded thoughtfully. Stu folded his arms, leaned back against the wall, and crossed his legs at the ankles. The clank of the chain focussed Carlson's attention back on Stu.

"Mr. Bailey. You seem distressed by my plans for your partner. You two are friends, as well as business associates?" Stu nodded silently. "Would he be equally distressed if he thought those plans were for you?" Stu tried to remain impassive, but his eyes betrayed him. "Excellent. Excellent. Gentlemen." He turned to George and Harry, who hung on his every word with the raptness of a brace of bluetick hounds. "And I use the term loosely," he added under his breath. "I want you to think of that man..." He gestured toward Stu. "...as bait." His hounds nodded eagerly. "I'm going back to town to set the hook. You take care of him. The shark I'm after will only rise to live bait." He headed toward the door. Hand on the latch, he turned back to them. "Oh, and boys, you remember what I told you about not letting Spencer have anything he could use as a tool?" The boys nodded. "That goes double for this one. Never leave him unguarded. He's the brains of the agency, not Spencer."

Harry gave Stu a long, appraising look. "Oh, he's the brains, is he?"

Carlson looked at Stu as he answered. "He was a professor at Harvard before he decided to become a private eye." He closed the door behind him and they heard his footsteps crossing the wooden porch and going down the stairs.

"Harvard. That's one of them ivy leaf schools back east, isn't it?" George asked.

"Yes, George," Stu answered, worried brown eyes fixed on the door. "It is."

ooooo

A tousel-haired boy opened the door of 77 Sunset Strip and stepped inside, blinking as he left the bright California sunshine. He saw Suzanne and walked up to her counter.

"You know a guy named Jeff Spencer?" he asked.

"I do," she answered with a smile.

The boy handed her an envelope. "Guy on the street just asked me to deliver this to him. Okay?"

"I'll take care of it," she answered. She started to open her purse, but the boy waved her off.

"Don't bother, lady. The guy gave me two bits already." He turned and sauntered out of the office.

Suzanne turned the envelope over in her hands, then plugged a telephone line in. She could hear the faint ringing of the phone from behind the door of Jeff's office.

"Spencer."

"Jeff, you have a letter," she informed him. She unplugged the line as Jeff emerged from his office. He examined the envelope, then ripped it open and took out the enclosed sheet of paper. As he unfolded it and saw its contents, his face drained of color.

"Now we call Lieutenant Gilmore," he said.

ooooo

"Lewis. Welcome back." Arthur Ward shook hands with his friend and top operative. "How was Chicago?"

"Windy. As always," Lew Erskine replied. "Why am I no longer there, Arthur?"

Arthur Ward smiled at his friend's characteristic directness. "Because your talents are needed elsewhere." He handed him an airline ticket.

Lew looked it over. "What's going on in LA?" He tucked the ticket into his inside pocket and gave Arthur his full attention.

"A kidnapping."

"Victim?"

Arthur picked up a manila folder from his desk. "A private investigator. Name is Stuart Bailey."

Lew waited, expecting his boss to hand over the folder so he could familiarize himself with the details of the case. That didn't appear to be happening. "Do you want to tell me about it?" Lew asked, his eyebrows raised quizzically.

Arthur's mouth quirked up on one side. "No," he replied, and handed the folder over. He watched Lew's face closely as he opened the cover and saw the picture that was stapled to the top page of notes.

The lines between Lew's eyebrows deepened as he studied the photo. "Is this a joke, Arthur?" he asked without looking up.

"Apparently not, Lew. I know," he said, shaking his head as Lew raised his eyes from the folder and met his glance. "I would have sworn it was you too. It isn't, is it?" he asked with a boyish grin.

"I'm not sure," Lew said bemusedly. "I don't remember sitting for it and I've never owned a tie like that, but…it sure looks like me."

"You don't have a twin brother you haven't mentioned, do you?" Arthur probed, only half serious.

"Not that I know of. I'm sure the bureau would know even if I didn't," he added with a crooked grin. "Anything about a long-lost twin in my personnel file?"

Arthur shook his head. "Maybe in the director's personal files." He grinned.

"And does this remarkable resemblance explain why I'm being sent to help the local LA office on what appears to be a fairly routine kidnapping?"

"Actually, no," Arthur answered, all levity dropping from his face.. "The request came from the state department, directly to Mr. Hoover. Bailey is former OSS and has helped us on tough cases more than once since the war. Remember Hendrick van Horn?"

"Sounds familiar," Lew said, squinting his eyes in concentration. "Didn't a civilian go undercover to nail him?" Arthur nodded. "That was Bailey?"

Arthur nodded again. "Gave up months of his life, let his reputation be ruined, set back his business, risked his life… We owe him, Lew. We don't leave our men behind enemy lines."

Lew nodded, understanding perfectly. "I'll check in when I get there."

ooooo

"Do you have to do that?"

Stu Bailey was on his fiftieth pushup when George asked the question. His answer came in rhythmic gusts as he continued his morning workout. "There aren't...a whole lot...of physical activities...I can do...on a three...foot chain."

George stood and watched him. "Why you got to do a physical activity? Take a break, lie down, relax."

Stu locked his elbows at the highest point of his next push-up and let his head hang. "I'm a little tense, George. I need to do something physical." He resumed his rhythm and continued until he had completed a hundred push-ups. Then he turned over, kicking the chain out of his way with annoyance, and started on an equal number of sit-ups. When he was finished, he stood up, stretched, and wiped his sweat-damp face with his shirt tail. Then he gave his stubbled cheeks and throat a thorough and bad-tempered scratching. "I suppose shaving privileges are out of the question," he grumped.

"If you can figure out how to shave without a razor, go for it," George said. "Harry said no razor."

"Ever hear of a safety razor?" Stu asked. "Or even an electric razor?"

"Safety razors still have blades. And we got no power," George said, nodding toward the oil lamps that had illuminated the cabin during the previous interminable evening.

Stu sighed. "What's for breakfast?"

"Bacon and eggs, hash browns and toast," George replied.

"I'll take mine over easy."

"You'll take yours scrambled," George corrected him.

"As I said, scrambled," Stu conceded. He'd worked up enough of an appetite not to be picky. "Oh, and George?" He paused until George looked at him. "The bucket needs to be emptied." He raised one eyebrow toward the black rubber bucket that sat at the far reach of his chain. George gave him a sour look. "I paid for service, remember?" Stu pointed out. "If you won't unchain me even long enough to use the outhouse..."

"Yeah, yeah." George took the bucket, which had had its metal handle replaced with a soft rope one, out on the porch and dumped it to the side of the cabin. He left it on the porch to air out and went back to his cooking chores.

"Could you at least wash your hands?" Stu asked. George threw him another sour look but did rinse his hands under running water before he pulled a strip of bacon off the pile and laid it in the frying pan on the propane stove. The smell of bacon frying soon permeated the cabin. Stu closed his eyes and sniffed deeply and appreciatively. "If it weren't for being a prisoner, I could almost enjoy this little camping trip," he commented.

George handed him a paper plate loaded with bacon, eggs, potatoes and toast. "Wait till your partner gets here. Then the fun will really start." Stu took the plate, but his expression grew grim and for a moment he looked at the food with distaste. George noticed. "What's the matter?"

"Too much salt," Stu said quietly.

"How do you know when you ain't even tasted it yet?" George asked, his hands on his hips. He watched Stu take a bite, chew and swallow. "Now what do you say?"

"Cordon bleu," he said to mollify the little man. George scowled at him. "That's a good thing, George. Blue ribbon. First prize." George's face relaxed into an absurdly pleased little smile, and he turned back to the stove to start another batch of hash browns.

Harry returned just as the second skilletful of potatoes was nicely browned. He dropped a paper bag on the kitchen counter, pulled a newspaper from it and sat down at the table.

"Can I have the paper when you're done with it?" Stu asked.

"Jesus," Harry muttered. "He never quits."

"Do it just to shut me up, Harry," Stu suggested.

"I'll shut you up." Harry came halfway up out of his seat in Stu's direction. Stu was on his feet instantly, braced and with fire in his eyes. Harry stopped in his tracks, looked Stu up and down for a second, then sat back down and turned his attention to his eggs.

"The boss wouldn't like it if I roughed you up," Harry said.

Stu relaxed his stance and contemplated his captors for a moment. Then he folded his legs and dropped down on the mattress, Indian-style, his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands.

"Did you talk to him, Harry?" George asked.

"Yeah," Harry said. "He says we sit tight the rest of the day. Let Spencer stew. Then tonight I make the ransom call, seeing as how Spencer might recognize his voice, and give him instructions on the drop."

"He don't want ransom, he wants Spencer," George said, perplexed.

"You know that and I know that, but Spencer doesn't know that." George's frown of confusion didn't clear up. "If he knows the boss is after him, he might get cagey. If he thinks it's just a simple ransom drop, it'll be easier to nab him."

"You don't really think Jeff Spencer is going to pay one red cent to get me back, do you?" Stu asked. Harry and George both turned to look askance at him. "It was my own stupidity that got me into this. It's up to me to get myself out of it. That'll be Jeff's attitude. Trust me, I know the guy."

"I thought you two was friends," George said.

Stu shrugged. "We are. In our way. That doesn't mean either one of us would spend the agency's money on a partner who's careless enough to get himself kidnapped."

George and Harry exchanged confused looks.

"Did Mr. C say how much ransom to ask for, Harry?"

"Yeah. Ten Gs."

Both thugs' brains worked painfully for a moment.

"Maybe we shouldn't ask for so much, Harry. Maybe five would be better."

ooooo

"Stay by the phone," Jeff fumed. "What phone? What if they didn't mean this phone?" He paced furiously around the office.

"Calm down, Jeff," Lt. Gilmore advised. "Your home phone is covered, as well as Stu's. Wherever they call, someone will answer."

Jeff perched on the edge of his desk, sighed deeply, and pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "It's been thirty-six hours, Gil. They could have done anything to him by now. They may never call."

"They sent the note, Jeff. There's obviously something they want."

"But what?" Jeff exploded. "Who ever heard of a ransom note with no ransom demand? 'We have Bailey. Call the cops and he's dead. Stay by the phone for further instructions,'" he recited mockingly. "What kind of kidnappers are we dealing with?"

"It is a little odd," Gil agreed. "But if they just wanted him dead, why would they send a note at all?"

His calm tone and reasonable question helped Jeff get a grip on his fraying nerves. He folded his arms tightly and took a deep breath. "I don't wait well," he admitted grudgingly.

Gil grinned. "I noticed."

A knock on the door galvanized Jeff into action. He threw it open with such energy that the man behind it was startled for a moment. He was even more startled by Jeff's next action.

"Stu!" An astonished grin split Jeff's face. He grabbed the man by his upper arms and nearly lifted him off the ground with joy.

"I'm not Stu Bailey," Lew Erskine said quickly, retrieving his FBI credentials from his breast pocket with difficulty, considering the strength of Jeff's grip on his arms, and flashing them in Jeff's beaming face. "Inspector Lewis Erskine. FBI." Jeff let go of him and stared wide-eyed from the credentials to the face and back again. "Sorry. I'm aware of the resemblance. I should have thought what it would do if I just walked in on you with no warning."

Jeff collapsed onto the couch, shaking his head, never taking his eyes off Lew Erskine's face. Lt. Gilmore also scrutinized Lew's features with interest, then offered his hand. "Good to meet you, Inspector. I'm Lt. Gilmore, LAPD. They call me Gil."

Lew shook his hand, but frowned. "I thought the FBI was handling the case."

Gil smiled and held up his hands, palms out. "I'm here as a friend. No jurisdictional wars going on. The case is all yours." Lew relaxed fractionally and nodded. "Of course, if there's anything I can do to help-as a friend or on the job-just ask." He continued to stare at Lew's face. "Are you related to Bailey?"

"Not that I know of," Lew answered. "Didn't know he existed until twelve hours ago." He raised his eyebrows slightly and compressed his lips under the pressure of their combined gaze. "Can we try to get beyond the resemblance and work on getting your friend back?"

Jeff and Gil glanced at each other, then looked anywhere but at Lew's face. "Of course, Inspector…was it Erskine?" Lew nodded. "What do you want to know?"

Lew pulled a notepad out of his pocket. "First of all…"

"Dad! You're back!" Gerald "Kookie" Kookson III swooped into the room with all of his youthful energy, wrapped his long arm around Lew's shoulders and gave him a hearty squeeze. "I knew you'd make like a banana peel and give them the slip."

"That's not Stu," Jeff corrected Kookie quickly. Kookie gave him an incredulous look, loosened his grip on Lew's shoulders so he could position himself in front of him and look directly into his face, looked back at Jeff over his shoulder with even more disbelief, and then looked at Lew again. Lew raised one eyebrow and shook his head. Kookie let go of him and stepped back a pace or two to take in the whole image. "Crazy. Who is he?"

"You're Bailey's son?" Lew asked.

"No," Jeff corrected him. "Kookie's the parking lot attendant next door." He quickly added, in response to Kookie's hurt look, "and a valuable assistant in many of our cases." Kookie perked up at that and regained his usual brash grin. He slipped his comb out of his back pocket and ran it through his dishwater blonde locks. "Kookie, this is Inspector Erskine from the FBI. He's here to investigate Stu's kidnapping."

Kookie prowled in a full circle around Lew, who kept worried eyes on him all the way. "Crazy," he repeated. "Are you going to take Stu's place to fool the kidnappers or something?"

"That's an idea," Lew agreed, eyebrows raised. "But I really need to get some details of the case…"

"Stu! You're back!" Once again, Lew was interrupted. He turned to face the door and saw a middle-aged man with a broad, open face lighted up in an infectious grin.

"Not Stu!" the others in the room all said in unison. Roscoe almost reeled back from the force of their combined denials. He peered more closely at Lew, who shook his head ruefully.

"Lew Erskine. FBI. And you are?"

"Roscoe. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He pumped Lew's hand unmercifully until the FBI man could gracefully extricate himself from the handshake. "Jeez, you look a lot like Stu."

"I know," Lew said. "I know." He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. "Now…"

"Stu!" Suzanne flew into the room, wrapped her arms around Lew's neck and gave him an enthusiastic cheek to cheek hug. "Thank God you are safe!"

"Honey, that's not Stu." Lew didn't seem to be in any hurry to correct her assumption, so Jeff decided to do it.

Suzanne loosened her hold on Lew and looked up into his warm brown eyes, which were now dancing with exasperated amusement.

"Now I'm truly sorry I'm not Stu," he said with a gentle smile. "Are you Mrs. Bailey?"

"Oh no," Suzanne said. "Just a friend." She looked searchingly into Lew's angular face, traced the plane of his cheek with her soft hand. She threw Jeff a quizzical look over her shoulder. "Not Stu?" Jeff shook his head. Suzanne backed away, her hands sliding into Lew's, holding on for a moment, then regretfully letting go. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Lew Erskine. FBI." He looked around the now crowded office. "Does Mr. Bailey have any more friends or family who are likely to come in that door in the next ten minutes?"

Before anyone could answer, the phone shrilled. Lew quickly stepped into Stu's office, located the phone, and asked, "Are both of these on the same line?"

"Yes," answered both Jeff and Suzanne. The phone rang again. Lew placed a hand on the one in Stu's office, caught Jeff's eye, and nodded. They picked up the receivers on their respective phones at the same moment.

"Spencer," Jeff answered. All eyes in the room were riveted on him. He listened intently. "Right. How much?" He scowled. "No, I can get it." He grabbed a note pad and pen as he listened and jotted down an address. "Right. Now put Stu on." He put down the pen and drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. "Then go get him." He looked up, met Suzanne's worried eyes, looked away. "There's no deal until I'm sure he's alive. I have to talk to him. In person." A muscle jumped in his jaw as he listened. "Fine. I'll be waiting." He blew out a soft breath as he hung up the phone.

Lew Erskine came in from Stu's office. "Did he say five thousand dollars?"

"That's what I heard," Jeff agreed.

"Five Gs?" Kookie chimed in. "That's all they want?" Lew and Jeff both nodded.

"Five Gs? For Stu? That's downright insulting!" Roscoe said. "They need a new handicapper."

"This apparently isn't about the money," Lew said, thinking out loud.

"Then what is it about?" Jeff asked.

Lew shook his head. "I don't know yet."

"What did they say when you asked to talk to Stu?" Suzanne interrupted.

"He wasn't there." Jeff answered. He looked at Lew. "Should I have done that? Or should I have just gone along with everything he said?"

"It's hard to say," Lew responded. "You never know for sure how they'll react." Jeff's glum face prompted him to continue. "For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing." He turned to Suzanne. "They said they would call back. That's all. I got the definite impression the man on the phone was not the one who planned the kidnapping and he had to check in with someone for instructions. You agree?"

Jeff nodded. "So we wait. Again." He leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes.

ooooo

"Stand up, college boy."

Stu warily did as he was told.

"Now turn around." Again, Stu complied, but not without a backward glance over his shoulder. "Put your hands behind you." When he obeyed, Harry snapped the cuffs on his wrists.

"Now what?" Stu said, turning around. "Did I suddenly become more dangerous?" He opened his eyes wide in his best scary look.

"Shut up and stand against the wall. Do it!" he ordered when Stu just stared at him. When he pulled a revolver out of his pocket and pointed it at Stu, he moved. "George, unlock the chain." He handed George the key, and the little man nervously knelt at Stu's feet and unlocked the shackle. A small shudder went through Stu's body as the iron fell off his leg and he took a deep breath.

"Now we're going for a ride, smart guy," Harry said, taking Stu's elbow and jamming the barrel of the gun into his ribs. "And if you make one wrong move, George will be cooking for two tonight."

"Shoes?" Stu asked.

"I said we were going for a ride, not a walk." Stu shrugged, and walked barefoot across the cabin at the prompting of the gun.

They headed out the door and down the steps. Stu stopped in his tracks when he emerged from under the porch roof and felt the afternoon sun on his face. He tilted his head skyward and drank in deep breaths of fresh air. A jab in the ribs with the gun barrel got him moving again.

"Don't get used to it. We're just going to make a phone call." He shoved Stu into the back seat of the LeSabre, slid behind the wheel, and handed the gun to George, who positioned himself in the front passenger seat, turned so he could keep the gun on Stu.

"Who are we calling?" Stu called over the car and wind noise as the big car headed down the road.

"Your partner."

"Told you he wouldn't want to pay anything for me. Now you expect me to talk him into it?"

Harry grunted. "He just wants to know you're still kicking before he lays out the loot."

"When did he say that?"

"Last night."

Stu snorted. "You're not in any hurry to reassure him, are you?"

"The boss said let him stew so we let him stew. Stu." Harry laughed at his little joke. Stu rolled his eyes and declined to reply.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a small general store tucked into a clearing in the woods. A phone booth stood at the edge of the gravelled parking lot. Harry pulled up next to it, took the gun back from George and surreptitiously waved it at Stu.

"Out of the car."

"It's a little hard..."

"Now!" Harry demanded. Stu awkwardly extricated himself from the back seat. He winced as his bare feet landed on sharp gravel and flexed his now-numb hands behind his back. Harry took him by one elbow and steered him to the phone booth.

"Cover him." He handed George the gun, then dropped a dime in the phone and dialed.

"Spencer? Yeah. Bailey's here. I'm putting him on now." Harry held the receiver up to Stu's ear. "One wrong word, wise guy..." he warned Stu in a deep growl.

With the cold steel muzzle of George's revolver pressed into the back of his neck, Stu took a deep breath, and said heartily, "Jeff, you son of a gun. Is that really you?"

The sound of Jeff's voice came down the line. "Stu. Are you okay?"

Stu shifted his head slightly and was rewarded with a jab in the neck from the barrel of the gun.

"The Rogers and Spencer .44 that's jammed into the base of my skull is making me a little nervous, Jeff, and I could kill for a shower and a shave, but aside from that, I'm just peachy," Stu replied in the same cheerful tone.

Harry abruptly jerked the receiver away from his ear while George pulled him back from the phone booth with a strong tug on the chain of his handcuffs. He backpedaled, tripped on the rough surface of the parking lot and, without the use of his arms to balance and catch himself, fell heavily in the gravel. "Beautiful," he muttered.

"There you go, he's alive," Harry said into the phone. "You know the drill. Be there in an hour or he's a corpse in two." He hung up the phone. "Let's get out of here." They each grabbed one of Stu's elbows, hoisted him up onto his feet and hustled him back to the convertible.

"You know, college boy, that ain't no .44 George was holding on you," he gloated as he roughly shoved Stu into the back seat of the Buick. "It's a Smith & Wesson .38. You're not as smart as you think you are!"

"Mmm. My mistake," Stu admitted.

ooooo

Jeff replaced the receiver, frowning deeply. He looked up and saw an answering frown on the face of the FBI man.

"Your friend doesn't seem too concerned about his situation," Lew commented dryly.

Jeff shook his head. "You don't know Stu. That wasn't like him at all. Not at all."

Lew narrowed his eyes. "In what way?"

"Well, for one thing," Jeff said, trying to rub some of the tension out of the back of his neck, "Stu Bailey would never in his life call anyone a son of a gun. It just isn't him. So he must have been trying to tell me something. But what?"

"Is he an expert on guns?"

Jeff glanced at him curiously. "He's pretty handy with them," he answered.

"That's not what I mean," Lew replied. "Is he interested in old guns, antique guns?"

Jeff thought that over for a minute. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"He said the gunman was holding a Rogers and Spencer .44 on him. Highly unlikely."

"Why's that?" Jeff asked.

"It's a black powder pistol. Made around the end of the Civil War. Very old, very rare, very expensive. Not a likely weapon to use in a kidnapping."

"And how do you know that?" Jeff asked.

Lew smiled. "I'm interested in old guns."

Jeff paced the office, thinking out loud. "Son of a gun...Rogers and Spencer..." He emphasized his own name. He stopped, and looked directly at Lew. "Stu is the kind of guy who remembers things. You know the saying, 'mind like a steel trap?'" Lew nodded perfunctorily. "That's Stu. He hears something, even just in passing, and he doesn't forget it. So he wouldn't have to be an expert on old guns to know something about them. All he'd need is a few minutes with someone who is an expert to pick up something like the Rogers and Spencer name, and then be able to use it when he needs it. Like now."

"So...do you know of any time when he may have worked with someone who was a collector of antique guns, or a dealer?" Lew prompted. He steepled his fingers and watched Jeff resume pacing.

"He didn't, but I did," he responded. "Last year." Lew's attentive look encouraged him to continue. "The man...Carlton I think his name was...called us because a gun was missing from his collection."

"Why did he call you instead of the police?"

Jeff perched on the edge of his desk. "Because he had a teen-aged son and had a suspicion he might have just borrowed it." He punctuated the word borrowed with raised eyebrows. Lew nodded his understanding. "It wasn't a particularly valuable piece in and of itself. A Colt .45. But supposedly it was Billy Clanton's Colt and Clanton had used it at the OK Corral."

"Just the gun a kid would take to impress his friends," Lew said.

"Exactly. And the boy had recently started running with some rough friends. Carlton, no, wait." He snapped his fingers as the memory fell into place, "It was Carlson, not Carlton, Dan Carlson, and the son was Tony. Carlson worshipped the ground the boy walked on. His only son, the mother died in childbirth, father never remarried."

Lew nodded, a muscle in his jaw working. "What happened?"

"The friend that Tony was trying to impress wanted to see if the gun still worked. He tried it out at a mom and pop grocery store in Encino."

"And?"

"The gun still worked. Mom no longer has Pop." Lew winced and shook his head as Jeff continued. "Tony didn't pull the trigger but he was there. He had just turned seventeen and was tried as an adult as an accomplice to murder in the commission of an armed robbery."

"How did you figure into it?

Jeff's restless pacing resumed. "The kids weren't caught at the scene. I happened to be at police headquarters, consulting Gil on another case, when I heard him discussing the shooting. Between the eyewitness descriptions and the ballistics report, they were convinced that the kids had been using some sort of antique weapon."

"And you told them you knew one that was missing."

Jeff nodded. "That was all it took."

"The father didn't take it well?" Lew prompted him to continue.

"He thought I should have come to him with the information, instead of telling the police," Jeff said. "He was pretty hot about it at first. But once he calmed down, he seemed resigned to the boy learning a hard lesson and didn't seem to blame anyone but himself."

"How did your partner get involved?"

"Stu did the initial interview. I was out of town at the time."

"Do you do initial interviews in the office or in the client's homes?"

"Depends. I think Stu went to the house in this case."

"So he saw the gun collection--probably got the cook's tour."

"Probably. Collectors can't resist showing their stuff to anyone even slightly interested."

"And Carlson would have assumed a private investigator would be more than slightly interested," Lew said. "Where's the boy now?"

"Last I heard, in San Quentin."

Lew picked up the phone, dialed and waited. "Sam? Erskine," he said. "I need a check on a prisoner. San Quentin. Tony Carlson. I need it yesterday. Call me back at 555-7762. Thanks." He hung up. "May I see your records on the Carlson case?" Jeff pulled out a file drawer, leafed through the folders, pulled one out and handed it to Lew. "You'd better get ready while I look this over," he suggested. Jeff nodded, and turned his nervous energy to preparing to make the ransom drop.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned to the office with a well-stuffed briefcase in hand. Lew was on the phone, making notes as he listened. Jeff sank into his chair to wait.

Lew hung up and stared at his notes. When he finally raised his eyes, Jeff paled at the look on the FBI man's face. "What?" he asked.

"Carlson junior is dead."

"What?" Jeff croaked. "How? When?"

"Two weeks ago." He shook his head before continuing. "How's not a pretty question. Apparently he was an attractive, polite, good-natured young man." Jeff nodded. "Gently raised. Somewhat sheltered." Jeff nodded again, beginning to get the direction of Lew's explanation. "He was taken under the protection of one of the gang bosses in the prison." Jeff knew what that sort of protection entailed for a young man in prison, and looked away. "A rival gang decided to punish Carlson's protector by brutalizing the boy. He died. But not quickly," Lew added with a deep breath. "Or easily."

"Dear God," Jeff breathed. They were both silent for a long moment.

"Jeff," Lew said. "This explains the low ransom demand. If we're right in interpreting that, and your partner's signals, then this isn't about money. The man is after you."

Jeff shook his head in disbelief. "Then why take Stu?"

"I don't know. Maybe he blames the whole agency. Maybe he set it up for a certain time and you weren't where you were supposed to be, so he settled for someone who was there. Someone he knew he could use as bait. You said you were late Monday morning, didn't you?" Jeff nodded slowly. He raised pain-filled eyes to search Lew Erskine's face for a long moment.

"You are so like him," he said softly.

"I am sorry."

Jeff shook his head and tried to laugh. "Not your fault." He sobered. "It just makes it harder."

Lew picked up the phone and started dialing. "There's bound to be a local agent who is your height and build and has your coloring. We'll..."

"No," Jeff interrupted.

"Jeff, you are the ransom. We can't let you handle this."

"No," he reiterated. "It's my decision, isn't it?"

Lew stopped dialing. "Yes. It is. The FBI can only make suggestions. Strong suggestions."

Jeff nodded his understanding. "If I don't make the drop, he'll kill Stu."

"And if you do, he may kill you both."

"That's a chance I have to take," Jeff said.

Lew sighed and hung up the phone. "You will be wired. And we'll have men following you every step of the way." Jeff nodded, picked up the briefcase, and followed Lew out of the office to prepare.

ooooo

A black Lincoln Continental sedan glided to a stop at the curb where Jeff Spencer waited at the bus stop. The passenger door opened and Jeff peered in. The driver, a man in dark glasses and a bushy and obviously false beard, said, "Get in."

Jeff slid into the passenger seat, briefcase on lap, and closed the door behind him. The car pulled out and headed down the street.

"I know who you are, Carlson," Jeff said. "You can ditch the disguise." Carlson wordlessly removed the glasses and unhooked the elastic bands of the false beard from around his ears. They drove in silence for a block. "Carlson," Jeff finally said. "I just learned about what happened to Tony. I can't begin to tell you how sorry..."

"Shut up," Carlson cut him off. "Don't even say his name."

"Carlson, it's bad enough already. Don't make it worse. This isn't what he would have wanted. Take me to Stu, let us both go safely, and we can..."

"I said shut up," Carlson growled. He pulled a Beretta out of his pocket and trained it on Jeff. "Don't force me to make this quick and easy for you." The hand holding the gun was trembling. Jeff shut up.

Carlson put the little pistol back in his pocket. "If you try to overpower me or take the gun, you know you will never see Bailey alive again." Jeff nodded silently.

For half an hour, they traversed residential streets and back alleys, always leading away from L.A. Finally, Carlson turned onto a rough track that led through an overgrown lot and eventually to the hulk of an abandoned warehouse.

Carlson got out of the car and looked cautiously around before closing the door and walking toward the front of the car. Before he could turn the corner around the hood, a car pulled up behind him and a spotlight flared.

"Carlson. This is the FBI. Put your hands up."

Carlson turned toward the light, shaded his eyes with his left hand and pulled the Beretta out of his pocket with his right. Lew Erskine's voice rang out again. "Throw down the gun and put your hands up. Now."

The spotlight reflected off the Lincoln's polished mirrors and threw a light directly into Lew's face. "Bailey!" Carlson gasped, and fired. Lew ducked behind the sheltering car door and instinctively returned fire. Carlson collapsed, gripping his right thigh and moaning. Lew and the agents accompanying him ran to the Lincoln as Jeff bolted out of the passenger side door.

Lew kicked the Beretta away from Carlson and knelt by the wounded man. Bright red blood pumped rhythmically from the bullet hole. Lew swore softly. He caught the eye of one of the LA agents. "Call an ambulance. Now!" He whipped off his necktie, tied it around Carlson's thigh two inches above the spurting wound, placed the barrel of his gun on the knot and tied a square knot above it. He twisted the gun to tighten the tourniquet and kept twisting until the flow of blood slowed, then stopped.

Jeff knelt on the other side of the injured man. "Carlson. Where's Stu?" he asked urgently.

Carlson gave him a confused look. "Right there," he gasped, inclining his head toward Lew. "I should have known those bozos couldn't hold him..." His eyes rolled up under their lids and his head fell back limply.

"Carlson!" Jeff yelled, shaking him violently.

"Jeff!" Lew's stern voice cut through Jeff's panic. "Stop it. He can't tell you."

"Why did you shoot him?" Jeff asked accusingly. "He's the only one who can tell us where to find Stu."

"I was just trying to take him down. Once he got you in that warehouse, we couldn't protect you. I didn't mean to hit an artery," Lew's face was stormy as he checked the man's throat for a pulse. "Where's that ambulance?" he yelled.

ooooo

The sun rose on Stu's fourth day in captivity. He sat hunched over, knees up, arms folded across them, head down on his forearms. The hated shackle was back in place. George put a paper plate piled high with flapjacks on the floor next to him.

"What, no physical activity this morning?" he asked.

"I had a walk yesterday," Stu responded flatly, not raising his head.

George frowned. "You didn't hurt yourself when you fell, did you?"

The genuine concern in his voice roused Stu from his depression. He looked up at the little man and really met his eyes for the first time. What he saw there made him look away. "No, George," he finally answered. "I didn't." He looked at the food with disinterest. "But thanks for asking."

"Not hungry?"

Stu shook his head. "This isn't fun anymore, George. Jeff should have been here with the cavalry by now. Something must have gone wrong."

"It never was fun," George corrected him. "It's business. Hey, if you're not going to eat those, can Harry have them? He loves pancakes."

"Sure," Stu agreed tonelessly, and lowered his head onto his arms again.

The crunch of gravel announced Harry's arrival back from the general store. He entered the cabin with the daily bag of supplies and placed it on the counter. He pulled the morning paper out of the bag and tucked it, folded, under his arm as he helped himself to flapjacks.

"Did you talk to the boss?" George asked, once Harry had had the chance to get started on his breakfast. Harry grunted and shook his head, his mouth full. A swig of coffee cleared the way for him to talk.

"He said not to call him at the house again. He'd be in touch once he was done with Spencer." Stu flinched but didn't raise his head. "What's wrong with him?" Harry asked, indicating Stu with a wave of his fork.

George looked over at their prisoner. "He says it ain't fun no more."

"It never was fun."

"I told him that."

Harry shook his head and took another bite. He unrolled the paper and perused the headlines, then flipped it up to read the bottom half of the front page.

"Shit," he breathed. "George...look at this." George leaned over his shoulder and read.

"Jesus, Harry. What do we do now?"

"We get the hell out of here. As far and as fast as we can." Harry jumped out of the chair so abruptly that it fell over backwards behind him. He left it where it fell, scrabbled in the mess on the table, stuffing things in his pockets. "Come on. Pack." George skittered around the cabin in a nervous frenzy, filling his duffle bag with anything that came to hand.

The uproar brought Stu out of his brown study. He watched with amazement as his captors decamped. "Hey," he said. "What's going on?"

"You want to know? You really want to know? You always want the paper, smart guy. Well, here you go." Harry threw the paper at him and headed for the door.

"Harry! Stop! What about him?" George asked, tugging on Harry's elbow. "We can't just leave him here."

Harry pulled his Smith & Wesson. "You want I should finish him off?" Stu's eyebrows went up in alarm and he slowly sat upright.

"No, that's not what I meant," George chided him. "I mean we can't just leave him here like this. Chained up and all. It ain't right."

"His friends'll be here before long," Harry said. Stu's eyes lighted at that statement, and he grabbed for the paper to see what had triggered it.

"How are they going to find him? Mr. C sure ain't telling 'em." Stu found the article. A photograph of Dan Carlson appeared next to the headline "Local Businessman Critically Injured in FBI Shoot-out--Kidnap Attempt Thwarted" A hopeful smile flickered across his lips. He looked up in time to see the back side of Harry heading across the porch. George turned to Stu, shrugged his shoulders helplessly, then followed Harry. He slammed the door behind him and Stu was alone for the first time in four days.

He waited until he heard the car pull out and the engine noise disappear in the distance. Then he moved with the fluid grace of a panther. He placed one foot on the wall on either side of the staple holding the chain, grasped the chain close to the wall, and pulled with everything in him. Sweat beaded his face, the sinews in his neck stood out like cords, his back, leg and shoulder muscles screamed with the effort, and still he pulled. The staple didn't budge. He stopped, breathing heavily, then tried a series of short, hard tugs, left then right, up then down, hoping to dislodge the staple. Again, his efforts were fruitless.

He threw himself flat on the floor and stretched as far as the length of his body and the chain combined would let him. Still a good three feet separated his outstretched fingertips from the kitchen table. He sat up, stripped off his shirt, and used it to form a makeshift lasso. Again he stretched full-length on the floor, pulling against the shackle until the skin of his ankle tore and bled. Over and over, he tried to snag the leg of the table with his shirt. But the fabric was too soft to catch on anything and the distance was still too great. He threw the shirt aside and retreated to the wall..

He grabbed the mattress and pushed it across the floor to sweep the kitchen table into his reach, but it was like trying to push a rope. The mattress was nothing but a thick pad of cotton batting wrapped in cloth, the whole so old and friable that he could easily put a finger through it--and had. He couldn't get the leverage he needed to move the sturdy wooden table with such a spineless piece of fabric. He gave up, pulled it back into its usual place and stood staring down at it.

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, biting his full lower lip, willing himself to be calm, logical and deliberate. But four days of captivity had worn his nerves thin. Deep in his eyes gleamed the wildness of an animal in a trap. The cold steel holding his ankle was a living thing, suffocating him, eating him alive. Panic roared through his body and vanquished logic. For long minutes, he fought the chain as a fish fights the hook, with a mindless passion for freedom and escape and a total disregard for the toll his efforts were taking on his body. The chain held, and finally he slumped to the floor, dripping with sweat, breathing in ragged gasps.

Eventually, his breathing steadied. He sat up, ran his fingers through his wet and disheveled hair, and worked to reclaim the shreds of his self-control. His discarded shirt came to hand and he put it back on mechanically. Then, he slid over close to the wall and, coldly, deliberately, mindlessly dug his fingernails into the wood of the cabin wall.

ooooo

"Have you seen this man?"

It was Thursday's question of the day, as the FBI, the LAPD, and the Bailey & Spencer agency sent every man and woman they could muster throughout the Los Angeles area armed with hastily-copied photos of Stuart Bailey. The same photo was on the front page of every area newspaper with the same question headlined above it.

"Have you seen this man?"

Carlson was comatose, the prognosis guarded. The analysis of his vehicle had turned up nothing definite. Mud in his tires could have come from anywhere in the foothills surrounding LA. His financial records showed no rents paid on outlying properties, his phone records listed no tell-tale long distance calls. His known associates were all upstanding businessmen like himself, shocked and grieved by his actions, aware of his son's brutal death but utterly ignorant of his plan to avenge it.

"Have you seen this man?"

With no leads to go on, the search for Stu fell back on the unglamorous, exhausting tactic of the old-fashioned gumshoe. Cover all bases. Ask everyone. Look everywhere. Drive. Walk. Ask. Repeat.

Stu Bailey's friends added one more verb to the list. Pray.

On Friday afternoon, the prayers were answered--or the footwork paid off. An employee of a small general store in the mountains remembered seeing three men using the phone booth in the parking lot on Wednesday afternoon. He'd noticed them first because the one man was barefoot, which struck him as odd, especially when the parking lot was gravel. Yes, the man also had been holding his hands funny, awkward-like, and he didn't seem to be an awkward man, if you know what I mean. And yes, he thought it was the man in the photo. Couldn't be a hundred per cent sure, of course, but if it wasn't him, it was his brother.

Lew Erskine called in his forces and issued new orders. Drive, walk, ask, repeat still applied, but the focus of the search had narrowed. Every property, especially isolated and abandoned ones, within a hundred-mile radius of the phone booth had to be checked.

The task was daunting. Even with off-duty LA cops and grateful former clients volunteering to help in the search, it would still take time. And time was working against Stu Bailey.

Jeff Spencer accepted his part of the search as assigned and drove off to the first designated property, Roscoe riding shotgun.

ooooo

They pulled up in front of yet another lonely, dilapidated cabin and Jeff eyed it morosely.

"Looks pretty deserted," Roscoe commented from the passenger seat.

"Does, doesn't it," Jeff agreed flatly. "Just like the last one. And the one before that. And all the ones we checked yesterday. Still, I guess we'd better take a look." They got out of the car and the thud of their footsteps echoed hollowly as they climbed the wooden steps and crossed the porch. Jeff banged on the door. "Anyone home?" he called, then sighed into the silence that followed. He tried the latch but the door didn't open. "There are hundreds of cabins like this within driving distance of that phone booth. And Stu might not be in any of them."

"It's the best lead we have, Jeff." Roscoe tried for an optimistic tone but couldn't quite pull it off. Their eyes met briefly, then Jeff turned away, scanning the horizon, the muscles in his jaw working. Roscoe turned the other way and, noticing a window, walked over to it. He pulled out his red-and-white checked handkerchief, spat on it, wiped most of the grime off a pane, then peered through it.

"Jeff," he called, and Jeff spun away from his reverie at the urgency in his tone. He was at Roscoe's side in three quick strides, peering through the window. "Looks like there is somebody in there."

"Stu? Stu!" Jeff pounded on the window and called his partner's name. Dimly through the clouded glass he saw a bearded figure rise slowly off the floor against the far wall, waver on one elbow for a moment, then collapse back onto the floor.

"He's in trouble," Jeff said. He grunted with effort as he tried to lift the window with no results. "Stand back, Roscoe." Roscoe jumped back as Jeff kicked hard with the heel of his shoe and shattered the center pane. Carefully, he reached through the broken glass, felt for a latch, found it, released it, and lifted the window. He was through it a moment later, as quickly and as gracefully as a cat. Roscoe followed with considerably less speed and agility.

Jeff crossed the cabin and knelt beside the inert figure on the floor. "Stu," he whispered as he placed two fingers on his partner's throat. Roscoe squatted next to him and caught his eye. Jeff nodded. "It's there. It's weak, but it's there."

Stu's head turned slightly and his sunken eyes opened slowly. A gentle smile stretched his cracked lips. "Jeff," he said, his voice slurred and raspy. "Back again?" His gaze slowly travelled from Jeff to Roscoe. "Roscoe? Was Kookie las' time." His head rolled back and his eyes closed.

Jeff and Roscoe traded puzzled glances. "Drunk?" Roscoe asked doubtfully.

Jeff leaned in close to his partner's face and sniffed. "I don't think so. Maybe drugged. We need to get him to a doctor, whatever's going on." He scanned down Stu's lean body, looking for obvious signs of injury and instead finding the shackled ankle. He hefted the chain and tugged on it, hard.

"Ow!" Stu yelped, sitting bolt upright.

"Sorry," Jeff apologized. "I was just trying to see if I could pull it out of the wall..." He trailed off at the look on his partner's face. Mingled with pain and anger in the clouded brown eyes were hope and astonishment.

"You're real," Stu breathed. He looked to his right, took Roscoe's chin in his hand and peered muzzily into the older man's eyes. Roscoe nodded as best he could with his chin held captive. "I thought you were just another dream." Roscoe shook his head, again with some difficulty. Stu released his chin and sank back onto his elbow, the momentary strength pulled from him by pain spent. "Roscoe, could I have a glass of water?"

"Sure, Stu," Roscoe said. He crossed the room to the sink, dug a glass out of the pile of dirty dishes, washed it, and filled it. He helped Stu back into a sitting position and handed him the glass.

Stu took a sip, rolled the liquid around in his mouth, closed his eyes, and swallowed with obvious effort. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and smiled at Roscoe, then went at the rest of the water with a vengeance, tipping up the glass and drinking as fast as he could.

"Whoa, Stu," Jeff had been examining the chain and staple, but suddenly reached across Stu's body and grabbed the glass away from him so roughly he felt the clack of Stu's teeth on it. The water left in the glass splashed all over Stu and Roscoe.

"Jeff. What the..." Stu glowered at his friend as he wiped his shirt front.

"What's the last time you had anything to drink?" Jeff asked.

"About two seconds ago," Stu answered with asperity.

"Before that," Jeff asked.

"I don't know." Stu shook his head, rubbed his bearded cheek. "I can't seem to think straight. How long have I been here?"

"You were kidnapped Monday morning. This is Saturday afternoon."

"God, has it been that long?" Stu propped his elbow on his right knee and rested his head in his hand. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. "They gave me food and water up till..." He paused, trying to marshall his thoughts. "What day was it they took me out to talk to you?" He opened his eyes, focussed on Jeff.

"That was Wednesday," Jeff said.

Stu nodded. "Wednesday. It was Thursday morning then they took off." He held his right hand out, palm down, and looked at it as if it belonged to someone else. For the first time, Jeff and Roscoe noticed the broken fingernails, the scabbed-over fingertips. "I tried to free myself," he said softly. Now Jeff understood the scratches in the wood surrounding the staple in the wall. He reached out, gently picked up Stu's left hand and examined it. He winced at the sight.

Stu retrieved his hand and rested it in his lap. "May I have some more water now?"

"Of course," Jeff said quickly. He refilled the glass and handed it to Stu, but didn't let go as Stu's battered hands wrapped around it. "But take it slow. One swallow at a time. Okay?" Stu nodded, and Jeff let him take the glass. "Roscoe," Jeff said as he watched Stu drink, "See if there's any food in this place."

"Oh, right, Jeff," Roscoe agreed, and headed for the kitchen.

"Something light. Good for breaking a three day fast," Jeff added.

"How about soup?" Roscoe held a red and white Campbell's can up to show Jeff.

"Perfect. What kind?"

"Umm..." Roscoe peered at the label. "Chicken noodle."

"Great." Roscoe quickly scrubbed up a crusted-over pan, found a can opener and dumped the contents of the can and an equal amount of water in. "Add double the water," Jeff advised. Roscoe nodded and complied.

"Here, you'd better take this," Stu said, handing the empty glass to Jeff. He swayed and would have fallen back on the mattress if Jeff hadn't reached out an arm and helped ease him down.

"You okay?" Jeff said with a frown of concern.

Stu nodded weakly, eyes closed. "I think so. Just got dizzy all of a sudden."

"Lie still and let the water soak in. I'm going to figure out how to get that ankle bracelet off you so we can get you out of here."

"Amen to that," Stu agreed, licking his dry lips.

Jeff prowled around the cabin, opening cupboards, closets and drawers, and rummaging through the contents. He went outside, walked all the way around the cabin, then came back in. He stood, arms folded, and favored the shackle with a sour look.

Stu cracked one eye and took in Jeff's stance and expression. "No luck?" he asked.

"Closest thing I found to a crowbar was a pancake flipper," Jeff muttered. "What kind of people have a cabin with no tools?"

"Criminals?" Stu suggested, eyes closed.

A crooked smile played on Jeff's face. "Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor," he said wryly.

"I did for a few days. I'm starting to find it again now," Stu said. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Could I have some more water?"

"How about soup?" Roscoe asked, presenting him with a steaming mug of Campbell's.

"Even better."

Stu sat up and gratefully sipped the chicken broth while Jeff went back to studying the problem of the shackle. He took the business end of it in his hand, twisting it around on Stu's ankle so he could see the keyhole, wringing an involuntary gasp from Stu. "Sorry." He glanced apologetically at his friend, then back at the keyhole.

"Get it off and you're forgiven," Stu said through clenched teeth.

Jeff noticed the deep bruising and dried blood on Stu's leg above and below the shackle. "You did try to free yourself, didn't you."

"I'd have chewed my foot off if I'd had the teeth for it," Stu answered grimly.

"Looks like you tried," Jeff said, distracted by his study of the keyhole. "Wish I had my lockpicks."

"You mean like these?" Roscoe held up a small suede bag that gave out a metallic jingle when he shook it.

"Roscoe!" Jeff took the bag and shook out the lockpicks. "Where did you get this?"

"It was on the kitchen table. With Stu's wallet." He looked at Stu sadly. "Which is empty, by the way."

"That happened early on." Stu dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "I don't suppose my watch and ring are there either. Or my gun."

Roscoe rummaged through the dirty dishes, old newspapers, and other detritus that cluttered the tabletop. "Nope, don't see 'em."

"Can't believe they missed the lockpicks," Jeff crowed as he went to work.

Stu winced at the light pressure on his bruised leg. "They weren't the brightest bulbs in the chandelier," he said. "Probably didn't know what they were."

Jeff worked silently for a few minutes. "I think I've got it, Stu," he said as he looked up. "But I have to get a different angle on it."

Stu understood what that meant, and braced himself. "Go ahead."

Jeff twisted the shackle around as gently as he could, but felt Stu's muscles tighten against the pain. He quickly got back to work and in minutes was rewarded with a metallic snick as the shackle fell open.

"Thank God," Stu sighed. He bent his left knee and leaned forward to inspect the damage to his ankle.

Jeff went to the sink, pulled a dirty mixing bowl out of the mess, washed it and filled it with warm soapy water. He picked out the cleanest towel he could find and headed back to Stu.

"Lie back and let me clean this up," he said. Stu did as requested. Jeff gently washed away the dirt and dried blood. "Doesn't look too bad. Hell of a bruise. The blood was from where your skin tore against the edge of the iron--nothing deep or serious." He wrapped the towel around the injured leg and secured it with some duct tape he had found as he rummaged the cabin. He rocked back on his heels and caught Stu's eye. "You ready to blow this pop stand, partner?"

Stu grinned. "I'll never be readier, partner." He took Jeff's outstretched arm and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Roscoe supported him from behind as he staggered and threatened to go back down.

"Easy, boy," Jeff cautioned. Roscoe pulled a kitchen chair over and they helped Stu sit. "Head down." Stu leaned forward with his head between his knees and took a few deep breaths, then straightened cautiously.

"Are my shoes still under the table?" he asked. Roscoe checked, found them and brought them over. While Stu was putting them on, Jeff made a final check of the mess on the table.

"They left your ID, at least," he said as he handed Stu his jacket and his wallet. "Just took the money."

"May it bring them joy," Stu muttered as he shrugged into his suit coat and tucked his wallet into his inside pocket. "Let's get out of here." He stood up and, with Jeff supporting him on one side, Roscoe on the other, limped out the door of his prison.

ooooo

Stu was stretched out in the back seat of the convertible, sound asleep, when Jeff pulled up to the Cedars Sinai emergency room entrance.

"Wake up, boy," Jeff said as he opened the door. "You're home."

Stu opened his eyes and frowned blearily at the open sky above him. He rubbed his eyes, sat up and saw where they were.

"This isn't home," he said.

"Close enough," Jeff said as he opened the passenger side door.

Stu didn't move. "I don't need to be in the hospital."

"Right," Jeff agreed. "Come on, out."

"Seriously, Jeff," Stu protested. "All I need is some food and water and rest. Not to mention a long soak in a hot tub and a shave. Take me home."

"You can't walk," Jeff pointed out.

"Yes I can," Stu contradicted him, and slid out of the back seat to prove it. He took one step, then a second, upon which his injured leg buckled under him. Jeff and Roscoe caught him before he could hit the pavement. "Okay, I didn't say I could walk well," Stu conceded.

"Let's see what the doctors say." They force-marched Stu into the ER, protesting all the way.

ooooo

"Suzanne?" Jeff smiled a radiant smile into the phone. "We found him, honey. He's okay." He paused to listen. "We're at Cedars Sinai. The docs are checking him over, but I don't think he's in any danger." He paused again, listening. "Honey, don't cry. It's good news. And let everyone know, okay? Tell Erskine to call off the search." He looked up and saw Roscoe heading his way with a young, curly-haired doctor in tow. "Hang on a sec, Suzanne. The doc's here. Yeah, put me on hold and call Erskine. I'll wait." He transferred the receiver to his left hand and shook hands with the doctor. "How is he, doc?"

"He's severely dehydrated," came the response. "It's a good thing you found him when you did and got some liquids into him right away. We've got him on IV fluids and will be running bloodwork for the next few days to make sure there's no organ damage."

Jeff frowned. "Organ damage?"

The doctor nodded. "Prolonged dehydration is very stressful on all major organs, especially the kidneys." Jeff's obvious concern prompted him to smile reassuringly. "I think your friend will be fine. He's strong and healthy, he was still conscious when you found him--it's all in his favor. I didn't mean to worry you, just wanted to explain why we want to keep him for a few days."

Jeff nodded. His face relaxed back into a smile and he took a deep breath. "How about his leg?"

"Dandiest bone bruise I've ever seen," the doctor responded.

"Bone bruise?" Roscoe asked, perplexed.

The doctor nodded. "Microfractures of the outer cortex of the bone, caused by stress."

"Oh yeah," Roscoe said, rolling his eyes. "I was about to say that myself."

The doctor laughed. "It's like a broken bone," he elaborated. "But just the outer layer of the bone is broken. Takes just as long to heal."

"Probably hurts just as much," said Jeff.

"You sound like a man who's broken a bone." Jeff smiled and nodded. "Well, I can't swear to it from personal experience, but those that can say a bone bruise hurts more than a complete fracture. And there's really no way to treat it except time and rest."

"We'll make sure he gets that," Jeff assured him. "Although," he added with a glance at Roscoe, "with Stu, it could be a challenge."

The doctor flipped through the notes he was carrying. "They're moving him to room 2107 now. You can see him any time." With a smile, he turned and went back to work.

"Jeff," Roscoe said in a stage whisper, pointing at the phone receiver hanging forgotten from Jeff's left hand.

"Oh, yeah," he said, startled, and put it up to his ear. "Suzanne? Honey? You there?" He paused. "Did you get Erskine? Good." He listened for a moment again. "He's dehydrated and has a bad bone bruise. They want to keep him here a few days just to make sure everything's okay. Yeah, what it boils down to is that he almost died of thirst fifteen feet away from a kitchen sink with running water. When the FBI finds the clowns who left him up there, I want a few minutes alone with them." He paused, listening, and smiled. "Doc says we can see him anytime. Lock up the office and come on down. Oh, and honey? Pick up my spare shaving kit and bring it along. He's got a six-days' growth of beard and if I know Stu, it's driving him nuts. Yeah, it's in the bottom left-hand desk drawer."

He hung up the phone and took what felt like the first deep, relaxed breath he'd taken in almost a week.

ooooo

Lew Erskine stood quietly just outside the open door to Stu Bailey's hospital room. Stu was in bed, propped up with pillows, freshly shaved and with almost all visible traces of his ordeal erased by twenty-four hours of rest and rehydration. As he talked and laughed with his friends, Lew studied the man's deeply tanned face, his expressions, his voice, his mannerisms. He was interrupted in his scrutiny when Jeff Spencer happened to glance toward the door and noticed him in the shadows.

"Erskine! Come on in!" Jeff went to the door and ushered the FBI agent in. "I thought you'd be on your way back to Washington by now."

"I should be." Lew admitted. "But I couldn't leave without meeting my double." He stopped a few feet from the bed and just stood, looking at Stu.

Stu studied Erskine's face with all the rapt attention that Lew had given his a moment before. The room fell silent as the two men took each others' measure. Stu's friends looked from one face to the other in amazement.

"It's eerie," Suzanne finally said. "Seeing you separately, I thought you were very much alike. But now, seeing you together...it is just like seeing double!"

"They told me about you, but I didn't quite believe it until now," Stu said. "Where are you from?"

"I grew up in New York," Lew answered. "You?"

"Connecticut."

"Family?"

"Had one," Stu replied with a crooked grin. Then he sobered. "My parents died years ago. They were quite old when I was born--my brother was fifteen years older than me."

"Was?" Lew asked. Stu nodded, but didn't elaborate.

"Guys," Jeff hissed at Suzanne, Roscoe and Kookie, inclining his head toward the door. They took the hint, and all rose.

"You don't have to leave," Stu said, not missing the byplay.

"We're just going for coffee," Jeff reassured him. "Give you two a chance to compare notes without an audience." Stu laughed softly, but didn't say anything else to stop them, and they filed out of the room with smiles and waves and promises to be back shortly.

"You have some very devoted friends," Lew commented with a smile.

"I do," Stu agreed. "They are my family, you could say. Since my parents and brother are gone..." His voice trailed off for a moment. "How about you?"

"I have a daughter," Lew said with a soft smile. Then his face grew grave. "Her mother was killed."

"That's rough," Stu said.

Lew nodded. "My parents are also dead. Oddly enough, they were rather past the age to have children when I was born as well."

"Adopted?" Stu asked.

"Not that they ever told me, although I sometimes wondered," Lew answered.

"What kid doesn't?" Stu grinned.

"Did you?" Lew asked quietly.

Stu took a deep breath before he answered. "Yes. I did. Maybe more than the average kid. But they never said anything, and by the time I was old enough to really wonder, they were no longer around to ask."

"Bailey. That's what, Scottish? Irish?"

Stu laughed. "Usually, yes. But my folks told me the family name was shortened to Bailey by a lazy government worker on Ellis Island. It was originally Balyostovya, but the clerk couldn't get beyond Bailey, so that's what he wrote down and that's what the family name became."

"So, Russian?"

"Russian. Mom and Dad used to speak it around the house, actually. Made it easier to learn when I got to Harvard..." Stu broke off at the look in Lew's eyes. "What?" he asked.

Lew laughed softly. "My parents spoke Russian." Stu stared at him, frowning. Lew sat down on the edge of the bed. "When's your birthday?"

After a long pause, Stu answered. "November 30th." Lew just stared at him, the lines between his eyebrows deepening. "You're not... You don't..." Stu couldn't quite get the words out, but Lew nodded anyway. They locked eyes for a moment, both equally stunned. Lew was the first to look away.

"This can't be a coincidence," Lew said, shaking his head. He looked back at Stu and held out his hand. Stu took it, not quite knowing why. Lew turned their clasped hands first one way, then the other, seeing first Stu's on top, then his own. They were a perfect match. He blew out a soft breath, and let go. "I can't explain it. Not for now. But I'll get back with you when I know more."

"I'll see what I can find out on my end, too," Stu said. He looked thoughtfully at the FBI man. "We're both investigators, after all. I'm private, you're public, is the only difference."

"Yet another similarity," Lew agreed.

Jeff poked his head in the door. "We brought you some coffee," he said, proffering two paper cups from the cafeteria.

"Thanks," Lew and Stu said in unison, then looked at each other, startled.

Stu laughed. "This is going to take some getting used to," he said as he took one of the cups from his partner's hand.

Lew accepted the other one, took a sip, and set it down on the end table. "I really do have to go. My plane will be leaving without me if I don't." He looked around the room and smiled at all of Stu's friends, who had returned with Jeff. Then he looked at his mirror image again. "I'm glad we met. Glad you got out of this in one piece. And I will be in touch." He strode toward the door, paused in the doorway, turned back to look at Stu one more time. "By the way, did anyone tell you that the Flagstaff police got a phone call last night telling them where to find you?"

"No," Stu replied, shaking his head. Then a grin slowly crept across his face and a merry light danced in his eyes. "George?"

"I can't imagine who else it could be," Lew affirmed. "The search has moved out to Arizona. We'll find them."

"When you do, take it easy on George. He's not such a bad little guy."

Lew gave Stu a long, steady, appraising look, then smiled. "I'll do what I can." Then he turned and headed for the airport.

Epilog--One Month Later

"Hey Frenchie. Anything for me?" Suzanne was going through the day's mail at the 77 Sunset Strip offices and Roscoe was kibbitzing.

"Not a thing," she said as she sorted the envelopes into Jeff and Stu's mailboxes. She looked twice at one, then buzzed Stu's office.

"Yes?" came his voice over the intercom.

"You have a letter from Inspector Erskine, Stu."

Stu was out of his office without even acknowledging the call. He took the envelope, ripped it open, and unfolded the contents. Suzanne politely looked away, but Roscoe openly peered around Stu's arm at the paper.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Russian," Stu said briefly, as he studied the photostat. Roscoe shrugged his shoulders and turned to Suzanne, but she was watching Stu intently. He frowned in concentration as he read the document. When he came to the end, he laid it gently on the counter, stared at it, and folded his arms, rubbing them as if to ward off a chill.

"Well? What does it say?" Roscoe couldn't stand the suspense.

Stu looked up at him as if he were coming back from a long ways away. "It's a letter to a...a courier, I think would be the best word. Instructions." He lapsed back into his thoughts.

"Stu!" Roscoe poked Stu in the upper arm and earned himself a frown. "Give!"

Stu took a long breath. "It says he is to take the babies..."

"Babies?" Suzanne interjected.

Stu nodded, then continued. "...take the babies to the United States and place them with loyal families."

"Loyal to who?" Roscoe asked.

"Whom," Stu corrected absently.

Roscoe rolled his eyes. "Alright, whom?" he asked with exaggerated emphasis.

"It doesn't say, which is logical since the courier would have understood without being told. But given the timing of the letter, and the fact that they were sending these babies out of the country for their own safety, I'd have to say the royal family."

"The Russian royal family?" Suzanne asked. Stu nodded. "But weren't they all killed by the Bolsheviks in the revolution? Let's see, that was in..." her voice trailed off as she tried to dredge up her school history lessons from memory.

"1918. The year I was born," he responded softly. "This letter is dated several months after the Czar and his family were executed."

"So, what's with the babies?" Roscoe asked. "Who were they?"

Stu looked at the paper again, then looked up, but his eyes were not focussed on anything or anyone in the office. "They were the illegitimate twin sons of Czar Nicholas II."

THE END