I gave the evidence bags and loose loafers to Lisa. "Tell them to get prints and DNA from these. Mr. Garcia, as soon as Nyssa and Tegan and I have gone, could you kindly call the police and tell them there are two unconscious men outside, one in the meadow and one on the road?" He looked at me as if I were crazy. "Lisa, you know what to do." She nodded. "I'll need your address. I hope that's enough for the TARDIS or we might have some trouble finding you, but if we land anywhere near you, we'll find you anyway." She nodded again. "Mr. Garcia, there may be others after you, but not tonight. We'll take no chances. After the police leave, Lisa will take you to her home in Mason. No one has any reason to look for you there. You should be quite safe." He nodded, still looking doubtful. "All right then." I took a deep breath, rubbing my neck. "Let's go."

Short hops being tricky, we landed six blocks from the bank in Timberwood Park. "Wait here," I told my friends, who rolled their eyes. "Look, you lot have already endangered yourselves. That is, I put you in harm's way. I was unable to think of a better way, but it was reckless of me. I don't want to do it again. Please let me do this alone."

"But how will we know if you're all right, Doctor?" Nyssa was not backing down. "We won't even be able to see you or even the bank on the scanner."

Tegan pleaded, "At least tell us the name of the banker you're going to meet."

"Hopefully meet," I said. "Anyway his name is Burt Smith, if that helps. But please, please just stay here. Don't make me worry about you. I just have to get some information from Mr. Smith and make some observations, and then we must go meet Lisa and Mr. Garcia in Mason." My friends reluctantly let me go; I stepped out onto Main Street and began my six-block walk.

By the time I reached the bank I had realized that the TARDIS had not only landed on the wrong block; it had landed in the wrong year. A quick glance at a newspaper box set me straight. I stopped in front of the bank and wondered whether I should turn back, return to the TARDIS and try to get the date right, or go into the bank and at least get a look at Mr. Smith. Perhaps a retry would be best, I thought, but somehow my feet carried me into the bank.

It was a nice, old-fashioned bank, with a lot of light oak and no plastic. Customers lined up to see their chosen tellers instead of forming one long line and being shunted to the next available window. Not only that, but the tellers were all smiling. I was starting to like this bank already. I looked around. There were a half dozen customers, three tellers and two bankers sitting at desks enclosed in cubicles. I could see the bankers, one an older woman with a Princess Diana haircut and too much makeup, and one a young man with longish brown hair and a small brown mustache. I guessed the man must be Burt Smith and approached his desk. The name plate sitting in plain view confirmed his identity. I had a cover story half planned; I couldn't very well ask him about a car not yet stolen, possibly not even yet acquired. I still had some American money on me, although I wasn't sure how much. I would inquire about various sorts of accounts, choose one, ask to open one and… should I really open one or change my mind at the last moment? I would wing it. He looked up from his desk and smiled at me. "May I help you?"

"Yes," I said, smiling back at him. "I would like to open an account. I wonder if you could explain some of my options?"

"I'd be glad to," said Mr. Smith. "Have a seat." I had a seat. "May I ask your name?"

"John Smith," I said, and saw the amusement on his face. "I don't think we're related, though."

"You never know," he laughed. "I'll need some identification, of course. A driver's license will do."

"Oh, dear," I confessed, "I came on foot. I forgot to bring anything with me. Perhaps you could tell me about the accounts and then I will know exactly what to ask for when I come back in a day or two."

"Sure. I can do that." He opened a drawer and took out several brochures and proceeded to explain to me in what would have been excruciating detail had I not been paying attention, instead, to his body language, facial expressions, general attitude…. There was nothing suspicious or unusual about him, and I didn't learn anything useful except that Mr Smith was married with an infant son; I learned this by inquiring about the picture he kept on his desk. "She's here now," he confided, pointing, "to take me to lunch."

I turned to look where he was pointing and spotted his wife immediately, but I also spotted Mr. Garcia entering the bank and getting into line for a teller, and then something really disturbing: two men outside the bank, walking by in one direction and then walking by again in the other, but not entering. They walked back and forth this way repeatedly and one of them, I realized, was a pretty big fellow. I turned back to Mr. Smith. "Look," I said, "why don't you go to lunch now? Don't keep your wife waiting. Go on. I can come back later."

"No," said Mr. Smith, "I couldn't do that, but let me just tell her I'll be done shortly." He waved his wife, a plain-looking young woman with a lovely smile, over to his desk. She bent to kiss him. "Bernie, this is Mr. Smith, no relation." Bernie laughed. "Mr. Smith, this is my wife, Bernadette."

"Nice to meet you," I said, rather anxiously.

"Bernie, I'm off in 15 minutes. Why don't you go to the Sweet Tooth and wait for me?"

"Okay, honey. Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith-no-relation!" I was relieved to see her leave the bank but frustrated that I hadn't been able to send her husband out after her.

No sooner had Bernie Smith gone than the two men I'd seen casing the bank came in, now wearing balaclavas, wielding Glock 17s and screaming for everyone to get down on the floor. The large man shepherded the tellers out from behind their windows and made them lie down as well, while the other man brought me, Mr. Smith and the other banker out to join them. "Do as they say," I whispered to Mr. Smith.

"Shut up," said the giant. I shut up.