AFTERLIFE

Roy DeSoto pushed aside his coffee cup distastefully, sickened by the aroma. His stomach felt sour and unsettled, a common feeling the last two days. When he looked up to see if anyone had noticed, he realized Chet was watching him. Chet's eyes held a hollow emptiness, a despair he'd have hated anyone to see under normal circumstances. But these circumstances were far from normal. Marco and Stoker were silent. They didn't seem to have a big appetite either. Gloom hung over the table.

Johnny would never see Roy's despair, or the anguish in Chet Kelly's eyes, or know that he was the cause of it. John Gage was dead.

Roy willed the coffee he'd drunk to stay in his stomach. The last thing he needed was to run for the bathroom and puke up his breakfast. It wouldn't change a thing.

He could have understood it if it had happened on a rescue. Being a fireman was dangerous and, as paramedics, he and Johnny had often raced directly into danger: into burning buildings, up the face of sheer cliffs, into wrecked cars at risk of explosion. They had never let themselves dwell on the personal peril or the job would have been too tough to face, although they faced it with proper precautions. They did what needed doing and unwound afterward. Johnny had been injured his share of times and survived it. Sometimes, Roy had almost believed he and Johnny lived charmed lives, although it was a belief he never quite allowed to surface for close examination. It had been as if he acknowledged it, he might jinx it.

But Johnny hadn't died on a rescue.

They'd all heard about the missing excursion boat to Catalina. When it was reported overdue, the Coast Guard instigated a massive search by air and water. The story was all over the TV news, and Roy had watched it with Joanne and the kids and felt sorry for the victims, lost on a holiday cruise. Not a trace of the boat was found, not so much as a drifting life vest or a sprung plank. The conclusion was it must have sunk without a trace. No passenger list was yet available, the news anchor had reported, but police were checking the parking lot at the marina for unclaimed vehicles in an attempt to identify the six people who had purchased tickets for the run.

The next morning, when Roy headed back to the station after his day off, the story of the missing boat filled the headlines--and Johnny didn't come in. Time passed and the guys started kidding each other that John had met his dream woman on his time off, or that his car had broken down on the freeway.

Instead, Officer Vince Howard showed up, looking as if he'd just chowed down on a lemon, his face grave and unhappy. Roy had seen that look on the policeman's face before, at an accident scene when he'd had to tell relatives of the victim that their family member was dead. Roy had never expected to see that look directed at him.

Sensing trouble, Chet migrated uneasily to Roy's side, and the rest of the A-shift edged nearer, closing ranks. Captain Stanley glanced around at them before he turned back to the police officer.

"What's wrong, Vince?" Roy asked. It was weird how reluctant he'd been to voice the question. Maybe he'd known, just at the sight of the officer. Vince knew all of them personally. Was that why he had been chosen to make a duty call? What could it be about? Surely not Johnny being late? Had he been in a car accident on the way to work? Roy felt the muscles in his shoulders stiffen up.

"A problem?" Captain Stanley asked. He always stood up straighter and squared his shoulders when he heard bad news. He took everything that happened to his men personally. A quick glance around reminded him that Gage was very late and Roy saw him adding two and two and coming up with a very unhappy four. "Is it Gage?"

"I'm sorry, guys. Roy. This morning, they found his car at the Proudfoot Marina, along with the others that belonged to the people on that excursion boat."

"Excursion boat?" Chet demanded loudly. "The one that went down on its way over to Catalina, that's been on the news so much? You're not saying Johnny was on that boat? No way. He couldn't have been. He's not a tourist." But fear flashed in his eyes.

"You're wrong," Roy heard himself say. "It couldn't be Johnny. He's already been to Catalina. Besides, he gets seasick. It's got to be a mistake." Afterward, he realized what an idiotic response that had been, but it had seemed vitally important. Vince didn't know that Johnny had been to Catalina before and had no reason to go again. No reason at all. Especially not since he tended to get seasick.

"Are they sure?" Marco Lopez' eyes darkened. "It's not just a mistake, that he left his car there and maybe went somewhere else? Are the other boats back? Maybe he's still over there."

"Proudfoot runs a day excursion," explained Vince. "All their boats are back except for the missing one, and the parking lot there isn't used by anyone else. Believe me, we asked all these questions, too."

Cap spoke up. "Johnny say anything to anybody about going over to Catalina for the day?"

Roy thought that was a stupid question. Johnny hadn't gone to Catalina, that was final. His car had probably been ripped off and the car thief had gone. That was it. Johnny would show up any second. It wasn't as if public transportation in L.A. was convenient or easy, not in a world where everybody used cars even for a three block trip. He should have called in, but then he'd probably thought he had time.

"That Nancy he went out with last weekend?" offered Mike Stoker unexpectedly. "Didn't Johnny say her folks have a summer place on Catalina? I think he said she was going to spend this past weekend with them. Maybe Johnny went over to see her."

Roy shot a hotly resentful look at Stoker, who was usually the least talkative man on the A-shift. This time, his spate of words was unwelcome. Roy had known that about Nancy's folks, though. He just hadn't wanted to remember it. Johnny would probably risk seasickness to spend some time with her. He'd been badly smitten, as usual. If Roy admitted remembering, then he'd be forced to examine the images that crowded his mind, that of Johnny on the sinking boat, drifting stranded at sea in his life vest. Sharks....

No. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

But it could. That had been two days ago. Two days of increasing unhappiness, two days of air searches that had found no trace of victims in the water, not even bodies. Coast Guard ships widened the search area, checking to see if the boat had somehow drifted off course, maybe even wrecked on one of the islands. They found nothing.

"Pirates," Chet said, breaking into Roy's thoughts. "That's it. Their boat got snatched by pirates. They'll show up somewhere, prisoners of pirates. I just know it." He babbled on. Somebody on the excursion boat had been rich--well, that was true, a wealthy tourist from Maine had been among the missing passengers--and he'd been taken for ransom, the others along with him. Johnny would probably wind up rescuing them single-handed. After all, rescues were what he did.

Kelly pushed his own coffee away. "You know he will, Roy." He hadn't touched his breakfast, either.

Roy stared at Johnny's one-time nemesis and something in him finally snapped. "Shut up, Chet," he yelled.

"Roy..." Captain Stanley appeared from nowhere and dropped a firm hand on DeSoto's shoulder. Stoker and Lopez exchanged horrified glances. Craig Brice, who was filling in on Johnny's shift, remained silent and stared at his plate. Just as well. If Roy had to endure one more lecture about the proper duration of a mourning period, he was going to have to deck the man. It was just that, until now, he'd felt too numb to even mind Brice. Much better to go through the routine of each rescue as if he were following Craig's precious rule book. Do the job by rote, get through each day. But Chet's idiotic refusal to admit the truth had finally pushed him too hard.

"Just get him to shut up, Cap."

Chet stared back at Roy, and he blinked hard. His eyes glittered too brightly. Roy ought to have understood. He had fought down a major case of denial himself. The world couldn't have changed so abruptly and pointlessly. The world shouldn't be the same without John Gage in it. It couldn't be real. But he and Chet both knew it was real, and neither of them could accept it.

"I'm sorry, Roy," Chet blurted and jumped up. He fled the room without looking back.

"Oh, man," Roy muttered. He went after him with a gesture at the others to let him handle it.

He ran Kelly to ground in the bunkroom, sitting on Gage's bunk, looking smaller than usual. Even his mustache drooped. A crazy part of Roy wanted to order him off the bed--he hated having Brice sleeping there--but another part understood the need far too well. He sat down beside Chet without speaking.

Kelly glanced at him sideways, then he mumbled, "It's not right, Roy. It's just not right. Not like this."

"I know." DeSoto slung his arm around Chet's shoulders. He discovered he needed human contact badly.

The two of them sat there for a few moments in utter silence, mourning the loss of their friend, before the tones sounded to call their attention.

"Squad 51, unspecified rescue. 6729 Mountain Canyon Road. Possible multiple drug overdoses, possible former hostage situation, possible cultist activity. Cross road, County 64. Time out 9:37."

Roy jumped up and ran for the squad in time to hear Stanley's, "KMG 365," and to accept the information sheet.

"Welcome to the afterlife, John."

Johnny Gage blinked up at the woman who bent over him. She was so pretty that, at first, her unlikely words didn't even register. Long blonde hair unbound, she wore an ankle-length, white, gauzy robe like a hippie's, her hair adorned by a circlet of gold that sat low on her brow like a halo or a crown. Her face was soft, ethereal, unearthly.

Afterlife? What the heck...

And why was he so cold and wet?

He tore his eyes from the goddess who bent over him and looked down at himself. He was soaking wet. Was that seaweed wrapped around his ankle? And where was he? What was this airy place with pillars and sunshine? He wasn't even lying on a bed. It was a weird kind of platform draped with white cloth. There wasn't much furniture in the room. It opened out between columns of pillars into a nature scene with no evidence of civilization in view, no telephone lines, no roads, no cars. The air was crisp and fragrant with the flowers that ran riot out there in untrimmed banks.

"What do you mean?" he blurted.

"Do you remember the boat you boarded?" she asked.

"Boat?" He thought furiously. It was hard to think--it felt like someone had stuffed his brain with cotton. It felt like he'd been drugged. Automatically, he checked his arms for needle tracks, but the only thing he saw was more seaweed, curled artistically around his left wrist.

Something about a boat? Nancy. Nancy was on Catalina. He'd decided to drop in on her, spend the day with her. They could go swimming. He vaguely remembered a boat. But after that, it all got fuzzy. How had he arrived here, wherever here was? And what was that crap about the afterlife?

"John, the boat sank."

"And you rescued me?"

She stared down at him sorrowfully. "No, John. No one did."

"But that's crazy. I'm here, aren't I? You mean I rescued myself?"

She shook her head. "John, I know this will be hard for you to understand and accept, but you are dead. This," she gestured around the huge room, "is the antechamber to the afterlife."

"Oh, come on, that's stupid. This is real." He sat up abruptly. For a moment he was dizzy, then he felt for his pulse. He found it instantly, and he could tell that it was near normal, maybe just enough off to support the idea that he might have been drugged. If it hadn't been injected, maybe he'd taken it orally...only he didn't do drugs. He'd seen too many kids messed up on too many rescues to even consider doing drugs. He would have to have been forced. But this woman--she was saying he was dead.

"If I'm dead, how come I have a pulse?" he demanded. "I'm a paramedic. I know how to take a pulse, so explain that, willya?"

"Because you want to have one. Because you do not yet believe. Your image of yourself is not yet ready to allow for death. So your own mind manifests the trappings of life--a solid body, sensations, even a pulse--because you expect it. The transition from one life to another is not easy. That is why I am here. I am your guide to the next step."

"You're my guide to Loony Tunes," Johnny objected. "I'm not dead. Draping me with seaweed to create an effect doesn't cut it, either. I'm a paramedic, and I know when somebody's alive and somebody's dead. And I wasn't born yesterday. I know when somebody's trying to con me. And you are, lady." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

"So certain." She shook her head, and her eyes were sad and regretful. Either she was the world's best actress or she genuinely felt sympathy for him. He decided she was probably an Academy Award contender. He couldn't be dead because a stupid boat sank. That was not the way he ever expected to go. Maybe on a dangerous rescue, although their ongoing training was supposed to make the job as safe as humanly possible. But at least that would have made sense. It would have given it a purpose.

"A problem, Angelica?"

The voice was deep and rich and full of warmth. It was the kind of voice that automatically wins listeners, the kind of voice that could recite the telephone book and hold an audience breathless. Johnny's head came up, and he saw the man who stood in the doorway.

He was tall and lean, perfectly fit in spite of probably being about sixty. His skin was as tanned as a surfer's, and his hair was a lustrous white, thick and flowing. Like Angelica, he wore a long, white robe, and he held a staff in one hand that looked like something the shepherds carried in Christmas plays.

Angelica lowered her head slightly. "No, sir. He simply will not yet believe...."

"Of course he won't, child. You must give him time. He must learn it for himself, learn of his transition. Crossings are never easy." He turned to Johnny, who swung his seaweed-encrusted legs over the edge. He wasn't dizzy any longer. "Hello, John," the man said. He couldn't have sounded more fond and doting if he'd been speaking to his own son. "I welcome you. I know you are not yet ready to face my realm, but that is to be expected. I will never hold your doubts and confusion against you."

"So, who do you think you are?" Johnny demanded belligerently. Next thing he knew, this character was going to announce that he was God or something, and Johnny didn't want to hear it. This was just plain nuts. The afterlife wasn't supposed to be like this. This was a con or a trick. He knew he wasn't dead.

"I am," said the stranger. No more. That didn't sound good. No, that made Johnny really nervous. He curled his fingers around his wrist to feel the pulse beating there. That wasn't imaginary. That was his proof, his lifeline, and nothing Angelica could say would change anything. He wasn't dead. He wasn't sure why they were doing this to him, but he knew he wasn't dead.

"Let's allow him to clean up," said Whitey. Johnny had decided to call him that. Made more sense than any crazy speculation. Anybody would think it was crazy. Roy would probably say he was imagining it.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was in a coma and this was all a dream.

"You are not dreaming," said Whitey.

How the heck had he known what Johnny was thinking? That was too spooky. "At first, it will seem dreamlike to you, John. And because you are trained to understand the human body--" How did he know that? Had he been listening at the door? "-- you put into your vision exactly what you expect. The human mind is mysterious, John, and it is the mind that survives, the conscious spirit of a being. You will learn much. In the meantime, there is a shower here. Warm yourself and clean clothes will be placed for you."

"Oh, great, so the afterlife has showers?" Aha. He'd caught them.

"Why not? Why not surround the transitioner with the familiar? Soon there will be no need, but, for now, we wish you to be comfortable. Angelica will show you. Contemplate your existence. Think of your questions. She will answer them after lunch."

"So I'm dead, but I still need to eat? Give me a break. I don't know why you're pulling this, but I know it's not real. You're as phony as a three dollar bill, mister. I want out of here."

"You will come to see the advantages soon." Whitey turned away and walked out between the tall columns without looking back.

"Is he for real?" Johnny demanded the moment he was gone.

Angelica looked at him so sadly he was sure he saw tears glittering at the ends of her impossibly long eyelashes. "He is the most real being I know," she said. "Come. The shower is here." She gestured at a nearly concealed doorway.

Johnny went into the shower, a modern affair with white marble floors and shining white fixtures. All this white could start to get on a guy's nerves. He stepped uneasily beneath the beating water and let it wash the cold out of his bones and the confusion out of his brain. His body was real, it was intact, and there wasn't a mark on him. If he was supposed to have drowned, he'd feel it in his lungs. He'd have incipient pneumonia. But he didn't feel bad, just a little vague and fuzzy. Maybe this guy got off on drugging people and making them think they were dead.

Only he couldn't think of any reason why anybody would want to pull a stunt like that.

And he couldn't figure out how he had gotten here.

"I'm not dead!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "I'm not dead. I'm not dead."

No one answered.

Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, he returned to the airy room with the colonnades half an hour later. Angelica had left him a long, white robe like the one Whitey had worn and a pair of rough sandals that looked like they'd been made by hand. They were the right size and so was the stupid robe. His own, wet clothes had vanished from the shower area, so he put the robe on so he wouldn't be standing here dressed in a tower when Angelica came back. He felt stupid in it.

As soon as he was dressed, he went over to the columned wall. It wasn't a way out, after all. There was glass between each column, and no evidence that any of it opened out. But it had to; Whitey had gone out that way. No, don't even think about that. If the glass raised and lowered, he couldn't find any controls to do it.

As for the door where Angelica must have entered, it was closed and locked. At least it didn't open for him, no matter how hard he tugged at it.

Heaven shouldn't need locks.

More proof this was all a hoax.

He sat down on the platform and tried to think. But he felt groggy and weak, and it wasn't long before he was fast asleep.

"You shouldn't have taken it out on Chet back there."

"Don't give me that, Brice," Roy snapped tiredly. He could understand it with Chet. In spite of the ongoing prank war and rivalry that existed between Kelly and Johnny, they were friends. Chet always worried when something was wrong with Johnny and Johnny did the same about Chet, although neither one of them would ever admit it to the other. Kelly had simply been trying to hold onto hope--after all, the coast guard hadn't officially called off the search yet, even though everybody knew that, after so long, the most they could hope to do would be to retrieve bodies. Divers had gone down and ships were looking for any sign of wreckage, in the area of the Catalina Princess's last reported position. Roy didn't want to give up, either, not on Johnny, who was as close to him as a brother. He'd told Joanne on the phone last night that it just didn't feel right, that he should know inside if Johnny were really dead, and he didn't feel a certainty of it anywhere inside. Joanne had been cautious in her response. He knew she believed Gage was dead, but she wouldn't totally discourage him, not until the search was officially ended.

The department had offered him leave; Cap had nearly insisted on it, but Roy wanted to be working. He wasn't allowed out there with the Coast Guard on the search, and what could he have done but provided an extra pair of eyes, anyway? If he were off, he'd be home, and he'd have to sit and worry, and put on a brave face for the kids. Joanne had said Chris had asked about Johnny, and they'd sat down and talked about it. He'd have liked to have been there for that, but he needed to be here instead. Better to be working, to plunge into the job and have something to occupy his mind. He'd even been glad when Brice showed up, although he couldn't stand the overzealous paramedic under normal circumstances. Brice gave him someone to be irritated about, a way to sound off. Brice was a release valve. He couldn't lose his temper with the others, not when they felt as low as he did.

But then he'd done just that, yelled at poor Chet. Okay, so Chet had understood. But Roy hardly needed Brice to take him to task for it.

"Don't you have any understanding of how people think and feel?" he demanded, glad of a chance to sound off.

"Of course I do. I'm not a robot, DeSoto. But sitting around wallowing in misery isn't going to bring Johnny back. Nothing will do that."

"I hope I never get in a situation where you have to treat me," Roy muttered. "I can see it now. 'Oh, that isn't bad, DeSoto. It's only a compound fracture. Get up and walk."

"I would never tell someone with a compound fracture to get up and walk. You're being irrational."

"I'm being irrational? I'm being irrational? Is that what you tell the families of victims at the scene? 'Never mind, he's just dead, it's okay?'"

"You are being irrational, Roy. Listen to yourself. All I'm saying is, yes, losing Gage is a tragedy. We all know that. But this is a time when you should all stand together. Chet shouldn't have persisted, either."

"Too bad neither one of us read your special rule book on grief, isn't it?" Roy snapped. This was crazy. He wanted to deck the guy. Brice always drove him crazy, but today he was worse than usual. "Do you have anything that resembles a heart in your chest?"

"I can't. I'm on duty. I have to do my job. If I let my emotions get in the way of that, then I'm not working at my full capacity."

"I envy your ability to turn them on and off."

Brice said more quietly, "Roy, I do feel badly about Gage's death. He was a very fine paramedic. No one could ever deny it. And I know he was your friend. I'm not saying you have to write him off. Just that it's unfortunate you came down so hard on Kelly. Of course he shouldn't have baited you like that."

"Baited me?" Roy flicked him one, quick, sideways glance before he returned his attention to the road. "Is that what you think he was doing, baiting me? You just don't have a clue, do you?"

"Chet is clinging to a forlorn hope that will make it all the harder for him to finally accept the truth. You can't quite do that, and you were angry with him because of it. Am I wrong?"

Roy heaved a sigh. He took a minute to concentrate on a difficult turn. "No, you're not wrong," he admitted. "Your problem, Brice, is that you have a way of saying even true things unpleasantly."

"No, that's not it. My 'problem' is that I don't sugar coat the truth. That never helps anyone in the long run."

Roy grimaced. It was going to be a very long day.

When Johnny awoke the next morning, he was hungry--either that or his conscious essence made him think he was hungry.

He hadn't seen Whitey again yesterday, just Angelica from time to time. She had popped in and sounded off about the afterlife and Johnny had argued with her.

"If I'm dead, why can't I just pop through walls?" he'd challenged her.

"Because you are not a ghost. You haven't lingered on Earth. Instead you passed on and came directly here."

He narrowed his eyes. "You've just got answers for everything, haven't you?"

"Of course I have. When they are true, why wouldn't I?"

He could have taken it a lot better if she hadn't always been so reasonable. Even when he turned just plain rude, she never lost her temper. She was sweet and persistent, and it scared him more than he wanted to admit. He refused to believe his subconscious mind could psych him into producing pulse and respiration--and that knot of fear that curled up in the pit of his stomach.

If only Roy were here. Roy would remind him of all the indications of life, all right. Roy didn't go off on wild flights of fancy. Roy was always there to ground him when he got too carried away.

But DeSoto wasn't here, only Angelica--and he hoped like mad that wasn't a corny name because she was supposed to be an angel in her white robes and halo. She didn't have any wings, and he wasn't about to ask if she had them, either, not and give her more ammunition to psych him out.

The only bad thing was, he couldn't think of a single reason why somebody would go to all this effort to convince him he was dead. He could see Chet Kelly trying to win a bet by psyching him out. Yeah, this could almost be one of Chester B's pranks, but Chet wouldn't have taken it this far. He'd have done something stupid at the station. He didn't have the...the resources for a prank of this magnitude.

"What about the other people on the boat with me?" he had asked. "Did they drown, too? Are they here with me?"

"They are where they are."

"More mumbo jumbo. You get a big charge out of this, don't you?" he had accused her.

Her eyes had grown distressed. "No, John. I don't. I hate this. Even when the person I greet is old and fulfilled, I see them clinging to their family, their friends."

He wished she hadn't mentioned friends. Instantly a mental picture had hit him of the guys at Station 51, hanging around between runs, kidding each other, kicking back to watch a movie on TV with popcorn and pizza. Maybe it wasn't the greatest life in the universe, but he loved it, and it was his. He didn't want it to be over, not like this, not in a stupid boat accident.

It wasn't until Angelica had left him for the night that he had realized she hadn't really answered his questions about the other passengers on the boat.

He'd had his dinner then--yeah, the dead man ate a hearty meal--and not long after that, even though he wanted to get out and explore the rest of 'heaven', he had fallen asleep.

This morning, he felt fuzzy and lethargic. Angelica would probably say he was starting to believe, to let go of sensations and to put away the trappings of life. She had a lot of little smart remarks just like that, thank you very much. He didn't buy them but, this morning, it was hard to think. He felt logy and a little disoriented, just like the time when he'd pulled that muscle in his back while hauling a 250 pound guy out of a burning building. He'd been off for a week and they'd given him....

Valium. That was it. They'd given him Valium, and he had taken it for two days and then realized that all he did was lie around on his couch and snap at anybody who called to see if he was okay. When he'd responded lethargically to Roy's visit and then bit his head off when Roy asked if he'd been up that day, he realized he didn't like what the Valium was doing and decided he'd rather have the backache. He'd flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet and used a heating pad instead.

Were they drugging him? Ground-up Valium in his food? He'd have to find a way to skip the meal today if he could.

But if they were drugging him, he thought suspiciously, they were probably watching him to make sure he took the stuff. Okay, how?

The mirror. There was a big mirror on the wall opposite the columns. Maybe it was a two-way? He glanced at it and then away, partly because he didn't like the hollow-eyed glaze of his stare, but partly because he didn't want them to know he'd guessed. He knew his face was expressive--one of the reasons Chet could get at him so good was because it was easy to read what he was thinking and feeling. One of his dates had told him he had a very mobile face. Of course he also said what he thought without prompting. He wasn't devious and secretive. That had never been his way. John Gage, the opposite of inscrutable. Did that mean he was 'scrutable'? Was there even such a word?

Okay, so he was going to have to teach himself to be inscrutable and figure out what was going here. Don't give them any clues. Find a way to get rid of his food, if that was how they were drugging him. If getting rid of the food didn't take the feeling away....

No, he wasn't gonna think about that.

So when Angelica brought him breakfast on a tray--orange juice, bacon and eggs, and toast--he thanked her nicely and gobbled it down like a starving man. The minute she was gone, he went into the bathroom--where the only mirror was a small one on the door to the medicine cabinet--stuck his finger down his throat and leaned over the toilet bowl.

The following few minutes were not fun, but he wouldn't play their game.

For the rest of the morning, he felt his mind slowly clear. He played vague with Angelica, like he was starting to wonder if she was right. A great actor was lost in you, Johnny. If only she didn't look so blasted sad and pitying. That was what scared him most.

"Are you doing this with the others?" he asked. He made himself sound casual, like it didn't matter, like it was just an idle question. "You know, the other people on the boat?" He was slumped on the platform, trying to look sleepy and groggy. "If we didn't get rescued, they must have drowned, too, huh? Did they drown, too? Are they here?"

He could remember them better now. There had been two young women on vacation from Chicago. One of them was engaged but her fiancee was in the military, finishing up a tour of duty and wouldn't be back for six months, so she was filling in the time. She was pretty in a feathery, almost ditzy way, but her friend, the unattached one, Mona, now she was great. If Johnny hadn't been on his way to see Nancy, he might have asked Mona out.

Then there was that big guy from New England, the one that had money written all over him. He was traveling with his wife, one of those meek, yes-dear women of the old school, so mousy she faded right into the woodwork. Johnny liked his women to have more spirit than that.

There was one other passenger, a middle-aged schoolteacher from Detroit, who reminded Johnny of his third grade teacher. She was the kind of woman who, when she looked at you, made you snap to attention and try to look innocent, because she would know right away if you were up to something wrong.

Then there was the captain and first mate of the boat. Johnny hadn't talked to them much, but the captain was an old salt. He'd have been at home in an old whaling movie like Moby Dick. You half expected him to say 'shiver me timbers' or whatever it was that sailors said. His first mate was a guy in his thirties. He'd brought around drinks after they'd set off, but acted like the hired help and didn't mingle. Johnny didn't remember much more than that.

So, were they all drowned, too? Had any of them been rescued? Were they locked up in other rooms? He had to find out.

Lunch went the way of breakfast, and after the second bout of vomiting, Johnny didn't have much of an appetite, anyway. He remembered Chet once talking about how ancient Romans used to eat huge banquets, then go and barf it up and eat more. They must have had cast iron stomachs.

The only thing that kept Johnny going was that the fuzzy feeling was completely gone by the end of the day. He kept right on faking it--And the Academy Award goes to John Gage for best performance in a phony afterlife--and persisting with questions about the other passengers.

"Why are you so interested in them?" Angelica asked Johnny in the middle of the evening. He was starting to feel hungry again, even after losing his dinner earlier. The drugged feeling was mostly gone, and he could think. That meant he had to keep on doing this. He could get water from the bathroom faucet, so unless the house water was rigged, that was probably okay. At least he hadn't started to feel sluggish after drinking the water, and his pulse and respiration were normal. When he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his pupils reacted normally. He had to keep skipping the food. People could go without food a lot longer than they could go without water.

Johnny couldn't tell her the real reason he'd asked about the other passengers on the excursion boat, that he wanted to find them and bust out of this place. So he put on a vague and dreamy look and quoted a poem at her. Part of a poem. His last girlfriend had been really into poetry--and into causes--and this one was her favorite. "'I am involved in mankind.'" He thought that sounded pretty impressive. Even the guys back at Station 51 would have to give him points for that one, although he was sure they'd snicker behind his back, especially Chet. Tough. They just didn't appreciate what a sensitive guy he was.

For a second, he thought Angelica was going to giggle. Angels didn't giggle, did they? Then she schooled her face to order. "That's very...noble of you. Yes, they are here."

"Right here in this building?"

"You persist in seeing everything in earthbound terms. John, you must believe. Until you do, you can't pass on to your reward."

"And that would be? Playing a harp and sitting on a cloud? You know, I never thought that sounded like much fun. I'm not into harps. Why should being dead suddenly make harp music number one on my top 40 chart?"

"That's an old stereotype," she reminded him. "What would be the point of heaven if it weren't what you dreamed of? Did you ever think that it might shift and change to accommodate your tastes?"

"All things to all people, huh? Sounds like a good deal--only I...."

"Only?" she prompted.

"I miss my friends," he blurted out. It was true, but it might make her lower her guard a little. He had worked hard to perfect what Roy kiddingly called his puppy dog look. The guys at the station would never buy it, but, once in a blue moon, Dixie did. It was a look he sometimes used on his girlfriends and, part of the time, it even worked.

He thought it did this time, too. Angelica looked stricken. She curled her hands up into fists. She did that a lot. Then she glanced quickly at the mirror and away again, so fast that Johnny almost missed the gesture. So somebody was watching them. That meant he had to keep his act up. He couldn't wheedle her, not as long as somebody might be watching.

"Tell me about your friends," she encouraged him.

So he talked about Roy. Roy DeSoto, the best friend a guy could ever have. About how great it was to work with him, what a terrific team they made, how they'd been paramedics together for a few years now and every one of them had been great. How Roy put up with him, even when he was in full rant mode. How Roy's family had halfway adopted him, how Joanne had invited him over last Christmas for the big, family dinner. "I don't have any kin in Los Angeles," he explained. "So, when we're not on shift on Christmas, I'd be stuck unless I had a girlfriend at the time--but Roy doesn't let me be stuck. Just think, I get to be one of the family."

"He sounds like a great guy."

"He is. What's more, he puts up with me. I mean, I know I bug him and irritate him sometimes. I get carried away about things, and he's the one who has to listen. He doesn't get tired of me, just tells me to stop when he's had enough, and the next time, he'll listen all over again. I tell you what, Angelica, sometimes I think of Roy as if he were my brother. Brothers put you down when you get above yourself, but they still love you."

"You've been lucky to have a friend like that." She sounded like she had to force the words out. What was eating her, anyway? Did she feel guilty about the con she and Whitey were running or what?

"And then there's the other guys at the station. They're all great. Well, Chet drives me nuts sometimes, and he's always trying to pull pranks on me, or he'll come up with something weird, like the time he went on this fanatical diet and tried to make all of us go on it with him. He goes over the top a lot. Never shuts up, does Chester B. Drives me crazy. He's always pulling some stunt, and then I'll have to retaliate."

"He sounds like he's a lot like you."

Johnny reared back and stared at her in utter horror. "Chet--like me! You have got to be kidding. He's nothing like me, nothing at all." Was she right? Nah, she couldn't be. That was crazy.

He plunged on hastily. “And there's Mike Stoker and Marco Lopez, great guys, I'd trust 'em to back me all the way to hell and back." Oops, maybe it wasn't a good idea to mention hell, not in a place like this. Not that he believed for a second that this was a step on the way to the great beyond, but he didn't want to push his luck. "And Captain Stanley, he's the greatest. Doesn't ride us, doesn't drive us nuts with unnecessary regs, stands up for us. They're all the best. I wouldn't have any other job for the world."

Angelica's hands were so tightly clenched that the nails dug into her palms. She did feel bad about him. He heaved a soft sigh. He didn't know why she was doing it if she didn't like it, but he had to play on her sympathy. It wasn't just him. It was those other people, innocent civilians, being drugged, and for what? He was a paramedic; he'd sworn an oath to save lives. Maybe those people would have bad reactions to the Valium or whatever it was. Maybe one of them could die.

"Don't you see, Angelica? They must believe I'm dead." He hadn't wanted to think about that part of it, but he couldn't not think about it. "How do you think Roy feels, believing I drowned? He's got the two greatest kids you'd ever hope to meet. Now they think their Uncle Johnny is dead." He sneaked a sideways look at her to see if it was working and caught a tear trickling down one cheek. An angel wouldn't cry because he was in heaven. He was right! He'd known it all along, but that tear was the final proof. "I know I'm not dead. I just know it." He had to put a bit of doubt in or they might figure out he wasn't keeping his food--and the Valium--down.

She put out her hand and squeezed his shoulder. "It won't be much longer," she said, and then added hastily, "before your soul finds its peace here."

"My soul's never gonna be at peace here, Angelica. Not when my friends are missing me and going through hell because they're grieving over me. I wouldn't put them through that for the world. How can you?"

She flinched and wouldn't meet his eyes, but her grip tightened for a moment before she released him.

"I must go," she said awkwardly. "I have...errands." She hurried over to the door and paused there. "Just wait, John. Don't rush into anything.” She let herself out, pausing to dim the lights behind her. Like heaven needed to worry about a utility bill? He didn't think so.

She hadn't locked the door behind her.

That was a warning, a caution for him. Come out, but wait a little. So she could make sure it was safe? So that guards who had regular rounds would pass? So that whoever was behind the mirror would have time to switch over to the next person on her route? Probably that. Okay, he'd give her fifteen minutes. He didn't have his watch, so he couldn't really tell how quickly time passed, but he lay down on his bed and counted off the time.

When he thought it was safe, he edged off the bed and scrunched the coverlet up into a bunchy heap, with his pillow under it to simulate his body lying there asleep. It wasn't perfect, but it might fool a casual scan. Then he edged over to the door and pulled it open. Bingo. He was out of here.

He found himself in a long hall, dimly lighted, that seemed to stretch on forever. What was this place? It was huge, big as some of those vast mansions that movie stars and rich people lived in. Doors opened along the hall at distant intervals. He wondered what the room he was in had been. There must be others just like it. Maybe he was in some kind of convention center. There were windows opposite the closed rooms. He paused and peered out. No trace of a road or even a highway; just more hills that rose up beyond the house. He wasn't sure he could tell where he was; maybe if he could get outside, he could climb to the top of the hill and see if he could find anything.

But first, he had to figure out where the other passengers were, and the odds were they were locked up the way he had been, in one of the rooms along the corridor. He passed one of the doors and paused to listen. From within came the sound of disjointed weeping. With his ear pressed to the door, he heard Angelica's voice, soft and soothing. "It's all right, Julie. Once you accept, you will be able to see him. You will become as his guardian angel."

"But I won't be with him anymore," Julie sobbed. The ditzy one who was engaged. Johnny recognized her voice. "I miss him, Angelica. I hate being dead."

She bought it. She was sad about it, but the con was working on her. Worse, her voice was a little slurred. She was being drugged. Johnny felt his own hands clench into fists. Okay, he had to stop this. But how?

He moved along the corridor, but he didn't hear anything in the other rooms he passed, and he didn't want to call attention to himself by knocking.

Finally, he reached a bend in the corridor and peered around cautiously. No one in sight. But as he rounded the bend, he could hear, faintly, a voice coming from somewhere ahead of him. He crept closer.

When he found a door that stood ajar, he risked a quick peek inside. There was Whitey seated behind a big, cluttered desk, and his robes had been exchanged for a knit shirt, slacks, and an expensive looking wristwatch. He was speaking into a tape recorder, his head bent over pages of notes.

"Subject Whitman refuses to accept the deception," he said. Johnny edged back out of sight and listened. "Perhaps a hardnosed businessman is too practical to fall for the quasi-reality. Miss Hartman hesitates on the edge of belief, and her traveling companion, Miss Riordan, accepts it completely. Our teacher is skeptical and annoyed, although the medication makes her hesitate. Captain Ransom won't deal with us at all. The drugs have made him relaxed, but not pliant. Our paramedic appears to switch from belief to disbelief; his knowledge of the human body makes him a poor subject. He evidently suspects that the Valium was planted in his food because he has vomited up his meals today. An interesting counter to the testing. He made a play for Angelica's sympathy this evening.

"Note to myself. Monitor Angelica more carefully. Her sympathies lie too much with the subjects. She needs to learn a more appropriate detachment if she is to continue to work with them. Call a staffing for nine a.m. to discuss it with her. I am disappointed in her. I had expected her to maintain the distance necessary for proper research. Her attitude may contaminate the test results."

Test results? This was a test? Some kind of psychological study? The guy ought to be locked up, taking people against their will, drugging them, monitoring their reactions. Okay, so the guy was probably testing to see how someone in a controlled situation could be made to believe the impossible. Was this some crazy military scheme, something they'd use against the enemy? Or was Whitey a demented shrink, out to make a name for himself? Who was paying him? And what would happen to the subjects when this was over? They knew too much. They couldn't just be let go. Johnny was willing to bet good money that Whitman, if he was the wealthy New Englander, would go straight to the police and accuse Whitey of kidnaping, and demand that he be arrested. He might even have the clout to bring in the big guns.

"So, what do you think, Jack?"

Johnny nearly jumped a foot when a second voice within the room said, "I think we're going to have a lot of trouble afterward, if you let them go."

"If? Jack, you surely can't be implying that we not let them go?" Whitey sounded amused and gentle, but there was a hard note in his voice.

"They'll run to the cops, and we'll all go to jail. We did kidnap them. I drugged them on the boat so I could take it over and bring it here, and you're still drugging them."

"So, when we free them, they'll have been drugged again, and, regrettably, so will you, so you can be found with them, as they'd expect. Blown off course, compass malfunction. They can never prove where they were, even if they all get together and make a statement to the police. They might feel awfully silly about it, too. People love to make trouble, Jack, but not when they will look foolish in the process. No, we'll go as planned, return them to the boat, drugged. You take it out to sea and administer the drug to yourself at the last moment. A lesser dose than theirs but enough that it will show up in your system. You can gently remind them that if they go around making claims that they met, er, God, and an angel and believed they'd died, people will think they are hallucinating. People will think they're crazy, or that they did the drugs voluntarily."

"And how will the time they've been missing be explained?"

Whitey laughed. "Perhaps the Pacific has its own variety of the Bermuda Triangle. One more mystery at sea."

Johnny glowered at the open door. He wanted to burst into the room and confront them head on, to grab the phone in there and put in a call and tell them to send the cops to the rescue. But Jack had made noises that sounded like he wanted to get rid of the test subjects. Cement overshoes, maybe. Boat drifting, passengers and crew missing. If Johnny charged in there and told those two creeps what he thought of them, he could be overpowered. He'd been drugged for a couple of days and gone without eating today. He was already shaking. It wouldn't be hard for the two of them to overwhelm him. He remembered Jack as a guy with a pretty impressive set of muscles. Not somebody to take on alone.

No, he had to sneak back in the night, when the room wasn't guarded and make the call then. At least he knew where the phone was. He was afraid that if he tried to sneak out of the place, an alarm would go off. This compound was probably pretty remote. It would have to be. The last thing he needed to do was wander around the hills. He might not even be near L.A.

He'd have to go back to his room, lie in wait, and sneak back in the middle of the night.

The two men moved so suddenly they almost caught him. He barely had enough warning to reach the bend in the corridor before they came out of the office. Frantically, he ran down the long hall and ducked into his room just as someone came around the corner.

Heart thumping wildly, he flung himself onto the platform bed and pulled the covers over him, then he lay there in the darkness, trying to still his breathing.

The door opened and someone poked his head in. Johnny feigned sleep.

The door closed again.

The lock turned.

No! No! No! How was he gonna get out of here now? Angelica wouldn't be back till morning.

What if Jack talked Whitey into disposing of the test subjects? He could do that. Whitey wouldn't use actual names in his report anyway, and if he published it somewhere else, or long enough after the sinking of the boat, people might never make the connection. It was a stupid test, anyway. How could he even imagine he could make people believe they were dead, not when the place had electricity and three hot meals served a day, not when the amenities included a shower and a toilet?

Johnny muttered dire things under his breath. He'd just have to get to Angelica in the morning, that was all there was to it.

If only he wasn't so hungry and tired. Try as he might, he couldn't quite manage to stay awake.

"Where is this place, anyway?" Roy groused. He'd been silent a long time, determined not to let Brice get to him. He didn't want to talk to the other paramedic about Johnny, not when Brice was so cold-hearted about it. Not that he wanted to wallow in it or cry his eyes out--well, okay, maybe a part of him did want that, but he wouldn't do it. Definitely not in front of Brice or any of the guys from the station. So he rode in silence for a long while, concentrating on directions because it was easier than imagining the cold, dark water of the Pacific closing over Johnny's head and bearing him down and down.

A few nights ago, that old movie about the Titanic, A Night to Remember, had been on TV. They'd watched it at the station, for once uninterrupted by any nighttime runs. Johnny had still been there, too, and as the ship had slid beneath the waves, Johnny had shivered and pushed aside the bowl of popcorn. "I'd hate to go like that," he had said. "Just think of it, Roy. Water's too cold for you to survive more than a few minutes, but you'd be treading water anyway, hoping one of those boats would come back for you. And they wouldn't. You'd be out there and there'd be nothing you could do, and you'd get so hypothermic it would almost feel warm--and then you'd just slide down under the water."

"Geez, Gage, you're sure a cheerful guy, do you know that?" Chet Kelly had objected, but the picture Johnny had painted had bugged them all. Some of their rescues had been drowning victims and those who were nearly drowned. When they heard about the Catalina Princess going down, Roy couldn't help remembering the Titanic and Johnny's horror at the thought of death by drowning. It had seemed even worse to him that Johnny had died that way. Had he known? Had he remembered his comments as the water closed over his head?

Had there been sharks waiting?

Roy shuddered and pushed that thought out of his mind. He didn't want to dwell on it, not for one second, even if it would explain why no bodies had been found. Craig would say he was a fool to think about it, that worrying about things like that would make no difference in the long run. If he said any of those things, the urge Roy had to brain him might become irresistible.

"There's some big estates up here," Brice said. "Good place for a cult to hide out. It's remote and the neighbors are too far away to see anything weird going on. Some of these cults can get pretty strange. I read a study about them."

"Dispatch didn't say for sure that it was a cult," Roy reminded him. "Just that people had been drugged and maybe kidnapped. We'll have the police waiting for us when we get there."

"We might need another squad if there are very many people."

"If so, the police should call it in before we arrive," Roy pointed out. He was tired of Craig Brice. Funny, Johnny could go on and on about some weird, irritating thing and Roy didn't mind, but when Brice opened his mouth, it made him want to scream.

Brice didn't notice Roy's bad temper. He composed himself and probably started reciting regs silently to himself to prepare for the upcoming situation. The guy drove Roy nuts. He was about as sympathetic as that rock over there beside the road.

Not that he wanted sympathy from Brice, really. He just wanted the guy beside him to be someone else. He wanted it to be Johnny, and that wasn't going to happen.

"I think it's just up ahead," Roy pointed out. "Over the next hill. I can see something up there, a big house."

"We do this by the book," Brice said unnecessarily. Every single thing he ever did was by the book.

Roy smothered a sigh and muttered, "Whatever."

Damn it, Johnny, why did you have to go and die on me?

Johnny awoke to the sound of a key in the lock, and sat up hastily to receive Angelica, who stood in the doorway with his breakfast tray. "I woke you," she said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm dead, remember? I don't need to sleep. It's only a delusion brought about by my subconscious." He stretched and yawned. "I don't need to shave either, because this is probably an imaginary beard I've got. Give me a few minutes."

He went into the bathroom while she set up the tray. Interesting that heaven came complete with electric razors, not to mention toothbrushes. He didn't take the time for a shower, but he washed and shaved and brushed his teeth before he emerged. He couldn't change into clean clothes. All they'd brought him was the stupid white robe. He was getting awfully sick and tired of it.

"So, are we any closer to heaven this morning?" he asked when he emerged from the bathroom.

"Some of the souls are making progress." It wasn't a helpful answer. But he thought he saw the need to help on her face. She was very carefully positioned so that her back was facing the one-way mirror.

"I hope you're hungry this morning," she said as she settled the tray into place. "It's a nice breakfast."

"Oh yeah. I'm hungry. I've got a good appetite." It didn't matter what he said. If Whitey was listening, he already knew Johnny wasn't keeping his food down. On the other hand, he didn't know that Johnny knew he knew. Whoa, that was complicated. But maybe it would be better to play along and go on pretending. After all, he didn't want Whitey to guess he'd been prowling the halls last night.

She lifted the cover off the tray and revealed a breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast, with a glass of orange juice. Concealed under the edge of the plate, out of sight of the mirror, was a key. When she realized he'd noticed it, she rolled her eyes in the direction of the door.

"Bless you," Johnny said fervently. "It looks wonderful."

"Do you think you can manage this?" she asked, nodding down at the key. If Whitey were listening, it would look as if she were asking about the breakfast. Then her voice dropped to a faint breath of sound. He didn't think any hidden microphones would pick it up. "I want to help you. You have to phone for help."

"I can manage," he said. "I'm pretty quick on the draw. Takes more than a big breakfast to stop me."

"Good. I thought you'd be hungry this morning." Another near-whisper. "Did you see the layout last night?"

"You bet." He added hastily, "This looks like the best meal yet."

She sent a hasty warning with her eyes as he sat down in front of the plate, picked up his fork, and palmed the key. Another whisper. "Give it ten minutes. He'll be out of the way then. Did you find his office?"

"Yes, ma'am, this sure looks good."

She spread the napkin before him with a waitress's deftness. Scrawled on it in faint blue ink was an address: 6792 Mountain Canyon Road. He looked a question at her. The present location. Confirmation showed in her face.

Johnny shot her a look of gratitude and, using her body as a shield, pretended to take a bite, then tucked the forkful of eggs under the coverlet, out of sight. "Yep," he said, pretending to chew. "It's very good. I'll put in a good word for you to the powers that be."

Thankfulness flashed in the blue eyes, appreciation, and regret for what she had done. "I must go. Others are awaiting their food this morning, too."

"Wish 'em a hearty breakfast." Warn them not to eat right away, if you can. We might have to run for it. No way he could say all that, but he hoped she would understand.

She must have decided she couldn't take any more. Maybe she knew what Jack wanted to do to the castaways from the boat. He hoped she wouldn't go along with that. What was she, anyway? Whitey's research assistant? How had she gotten dragged into all this, anyway? He was glad she was willing to do something to help.

"I'll certainly relay your good wishes, John. And hope that, soon, you will all travel on together." Johnny hoped so, too.

"Not that I don't like it here, but it's kind of boring, y'know. I want to get fitted for my harp." Another mouthful of food slid beneath the coverlet.

She patted his arm and moved toward the door. "I will stop to visit you later," she promised. He hoped she wouldn't have to. When the door closed--and locked--behind him, he realized he'd have to eat at least some of the breakfast. Maybe he could ignore it, but if Whitey was watching, he might think it funny after Johnny's raves to Angelica. No, he already knew Johnny didn't trust the food. If he left it now, the guy would only think he had been playing up to her.

So he killed some time, waiting until Angelica's ten minutes passed. He counted the seconds off, one-one thousand, two-one thousand. It took forever.

Johnny eased out into the hall and checked to make sure he wasn't watched. He'd armed himself with the table knife, not exactly a great weapon, but it was the heaviest of the flatware. Dull enough that it probably wouldn't do much more than give an opponent a scrape, but it might serve to fend off the bad guy long enough to get a punch in.

He wanted to let the others out, but the phone had to come first. Uncertain of how long Angelica could distract the guy, he crept along to the office where he'd overheard the tape recording session and Jack's threats. He met no one, and the room was empty.

Picking up the phone, he called the dispatcher. He would have liked to call the station directly, but the other prisoners' needs had to come before his own personal satisfaction. "There's a crisis situation," he said when the dispatcher picked up. "I'm an off-duty paramedic. We have seven people here who have been systematically drugged and held hostage, including myself. I believe the drug in question to be Valium. Address is 6792 Mountain Canyon Road. Respond police and paramedics. There's a possible threat against our lives."

Before he could go on, he heard a noise in the corridor. "Somebody's coming. I've got to go," he said and hung up. Now if only they didn't think it was a hoax. He hoped that mentioning he was a paramedic would help. He had deliberately refrained from giving his name. Since he was considered dead, that might make the call seem bogus. It would have been great to let the guys at the station know he was alive, but that would have to wait until he had guaranteed the safety of the other hostages.

He ducked down behind the desk, fingers crossed that no one would come in, but whoever it was walked past the room without stopping. Johnny got a glimpse of white hair. Whitey.

Edging out after him, he followed him at a discreet distance. The man was dressed in street clothes, rather than his 'God' robes, and he must have been intending to leave because he went out a door that led to the outside. Great. One down.

Johnny returned to the corridor where the prisoners were kept and unlocked the first door he came to. It proved to be the captain of the excursion boat.

"Captain Ransom? I'm John Gage, I'm a Los Angeles County paramedic. I was on the boat with you. This is all some kind of weird test process; and one of the guys behind it wants to get rid of the witnesses. Are you game to help me get everybody out of here?"

Ransom jumped to his feet, shaking off his apparent lethargy. "You bet I am," he said. Whitey had said he wasn't compliant. Boy, had he been right. "Just let me at 'em."

"Come on," urged Johnny. "We've got the rest of the passengers to find, and I think they've all been drugged."

"Haven't you?" Ransom's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Well, yeah, at first. But I thought it felt like I was given Valium--I hurt my back once and was prescribed that. Figured it had to be in the food, so I didn't eat it. What about you?"

"Ate some, but not all. I didn't trust this crazy racket. Dead? Give me a break. I'm gonna see they pay."

"Yes, sir, and I agree with you, but first we have to get out of here. I've called the police. The guy who was your first mate is the one who did it. He drugged us in the first place and brought the boat wherever he took us. Come on."

"Right with you, son," Ransom said and fell into step with Johnny as they started for the next locked door.

They gathered up the other passengers one by one. The teacher looked at them when they opened the door and said frankly, "Thank God. I was beginning to suspect that when this was over they meant to...do away with us."

"Not if I can help it, ma'am," Johnny told her. "We're getting out of here. I'm gonna need you to help me with the others. Can you do that?"

"Of course. Whatever you need. You're a paramedic, I remember. I have a feeling that the young blonde will need help."

Johnny thought so, too, and he was proven right when he opened the door to let her out. She stared at them in disbelief, then started to cry. The teacher went to her and put an arm around her shoulders, and ushered her along until they opened the door for her friend Mona. At the sight of Mona, she gave a glad cry and rushed to meet her.

They had trouble with the businessman. He was inclined to bluster. Johnny knew the type. He was used to his name and power clearing the way for him and that hadn't happened here. He wanted to make up for it by taking charge now, even if this situation was outside his area of expertise. Johnny exchanged a glance with Ransom, who nodded in perfect agreement.

"Right now, Gage is in charge," the captain said firmly. "Shut up and come with us."

Probably no one had talked to him like that in twenty years, but Johnny's determined face and the grim line of Ransom's jaw must have convinced the businessman that this was one time when it was better to listen. "Where's my wife?" he demanded loudly.

"Shhh, don't be so loud. There's a guy here who'd like to kill us," Johnny warned him. He led the way to the next door and opened it to reveal the businessman's wife. The guy crumpled and rushed for the faded woman, embracing her fiercely. So he had a chink in his armor.

Gage and Ransom led the way to the main door.

They didn't make it.

"Hold it right there. Where do you think you're going?"

Even as Johnny turned, he couldn't help thinking the guy sounded just like a TV bad guy. His first look at Jack didn't change that. The former first mate of the Catalina Princess stood there grimly, gun in hand. The blonde shrieked and cowered in the circle of Mona's arm. Ransom braced himself to jump the guy, and the teacher tensed and readied herself to do whatever was necessary.

Mr. Rich Guy said, "Whatever it takes, I'll pay it if you let us go."

"You think I'm an idiot?" demanded Jack. "You'll give me a line and turn me in. I don't think so. Back to your cells now like nice little boys and girls or I'll start shooting." He leveled the gun at the businessman's wife, who cried out.

Johnny threw the knife at him. It was a crummy weapon, but it was all he had. He wasn't sure it would work, but his aim was dead on target. The knife hit the guy sharply on the hand, and he swore viciously as he dropped the gun. Almost before it hit the ground, Ransom was all over him.

Johnny heaved a huge sigh of relief as the teacher kicked the gun across the room out of Jack's way. It was all over.

The compound was swarming in organized chaos when Roy pulled Squad 51 up in front of the vast mansion. It looked nearly as big as the Hollywood Bowl--somebody had built it who had more money than sense and a love of classical columns. The place was styled halfway like the Parthenon; at least the climate of Southern California didn't go badly with it. A bunch of police cars were parked haphazardly around the circular drive. Two of the officers had a young man handcuffed; he looked like a tough and was rattling off a string of profanity that didn't faze the arresting officers. Another cop had a guy with white hair restrained. He looked like somebody you'd see at the country club, natty and rich, not a criminal. But his face was full of hot resentment, and he was proclaiming loudly, "This is all a mistake. I'm a scientist. You only need study my notes...."

"Scientists don't drug people against their will," the younger of the two officers snapped. When he spotted Roy and Brice, he gestured to the door. "In there. This character's been drugging prisoners and trying to make them believe they were dead and this was the afterlife."

Brice's mouth dropped open. "That's ludicrous. No one would credit such an unlikely assumption."

"Give them the right drugs, put them in a weird enough situation, and they might," Roy muttered. He hauled out the biophone while Brice took the drug box, and they headed for the front door, where a uniformed officer beckoned them inside.

The door opened into a huge atrium with a domed ceiling two stories high. You could play basketball in there, it was that big. Half a dozen people in white robes that looked like the garb angels would wear were sitting on benches lining the walls. Four of them were women and three were men. The nearest man, a guy in his fifties who looked vaguely familiar, was talking angrily to one of the cops, ranting and raving about pressing charges, while the officer kept repeating, "Yes, sir," whenever he could get a word in. Beside the man, in the circle of his arm, sat a faded woman who must be his wife. From the protective way he held onto her and kept on patting her shoulder, Roy suspected he had just learned that she was safe.

Over by the far wall, one of victims, a young blonde woman, wept hysterically while a thin man with hair a lot like Johnny's knelt in front of her, his back to Roy, soothing her.

"Easy, easy. It's all right. Just relax, ma'am. Everything's gonna be just fine. I need you to relax now."

God, he even sounded like Johnny. Roy's feet faltered to a stop as he stared at the slender shoulders that were so familiar. It couldn't be. It was impossible...wasn't it? Johnny was dead. He couldn't be up here in this weird house. Miracles didn't happen in the 1970's. Behind him, Brice crashed into him and nearly dropped the drug box. It might have been funny under different circumstances.

"You've been drugged," explained the man who sounded like Johnny. "I think it was Valium. You're not dead. You're going to see your fiancee again. The army will track him down for you and let him know you're alive. Just let me take your pulse. It's okay, I'm a paramedic, and I know what I'm doing. You'll be just fine. More paramedics are coming, and they'll take care of everybody."

It was Johnny, either that or Roy's imagination was conjuring him up out of his extreme need. He drew a shaky breath and said loudly, "More paramedics are here."

The man went as rigid as a backboard. Very carefully, his head came up. He patted the blonde's hand and said, "Just a minute, sweetheart. It's okay." Then he turned, very slowly, and rose to his feet.

In spite of the white robes, in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be drowned and dead, John Gage stood there, gazing at Roy as if he'd just seen a miracle of his own. Excitement glittered in his eyes. "Hey, Roy," he said in a voice that quivered faintly. "I was hoping it would be you."

Behind Roy, Craig Brice, shaken out of his complacency, muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Roy didn't pause to respond. "Johnny." His voice rang with gladness, and then he ran, right across that huge expanse of tile toward his partner. Gage's eyes shone with relief as he raced to meet him.

They half collided in the middle of the room, and Roy grabbed his best friend, and hugged him with all his strength and pounded him enthusiastically on the back. "I don't believe this. You're supposed to be dead," he managed in a shaky voice.

"That's what they've been trying to tell me here," Johnny admitted. He showed no desire to break free of the embrace. He was shaking a little. "God, Roy, you'll never believe what this was all about." He squeezed DeSoto tightly. Maybe he heard how close Roy's voice was to breaking and wanted to give him time to collect himself, or maybe he needed his own moment to pull himself together. "I finally convinced Angelica to get me a key, and I called it in but I couldn't give my name because I figured I was supposed to be dead--and I'm sure sorry about what you guys had to go through about that, buddy--and I thought if they heard my name, they'd think it was a crank call or something and wouldn't bother to come. I hoped it would be 51 that got the call, but once rescue got here, I knew I could call it in, and you guys would get the word. When the cops came in and found us trying to get out of the house, I figured I had to take care of these people first."

"That is your job, Gage," said Brice behind them.

Johnny's head came up and he looked past his partner. "Oh, man, Roy, I'm really sorry," he commiserated. "They stuck you with Brice while I was dead?" He drew back and stood there, grinning. "That's adding insult to injury."

"At least I know how to do my job." Brice produced a smile. "I'm glad you're alive, Gage, but do you think we could treat the victims now?"

Johnny nodded. "Come on, I'll introduce you." He started toward the woman who had been hysterical, towing Brice with him.

Roy reached for the biophone. "I'll call it in," he said, a twist of eager anticipation in the pit of his stomach. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

A moment passed, then Dixie McCall's voice came over the line. "Go ahead, 51."

"We have seven victims of a kidnaping situation, four women and three men. They were evidently sedated with Valium or a similar drug as a restraint. Vitals are coming up. Rampart, be advised, one of the victims is John Gage."

There was a startled pause, then Dixie's voice came over the line, breathless and full of hope. "Say again, 51."

"Johnny's alive, Dix. I think the people on the boat were snatched and brought here. More on that later. Johnny doesn't appear to be under the influence now. He evidently planned a rescue, and he was calming the people down when I got here."

He heard Dixie's voice, raised excitedly. "Joe, Kel, I've got Roy DeSoto on the line and he says Johnny's alive."

Roy carried the biophone over to Johnny. "Take over here, Junior," he instructed. "Your fan club awaits. Say hi to Dix while I take some blood pressures."

Johnny grabbed the phone and said into it, "Dixie? It's me, Johnny. Hey, great to talk to you, too. Oh, hi, Doc.... Yeah, I'm alive. I'm fine. Tell you all about it later." He pulled himself together immediately, but he couldn't hold back his smile as he relayed vitals from Brice and Roy to Dr. Brackett.

"Have to say," DeSoto put in when he had a spare minute. "I like your new outfit." He tilted his head consideringly and stared at the flowing white robe. "I can't wait for Chet to see it."

Johnny looked horrified. "You wouldn't," he groaned. "Come on, Roy. Anything but that."

"Even I would," Brice put in. "Can we please get back to work?"

Johnny and Roy shared one quick, understanding smile as if to say the world was normal and that Brice being as annoying as ever proved it. Roy had an idea Johnny wouldn't mind if Chet heard about the white robe--as long as he didn't get a chance to see Johnny in it.

Maybe one of these cops had a camera....

"So then, I figured it was all a hoax, a trick, and I stopped taking my meals," Johnny related to an avid group at the station. "Once the drug went out of my system and I could think, I started to plan. I got Angelica on my side. You should have seen her. She was crazy about me."

"Crazy, anyway," put in Chet Kelly in an undertone, but, like the others, he was hanging on Gage's words. Johnny couldn't help but smile as he remembered the astonishment on the faces of the other members of the A-shift when he walked in with Roy in clothes he'd borrowed at Rampart. They'd gone out on a fire call right after Squad 51 had departed and somehow, they hadn't gotten the news yet. At the sight of him, they'd all yelled his name and converged on him the way kids did on a department store Santa Claus at Christmas, and he had his hand pumped, his back slapped, and his hair rumpled. Henry had astonished them all by flopping off the couch and coming to sniff at his feet before he returned to lethargy. Even Chet had grabbed him and given him a one-armed hug of sheer relief, although he caught himself immediately, mortified. Ever since, he'd been trying to pretend he hadn't done it, but Johnny had seen the relief in his eyes and didn't try to push it. Yet.

It was so good to be back. He wasn't officially on duty yet. Dr. Brackett had examined him and he'd had blood tests. The drugs, whatever they were, were out of his system, but Brackett wanted him to take the rest of today and tomorrow off, just to be sure. So, he was on sick leave, but he'd come in, anyway, directly from the hospital, with Roy and Brice in the squad. He figured he owed it to the guys to let them know he was okay. The welcome home had been more than worth it. And then there was Roy, who stuck right by his side the whole way. It hadn't taken a psychic to see how bad DeSoto had felt when he believed Johnny was dead. So Johnny figured he owed it to Roy to hang around for a while, just to keep reminding him that all was well.

Besides, returning to the station was like coming home, and he needed it as much as Roy needed him to be here.

"So she slipped me the key," he continued. "And I called it in to dispatch, and then I let everybody out. We were just about ready to break out of there when that Jack character showed up with a gun."

Roy's head came up fast and he studied Gage as if he was afraid he'd overlooked a bullet wound or two. "Are you sure you're okay, John?"

"You bet, pally. Don't you think Brackett would have noticed if I wasn't? I had a kitchen knife. So I threw it at him."

"You knifed the guy?" Marco demanded. Everybody leaned closer.

Johnny grinned. "Nah. It wasn't sharp enough for that. I hit him in the hand, and he dropped the gun. Captain Ransom grabbed him and tried to pound him into the floor. The guy had been posing as his first mate for two weeks, setting him up, and Ransom was really steamed. I thought he was gonna kill the guy, but then we heard sirens and Ransom dragged him up and turned him over to the first cop who came in the door."

"What about that older guy I saw when I pulled up?" Roy asked.

"Whitey? I called him that. He tried to pretend he was God, for Pete's sake, and that I was on the way to heaven."

"No wonder you didn't buy into the scam, Johnny," put in Chet with a wicked smirk. "You would've known you'd be going to the warmer place."

"Shut up, Chet," Johnny said without taking offence. He had his audience right where he wanted them. "Turns out the guy's name is Sylvester. He used to be a professor of psychology at UCLA, but they fired him because they thought some of his research was unethical. He decided he'd get back at them for canning him, so he dreamed up this scheme to prove it was possible to convince people to believe anything he wanted them to believe with some conditioning, if you took them from a situation where the story he was trying to feed them was possible. So he figured people would believe they had died if their last memory was of being in a boat."

"He had this Jack character hijack it?" asked Captain Stanley.

"Yes sir, that's just exactly what he did," agreed Johnny.

"So who was this Angelica?" demanded Chet.

"She'd been his research assistant at UCLA. She was also his niece, and she felt she had to help him out to prove himself. Once he got her out to the house and told her what she had to do, she hated it, but she was afraid to leave him and she was scared of Jack. So she figured she'd better stick around and play along. I finally got through to her and she helped me." He beamed. "If she doesn't have to go to jail, I'm taking her out a week from Friday."

"Poor woman," muttered Chet. Johnny gave his arm a poke.

"You're just jealous."

"Why should I be jealous, Gage? I didn't almost believe I was in the afterlife, after all. I think I've got enough smarts to tell whether I was alive or dead."

"You missed me," Johnny crowed. "I can tell."

Chet squirmed. "Yeah, and you're delusional. You'd been drugged, you said. Poor guy, it must have messed up your brains."

"Just wait," Johnny challenged him. "When tomorrow's paper comes out, I'll be a hero. My name in the headlines. My picture on the front page." He grinned at Roy. "It's gonna be great."

"Yeah, it is," agreed Roy, his eyes twinkling. "I'll have Joanne buy up a bunch of copies." He turned to the others. "The press found out what was going on, and they followed the ambulances up there. They got some great shots of him--in his angel robes."

Johnny's face fell. He'd forgotten about that. Okay, being a hero was great, but being a hero in a long white dress didn't bear thinking about.

He wasn't sure if he would ever live it down.