Friends Helping Friends

The author got fed up with a two month stall. Hope you'll forgive the work-around.

Christine heard the phone and rolled over, barely resisting the urge to bury her head under her pillow.

The phone rang again.

Not many people would be calling at this time of -- she checked the clock -- morning. Nor would many people call on that phone; fewer than ten people had the number.

She groaned and stretched and reached for the phone.

"Phantom," she said into the voice-disguise system.

"Ms. Phantom?" replied a young, scared voice.

"Yes...."

"Ms. Phantom, it's Sharri. Sharri Richards."

Young was right. Sharri was only thirteen. Precocious in some ways, behind in others, like all kids, but still only thirteen.

"What is it?"

"It's my dad. He's gone."

"Gone?"

"He didn't come home, and he was supposed to be home by nine. I hope you don't mind. He left this number to call in an emergency."

The Phantom had walked into the room that was only physically part of her home, and was dressing and selecting her equipment as she listened.

"No, I don't mind. Where are you now?"

"At home."

"Okay. Stay there. Do you know the ID codes your father and I use?"

"Ye-es." The voice was hesitant.

"Either you do, or you don't. I can work either way, but if you say you know them, then you'd better be right."

"I know some of them -- the ones Daddy thought I'd need."

"You know numbers eight and five?"

"Yes."

"Good. You go to the bolt-hole and stay there. I'll use number eight to let you know I'm in the house, and five to let you know it's safe to come out of the bolt-hole."

"You really think I'm in danger?"

"I think that we won't take any chances. Now scoot. I've got to collect some things before I get there."

"Okay."

The Phantom, made a quick check of the security on her house, double-checked that the phone call had not been traced, grabbed a bag of gear, set the tell-tale on the door, and left.

An hour later a tall slender woman dressed in black leathers and motorcycle helmet, with the helmet's tinted visor down, arrived at a small house in a secured neighborhood. She waited, watching, until she was as sure as possible that she was not observed, then pulled her small motorcycle into the drive of the house two doors down.

She went to the door and pretended to ring the bell, and waited, and watched some more. None of the neighbors appeared interested.

A circuit of the house showed nothing unusual. She paid special attention to the phone and power cables and the satellite dish. The phone box for the block had already been checked.

Finally, she stood in front of the door, keyed in a security code, and used the special key that Bob Richards had given her. Only three of these keys existed -- one each for Bob, Sharri, and The Phantom.

She went to the basement, under the porch, and tapped code eight into the control panel. The occupant of the bolt-hole gave the correct counter-code.

A circuit of the interior showed nothing amiss.

She went to the bolt-hole and tapped in code five. The occupant gave the correct counter-code, then began the process of opening the room.

Five minutes later, a very scared and lonely girl was holding on to The Phantom as if her worst nightmares had just come true. The woman dropped to her level and hugged her back in reassurance, gently wiping the tears from the girl's cheeks.

"Come on, Sharri. It's going to be okay.... Now, tell me exactly what happened."

Thirteen or not, once Sharri got started, she was remarkably precise and detailed. Someone had trained her well -- the woman who was now holding her.

Bob had left the lab at noon, to meet with a new client. Sharri did not know how the client had found out about the company, or how they had proven that they were safe.

Safety was very important to Bob. His company, Richards Engineering, was the largest and most versatile free-lance engineering company in England that dealt in less-than-legal equipment. To be more precise, it was the largest that was not owned by, and restricted to, one team. By preference, his clients were all on the side of good, but in this field it was often hard to get references. Enemies ranged from people he had refused to work with, to people who had been on the wrong end of his systems, to people who thought he was stretching the law too far, to people who wanted to "permanently hire" him and his team.

Sharri had been home-schooled since the age of eight, supplemented with hands-on experience in the lab. The lack of daily exposure to kids her own age was considered less of a problem to Bob than worrying about her at school. The things she was good at, she was encouraged to do more in. The things she was not good at, she was required to stay at age level.

Her favorite place in the whole world was sitting beside her father while he explained another detail of how a system worked, or how to troubleshoot a problem. In many ways, she seemed to have bypassed some stages of growing up. It was necessary; her mother had died of cancer when she was eight.

The Phantom took Sharri with her to the bedroom Bob used as a home office, to see if there was any information. As expected, there was nothing. She then changed the message on Bob's answering machine to include the codes that meant that Sharri was with her, and safe. She also used a disposable phone to leave email for two of Bob's accounts with the same information.

"You ever ride a motorcycle, Sharri?"

"Yeah. One of the techs brought one in and gave me a ride."

"Well, you're going to get another ride." She gave the girl a helmet. "Just hold on tight and lean the way I do."

The lab itself was dark and empty. This was not unusual -- too many errors were made by over-tired people, and there was no room for error in this business. Serious overtime was saved for the important stuff.

The Phantom checked the tell-tales and locks. Everything was as it should be. She asked Sharri to check as well.

"Why?"

"Because there are some things you know that I don't. And you're a smart and observant girl, who sees this place every day, and knows how the people here work. Are there any desks clear that shouldn't be? Are there any things not put away?"

Sharri looked over the room again, pausing and thinking at times, but doing her serious best.

"I think it's normal. John and Tom and Komatsu must have finished their project early, because their area is tidier than usual, but they were close to finishing anyways."

The Phantom went over to check. There was nothing that caught her eye, until she saw the laser beam at knee level. She pointed it out to Sharri.

"Oh, that's normal. They put it in a different place each night, to see who trips it first the next day." The girl came over and confirmed that it was the normal equipment.

They finally made it to Bob's office. Again, everything was normal.

On his desk was a note, in code. The Phantom read the code and reached for ceiling tile A4. In it was the information on the latest client. It was very sparse, but convincing.

"Okay. We have to get you to a safe place, after we set up a communications system. If they want a ransom, they might try to call you or the lab."

Setting up the communications system simple enough. Sharri did some of the work, and the equipment was readily available. The Phantom added one more level of cut-out and approved it.

"You have a talent for this, Sharri." Keep the girl thinking about practical things. Don't let her think about what might be happening to her father.

"That's what Dad says."

The Phantom thought about where to put Sharri for the night. She was tempted to let her use Christine's home, but that would violate every rule she had lived by for the past six years. Never, ever, compromise your civilian identity.

One of the empty safe-houses she kept would not be suitable for a thirteen-year-old girl. They were simply too sparse and lonely for the girl.

She used yet another phone to call Emma Baker. Two years ago, the senior had lost her family and hired The Phantom to bring the killers to justice. She now felt that she owed a favor. Keeping Sharri occupied would be just the thing. The Phantom arranged for Sharri to meet the older woman at a transit terminus. The responsibility of taking public transit to the safe-house, and remembering the codes to get in, would keep the girl distracted.

The Phantom, of course, shadowed them the entire way. No one else did.

She then went to another safe-house, one with more equipment, turned on the computer, inserted her flash-disk into the drive, and typed in more codes to confirm her identity.

Two hours later, including a title search for a property in the warehouse district and three calls to contacts (one police detective, one lawyer, and one hacker), she had a location and pictures to go with the names in Bob's files.

++++++

A black-clad figure crawled over the roof-tops of Brighton's sea-side warehouse district in the pre-dawn light.

She looked at the dawn with regret. Dawns were to be spent doing Tai Chi on the beach, or lazing in bed, or in any one of a dozen ways. Some people even spent them with a friend. They were not to be spent cold and tired and hungry on a freezing and slippery roof-top moving from one likely access point to another, and directing a small squad of micro-bots through a deserted and condemned building, looking for one of the few friends she allowed herself to have.

The building was empty.

She made her way to ground level, and tried to make sense of what her IR goggles showed her.

Signs of a car in front of the building that might have started and left within the last hour.

Several people coming out of the building and getting into the car.

Maybe a drunk who was moved by the people around the time they got into the car. The drunk appeared to have moved off under his own power.

She followed the faint trail left by the transient; it ended several buildings down at a blanket containing a scruffy and underfed teenager showing signs of long neglect and mild drug use. She made calm and reassuring noises as she moved towards him, hoping to wake him slowly.

"C'm'on, man, I moved from the freggin' door. I can't lower your freggin' property values s'long's it's dark out."

"It's getting brighter." She used a quiet, non-threatening, almost amused voice.

The blanket moved and the teenager looked at her, then at the surroundings.

"Shit, yeah, it is." He squinted his eyes at her. "Guess I gotta move again, eh?"

"Might be wise."

"Yeah." He could not figure her out. "Wha'da'ya want?"

"Information on the folks who moved you earlier."

He bundled himself further into his bedroll.

"There's something in it for you, too."

The bedroll grunted.

"If you had to earn a basic living, real job, with paycheck and income tax, what would you do?"

"I'd be a freggin' brain surgeon."

"Why aren't you?"

"Jesus, lady, what a stupid question."

"No question is stupid."

"Look, lady, say your piece, leave the freggin' sandwich, and leave me alone."

"I don't have a sandwich."

He glowered at her.

"There is something else I can give you." She pulled a card from her pocket and wrote on it. "This is good for one week at Hampton Clinic, all reasonable expenses included. At the end of the week, you'll get a decent suit and a job interview at Grange's Warehouse. Honest paycheck for honest work, so long as you do what the Clinic tells you."

"Need ID for honest work."

"You got a real name?"

"Yeah."

"Any reason not to use it?"

He thought for a moment. "Don't think so."

"So why don't you have any ID?"

"What do you freggin' think, Lady!"

She thought a moment. "One of my friends will visit you at the clinic to discuss it. Grange will still hire you."

He looked unconvinced.

"You don't believe in fairy tales, do you?"

"Nope."

"Neither do I, but this is all the coin I have, and right now I need a miracle. Tell me what you can about the people who moved you this morning. And when you get settled, call the second number on that card and tell me you're ready to pay it forward."

"Pay it forward?"

"Help me help the next kid."

He rolled over and looked at the brightening sky.

"You going to tell me about the people, or not? Truth, now, and don't waste my time with lies."

"There were four guys, one of them in rough shape."

"What'd he look like?"

"Santa Claus."

She almost smiled at the accurate image. "Sounds right. What else can you tell me?"

"They cleared me off, then got him into the car. Said something about his daughter and a gun."

"License plate?"

"Started with an C. Didn't bother to get a look at it."

"Car type? Color?"

"Dark, large, foreign." He looked up at her. "A big one -- they didn't have to stoop down to get in."

"Did you see the others? Or hear anything else?"

"Boss-guy's called Mort."

She resisted the urge to swear.

"Anything else?"

"They talked about some horses and chickens. Something about chicken-shit."

"You remember more, tell Nurse Bently at the clinic, okay?"

"Why?"

She thought about it for a moment. "The Santa Claus guy? He gave me the pen I used to write that note."

As she left, she used her rear-view camera to watch the kid; he crumpled the card, then stared into space and smoothed it out again before rolling up his blanket and walking down the street.

Mighty big reward to identify one suspect. Woman, you're getting soft, using up favors on street-kids.

On the other hand, one kid's life is worth the cost. And if he doesn't use it, it's still available for the next time.

++++++

A young woman in a black tracksuit with a red (reversible) jacket and a sheen of sweat jogged up the stairs shortly after dawn. One of the other tenants of the middle-class apartment building recognized her. She nodded back, commented on the beautiful weather this year, agreed that today's game would be exciting, and declined, again, an offer to watch the game in his apartment.

She went through this routine every few weeks. The neighbors thought she was a stewardess with irregular hours. The Romeo across the hall was mostly harmless, except for his now perfunctory attempts to get her into his bed.

Breakfast was cold cereal and canned milk, accompanied by instant coffee and a juice box. It was not worth the effort to stock the place with fresh groceries when she used it irregularly.

The search of the car registry took some time, but eventually the threads fell into place. The photos at the automated toll booths confirmed the timing. The farm, though, was a bit of luck.

She had thought Morty had given up on the race horses, but obviously he hadn't. There was a horse called "Chicken" on the card at Flamborough, stabled at an estate north of the city.

She called Emma and Sharri; she gave them no news other than that she was still alive and working.

Then she called one of the local drug squad to let him know what was happening -- not that she expected to find anything he could use, but it never hurt to have backup available.

++++++

It was noon before she drove up to the luxury ranch in a small, dark, 4-wheel drive vehicle. Much as she missed her bike, she needed the extra room in the rented truck.

She checked her map, then drove a mile back and pulled off on a gravel road. The remote control spy system Bob had just finished was about to prove useful for the second time in twenty-four hours.

A large bird flew over the farm. A cloud of horse-flies surrounded it, then descended. The bird kept watch from overhead, acting as a relay between the weak antennae on the bugs and the main base. The flies systematically flew through the barns, the sheds, and the garages -- all places where they could stay mostly unnoticed.

The phone line she had tapped became active, calling one of the backup numbers to the lab.

"Sharri, Honey, it's Daddy. I'm okay, but Laroux has to call me back really soon, okay? I love you."

"Sure she'll get the message?"

"She knows to check the machine every few hours while I'm out, just in case. Laroux will bring the weapon, don't worry."

Good old Bob.

Honey meant outside the city. Okay meant still healthy. Laroux meant to call The Phantom. Really soon meant that he thought he had several hours before his captors would get impatient, not that Bob was a great judge of character.

She directed a few flies to hover near each window and door of the main house, easing a few inside. There was one man in the kitchen preparing a light meal for several people, one in the lavatory, two in a back room sleeping, one in the main hall near a door with his gun on his lap, and, through that door, Mort, Bob, and a rather unfriendly looking professional.

Bob was apparently free to move around.

She could easily get through the window, but Bob, with his Santa Clause girth, could not, at least not before the rest of the staff arrived. The windows in the other rooms along the hall were of the same style and height.

The walls could be anything from two-by-fours with drywall, to old-fashioned lathe and plaster, to stone.

All this meant that the door to the room was the only exit which was useful.

insert rescue scene that I've given up trying to write. Suffice to say that when her plan goes awry she adapts quickly because she has the info on other things, e.g., the floor plan. Or mabye a shooter. Whatever, just throw in some excitement and heart pounding and maybe a scratch or two.

Oh, she regrets having to kill the baddies, but knows she has no choice.

Bob pretty much plays possum and goes along with the rescuers, but he's smart. Rewires a light, takes Jen's hints, that sort of thing. Not a fighter, though.

++++++

A young girl carrying a Pomeranian stood at the street corner anxiously peering into the dark. Behind her was an older woman, grandmotherly.

A taxi pulled up at the curb. A man got out. The girl ran to him and they hugged. They returned the dog to the woman; she refused. All three got into the taxi and drove off.

A slender woman removed herself from the wall she was leaning against and went wearily to her bike, tucking her camera into her bag as she went. Another family photo for her bedroom wall.

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