Message-ID: <6cd3114c.358ac531@aol.com>
Date: Fri, 19 Jun 1998 16:08:15 EDT
From: Maryilee@aol.com
Subject: "And Then There Were Two" Part 1

Chapter 1


"I didn't tell nobody!  I swear!  Maybe Derrick tol'someone."  The teen
scowled, gesturing angrily at the boy next to him, also a teen.  Both
were dressed similarly, in over-sized dark blue jackets, and baggy
jeans.  The requisite brand name high-tops, un-tied, adorned their
feet--feet that now shifted nervously.

"No way, man.  Don't be blamin me." Derrick denied.  He glared at his
accuser.  "Marshall always be tellin stuff to his old lady."

The boys glowered at each other.  Each sure that the fault must lie
with the other.

An older man, well dressed, in a flashy sort of way, shook his head.
"It doesn't matter now.  This is the third time that you guys weren't
able to carry off an assignment, and I want to know why."  His voice
was deceptively calm.

Derrick, at nineteen, a year older than the other boy tried to
explain.  "I was sittin in the car waitin.  Marshall was getting real
close to Antonio, almost close enough to shoot, when this guy came out
of nowhere.  He ran into Marshall, then swung a hockey stick at him.
Antonio saw what was happenen', and started to come over, so Marshall,
not wanting Antonio to see his face, just got up and ran to the car,
and I took off as soon as he jumped in."

Marshall was nodding.  "Yeah, and this dude, man, I swear he the same
guy that warned Sanchez, too."

Derrick agreed, and added, "He might even a been the same one that was
talking to Reyes right before we were gonna get him."

The older gentleman cocked his head to the side, "The same man?  Are
you sure?"

The boys glanced at each other, nodding.  Derrick answered for them.
"Yeah.  He was a white guy, wearing a black leather coat."

The older man, clearly the leader, nodded.  "Okay.  Let me think on
this.  I'll let you know in a few days what I want you to do."

The boys nodded, and left.


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


The blue light enveloped him, surrounding his body with the familiar
glow.  Sam Beckett felt calm and peaceful here, time meaningless, but
yet, it was also the reason for his being there.  He didn't know how
long he had floated in this nothingness.  It didn't matter really.
There was nothing he could do to alter it anyway.  He could only hope,
that when time stopped for him, it would be the right time, and the
right place.  Home.  Though his mind was swiss-cheesed from the effects
of the leap, that one singular thought always stayed with him from leap
to leap, held tightly in the recesses of his mind, in a place somehow
protected from the leap.

The blue aura faded.  Sam blinked, looking around curiously.  He found
himself sitting at a bar with a pad of paper in front of him, and a pen
in his left hand.  Thankfully, no one else in the busy bar was paying
any attention to him.  Sam sighed with relief.  Hopefully, he would be
able to figure out who, when, and where he was without making too many
blunders. The pad of paper in front of him seemed to have a list of
some sort on it.

Sam tilted his head to read, "1 Case of Jack, 12 of Miller,
1/Absolut.."  Sam continued reading, his voice trailing off.  Okay, he
thought, either this guy is a major alcoholic, or he has something to
do with running this place.  Since a cup of coffee was sitting next to
the pad of paper, Sam guessed; hoped, it was the latter. A sudden
thought caused a brief panic as Sam took a quick look down at himself.
"Yes!" he breathed softly, thankful that the clothing definitely looked
masculine.  He casually took out his wallet, and quickly thumbed
through it.

"Charles Fishman" Sam murmured, reading the Illinois driver's license.
The expiration of the license was in 1999.  Sam blinked in surprise.
Unless things had changed since he had started leaping, that would mean
that it was no earlier than 1995, and possibly even as late as 1999.
He couldn't remember if he had ever leaped this close to his real time.
Maybe he was even past the time that he had first leaped.

"Hey Chuck!"

Sam jumped, startled, and dropped the wallet on the floor, the contents
spilling under his barstool.  He quickly scrambled to pick everything
up, stuffing it in hastily.

Another pair of hands appeared, and helped Sam to pick up the scattered
papers and credit cards.

"Sorry, Chuck, didn't mean to scare you." Drawled a deep voice.

Sam glanced up, finding a dark-haired man kneeling next to him, holding
out the credit cards that he had retrieved. 'Uh, no problem.  I'll
just...uh... get all this back in here."  Sam stammered taking the
proffered cards. The man stood, wincing slightly, Sam noted.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked.

The man grimaced, rubbing his knee. "Ah, I just fell earlier and bumped
it is all." The man took a quick look around and pulled a newspaper out
of his black leather jacket.  "You know Chuck, I think something weird
is going on." He said conspiratorily.

Sam swallowed hard, Oh boy, he thought, quickly trying to decide what
he had done in so short a time, that had made the man suspicious.  "Uh,
w-what do you mean?"

"Well, it just seems to me, that every time I turn around the last few
weeks, someone is about to get shot.  I mean, even for Chicago, it
seems like an awful lot." The man explained in a concerned voice.

Sam was shocked.  What had he leaped into?  He sat back down at the
bar, and started fiddling with the pen, trying to think of a reply.
"Um, well, maybe it just seems that way." Sam shrugged.  Where the hell
was Al?

The man sat down on the vacant barstool next to him.  "Maybe, but I
don't think so.  It's never been this bad before" The man leaned his
elbows on the bar and ran his hands through his hair, clearly troubled.
Sam wished that he knew what to say to help him.

The bartender, a young woman with light brown, curly hair, approached
the man and asked "Anything I can get you, Gary?"

Sam sighed; at least he knew the guy's name now.  It wasn't much, but
it was a start.  Sam watched as Gary quickly covered the paper, and
replied.

"Yeah, Robin, could you get me a Miller Lite?" Gary requested softly.

Robin returned shortly with the glass of beer, and then moved on to
other customers.  Gary took a sip of the beer, and sighed.  "It's been
a long day, Chuck."  He opened the paper, and was quickly going through
it, as though searching for something.

Sam cocked his head and leaned over trying to read the date off the
paper.  Just under the big blue Chicago Sun-Times logo, Sam read:
Friday, November 7, 1997.

Okay, he thought, now he at least knew when he was, and was pretty sure
that he was in or near Chicago.  Now, if only he knew why he was
there.  Sam looked back down at the pad of paper, pretending to add to
the list.  He decided to take a walk around the bar, maybe there was
something that give him a clue as to what he was doing here.  Standing,
Sam mumbled to Gary, "I'll be back in a moment."

Gary, engrossed in his newspaper, barely looked up, "Uh huh."

Sam examined the bar, which was also restaurant, with many tables full
of people laughing and eating sandwiches and fries.  The place had a
very warm and welcoming atmosphere, with lots of polished wood and
brass.  He strolled around, trying to act casual.  The door was a
wonderful heavy wooden door, with an arched window at the top.  Sam
looked around, no one was paying him any mind, so he opened the door
and took a peek out.

The bar was on a corner, and as Sam looked out, an elevated train
rumbled by over the street to his right.  Lifting his eyes, he made out
the shape of buildings soaring towards the sky.  One had the
distinctive tapered silhouette and two tall antennas of the John
Hancock center.  So he had been right, he was in Chicago.  Sam ducked
back in, chilled from the cold damp air.  As he turned around, he
almost cried out, as he stumbled through Al's apparition.

"Hi Sam!" Admiral Al Calavicci growled cheerfully

Sam winced at the neon green jacket, and the orange day-glow silk shirt
Al was wearing.  Black trousers, a black tie, and a black fedora with a
neon green hatband completed the ensemble.  A cigar was clenched
tightly in his teeth as he looked around, and waggled his eyebrows at a
waitress who walked by.

"Hi Al.  No, wait, don't tell me. Tina took you clothes shopping
again." Sam said dryly, as he looked about for a place that he could go
to talk to Al without others thinking he was talking to thin air.

Al held out his arms, looking down at admiringly at his jacket. "Yeah,
she has such a sense of color, don't ya think?"

Sam tried to hide a smile, "Come on, I think there's a bathroom back
there where we can talk."  Sam said, as he followed the signs to the
men's restroom.

Sam quickly checked to make sure that no one else was in the bathroom.
Satisfied, he leaned against the sink and crossed his arms.  "So what
do you have for me, Al?"

Al took the cigar from his mouth, and grabbed his flashing, squealing
handlink from his pocket.  He punched some buttons on it.  "Okay, your
name is Charles Fishman, but everyone calls you Chuck."

Sam nodded impatiently, he knew that already.  Al ignored him and
continued.

"The guy in the waiting room is freaking out." Al chuckled, "He keeps
asking where the cat is, and raving that he never will never use the
paper to gamble." Al shrugged, "We have no idea what he is talking
about.  We were barely able to get him to tell us his name."

Sam wrinkled his brow and shook his head slightly in confusion.

"Anyway," Al went on, "Ziggy is ninety-six percent sure that you are
here to save a guy named Gary Hobson.  He and Chuck run this bar
together, and in two days, he's found shot in the back of the head."