I'm lost! Send me back to the first part.
This had to be the weirdest leap he'd endured yet. Given the fact that he had leaped into a pregnant woman and a chimpanzee, that was saying something.
Pretending to be straightening the rows of old hardbound books lining one wall, Sam Beckett thought long and hard. As nearly as he could tell, this antique store dealt in items with supernatural curses--not distributing them, thank heavens, but collecting them.
As a scientist, he was more-or-less comfortable with the idea of telepathy, clairvoyance, even precognition: they might challenge his view of the universe, but they could be measured, expressed mathematically, turned into experiments and statistics and theorems to be proved or disproved. But cursed brooms that possessed their owners and levitated people were harder to accept.
Al accepted it all immediately, his eyes growing wider and his expression more alarmed as he battered the side of the hand-link, demanding more data from Ziggy. "Oh, geez, Sam, these guys showed up at the death scene for more people than the local coroner ever did. Don't touch anything. Ziggy says the store is full of cursed items, and they'll make your hands fall off or something even grosser."
Maybe Al was right. Given his habit of time-traveling and inhabiting the bodies of other people to change their histories, scoffing at this development was like straining at a gnat after swallowing an elephant.
Sam glanced down, realized he was holding a leather-bound, apparently bloodstained copy of the Necronomicon, grimaced, and hastily re-shelved it, glancing over one shoulder to see if anyone had noticed. Al was still anxiously cross-examining the computer. Ryan Dallion was standing by the massive, gold-painted cash register, apparently going over accounts. Sam edged to the wooden railing separating this upper floor from the showroom and hissed to get Al's attention.
"Psst. Al, what happens if we don't find this Jack in time?"
Al looked grave. "Ziggy says these two kids completely lose hope. They try to retrieve a cursed brooch without him, and Micki gets an eye poked out. After that, they close the shop forever, which leaves--" He squinted at the read-out. "--over 200 cursed objects floating around out there, killing people."
(Great. Just great.)
He looked around and caught Ryan staring at him with a quizzical expression that made the young man look even younger than usual. "What did you say?" Ryan asked.
"I've got a really bad feeling about Jack. Do you have any idea where he might be?"
Ryan hesitated, then picked up a battered ledger and ran one finger down a page crammed with faded ink entries. Al followed him, momentarily distracted by a floor case holding a row of scantily-clad Kewpie dolls. "Scalpel...baby buggy...clutch purse...here it is. Lewis sold a blood transfusion unit to a Dr. William Jantsch, almost two years ago."
Sam glanced back at Al, who reluctantly left the Kewpie dolls. "Is there an address or something there?"
"He lives right here, in that classy district by the river. I'm surprised Jack's not back already."
Al punched that in, then shook his head. "Jantsch's dead, Sam. Died six months ago, according to the newspapers. I'll have Gushie center me on that address, though, and see if Marshak or the I.V. thing are there. Don't go anywhere, and don't touch anything, okay? Gushie!"
The handlink squealed in earsplitting protest. Sam blinked, and his partner was gone.
"Micki?"
"Yes, Ryan?"
"Is there...something you're not telling me?"
"About what?"
Dallion hesitated. "Did that broom...do something to you?"
Sam gazed back innocently. "Like what?"
Ryan seemed unable to come up with the right words. Finally he shrugged. "I dunno. Is this something witchy? I mean, from what you're studying with the coven?"
(The coven? I'm a witch? Wow.)
Sam met his eyes and said sincerely, "All I can say is that I know Jack is in serious danger, and time is running out. I think we should try to track him down."
After a moment, the young man seemed to come to a decision. "Okay. If it'll make you feel better, let's go to Rashid."
"Who?"
"Rashid."
They stared at each other. When that didn't seem to help clear things up, Sam asked, "Why?"
This seemed to make Ryan even more unhappy. "What do you mean, why? I thought you told me you hadn't even started studying scrying."
"Scrying?" Sam repeated helplessly. He was getting awfully tired of repeating things.
"Scrying," Al said, materializing next to his right ear and making him twitch convulsively. "It's a form of fortune-telling by looking into a crystal ball, or a mirror, or a pool of water."
"Oh. No, I haven't studied scrying."
"So Rashid's our best bet. Let me get my jacket, and we'll go."
Ryan trotted up the stairs to the left and then along a balcony overlooking the rest of the store, stopping twice to glance down at his alluring female partner. Trying to be reassuring, Sam waved and gave him an uneasy little smile. As soon as he was out of sight, Sam turned to Al.
"Well?"
"No luck. There's no I.V., no Marshak, and nobody there. Looks like the owner's moving--everything's in boxes."
"So how are we supposed to find Marshak?"
Al shrugged. "Maybe this Rashid can help."
"Come on, Al, you can't really believe--"
"Who are you talking to?" Ryan asked quietly from the foot of the staircase.
Sam twitched, turned, and plastered a sickly smile on his face. "Oh, just talking to myself. Trying to convince myself that Jack's okay."
Ryan looked unconvinced, but shrugged into his worn leather bomber jacket and walked through the showroom to the sunken entrance. When Sam followed, the long-faced young man stared at him. "Aren't you going to take your purse?"
"It's on that roll-top desk up there, Sam."
He could feel himself blushing as he scooped up the absurdly tiny, silver-sequined shoulder purse and hurried back down the short flight of stairs. Dallion led them to what must be his car, an ancient Volkswagen "love bug" lovingly--but amateurishly--painted like Disney's Herbie.
Once he had safely pulled into the downtown traffic, Ryan cleared his throat. "You know, I've been thinking. Since Uncle Lewis kicked off, you've had a really rough time. I mean, granted you did get to meet me, but you gave up your career, you broke off with your fiance, and you've had to fight off creeps like Dracula, De Sade, and that nut with the death coin."
"It doesn't sound like a great life, when you put it like that," Sam conceded, wincing as the Bug almost mounted the rear of a Gypsy taxi cab.
"And I gotta admit, it really scared me when you got knocked out tonight, Micki. I don't think I could stand it to lose you to a cursed antique, the way that damn pipe killed my dad." His voice trembled. His eyes still locked on the road, he took a deep breath and deftly whipped through a yellow light and around a corner. "So I think you should go back home and put the pieces together. Jack and I can run the shop, and if there's a profit or anything, we'll send you your share, every month."
Al leaned over from the back seat. "Not a good idea, Sam. Ziggy says if either of you kids drops out, the odds are the other one will get killed."
"I'm not quitting, Ryan."
"Don't think of it as quitting. Think of it as taking an extended siesta. Or a real long vacation."
Sam asked, "Do you think that just because I'm a woman, I can't handle stress or danger as well as you?"
"Don't be like that, Micki, you know that's not what I mean!"
"Maybe I'll change my mind tomorrow, Ryan, but right now I intend to go on the way I have been. It's worked so far. Why change a winning combo?"
Ryan only sighed.
Actually, Sam felt guilty. These two kids shouldn't be in this line of work, risking their lives and their souls. Even if he and Al succeeded in rescuing their partner this time, who was to say they wouldn't end up dying another time, trying to snatch some other cursed object? But his instinct was to keep the team together. He knew in his gut that he could never survive his leaps without Al. Okay, so Al couldn't physically affect anything around him. That wasn't important. Even if the handlink to Ziggy didn't work, and Al couldn't zip in and out, or look up information, he would be vital to the success of Project Quantum Leap. It was his friendship, his caring, that got Sam Beckett through every leap. Dangerous though it might be, he couldn't risk letting Micki Foster abandon this team.
Even though he was sure that was the right decision, Sam was still fretting about it as he followed the young man into a high-rise apartment building. The elevator ride seemed endless, full of strained silence and uneasy sideways glances. It didn't help that Al kept rocking on his toes, trying to stare down Sam's--Micki's--bosom, despite angry glares from his partner. Okay, so Micki was a beautiful woman; Al could concentrate and see Sam's aura, not hers, if he made an effort. He obviously didn't want to make the effort.
Were Ryan and Micki a romantic couple? They were both heirs of Lewis Vendredi, but that didn't necessarily make them blood relatives. Sam gave Ryan a weak smile. If Ryan was as close to Micki as he was to Al, how was he ever going to convince Ryan that `Micki' was all right? Every word, every movement, would betray him...and he felt no romantic longings for the younger man, either!
When the elevator door opened, Al hung back, gazing in admiration at Sam's buttocks, but he widened his eyes innocently and hastened out when Sam turned to glower at him again.
Rashid turned out to be a small, wiry, dapper Arab who greeted them at the door of his apartment with smiles and warm hugs.
"So nice to see you both! Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Unfortunately, I must be leaving myself very shortly, but you know my home is always yours, as well."
Sam felt himself warming to their genial host, but Ryan slammed the apartment door shut behind them and yanked a foot-long silver Celtic cross from beneath his bomber jacket. "Help me, Rashid! Micki's been possessed!"
"I'm what?"
"She's what?"
Dramatically, Dallion thrust the cross at him. "Satan, begone! I rebuke you and all your works!"
Sam bristled. "I'm going to rebuke you in just a minute, buddy, if you keep insulting me like this!"
Still brandishing the cross, Ryan cried, "Don't you have any holy water? Maybe that'll work!"
"Perhaps you had better explain what has happened," Rashid,suggested, frowning.
"See, we were collecting a broom left over from the Salem witch trials, and the owner attacked Micki with it. I thought all she was doing was levitating her, but it must've been a lot worse than that, because ever since she was knocked out, she's been acting weird. She talks to people who aren't there, she acts like she doesn't know what's going on, she even walks and talks differently." He thrust the cross forward again. "That isn't Micki Foster!"
With dignity, Sam said, "I am not possessed. Believe me, Satan has nothing to do with any of this."
"She doesn't even remember who you are!"
"That's nonsense. You're--er--Rashid, of course," Sam said quickly, watching Al frantically quiz Ziggy for details.
"Ask her what happened the time we were in Uncle Lewis's house," Ryan challenged.
"Sam, do you have any idea how many Egyptians are named Rashid? I didn't even know there were this many Egyptians in the whole entire city. And Ziggy doesn't have anything but tax records on Vendredi's house."
Stalling, Sam said, "I do, too, remember! It was awful. It was terrifying." Given what these people did for a living, that seemed like a safe bet.
Rashid steepled his hands beneath his chin, his expression bemused. "There does seem to be a...presence...of some sort here."
Al almost dropped the hand-link. "A ghost? Oh, geez, I really don't like ghosts, Sam. Magick and curses, that's one thing, but dead bodies and ghosts--"
"I told you! You've gotta help me exorcise her. I want the real Micki back."
"Don't let him exorcise you, Sam. Who knows what that might do? If this guy can really do magick--"
The older man walked to a glass-topped desk and popped a jaunty red fez onto his head, then pulled open a desk drawer. "The eyes of Horus will help us see the truth, and the rays of Aman-Ra will clear the darkness." Murmuring a rhythmic phrase in mellifluous Arabic, he lifted a gold medallion and slipped it over his head, then turned to gaze toward Sam with great interest. "If you please, sir, dispose of that cigar; I am attempting to cleanse my body of nicotine."
Ryan looked blankly at Sam, who slowly turned and stared over his shoulder. Al gaped at him in turn, his cigar drooping between two fingers.
"Now who are you talking to?" Ryan asked nervously.
Experimentally, Al walked around the room, pausing before the picture window, and Rashid's eyes tracked him, only blinking when Al absently strolled through a pale green ottoman. After a moment, Al paused and half-heartedly waved. Rashid smiled diffidently and waved back, just curling the fingers of one hand. Al swallowed. "I think he sees me, Sam."
"What exactly do you see?" Sam asked.
"A somewhat hazy form of a man in very garish clothing." Rashid frowned. "He does not appear to be a ghost or afrit, yet he is clearly...most unusual."
"How can he see me?" Al demanded, affronted by the very idea. "Only little kids--really little kids--and crazies can see me. And you, of course."
Rashid modestly adjusted his business suit. "It is my theory that young children, in their innocence, often remain open to magickal experiences. As they get older, the world tells them what they see cannot exist; that if they persist in seeing ghosts and demons, they must be insane." Warming to his lecture, he straightened, his soft voice gaining strength. "I understand that our eyes see everything upside-down, which is how we view the world when we are born, but the brain--for self-preservation--soon learns to flip the images around, and thereafter we `see' things right-side-up. Similarly, with magick--"
Ryan's cross drooped ever lower than Al's cigar. "I don't believe this. What the hell is going on around here?"
"You better tell him, Sam."
"This is kind of a long story. Maybe we'd better sit down." Suiting actions to words, Sam sat down on the ottoman. Only when Al coughed pointedly did he switch from resting one ankle on the other knee to crossing his legs the feminine way, with one knee resting on the other. Then he took a deep breath. "My name is Sam Beckett, and this is Al Calavicci."
"The astronaut?" Ryan's voice squeaked.
"Well, yes, he was, briefly. Now he's an Admiral. I'm a scientist from...well, not too far in your future. We built what I was sure would be a method of time-travel, utilizing quantum physics, based on the life of the cell of the individual traveler and the string theory I developed with Professor LoNigro. Maybe you've heard of it?"
Ryan looked blank. Al shrugged. "He's a space groupie, not a quantum cutie, Sam."
"Well, never mind. The thing is, time travel hasn't worked out quite the way I thought it would. What happens is that I leap into a time in my own past, and I occupy the body of someone who's about to die or to make some tragic mistake. My task seems to be to save them, and only then do I get to leap out again." One corner of his mouth lifted. "We haven't figure out how to break the chain and get me back home."
"But we're working on it, Sam. Gushie and Ziggy have this new theory they wanna try, as soon as we get some mechanical bugs worked out. You'll see."
Ryan leaned forward. "What happened to Micki?"
"Oh, she's fine," Al assured Rashid, since Ryan couldn't hear him. "I saw her back in the Waiting Room, just before I joined Sam. She's a lot more calm, cool, and collected than the average person--you wouldn't believe how many grown men curl up in a corner and drool when this happens to them--but she won't tell us her name or anything. We figured from the way she moved and talked that she might be a woman, but that's all we knew, until I tracked down Sam."
Fascinated, Rashid stared at him with bird-bright black eyes. "How is it that you accompany this man?"
"I'm a man, too. The real me is locked inside the Imaging Chamber with this computer link; what you're seeing is a hologram of me, linked with Sam's mesons and neurons and stuff like that. To me, I'm here with you, but to the rest of the guys at the Project, I'm walking around the I.C. talking to myself. I've seen videotapes of it--it's pretty funny, actually."
Unable to hear any of this and utterly frustrated, Ryan stood up. "WHAT HAPPENED TO MICKI?"
Rashid blinked, then repeated what Al had told him. It didn't seem to calm Dallion. He turned to Sam accusingly.
"You said you jump into somebody about to die. What's supposed to happen to Micki?"
"Nothing. Ziggy--the parallel hybrid computer back at the Project--thinks we're here to rescue Jack Marshak. If we do that, you and Micki Foster should be fine."
"Rescue Jack from what?"
"Apparently from the cursed I.V. unit he was looking for. The newspapers say he was drained of blood and dumped beside the highway next week."
"Monday, in fact," Al said, glancing at the hand-link.
Ryan grimaced and ran one hand along his forehead and up over his scalp, as if trying to push out a headache. Rashid seemed entranced, like a child listening to a fairy tale.
"So it is indeed possible to change one's past without destroying the future!"
Sam hesitated. "Sort of, for us, but then, we seem to be getting a lot of help from...Up There." He rolled his eyes toward the heavens.
Al wanted to get down to business. "The problem is, neither the I.V. nor Marshak is at the Casey place, and we don't know where else to look. Nobody's home to answer the phone, and I can't look through drawers or anything, because I'm just a laser-image."
"Ah." Rashid rose, briskly rubbing his hands together. "There, perhaps I can help. Jack and I are old friends, and linked in our use of magick. Let us see if he is anywhere where a mirror is present."
"Scrying?"
"Quite." He busied himself drawing the curtains, turning out lights, and rummaging through his desk. Ryan, please, would you light candles for us? We must make a circle around the desk, and hold hands."
Al cleared his throat. "That presents a problem."
"Perhaps you should not join the circle." Rashid cocked his head, considering this. "I'm not certain what the correct ritual is for a hologram. It would make a very interesting study."
Sam looked dubiously at the large oval mirror on the desk, as Ryan set blue candles around it. "How exactly does this work?"
"A mirror that has certain qualities--for example, one that was in a room where magick was worked, as this one was--becomes a channel for the occult. It works best if you link it to another mirror that has similar qualities."
Al pointed out, "If Marshak's anywhere near the I.V. unit, magick musta been worked there."
"So we must hope there is also a mirror present."
Ryan seemed reluctant to reach for Sam's hand as Rashid began to murmur something in Arabic, and Sam could feel the tension in his clenched muscles as he alternately gripped, then tensed as if to pull away. It was understandable. Even Al, after half-a-dozen experiences and double the counseling sessions with his lady psychologist, had trouble dealing with Sam as a man in a woman's body.
How could he help with this unscientific experiment, knowing nothing about the proper procedure? Rashid seemed to follow precise rules and routine, like a scientist, but this was magick. He didn't even know what Marshak looked like. How could he concentrate on seeing a stranger in that mirror?
Although it went against every scientific bone in his body, Sam stared down, seeing the reflections of Micki, Ryan, and Rashid waver in the candlelight. Then a ripple seemed to pass through the images, and they were gone. In their place appeared a dimly-lit bedroom. Breath sucked through Ryan's teeth, and he nearly squeezed Sam's hand flat.
Reflected in the heart of the mirror was a heavyset, balding, middle-aged man with a mustache and ginger-and-cream goatee. His eyes were closed, his face unnaturally pale. Both arms were stretched out and shackled to the bedposts, and a red tube ran from his right arm to a metal contraption. No--the tubing was clear. The red was blood.
"Don't look at him," Sam told Ryan. His hand ached in Dallion's convulsive grip. "Look for some sort of clue--a landmark of some kind. There, to the left, past his head. Is that a window?"
Al leaned over his shoulder, squinting. "You can hardly see out, with the blind pulled down most of the way."
"Is that a water tower? All I can see are the long spindly legs, like the Martians in that old movie."
"Yeah, I remember that," Al agreed, forgetting Ryan couldn't hear him. He tried to get a closer look, but recoiled when he realized he had passed entirely through Sam and was standing inside Rashid's desk.
Sam met Rashid's eyes. "You're a magician. Can't you do something?"
"If I had something close to Jack, imbued with his essence--like that ring on his left hand--I could do many things to affect Jack, but nothing that would move those chains." One slim shoulder gently rose and fell. "You're a scientist, used to dealing with the laws of gravity, motion, physics. Magick has laws, too. If you had some training in the Art, perhaps I could transport you through the mirror, as I once did for Jack, but--"
The scream of a telephone ringing made all of them jump, and the mirror darkened. Once again it reflected only their faces and the ceiling.
Sighing, Rashid silenced the phone shrilling from a small cherrywood stand by lifting the receiver. Ryan glumly blew out each candle, then walked to the picture window and stood staring at the city stretched beneath them. It was a magnificent view, the night sparkling with a Crayola box of colors that almost seemed to form a pattern, but the pattern never quite took hold, as some lights were turned on and others off.
"It's beautiful," Sam said quietly, joining him.
Ryan edged away from him, his back stiff. "It's too dark out there. I don't like the dark much, these days."
"There are plenty of lights out there, too."
"Never enough." Almost savagely, he said, "Micki's one of those lights. She and Jack fight the Darkness. They have powers. I mean, I try, I really do, but half the time I feel like a jerk. I make dumb mistakes, and people die. Just like now. Jack's dying, and Micki's gone--what happens if you blow it? Do you just take over Micki's body forever?"
"I don't know."
"And then Micki'd be stuck in your body, sometime in our future. Is that the way it works?" The angry words were a challenge.
"Ryan, all I can say is that it hasn't happened yet. Al and I have managed to save a lot of people, and fix a lot of mistakes. There's no reason to think we won't do it this time. And now we've got you and Rashid to help out--that's more than we've ever had before."
The breath hissed out of Dallion in what was partly a laugh, partly a sob, and he shook his head.
Looking grave, Rashid hung up the phone and wiped sweat from his forehead. Al said, "Sam, I think you better get over here. This doesn't look good."
"What is it? Was it bad news?"
"I waited too long. A man has died."
"What?" Sam turned to Al, who shrugged, just as lost as he was.
Rashid put the mirror back into the top desk drawer and neatened the desk top. His voice was strained. "Jack asked me to retrieve a special object, a medallion. It's not an antique--just a curiosity, an early holographic design--but it passed through Lewis Vendredi's hands, with the usual vile results. It was made as an award, voted to the best horror illustrator in comic book art--the Blood-Beast of Thulec. When you came here, you see, I was on my way to the convention, in the Hyatt Regency."
"You mean Cthulhu? Lovecraft stuff?"
"Thulec, according to Jack."
Ryan wandered away from the window. "Oh, yeah. From the real Golden Age stuff. I read my dad's copy of that issue when I was--what? maybe ten years old?--and it scared me so bad I wet my pants every night for a week."
"With good reason, apparently. That was a lady from Fangoria magazine; she says a man has been killed at the banquet by a `monster.'"
Rashid pulled a red scarf from the brass coat-rack by the door and wrapped it around his throat, adding an incongruous note of frivolity to his staid business suit. Ryan watched incredulously.
"Wait a minute. Where are you going?"
"To get the chain, as Jack asked."
"You're not going to let Jack die!"
"Of course not! Admiral Calavicci and Dr. Beckett say we have six more days in which to save him. At the convention, people are dying right now. Ryan, I must go, you know that."
"But--"
"He's right, Ryan. Al and I will keep working here, trying to figure out how to find Jack. If we need Rashid, Al can just have Gushie center in on him and be there in an instant."
Al murmured, "That's me, the Human Beeper."
Rashid opened the door, but paused. "I've never seen the comic book this Blood-Beast is from," he confessed. "I meant to read it tonight, at the banquet." He lifted his head, meeting Ryan's angry gaze. "If you would help me, Ryan, I might have a better chance."
For a long moment, Sam thought he would refuse, but then, muttering something under his breath, still furious, Ryan zipped up his leather jacket and snatched up the silver cross.
Jack stirred restlessly, opening his eyes. It was difficult to see anything in the night-darkened room, even though a tacky little Mickey Mouse night-light had flickered on in the corner. Was there someone there? A moment ago, he'd had the strangest feeling that Rashid was here in the room, looking down at him.
No one was here, of course. No one had the faintest idea where he was. How could they?
Funny. In so many ways, he'd led a rich, exciting life...always on the move, always learning new things, stretching his imagination to the fullest. Yet it had been a failure, for he'd lost everything.
He lost Lewis, his boyhood pal: at first to simple greed, and then to Satan's lures. Maybe if he'd been there when Lewis was tempted, he could've saved him from his dark desires, but Jack had to leave, because he was fighting a desire of his own. Grace was a wonderful woman, lovely as a sunrise, but she was married to his best friend, and he signed on with the Merchant Marines--like his father before him--to escape the temptation. Now Lewis and his lovely wife were both dead. What good had his noble sacrifice done?
He lost his father, early on. Jack had tried to be intelligent, well-read, as interesting as his father, so that his father would stay home, would notice him for once...but it hadn't been enough. Colly Marshak went to sea, became a long-distance father who sent postcards from exotic ports, until finally he simply disappeared. He'd been dead and buried at sea for three years before his son even knew he'd passed on.
He lost his war-time buddies. Every member of the squad was garroted by the resurrected Karl Rausche, one by one, as Mueller used The Butcher to get revenge and to take back a magical talisman. If they hadn't rescued Jack Marshak, his friends Simpson, Carruthers, LaRue, Ivanovich, Lefty, and Jean would still be alive today.
He lost Vi Rhodes, his fiancee, twice: once when he couldn't be bothered settling down in Kenya while she worked on her career, and again twenty years later, when their love rekindled. She died a particularly gruesome death because of one of Lewis's damned objects.
He'd found most of those relics for Lewis in the first place, selling them to him to help out with his antique business. Unknowingly, he'd helped kill Vi, and his professional skeptic friend Jerry, and so many, many others.
His son Peter was dead, too, because he tried to impress his wandering father with his talent for magic, just as Jack had tried to impress Colly. He hadn't even learned from his own failure there.
Now he was dying, alone.
What would Micki and Ryan do, when he was gone?
They were both so young, so innocent in the ways of Darkness, as impetuous and lovable as a pair of clumsy puppies. They wouldn't give up. They were too romantic, too sure they could risk all for Goodness and win, just because their cause was right. Without his experience, his training, they would flounder. There would be two more deaths laid to his account, caused by his failure....
"Oh, my. You've filled the bag up already, haven't you?"
He licked dry lips, squinting at the shadowy figure in the doorway. "Mrs. Liese--"
She wagged a reproving finger at him. "Now, I told you to call me Mary Jo, didn't I?"
"Mary Jo. You can't do this. It's wrong."
Humming cheerfully to herself, she hung an empty plastic bag on the other arm of the I.V. unit, then began carefully unhooking the filled bag. Jack tried to catch her eye.
"I haven't done anything to hurt you, Mary Jo. I haven't done anything to deserve this."
"Oh, I'm not doing this to you." She sounded shocked at the very idea. "I'm just looking out for myself. It's a dog-eat-dog world, you know. And with inflation and all, prices keep going up. How else could a girl like me get by, hmmm?" Clutching the bag to her heart as if it were a bouquet of sweetheart roses, she smiled benevolently at him. "Now, don't you go away. I'll just pop this in the refrigerator, and get a little surprise from the kitchen. I'll be back in a jiffy."
How could he possibly penetrate that incredible self-absorption? The woman had already quite cheerfully murdered her sick husband: she wouldn't mind his death in the least, unless he inconveniently passed away before she'd accumulated enough blood for her `bank.' Jack yanked at his chains again, furious.
When she returned, Mary Jo was bearing a tall glass of something chocolate on an orange plastic tray that had probably been taken from a fast food restaurant somewhere.
"I hope you like this flavor. I thought about making you the strawberry one, but you never know, some people are allergic to strawberries, and I thought, well, goodness, everyone loves chocolate, right?"
Jack twisted his head away when she bent to hold the glass to his lips. "What is it?"
"Oh, it's one of those diet nutritional supplement drinks. You know. It builds up your strength." She jammed the straw into his mouth. "Now, drink up. It's good for you."
If he didn't cooperate, she'd no doubt pinch his nostrils shut and force it down him. Reluctantly, he sipped; the cool drink was so soothing to his dry mouth that he'd finished the glass before he'd had time to consider it. His captor cooed with satisfaction.
"That's a good boy. Frank got so he just didn't have an appetite at all, and I hated to punish him all the time, but there you go." She heaved a sigh, the long-suffering martyr. Setting the tray down, she pulled the bedcovers up under his chin, tucking him in, then frowned at the transfusion unit, tapping one forefinger against her lips. "You know, I think I'll turn it down, just for tonight. No point in killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, is there?" With that taken care of, she beamed down at him. "I have to go; this is my favorite night for T.V. shows, and I have some last minute shopping to do. I wasn't expecting company, you know! Now, don't worry about the bed; I still have some Depends from when Frank was still with me. Sleep tight, and don't let the bedbugs bite!"
Even though he knew he couldn't possibly see Ryan and the dapper magician drive into the night so far below in the little Volkswagen, Sam stood at the picture window for a long time. Finally, quietly, he said, "I feel guilty."
"Why?"
"They're going to try to stop a monster that's already killed once. Maybe I could help. Maybe--"
"Don't be silly, Sam. What do we know about the supernatural? Movie cameras that create werewolves, T.V. sets that suck you inside, Victorian playhouses that swallow up children--yuch!" Al shuddered, holding the hand-link away as if the very words on the screen were dangerous. "No. We're amateurs. We'd just be in the way, maybe get eaten up ourselves."
"But--"
Al was firm. "In the Navy, you learn to follow orders, even when you don't like them--at least until you get the rank to cut the orders for everybody else--and to focus on the job at hand. They can't find Marshak; we can. So that's what we have to do, and we have to let them handle the part they're good at. Messing with ghosts and zombies and crud like that." With that settled, at least to his satisfaction, he scrutinized the latest data from Ziggy. "I've got the location of every water tower in this town. From the looks of it, Marshak's in an ordinary home, not a warehouse or factory."
"Have Ziggy narrow it down to the water tower closest to the interstate where Marshak's body is going to be found."
"Good idea. Now what?"
"Now we go to that water tower, and start looking."
"We what?"
"I'll go one way and knock on doors, pretend I'm a census taker or health inspector or something, and you just walk through houses the other way and look for him." Sam bounded enthusiastically toward Rashid's desk, ready for action.
"That's going to take a long time," Al said dubiously.
"Do you, or Gushie, or Ziggy, have any better ideas?"
He looked abashed. "Well, actually, no."
"Then I'll call a taxi. Let's get started."
"Sam, do you have any money to pay for a taxi?"
Sam set the phone receiver back on the hook. "Good question." He slid the little purse from his shoulder, but made a face. "It feels like trespassing or something. Guys aren't supposed to look into girls' purses."
"You'd be surprised what you might find in there. Girls' purses are like Felix the Cat's black bag, lots bigger inside than they look like outside, so they hold all sorts of stuff."
"How would you know?"
Al made a face. "One time I dated a girl who actually carried a horseshoe in her purse for good luck." He rubbed his stomach. "She hit me with it."
Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He really didn't want to know.
"Anyway, you're in Micki Foster's body, so this is your purse, and you have a right to look inside it."
"Yeah. Right." Glumly, Sam unzipped the purse. Maybe Al was right. For such a tiny purse, it seemed to hold a lot of objects. Loose under the lipstick tube, cologne, and make-up jars, he found a small wad of bills folded and held together by a gold moneyclip in the shape of a cat with emerald eyes the same shade as Micki's. "I've got money. Let's go."
An hour later, shivering in the cool night breeze, Sam began to question just how good his plan had been. Not many people believed a health or fire inspector would be checking their homes at nine o'clock at night. In fact, a lot of them seemed quick to form other ideas about what a lovely red-haired woman in silver might be interested in doing at night, and some were darned eager to cooperate. His right palm was still red and stinging from the slap he'd landed on that pot-bellied lecher's unshaven face. What kind of girl did that guy think he was, anyway?
"Hi, Sam!" The familiar doorway glistened before him, and Al stepped out, bouncing on his heels, his dark eyes glowing. "How's it going?"
"Horrible. How about you? Any luck?"
"Well, I've only covered four blocks so far. Is this all you've done? Three houses?" Al frowned. "You'll have to speed it up, kid. You've got a lot of territory to cover."
"In case you haven't noticed, Al, I can't just walk through the walls and take a peek, unlike some people."
"Yeah. It's great, Sam! I see people watching T.V., feeding the dog, giving the kids a bath--there's a great party one block over, with plenty of classic rock and a couple of kegs. Wish I could join 'em. And in one house, there's this couple--look like newlyweds--the way they're going at it, it kinda reminds me of my fourth wife, Sharon. She wore this pink nightie on our honeymoon, and--"
Sam interrupted his reminiscence. "Al, what does Ziggy say will happen to Ryan and Rashid at the convention?"
Al avoided his eyes, poking and slapping the edge of his computer link. "If we find Marshak, everything should be fine. We'd better get back to work."
"And if we don't find him?"
"Let's not be pessimistic, Sam. Look on the bright side. You're the one who always wanted to play that song when the funding looked like it wasn't going to come through. Remember?" Totally off-key, he crooned, "To dream the impossible dream--"
"It won't work, Al. What's going to happen to them?"
He sighed, his eyebrows working. "Rashid gets killed by this holographic thingymajig."
"I have to go--"
"--and if you show up, Ziggy says the odds are Ryan'll get himself killed trying to protect Micki. You. Micki's body. Whatever. Just keep looking, Sam. It's all we can do."
He punched in coordinates and vanished again.
Wearily, Sam trudged up the next drive. What was the point? There didn't seem to be anything useful he could do, and since he'd leaped into Micki Foster's body, things had actually gotten worse, not better. Now both Jack and Rashid were going to die. What next? Would his continuing failure lead to a plague and wipe out half the city? Or maybe he'd be responsible for a nuclear power plant accident, and really go out with a bang.
The Crim household turned out to be an innocuous black family more interested in the prayer meeting they were holding in the living room than in tormenting people with cursed objects. Marshak wasn't being held in the next house, or the next, in which an indignant housewife--over her husband's bemused protests--threatened to call the police and turn Sam in for soliciting.
All he could do was pray that Al, who was clearly having the time of his life, would have better luck.
Leap to the conclusion.
I'm lost! Send me back to the first part.
Gooshie, fire up the Accelerator and take me to Jane's Story Page, because I've got a hot date with Al Calavicci in another story.
I want to Leap to the main page to talk to the author or to check out the guestbook and links--maybe even buy QUANTUM LEAP books at a discount.