End Game

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

Somebody turn off that blasted alarm clock!

From somewhere came a soft moan. She was sure it wasn't from her mouth, but somebody else heard it.

"Mom?"

Rachel? What the h...?

She struggled to open her eyes. The lids fluttered a bit as she did, and that produced another soft sound and another reaction.

"Mom? Dad! Dad! Come quick! I think she's coming around!"

There was a flurry of footsteps, then another welcome voice. "Shelly? Come on, honey. Wake up!"

Her eyelids finally went up, at least a little, and she blinked, squinting. She swallowed; her mouth felt dry. The people around her were just flesh-colored blobs at first, but eventually they resolved into two familiar faces, both with near identical expressions of worry and hope.

"Chuck? Rachel?" she croaked.

"Mom! Oh, Mom!" Rachel exclaimed, her voice full of tears. "We were so worried!"

Now her other senses clamored for attention. She raised a hand to feel the back of her head, which was bandaged and throbbed with pain. Her right knee was immobilized and that hurt, too. There was a familiar scent on the air, one that approximated her workplace, sharp and antiseptic. Her eyes opened more and she took in her surroundings.

Hospital room. The beeping is an... EKG. Oh, thank you, God!

"I'm alive." Every muscle in her relaxed for a moment, then she reached out for her husband. "Oh, thank God! Chuck! I'm alive!"

Chuck smiled back at her, his eyes moist. "Yeah, Shelly. You're alive. We were so worried." He reached out and took one of her hands, and placed a kiss in her palm. He gently stroked her bruised cheek with a knuckle, then carefully cupped the same cheek with a hand and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

She reached out again with her one free hand toward Rachel. "Oh, God. I thought I'd never see you again!"

Her daughter leaned in, tears streaking her cheeks. "I was so scared, Mom. I'm so glad you're awake." Her lips gently touched her mother's cheek as Shelly's hand went around her neck and pulled her close.

Chuck smiled at the interchange, then said, "Rachel, page the doctor or a nurse and tell them that your mother's awake."

"Okay, Dad," Rachel replied with a nod as she pressed the call button.

A nurse answered with a weary, "Yes? How can I help you?"

"My mom is awake. You might want to send the doctor in."

"Good! I'll get her as soon as possible."

Shelly sighed, relaxing even more, contented in the moment and the love of her family. But something niggled at the back of her mind, and she frowned, quickly changing her expression as the muscles in her face protested. Tears welled up, tears of gratitude and of sudden fear with clutched at her heart as the memories of the past few hours began to resurface.

Chuck noticed. He grabbed a tissue from the stand next to her bed and dabbed at her cheeks. "What's wrong, honey?"

His wife swallowed heavily, and bit her lower lip, gazing with a worried expression at her husband. Then she asked simply, "Where's Lou?"

"Uhhh."

Heavy eyelids slid open once, twice, closed again, then opened again halfway and stayed open. It was dark, but not pitch black. She could make out the gray edges of a tall window as she turned her head to the left. She ached all over; every joint and muscle felt stressed and stretched out. But she shifted onto her side and suddenly became aware that she could do it. This realization woke her a bit more and she began to test each extremity, stretching and moving them, feeling the achiness diminish as she did so. Finally, she sat up, pushed back the covers of the bed, rubbed her back with both hands, and swung her legs over the side.

Lou turned to scan the unfamiliar room as best she could in the darkness. Where am I? she wondered. How'd I get here? Last thing I remember was Franks standing over Shelly... She gasped, covering her mouth just a tad too late to keep someone from hearing her. Oh no! Dear God, no! Please don't let her be dead!

Her head drooped as she braced herself on the edge of the mattress, and tears spilled unbidden down her face. What have I done? I let Franks take me to try and save her. I should have called the police! What happened to Scott and Gordon? Why weren't they watching my back?

She sobbed and cried for several minutes, letting out some of her frustration and grief, then she thought, This isn't doing anyone any good. If Scott and Gordon can still track me, they'll find me and I can always call... She squinted down at the back of her hand where she had placed the bandage with the transmitter circuitry in it, then she felt it with her other hand. All she felt were four ridges of skin that stung when she touched them. Damn! The transceiver is gone.

So what do I do now? she asked herself, wiping her face with the bed sheet. For all I know, Franks took me to Gaat and I'm being watched. Still, I have to know my situation.

Standing carefully, she fought against the vertigo she felt on rising and when she felt she was steady, she moved over to open the blinds. The view was odd; a mist swirled outside the window, lit from below by some kind of light, one that turned what would normally be a dark vista into a bank of light gray fog. No trees or other darker objects could be discerned One thing's for sure, I'm not on a Caribbean island! Now for the room itself. First, some light.

She reached over for the lamp, the contours of which she could see by the little bit of light shining past the blinds. The light came on at her touch and she sighed in relief, turning to take in the room. She had been sleeping on a queen sized bed in a tastefully furnished bedchamber, but who it belonged to, she couldn't tell. There was none of the usual clutter on the dresser and highboy that you would find in an occupied room. Moving slowly, she opened each drawer only to find them empty, and the spacious walk-in closet was almost the same. A clean set of bed linens and towels sat on an upper shelf and her leather coat was there, hung up neatly. Her shoes were on the closet floor and she slipped her feet into them. I'll need the shoes if I have to run, yet I can sacrifice the coat. But towels? Does that mean a bathroom?

There were three doors in the room. One, she had already discovered, led to the closet. The remaining two stood at a ninety degree angle to each other. Sighing, she picked the one on her left. Yep, a bathroom.

The bathroom was spotlessly clean and provided with fluffy dark blue towels, matching washcloths, and plenty of soap, both solid and liquid. There was even a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste. Lou looked at herself in the mirror and groaned. Her face was bruised slightly and definitely dirty, and the small red mark from the hypospray still marred the side of her neck. She looked down at her hands; her wrists were bruised and her hands bloody, most of it from Franks but some from her own torn fingernails. She slipped her sweater off over her head and checked herself, front and back. There were bruises on her abdomen where Franks's elbows had connected when he knocked the wind out of her but nothing else. My hair looks like Medusa's, but there's nothing I can do about it. Sighing, she used the toilet first, realizing as she did that her trousers were properly fastened. I remember him unzipping my pants. He may have had to zip them back up again in order to get me onto a plane without questions. Shuddering, she thought, I doubt he did anything while I was unconscious. He's enough of a sadist to want me awake for... She shook her head, quickly finished her business, then squirted some liquid soap into her hands and scrubbed them clean. After that, she wet a face cloth and washed her face.

When face and hands were presentable and dry, she slipped her sweater back on and decided it was time to try door number three. I bet it's locked, she mused. Though if Franks took me to see Gaat, he might just decide that there's nowhere I can go without being spotted and caught. Still, I have to try.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the button that would open the door. To her surprise, it swished open with barely a sound. She poked her head out, looking up and down the wide, darkened corridor. There were small tables set at various intervals, each with some elegant, decorative item atop it, and heavy framed paintings adorned the walls between the doors. A long, thin Oriental rug ran down the hall from one end to another, and on either side of the runner was the hint of polished hardwood floors. No one seemed to be around, so she stepped out into the hallway, and headed to her left where there seemed to be some light. She walked slowly and carefully, padding softly on the well-cushioned runner, making barely a sound.

The light she saw came from a pair of dimmed sconces on the wall of a huge living room. The chamber was done in natural woods and leather and looked comfortable while giving an impression of wealth and power. As she crept up to the room, she saw a leather wing chair sitting with its tall back to her, and a towering floor lamp next to the chair, also shedding a dim light on the room. Her breath caught as she saw the chair was occupied. A bit of masculine arm, visible from just below the elbow down to the hand, rested on the rolled arms of the wing chair. A clear glass tumbler half full of an amber liquid was in the hand, and as she watched, the arm moved the tumbler out of sight for a moment and back down again. The man, whoever he was, smacked his lips and sighed.

I don't know what to do here. If that's Gaat or Franks, I'm certainly in no condition to take either of them on hand-to-hand. But who else could it be? Scott and Gordon were both dressed in black... She began to back up. I guess I'll have to confront him, whoever he is. But first, to arm myself. Where's the kitchen?

"Lou? What does Lou have to do with this?" Chuck asked, suddenly getting serious.

"She was there," Shelly said. "There was this man, this terrible man, and he... he... oh God. I hope he didn't get away."

At this point, the doctor came in, followed by a nurse. "Well, it's good to see you awake, Mrs. Clarendon," she said cheerfully. She shook hands with the three Clarendons. "I'm Dr. Aulenbach, and I'm a neurologist. Since Mrs. Clarendon came in with a class three concussion, I'm going to do a few tests to see how the concussion has affected her cognitive and sensory functions, particularly her hearing and eyesight. Dr. Beers, an orthopedic surgeon, will be in later to talk to you about the knee." She turned to Chuck and Rachel. "If you wouldn't mind stepping outside? We'll call you back in when we're through."

"I'm staying," Chuck said resolutely. "I'll keep out of your way, but I'm staying." He turned to his daughter. "Rachel, would you please get me a decent cup of coffee from the cafeteria?"

Rachel looked doubtful. It was plain that she wanted to stay, too. Ever since the hospital had called, saying that her mother had been brought there, unconscious, by some anonymous people, she didn't want to leave her side. But her father gave her a look that was both pleading and commanding. "Oh, all right, Dad. I'll be back soon," she said, relenting. She walked out of the room, heading for the elevator. On the way, her shoulder collided with that of a copper-haired young man, slightly older than herself, who was walking in the opposite direction. She stopped to glare at him as she rubbed her shoulder pointedly, even though it didn't hurt very much. "Why don't you watch where you're going?" she snapped.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said politely. "I'm afraid my mind was somewhere else. Please excuse me."

Her exasperation with him dimmed a bit at his abject apology. "I suppose. But please watch where you're going in the future."

"I most certainly shall," he replied, with a twinkle in his eye that made Rachel think he found the entire situation very amusing. She sniffed once, tossed her head, letting her long, sandy brown hair swing from side to side, and stalked off.

Gordon smiled as he watched her go. So, that's Lou's niece, huh? She's got a snarky attitude. But I'm more likely to get information from her than from anyone else. I'd better wait, though. The doctor just went in and I'm sure that there'll be more to learn once she's finished. Better go back to the waiting room and keep an eye out for... whatever.

Getting Shelly to the hospital had gone off without a hitch. He and Agent 22 had rehearsed the scenario on their way into Portland, where they figured they'd find a busier emergency room, removed a bit from the scene of the rescue. Shelly had been carefully placed in the back seat of Angela's sedan for the ride to the hospital, covered with a blanket that Angela kept in the trunk of her car. He winced as he remembered how bad the wound on the back of her head had looked. But his old friend Paul Abbot, formerly of WASP, now a medic in the Coast Guard and IR Agent 45, had arrived and examined her, saying that though she was probably concussed from the bullet graze, the actual wound was superficial. They fetched the medikit from Thunderbird One, gently put a soft cervical collar on her and transported her to Angela's car on a backboard. It was difficult, because Paul had found the badly swollen and bruised knee and said he wanted it immobilized as much as possible.

"I wish we could call in an ambulance," his father had said regretfully. "But there would be just too many questions. As it is, we're probably leaving behind lots of evidence, hopefully none of it easily traceable."

So, he and Angela drove to the emergency room at the main hospital in Portland. As they suspected, the bad weather had brought out all kinds of injuries, and the trauma center was busy. Gordon removed the cervical collar very carefully just before they got to the hospital, and the backboard had stayed behind at the scene for them to use in transporting Lou to someplace safe. As a result, Shelly basically had not a stitch of visible medical treatment on her when the car pulled up to the emergency entrance. It took a moment before Gordon, who had hopped out of the car as Angela kept it running, could find someone who would come out with a gurney to fetch Shelly.

He answered the questions of the medical staff with a lot of, "I don't know", and "We found her like this", but made sure that Shelly's handbag was plunked at her feet to give them something to identify her with. All of the accoutrements had been shoved willy-nilly into the bag by Scott, who made sure he was wearing gloves when he did so.

Once Shelly was safely in the emergency room, Angela drove off, supposedly to find a parking space, leaving Gordon behind to do what he had learned to do from years of avoiding older brothers he had just played a prank on: fade into the woodwork. He removed the garish tweed coat his father had given him for camouflage, folding it and leaving it over a chair in the ER waiting room. His ball cap and visor were with Scott, and peeling off his dark turtleneck to reveal his old gray WASP t-shirt further changed his looks. The turtleneck was thrown surreptitiously into a trash can in the cafeteria's restroom. He waited in the dining area for about an hour, getting himself something to eat and striking up a conversation with someone who noticed his t-shirt and told him her brother had served with WASP. Then he bade farewell to his conversation companion, and checked with the reception area to see if Shelly had been admitted. She had; he got the room number and headed up to her floor, taking over a chair in the waiting room and watching Shelly's door, until two people, a man about as old as his father, and a woman in her early twenties showed up and entered hesitantly. Dad said her husband's name was Chuck, and their youngest daughter was Rachel. That must be them.

Now he was waiting for Rachel to come back. He hoped he could make another contact with her and find a way to ask about her mother. He stretched out in the less than comfortable waiting room chair, tilting his head back, extending his legs out to cross them at the ankle and entwining his fingers together to rest them on his chest. He sat like that for several minutes, feeling drowsy and bored, when a feminine, "Ahem", brought his head up quickly.

Rachel was standing there, two cups of coffee and a small plastic bag in her hands. Gordon sat up right awayrepositioning himself in his chair. She smiled sheepishly. "I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier." She extended one of the coffee cups. "Peace offering?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, thank you!" he sputtered, taking the cup from her hand, and set it down on the table at his right hand.

She extended her hand. "Rachel Clarendon."

He took it and shook it. "Gordon Cooper." It was an alias he had thought of long ago and had never been able to use until now. He indicated the seat to his left. "Please sit down."

Rachel sat on the edge of her seat, holding the coffee cup in one hand, while putting the bag on her lap and opening it with the other. "I've got cream and sugar in here..." she said.

"Just cream, please," he replied. She reached in and pulled out two tiny containers of half-and-half, then handed them to him. "Here's a stirrer thing, too," she added, pulling a short, paper covered straw from the bag.

He removed the paper, opened up the little containers, and stirred them into his coffee. "Aren't you having any?" he asked, pointing to the other cup.

She shook her head. "No, this is for my dad." Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she asked, "So, who do you know in here?"

"A friend," he answered glibly. "Car accident. I'm up here waiting for them to transfer him to this floor."

"Oh, no! Was he hurt badly?"

"I don't know. He was wearing his seatbelt and all. But he was unconscious when they brought him in. I think maybe the airbag didn't deploy or something." Gordon was just getting warmed up now. He took a sip of the coffee and peered into her face. "Who do you know?"

"My mom. She was brought in by some strangers a little while ago and admitted. The emergency room workers identified her by her driver's license. She was unconscious, too. A concussion they said. And her knee's really messed up. I wish I knew what happened, but she just came to a little bit ago and hasn't been able to tell us yet."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Rachel stood and said, "Well, I'd better get this coffee to my dad. I hope your friend is going to be all right."

"Ditto for your mom," Gordon replied sincerely. "And thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome. Nice to have met you."

"Same here."

"Bye now." Rachel turned and wiggled her fingers at Gordon.

"Bye." Gordon raised a hand in farewell

Rachel walked out into the corridor and scurried over to her mother's room, opening the door enough to slide inside and closing it behind her. Gordon watched her go, noticed her hair swinging back and forth as she half-ran, and sighed. He stretched out in his chair again, commenting softly to himself, "Well, whattaya know about that?"

Jeff took another sip of his whiskey. He was sitting in one of his favorite chairs, his stockinged feet propped up on an ottoman, just listening to the quiet. He tried to clear his mind of what had happened in those last confusing moments when he burst in on Franks, but the memories still flashed, kaleidoscope-like, in his mind, and instead of pushing them away, he decided to unravel them.

I don't even remember hearing him firing a shot. But the evidence was there on Shelly's head, that bloody welt slicing across her scalp. Damn, but I'd forgotten how much those kinds of injuries bleed! I am so glad Agent 45 showed up. I have basic first aid training, and the boys have EMT certification, but I don't know that we would have seen that knee injury. God, I was afraid she was dead.

He adjusted himself in his chair. Then there was Lou. She was so still and limp, and looked like she was barely breathing. Her sweater was pulled up, her slacks were open... I hate to think what Franks was doing. Gordon refuses to tell me what he saw and heard. But I'll worm it out of him yet.

Taking another sip of whiskey, he let the liquid roll down his throat. I couldn't take her to a hospital. What was I going to say? 'This woman was shot up with some kind of drug to make her talk to the bastard who kidnapped her sister'? I'd be the first suspect. Paul couldn't give me any indication of what it was either. I just hope it passes off soon. If not, I will have to resort to a hospital. He breathed deeply and let it out slowly. Sharp man, that Paul. He was a big help in covering our tracks. He thought of places where our footprints would be that we hadn't a clue about. Says he got the ideas from reading a lot of forensic thrillers. Still, I'm sure there'll be other evidence that we couldn't erase. I'll have to get onto Parker and have him get into Lou's files the way he's gotten into ours...

A soft clearing of the throat behind his chair drew his attention. "Whoever you are in that chair, show yourself," came a hard, low voice. He peered around the wing of his chair. "Lou!" he called, an astonished look on his face.

"Jeff!" Lou shouted, her eyes wide with fright. She dropped the knife she had been holding, one of the sharp, thin boning knives from the kitchen. It bounced a little on the thick carpet. She felt her knees give way; they seemed to turn to water, and she fell to the floor, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, God!" she cried, her shoulders shaking. "I'm safe! I'm safe!"

Jeff quickly put his drink down and got out of his chair. He knelt down before her, reaching out reflexively to gather her in his arms and hold her close. He cupped her face with one hand at the jaw, his fingertips in her curls, holding her head firmly to his shoulder, his own cheek resting on her forehead, his thumb swiping her tears across her cheek. The other hand rubbed her back comfortingly while she sobbed in relief. "Shhh, shhh. It's okay. It's okay. You're okay. You're safe," he murmured. She had one arm around his back and the other hand resting on his chest, and eventually she calmed and nestled her head in the space between his jaw and his shoulder.

He held her like that for what seemed like a long time. It felt natural, and Jeff was very much aware of how comfortable he was holding her. He didn't want to let go, but he knew he had to ask some questions and answer some, too.

"Lou?" he asked softly. "Why the knife?"

She sighed inaudibly, and drew back so she could look him in the eye. "Jeff, I had no idea where I was, or who was in that chair when I first woke up. I knew that if Franks had taken me away as he planned, it could have been him, or Gaat, or who knows who else? And I knew I was in no condition to face any of them unarmed. So I looked around until I found the kitchen and armed myself with a knife. You were the last person I expected to see."

"Okay. I understand. I understand," he replied, resting a hand on her face. He began to get to his feet, and took her hand to help her stand up. She was unsteady still and he guided her to his chair, moving his drink from the ottoman and sitting down on the foot rest.

"Where are we? Where did you come from? How did I get here?" she asked, her blue eyes puzzled.

Blue. It seems such a strange color for her. I'll be glad when the dye fades and those big brown eyes are looking at me again. He took a breath and huffed it out his nose. "Where are we? My place in Manhattan. Where did I come from? Well, I had Scott drop me off in Los Angeles, and I flew out to Portland from there. I was supposed to be there before you went off for your rendezvous, but the storm interfered and I was late. How did you get here? Scott flew us both here in Thunderbird One. There's a helijet pad above us," he looked up and pointed to the ceiling, "and since the clouds were low enough to cover the top floors of the tower, we were able to land pretty much undetected. We carried you down to the guest room to see if the drug that Franks used would wear off in time." He gazed at her face, and a small frown appeared between his eyebrows. "Did Franks say he planned to take you away?"

She nodded. "Yes, he did. He said that though the disk was important, I was more important to his 'employer'. I don't know why Gaat would want me or why Franks would go to such lengths to capture me. Except perhaps for revenge. He implied that he got into trouble for that fake disk." She then looked down and away and tears welled up fresh. "Jeff," she whispered. "Where is Shelly? What happened to her? Franks was going to shoot..."

Jeff smiled softly as he interrupted her. "Shhh. Calm down. Shelly is in a hospital in Portland. Gordon is there to keep an eye on her and report on how she's doing."

Her face came up with a jerk, her eyes wide with wonder, and she drew in a sharp breath. "You mean, she's alive? She's okay? Franks didn't shoot her?"

He held up a hand. "Yes, she is very much alive, but no, Lou, she's not entirely okay. And Franks did shoot her. But it ended up as just a scalp wound and she was knocked unconscious. He had also done something nasty to one of her knees. From what I understand, there may be surgery in her future."

Her expression changed from one of wonder from one of disbelief. "Jeff, Franks is a crack shot. He doesn't miss. Why did he miss this time?"

Jeff gazed at her with a solemn face. "Franks's aim was thrown off because he was shot through the head as he tried to shoot your sister. He's dead, Lou. Jim Franks is dead."