PERSONAL EFFECTS by MOLLY WEBB RATED FRPT

Jeff Tracy's routine morning turns into a father's worst nightmare when he gets very bad news about one of his sons.

This story was written as a response to the Tracy Island Writers Forum's 2005 Spring Challenge. Credit goes to me for writing the text shown at the beginning of the story in italics.

Jeff Tracy had been at work in his office at the Tracy Corp. headquarters since 7:00 a.m. His briefcase lay open on one corner of his desk, balancing the stacked piles of papers and reports that nearly covered the gleaming expanse of black glass. He was lost in concentration on a particularly troublesome spreadsheet when his cell phone rang. Absently he picked it up and answered, his eyes still on the paper before him. "Jeff Tracy."

There was a pause, and then a voice replied. "The Jeff Tracy?"

Jeff frowned, full attention suddenly focused on the phone at his ear. "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

Again there was a pause before the voice answered. "I found it in your son's wallet."

"My son's wallet?"

"Sir, this is Detective Benito Alvarez of the Denver Police Dept. There's no easy way to say this...I'm sorry to inform you that we believe your son John was killed in a traffic accident last night at approximately 6:30 p.m. on the outskirts of Denver. We need you to fly out here and make a positive identification."

Time stopped. Breath stopped. The voice on the telephone became distant and muffled. Jeff's head felt like it had been abruptly shoved into a vise that tightened until small sparks of light began a mad, firefly dance across his darkened vision.

"Mr. Tracy? Are you there?"

Suspended in time, Jeff stared down into a black void that he had hoped and prayed he would never see again. Then air suddenly rushed back into oxygen starved lungs as his body remembered how to breathe.

"Excuse me... I don't... I don't think I heard you..."

"I'm truly sorry, sir. We would have called sooner but there was no identification on the body and forensics didn't find his wallet in the wreckage until early this morning."

The tinny sound of the voice ceased. Then, after a moment: "Mr. Tracy?"

"Yes...yes. I'll...I'll be on a plane within the hour. Just tell me where." His voice trailed to silence as he stared at the documents on his desk. Funny, they'd seemed so important just a few minutes ago.

With steely self-control, he forced his hand to remain steady as he wrote down the information the Denver detective dictated. Thoughts and images of his middle son raced and whirled through his mind. Small arms reaching for him, "Up, daddy! Up!" Sunshine on dandelion hair. Fireflies in Mason jars. First dates..."Dad, can I borrow the car?" A young man, grown tall, serious face but mischievous smile, throwing his mortar board into the sky. His son. International Rescue Blue uniform. Please. Let it not be true...please.

Still holding the phone in his hand, he rose from his desk and moved toward the tall, wooden double doors of his office. He grabbed his coat and flung the doors open, startling his assistant, Rosemary O'Sullivan.

"Rosie! Call Patrick and tell him I need to be wheels up in an hour!" he said as he tore through the room on his way toward the exterior doors.

Rosemary stood up. "What's wrong..." she started to ask, but halted when Jeff held his palm up, staving off her questions.

"I'll call you later," he choked out as he passed through the outer doors and headed down the hall toward the elevators.

As soon as he reached the Tracy Aerospace facility, Jeff hurried toward the hangar where the company jet awaited his arrival. The sleek silver lines of the craft usually filled him with great satisfaction but today, all he wanted it to be was fast. The helijet flight to New Jersey had seemed interminable. Time kept beating at him. He'd been unable to do anything but think. The family would not be informed until he saw with his own eyes...until he was sure. Until that moment came, all was balanced on the sharp edge of fate, poised to fall on one side or the other. It wouldn't be real if he didn't say it.

"Time enough later," he murmured to himself as he began the weary climb into the aircraft.

Two and half hours later, Jeff Tracy sat in the back of the town car Rosemary had arranged for him. When he'd called her on the plane, he'd merely requested a rental -- but somehow she'd known it would be better that he have a driver. He was grateful.

I'd probably be running down pedestrians, he thought.

At the city morgue he was met by detective Benito Alvarez, a stocky man with tired eyes and a salt and pepper crewcut hair. He rose from the worn couch in the lobby as Jeff approached.

"I've wanted to meet you since I saw you go to the moon. I'm just sorry it had to be under these circumstances."

Jeff simply nodded as he shook the detective's hand.

Both men signed in at the counter and were buzzed through a metal door that opened into a hallway. Somehow Jeff had been expecting gloom and institutional green walls, and was surprised at how ironically light and pleasant the hallway was. Perhaps he felt the walls should somehow reflect his state of mind, but they remained stubbornly white and anonymous. Only the antiseptic smells with odd and unsettling odors beneath them seemed to hint at what the building's function was.

He was taken to a viewing room. There was a window and beyond the window was a stainless steel gurney with a sheet over it. Beneath the sheet lay a body. For a moment, Jeff halted and for a moment the abyss opened up again in front of him and he ceased to breathe, ceased to think. The detective and the lab assistant waited patiently, familiar with this reaction, too familiar with this pain.

After a brief eternity, Jeff recovered himself enough to clear his throat and nod at the assistant. The young man drew the sheet away from the body, revealing the upper half of the torso.

The body on the gurney was grey, devoid of life and color, the terrible injuries mutely speaking of a violent death. The face was unrecognizable but the hair was pale blonde. For a moment, tears blurred the scene before him and all he saw was sun-kissed dandelion hair, but then he blinked the moisture away, making himself look again. Suddenly something else shook the vision from his mind. The room abruptly tunneled, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. A light-headed dizziness made him sway. His voice came out hoarse with shock.

"That's not my son," he said. "That's not John."

At first he didn't know what he was looking at. He was lying on his back at an odd angle and snow was falling straight down at him...but not on him.

Oh, there's a window. How'd that happen?

He moved his head slightly and the whole world suddenly tilted and spun...a lot like the amusement park tilt-a-whirl he'd ridden as a child.

Oh, man. I hope I don't throw up!

Deciding that the smartest thing to do would be to lie still, he closed his eyes and did so.

Okay, deep breaths...deep breaths. Go through the checklist. Everything accounted for? Nothing missing? Nothing broken?

He carefully wiggled fingers and toes, doing a mental inventory of his body, trying to determine if he had any injuries. As he slightly flexed his left leg, he hissed in pain as a fuzzy memory...yesterday?...last night...rose in his mind.

Where...? Left leg folded under him...hurts...knee felt twisted, leg asleep. Move...push with good leg, pull...head hurts...leg...caught on something... What? Pushing upright...excruciating pain in head...dizzy, so dizzy. Feeling along leg until he reached...a stick? Leg caught on stick? Grab stick...wet, sticky...pull out of leg...cry...was that me? Darkness.

That was all he remembered. His leg was still throbbing but he really didn't know what had happened. Must have passed out, he thought as the pounding in his head began to localize to somewhere behind his ear. Carefully, he lifted his hand to his head and began to explore for the source of the ache. Behind his left ear, his fingertips encountered stiff, matted hair and a large lump that was extremely tender to the touch. He brought his hand level to his face and opened his eyes again. This time the world, and his stomach, remained steadier. He stared in puzzlement at the dark red of drying blood on his fingers.

The window above him was now covered by a light layer of snow. Turning his head slightly brought the back of an upholstered seat into focus. A car seat. He slowly reached out a hand and gently ran his fingers over the soft pile of the material. Between the two front seats, he could see the edge of a steering wheel. He was in a car, but everything was all wrong. Staring at it for a few moments, he finally figured out that the car was on its side, and he was lying, more or less, in the back seat. Well, on the door, really...and the window he had seen snow through was in the passenger side door opposite him. He was also lying on the arm rest and handle, which explained why he was so uncomfortable. He slowly maneuvered himself off the hard objects digging into his back.

His eyelids drooped shut as an overwhelming urge to sleep came over him. The small exertions had set his head to pounding again and it was so easy just to drift off for a while. He knew something was wrong with that idea, but it was hard to think. He tried to remember everything he could about head injuries...then he tried not to. At the very least he probably had a concussion...at the very worst, an intracranial bleed. And if he had an intracranial bleed...

Okay. Let's think about something else! Like where the hell am I and how did I get here? Why can't I remember? Think. Think.

John Tracy opened his eyes once more and realized he had no idea.

Detective Alvarez stood beside Jeff Tracy as he gazed at the body that had just become someone else's tragedy but not, thank God, his own.

"What makes you sure this isn't your son, Mr. Tracy?" asked the detective.

"Tattoos. John has no tattoos."

Alvarez contemplated the green scaled dragon that undulated around the deceased's upper arm and across his chest where it ended in a fierce head, eyes bulging and crimson tongue extended -- colors brilliant against the dead white skin. Barbed wire encircled his other bicep. The detective gestured to the assistant to replace the sheet over the body. "Maybe he got the tats since the last time you saw him."

"Detective Alvarez, how old would you say those tattoos are? More than a couple of weeks?

"Well, yes."

"When I saw him six days ago, swimming in the family pool, he had no tattoos...or a beer belly. That man has a totally different body type from my son."

"Sorry Mr. Tracy, but I had to be sure. People are sometimes in denial." Alvarez watched the assistant remove the body from the room. "Well, now that we've established who this is not, we'll open an investigation to find out who he is. There was a large sum of cash found in the vehicle which we think came from an armed robbery that went down yesterday. There were three people involved and this may be one of them. We have to check witness descriptions. The vehicle was a rental and I should have a report back on my desk by now as to who rented the car and when."

He moved Jeff away from the viewing window and toward the door. "Why was your son in this area, Mr. Tracy?"

"He came out to stay with a couple of friends here in Denver, and then he was headed up to Arapaho Basin to get in a day of skiing before he flew back to New York."

"When was he headed out? Had he left his friends' house yesterday?" Detective Alvarez, took a notepad from his pocket.

"Yes, he called me yesterday...around noon your time...he said he was leaving for Arapaho Basin and would call me when he got to the hotel. He didn't phone last night so I assumed I'd hear from him this morning, but..."

Detective Alvarez nodded briefly in sympathy and pressed on. "With any luck, he may just have had his wallet lifted somewhere and he doesn't even realize it yet."

This might all be nothing but a stolen wallet. Hope pushed back the dread a little. "So...right now we don't know if he's actually missing or not," Jeff said.

"That's right, Mr. Tracy. I assume he has a cell phone...?"

Jeff almost thumped his forehead. "Of course. It didn't even occur to me. Do you have an office I could use...?"

"I'm sure they have something here. This way, Mr. Tracy." Alvarez ushered Jeff out of the room.

Eyes closed, a frown of concentration on his face, John struggled to remember what had led to him being in this predicament. A couple of hazy memories of being in a vehicle finally surfaced...but he had no way of knowing if it was this vehicle or not. Nor could he determine how long he'd been here...wherever here was. He opened his eyes to the afternoon (was it afternoon?) light.

Wow! I'm thirsty. His distress was made worse when his throat stuck together as he tried to swallow. Then he realized something else, something that raised a dry chuckle. "And I have to piss," he said aloud, shaking his head. "I love irony."

Slowly maneuvering himself upright, John took in his surroundings. He was in what appeared to be a four-by of some sort, and looking out through the windows, he could figure out that the vehicle was lying on its side on a steep incline. The diffused afternoon light revealed the back end was wedged against some boulders and the nose was pointed upslope. Fortunately most of the windows above and around him were intact, so he had some shelter. The windows that had directly encountered rocks or stumps on the vehicle's way down the hill were thankfully beneath him. Cold air moved over him from somewhere, but until he could move around to investigate, he couldn't tell where it was coming from. He was cold but he could deal with it. The heavy jacket he'd been wearing when the accident occurred, had helped.

Why did I have it on inside the truck? Did I put it on and not remember? The fact he had no answers to these questions only made him more uncomfortable.

At the moment he needed to get out of the car rather badly. He could see the back window from where he sat -- it was broken out and looked like the easiest way outside. There were also all sorts of items scattered through the cargo area behind the rear seats that needed looking through. Any supplies or tools he could find would be vital.

Don't know how long I'll be here. But no good thinking about that now.

Movement aggravated the thumping in his head and the ache in his leg, but he ignored them as he pulled himself along the crumpled side of the car that lay against the hillside. Bits of safety glass from windows that now existed only in someone else's memory sparkled here and there from corners where they'd been flung in the wreck. He made slow progress past the back seat into the cargo area, where he found several useful items, the sort of things most people would carry who drove in snow country. He collected them as he made his way toward the broken window at the back of the vehicle. The pile of booty would wait for him until he came back.

John pulled himself out the window, pushing with his good leg, and finally rolled out into the fresh snow. Panting, he lay there, momentarily at the end of his strength. Between the blinding pain of his head and the sharp ache in his leg, there wasn't anything he could do but lie still and try to catch his breath. He closed his eyes against the sunlight that hurt his eyes.

He jerked into alertness suddenly, breathing hard. He'd drifted. How much time had passed? Was the light lower now? He didn't think it had been very long but he was so cold, his fingers and toes were numb.

MOVE, JOHN! Come on, do your job and get back in the car. Frostbite is not your best color.

He crawled to a tree only a foot or two away and pulled himself up. A fit of giggles struck him as he clumsily tried to undo his pants and relieve himself. Stiffened fingers kept fumbling at the zipper and for some reason it suddenly seemed like the funniest thing in the world.

I can see it now. This is how they'll find me in the spring.

Still fumbling and fighting uncontrollable giggles, he looked up and got his first look at his situation, which sobered him immediately. He and the vehicle – a black Chevy SUV – were half way down the side of a mountain. There were numerous rocks and boulders scattered among a thick stand of fir trees, the deep blue green branches forming a canopy above him. He could still see the scars of the truck's slide down the steep slope, underbrush ripped up and small trees broken. Dark scrapes of paint from his car marked boulders here and there but he couldn't see the road from here, and there was no guarantee that anyone would be able to see him from above, either. Especially since the softly falling snow was rapidly covering his tracks.

He looked at the four-by, noting the crumpled front driver's side and scrapes. Judging by the path the vehicle took, luck had been with him. The vehicle had veered diagonally, hit something that swung its front end back up toward the road above, and had been abruptly stopped by an outcropping of rocks. It had come to rest driver's-side down, and the impact had broken out the rear window, but the vagaries of fate had left the passenger side remarkably untouched. A good body man could have the dents and dings on that side repaired in no time, he heard his brother Alan say in his head.

Then he turned his head to look beyond the outcropping of rock where fate had landed him, and what he saw wiped the smile off his face. Just beyond the rocks was a steep drop off of at least 200 feet. He realized numbly that where he was standing was one of the very few areas in the immediate vicinity that didn't just abruptly end in that drop off. John's good knee suddenly felt as weak as the bad one and he slid down the tree to a rock at its base, still clinging to the trunk.

He looked up the hill to where life was whizzing by somewhere up there unseen, and then back to the edge of oblivion he'd nearly plunged over.

For the first time since he'd awakened to find himself in this predicament, John Tracy felt profoundly lucky.

Telling him he had a couple of things to take care of and then he'd join him, Alvarez left Jeff in the hands of one of the clerks in the Coroner's office. The clerk led him to an unoccupied office down the corridor, and as soon as she had closed the door behind her, he entered the locator codes for John's wristcom on his own communicator.

He frowned. This couldn't be right. The GPS locator was trying to tell him that John should be within 50 yards of his present position.

He took his cell phone from his jacket pocket and punched in John's speed dial code, then waited impatiently while the phone rang on the other end.

The male voice that answered was familiar – but it wasn't John. "Hello?"

Jeff's spine straightened. "Detective Alvarez?"

There was a pause before the voice spoke again. "Mr. Tracy...?"

Jeff was confused only for a moment. Then he sank into the chair behind the desk. Oh, God.

"Mr. Tracy, stay right there. I'm on my way." Alvarez cut the connection.

Jeff could do nothing but sit at the desk, fighting back the dread that was pushing its ugly head above the surface once more. He was normally a man of action, a decision maker -- but for once, no plan, no logical course of action would come to him.

He was still sitting there with the phone in his hand when Detective Alvarez opened the door a few moments later. He walked to the desk and placed a large manila envelope on its surface.

"These were the effects we found with the John Doe you just looked at," he said as he slid items from the envelope onto the table. "I was just picking up the envelope when the phone started ringing inside." He paused. "Mr. Tracy...do any of these other things belong to your son?"

Jeff looked at the items lying on the desk top. John's cell phone, wallet and wristcom were among the items there. He numbly moved them to one side.

"Nice Rolex," Alvarez remarked on the wristcom, which to the uninitiated looked to be exactly that.

Jeff nodded, then looked, steely-eyed, at the other man.

"Detective Alvarez, we need to find my son."

John came to, vaguely alarmed when he realized he had drifted again. The last thing he remembered was looking at that drop off, 200 feet straight down.

He managed to get back up to a standing position by using the tree he'd been leaning against, to pull himself up. He gathered his thoughts together as best he could and tried to assess his situation. The slope above him was too steep for him to negotiate, he could see that immediately. Even if he were in better shape, he wouldn't try climbing it until morning. And on top of that it was snowing again. The only good thing was that the wind wasn't blowing and the fact that it was snowing meant that it wouldn't get as cold as it might otherwise have done.

Snowing. He needed something to block the broken back window.

Branches of densely needled evergreen had been torn from trees by the four-by's plunge down the hillside, lying scattered on the ground. Stiffly and painfully, John managed to drag several to the back of the car where he laid them over the opening. He figured after it snowed on them, the wind wouldn't be a problem.

Intense thirst had plagued him during his entire time outside the car and as he pulled the last branch up to the window he stopped to think.

I don't remember seeing any water on my way out. Deliberating for a moment, he leaned down and took a very small scoop of snow and placed it in his mouth, to melt and be swallowed slowly. Hypothermia was a major concern and he couldn't eat much snow without lowering his core temperature.

Have to see what I can find in the car.

Once more, he lowered himself to the ground and crawled through the broken back window and into the cargo space of the wrecked SUV. He pulled the branches in behind him, wedging branches together to interlock them. When he was finished, he sat for a moment to survey the snug wall of green and, judging that it was the best he could do, turned to the task of finding anything of use in the back of the truck.

He stared blearily at the items he'd tossed into the center of the cargo space on his way out. His vision was playing tricks on him and he kept seeing things separate into two and then back again. That bothered him and he leaned against the side of the car and closed his eyes.

The pile of objects reminded him of something.

Oh yeah, I remember now.

He'd been about seven years old, living on the Kansas farm where his father had grown up. His grandfather had to cut down a diseased burr oak in the windbreak at the far side of one wheat field, and John had tagged along to watch him and a neighbor use the chainsaws. He'd been stuffing his pockets with acorns that had scattered from the fallen tree when his grandfather called him to come look at what he'd found. Where one of the large limbs met the trunk, there had been a small hollow from which his grandfather had removed the remains of some now homeless squirrel's winter stash of nuts, seeds and corn kernels.

Worried about the displaced squirrel, John had asked, "But Grandpa, won't the squirrel starve?"

His grandfather had straightened, making a sound somewhere between disgust and laughter and said, "Not if your grandma keeps her birdfeeders full."

John was smiling when he opened his eyes and once again looked at the magpie's nest of objects before him. Like a squirrel's stash of winter nuts...and I'm the squirrel.

He began to sort through the items he'd gathered. A bulky object he pulled toward him turned out to be an old furniture mover's quilt that had been rolled up and tied with a bungee cord. It was definitely the worse for wear, with old stains and faded patches on the dull green fabric, and smelled a little funky but, outside of aliens dropping him a nice, warm sleeping bag, it looked like his best chance of not freezing. There was also a small, plastic first aid kit that looked fairly new, an emergency road kit that looked like it had been around a little longer, an empty sports bottle, a roll of nylon rope, two or three empty soda bottles and an energy bar.

No water.

John sat momentarily rather dazed and collected his thoughts. After a moment he picked up the empty sports bottle and gazed at it thoughtfully. A long-forgotten memory suddenly burst into his mind – his old scoutmaster, Mr. Jarvinsky. He'd been a retired drill instructor and it showed, but his boys had learned survival training like mini-marines.

"Get your head out of your butt, Tracy and use it for something it was meant for!" he'd yell. To which John always wanted to answer -- but wisely didn't -- "My head or my butt, sir?"

He got the giggles again.

The fog in his brain cleared a little then. Snow...he could collect snow in it. There'd be no water until it melted so he'd have to wait. Not that he had much choice – but at least he'd have water.

He then picked up the energy bar and turned it over. He had to hold it close to the window to read the date. "Expires 2025," he said aloud and sighed. "Only three years past its expiration date. Note to self – don't tell Grandma I actually ate this."

He moved on to the small first aid kit. Inside were the expected band-aids, packets of alcohol wipes, snake bite kit, ace bandage, individual packets of over-the-counter pain relievers, assorted gauze pads and rolls, and cloth tape.

John once again had fleeting thoughts of scouting days when he picked up the snakebite kit. Probably won't be meeting too many snakes, he thought and tossed the kit aside. Then he pushed at the packets of pain relievers with his finger, moving them so he could see what they contained. Acetaminophen and ibuprofen. He checked the expiry dates. It was all still usable so he divided the packs into two piles. John knew he had at least a grade three concussion because he'd lost consciousness. Hematoma was a danger in this case so he figured the acetaminophen was his safest bet. The packets of ibuprofen were also tossed aside. He knew he wasn't thinking too clearly part of the time and didn't want to chance taking the wrong medication.

The scuffed roadside emergency kit was next to be opened. Inside were a few tools, a tire inflation pump, a flattened package that turned out to be a folded space blanket, an emergency triangle, three highway flares and a set of jumper cables. John picked up a flare and noted the stale date had passed. Its performance might be unpredictable, but there was a pretty good chance it would still work. There was also an emergency flasher in the kit that he took out and tried to turn on, but nothing happened. Turning it over and opening the battery compartment revealed the problem. The batteries were not only dead, they were permanently corroded to the terminals in the compartment. He pushed the kit away in disgust.

Doesn't anyone take their safety seriously! Corroded batteries, old flares, outdated energy bars...No wonder these people need International Rescue!

Jeff Tracy paced the floor of his hotel suite. The voice of his eldest son, Scott issued from the vidphone on the desk.

"So he disappeared somewhere between Denver and Arapaho Basin yesterday? And no search parties were sent until today?" Scott's agitated voice issued from the unit on the desk. Jeff watched him pacing as he spoke, waving his hands, endangering objects on nearby shelves in his blind concern.

"Son, until about a half hour ago, I thought John might be dead."

Scott abruptly stopped and stared at his father's image on the screen.

"Tell me," he said grimly, placing both hands on the desk and leaning toward the vidphone's screen.

Jeff brought him up to speed as quickly as he could, telling him of the morning call, his flight to Denver and the discovery that John was still missing – status unknown.

"So we have no idea where he is now," Scott said. It wasn't a question...it sounded more like he was trying to digest what his father was telling him.

Jeff shook his head. "Detective Alvarez called the Arapaho Inn and found out John never arrived. The desk clerk there wasn't on duty yesterday, but he's trying to track down the guy who was, to see if he heard from John. Alvarez and the Denver PD will be searching within city limits and the CSP will cover the highways between here and the resort, but it's a big area, Scott. He could be anywhere between here and Arapaho Basin."

Scott glanced at his watch. "We'll be on our way to you in fifteen or less, Dad. ETA should be between 6:30 and 7:00 p.m. your time."

"Good. I'll get clearance for you at Buckley Air Force base just east of Denver. As soon as you're wheels-up, get on the horn to Buckley and give them your ETA. Fill in your brothers. I'll keep you all updated while you're on the way. Have Alan keep us linked so we're all on together until you get here." Jeff paused and sighed, head bent, handing rubbing wearily at his forehead. "Please tell Tin Tin and have her go up to mother's room. I'll hold until she gets there and then break the news to Mother myself."

"Yes, sir," Scott said soberly, moving away from the screen.

Outside Jeff's hotel window, snow was falling and the light was fading fast. It was going to be dark soon. The snow would be covering traces they desperately needed to see if they were to find John.

It had now been over 24 hours. Jeff only prayed he was still alive and had shelter somewhere, and that they'd be in time.

Please, he soundlessly begged. Please...

It took John longer than he'd planned to get back to the backseat with the items he had collected. He stuffed his pockets with smaller objects and wrapped the larger selections into the mover's quilt, which he then rolled up and re-secured with the bungee cord. Hooking his fingers under the elastic cord, he dragged the awkward bundle behind him as he inched along the side of the car to the back seat. By the time he reached his destination, he was beyond exhaustion, head pounding so hard he couldn't see straight. The general misery was made complete by the intense bout of nausea he was also fighting. Oh, how he didn't want to throw up in the car.

Now that would just make this little vacation complete, wouldn't it?

He spared a moment to feel a little more sympathetic for the time four-year old Alan had had a spectacular backseat disaster on a family road trip to...he couldn't remember where. Sorry about calling you "puke face," Sparky.

Sleep was beginning to pull at him. He had a vague feeling he should be more concerned but the thought drifted off as he sat with his eyes closed.

He may have slept. He wasn't sure, but when he opened his eyes again it didn't look like it was too much later. Lumpy things were poking him in the ribs. He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out three highway flares and just stared at them, until he remembered the supplies he'd brought back with him. He had laid his head against the mover's quilt, which he now unrolled, removing the emergency triangle, emergency kit, sports bottle and the empty soda bottles. He emptied his pockets of flares, and the space blanket.

Then he began to prepare what he was beginning to think of as his squirrel's nest, for the oncoming night.

He finished unfolding the blanket, then partially re-folded it against the door at the level of the seat for a little padding and warmth. He heaved himself onto the quilt and folded the remainder over his legs. The way the car was tilted, he was actually seated more against the door with his back wedged fairly comfortably along the rear seat where the back and seat met. Then he took the space blanket out of its package and set it to one side. His fingers fumbled at his task, his head swimming. He was so tired.

So tired... Head injury! Stay awake!

There was that irony again...he desperately needed to rest, but just as desperately needed to stay awake. In any case, he still had things to do before he lost the light. Like explore the front seat before it's dark. He grimly surveyed the journey that still lay before him. "...ours but to do or die." Certainly in a poetic mood. Hmpf. I can misquote lines of poetry from college but I can't remember how I got here, or how long I've been here..."

He stopped suddenly as another fragmented image flashed in his mind. He was in a four-by...but not the one he sat in now. He was driving somewhere...Where was I driving? There was a vehicle pulled over on the shoulder of the highway, its flashers on and the hood up, and a man was waving him down...

That was all. When or where it was, he couldn't say for sure, but it felt recent. Is that where this is?

He set the memory aside for later contemplation. The unknown territory of the front seat demanded he make the climb now before the rapidly fading daylight was gone. Another trip began up the side of the car, made more treacherous since he had to keep his bad leg from hitting the headrest or becoming entangled in the seat belt. It was uphill, as the nose was pointing up the slope, and if he'd been climbing the Matterhorn, he thought it couldn't have been much harder. Getting around the driver's seat wasn't so hard but climbing up required him to squeeze past the steering wheel and maneuver over the middle compartment between the driver's seat and passenger seat. He got his good leg under him to push and pulled with his arms, grabbing whatever presented itself, until he reached the vehicle's glove compartment. When he pushed the latch, the small door stuck but popped open abruptly when John thumped it with his fist. He barely caught the flashlight that rolled out. It turned out to be a very nice one, heavy duty, undamaged by the crash. As he moved the switch with his thumb, he prayed it actually had fresh batteries and was elated when a strong beam of light appeared. He turned it off and gently tossed it into the back seat, where it rolled down to the door and joined the growing pile of squirrel-booty.

"About time you had some working emergency equipment," he grumbled to the unknown owner of the car as he continued going through the glove compartment. After sorting through old shopping lists, papers and lottery tickets, he found the registration which he opened to read.

"Cheryl Wilson," he read aloud. "Well, that's why the car doesn't look familiar...not mine, and not a rental either." He frowned in puzzlement as he replaced the registration in its envelope. Curiouser and curiouser...

The scavenger hunt resumed as he sorted through the miscellany of the glove compartment. A promotional ball point pen from a local storage company, a matchbook from the "Dopplebock Restaurant and Micro Brewery," a small lined notebook, a phillips screwdriver, a plastic container of breath mints, a state map of Colorado, a small pocket knife and various papers. He removed the pocket knife and matchbook and put them in his coat pocket then neatly replaced the contents in the compartment. As he started to close the small door, he paused and thought for a moment then reached in and grabbed the notebook and pen and also stuffed them into his coat pockets. He was beginning to really appreciate those pockets.

Coat pockets...not just for hands anymore, he thought, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Ned Cook.

As he closed the glove compartment, he looked around to see if he'd missed anything – and noticed the keys were still in the ignition.

I wonder if the car will still start. Maybe I could turn on the heater.

John carefully lowered himself to the center compartment, where he was able to perch reasonably comfortably while he reached to turn the key. The alternator light came on but the engine remained silent. Disappointed, he started to turn the key back to the off position, but stopped. Just out of curiosity, he turned on the radio. The sounds of a country western song came floating out of the speaker.

Well, you never know, he thought as he turned the radio off again. Then he killed the ignition switch and as he did, he saw something that had nearly disappeared between the driver's seat and door. He scooted down, maneuvering his injured leg along the side where the doors with their glassless windows lay against dirt and stones, planting his rear on the door above the armrest. From here he could reach down to the floor between the door and the driver's seat. He fished out the two objects he'd spotted and when he raised them to his eyes, his face split with a wide grin. A full bottle of water. The seal hadn't even been broken. And a candy bar! A nice big one with chocolate and caramel and nuts. It looked like he wasn't doomed to die of expired energy bar poisoning today after all.

His hands were shaking a little as unscrewed the lid, finally able to slake the thirst that had been his unwanted companion since he'd come to who knew how many hours before. The ice cold water trickled down his throat as he tipped the bottle to drink. Nothing had ever tasted this good...not soda he'd pulled from melting buckets of ice on Fourth of July...not the iciest cold beer he'd drunk after laying shingles on a hot summer's day...nothing that he could remember. It took all his control not to drink the whole thing in one long swallow. He stopped long enough to open the candy bar and take a bite. An expression of bliss crossed his face as he spared a grateful thought for the absent car owner. "Thank you, Cheryl Wilson. If I get out of here, I promise to replace the water and candy bar...hell, I'll buy you a whole new truck. But we gotta talk about your emergency equipment."

Detective Alvarez had just dropped into his chair with a loud sigh when a folder, thick with papers, was slapped down in front of him. He turned his weary bulldog face toward his partner, Paul MacDonald, who stood in front of his desk.

"And this is...?"

"The report on the John Doe in the Tracy rental," said MacDonald as he pulled another chair up to the desk. "The prints came back with a positive ID. Small time operator named Danny Rollins. Lots of penny-ante stuff until a couple of years ago when he got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Just got out of the pen for robbery a month ago."

Alvarez was flipping through the report when he stopped. "Guess he must have hunted up his old buddies, then. Looks like our boy was probably the driver for that robbery at the check cashing place on 38th. Forensics found a company envelope in the bag of money he had in the car."

MacDonald casually put his feet up on the desk and remarked, "Yeah, I guess after getting hit three times in the last six months, one of the clerks got proactive."

Alvarez looked up from the report on his desk and said, "I figure he must have ditched the getaway car and left Denver. Somewhere between here and Arapaho Basin, he encountered John Tracy, then took his rental, turned around and headed back into Denver."

MacDonald contemplated his shoes. "What a moron. He had the money and a clean getaway. And what does he do? Turns around and comes back and manages to wrap his car around a bridge abutment."

"Yeah, well...that leaves us with one less loose end to tie up is all. Now if you'll kindly remove your size 12's from my desk, we'll get on with finding out what happened to our missing person. You get the stolen vehicle report from yesterday and see if we can find out what he was driving. If we get real lucky, we might find that and the Tracy son in the same place."

"And if we get real lucky, he'll still be alive," said his partner as he arose from the chair.

A grim expression settled over Alvarez' face. "Let's hope," he said, with an expression that clearly showed how remote he thought the possibility actually was. He picked up his phone to call Jeff Tracy and give him the latest information.

Jeff had just returned his cell phone to his pocket after a brief update from Detective Alvarez. He looked at his watch once again as he prepared to leave for the air force base. It was now approaching 6:00 p.m. and Scott should be nearing Buckley with Virgil right behind him. The com on his wrist signaled with a beep and after hitting a button on the side of the communicator, he saw Alan's worried face appear on the small screen.

"Patching Scott and Virgil through, Dad," said his youngest son.

Scott came through first. "Father, ETA at Buckley should be approximately 35 minutes, 6:35 p.m. mountain standard. I've been on the horn with Colonel Tibbets and it's been arranged for 1 and 2 to be parked in secure hangars with a guard detail. You must have called in a few favors on this one."

"Nice to have friends in high places, son, especially when it's you that finally needs the assistance," Jeff said a little grimly. "I'm heading out to meet you at the base. The hangars will be clear of any personnel to give us have total security. I've arranged to have a Bell Ranger Helijet delivered for our use. Tibbets offered a Blackhawk, but I thought that would be a little too conspicuous."

Virgil chimed in. "Sounds good to me, Dad. The Ranger's a good machine."

"It should be arriving around 8:00 p.m. Virgil, what's your ETA?" asked Jeff.

"I should be there by 7:30 your time. Gordon and Brains are on board."

"Uh, uh hello, Mr. Tracy. There was no way I-I- I would consider staying behind. I'm, uh, I'm sure I can help."

"We'll find him, father," said Gordon.

Painful tightness squeezed Jeff's throat as he closed his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed. He loved his sons so much...and Brains, who had become such a part of their family. If John could be found, they would do it. He was sure of it.

John had put the now half empty bottle of water and remaining half of the candy bar in his pocket. He knew he was already dehydrated and the high altitude would make it worse. He continued to mull over his water situation until he remembered the sports bottle. He lifted himself carefully over the doors and past the barrier of the front seat until he could reach his small cache of supplies. It looked like the sports bottle would hold a little over two cups. He also picked up the cleaner of the two soda bottles and held it to the waning light. A few precious drops of water from his half full bottle were tipped into the soda bottle for a quick rinse and then both empties were placed in his oh-so-useful pockets.

After considering the items he'd amassed, he picked up the first aid kit and dumped it out. The trip around the front seat was made once again. He started to pull himself up the seat around the steering wheel, hissing with pain as his injured leg bumped the headrest. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead and he stilled, waiting just long enough for the pain to recede before proceeding.

He scooted up the seat until he could perch on the middle compartment between the front seats again. He reached down and turned the key and the alternator light came on. Crossing his fingers, he pressed the switch to roll down the passenger window...and it moved. Carefully, he opened the window just enough to work his finger along the edge so he could scoop the snow building up on the window into the open medical kit. When it was filled to overflowing, he closed the window and turned off the key, then began to pack the snow into the bottles. As he made his way to his back seat sanctuary, he mentally patted himself on the back.

MacGyver would be proud. Of course if this were MacGyver, he'd probably pull out the radio, make a Morse code machine that sends out an SOS when the wind activates it, tie it on to a balloon made out of the space blanket and send it out the window attached by a line he'd untwisted from the nylon rope.

John was hit with another fit of giggles. "If we had eggs, we could have eggs and ham. If we had ham."

I'd be happy if I could just figure out how I got here...

Another image, sharp and clear, appeared in his mind's eye. That other driver by the side of the road waving him down... Red plaid. The other man's shirt had been red plaid. He remembered pulling on his own warm coat before hopping out of the car to help to help the stranded motorist.

"Hey, thanks, man. I've been stalled here for the last half hour and nobody would freakin'stop," the young man said, bouncing from foot to foot in a jittery dance, running his hands through short, dishwater blond hair. "To top it off, my freakin' phone died. Can I borrow yours to call a tow truck?"

"Sure. Hang on while I get it," said John. He'd turned away, and only taken a step or two when a blinding pain hit him in the head.

He hit me with something... John sat in the back of the four-by, lifting an unsteady hand to the tender lump behind his ear. A wave of dizziness came over him and he saw two images of everything until he closed his eyes. His leg was hurting again.

I remember now. I saw something move from the corner of my eye and started to turn. That's probably why he didn't kill me.

Life turned on such small things. A down parka hood and moving half an inch.

He had a vague memory of his wristcom being removed before everything went blank. He looked at the bare space on his arm. He hadn't realized till just this moment that something was missing.

"Damn."

It was 7:00 p.m. and lightly snowing when Detectives Alvarez and MacDonald pulled into Dave's Auto Service and Stop ‘n' Shop, a popular maintenance and gas-and-snack station at the intersection of Zuni St. and 30th Ave. A car matching the description of the getaway car from the armed robbery of the Payday Now check cashing place on 38th and Tejon St. had been found here, hidden among the cars awaiting service at Dave's. Even if they hadn't known it was probably the vehicle they were looking for, the bullet holes in both the passenger side doors would have gone a long way towards confirming it.

"The report came in yesterday morning, but we didn't connect it to our perp until today. Had a uniform do a drive-by and they spotted the vehicle," MacDonald was filling Alvarez in. "Then I matched it to a reported carjacking here yesterday a little after the robbery. Lady said she'd just gone in to buy a candy bar and some water and realized she'd left her gas cap on the pump. Tossed the stuff on to the seat went to get the cap, and that was when the guy snatched the keys out of her hand and jacked the truck."

The two men surveyed the car as it was attached to a Department tow truck for its trip to the impound yard. Benny Alvarez scrubbed through his short salt and pepper hair as he read the stolen car report again.

"2024 black Chevy Cascade SUV, Colorado license plate 224-XVB, registered to a Cheryl Wilson...Good. We'll get an APB out to the CSP to see what we can turn up. I'll call Mr. Tracy and let him know."

MacDonald raised his eyebrows in mild surprise and grinned. "Nothing like having the chief riding your tail on a VIP case, huh Benny?"

"Tracy's okay, but he's a very big wheel. Know what I mean? Captain said keep him happy, so I'm keeping him informed. Just so long as he doesn't get in the way," replied Alvarez.

MacDonald just shrugged. "If Tracy wants to interfere, no one's going to stop him."

"Good point, Mac," agreed Alvarez, looking at his watch as he turned toward their unmarked police car. They'd missed dinner again. "But I'm too old and too hungry to worry about it."

John had propped himself as comfortably as he could against the inclined back seat, the furniture pad wrapped around him. It was dark now, and he could hear the whisper of the snow that was still falling outside.

He'd avoided it long enough...it was time to look at that leg. His pants leg was already partially ripped from the original injury, so it wasn't hard to finish the job by feel with the pocketknife he'd recovered. Bracing himself, he located the flashlight and turned it on to get a look at his leg. The sight sobered him. In the course of the slide down the hill, a branch must have been caught in the smashed window and a small limb had gouged its way up his calf, burying itself an inch deep before breaking off. The jagged slash still had debris that needed cleaning out. The punctured area was swollen and angry looking and felt hot to the touch, but he figured if he could stand to make it bleed again and use the remaining water he had, he stood a good chance of getting it reasonably clean.

Propping the flashlight against the quilt at an angle freed his hands. He struck a match from the matchbook and ran the blade of the knife back and forth through the flame. Then he opened an alcohol pack, used a corner to finish cleaning the knife and the rest to clean around the wound. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he gingerly poked the knife into the puncture wound to reopen it.

"Damn, damn, damn..." he said and other unrepeatable phrases until the stabbing pain receded. He felt distinctly woozy and nauseated, but the wound was now bleeding freely. Swinging his leg away from his bedding, he poured the rest of the water from his bottle over the laceration. He then swung back around to the light and laid out several alcohol packets. The thought of the alcohol made him blanche, and he hesitate for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and picked up the first packet and tore it open.

"You'd think they would have supplied a lead bullet to bite on in one of these kits," he muttered.

He laid the pad against the open wound... and thought for a moment he might just pass out. Tears of pain filled his eyes and he breathed in and out like an expectant mother at a Lamaze class.

"Okay, okay," he choked out, giving himself the pep talk. "I can do this."

He laid out the next four packets tore them open and tried, as much as possible, to lay them over the open wound all at once. He told himself he wasn't crying, but at this point, he wasn't really sure that was true.

Since he couldn't actually pour alcohol over the wound to disinfect it -- wouldn't that have been fun! -- he left the pads in place and covered them with gauze, held in place with tape. When he was finished he surveyed the lumpy line of gauze and tape that marched rather haphazardly up his calf. Considering the circumstances, not too shabby... Might not be the neatest thing I ever saw, but it gets the job done.

Damn, that had hurt. Wiping the back of a trembling hand across his eyes, he took a shaky breath and leaned back against the seat. He turned off the flashlight again to conserve the battery.

He figured his blood sugar must be in the basement at this point, so he pulled the candy bar from his pocket and took one bite, then folded the rest back into the depths of the coat pocket. He sat in the dark, savoring the flavor, letting the chocolate and sugary caramel melt in his mouth before he slowly chewed the candy and swallowed it. The soda bottle of snow had been placed against his body under his jacket when he'd reached the back seat earlier. Now he reached for it and shook it beside his ear. Hearing the reassuring slosh of water, he unscrewed the cap and managed to get two good swallows. Both bottles were returned to their cocoon inside his coat. His aching leg was covered by the quilt, the parka zipped tight and pulled close around his face. After a few moments of finding a relatively comfortable position, he spread the space blanket over himself from neck to foot and settled down for the night.

The snow had blanketed the car by this time, making it marginally snugger than it would otherwise have been. As he suspected, the evergreen barricade in the back window was working out and there were no chilly drafts from the opening. It was cold but he could survive.

The problems would come in the morning. If anyone was searching for him, the car would be invisible under the fresh blanket of snow.

His head hurt, his leg hurt, he was hungry and nauseated at the same time and didn't know where he was. Feeling distinctly sorry for himself, he shifted to try to get more comfortable, and his hand encountered the second empty soda bottle he'd carried from the back. He felt the hysterical edge of laughter beginning to build again. "Well it could be worse. At least I have a bottle to piss in."

He laughed until it wasn't funny any more.

Thunderbird 2 was just taxiing into its reserved hangar at Buckley AFB when Jeff's cell phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, walking to the far end of the huge structure where it was quieter. "Jeff Tracy."

"Mr. Tracy, this is Detective Alvarez. We have an ID on the car the robber was probably driving when he encountered your son – a stolen black 2024 Chevy Cascade, Colorado license plate 224-XVB." He went on to give Jeff the rundown on everything he and Detective MacDonald had put together on the case so far. "So considering the time factors involved and the description from the car owner, we're pretty confident that was our man. Hopefully when we find the truck, we'll find your son."

"Thank you, Detective," said Jeff, knowing that Alvarez was restraining himself from finishing his sentence the way his experience told him he should. "I appreciate you letting me know what's happening at your end while we look for John. It saves a lot of time."

Alvarez paused for a moment. "This is the place where I give you the speech about leaving the police work to the police," he said, gruffly. But Jeff could hear the smile in his voice.

"I understand, Detective. But you'll keep me informed, won't you. As a courtesy."

This time Alvarez did chuckle out loud. "Mr. Tracy, if it was my son, I'd be tearing the state apart. I'll keep you informed."

Jeff folded away his phone as he walked back toward the ship.

"Any news?" asked Virgil as Jeff approached the group.

"Some," Jeff said. "We have a description of the truck the guy was probably driving when he ran into John, and the good news is we can narrow our search now. The witness at the gas station where he stole the truck said he saw him take a nearby exit north on the I-25 and the police figure he probably turned west on the I-70. We know he had to have met John somewhere between Denver and Arapahoe Basin, because when he crashed he was coming back into town on the I-70. So wherever they ran into each other, it had to be further west than the wreck site. That at least confines our search to the highways between the hotel and the location of the wreck."

"Some getaway driver," Virgil muttered.

Jeff looked at his watch. "Scott, the helijet should be arriving any minute. Let's go over the plan again briefly before it gets here."

They all gathered around a crate that a map had been laid over. Virgil would pilot the helijet, Scott would deploy the remote camera and control it remotely from the ‘copter. Brains would be monitoring screens for the thermal imaging scans, Gordon would do the visuals with night vision goggles. Jeff would ride beside Virgil and navigate.

Scott finished just as they heard the chop of a helicopter coming closer to the hangar. They rolled their gear toward the hangar door where Jeff stopped and spoke to the guard who stood just outside. Then he waved them out the door into the night.

John was shivering when he became aware of his surroundings again. He huddled into his coat and pulled the blankets closer. His back was uncomfortable and his head still had a dull ache, which seemed to have morphed from behind his ear into a band that wrapped all the way around his skull. His skin felt hot to the touch and he was very, very thirsty.

Shifting as little as possible, he pulled a bottle from under the covers, unscrewed the cap with unsteady hands and took a long swallow...and then another. Screwing the lid back on the bottle was a major effort of hand-eye coordination, which disturbed him. I shouldn't be getting this much weaker this soon, should I? he thought...but the moment of concern drifted away from him.

How long ‘till morning? he wondered. He sat there in the darkness, fragments of thoughts and dreamlike images floating through his mind until he wasn't sure what was real and what was fantasy any more.

Jeff kept his attention on the map and the probe that flew ahead of them, as the helijet flew its slow search pattern along the highway toward the resort area. He had felt the tension and worry from everyone when they had boarded the aircraft and, as always, had hid his own fear – using his calm, commanding presence to help diffuse the tension. Gives everybody a sense that everything is under control, he thought. That's what a good commanding officer does...that's what a good father does.

His eyes sought the running lights of the remote probe that flew ahead of them. Brains had invented that particular marvel, and many others that International Rescue used to save people from what seemed like hopeless situations. How many hundreds owed their lives to his vision, to his sons who came to their aid, to his money that made it possible? But it all came down to this. It seemed like the worst kind of joke if none of it could help him find his own son.

He didn't let any of his thoughts show on his face. If I tell them everything will be alright, they will believe me. I just hope I'm telling them the truth.

Flying at night was tricky and everyone was taking every precaution at their disposal. The snow, continuing to fall lightly, added to the challenges facing Virgil as he piloted the aircraft westward along the I-70. He contemplated the aircraft he was piloting tonight. The Bell Ranger Helijet was a fine piece of aeronautical equipment, extremely reliable and near catlike in its response to the helm. If the circumstances had been different, he would have simply given himself over to the enjoyment of the experience. He liked learning the individual nuances of all the equipment he drove or piloted. If you listened, and felt, he knew, they would communicate with you. Through his hands he could feel the hum and vibration of the engines as if it were a living thing.

It had taken a lot of work and a long time for Virgil to master flying machines, but after a while, they began to talk to him, just like his beloved earthbound ones did. At moments it was almost a Zen thing...a unity of him and the craft. At those moments, he could feel the wind slip across the tips of the wings as if it blew across his own skin. He could feel how much room he had all around him as he maneuvered through openings he had no business trying to squeeze an aircraft through. He knew people who met him now would be surprised that all this skill had not come naturally to him, but it was true. That's something you and I have in common, isn't it, John? Wasn't easy for you to learn either was it? It wasn't easy flying this particular mission, either...but he had to believe they would be able to find John. No other alternative was acceptable. Hang in there, John. Hang in there.

Scott sat where he could see through the cockpit shields to watch the blinking lights of the remote probe that flew ahead of them. Minimal movements of his fingers on a small box that sat on his lap controlled the craft. The small glowing screen offered an almost holographic readout of obstacles and topography that the little drone must avoid as it continued its mission. The information it was collecting was displayed on monitors behind him, where Brains studied them intently. The remote camera drone was a testament to their chief engineer's genius. Right now it was doing thermal scans along their search path, trying to locate anything putting out a heat pattern that might reveal a human that could not be seen otherwise. It could do a lot of other things, too. It had built in proximity alarms, 360 degree radar, and a fuzzy logic system running on advanced nano-circuits that kept it from running into anything during flight. He wondered briefly, if he aimed it straight at a brick wall, would it crash as commanded or ignore the command and save itself by avoiding the impact? It could damn nearly fly itself, after all.

A bubble of something almost like panic momentarily engulfed him. Like he'd forgotten something, or failed to notice something vitally important. It was like trying to pick up a slippery bar of soap that kept escaping his grasp. Am I doing enough? I should be doing...what? Scott's frustration was betrayed by a momentary tightening of his jaw and a nervous tapping of his foot, but his hands remained steady on the controls' monitors. He wouldn't let himself contemplate anything other than finding John alive. That was the only thing that kept running through his mind. Be alive.

Brains observed to himself how interesting it was that in the midst of such a dire situation, a person's mind would think of such odd things. At this moment he was scanning the monitors for anything that might help them find his friend, hoping against hope that he would be alive, but his subconscious had just presented him with the next move he needed for the current ongoing chess game the two of them were engaged in. He knew John would probably find the irony quite amusing.

He briefly glanced out of a side window at the cars traveling the highway below them. The people down there in their vehicles had no idea a life and death drama was playing out just above their heads. If they noticed anything at all, they would probably dismiss it as just another helijet. Except for the crazies, Brains thought, who'll see the probe lights and think it's a UFO. Rumors of the I-70 Sighting will be circulating for years. You'd find this very funny, John. I'll tell you all about it after we find you.

Gordon slid the night vision goggles up his forehead and rubbed weary eyes. He'd been at it for hours -- but even with Brains' souped up eyewear, assisted by a hand-held laser that through the goggles illuminated the ground like green sunlight, they'd found no signs of the stolen car or John. He stretched his back, trying to ease the always-there ache that was aggravated by hours of not moving enough.

Thoughts of his hydrofoil accident and the months in the hospital afterwards were inevitable, he supposed, now that John was missing and perhaps lying injured somewhere. His brother had spent a lot of time with him during his long recuperation and they had grown very close. When it seemed Gordon had lost his chance to explore the ocean he loved, John had shared his stars. The barriers that made most people think of John as unapproachable had melted away and Gordon had lost the ability to hide behind his jokester façade – with the result that both men had really gotten to know each other as people for the first time. I don't think anyone else in the family really knows John all that well, he thought. I hope that has a chance to change...

Gordon's thoughts turned to his father. When he'd been flat on his back in that hospital, his dad had never wavered in his support. He'd been the strength that Gordon could not find in himself for a little while after the accident. But he'd caught a glimpse of what his dad was going through once or twice. He looked up front now to where his father sat, erect, unbowed, doing everything in his power to once again fight off death. When he'd first been told about the rescue organization Jeff wanted to create, Gordon hadn't really understood. He did now.

I'll never be warm again, thought John as he shivered miserably in the makeshift shelter of the back seat. He pulled the space blanket up over his head, leaving a small space for a little fresh breathing air, and he smiled when a memory bubbled to the surface. His grandmother would sometimes find him like that in bed when he was young, the sheet pulled all the way over his head.

"John Tracy how can you breathe like that?" she'd exclaim, and tuck the sheet down under his chin. "If you're cold, put on a hat!"

"Yes ma'am," he murmured to himself as he drifted once more into sleep.

It was 1:40 a.m. when Virgil announced that they would need to fly back to base and refuel. No one said anything as the helijet tilted and turned eastward toward Buckley and the hangar where Thunderbirds 1 and 2 now sat, hidden from view. No one spoke. Jeff only nodded, folded the map neatly, placing it in the side pocket of his seat. Gordon removed the night vision equipment, gave a huge stretching twist and lay back on the deck, knees bent, feet flat on the floor. He grabbed a blanket from the stretcher that was part of the rescue gear aboard, and stuffed it under his head. Within a minute, he was sleeping.

Jeff smiled at his son's ability to fall asleep like that when he needed to. Scott and Brains were busy stowing equipment, placing smaller items in sturdy metal boxes with cushioned interiors and throwing padded covers over the rest. The most sensitive equipment would be offloaded for security purposes when they landed and moved into the hangar. Everything else would remain aboard the craft while it was being refueled and serviced.

"Virgil, what's our ETA for Buckley?" asked Jeff.

His second eldest son glanced briefly at the instrument panel, checking their current location and replied, "Approximately 10 minutes."

Jeff settled nodded and settled back into his seat listening to the murmur of Virgil relaying their needs to Buckley tower. He was thinking the distance between Denver and Arapaho Basin was only 68 miles as the crow flies, but the road distance was 96. They had only been able to cover around 25 miles in their slow, careful search that night. The snow had nearly ceased falling and if it remained clear, they should be able to cover a lot more ground when they resumed their search. He knew they needed to stop and rest now, but he begrudged the time it would take. His body needed to rest but he wasn't sure his mind would let him.

Scott consulted his wristcom then said, "Okay, everybody gets four hours of sleep. Wheels up at 06:30 even if you're still eating, Virgil." Everyone laughed.

Virgil spoke over his shoulder. "Just for that, I'm not cooking breakfast."

Never moving from his prone position, Gordon murmured, "Grandma and Kyrano loaded food in the galley fridge before we left. I saw pie." His eyes remained closed, but a beatific expression spread across his face.

"I don't know how she does it," said Virgil. "I think she has a food chute somewhere but I haven't found it yet."

For the first time in nearly two days, Jeff smiled and he marginally relaxed. Maybe I'll sleep after all. I just hope you're sleeping safely somewhere too, John, he thought as the helijet descended toward the lights of Buckley Air Force Base.

Gabe De Luca looked down the hallway and watched as the young redhead with the big smile ran through the employee's door. She was looking down, trying to fasten her nametag to her lapel and navigate the hallway leading to the front desk at the same time. She just missed tripping over a luggage cart, careening into him as he stood in the doorway.

"Only five minutes late this time." Gabe shook his head as he caught her and kept her from knocking them both over. She smiled her endearing pixie smile. Gabe immediately forgave her, even though he'd worked the night shift and really wanted to go home. Andrea Swenson had that effect on people. There wasn't a mean bone in her body and she was born under a weirdly lucky star. Her life would probably make a good book someday. She seemed to attract, or fall into, the most unusual situations all the time. And her explanations of the events were even more entertaining. He had the feeling there must be a story to tell this time, because a Detective Alvarez from Denver PD had called for her two days ago and despite everyone's best efforts, no one had been able to find her.

He only had to wait a couple of seconds.

"Hi Gabe," beamed Andrea as she straightened her slightly wrinkled jacket. She looked at the clock on the wall behind them. The time read 6:05 a.m. "Oh, geez, Gabe. I'm sorry but at least it's only five minutes. You wouldn't believe what happened to me while I was gone!" she breathlessly rattled on as the got herself set up for her day at the front desk at the Arapahoe Inn. "Remember Greta the ski instructor I introduced you to in December?" He did...wishfully. "She invited me to a party she was having for her students at her place over in Vail. You went there, right?" He hadn't...sadly. "Guess who her students are?" ended Andrea in big eyed breathless excitement.

"I'll bite," replied Gabe, knowing he was going to find out anyway.

"Tomo Mostrovich with Jade Abacus, and the whole band was there! Even the drummer! And he never goes to parties! And Lena van der Broek...you know, the supermodel? She's really tall," she said in awe.

Gabe stood, fascinated, as he listened to the unfolding story of running into an international rock star and his band (even the drummer!) and a supermodel to boot who turned out to be the singer's cousin by marriage. The upshot was that the ski instructor was marrying the bass player in Jade Abacus ("He is so cute!"), and the band, ski instructor, supermodel and front desk clerk had all flown ("In a private jet! It was awesome!") to a friend's mansion in Idaho where they'd had a quick marriage ceremony on the slopes and then partied all day. It could only happen to Andrea.

"That's why I was a little late," she grinned ruefully as she took her place at the desk and put on her most professional face. She was going over the reservation lists as she leaned near Gabe and whispered, "I'm lucky I left in work clothes ‘cause that's what I'm wearing now...don't stand too close!" She wrinkled her nose and laughed and started filing card keys in the computer data base.

"I wish I had your luck. Sounds exhausting though," said Gabe as he was getting ready to leave. "Just to add a little more excitement to your life, not that you need it, a detective Alvarez from the Denver police department is looking for you. Wanted to know if you spoke to a John Tracy who was supposed to have checked in Wednesday after you got off at 3:00. Said to call his cell phone as soon as you came in."

On the inside wall to the left of the counter where they were working, was a corkboard with various notes and memos tacked to it. Gabe reached over and removed a bright neon-green sticky note with ANDREA in bold capital letters and handed it to her. She read it quickly and stopped, a small frown appearing between her brows.

"John Tracy. Oh, oh, I do remember him – I just read an article about his family in last month's People. They had pictures of all the brothers and they were soooo cute. I was majorly stung that I wasn't going to be able to stay and meet him, you know, but I had to bounce and get to Greta's, otherwise I would have waited." She read another line then dropped her hand to the desk and turned her wide green eyes to Gabe, a serious expression on her face. "Oh gee, no one knew where I was, did they? If they called my mom she probably thinks I'm a chalk line by now! Could you cover for five more minutes until I call everyone?" She turned a pleading expression on her co-worker who resisted all of five seconds before agreeing. He watched her as she grabbed a cell phone out of the fringed leather and nylon bag she'd tossed into the cubby in the wall beneath the cork board, and all he could do was smile.

Virgil and Scott had already gone into the hangar to roll the equipment back into the waiting helijet when Jeff's cell phone rang.

"Jeff Tracy," he answered.

"Mr. Tracy, it's Detective Alvarez. I just got off the phone with the desk clerk who was on duty at the Arapahoe Inn on Wednesday. She confirmed she spoke with your son shortly before 3:00 p.m. when he called to confirm his reservation. He should have been there in less than 30 minutes because he had reached the Highway 6 turnoff. That leaves us only about twelve miles of road to search but it's thick tree cover part of the way, lots of sheer drop offs, slides, boulders. Rough country. We'll have search and rescue concentrate on that stretch of road. The Summit Country Sheriff's Department will organize the operation, so at this point, it's out of my hands. You know I have to advise you to let them do their job. They're experts and as much as we, as parents want to turn over rocks with our bare hands, it's best to leave a job like this to the rescue professionals."

Jeff smiled ironically to himself as he answered, "I couldn't agree with you more, Detective."

When John opened his eyes, there was just enough light for detail inside the car to be visible. He blinked groggily at his surroundings only to become immediately aware that his head was pounding and his eyes were burning. After a few minutes he slowly and carefully began trying to push himself upright. The minute he moved a wave of dizziness forced him to lie back again. Lying there, swallowing determinedly, breathing deeply, he waited out the nausea and tried again. This time he made it. Verticality achieved! Or would that be verticalness? Verticalosity? Rubbing his forehead absently, he thought he would have to look that up, and patted his pockets...although he now couldn't remember why. Had he been looking for something...?

Thirsty.

Something pushing against his hip made him dig under the mover's quilt and space blanket to discover what the lump was. First, he pulled out a sports bottle full of icy water, then a soda bottle that was only half full. He stared at them for a long moment. He fuzzily remembered filling them now. He tipped the soda bottle up and emptied it in a long swallow, then held the cold sports bottle to his aching head. Fragmented memories moved through his mind. He knew he was in a truck, but the whys and wherefores of the situation kept escaping him. His fever was worse. Sharp, aching pains shot through his joints as he moved, evidence of his rising temperature.

I feel like an old man.

A mental picture suddenly appeared in his fevered imagination as another twinge hit his elbow.

He was a small child, maybe five years old, holding his grandmother's hand as they walked along a hot sidewalk to the grocery store in town. They passed an old man, curved like a comma, shuffling along the sidewalk with his elbows loosely bent and held up against his body. His grandmother had stopped to speak to the elderly gentleman when he'd greeted her. He'd then turned his faded brown eyes to the child at her side.

"Hello, young man," he'd smiled as he tilted his head downward at the blue-eyed boy who stared so intently at him. "Do you go to church?" he'd asked and when John had solemnly nodded, the man had reached into his pocket and taken out a leather coin purse, soft and worn from years of use. Dipping gnarled fingers into it, he withdrew a shiny, new penny and laid it in John's hand. "You put that in the offering plate when they pass it on Sunday," he said, still smiling as he tucked the old brown purse back into his pocket. John examined the small copper coin, turning it over and over, watching how the sunlight shone on it. He only looked up when his grandmother gave him a tug and they moved on toward the store. Almost swinging like a pendulum from his grandmother's hand, he'd turned to watch the old man move down the pavement with his peculiar gait.

"What's wrong with that man, Grandma?" John had asked. "Why is he walking funny and holding his elbows up like that?"

His grandmother's eyes grew soft as she said, "That's Mr. Smith. A long time ago when he was a young man he was hurt very badly. Now he's very old and he has arthritis. His bones hurt him and that's why he walks that way."

"My bones hurt, Grandma," murmured John as he curled back into his cocoon of blankets and shivered with the chills that wracked his body.

The Bell Ranger helijet had reached the junction where Highway 6 and I-70 intersected and were following the smaller road as it twisted and turned the twelve miles upward to the Arapaho Basin ski area. Scott was the pilot for this morning's search, much to Virgil's frustration...but he'd flown the night before, they'd only had four hours of rest and both Scott and Jeff had insisted that his turnaround time was insufficient. Especially since they had other capable pilots on board. Once again Brains was observing the monitors, while Virgil now piloted the remote camera, which was running the thermal image scanner. Jeff, besides navigating, helped Gordon with visual surveillance, which was much easier in the daylight.

Jeff pulled his thoughts away from the possibility that John might truly be dead. The detective hadn't said the words, but Jeff had heard them, nonetheless. The car and his son had to be in the same place. They just had to. The man who'd stolen the car had no record of that sort of violence, but he had been desperate. Desperate enough to kill? Or just desperate enough to grab what he could and leave? If John's alive, he's already spent two nights out there somewhere. Time was furiously beating at him again as he went over their plans in his head one more time.

I heard an engine. I know I heard one. When?

The light was brighter now. Something was pushing at him insistently. Move! Move, the something said.

Almost on instinct alone, John fumbled the covers off his stiff body and pushed himself up. He blearily looked around him for several minutes before his eyes landed on the reflective triangle and road flares. He knew he had a plan for them. What? Oh, yes... He picked up the flares and put them in his pocket, then stared at the triangle for a moment before picking it up and placing it over his neck like an oversized necklace.

Slowly he turned around and dragged himself toward the front seat. He was panting now and his vision was blurry. The injured leg was a swollen log that seemed to throb with every beat of his heart and he tried to keep it straight and away from danger as he scooted along the side of the car and into the front. Exhausted, he paused with his head on the steering wheel. He could feel himself drifting again.

He was halfway up the rock face. Under his cheek he could feel the rough surface of the stone. The blue and yellow stripes of the climbing rope lay a couple of inches in front of his nose. His left hand was locked around the rope under his chin and his right hand was clutching at a craggy handhold. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He was frozen against the rocks as surely as if he'd been a bug pinned on a card for science class.

Fifteen year old Virgil had invited John to go rock climbing with him and his friend Charles and Charles' father, Mr. Howard. John was only thirteen at the time and it was a big deal to finally get to go. They'd been fine until halfway up...and then it had happened. He couldn't see his next foothold clearly and both Virgil, who was below him and Mr. Howard, who was above him and had John tied off on his line had both tried to tell him where it was. Panicking a little under the pressure, he'd tried for it, but missed, and had nearly fallen. Adrenaline pounding through his veins, he'd frozen completely, body plastered against the rock face..

For twenty minutes they tried to get him to move, but his fear was too great.

"You can do it John," Mr. Howard had kept saying. "Just try one more time. It's only a few inches. You can do it."

Finally Charles and Virgil both begged to be allowed to go to him and help him up, but Mr. Howard had refused to let them. "No," he insisted. "If you go get him now, he will never know he could have done it himself and he'll always be afraid. He can do it."

Maybe it was the strength of Mr. Howard's belief in him that made it possible, but a few minutes later, he found he could move a hand, then a foot. Virgil coached from below until his boot found the crack in the rock that allowed him to wedge his toe in firmly and push up the incline.

Mr. Howard had been right. He'd made the top, and climbing had never been a problem for him after that.

"I can do this," he murmured as he lifted his aching head. He sat listening for a moment, but heard nothing. He continued the few inches of his trek, pushing himself upward until he sat, perched once again on the center pocket.

He reached down and turned on the key. The alternator light glowed a comforting red. Reaching to the door above him, he carefully opened the window and began to brush away the snow. Open, brush, open, brush...until the window was all the way open and he could see blue sky through the fir branches above the car.

He frowned for a moment and tried to wrap his brain around what he needed to do next. He managed to pull himself far enough through the window to clear a space of snow and lay the reflective triangle on it. He tried to place it where he thought it would have the best chance of being seen from above.

If anyone gets close enough to see through the trees.

Then he slid back into the car, closed the window and turned off the key. He sat, leaning against the padded surface of the seat and decided he'd just rest for a moment. Just for a moment...

"Circle back to that last curve", said Gordon as they flew past a stretch of road that had a wider shoulder that dropped off to an unprotected slope. The helijet circled back and lowered itself closer to the area Gordon wanted to look at again. The side door slid open and Virgil and Gordon's faces appeared. They hung their heads out the opening trying to get a closer look at the area in question, but no evidence of a vehicle or a person's passage was immediately visible.

"Damn, if it just hadn't snowed last night," said Virgil. "I can't tell for sure if anything went down this way or not."

Virgil sent the probe along the edge of the slope beyond the shoulder to get a closer look with the remote camera.

"Brains, you see anything?" yelled Virgil over the noise from the now open door.

Brains closely studied the monitors and read outs as the camera went up and down the slope then shook his head.

"Nothing I could call a-a-a definite, Scott," yelled Brains.

Jeff had been watching as the team scoured the area. He looked over the entire scene from where he sat. Nothing had been found, and yet there was something...

Something I'm not seeing? Or just wishing I could see? he thought, but said nothing as the crew pulled back in to continue the search.

John's eyes slowly opened. I heard...a helijet. Dreaming? He was so light headed now, he wasn't sure. He felt ill, but he also felt oddly disconnected from his body. Movement felt like it was in slow motion, as if he were underwater.

Time passed – he had no idea how much – before he managed to concentrate on listening again. It seemed to him the sound was moving, then he heard a loud thunk on the side of the car.

"They've found me," he said aloud and looked eagerly up at the window. It was covered with snow. He felt confused and disoriented as what he thought he'd done argued with what his eyes saw.

Did I dream I cleared the window?

He struggled once again, more slowly than before, to open the window and clear the snow. There was no sign of the triangle. Stupefied, he sat with his head through the window like a bemused gopher peering from its hole.

Then the branch above him dropped its load of snow on his head and he understood what had happened. The trees had betrayed him and covered his reflective device with snow. He could have wept.

In the distance he heard the sound of what he was now sure was a helijet, moving away from him. He slid down against the seat, hunched his shoulders and placed cold hands in his pocket. There his fingers encountered the highway flares. He brought one out and looked at it.

Ok, Mr. Howard. Here goes.

Almost at the end of his strength now, he forced himself once again through the still open window. His hands had become so weak, it was almost impossible to get a grasp on the cap and twist it off, but finally he managed. Turning the cap over, he struck the igniter on the end of the flare like a giant match...and nothing happened. He tried four more times before giving up and tossing it out the window.

He took the second flare out of his pocket and tried again, striking the igniter against the scratch surface of the cap three times before it suddenly, thankfully erupted in a brilliant scarlet flame. John was too exhausted to cheer. He managed to very carefully stick the flare in the snow on top of the car with the flame pointing skyward, and then he was done. He slipped nervelessly back through the window, barely managing to close it with fumbling fingers before unconsciousness claimed him.

As the helijet passed over a tree covered outcropping that lay beyond the area they just explored, Gordon gave a yell.

"Scott, come around! I think I saw something shining back there somewhere...in the trees."

The Ranger abruptly tilted as Scott turned the helijet back and flew back over the area in question. Nothing was seen. The probe flew as close to the trees as possible to get a thermal scan but nothing registered. Disappointed, they decided to continue on.

All too soon, the time drew near when they would have to circle back for refueling. Scott and Virgil were discussing how much longer they could go on this run when Jeff spoke suddenly. "Boys, circle back to that wide shoulder we looked at about 10 minutes back. I've got an itch and I'd like to make sure we didn't overlook something."

The helijet slid sideways and banked back toward the east. They found the slope Jeff had spoken of quickly. "Where do you want me to put the remote, Dad?" asked Virgil.

"Down there by the stand of trees where Gordon thought he saw something."

Once again, the little drone was sent down toward the trees, but this time Brains leapt to his feet and exclaimed, "There's a thermal readout. Uh, uh, a hot one!"

Jeff, Virgil and Gordon scrambled to look at the thermal readout.

Virgil was already hauling on a harness to be lowered to the ground while Gordon prepared the winch arm. Jeff moved closer to his second eldest son. He could not speak, only putting his hand on Virgil's shoulder and squeezing before he went to help Gordon open the door and lower him down. The gesture spoke volumes to Virgil.

Snow from the trees, whipped into a flurry by the helijet's wash, stung Virgil's face as he was lowered to the ground in the closest clear spot they could find. As soon as his feet touched the surface, he unsnapped the carabiner and waded through knee-deep snow into the trees. He hadn't gone very far when he noticed broken limbs and broad gouges along several tree trunks and then, before him, he saw a large snow covered shape with a burning highway flare stuck in the top.

Running forward, he could see that the shape was a vehicle, a truck, apparently lying on its side. He could see the light reflecting off a window now. He climbed up on to the truck, brushing away the snow, and scrambled to the window. He wiped the surface clear of moisture with his gloves and peered in. He could see the top of a parka covered head. The blood pounding in his veins now, he began to thump on the window. But there was no answer.

Hoping the door would open, he backed off it and tried the handle. With a few hard yanks, the door finally gave way and opened. Virgil reached inside to slide the parka hood back and saw the still face of his brother John.

His heart stopped. He froze for a long moment, hand still gripping the edge of the parka hood. Then he forced himself to rip off his glove and check for signs of pulse and breathing.

He found both.

"John! John! Can you hear me?" he demanded anxiously. "John!"

John frowned and finally opened his eyes. His brother Virgil was staring down at him with a worried expression on his face. It had to be a hallucination.

"Virgil?" he asked in a weak voice.

"Yeah, it's me. We're here. We've got you now."

John looked at him for a moment longer before responding. "You look like shit," he said, and closed his eyes again.

Virgil laughed.

Jeff and Grandma Tracy could hear laughter from behind the door as they entered John's hospital room. They stood for a moment in the doorway and took in the scene. John lay on the bed with his leg, swathed in bandages, resting on a pillow. He was surrounded by Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Brains, and Alan's voice could be heard from their wristcoms.

"Gee, John. When they call it an off-road vehicle, that's not what they mean!" said the youngest Tracy sibling, sending everyone into new peals of laughter.

"You should have heard him, Al. He gave us hell the whole way to the hospital," Virgil chimed in.

"Yeah, but we had pie, and that shut him up," grinned Gordon.

John looked at him sourly. "He saved me one slice, Al. One."

"Yeah, but what if we hadn't found you? That would have been a waste," Gordon pointed out. As everyone turned to look at him, he added hastily, "Kidding, John." Everyone burst into laughter again.

Just then, John saw his father and Grandma standing at the door and a smile lit his face. "Hi, Dad. Hi, Grandma."

Mrs. Tracy moved to his bedside and set down the cardboard box and bag she was carrying on the table next to him. She leaned over and kissed her grandson on the forehead and said, "Young man, don't you ever scare me like that again." She kissed him once more before she turned to address Gordon. "Gordon, I want you to know I heard that last remark."

She turned and took the top off the box to reveal a perfect, mouth-watering, trademark Grandma Tracy apple pie. She set it down on John's lap. "There, Johnny. And you don't have to share with Gordon if you don't want to."

At Gordon's stricken expression, they all cracked up again.

I'll help you with that, Mrs. Tracy," said Brains as the pie was removed to a sideboard and everyone joined in to distribute the paper plates and utensils that Grandma had brought in the bag. Alan's voice issued plaintively from their wristcoms. "Hey, no fair. No eating it in front of me!"

Jeff stepped to John's bedside and sat down. "I've got some things that belong to you," he said, handing John his wallet, cellphone and wristcom. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he added, "Try not to lose them this time."

John nodded. He couldn't quite meet his father's eyes, and he had to clear his own throat before speaking. "Are you kidding?' he said. "This is my lucky wallet. I'll never wash it again."

Jeff's mouth quirked in a smile. He watched as his son placed the cellphone on the side table and put on the wristcom.

John fiddled with the wallet a moment longer before finally looking back up at his father.

"Thanks, Dad," he said, simply.

Unable to trust his voice, Jeff merely nodded, sitting back and drinking in a scene that he had been afraid he would never see again. The wonderfully normal sight of his sons, all his sons, squabbling over Grandma's pie.