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He had long ago succumbed to the pain. He would rather be unconscious than contemplate his situation. There was an awful burning in his gut; something broken or bleeding there. It was best not to think about it, or anything else.

He was brought back to wakefulness by fresh waves of pain: the sting of an open hand striking his bruised cheek. He opened his eyes a crack, trying only half-heartedly to focus. Someone forced his mouth open and poured something cold into it. The liquid singed its way down his esophagus, then hit his stomach with a new explosion of pain. He groaned, straining weakly against the bonds holding him to the office chair.

"Now that you are awake, Mr. Michaels, let's try this once more," said the softly-accented voice. "What have you done with my passports?"

How many times had he been asked that question? A hundred, at least, over the past three days. He answered, again, with the truth... an incomplete truth, but a truth nonetheless. "Don't have 'em." His lips formed the words, but no sound came.

Fingers dug into his chin. "What was that?"

"Don't have 'em." He struggled to give the words faint voice.

"Yes, Mr. Michaels. We know. You have told us repeatedly. And we have checked your office, your car, your home and any number of bizarre possibilities. This leads us to believe that you passed them on to someone else or are holding them in safekeeping somewhere. Now. Again, where are they?"

An open hand hit his cheek with force, the sting bringing tears to his eyes. "No..."

The voice sighed in disgust. "It seems, Mr. Michaels, we will not have much choice. I had hoped to avoid this, but you bring me to it. If you do not tell us what you have done with my passports, some... unpleasant things will happen to your very pretty wife."

Tears escaped from under his closed lids. He knew it would come to this; knew it when he saw the contents of the safe in the office. "No..." he protested.

"Then tell me."

He ignored his throbbing body as he tried to think. He needed to buy time. Could he do it and keep them away from Sherry in the bargain? He had to gamble. "Sent away."

"Where?" the voice asked intently.

"To... Los Angeles."

"That is a very large city. Where specifically?"

"To... friend."

"And the name of this friend?"

He closed his mouth. That was as far as he was willing to go, now or ever, no matter what they did to him.

"Who is your friend?"

He gritted his teeth, waiting for the hit. It came, followed by others, blows fueled by rage and frustration. The voice shouted at him, but he could no longer concentrate on the words. A fist plunged into his tortured abdomen and he abruptly slid into darkness, but not before he sent a silent prayer to his Los Angeles contact.

I'm counting on you, Laura.

Laura Holt stifled a yawn behind her hand as the elevator rose. Dinner, dancing and champagne with Remington Steele the night before combined to make it a long evening she was paying for now. While he could easily sleep in, she had responsibilities.

She exited the elevator with a group of businesspeople on the eleventh floor and strode briskly to Suite 1157. She looked inside before opening the door. The agency's receptionist-researcher, Mildred Krebbs, was hard at work at her computer terminal. A sigh escaped Laura's lips at the thought of the day's work ahead of her, and she pushed the door open.

"Good morning, Mildred," she said as cheerfully as she could.

"Good morning, Miss Holt," Mildred replied with equal cheer, swinging to face her. The woman picked up a large manila envelope. "Mailman brought this, postage due. It's for you, marked 'Personal'."

Laura took the envelope and studied its face. There was no return address, but the writing on it looked familiar. It was postmarked "Denver."

"And," the woman continued. "There was a phone call for you, long distance. A woman named Sarah."

She handed Laura a piece of paper. "She said to have you call as soon as you got in, that it was urgent. She wouldn't tell me anything else."

She looked at the note. The number wasn't familiar. "I wonder what this is all about?" she mused.

"She sounded pretty upset," Mildred remarked.

"Then I'd better call."

Laura entered her office, dialed the number, then took a seat at her desk and slit open the envelope. Two passports, some sheets of used legal paper and a small index card with two long numbers on it fell out of the opening. Folded into one of the passports was a U.S. Post Office Express Mail slip. She withdrew it.

Someone picked up the phone at the other end of the line. "Hello?" The voice was tentative, anxious.

"Hello, is this... Sarah?"

"Yes... who is... oh! Is this Laura Holt?"

"Yes, this is Laura Holt."

"Thank God."

The relief in the woman's voice was evident. Laura was confused. "Sarah, ah, do I know you?"

"Well, no, we've never met, but I've heard a lot about you. I'm Sarah Paskewicz, I work for Murphy Michaels at Colorado Investigations and Security...."

Colorado Investigations and Security. Murphy's agency in Denver. And now Laura remembered Murphy talking about his gem of a receptionist, a Denver policeman's widow, living just three blocks from the agency. He'd referred to the woman as "his Mildred."

"Of course. Murphy thinks quite highly of you."

Sarah didn't answer for a moment, and the silence sent a foreboding chill down Laura's spine. "Thank you.... Miss Holt, I hope... you can help us."

"Us?"

"The agency. Murphy... is missing."

"Missing?" she repeated Sarah dumbly.

"It's been three days and we've had no word. Sherry thought he was working on a case, but he didn't keep a file, and he was close-mouthed about what he was doing. He was at the agency until lunch on Monday, and..." there was a short pause, "no one has... seen him since."

While her fingers took down abbreviation-punctuated notes, her mind whirled. Murphy missing. No one has seen him... Possibly working on a case... "Sarah..."

"Miss Holt, if you could possibly see your way... that is, if your caseload can stand it... could you come to Denver? Try to find out where he is?"

"Aren't his associates doing that already?" Laura knew she would have been insulted had anyone suggested something like that to her under similar circumstances.

"Karen and Frank are working on it. Sherry asked me to call you. She would have called herself, but she's still in the hospital. They're supposed to release her later this morning."

"What?!? Sherry's in the hospital??"

"Just for observation. It was only for 24 hours. She's fine." Sarah paused. "Will you come?"

The "Yes" was out of her mouth before she knew it. "Give us an hour to pack and get to the airport. We'll take the first available flight after 10, L.A. time.

"Thank you, Miss Holt! Thank you so much."

"See you in a couple hours, Sarah. Goodbye." She hung up the phone and went out to Mildred, the Express Mail slip in her hand. "Mildred, call Mr. Steele and get him out of bed. Tell him to pack a bag for a, ah, three-day out-of-town trip. Get us tickets for the first flight to Denver after 10, any airline. Tell them to have the tickets at the check-in counter. Call me at home and let me know where to show up."

"Big trouble, Honey?" the receptionist asked, curious.

"I hope not." Laura turned to go back to her office and glanced down at the slip in her hand. The short note written on its front was signed "Murphy". "Oh, my God," she breathed, and stopped still in the center of the reception area to read the message:

Laura:
If you don't hear from me in 10 days give the contents of this envelope in person to the Colorado Attorney General's office.
Thanks,
Murphy

"Miss Holt?"

Laura glanced back. Mildred's eyes crinkled with concern.

"I take back what I said, Mildred," she said solemnly. "It is trouble. Big trouble."

Laura tucked the plane tickets into the thick paperback she bought for reading on the plane; not that she intended to read, not with Remington Steele for a traveling companion and a case at hand, but it was a convenient place to keep her tickets. She pulled out the contents of Murphy's mailer, dumped unceremoniously back into the envelope and taken with her as she rushed home to pack.

Her former partner's abbreviated notes filled sheets of legal paper. The sight of them brought back the early days of the agency, the fun "one for all... all for one" spirit she, Murphy and Bernice Foxe fostered. For a moment she indulged in warm nostalgia; then she pushed it aside and skimmed the notes. Her eyes widened at the information. The subject of Murphy's investigation had been an extensive drug dealership, not in the United States but elsewhere; the word "procurement" showed up, alongside a six-figured number in pesos. She read Spanish-sounding company names, also with large sums behind them, and, underscored heavily, the words, "Rother Corp."

She folded the sheets back up and put them in the envelope. The index card with its indecipherable two numbers went with it. The passports she opened one at a time. A handsome white-haired man looked out at her from each photo. Inside one, the words were in Spanish, except for the owner's name: Robert Therault. She caught the word "Bolivia" in the address. The other was in French. She compared the information on the two; they didn't appear to be the same.

Steele's voice interrupted her translations. "I can think of more romantic cities than Denver for a weekend getaway, Laura. Whatever possessed you to pick it?"

"I didn't," she replied as he took a seat beside her, dropping his garment bag in front of him. "And it's not a 'getaway.' We have a case to work on."

Before she could continue, the call came for first-class passengers to board. She handed him his ticket, picked up her carry-on and started for the boarding ramp.

"A case?" he queried as they lined up to enter.

"Yes. It's... " She hesitated, unsure of the reaction she would get, "... Murphy. He's missing."

"Murphy? Our Murphy?"

He seemed to be astounded. Laura relaxed. "Yes." She went on to describe the morning's phone call as they entered the plane and seated themselves. "And I got this in the mail this morning." She handed him the envelope, then buckled herself in.

He lowered his tray, then emptied the envelope. He glanced through the passports and the legal pages, read Murphy's note, then picked up the index card. "Hm."

"Can you make sense out of those?"

"Yes. These are Swiss bank account numbers," he explained. "Could they be receptacles for some illegal funds?"

"Very likely. Murphy's notes indicate that the man in the passports deals in South American drugs and prostitution."

"Mmm. Nasty blighter." He picked up one of the passports and scanned the contents. "If Murphy got on his bad side..."

"He could be in terrible danger," she finished, almost reluctantly.

"If he's missing, I'd say he already is." Steele carefully replaced the items in the envelope, and handed it back to her. "What plan of attack do you have?"

Laura put the envelope in her lap, folded her hands on top of it. "Talk to everyone we can, go everywhere he's been. And pray we find him. Putting that conversation together with what's in this envelope," she finished, "the picture doesn't look all too good."

There was a lump in her throat. Though she didn't mention it to Steele, to her the situation looked bleak, if not hopeless. Murphy's capable associates had failed in their search... and his associates would be the best in the field; she knew Murphy prized quality. Nothing had been heard from him in three days, which indicated he was a hostage... or worse. No! she argued; his death was not an option to consider. He was alive. Her dear, kind Murphy was alive.

The plane rose into the air. Laura found her heart pounding frantically. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. When she finally slowed her racing heart, she felt her hands enveloped by a layer of warmth, and she opened her eyes. Steele's hands had covered hers comfortingly. She sensed him lean toward her. "Since a body hasn't turned up," he murmured, "Murphy must still be alive. Therefore, we will find him." His lips brushed her temple. "Let me have another look at those passports."

Glad to have something to do, she opened the envelope and withdrew the requested booklets. He plucked them from her and spent several minutes studying them. Finally he set one aside and ran a finger over the cover of the other one. "A masterful forgery... one of the best I've seen."

"Forgery?"

He opened the passport. "Yes. Here..." He began to flip pages, "this line, France took the phrase out five years ago. And the seal lacks the double line encircling the fleur de lis, here." He closed it and handed the two passports back to her. "Between the name and the two passports... one of them a fake French one... I'd wager this man is not a Bolivian national."

"And he's doing something in Denver that Murphy was asked to investigate." She returned the passports to the envelope. "If it's drugs or prostitution..."

"Police matters, Laura, certainly," Steele countered. "And Therault would have his hands full with the local established... ah... firms. Pimps and dealers don't take kindly to people muscling in on their turf."

"If it's not... that, what could it be?" She turned to him, her eyes searching his face for an answer he couldn't possible have.

"It might be anything," he replied. "And we won't know until we get to Denver. So let's quit speculating and relax for the while, eh? We'll need to be in top form when we get there." He smiled fleetingly at her, then leaned back in his seat and settled in to catch up on what probably had been interrupted sleep.

She tried to follow his lead, but after ten squirmy minutes she gave up. She accepted coffee and a sweet roll from the stewardess and reviewed the contents of Murphy's envelope again and again. By the time the plane started its approach to Denver, she had memorized every bit of information.

Steele awakened at the captain's approach announcement, smiled sleepily at her and stretched lazily. She took a firmer grip on the envelope and looked out the window at the clouds and terrain around Denver. "Got the case solved?" he teased.

"I wish I did."

His hand rubbed her shoulder. She turned back to brush her cheek against the knuckles. "I'm afraid this might just be one of Remington Steele's losing cases," she went on worriedly.

"Remington Steele has yet to fail," he returned. "Have a little faith in the boss, my dear." Stroking her cheek with a finger, he repeated in a quieter, more private tone, "Have faith."

He sounded tentative though. So had Sarah a few hours earlier. They were all looking to her to be confident and strong and find Murphy. Well, she'd just have to be the Rock of Gibraltar here and wall her fears and feelings away. She was an expert at that. She tossed her head back, as if to shrug off uncertainty, and looked Steele straight in the eye, calm and certain. She could do it. She would find Murphy, no matter where he was... in Denver, in Colorado, in the U.S. "I will," she said firmly. She was rewarded with a smile.

The plane touched the runway. Minutes later it jerked to a halt at its assigned gate, and the seat belt sign winked out. Laura picked up her tote, Steele retrieved his garment bag, and they departed.

In the Denver airport, they followed the crowd along the overhead moving walkways to baggage claim. As they started down the corridor, they passed a set of lockers. A thought crossed Laura's mind. She grabbed Steele's arm. "Wait."

Quickly he was on the alert. "What is it? Someone suspicious?"

"No." She opened her totebag and pulled out Murphy's envelope. "Whoever kidnaped Murphy is after this. They're going to want this information back."

"Not to mention the passports," he added.

"Right. But if we can put this someplace safe, if we don't take it into the city with us, we'll have a bargaining chip."

His eyes lit up. "Those?" He gestured to the lockers behind her. "Splendid idea."

"And we'll mail the key back to Mildred for double insurance."

They came up with enough change to hold the locker for three days. Laura chose number 57... the last two numbers of their suite at Century Park Plaza East... and put the envelope inside. Down the corridor she found a Federal Express box, and she filled out the forms to mail the key... wrapped in a tissue for padding... back to the agency. Like Murphy, she used a blank address form to give Mildred sketchy instructions: Hold the key until contacted by either herself, Steele, or Murphy Michaels.

"Is that enough?" Steele asked.

"The less she knows, the better off she is, I think."

They went on to baggage claim. Steele retrieved Laura's small weekender. As they stood apart from the milling crowd, looking at each other with "What next?" expressions, a familiar voice reached them. "Oh, Laura, Remington, thanks for coming."

They both turned. Instead of giving a comforting greeting, Laura found herself rooted to the spot, staring in astonishment at Sherry Webster. The face was familiar, though paler and thinner than Laura remembered. Sherry's medium-length hair was now a mass of curls, and her abdomen swelled in the later months of pregnancy. Sherry smiled at them... sadly, Laura thought. "He never told you, did he?"

"Ah, no, he didn't," Steele replied.

"Was it supposed to be a secret?" Laura ventured.

Again Sherry smiled a sad, knowing smile. "No, not intentionally. But Murphy had his reasons."

Laura wondered what they were. She knew how much Murphy had cared about her when he was in Los Angeles, strong feelings built over time but held back by the necessity of their work situation and her own run of broken relationships. And then the man at her elbow came along... Mentally she shook herself out of her introspection and pulled her attention back to the here-and-now. "Have there been any new developments?"

Sherry shook her head. "Nothing. No one has seen Murphy, and he hasn't turned up anywhere." She linked her arm with Laura's. "Come on. Frank and Karen are anxious to meet with you."

They started off towards the exit. "Who are Frank and Karen?" Steele asked.

"Frank Reuvers is the detective who's turning his license over to Murphy," Sherry explained. "He's supposed to be semi-retired, but he certainly doesn't act it. And Karen DiFalco is Murph's apprentice from the University of Colorado at Boulder. A little overeager, but she is good."

Sherry set a good pace despite her pregnant state. Laura and Steele had a time keeping up with her, particularly as the agency head tried to stay gallantly close to Sherry's elbow while carrying a loaded garment bag and a suitcase.

Sherry's car was in a far row of the airport parking lot, and as they reached the grey four-door sedan, Laura noticed an odd movement out of the corner of her eye; a sudden stop and shift. When she turned to investigate, she saw a man hunched over a car door, fumbling with keys. He had no suitcase or attache case. His face was averted, though she felt he still had his eyes on them. "Sherry, why don't you let Mr. Steele drive," she suggested as Steele lifted the luggage into the open trunk.

"It's all right, Laura," Sherry said with a laugh. "I can still fit behind the wheel of a car."

Sherry brought the trunk lid down, but before she could extract the keys from the lock they were in Laura's hand. She palmed them off to Steele and said, "Drive," in a low voice, then turned back to Sherry, grabbing the pregnant woman's arm. "Come on," she said cajolingly and in a loud voice. "You've been under a lot of stress lately. You should be taking it easy."

"But Laura..."

"No buts." She almost shoved Sherry into the passenger seat, then got into the back. Steele started the engine. "Sherry," she explained. "I think you were followed."

"Oh my God," Sherry whispered.

"Which way out?" Steele asked.

Sherry pointed. "Follow the signs." Her voice wavered.

"We'll lose him." Laura tapped Steele on the shoulder. "Remember: lose him."

"Got it, Boss," he growled in stalwart gangster style, and started out of the lot.

On the freeway it became obvious that the grey sedan was being followed by a smallish black car with a superb driver at the wheel. Under Sherry's direction Steele took a circuitous route through the suburbs, confirming the tail. "This guy's a professional, Laura," he commented.

She sighed. "Well, we need to get to the agency. Think he'll mind us stopping there?"

"What does he want?" Sherry asked. "Who is he after?"

"It could be any of us. You, for being Murphy's wife. Us, for being some outside experts called in on the case. If Murphy's told them anything, they may think we have it."

"It?" Sherry queried. "I don't understand."

Laura patted the other woman's shoulder. "We'll explain at the agency."

"If it's Sherry they're tailing," Steele commented, "then they could easily pick up her tail here or at home. We've nothing to gain by trying to lose them."

"You're right, Mr. Steele. Sherry... take us straight in."

In a short time the car halted in front of a large old stone mansion. A sign bolted to the wall near the door proclaimed it the location of Colorado Investigations and Security. "Murph renovated the building," Sherry explained. "The agency is on the first floor, with file storage and a lab in the basement. Second floor is an apartment... there's a graphic artist who rents it. Third floor used to be Murph's apartment until we bought our house."

Laura smiled. The building was just like Murphy... solid, strong, old-fashioned, versatile. No prestigious address, no flashy front man. "Murphy has good taste."

Sherry laughed. "Practicality is more like it. He was able to get it for a song when he first came here. And he said he'd rather make house payments than rent office space."

She led them to the porch, which was sparsely furnished with cushioned wicker and potted flowers. Inside, Laura was not surprised to see a medium-sized entry with a broad old desk and chunky, old but well preserved furniture. The color decor was earth tones, even to the beautiful dark-haired woman in beige and cream seated behind the desk. She smiled, first at Sherry sadly, then at them with professional courtesy. "Nothing, Sherry. Are they..."

"Murphy's friends. Laura Holt, Remington Steele, Murphy's keeper of the gate, Sarah Paskewicz."

Polite nods and murmured greetings went around. Laura began, "Miss Paskewicz..."

"Sarah, please."

"Sarah, in about five minutes, could you make a foray out into the street and get the license number of a black Camaro that may be parked nearby?"

"Sure. My son should be coming here from daycare for lunch. I've got a plausible excuse. Shall I run a make?"

Laura nodded. "If you would."

"You'll have it soon as I do."

"Where are Karen and Frank?" Sherry asked.

"Conference room. They're waiting for you. I'll order lunch." Sarah turned to the phone.

Sherry led them to the right, where behind the door was a large room Laura figured had probably been the house's former dining area. Seated by a small elliptical table covered with papers were two people... a young female and a grandfatherly male. Both got to their feet as the trio entered.

"Laura Holt, Remington Steele, there are Murphy's co-workers, Karen DiFalco, Frank Reuvers."

As they crossed the table with firm handshakes, Laura studied the two detectives. Karen was tall and slim, with an unruly mop of dark wavy hair. Frank was short and balding, with wisps of white hair sticking out around his ears.

Frank started the conversation after everyone had been seated. "Remington, Laura... you've worked with Murphy longer than we have. I guess we're hoping you'll be able to give us some insight as to what he might or might not have done."

"We'll certainly try," Laura replied. "Can anyone tell us what Murphy was doing before he... disappeared?"

"He told his partners he was on a special case," Sherry spoke up. "He told me he had a government job that might take two weeks and eat up a lot of his time."

"We've checked with all the possible agencies," Frank said. "No one knows anything about hiring Murphy for an investigation."

"A week ago Murphy spent two days out of the country," Sherry said. "I don't know where, just that he packed light and took his passport. When he came home he was pretty quiet... something upset him."

Laura and Steele exchanged knowing glances. He went to Bolivia, she thought.

"He wouldn't talk about it," Sherry went on. "He just said it was work related, and that it'd be cleared up in a week. The next evening he was out all night. He came home in time for breakfast, pretty pleased with himself. He made a phone call, went to the agency, came home for lunch, and went back to work." She took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. "That was Monday. He never made it to the office."

"His car was found in the parking lot at Arida's. That's a restaurant in town," Frank explained. "But no one remembers seeing him. We figure he never went in."

"You think he was kidnaped there?" Laura asked.

"That's the most likely scenario. There are no other prints but Murphy's in the car."

"Was anyone at the restaurant that day meeting another party that didn't show?"

"We checked the reservation list. There were three no-shows that afternoon. Murphy wasn't one of them."

"Could he have gone in under another name?"

"No. All of the names check out."

"Mr. M doesn't like to use aliases if he can help it," Karen piped up.

Laura glanced at Steele. He was toying with a pencil on the table, and there was a smile on his lips. She turned her attention back to the Denver detectives. "I think we can shed a little more light on what Murphy was doing."

She went on to tell the astonished listeners about her unexpected package from Denver. When she was through, Karen spoke one word. "Wow!"

"Does this... Therault mean anything to any of you?"

"He certainly does," Frank replied. "He's in Denver right now trying to get the city to let him build an office complex."

"He's been plastered all over the front page the past three weeks, talking about what he's got planned," Karen added.

"If I might interject..."

Everyone turned their attentions to Steele, who had spoken for the first time since entering the room. "This construction project," he went on, "may be a way for him to launder his ill-gotten money. A simple financial pipeline from Bolivia to France to the United States." He gave a half smile, an almost uncertain gesture.

"I'd say that's a very good bet," Laura confirmed, pleased with Steele's reasoning. "And," she turned back to the others, "if Murphy came to the same conclusion, and Therault suspected it..."

"Which he would have with those passports Murphy obtained," Frank interrupted.

"Yes. Therault would have known. And I'm sure he would have tried to prevent Murphy from telling whoever he was working for."

"Laura," Sherry began, "where is all this information now? You said Murphy sent it to you. Is it in Los Angeles?"

"Actually, it's here in Denver, but in a safe place. We had a hunch that it was powerful enough to use as leverage to free Murphy."

"Let's go and confront this guy now!" Sherry was struggling to her feet. Frank, nearest to her, grabbed her arm. "Sherry, no. We can't go into this on speculation, and really, that's all we have right now. We need facts. Who hired Murphy? What was his assignment? How did he get the information he passed on to Laura? I think we need to know what he did before we go face to face with Therault. Any blind actions may result in very serious consequences."

For a moment Laura thought Sherry was going to argue back or fight. Instead, her face crumpled, giving into the despair that had obviously been lurking near the surface, and she began to cry softly. Frank gathered her into a comforting embrace and Karen leaned across to murmur to Laura and Steele, "She's been holding that in since we realized Mr. M was missing. It's good you're here. Somebody needs to take charge."

"We'll handle things, Karen," Laura said. Her own feelings were in turmoil but she held them back by her wall of reserve.

They sat uneasily, letting Sherry regain her composure. She was wiping her eyes and swallowing back tears when there was a sharp rap on the door and Sarah breezed in with a tray of covered styrofoam cups, followed by a small dark-haired boy who held a large paper sack in his arms. "Lunch is served," she announced, setting the drinks down. "Caffeine for all, except for Sherry, and a bunch of different sandwiches. Donnie, give the bag to Sherry, okay?"

The youngster toddled over to Sherry, who took the food and set it on the table. Then she ruffled Donnie's hair and smiled. "Go ahead," she said, and Donnie put his head close to her stomach.

"Donnie likes to listen for the baby's heartbeat," Sarah explained in a low voice to Laura and Steele. "And," her tone of voice switched, suddenly serious, "that black Camaro sitting down the block is a rental, from National, to a Gilbert Pronovost, Versailles, France, affiliated with Rother Corporation." She paused. "Was Murphy working on an industrial espionage case?"

"It's a little bigger than that," Laura murmured. "I think we should eat first," she announced, "We'll figure out what to do after."

"Yeah!" Donnie agreed loudly, and everyone laughed.

As the group seated themselves and began to pass food around, Steele leaned towards Laura in the guise of handing her a sandwich. "Murphy has a good staff here," he whispered.

"He does, doesn't he?" She accepted the package and began to unwrap it, adding in a low tone for his ears only. "And we're going to need all the skill we can get on this one."

A long, hot shower dissipated the tension of the day for Steele. He felt more relaxed than he had since being jarred awake by Mildred's phone call. He'd wanted to be of help, but it seemed as if he were more Laura's moral support than an active participant in today's fast-paced brain storming among the detectives. He knew there were other avenues to be pursued too, and perhaps tomorrow he would override any potential objections and use his network of informants.

He studied himself in the mirror, frowning then smiling sardonically at the bristly-chinned face looking back at him. Although he hated himself unshaven (having spent too many years in that state) he had to admit that he really didn't look half bad. He certainly compared favorably with the latest macho-male fads. Smiling, he entered the bedroom.

Laura sat cross-legged on the bed, head down, brush in hand and hair falling down in front of her. She had halted in mid-stroke, her body still. He stood still too, a hot core of desire starting to burn inside and pulsing outward from top to toe. Despite her collection of enticing negligees, he found her most alluring in the prim-and-proper high necked, long-sleeved white cotton nightgown she favored. He figured it had something to do with the aura of innocence and purity she portrayed, and a basic, almost primal male need to possess it. However the psychologists might interpret it, all he really knew was that her white nightgown aroused him. Of course, he'd never tell her that.

As he watched, she suddenly finished the stroke, then peered up at him through the brown curtain of hair. "Sherry brought us some coco. She put a shot of kahlua in it... consolation dessert for her rotten dinner, she said."

"Who said it was rotten? Here, let me," he said, taking the brush from her hand. He knelt on the bed behind her and, supporting the thick mass of hair from beneath, began to pull the bristles through it. It was a spine-shivering pleasure, not a courtly duty, to brush Laura's hair. He loved nothing more than to run his fingers through it; he always imagined it as living raw silk. "It was a simple meal; no need to be elaborate. Soup and salad, popovers, fresh fruit. None of us was very hungry."

"Well, she felt she slighted us because the cupboards were practically bare." Laura's eyes were closed as he attended to her hair. "We're going grocery shopping tomorrow afternoon. I think it'll be a good activity for her. She's been too strung up these past two days. Something everyday, ordinary will get her spirits up."

"What about your spirits?" Unintentionally his strokes slowed. "I could tell you were stonewalling something."

She was a long time in replying. "It bothers me that no one has heard from Murphy. Obviously Therault knows he has... or had... the passports. Wouldn't this guy try to get them back by using Murphy as ransom? He has to have told Therault what he did with the papers."

"Unless he can't tell them."

"True."

Steele did not want to dwell on the thought. Apparently neither did Laura. They fell silent. He concentrated on his self-appointed task, working a rhythm to the strokes that he hoped was relaxing her. Finally she pulled her hair gently out of his hold. "Thanks." She turned back to get the brush, giving her head a little shake to rearrange the flyaway strands. He darted in for a quick kiss; she lengthened it.

His hands framing her face, he pulled away from the kiss to study her. Her eyes showed the turmoil she was keeping hidden. "You want to talk the case over?" he offered.

She smiled gratefully. "Yes." She slid off the mattress and moved over to the tray on the dresser where the cups of hot chocolate sat. "Murphy and I would do this on the tough cases... go over the evidence, point by point, to see if something clicked."

"Comfortably ensconced in your bedroom?"

Her eyes flashed angrily and she gestured as if to throw the coco onto his bare chest. He hands rose in defense. "Just kidding, Laura." He took the cup she offered, settling himself onto a comfortable table seat. "Point away."

She began to pace, hands curled around her own cup. "Let's retrace Murphy's steps. He gets a call from the State Attorney General's office early that week... check into Rother Corporation? Or maybe somebody there saw something in the corporation's set-up he didn't like."

"And no one at the State knows which lawyer was checking on Rother."

"No one who was there this afternoon. They're going to hunt through some desks and files in the morning." She sipped at her liquored beverage. "So Murphy flew on Thursday to Los Angeles, and then to Bolivia..."

"Which Mildred confirmed for us this evening."

"...returning on Saturday. He was out on Sunday evening, according to Sherry..."

"Probably breaking into Therault's offices for those passports. Security on a Sunday evening is bound to be lax, 'day of rest' and all that. It would be his best chance to slip in and out."

Laura nodded. "Okay. Monday he's supposed to meet with someone at that restaurant, perhaps to review what he'd uncovered. But no one recalls seeing him there. He was probably abducted in the parking lot, since his car was there."

"And the package he sent to us was dropped off in a hurry before the meeting, because it came without postage. Perhaps he was being followed."

"Followed." She whirled on him. "Like Sherry this afternoon."

"Or us, perhaps? If Murphy told his captors that he sent the items to Los Angeles, or to the Remington Steele Agency, then it would be an easy matter to watch us there. You didn't spot any tails on your way to the airport today, did you?"

Her lips thinned grimly. "I didn't notice."

"Perhaps they were following Sherry, and we're an added bonus."

"I'll stick with Sherry tomorrow. It shouldn't be too bad. We'll all be at the agency in the morning. I'll take her out for groceries in the afternoon."

"I'll make some inquiries in Denver." When she turned on him, an inscrutable look on her face, he continued hesitantly. "If that's all right."

"I didn't know you knew anyone in Denver."

"I know people everywhere." Lord, that sounded pompous, he thought ruefully. He drained the last of his coco from the cup and made a move to return it to the tray. Laura took it from him and set it and her own cup aside.

"I swear," she began, pulling down the sheet and coverlet. "You'd have an acquaintance among the natives in Antarctica if we were there!"

"Well, it just so happens I..."

Her fingers pressed his lips against his teeth. "That's enough!" she protested. He managed to kiss her fingers lightly before she pulled them away.

They got into bed. Steele lay on his side, towards Laura, watching her. She lay with her back to him at first, then in the next ten minutes took up as many different sleeping positions. Finally he caught her while she was facing him and pulled her close. "Point," he murmured. "Murphy is still alive. As long as the passports are still missing, they have to keep him alive. He's the only one they're aware of who knows their location."

"I realize that," she said, almost angrily, into his shoulder.

"If tomorrow night finds us no closer to Murphy, I'll beard Therault in his corporate den and see what we can wangle out of him."

Her arms slid around his waist. "No. Therault is too dangerous. Anything can go wrong."

He sensed her underlying protest: I've lost all the men in my life; I can lose you here. "We'll talk about it tomorrow." He kissed her temple. "'Tomorrow is another day.' Vivian Leigh, in the climax, 'Gone With the Wind,' MGM, 1939."

"Rhett Butler left her," Laura whispered to his chest.

"It's only a movie," he returned. Forcefully he pulled her into a tight embrace, fingers curling around her head, into her silken hair, to keep her head at his shoulder. When he finally heard her even breathing and felt her body lose its tenseness and become pliable, only then did he allow himself to drift off.

Laura studied the flow chart on the conference room table. It still looked the same as she and Steele had verbally constructed it the night before, with little new information. Where Murphy went, who he talked to... all they could confirm were Murphy's flight to L.A. and Bolivia and back, his car's appearance at a restaurant parking lot, and the request from the city of Denver to have the State check out Rother Corporation.

Overnight someone had put together a slim file on Robert Therault and his corporation. It was mostly newspaper articles, although a clipping service had sent them a videotape of television news reports. Neither were very informative, consisting of the usual PR drivel. Mildred had been asked to do a financial probe.

Laura was sipping at a cup of late-morning coffee when Sherry came in. Her bright-colored tunic and trousers tried vainly to offset the drawn face. "Anything striking you?" she asked, taking a seat.

"No. I wish we could get a handle on where they're holding Murphy."

Sherry shivered. "Frank has people tailing Therault and every person in his retinue. Maybe something will turn up this afterno..."

"Laura, just got... Oh, hi, Sher." Sarah had halted on the threshold upon seeing Sherry. The receptionist turned her attention back to Laura and continued hesitantly. "We just learned who Murphy was seeing at the Attorney General's office. A deputy by the name of Paul Levy. He's got a file on Rother and Therault, and his appointment book lists him as having had three visits with an 'inv.'... the last one at Arida's."

"There's... just one thing." Sarah's large brown eyes slid to Sherry, then back to Laura. "Levy was the victim of a hit-and-run outside the State offices around 1:00 on Monday. He's in a coma at General."

Laura swallowed the sudden lump of anxiety in her throat and looked at Sherry. The other woman's face had frozen in an expression of grim despair. "Frank's on his way to the hospital to check the prognosis. Then he'll be at the police station to get the hit-and-run reports," Sarah finished.

"I'll write it in. Thanks, Sarah." She smiled warmly at the woman, who glanced again at Sherry and left. Laura picked up the marker on the table and wrote, "Paul Levy, State A.G.; status: h & r, comatose, Denver Gen'l." She set the pen down and straightened. "A few more pieces and we'll be able to see what the jigsaw puzzle looks like."

Sherry returned Laura's confident look woodenly. "Laura, will we find him?" she asked in a low tone.

Laura went to her side and, bending, hugged her. "Yes. I promise. We will find him, and he'll be just fine."

Sherry leaned into the embrace, apparently grateful for the comfort and the reassurance. Laura didn't know how much longer she could be confidence man on this investigation. She had her own silent fears and soul-deep doubts about their success. The more time that passed by without a word from Murphy or Therault's people, the greater her fears, the deeper the doubts.

She shook herself mentally and physically back into a cheerier mood. "What do you say we duck out for lunch and grocery shopping?" she ventured. "I think we could use a break. No one will be back before mid-afternoon, anyway."

"Where is Remington?"

"He's... doing some digging." After they had arrived at the agency a few hours prior, Steele had slipped away... presumably eluding Sherry's, or their, persistent tail... to "float," as he had phrased it, around Denver and contact his acquaintances. "I'm sure we won't be hearing from him until this afternoon."

"Well, seeing as we're two woman at loose ends, let's do Denver." Sherry's cheeriness was weak, her smile feeble.

"Sounds great." Laura grabbed her fedora and purse. She had been in the city a few times on investigations, but never had the luxury to be a tourist. With the persistent black Camaro following, Sherry drove her around, pointing out the local sights. Laura felt in a better mood as the hostess at the restaurant they stopped at seated them before a line of other noontime customers.

"This is one of the nice advantages of expecting," Sherry said as the hostess left them to their menus. "You never wait in line."

"What a marvelous way to get seated in a hurry," Laura laughed. "I'll have to try that ruse sometime."

"Or for real..."

Sherry's look was too earnest; Laura blushed, and took an interest in the menu. Her discomfort communicated itself to the other woman. "There weren't problems with the... arrangements last night, were there? I mean, I just assumed you two..."

"No problem. We are."

"It looked like, a few years ago, you two were working toward something. Murphy always thought so, too."

She smiled gently. "We're a long way from getting there. Wherever 'there' is."

A waiter came with water and a request for beverages to be served. They made choices, then concentrated on their menus. Sherry made some suggestions, and when the waiter returned with their coffee and soft drink, they ordered. After he left, Laura felt a tension in the air... not oppressive, but tangible. She decided to venture ahead. "How has the pregnancy gone so far?"

Sherry frowned. "Not easy. I was in a perpetual state of exhaustion the first three months. I had to take a leave of absence from my teaching post at Denver U for spring quarter, and work strictly by consultation. I improved for the second trimester, but the doctor thinks I should drop everything for the last three months, just in case."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Murphy's quite upset. He said that if he knew I was going to have to give up my work for a baby, he wouldn't have been so determined to start a family."

Laura was surprised. "Murphy wanted a baby?"

Sherry smiled, her soft, sad smile that had so puzzled Laura at the airport. "He wanted to start a family right away. He needed the commitments."

"I guess I never imagined Murphy as a husband and father."

"You were his friend, Laura. You never had that view of him."

That was true. Though Murphy had always looked at her with more than friendship in mind... as she had found on their case involving Morrie Singer, the mob and the $2.5 million diamond... Laura had never seen him in any other light other than as partner and friend. Thinking of him with a wife, with children, was alien to her.

As she was contemplating those thoughts, Sherry went on quietly, "I'm sorry you weren't able to make it to the wedding. It think it would have gone a long way toward resolving the guilt Murphy has about his feelings for you."

"Guilt? Why would he be guilty? Murphy and I are friends.... we care very much about one another."

Sherry looked at her with unemotional detachment... almost as if she were facing one of her clients. "Murphy loves you, Laura. He always has; he always will. You're the great love of his life. Every concept he's had about what his ideal woman would be like is summed up in you."

"But... We never, we... We were only..."

"It's not necessary to be intimate to have that kind of intense feelings about someone." Sherry paused to sip her soft drink, then went on. "When you chose Remington over him, Murphy had a difficult time, I think, dealing with what his subconscious classified as a personal rejection. Apparently he did a lot of carousing the month or so before I met him in L.A., and he played around a bit in Denver before I moved here. Then he swung to the opposite extreme... he wanted to marry me, immediately." She smiled to herself; Laura wondered what memories were passing through her mind. "I knew what was happening, of course, so I literally sat him down and forced him to confront his feelings. I finally got him to the point where he could see what he was doing and start to accept the why. I didn't tell him it was counseling, of course, but I think he knew what I was up to. He didn't protest."

Laura frowned. "Whenever he came to L.A.... I never sensed any difference about him. He's always been... well, Murphy. Nothing changed."

"Oh, he tried hard to preserve your image of him. I think, since I became pregnant, he's more comfortable with the way things have turned out... you and Remington, he and I." Sherry ran her fingers along the sides of the glass. "Part of it was a need to put a family in place... a wife and a child. Once it was reality, he could afford to compare what he had with what he didn't... meaning you. He... would need to see that his decisions had been the right ones."

"Do you think he made the right decisions?"

Sherry's mouth turned downward. "Professionally... no. With any other client, I would have cautioned restraint and reflection, but with Murphy... I was willing to compromise. I didn't want to turn him down." She smiled; her eyes glowed warmly. "I'm not very objective. I may only be the second-best choice to Murphy, but he's my number-one love. That's why I married him so quickly. That's why I'm having the baby so soon after."

The love in Sherry's voice tingled Laura's spine. "I think Murphy is very lucky to have you," she remarked.

"Thanks." She sighed. "I'm so afraid that this will all end before we can start..."

"Sherry..." Laura grabbed her hands. "We will find Murphy. And everything is going to be just fine. Really."

"I know. It's just... right now..."

Their food arrived, derailing the darker thoughts of the situation for both women. After they had been served, Sherry, at Laura's request, told all about the wedding... from the case that threatened to interfere, to the event itself, with both large families descending on the Michaels' ranch in Glorieta, to the aborted Hawaiian honeymoon. "I'll show you the pictures later," she said to Laura over dessert. "There are some marvelous shots. Murphy always gets embarrassed because he's got the biggest shiner you've ever seen, but I think they're priceless."

"Great!"

"Maybe they'll give Remington some ideas."

Laura forced herself to hold back a snicker. "I... don't think he's quite ready for that drastic a move." She looked at her watch. "Whoops! It's two o'clock. We'd better get hustling for those groceries, Sherry."

"Yes, of course." She rose. "Could we call the office first and see if Karen and Frank..."

"Definitely."

In the entryway, Laura phoned the agency. Neither Karen nor Frank had returned, Sarah told her, and Remington Steele had not been heard from. But Mildred was overnighting the information she'd uncovered.

"Great," Laura replied. "We'll be back in about an hour."

She passed the news to Sherry on their way to the car. "I suppose you're going to tell me 'no news is good news'," the woman remarked.

"Yes. Because Mist... Remington is still in the city, which means he's talking to people who know something."

The first bright glimmer of hope Laura had seen in almost a day shone in Sherry's eyes. "Let's hurry and get those groceries."

They drove to Sherry's favorite warehouse grocery store near the Michaels' residence. Laura drew cart-pushing duty while Sherry picked and chose, then bagged from the do-it-yourself lane while the other woman waited to pay. "Six bags, Sherry? Looks like you're feeding an army!" she remarked as she pushed the overflowing cart out to the car.

"I did say there was nothing in the house," Sherry said. "Besides, I'm fixing meals for three." Suddenly she smiled and patted her stomach. "Four."

"And it'll be five, when Murphy joins us," Laura added.

"Yes." Sherry's reply was said in almost a whisper.

At the car, Sherry steadied the cart while Laura loaded the trunk with the food. Just as she slid the last bag into place, she heard a male voice say, "Mrs. Michaels?" She hit her head on the trunk lid as she straightened at the note of menace in the voice. She looked around. She and Sherry were being surrounded by half a dozen dark-suited men. They did not have the "presence" of policemen.

Sherry edged around the shopping cart, towards Laura. "Yes?"

"Come with us."

The speaker was tall, broad-shouldered, with an aura of power and strength. He nonchalantly put his hands on his hips, drawing open his suit jacket in the process to expose a small gun at his hip.

Laura glanced at Sherry. She looked back, white-faced, then turned to the elegant thug. "Why?"

"Don't argue." He paused, the added, "If you're interested in your husband."

Laura's stomach lurched. She had feared that was the reason for this ominous group, and she knew Sherry would go. She took Sherry's limp hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Sherry. Go."

"But..."

"Everything will be all right." She took the keys from Sherry's hand and moved a step away from her. As soon as she located the car they had come in, she'd follow and find out where they were holding Murphy.

Sherry began to walk to the man who had spoken. He gestured. "And your friend will join us, too."

"No..." Sherry thrust out a hand in protest.

"I'll come," Laura countered quickly. She didn't want to be forced to comply by threats to Sherry. And whatever was going to happen, it was probably best that Sherry not face things alone. She let her small purse slide off her shoulder into the trunk by the groceries, and dropped the car keys inside before closing the lid on it. When they didn't come back, someone would realize something had happened to them.

They were led to two inconspicuous grey sedans with tinted glass, and ushered into the rear of one. They sat quietly; their "guard" in the back was stonily silent. Laura's fingers itched to grab the nearby door handle and make a leap out of the sedan. Instead she squeezed Sherry's hand and kept quiet.

A short time later the car entered the loading dock of an office building in downtown Denver. They were escorted out of the vehicle to a service elevator, which took them up. They passed an unusually non-curious brunette receptionist and walked down a long hallway to a spacious and well-appointed office sitting room. A tall, silver-haired man of medium height and nicely-muscled build rose as they entered. His eyes traveled over Sherry and he nodded. "Mrs. Michaels. So glad you could join us."

Laura's heart was in her stomach as she recognized the face from the passports Murphy had sent: Robert Therault. The intense brown eyes switched to her and he nodded. "And your friend, too. Welcome."

"Where's my husband?" Sherry asked bluntly, almost belligerently.

"Quite near."

"He's alive," Laura remarked, relieved.

Therault smiled. "For the present. I hope you can convince him to remain so, Mrs. Michaels."

"I want to see him," Sherry demanded.

"And so you shall. Alberto, if you please?" He waved an arm at a door to the side of the sitting room, where a tall, thickset man whose bulk beneath the suit was obviously muscle, sat. He stood, unlocked the door, swung it partway open, then stepped aside. Laura and Sherry approached hesitantly.

The light from the outer office fell upon a man bound to a chair, head drooping in exhaustion or unconsciousness. Both women recognized him immediately. "Murphy!" Sherry cried and rushed in. Laura followed with only slightly more decorum.

Sherry knelt in front of him, one hand grasping his limp fingers, the other caressing his bruised face. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. At first Laura could only stare, sickened at what Therault had done to her friend. Finally she moved forward and knelt beside Sherry, fingers attacking the knots of the ropes at Murphy's wrists. Through the roaring of fury in her ears she heard Therault say, "I shall leave you to your reunion, Mrs. Michaels." She was almost oblivious to the lock clicking.

Resolutely Laura freed his arms and legs, shutting out Sherry's tearful pleas to Murphy to awaken. She looked around the darkened room and found a leather sofa. "Sherry, let's get him over there," she directed. "He might regain consciousness if he's prone."

She moved to the back of the chair and released the last bond holding him upright... the rope around his chest. As it loosened Murphy fell forward, an inert weight. Sherry's tears started anew as she held onto him while Laura came to help her. Together they struggled with the detective's body, finally getting him across the six feet of carpet to a relatively gentle landing on the sofa.

Sherry perched on the edge beside him, her fingers stroking the purple bruises on his unnaturally white face. "Murphy? Murph, please wake up. Please, Murph, please be all right."

Laura, at the foot of the couch, watched painfully as Murphy's throat constricted, and his mouth opened. His head turned slightly toward Sherry, but only after his tongue licked his split lips did he speak... and at that, only faintly and briefly. "Sher? 'S it you?"

"Yes, love, yes," Sherry replied, touching his forehead with her lips.

His throat constricted again in a swallow. "Sher." Tears sprang from beneath his closed lids, and began paths down his stubbled cheeks. "Oh God, no..."

Murphy's tears started Sherry's flowing again, and she fell forward, resting her cheek against his chest. His left hand rose shakily to rest on her head. Laura, trembling both in anger and in anguish, walked away, to let the couple have a private moment while she analyzed the situation.

Her feet took her to the bank of waist-high windows on two walls, both curtained shut. She opened one set to let the afternoon sunlight in and to check out their location. The room they occupied was a corner one, located on the street side of a tall office high-rise. The cars on the streets below were minuscule; that meant they were on a high floor, and there could be no escape through the windows. They were thermal pane high-rise glass with no latches. Air vents in front provided circulation, heat in winter and cool air in summer. She pivoted to scan their surroundings in daylight. The only other doorway in the spartan office besides the one leading to the outer office, opened onto a small bathroom. Their only way out it appeared, was running the gauntlet through the legions of Therault employees. And with a nearly-incapacitated man and a pregnant woman... her eyes locked onto the pair across from her... that was impossible.

But I have what Therault wants, Laura realized suddenly. Those passports. That information. She praised the intuition that prompted her to stash the goods at the airport. They would be useful now as leverage... to get them all out of Therault's hold. She would have to play the situation by ear and use her knowledge as the trump card.

Sherry was upright again, gently wiping Murphy's wet cheeks with a tissue. Laura had to find out how bad of a spot they were in, and only Murphy would know. Maybe he'd be able to talk to her now. She quietly crossed the office and seated herself on the arm of the sofa above Murphy's head. "Murphy, you look like you've been knocking around the back alleys too long," she said lightly.

Murphy's eyes flew open. He tilted his head slightly back to focus on her. He stared as if she were a ghost. "Laura." His voice held a note of wonderment.

"Yeah, Laura," she chided gently. "What is this... you can't even handle a measly corporate investigation? I thought you taught me better than that at Hayvenhurst."

That brought a feeble smile to his lips. With obvious effort he brought his free hand up and back, to grab her wrist in a vice-like grip. Then he closed his eyes, the smile faded, and new tears started trickling down his cheeks. "We're dead. We're all dead."

"Murphy..."

"You were my ace in the hole, Laura. Why didn't you stay out of it?" His weak voice shook.

Laura saw Sherry about to explain, and quickly shook her head, gesturing with one hand above Murphy's head. His anger would only be directed toward his wife, and that was one burden the woman did not need. "Do you think I would've stayed put, getting that package then finding out you were missing? I had to come." But she did not come unescorted. Talk about aces in the hole! She smiled. "We had to come."

"We?" That realization brought strength to his voice... strength, and a teasing quality that Laura realized she had missed desperately over the past two years. "Don't tell me he's here?"

"He's in Denver. But he wasn't taken with us."

Murphy opened his eyes and looked up at Laura. The smile on his lips faded. "What does he know?"

"Everything."

"What do you think he'll do?"

She shrugged. "Hard to say."

"We can't count on him, then."

Laura's ire rose just a little, and she said a shade too harshly, "We can count on him to do the right thing!" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted the tone. She twisted her wrist, in Murphy's grasp, to take hold of his hand. "I'm sorry, Murph. You're probably right. We can't count on him. We really can't count on anyone but ourselves."

"We just have to hope," Sherry came in.

Yes, hope, Laura thought. Hope that Mr. Steele doesn't decide to make a grandstand play that will get him captured and us dead. Though she had come to tentatively trust him, she knew that she could never predict him. The not knowing frightened her, never more than it did right now. "Murphy, what did you tell Therault?"

He swallowed, and focused his eyes on the ceiling... not at her nor at Sherry. "That I sent his... items to a friend in Los Angeles."

"Did you tell him who?"

The eyes fell shut. "No," he whispered.

"So he doesn't know for sure who has these... items, or where they're at." I can strike a bargain with that knowledge, she realized.

"No, but... I'm sure he's guessed by now. Therault hasn't gotten to where he is by being stupid. He's a very quick study, Laura." Murphy released her hand, letting his fall to his chest. "A very dangerous man," he whispered.

Suddenly the door was flung open. Therault stood framed by light in the entry. "Ah, I see you've given Mr. Michaels a respite from his restraints. Very good of you." He gestured. "I would like a word with you ladies now."

"No!" Murphy cried and grabbed Sherry's arm.

"Mr. Michaels, I promise, your wife will return to you unharmed," Therault said quietly. His eyes slid from Sherry to Laura, gleaming suddenly with a cold light. The shivery thought crossed Laura's mind: I might not be back.

Apparently Murphy had the same thought. "Both of them. Or I won't give you anything."

Therault chuckled nastily. "But you have given me nothing so far. That's not much of a threat, Mr. Michaels, now, is it? But..." He shrugged. "As you wish. Your ministering angels shall return. Ladies? If you please..."

Sherry exchanged a wary look with Laura. She nodded compliance. Sherry gave Murphy a fleeting kiss, then rose. Together they went into the outer office.

Therault motioned for them to be seated on a small leather sofa. He remained standing, towering over them. "Mrs. Michaels, Miss... Holt? Yes. Mr. Michaels has stolen some things from me. I would like them returned."

"We don't have anything of yours," Sherry snapped.

"Yes, I know. Your husband no longer has them in his possession, either. He sent them away... to someone, to a friend, a very good friend," his head swung meaningfully to Laura, and he nodded, "in Los Angeles. All I am looking for is the return of property rightfully mine. And all I am looking for you to do, Mrs. Michaels, is to convince your husband to tell me who was the recipient of that package. That's all. A very simple deed."

"But what if he won't tell me?" Sherry returned.

"Ah, but certainly you can be most persuasive, can you not? A loving husband will surely not keep secrets from his partner, his mate. Two souls as one, and all that. I'm sure your husband can be made to tell you. I'm sure he can be prompted." His sardonically-arched eyebrow as he looked back at them sent a dozen messages... none good.

"But he hasn't given you any information so far, right?" Laura countered. "And from the looks of him, you've had your hands on him pretty good already."

Therault smiled. "Yes, Miss Holt, Mr. Michaels has resisted our persuasive efforts. That is why we're trying a gentler method." He motioned for them to rise. "I hope you can succeed where we've failed, Mrs. Michaels."

Sherry glared back at him. "We'll see."

Laura followed her. But as Sherry walked through Laura was pulled back. The door was pulled closed in front of her... and locked by the guard. She whirled to face Therault, the sound of Sherry's panicked pounding in the background. "What is the meaning of this?" she raged. "You told Mr. Michaels..."

"Yes, I did. And you shall return shortly. But Miss Laura Elizabeth Holt, associate of famed Los Angeles detective Remington Steele, Mr. Michaels' previous employer, I think we need to have a private tete-a-tete."

His hand pushed her down into a chair that had almost miraculously appeared behind her. Again she was forced to look up into his face... his deceptively gentle-expressioned face. "I imagine two people who worked together for such a long time... almost seven years, since employed by the Hayvenhurst Detective Agency... would come to be close friends. Yes; very close. And I find it beyond coincidence that a friend from Los Angeles would arrive in Denver to aid Mrs. Michaels just after her husband, in his panic and need, sends his booty to a friend... in Los Angeles."

"His staff phoned me," she protested.

"Yes, they did. And you came. Commendable." He bent over her, resting his hands on the arms of her chair. "If indeed you are the unknown 'friend' of Murphy Michaels, I urge you to return my passports to me. Otherwise there shall be some very ugly scenes to which you will bear witness. As you can see by his current condition, I used methods of force on Mr. Michaels. So far, they have been the least cruel measures. If you are truly a friend, spare him from any agonies he may experience in the future... physical or emotional. I believe you can understand what I'm saying."

Her insides quivered. Even couched in his vague words, with his sensual, intriguing mixed French/Spanish accent, she knew what he bluntly meant: refuse him, and both Murphy and Sherry would be his next targets. "Yes," she whispered.

He straightened. "Good. I give you some time to think about this. Return to your friend."

Therault turned abruptly and left. Laura was pulled to her feet and out of the chair, and almost shoved back into the other room. Sherry, in tears, embraced her, and led her to a worried Murphy. "Laura? Laura, what happened?"

Laura took the hand reaching out for her from the prone body on the couch, and sat down on the edge of the cushions. "He suspects I'm your contact from L.A."

Murphy groaned. "... knew he would."

And he wants me to give him his passports back."

"Figured s'much."

She didn't tell him about the threat of physical harm. "I'm going to try and stall him," she informed them, "try and play his little game for a while."

"Why?" Sherry asked. "What can that do?"

"Gain us time," she explained. "And give the agency time to help us."

"How? Laura, what can they do?" Murphy returned.

She shrugged. "I don't know. But I do know that Mr. Steele will force them to come up with something."

"Or he will," Murphy said sarcastically.

Laura smiled. With her missing, Steele would be frantic to get her back, and equally determined to do it in the most imaginative... and safest... way possible. "Yes, Murphy. He certainly will."

"Stop here."

The unremarkable gray compact swung to the curb and stopped. "I'll go in the back way, Jerry. No need for that tail to pick up on us again out front."

"Sure think, Mike, old man."

Steele picked up the folder on the seat and tucked it under his arm. "Thanks for the plans... and the scuttlebutt."

The driver, Jerry... thin, angular, a personification of Washington Irving's Ichabod Crane... waived a pinky at him as he got out. "Anything for old times, Mike. Let us know when you're in town again... we'll throw you such a shindig you'll be drunk for a week! Just like at that Barbados clambake."

Inwardly Steele groaned with memories of the event, down to the ache in his fingernails. "Sure, old man. I'll let you know."

"Gotta shake a leg, Mike. See ya."

Steele slammed the passenger door, and the car chugged away. He crossed the street nonchalantly, walked up to a well-worn path between houses, and used it to get to the alley entrance of Colorado Investigations and Security. He picked the "kitchen door" and entered the office at its modified pantry. He swung right, down the associates' hallway, and surprised Karen coming out of her office. "Geez, Mr. Steele, let a girl know you're sneakin' around, will ya?"

He smiled in apology. "Sorry, Miss DiFalco, I was just making sure my tail wasn't latched on to me by coming in the back way." He resumed his walk down the hall. "Is Miss Holt around?"

"Nope. She 'n Mrs. M are out getting groceries. They should be back any time now."

"Good." He gained the reception area. "Sarah? Any coffee?"

"Just made some, Mr. Steele," she said, not looking up from her typing. "And that package from Los Angeles arrived an hour ago. I signed for it. Hope that was okay."

"Yes, but... what package?"

"Your Miss Krebbs did a financial probe on the Rother Corporation, I think. At least, that's what Miss Holt told her she wanted."

"Where is it?"

"Conference room, with the flowchart."

Steele went there. A large box was on the table, addressed to Laura and him. He plucked the small knife from his trousers pocket and slit the seals. Inside was a folder, and two inches of computer paper. As he took out the folder, Karen, who had trailed him in, thumbed the mound of paper and began to flip through the pages. "Geez! Who can translate this gobblety-gibberish?"

"Our assistant, Mildred Krebbs," he answered absently, skimming the summary sheets. He was delighted with the information she had dug up; it was almost enough for an indictment on an international scale. At least now they had other leverage to face Therault with.

"Did she tell you what this stuff means?"

"Mm-hmm." He patted the computer pile. "Therault's American corporation appears to be a potential front for double-laundering his ill-gotten Bolivian money. He has a pipeline... the French-based world corporation has a number of subsidiaries, which in turn have certain Bolivian subsidiaries. Mildred couldn't find out quite what these Bolivian companies do..." he grinned, "...but Murphy did, when he was there. The feeding of all sorts of nasty vices, drugs, prostitution, thievery."

He slid into a seat. "And word is on the street that the mob would very much like him out of the United States and back to France, or Bolivia, or wherever he's actually residing. They're afraid of what the influx of money might do to their operations. There've been no indications that he'd like to branch out in American, but," he patted the ream of paper, "it's a good possibility that, with a firm legitimate foothold here, he'd be sorely tempted."

"Ugh." Karen's nose wrinkled. "So now what'll we do?"

Steele propped his feet up on another chair. "When Mrs. Michaels and Miss Holt return... we talk about a visit to Therault."

"Isn't that dangerous for Mr. M? After all, if that guy put out... Oh, you wouldn't know."

Instantly he was alert. "Know what?"

"About the guy from the Attorney General's office." She told him about Levy. "They don't know if he'll recover. Mr. R says all he could find out from the police report was that it was a small black car, no plates."

"No plates. Then they were removed before the accident, and replaced after. Possibly an out-of-state vehicle."

"Mr. R thought so, too."

He couldn't help but smile. "Great detective minds think alike."

"Yeah."

His eyes skimmed the flowchart, noticed the new information, then glanced at the box. "I'll start doing some research here. If we can show Therault we mean to discredit him..."

"Isn't that sort of ..."

"Dangerous. Yes, Karen. But we may have to take that chance."

He got his cup of coffee and, with Mildred's guiding notes, proceeded to wade through the printout. He had gotten only a dozen pages into the material when Frank entered the room and sat down heavily. "Ooh, boy," he groaned, easing back in his seat. "It's days like these that make me think I'd like it better in Arizona. Messing around in flower beds, game of golf in the morning..."

Steele smiled gently. "Sounds like quite the life. Quite the boring life."

Eyes twinkling, the older man shrugged. "I suppose so. No young whipper-snappers down there to tell you a thing or two. Old fogies are too crotchety."

"I hear you picked up a lead today."

Frank grimaced. "Levy. That kind of news starts me worrying way down in my gut for Murphy. And those couriers... not much action by Rother today. Just the usual scurrying around town."

"No connections to Murphy?"

"Only that, far as I can figure, they're keeping him somewhere in town... maybe in the corporate offices."

"Probably in the corporate offices," Steele replied, and grabbed his folder. As he proceeded to spread out the blue print, he explained, "I talked to a few... ah... chums today. Rother's only rentals are rooms at the Saville, the corporate offices, and some rustic mountain hideaway accessible by all-terrain vehicle or helicopter. And there's been no copter rentals to Rother Corporation people for the past five days, and none of the suites are restricted, according to the Saville housekeepers." He smoothed the bumps in the blueprint. "Here are the floor plans for the corporation's suite of offices."

Frank bent over, studying them with a serious face. Finally he looked at Steele, eyebrow raised. "Good work," he said simply.

The praise was as heady as if it had come from Laura herself. To Frank, he merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Hopefully we'll be able to pinpoint where Murphy is."

"How?"

"Process of elimination." He gestured. "First, we can elim..."

Karen burst into the conference room, interrupting him. "Hey! We lost our shadows!"

"What?" both men said simultaneously.

"Our Rother Corp. watchdogs outside... they're gone! Sarah sent me to pick up Donnie at daycare... and on the way back I noticed the street was empty!" She flopped into a chair as the two men exchanged wary looks. "Good news, huh?"

"Bad news, I think, Karen," Frank replied. He frowned at Steele. "Could Murphy... be..."

Suddenly Steele remembered Sherry and Laura... still no-shows at the office. "Dear God... Karen, when did Sherry and Laura call in?"

"About two... You don't..."

"Remington, they wouldn't..."

"Leverage, Frank, with Murphy. His pregnant wife, his friend... and if they've figured that Laura knows..." Calm, Mate... stay calm. "They may have been tailing Sherry all along, looking for a chance to nip in and snatch her. And Laura wouldn't have missed an opportunity to be taken, figuring somehow to help out, I'm sure."

Frank tapped the table with a finger. "Makes sense." His fist pounded once on the wood. "Damn!"

"You guys aren't sure they've been kidnaped," Karen protested. "That was my first lesson in criminology... assume nothing. You gotta back up with evidence."

Frank nodded. "You're right, Karen. Remington, I'm going to check with my Rother-watchers. You and Karen head over to Murphy's and check the house."

"Right. Karen?"

"Right with ya, Mr. S."

Steele half-smiled as they went outside to Karen's subcompact. He must have been elevated to "expert" status, by her use of his initial.

Karen drove with the same devil-may-care ferocity that Laura displayed, and he wondered if it were perhaps something detectives picked up in college. Despite the whiplash-stop at Murphy's front door, Steele was unbuckled and out of the car before Karen had the engine shut off. He quickly scanned the front door area but there were no signs of a struggle. For appearance's sake he knocked sharply and called out, "Sherry? Laura?"

At the side of the house he checked again for signs of possible forced entry. Finding none, he proceeded to pick open the kitchen door. Once inside, he and Karen split up to check over the house. They met in the living room. "Nothing upstairs," Karen reported.

"Nothing down. And no groceries."

The phone rang. Steele rushed to it but hesitated in answering, fearing bad news, or worse... the kidnappers' impossible ransom. But he did pick it up. "Michaels' residence."

"Remington? Frank. Had the police put an APB on Murphy's car. It looks to be at the Sunshine Foods warehouse market at the shopping plaza in your neighborhood there. They're waiting for you."

"I'll be there right away."

"And I talked to my 'eyes' at the Opperman Office Building. A gray limo went out around 3:00, came back at 3:30. No idea as to the occupants. And my tail on the limo said they apparently made him early on and lost him in traffic on a side street... ran some close yellows. How 'bout you?"

"Nothing here at the house. No signs of entry or struggle. They were obviously taken at the grocery store lot. We're on our way."

Again he reminded himself to stay calm as Karen whipped them over to the supermarket. They had no trouble finding the location. A patrol car and an unmarked vehicle had practically surrounded it. They parked nearby and headed for the group.

A plainclothes detective approached them. "Karen... howdy. That your boss's car?"

She glanced at it. "BK-2459. Yep. That's Mr. M's car, Pete."

"Well, there's nothing here really. Car's locked, doesn't look like any foul play."

"Have you checked the trunk?" Steele asked. As Pete turned to him, eyebrow raised, he held out his hand. "Remington Steele, Los Angeles. Former... colleague of Mr. Michaels." He hoped Murphy would forgive him his small lie.

"Peter Barnham, Denver police. No, not yet," the policeman replied. "We didn't want to break the lock without Michaels' people here."

"You don't need to break the lock." Taking his pick from an inner jacket pocket, he moved over to the trunk. With a deep breath, he hunched over the lock and opened it in the blink of an eye. First time I've ever done it with coppers watching, he chuckled to himself.

The trunk revealed six bags of warming groceries, a set of keys... and Laura's purse. Steele pulled the small items out into the open. "This is my associate's purse," he said. "And... could the keys be Mrs. Michaels'? To her car and house, perhaps?" He handed Laura's purse to Karen, then closed the trunk lid. He fingered the keys until he found a likely looking one, and inserted it into the trunk lock. It opened to his twist.

"They're hers, obviously," Barnham admitted. "But there's not much we can do right now. We can't take a missing person's report for 24 hours, and..."

"But it's Mr. M's wife!" Karen protested.

"...and," Barnham continued doggedly, "there are no signs of foul play here."

"But the keys... the purse..." Steele said.

"Left in the trunk accidentally. Maybe they took a cab home. Or somewhere. Or maybe a friend gave them a ride." He shuffled his feet nervously at the two investigators' angry glares. "Look. I'll do this. We'll put an APB on the women. Starting with the Saturday morning shift, we'll begin an investigation, seeing as a husband and wife will both be mysteriously missing by then."

"You do that, Mr. Barnham," Steele snapped. "You bloody well do that." He turned to Karen. "We'll take the groceries back to the house, salvage what we can of the frozen food, then go back to the office." He glanced at the policemen. "Unless you need this as evidence for our... mythical kidnaping?"

Barnham's glower told Steele he'd gotten on the man's black list. "No."

"Good. Karen... you lead the way."

At the Michaels' house they used the front door key to enter, and took the purchases in. While Steele filled Frank and Sarah in over the phone on the frustrating turn of events, Karen sorted groceries and put things away, leaving a small pile of unsalvageables in a garbage sack to be tossed on the way out.

He hung up when he was through, but held onto the receiver. He felt like a rudderless ship, with a storm crashing around him. Without Laura's direction, how would they proceed? Who would take charge?

"Mr. S, what'll we do now?" Karen's voice interrupted his troubled musings.

He turned to the younger woman, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He couldn't give them what they needed; he was doing well as a detective, all things considered, but he still stumbled about now and then. No stumbling could be permitted here. "Go back to the office, I suppose," he replied.

"Then what?"

He took a moment to pick up Sherry's keys. He remembered his first "leadership" experience as Remington Steele: his weekend with Laura and Murphy's former Hayvenhurst colleagues at the Greavey estate. He had provided a directing hand then... though it was really Laura running the show. She wasn't here now to guide him. But if Murphy's agency was looking to him for direction, he'd have to try and step into Laura's shoes... and her mind... and oblige. "We look at the information, and see how we can convince Therault to free them."

Frightened though she was by Therault's menace, Laura made some humanitarian demands of the man... and they were granted. The hostages were given an evening meal of simple fast food, the comfort of blankets and pillows, and, for Sherry, a mattressed cot to sleep on rather than the carpeted floor.

By the glow of the small desk lamp, put in the farthest corner to lessen the brightness, Laura picked up wrappers and cups from the dinner and disposed of them. She sighed deeply as she dropped Murphy's untouched food and drink in. He refused all nourishment, insisting that he was aching too much to be hungry. And she noticed at one point, when Sherry ran a comforting hand down his chest, he flinched as the fingers crossed his stomach. He's badly hurt, she realized. And there's nothing we can do.

She placed the wastebag near the door, and turned to check on the others. Even at the relatively early night hour of 10:00, Sherry was sleeping heavily; Laura was glad of the woman's deep, even breathing. The days of worry and fear had finally caught up to her. Sighing, Laura moved on.

Murphy was a different case. One arm was flung over his eyes and his breathing was light. The blanket had been shoved down to bunch at his waist. She looked down at him, staring with consternation at the purple bruising in the white face. "Oh, Murphy," she whispered.

As she pulled the cover back up to his chin, he stirred. "Laura?" he whispered.

"Yes." She settled the edges at his shoulders. "Go back to sleep."

"How's Sherry?"

"She's fine. Sleeping quite soundly."

She started to move away, but turned as the arm over his face extended to her. "Laura..." His hazel eyes were dark.

She took his hand and sat on the edge of the sofa. "What is it, Murphy?"

He searched her face and, finally said, "You have to get Sherry out of here. I can't have anything happen to her or the baby."

"Nothing will, I promise."

"No, no, you don't understand. She can't be here! Anything that will upset her more... didn't she tell you?"

"Yes," Laura tried to calm him. "She talked about her tiredness in the first trimester..."

"Her family has a history of miscarriages and stillbirths."

The information hit her like a physical blow. Murphy went on in a whisper, "Her mother told me, after we told them about the pregnancy. There aren't more than two children in any of the Keegan line... that's her mother's side. And no one has children after thirty." He paused. "Sherry's thirty."

Laura took a ragged breath. Murphy squeezed her hand. "I can't have anything happen to her. She has to be out of here. She has to have that baby. If we lose it... it'll devastate her. We may not have another chance...

She threw her hand over his mouth, her fingers pressing into his lips. She didn't want to hear any fatalist talk; it undermined her concentration. "None of that now, Murph. We'll all get out of here, safe and sound."

"It doesn't matter about me..."

"Murphy..."

"But you have to get Sherry away. Promise me you'll try."

The pain in his eyes was now etched on his face, strange lines and wrinkles that she'd never seen in her friend's casual, comfortable countenance before. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I promise."

He smiled, and some of the warmth of the old Murphy returned. "Thanks."

Seemingly satisfied, he turned his face to the pillow and made tiny shifts with his body until he was comfortable. But he did not let go of Laura's hand until he was deep in slumber. She sat by him until his tight grip fell away, then tucked his arm under the blanket, on his chest.

She gathered her own pillow and thin quilt from the chair to which Murphy had been bound, and curled up on the floor in front of the desk, wrapping the blanket around her like a cocoon. She tried to sleep, but that small comfort eluded her. Her mind whirled with her problems: how to save them all without counting on outside help. Her only ace in the hole was the whereabouts of the passports. In the end, she came to a conclusion that let her fall asleep: she would give Therault the answers to his questions, and perhaps even his passports, for Sherry's freedom, while she and Murphy would count on stalling and bluffing and a miracle.

Steele's fingers traced the blueprint outline of the fourteenth floor of the Opperman Building, stopping briefly at the four most likely rooms where the hostages were being held. Hostages; that was how he had to impersonally think of them, not as individuals whom he cared about. At each room he assessed the access problems, weighed pros and cons of rescue, and moved on to the next one. It was a practice exercise, taught to him by retired cat burglar Kevin Masters. The information was also written down in a notebook, but the mental workout kept him away from more fearsome thoughts.

Five times around the layout was all he could manage before he dropped wearily into a chair. His fingers rubbed at his tired eyes, moving up to his right temple, where a nerve was twitching in time to the pulses of a growing headache. Thoughts tumbled on top of themselves: Laura, Sherry, Murphy... unless we know where they're located we can't make a rescue attempt... and know how badly hurt... I'll kill Therault if he so much as laid a hand on Laura... What's in your mind, Luv? What angle are you working on from your end? We're both holding aces... Who do you want to play the trump card? Me or you? Who should make the move, Laura? Who? Tell me, tell me, please...

Think like her, old man, he told himself firmly. You can read her like a book. So read her now.

A knock on the door brought him out of his seat as if an electric current had jolted him. He straightened as it opened for Sarah carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, two cups and a plate of sandwiches. He grimaced. "Sarah..."

"Don't tell me how late it is unless you want it thrown right back at you," she warned. She swept the blueprint aside and set the tray near his hand. As she poured the coffee, she went on, "Worrying isn't helping anyone. Being prepared is. Two pots of coffee and two bites of supper can't possibly have made your brain very clear."

"It's clear enough to know you should be home with your son," he returned.

"My sitter is with him."

"He needs a mother's..."

"Loving care. Yes. But so do stubborn big little boys." She pushed the drink at him. "Here. And eat something."

After a few minutes he realized she had the same stiff-spined pigheadedness as Laura, and relented, unwrapping a sandwich with great care. "This really isn't necessary..."

"Mr. Steele, my late husband was a Denver patrolman. I've been through enough vigils to know that someone has to keep an eye on the practical. Where are you going to sleep tonight? Are you going back to the Michaels' house?"

"I thought I might just stay..."

"Karen's on the couch in the lounge, if that's were you were thinking of parking yourself. You should come home with me. There's a spare bedroom..."

"I'd rather be here." He pulled the paper back to him. "There's too much to do..."

"What is there to do? Mr. Steele, all you can do is stare at the information we've got, and worry. We can't do anything until morning, and even then we can't do anything until we know what Therault might want of us."

He didn't answer. She was right; he needed to be well-rested to put himself into Laura's mind and figure out what she was planning. If only he knew what she wanted right now...

He felt Sarah's hand on his arm. "Mr. Steele," she began, "I'm only a block down the street. If something breaks, Karen can call. I'll plug the phone in by your bedside. But you need to eat, and you need to rest."

He finished his sandwich. "You're right, Sarah," he admitted. "I'm too tired to do anything but hit my head against brick walls."

"Then come on." She put the coffeepot and sandwiches back on the tray. "I'll leave these for Karen in the lounge. Let's go."

With a glance back at the cluttered table, he followed Sarah out of the room.

Laura waited until after their fast-food breakfast to break the news to Sherry about their plans. Unfortunately, it didn't make the telling any easier... nor her protests any less.

"I can't leave Murphy! I won't!" she said indignantly.

"Sher..." Murphy began.

"No! I won't even consider it."

Laura swirled the dregs of coffee in her cup. "Sherry," she said quietly, "of the three of us, you're the one least involved in this whole affair, and the only one I think I can talk Therault into letting go. Someone has to let Mr. Steele and the agency know where we are and what the situation is here."

"Can't we just give Therault his passports?" Sherry protested. "That's all he wants."

"Sher," Murphy said wearily, "Laura and I know too much to just be 'let go'."

The pregnant woman's horrified gaze moved from Murphy to Laura. "I just can't leave you here."

"You have to," Laura returned.

"But..."

"Think of the baby," Murphy added. "Our baby." He reached out to rest his palm on her abdomen. "You can't let anything happen."

Seated on the floor beside the couch, Laura could only see Sherry's expression... the spark of pain in her eyes, her lips pursed in a thin line. Finally she leaned down to rest against Murphy's chest, and his arms embraced her. Laura rose and moved to the windows. Saturday sparkled on the other side of the glass, too cheery for the depressing atmosphere inside the office prison.

When she couldn't bear the sun anymore she turned back. Sherry was upright again, both hands tightly clasped around one of Murphy's own. She returned to them. "Sherry?"

"I'll go. What do you want me to tell Remington?"

"Only that Murphy is badly hurt, and that Therault desperately wants his passports. And maybe that there's no way to escape from in here."

"Okay."

"When you call the office," Murphy picked up where Laura stopped, "do it from a different phone. Go to Paula's and call. Have Frank or somebody come and pick you up. Don't tell them anything unless you see them in person."

"Right."

Murphy looked over at Laura. "Show time?"

"I think we're ready," she replied.

"What line are you taking?"

She shrugged. "I'm going to offer him the passports."

"Laura!" Sherry exclaimed in horror.

"He's not going to get them. I'm only going to offer."

"That's dangerous!"

"It's our only option, Sher," Murphy said firmly. "Go, Laura."

Laura took a deep, steadying breath before going to the door and knocking. The muscle man who was on guard opened it a crack. She tried to smile at him, but only managed a weak half-turn of her lips. "I'd like to... speak to Mr. Therault."

"He is not here," the man replied in a thick, French-accented bass rumble.

"Contact him. I think he'd be interested in speaking with me."

The guard closed the door. Laura returned to Murphy and Sherry. "I'm not sure I got through."

"Give it a little time," Murphy replied. "Maybe Therault's a late riser."

Only a few minutes passed before the door was opened. "Allons-y!" the guard growled and gestured her forward. She stepped into the outer office.

Therault was not there, but a younger man greeted her and bade her sit. She took a seat on the sofa, and waited. And waited. After fifteen minutes had passed, she rose and announced her intention to rejoin her friends. She was roughly shoved back down and growled at in French. She pushed herself up again, and was again shoved. This time the attendant waved a gun in her face, so she stayed.

A good forty-five minutes after she had asked to speak to him Therault entered, dressed in blue pastel golfing attire. He smiled pleasantly at her, even as he threatened, "I interrupted a game of golf for you, Miss Holt. I certainly hope it is justified." Someone rolled a plush leather office chair out for him and he sat down in front of her. The chair was higher than the sofa, and he looked intimidating, towering above her. "What is it you wish to see me about?"

Laura swallowed to moisten her dry throat. "You... were right about me. I am the friend Murphy sent the passports and information to."

"Bon. But of course, I knew that."

"I'm willing to tell you where the passports are."

He arched an eyebrow, waiting for more, then he smiled. "Well? Pray continue, Miss Holt. Or is there a catch in all this?"

"I want you to release Sherry... Mrs. Michaels."

"After the passports are in hand."

"Before I say anything else. I want to see her go into her house, and I want her to stay unmolested."

Therault laughed. "Miss Holt, you have a grandiose sense of your importance in all of this."

"Mr. Therault, I know where your passports are."

He leaned forward, studied her face. She matched him with a brazen glare of her own. Finally he reached out and lifted her chin with a finger. "You have an admirable aplomb. Your friend's wife will go free." His finger moved to trace a line on both cheeks before he rose. "An hour for good-byes, while I change, is that acceptable? Good." He snapped out something in French to the men behind him, rose, and left. She was returned to their office prison.

"Did he bite?" Murphy asked.

"Of course. He gave us an hour for good-byes." Laura pulled up the chair.

"Will he really let me go?" Sherry asked.

"I think so. His quarrel is with Murphy and me, not you."

Sherry studied Laura hard, then turned her attention to Murphy. "I'm scared, Murph."

"Everything'll be all right, Sher," Murphy replied.

"But what if..."

"No what if's, now. We play it as it comes. Don't go looking for disasters."

"Murphy's right," Laura interjected. "Think positive."

"I'll try."

Laura could see that Sherry still anticipated the worst, despite her words. The three of them stayed in companionable silence until Therault, clad in a casual polo shirt, slacks and jacket, entered the room. "Ladies," he announced, "the afternoon is upon us and I for one have things to do. If you please..." He gestured at the door.

Murphy and Sherry exchanged a last frantic embrace and kiss before she got to her feet. Though her eyes were bright, she shed no tears. Laura linked arms with her as they moved to the door past Therault, who had one hand at the small of Laura's back as he ushered them out. In the outer office the man clipped an order to an underling, and Laura heard the word "Michaels" in the sentence. She turned in time to see someone enter the other room. "Wait!" she tried to push past Therault. "What are you doing?"

"Merely seeing to Mr. Michaels' welfare," Therault replied smoothly, holding her back effortlessly with an arm.

"How?"

"It is nothing for you to be concerned about." He blocked both women's paths as they tried to return to Murphy. "But you will have reason to be concerned if you do not continue to the automobile."

Laura looked at Sherry and nodded. They turned back to the exit and made their way to the elevators. Within minutes they were back in the seats of the gray sedan they had been taken away in, moving through downtown Denver to the close suburb where the Michaels lived. Every few minutes Sherry would look at Laura; the detective would return the smile.

All too soon the car pulled up in front of the Michaels' home. Therault, seated in front, got out and opened the back door. "Venez, Mrs. Michaels." He reached in for her.

Sherry looked at the hand, then turned back to Laura for a hug. "Look after Murphy," she whispered.

"You take care of yourself. We'll be fine."

Laura waited for Sherry to break the hold, but she wouldn't. She didn't want to let the pregnant woman go, either. Finally, Therault grabbed her arm and forcibly pulled her away. "Venez," he snapped.

Sherry slid out of the car. Laura moved to follow, but she froze at the sound of a bullet sliding into a gun chamber from a clip. "Stay here," the driver ordered.

Poised on the edge of the seat, she watched as Therault half-hurried, half-escorted Sherry to the front door. The woman reached for the knob, then froze and looked to Therault. "I can't get in," she explained. "The door's locked, and my keys were in the car at the supermarket." She began to ease off the sidewalk. "My next door neighbor has a spare set of keys..."

Behind Sherry the front door opened. Laura gasped as Karen DiFalco's head popped through the crack. The younger woman then threw the door open wide. "Sherry!"

Sherry turned. "Karen!"

As the two embraced, Therault stepped away from them, glancing evilly back at Laura. Let her go, she said mentally, and don't take Karen, too... Therault finally broke them apart by dragging Sherry out of it. He shut her up with a sharp "Quiet!" and pulled Sherry halfway down the sidewalk. Karen started to follow, then noticed Laura in the sedan's back seat. "Miss Holt?"

Karen walked toward them. Therault's driver leaned forward and raised his weapon. "No!" Laura protested, and reached for the gun. Before she could grab his wrist, it went off. Its soft, silenced thunk was echoed by the sharp crack of splintering wood as it narrowly missed the young apprentice and entered the doorway. The shot had frozen Karen in her tracks, and she stared helplessly at Laura.

Therault turned at the sound. He barked some reprimand at his driver, then faced Sherry. "Get the authorities involved, Mrs. Michaels," his quiet voice carried to Laura, "and you will be finding your husband in pieces on your welcome mat Monday morning!" He wheeled and hurried back down the sidewalk to the car. He motioned Laura away, got in beside her, and growled an order to the driver. The car pulled away, with Laura staring out behind her, watching Sherry and Karen look helplessly at the departing auto. Do what needs to be done, Sherry. Ignore Therault's threats. That was what she herself planned on doing.

Therault's hand on her chin brought her abruptly back to her situation. He jerked her head around to his gaze. "Having second thoughts, Miss Holt? Laura? Laura..." the purring tone of his voice sent a warning signal to her brain. "You don't mind me calling you Laura, do you?" She continued to glare at him.

"Now Laura," his hand fell away from her, "I have, as you can see, fulfilled my part of the bargain. Mrs. Michaels is safe, to be well cared for by her husband's colleagues. Now you will tell me where I can find my passports."

He was smiling at her, eyes bright in query. She turned, to stare out the front windshield. After a few moments he said, impatiently, "Come, Laura, don't be reticent. I have done what you asked. Now you must give me the information." He paused. "Now."

His nerve-jangling inflection on the last word both chilled her and spurred her to spiteful action. "They're in Los Angeles," she said. Let him hunt there; it'll gain us a day. "In an envelope in a storage area underneath my platfo..."

His had reached out and grasped her face again, none too gently. "Are you trying to stall me, Laura?" He forced her to look at him. "The passports are not in Los Angeles. The stewardess on your flight to Denver distinctly remembers seeing you with them. And they are most certainly not underneath your platform sleeping area. All that is there is unused luggage and a box containing mementos, most of them pictures of your boss and florist's cards from his delivered bouquets."

He had her chin in a vice-like grip, so she could not drop her jaw in astonishment, but he read the surprise in her eyes. "We have looked in Los Angeles. We have found nothing. So I ask, again, Laura. Where have you put my passports?"

Her mind was still whirling from the realization that her home had been searched, and from another realization as well: I can't bluff anymore. I can't fast-talk out of this. She stared back at Therault's determined face. I'll just have to stonewall, like Murphy did. If she could put up with rough treatment for a day... she thought again of Murphy and shivered, but answered determinedly, "No." With an effort she pushed herself away from him, putting her body an arm's length from him.

Therault shook his head as if at a recalcitrant child. "Laura, Laura. Don't be stubborn. You have seen what stubbornness has cost your friend. You can't want to pay such a price for inconsequential items."

She had to take a last stab, for Murphy's sake. "Let Murphy go free, and I'll tell you. I'll even take you there."

Therault frowned. "I can't do that, Laura. He knows far too much."

And so do I. She felt the color drain from her face.

"If you refuse to be civilized about this, I will resort to other means," Therault warned. His voice took on a hard edge. "I find mutilation to be most effective. You wouldn't like the condition in which I leave you. I'm sure Mr. Michaels has seen some results in Bolivia. Perhaps you might consult him before denying me."

She turned to the window, seeking some clear thinking away from his penetrating gaze. If I tell him where the passports are, what will he do? He'll get them... then he'll kill Murphy and me. As long as I can hold out, he has to keep us alive. And as long as we're alive, there's a chance... She looked out at the sunny Denver afternoon passing her by. Oh, my love, we need your crazy, quick mind. Help us!

All too soon the sedan was pulling into the underground garage of the Opperman Building, stopping at the service elevator. Laura was led at gunpoint back up to the office suite; it was a silent trip. Once in Therault's suite, she was shoved onto the sofa. Therault towered over her. "Where are my passports?" he asked quietly.

"No."

Like lightening his hand lashed out, striking her and sending her reeling to the cushions. "Don't be noble, dear," his cold voice reached her. "It will only make things worse."

She pushed herself slowly upright and, with the merest hesitation, looked up at him. "Unless you free Murphy you won't get a thing from..."

He hit her again before she could finish. Her eyes stung momentarily, but she blinked the tears and the pain away. Her jaw ached now, as she straightened. Before she had a chance to lift her head, he hit her yet again. Pain exploded along the right side of her face. This time, she didn't fight the tears, and didn't try to sit up.

After a few moments she was hauled to her feet. Someone with an unyielding grip pinned her arms behind her. Fingers lifted her chin; Therault's voice prompted, "My passports." She thought she saw his blurred face in front of her. She shook her head wordlessly; another bruising slap was her punishment.

He rattled off a spate of French, punctuating the words with hits to her face, knocking her head from side to side. When the words and the slaps stopped, he grabbed her chin again. The pincer-like hold caused a new rush of pain, and more tears. "More, Laura?"

"No," she managed to get out through her aching mouth.

"The passports?"

If Murphy can stand it, I can... She didn't answer.

A soft click both startled and frightened her. Before she had a chance to place the vaguely familiar sound, she saw the sharp, thin switchblade as it was waved from side to side in front of her. "Laura, Laura," Therault cooed, "you have such a pretty face." He brought the blade to her face. She flinched at the contact with the cold metal, and felt a tiny sting. He brought his free hand to her face, chuckled when she shied from the open palm, then touched a finger to her cheek. He held up its reddened tip to her eye level. "See? It is very easy to be cut. And to cut. Very easy to scar, once the wound is open. Introduce a caustic substance and... helas!... the damage is done."

He brought the blade to her sight again. She focused on it for a moment, then looked past it into his cold, predatory eyes. Well, there's always plastic surgery, she thought perversely, and closed her eyes.

Therault said something vehemently in French, then slapped her. "Perhaps there are others who matter more to you," he hissed. Turning away from her, he ordered, "L'amenez."

He led the way to the other office, Laura being pushed ahead by her captor. Murphy lay on the sofa, face down, his wrists bound behind him.

Therault barked an order, gestured to two of his retinue. The unconscious detective was pulled upright; someone brought a half tumbler of liquor and forced it into his mouth. She watched the constriction of his throat, the sudden twist of his body at what she guessed to be great pain. Somehow he found his feet; he threw his head back, tears tracking down his face. "Therault," he said hoarsely, and lowered his head. His eyes found the man, then looked past him at her. They widened in... horror? He must have seen the cut on her cheek. "Laura..." he called to her and struggled weakly to free himself.

"No, Murphy, no..." she tried, with the tone of her voice, to let him know she was really all right.

"No, Michaels, there is nothing you can do for her. You have nothing to bargain with, no 'ace in the hole'." Therault glanced back at Laura. "But she does. And she can bargain for your life with it."

The man approached Murphy, clicking open the switchblade as he neared. Murphy was paying no attention; his eyes were on Laura, and hers riveted to his. "Don't do it, Laura, don't... do it," the detective warned.

Therault stopped a foot from Murphy, half-turned back to Laura for his voice to carry and began to gesture with the knife. "There is not enough time to do a proper carving job, Laura... we must be content with a quicker end. Do you have a preference? The wrists, perhaps; to give the police a dramatic suicide to ponder. Or a stab wound to the chest; a gang slaying." The knife point pressed against Murphy's chest; Murphy didn't flinch, didn't shrink away. His eyes were locked onto her, burning with a silent plea. Her own heart was racing in fear. Therault would do whatever he decided to do.

When no response was forthcoming from her, Therault jerked the switchblade away from Murphy's chest and moved to stand behind him. "A knife into the base of the brain would create some very interesting reactions, n'est-ce pas?"

She shuddered. "No."

"Or perhaps..." His arm came around to position the blade at Murphy's throat, "cutting the jugular, so that you can watch the progression of death..."

"No!" She tried to twist out of the grip of the man who held her. He roughly jerked her back, moving her wrists to one hand and throwing his arm around her shoulders.

When she looked across the room again, Murphy's face was grim, and Therault's lips were turned up in a superior smile. "Ah, it frightens you. Good. That's what we'll do."

His hand moved to set the knife at the jugular. "NO!" she cried.

"Laura, don't do it," Murphy warned.

"The passports," Therault prompted.

The knife began a downward stroke. "The airport!" she screamed. "At the airport!"

"Laura, for God's sake, no!"

Therault stepped away. The knife had done some damage; blood from the cut oozed down Murphy's neck to his shirt. "Specifics, ma cherie."

She saw Murphy knew that the battle had been lost, but he protested, "No, Laura, don't."

"Laura?"

She couldn't bear the defeat in Murphy's eyes, the triumph in Therault's. She looked at the floor. "It's in a locker by the Western gates."

"What locker?"

She struggled against giving up that last nugget of information, but Murphy's sudden cry of pain brought the words out in a rush. "Number fifty-seven. But I sent the key to Los Angeles..."

"It won't be needed."

Therault wiped the blooded blade on Murphy's shirt before closing the weapon, then walked back up to her. He took her chin in his fingers again. "You did splendidly, Laura." Tilting her head left, then right, he lightly kissed both cheeks.

"Take your hands off her, you ba..."

Laura heard rather than saw the fist that drove deep into Murphy's stomach. He gave a groan that faded as he slid into unconsciousness. The two henchmen did not bother holding him anymore, letting him drop to the floor. Like a magnet her eyes were drawn to the wound in his neck, blood still flowing, matching the tears that were beginning tracks down her cheeks. She struggled again to free herself. "Please, let me go to him," she begged.

"Laura, he is of no consequence anymore. And you are." He barked out orders in French.

She was pulled back into the other office, bound hand and foot and, because of her continued pleas and protests, gagged. She was none too gently deposited into a chair and tied to it. Therault shook his head in amusement as he towered over her. "Had you chosen to give me this information in the car, we could have spared you this, spared your friend. But now... alors!... we do what we must. And I hope for your sake you have not lied."

Therault gathered his guards and, leaving two behind, exited. Laura shivered at the malicious gleam in their eyes and turned her gaze to the door connecting her prison-office with Murphy's. Be all right, Murph, she silently told the unconscious man on the other side. Please be all right.

Steele sat at the conference table, staring at the flowcharts, the blueprints, his notes. The approaching noon hour was bringing no revelations nor any bright ray of hope. Sarah had threatened him into showering, shaving, changing and eating, but nothing had helped his grim disposition... particularly the news (or non-news) that no one had been contacted concerning the fates of Murphy, Sherry and Laura. Frank was out rallying his scouts around Denver, searching for news on Therault. Karen had transferred her vigil to the Michaels' residence. Sarah kept the coffeepot warm and called Karen hourly.

And he sat, staring... trying to get into Laura's analytical frame of mind.

All right, Luv, what do you usually do? What do you start poking at?...

Whatever is bothering you...

But what was bugging you before?

Not hearing from Murphy, or Therault. Therault must have figured he'd get what he wanted out of Murphy. Or at least, he would now... probably using threats to Sherry to elicit the whereabouts of the passports; a realistic reason for her kidnaping.

But Murphy doesn't know... and Sherry doesn't know...

Laura does.

The sudden realization chilled him. If Therault found out that she knew, he would force her to tell him anyway he could. He thought back to the man's secret Bolivian activities, listed in Murphy's notes; thought about the kind of man who chose to be involved in such things. He'd known men like that in his "other life" and was thankful not to have knowingly crossed them. Crossing them meant death; now, it meant Laura's death. And Murphy's; and Sherry's... and the child she carried. He buried his face in his hands. Laura, tell me what to do...

His own words of two nights prior came back to him: "As long as the passports are still missing, they have to keep him alive," he had told Laura as she fought the demons of doubt in her mind, trying to fall asleep. As long as the passports are still missing...

His head rose slowly as the solution dawned. In order to determine the outcome, he needed to be in control of the situation. To do that, he needed the passports back in his possession... and he needed to let Therault know he had them. The locker key was in Los Angeles, supposedly safe in Mildred's possession. Ordinarily getting into the locker wouldn't have posed a problem, but he'd stopped carrying a lot of his professional "tools". They had too many associations with his past. Maybe Jerry could get him something to use...

He hurried to Karen's office, dialed the contact number, left a message. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang and he snatched the receiver. "Jerry?"

"Mike! What's up now?"

"Need a favor, old chap. Can you lay your hands on a pick that'll open an airport locker?"

A guffaw sounded over the phone line. "You're joking!"

"Matter of life and death, Jerry, truly."

"Hell, I carry a key that'll spring open a locker!"

"Can you meet me at Stapleton as soon as possible?"

"Fifteen minutes max, Mike. What's going on?"

"I'm hoping to prolong a few lives."

Jerry didn't answer at first. "And?"

"That's it. Just think of it as doing a part for God, justice and the American way."

"I'd rather help out an old friend. Where do you want to meet?"

Steele thought. "How about the Western baggage claim?"

"Fine."

Steele's second call was to a cab company, where he requested transportation on a street corner away from the agency. He slipped out the back door, picked up the cab, and rode in strained silence to the airport. Jerry was nonchalantly studying the departure and arrival screens when Steele spotted him, and was recognized in return.

Jerry stepped away from the viewers and came to him, hand outstretched. "Good to see you again, Mike... I think."

"I'm very glad to see you, Jerry. Let's go."

They walked away. "What's the number?" Jerry asked, soto voce.

"Locker 57, by the Western boarding gates," Steele replied just as quietly.

"What's in it?"

"Some very volatile items."

"Not -- a bomb?" the man asked nervously.

"Oh, no. Personally hot. Information."

"Ah."

They proceeded in companionable silence. At the lockers, Jerry pulled a key from a jacket pocket and inserted it into the one Steele indicated. He twisted, jiggled, twisted again, and it clicked open. Steele held his breath as the door swung wide; if he was too late... But no. The envelope was there. He carefully withdrew it, carefully checked its contents. He took a quick, deep breath of relief. "Now to play hardball," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing, Jer. Oh, wait," he ordered as Jerry started to close the door. "I have to replace it."

He pulled out his card case and a pen and withdrew an agency card. Against another locker door he wrote on the back, in French: Therault: I have your passports. Let's negotiate. He added Karen's direct-line office number, then placed the card carefully in the locker, face up. He gestured, and Jerry closed the door on it.

"Now what?" Jerry asked.

"Could you hang around here and see if someone tries to get into Locker 57?" Steele pulled out another agency card, wrote Karen's number again on the back, and handed it to Jerry. "Then give me a call. I will make it worth your while."

Jerry shrugged. "No big deal, Mike. Be glad to."

"Thanks, mate."

Steele secured another cab for the return to the agency. He pacified a worried Sarah with a story about fresh air and needing to clear one's brain, then got a cup of coffee and sat down at Karen's desk to wait. Fifteen minutes later, Sarah cried his name frantically. He came on a dead run.

The receptionist was on the phone, face pale, eyes wide. She looked up at him as he came in. "Karen, hold on a sec." She put the line on hold. "It's Karen," she announced. "They freed Sherry."

"What??!!" Steele had to take a seat on the corner of the desk.

"Miss Holt offered to tell Therault where the passports are in return for Sherry's freedom. They dropped her off at the house and warned her not to get the authorities involved."

He thought of the passports on Karen's desk. Had he made a fatal error? He desperately hoped not. "Can I talk to Sherry?"

"I'll have Karen put her on. You want to catch the line in Murphy's office?"

He nodded and moved away down the hall. Murphy's office was smaller, more personable than his own, but the aura of leadership was still there as he sat at the broad oak desk and took up the receiver. "I'm on," he said.

"Remington?"

"Sherry! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine..."

Steele shifted uneasily at the quiver in Sherry's voice. "What about Murphy and Laura?"

"Laura's okay. Murphy..." There was a long, unnerving pause. "Murphy's not."

"What have they done to him?" Steele probed.

"I don't know... His face was pretty battered and he said he hurt inside..."

Steele shook his head in anger. Murphy had probably been beaten within an inch of his life; and, suspecting Therault's methods, most likely more than once. "Where were you held captive?"

"In the Opperman Building, in Rother Corporations' offices, I think. We were in a corner room. There were windows on two sides."

Steele immediately visualized the blueprint in his mind, and focused on the room. No means to escape from inside; only if helped from without... "Do you think they'd move Murphy and Laura?"

"I don't know... Remington, I'm so scared for them."

So am I, Sherry. "Sarah?"

"Yes, Mr. Steele?"

"Get in touch with Frank; have him double the watch on the Opperman Building, all exits. In case Therault decides to--" his immediate thought was get rid of, but he forced it away, "--move them, we'll know."

"Got it."

She clicked out of the connection. "Sherry," Steele began, "Karen said that Laura offered the passports to Therault for your release."

"Yes. But she didn't plan on telling him where they are."

"What?"

"I think she was going to try and stall him."

Steele groaned. Stupid idea, Laura. "Damn it," he said under his breath.

"Remington, what did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Are we going to be able to help Laura and Murphy?"

"I think so. I have the passports."

"Oh, thank God." There was real relief in Sherry's voice.

"What?"

"Murphy was so afraid that if Therault was able to get the passports, he'd just... he'd... eliminate them because they knew everything."

It was Steele's turn to sigh with relief. He had done the right thing. "Sherry, don't worry. Nothing will happen to them. We've got what Therault wants and I'm ready to play whatever game he chooses."

"Will we be able to free them?"

"Sherry, I always play to win." He glanced at his watch. "How soon can you and Karen come back to the office? I think you'd be infinitely more safe with the troops in the fort here."

There was a background murmur. "Half an hour?"

"We'll be on the lookout. I'll get Sarah to order lunch in."

"We'll be right there."

Steele hung up the phone. His eye was caught by a small photo in a wooden frame on the desk: Murphy and Sherry in formal wedding attire, smiling at the photographer. There was something odd about the shot however, and he studied it closer. He felt his lips curve up into a smile. Murphy looked as if he'd been in a brawl. Steele made a mental note to give his old friend a good ribbing about shotgun weddings, then he grew serious again. If he hadn't come into Laura's life, she might have replaced Sherry in the photo, on a desk in Los Angeles. Yes; where would they all be if they hadn't met over royal lavulite and the Jet Star 2000? He was certain of only one thing: Laura had changed his life, and he was truly a better man for it. He broke away from the picture and returned to Karen's office.

Sarah's Mexican lunch order and Frank, Karen and Sherry arrived at the same time. Sherry passed somber hugs around among the agency associates, but when she moved to accept Steele's embrace her eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face in his shoulder. He held her tightly for a moment to give some comfort.

"Remington..." Her whisper was so faint that he had to bend his head to hear it. "He said.. he was going to chop them up.. into little pieces--"

"Shush, Sherry." He rubbed her neck. "He won't do anything to them. I won't let him."

"How can you?"

"You'll see."

She looked up at him curiously. He smiled and nodded. "Now here," he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, "dry your eyes and let's have lunch.

He ushered them into the conference room. "Remington," Frank began as Sarah placed styrofoam containers around, "have you got a plan?"

"Not quite completely yet," he said slowly. He positioned his taco salad and the papers on the desk so that he could eat and study the blueprints to Rother Corporations' floor of suites. "But I do."

"Can you give us a clue?"

Steele shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of salad before replying. "I have a number of options, and I won't know which one to take until Therault calls."

"You sure he's going to call?" Karen asked.

"Quite sure. I have his passports, right here, right now, and if Laura's told him where they're at, as I'm guessing she'll have to, he'll find that out soon enough."

As if on cue, a distant phone rang out. Sarah moved out to the switchboard, Steele trailing. "Colorado Investigations and Security, Karen DiFalco's office--"

Steele grabbed the phone from her startled grasp. "Sarah, let me." He put the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mike? What's going on? What was that?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned with, Jerry." He nodded at Sarah's annoyed glare. "What's up?"

"Your locker had some visitors. They did a rather crude job of getting into it. No class whatsoever."

"You're on the mark there, Mate. What else?"

"They didn't like your calling card. Not in the least. I expect you'll be hearing from them shortly."

"Good."

"Good? Mike, I didn't like the looks of these goons. Are you sure you're not in any trouble?"

"Positive. Thanks for your help, old chap. And -- just in case, call your service in a couple hours. I may need you to run an errand or two."

"You know you can count of me, Mike. Just let me know."

"Definitely."

They disconnected without a formal good-bye; there was never a reason for protocol in his "other" circles. His hand clenched the receiver. Had he an hour? Two? What would he say? How could he arrange things to his advantage?

The phone rang again: the main agency line this time, he saw as he looked down. Sarah was ready to fight him for the right to answer, but he backed away nimbly, hands raised in surrender. She picked up the phone. "Colorado Investigations and Se-- Just a minute." She put the call on hold. "Frank?"

The older detective scurried from the conference room. "Hello?... Oh?... Oh?... Okay. Thanks." Frank looked at Steele. "Therault made a trip out to --"

"-- the airport," Steele joined in with Frank. "Yes," he said, "I know. He went out for the passports."

"That's where they were?"

"In locker fifty-seven."

"Then... he's got them."

"No... he has a Remington Steele Agency business card with Karen's number on it. I have the passports."

Sarah pointed a finger at him. "When you went out for fresh air--"

"Yes."

Frank stared, "So now --"

"Now... we wait," Steele said firmly. "It shouldn't be long." He waved a hand. "Go and eat, both of you. I'll answer the phones."

For a moment he thought they would refuse, but something -- his voice, his demeanor -- sent them back to the conference room and left him alone to his thoughts. Only his fingertips gliding back and forth along the edges of a folder on the receptionist's desk betrayed his nervousness. It was a good sign; if he was able to get anxiety out of his system before the bluff, he had all his concentration on what he was supposed to be doing...

He heard a rustle of movement just before a hand rested on his arm. "You should eat, too," Sherry admonished him.

"I'm not hungry at the moment," he said.

She settled down onto a visitor's chair, and looked him straight in the eye. "Do you think you can do it?" she asked.

"Do what?" he returned gently.

She swallowed convulsively, then said, "Get Murphy and Laura out alive." Before he could reply, she continued, "and don't talk around me, Remington. Laura and Murphy were doing it and I could have throttled them!"

"Perhaps they were only trying to protect you."

"From what? I was coming to the same conclusion they were."

"Which is?"

"That Therault will leave no one alive who has an inkling to what he's really doing in Denver. No matter if he gets his passports back or not.

Steele nodded. "That's quite plausible."

She heard the denial in his tone of voice. "But?"

"But it won't happen."

"You're sure?" she probed.

He shrugged. "I'm never sure. I just take my best shot and hope for the best."

"That's not much consolation."

He clasped the hand that rested limply on the desk. "I haven't lost an important one yet," he said with a smile. At least not since you met Laura, mate. She's the best good luck charm a bloke could have. "Now. Go and eat lunch."

She shook her head. "I'm too nervous to eat."

"You should have something. Your little one must be starved."

"I can't. And Baby will forgive me, I'm sure. Would you mind... if I stayed out here?"

Her palm was cool and clammy; despite her exterior bravado, he sensed she was frightened to the core. As was he. And if he couldn't buy the twelve hours he needed from Therault, she would watch him crumble like a sandcastle on the beach at high tide.

She had a right, though; their mates' survival was on the line on the turn of his phrase. He shrugged with his well-practiced nonchalance. "All right."

She smiled her thanks -- and, looking at him straight on, kept a grip on his hand. He smiled back, and let her hold on.

Laura's wait for Therault's return stretched forever. Minutes seemed like hours; an hour, like days. Her guards took the opportunity to taunt her, albeit in French; they teased her with the knife, fondled her as best they could around the bonds holding her to the chair. Tense-jawed, she endured it all, holding back despair through a flimsy hope that, somehow, Remington Steele would come through.

When the office door opened and Therault stormed in, her heart took off like an engine being gunned. She felt nervous sweat bead up at her hairline as he grimly marched up to her. "I have had it with these games," he spit out, glaring at her. She returned the look with one of wide-eyed confusion.

He pulled a white card out of his pocket and held it up to her sight. It was an agency card: Steele's personal card. Suddenly her fear was gone. "This is what I found in your locker, Laura Holt," Therault said, fury in his voice. "Not my passports. You lied to me."

He hit her twice, with force; her senses reeled. She mastered the dizziness and lifted her head to meet his angry eyes. Slowly she shook her head, to show her ignorance. "What?" he asked, and roughly pulled the gag away from her mouth. She flinched as the cloth scraped over the bruises on her face.

"I didn't lie to you," she protested. "They were there. I put them there. My boss --"

"Your boss is obviously not ignorant of the situation."

"No!" Therault mustn't have an inkling of how knowledgeable Steele was. "He must have figured something was up -- I mean, he knew I was worried, he saw me put the passports in the locker, then I get kidnaped -- What else was he to think?"

Therault stared at her intently; suddenly he smiled. "What else! Mais certainment!" His eyes narrowed and the smile turned nasty. "I suspect that if I wager your boss knows more than you say, I would win quite handsomely."

He gestured, palm up. Someone slapped a modular phone there. He turned the business card over, glanced at what Laura surmised was writing, and began to punch numbers. "You've lost the game, ma cherie. I hope you and your superior have fond memories of Los Angeles. You won't be going back."

A cold chill like ice cubes settled in her stomach as she watched him watch her. Then his attention was drawn away. He gestured at her, and someone gagged her again as Therault spoke. "'Allo? Monsieur Steele?"

"C'est lui." This is he.

A cold chill like ice water spread through his veins as he heard the voice at the other end of the line. A numbness followed; he lost the awareness of the painful grip of Sherry's hand on his forearm. The framed Wyeth print on the wall blanked out before his sight. Every particle of his concentration was focused on what came to him over the phone, and he strained to hear beyond Therault's words.

"I want my passports."

Therault had spoken in English. Time to thrown him off-balance. "J'ai besoin de vos hostages." I want your hostages.

He was rewarded with a long pause; but, unsettled, though, by the chuckle that followed. "Vous parle francais." You speak French.

"Tres bien." Very well. "A nos affaires?" To business?

The voice at the other end of the line sounded almost bored, but Steele could sense an undercurrent of wariness as Therault replied, in French, "As you wish. I say again: I want my passports."

"And I say to you: I want, in exchange, Murphy Michaels and Laura Holt -- alive."

Sherry's sharp, nail-digging clutch -- apparently at Murphy's name -- almost brought him back to his surroundings, but he fought valiantly to stay in his bubble of detachment. "It seems," Therault replied, "to be a fair trade. I will... consider it."

"I give you thirty seconds. Or you will be seeing the police tomorrow."

Therault laughed -- not quite convincingly. "It is not I who holds stolen passports."

"One of them a forgery. And it is not I who wishes to launder funds through a legitimate American enterprise. I have tangible proof of your ill-gotten booty."

"How?"

"I know your corporate structure. I can give you a diagram. I even know that Patris Affiliates is linked to you." He paused. There was no immediate reply. Mildred, thank God, had done her work well -- though she had no idea what Patris Affiliates of Argentina was, and he did. "Shall we negotiate?"

"Yes." Therault clipped the word sharply.

Now to proceed. "I want Michaels at the Denver General Hospital emergency room at seven a.m. Sunday; I want Miss Holt to walk unescorted into Greenbriar Restaurant in the Hilton at eight. I will meet you at the corner of Gr--"

Therault laughed sharply, interrupting him. "You, Mr. Steele, will meet me at the Arapahoe County Airport at eight tonight to... trade our wares."

Not enough time. "Mrs. Michaels... is distraught. She has asked that I stay with her tonight --"

"Looking elsewhere in anticipation, I see," Therault said mockingly.

Steele grit his teeth against the epithets he wanted to give vent to. "To ensure her well-being, and that of her unborn child, I must stay."

"At the cost of other lives?"

"I've no guarantee they are not already lost."

There was a commotion at the other end. Then he heard Laura's hoarse voice. "Hello?"

Relief surged through him and he almost lost the tension he needed to keep up the negotiations. "Laura?"

Unintentionally he said her name with a sharp French pronunciation, and it confused her. "Mr.... Steele?"

He shook his head to force himself to think in English. "Laura. It's me. How are you?"

She sounded strange. "I'm okay. Is Sherry safe?"

"Yes. She's right here beside me." He allowed himself a moment in the reality of his surroundings and turned his head to Sherry, smiling at her. "How is Murphy?"

"I don't know -- Therault has --"

Laura was cut off. Steele strained to identify the sounds at the other end. Therault got back on the line. "Satisfied?"

He switched back to French. "What of Michaels?"

"You'll get him, too. The airport, say at midnight?"

He'd gained four hours but it was still not enough. Was there room to compromise? "If Mrs. Michaels is not asleep, I cannot leave her. And -- would the airport be available then? Security guards, certainly, would be curious. Would you agree to dawn? We would be less obvious; pilots often take early-morning flights."

There was a long pause at the other end. Fear crept in, speeding his heart, his breathing. He stared so hard at the wall that he thought it would crumble from the intensity.

"Very well. But -- you alone. If you are escorted, or followed, you will never see them again."

He had never felt such a weakening of his limbs in his life as the relief assaulted him. Again he fought not to lose his edge. "I understand."

"Contact the authorities, and they shall suffer the fate I spoke of to Mrs. Michaels."

"Have no fear of that."

"And lastly..."

Steele gritted his teeth. Was this the impossible qualification?

"In ten minutes you will leave Colorado Investigations and Security with Mrs. Michaels, return with her to her home, and remain there until we pick you up tomorrow morning. Do not use the phone. Do not leave for any reason. Otherwise..." He purposely left the thought unsaid.

"I understand." I understand all too well, you bastard!

"Tomorrow, six a.m., Mr. Steele."

The faint click of disconnection sent his mind racing. Laura, at least, was still alive; and, hopefully, Murphy too. He'd gained the time he needed, but lost the freedom -- or had he? "Frank?" he called out.

He swivelled in the chair, to go to Frank in the conference room. But they were all there -- Frank, Karen, Sarah -- within three feet of him, staring grimly. He smiled at them. "Don't look so glum! We've a rescue party to plan!"

They looked skeptically at one another. Sherry had picked up on Steele's relief and was grinning. "Believe him, you guys. He's the best."

"Good show, Sherry! Frank. I want all your watchers out in force. Everyone -- and I mean everyone -- in Therault's entourage must be tailed at all times. I want to know their every move."

"Okay..."

"And I need a portable phone with an unlisted number -- in eight minutes, delivered to the back door of the agency here."

"I can get that for you, Mr. Steele," Sarah said.

"Karen -- I need the security guard schedule for the Opperman Building."

"You've got it, Mr. S."

"And, Karen -- I'm going to have you meet with a... friend of mine, to set up a little commotion about four or five blocks from the Opperman tonight."

Her eyes lit up. "Okay!"

"And what do I do?" Sherry demanded.

Steele turned to her. "You're going to park yourself at home, Mrs. Michaels, and take it easy while we get Murphy and Laura free."

She pouted. "But --"

"And I'm sure we'll be able to find something for you to do."

She sighed. "All right, Remington."

"Very well -- to your duties!"

The agency crew scattered. Steele picked up the phone and punched buttons. "What now?" Sherry asked.

"I've got to arrange to get the necessary equipment and expertise, since I can't --"

"Remington Steele Investigations," came the familiar voice over the phone.

"Mildred, Steele here."

"Mr. Steele! How's it going? Got that bum in jail yet?"

"Soon, Mildred. Look, I don't have much time..."

Laura never wished harder that she had taken French in high school and college. It frustrated her that Therault and Steele were striking a deal -- and she didn't know what it was.

After her brief words with Steele she had been re-gagged. Therault paid no further attention to her during the conversation, pacing the floor in agitation and barking into the phone. He seemed to be uneasy about the turn of events.

Finally she heard, "...Monsieur Steele," and he shut down the phone. He tossed it to a minion and moved to the windows behind her. Tension wrapped around her like a cocoon. After an eternity, Therault spoke from immediately behind her. "Your boss plays an excellent game." The gag was removed from her mouth. "Not good enough to win, of course, but truly inventive moves. Using Mrs. Michaels as a stall tactic." He chuckled. "But we have him cornered like a rabbit in its burrow."

Somehow she could not envision Remington Steele trapped by forces beyond his control. "What's going to happen?" she asked.

Therault spoke in French, and moved to stand in front of her as other hands began to untie her. "At dawn tomorrow we will be meeting the redoubtable Mr. Steele at the county airport, ostensibly for an exchange of possessions. But he will be joining you on a helicopter trip to my mountain retreat. There we shall see what you both possess in the way of fortitude and stamina. In a few years, perhaps some hardy hikers will find your scattered remains."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I don't think you'll get what your expecting," she returned as her wrists were freed. She brought them around to rub the circulation back into them with cold fingers.

"I think I will be suitably entertained. And now --" He reached out for her hand. "I will be magnanimous and allow you to rejoin Monsieur Michaels.

She ignored the offered hand and pushed herself slowly to her feet, wincing at the rush of blood through stiff limbs. She tottered for a moment. Therault grabbed her elbow to steady her. She jerked out of his grasp and glared at him. He held his hands up in mock defense, the slight smile on his face belying his actions. "As you wish, Laura."

He gestured. The connecting door was opened for her. "Until later," he said; the simple words were all the more menacing for their neutrality.

She hurried into the room, as much to escape Therault as to see to Murphy's welfare. The change from light to darkness halted her on the threshold until her eyes adjusted. Murphy still lay on the floor where he had been dropped two hours earlier. She opened the draperies for afternoon light to work by, then tentatively approached him. "Murph?" she called out. "Hey, Murph..." A waver at the end betrayed her fears.

She dropped to her knees beside him, and rested a hand on his back. It rose and fell in time with his shallow breaths, giving her some reassurance. The cut on his neck appeared to have quit bleeding, though it was still terrible to look at.

She freed his wrists and put the pillow carefully beneath his cheek before scrambling for first aid materials. With the aid of the plastic knife from the morning's breakfast she was able to rip up a pillowcase for bandages. She wet toilet tissue in the bathroom to wipe the drying blood away, and unrolled a wad to use as a makeshift pad.

She cleaned and bound the wound, disturbed all the while at Murphy's unconsciousness. She sponged what blood she could out of his plaid shirt, and rolled him onto his back. There were a few strips of pillowcase left; she dampened them and sponged his face, hoping the textures would bring him around.

As she wiped, she forced herself to keep her mind blank. It was too easy to fall into traps that despair created. Though she couldn't see a good end to all of this, she had to hope that there was one. By thinking positively she would recognize the chance for freedom or rescue when it came.

Beneath her hand Murphy's cheek twitched, and he drew in a sharp breath. She hesitated, stilling the tattered pillowcase at his jawline. His hand rose slowly to cover hers. "Laura?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"Of course. Who else?" she replied cheerily.

"I thought... I was afraid... Sherry had --"

"No, no. She's safe. She's with Mr. Steele."

He smiled. "Safe with Remington Steele. That's a novel idea."

"Come now," she chided, giving each cheek a last brush with the cloth. "He's very reliable."

"I know. I wouldn't have left if he wasn't."

His eyes opened. Delicate hazel eyes were bright with emotion she did not want to put a name to. She looked away uncomfortably, and began to gather up the soggy mess beside her. "Laura," Murphy said slowly, "what happened with Therault? Does he have the passports?"

She smiled. "No."

"Who does?"

"Mr. Steele."

"How?"

She walked to the trash can, deposited her refuse, and returned to sit at his side before she answered. "I don't know."

Murphy looked deep into her eyes. "Does Therault know he has them?"

Laura nodded and smiled, "They've talked. On the phone."

"And?"

She swallowed hard before replying, "There's supposedly going to be a trade tomorrow morning at some airport. But Therault is planning to take us up to his mountain retreat --"

At that Murphy violently twisted away. "Oh, God, no."

"-- and plant little pieces of us in the Rockies," she finished quietly.

"No, no, no!" His fist hit the carpeting to punctuate each syllable. "I should never have sent the envelope --"

"Murphy..."

"-- I should never have gotten you involved --"

"Murph, don't --"

"-- I should have passed this off to the FBI, or the Justice Department --"

"Where Therault would have bribed his way free," Laura returned sharply. She snatched his fist, unclenching the fingers, held them between her palms. "We can't talk about the might-have-beens, Murph. Just remember, he might have kept Sherry here. Or freed me. Or you, and kept her and I both hostage."

That silenced the detective for a while. While she continued to keep a grip on his now limp hand, he stared at the ceiling. Finally he spoke. "Laura, I want you to promise me something."

"Anything, Partner."

His lip twitched at the familiar reference. He returned his gaze to her. "I mean, really promise. No 'I'll tell him what he wants to hear'."

"I said I would."

He squeezed one of her hands once, tightly, then released it. "If you get a chance, any chance, any time, make a run for it."

Laura sat horrified. "I--"

"Promise me you'll try to escape."

"Oh, Murph, I just --"

"Don't think about me. Don't thing about him. Just run, run like hell, and go to the authorities."

She shook her head vehemently. "I can't leave you!"

"You have to!" he hissed. "I'm as good as dead."

"But Mr. Steele --"

"Therault will use you to lure him close enough to be caught, too. If you escape, Therault will have to try something else, something less convincing. And besides, do you really think he'll bother with me once his passports are within reach? Laura, be realistic," his voice dropped an octave, "I won't be leaving this building alive."

"No!" She grabbed his arm, wanting to shake him, to tell him it wasn't so. Even as she felt him wince as her fingers dug in, she knew Murphy was right. Her mind cast back to her brief conversation with Therault; nowhere could she recall Murphy being referred to, even obliquely. "No," she protested feebly.

"Promise me you'll try to escape."

She sighed. "If I get a chance."

"Okay." He met her eyes and nodded. "I'll take that." He smiled, squeezing her forearm once, then closed his eyes and sighed wearily. She studied him for a few moments.

"Are you comfortable there?" she asked. "Maybe I should try and move you back to the sofa."

"No. Just let me be. Why don't you lie down on the sofa for a while?"

"I'm not tired..."

Murphy raised an arm to shield his eyes, and she sensed his withdrawal. She left him to stare out at the activity of a late Sunday afternoon in Denver. Bored with watching the movements of the few ant-sized creatures below, she took a seat on the sofa and looked at Murphy. He had fallen again into an uneasy sleep. As she watched, she felt herself growing weary, the experiences of the day taking their toll. Finally, she stretched out on the sofa, face turned toward Murphy, and slept, too.

She awakened at the sound of the door opening. Drowsily, she pushed herself to an elbow. In the twilight gloom she watched Therault, resplendent in a black tuxedo, stroll in and survey the room while two minions brought covered trays to the room's office desk. The man looked down at Murphy's unresponsive body, not a foot away from his shoes, then up at her. He smiled. "Ma cherie, you look most seduisante."

She didn't like the sound of that word. She straightened to a sitting position and shook her hair back. "What do you want?" she snapped.

His eyes raked her from top to toe, and back. "A short visit before I go to my evening commitments. We have a fine supper for you both --" He gestured to the laden desk.

"I'll pass." Murphy opened his eyes and rose, with an effort only Laura knew how costly, to rest on his elbows and look up at Therault.

"You sadist," she growled. "You know your goons have beaten him so badly he can't eat."

Therault lowered his gaze to Murphy. "That's his problem," he said coldly.

"Take it away!" she ordered. "I'm not hungry either."

Therault shrugged at the servers. With a sharp word, he gestured them away with their trays. As they began to gather the dishes, he turned his attention back to her. "Then you and I shall share a later repast."

"No way," she retorted.

"She's not leaving this room," Murphy added, sitting unsteadily upright. Laura cried out in protest and went to kneel at his side.

"I am tired," Therault said sharply, "of your impotent gestures of gallantry, Michaels. In fact, I am weary of your quite useless existence. Get rid of him," he ordered.

Laura threw her arms around Murphy's neck as one of the burly attendants advanced. "You touch him," she warned, "and you won't get me to the airport alive."

Therault rolled his eyes heavenward and chuckled like a disapproving parent. "Michaels, you see what you have done? Helas! A bad influence." He rested his hands lightly on his hips, pushing the tuxedo jacket back to do so. It so mirrored Steele's frequent gesture of frustration that Laura winced, and one of Murphy's hands touched her forearm comfortingly. "I cannot spare the effort for reprimands now. You," he pointed to Murphy, "will be dealt with in due time. You," his voice softened suggestively as he pointed at Laura, "I will expect later. A bientot, ma cherie."

In a minute they were again left alone. Laura was well aware of what Therault had planned, but it took Murphy, stroking her forearm gently, to give the scenario its evil form. "He's going to have me killed before he starts toying with you," he said in a low voice.

"I know," she whispered. She hugged him tightly.

His hand touched her hair. "Laura..." his voice was faint as a breath. He twisted in her embrace and his arms encircled her waist, drawing her against him. Now her head rested against his chest, and she felt his cheek at the crown of her head. They remained still for a time; she felt selfish about taking the small comfort she did from him, knowing she had little to give in return. Finally she felt enough guilt to be brave again, and she pushed away from him -- to no avail. He held her still, in a tighter grip than before.

"Laura," she heard his soft voice, "I just want you to know -- Laura, I still love you."

"Murphy..." she whispered, shaking her head.

"Look, it really doesn't have anything to do with anything. I mean -- Sherry's a fantastic woman, she's my wife, she's having my baby. I love her. But it's different than what I feel for you. I love you, too." He paused. "I just wanted you to be happy. He is making you happy. You love him, don't you?"

She knew who he was talking about, but couldn't bring herself to speak. She nodded instead.

"See? It's worked out," he went on. "I have my life. You have yours. We have people we care about."

"But I care for you, too," she protested.

She pulled back to look at him. His eyes glimmered with a pain that went beyond the physical torment he experienced. Murphy, she mentally told the anguished features, romantic love comes and goes. It's caring that's important.

The next thing she knew, she was kissing him -- a kiss totally unlike that stolen, one-sided, half-lustful kiss in her office during the Morrie Singer case. This was bittersweet with desperation, a momentary reassurance of life and love. Another time, another place -- it might have been... After they broke it, they shared a silent, penetrating look. Then Murphy cupped her face in his hands. "You get some rest. You're going to need it to do what you have to, later."

He released her quickly as he shuddered in pain. Laura pulled a cushion from the sofa and helped him lay back on it. She gathered a bare pillow from the corner and returned to his side, intending to stay by him until they dragged her away. Murphy wordlessly slid his arm around her and pulled her down to his chest. She fell asleep against his shoulder, clinging to his arm for dear life.

Steele gave the last anchor bolt a final tug with the wrench, arms straining with the effort. Satisfied, he leaned over the pulley to regain his strength, and looked at the other pair working on a second anchor. Both Mildred Krebbs and Kevin Masters were pushing on a wrench to secure their apparatus. Dressed in black, they blended against the dark Denver night.

"Mr. S? You okay?"

"Yes, Karen." He took a deep breath and straightened. Karen DiFalco, dressed similarly, held an enormous coil of rope in her arms a few feet away from him. "Let's thread it now."

The anchoring device, a melange of twisting metal bars and pulleys, had been designed by Masters an era ago as an aid to his cat-burglaring projects. Steele had no idea where the man had gotten these, nor any of the other vital equipment he had brought, but he was glad for them.

In subdued quiet the four worked, threading light but strong rope through the reinforcement loops and tying the end around the hole near the base. The rope was just long enough to reach the top of the six-level parking garage below, with slack enough to maneuver. Steele and Karen put on repelling harnesses and backpacks, and he had an additional array of accessories on a belt at his waist.

As Mildred held the flashlight over the exterior and interior maps of the Opperman Building, Steele and Masters double-checked the position of the ropes with the maps and Laura and Murphy's last known location. "You're pretty well set," the older master thief remarked. "See -- the ropes are falling on either side of the north windows. The corner person is more vulnerable, but there should be enough shadow to cover you. I assume your young apprentice here will be on the inside?"

"Definitely," Steele replied.

"Hey!" Karen protested. "I've done this before! Mr. M's really good at it!"

"Of course he is," Steele answered.

"And just who do you think your Mr. M learned from?" Masters chided.

Steele got on the mobile phone. When the first call was answered he said abruptly, "Do it." When the second call was answered, he was gentler. "Sherry? Remington. How are you faring?"

"Okay. Where are you?"

"Roof of the building. We're about to go down. How are the watchdogs?"

"Still there. You said your -- friend -- was going to gas the car?"

"Yes, shortly now. You meet us at the hospital soon as you can. If all goes well, we'll be there in half an hour."

There was a pause. "And if it doesn't?" Sherry's voice wavered.

"Sherry, it's useless to worry. I told you not to bother with it. We'll all be there to see you shortly. Have faith."

"I will. Good-bye. Good luck."

Steele shoved the antenna down hard into the phone pack, and handed it to Mildred. "No matter what happens, Mildred, tell Mrs. Michaels that everything's all right," he ordered. "She is not to be alarmed under any circumstances."

"But, Chief --"

"I have my reasons." Sarah had filled him in on Sherry's precarious pregnancy when she brought him the phone. "Let's get hooked up, Karen."

They attached the rope to the clips on the harness and hovered near the edge of the roof. Exactly at 12:37 p.m. there was an explosion to the southwest, and the building there took on an orangish glow. "Come on," he told Karen, "we're up."

"No, Ms. S, we're down," she returned.

He smiled as he walked over the edge. Three cords attached to his harness came with him. He hopped down the side of the building, half a floor at a time; Karen copied his moves. The night was pierced by the sound of sirens, racing to the explosion at the Denver Mint, rigged by Steele's "friends".

Eleven, ten, nine, eight -- He held himself still at the eighth floor corner window. This was the one -- their prison. Karen moved into position on the other side. The secured their spots by knotting the rope in place, and attaching themselves to the edges by the window washer's grooves. Steele plucked a small walkie-talkie from the array on his belt. "Kevin -- we're here."

"What does it look like?"

"Double or triple pane thermal window, aluminum frame. No entry available, as per the specs."

"Okay. Inside?"

"Can't see. Drapes are closed, and they're lined. No light inside. I've no idea if Murphy and Laura are anywhere near."

"Then let's protect against an in-fall of glass. It's usually noisy anyway. Set the needle for '2'. That's a good depth for these things. We'll get ready to pull the panes up."

"Roger."

He handed the remote to Karen, thankful for his long arms -- and hers. As he removed a gun-like device from his belt he glanced at her. She seemed to be quite comfortable there, hanging eight floors up without a safety net. Murphy hired a good one, he mused, moving the setting to "2".

Stretching to hit the top of the window, he pulled the trigger and "fired". A thin glow emerged from the end. He traced it around the edge, stopping just short of meeting up with his starting place. He reached into a side pocket of his backpack for a vacuum sucker, clipped it to one of the strings, and attached it to a point near the window center. With one hand gently pushing the pane in, he completed the trace. The outer pane popped free and swung out. The middle one dropped slightly down into a slot, and rested against the inner uncut pane.

"It's a triple, Mr. Masters," Karen was saying into the speaker. "You can pull the first one up."

With one hand Steele guided the pane up the side of the building until it was out of reach, then attached a sucker and string to the second one. Karen signaled for it to rise, but precious minutes passed before it was lifted away. As he started on the inner one, she asked, "Mr. S -- what is that thing?"

"A needle laser," he replied, carefully cutting the glass at the edge."

"A -- what?"

"Have you ever seen Star Trek: The Motion Picture?"

"Geez, everybody knows Star Trek."

"It's like a phaser with a very thin, short beam. It'll cut anything, though it's perfect for glass, because it melts the rough edges." He stopped again two inches from the entry cut. This time he attached two suckers to the glass, one with the hook for the cord, one with a handle, closer to Karen's reach. "Ready?" he asked.

"Yep."

He attached the cord while Karen grabbed the handle with one hand and held the walkie-talkie to her mouth with the other. Activating the needle laser, he completed the cut and grabbed the edge of the pane of glass as it tilted upward. "Go!" Karen ordered, and together they guided it on its upward path.

Steele handed Karen the laser and ran his gloved hands around the edge. They were as smooth as the rim of a drinking glass. He glanced back at the orange glow and the flashing police and fire department lights, then planted his feet on the bottom edge of the window and grabbed an upper edge to unhook himself. Please be here, his mind cried, please, please be here, Laura, Murphy be here, be here --

He slid inside the now-open window and ducked beneath the curtains. He straightened and strained to see in the pitch-dark room. He thought there was something on the floor in the corner, but... He turned to open the curtains and help Karen inside. "There they are!" she whispered, looking over his shoulder. He spun around.

Murphy and Laura were lying on the floor, strangely enough very near an available sofa. Her head rested on his shoulder, and his cheek was near the crown of her head. She clung to the arm that held her close to his body. For a second a burning flash of jealousy raced through him. It faded to cold chills as he studied them in the moonlight. The faint light made their skin unnaturally light... and dark? Shucking his backpack, he hurried to them.

Laura's subconscious must have registered his presence, for as he neared her she stirred. He fell to his knees beside her and reached for her. She opened her eyes, saw him, and, not recognizing him, shrank away in fear. Her mouth opened -- to protest? to scream? - and he quickly clamped his hand over it. He slid his other arm around her and pulled her roughly out of Murphy's grasp into his lap. "Laura, it's me," he hissed. "Quiet!"

She instantly stopped fighting him. She stared up into his eyes, and lifted a hand to touch his face. His hand left her mouth -- just in time to support her as she flung her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to his lips for a joyous kiss. The few seconds it involved seemed an era. When she finally broke off, she stared up at him in wonderment. "You did it. You came."

"Yes." He paid little attention to her words; the dark bruises on her face and the cut on her cheek caught his attention. But as his fingers came to rest on the wound she abruptly sat up. "We've got to get Murphy out of here," she announced, immediately all-business. "They're going to kill him."

The two Los Angeles detectives turned their attention to Murphy. Steele's insides twitched with suppressed anger and disgust at the other man's battered face. There was also a crude bandage at his neck, suspiciously covering a vital artery. Karen was hovering over Murphy, jostling his shoulder gently.

"Mr. M? Mr. M, wake up, okay? We're gonna get you out of here..." She looked up at them. "He won't wake up," she said worriedly.

"It's the concussion," Laura murmured. She rested a hand on Murphy's chest, watched its slight rise and fall, and bent to his ear. "Murphy?" she murmured. "The cavalry's here. We're being rescued." Still there was no response. "Murph? Wake up." Her hand cupped his cheek and she stroked it. "Murph, wake up, please?"

Steele heard the unnatural glissando in Laura's voice on the last word and reached for her. His hand rested on her hip and slid to encircle her waist. "Please, Murph," she pleaded, "wake up." Her head dropped and he felt her jerky breath.

He leaned toward her. "Laura," he said softly, caressing the name as gently as he was holding her.

The sound of his voice must have triggered something in the Denver detective's unconsciousness, because Murphy twitched suddenly and frowned. "Laura? Laura?" he whispered hoarsely.

She leaned forward again and grabbed his shoulders. "I'm here, Murph. I'm here."

"It's no time to be taking a snooze, old chap," Steele remarked from behind her.

Murphy's body suddenly stilled. "Steele?" he hissed.

"Right on one, mate."

Murphy opened his eyes at last and took in the tableau above him -- Karen kneeling to one side, Laura at the other, Steele behind his associate. When his gaze crossed Steele's, it locked and held, like radar. "Get Laura out of here," he said in a rough, voice.

"We're getting you both out of --"

Murphy's hand rose slowly to clutch Steele's dark sweater, fingers digging into his chest. "Get her out, Steele. Now."

"Murphy, I'm not leaving you," Laura protested.

Her remark only grazed Steele's consciousness; Murphy's pain-filled, frightened look kept him mesmerized. But he received the paramount message: Laura's safety lay above their own. "Steele --" Murphy pleaded.

"Come on, Laura." He touched Murphy's forearm in acknowledgment and grasped Laura's shoulders. She fought him.

"No! We have to get Murphy out of here!"

"We will," Steele soothed. "Come on." He got to his feet and literally dragged her to hers. Stepping between her body and Murphy, he prodded her backward to the window and his backpack. "We need him calm to get him out," he told her quietly as she backpedaled. "And if it means that you go, you go."

"But Murphy won't be able --"

"We can handle it."

"You'll need help."

"I've got Karen. We can do it."

He zipped open the backpack and withdrew a harness and a pair of gloves. "Here. Put these on." As she took them from him, he looked down at her simple pumps. "Do you think you can rappel barefoot? You'd have better control down the building."

"Okay." She kicked off the offending shoes and she stepped into the harness.

Steele took over in tightening straps and buckling buckles as Laura pulled on the heavy leather gloves. Behind them he heard Karen coaxing Murphy into the other harness. When Laura's was secured he pulled her to the window, dragged in one of the ropes, and clipped it into place. "I'll help you out," he said tonelessly.

"Mr. Steele..." Laura said petulantly.

He had avoided looking her in the eye. Now he had to. Her brown eyes snapped angrily. Suddenly she threw herself at him, clinging to him desperately as her lips found his and met them with searing passion. Just as abruptly she broke away. "I'll be waiting," she whispered, and maneuvered herself out the window. He leaned out to watch her take the first two floors down easily before he returned to Murphy's side.

Karen had only managed to get the harness onto Murphy's torso, and he was still protesting as Steele reached them. "...Karen, forget me, just -- get out of here."

"Mr. M, you want my wooly-cap down your mouth? Stifle it, huh? We've got work to do!"

"Good advice, Murphy, I suggest you take it," Steele said as he went to one knee at the man's side.

Murphy reached out for his arm. "Laura gone?"

"Down the building in a blink."

All the tension -- and the fight -- seemed to leave the other man in a rush. His eyes closed and his face looked serene; his hand fell from its bruising grip on Steele's arm. "Thank God. Now you two get out of here."

"Sorry, mate, it won't work on me. Karen, get under his shoulder blades, that's the girl..."

"Steele --" As Karen pushed Murphy into a sitting position, he groaned and began to pitch forward. Steele caught him in a steadying embrace. "Therault's coming back," Murphy whispered faintly. "For Laura. 'N to kill me. If you're here --"

"We won't be, if you'll cooperate."

"I can't... damn, Steele, I'm hurt... can't even stand..."

"I'll carry you down --"

"...you can't even carry Laura... the trip'll kill me --"

"I'd prefer to get a professional opinion on that. Now you just stay still and we'll get you back to Sherry and Laura safe and sound..."

The realization that Murphy had gone limp in his hold struck him just as a side door opened and room lights clicked on to blind him. "Qu'est-ce que ce?" he heard. He looked up. A large man with a silenced gun barrel pointed at him stood on Murphy's other side. A second man was behind the first. The gun barrel jiggled. "Ou est l'autre femme?"

"I don't understand what you're saying," Steele lied in slow and careful English, easing Murphy's unconscious body back to the floor and rising to his feet. His mind whirled: could he get the gun? Was Therault near? Could he get Karen out of there?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the second man reach for Karen's arm and jerk her to her feet. "Hey, watch it, buster!" she protested, fighting him.

"Icy calm, Karen," Steele warned urgently.

The gun wielder's eyes slowly began to take in the tableau -- the newcomers' state of dress; the pile of gear from Karen's backpack; the missing window. Steele's heart pounded so hard he felt it would go through his chest as the other man grimaced in realization.

The man turned back to him. Steele tensed for a rush at the larger body. A sudden commotion and cry from Karen and her captor provided the diversion. He rushed the man, driving head and shoulder into his chest and forcing the hand holding the gun upward as he pushed the man back to the wall. The head snapped back, striking the wall, and fell forward limply. Steele wrested the weapon away from the unresisting hand and used it as a club to knock the stunned man completely unconscious. He reversed his grip on the gun and turned to Karen, ready to shoot, if necessary.

To his amazement, Karen stood above the seated captor, needle laser in hand. The man had his hand over his shoulder and was moaning softly. She grinned. "Cap'n, these Klingons won't be botherin' us no more," she said in a passable Scotty imitation.

He smiled back. "Good job, Karen." He looked around. "Let's see if we can stash these guys somewhere."

They bound the men hand and foot with short bits of cord from Steele's backpack, gagged them with strips of a pillowcase they found, and put them into the cramped bathroom. Steele purposely broke a lockpick in the keyhole to jam the lock. He and Karen pushed the sofa in front of the door to block it before turning their attention back to Murphy.

The other man's face was damp with cold sweat, and his skin had taken on a grayish pallor. Steele knelt once again beside the detective and placed his fingers on an artery. He winced at the sluggish pulse.

Karen was calling Murphy softly and touching his shoulder. Steele stopped her. "Don't bother, Karen. He's out."

"Is he gonna be okay?" she asked nervously.

Her eyes were enormous in her pale face. He faked a confident smile. "Right as rain. But we've got to get him to the hospital. Let's get him hooked on."

He bent to slide an arm beneath Murphy's shoulders. Before he lifted, he murmured in the man's ear, "Laura's waiting for you, old chap. Don't disappoint her. Hang on!"

Together Steele and Karen pushed Murphy into a sitting position. While Steele sat in front, Karen hooked Murphy's harness to his. He brought the unconscious man's arms over his shoulders, tied the wrists together with more pillowcase strips, and bound them to the front chest strap of his own harness. He got to his feet slowly, and Karen tied Murphy even further to Steele's body -- around the waist, thigh to thigh, ankle to calf. He could barely move to the window under the dead weight.

Accompanied by the noise of frantic pounding from the bathroom, Steele maneuvered his body onto the ledge with Karen's assistance. "You go on," he ordered her. "I'll be going slow to keep Murphy's head from snapping around."

"But Mr. S --"

"I'll be right after you," he interrupted, fastening the rope around two bodies. "Let's go."

Karen went out first and helped Steele maneuver into mid-air suspension. "I'm going down," she announced. Steele heard the rasp of her gloves against the rope as she started.

He turned his head. "We're on our way, Murphy," he whispered. "For God's sake, don't die on me." Gloved hands clenched the rope tightly once, then released.

Inches at a time he lowered himself down the side of the building. It seemed to take hours to pass each floor. He took great care not to jostle the body that hung from his. He could almost feel the eyes on the ground boring into his back; his skin also prickled as if it were being stuck with tiny needles. He shook off the interruptions and forced his precious concentration on the slow progression.

He was halfway down the building when a commotion from above caught his attention. Begrudgingly he looked up. People half hung out the open window, pointing down at him and shouting. Therault's voice overrode the others. "You're dead, Steele!" He felt a jerk on the line as someone began to pull on it from above; he hadn't reckoned with being discovered in mid-air. The cord was reinforced steel thread that would blunt a knife, but still, anything was possible. He took the next floor in a mighty leap and flicked the cord roughly, hoping to disrupt the person cutting at the other end as he hung suspended in the free fall. His feet hit the building; he felt Murphy's body jerk. He glanced down. Five floors to safety; and everyone stood by the van, waving their arms.

Chips flew out of the concrete above him, followed by the sound of a distant gunshot. Now they were shooting at him! He heard cries of horror from below. "Damn!" he hissed. "Bloody damn!"

As he began another full floor drop, he felt a sharp stinging in his left arm that coursed throughout his body. The arm went numb. On reflex his right hand looped around the cord, and his elbow locked. He let the rest of his body go limp as he fell back against the building. He met the concrete with a bounce and a shudder. A sharp edge jabbed at his cheek, drawing blood. Someone screamed from below.

His right arm, with his and Murphy's full weight hanging from it, was throbbing with excruciating pain as he forced his left hand to grasp the rope at the clip at his left hip and pull it up tight again. His left arm trembled with prickling pain as he held it steady and allowed their weight to balance back on the cord.

A bullet whined past them. He felt the continued vibration of the cord as someone above continued to hack at it. Another bullet whizzed by. He had to get down, or the next shot would certainly kill him rather than merely wing him. He released his hold on the rope and swung out for the next floor drop; his left hand let the cord run through his fingers. His right hand pressed Murphy's head against his shoulder.

He struck the building, bounced on the balls of his feet -- and suddenly found himself without a taut cord to balance against. The cutter above had succeeded. As it began to slide through his grasp he twisted in mid-air and made a desperate leap for the other cord, used by Karen, really too far away -- or was it? As if by magic it swayed toward him, close enough -- to touch, to grasp.

He hung, shaking, from his locked grip. The cord was taut and steady beneath his grip. "Slide!" came the command from below. Beneath his hands he felt the vibrations of the hacking of this lifeline. He loosened his grip and plummeted down the final three floors.

He hit the ground hard, sinking to his knees from the pain. Karen was at his left, Laura his right. They each grabbed a forearm and pulled him to his feet, leading him at a run to the waiting van. He dove in head first, mentally apologizing to Murphy for the jolt. "Floor it, Frank!" Laura ordered as the doors slammed shut.

"Check Murphy!" Steele ordered as the van rocked on its tight spiral down the parking ramp of the Opperman Building. Cheek pressed against the metal floor of the van, he waited tensely for the verdict.

"He's still with us," Laura breathed.

"Free him."

He felt hands at his legs undoing the ties there. When Murphy's legs had been freed, he pushed himself shakily onto his right side to let Karen get at the wrist bindings. Her fingers nimbly unknotted the pillowcase strips. He felt Murphy's body fall away from his.

He pushed himself back onto his heels beside Karen. Murphy's head and shoulders were in Laura's lap. She bowed over him, her thumb rested lightly on a pulse point at his throat. "We're almost there," she murmured to the unconscious man.

"C'mon, Mr. M, gut check! You can do it!" Karen encouraged.

With the women's attentions on Murphy, Steele slid unnoticed to the side of the van and let himself unwind. All bodies were, hopefully, present and accounted for; he'd count noses in Emergency after Mildred and Kevin Masters arrived. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. As it passed, his body began to throb with pain. Both arms felt as if someone were trying to remove them. As the minutes passed, the pain increased notch by notch.

Suddenly the van skidded to a halt. Steele couldn't even move to help Karen open the back doors. She pushed them open and shouted for help. Doctors and nurses swarmed out with a gurney. "Who needs help?" someone asked.

Steele lifted a finger barely to point. "He does," Laura said, gesturing at Murphy.

Two doctors carefully slid the unconscious man off the floor of the van onto the gurney. "This the detective that's been worked over?" one of the doctors asked.

"Yes." Laura slid after them. "He's in very bad shape."

Everyone moved off to the emergency room -- except Frank, who started to, then peered into the back of the van he had been driving and noticed Steele, still unmoving. "You okay, Remington?"

"Yes..." He tried to casually push himself to his feet, but couldn't get himself off the ground. "Ah... I might be needing a hand here."

It was torture to push his body to the edge of the van, but somehow he did. He got achingly slowly to his feet, wavered as he straightened, and had to steady himself with his right hand on Frank's shoulder. The ground tilted, then righted.

"God, man, you're bleeding!" Frank exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"Your left arm!"

Steele looked. Blood stained his left hand. The sleeve of his black turtleneck was even darker in a thick line down his arm. "Oh. Yes. I was hit."

"Come on." Frank pulled Steele's good arm around him and put his own around Steele's waist. "You need to be in there, too."

As he began to walk towards the emergency entrance, the merry-go-round trip came back. He concentrated on getting one foot in front of the other and crossed from the outside darkness into the lighted hospital. "We need some help here," Frank called out.

"Holy cow, Mr. S's been hurt, too!" he heard Karen shout.

"Remington!" came Sherry's voice.

He heard Laura's footsteps as she rushed to him. "You've been shot!" she exclaimed, and rested a hand on his chest.

The world -- and her body -- stopped wavering. He looked down at the hand on his chest, then up at her. "Ah... yes, I believe I..."

Consciousness began to drain from him like water out of a bathtub. "...have..." he managed to get out before he began his spiral to the floor.

"Sherry, if you'd rather --"

"I'm coming," came the faint, exasperated reply.

Laura perched on the arm of the chair, fingering the strap of her shoulder purse. As promised, Sherry did come down the stairs. Her blonde curls were pulled to the back of her head with combs, and she wore a silky green maternity dress that accentuated her green eyes. But the hand on the bannister clenched the wood with white-knuckled fingers, and the pale face had been artfully disguised with the right amount of make-up.

Laura rose to meet Sherry, but her critical glance must have given her away, because the other woman snapped, "I'm fine. I'm just a little tired."

"Sherry," Laura began, "we could go later --"

"No!"

Sherry stomped to a cabinet shelf to retrieve her purse. She turned back to Laura -- and her shoulders slumped. She sank against the cabinet. "I'm sorry," she said. "I am tired. I feel terrible. But I can't let up, not yet." She looked Laura in the eye. "They'll put me into the hospital for the rest of the pregnancy, I know it. Murphy doesn't need that kind of worry right now. He's just out of intensive care. He needs to believe everything is well."

"Is everything well?" Laura asked pointedly.

"The baby is fine. It's just making life hard on me. But I'll be okay, now that this is over." She straightened. "I won't jeopardize the baby, or myself."

"Good."

She met Sherry at the door. The other woman looked at her, then impulsively threw her arms around her in a hug. "Thanks for not giving me a lecture," Sherry murmured into her ear. "Other people would have read me the riot act."

"I just want what's best for you."

Sherry smiled. "You sound like Murphy talking."

"Somebody has to look out for him."

"You have, Laura, you have." Sherry slid her arm through Laura's and they walked to the car.

The warm September day was not deterring the trees from changing color. Laura marveled at the display as she drove them to Denver General. The cheery weather seemed to have an effect on everyone. The nurses were particularly pleasant to her and Sherry. "Mr. Michaels is in West 612," the one at the sixth floor nurses station told them.

"Thanks," Sherry replied.

"Well, I guess we're at opposite ends of the floor," Laura remarked. "Mr. Steele is in East 605."

"Oh, no, he's been moved," the nurse spoke up.

Laura turned back, surprised. "Where to?"

"Why... he's in with Mr. Michaels in West 612."

She shared a horrified glance with Sherry before tearing off down the West corridor. At Room 612, she skidded to a halt and composed herself before entering; she figured she would be facing a certain verbal war she would have to mediate. Tentatively she pushed open the door.

"...hit the home run to defeat the Yankees in the seventh game of the 1960 World Series?" Remington Steele was saying.

Laura looked around. Steele was to her right in the semi-private room, his left arm in a sling but otherwise looking hale and hearty. A long, thin box of cards rested on a tray in front of him and he held a card in his right hand. Murphy was to her left, looking pale and gaunt but serene, his right arm held immobile at the metal gate at the side of the bed for IV's and other tubes inserted into it. Between them sat a matronly volunteer with a Trivial Pursuit game board open on a movable cart in front of her and an open card box at her elbow.

"Laura!" Steele exclaimed. "Bit early, aren't you?"

"What are you doing?" she cried.

"Playing Master Trivial Pursuit. Well, Murphy, old chap? What's the answer?"

Laura turned to the man prone in the bed. "Bill Mazeroski," Murphy replied faintly. "Roll me again, Mrs. Slocomb." His eyes gleamed as he sought her glance and smiled. "Hello, Laura." His last word trailed off to a whisper.

Behind her Laura felt the door open. "Have they killed each other yet?" Sherry asked, poking her head in.

"Not yet," Laura said.

"Considering one of us is already half dead, I didn't think it was necessary," Steele remarked.

But their comments went unheard as Murphy silently raised his free hand, Sherry glided forward to take it, and the couple stared wordlessly at each other.

Laura looked over at Steele. He was looking at her intently. Then he smiled and turned his attention to Mrs. Slocomb. "I guess we'll have to put the game on hold," he told her.

"Good thing. This isn't the best chair for my back," the woman replied. She took his box from the tray in front of him and put it on the cart.

"You haven't been keeping Murphy up, have you?" Laura accused Steele.

"Trivial Pursuit was his idea!" he protested.

"You didn't have to agree to it!"

Mrs. Slocomb pulled a screen into place between the two patients. She murmured something quietly to the Michaels, then popped her head around to address Steele. "Now you two have a nice visit. You just let me know if you need anything, Mr. Steele."

He smiled his usual brilliant smile. "Most certainly, Mrs. Slocomb."

The woman beamed at his smile. She quietly left them to their visit. Laura turned accusing eyes on him. "It's not good to give older women like that heart palpitations."

"I supposed it's all right for you younger women." He smiled at her in the same way.

"Only if we're affected by such blatant display of conceited charm."

"And you aren't?

"Of course not!"

His hand snaked out and curled around her waist. She swayed forward. "Not even a tiny flutter?"

She pretended to think. "Well..."

He captured her lips in the face of her mock indecision, and kissed her soundly. "I think that should do it," he said confidently.

She couldn't answer; her heart was beating wildly.

"Laura?" Sherry interrupted, head poking around the screen. "Murph wants to know about Therault."

She gladly took the opportunity to get onto a subject she could handle. Sherry folded the screen back and Laura moved to the other bed. Murphy extended his hand; she took it. "Therault?" he asked.

"On his way out of the country," she replied. "We gave the government all the information Mildred had dug up on him and his businesses, plus your notes, and the fake passport. They revoked his visa. He won't be allowed back in."

"Publicity?"

"None. Oh, Therault had a press conference and said he wasn't going to wait any longer for the city to make up its mind about giving him permits, so he did leave gracefully, insofar as Denver's public is concerned. But not a word about you, or what happened. The break-in at the Opperman Building was covered up."

Murphy studied the walls, deep in thought. He looked at Sherry, then back at Laura. "He'll want revenge."

"No. I guess... there was a warning -- Sherry?"

The other woman stepped forward. "Your cousin Lee flew out here with McCall. McCall talked to Therault in private for ten minutes, and said we wouldn't be bothered by him ever. Lee went with the immigration people to see Therault out of the country. He'll be back here to see you tomorrow."

Murphy nodded, apparently satisfied. Laura wondered what kind of powerful government connections their former associate had; a glance back over her shoulder told her that Steele was wondering the same thing.

When she turned back to the man in the bed, she found him staring at her intently. She recognized the light in his eyes; she had, only minutes before, seen the same thing in Steele's own. For a moment, she felt uncomfortable. Then she realized that everyone in the room recognized and understood the feelings. She returned Murphy's loving gaze, smiling at him.

He squeezed her hand. "Thank you... for saving my life," he said huskily.

"I didn't do it alone," she said gently.

Murphy's glance slid across the room for a moment. "I know." In his reply she sensed the unspoken thought: Because you care, he cares. What Remington Steele did, he did both for and because of her.

He broke the handclasp, only to slide his grip to her upper arm and pull her down to him, to his lips. His hand touched her cheek, and she expected to feel his buried passion bubble to the fore. Instead, she participated in a friendly kiss, gentle and warm and full of more passive love. When he broke the contact, and she was able to pull back, she saw a mixture of sadness and joy, and knew they were back to their old, friendly terms.

"Ouch!" Sherry exclaimed, breaking the mood. She rubbed her distended abdomen. "Your kid's getting a little rambunctious, Murph."

"Sherry, why don't you sit down?" Laura offered. "Here, let's get this chair --"

Laura dragged the chair that Mrs. Slocomb had vacated to Murphy's side, and eased the pregnant woman into it. She stepped away and pulled the screen out between the two beds. Murphy smiled at her as she stepped around the fabric to Steele's half of the room.

He was looking at her peculiarly. She cocked her head. "What?" she said in challenge.

He wordlessly patted the mattress of his bed. She walked over to the bed and sat, facing him. He took her hand with his good one. "Murphy is a very fortunate man, to have two women who care so for him," he said quietly.

Laura was startled. Was he jealous? He should know better! She opened her mouth to speak. His hand flew to her lips. His fingers pressed away her protest.

"And I thank God every day for royal lavulite," he said slowly and intently.

His eyes sent his emotion to her. She sent it back. When his fingers left her mouth, she could do nothing but move to seal his unspoken words with a kiss.