Chapter 8 of Indiana Jones and the Golden Spider

Posted by Goodsport from adsl-216-102-199-185.dsl.snfc21.pacbell.net on March 04, 2000 at 04:45:45:

Chapter 8 - Shootings

    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, Jones moved away. Keeping his whip taut so that he could ruin its walk, and thereby hamper its progress and ability to fight, Indy fought both mentally and physically with the beast.

    Finally learning Indy's game, the spider quit trying to reach him and began attempting to remove the whip from its 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 to partially fall to the ground.

* * * * *

    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.

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

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

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

    "I need a Thompson."

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

    "Here you go. What kind of drum do you need?"

    "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.

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

    "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.

    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.

    "One of these?" the keeper smiled.

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

    Strapping 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.

    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 steady the gun, without exposing it or making his actions obvious.

* * * * *

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

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

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

    "Huh?"

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

    "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.

    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 also dead. Anyway, being a murder investigation, of somewhat high profile I might add, the SFPD 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.

    "So that's it??"

    "Well… that's the short version, and when you're a private investigator 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."

* * * * *

    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.

    He'd decided that perhaps a walk would be nice for the day's session of questioning. So he had the car that had been watching both her and her house bring her to the station, and they'd started their walk from there.

    It had rained the day before and the 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, making sure that he didn't slip.

    Deirdre was lost in thought. She had 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.

    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 foot landing on it and possibly causing him to slip.

    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.

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

    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.

    "You okay?" the Detective asked, smiling.

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

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

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

* * * * *

    "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."

    "All right, I understand that. But what made you think that?"

    "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.

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

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

* * * * *

    Muppet crouched in the stall, waiting.

    You've got to get a hold of yourself! He demanded, struggling with the fear that was causing him to sweat and tremble.

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

    Muppet quickly 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.

* * * * *

    "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."

nbsp   "All right, Brett. We'll do it."

nbsp   "Thanks, Mike. Catch ya' later," the Mountie replied, then hung up the phone.

nbsp   Turning to Jeef, he noticed the man had fallen asleep again. Realizing he must be extremely tired, he walked over to the big guy and shook him lightly.

nbsp   "Jeef! Jeef! Wake up, man!"

nbsp   "Wha… huh?…"

nbsp   "C'mon. I need you for a few more hours. Then you can go home and to bed. Deal?"

nbsp   Finally somewhat coherent, Jeef answered, "Sorry Brett, I didn't mean to. I'll stay awake this time."

nbsp   "Thanks, partner."

* * * * *

    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 toward the door.

* * * * *

    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.

    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.

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

    Micah latched onto the whip as the arachnid attempted to right itself, keeping it down longer.

    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 wonderfully-missed opportunity, neither noticed James Lambert tumble out of a smaller hole to the side of the one they had exited from.

* * * * *

    Quickly gathering his wits about him, James also saw the opportunity. 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.

* * * * *

    He sat behind his desk, waiting patiently for the phone call that he knew would surely come. His cold blue-gray eyes, the ones 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.

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

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

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

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

    "Agent?"

    "Who else?"

    "How'd we do, sir?"

    "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."

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

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

    "But…."

    "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?"

    "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?"

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

    "So you killed them?"

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

    "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."

    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's voice.

    "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."

    Sighing in disgust, the agent told the operator, "Put her through."

    "This is Agent Quigely of the FBI. How can I help you?"

    "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 its breath, "…except he wasn't talking German, the one that called her that I mean."

    "Calm down, ma'am…."

* * * * *

    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.

    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 its attempts to stand.

    Turning, Jones sat on its back, straddling its head. He then shoved the barrel of the pistol against its 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 inquired of his mentor, "So now what do we do?"

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

    "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."

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

    "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.

    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 also the car, which was traveling faster than the rest of the traffic on that road.

    Both of them noticed the car's back window was down - an unusual thing for a chilly day.

    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 his 'Chicago Typewriter' with his right hand, and one of the magazines from his belt with his left.

    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.

    The car was to the left of him and moving fairly quickly. Taking careful aim he released a burst of fire into the back seat 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.

    By this time the car was almost directly in front of him, 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.

    The car swerved and hit 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.

    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 gun onto the ground near the driver's gun.

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

    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.

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

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

* * * * *

    As she entered the nearby 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.

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

    "Get me the police station! It's an emergency."

    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.

    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.

    "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 all right," he commanded, raising the woman in his arms slightly to indicate who 'she' was.

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

    After they had lain her in the back of the van, and the medic had checked her pulse, temperature and so on, the medic declared, "She's all right. She just blacked out. Post traumatic stress - it happens to everyone."

    "Yeah, don't I know it!"

*************************

Deirdre, we are anxiously awaiting your Chapter 9! ;)

Follow Ups:

• Oops, here is the REAL Chapter 8 of Indiana Jones and the Golden Spider.! :) Goodsport 14:51:41 3/04/2000 (3)
  • Goody: DC 02:49:26 3/05/2000 (2)
    • Re: Goody: Goodsport 03:43:51 3/05/2000 (1)
      • Also, Deirdre... Goodsport 03:51:40 3/05/2000 (0)

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