The unmistakable need to puke woke Steve from sleep. He was disoriented as he opened his eyes to total darkness and barely managed to roll onto his side before he threw up violently. He shivered as his body finally stopped heaving and somehow was able to push away from the mess. The smell was almost enough to make him heave again and he couldn't control the despairing thought that this was how he was going to end his days; shut in a dark, stinking tomb.

A spasm of pain shot across his shoulders and down his arms as his muscles started cramping. His hands were almost completely numb and even wriggling his fingers did little to dispel that sensation. He had some tingling of pins and needles, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

The cold seemed to have intensified. Steve wondered if that was just his imagination, or if it was because it was night time. He had no idea of the time. It had been early evening when Cord had captured him, but Steve had no idea how long he had been unconscious and no idea how long he had slept, if sleep it really was, and no idea of the amount of time that had passed in between those periods. From what he could tell, his watch had gone and he was pretty sure his wallet was also missing. Cord hadn't missed a trick. If his body was ever discovered here, it would take some time before his remains could be identified.

"Damn you, Leonard Cord!" Steve bellowed, his voice echoing back to him. It was a mistake to lose his temper. His headache, already unbearable, instantly got worse. He slumped in the corner he found himself in and willed sleep to come, but now that he wanted it, it was elusive. He tried to turn his thoughts away from his predicament, but found that it was impossible. His body screamed for his attention, telling him it was hurt and demanding that he do something about it. He couldn't. This was not a book, where the hero was able to 'ignore' his injuries and carry on fighting. This was reality, where being tied up was not vaguely glamorous, but was desperately uncomfortable to begin with and progressively more painful as the muscles protested being stuck in one position for hours and hours. A concussion could not be shaken off in just a day or so, or after a good night's sleep. Steve knew from past experience that a concussion could cause problems for weeks or months afterwards. The ropes around his wrists were not miraculously loosening and nobody was suddenly going to break down the door and rescue him. These were the facts of his life and he had to face up to them.

This was where he was going to die.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It really was amazing that even after facing up to the situation, Steve found himself trying, once more, to wriggle his wrists out of the ropes. He was no more successful than he had been at any other attempt and he could feel the skin was abraded and he suspected he was probably bleeding. The pain from his wrists was muted, drowned out by the numbness and the incessant pain in his head. The dripping of the water was driving him crazy. His mouth was as dry as a desert and he knew he had to be dehydrated from the vomiting. He was coughing now as well, and felt totally, thoroughly ill. He couldn't stop shivering and he was hopelessly dizzy. The walls that he could not see were spinning around him, increasing his feeling of nausea. It was hours since he had eaten, so there was nothing left to come up, but that wouldn't stop any dry heaving. Steve did not want to have to face that.

He was lying almost face down when he heard a sound. He had thought he was too exhausted to move, but adrenalin flooded his system as he feared that Cord was coming back. The thought that perhaps he had Jeannie and/or Mike was horrifying and somehow Steve found himself on his feet, braced against the wall, willing his unsteady legs to support him so he could attack the monster who was holding him prisoner.

There was no further sound for what seemed like several minutes, but could have been seconds or even hours for all Steve could tell. Then the key scraped in the lock of his door and he took a deep breath, coughing hard as he did so. He had to be ready! His life would depend on it. He forced his head up.

Light rushed into the room, striking him blind once more. The pain it induced in his head was agonising and Steve toppled to the floor, unable to bear it. The world seemed far away and he was only vaguely aware of hands on his body and he tried to wrench free unsuccessfully. As his body was brought upright, he thought he heard a voice calling his name. It sounded like Jeannie, but Steve was unable to open his eyes. He tumbled headlong into unconsciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

With nothing else to go on apart from instinct, they headed back to Golden Gate Park and Mike flashed his badge to get them let in. Midnight had come and gone and Mike realised that he was no longer officially a cop. He didn't let that stop him, though.

Fog was drifting eerily between the trees as they walked briskly towards the ruinous Murphy's Windmill on the south side of the park. It was an elegant building, originally constructed to pump water to supply the park. It was no longer in use and had fallen into disrepair. Mike had memories of his mother talking about the windmills working, but they had been ruined for as long as he could remember.

Finding an entrance was easier said than done in the muted light and fog. The flashlight that they had seemed to be on its last legs, wavering and flickering in a most disconcerting manner. Lessing had had the foresight to bring the flashlight; it hadn't occurred to anyone else. When they did find the entrance, hiding behind a rather large, prickly bush, they found that the padlock key they had didn't fit the lock. The growth of the prickly bush, the lack of any broken leaves and no footprints on the ground suggested this was not the correct windmill.

With hopes partly dashed and yet new hopes rising that Steve might actually be in the other windmill, they trekked across the park, using only the sparse public lighting to save the dying flashlight. Jeannie was silent, hugging her arms around her body, keeping her head down. Penny, walking beside her, felt her heart go out to the older woman. Tales of Steve and Mike's partnership were legendary in the department. Penny had never known Steve; the only partner Mike had had during her period in the police was Dan Robbins, but Penny knew that everyone who had ever worked with Steve held him in a special place in their hearts. Steve and Jeannie's love story was also a legend, as was the shot that ended Steve's police career and almost his life.

It seemed to take forever before they found the other windmill. Its four sails were mostly lost in the fog and again they had difficulty finding the entrance. Mike stiffened as Lessing's light caught the shiny new padlock in the rusting iron catch. Jeannie's breath caught in her throat and Penny stepped closer as Mike tried the key in the padlock. There was a collective sigh as it opened.

Dank, damp air, smelling of mildew and rust met them, but it wasn't stale, telling the cops at least that the place had been opened recently. Mike and Lessing stepped forward and Lenny glanced uneasily around them. He worked in a nice, safe, warm office. He almost wished he had stayed behind. This working in the dark and the cold was not for him. He glanced at Jeannie to see how she was holding up, but her face was in shadow.

Inside the door, they found a jury-rigged light switch. Lessing gingerly activated it and the lights slowly came on. It didn't look safe, but it was better than the flashlight and Lessing returned the increasingly useless implement to his pocket. Since Steve had been gagged in the pictures, Mike didn't call out for him. They had no idea where Steve might be or what the layout was inside the windmill.

As he and the girls entered the building properly, Lenny realised that the corridor they were in did not curve around the building as he had expected it would. Instead, it ran straight from one side to the other, where it turned a corner and disappeared from view. It was longer than Lenny had thought it would be, but then the windmills had been much bigger than the pictures he had seen of them had led him to believe.

It was incredibly cold inside. It hadn't been warm outside, but the inside temperature was at least 10 degrees lower, if not more. The whole place felt damp, which was hardly surprising since the windmill had been used for pumping water. There was a constant dripping sound from somewhere.

"Mike." Lessing's voice was hushed and Lenny looked to where the detective was pointing. Another door was set into the wall. The ornate door handle seemed out of place in the utilitarian building and the brass was shiny. Mike produced the big old key from his pocket and glanced quickly at Jeannie before placing it in the lock. The key clanged noisily as it went in and they all braced themselves for the lock to make a squealing noise, but it turned noiselessly and smoothly. With his heart in his mouth, Mike turned the handle and opened the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The stench that emanated from the small, dark room was unmistakable. Steve's battered figure was visible in the light spilling in from the door. He was on his feet, but leaning heavily on the wall. As the light hit him, he collapsed onto the floor and Jeannie cried out his name, pushing past both Mike and Lessing to kneel at her husband's side. She tried to lift him from the floor, but he was a dead weight; unconscious. "Steve!"

"We need to get him out of here," Lenny said, trying to maintain a façade of calm for Jeannie's sake.

"Cut him free first," Mike ordered, looking at Steve's swollen, discoloured hands. He fumbled in his pockets for a knife, but came up empty. Neither Lessing nor Lenny had one either. "Never mind. Lee; help me." Mike took Steve's shoulders and Lessing took his legs and with Jeannie anxiously watching, they carried the unconscious man from the building.

Outside, they laid Steve carefully on the grass. Lessing ran to summon help. Lenny had stayed behind for a moment to survey the tiny room where Steve had been kept. There was nothing in there to help them, but as he left, he spotted a broken, rusty knife lying on the ground. It wasn't really sharp, but it was the only thing they had and he took it outside with them. "Will this help?" he asked.

Giving the implement a quick once-over, Mike nodded. "Thanks," he grunted and gently turned Steve onto his side. Jeannie was cradling her husband's head in her lap and as Mike sawed at the rope binding his hands, she untied the gag which still hung around his neck. Steve didn't move. The back of his shirt was caked in blood and his hair was matted with it. One cheek was scraped raw. His breathing was harsh.

The rusty knife blade worked and the rope strands parted. Steve's arms fell into a more natural position and they could all see the bloody abrasions on his wrists. Steve let out a cry of pain and his eyes opened.

"Easy, easy," Mike soothed, as Jeannie whispered reassurances into his ears.

Agonising pain rushed down Steve's arms into his hands as the circulation, so long impeded by the ropes, got going again. Steve squinted around him, and blinked fiercely. "Jeannie?" he croaked disbelievingly.

"It's me, darling," Jeannie smiled through her tears. "You're safe now."

"No," Steve objected, struggling to rise. His arms refused to hold his weight and he slumped back against Jeannie as she gently tried to restrain him. "Cord! Jeannie, it's not safe! Cord is out there. He said…" Steve broke off into a hacking cough.

"We've got Cord, buddy boy," Mike assured him gruffly. Tears were standing in his eyes; he hated to see Steve in such a bad condition. "You're safe now. We're all safe now."

Too weak to struggle on, Steve slowly relaxed against Jeannie. "Safe?" he gasped, once he got his coughing under control. He shivered violently and swiftly found himself the recipient of several coats and jackets.

"Yes, safe," Mike replied firmly. He blinked back the tears. "We'll get you to a hospital." He glanced over at Jeannie when Steve didn't object. Jeannie was looking back at him, tears streaking her face and her expression worried. She hid her face and planted a gentle kiss on Steve's forehead.

"Jeannie," Steve sighed, his eyes once more tightly closed. "Love you."

"I love you, too, buster and don't you forget it," she reminded him.

"Didn't mean… to worry you," Steve told her. He was battling the pain, both from the incessant headache and the pins and needles in his hands. His arms hung limply by his side, refusing to take orders from his brain for the moment. Or was it his brain that was too muddled to send out the orders? He simply didn't know. He longed to pass out again, but was dimly aware that he needed to stay awake for Jeannie, so he fought to stay conscious.

"I can hear sirens," Penny said.

"Good," Mike replied. He never took his eyes off his injured son-in-law.

It was a matter of only a few minutes before the ambulance arrived, with Lessing directing them from the cab. Paramedics jumped out and quickly assessed Steve before starting an IV and loading him gently onto a stretcher. "I'm his wife," Jeannie declared.

"You can come with us," the paramedic replied. "We're taking him to the General Hospital."

"We'll be right behind you, sweetheart," Mike assured Jeannie as she climbed into the ambulance. It pulled away the moment the doors were shut. "Let's go," Mike instructed the others.