"They both wore gas masks," Alex repeated.

A uniformed police officer came up and interrupted them. "The cash register hasn't been touched, Lieutenant Foster."

"I told you, this wasn't a robbery. It was a kidnapping, a premeditated kidnapping," Alex insisted. "Why should they bother with a couple of hundred dollars when they can get a million for Dr. McKay?"

"A million?" the police lieutenant repeated.

"Maybe several million. This is Dr. Simon McKay. The Wizard."

"The Wizard? My kids have some of his toys," the policeman said. The nametag on his uniform said Mullins.

"Before he became a toymaker, he was a weapons analyst for the Pentagon. His brain is chockful of classified information. Our government would pay a fortune for his safe return. Other governments would pay as much or more to know what he knows."

"And the other midget?" Lt. Foster asked.

"Little Person," Alex corrected automatically. "Collateral damage - just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"And his name was Rollo?"

Alex nodded. "He never gave me his last name. He introduced himself as 'the Mighty Rollo.' He works at the circus at Trolley Park." He stopped and concentrated a moment, trying to remember the circus' official name. Max Malini's Fantastic Oddities and Amazements, or something like that.

Lt. Foster looked at his cellphone, studying the picture Alex had downloaded to his phone. "That explains the outfit."

"He wasn't dressed like that at dinner, except for the earrings. Blue jeans, blue and white striped shirt, black leather jacket. Dr. McKay was wearing brown pants and a cream-colored shirt. He had a brown checked jacket. Tweed."

The plain-clothes detective jotted the description down in his notebook. "This is one for the freak files, all right. A restaurant gassed, two midgets kidnapped."

Before Alex could explain that Rollo and Simon were both dwarves, not midgets, and that the correct term was Little People, Officer Mullins spoke up.

"The only thing that could make this case any weirder was if the Cape was involved."

"The Cape?" Alex repeated.

"Urban folklore," Lt. Foster said coldly.

Simultaneously, Mullins announced enthusiastically, "Vigilante - read too many comic books - he thinks he's Batman."

"Urban folklore," Lt. Foster repeated the police department's office story. He gave Mullins a dirty look.

Alex glanced from Foster to Mullins, sure he was missing something. "I've already contacted Washington. Since the CIC is responsible for Dr. McKay's safety, they want me to coordinate with the local FBI office."

Foster shook his head. "Palm City doesn't have an FBI office. The nearest one is in L. A."

"A town this size? But kidnapping is a federal crime," Alex protested.

"Palm City has the first fully privatized police force in the country. We can handle it without the feds' help." The look Foster gave Alex made it clear that included the CIC as well as the FBI.

"I'll see your one million and raise you two million." Rollo was glad they were playing for imaginary money. He'd always considered himself a good poker player, but Simon played like he was one of the Maverick brothers.

Simon sat on one end of the cot. Rollo sat on the other, with the cards between them. "I think you're bluffing," he began. "I'll -" He turned his head as he heard the door unlock.

The door opened. Katanga stood there, Lopez and Jenkyns behind him. Lopez had a gun. Jenkyns had the cattle prod. Katanga held two pairs of handcuffs.

"On your feet, gentlemen," Katanga ordered. Laying down their cards, they obeyed silently. "Hands on your heads, please."

Simon and Rollo exchanged a quick glance. This was not the right time for an escape attempt. Rollo looked at the cattle prod, then slowly raised his hands and placed them on his head. Simon glared angrily at Katanga.

"Dr. McKay, you do remember what happens to Mr. Jones if you are uncooperative, don't you?"

Simon put his hands on his head.

"Kneel."

Rollo and Simon sank to their knees. Katanga pulled Rollo's hands off his head and cuffed his arms together behind his back. Then he did the same to Simon. He stepped in front of them and gestured to them to rise. Simon scrambled awkwardly to his feet. Rollo rose with the grace of a professional athlete and performer.

"Come with me, please." Katanga led the way out of the cell. Lopez gestured with the pistol for them to follow. Rollo gave Jenkyns and the cattle prod a final glance, then he followed Katanga out of the room. Simon followed him.

They were led down a short corridor to another, larger room. It was empty except for a video camera on a tripod, a card table, and a single chair. Lopez pushed Rollo down into the chair. After handing his pistol to Jenkyns, he unlocked Rollo's handcuffs. He then re-handcuffed him to the arms of the chair.

"You want me to get his feet, too, so he doesn't kick?" Lopez asked.

"That might be wise," Katanga agreed.

Lopez had more handcuffs in his pocket. A moment later, Rollo's ankles were manacled to the legs of the chair. Rollo glared at him, but kept his mouth shut. His arm still hurt; he didn't want another jolt.

"Stand over there, Doctor." Katanga pointed to the far end of the room.

Lopez followed Simon as he walked up to the wall. Without a word, Lopez unlocked the handcuffs and removed them. Simon rubbed his wrists gently as Lopez walked back to the card table. He picked up a newspaper and walked back to Simon. "Hold this."

Simon glanced down at the paper. It was that morning's Los Angeles Herald.

"Hold up the newspaper so the headline shows," Katanga directed.

Simon took a deep breath. It was a kidnapper's trick, to show that the hostage was alive on a particular date. He adjusted the newspaper.

Katanga took a large cardboard sign and propped it up in front of the tripod. "Look into the camera and read this."

Simon read the sign silently. "I won't read that. It sounds like I'm doing this voluntarily."

Katanga nodded at Lopez. Lopez removed a switchblade from his pocket and pressed the button. An evil-looking blade popped out. "Really, Dr. McKay, is your pride worth Mr. Jones' thumb?"

Simon closed his eyes. He thought quickly. "All right, you win." He started to drop the newspaper, then grabbed it before it could fall to the floor. The left side of the paper he held with his thumb behind the paper and his index and middle fingers in front. The right side of the paper he clasped between his thumb and ring finger. His index and middle fingers were in front of the paper. He started to read aloud in a deadpan voice.

"My name is Dr. Simon McKay. I am an inventor and weapons designer." He crossed his right index and middle fingers. "My services are for sale to the highest bidder. The bidding starts at one million dollars." He let his fingers slide apart and grasped the newspaper with them.

"It's good you never attempted a career in Hollywood, Dr. McKay. You lack the necessary enthusiasm," Katanga chided. He replayed the videotape, watching it carefully.

"Boss, did you see that?" Jenkyns asked.

"What?"

They watched the snippet of videotape again. "He crossed his fingers," Jenkyns pointed out.

"Really, Doctor, such juvenile tricks? I thought better of you." Katanga turned to Lopez. "Relieve Mr. Jones of his thumb."

"Right or left?" Lopez asked.

"Either."

"No!" Simon and Rollo shouted in unison. Rollo tried to struggle, but four pairs of handcuffs held him fast to the chair.

Lopez put his left hand on the back of Rollo's right hand, pinning him down.

"No, please," Simon begged. "I'll do it again. I'll do it the way you want it."

Lopez lay the knife blade on the top of Rollo's thumb. He looked up at Katanga, waiting for further instructions. "Teach him a lesson or second chance, Boss?"

"Please," Simon repeated. "No games, no tricks. Let me film it again."

Lopez put the least little bit of pressure on the knife, just barely breaking the skin.

"Don't," Simon pleaded. "I'll cooperate. I give you my word."

"Mr. Lopez, move your knife to Mr. Jones' first two fingers. Since Dr. McKay is willing to give us his word, we will give him a second chance. But if he tries anything foolish, cut off the same two fingers that he crossed."

"Right, Boss."

Simon couldn't manage enthusiasm under the circumstances, but he read the placard again. "My name is Dr. Simon McKay. I am an inventor and weapons designer. My services are for sale to the highest bidder. The bidding starts at one million dollars."

Katanga turned off the camera. "Much better. Is there going to be any more foolishness?"

Simon shook his head.

"Take them back to their cell. I'll post this on the Internet."

Lopez pressed down on the knife just enough to draw blood. Rollo bit his lip to keep from crying out. Lopez turned to face Simon. "Just a reminder, Shorty. The boss doesn't like games. Got it?"

Simon nodded.

"What about you, Baldy?"

"Got it," Rollo muttered.

The circus grounds were dark. They were quiet. The only sounds were the wind rustling, blowing bits of litter across the ground, soft animal sounds, indistinct but vaguely bestial, and the echo of Alex's own footsteps.

"Hello! Is anyone here?"

There was no answer.

Alex walked further into the grounds, near the trailers where the performers lived. "Hello!"

"Go away. We're closed."

He headed toward the sound of the voice.

Simon plopped down on the cot. He buried his face in his hands.

Rollo went over to the sink and ran cold water over his hands. He grabbed a paper towel and gently patted his hand dry. Then he took a second paper towel, folded it over several times, and wrapped it around his thumb. "The crossed fingers were a good idea, Doc. Just too bad it didn't work."

"I almost cost you your thumb."

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." Rollo tried to keep his voice upbeat, so Simon wouldn't know how much his hand hurt. "I've gotten scraped up worse than this when we're on the road, helping set up the tents."

Simon did not reply.

Rollo thought of Orwell. "I've got a friend who's pretty good with the Internet. Once they post that video on-line, she'll be able to track it."

Simon shook his head. "They'll route it and reroute it through a dozen different servers in a dozen different countries, bouncing it from one IP to another until it's impossible to track.

Rollo thought of Orwell; a half-smile escaped his lips. Yogi was smarter than the average bear. Orwell was smarter than the average hacker. And prettier, too.

Neither said anything for several minutes.

Finally, Simon broke the awkward silence. "While we're waiting to be rescued, I'll stall as much as I can. I'll cooperate with them to keep you from getting hurt. Alex is a CIC agent. He's very good at his job. I trust him completely. I'm sure he'll find us and get us out of here."

"I hear a 'comma, but' there," Rollo said.

"If - if Alex isn't able to rescue us ... If I'm sold to the North Koreans or the Syrians ... I won't make weapons again. I can't. If it's a choice between hundreds of thousands dying or two dying," he exhaled heavily. "I - I'm sorry, Rollo."

Rollo didn't say anything. In the abstract, he could understand what Simon was saying. Do the math, and there was only one possible choice. Just like Star Trek: the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. But he couldn't tell Simon it was all right - not when he was the one who was going to be tortured and eventually killed. Rollo reached under his shirt and pulled out his cross necklace. He raised the cross to his lips, kissed it, and prayed that either the Cape or Alex would find them in time.

Max Malini moved his bishop forward. "You run around rooftops at night, you fight Chess and Scales and the Lich, but you're afraid of a harmless elephant." He shook his head and tsked disapprovingly.

"Harmless? That beast is out to get me," Vince Faraday protested. He was a tall, muscular man with brown hair and blue eyes.

"Primrose is a pussy cat." Max picked up his wine glass and took a sip.

"A seven-thousand pound pussy cat," Vince retorted. He moved his knight. He raised his wine glass to his lips and drank.

"Pansy, Primrose, and Petunia," Max named the three elephants, "are old ladies. Sweet and gentle. This is a semi-retirement for them."

"Well, that old lady's bucket list includes smushing me to death."

"Vince, Vince," Max chided gently. He swirled the wine in his glass before taking another sip.

An unfamiliar voice came from outside Max's trailer. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

"Who'd be coming 'round at this hour?" Vince asked.

"Hello!" They heard the voice call again.

"Get back." Max gestured to the back of the trailer. He went to the door and opened it. "Go away. We're closed.

A figure of a man headed toward him.

"We're closed," Max repeated.

"I need to talk to you about Rollo." The man came closer.

"He's not here. Come back tomorrow, during business hours." Max started to close the door.

"I know he's not here. I take it the police haven't been here yet?"

"The police? Why would the police come?" Max fibbed, "We are honest entertainers. A jealous husband might come after Rollo, but not the constabulary."

"I've got some bad news for you." The dark-haired stranger reached into his pocket, pulled out his ID, and displayed it. "Alex Jagger. Federal agent. I'm sorry to tell you Rollo's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?!"

A few seconds later, Alex was seated in Max's trailer. Max poured a third glass of wine and offered it to him. Alex held up a hand to refuse it.

Vince examined Alex's ID. "CIC? Aren't you out of your jurisdiction?"

"What happened?" Max asked before Alex could answer Vince's question.

"I'm Simon McKay's bodyguard. He knew Rollo; they went to dinner together."

"The Little Person whose cap Rollo borrowed?" Max asked.

Alex nodded.

Vince thought a moment. Simon McKay: the name was familiar. "Simon McKay. The Wizard?"

Alex nodded again. "Simon and Rollo were eating dinner. They knew each other from a Little People's convention. They were almost done eating when two men came in wearing gas masks. They fired a gas grenade. When I came to, an hour later, Simon and Rollo were gone. The cash register hadn't been touched. Neither had anyone's wallets. I'm assuming that Si- that Dr. McKay was the target and that Rollo was collateral damage. But I need to rule out all possibilities. Is there any chance that Rollo could have been the target?"

Max shook his head. "Rollo might have a jealous husband after him, or somebody who didn't expect a Little Person to hold his own in a barroom brawl and wanted revenge, but no one who'd use gas grenades." He did not add that the police in several states would be interested in Rollo. They wouldn't have gassed an entire restaurant just to arrest him.

"I've already notified the FBI and the local police. I gave them a picture of Rollo, but I wasn't able to tell them his last name." Alex looked at Max expectantly.

Max took another sip of wine before replying. "Malini. Rollo Malini."

Vince raised an eyebrow at that.

"I snapped a picture of Rollo during the show. Would you have a better photo of him? Maybe a close-up, preferably in civilian clothes," Alex suggested.

Max opened a drawer and rummaged through it. A moment later he pulled out a snapshot of Rollo in blue jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt.

Vince asked, "Where were you?"

"An Italian place called Parisi's." Alex took the photo. "Thanks."

"Were you able to get a good look at them, or did the gas masks-"

Shaking his head, Alex interrupted Vince. "Gas masks on their heads, gloves on their hands. I couldn't even tell you if they were white, Black, Oriental, Hispanic, what."

"When did all this happen?" Vince asked.

"About an hour and a half, two hours ago. Once I regained consciousness, I called 911. I reported Dr. McKay's abduction to Washington, spoke with the local cops, then called the FBI office in Los Angeles." Alex did a quick mental calculation. "Just shy of two hours."

"So they've got quite a head start."

Alex looked up. "Don't even think of trying to go after them yourself. These are dangerous men. Leave them to the professionals."

"I will," Vince promised. His voice and expression were as mild-mannered as Clark Kent or humble, lovable Shoeshine Boy.

Max glanced sharply at Vince.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to looking for them." Alex stood. "Stay here in case the kidnappers call with a ransom demand. The police will probably be here in a little bit." He pulled a folded circus program out of his pocket and jotted a number down on it. "Here's my cell phone number. Call me if you hear from the kidnappers."

Max nodded, walked him to the trailer door, and wished him luck. Then he returned to his dressing table, picked up Alex's untouched wine glass, and drained half of it at a gulp.

"Rollo Malini?" Vince asked.

Max shrugged. "I know most of his aliases, but I couldn't remember his real name off the top of my head." He raised the wine glass to his lips. He took a small sip. "At the Carnival of Crime, we are all family. Even you, my white sheep brother."

Vince nodded. For an ex-cop turned vigilante, being semi-adopted by a gang of thieves was an awkward situation, but he owed Max and his gang of larcenous circus performers his life a dozen times over. They were his friends, his teachers, his new family. And if his brother was in danger, then the Cape had no choice but to go after him.

Max gestured at his brown face. "What, with my complexion you thought I was born to a name like Malini?" He swirled the wine in his glass, but did not drink. "Bring him home."

"I won't come back without him," Vince promised.

"Be careful," Max urged. "You can't save him if your recklessness gets you killed before you can rescue him."

Vince opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't reckless, then shut it again. He didn't have time to argue. Rollo needed him. "I'll be careful."

Without another word, Vince hurried to his own trailer. Jammed between the mirror and its frame was the torn-off cover of a matchbook advertising a local bar. A number was handwritten there: 284-1173. Vince grabbed his cell phone and dialed 395-2284. It was Orwell's current burn phone; she changed phones often.

She picked up after the third ring. "Hello."

"I need your help. Rollo is in trouble." He didn't bother introducing himself. He knew she'd recognize his voice. He didn't bother with any pleasantries; there wasn't time. He began changing clothes as he talked.

"What's wrong?"

"Rollo was kidnapped."