Read this instead, didn't get the pictures right.

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Posted by the Fiddler from IDFAB104-03.splitrock.net on February 29, 2000 at 01:25:14:

In Reply to: Chapter 8 of the Golden Spider posted by the Fiddler on February 29, 2000 at 01:20:13:

: First I'd like to say it's not quite what I'd hoped. I'd wanted to do more, incorporating more with Brett and even more with Michaelson, but I've been sick and tommorow I go back to classes, so I'm gonna have a ton of make-up work and not going to be able to write chapter 9 either (as I had hoped).

: Anyway, Deirdre is going to write the next chapter, and I'm confident that she'll do a superb job.

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: Chapter 8

Some answers

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As Indy wrestled with the giant "catch" at the end of his "line," Micah dragged Webley a safe distance away.


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Finally satisfied that Webley could not be eaten, the spider turned toward Indy. As it moved toward him, he moved away. Keeping his whip taut so that he could ruin it’s walk, and thereby hamper it’s progress and ability to fight, Indy fought both mentally and physically with the beast.


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Learning Indy’s game the spider quit trying to reach him and began attempting to remove the whip from it’s leg. It jerked hard and fast, ripping the whip from Indiana Jones’ grasp.


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Turning to see how the fight was progressing, Micah was almost hit by the whip handle as it slashed through the air. He dodged, but the stock was already past his head, almost on the ground.


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Bending over Micah grabbed onto the handle just as the spider lunged toward Indy, trapping him against the stone wall of the cliff face. Micah anticipated the lunge and grabbed the stock of the whip tightly in both hands, causing the spider to trip and partially fall to the ground.

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* * * * *

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The arms custodian looked up as a tall man in a gray trench coat and fedora stepped off of the stairs that led down from the offices and detention area of the police station above.


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"Hello sir," he greeted from behind the counter that was built into the wall.


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"Detective," the Fiddler corrected, showing the man his badge.


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"Okay Detective, what can I do for you?"


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"I need a Thompson."


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The officer nodded and stepped away from the counter, turned and retrieved a "Tommy gun."


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"Here you go, what kind of drum do you need?"


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"Give me three of those twenty round magazines," the Fiddler responded; gesturing toward a stack of loaded magazines sitting on a shelf behind the keeper.


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Retrieving the mags the custodian questioned, "anything else I can get you Detective?"


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"Yeah, you wouldn’t happen to have one of those apparatuses that hangs these at your side, would you?" the Detective inquired, lifting the gun slightly as he did so.


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Having anticipated the point of the question, the man behind the counter opened a drawer in front of him and removed a length of leather that was about two feet long. It had a steal belt clip on one end, and a riveted strap and buckle on the other.


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"One of these?" the Keeper smiled.


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Surprised slightly at the speed with which the custodian had retrieved the object, he answered, "yes, that’s exactly what I was looking for."


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Strapping the one end of the leather dangler around the stock of the Thompson, the Fiddler clipped the other end of the strap to the belt of his shoulder-holster rig. It was the strap that ran under his right shoulder. When let hang, this placed the Thompson’s pistol grip about where his right hand hung, when his arm was dropped at his side. He then picked up one of the clips and locked it into place. Grabbing the other two he shoved them into his belt, worked the action on the gun, then let it fall to his side. Making sure it was hanging at the right height, he then pulled his trench coat around it, and left.


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As he ascended the stairs, the Fiddler noticed that the submachine gun swung with his movements, and at times banged against his legs. Reaching in the hand warmer of his trench coat, he discovered that he could grab the pistol grip and stead the gun, without exposing it or making his actions obvious.


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* * * * *

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As Indy wrestled with the giant "catch" at the end of his "line," Micah dragged Webley a safe distance away.


:

Finally satisfied that Webley could not be eaten, the spider turned toward Indy. As it moved toward him, he moved away. Keeping his whip taut so that he could ruin it’s walk, and thereby hamper it’s progress and ability to fight, Indy fought both mentally and physically with the beast.


:

Learning Indy’s game the spider quit trying to reach him and began attempting to remove the whip from it’s leg. It jerked hard and fast, ripping the whip from Indiana Jones’ grasp.


:

Turning to see how the fight was progressing, Micah was almost hit by the whip handle as it slashed through the air. He dodged, but the stock was already past his head, almost on the ground.


:

Bending over Micah grabbed onto the handle just as the spider lunged toward Indy, trapping him against the stone wall of the cliff face. Micah anticipated the lunge and grabbed the stock of the whip tightly in both hands, causing the spider to trip and partially fall to the ground.

:
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* * * * *

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"Gosh! That was a close one. So what do we do now Goodsport?"


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"Well I guess we’ve got to report this to the PD." Goodsport replied, his voice completely lacking in enthusiasm.


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Riggs cocked his head to one side, then inquired: "what?"


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"Huh?"


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"What is it? You don’t sound too excited."


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"Well, the Chief of Police doesn’t like me too well." Goodsport responded, remembering the case that had gotten him on the Chief’s bad side.


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Rounding a corner, Riggs decided it would be all right to inquire further. "So what happened?"

: After a brief pause, in which Goodsport figured it would probably do him some good to tell someone, he answered. "It was a murder case, I represented the family of the guy who ‘dun it,’ only thing was, he was dead also. Anyway being a murder investigation, of somewhat high profile I might add, the LAPD was in on this also. I got some information, and refused to share it with the Department on account of me needing to protect my clients. So eventually it got all out of hand and the Chief threatened to lock me up for obstruction of justice. He couldn’t really prove I had anything, but he knew I did…." Goodsport ended with a sigh.


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"So that’s it??"


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"Well… that’s the short version, and when you’re a private I it’s kinda nice to have the local authorities on your side… it can actually help out a lot to have their help at times."

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* * * * *

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His gait was smooth and of moderate speed as he made his way down the New York sidewalk. At the moment, both he and his companion, Deirdre Campbell, were silent as they walked to an undecided destination.


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It had rained the day before and night had been cold enough to freeze the rain on the ground. Having noticed this, the Fiddler was watching the walk in front of them carefully, to be sure that he didn’t slip.


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Deirdre was lost in thought. She’d come to terms with the tragedy, and was playing the events over and over in her mind. Trying to remember the events that took place immediately before the blast.


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Noticing a low spot in the walk the Detective changed his pace slightly so that his left foot would land next to the frozen puddle, rather than his right landing on it and possibly causing him to slip.


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Caught up in her thoughts, Deirdre hadn’t seen the ice. Luckily for her the Fiddler had noticed that she wasn’t paying attention, and reacted quickly when she stepped on the ice and slipped.


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"Whaaoo…," she half yelped when she found herself helpless to prevent the fall.


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Grabbing her light body mid-fall, he lifted her back onto an upright position… holding on slightly longer than needed to make sure she’d regained her balance.


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"You okay?" the Detective asked smiling.


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"Yeah, I’m fine," she answered, straightening her hair.


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"Here…" the Fiddler offered her his arm, "…hold onto me so you don’t fall again."


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Taking his arm she began to thank him, but stopped mid-sentence as a memory returned.

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* * * * *

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"Yeah! As I fell, because of the blast, I remember thinking it strange that it would be women who would bring the bomb into the auditorium." She paused, then excitedly added, "it’s strange the things you think of at times like that."


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"Alright, I understand that, but what made you think that?"


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"The way they moved, their actions. It was just…. I don’t know, they were females, I just know it." Deirdre insisted, still unable to clearly recall the minutes immediately before the blast.


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"Alright, I believe you," the Detective comforted as he grinned at the woman on his arm.


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Satisfied, Professor Campbell returned to her concentration, attempting to use the new information to help her self clear the fog that clouded her memories.

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* * * * *

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Muppet crouched in the stall, waiting.


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You’ve gotta get ahold of your self! He demanded, struggling with the fear that was causing him to sweat and tremble.


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Outside the stall the waiter with the knife could be heard ripping open each of the stalls in a purposely-menacing way.


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Quickly Muppet regained control, though it seemed like ages. He then started thinking of Megara. If I die, then I can’t help her… I must live. Then an idea struck him.

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* * * * *

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"Yeah Michaelson it’s stolen… we’ve been looking for weeks, but haven’t had any luck, if someone catches sight of it again, arrest the bastards for driving one of our cars."

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* * * * *

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The waiter with the knife heard a noise from the stall next to the one he had just opened. Gripping his knife more tightly he stepped to the door.

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* * * * *

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Hearing the man on the outside grab the door’s handle, Muppet hoisted himself off the toilet and suspended himself in the air by lifting off the tops of the stall walls. As the door came open, Muppet swung himself down and forward, while straightening his legs.


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Hitting the man in the chest, the combined force not only knocked the man down… but broke a few of his ribs in the process.

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* * * * *

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As James rolled and tumbled he felt the ground suddenly seem to change it’s shape. He realized that the tunnel he was rolling through hadn’t changed it’s shape, but rather had begun to curve upward, and the momentum of his roll was taking him in that direction also.


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Just as he thought his tumbling would end, he felt vines lash lightly against his face and the whole world seemed to open before his eyes, replacing the darkness that had engulfed him before.

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* * * * *

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Micah wrenched on the whip as the arachnid attempted to right itself, keeping it down longer.


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Indy saw his chance, as did Micah, unfortunately neither had the opportunity to get Indy’s gun for him. Both were so engrossed in watching what seemed like a wonderful-missed opportunity, neither noticed James Lambert come tumbling out of a smaller hole to the side of the one they had exited from.

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* * * * *

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Quickly gathering his wits about him, James saw the opportunity also, realizing that Indy needed his gun, he looked around quickly. Spotting it he sprinted to it, then barely latching on to the pistol he flung it toward his Professor.

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* * * * *

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As Indy prepared an attack on the downed spider, meaning to kick and smash it in any way that might bring harm to it, he saw James sprint for the gun.


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Immediately Jones changed his charge into a running jump, catching the pistol as he flew through the air. He landed with both feet right on the giant spider’s back, smashing another of it’s attempts to stand.


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Turning he sat on it’s back, straddling it’s head. He then shoved the trigger of the pistol against it’s head and pulled the trigger repeatedly, moving the gun slightly with each shot to make sure he did some damage. After he had emptied his gun, firing five shots in all, the giant arachnid’s legs began to slowly curl inward and Indy was sure that it was dead.


:

A short time later, after the threesome had recovered somewhat from their encounter with the spider, James enquired of his mentor "so now what do we do?"


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"Throw him on a litter," the jaded archeologist gestured at Webley, "and go home."


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"Yeah and when I get home, I’m gonna kill my big brother for insisting that the heat would be good for me," the Canadian mumbled under his breath. After thinking about it he added with a grin, "maybe I’ll just smack him."

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* * * * *

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He sat behind his desk, waiting patiently for the phone call that he knew would surely come. His cold blue-gray eyes, that gave chills to almost anyone who dared look into them, were now staring blankly into the mass of gray snow clouds that covered the full arc of sky visible outside his office windows.


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The phone rang; he lifted the receiver, then placed it against his ear.


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"Yes?" he answered, though he already knew who it was.


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"The horse is a fast animal…" stated Jayne’s voice, beginning the code, and verifying that her end of the line was ‘clean.’


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"…But the cheetah is faster," finished FBI Agent Walter Quigley, confirming that he was free to talk also.


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"Agent?"


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"Who else?"


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"How’d we do sir?"


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"In New York?" Then, he answered his own question without giving Jayne a chance, "you two performed admirably. Nobody is quite pleased, plenty of people were killed, and it looked like a real attempt on Professor Campbell’s life."


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"You mean it wasn’t!?" Jayne incredulously inquired.


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"No, we wanted it give the police a little to go on, so as to keep them involved."


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"But…."


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"Don’t worry, she’s being taken care of even as we speak." Agent Quigely interrupted, consoling her in the coldest fashion that anyone had ever before been consoled.


:

"Then w-why?"


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"That, is my concern, and Nobody’s, but not yours," the Agent stated, effectively ending that topic of discussion. "So how did the ‘Frisco job go? Did you find anything out?"


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"Well, they claim that they know nothing about the G. S…. personally sir, I believe them."


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"So you killed them?"


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"Well…" her words trailed off, ashamed at her failure. After a moment Jayne decided she had to tell him, "…we thought we had killed the both of them, but somehow we didn’t."


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"Luckily for you two girls, Nobody is satisfied with your performance in working with our ‘allies’ to capture Aragorn. We have him safely locked away."


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The conversation went on for another thirty seconds, then ended in a manner that would have seemed rather abrupt to any outside listener.


:

Sitting silently once again the Agent opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out his revolver, and inserted it in its holster. He then stood and was about to leave when the phone rang. Lifting the receiver he heard the switchboard operator say:


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"There is a woman who says she has some information on what she thinks is a kidnapping. She claims they are holding a woman hostage in a building."


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Sighing in disgust the Agent told the operator to "put her through."


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"This is Agent Quigely of the FBI, how can I help you?"


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"I saw these guys and they had this woman all tied up and I don’t think they saw me but I think they were talking German and I think one called her ‘Megan’ or ‘Megra’ or something and…" the excited voice on the other end paused to catch it’s breath, "…except he wasn’t talking German, the one that called her that I mean."


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"Calm down Ma’am…."

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* * * * *

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"Slow down you idiot!" commanded a man sitting in the backseat, holding a Tommy gun. "You are supposed to go fast after, not now!"


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"…But if we don’t get there soon they could turn a corner or go in a building or something," retorted the driver as he took a corner too fast, squealing the tires.

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* * * * *

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"So are you…" the Fiddler stopped speaking. He had heard a car’s tires squeal, and looked over his shoulder to find the source of the noise.


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Realizing he wasn’t going to continue the sentence, Deirdre looked up at him, but he was looking over his shoulder at the car. Following his gaze she saw the car also, which was traveling faster than the rest of the traffic on that road.


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Both noticed the car’s back window was down—an unusual thing for a chilly day.


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Realizing the possibility of danger, a mixture of instinct and training kicked in. The Fiddler took his arm from Deirdre, then stepped between her and the road, turning his back full toward her and facing the road. Pulling back his trench coat, he grabbed the pistol grip of the ‘Chicago typewriter’ with his right hand, and one of the magazines from his belt with his left.


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He waited a couple of seconds, then seeing the barrel of a gun extend from the rear window of the car, lifted the Thompson to his shoulder, steadying it with his left wrist so that his hand could keep holding the mag.


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The car was to the left of him and moving fairly quickly. Taking careful aim he released a burst of fire into the backseat of the car, moving the barrel of the gun slowly to the right as he did so, which kept it on target. The burst emptied half his magazine. Adjusting his aim slightly he let another burst go into the windscreen and the forward window.


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By this time the car was almost directly in front of him, and he saw the driver aim his pistol out the newly shattered passenger window. Tearing away the empty magazine, he let it fall and replaced it with the one he was holding. This action took only a second, but in that time the driver had time to squeeze off a few wild rounds from his pistol. The Fiddler slammed the bolt back, then brought the gun to his shoulder again. He took aim and let go, emptying the whole magazine as he raked the bullets across the car.


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The car swerved, hitting a lamppost, which stopped it completely. The Fiddler dropped the submachine gun and drew his Colt 1910, then ran toward the wrecked car and the bent over streetlight.


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As he neared the car he brought the semi-automatic pistol up to eye level and slowly circled the car, watching for any danger. Finding none he moved in quickly and relieved the driver—who was still breathing but had several holes in his chest, and a nasty gash on his forehead—of his pistol. Throwing it on the road he ran around the back of the car, leaned in the rear, passenger side window, and grabbed the Thompson from the hands of the dead would-be shooter. Grabbing the gun from the man sitting in the passenger seat, who also appeared to be dead, he threw it and the Tommy on the ground near the driver’s gun.


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Turning, he half-shouted to Deirdre, "go call the station, tell them to send some medics, and a fire truck!"


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Suddenly the fear, the anger, and the sadness—which he had pushed to the back of his mind so it wouldn’t interfere with his actions—could be held back no longer. As was normal for such a situation, the Detective began to shake. Walking over to the building near the lamppost, he leaned against it to stabilize himself. It was a natural reaction of the human body. After the rush of adrenaline it had to have a way to reset itself, to burn off the excess energy provided by the adrenaline.


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He hadn’t been involved in something so traumatic in a long time and had half-forgotten what the after-effects were like.


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Well, time to go see how the little lady’s doing. The Fiddler thought, straightening himself up and following after the direction Prof. Campbell had gone.


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* * * * *

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As she entered a restaurant everyone looked at her expectantly, but no one spoke. Half-stumbling to the counter because of shock, she asked the man behind the counter if she could use his phone.


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"Sure," the man replied, grabbing it quickly and setting it within her reach.


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"Get me the Police Station! It’s an emergency."


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Repeating what the Fiddler had told her to say, she hung up, thanked the man, and started to walk dazedly out to the street again.


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As she neared the door, the Detective pushed it open from the other side. She had been holding back her emotions, but when she saw him, Deirdre couldn’t hold back any longer. She began crying, then collapsed. The Fiddler caught her and carried her outside just as the first of the medical vans arrived.


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"I think the driver is still alive," he called to the first medic to climb from the van, "take care of him first, then make sure she’s alright," he commanded, raising the woman in his arms slightly to indicate who ‘she’ was.


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"I’ll get the driver," the medic commanded, then turning to his counterpart and pointing at Deirdre, instructed, "you check up on her."


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After they had lain her in the back of the van, and the medic had checked her pulse, temperature, etc.; the medic declared:


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"She’s alright, she just blacked out. Post traumatic stress, it happens to everyone."


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"Yeah, don’t I know it."

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* * * * *




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