Disclaimer: This story is an original work of literary art by me, myself and nobody else but me. I don’t actually own the characters, but Golden Press should be flattered that I’m using them because, after all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Chapter Eight

"You ready for this, Belden?" called Sheriff Riker by way of greeting.

"Certainly, Sheriff," replied Trixie calmly. "Are you?"

Riker showed his disdain of her question by ignoring it completely. "How about your boy?" Riker asked, the hint of a smile on his face. "Did you give him his instructions?"

Jim reddened. "Detective Belden and I have discussed what needs to be done," he said evenly. "Is there anything you feel I need to know?"

"Well, you both should know that Al Piers isn’t going to like this," Riker said bluntly. "I think that as soon as you get this little girl you should high-tail it out of here."

"That’s what we’d planned," Trixie said calmly. "We’ve already checked out of the hotel."

Riker nodded. "And when you get back to New York, you had better warn the former Mrs. Piers that she needs to be very careful for awhile now."

Trixie nodded. "Do you want to take our car?" she asked.

Riker looked askance at the battered old station wagon. "We’ll take the department Blazer," he said firmly. "I wouldn’t trust that heap of yours to take up the five miles out of town we need to go."

"It’s a perfectly good car," Trixie insisted defensively. She was getting a little tired of insulting commentary about the car.

Riker climbed into the driver’s seat of his vehicle. Trixie took the passenger seat, leaving Jim to get in the back. During the course of the brief drive to the Piers farm, Riker lectured Trixie incessantly about what would happen when they arrived. He would do the talking, he informed her. Trixie maintained an aloof silence, refusing to rise to the bait. Jim waited for the explosion, not knowing that Trixie was actually more than happy to allow Riker to take charge at the farmhouse, figuring that the full weight of the law was behind him more clearly that it was behind some hotshot PI from New York State. Besides, his activity would make him the bad guy in the eyes of Piers and his mother.

Riker slowed down and slowly eased the car up a long dirt drive, pitted with holes and puddles. "Remember, Annie, let me do the talking," he warned.

Trixie repressed a sigh. When he had been unable to get a rise out of her by bossing her around, Riker had begun to refer to her as "Annie," a reference to his Annie Oakley comment of earlier in the day.

"Will do, Wyatt," she said, in a very exaggerated imitation of his drawl. "Ah’ll just keep mah little self in the background. I shur hopes I don’ swoon when Ah sees the bahd guy."

Riker glared at her. "Sorry if I don’t talk fancy enough for you, Ms. Belden," he sneered.

Trixie smiled sweetly at him. "You started it," she reminded him.

He turned the ignition off and exited the car with a wordless snarl.

Trixie followed him out, taking in the picture of the Piers home. It was impossible to tell what color the farmhouse had been originally – the paint was faded to a dirty gray, and had peeled off in most places, leaving the weathered boards bare. The grass surrounding the place was scraggly – in some places it was knee-high, in others it was worn away to dirt. There were various types of debris scattered around the property. The whole place gave off an air of sad neglect, as though the people who inhabited it were beyond caring about it, and had allowed it to fall into ruin.

Jim lightly touched Trixie’s arm as they followed Riker’s long-legged strides toward the door of the farmhouse. "How do you think this is going to go?"

Trixie shrugged, and his gaze was riveted to the bulge her gun made in the line of the blazer she wore. "I don’t know," she said honestly. "Riker doesn’t seem worried," she nodded, gesturing toward the sheriff, who had climbed the stairs to the sagging porch and was waiting impatiently for them to catch up to him.

As soon as Trixie and Jim joined him on the porch, Riker began to pound on the wall beside the screen door. The inner door was open, revealing an entryway with a worn carpet and old, fading wallpaper. Trixie felt a little pang when she saw that the pattern on the grimy wallpaper was one of roses and ribbons. What had this home been like before its spirit – and the spirit of its caretaker – was broken?

Riker had to pound several more times before his call was answered. They heard Mrs. Piers approach before they saw here. "Quit your fussing!" she called in a thready but querulous voice. "I’m on my way."

She shuffled into their sight, scowling furiously at them. She was beyond thin – gaunt was a better description. Her skin was a mass of wrinkles, and her wispy hair that hung about her face was a pale, colorless gray. She wore a faded housedress that had once been pink, and her feet shuffled along the floor in over-large slippers. But there was a hint of strength in her wiry frame, and Trixie remembered Edna Simmons’ assertion that her friend Martha Piers, despite her outward poses, was more strong and healthy than many other women of her age were.

"What is it?" Martha Piers snapped, glaring at Sheriff Riker. "If this is about them pigs again, I tell you I’m not going to hear it. I don’t rightly care if Sam Tucker thinks they’ve been destroying his crops, I tell you that they’re penned and—"

"This isn’t about your pigs, Martha," Riker interrupted grimly. "Is Al here?"

Martha shot a suspicious glare at Trixie and Jim, as if noticing them for the first time. "Al?" she repeated. "You know Al don’t live around these parts, Sheriff."

"And I also know he was staggering around town three sheets to the wind at 3 AM this morning," Riker said tightly. "Don’t you lie to me, Martha. Where is he?"

She stepped back from the door and opened it. "Won’t you come in?" she asked ungraciously. She was obviously stalling for time.

She led them into a small parlor that was slightly less run-down than the rest of the house. It was obviously a room for guests, and the place where all of Martha’s small treasures were kept. The wallpaper had once had gilt stripes on it, but they had faded to a rusty metallic gray. The cushions and over-stuffed chairs were upholstered in dark mustard yellow. But the room was scrupulously neat – the wooden floor was polished, the tables and furniture legs were dusted. A set of built-in shelves held various small knickknacks and bits of glass – Trixie’s eye noticed several pieces of Depression glass similar to the set her grandmother had had.

Martha Piers offered refreshment, which they all refused. Then she settled herself at the edge of one of the chairs and got down to business. "Now, what are you wanting with Al?" she asked.

"This is Trixie Belden, and her assistant James Frayne," Riker said. "Detective Belden is an investigator from New York State, Martha. What do you think they want?"

The old lady grew pale, and gasped. "From…from New York?" she faltered. "I can’t imagine what…"

Riker’s face grew stern. "Now, Martha," he admonished, firmly but gently. "Where is she?"

"I…I don’t know what you’re talking about!" she insisted.

Riker looked at Trixie, cueing her in that it was her turn to speak. "Mrs. Piers," she said gently. "I am here to bring your granddaughter back home to New York. I have papers from the state authorizing me to do so."

"I haven’t seen my granddaughter since she was a year old!" the woman insisted, trying to the last to cover for her son.

Trixie’s expression grew harder. "That’s what you told the police from New York," she agreed. "You said you hadn’t seen your son in all that time either. But," she continued, her voice lowering with a hint of menace, "I have several eyewitness accounts from the people in town who say that they’ve seen him and talked to him within the last few days. He told them that he was staying here."

Trixie stopped, allowing her words to take affect. Mrs. Piers opened and closed her mouth several times, obviously searching desperately for something to say.

"Now," Trixie continued after the woman’s shoulders had begun to slump in defeat. "If you turn Erica over to me right now, this will be the last you see of me. If you don’t, though, Sheriff Riker here will be forced to arrest you on charges of obstruction of justice and accessory to an abduction."

Mrs. Piers gasped again, her gaze swinging to Sheriff Riker. He nodded solemnly at the unasked question in her face, confirming that he would indeed follow through on Trixie’s threat.

"How could you arrest me?" she stammered. "You know I’ve always been law-abiding, Sheriff. I’ve never…"

"You’ve lied to the police," Trixie interrupted. "You have been an accessory in a kidnapping case. You lied about it. If those charges are brought up against you, you will be extradited to New York State to stand trial."

"Is there a jail sentence for those crimes in New York?" Riker asked mildly, as though he didn’t know.

"Anywhere from five to twenty years on each of them," Trixie told him, keeping her eyes on Mrs. Piers.

"Twenty years in jail!" she gasped, her wrinkled face blanching. "But I…"

"You’d better do what she asks, Martha," Riker advised. "Give us the little girl, and there’ll be no problem."

"Will Al…"

"I’ll have to be having a talk with Al," Riker admitted. "He’s wanted in New York."

Trixie looked sharply at Riker, catching the wink he gave Mrs. Piers. Her jaw tightened, and she vowed that she would have a ‘talk’ of her own with the sheriff before she left town.

Mrs. Piers rose, her face twisted angrily. "Fine," she spat. "But I must say, things have come to a pretty pass when some hussy from New York can force her way into a woman’s home and take away her only grandchild."

The woman slammed out of the parlor, and Trixie allowed her lips to crease in a slight smile. "Hussy," she murmured. "That’s a new one."

"Really?" Riker asked raising a brow. "That surprises me."

"They have different words for it in New York," she explained.

After a moment, Martha Piers came back through the door. Holding her hand was a little girl, whose tousled brown curls and heavy eyes indicated that she had been awoken from her nap. The way she clung to her grandmother’s hand and the fear in her eyes when she looked at Trixie made that one press her lips together in irritation. Obviously, Mrs. Piers had filled the poor little girl’s head with lies about her, which made the child think she was being taken away by someone planning to hurt her.

Trixie crossed the room and knelt down in front of the child. She gave Mrs. Piers a hard look, and the woman dropped her granddaughter’s hand and backed away. The child let out a frightened whimper, and moved her thumb to her mouth.

"You and I are going to go home, Erica," Trixie said gently. "We’re going to go see your mom."

Erica’s eyes clouded with doubt. "You’re a stranger," she whispered, taking her thumb out of her mouth for an instant.

Trixie nodded her understanding. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asked her voice also a whisper.

Hesitantly, Erica nodded. Trixie leaned close to the child, and, brushing away her brown ringlets, whispered in her ear. "Your mom told me to tell you that the secret words are "strawberry cheesecake, bananas and pie."

The little girl’s face lit up with an expression of relief. "You’re my mommy’s friend!" she cried happily. "She said only her friends would know that!"

Trixie nodded, smiling. "Yes, I am, sweetie," she said, flicking a teasing finger over the little girl’s nose. "Ready to go home?"

Erica nodded eagerly, and readily took Trixie’s hand as she rose to her feet. "Do you have her things together, Mrs. Piers?" Trixie asked coldly.

Mrs. Piers nodded, gesturing to a small suitcase sitting beside the door. "I still don’t think this is right," she maintained.

"Kidnapping a small child isn’t right either, Mrs. Piers," Trixie said. "Thank you for your help."

With that, she turned and walked out of the room. Erica was already chattering happily.

Riker looked at the old woman staring bitterly after the pair. "You tell Al I need to see him, mind," he told her.

Martha shot a sharp glance at him. "He ain’t gonna like this, Sheriff," she warned.

"I expect he won’t," Riker agreed calmly. He nodded at her and left, Jim following closely behind.

They got out to the blazer to find Trixie buckling Erica into the backseat. "This is Jim," she told her as they approached. "He’s going to sit in the backseat with you."

"Can’t you sit with me, Trixie?" the little girl pouted, already in love with her new friend.

Trixie ruffled her curls with a teasing smile. "I have to make sure Sheriff Riker here is driving the right way," she told the little girl with a wink. "So I need to sit in the front and keep an eye on him. You’ll have fun with Jim," she assured her.

Moments later, they were headed back to town. There was a constant stream of chatter from the backseat, and Jim and Erica played the color game, "I See Something…."

"I see something red!" Erica shouted.

"Is it….the material on the seat?" Jim grinned.

"Sheriff Riker – I have a question for you," Trixie murmured.

"What is it, Detective," he grunted.

"No! Guess again!"

"Is it…Sheriff Riker’s shirt?"

"What do you mean you’re going to have a ‘talk’ with Al Piers?"

Riker looked sideways at her. "You want me to leave him loose?" he asked incredulously.

"Wrong!!"

"Hmm…Is it the sticker on your suitcase?"

"Of course not. Are you arresting him then?" she asked.

"That was my plan," he said dryly. "Any objections, Detective?"

"No! Wrong again!"

"You’re tough. Is it….The pattern on your sneaker?"

"None at all – if that’s really your plan."

This time, Riker glared at her. "What are you saying, Detective?" he demanded.

"I saw you wink at Mrs. Piers," she snapped. "I don’t care how much of a good old boy Piers is, I don’t think he should be tipped off so he can get out of the state before being arrested."

Riker’s weather-beaten face reddened, and he clutched the steering wheel as though it were the throat of a bossy, over-bearing outsider. "You think I’ll let him go free?" he asked quietly.

"That’s what it seemed like," Trixie asserted.

"NO!!" Many giggles followed. "Try again."

"Is it the pattern on my sneakers?"

"Young lady," Riker said in a quiet voice. "I have been upholding the law longer than you’ve been alive. And you think that I would break that law for the sake of Piers?"

Trixie’s expression changed to one of uncertainty. "Well, I thought…"

"Detective Belden. What were we doing in there?"

"Getting the little girl so…"

"I mean, how were we handling Miz Piers?"

"Oh. Good cop/bad cop?"

"Right," he nodded. "Does the good cop tell the criminal’s mama that her boy is going to be arrested?"

Trixie smiled slowly. "You just didn’t want to scare him off," she said.

"Bingo." Riker was silent for a moment, than a smile broke out on his face, moving his creased cheeks into different lines. "Looks like you still have a mite to learn, Miss Quantico."

Trixie sighed, blushing slightly. "I guess so," she admitted uncomfortably.

"I give up," Jim told Erica. "I’ve guessed every red thing in this car."

"No you haven’t!"

"What is it?" he asked.

"Your hair!" she shrieked, giggling uncontrollably.

Jim clutched his head in his hands, a comical expression of dismay on his face. "My hair!" he repeated dramatically. "But I can’t see that!"

"I can!" the little girl giggled.

"She got you, Jim," Trixie said, smiling as she turned around in her seat. "She won!"

By this time, they were pulling into the lot of the police station, where Trixie and Jim had left their car.

Jim swung the little girl out of the blazer and helped her get settled while Trixie and Riker said good-bye.

"Thanks for all your help," Trixie told the Sheriff.

"No problem," Riker told her. "Good to meet you, Annie Oakley."

Trixie rolled her eyes, and climbed into the driver’s seat of the station wagon. "Oh, and Detective?" Riker said, moving over to stand before her open window.

"Yes?" she asked, looking up at him.

"I hope your ‘assistant’ works out," he smirked.

Trixie narrowed her eyes and glared up at him. "Good-bye Sheriff Riker," she snapped. She put the car into reverse, and they pulled sharply out of the lot.

A few moments later, they were headed down the roadway toward Houston, Tumbleweed receding in the distance behind them.

"That was easy," Jim commented, glancing into the backseat where Erica was playing with her doll.

"Yes," Trixie murmured noncommittally. Her brow creased as she stared at the road ahead of her.

"What’s wrong, Trix?" frowned Jim. He glanced at the speedometer and saw that they were going faster than Trixie was wont to drive.

"I don’t know," she admitted, frowning more deeply. "I just have a strange feeling about this. Like something’s going to go wrong."

"What could go wrong?" he demanded.

"I don’t know," she said again, shaking her head. "I just don’t have a good feeling."

"Trix…" began Jim.

"I know, I know, I have an uncontrolled imagination," she said impatiently. "I’ll just feel much better when we get on that plane."

*     *     *

Martha Piers started in surprise as she heard the front door of the house slam, followed by an unintelligible roar in a voice she recognized as that of her only son. Hurrying out of the kitchen, she bumped into Al, who was rushing back to find her.

"Ma!" he shouted when he saw her. Get Erica. We have to leave. Some nosy detective witch from New York that Eileen sicced on me is here." There was a sheen of perspiration on his unshaved face, and panic in his pale eyes.

"Al, I have to tell you…" she quavered.

"Shut up, Ma!" he roared. "Go get the kid! Do you want me to get thrown in jail again?"

"Al, I can’t…" She faltered to a halt.

Al had turned to go up the stairs to his own room, but stopped and turned to scowl at his mother. "You can’t what?" he asked suspiciously, an ugly snarl on his face.

"I can’t get Erica," his mother whispered.

Al stared at his mother for a moment. Then he slowly moved until he was standing directly in front of her. "Why not, Ma?" he asked quietly.

"Sheriff Riker was here…and…and that woman, and another man and they…they…"

"They what, Ma?" Al asked menacingly, moving even closer to his mother.

"They took Erica," she whispered. A moment later, she reeled back from the force of the blow her son turned on her.

"Why did you do that, Ma?" he shouted.

She raised a hand to her cheek, trying to keep back tears. "They said if I didn’t they would put both you and me in jail, and take her anyway," she whispered. "I thought you could get away…"

Al turned, and stamped away, a litany of curses following him. "You really messed up this time, Ma. I can’t believe I can’t even leave for a few hours without you screwing up like this," he shouted over his shoulder. "If I don’t get that brat back, you are not going to be happy."

He went furiously into the small family room, picked up the phone, and dialed. If they thought that he was going to give up, they were dead wrong. In fact, he thought grimly, his face contorting with rage, they might not just be dead wrong - they could very well end up dead.

*     *     *

Cindy Mulrooney let out a whine of impatience as the phone rang, interrupting a crucial viewing moment in her favorite afternoon soap.

"Tumbleweed Motel," she mumbled into the phone, pushing a strand of greasy hair out of her face.

A moment later she brightened. "Al!"" she said happily. "How ya doin’?" A flush of color suffused her pockmarked cheeks. She had not expected him to call her this soon. In fact, she had not expected him to call her at all.

She listened for a moment. "Came in yesterday?" she asked. "Al, you know I didn’t work last night." She giggled coyly. "Oh, all right," she said ungraciously a moment later, her tone suddenly sullen. "Let me look in the register."

She pulled out the huge ledger where all hotel guests were recorded and looked to the most recent page. "Here it is. Beatrix Belden. Paid with a Visa. Huh? Oh, let me look." Her eyes scanned the entry. "She was driving a Ford station wagon. Uh…plate number 68V 92O. Why do you want to know all this Al? She gasped. "Took your little girl! Yes, of course you have to go get them. Oh, but Al - I was wondering if you were doing anything next Sunday. There’s a picnic at my Gramma’s and…Hello? Hello?" She shook the receiver, which had gone suddenly dead. "Humph!" she snorted, offended. She laid the phone done in its cradle and began to peruse her soap again; her face set in discontented lines.

*     *     *

"How far do we have to go?" Jim asked Trixie quietly. Dusk was beginning to fall, and they were moving quickly along a lonely stretch of road, surrounded on both sides by pine forest. Some of Trixie’s apprehensive mood had spread to him, and he was eager to get to the airport.

"About a hundred miles," she said tightly. "We should be there in about an hour and a half."

Jim glanced into the back seat where Erica had fallen asleep, making up for the interruption of her afternoon nap. "Seems to be ok so far," he said cautiously.

"Mmm," Trixie replied noncommittally.

A few moments later, Trixie glanced into the rear view mirror and frowned. "This guy is in a hurry," she commented, looking at a large pick-up rapidly approaching from behind them.

Jim glanced behind him disinterestedly, and returned his attention out the window.

"Geez!" cried Trixie a moment later. "Just pass me, buddy!" Jim looked behind them to see the truck bearing down on them, riding along directly on their rear end.

"What an idiot!" he commented angrily.

Trixie, frowning, pressed her foot to the gas, moving the car faster. The truck behind them increased his speed at the same time. Muttering under her breath, Trixie increased her speed, but the truck kept pace with them. A moment later, it swung out into the other lane as if to pass. "Finally," muttered Trixie.

The truck pulled alongside them, and Trixie turned her head to scowl at the reckless driver. Much to her shock, the driver jerked his wheel and slammed his truck directly into their car!"

Jim jumped, startled. "What the heck is going on?" he shouted. His query mingled with Trixie’s cry of alarm as she fought the wheel to keep the car on the road. Sleepy sounds came from the back seat where Erica was waking up at the commotion.

"On no," Trixie muttered under her breath as the truck swung toward them again. "Piers."

"What?" shouted Jim. "Are you kidding me? This guy is…"

"Jim, listen to me," said Trixie quickly as she hit the gas as hard as she could. Her mind was working furiously, trying to formulate a plan that would ensure safety for her passengers, both of whom she felt directly responsible for. "I don’t know if I can outpace him in this thing," she warned, even as her car, in its initial burst of speed, moved ahead of the truck. "Grab Erica. If he catches up to us, I’m going to find an area with a ditch on the side of the road to go over. As soon as we’re over, before he has time to get out of his truck, run into the woods with her. Get her away."

"And leave you alone? Are you serious? I’ll never—"

"Jim, this isn’t the time to argue with me!" she roared. Erica, frightened, began to cry. "Get the kid in your lap now, calm her down, and if we have to, be ready to run."

"You take her," Jim argued, even as he reached into the back and pulled the crying child into the front seat with him. Her crying quieted as she felt herself lifted in his strong, soothing arms.

"You run faster, and are better in the woods," Trixie said. "She’ll slow me down too much. He’ll catch us."

"He’ll have to go through me first," Jim said grimly.

"That’s what I’m afraid of," Trixie muttered.

"Trix, I…"

Trixie stared fearfully into the rearview mirror, where the truck was slowly but surely gaining on her. "Jim, for Heaven’s sake, please listen to me for once in your life. Just go."

"But…"

Driving with one hand, Trixie reached beneath her blazer and unclasped something. "Fix this to your belt," she ordered, handing it to him. "If anyone tries to hurt you or Erica, use it."

Jim stared in horror at the objet in his hand. It was her gun, enclosed in a snap-on holster. "If you think I’m…"

"Put it on now!" Trixie bellowed.

Jim snapped it to his belt, shifting Erica in his lap. "Trix, I don’t think…"

"Here we go, Jim," she said quietly. "Here’s the acid test. If you can’t listen to me and go, I know once and forever that you don’t trust me to take care of myself."

"That’s not fair!" he protested. "You’re…"

The rest of his sentence was lost as the truck slammed into their rear end. Their car swerved wildly back and forth, and Trixie’s mouth compressed into a tight line as she concentrated on keeping the car on the road.

"The next time he hits me, I’m going over," she said. "As soon as the car stops, get out and run like the devil."

Seconds later, the truck slammed into them again, this time on the driver’s side door. Trixie deliberately turned the wheel to the right, and the car went off the road in a cacophony of squealing tires. It dove over the edge, into a deep ditch.

"Go!" Trixie shouted. Jim opened the door and gathered the little girl into his arms. "I love you Trixie Belden," he said tightly. "Be careful."

"I love you too," she whispered. Up on the road, she heard the crunch of gravel as the truck slammed to a stop. "Go!"

After staring into her eyes for the briefest of instants, Jim was gone. In bare seconds, he had disappeared into the covering of trees. Only a single swinging branch marked the point where he had entered the woods.

Trixie forced her own door open. She began to scramble up the edge of the embankment. She stopped dead about halfway up as the form of a man appeared, silhouetted against the sky. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw he was holding a rifle.

"Where’s my kid?!" the man snarled.

Trixie was silent.

Glaring at her, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Trixie heard a loud click as he readied the gun to be fired. "If you don’t tell me where she is right now," he growled as he sighted the rifle on her slight figure, "You won’t be telling anyone else anything. Ever again."

 

Chapter Nine

Jim winced as he shifted the little girl higher in his arms. Darkness had long since fallen; they had been circling through the woods for hours to evade any possible pursuit. In all that time, however, Jim hadn’t sensed anyone near them. So finally, he had made his way back to a point near the place they had entered the woods.

Squinting in the darkness, he made out an area of thick brush near the base of some trees. He stopped in front of the small thicket, and set the little girl down. He sat beside her and took a deep breath.

"Can I talk, Jim?" Erica asked in a stage whisper. The child’s behavior had been perfect – sensing his own unease, she had been perfectly quiet, clinging tightly to him and not evincing a single complaint as they pushed through the dense piney wood.

Jim nodded. "Very quietly," he whispered.

"When can we go home?" she asked.

Jim sighed. "Soon, sweetie," he whispered back, smoothing her tangled curls off her forehead with a gentle plan. He took a deep breath, preparatory to explaining to her what would happen next.

"You’re a very brave girl," he told her. "Now, I have to ask you to be brave again."

"What do I need to do?" she asked. He could hear the trepidation in her tone.

"I have to try to go find our car," Jim told her. "You need to stray here."

He heard a small gasp. "All by myself?" she asked, frightened.

"You’re going to hide in these bushes," he explained. "When I am done, I’ll come back and get you."

"Why can’t I come with you?"

Jim hesitated. "The….the bad man might still be looking for us," he said haltingly. "Until I’m sure he went away, I want you to hide where it’s safe."

"Won’t the bad man get you?" Erica asked fearfully.

Jim ruffles her curls playfully. "No bad men can get me," he boasted.

Erica giggled faintly, but the laugh was half-hearted and soon stifled.

"So you’ll be ok?" Jim asked. "You’ll just hide here until I get back?"

"It’s scary here," Erica whispered.

"I know," Jim said soberly. "But there’s nothing in the woods that will hurt you unless you try to hurt it first. If you stay in the bushes, you’ll be fine."

"You’ll come get me?" she asked apprehensively.

"Of course," Jim promised softly. "I’ll be back in just a few minutes. Don’t go with anyone accept for me. Not anyone, understand?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Not even –" Jim stopped. He wasn’t sure if Erica understood that the ‘bad man’ they were running from was her own father. Somehow, he couldn’t be the one to tell her that, not now, not in the middle of the dark, frightening, unfamiliar forest. "Here we go," he said, struck suddenly by an idea. "We’ll have our own secret signal. Don’t let anyone know you’re here unless you hear this sound." He paused and took a breath. "Bob-white! Bob-white!"

Erica giggled delightedly. "How did you do that?" she demanded.

"I’ll teach you later," he averred. "Now promise me – you won’t go with anyone unless they make that sound."

The little girl promised, and Jim carefully settled her in the thick brush as best he could in the darkness. He hoped that the cover would be enough.

Cautiously, he pushed his way to the edge of the forest. Peering out through the last screening layer of branches, he saw the sight he had hoped to see – the hulking shape of the station wagon Trixie had rented in Houston. Straining his ears and eyes as he might, he neither heard nor saw anything that led him to believe anyone was near. Still, he moved with extreme care as he exited the forest, keening feeling the vulnerability of his exposed state.

He moved slowly toward the car, noting from the position of the moon that several hours had indeed passed since the altercation on the highway. His worry and anxiety for Trixie, which he had been forced to repress in his hours of stumbling through the woods with the small child entrusted to his care, resurfaced with sudden, harsh force. What had happened to her?

His heart began beating heavily in his chest as he approached the car. A feeling of dread arose within him. What would he find when he got there?

After all his worry, the actuality proved to be rather anti-climatic. What he found was, in essence, nothing at all. No Piers, no Trixie, no sign of any violent act. And, he noted, swearing under his breath at this last daunting discovery, no car keys.

Jim groaned in frustration. Trixie had, for a long time after she had learned to drive, had terrible problems with locking her keys in her car. She had solved the problem by training herself to always remove the keys from the ignition and put them directly into her pocket, before exiting the car. Apparently, in all the stress of her exit, the old habit had stood firm.

Circling the car, Jim tried to determine whether it would be possible to drive the car up out of the ditch Trixie had landed it in. It looked good – though the embankment was high the angle was not terribly extreme. There also looked to be enough traction to help the poor, battered car climb the slope.

The remaining problem was how to get the car started. Jim opened the door and settled himself in the driver’s seat. The dim illumination from the dome light overhead wasn’t much, but it was enough to enable him to see to work the plastic panel off of the ignition area. Frowning, he stared with narrowed eyes at the mass of wires.

When Jim had recognized his lifelong dream of starting a school for disadvantaged boy – later expanded to disadvantaged children, he had been determined to take in any child who was brought to him for help, whatever their background. So, mixed in with orphans and displaced children, he had a small percentage of very street-smart youth in his school. One of the boys he had taken in had proved to be quite a hardcase. Jim hadn’t given up on him, however, and after months of patience and perseverance, the boy had warmed considerably to "Mr. Frayne," who was probably the only person who had taken any interest in the boy in all his young life.

Jim had been warmed one day when the boy had approached him with an offer – Jim had taught him so much, he wanted to give something back and teach him something in turn. Though Jim had insisted it wasn’t necessary, somehow he had found himself in the front seat of one of the school vans, being instructed by the cool young thief in the art of hot-wiring a car.

"You never know, Mr. Frayne," the young man had insisted when Jim protested. "What if you lose your keys in the lake or something? ‘Knowledge, however seemingly irrelevant, can never hurt,’" he finished, quoting one of Jim’s own lines back at him.

After that, Jim had had little chance but to accept the youth’s tutelage. He turned out to be a hard teacher – by the time he was satisfied, Jim knew how to break into and start an amazing variety of vehicles.

He silently thanked that young man now, as the old station wagon revved into life as he quickly manipulated the wires beneath his hands.

Jumping out of the car, Jim hurried back into the woods, not bothering to conceal the sounds of his progress. "Bob-white! Bob-white!" he whistled as he approached the place he had left Erica.

He was rewarded by the sound of her voice, which led him to her carefully concealed hiding spot. Carrying her back to the car, he carefully settled her into the front seat, and began the onerous task of getting the car back onto the road.

After several false starts, they were finally back on the road.

"There!" he sighed in relief, turning to smile at the little girl beside him.

She smiled back, and then yawned hugely.

"Take a nap," he suggested kindly. "We have to drive for awhile."

"Where’s Trixie?" she asked in a small voice, ignoring his suggestion.

A line appeared between Jim’s brows as he turned his gaze to the road. "I don’t know," he admitted hoarsely. "I don’t know."

* * *

"Get your filthy hands off me," Trixie snarled, her blue eyes flashing venom up at the man looming threateningly over her.

"Tell me where my kid is," Piers growled back, baring his teeth at her.

"I wouldn’t tell you where you could find a stray cat, much less a child," Trixie spat defiantly.

Piers raised his hand and Trixie braced herself for another blow, refusing to cringe away from him.

She was saved from another demonstration of Piers’ violent capabilities by a sound from another room. "Al?" came the quavering voice. "What’re you up to?"

Martha Piers entered the kitchen, having finally been awoken from her sleep by the curses and shouts from below. Her gaze was fixed on her son, but she recoiled at the sight she was met with as she entered the room. Her weak, watery eyes widened as she saw Trixie crouched on the shredded linoleum of the kitchen floor. The eastern detective looked rather the worse for wear – her hair was wildly disheveled, she was dusty and dirty and battered. One eye was swollen and bruised, and a thin trail of dried blood ran from the corner of her mouth. For all that, however, she didn’t seem cowed – she glared at Mrs. Piers with almost the same amount of animosity she had earlier delivered on that one’s son.

"Al!" Mrs. Piers gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "What’s this about?"

"Shut up, Ma," Piers ordered, turning an ugly glare on his mother. "You just get out of here. This is my business."

"But Al," his mother protested, "you can’t just…"

"Don’t you go telling me what I can’t do!" he howled, his face contorting with rage. "Just get yourself upstairs and mind your own business!"

Mrs. Piers shook her head slowly, defying her son for the first time in years. "Al, you can’t do this," she insisted with surprising firmness. "She’s a woman, for one thing, and for another…"

Her words were cut off in a cry of pained surprise as she was struck across the face by her own son.

"What’s wrong with you?" he shouted. "You’re taking her side against your own son?"

"No, Al," Mrs. Piers protested futilely. "I just…"

"You don’t like the way I run things?" he yelled, blithely disregarding the fact that the house he was in actually belonged to his mother. "Fine! You can get out!"

He grabbed his mother by her bony arm, shaking her roughly as he dragged her toward the front door. "Al, what are you doing?" she shrieked, frightened.

"You need to learn proper regard for your kin!" he shouted. "Until you do, you can get out!" He opened the front door and flung her out of it. Tripping over her ill-fitting, oversized slippers, she nearly fell down the front steps of the porch.

"Al, don’t leave me out here!" she shrieked. Her son cut off her heartfelt appeal.

"Don’t let me catch you here!" he shouted. "Get out!" and he slammed the door on his mother. She heard the lock turn, and knew that she was barred from her own home, by her own child.

Slowly she turned, and made her way down the steps. She straightened her robe, and carefully tied the worn terrycloth sash tightly around her narrow waist. That young thing from back east was at least standing up to Al, though she appeared to be suffering for her insolence. But Trixie was at least showing more courage in the face of a Piers man’s rage than she had ever been able to do in more than fifty years of marriage and motherhood. Mrs. Piers squared her shoulders and began to trudge down the long dirt driveway. She, Martha Piers, would see that she would not suffer for that courage.

* * *

Sheriff Riker sighed, running a hand over his tired eyes. When there were only two deputies, and one called in sick in the middle of the other’s eight-hour shift, the only one there to pick up the slack was the sheriff. Riker was devoutly wishing, though, that he were a little closer to retirement age than he actually was.

He leaned back in his desk chair and closed his eyes, preparing to take a little nap. It was after one o’clock in the morning, and it would be unusual for anything amiss to occur. As he closed his eyes, Riker thought uneasily of Al Piers. Well, it was too late now to be doing anything about him – though Riker had gone back to the Piers farmhouse after he saw Detective Belden away and waited, Piers hadn’t shown. Possibly, Riker worried, he had gotten wind of the detective’s presence and skipped town. Either way, he told himself firmly, the situation would have to be dealt with.

Shifting to try to find a comfortable position in the chair, Riker began to doze off. He was startled abruptly awake by the ringing of the telephone on his desk. He jerked forward sharply and grabbed the receiver. "Town of Tumbleweed, Sheriff Riker speaking," he barked into the phone, as though daring the unknown person on the other end to accuse him of sleeping on duty.

"Sheriff, this is Captain Hiwold, State Police," a crisp voice on the other end informed him. "Sorry to interrupt you at this hour."

"No problem, Captain," Riker assured him. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to send you a warning about someone who might be in your area. We found a body earlier today. Looks like the victim was killed about two months ago. We have an identity, and we’ve discovered that the last person the victim was known to be with was one Al Piers. We’ve traced him, and it seems that his mama—,"

The state policeman stopped as a harsh curse form Riker interrupted him. "You know him, then?" the policeman asked alertly. "Have you seen him recently?"

"Not exactly," Riker said grimly. "But he’s around. In fact…"

He stopped, startled as the door to the office burst open. Riker’s jaw dropped in amazement as he saw the drawn, scratched face of Jim Frayne, holding the little Piers girl in his arms.

"Well I’ll be…" Riker said. "Captain, hold on a minute," he said tersely into the phone. "Looks like we might have something more to add to Piers’ list."

"What’re you doing here, boy?" he barked at Jim.

Jim placed the drowsy child in a chair and glared at Riker. "Piers forced us off the road several hours ago, about sixty miles west of here," he said tightly. "I got Erica away. Trixie stayed. There’s no sign of her or of Piers."

"You left a woman alone to face Piers?" Riker demanded incredulously.

Jim’s face flushed a brilliant scarlet, which clashed horribly with his hair. "I left a trained private investigator to deal with a criminal because I was better able to get the child to safety," he shot back. "She asked me not to endanger the child by being macho, and I listened to her," he said emphasizing the pronoun. "I didn’t just dismiss her as some hysterical female," he finished snidely.

Riker’s jaw tightened at the insinuation that he had been sexist, negligent, complacent and Heaven knows what else. "So he’s got her?" he asked grimly.

Jim nodded, his expression suddenly showing the depth of his worry. "There were no signs of a struggle," he said hopefully.

Riker didn’t respond with the comforting comment Jim seemed to be hoping for. "How’d you get back here?" he asked.

"The station wagon we rented was left."

"They left the keys?" Riker asked, surprised.

"No," Jim replied curtly.

"Then how in earth did you get back?" Riker pressed, exasperated.

Jim reddened again. "I hot-wired it," he said briefly.

Riker shook his head incredulously. "What in tarnation is that New York State like?" he demanded. "Do you learn to steal cars in school?"

Despite all the events of the evening, Jim managed a faint grin at this. "That’s where I learned," he admitted mildly.

Riker shook his head in disbelief, and turned his attention away from Jim. "You hear this, Captain?" he asked into the phone. "We now have Piers on endangerment, assault, probably kidnapping, possibly looking at a hostage situation."

"I’m going to send some boys up right away," the captain told Riker. "You sit tight until they get there and…"

Riker interrupted him with a cry of surprise as the door of the office banged open again. He got the greatest shock in a day full of shocks when he saw the gaunt, wan figure of Martha Piers swaying on the doorstep, clad in a worn robe and the tattered remnants of slippers.

"He’s got her!" the woman shrieked, clinging to the doorjamb. "That no-good son of mine who threw his own mama out of her home has got that detective girl! You’ve got to get her back, Sheriff! That there house’s no place for a lady to be!"

The woman began to crumple as her knees buckled beneath her. Riker and Jim jumped forward simultaneously, the phone slamming down against the desk as they moved. Jim, being closer and unimpeded by furniture, got to her first, before she hit the ground. He carried her to the other chair in front of Riker’s desk, and gently set her in it.

Muttering furiously, Riker untangled himself from the phone cord, and brought the receiver, which was emitting sharp, agitated sounds, up to his ear. "I’m here, sir,"
he growled into the phone.

"What in the name of Pete is going on there?" the captain roared.

"Piers’ mother just showed up," Riker explained. "Looks like he threw her out of the house, and she confirms that Detective Belden is there."

"Great," the captain growled. "What is that detective doing there in the first place?"

Riker briefly explained the story, and the captain groaned again. "So, we have a kidnapping across state lines, a murder charge, endangerment, assault, another kidnapping and probably hostage situation?" he summed up.

"Looks like," Riker agreed laconically.

"Dang," the captain muttered. "Looks like we’re going to have to bring the feds in. I hate doing it, but with this many charges I don’t want him crying mishandling of evidence or procedure." There was a brief silence. "Ok, Riker, I’ll try to call some people and…"

"Actually, Captain," Riker interrupted, "There is a federal agent who knows Detective Belden personally. I spoke to him earlier today – if you can give me the Bureau number I can try to get him."

"Good plan, Riker," the captain said in some relief. He rattled off a list of numbers, which Riker hastily scrawled on the pad before him. "My boys will be there soon. Don’t go rushing into anything without backup."

"Will do," Riker agreed, and the line went dead.

He hung up the phone, and paused for a moment before picking it up again and punching more numbers in.

"What’re you doing?" Jim demanded suspiciously.

Riker sighed. His gaze moved across the motley crew in his office – the disheveled little girl, the pale, semi-conscious old woman, and the battered, angry young man. "I’m calling in the big guns," he said wearily. "We’re going to need ‘em."

 

Chapter Ten

It was after one o’clock in the morning. If this mammoth office complex housed any type of business or corporation, the lights would be dulled, the hallways quiet and the building empty of any occupants except for the night watchman. This, however, was the FBI Headquarters, and only the darkness beyond the windows and the slightly depleted number of workers gave a clue to the hour.

Special Agent Mark Carlson leaned back in his chair, his feet propped on his desk. He sipped coffee from a ceramic mug and grinned across the wide desk at the antics of the other people in his office.

"Glad to see my tax dollars at work," he commented wryly as the pair completed their impersonation of a drug dealer mistakenly invited to the Inaugural Ball.

"Spoilsport," one of the men, the one who had impersonated the drug dealer, complained, turning a frown on the lounging agent.

The other, who had impersonated various senators and congressmen attempting to politely network with the dealer (Drug dealer? So, you’re in pharmaceuticals? Let me give you my office number – I’ll be sure to invite you to my next campaign dinner. I’ve always been a supporter of pharmaceuticals…) collapsed heavily into one of the chairs across from Mark’s desk. "What are you doing here at this hour anyhow?" he demanded, smoothing his thick brown hair off his forehead. "You should be home at this hour, sleeping the sleep of the ambitious and career-focused."

Mark ignored the ribbing. Both of the other men had started work at the FBI at the same time he had, but he had since been promoted to a position that made him their superior. Clancy Phelps, who had impersonated the drug dealer, was a short, wiry man who was native to Washington D.C. His uncle and father had both worked with the Bureau, and it had always been a given that he would too. The other, Derek Fynnes, was the unanimously proclaimed Adonis of the department. His rich brunette hair, toned physique and deep, dark eyes, paired with perfect features and a melting smile, had made him the Bureau’s agent of choice to be deployed in any case which necessitating buttering up, getting information from, somehow tricking or plain old maneuvering a woman. It was a duty Derek admitted cheerfully he was quite good at, though he didn’t enjoy the ceaseless badgering he got from the other agents because of it.

Derek had trained at Quantico along with Trixie and Mark, and he was offered a position with the Bureau after Trixie declined her offer. The three had been good friends – after Derek was finally able to come to grips with the realization that Trixie was not susceptible to his considerable charms. It had been a hard lesson for him to learn – more than once, she had been obliged to be quite firm with the persistent young man.

Now, Mark shrugged under the inquiring glance of his friends. "I went home. I just couldn’t sleep."

"That wouldn’t have anything to do with the call you received earlier today from Private Investigator Belden, would it?" Derek asked casually, a teasing grin on his handsome face.

Mark started, almost upsetting his chair, which had been balanced on two legs. The sudden movement disturbed the coffee mug in his hands, and hot brown liquid splashed all over him.

"For the love of Pete!" he sputtered, hastily setting down the mug and attempting to repair the damage. "How on earth did you find out about that?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "I’m a detective," he pointed out, in the tones of one speaking to an imbecile.

Mark petulantly repaired the mess at his desk, muttering something unpleasant under his breath about not having any privacy.

"So, is she why you’re here at one am, haunting the halls of justice?" pressed Derek.

"I couldn’t sleep," Mark repeated in a tight voice. "I came in to get some extra work done. You’re familiar with the concept of work, right?" he asked pointedly. "You know, the activity you’re supposed to be engaged in right now?"

"Fine, boss man," said Clancy. He got up and stretched as he meandered toward Mark’s office door. "Let me know when you’re less grumpy," he asked as he disappeared out of the office.

"So, is she?" pressed Derek.

"Is she what?" snapped Mark, tossing a handful of soiled paper towels into the wastebasket beside his desk.

"Is she why you’re here now, instead of catching your beauty rest?"

Mark sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was a comfortable chair, which symbolized his place within the bureau. It had a high back, and it swiveled and rotated and had wheels. It wasn’t real leather, though. Mark was not high enough in the bureau ranks yet to have a real leather chair. He would be, though. Someday. There were very few people in the agency that were as ambitious as he was, and that was saying a lot. There was very little in the world that was of enough value to him to entice him to give up his career. Sometimes, in times of bleak loneliness and bleaker honesty, he wondered if there was in fact anything that he valued that much.

"Well?" Derek’s impatient voice broke into his reverie.

"What do you want from me?" he snapped, glaring at his friend.

Derek raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, don’t bite my head off," he commented easily. He was silent for a moment. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

"Huh?" responded Mark absently.

Derek sighed. "How’s Trixie?" he asked.

Mark shrugged. "She sounded all right. She’s on a case, so she couldn’t really talk."

"What did she want?" Derek asked curiously. He was completely unprepared for and shocked by Mark’s reaction.

"Blast it!" roared Mark, rising to his feet and slamming his hands on his desk. "You want to know so bad, Fynnes? She was on a case, and the local cops didn’t want to cooperate with her, so she called me as a reference. A bloody reference. The first time I’ve heard from her in six months, and it’s so I can impress some yahoo cop by telling them how impressive Beatrix Belden is." His anger drained away as suddenly as it had surfaced, and he sank into his chair, lowering his head into his hands. "A reference," he repeated, his voice muffled.

Derek stared in amazement at Mark’s lowered head. Special Agent Carlson had always prided himself on his coolness, even under pressure. Derek had never seen him let himself explode like this before.

"Hey man," he said awkwardly after a moment’s silence, "You ok?"

Mark slowly looked up. Seeing the concerned expression in his friend’s dark eyes he sighed, and made a concerted effort to pull himself together. "Yeah," he said wearily. "Fine."

"I don’t think you are," Derek contradicted slowly.

Mark, already restored to his calm, collected self, raised a brow at his friend. "Oh?" he asked dryly. "And upon what evidence do you place that belief, Detective?"

"I always knew you were nuts about her," Derek continued, ignoring the other’s sarcasm. "But I didn’t know you were this nuts."

Mark waved a hand dismissively. "I’m not nuts about anyone," he insisted. "I’m just a little annoyed that she only calls when she needs a favor."

Derek made a small sound of mingled exasperation and disbelief. "Hello? Earth to Carlson!" he called. "I’ve been sitting right here, dude. I saw you. You…" he faltered. "You actually love her, don’t you?" he asked, his voice lowering in masculine embarrassment on the four-letter "L" word.

Now it was Mark’s turn to hoot derisively at his friend. "Derek Fynnes, Ladies Man Extraordinaire, can’t say ‘love’ without a struggle?" he asked, amused.

"Shut up," muttered Derek, reddening. "Do you?" he persisted, refusing to allow his friend to shift the focus of the conversation.

Mark sighed, sobering. "I don’t really want to have this conversation with you, man," he said.

"Tough," Derek replied bluntly. "You’re having it. We’re having it." He grinned at Mark’s surprised expression. "Hey, sensitive guy is in," he informed his friends. "Women love it. I need to practice," he explained.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Great," he grunted. "Now I’m an experiment to help you improve your sad, shallow little love life."

"My love life is neither sad nor little," Derek replied calmly. "Shallow I can’t argue, though," he admitted. "Anyway, we’re not discussing my love life.  We’re discussing yours."

"I have no love life," Mark pointed out wryly.

"And why is that, I wonder?" pressed Derek.

Mark shrugged, and began to shuffle some papers on his desk. "I’m busy," he insisted. "I work. There’s no time for—"

"Baloney," Derek replied calmly. "There’s always time for that. Next excuse."

Mark reddened. "I am busy," he insisted. "Some of us actually work more than is absolutely necessary to get by without—"

"Nope," Derek interrupted again. "You can’t get out of this by insulting me. I don’t care about your opinion," he explained, grinning to soften the insult. "Out with it, Carlson."

"Out with what?" Mark half-shouted, frustrated.

"Belden. Do you love her?" Derek asked bluntly.

Mark was silent. "Yeah," he said finally. "I always have. I’ve tried for years to get over it, but I can’t." He was silent again. "Go ahead, laugh," he said, glaring defiantly at his friend. "I know, it’s pathetic."

Derek raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, don’t jump all over me," he said easily. "I never said it was pathetic, you did."

"You were thinking it," Mark accused.

Derek shook his head. "It always reassures me to see another guy evince genuine emotion. It means that everyone’s not like me. What a mess that would be!" he concluded with an exaggerated shudder.

"Well, don’t you think it’s about time you go back to work?" Mark asked.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Derek asked.

Mark raised a brow. "I’m certainly not going to get physical about it, Fynnes, but if Rocchio comes in here and finds you messing around he’s probably going to kick your—"

"Not about me going back to work," Derek interrupted disgustedly. "What are you going to do about Belden?"

Mark frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Have you told her how you feel?"

Mark snorted. "Yeah, it came up when I asked her to marry me."

Derek raised his brown in surprise. "You asked her to marry you?"

Mark nodded.

"And she turned you down?"

"She said she was in love with someone else, and if she married me she would be doing it as a substitute for who she really wanted," Mark said briefly.

Derek winced. "Whoa, cold," he said sympathetically.

Mark shrugged. "Not really. She was being honest. It had to be done."

"So is she with this guy still?"

"They broke up about a year-and-a-half ago. Last I heard they were still apart. She’s really building that agency of hers into something."

Derek frowned. "Belden-Belden, right?" he guessed.

Mark nodded. "She went into business with her sister-in-law," he explained. "She didn’t come to Quantico – she did a lot of work in New York City."

"So, why’d Belden break up with this other guy?" Derek asked curiously.

"Trixie said that Jim – his name is Jim –," Mark added, making the simple name sound like an insult, "didn’t want her taking dangerous cases. He was afraid she’d get hurt," he finished scornfully.

Derek laughed. "Belden? That’s a good one. That chick could take on the Terminator!"

"I’m sure she’d appreciate the compliment, if not the label," Mark replied dryly.

"So, Jimbo couldn’t take the thought of his little lady associating with bad guys, eh?" Derek asked thoughtfully. "What did he want her to do?"

Mark shrugged. "He runs a school for disadvantaged kids," he said. "I guess he wanted her to help with that or something."

Derek burst into hysterical laughter. "Belden? A schoolteacher?" he gasped. "Watch out, Michelle Pfeiffer. Dangerous Minds indeed!"

Mark grinned. "I can’t quite see it either," he agreed.

"Ok. So, she’s not seeing Jimbo anymore," Derek continued. "So, what’s the problem? Did you ask her to come back?"

"Every time I talk to her," Mark growled, his mood darkening again. "First she’s on the rebound. Then she’s not sure. Then she doesn’t want to leave her agency. Then she’s not sure again."

"Go see her," Derek suggested.

"In New York?" Mark frowned.

"It’s not Siberia," Derek pointed out. "Go visit, wine her, dine her. Apply a little of the famous Carlson charm."

"I can’t go to New York," Mark insisted.

"Why not?" Derek pressed.

Mark shook his head stubbornly. "I am not going chasing after Trixie Belden anymore," he said firmly. "If she wants me, she can come to me. I’m not running when she calls, and I am certainly not going to come running when she hasn’t even called."

"That’s dumb," Derek said flatly. "Man, you’ve got to—"

He was interrupted when the phone on Mark’s desk rang. Mark grabbed it, and yanked the receiver to his ear. "FBI, Special Agent Carlson speaking," he said crisply.

"Special Agent Carlson? This is Sheriff Riker, Tumbleweed, Texas," came the unexpected response.

Mark frowned. "Sheriff. What can I do for you?" he asked curiously.

"We have a problem here. Captain Hiwold, Texas State Police decided we had to call in the Feds. Since I just spoke with you today, I thought I’d call and see if you can come out."

Mark frowned. "What exactly is the problem?" he asked slowly.

"The man Detective Belden was investigating – Al Piers – was suspected of abducting his daughter. That’s why Detective Belden was here. That was confirmed and she took the child away this evening."

"So what’s the problem?" Nark pressed.

"The problem is that he is now wanted for murder," replied Riker bluntly. "Top of that, he’s kidnapped Detective Belden. We have confirmation on that – his mother, who he threw out of the house, saw her there."

Mark swore loudly and jumped to his feet. Derek tensed, the bored expression slipping away from his face, replaced by one of intent concentration. "You haven’t gotten her out?" Mark asked.

"We haven’t gone in. He’s wanted on two counts of kidnapping, endangerment, assault, and murder. He’s considered armed and dangerous. We don’t want to mess this one up," Riker admitted.

"Is the child there too?" Mark asked, trying to determine exactly what would be needed to handle this.

"No. Detective Belden got the child to safety, and remained behind to distract Piers."

"I see," Mark said. At least that explained how Trixie had been taken hostage – she had offered herself up as bait. "All right, Riker, where’s your nearest airport?"

"We’re several hours from Houston," Riker said heavily.

"Have state police helicopters waiting at Houston, then," Mark ordered crisply. "I’ll be taking off from here in twenty minutes. I’ll be there as soon as I can." He slammed the phone into the cradle without bothering to say goodbye and was halfway out of his office before Derek interrupted him.

"Hey! What’s going on?"

Mark stopped, and looked at his friend. "The slime Trix was investigating has her hostage," he said grimly. "The guys got a charge sheet long as your arm, including murder. Texas is calling for Bureau help."

Derek jumped to his feet with a startled exclamation. "I’ll call Quantico and tell them to ready a plane and a crew, and I’ll get a chopper to get us down there," he said. "You go inform Rocchio."

Mark frowned. "You’re not coming," he said bluntly.

"The devil I’m not!" Derek half-shouted. "I might not moon over her from afar, but she’s my friend. Just try and keep me out of this, Carlson, and—"

"Fine," Mark interrupted. "Get everything prepared."

He turned and stalked down the corridor toward the office of the assistant director of the bureau. His mind was in turmoil – all he could think of was that Trixie was in the hands of a killer. He shook his head. If anyone could get out of that kind of a mess it was Trixie. But all it would take is one bullet….Even a criminal could get lucky.

He stopped in front of the appropriate door and rapped sharply on it. At the answering call, he opened the door and stepped in. "Sir," he said respectfully. "We’ve just had a call from Texas State Police. They need federal intervention on a hostage case, perpetrator with a several kidnapping and a murder charge."

Rocchio looked up. He looked tired – as the assistant director, he had to work the longest, oddest and most grueling hours of anyone in the department. He’d been waiting for his promotion for years, but the current director stubbornly held on to the position that everyone thought he ought to have vacated years ago.

"Send a crew out," he said calmly.

Mark nodded. "Agent Fynnes is calling Quantico now. He and I will depart as soon as our chopper is ready, and—"

"Hold the phone, here," Rocchio interrupted testily. "You and Fynnes don’t have to go. You need to stay here and work on the heroin case. Someone from Quantico will handle it fine."

"Sir, the hostage is someone we know. With all due respect, I need to be the one in charge of this mission," Mark insisted almost desperately.

"Who is it?" Rocchio scowled.

Mark swallowed. "New York State Private Investigator Beatrix Belden. She trained at Quantico, and the Bureau has been trying to recruit her ever since, sir," he explained, hoping that stressing her Bureau connections would give him the leverage he needed to be assigned this detail.

"Belden," Rocchio mused. "I know her. She got herself taken hostage?" he barked. "I wouldn’t have believed it."

"There was a small child involved," Mark explained. "Detective Belden got the child to safety, and remained behind as a distraction."

"Ah," Rocchio said. He was silent for a moment, obviously thinking furiously. "All right, Carlson, you and Fynnes can go on this."

"Thank you, sir," Mark said in relief. He turned to go.

"Just a minute," Rocchio called. Mark turned back and looked inquiringly at his superior. "You go in there and you get Detective Belden out," Rocchio instructed. "But you tell her this."

Rocchio paused and leaned back in his seat. "We’ve been trying to get that young lady in this organization for some time. And if we help her, she’s got to help us."

"Sir?" frowned Mark.

"We’ll get her out," Rocchio said. "But she owes us. And we’ll be calling on her for repayment. And if she doesn’t pay up – well, she won’t be getting federal support anymore. Ever. Be sure she knows that."

With that, Rocchio turned his chair around, and Mark knew he was dismissed. He hurried out of the office, through the labyrinth of corridors to the heliopad on the roof. However glad she might be of assistance, Trixie was not going to be pleased with this ultimatum. Nor, he feared, would she be pleased with the messenger who delivered it.

Chapter Eleven

Sheriff Riker turned abruptly away from the state policeman that he was arguing with when he heard his name shouted from the other side of the small station. "What is it?" he shouted back irascibly.

"Riker?" came another shout. The sheriff strained to see who was calling him. His normally quiet, tranquil little police station was crammed to the bursting point with people – state police, other local police, experts the state hadhe sheriff had ventured to look out of a window, he had seen the logos of two different television station, and a faceless mass of reporters. called in – heaven knew whom else. Outside, already, the vultures were beginning to assemble – the last time t

"Who is it?" Riker shouted again.

There was silence for a moment. Then the authoritative voice that had hailed him came again, this time at an even greater volume, and directed at everyone in the room. "Attention, please!" The loud voices and mumbling gradually faded away to a low murmur. "I am Special Agent Mark Carlson. I’ve been sent from the Federal Bureau of Investigations to take over this case. There are too many people in this station – Sheriff, is there anywhere larger that we can take over as an alternate base of operations?"

Riker strained to see the speaker, but, as he was somewhat slight in stature, he could not see the man over the heads of everyone else in this room. "There’s the fire hall," he ventured. "If they take the trucks out, there should be plenty of room."

"Excellent," the as-yet-invisible agent said briskly. "I would like everyone but Sheriff Riker, the ranking state trooper here, and anyone else that Sheriff Riker feels should remain to adjourn immediately to the fire hall. Agent Fynnes here will take charge of setting up operations there."

The noise immediately intensified again to an even greater level than before, everyone demanding that they be allowed to stay here at the station and be part of the ‘inner circle’ of command.

"You all heard Special Agent Carlson!" Riker finally bellowed over the uproar. "Get on over to the fire hall. We’ll be there directly."

The crowd began to grudgingly file out the station. Riker turned to find himself face to face with an angry-faced young man. "Sheriff Riker, I will not be sent off to the fire hall to twiddle my thumbs," Jim said in a hard voice. "I will—"

"Young man, this all would go one heck of a lot smoother if you would just go on over there," Riker said, rubbing a tired hand across his weather-beaten face.

"Trixie is my….that is, I was involved in this investigation with Agent Belden," Jim said, fumbling slightly for the right words. "I insist on being here."

"Boy, I’m too tired to argue with you about this," Riker said. "Stay if you’ve a mind too. But don’t blame me when Agent Carlson throws your fool head out of here."

"We’ll see about Agent Carlson," Jim said grimly, leaning against the nearest wall as Sheriff Riker made his way over to the FBI agent. As the crowd thinned, Jim was able to get his first glimpse at his most serious rival for Trixie’s affections outside of her profession.

Jim’s heart sank slightly as the agent turned to greet Sheriff Riker, and he was able to see the man clearly. Agent Carlson seemed already to be everything Jim was not. Jim shared the man’s wide shoulders and strong build, and Jim noted smugly that, so far as he could tell from a distance, Mark Carlson was probably two or three inches shorter than his own six feet, two inches. But Jim had always been somewhat self-conscious of his coloring, wishing that he had inherited the more subdued appearance of his mother, rather than the flaming red hair and green eyes of his father. Mark Carlson was nothing short of an all-American – his blond hair was almost the same shade as Trixie’s, but it fell in neat, crinkling waves rather than untamable curls. His features were neat without being ‘pretty,’ his expression controlled and unreadable and his entire bearing bragged of power and control. Jim immediately felt like a naughty child playing where he wasn’t supposed to, and one who would be sternly scolded and sent to bed when the adult in charge caught him.

Jim clenched his teeth and glared across the room at his rival. If Special Agent Mark Carlson thought that he was going to charge in and save the day while Jim Frayne loitered nervously in the fire hall, he had another thought coming!

"Sheriff Riker, a pleasure," Mark was saying briskly as he shook the sheriff’s hand. "Have there been any developments in the situation since I was last in contact with you?"

Riker shook his head. "Like I told you before, we called Al and told him we knew he had Agent Belden down there. He refused to come out, and said she’d suffer for it if we tried any monkey business to get him out. Since then he refuses to answer the phone."

Mark and Jim both flinched slightly at the same time, at the mention of the threat to Trixie. The slight movement that so neatly mirrored his own caught the FBI agent’s attention.

"Can you introduce me to who else is with us, Sheriff Riker?" Mark asked, his eyes glued on the red-haired man nonchalantly leaning against the wall. He had a nasty suspicion he knew who this man, at least, was.

"This is Trooper Rollins, Texas State Police," said Riker, indicating the quiet trooper seated behind his own desk, frowning intently at the untidy piles of printouts spread out in front of him. The trooper looked up and nodded. "Good to meet you, Special Agent Carlson," he said in an abstracted tone. "I’m just trying to get a handle on the area around the target. I’ll be with you in a moment."

"Continue as you need to, trooper," Mark nodded, shifting his attention for a moment to the police officer. "I’ll still be here."

"And this is Mr. Jim Frayne," Riker said, indicating the man who had already captured Mark’s attention. "He came here to Texas with Detective Belden. He was with her when Piers accosted them, and he’s the one that got the little Piers girl to safety."

Mark barely heard the rest of Riker’s introduction. The name was enough. This was the one, then – this was the man that Trixie had chosen over him. He was the one that held such a powerful sway over her that she gave up a prestigious FBI position to be with him. She had such deep feelings for this man that even when their relationship ended, she refused to leave his general area even for her career. This was the man that she had turned down his proposal of marriage for, though she hadn’t even been dating him at the time.

Jim didn’t move from his position against the wall, and just curtly nodded at the FBI detective. At that dismissive gesture, along with the look of cold, hard contempt in his green eyes, Mark felt a wave of loathing such as he had never felt before wash over him. He had always hated the idea of this faceless rival – now he hated the actuality of him. Who was he to be lounging around this high profile investigation, sneering at the Special Agent in charge? Mark, normally calm and rational at all times, in thought as well as deed, was rather surprised at the intensity of his own reaction.

"Mr. Frayne, are you a law enforcement agent?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound cool and disinterested.

"I am not," Jim said, his tone equally bland.

"In that case, I am afraid that I must ask if you’ll be kind enough to repair to the fire hall with everyone else. Sheriff Riker, Trooper Rollins and I have a great deal to do."

"I will not," Jim said calmly.

"Excuse me?" Mark asked, his tone taking on a slight edge.

"I will not be that kind," Jim clarified.

Mark felt his features harden as he stared at the other man. He had always wondered what it was that this Jim had that he didn’t. It was more apparent now. While he himself was the typical blond-haired, blue-eyes Life cereal kid, this Frayne had a more unusual appearance. Frayne was taller, too, or at least Mark thought he was. It was a little difficult to judge, as he continued to slouch against that wall. It was that posture that pointed out the key difference between them, though, Mark realized bitterly. He had always kept himself strictly on the straight and narrow – always did his homework, never skipped school, went to the best colleges, followed all the rules. Followed all the rules. Mark sneered inwardly at himself. Yeah, that’s a real turn-on for the women, Carlson, he thought bitterly. Nothing more exciting than a man who respects authority and irons all his handkerchiefs. He stared again at Frayne who still had not moved from the wall. He could see why Trixie was so enraptured by this man – she was so free and impetuous himself. It was her streak of wildness that had attracted Mark in the first place. There was a similar hint of willfulness and danger in the man presently standing before him. He was obviously not at all impressed by an order from a federal official. He wasn’t even impressed enough to stand up straight or even look the slightest bit intimidated. He probably rides a motorcycle, Mark thought morosely.

"Mr. Frayne," Mark said icily, "This is no place for civilians."

"I have been involved in this situation more intimately than anyone else in this room," Jim said, finally straightening up. "I will not be shunted aside by you."

Mark’s eyes narrowed. "As the chief federal investigator present, I have control of this situation," he informed the other man. "You are presently an obstruction. I have full authority to remove you by whatever means necessary."

Jim laughed scornfully. "What are you planning to do, Carlson, throw me in jail?" he taunted. "Or better yet, shoot me? Wouldn’t that be convenient?" he sneered.

"I assure you, Mr. Frayne, that shooting you never crossed my mind," Mark said dryly. "I wouldn’t have to resort to such crude tactics to rid myself of your presence."

"Oh really," Jim drawled, lifting a brow at the other man.

"Yes," Mark said calmly, deliberately allowing his eyes to analytically scan his opponent’s frame, and then register his lack of awe in what he saw. "It wouldn’t be necessary for me to depend upon such measures. I could easily overpower you without resorting to firearms."

Jim reddened, rapidly losing his temper. "Oh, you think so, do you, you little…"

"Gentlemen!" interrupted Sheriff Riker. He was surprised by the immediate rancor that had sprung up between the two men. "I think that you’re both forgetting the situation we are dealing with here."

"I assure you that it has not left my mind for a moment," Mark said calmly, his clear blue gaze still locked to Jim’s angry green one. "If Mr. Frayne would leave, we could commence to planning Agent Belden’s rescue."

"If you think I’m leaving Trixie to the likes of you, you couldn’t be more wrong," Jim spat angrily. "You’d probably—"

"If I have my facts right, Mr. Frayne, you’re the one who left her in the first place," Mark interrupted, his voice angry. "Didn’t you run off and leave her to face an armed man alone?"

Jim clenched both his fists in an effort to keep his temper. "You’re twisting the facts and you know it," he spat out. "She told me to leave. There was a child involved. We could hardly send a five-year-old into the woods alone."

"Of course," Mark replied. His words were perfectly innocuous, even polite, but his tone betrayed the doubt and disgust he felt for the other man.

"Special Agent Carlson! Mr. Frayne!" Riker interrupted. He scowled impartially at both men. "What is the meaning of all this tomfoolery?"

Both were silent, staring challengingly at each other. "Both of us have known Detective Belden for some time," Mark said finally.

"You know each other, then?" Riker frowned.

"This is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting Special Agent Carlson," Jim said. The sarcasm was evident in his tone.

"Then what’s all this about?" Riker demanded.

"I would like to speak to Mr. Frayne for a moment," Mark said slowly, declining to answer the sheriff’s question. "I have a few things to discuss with him."

Riker snorted in exasperation. "You can go to the questioning room, the holding cells or the bathroom," he said acerbically. "That’s all there is, other than this room."

"I believe we’ll go to the questioning room," Mark said easily. "This should only take a moment."

"Right through there," Riker said sourly, indicating the correct door. "You want I should put Piers on hold if he should happen to call before you’re done?" he called sarcastically.

Both Mark and Jim ignored him as they pushed past each other into the questioning room.

Jim immediately took possession of the one chair and sprawled into it, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Mark perched in a familiar position on the edge of the table, and frowned down at him.

There was silence in the room for a moment. Jim was the first to break it. "What do you want to say, Carlson?" he asked, his tone aggressive.

Mark sighed. "What happened, Frayne?" he said. "Tell me in detail what happened out there on the road."

Jim looked up, surprised. He had expected a far different question. He frowned in some confusion, but answered the question. "We were heading back toward Houston after picking up the little girl. We were about an hour from here, when a pickup started tailing us. Trix was calling him names, then he started to pass."

Mark grinned at this, imagining some of the names Trixie had been calling the other driver.

"As he came even with us in the other lane, he veered over and hit us. Trixie managed to keep control of the car, but he hit us again. That time she speeded up, trying to buy a few minutes before he forced us off the road. By then she’d figured out that it was Piers. She kept going until we got to a part of the road where their was a high embankment, and woods on the other side. She told me to take the child, and hide with her in the woods."

"So you did?" Mark asked. This time there was no condemnation in his tone.

"I know the woods better than Trixie does. I could move faster carrying Erica, too. She knew it, and so did I. So I listened to her."

Mark nodded. "That’s always the best idea," he conceded absently. He was silent for a moment. "Erica is the Piers girl?" he asked.

Jim nodded.

"Where is she now?"

"A policewoman took her on to Texas. They are planning to keep her there under protective custody until her father is no longer at large."

Mark nodded. "And the mother?"

"She lives in New York. They have New York police keeping an eye on her."

Another silence fell. "All right," Mark said finally. "That’s all I needed to know. You can go on to the fire hall now."

Jim shook his head. "I will not."

Mark turned to glare at him, all the pent-up anger and frustration and worry he had felt that day threatening to break forward. "Mr. Frayne, you have no authority to argue with this situation."

"I have the right to monitor the retrieval of my fiancée from a hostage situation!" Jim shot back angrily.

Mark stared at the other man, stunned by his remark. "Your fiancée?" he repeated.

Jim was silent.

"The last I had heard, Mr. Frayne, Trixie had broken off your engagement because you were unable to countenance her chosen profession."

Jim reddened. "Why do you think I’m on this trip?" he asked bitterly. "She’s showing me how well she can handle dangerous situations, so that when we get back together I won’t have to worry about it anymore. I can’t tell you how impressed I am," he added dryly.

"When you get back together?" Mark repeated, frowning. "So this engagement is not official?"

Jim waved his hand impatiently. "It’s all but," he snapped. "This was the formality. When we go home—"

"When you return to your home, Mr. Frayne, you can do as you wish. Until then Agent Belden’s recovery is my responsibility, and you are distracting me from that duty. So please—"

"Your responsibility? Your duty?" Jim interrupted. "Is that how you see Trixie? No wonder she didn’t stay with you! She’s—"

"And what about you, Mr. Frayne," Mark shot back angrily, control deserting him. "So what if I do feel a responsibility for her? At least I don’t regard her as my personal property!"

"What are you talking about?" Jim shouted, jumping up from his chair to advance on the other man.

"You don’t want her doing detective work. It’s too dangerous. You don’t like it," Mark shouted back, rising to his feet to meet the other man on equal territory. "You think she should do something else. It’s her life – she can do whatever she wants with it. Who are you to tell her what she can and can’t do?"

"You have no idea what you’re talking about, Carlson," snarled Jim, stopping directly in front of the other man. "I never once told her she couldn’t do anything. So what if I worried? I suppose it’s just fine with you if she rushed off alone into dangerous situations, but…"

"I have the faith that she can take care of herself," Mark snapped back. "I trained with her, remember? She was the best in our class."

"Better than you?" taunted Jim.

"Yes," Mark admitted. "But she threw it all away to go back to you." He shook his head. "What a waste," he remarked insultingly.

"Threw you away too, huh Special Agent?" Jim retorted.

That last comment cut rather too close to the bone. With a howl of rage, Mark snapped, and swung his fist at the man who was so derisively taunting him. That was all the carte blanche Jim had been waiting for. He ducked that blow, and directed one of his own at the FBI agent. Within seconds, the two men were rolling on the floor, for all the world like two frat boys in a bar brawl.

Hearing the riot within the questioning room, Sheriff Riker rushed to open the door. For a moment, he stood stunned at the melee within. "That’ll be enough!" he finally shouted. The veins in his throat stood out from the force of his bellow. Jim and Mark both jumped, startled, at the sound of the sheriffs voice.

Riker surveyed them both. Jim had already looked the worse for all his adventures, but now a bleeding cut on his forehead and a bruise on his cheek added to his generally disreputable appearance. The greatest change was in the formerly unruffled detective – his clothes were torn and disheveled, his smooth hair stood in agitated tufts, the skin around one eye was rapidly darkening and his lower lip was split and swelling. All these changes in appearance paled in comparison to his change in expression – his bland, unrevealing look had been replaced by an expression of murderous rage.

"What’s going on here?" Riker demanded forcefully.

"He started it," Jim muttered. He glared at Mark, who delivered him a baleful half-snarl in return.

"Special Agent Carlson?" Riker asked sternly.

"This is ridiculous," Mark grumbled, pulling himself stiffly to his feet. "You sound like my father."

"Well, you two are certainly acting like children," Riker growled. "What in tarnation is going on here? I call in the Feds for help, and you come raise a ruckus in my questioning room? What kind of federal assistance is that? I’ve half a mind to call the Bureau and ask for a replacement!"

"Don’t do that, Sheriff Riker," Jim inserted, hauling himself to his feet as well. "It’s as much my fault as his."

"What’s going on?" Riker demanded again.

Jim sighed. "Both Agent Carlson and I have been involved with Trixie," he said. "As such, we don’t like each other too much."

"You have got to be kidding me," Riker said flatly. "That little girl is sitting in a farmhouse with that lunatic training a gun on her, and you two idiots are in here fighting over which one of you gets to walk her home after the dance?" He shook his head and held out a hand to stave off their forthcoming explanations. "I don’t even want to hear it," he said disgustedly. "You work out what you need to work out before you come back into my station. I don’t want to see any more of this foolishness." He turned and forcefully slammed the door behind him.

Mark groaned and sank into the chair. "Thanks," he muttered. "You got me in trouble."

Jim looked down at the other man. Suddenly, he began to laugh. Mark looked up and scowled as the low rumble filled the room. "Riker’s right," Jim chuckled. "We are pretty childish." He shook his red head, and sobered. "Look, Carlson. I don’t like you," he said bluntly. "I don’t like you at all. I’m sure the feeling is reciprocated." Mark nodded vehemently. "However, we have bigger problems right now. Let’s get Trixie out of there, then you and I will go somewhere quiet and beat the stuffing out of each other. Deal?" He stuck out his hand to shake.

Mark stared at the proffered hand, then sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, Frayne was right. "Fine," he said, shaking Jim’s hand. "You don’t have to go to the fire hall."

"Darn right I don’t," Jim said calmly. "So, what’s the plan?"

*     *     *

"Agent Fynnes," said Mark briskly, coming up behind his friend. "Can you give me a status report as to what’s going on here?"

Derek straightened, and turned to look at his friend. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw Mark’s disheveled appearance. He took in the black eye and the split lip, the torn clothes and ruffled hair. "What in the world happened to you?" he asked incredulously.

"Agent Fynnes!" Mark snapped, reddening slightly. "I asked as to the status of this base!"

Derek shook his head rapidly, trying to focus on something other than wondering whom Mark had gotten into a fight with. "Sorry, Special Agent Carlson. This place is now fully operational as our headquarters – we have calls from the station all routed here. We have Piers’ phone lines tapped, all conversations recorded over there," he said, gesturing to a line of computers and large recording devices. "The troopers are sending up helicopters and a bomb squad, just in case. Our guys are ready to go in at any time."

Mark nodded briskly. "Good," he said. "We’ll be bringing a force down to the house in a half hour."

"In his last communication, Piers said for no one to go near his house," Derek reminded.

Mark smiled unpleasantly. "We’re going there, full show," he informed the other agent. "Flashing lights, hovering choppers, barking dogs, spotlights – the whole nine yards."

Jim had come up behind Mark and overhead the last few bits of the conversation. "Even though he said not to? Is that wise?" he asked.

Derek looked in astonishment over Mark’s shoulder at the man who had questioned the orders of the agent in charge of the case. He knew at once he had found his friend’s sparring partner – there was a raw cut on the other man’s forehead and a large purple bruise spreading over one side of his face.

"Yes, Mr. Frayne," said Mark in tightly controlled tones, his face showing his displeasure at being questioned. "Piers is a small time hood. It’s unlikely that he’ll hurt Agent Belden with a whole brigade of police witness on hand. A show of force of this type is the best way to get him out of his hidey-hole."

"I see," the redheaded man said. It was apparent by his tone that he was unhappy with the idea.

"Who are you?" Derek asked bluntly. His curiosity had been piqued – obviously Mark had been fighting with the man, but now he was humoring him to the extent of explaining his own decisions to him.

"This is Mr. Jim Frayne," Mark said. "Mr. Frayne, Agent Derek Fynnes. Mr. Frayne was with Agent Belden at the time of her abduction. He got the Piers child to safety. He will be accompanying us on this mission."

Derek shot a sharp glance at his friend, and another at the other man. He frowned, remembering a snatch of conversation from earlier in the evening: "Trixie said that Jim – his name is Jim –," Mark added, making the simple name sound like an insult, "didn’t want her taking dangerous cases. He was afraid she’d get hurt," he finished scornfully.

Derek’s eyes widened slightly, realizing now who the other man was. This was the guy Trixie had turned down the FBI offer for. Derek had to hold back a shout of laughter. Now at least he knew why Mark had been fighting him.

"Let’s prepare to go down," Mark said, cutting in on Derek’s musings. "I’ve requisitioned cars for us. I’d like you to drive down with Mr. Frayne."

Derek’s amusement rapidly vanished. "Me!" he protested. "Why…"

Mark grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him aside. "This guy’s a civilian, Derek," he muttered under his breath. "Keep him out of the way."

"Forget it," Derek said flatly. "I’m not standing on the back lines babysitting this guy, Mark. He obviously has a mean right hook," he said, staring pointedly at his friend’s eye. "Let him take care of himself."

Mark flushed. "Thanks, Fynnes," he growled. "I’m glad I have such a comedian along. Really, I appreciate it. You don’t have to stand on the back lines," he explained. "Just drive him down. Otherwise, he’ll think he’s being shunted aside and I don’t have the time or patience to deal with it. You’re just his ride. Ok?"

"I didn’t spend years training at Quantico to serve as chauffeur for some civilian pretty boy," Derek continued to grumble.

"Just do it, Fynnes. At this point, I don’t really even care if you like it." With that, Mark turned and stalked away.

About thirty minutes later, the selected team moved into their vehicles and headed for the Piers home. Jim and Derek drove along in silence, each grimly sunk in their own thoughts.

"So," Derek said, breaking the silence after several moments. "You’re the infamous Jim Frayne."

"Yes," Jim agreed mildly. "I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of you."

Derek laughed unpleasantly. "Yeah, I understand that Trixie’s not allowed to talk about her work to you."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Jim demanded angrily, turning in his seat to look at the other man.

Derek kept his eyes on the road. It was still dark, but there was a hint of brightness on the horizon that indicated that dawn was not far away. "Word is that you’re scared for her; want her to do something else."

Jim swore under his breath. "Does everyone in the Federal Bureau of Investigations have nothing better to do than discuss my love life?" he grumbled.

"There’s a lot of people there very interested in Trixie," Derek said bluntly. "A lot of people who were very upset when she chucked everything to go back to some hick town in New York for the sake of someone who doesn’t even appreciate her talents."

"That’s not true!" Jim retorted hotly. "I—"

"You did your best to get her to do something else," Derek interrupted. "Didn’t you?"

"I don’t see where its any of your business," Jim insisted resolutely, turning his head to gaze out the window.

Derek shook his head. "That’s where you’re wrong," he said easily. "Trixie’s my friend. So is Mark," he added meaningfully."

Jim’s head snapped around sharply. "What does he have to do with this?" he demanded.

"One of those things that Trixie dropped when she went running back to you was Mark," Derek explained. "They were very close, for a long time. We all thought they’d get married. So did he – he even proposed to her."

Derek paused, waiting for a reaction. Jim sat stoically still, transferring his gaze again to the world outside the window.

"But she said no, because of you," Derek continued, realizing that the other man wasn’t going to respond. "I’m going to be honest with you, Frayne – you should back off."

"Excuse me?" Jim asked.

"Back off," Derek repeated. "Mark and Trixie are…they’re great together. Near the end of our training in Quantico, we would be paired together on assignments. No one could beat the two of them. They were perfect – it was almost like they could read each other’s minds." Derek paused and shook his head, remembering. "It was spooky – I’ve never seen two people in synch like that in my life." He glanced over to the other man, but there was still no reaction from Jim.

"It’s not fair to keep her from that kind of unity with another person on the strength of a high school crush. Let her go, Frayne," he advised. "She doesn’t belong with you. I know it must be hard, but that’s the way it is."

"That you for your opinion," Jim said coldly.

Derek shook his head. "You should listen to it," he said bluntly. "I’m right."

"Maybe you are," Jim said slowly. "Maybe you are."

*     *     *

"I don’t believe this!" Piers raged. He peered out the window in the front room and swore as he saw another police car come cruising down his dilapidated driveway. "I specifically told them not to come here!"

Trixie sneered up at him from her prone position on the floor. "What did you think they were going to do?" she asked nastily. "Send you a letter certified mail asking you to please let the New York detective go home?"

Piers turned his ugly glare on her. "You’re mighty uppity for someone in your position," he warned. "Keep it up, girl. Give me an excuse to shoot you."

Trixie yawned. "You’re going to shoot me with all those witnesses in the driveway? I don’t think so. It’s not your style. You’re more an accident in the woods type."

Piers chuckled nastily. He crossed the room to the table where he’d left his jug of whisky, kicking her in the ribs as he passed. "Figured that out did you?" he asked. "I bet you think you’re smart," he remarked before lifting the jug to his lips and nosily gulping down the liquid.

Trixie didn’t answer. She couldn’t – the casual blow from his booted foot had knocked the wind out of her. Really, she wasn’t feeling her best. Piers had been using her as his personal punching bag for hours, and it was taking all of her concentration just to remain conscious. The remainder of her attention was focused on continuing her caustic remarks, so Piers wouldn’t think he was subduing her. There wasn’t much left over for her to make her escape plans.

"You’re right, though," Piers admitted as he again moved to the window, this time taking the jug with him. "I’m not going to shoot you now."

"Imagine my relief," Trixie said weakly.

Piers turned abruptly. He knelt down beside her and leaned down until his face was bare inches from hers. "You’re going to be my ticket out of here," he whispered. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, mingled with the smell of scent rising from his unwashed skin. "But once we’ve lost the pigs there’ll be no reason to keep you around. But you know what?" he asked. Trixie didn’t reply. "I’m not going to shoot you then either."

"Oh no?" asked Trixie, managing with great effort to keep her tone light.

Piers shook his head slowly. He leaned back to take another swig of whiskey, the moved toward her again. "You’ve been too much trouble to me, Miss Detective," he said. "I’m going to take my time. Before I’m done, you’ll wish I would shoot you. You’ll beg me to shoot you." He laughed, and took another swallow of whiskey. "But I won’t," he told her baldly.

He stood up and moved back toward the window. "So keep your trap shut," he yelled over his shoulder. "Every time you open that big yap, you add another ten minutes on. Be smart for once."

Trixie closed her eyes, shutting out the repulsive man in the same room as she. She wasn’t overly worried about his threats – it was unlikely that he would get past the police, and even more unlikely that he’d be able to get her wherever he was planning to go without either being apprehended or giving her a chance to escape. But she was less and less thrilled at having to spend any more time with the evil specimen of inhumanity – and she had to go to the bathroom. The time had come to figure out some way to escape.

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TBH Fan Fiction