Post by qohart on Feb 14, 2009 21:17:37 GMT -8
Thank you to Apple and Pet. Without their help, encouragement and writing/editing skills, I’d never be able to post anything.
As usual, I don’t own the characters, I just love them.
The Night of the Deadly Formula
by Cris Hart
He opened his eyes slowly, his head throbbing, his throat raw. Carefully he raised his head to look around. The room was vaguely familiar, but he could not place where or when he'd been here before. He closed his eyes as the pounding rhythm in his skull began to beat harder and let his head drop softly back onto the table.
Table?
He raised his head again and saw that he was indeed on a table, not unlike a surgery table. He tried to sit up, to swing his legs off the table, but a grabbing snatch of pain in his ribs stopped him, that and the restraints across his chest and hips, and the straps that held his wrists and ankles securely to the table.
What had happened? How did he get here, wherever here was? He wanted to shake the cobwebs from his head but knew that would be a big mistake. Instead, he opted for closing his eyes and focusing on what he could remember. He knew who he was, Artemus Gordon, and that he was an agent with the Secret Service. One for the plus column, he mused. He remembered his partner, James West, and he remembered filing a report on their last assignment. Concentrating hard on remembering, he found that not much else was available to his mind at the present.
He was startled by a gentle hand coming to rest on his chest.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to see if you'd awakened," a tall thin man with birdlike features said kindly.
"I have. Do you suppose you could tell me where, exactly, I am and how I came to be here?" he asked.
"There's no time for that now. They're coming and…," that was as far as the older man got.
"Is he awake?" called a loud, commanding, voice which then answered his own question. "Yes, I see he is. And how are you feeling, Mr. Gordon?" the disembodied voice asked.
The voice sounded familiar, but Artie was having a hard time concentrating and focusing. Then the owner came into his line of sight. "Colonel Spegal," Artie sighed. "What is this all about, sir?"
"An experiment in terror, you might call it," Colonel Spegal sneered, "One that, if all goes according to plan, will bring me everything I want in life. Is everything ready, Professor?" Colonel Spegal directed this to the birdman.
"Yes, Colonel, but I must insist again that you not do this. The consequences can be dire," the birdman/Professor answered blinking his owly eyes.
Colonel Spegal whirled on the Professor, his face flush with anger. "I have already told you that no consequence is too dire to achieve my goals! Any and everyone is expendable so long as the end result is positive!" he shouted. “And a positive result will be,” Colonel Spegal paused, raised his arm and slowly curled his fingers into a fist before continuing, “Power,” he almost whispered the word with awe and desire. “Power for me, Professor. Do you understand what it means to be the highest authority of the land? What it means to be in possession of that power? To be able to crush worthless underlings,” at this he glanced toward the Professor and Artie, “and see them cast aside.” His smile did not match the ferocity in his eyes.
The Professor cringed slightly at the colonel's fury. Artie did not like what he was hearing. Not the words, nor the tone of the colonel’s voice. He thought his superior sounded...well...insane.
"You will do as you are told, Professor. Loyalty, respectfulness," the colonel began again, in his best orator's voice, "Those are the desired qualities in my underlings. These will gain me my constituency and my ultimate goal, POWER! These are the qualities that are rewarded." He fixed the Professor with a steely gaze, "You have been the recipient of one reward already, have you not, Professor?"
"Y...yes," stammered the man standing near Artie and casting a glance at him sorrowfully.
The look unsettled Artie. Why would the Professor look sorrowful? Artie was testing and working at the restraints that held him but could not move his hands or feet more than a millimeter.
"Just remember that, Professor. You're daughter is safe, your work is advancing," Colonel Spegal paused, "Seems you are the recipient of two rewards," he mused. "Inject him with the poison!" he cried pointing at Artie. He stood and watched the professor take the syringe filled with a pale yellow liquid and go back to the man lying on the table.
"It's not a poison, Colonel," the Professor answered softly as he turned and took Artie’s left hand in his. He wiped a spot in the crook between his knuckles, leaned over as though examining the spot and whispered.
"Don't listen to anything he says. And remember this: Do not come back here. No matter
what. No matter how much you want to, no matter how strong the urge to return is, you must fight it. YOU MUST NOT RETURN. Do you understand?" the Professor asked quickly.
"Yes, I understand, but why?" Artie managed to whisper back.
"What's taking so long, Professor?" Colonel Spegal called coming to the table. "Proceed," he ordered watching carefully.
The Professor held Artie’s gaze as he slid the needle into a vein in his hand and pressed the plunger.
"I truly am sorry," Artie heard the Professor say softly, as the liquid burned in his veins.
Then Colonel Spegal's face loomed over him. His lips moved, and the words came to Artie as if from a distance, softly, insidiously, as the injection knocked him out almost immediately.
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James West entered the parlor of the private train that was his to use with the permission of his government. He'd called it home for the last five years. But it had not felt like home for the last three days. His partner and friend, Artemus Gordon was missing having failed to return after the routine duty of filing their report on their last mission with their superior, Colonel Douglas Richmond.
Jim sat heavily on the plush gold sofa, leaned his head back and closed his tired eyes. What's happened to you, Artie? he wondered for the hundredth time. He reviewed the events that had brought him to this moment of weary contemplation.
When Artie had failed to return, Jim had contacted Colonel Richmond and been informed Artie had left hours earlier. Immediately suspicious, Jim had saddled his horse intent on finding his partner. Lowering the ramp to the stable car he'd been surprised to find Artie's horse, Mesa, munching scrub grass along the tracks.
"Hey, girl," he'd said to the chestnut, "Where's Artie? Where did you leave him?" He spoke softly to the animal as he checked her for any signs of injury or stress. But Mesa was not over heated or injured. "Let's get you inside," and he'd cared for Mesa before setting off on his original task. Finding Artie.
No one had seen Artie since he'd left Colonel Richmond's office except the Colonel's dour secretary, Millie. On his way out, as had become his habit, Artie had stopped to tease her. She was too prim and proper, in Artie’s opinion, and he never failed to try to cajole a smile out of her. It usually gleaned him a "Hmph!" or "What cheek!" or the most usual, a firm "Go away". Millie had confirmed to Jim that Artie had indeed needled her into telling him to leave at which Artie, ever the devil, had boldly kissed her cheek, grinned, and promised to try harder for a smile on his next visit. Millie confessed to Jim, that she really enjoyed the teasing, and hoped Artie was all right. She made Jim promise not to reveal her confession and with a reassuring smile, Jim agreed and left.
Jim had spent the last three days searching in vain for his partner. He found no leads, no clues, and had run out of places to look. He'd scoured every bar, side alley, gambling house, and theatre he knew of, hoping Artie had, perhaps, picked up a scrap of information that had lead him into an unexpected and spur of the moment investigation. But at every turn he found nothing. Artie had simply disappeared.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jim rose from the sofa. He needed a couple of hours sleep before he started out again. As he turned toward the corridor leading to his quarters, the outside door opened behind him. Artie stumbled through the door and collapsed on the floor.
"Artie!" Jim cried rushing to his friend, turning him onto his back. Artie was awake and breathing heavily, his eyes glazed and staring. "Artie, are you all right?" Jim asked concerned.
"Yeah," Artie breathed, slowly nodding and trying to sit up.
Jim helped him sit up and leaned him against the desk then closed the door. He looked down at his partner's disheveled appearance and weighed the fact that he’d just stumbled through the door. The possibility that Artie was being pursued made Jim turn back and lock the door. He looked like he'd been in a fight, and lost. He had a black eye, still quite swollen, a split bottom lip, and finger marks around his throat.
Kneeling next to him, Jim asked, "What happened to you? Where have you been?"
Artie turned confused eyes to his friend. "Jim?" he asked barely above a whisper and reached his hand tentatively toward his partner's face, letting his fingers brush the stubble on his cheek, as though confirming he was really there.
"Yeah, Artie, it's me. Come on," Jim said hauling his partner to his feet by the arm, "Let's get you up."
Artie let himself be pulled up but grimaced and hissed in a breath, in the process. "Oh, that hurts," he moaned softly as Jim lowered him onto the sofa.
Jim sat next to him looking into his eyes. He raised a hand to Artie’s head and his friend flinched as though he thought Jim would strike him.
"I'm not going to hurt you, buddy, I just want to see if you've taken a hit to the old noggin," Jim smiled reassuringly as he placed his hand on Artie’s head and felt a large lump. Artie hissed again as Jim felt it. He peered into his partner's brown eyes, assessing him for signs of a concussion.
"Ok, how about you get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning," Jim said and once again pulled his friend to his feet.
"Sure," Artie said uncertainly, and again grimaced with pain. He let Jim lead him to his room.
"Can you manage or do you need help?" Jim asked watching Artie carefully.
"I'm fine," Artie answered noncommittally as he sat in the chair and started to pull off his boots.
"I'll be back in a minute, then," Jim replied and closed the door. He leaned his back against it and sent up a prayer of thanks then returned to the parlor.
Opening the box that hid the telegraph key, he tapped out a message to Colonel Richmond advising him that Artie had returned with a possible concussion. He would advise further in the morning. A reply came back quickly acknowledging his message and requesting to be kept informed.
Jim knew Artie would want a bath, so he heated water and filled the tub before returning to his friend’s room. Jim knocked on the door but got no response. He opened it and peered in. Artie sat in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head back, his left hand across his brow. His shirt was unbuttoned, his trousers unbuckled. Jim saw large purpling bruises on his partner's torso. If it had been a fight, it had been a bad one. But to his trained eye, this looked more like a deliberate beating.
"Artie," he called his partner's name softly as he lightly shook him awake.
"Jim?" Artie opened bleary eyes and asked in the same confused voice he'd used before. He
seemed to be seeing Jim for the first time.
"Yeah, it's me, Artie," Jim repeated patiently, "Let me help you get ready for bed," he offered pulling Artie up more gently than he had before now that he'd seen his injuries. "I drew you a bath."
"Yeah, ok," Artie answered sounding dazed. He shook his left hand, flexed the fingers then rubbed a spot between his knuckles.
Jim pulled his friend's shirt off for him and tentatively placed his hands on his partner's ribcage, gently feeling for any broken bones. He didn't feel anything broken but Artie’s flinch confirmed the ribs were bruised.
"Trousers, partner," he ordered but Artie looked at him as though he didn't understand. Jim shook his head with a crooked grin, "Take your trousers off," he was more specific in his instruction.
"Oh," Artie answered and stepped out of his slacks. Then he just stood waiting.
Jim rolled his eyes and led his friend to the waiting bath. "Get in," Jim instructed quietly.
Artie stepped into the tub without removing his undergarments. As he sat in the steaming water, Jim had to chuckle. "I think you forgot something, pal," he smiled. He was met with a puzzled look. "Your drawers," Jim explained and watched as his confused friend struggled under the water to remove them. He tossed the soaked garments onto the floor. "Oh, good grief," Jim sighed. "I'll be right back. Don't drown, ok?" he teased.
"No," Artie answered distractedly, but scrubbed himself with soap and cloth.
Jim got his friend clean clothes and a towel. He knocked on the door and again received no answer. "Artie," he called before opening the door. Artie was asleep again, in much the same position he'd been in in the chair, one hand across his brow, his head back. Jim realized he'd have to tend to his friend, he simply couldn't seem to manage on his own. He woke his partner gently then helped him get dried off and into the clean nightshirt and led him back to his room.
Jim pulled back the covers on the bed. "Get into bed," Jim instructed patiently. Artie obeyed. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning," he gave his partner another crooked smile.
"Jim?" Artie asked for a third time.
Jim hung his head for a second. "Yeah, Artie, it's me," Jim answered a third time. "We'll talk in the morning," he added as he turned down the lamp and quietly exited.
In his own room, Jim paced his mind consumed with unanswered questions. He listened for any sounds from his partner's room then went to bed himself. He slept soundly, the first real sleep he'd had since his friend's disappearance.
In the morning, Jim sat sipping a cup of coffee when Artie entered the parlor in his robe.
"Good morning," Jim greeted him cheerily.
"Good morning," Artie answered questioningly.
"What's wrong?" Jim asked.
"How did I get back here?" Artie asked taking the seat opposite Jim at the table.
"I was hoping you could tell me," Jim admitted with a relieved grin, "Where have you been?"
"I filed our report with Colonel Richmond, then I woke up here," Artie shrugged his shoulders.
"That's all you remember?" Jim narrowed his eyes studying Artie’s face.
"Yeah, but I suspect there's more to it than that," Artie answered.
"Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?" Jim hoped for a clue of some kind.
"Well, I have at least a three day growth of beard for one thing," Artie answered running the back of his hand up his cheek, "and then there are these bruises I seem to have acquired," Artie said looking down into his robe. "Unless of course you did it," he quipped.
"No, I didn't," Jim chuckled, "and that is a three day beard. Artie," he turned serious, "you disappeared after you left the colonel's office. You were missing for three days. You don't remember anything?"
Artie stared at him disbelieving. "Three days?" he asked incredulous, then changed his expression to one of resignation. You just said yourself your beard is at least three days worth. I don't know why you're sounding so incredulous, he said to himself. "I'm sorry, Jim, I just don't remember anything else. Do I have a concussion?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. Last night, I would have said yes definitely. You're pretty clear this morning, though," Jim said shaking his head slowly. "What did you do when you left Colonel Richmond?" Jim asked hoping to prompt some memory.
"I teased Millie. She really needs to lighten up or she'll never have a life other than being his secretary," Artie gave a small smile.
"Then what?" Jim urged, returning the smile.
"I went down the steps and untied Mesa," Artie said calmly. Then suddenly he stood and cried,
"Mesa!"
"She came home. I found her outside when I was going to look for you that night. She's fine," Jim assured him.
"Thank goodness. I was worried she wouldn't find her way back," Artie sighed wearily, sitting again.
"You were worried she wouldn't find her way back?" Jim repeated by way of a question. "Artie, did you send her back here?" Jim coaxed.
Artie sat in thought for a moment trying hard to remember. Slowly he nodded, "Yes. I remember now. Someone grabbed me from behind before I could mount up. There were two of them. One grabbed me, pinned my arms, the other one just started punching. I remember telling Mesa to go home before I passed out," Artie recounted.
"Did you see their faces?" Jim continued hoping more would come back.
"Not then. Later, I woke up tied to a table. Two men, one almost as big as Voltaire, but blond with piercing blue eyes and the other was a burly, dark haired guy with black shifty eyes. They beat me senseless. The big one tried to choke me. When I woke up again, I was outside by the tracks. I remember stumbling in here, then that's it, until I woke up this morning," Artie finished.
"Did they say anything? Give you any idea who they were or what they wanted?" Jim asked frowning.
"They never said a word. Just beat the hell out of me," Artie gestured with his hands that he had no clues.
"You never saw them before?" Jim urged a little more.
"Never saw either of them before. I had no sense of time. It's just as I told you. Nothing more," he shook his head and rubbed a small circle between his second and third knuckles.
The wireless clattered and both agents turned toward it. "I'll get it," Jim offered.
"I'm going to wash up and dress," Artie answered padding back down the corridor.
It was Colonel Richmond requesting a further report. Jim sent him the information Artie had just relayed and asked the colonel to have the bureau check on any known criminals fitting the descriptions Artie had supplied, scant as they were. The colonel replied he would and asked if Jim thought Artie was up to duty. Jim responded he seemed to be fine this morning, although his memory of the last three days was not complete. Colonel Richmond accepted Jim's assessment and sent them on a mission.
A scientist, Richard Angarola, had been reported missing by his daughter. He had been working on a formula for a truth serum, under the auspices of the government, but had encountered problems with it. The professor’s formula was missing as well. The daughter, Carol Angarola, told them she did not know what had gone wrong with the formula, but added that her father had said the consequences were serious if it should ever be administered to a human being. They were to find the professor and the formula. Jim acknowledged their acceptance of the new assignment and signed off.
"Artie," Jim called.
"Yeah, what is it?" Artie answered from his room.
Jim joined his partner who was shaving. "Bet you're glad to get rid of that," Jim grinned at him.
"You don't know the half of it," Artie answered lifting his chin to scrape his neck.
"Don't slit your throat," Jim teased.
"Bite your tongue," Artie replied drawing the razor over his Adam's apple. He paused to rinse the blade. "Was that the colonel?"
"Yes. We have an assignment. Are you up to it?" Jim asked.
"Sure. As long as it doesn't require wrestling anything that might get a grip on my ribs, that is," Artie joked, now carefully sliding the blade over his jaw line.
"Nope. We're to find a Professor Richard Angarola and his missing truth serum formula,"
Jim reported.
"I know him," Artie stated.
"Of course you do," Jim quipped, "Is there any scientific type you don't know?"
"Ha, ha, very funny. There's quite a few, I'm sure, but this one I do know," Artie retorted.
He began to take the last of the beard off from below his bottom lip.
"What do you know about him?" Jim asked leaning against the bed.
"Wu..e..i.." Artie began.
"I can't understand a thing you're saying," Jim groused.
Artie paused his shaving, "Let me finish up," and scraped the remaining shaving soap away. Taking a towel he wiped his face then turned to Jim, "I was saying, he's working on that formula for the government. Last I heard he wanted to test it out on a human subject and asked for permission to try it on a lifer," Artie explained, "I don't know if he ever got permission, though."
"He'd never get permission from the government for that. Especially since he told his daughter he'd run afoul in his experiments. She doesn't know what went wrong but said her father said it would be very bad if it was ever tried on a human being," Jim replied.
"Huh, I wonder what went wrong," Artie mused tossing the towel onto the dresser and pulling on his shirt. He paused buttoning it to rub his knuckles again.
"We'll talk to the daughter, Carol, see if she has any more information on that," Jim answered.
"I'd like to get a look at his notes," Artie sounded intrigued. He picked up his jacket. "Do you have her address?"
"Right here," Jim waved the paper he'd written their assignment on and smiled broadly at his friend. "You look a thousand times better."
"Feel it too. I do wonder who those cretins were that had a go at me, though. I suppose we'll never know," Artie shrugged as they left his room.
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"Miss Angarola?" Jim asked the pretty, slim, blond who answered the door.
"Yes, I'm Carol Angarola," she said warily, keeping her delicate hand on the door ready to slam it closed if necessary.
"My name is James West," he handed her his credentials, "and this is my partner, Artemus Gordon. May we come in and ask you a few questions?"
Her deep, blue eyes softened as she handed his papers back and opened the door wide for them to enter, "Yes, please do." She led them into the living room and motioned for them to sit. They politely waited for her to sit on the sofa then took the two wing chairs at either end.
"Miss Angarola, do you know if anyone contacted your father about his work, besides the government?" Jim asked.
"No one that I know of, Mr. West. Father never mentioned anyone. He kept in contact with Colonel Spegal almost daily, but no one else I know of," she nervously twisted her hands in her lap.
"Do you have any idea what went wrong with your father's formula?" Artie asked directly. He watched her hands and unconsciously began to rub the spot between his knuckles again.
"Only that he'd encountered some side effects that were lethal to the subject the serum was administered to," she answered.
"Did he say what side effects those were?" Artie wanted to know.
"He mentioned unreasonable fear and paranoia, hallucinations and crushing depression. He didn't say what the other side effects were or how they manifested, but he said they were as lethal as those could be," she replied.
"Did he keep his notes here?" Artie asked his interest piqued.
"In his study, possibly, you're welcome to look," she pointed to a door across the room.
"Thank you," Artie answered and went to the professor's study leaving Jim to inquire further into the professor's habits, friends, and associates.
Half an hour later, Jim joined Artie in the study. "Find anything?" he asked.
Artie was perched on the edge of the desk, pulling at his right ear as he read a journal.
He did not respond and Jim knew he was fully engrossed in the professor's writings. Jim crossed the room and tapped his partner on the shoulder startling him so badly the journal flew over his shoulder, landing on the floor behind the desk.
"Jim!" Artie looked up surprised. "You scared a year of life out of me," he said turning to pick up the journal.
"Find anything?" Jim repeated with a smile.
Artie snapped the journal closed. "Yes I did," he sounded as serious as he now looked. "I want to ask Miss Angarola if I can take this with me," he said crossing the room.
Jim followed him back into the living room where Artie had just asked if he could take the professor's journal.
"Yes. You will find my father won't you, Mr. Gordon?" she asked looking very worried.
"We'll do our best," Artie assured her and thanked her. Without waiting for Jim, he headed for the front door.
Jim tipped his hat to Miss Angarola and hurried after his partner. "Hey, wait up," Jim called as Artie had already mounted his steed and was ready to ride away.
"I'm sorry, Jim, I just want to get back to the train and finish going over these notes," Artie explained kicking Mesa's sides.
"What's so interesting in there?" Jim asked turning his stallion and catching up to Artie.
"Seems the professor did try his serum on a human subject. And with permission from the government," Artie answered soberly.
"You're joking! Who?" Jim demanded.
"Who gave him permission or who was the subject?" Artie asked. He began to rub the same spot between his knuckles.
"Both."
"Doesn't say who gave him permission, but I'd guess only Colonel Spegal could give that and he tested it out on a prisoner, like he wanted."
"To what result?" Jim now asked.
"I don't know. I didn't get that far. Let's hurry," he said spurring his horse faster.
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Artie blew out a long breath through pursed lips as he closed the journal and ran a hand through his hair. He sat back in the chair at the desk and looked up at his partner.
"Well?" Jim asked expectantly.
"He died," Artie stated flatly.
"Lethal side effects," Jim mused aloud.
"Precisely. Seems the side effects of the serum can cause the heart to race uncontrollably. Gave this particular prisoner a heart attack."
"Does he mention an antidote to his serum?" Jim asked.
Artie shook his head slowly. "Only that he was working on one, doesn't say if he ever completed it. But this journal ends over a week ago. How long has the professor been missing?" Artie asked.
"Four days, now. So he could have finished an antidote but never gotten it into his journal," Jim concluded.
"Right. Did his daughter have any clues to what happened to him?" Artie absently kneaded between his knuckles.
"Not really. Anything in there shed any light?" Jim asked.
"Don't you think I would have told you if there was?" Artie suddenly snapped at him.
Jim was taken aback. "I was just asking, Artie," he answered calmly.
"But you thought I might not tell you so you'd better ask?" Artie asked sarcastically.
"No,” Jim answered flatly. “Where's this coming from, Artie? We're just thinking this out aloud. That's all," Jim said growing irritated.
Artie looked suspicious a moment longer then his features softened. "I'm sorry, Jim. I guess I'm just tired," he answered sounding like himself again.
"It's all right, Artie. What do you say we have something to eat?" Jim asked with a smile for his friend.
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Over the next few days, they continued to pour over the professor's notes and all the information sent by the bureau on what they had in connection with the professor's work. No one knew what had gone wrong with the experiment and no one knew who had given him permission to test the serum on a prisoner.
To Jim, Artie seemed to be driving himself particularly hard on this case. He barely slept, ate even less, and was constantly on a short fuse.
Artie could not believe that no one knew anything, would not accept it, and fired back a tactless message to the bureau that they were 'incompetent nincompoops'. When Jim suggested that perhaps that was a bit harsh, Artie argued pointlessly. Jim had been baffled by the lack of thought in his partner's argument but put it down to fatigue.
The agents interviewed dozens of the professor's associates and friends. No one had heard from him or seen him. No one knew anything about his research and experiments.
Again, Artie had a hard time believing no one knew anything and argued with one of the professor's associates, practically accusing the man of withholding information, and provoked another into throwing them out of his house by sarcastically implying the man was complicit in the professor's disappearance. It was not like Artie to not be at least diplomatic, if he had suspicions. And Jim pointing that out had erupted into another argument. His partner had nothing to base any suspicion on and yet he'd managed to alienate two people with implied suspicion.
Finally, Jim tried to get him to take it easier, but Artie just sniped at him to mind his own business, which had sparked yet another argument between them, Jim harshly stating it was his business if his partner was incapacitated in some way that was clouding his thinking and hindering their investigation. Artie had taken umbrage at the implication that he was 'incapacitated' and stormed out, returning late that night, without a word.
Jim awoke suddenly, the morning after that last argument when he heard the outside door in the parlor slam. He rushed into the parlor but saw no one. He looked out the window and his jaw dropped. Artie was running across the field ducking low as though trying not to be seen. Jim threw open the window and scanned the landscape. There was no one outside except his partner.
"Artie!" he called but his partner did not stop. It was cold out but Artie was in only his shirtsleeves, his jacket and coat were still on the coat rack by the door. Now what's going on, Jim wondered as he hurriedly pulled on pants and boots.
He jumped on Blackjack and rode him bareback into the field in the direction Artie had gone. There were no tracks in the hard frozen ground. He rode slowly between the rows of dead, bundled corn stalks. He scanned across the field and finally spotted a shape huddled by a bundle of stalks. Riding quickly toward it, as Jim drew nearer, he saw it was indeed Artie, sitting on the ground with his knees drawn up and his head down. Jim pulled up to a stop and jumped down.
"Artie," he spoke softly, kneeling. Artie looked up with eyes wide with fright and drew away from him. "What's wrong, buddy?" Jim asked in a soothing voice. He did not reach out to his partner fearing he'd bolt. He looked like a trapped animal, his eyes darting left and right seeking an avenue of escape.
"You're not going to hurt me are you?" Artie asked fearfully, scrambling away a little farther.
"No, I'm not going to hurt you. Artie, do you know me?" Jim asked peering into his partner's eyes steadily.
Slowly recognition replaced the fear in his friend's eyes. "Jim," he said slowly. Then he looked around as though he had no idea where he was. "What are we doing out here?"
"You ran out here nearly half an hour ago, don't you remember?" Jim asked offering his hand to Artie, who allowed himself to be pulled up to standing.
"Why would I do that?" he asked rubbing the spot between his knuckles yet again. A variety of emotions battled for control of his expression. Fear and a great sadness won out and he struggled to hold back tears welling in his eyes. "What's happening to me?" he asked his friend, desperately.
Jim swallowed the lump of emotion that threatened to take his voice. "I don't know, buddy, but we'll figure it out. Come back to the train with me, it's cold out here," he said gently.
Artie nodded and accepted Jim's offer to ride back with him. Half way back, Jim felt Artie lean his head against his back and thought he heard him sob once. But when they dismounted, Artie just looked tired. No more than that. The nights without sleep were beating him down. He looked haggard. And Jim would swear he'd lost weight.
Jim begged Artie to try and sleep and finally got him into bed and watched as his eyes closed. In the parlor, Jim mulled over everything that had happened in the last week. In the silence, puzzle pieces began to take shape and he struggled to fit them together. There was a connection somewhere between Artie’s disappearance, the professor's disappearance, and Artie’s growing, and alarmingly strange behavior.
Suddenly Jim was seeing the pieces fall into place as he theorized. Artie and the professor had disappeared around the same time. The professor listed a number of side effects that Artie seemed to be experiencing. The two incidents must be related. Then Jim thought about the way Artie kept rubbing between his knuckles and went into his partner's room.
Carefully, so as not to awaken him, Jim picked up Artie’s hand and looked closely at the skin between his second and third knuckles. Yes, there it is, he thought, the faintest mark of a needle. He was sure Artie had been injected with the professor's serum. But who would want to do that and why? Lethal effects, the words rang in his head.
Returning to the parlor, Jim wired Colonel Richmond and asked if Jeremy Pike was in the area and available to join him on the train to help in the investigation. The colonel wired that he would send Jeremy right away. Jim pulled out the professor's journal and began to read for himself the account of the human experiment. He read the side effects the professor had noted. Fear, paranoia, depression, hallucinations, as Artie had told him, and farther on in the notes, anger, periods of amnesia, loss of appetite, and difficulty sleeping.
It also reported that the sleep deprivation, depression, and fear were what had caused the test subject's heart to race to the point of heart attack. Artie had not mentioned any of this. It was all too strange. A week had gone by since the professor had disappeared. There had been no ransom demand, no sign of who had taken him. Jim was beginning to think the professor was hidden in plain sight. Perhaps not even really missing.
Jim heard Artie cry out and hurried back to his partner's room.
Entering, Artie was waving his arms in front of him, battling some unseen foe and yelling for whomever the ghost was to get away.
Jim tried to subdue him. "Artie,” he called, “it's just a dream," Jim said quietly taking him by the arms. Artie broke into heart wrenching sobs and Jim found himself pulling his friend into an embrace. "Calm down, Artie, it's all right," he reassured him, though he was shaken to the core at his friend’s wildly swinging emotions.
Just as suddenly as it had started, the sobs ended and his mood changed again. Artie pulled away from Jim, drew back and punched him in the face snapping his head back and knocking him off the bed to the floor. "Why are you doing this to me!" Artie cried loudly jumping from the bed and glaring down at Jim.
Jim thought he saw something very close to insanity in his friend's eyes as he watched him bolt from the room. Jim rose and staggered after him still a little stunned by the sucker punch.
"Hey, Artemus!" he heard Jeremy's voice shout.
As Jim entered the parlor, Jeremy stood in the open doorway. "Where's he going in his underwear?" Jeremy asked, thumbing over his shoulder at the fleeing Artie.
"He's been drugged. We've got to catch him," Jim hurriedly explained as he stepped onto the porch. Once again, his partner was racing across the dead corn field.
Jeremy followed Jim's gaze. "He doesn't have any shoes on, he can't get far," he observed. "I'll go after him," he offered and without waiting for an answer, he leaped off the platform after his colleague.
"Be careful. His mood changes abruptly," Jim called after the retreating back of Jeremy.
Jim sat at the desk and rubbed his jaw gingerly. He pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil
from the desk and began to make a list of suspects.
Professor Richard Angarola was the first name he wrote. He paused trying to come up with a reason why the professor would want to test the serum on Artie when he'd already had a human test subject die. He abandoned finding a reason for the moment and continued his list.
Colonel Spegal. Again, why? Spegal had filled in for Colonel Richmond a few times while Richmond was on leave. He was a pompous, selfish, and arrogant man and had taken a particular dislike to Artie. Unlike Colonel Richmond, who knew Artie spoke frankly and honestly, Colonel Spegal took Artie’s borderline insubordination as a personal challenge to his authority. The two had sparred verbally a number of times. If Spegal felt that strongly he had a number of channels he could pursue to punish Artie. The fact that he had pursued a few and failed made Jim think revenge. But was that enough of a motive? Jim could not honestly say it was. The man had been selected by President Grant to oversee the scientific pursuits of the bureau.
He paused, thinking. Finally he wrote one more name. Dr. Miguelito Loveless. A prime suspect if ever there was one. And just the type of game the good doctor enjoyed.
Jim's thoughts were interrupted by Jeremy, puffing hard, as he entered the car. Without Artie.
"He's fast," Jeremy gasped leaning with one arm on the doorjamb.
"You didn't catch up to him?" Jim asked rising.
"I lost sight of him between the tied corn stalks. I'm sorry, Jim, I can't find him," Jeremy answered shaking his head.
"Let me get Blackjack saddled," Jim replied and went to the stable car.
The two agents searched the field thoroughly and did not find Artie.
"What's beyond this field?" Jeremy asked although he could see it was more of the same.
"More damn corn fields," Jim answered dourly.
"And beyond that?" Jeremy persisted.
"The edge of town," Jim informed his fellow agent with a shrug.
"Think he'd have a reason to head that way?"
"He knows a lot of people in Washington, but in his current state of mind, Jeremy, I can't imagine him going to any of them," Jim shook his head and scanned across the next field. It was as dead as this one. The corn stalks had been cut close to the ground and stood tied in bunches dotting the field with miniature tipi like structures. And Jim had an idea.
"I'd bet Artie’s hiding," he said to Jeremy, and rode to the closest bundle of stalks and kicked it over.
"I get it," Jeremy replied smiling. He went across the field.
The two agents progressed toward each other and closer to the train knocking over all the bundles of corn stalks in between. Nothing.
"Damn it!" Jim swore, "He can't have just disappeared," he fumed then realized what he'd said. Of course he can. It's already happened once, he mused. "Jeremy, you didn't see anyone else out here did you?" Jim asked.
"No one. Like I said, I saw him duck behind one of the bundles but by the time I got there, Artie was gone," Jeremy repeated his earlier report.
"I can't believe we just wasted an hour," Jim punched his saddle in frustration.
"Jim, look," Jeremy pointed over Jim's shoulder.
Jim turned in his saddle to see where Jeremy was pointing. A lone oak tree stood at the edge of the field and just dropping to the ground from its branches was Artie. He staggered wearily toward the train rubbing his arms for warmth.
"I'll be damned," Jim sighed. "I'll bet he won at hide and seek every time, as a child," he turned his horse back toward the train and crossed the short distance quickly, Jeremy close behind.
By the time they stopped, Artie had entered the train. They found him sprawled on the sofa one arm flung across his face. The soles of his feet bore the cuts from trodding on the stumps of the corn stalks. He appeared to be sleeping.
"Take care of the horses, will you, Jeremy?" Jim asked quietly as he approached his partner. He sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa debating whether he should wake him or let him sleep.
But Artie was not sleeping. "I think I'm insane," he muttered softly, fully aware of Jim's presence.
"No you're not," Jim answered calmly, "but I think you've had a dose of the professor's serum."
"Lord, I hope you're right. I don't want to be insane. But without an antidote, I don't know how much longer I can fight this," Artie murmured, not moving.
"Fight what, Artie? What are you feeling?" Jim urged his friend, "Maybe I can help."
"Fear, mostly," Artie answered with a sadness Jim had never heard in him before.
"Fear of what?" he asked.
Artie shrugged one shoulder. "You. Myself. Everything."
"Artie, did the doctor write his formula in his journal? I looked, but I couldn't find it," Jim wanted to know. He wanted as much information from his partner as he could get while he was clear headed.
"No. He posited, though, that some of the side effects could be from the drug he used as a base," Artie finally sat up, leaned his elbows on his knees, but did not look up at Jim.
"What drug would be the most likely to cause the symptoms you're experiencing?" Jim asked urgently.
Artie shook his head slowly and Jim grew frustrated.
"Artie," he fairly shouted to get and keep his attention, "You know more about chemicals and drugs than anyone in the bureau. Think, damn it!" He grabbed Artie by the shoulders and shook him, forcing him to look him in the eye.
And almost regretted that he had. The growing fear was pushing the desperation in his friend’s eyes into the background. And Jim saw humiliation. Each shifting emotion struck Jim to his heart. What must you be going through, partner, he wondered. And with each shift, Artie became more agitated, Jim could hear his breaths coming faster as he unconsciously rubbed the small puncture mark between his knuckles.
"Hang on, Artie. Tell me. What's your best guess?" he demanded.
"I...I have to get away," Artie cried, jumping up.
As usual, I don’t own the characters, I just love them.
The Night of the Deadly Formula
by Cris Hart
He opened his eyes slowly, his head throbbing, his throat raw. Carefully he raised his head to look around. The room was vaguely familiar, but he could not place where or when he'd been here before. He closed his eyes as the pounding rhythm in his skull began to beat harder and let his head drop softly back onto the table.
Table?
He raised his head again and saw that he was indeed on a table, not unlike a surgery table. He tried to sit up, to swing his legs off the table, but a grabbing snatch of pain in his ribs stopped him, that and the restraints across his chest and hips, and the straps that held his wrists and ankles securely to the table.
What had happened? How did he get here, wherever here was? He wanted to shake the cobwebs from his head but knew that would be a big mistake. Instead, he opted for closing his eyes and focusing on what he could remember. He knew who he was, Artemus Gordon, and that he was an agent with the Secret Service. One for the plus column, he mused. He remembered his partner, James West, and he remembered filing a report on their last assignment. Concentrating hard on remembering, he found that not much else was available to his mind at the present.
He was startled by a gentle hand coming to rest on his chest.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to see if you'd awakened," a tall thin man with birdlike features said kindly.
"I have. Do you suppose you could tell me where, exactly, I am and how I came to be here?" he asked.
"There's no time for that now. They're coming and…," that was as far as the older man got.
"Is he awake?" called a loud, commanding, voice which then answered his own question. "Yes, I see he is. And how are you feeling, Mr. Gordon?" the disembodied voice asked.
The voice sounded familiar, but Artie was having a hard time concentrating and focusing. Then the owner came into his line of sight. "Colonel Spegal," Artie sighed. "What is this all about, sir?"
"An experiment in terror, you might call it," Colonel Spegal sneered, "One that, if all goes according to plan, will bring me everything I want in life. Is everything ready, Professor?" Colonel Spegal directed this to the birdman.
"Yes, Colonel, but I must insist again that you not do this. The consequences can be dire," the birdman/Professor answered blinking his owly eyes.
Colonel Spegal whirled on the Professor, his face flush with anger. "I have already told you that no consequence is too dire to achieve my goals! Any and everyone is expendable so long as the end result is positive!" he shouted. “And a positive result will be,” Colonel Spegal paused, raised his arm and slowly curled his fingers into a fist before continuing, “Power,” he almost whispered the word with awe and desire. “Power for me, Professor. Do you understand what it means to be the highest authority of the land? What it means to be in possession of that power? To be able to crush worthless underlings,” at this he glanced toward the Professor and Artie, “and see them cast aside.” His smile did not match the ferocity in his eyes.
The Professor cringed slightly at the colonel's fury. Artie did not like what he was hearing. Not the words, nor the tone of the colonel’s voice. He thought his superior sounded...well...insane.
"You will do as you are told, Professor. Loyalty, respectfulness," the colonel began again, in his best orator's voice, "Those are the desired qualities in my underlings. These will gain me my constituency and my ultimate goal, POWER! These are the qualities that are rewarded." He fixed the Professor with a steely gaze, "You have been the recipient of one reward already, have you not, Professor?"
"Y...yes," stammered the man standing near Artie and casting a glance at him sorrowfully.
The look unsettled Artie. Why would the Professor look sorrowful? Artie was testing and working at the restraints that held him but could not move his hands or feet more than a millimeter.
"Just remember that, Professor. You're daughter is safe, your work is advancing," Colonel Spegal paused, "Seems you are the recipient of two rewards," he mused. "Inject him with the poison!" he cried pointing at Artie. He stood and watched the professor take the syringe filled with a pale yellow liquid and go back to the man lying on the table.
"It's not a poison, Colonel," the Professor answered softly as he turned and took Artie’s left hand in his. He wiped a spot in the crook between his knuckles, leaned over as though examining the spot and whispered.
"Don't listen to anything he says. And remember this: Do not come back here. No matter
what. No matter how much you want to, no matter how strong the urge to return is, you must fight it. YOU MUST NOT RETURN. Do you understand?" the Professor asked quickly.
"Yes, I understand, but why?" Artie managed to whisper back.
"What's taking so long, Professor?" Colonel Spegal called coming to the table. "Proceed," he ordered watching carefully.
The Professor held Artie’s gaze as he slid the needle into a vein in his hand and pressed the plunger.
"I truly am sorry," Artie heard the Professor say softly, as the liquid burned in his veins.
Then Colonel Spegal's face loomed over him. His lips moved, and the words came to Artie as if from a distance, softly, insidiously, as the injection knocked him out almost immediately.
-------------------------------
James West entered the parlor of the private train that was his to use with the permission of his government. He'd called it home for the last five years. But it had not felt like home for the last three days. His partner and friend, Artemus Gordon was missing having failed to return after the routine duty of filing their report on their last mission with their superior, Colonel Douglas Richmond.
Jim sat heavily on the plush gold sofa, leaned his head back and closed his tired eyes. What's happened to you, Artie? he wondered for the hundredth time. He reviewed the events that had brought him to this moment of weary contemplation.
When Artie had failed to return, Jim had contacted Colonel Richmond and been informed Artie had left hours earlier. Immediately suspicious, Jim had saddled his horse intent on finding his partner. Lowering the ramp to the stable car he'd been surprised to find Artie's horse, Mesa, munching scrub grass along the tracks.
"Hey, girl," he'd said to the chestnut, "Where's Artie? Where did you leave him?" He spoke softly to the animal as he checked her for any signs of injury or stress. But Mesa was not over heated or injured. "Let's get you inside," and he'd cared for Mesa before setting off on his original task. Finding Artie.
No one had seen Artie since he'd left Colonel Richmond's office except the Colonel's dour secretary, Millie. On his way out, as had become his habit, Artie had stopped to tease her. She was too prim and proper, in Artie’s opinion, and he never failed to try to cajole a smile out of her. It usually gleaned him a "Hmph!" or "What cheek!" or the most usual, a firm "Go away". Millie had confirmed to Jim that Artie had indeed needled her into telling him to leave at which Artie, ever the devil, had boldly kissed her cheek, grinned, and promised to try harder for a smile on his next visit. Millie confessed to Jim, that she really enjoyed the teasing, and hoped Artie was all right. She made Jim promise not to reveal her confession and with a reassuring smile, Jim agreed and left.
Jim had spent the last three days searching in vain for his partner. He found no leads, no clues, and had run out of places to look. He'd scoured every bar, side alley, gambling house, and theatre he knew of, hoping Artie had, perhaps, picked up a scrap of information that had lead him into an unexpected and spur of the moment investigation. But at every turn he found nothing. Artie had simply disappeared.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jim rose from the sofa. He needed a couple of hours sleep before he started out again. As he turned toward the corridor leading to his quarters, the outside door opened behind him. Artie stumbled through the door and collapsed on the floor.
"Artie!" Jim cried rushing to his friend, turning him onto his back. Artie was awake and breathing heavily, his eyes glazed and staring. "Artie, are you all right?" Jim asked concerned.
"Yeah," Artie breathed, slowly nodding and trying to sit up.
Jim helped him sit up and leaned him against the desk then closed the door. He looked down at his partner's disheveled appearance and weighed the fact that he’d just stumbled through the door. The possibility that Artie was being pursued made Jim turn back and lock the door. He looked like he'd been in a fight, and lost. He had a black eye, still quite swollen, a split bottom lip, and finger marks around his throat.
Kneeling next to him, Jim asked, "What happened to you? Where have you been?"
Artie turned confused eyes to his friend. "Jim?" he asked barely above a whisper and reached his hand tentatively toward his partner's face, letting his fingers brush the stubble on his cheek, as though confirming he was really there.
"Yeah, Artie, it's me. Come on," Jim said hauling his partner to his feet by the arm, "Let's get you up."
Artie let himself be pulled up but grimaced and hissed in a breath, in the process. "Oh, that hurts," he moaned softly as Jim lowered him onto the sofa.
Jim sat next to him looking into his eyes. He raised a hand to Artie’s head and his friend flinched as though he thought Jim would strike him.
"I'm not going to hurt you, buddy, I just want to see if you've taken a hit to the old noggin," Jim smiled reassuringly as he placed his hand on Artie’s head and felt a large lump. Artie hissed again as Jim felt it. He peered into his partner's brown eyes, assessing him for signs of a concussion.
"Ok, how about you get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning," Jim said and once again pulled his friend to his feet.
"Sure," Artie said uncertainly, and again grimaced with pain. He let Jim lead him to his room.
"Can you manage or do you need help?" Jim asked watching Artie carefully.
"I'm fine," Artie answered noncommittally as he sat in the chair and started to pull off his boots.
"I'll be back in a minute, then," Jim replied and closed the door. He leaned his back against it and sent up a prayer of thanks then returned to the parlor.
Opening the box that hid the telegraph key, he tapped out a message to Colonel Richmond advising him that Artie had returned with a possible concussion. He would advise further in the morning. A reply came back quickly acknowledging his message and requesting to be kept informed.
Jim knew Artie would want a bath, so he heated water and filled the tub before returning to his friend’s room. Jim knocked on the door but got no response. He opened it and peered in. Artie sat in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head back, his left hand across his brow. His shirt was unbuttoned, his trousers unbuckled. Jim saw large purpling bruises on his partner's torso. If it had been a fight, it had been a bad one. But to his trained eye, this looked more like a deliberate beating.
"Artie," he called his partner's name softly as he lightly shook him awake.
"Jim?" Artie opened bleary eyes and asked in the same confused voice he'd used before. He
seemed to be seeing Jim for the first time.
"Yeah, it's me, Artie," Jim repeated patiently, "Let me help you get ready for bed," he offered pulling Artie up more gently than he had before now that he'd seen his injuries. "I drew you a bath."
"Yeah, ok," Artie answered sounding dazed. He shook his left hand, flexed the fingers then rubbed a spot between his knuckles.
Jim pulled his friend's shirt off for him and tentatively placed his hands on his partner's ribcage, gently feeling for any broken bones. He didn't feel anything broken but Artie’s flinch confirmed the ribs were bruised.
"Trousers, partner," he ordered but Artie looked at him as though he didn't understand. Jim shook his head with a crooked grin, "Take your trousers off," he was more specific in his instruction.
"Oh," Artie answered and stepped out of his slacks. Then he just stood waiting.
Jim rolled his eyes and led his friend to the waiting bath. "Get in," Jim instructed quietly.
Artie stepped into the tub without removing his undergarments. As he sat in the steaming water, Jim had to chuckle. "I think you forgot something, pal," he smiled. He was met with a puzzled look. "Your drawers," Jim explained and watched as his confused friend struggled under the water to remove them. He tossed the soaked garments onto the floor. "Oh, good grief," Jim sighed. "I'll be right back. Don't drown, ok?" he teased.
"No," Artie answered distractedly, but scrubbed himself with soap and cloth.
Jim got his friend clean clothes and a towel. He knocked on the door and again received no answer. "Artie," he called before opening the door. Artie was asleep again, in much the same position he'd been in in the chair, one hand across his brow, his head back. Jim realized he'd have to tend to his friend, he simply couldn't seem to manage on his own. He woke his partner gently then helped him get dried off and into the clean nightshirt and led him back to his room.
Jim pulled back the covers on the bed. "Get into bed," Jim instructed patiently. Artie obeyed. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning," he gave his partner another crooked smile.
"Jim?" Artie asked for a third time.
Jim hung his head for a second. "Yeah, Artie, it's me," Jim answered a third time. "We'll talk in the morning," he added as he turned down the lamp and quietly exited.
In his own room, Jim paced his mind consumed with unanswered questions. He listened for any sounds from his partner's room then went to bed himself. He slept soundly, the first real sleep he'd had since his friend's disappearance.
In the morning, Jim sat sipping a cup of coffee when Artie entered the parlor in his robe.
"Good morning," Jim greeted him cheerily.
"Good morning," Artie answered questioningly.
"What's wrong?" Jim asked.
"How did I get back here?" Artie asked taking the seat opposite Jim at the table.
"I was hoping you could tell me," Jim admitted with a relieved grin, "Where have you been?"
"I filed our report with Colonel Richmond, then I woke up here," Artie shrugged his shoulders.
"That's all you remember?" Jim narrowed his eyes studying Artie’s face.
"Yeah, but I suspect there's more to it than that," Artie answered.
"Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?" Jim hoped for a clue of some kind.
"Well, I have at least a three day growth of beard for one thing," Artie answered running the back of his hand up his cheek, "and then there are these bruises I seem to have acquired," Artie said looking down into his robe. "Unless of course you did it," he quipped.
"No, I didn't," Jim chuckled, "and that is a three day beard. Artie," he turned serious, "you disappeared after you left the colonel's office. You were missing for three days. You don't remember anything?"
Artie stared at him disbelieving. "Three days?" he asked incredulous, then changed his expression to one of resignation. You just said yourself your beard is at least three days worth. I don't know why you're sounding so incredulous, he said to himself. "I'm sorry, Jim, I just don't remember anything else. Do I have a concussion?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. Last night, I would have said yes definitely. You're pretty clear this morning, though," Jim said shaking his head slowly. "What did you do when you left Colonel Richmond?" Jim asked hoping to prompt some memory.
"I teased Millie. She really needs to lighten up or she'll never have a life other than being his secretary," Artie gave a small smile.
"Then what?" Jim urged, returning the smile.
"I went down the steps and untied Mesa," Artie said calmly. Then suddenly he stood and cried,
"Mesa!"
"She came home. I found her outside when I was going to look for you that night. She's fine," Jim assured him.
"Thank goodness. I was worried she wouldn't find her way back," Artie sighed wearily, sitting again.
"You were worried she wouldn't find her way back?" Jim repeated by way of a question. "Artie, did you send her back here?" Jim coaxed.
Artie sat in thought for a moment trying hard to remember. Slowly he nodded, "Yes. I remember now. Someone grabbed me from behind before I could mount up. There were two of them. One grabbed me, pinned my arms, the other one just started punching. I remember telling Mesa to go home before I passed out," Artie recounted.
"Did you see their faces?" Jim continued hoping more would come back.
"Not then. Later, I woke up tied to a table. Two men, one almost as big as Voltaire, but blond with piercing blue eyes and the other was a burly, dark haired guy with black shifty eyes. They beat me senseless. The big one tried to choke me. When I woke up again, I was outside by the tracks. I remember stumbling in here, then that's it, until I woke up this morning," Artie finished.
"Did they say anything? Give you any idea who they were or what they wanted?" Jim asked frowning.
"They never said a word. Just beat the hell out of me," Artie gestured with his hands that he had no clues.
"You never saw them before?" Jim urged a little more.
"Never saw either of them before. I had no sense of time. It's just as I told you. Nothing more," he shook his head and rubbed a small circle between his second and third knuckles.
The wireless clattered and both agents turned toward it. "I'll get it," Jim offered.
"I'm going to wash up and dress," Artie answered padding back down the corridor.
It was Colonel Richmond requesting a further report. Jim sent him the information Artie had just relayed and asked the colonel to have the bureau check on any known criminals fitting the descriptions Artie had supplied, scant as they were. The colonel replied he would and asked if Jim thought Artie was up to duty. Jim responded he seemed to be fine this morning, although his memory of the last three days was not complete. Colonel Richmond accepted Jim's assessment and sent them on a mission.
A scientist, Richard Angarola, had been reported missing by his daughter. He had been working on a formula for a truth serum, under the auspices of the government, but had encountered problems with it. The professor’s formula was missing as well. The daughter, Carol Angarola, told them she did not know what had gone wrong with the formula, but added that her father had said the consequences were serious if it should ever be administered to a human being. They were to find the professor and the formula. Jim acknowledged their acceptance of the new assignment and signed off.
"Artie," Jim called.
"Yeah, what is it?" Artie answered from his room.
Jim joined his partner who was shaving. "Bet you're glad to get rid of that," Jim grinned at him.
"You don't know the half of it," Artie answered lifting his chin to scrape his neck.
"Don't slit your throat," Jim teased.
"Bite your tongue," Artie replied drawing the razor over his Adam's apple. He paused to rinse the blade. "Was that the colonel?"
"Yes. We have an assignment. Are you up to it?" Jim asked.
"Sure. As long as it doesn't require wrestling anything that might get a grip on my ribs, that is," Artie joked, now carefully sliding the blade over his jaw line.
"Nope. We're to find a Professor Richard Angarola and his missing truth serum formula,"
Jim reported.
"I know him," Artie stated.
"Of course you do," Jim quipped, "Is there any scientific type you don't know?"
"Ha, ha, very funny. There's quite a few, I'm sure, but this one I do know," Artie retorted.
He began to take the last of the beard off from below his bottom lip.
"What do you know about him?" Jim asked leaning against the bed.
"Wu..e..i.." Artie began.
"I can't understand a thing you're saying," Jim groused.
Artie paused his shaving, "Let me finish up," and scraped the remaining shaving soap away. Taking a towel he wiped his face then turned to Jim, "I was saying, he's working on that formula for the government. Last I heard he wanted to test it out on a human subject and asked for permission to try it on a lifer," Artie explained, "I don't know if he ever got permission, though."
"He'd never get permission from the government for that. Especially since he told his daughter he'd run afoul in his experiments. She doesn't know what went wrong but said her father said it would be very bad if it was ever tried on a human being," Jim replied.
"Huh, I wonder what went wrong," Artie mused tossing the towel onto the dresser and pulling on his shirt. He paused buttoning it to rub his knuckles again.
"We'll talk to the daughter, Carol, see if she has any more information on that," Jim answered.
"I'd like to get a look at his notes," Artie sounded intrigued. He picked up his jacket. "Do you have her address?"
"Right here," Jim waved the paper he'd written their assignment on and smiled broadly at his friend. "You look a thousand times better."
"Feel it too. I do wonder who those cretins were that had a go at me, though. I suppose we'll never know," Artie shrugged as they left his room.
------------------------------
"Miss Angarola?" Jim asked the pretty, slim, blond who answered the door.
"Yes, I'm Carol Angarola," she said warily, keeping her delicate hand on the door ready to slam it closed if necessary.
"My name is James West," he handed her his credentials, "and this is my partner, Artemus Gordon. May we come in and ask you a few questions?"
Her deep, blue eyes softened as she handed his papers back and opened the door wide for them to enter, "Yes, please do." She led them into the living room and motioned for them to sit. They politely waited for her to sit on the sofa then took the two wing chairs at either end.
"Miss Angarola, do you know if anyone contacted your father about his work, besides the government?" Jim asked.
"No one that I know of, Mr. West. Father never mentioned anyone. He kept in contact with Colonel Spegal almost daily, but no one else I know of," she nervously twisted her hands in her lap.
"Do you have any idea what went wrong with your father's formula?" Artie asked directly. He watched her hands and unconsciously began to rub the spot between his knuckles again.
"Only that he'd encountered some side effects that were lethal to the subject the serum was administered to," she answered.
"Did he say what side effects those were?" Artie wanted to know.
"He mentioned unreasonable fear and paranoia, hallucinations and crushing depression. He didn't say what the other side effects were or how they manifested, but he said they were as lethal as those could be," she replied.
"Did he keep his notes here?" Artie asked his interest piqued.
"In his study, possibly, you're welcome to look," she pointed to a door across the room.
"Thank you," Artie answered and went to the professor's study leaving Jim to inquire further into the professor's habits, friends, and associates.
Half an hour later, Jim joined Artie in the study. "Find anything?" he asked.
Artie was perched on the edge of the desk, pulling at his right ear as he read a journal.
He did not respond and Jim knew he was fully engrossed in the professor's writings. Jim crossed the room and tapped his partner on the shoulder startling him so badly the journal flew over his shoulder, landing on the floor behind the desk.
"Jim!" Artie looked up surprised. "You scared a year of life out of me," he said turning to pick up the journal.
"Find anything?" Jim repeated with a smile.
Artie snapped the journal closed. "Yes I did," he sounded as serious as he now looked. "I want to ask Miss Angarola if I can take this with me," he said crossing the room.
Jim followed him back into the living room where Artie had just asked if he could take the professor's journal.
"Yes. You will find my father won't you, Mr. Gordon?" she asked looking very worried.
"We'll do our best," Artie assured her and thanked her. Without waiting for Jim, he headed for the front door.
Jim tipped his hat to Miss Angarola and hurried after his partner. "Hey, wait up," Jim called as Artie had already mounted his steed and was ready to ride away.
"I'm sorry, Jim, I just want to get back to the train and finish going over these notes," Artie explained kicking Mesa's sides.
"What's so interesting in there?" Jim asked turning his stallion and catching up to Artie.
"Seems the professor did try his serum on a human subject. And with permission from the government," Artie answered soberly.
"You're joking! Who?" Jim demanded.
"Who gave him permission or who was the subject?" Artie asked. He began to rub the same spot between his knuckles.
"Both."
"Doesn't say who gave him permission, but I'd guess only Colonel Spegal could give that and he tested it out on a prisoner, like he wanted."
"To what result?" Jim now asked.
"I don't know. I didn't get that far. Let's hurry," he said spurring his horse faster.
------------------------------
Artie blew out a long breath through pursed lips as he closed the journal and ran a hand through his hair. He sat back in the chair at the desk and looked up at his partner.
"Well?" Jim asked expectantly.
"He died," Artie stated flatly.
"Lethal side effects," Jim mused aloud.
"Precisely. Seems the side effects of the serum can cause the heart to race uncontrollably. Gave this particular prisoner a heart attack."
"Does he mention an antidote to his serum?" Jim asked.
Artie shook his head slowly. "Only that he was working on one, doesn't say if he ever completed it. But this journal ends over a week ago. How long has the professor been missing?" Artie asked.
"Four days, now. So he could have finished an antidote but never gotten it into his journal," Jim concluded.
"Right. Did his daughter have any clues to what happened to him?" Artie absently kneaded between his knuckles.
"Not really. Anything in there shed any light?" Jim asked.
"Don't you think I would have told you if there was?" Artie suddenly snapped at him.
Jim was taken aback. "I was just asking, Artie," he answered calmly.
"But you thought I might not tell you so you'd better ask?" Artie asked sarcastically.
"No,” Jim answered flatly. “Where's this coming from, Artie? We're just thinking this out aloud. That's all," Jim said growing irritated.
Artie looked suspicious a moment longer then his features softened. "I'm sorry, Jim. I guess I'm just tired," he answered sounding like himself again.
"It's all right, Artie. What do you say we have something to eat?" Jim asked with a smile for his friend.
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Over the next few days, they continued to pour over the professor's notes and all the information sent by the bureau on what they had in connection with the professor's work. No one knew what had gone wrong with the experiment and no one knew who had given him permission to test the serum on a prisoner.
To Jim, Artie seemed to be driving himself particularly hard on this case. He barely slept, ate even less, and was constantly on a short fuse.
Artie could not believe that no one knew anything, would not accept it, and fired back a tactless message to the bureau that they were 'incompetent nincompoops'. When Jim suggested that perhaps that was a bit harsh, Artie argued pointlessly. Jim had been baffled by the lack of thought in his partner's argument but put it down to fatigue.
The agents interviewed dozens of the professor's associates and friends. No one had heard from him or seen him. No one knew anything about his research and experiments.
Again, Artie had a hard time believing no one knew anything and argued with one of the professor's associates, practically accusing the man of withholding information, and provoked another into throwing them out of his house by sarcastically implying the man was complicit in the professor's disappearance. It was not like Artie to not be at least diplomatic, if he had suspicions. And Jim pointing that out had erupted into another argument. His partner had nothing to base any suspicion on and yet he'd managed to alienate two people with implied suspicion.
Finally, Jim tried to get him to take it easier, but Artie just sniped at him to mind his own business, which had sparked yet another argument between them, Jim harshly stating it was his business if his partner was incapacitated in some way that was clouding his thinking and hindering their investigation. Artie had taken umbrage at the implication that he was 'incapacitated' and stormed out, returning late that night, without a word.
Jim awoke suddenly, the morning after that last argument when he heard the outside door in the parlor slam. He rushed into the parlor but saw no one. He looked out the window and his jaw dropped. Artie was running across the field ducking low as though trying not to be seen. Jim threw open the window and scanned the landscape. There was no one outside except his partner.
"Artie!" he called but his partner did not stop. It was cold out but Artie was in only his shirtsleeves, his jacket and coat were still on the coat rack by the door. Now what's going on, Jim wondered as he hurriedly pulled on pants and boots.
He jumped on Blackjack and rode him bareback into the field in the direction Artie had gone. There were no tracks in the hard frozen ground. He rode slowly between the rows of dead, bundled corn stalks. He scanned across the field and finally spotted a shape huddled by a bundle of stalks. Riding quickly toward it, as Jim drew nearer, he saw it was indeed Artie, sitting on the ground with his knees drawn up and his head down. Jim pulled up to a stop and jumped down.
"Artie," he spoke softly, kneeling. Artie looked up with eyes wide with fright and drew away from him. "What's wrong, buddy?" Jim asked in a soothing voice. He did not reach out to his partner fearing he'd bolt. He looked like a trapped animal, his eyes darting left and right seeking an avenue of escape.
"You're not going to hurt me are you?" Artie asked fearfully, scrambling away a little farther.
"No, I'm not going to hurt you. Artie, do you know me?" Jim asked peering into his partner's eyes steadily.
Slowly recognition replaced the fear in his friend's eyes. "Jim," he said slowly. Then he looked around as though he had no idea where he was. "What are we doing out here?"
"You ran out here nearly half an hour ago, don't you remember?" Jim asked offering his hand to Artie, who allowed himself to be pulled up to standing.
"Why would I do that?" he asked rubbing the spot between his knuckles yet again. A variety of emotions battled for control of his expression. Fear and a great sadness won out and he struggled to hold back tears welling in his eyes. "What's happening to me?" he asked his friend, desperately.
Jim swallowed the lump of emotion that threatened to take his voice. "I don't know, buddy, but we'll figure it out. Come back to the train with me, it's cold out here," he said gently.
Artie nodded and accepted Jim's offer to ride back with him. Half way back, Jim felt Artie lean his head against his back and thought he heard him sob once. But when they dismounted, Artie just looked tired. No more than that. The nights without sleep were beating him down. He looked haggard. And Jim would swear he'd lost weight.
Jim begged Artie to try and sleep and finally got him into bed and watched as his eyes closed. In the parlor, Jim mulled over everything that had happened in the last week. In the silence, puzzle pieces began to take shape and he struggled to fit them together. There was a connection somewhere between Artie’s disappearance, the professor's disappearance, and Artie’s growing, and alarmingly strange behavior.
Suddenly Jim was seeing the pieces fall into place as he theorized. Artie and the professor had disappeared around the same time. The professor listed a number of side effects that Artie seemed to be experiencing. The two incidents must be related. Then Jim thought about the way Artie kept rubbing between his knuckles and went into his partner's room.
Carefully, so as not to awaken him, Jim picked up Artie’s hand and looked closely at the skin between his second and third knuckles. Yes, there it is, he thought, the faintest mark of a needle. He was sure Artie had been injected with the professor's serum. But who would want to do that and why? Lethal effects, the words rang in his head.
Returning to the parlor, Jim wired Colonel Richmond and asked if Jeremy Pike was in the area and available to join him on the train to help in the investigation. The colonel wired that he would send Jeremy right away. Jim pulled out the professor's journal and began to read for himself the account of the human experiment. He read the side effects the professor had noted. Fear, paranoia, depression, hallucinations, as Artie had told him, and farther on in the notes, anger, periods of amnesia, loss of appetite, and difficulty sleeping.
It also reported that the sleep deprivation, depression, and fear were what had caused the test subject's heart to race to the point of heart attack. Artie had not mentioned any of this. It was all too strange. A week had gone by since the professor had disappeared. There had been no ransom demand, no sign of who had taken him. Jim was beginning to think the professor was hidden in plain sight. Perhaps not even really missing.
Jim heard Artie cry out and hurried back to his partner's room.
Entering, Artie was waving his arms in front of him, battling some unseen foe and yelling for whomever the ghost was to get away.
Jim tried to subdue him. "Artie,” he called, “it's just a dream," Jim said quietly taking him by the arms. Artie broke into heart wrenching sobs and Jim found himself pulling his friend into an embrace. "Calm down, Artie, it's all right," he reassured him, though he was shaken to the core at his friend’s wildly swinging emotions.
Just as suddenly as it had started, the sobs ended and his mood changed again. Artie pulled away from Jim, drew back and punched him in the face snapping his head back and knocking him off the bed to the floor. "Why are you doing this to me!" Artie cried loudly jumping from the bed and glaring down at Jim.
Jim thought he saw something very close to insanity in his friend's eyes as he watched him bolt from the room. Jim rose and staggered after him still a little stunned by the sucker punch.
"Hey, Artemus!" he heard Jeremy's voice shout.
As Jim entered the parlor, Jeremy stood in the open doorway. "Where's he going in his underwear?" Jeremy asked, thumbing over his shoulder at the fleeing Artie.
"He's been drugged. We've got to catch him," Jim hurriedly explained as he stepped onto the porch. Once again, his partner was racing across the dead corn field.
Jeremy followed Jim's gaze. "He doesn't have any shoes on, he can't get far," he observed. "I'll go after him," he offered and without waiting for an answer, he leaped off the platform after his colleague.
"Be careful. His mood changes abruptly," Jim called after the retreating back of Jeremy.
Jim sat at the desk and rubbed his jaw gingerly. He pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil
from the desk and began to make a list of suspects.
Professor Richard Angarola was the first name he wrote. He paused trying to come up with a reason why the professor would want to test the serum on Artie when he'd already had a human test subject die. He abandoned finding a reason for the moment and continued his list.
Colonel Spegal. Again, why? Spegal had filled in for Colonel Richmond a few times while Richmond was on leave. He was a pompous, selfish, and arrogant man and had taken a particular dislike to Artie. Unlike Colonel Richmond, who knew Artie spoke frankly and honestly, Colonel Spegal took Artie’s borderline insubordination as a personal challenge to his authority. The two had sparred verbally a number of times. If Spegal felt that strongly he had a number of channels he could pursue to punish Artie. The fact that he had pursued a few and failed made Jim think revenge. But was that enough of a motive? Jim could not honestly say it was. The man had been selected by President Grant to oversee the scientific pursuits of the bureau.
He paused, thinking. Finally he wrote one more name. Dr. Miguelito Loveless. A prime suspect if ever there was one. And just the type of game the good doctor enjoyed.
Jim's thoughts were interrupted by Jeremy, puffing hard, as he entered the car. Without Artie.
"He's fast," Jeremy gasped leaning with one arm on the doorjamb.
"You didn't catch up to him?" Jim asked rising.
"I lost sight of him between the tied corn stalks. I'm sorry, Jim, I can't find him," Jeremy answered shaking his head.
"Let me get Blackjack saddled," Jim replied and went to the stable car.
The two agents searched the field thoroughly and did not find Artie.
"What's beyond this field?" Jeremy asked although he could see it was more of the same.
"More damn corn fields," Jim answered dourly.
"And beyond that?" Jeremy persisted.
"The edge of town," Jim informed his fellow agent with a shrug.
"Think he'd have a reason to head that way?"
"He knows a lot of people in Washington, but in his current state of mind, Jeremy, I can't imagine him going to any of them," Jim shook his head and scanned across the next field. It was as dead as this one. The corn stalks had been cut close to the ground and stood tied in bunches dotting the field with miniature tipi like structures. And Jim had an idea.
"I'd bet Artie’s hiding," he said to Jeremy, and rode to the closest bundle of stalks and kicked it over.
"I get it," Jeremy replied smiling. He went across the field.
The two agents progressed toward each other and closer to the train knocking over all the bundles of corn stalks in between. Nothing.
"Damn it!" Jim swore, "He can't have just disappeared," he fumed then realized what he'd said. Of course he can. It's already happened once, he mused. "Jeremy, you didn't see anyone else out here did you?" Jim asked.
"No one. Like I said, I saw him duck behind one of the bundles but by the time I got there, Artie was gone," Jeremy repeated his earlier report.
"I can't believe we just wasted an hour," Jim punched his saddle in frustration.
"Jim, look," Jeremy pointed over Jim's shoulder.
Jim turned in his saddle to see where Jeremy was pointing. A lone oak tree stood at the edge of the field and just dropping to the ground from its branches was Artie. He staggered wearily toward the train rubbing his arms for warmth.
"I'll be damned," Jim sighed. "I'll bet he won at hide and seek every time, as a child," he turned his horse back toward the train and crossed the short distance quickly, Jeremy close behind.
By the time they stopped, Artie had entered the train. They found him sprawled on the sofa one arm flung across his face. The soles of his feet bore the cuts from trodding on the stumps of the corn stalks. He appeared to be sleeping.
"Take care of the horses, will you, Jeremy?" Jim asked quietly as he approached his partner. He sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa debating whether he should wake him or let him sleep.
But Artie was not sleeping. "I think I'm insane," he muttered softly, fully aware of Jim's presence.
"No you're not," Jim answered calmly, "but I think you've had a dose of the professor's serum."
"Lord, I hope you're right. I don't want to be insane. But without an antidote, I don't know how much longer I can fight this," Artie murmured, not moving.
"Fight what, Artie? What are you feeling?" Jim urged his friend, "Maybe I can help."
"Fear, mostly," Artie answered with a sadness Jim had never heard in him before.
"Fear of what?" he asked.
Artie shrugged one shoulder. "You. Myself. Everything."
"Artie, did the doctor write his formula in his journal? I looked, but I couldn't find it," Jim wanted to know. He wanted as much information from his partner as he could get while he was clear headed.
"No. He posited, though, that some of the side effects could be from the drug he used as a base," Artie finally sat up, leaned his elbows on his knees, but did not look up at Jim.
"What drug would be the most likely to cause the symptoms you're experiencing?" Jim asked urgently.
Artie shook his head slowly and Jim grew frustrated.
"Artie," he fairly shouted to get and keep his attention, "You know more about chemicals and drugs than anyone in the bureau. Think, damn it!" He grabbed Artie by the shoulders and shook him, forcing him to look him in the eye.
And almost regretted that he had. The growing fear was pushing the desperation in his friend’s eyes into the background. And Jim saw humiliation. Each shifting emotion struck Jim to his heart. What must you be going through, partner, he wondered. And with each shift, Artie became more agitated, Jim could hear his breaths coming faster as he unconsciously rubbed the small puncture mark between his knuckles.
"Hang on, Artie. Tell me. What's your best guess?" he demanded.
"I...I have to get away," Artie cried, jumping up.