Stephen Cannell - The Tin Collector

The lights were on downstairs, and from the distance, across the cove, they could see occasional movement inside. From time to time people passed in front of the first-floor leaded-glass windows. Parked on the grass, near the water, was the same Bell Jet Ranger that had brought Shane up to the lake after he'd been kidnapped in front of an entire movie company on Spring Street.

Tied to the dock was a classic reproduction wooden Chris-Craft.

"Sandy told me that Logan Hunter was a closet gay. This must be his getaway house. Good place for slam-dance weekends."

"Boy, do I hate this layout," she said, still studying the mansion carefully. "The house sits on high ground, acres of grass all around. Porches and too many windows… Tactically, we're fucked."

"Come on… don't be so negative. We lickety-split across the lawn, slip through an open window, find Chooch and Brian, make the rescue, bust ass, and we're gone zim, zam, zoom."

"Shane, we need backup."

"Who did you have in mind, the Power Rangers?"

"If Chooch Sandoval and Brian Kelly are being held here and we get them out, they make the kidnapping case for us, and we're halfway off the hook. If we get caught, we're dust anyway. I think we need to call in a Code Six Mary." She was referring to the LAPD radio designation for officer assistance required due to extreme militant activity. "We'd have to time it right, but once we know Chooch and Brian are there, let's just dime ourselves out, let Sheriff Conklyn sort the frogs from the princes."

"What if Chooch and Brian aren't here," he said, "and we don't get killed, but arrested? Then we're sitting in jail, trying to talk our way out of four killings in Florida."

"No plan is without some operational deficiencies."

He shot her a withering look.

"Okay, let's go in, scout it, then back out to a safe spot and do a nine-one-one," she said, revising her idea.

He thought about it for a long moment, then said, "I'd rather take it one step at a time and see what develops. But, either way, I think we should tee up the Code Six Mary before we call it in."

"Good idea… but how?"

"Gimme your phone."

She handed the cell phone to Shane. He got Information, then called the Arrowhead Sheriff's Department. After asking for Sheriff Conklyn, he was transferred, then got the tall, balding man on the phone. "Guess who?" Shane said.

"I don't have the faintest idea…"

"Turn on your TV. I'm starring in every newscast."

"Shit… Scully?"

"I'm looking for you to take me in, Sheriff. I want you to make the bust. You'll be famous. It's probably at least good for a shot or two on Oprah, but I have a few conditions…"

Conklyn paused, and then Shane heard a click, so he knew the rest of the conversation was being T and T'd taped and traced.

"Why me?" Conklyn asked.

"If you're tracing this call, it's just gonna come back to a cell station in Arrowhead. I'm up here now, but I'm not quite ready to turn myself in yet. I want you to make the arrest because I've got problems with some of my brother officers in L. A. and I don't want to stop a stray bullet by mistake."

"Not to mention all the dead bodies you left in Florida."

"There's a story that goes with that, Sheriff. Extenuating circumstances."

"If you're smart, Scully, you'll tell me where you are now. Otherwise, this will go down hard."

"I want you to call Bud Halley, my old CO in L. A. He's a good cop. Tell him what's going on. Tell him I need to see him and to get his ass up here."

"Where are you, Scully?"

"Stick by your phone. I'll let you know." Shane hung up and looked at Alexa.

"Pretty good," she said, nodding. "He'll have his flak vest buttoned and be ready to roll."

They moved off the dock and skirted the water's edge until they got to a wire fence that went ten feet out into the lake and separated the castle's property from its neighbors. Shane climbed out on the fence, U-turned around the end post, then came back toward shore, and dropped off onto the sand inside the grounds.

After a minute Alexa repeated the maneuver, landing on the sand beside him.

They crept away from the shoreline and ran up toward the house, both silently cursing the full moon as they sprinted under its silvery glow. They hurried across the vast expanse of lawn, then hugged the wall, moving around the castle house slowly. They could see a row of ground-level windows throwing streaks of light out across the dew-wet lawn. They moved in that direction. Once they got to the windows, Shane dropped to his stomach and looked through a narrow glass pane into what looked like a huge billiards room.

"Uh-uh," he whispered, rising again and moving on. Alexa followed quietly in his footsteps.

On the south end of the house, he found the ground-level window he was looking for. When Shane glanced inside, he saw that it opened into a basement laundry room. He took out the.38 S amp;W and tapped loudly on the window with the gun butt.

"Whatta you doing?" Alexa hissed. "Why don't we just ring the fucking doorbell?"

"If somebody's down here, I'd rather find out now. Better to be outside than trapped down there in the basement. I'm gonna break the glass. If we get a ringer, get small."

She nodded, then watched as he slammed the gun butt hard into the pane, breaking it. The sound of tinkling shards hitting the cement floor froze them. They lay prone on the grass for several long minutes, waiting.

Nothing.

Shane reached through the glass, unhooked the latch, and swung the window open. They slipped into the laundry room and dropped onto the basement floor. Once inside, they could hear the faint sounds of opera music playing upstairs.

"Okay, let's work our way through this place, starting with this side, then moving east," he whispered.

She nodded, and they opened the laundry-room door and found themselves in a narrow, concrete-walled corridor with a vaulted ceiling. The corridor had no carpet, windows, or wall decorations. They crept along the tile floor, trying to keep their shoes from echoing on the polished surface. They checked doors as they went, mostly storage rooms and a basement bathroom. Then they were back at the poolroom Shane had seen from outside. The room was medieval in design, with old lances and shields on the walls. Two full, man-sized suits of armor on stands stood guarding a pair of double doors.

Movie posters hung on every wall, each one featuring a well-known Logan Hunter film. A red felt pool table loomed like a mahogany crypt in the center of the huge rectangular room.

They slipped out of the poolroom through a side door, still heading east. Shane and Alexa found themselves transiting through a part of the basement that was beginning to resemble a dungeon bars and studded steel doors, ornate metal hinges with brass church locks. At the end of the center hall was a wooden door with a small, eight-by-ten-inch barred window set at eye level. Shane looked through the bars into an even narrower, underlit hallway. The door was locked. He reached in his pocket for his picks.

"What would we ever do without those?" she quipped.

It was a simple two-tumbler lock, designed more for looks than function. He got it open quickly. The door creaked ominously as he pushed it wide.

They crept down the three-foot-wide stone-block hallway. The first door on the right was unlocked, so he pushed it open and found that he was standing in a replica of a medieval torture chamber, replete with fourteenth-century stretching racks, wall restraints, and steel wall hooks holding every imaginable kind of leather apparel.

"This kink is into S amp;M," Alexa said.

Shane felt a chill go through him and prayed that Chooch and Longboard had not been subjected to a dose of that madness.

He passed through the dungeon toward a door on the far side of the room, opened it slowly, and found a hallway that ran farther underground. It stretched for about forty or fifty feet on a gentle slope. At the end of the corridor was another large wooden door with metal trim and steel studs.