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
Being a holographic image was a voyeur's dream.
As a child, stuck in the orphanage after his mother ran off with the encyclopedia salesman and his father went out drilling for oil, Al had been insatiably curious about `real' families. In fact, the first few times he ran away from the orphanage, when he was really little, it was just to hang around people's houses and stare inside, watching them eat dinner together or play board games or just sit and talk. What would it be like, to live with his little sister Trudy and their parents? He'd look through windows as if they were movie screens, picturing himself as the son or brother inside, hungering for the Beaver Cleaver lifestyle everyone else seemed to have.
He'd never really outgrown that curiosity. His five marriages had never given him a `real' family life, and he was still full of questions. But now, thanks to the Project, he could stroll right into the heart of other families, and observe them first-hand, as if he were one of them, without bothering anyone--except maybe Sam. Sam had a certain prim morality. You can take the boy out of Indiana, but you can't take Indiana out of the boy.
The next house had a collection of pickaninny dolls on shelves running the length of the living room, and a plump orange cat that blinked and mewed inquisitively as he passed.
"Just passing through, kitty. Seen any cursed I.V. units around here?"
The cat thudded onto the floor from the couch and tried to strop itself on his legs, which would've left hairs all over his snazzy black velvet trousers, but since Al wasn't there, the cat tumbled right through him. Looking embarrassed, it laid its ears back, picked itself up, and stalked away, flipping him The Finger with its tail.
"Sorry!" Al called, but the cat ignored him.
No Marshak here. Moving on, he passed through a smoke-filled kitchen, stopped to glance at a bearded man's poker hand, and frowned. "Oh, no. Don't try to bluff this one," he warned. Oblivious, the man raised the pot a dollar. Al shook his head. "I don't even have to see the other hands to know that's a dumb move. Don't say I didn't warn you."
He walked through the outer wall as another player called the bluff, and into a Cape Cod style house. This gave him a more intimate view of the local lifestyle than he bargained for, since he found himself in the bathroom, and the toilet was occupied. He hadn't realized he could still blush. Maybe some of Sam was rubbing off on him.
Next door to that place was a vacant lot that needed mowing, fenced in with a tacky little house. Inside, the house was a kind of re-creation of the bland early Fifties houses Al used to spy on, with lots of Formica and plastic slipcovers on all the lampshades and furniture. That pink-and-red sofa had to go. For one thing, the roses clashed with the lavender walls.
"Anybody home?"
The place was awfully quiet. Must be out. Maybe they were at that party a block or two over--that's where he'd be, if he had a choice.
Al strode briskly through the side of the house facing the water tower, wincing as he passed through a bathroom, until he hit a dark bedroom, dimly lit by a Mickey Mouse night-light. Was there a large form slumbering in the bed, or just a pile of blankets and clothes? Al moved closer, bending over.
"Bingo!"
Marshak's eyes opened, dazed but aware. "Who's there?"
In the act of punching a green cube on the hand-link, Al froze. "You don't see me," he told Marshak, trying to sound certain. "Do you?"
Chains clinked as the man stirred, trying to lift his head. "Is someone here?"
"Not exactly," Al muttered, then raised his voice. "Gushie, center me on Sam, okay?"
From his point of view, the room around him was wiped out from bottom to top, like a wall map rolling up tight, and was replaced with a street corner. Sam was just crossing the street, his/her shoulders hunched, looking utterly dejected. Al pursed his lips in a silent wolf whistle. Boy, Sam was a gorgeous woman.
(No! No, strike that! I am NOT attracted to my partner!)
"Hey, Sam! I found him!"
The slim shoulders snapped back, and the delicate chin lifted. Micki Foster had a smile that could break a heart. "That's great! Where is he? Is he all right?"
"He's still hanging in there. The address is--ah--1332 Derleth Drive. It belongs to a Mr. and Mrs. Frank Liese, but nobody's home right now. Come on, I'll show you."
Having to stick to a run, when Gushie could just zap him there in an eyeblink, was frustrating, but Sam was only human. Come to think of it, that was another advantage to being a hologram. Think how many afternoon quickies a businessman could have if he could eliminate the travel time to and from her apartment: the whole lunch hour would be pure gravy time.
"That's the house, Sam. Wait a minute, you can't just charge in there!"
"Watch me."
"Couldn't you just call the police?"
It was no use; Sam was already climbing the fence and heading for the side window. Since the first two windows he tried were locked, Sam groped around the dark yard until he found a statue of a plump goose wearing a sundress, then used it to shatter the glass.
"Sam, you're gonna cut yourself. Can't we wait for Ryan and Rashid? I'll zip there and tell them where we are, and that'll save them from the Bloody Beast thingy by getting them out of--"
No use. His partner had already wriggled his pert little ass through the window and into the house. Al sighed. "Center me on Sam, Gushie."
At least Sam had enough sense not to turn on the bedroom light. That would be the same as announcing there was someone in the house. Instead, he crouched and studied the ornate metal contraption by the light glowing from Mickey's round face, then gently traced the tubing to Marshak's pinioned wrist.
"It's going to sting a little when I pull this out," he warned, and yanked the cannula free, then grabbed the wrist and squeezed hard to cut off the blood. Al sucked in his breath and winced.
Marshak squinted up at them. "Micki? How did you find me?"
"We...went to Rashid for help. How are you feeling?"
"Weak. Where's Ryan?"
"He's with Rashid at the comic book convention. The medallion is acting up already." Sam released his wrist and stood up to tug on the chains, then raised his voice a hair. "We need keys."
"I didn't see anything laying out, and I can't pull drawers open to look. Sorry."
Jack muttered, "My lock-picks...in my coat." The conversation seemed to have exhausted him. His eyes closed.
"Sam?" Al turned to stare into the dark hallway. "Do you hear something?"
Sam was fumbling with Marshak's coat pockets. Worried, Al drifted back into the living room, just as the front door opened. Oh, boy!
"Sam, somebody's coming! Look out!"
"I've got the lock-picks--uh, how do they work again?"
He darted back to the bedroom. The kids at the orphanage hadn't called him "Al the Pick" for nothing. "It takes at least two, one to press down, and the other to turn the tumblers. Sam, you haven't go time for this. Hide! Maybe she won't see you."
Obediently, Sam dropped to the floor on the far side of the bed. The bedroom door creaked open, and someone glanced in, but Jack wasn't moving, and the woman walked away. They could hear her high heels tap down the hall, then the T.V. set switched on and loud, tinny canned laughter filled the air.
"Good. It'll drown out any noise," Al decided, as Sam grimly bent over the locks again. "I'll go check on her. You can handle this, you've done it once before. Just kept wriggling them until it clicks."
Scouting the enemy was a good idea, but about half a minute too late. As he reached the doorway, the bedroom lights flicked on, and the woman walked right through him. Brrr! Even though he never felt anything, and had to keep up a macho attitude for Sam, it still gave him the creeps when that happened.
Sam had his arm up, shielding his eyes from the sudden light.
Instead of screaming, the woman said chattily, "When I felt that breeze, I went looking, because I just knew I hadn't left any windows open, not at this time of night, and I found some awful person had smashed my dining room window. Isn't that disgusting? At first, I was going to call the police and tell them there was a burglar in my house, but I thought better of it, of course."
"Damn! Sam, look, she's got a gun. Now what are we gonna do?"
"I think calling the police is a good idea," Sam said. "After all, I'm a criminal. I think you should call them right now. I might be dangerous."
"Oh, no. I changed my mind."
"Why? Because you'd have to explain to the police why you're holding this man a prisoner?"
Her mascara-cemented eyes widened, and she put her free hand on her heart, but the gun didn't waver. "Me? Don't be silly. Why, everyone knows my Frank is dying, and I've been nursing him here at home for the longest time, and he's a terrible patient."
"That's not Frank."
"No, but he'll do in a pinch." She raised the gun a half-inch. "I wanted to know who was sneaking in Frank's room, and why." She glared over Sam's shoulder at the bed. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Marshak, lying to a poor widow that way, telling me your friends were busy somewheres else."
Sam pleaded, "Listen, that I.V. is evil. It's--it's cursed. I came to take Jack home and put that I.V. where it won't hurt anyone ever again."
"Now, that's just nonsense. My granny always said, evil is as evil does, and that machine is a real blessing. Why, it's done wonders for me! I'm not stupid enough to give up a miracle like that!"
He licked his lips. "I'm not alone. My friends will be on their way here any minute. If you run for it now, you have time to get away."
She paused, blinking, evidently considering it. "I do have the blood in my fridge. I could just take that....But you'd up and call the police or your friends, and there'd go my head-start. You look like exactly the sort that would cheat that way."
"All I want to do is save Jack. Can't we work something out?"
"I'll tell you what. Here's the key. You take one of those bracelet things from Mr. Marshak's legs and fasten your hands to the headboard beside him. You're such a skinny thing, they'll both fit in one." She clucked disapprovingly. "My Frank just adored my love handles. A man wants an armful to hug, not a stick like you, don't you realize that?"
"Don't do it, Sam. Jump her! You can get the gun away from her, easy. Do that karate stuff you do."
"I don't want to risk getting this body hurt," Sam said quietly.
The woman gave him an icy smile. "You know, if I have to, I'll shoot, and I won't miss. Frank showed me how to handle a gun so I wouldn't worry about being alone when he went on business trips."
Slowly, Sam put the key into the manacle around Marshak's left ankle.
"No! Sam, don't you see, once you're chained up, she can do anything she wants!" It was maddening. Even though he knew it was futile, Al took a wild swing at the hag's chin. His arm passed through her, uselessly. "You'll lose all your options if you're not still loose!"
"Hold still, now." She planted the muzzle of her gun against Sam's temple, and fastened his raised wrists together with the manacle. It was a tight fit, but the leg chain held Micki Foster securely against the headboard. The woman smiled, backed away, lifted the pistol, and said, "Bang!"
"NO!"
Instead of a bullet, a little puff of flame silently emerged from the gun's muzzle. Sam groaned.
"Isn't it a cutie? I got it on sale at a flea market. I never dreamed it would come in handy for something else besides lighting cigarettes, but it was sure worth every penny I paid for it. Her smile was positively gloating. "Frank was always griping about my expensive smoking habit, but see? It finally paid off!"
"I told you to jump her," Al moaned. He could only watch helplessly as she picked up the dangling I.V. cannula and tried to jam it into Sam's inner elbow. Sam promptly kicked her in the stomach, knocking her to the floor. Well, better late than never. With any luck, the fall'd bash her head in. "Good for you, Sam! Do it again!"
She was crying when she got enough breath to get up again. She stood there, glaring, her lower lip thrust out, then slowly raised the lighter in trembling hands. "I burned my arm on the stove once. Even after I put ice and burn cream on it, it just hurt and hurt and hurt. And poor Mr. Marshak won't even have any ice or ointment, will he?"
"Oh, geez."
This time Sam didn't move when she inserted the needle, though he winced when she viciously shoved it in and twisted. Satisfied, she backed away and mopped tears and mascara from her cheeks, still pouting.
"If you hadn't kicked me like the shameless hussy you are, I might've kept you, you know. When I was in high school, I did this marvelous science fair project, where I raised generations and generations of these sweet little mice, with all sorts of charts and graphs and things. You'd be company for Mr. Marshak, and I wouldn't have to worry about ever running out of blood. But you don't deserve to be taken care of and looked after like that." Savagely, she twisted a knob on the transfusion unit, speeding up the flow of Sam's--well, technically, Micki's--blood. "While I was picking up the T.V. Guide and some groceries, I bought a lottery ticket. Now I'll just take all your blood, and pour it on the ticket, and then I'll have a guaranteed instant winner. So there, smartypants! Who's sorry now?"
Tossing her head, she flounced out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
"I'll get Ryan and Rashid, and we'll have you out of this in an hour, tops. Just hold on, Sam," Al said urgently, then bellowed, "GUSHIE! CENTER ME ON RASHID, NOW!"
Al materialized in what appeared to be the set of the latest gory horror movie.
Normally, he didn't object to gory horror movies, since they invariably made his dates squeal and cuddle against him for comfort. This time, it really pissed him off, because it was obviously gonna slow him down. What were all these people doing here, anyway? Normally, the dealers' room would be closed at this time of night. Must have been some kind of Midnight Madness sale, which was kinda appropriate, actually.
All around him, the convention hall was jammed with pushing, shoving, noisy crowds, which wasn't at all unusual, but they weren't just arguing over the latest Frank Miller masterpiece. They were mostly stampeding in sheer hysteria, knocking over racks of plastic-covered comics, scattering purses and papers in a flurry of debris. Some were cowering under tables and behind life-sized cardboard cutouts of Batman and Spider-Man. One or two misfits were stopping to pose for hasty snapshots, standing just beyond arm's length of a costumed creature.
Come to think of it, if this was a costume, it was Academy Award-winning stuff, at the very least. The monster was about the size of Andre the Giant, and as muscular as the wrestler, with loathsome white skin studded with hairy warts and oozing a smelly greenish-brown pus. The humped back ended in a short neck topped with a small, square head and two fat, bulbous antennae. In short, it was one gross mother of a monster.
"Take my advice, don't bother entering the Mr. Universe content," Al told it. "Rashid! Where are you? This is an emergency!"
A pair of hands appeared at the edge of a billboard proclaiming KITAY'S COMICS--TOP QUALITY ONLY, followed by the top of a familiar red fez. "Look out! It's the Blood Beast of Thulec!"
Squinty, bloodshot green eyes focused on the fez, and the thing lumbered toward the billboard, extending both three-fingered hands. Each finger ended in a gleaming brown, two-inch claw. Rashid, understandably, immediately dropped out of sight again.
"Listen, we found Marshak, but now Sam's been caught, and--"
Blood-Beast, apparently irked at being upstaged, took a swipe at Al's left arm, and connected, the impact staggering him sideways. The two-inch claws sunk deep into his arm, and when the monster tried to yank them out, his arm jerked. The computer link flew out of his hand as if jet-propelled.
For what felt like an eternity, he just stood there and gaped in complete disbelief. Blood welled up from three deep puncture wounds. It was real blood, and with it came real pain.
"Run!" Rashid ordered, and scampered from behind the billboard to a table laden with comic book boxes. Ryan followed him, only faster. The Blood-Beast turned to follow them.
"This is impossible," Al said numbly. He clutched his throbbing arm with his right hand, and watched the blood ooze through his fingers. The skin around the gouges was beginning to burn. "This can't happen."
The sound of his voice seemed to attract the Blood-Beast's attention. It turned back toward Al, the two vertical slits in the middle of its square face twitching.
"You can't hurt me," he told it, but he backed up two steps. "You can't even see me. I'm a hologram. This is stupid! I'm not even here!"
"It's a hologram, too," Rashid's voice offered from across the aisle. "And the power of Evil lets it do many things."
"Who are you talking to?" Ryan sounded thoroughly frustrated. "Is that invisible guy here, or what?"
Where was his computer link? If he had that, he could have Gushie zap him out of here. Al took another step away from the Thulec thing and craned his head around, scanning the roomful of fallen flyers and trampled comics. Over there--was that it? Yeah. It was lying on the floor, sticking halfway out of a box of Good Girl art.
When he moved toward it, the Blood-Beast stepped into his path. Al swallowed. "Go away. Go bother someone else."
It raised both massive arms. This time, Al ducked.
"Did it touch him? Hey, Al, don't let it touch you--that slimy stuff is acid."
"Now he tells me," Al muttered. He dodged behind a display of Golden Age horror comic books, but Blood-Beast phased right through the cover of a Dracula comic and joined him, making a sort of rumbling noise in what was presumably its chest. "What does this creep want?"
"He wants to know what it wants," Rashid panted, and cautiously fumbled around the floor, feeling for the handlink. It was no use. Once it left the Admiral's fingers, it vanished from sight. His fingers passed right through it without feeling a thing.
Ryan's head popped up. "They way I remember it, it tears its victims apart and vacuums out their blood with its tongue. Oh, yeah, and don't let the antennas touch your head. They can suck out your brain waves and leave you like a kind of zombie."
"What kind of sicko wrote a story like that? That's disgusting!" Jeez, he'd thought that mummy he and Sam ran into one leap was terrifying, but Ptah-Hotep was the girl next door, compared to this nozzle!
It swung at him again, trying to clasp him in both arms, but Al feinted left, then ran down the right aisle, trying to do an end-run back to the computer link. The Blood Beast of Thulec waded effortlessly through the tables and cut him off.
Ryan, who could only guess at what was happening from Rashid's winces and groans, was yelling, "What is it? What's going on? Did it get him?"
"Tell me how to stop this thing!"
"Ryan, he wants to know how to stop it!"
Dallion half-rose and yelled, "In the comic book, the hero electrocuted it!" He was facing the wrong direction, but it was the thought that counted.
"That's not gonna work. It'll just phase through the electrical cords, right?" Al panted.
The Blood-Beast paused between a display of monster heads and booth peddling animation cells, distracted by Ryan's bellow. It looked first toward Al, poised on his toes and ready to run, then toward the youth. Maybe the kid looked more appetizing, because its beady eyes locked on Dallion, and it trudged toward him, snorting.
Ryan hesitated, then whirled and bolted, plowing through cringing bodies like an ocean liner at a yacht regatta. You couldn't blame the guy; nobody in his right mind would stick around here once the Thulec thing decided he was a good appetizer.
Frustrated, it stopped, turned around, and decided to settle for second choice: Al. The way the slits in the middle of that square head flared, it liked the way he smelled, even though he forgot the aftershave this morning. For a microsecond, Al froze.
(Oh, boy. Now I know why Ryan wet his pants.)
Desperately, he lunged toward his fallen hand-link.
No matter how he twisted or pulled, Sam couldn't get his wrists free. He tried to kick over the transfusion unit--that should pull the cannula free--but it was just out of reach.
"I'm sorry...I got you into this, Micki," Marshak murmured.
"It's not your fault. She's the one who's crazy."
"Hmph!" The deadly hausfrau bustled back into the bedroom, shooting Sam a look with the force of an Uzi. "That's the sort of remark I'd expect from a floozy like you." With short, jerky movements, she yanked the filled bag of blood from one arm of the unit, and replaced it with a much bigger plastic bag. "You certainly have your nerve, breaking my window, invading my home, and then calling me names." She bent over, thrust the bag into the bedside refrigerator, and slammed the door shut again. "You snippy little tarts think you're such hot stuff. Well, now at least your life will do some good!"
"What possible good can there be in money bought with a human life?"
She put her hands on her hips and studied him, her lips a thin crimson line of too much lipstick. "Tell me, missy, do you do drugs? You don't have one of those nasty sex diseases, do you? Because I've been thinking. If your blood is bad, I'll bet I only get counterfeit money, and I don't want any trouble."
He wasn't sure what to say. If he claimed his blood was tainted, she might decide to drain Marshak in his place. But if he didn't plant a doubt in what passed for her mind, she would kill him--
"Oh, well." She shrugged it off as unimportant. It was only a human life, after all. "You can't know until you try."
Jack croaked, "Mary Jo, please--"
Her expression melted as she gazed down at him, and she became coy. "You know what? The first thing tomorrow morning--as soon as this hussy is gone--I'm gonna fix you a big, juicy, rare steak. Won't that be nice? We'll have your blood built up again in no time!"
Marshak's hands curled into white-knuckled fists, but he didn't speak. Mary Jo switched off the overhead light. "I'll check on you two after Johnny Carson, just before I go to bed. I never miss Johnny. Don't you think that Ed McMahon is adorable? But first I have to go board up my window." She sighed. "This is one of those times I miss Frank. He was so handy with things like that."
In a way, it was a relief to be left in darkness. At least this way he couldn't watch his blood being sucked out of his system. It was terrifying how quickly the bag swelled.
Where was Al?
If Al went to the convention and found Rashid dead, he wouldn't be able to get help. Ryan couldn't see or hear him. Animals, insane people, and children under five could see him, but that wouldn't exactly be a help in dealing with an insanely self-centered killer.
If Rashid were dead, Al would've come back to tell him. So where was he?
When Sam first met the eccentric, cocky, cigar-chomping admiral with the flippant manner and a penchant for replacing his uniform with truly bizarre, flamboyant clothing, he'd been positive he was in for major trouble. It didn't help that the first time they met, Calavicci was drunk and trying to dismantle a vending machine that had eaten his money. If he had to count on that sexist numbskull to handle things, Sam knew the Star Bright Project would flop, and he would never get the backing for his planned time travel project.
But the admiral turned out to be full of surprises. Yes, he invariably came in late, and could be counted on to waste at least an hour or two a day ogling female scientists and technicians, but oddly enough, the women didn't seem to mind. Some of them seemed to thrive on it. In fact, his aides and secretaries were so loyal to him that the Senate committee overseeing Star Bright kept replacing them, to no avail. Even when they sent him male secretaries, Al Calavicci--war hero and ex-astronaut--charmed them into joining his unofficial fleet.
What was more, though the man treated Sam with a somewhat standoffish courtesy, as if he were a young Boy Scout being treated to a fun excursion by an experienced uncle, sometimes something more glimmered beneath the facade. There was pain lurking beneath the sparkling surface of those eyes, and genuine intelligence cloaking itself behind that hail-fellow-well-met act.
Often the admiral sat with his feet up on his desk top--which was always empty and militarily neat, as if his office were a hotel room he expected to vacate soon--spinning endless entertaining but thoroughly unbelievable yarns. He always had an audience. Sam was usually part of it.
As time went on, Sam began to notice that despite the older man's behavior, Operation Star Bright was the smoothest running project he had ever worked on. Somehow, he didn't seem to be plagued with paperwork or nitpicking memos, and emissaries from the government always got mysteriously waylaid before they ever reached Sam's office. How did he do that?
Intrigued, Sam began paying attention to what his co-worker was doing. The admiral didn't try to run the project like a ship, bellowing orders, but after a few weeks and dozens of offhand but penetrating questions, he began making suggestions to Sam about the scientific end, and many of them were helpful. In fact, lunch hours stretched on into late afternoon, no longer filled with tall tales, but occupied by fascinating discussions of quantum physics, and he found himself returning to his office with great new ideas, because Calavicci put a new twist on things. Most important of all, once he decided to trust Sam's friendship, he actually accepted the possibility that Sam Beckett wasn't just a young mad scientist determined to waste a hefty government contract.
In fact, once he accepted Sam's premise, Al turned out to be the biggest plus Project Quantum Leap had going for it. As a highly respected and decorated Vietnam vet and former P.O.W., he had considerable support in military circles, and his astronaut background gave him pull in the scientific community. Without his support, and his media connections, the project would probably have been doomed. It didn't matter how brilliant Sam was, or how thoroughly he laid out the mathematical equations; what they'd needed was political skill, and Al had that in abundance. Any time some politician came nosing around, demanding to cut their budget, Al would invite him to dinner. Sam wouldn't see the man again for a week, and by then, as likely as not, he would be hounding the White House to double their budget, not cut it.
Whenever Sam made a bad decision along the way--like this time, coming to Mary Jo's house without back-up--Al was always there. Even if he couldn't physically help, he always provided moral support. It was like having a one-man cheerleading squad follow you everywhere, urging you to overcome the odds.
Al would be here soon.
He could always count on Al....
The whole thing felt unreal to Ryan. Okay, sure, the Blood Beast of Thulec was one of his worst nightmares come to life, but from his point of view, once it stopped stalking Rashid, it seemed to think it had turned into a street mime. It kept staring into thin air, turning this way and that for no apparent reason, sometimes reaching out to touch nothing at all. It would've been funny, except for Rashid's gasps and winces as the creature apparently cornered or injured Calavicci.
When the Blood-Beast hesitated in the F-X aisle, then turned its greedy little eyes on him, he knew he'd had enough. What was the point in sitting here, unable to see most of the action, waiting to be sucked up like a human milkshake? Instead, Ryan turned and ran, hurtling over prone quivering bodies like an Olympic competitor.
Doing something decisive for a change felt good. He had been miserable watching Micki be levitated and then dashed to the floor like an unwanted doll. He had been helpless to save Jack, knowing he was probably dying somewhere, if the mad scientist from the future was telling the truth. Since then, stewing over what was happening to Micki in the future and what would happen if she never returned was giving him an ulcer. Now he was damned if he'd sit and watch the Blood Beast wipe out everybody within its slimy reach!
A quick glance over his shoulder as he skidded around a corner told him the creature had gone back to attacking the air, which meant the invisible astronaut was probably taking a beating. Panting, he leaned against a booth crammed with comic book boxes and began rummaging through the papers on the dealer's table.
"Hey, man, whatcha think you're doing?"
The hoarse whisper came from a fat, bearded, middle-aged dealer who had taken refuge under a spread-out Batman cape. Ryan barely spared him a glance. "Where's your winner's list?"
"Huh?"
"For the Blood Beast Award! Where's your winner's list?"
"Oh, yeah. Under the cash box, I think. Is that thing still out there?"
"Yes."
The bushy head vanished under the cape, like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell.
Ryan snatched up the blue flyer and scanned it. The winner--a seventy-year-old man with Parkinson's disease--hadn't been able to escape when it became obvious that the Blood Beast of Thulec advancing on him wasn't some imaginative costumer's special effects. His crumpled, lifeless body was still slumped at the head table in the banquet hall. Ryan and Rashid arrived just as the runner-up, Alan Moore, ran screaming from the banquet to the dealer's room with the monster close on his heels.
Even though it wasn't wearing a membership badge, the security guards hadn't been able to stop the Blood Beast of Thulec. One of them was still slouched in the doorway with a blank half-smile on his face, completely brain-dead. Ryan suspected he'd have nightmares about this tomorrow, if he lived that long.
The last time Ryan saw him, Moore was crawling rapidly toward an emergency exit. But the third runner-up was rumored to be a real also-ran, not in the first two's league. Right, there was the name--Len Arcuri, creator of Social Worker From Hell.
Ryan nudged the Batman cloak with his boot. "Hey. What's Len Arcuri look like?"
"Short, fat, blond, goin' bald. No beard or 'stache," the muffled voice offered.
He glanced back uneasily, but the monster wasn't in sight, so Ryan finished studying the flyer. It described Arcuri as a long-time fan and collector of horror memorabilia. If Ryan's theory was right, Len was the motivator behind the Blood Beast's murders. He was killing off his rivals.
The problem now was finding him.
The Blood Beast of Thulec must be pretty hungry, because it seemed to pick up speed as it plodded closer to Al. Ignoring it, he snatched up the hand-link, rolled, and yelled, "Gushie--", then stopped.
If he zapped back to the Imaging Chamber, where his body was right now, Gushie and the others would rush him straight to the med center, the way he was bleeding. Even over the screams here in the dealer's room, he could hear them yelling at him back in the lab, asking him what was wrong. As long as he was in the past, they couldn't yank him out, thanks to the failsafe he'd installed last month, but if he went back to the I.C., they'd snatch him for sure. By the time he got back, Sam--who was really bleeding--would almost certainly be dead.
"Oh, boy," Al said grimly, as he realized he was stuck with this obscenity.
The Blood Beast bent, extending its pus-coated arms. Al rolled again, passing right through a poster for Creature From the Black Lagoon. It started to step through after him, but Rashid stood up and began hurling plastic models of comic book heroes at it. Superman, Thor, and the Green Lantern soared through the Thulec thing's image and plopped futilely against the next booth, but the gesture seemed to irritate the monster, which ponderously wheeled around and began stalking Rashid again.
This was his last chance. If he hung around this convention hall any longer, the Blood Beast of Thulec was going to tear him limb from limb and suck his blood, before or after eating his brain waves.
Al looked down at the colored lights urgently flashing on the handlink. That blood thingy was a hologram, like him. What if it could be carried back to the lab with him? Now, that would be a mess.
He couldn't zap back to the I.C. now anyway. Not and leave Sam.
"Rashid, listen, Sam's at--"
No use. The magician was on his knees, with both hands gripping a massive three-fingered paw, trying to keep it from his neck. His jaunty red scarf had been shredded.
"Hold it, slimeball!" Al yelled, and launched himself at the monster.
Disconcertingly, but logically, he was as solid to it as it was to him. He wrapped both legs around its immense trunk and rapped its head with his closed fists, trying to hammer it into the floor. Blood from his left arm dripped down its warty scalp like strawberry syrup in a slasher movie. Blinking, it released Rashid and reached to claw at Al. Al swung to one side, escaping the counterattack, but his hands were beginning to burn. Dallion had been right; the slimy coating on it was acid. His fingers couldn't hold on. When the creature bucked and twisted like an undersized ship in an ocean storm, he fell off.
Unfortunately, crashing against the floor knocked the breath out of him, and he could neither speak nor move. Somewhere behind the approaching monster, Rashid was coughing harshly. Flat on his back, utterly terrified, Al stared up into that square, inhuman face. It bent over him, the bulbous antennae twitching and straining toward his forehead. They were just brushing his temples when he managed to grab them in both hands and yank them away.
"Rashid, get outta here! Sam's at 13--"
The antennae struggled in his hands, surprisingly muscular, like sea-snakes eager to strike. Blood Beast clawed at his arms, and he knew those gigantic paws could snap his wrists like cheap cigars, but it released them and reached instead for his throat. Though he grunted and shoved, he couldn't push it away.
"--1332 Derleth Dri--"
When the paws closed around his throat, they didn't dig in with those murderous claws. Instead, the hands squeezed, cutting off his air. Then the monster straightened, lifting Al right off the floor, and pulled him close in what was almost an amorous embrace. He landed a solid kick right where the genitalia should be, but apparently the Blood Beast of Thulec didn't have much of a sex life.
Their faces were only inches apart, but instead of puckering up for a kiss, it stuck out its tongue. Al got a close-up look at the long, thin, pink tube studded with minute red-brown fangs that hadn't been brushed since it murdered the first comic book writer. Like something alive, the tongue probed for his face, but he twisted his head away, disgusted.
His chest ached. Everything was starting to turn black from lack of oxygen. His throat felt like the Arizona when the bombs hit at Pearl.
(At least Rashid knows where Sam and Marshak are. They're not gonna die,) Al thought, and then, despairingly, (Beth--)
The claws scraping against his neck eased up. Under his increasingly limp fingers, the antennae stiffened, then pulled back, away from his head.
With a surprised telepathic keening that made Al's head ache, the Blood Beast of Thulec faded to greenish-white dust beams, and was gone.
For a long time, he just lay on the floor, concentrating on breathing. In, out; in, out--air had never tasted so sweet. It felt great to be alive. The seared skin--the wounded arm--the pain was all wonderful, because he was here to feel it.
"How did you do that? What happened to it?" Rashid demanded, turning to the breathless Dallion.
Ryan grinned and help up a long gold chain. At the end dangled an oval holographic image of a familiar hump-backed form. "With this. I found the creep who was powering it, and when he wouldn't listen to reason, I knocked him out, grabbed this, and told the Blood Beast to disintegrate. Apparently it worked. Is Al okay? Did it get him?"
"We must get him to a doctor." Rashid knelt beside Al, looking worried. His anxious frown deepened. "But how will a doctor treat you if he cannot see you? Al, you must go back to your own time. Ryan and I will go to--"
"--1332 Derleth Drive. Nope. I gotta go check on Sam." Grimacing, he forced himself to sit up. The magician tried to help him, but clicked his tongue when his hand shot right through Al's shoulder. Al carefully shrugged out of his gold lame jacket, then moaned when he saw the scorch marks, gouges, and bloodstains that had shredded it. "Look what it did! Do you know how much this thing cost me? Oh, man, it was my favorite jacket, too." Steaming mad, he folded it, jammed it against his arm, and tied it on, pulling the torn sleeves tight with his teeth. "That'll do it. Gushie, center me on Sam. And don't you dare try to haul me back to the lab--I'm not done yet." He squinted at the words flashing across the tiny screen, and rolled his eyes. "Ziggy, don't you start on me, too. Yes, I know what I look like--just do it! I'll explain what happened later."
Getting to his feet to walk into that crazy broad's bedroom when the dealers' room faded out around him wasn't as easy as he expected, but Al was in no mood for protests from his body. It never gave him any trouble when it came to bedroom acrobatics, so he wasn't about to baby it now, just because of a little rough-housing.
The weak light cast by Mickey Mouse showed him the bag on the cursed I.V. was about half full. Both Sam and Marshak seemed to be asleep.
"Hang in there, Sam. Help is on the way. Honest."
Sam's all-too-feminine body stirred sleepily, but Al didn't wait. He had to check on Mary Jo's whereabouts, so he could warn the guys when the finally got here. But he stopped in the hallway, overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness. The floor seemed to be pitching, like a boat rocked by waves.
(Oh, great, Al, punk out now, just when everybody's counting on you.)
Getting knocked around on a leap was weird--unsettling. Always before, he'd had to watch other men, women, and children endangered--and too often those men, women, and children were his best friend, Sam--but he'd been immune to physical danger himself. What he was used to was a lot of fear and worry and feeling powerless to save anyone. Dealing with the physical damage himself wasn't much improvement over agonizing about it happening to someone else.
After a minute or two of deep breathing, he got his sea legs back. Mary Jo was curled up on the sofa, watching a Carson anniversary show and munching contentedly on chocolate creams from Fanny Farmer's, giggling whenever Ed McMahon boomed his fake laugh. She didn't look the least bit dangerous.
"You know something? I really, really hate you."
She didn't seem bothered by that, either. Al sat down and tried to watch Carson, but he couldn't concentrate on it. How long would it take the guys to drive here? This time of night, there shouldn't be much traffic. He tried quizzing Ziggy, even though he was all fumble-fingers and kept making dumb mistakes with the buttons, and was gratified to learn that the computer believed the odds favored a successful rescue. Always assuming they didn't develop a flat tire or get a speeding ticket, they should get here in plenty of time to save Sam's life.
Al shivered. When the Blood Beast clawed at his arms, he'd ripped this shirt to pieces. Must be giving him a chill.
Boy, what he wouldn't give for an aspirin right now.
In the middle of segment with Burt Reynolds and Johnny exchanging wisecracks, he got up and walked outside, ready to flag down the Volkswagen once it finally got here. It seemed to take forever.
"This way, guys! They're in here! What took you so long?"
"We broke every speed limit we saw," Rashid assured him earnestly, shutting the car door as quietly as possible. His fez was missing, but he wrapped the tattered remains of the red scarf around his reddened neck with a certain panache. "You are the military man. What do you recommend, Al?"
"One of you sneak in the bedroom window, and the other one distract her out front. She's watching T.V." He poked his head through the faded red bricks. "No, strike that, she's headed for the kitchen."
"Ryan, Al suggests a frontal assault by you, a distraction. I will go directly to the bedroom."
"Okay, so follow me. Wait, tell Ryan if she pulls a gun, don't worry--it's just a cigarette lighter."
Al glanced restlessly at the handlink as Rashid repeated everything. Should he try asking Ziggy for data? The thing was, in the middle--the climax--of a leap, there were so many possible timelines mixing together, the predictions he got from Ziggy would be all screwed up. Besides, he really didn't want to hear that this time there were two bloodless bodies found by the side of the road, not one.
The gate latch creaked rustily when Rashid opened it, but McMahon's braying would probably cover that up. Unfortunately, the bedroom window they needed was locked.
"We better wait for the kid to distract her," Al suggested, fidgeting. They both froze as a car engine roared to life. "Oh, no. You don't think he'd--?"
There was a resounding crash from the front of the house. Rashid said, "Apparently, he would."
"I hope he didn't hurt that car too much. It kind of grows on you."
Next to the clamor of the Bug smashing in the front door of the house, the sound of the window tinkling into pieces was almost musical. Protecting his hands with the ruined scarf, Rashid crawled inside; Al simply walked through the wall.
"That's it! Get that needle out of his arm!" He winced as blood sprayed through his face. "Who'd think he'd have that much left? Rashid, can we, like, reverse the flow?"
"I wouldn't recommend it."
"Then break it up, quick, so she can't use it again."
He shook his head regretfully. "Cursed objects can't be destroyed. Jack keeps them in a consecrated, protected vault." Satisfied that Micki Foster's arm had stopped bleeding, he walked around the bed to Marshak's side. "Jack?"
"Rashid? You found us?" Marshak grinned dizzily at him. "My lock picks...in my coat pocket...."
"You get them loose. I'm gonna go check on Mary Jo."
Al stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth for comfort, then walked into the hallway, trying very hard not to stagger. In his opinion, the front end of the Love Bug sticking through the front wall did a lot to improve the tone of the living room, giving it a classy Salvador Dali touch. Mary Jo was nowhere in sight, but David Letterman was grinning goofily from the T.V., and Ryan Dallion was cautiously picking his way through the rubble, coughing a little as the dust settled.
"No, Ryan, they're over here." Impatiently, he waved his good arm. Well, the less scratched up one. "This way. Are you deaf or something?" Ryan moved toward the kitchen. Al had no choice but to follow him. "Geez Louise, where's a good psychic when you need one? Or even a little kid."
The kitchen seemed to be empty, lit only by the bulb in the open refrigerator. Al squinted. Did she keep blood bags in there, too, or did she drink a lot of tomato juice?
Ryan hesitated.
"Get outta here, kid. Can't you see this isn't the bedroom? I don't like this." He raised his voice. "Rashid, come out here, quick!"
Wide-eyed, snarling, she lunged from behind the open refrigerator door. Terrified, Al and Ryan screamed simultaneously as Mary Jo rammed a long barbecue fork right into Dallion's heart. The cigar fell from his lips as Al covered his eyes, unable to look...then spread his fingers apart, unable to avoid peeking.
Ryan's body, supine in the hallway, slowly sat up, still impaled. This time it was Mary Jo who shrieked in terror.
Slowly, the kid pulled the still-quivering fork from his heart, then reached inside his bomber jacket and hauled out the cursed medallion. He looked numb.
"Oh. Lucky for you those things can't be broken," Al told him, dropping his hands. He was impressed, just the same.
Still howling, Mary Jo snatched butcher knives from the wooden block on the kitchen counter and began hurling them at Ryan. He slid rapidly backwards on the linoleum floor and took refuge behind the rose-covered sofa. None of the knives hit Ryan, but one passed right through Al's groin. He backed up, too, appalled.
Brandishing the last, longest knife, Mary Jo darted down the hallway toward the bedroom.
"Look out! Here she comes!"
Rashid threw himself on the bed, trying vainly to cover both bodies with his own, but Mary Jo paid no attention to them. Making low growling noises deep in her throat, she grabbed the antique blood transfuser, just as Al ran through the wall.
"Hey! Put that down!"
"Mine! You can't have it! It's mine!" She punctuated each sentence by jabbing the air with the butcher knife. "Get away from me, you--you gigolo, you!"
"You can see me?"
She backed toward the broken window.
"We can't let her get away with that!" Al cried, scandalized. "Ryan! Get in here! Call him, Rashid!"
It was amazing, the way she managed to wriggle both her own bulk and the I.V. unit through the window, but the base of the unit was too broad and got caught on the window-sill. Mary Jo shrieked one last time, like a walrus being harpooned.
Bursting into the room, Dallion grabbed her by the ankles. Strangely, she didn't kick him. He dragged her back into the bedroom, then gagged and looked away.
Al leaned over for a closer look. She was dead, all right. The dangling I.V. needle had been driven through her heart like a stake. "Serves the bloodsucker right."
"Jack? Are you all right?"
Marshak, rubbing his freed wrists, made no effort to get up. "Thirsty. Anemic. Alive."
"I knew you'd come, Al," Sam murmured.
He shrugged, embarrassed, and met Rashid's gaze. "Hey. Thanks."
Sam was frowning. "Al? How did you get so bloody?" His eyes were beginning to look less dazed. "How come your neck is all burned? Did something happen at the lab?"
"Nah. But I bet Gooshie's about to wet his pants, trying to figure out what hap--"
Al's tatterdemalion figure was washed out in a psychedelic rainbow as Sam Beckett leaped again. He blinked. The weakness of blood loss had been left with Micki Foster's body--which didn't seem fair to her, but which he greatly appreciated--yet he still felt totally confused.
This time he seemed to be in a laboratory, and for a moment he was rocked with joy...until he realized it wasn't home. He was in some sort of operating room, surrounded by masked and gowned men and women in blue surgical gear. The shortest figure in the circle glared up at him.
"Ehrlich! Victor Ehrlich, you nincompoop, what do you think you're doing--taking a nap? I will not have it said that Mark Craig, the finest cardiac surgeon in Boston, wastes his time teaching daydreaming incompetents!"
Slowly, he looked down. There was a bloody scalpel in his gloved hands, and under the scalpel was an open chest, and a beating heart.
"Ohhhhhhh, boy...."
Take a flying Leap back to the second 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 write to the author or to check out the guestbook and links--maybe even buy QUANTUM LEAP books at a discount.
But first, I'd like to send feedback to the author, who is anxiously hoping for some.