A later part of this chapter might, very briefly, qualify for an M rating. You'll see worse on primetime network TV (with the exception of a single word). Don't really think it's enough to bump the story's rating up, but readers be forewarned.

Baloo walked into the office the next morning, better than an hour early. He had spent last night on the roof of his building, staring up at the sky, sipping icy dark beer, and trying to absorb and process everything that had happened in the last week. Throughout the night, even long after he finished the six-pack, sleep remained far from his mind. But the hours were productive nonetheless.

He was still angry, still hurt, but he had come to an understanding, come to terms with the situation. Now all he needed was time for the wounds to heal.

He noticed Becky right away. It was not at all unusual for her to be here this early. She was at her desk, head in her hands and obviously not yet aware of him. He cleared his throat as he closed the door softly behind him and she looked up, startled.

"Oh, good morning, Baloo."

Her voice was shaky, as though she had been crying.

"Morning, Becky."

"So I exist today?" The question wasn't sarcastic. It had been phrased with a note of hopeful sorrow. Baloo gave her a small smile.

"Yeah. Yeah ya do, Beckers."

She returned the smile. Tears glimmered in her eyes. "That's good. I like existence."

"I'm pretty fond of it myself. I uh…I've got that run to Decatur today, but then I'd like to take the Duck for the rest of the afternoon. If you don't mind."

"That'd be fine."

"Kit and I loaded her up last night. He's going over the manifest now, and then we're gonna go ahead and get out. Supposed to be some weather that way later on, I want to beat it out."

"Good idea. I'll…I'll see you when you get back?"

He nodded. "Look, Rebecca…"

He paused. He thought he'd worked this out last night, but now he was finding it difficult to know where to begin. So he decided to start with that.

"It took a lot 'a guts to speak to me like you did yesterday. There's something I want to tell you, and I'm having trouble deciding how to say it. So I guess I can kinda see how it musta been for ya.

"See…there was this girl…back in high school. Heidi, her name was. Real looker, too. Guess that's why I could never approach her. But then we ended up having a couple of classes together. And we got to be real good friends. And I fell head over heels for her. But I never told her. I was worried…I…I didn't want to risk the friendship. But then she moved away. And that's when I told her. I figured there wasn't gonna be much of a friendship anymore, so..." He shrugged.

"Anyway, long story short, she moved back about a year later. And we started trying to rekindle things. Easy for me, I mean my feelings hadn't changed none. But she was easing into it. And it started to work, started to heat up. I was startin' to think about happily ever afters. We were right there, about to take that step. Become a couple.

"And then she got killed. Drunk driver ran her off the road. Kinda soured me on the whole idea of relationships after that. Guess that's why I've always been sorta a loner, at least 'til I met Kit and you and Molly. I sure do miss that girl. Even today, sometimes I find myself thinkin' 'bout her. So I guess I know a little bit how you felt about your husband."

Becky remained silent. It was completely out of character for her to listen to him speak at such length and not say a single word. Of course, he couldn't recall ever having had the need to speak at such length. Regardless, he took it as a sign of how humbled she was by her outburst.

"Now had we got married, and been together for a few years before that happened, would I have felt guilty about the other night? I don't know. I mean, that's not one you can truthfully answer any kinda way unless you've had the experience. But I don't think so. And even if I had, I don't think I woulda reacted the way you did, or said the things you did. I was hurt, and angry, and I still am."

"Baloo, I am so, so sorry."

"I know you are. And I accept your apology. And I forgive you. I mean, we're all flawed, we all make mistakes, we all say things in the heat of a moment we wish we could take back later. And I want you to know, things'll be okay again. I want them to be. But ya can't just flip a switch and make those feelings go away. It's just gonna take me a little time, you know?"

"Well then, consider yourself on paid leave for however long you need."

"I appreciate that." He gazed at her for a few moments, silence stretching out uncomfortably between them. "I uh…I guess I better go."

"Okay."

He walked towards the door and opened it as softly as he had closed it. As he was leaving, he heard Becky's voice again.

"Baloo…I…I…"

He looked her in the eyes and gave her a small smile. "I love you too, Becky."

Then he was gone.

"Sea Duck, departure, clear of the class Charlie airspace, radar service terminated. Squawk VFR, frequency change approved, have a good day."

"Squawk one two zero zero, see y'all later."

Baloo sighed and put the mike down, then unfastened his seat belt.

"All yours, Kit."

He vacated the left seat and Kit moved over. He was becoming quite an accomplished pilot under Baloo's tutelage. Though he lacked the raw talent of his teacher, he made most of it up with brains and savvy. He was still a long way from a commercial multi-engine rating, but as much as they flew, he would cover that distance at a relatively swift pace.

He ducked into the hold and retrieved a soft drink from the large cooler that was primarily stocked with a much harder selection for later, then returned to the cockpit and lounged in the right seat.

Decatur Island, being so close, was a regular stop for them, and although it would have been faster to fly a straight-line course over the ocean, Baloo preferred to navigate visually and hop island to island, avoiding controlled airspace. Becky would likely not appreciate the extra time and expense, which was probably why he always failed to mention that the only times they ever went direct were if she was on board, or it was IMC. Regardless, Kit was flying the zigzag course expertly and Baloo only had to watch.

They landed uneventfully and as Kit eased the plane towards the dock, he turned the bottle up to drain the last dregs, and nearly choked when he gasped and inhaled instead of swallowed. His resultant coughing fit distracted Kit enough that he came into the sloop too quickly and the Duck threw them both forward as she crashed to a stop.

"What is it, Baloo?"

Still attempting to catch his breath, he could only point out the window. That not being enough, Kit waited patiently until Baloo could speak.

"That plane!" he exclaimed, pointing again, bolting out of the cockpit. Kit followed right behind him.

"Which one?"

Baloo didn't answer. He rushed up the docks and across the road to the land base side of the Decatur airfield, making a beeline for the airplane in question.

It was almost certainly the only bright lime green PT-17 in existence. And even from a distance, the unmistakable Felix the Cat insignia of VF-3 was readily apparent under the front cockpit windshield. That meant it just had to be the airplane Baloo thought it was. After rushing all the way over, he approached it slowly, in awe. He placed his hand lovingly on the lower wing and ran it, caressing the doped fabric, along the wing and then the fuselage as he approached the tail. Mouth agape, he touched the registration number on the vertical stabilizer: NX65038.

"What is it, Papa Bear?"

"Kit…this is the airplane I learned how to fly in. Belonged to an old Vet, went by the name Bogus Charlie. Flew Wildcats and later on Corsairs off carriers during the war." He laughed softly and said the name again. "That cranky old codger is the man that taught me how to fly, and this is the plane he used to teach me."

Kit also caressed the airplane, now in awe himself, grinning ear to ear.

"I thought it'd been destroyed years ago. Heard ol' Charlie tangled it in some power lines barnstormin' a farm that just had electricity run to it."

He walked around the airplane, marvelling.

"It looks brand new! Heck, it didn't look this good when I was flying it and that was better than 25 years ago!"

An angry voice rose from behind them. "Hey! Get your grubby mitts off of my plane!"

They spun, startled, to see one of the Decatur Aerodrome's rampies grinning at them. "I'm sorry, guys, I just couldn't resist," he said.

"Josh, I sure am glad you're working as a rampie," Baloo said.

"Why is that?"

"Because you wouldn't make much of a living as a comedian," Kit finished.

"Oh yeah, and you guys are such a riot."

He shook their hands and gestured at the old Stearman. "This one catch your eye?"

"Sure did. I actually learned to fly in this airplane. You don't know who owns it do ya?"

"I just do happen to possess that information."

"Old fella? Calls himself Bogus Charlie?"

"Afraid I've never heard that name. No, owner of this beauty runs First State Bank, over on the corner of 2nd and Monroe. Name's Sam Beckett."

"Well, we're just gonna have to go on over there and have a chat with him."

"Uh…I don't think you wanna do that."

"Well I'm gonna track that guy down if it's the last thing I do."

"Yeah, but see, the thing is-."

"Oh, don't worry about old Baloo. I can handle anything he might throw at me."

Josh laughed and shook his head. "All right. Have it your way. But don't say I didn't try to warn you."

"Oh, don't worry about that. Hey, thanks for the info, Josh."

"No problem, Baloo."

Being highly motivated, it didn't take Baloo and Kit long to get the cargo unloaded, and they headed straight for the bank. It was a small limestone structure, the north and east face of the building running along Second Avenue and Monroe Street, respectively, with the entrance centered exactly in the Northeast corner. They entered onto marble flooring and looked up to high skylighted ceilings. Despite the fact the island had been inhabited for only about 70 years, the building seemed ancient.

Almost immediately they were approached by a steward who asked how he could help them.

"Could you tell me where I might find Sam Beckett?"

The steward pointed to a trim woman of no more than twenty-five. She had neatly coifed red hair, and was wearing an immaculately tailored suit of grey ¾ length skirt, grey jacket and white blouse the exact same shade as her fur. She was standing next to a desk as though waiting for someone, perhaps Mr. Beckett. Baloo approached her and cleared his throat softly. She turned.

"Yes?"

"I was wonderin' if you could help me. I'm lookin' for a Mr. Beckett. Sam Beckett."

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"And you are?"

"Uh, name's Baloo, ma'am. Is he in?"

"There's no Mr. Beckett who works here," she said, perhaps a bit more coolly than was necessary.

"Well I was assured there was and I really need to see him."

"Well then whoever assured you was grossly misinformed." Her tone was definitely standoffish, and her gaze was absolutely frigid. Baloo had noticed and wasn't responding favorably. Kit, however had lowered his head and covered his mouth. Baloo didn't notice, but the woman did.

"Look lady, I was told the owner of this here bank-."

"I'm the owner of this here bank," she snapped.

This stopped Baloo in his tracks.

"Now wait just a cotton-pickin' minute. They told me there was a guy here-."

"Well then who are they? Because they were wrong."

Baloo stammered for a moment. "You're telling me there's no Sam Beckett here?"

"That's not what I said."

Baloo stared at her blankly.

"I'm Samantha Beckett, the owner of First State Bank of Decatur. Is there something I can do for you? Mr. Baloo?"

Kit was now laughing through his hand. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "I'm laughing at him, not at you."

Her icy demeanor cracked a bit as Baloo looked from her to Kit and back again, utterly confused.

"Give us a moment, would you, Baloo?"

Without waiting for permission, Kit pulled the slightly older woman aside. She was tall, nearly tall as he was. She was perfectly proportioned and he was having to make an effort to keep his eyes from straying away from hers, despite their being a mesmerizingly brilliant green.

"I'm sorry, Miss Beckett. He doesn't mean anything by his attitude. He's just confused. Trust me, there's not a sexist bone in his whole body. In fact, our boss is a woman, and we've been working for her for going on eight years now."

Her eyebrows raised. "You don't look that old."

"Twenty in a few months. I started navigating part time for Higher for Hire when I was twelve. Went full time when I graduated last year. I'm rated for Single Engine Sea and Land, working on my instrument, then on to multi and commercial."

"You work for Higher for Hire? Rebecca Cunningham's outfit?"

"One and the same. Thought you might be at least familiar with her. But seriously, Baloo's just excited. I'll let him explain, I don't want to spoil it for him. But he rushed over here just with the name Sam. A perfectly honest mistake. If he'd been told Samantha, you wouldn't have felt slighted at all." He gave her his most forthright stare, which he'd used to his advantage against more than a few pretty faces before. "Trust me."

She regarded him skeptically for a moment, but then smiled. "Okay."

He took her hand, ostensibly to guide her back towards Baloo, but he admitted to getting a small thrill from it. He gave Baloo a look he'd used on him on many occasions. It said to erase whatever had just happened and start over. Baloo had become adept at recognizing the look and following its instructions.

"Baloo, this is Miss Samantha Beckett. She's the person you're looking for."

He stuck out his hand. "I'm sorry about all that, Miss Beckett. I just had some bad information, that's all."

"And I apologize for getting testy with you. A weakness of mine, I'm afraid. What can I do for you?"

"I was wonderin' how you came to own that old Stearman."

"Found it in pieces in a barn about two years ago. Always wanted one and there aren't a whole lot of them around anymore. So I had it restored. Don't know much about it, but it looked very unique, so I kept it the way I found it. It's been in the air just over a week now."

"Well, I can tell you plenty about it. 'Cause that's the airplane I learned how to fly in, and I'd give my two left feet to fly it again."

This definitely got her attention. "Really? Then perhaps-."

They were interrupted by a staccato burst of gunfire. Screams followed close behind.

"Everyone down on the ground! Right now!"

A short man in a black jumpsuit and ski mask, brandishing a Thompson Sub-machine gun sporting the fifty round drum magazine, and wearing a Colt .45 strapped to his right hip, instantly had everyone's attention. He was completely covered up, the only exception being the black tufted ears of a lynx sticking out of the top of the ski mask. He was pushing people down as he made his way towards the counter as the rest fell on their own. Kit pushed Sam down and dove on top of her just as the robber fired another wild burst that would have cut them in two. A short woman in her thirties was the last one still on her feet, standing in the middle of the room, too terrified to move. A man was on the ground beside her tugging on her arm, trying to get her down.

"What, bitch, you think you're special or somethin'?" The gunman asked. Without waiting for a response, he fired a burst into her chest from point blank range. "You're not."

Screams rose again as she dropped like a wet burlap sack, and at least one other patron was struck by one or more of the bullets that passed through the woman's now lifeless body.

"Cindy!" the man beside her screamed. "Oh, God, Cindy, no!"

"Shut up!" the gunman shouted at him. "Everybody shut up! Obviously, I'm dead fucking serious here, so do exactly as I say or you'll end up looking like her." He took off a large paperboy's bag he was wearing opposite the hip from the Colt and tossed it to the nearest teller.

"You've got ninety seconds to have that full." He leveled the Thompson at her. "I don't advise you run late."

He began to stalk around the perimeter of the room, gun at waist level, as though waiting for anyone to give him a reason to pull the trigger. As he approached them, Kit glanced over at Baloo and his heart froze momentarily. He could tell by the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the tension in his muscles that he was primed to strike, and utterly determined to act. It was a look he knew well, and as such he knew even with a half-hour to try, he would not be able to talk him out of it, and right now he didn't even have a half-second. All he could do was be ready and hope.

Sure enough, as soon as the crook passed them, Baloo was on his feet, surprisingly fast for as big as he was. The gunman sensed him right away and brought the Chicago Typewriter to bear. Baloo's jackhammer right cross struck jawbone with an audible crunch, and gunman and gun flew in opposite directions.

Kit was up and diving for the Tommy Gun as Baloo pressed the attack. But even as he fell, the crook was grasping at his sidearm. He landed on his back and as Baloo towered over him he fired several shots at point blank range. Kit was on his feet as Baloo howled in pain and fell.

"Drop it!" Kit shouted, pointing the machine gun at the crook, who was facing away from him. The murderer's only response was to attempt to bring the pistol around and Kit squeezed the trigger, sending bullets to man, and man to hell. He threw the weapon down as a shocked silence filled the room and slid to his knees beside Baloo, who was slowly sitting up. He was attempting to staunch the flow of blood from a deep gash in his left shoulder.

"Baloo!"

He groaned. "I'm okay, Little Britches. Just grazed me. Musta rung his bell pretty good, I could swear that thing was pointed right in my face."

Sam was suddenly beside them.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, have you got some bandages?"

"Yes." She hurried off.

The deathly silence was slowly fading. Sobs from a woman who had been hit by the .45 caliber rounds passing through the first victim. Murmured voices. Sirens in the distance. But most prominently a low, keening wail from the husband, cradling his dead wife in his lap. Baloo's eyes were fixed on that sight, and he could not look away.

It took about three hours for things at the bank to return to normal. Statements were taken. Crime scene photos were taken. The Thompson, Colt, and expended casings were bagged as evidence. The bodies were removed. The injured customer was taken away in an ambulance. Baloo's arm was bandaged by paramedics, but he refused to be taken to a hospital. Kit was assured by several police officers that shooting the criminal was clearly an act of self-defense and he would not be charged in any way. Finally, they were allowed to leave. Sam walked with them the three blocks to where the Sea Duck was moored. Nothing was said until they were ready to board.

"Baloo, Kit, I can't thank you enough. You were both heroes today."

"Aw, think nothin' of it, Miss Beckett," Baloo responded. He clearly meant it, but his gaze was miles away.

"Call me Sam. And I'm afraid I can't do that. You come back anytime and we'll get that Stearman in the air."

This coaxed a small smile from Baloo. "We'll do that."

She hugged him like an old friend. The incident at the bank had instantly made them close. She also hugged Kit, but held him longer and added a quick kiss on the cheek.

"My personal hero," she whispered in his ear.

She broke the embrace, but continued to hold him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"I can see you're struggling with this. And you're right to. Any good man would. It's not an easy thing to take a life, even when you're justified in doing it. But remember, it was the right thing to do. Evil must always be resisted. And it's entirely possible that once he got what he wanted, he would have killed everyone in there. You're a hero, Kit. A hero."

He nodded in response and she hugged him again.

"See you guys next time. Don't be long."

She turned and walked away without looking back.

A quick note: Heidi's story is, unfortunately, quite true. Slightly modified to better fit the circumstances, but true. I use it here as a small tribute. HMS 7.6.1981 - 11.9.2000...I miss ya, girl.