PROLOGUE

Blue.

Bright blinding blue-white light.

This, he was used to.

It meant he was leaping out.

Sam relaxed into the familiar haze of the leaping process, letting it wash away all the strains and worries of the last few days, even though it normally meant that his mind erased not only the bad memories (and not always the bad memories) but most of those he’d like to hang on to as well. While the blue-white light lasted, he was at peace, and nothing could touch him. He had come to cherish these all too brief moments of total freedom. He thought of it as recharging his batteries, ready for the next challenge ahead.

Purple.

The blue-white haze that surrounded him gave way to purple: a bright vivid purple, and then gold and green joined the mix.

His field of vision was swamped in a jumble of these vibrant colors.

Sam blinked. Then he blinked again.

The gold was more a sunshine cornfield yellow. The green was lush verdant grass, the purple rich and regal.

The colors swirled and merged into each other as Sam fought to focus on the source of these assaults upon his optic nerves.

He was not used to being bombarded with such strident stimuli.

Sam felt overwhelmed by the input, and as his head swam, he found himself unsteady on his feet.

Looking down, he soon realized why.

A dainty pair of thin strapped golden sandals laced their way over his toes and around his ankles, the heels equally fine, and a good six inches high.

The mere sight of them made Sam wobble on his chair.

Chair?!?

He was standing on a wooden chair, and for once he had no need to seek out a mirror to see whose aura he now bore. He was facing a full-length ornate shop mirror, reflecting the outfit that was being altered to better fit his new knockout female form.

And what an outfit!

“Hold still!” the woman on her knees at his feet admonished.

It was not an easy command to obey.

Sam stared in disbelief at the apparition before him. A tall, slender very attractive girl of somewhere around sixteen to eighteen, skin deeply tanned, or maybe the pale brown of a half-caste, he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t see enough of it for the covering she bore.

His body from neck to ankles was encased in a purple, figure-hugging, segmented carapace. Though bare at the shoulders, his arms were covered to well above the elbow in silky gloves, the same hue as the bodice. That, he could maybe have dealt with. The rest was another matter altogether. Enormous wire-framed tri-colored butterfly wings stretched behind him from the ground up to way above his shoulders. They felt to be attached at the top with a cloth padded wire framework that hooked over his collarbone and were inserted into some restraining ‘pockets’ at the back. They were further held firm by long broad sashes which came down over his shoulders, crossed over (accentuating the young lady’s breasts), and then went around to be tied in a bow at the back. And to complete the illusion, a head-dress, also in purple, fitted tight around his skull, and then snaked up in two long wire tendrils to large gaudy bauble antennae that bobbed about with every slight move he made.

This wasn’t an outfit - it was a costume. A huge, cumbersome, embarrassing -“what the hell have I leaped into now?”- butterfly costume!

“Ohhhhhhhh boy!” he breathed, as his blushing cheeks added scarlet to the lurid color explosion.

PART ONE

Sam‘s right foot twitched.

“I told you to hold still, Marvella!” The woman in the comparatively drab mauve dress who was fussing with the hemline didn’t think she had caught the girl with her pins, but anything was possible with the way Marvella had begun squirming.

‘Marvella?’ thought Sam, ‘Jeeze, I sound like something out of a comic book. Look like it too. This get-up is loud even by Al’s standards! In fact it’s deafening. And I can’t wait to get out of it.’ Sam took as deep a breath as the tight bodice would allow. It felt like there was a corset built in, and looking at the reflection, it was pulled in to not much more than an 18” waist.

‘I guess you’re willing to suffer for your art, Marvella.’ He looked into his new hostesses deep brown eyes: eyes that were watering slightly from the restrictions of his garish straight jacket. ‘Looks like I’m gonna have to suffer for it too. God knows what sort of performance you’re staging, but I don’t think I’m gonna enjoy it.’

“She wasn’t joking! Oh boy, Sam, what a get up!”

Sam hadn’t heard his holographic friend arrive, and since Al had no reflection, he hadn’t seen him sneak up behind him either. Startled, he twitched again.

“Good gracious, Marvella, this ain’t gonna get done if you keep on fussin’ and fidgetin’!” The woman sat back on her heels and slapped both hands into her lap in exasperation, frustration intensifying the slight southern twang to her accent.

“Sorry, ma’am.” Sam offered meekly, wanting her to be finished so he could change into something else, anything else. His feet were aching from the high heels, his entire torso was being crushed by the tight bodice, and the headpiece was heavy and ungainly and made him feel as if his brain was swelling.

Though he was hot, and a little dizzy, he tried hard to stand still and let the dressmaker finish her task.

He glared at Al, who was sniggering as he walked around his friend, taking in every detail of the lurid ensemble. For once, the normally flamboyant ex-Admiral was fairly soberly dressed in a deep maroon suit and pale blue shirt. A maroon tie with pale blue shields, looking like an old school tie, and a matching fedora, maroon with pale blue band, completed the look. By his usual standards, it was positively conventional. And of course, it presented a stark contrast to Sam’s outrageous apparel.

Al was enjoying himself, throwing every insult and ribald comment that Sam had ever employed to describe his own colorful taste in tailoring back in the Leaper’s face. He enjoyed it even more knowing that the presence of others in the shop prevented Sam from defending himself or retaliating. Sam seethed silently, looking daggers at his annoying accomplice, and getting redder in the face by the moment.

“Careful, Sam” teased Al, loving every second of his revenge, “you’ll have apoplexy if you don’t calm down!”

“Leave… me… alone!” a petulant Sam finally commanded through gritted teeth, having taken more than enough of Al’s tormenting.

“Okay, okay, I’m going, I’m going. No need to fly off the handle!” chortled Al, making flapping gestures with his arms as he disappeared, still shaking his head in merriment at the apparition of Dr. Beckett as ‘Madame Butterfly’.

“What’d you say, Marvella?” queried the seamstress.

“Nothing.” Sam was exasperated. His friend had found him in record time, but had told him absolutely nothing about the leap, helpful or otherwise. Just this once, Sam would have been happy if the hologram had not managed to home in on him quite so quickly. Why was it when he really needed a rapid heads-up, they took an age to lock in on him, yet when Al had nothing better to do than mock him, they were able to get there almost as fast as he had himself? It didn’t seem fair, and Sam cast an eye heavenward and sighed, as if to say, ‘Give me a break!’

He’d been standing still on that blessed chair in those blasted heels for so long he was getting pins and needles in his feet. He tried to wriggle his toes to help the circulation without annoying the creative genius at work. To his surprise, the movement pained him. He frowned.

Then another sudden sharp pain caught him in his left foot, slightly higher.

“Careful!” he complained, though the discomfort lingered longer than a jab with a dressmaker’s pin should.

“What is with you, chil’?” The woman shook her head impatiently. Her assistant, Leona, had finished with Jennie’s slightly less elaborate though equally striking costume, and was helping her change out of it. It was starting to seem like she’d be there ‘til midnight with Marvella, who was normally so co-operative.

Sam was about to apologize again, when yet another prickling sensation made its presence felt in his right foot, higher still.

He couldn’t help but flinch, and in doing so, he wobbled.

The dressmaker sighed.

Two more sharp stings, like those from tiny insect bites, attacked each of Sam’s ankles in rapid succession, and left a deep intense ache behind them as before.

As he reeled and fought for balance from these onslaughts stabbing pains in both his calves robbed him of the chance for recovery.

This was too much. Sam grabbed at the back of the chair, but could not steady himself in the wake of this fresh attack. His legs buckled beneath him and he slipped and fell face down onto the floor with a truncated cry.

At once, his dressmaker, her assistant, and the other girl being fitted for her costume gathered round his prone form, throwing questions at him: “What’s wrong?”; ”Have you hit your head?”; "Should I run to Doc Coignac's?"

The pains in his legs were rapidly spreading upwards, sudden sharp pains stabbing at him like red-hot daggers. He was panting and sweating. His face screwed up as he tried to force himself to breathe through the pains. It wasn’t working.

“Argh!”

“Help me, here, Jennie, Leona.” Madame Lavergne ordered the girls, and together they divested Sam of his wings, carefully removed the headdress and relieved him of his cocoon, leaving him trembling in a bra and panty-girdle, though he was perspiring with the pain.

Sam was unable to assist them much in this process. The pains in his legs left them all but paralyzed, and they continued to track upwards. By the time his wings were gone, the pains had crippled both legs and moved into his torso, tracing two distinct lines up from his crotch toward his umbilicus. Inside, he was screaming fit to raise the roof, but all the worried onlookers heard as they settled him on his back were a series of brief grunts and groans between halting pants.

Taking further charge, the shop manager sent her assistant to fetch medical aid.

“Hurry, Leona, I don’t like the looks of her one bit!” as she spoke she eased the girl’s head onto her lap, stroking his forehead soothingly, smoothing the thick, jet-black hair from out of Marvella’s eyes. 

“At once, Madame Lavergne,” and with a nod of her head the younger woman ran out.

Marvella was looking up at them with an expression of sheer panic, as her body twitched and writhed and flinched, as if being prodded or poked by invisible sticks.

Once she was completely out of her costume, they looked for obvious signs of injury, but could see neither bruising nor bleeding anywhere.

Nevertheless, the supine figure reached up a shaking hand to grab Madame Lavergne’s arm as she whispered a desperate, croaking:

“H-h-help m-me!”

As the pains continued to assault Sam in a double rising row of connect the dots, he looked pleadingly at his companions, terror filling his being. He searched his Swiss-cheesed brain to find a rational explanation for what he was feeling, but could dredge up no medical knowledge to explain the agonizing and alarming symptoms he was enduring. The mysterious nature of the ailment caused an irrational but all too real dread that made the agony somehow that much harder to bear.

He could detect no trace of injury, and could think of no disease that would display this pattern of…

“Argh, the…p-pains!” he cried out feebly. His eyes darted around the room, looking for some sign of Al. He felt like he was dying, and he wanted – no, needed – his friend to be with him. He regretted deeply the harshness with which he had so recently dismissed his companion.

“H-hurts…arh s-so b-bad!” he informed anyone who was listening, as if they needed to be told. One look at him could tell a blind man he was in excruciating agony.

The razor sharp stabbing had reached his chest level now, and the lines were widening, bowing outward as he felt jab after jab pierce his unmarked flesh. His whole body felt as if it were on fire.

Just as a pain dug him in the 5th intercostal space, directly below the nipple, a whooshing sound heralded Al’s return. Sam immediately locked eyes with his observer, his expression pleading for both relief and a reason, whilst simultaneously broadcasting his gratitude that his friend was there, no apology sought or needed from either party for earlier transgressions.

Al bent down to get a closer look at his friend, alarm written all over his face.

He had been conducting a more thorough visit with the new leapee in the Waiting Room, having established some basic facts about who and when and where. Marvella Voyer seemed a very pleasant and extremely lovely young lady, and she was being as helpful as her memory would allow. Suddenly, Ziggy had alerted him that Sam’s vital signs were shooting off the scale, and Al had raced back to the Imaging Chamber, which Dom had got powered up and waiting shortly after his arrival. They informed him that whatever Sam’s problem, it had happened rapidly and unexpectedly, and was severe enough to have his pulse racing so fast as to make it almost impossible for Ziggy to differentiate the beats.

Looking at his friend, who was clutching his chest and gasping in pain, Al could well believe it.

“What happened, buddy?” he queried, though with little expectation of a coherent response. “What’s going on?” His new question was aimed as much at Ziggy’s hologram as to the victim himself.

“N-never felt…any…any-th-thing…ahh…l-like…it!” panted Sam, wide-eyed and white as a sheet.

Everywhere the stabbing pains had struck now throbbed with agony beyond description. And it wasn’t stopping.

“W-w-what’s… h-h-happening…t-to…meeeeeeeee?” Sam’s anguished voice rose as he felt the stabbing strike at the lower border of the middle of his clavicle, each side in turn as before. He was trembling, but beyond that unable to move, for the pains had him pinned like a prize moth to a lepidopterist’s display board.

 “Feels… like…gmmnn… I’m b-being… sk-skewered… an argh…r-r-roasted on a…a sp-spit…”

Al was muttering with Ziggy, and not liking what she had to say, and liking even less what she couldn’t or wouldn’t say: “insufficient data to extrapolate” - it was one of her most annoying phrases, and he’d been getting fobbed off with it all too often of late. Hearing Sam’s latest complaint, Al formulated an explanation of his own, and it gave him the heebie-jeebies just to contemplate it.

“Sounds like someone’s sticking pins in your effigy, Sam!” The Observer shuddered. He hated hinky stuff.

“Father does not believe in Hoodoo, Admiral. He is a man of Science.”

“That’s Voodoo, Zig,” corrected Al, loving the chance to put the know-all bag of algorithms in her place, “and it sure seems to be believing in him.”

“Actually,” the supercomputer intoned, “Voodoo is merely the common term adopted by the media for horror movies and the like. Hoodoo is the more correct description of the activity you describe.”

“I d-don’t…c-care ouff…w-what’s…c-causing… gmnnn… it.  M-make it… ah…st-stop!”

By this time, Jennie had fetched a cloth soaked in water to cool the fevered brow. She passed it to Madame Lavergne, who applied it to his forehead, then mopped around his perspiring neck. Sam let them do as they would, he had neither the strength nor the will to fight or argue.

Curiously, the pains did not spread down his arms from his collarbone, but continued their upward momentum. Jabs level with the tip of his Adam’s apple made him gag and choke, and claw at his throat in terror and panic. His mouth worked furiously, but naught but strangled, gurgling gasps escaped his lips.

Every strained breath felt as though it could well be his last.

Finally, the pinprick pains halted with two pronged attacks on each cheek, reaching up to just below his eyes. In their wake, his whole face pulsated with indescribable pain.

Though the pains were centered on the spots where each of the stabbing twinges first struck, they radiated out across his whole body, an intense dull ache that didn’t let up for a second, punctuated at all too frequent intervals by strong spasms of sheer agony. Sam could do nothing to ease the discomfort. He was pinned immobile to the floor, unable to curl up or flex strained muscles or find relief in any alternate position. His face grimaced as he tried to control his breathing, made ragged by pain and panic. His hands clenched and unclenched, clawing at anything in reach in an attempt to find an anchor in his sea of suffering.

Madame Lavergne spoke soft words of comfort, and stroked Marvella’s arm, and wondered what was keeping that dratted girl and the doctor she’d been sent to fetch. There was a fearful, faraway look in Marvella’s eyes, and the poor girl was in such torment.

Eventually, Leona scurried in with the medic in tow. The doctor was a tall, slim, elderly man, with grey/white hair and a healthy tan. He was wearing a tropical cream-colored linen suit, and a wide brimmed straw hat.

He looked into Sam’s eyes, and he examined him all over, feeling for broken bones, or other injuries and asking if this or that pressure or squeeze or prod hurt.

“Y-yes!... Argh! It…h-hurts….owww….ev’ry…wh-where!”  Sam confirmed, “Except….my…arms.” he clarified.

He was still perplexed as to why his upper limbs appeared to be immune to the attack. Grateful, yet still perplexed.

“What is it, Dr. Coignac, what’s wrong with her?” Mme Lavergne moved aside with the medic once he had completed his examination, leaving Leona and Jennie to support and tend the patient. Both seemed terrified that whatever ailed Marvella might be catching, and were somewhat tentative in their ministrations, though sympathetic to her suffering.

The doctor shook his head, totally at a loss as to a diagnosis. The dressmaker misinterpreted it:

“Is she gonna die?” she asked in alarm, looking around as if she thought one of her customers expiring on the premises was bound to be bad for business.

Al asked Ziggy more or less the same question.

“I sincerely hope not!” Dr Coignac retorted. Then, in an attempt to reassure them that he didn’t think they were dealing with an epidemic, he added, “The symptoms she’s exhibiting are nothing like Mireille’s, so I don’t think it has anything to do with her sister’s current malady.”

Ziggy avoided the Admiral’s question by informing him that in the original history, Marvella’s twin sister Mireille had died mysteriously within a few days of Dr Beckett’s current timeframe.

“Ggnnnmmmm…..arghh…p-please…” Sam held out a shaky arm toward the attending physician. “The p-pains…s-so…gnah…s-so bad…” the effort of talking made him pant again. “Can’t…y-you….p-pleeeaaassse…gmmmn…g-give me….s-something…an-anyth-thing…to…ease…ahh...the p-p-p-paainnn?”

“No more, yet, young lady,” Dr Coignac smiled sympathetically. “It should start to feel better soon.” The medic acted as if he had already administered an analgesic, but Sam couldn’t remember it. Was it just that he was too pain-crazed to know what was going on? He looked questioningly at Al.

“Ziggy says he’s old and absent-minded, Sam. He hasn’t given you anything, but nobody will be able to convince him of that. Sorry, buddy.”

Sam whimpered, then bit his lip, clenching his fists and pounding the floor in frustration as the pain welled up again.

Some twenty interminable minutes or so after the last sharp stab had pierced his face, Sam was feeling utterly exhausted by the relentless agony that assailed his body in two symmetrical rows from head to toe.

He looked from Al to Ziggy to the ladies looking on helplessly, and the doctor sitting in the corner consulting his medical ‘bible’ and tutting to himself.

Al was berating Ziggy for being unable to produce value for money – saying that any cheap station weighing machine could tell him more about Sam than the so-called super-computer was managing, and in between tirades he was exhorting Sam to “hang in there,” assuring him that somehow, he would find out what the problem was and how to fix it. Despite the Observer’s pledge, Sam could find no cause for optimism.

“Oh God…I c-can’t…t-take this... gmnn… any…m-more!” he sobbed feebly, as another wave of agony washed over him.

Ziggy reported that the Doctor’s vital signs were growing significantly weaker, though she was still unable to detect any discernible cause for his distress.

“Arghhhh…I c-ca-aan’t… Dear God…ahhh… please…. H-help me!”

Mercifully, his prayer was finally answered, and Sam passed into blissful unconsciousness.

PART TWO

Afternoon had given way to evening.

Sam stirred. He rolled over. He stretched.

The covers slipped from off his body.

Instinctively he fidgeted until he was covered again.

“Sam?”

“Huh?”

Al sighed with relief and glanced gratefully heavenward. “That’s it, buddy, come on back, talk to me.”

Sam blinked, opened his eyes, rubbed them and slowly took in his surroundings. He was in a bedroom, in one of twin beds, presumably Marvella’s and the other must surely belong to her sister. It was not sumptuous, by any means, yet still comfy and homely.

Comfortable. Hmmm, the bed was comfortable. He felt – comfortable. Why should he be so surprised that he felt comfortable? A slight frown crossed his face as he sought to remember something. How he came to be there? He couldn’t quite... the last thing he could recollect was –

Sam gasped, recalling the horrendous pain.

Al looked worried.

“Are you okay, kiddo? Is the pain still bad?”

A perplexed expression was all his answer.

Sam mentally performed a hasty self-examination.

“Sam?” Al was confused. Sam was not crying out or cringing in pain, which was all to the good, yet he seemed distant and distracted. Ziggy had told him that her creator’s vital signs had completely returned to normal, but he always took what the bucket of bolts said with a liberal pinch of salt. Only a couple of hours ago, his friend had been in dire distress, suffering some seriously strange symptoms and looking like he might buy the farm at any moment. There had to be some residual suffering at the very least.

Sam shuffled in the bed some more, sitting up and then hastily pulling the covers closer around his near naked form, having realized that he was dressed - if you could call it that - in a pair of skimpy baby doll pajamas.

“How you doing, pal?”

“Fine,” Sam answered at last. “I feel fine, Al.”

The Observer shook his head in disbelief and looked quizzically at the Leaper.

“No, really, I’m okay, honest.” Sam was having trouble believing it himself. “How long was I out...?”

“No time at all, buddy. After you flaked out, they brought you back here, and you’ve been sleeping it off, but it’s only been…” he checked his watch, glancing at it as if he had been repeating the same gesture numerous times of late.  “…ninety-eight minutes. I was afraid…”

“I can’t explain it Al,” Sam interrupted, “but there’s nothing now. No pain, not even an ache, no exhaustion. I should be feeling lousy, drained, sore, something. Yet there’s absolutely nothing. No nasty after-effects of any kind.” He stretched, just to prove he could. Then he realized his lacy lingerie was showing, and cowered beneath the covers again.

“It’s like it never happened, Al. But I swear to God I didn’t imagine it. Those pains were far too real - sheer torture, and so intense I really felt like I was gonna die.” Sam shuddered at the memory. “How can they have vanished so completely?”

Before Al could reply, or seek an explanation from Ziggy, the bedroom door opened, and three people crept in.

“I told ya I heard voices, Mamma. Our lil’ dawlin’ has woken up.”

“Raoul Voyer, Sam. Marvella’s father,” Al informed him.

He was tall and broad shouldered, ruggedly handsome and muscular, and looked and sounded as if he had just stepped in from the bayou.

“How you feeling?” Mamma asked, moving around her husband to approach her daughter’s bed.

“Much better, thank you, Mamma,” Sam reassured her, throwing a scowl at Al who had chortled at the sight – pronouncing Marvella’s parents to be “the original odd couple,” and informing him with glee that the diminutive Chinese lady he had addressed was Xin Qian, Raoul’s mail order bride. “The girls are Cajun Asians! Ha!” Al seemed pleased at the sound of his observation. Sam glared again, embarrassed at his friend’s tactless display, despite the fact that those who may be offended were mercifully unable to hear.

“Your color back,” Xin Qian admitted, chucking Sam under the chin and lifting his head, the better to look in her daughter’s eyes to discern the truth of her attestation.

Sam needed no assistance whatsoever in identifying the third entrant to the room – it had to be Marvella’s sister, Mireille, and there was more than logic or process of elimination to his reaching this conclusion.

These girls were more than just sisters. They were twins, identical twins, not merely alike but indistinguishable in every aspect of their appearance, down to the parting in their thick black tresses and the dimples in their cheeks. It was uncanny.

Mireille ran into the room past her parents, and fell upon her sister, grabbing her in a tight embrace.

She didn’t say a thing about how worried and frightened she had been, or how reassured she was to see Marvella looking so much better, but Sam could almost hear every word of her fear and her relief, and her love. He returned the embrace, feeling slightly nervous. Enough of Marvella had bled through the leap to let him feel totally in tune with Mireille, but what if it wasn’t enough to prevent the other girl from noticing that her sister wasn’t really her sister. Identical twins were often said to have an empathic, telepathic link, so that they sensed things about each other that nobody else was privy to. What if Mireille sensed that there was something fundamentally different about Marvella? It could be far harder to handle than a little child seeing Sam as himself.

So far, he sensed nothing amiss in her reaction to him, and he prayed it stayed that way.

“Are ya hungry, be’?” Pappa asked, “I can bring up some of my gumbo, that’ll soon put ya to rights.”

“Ooooh, Sam, you gotta try some of that!” Al enthused, gesticulating with exuberance. “There’s nothing like steaming hot crawfish gumbo. It’ll put hairs on your chest! I wish I could have some, I bet it smells delicious…”

         Sam silenced his friend with yet another glare, and a downward glance, intimating that putting hairs on Marvella’s chest may not be a desirable outcome to the Leap.

“I am kinda hung…” he cleared his throat, and licked his dry lips, “kinda hungry,” he confessed, “But I’ll come down, I’m…”

“You’re gonna stay right where you’re at, that’s what you’re gonna do, young lady, and no arguments,” countered Raoul sternly, yet with kindness in his eyes.

“But really, I’m perfectly okay now,” Sam protested, wishing he could reassure the worrywarts that he had no lingering affliction in the wake of his strange ‘episode’. He’d have leapt energetically from the bed to prove his point, were it not for his state of undress.

“You stay, rest,” affirmed Xin Qian, tucking the sheet in to underline her instruction, then patting the back of his hand.

“Give in gracefully, Sam,” advised Al. “That way you can eat in peace and while they tuck in downstairs, you and I can have a chat in private, if you know what I mean.” The Observer jerked his head toward the door, and Sam knew exactly what he meant. It made a refreshing change when they could talk freely somewhere other than in the men’s room.

“Yes, Mamma,” conceded Sam respectfully, picking up his cue from Al, and accepting gentle kisses on the cheek from each of the family as they withdrew.

“If you’re not too tired when I come to bed, I gotta tell ya how I got on earlier!” Mireille whispered conspiratorially in his ear as she took her turn.

“I can’t wait!” Sam whispered back, with genuine interest. He had been half out of his mind with the acuteness of the agony he’d been suffering, yet still Ziggy’s dire prediction had penetrated his consciousness, and it came rushing back to him now in all its dreadful finality. Mireille only had a few days to live. Anything she could tell him about what was going on in her life right now could be vital in helping to prevent her premature demise.

As soon as they were alone, Sam sat up in the bed, snatching the sheet up high under his chin to preserve his modesty.

“It’s a bit late for coyness, Sam!” Al delighted in informing him, waving a cigar-laden hand in the direction of the bedding. “I copped an eyeful of your - ahem - nightwear when you were tossing and turning before.” Sam blushed to the roots of his hair, as Al went on, peering at the empty bed to Sam’s right, “I’m betting there’s a matching pair of baby dolls in there, and no offense pal, but whoa bay-by, I’ll enjoy the view a whole lot better when Mireille’s cute little tushi is peeking out from under those frills!”

“Al!” Sam remonstrated, “she’s young enough to be your daughter, and you’re a married man. Shame on you!”

“There’s no harm in looking, Sam,” reasoned the Observer, by way of justifying himself, “as long as I don’t take free samples!” Al chortled.

“I think I’ll have to start calling you Tom,” the leaper told the lecher, shaking his head and tutting. “As in Peeping…”

Sam made as if to throw his pillow at the hologram, then decided that given the futility of the gesture, it wasn’t worth the effort of retrieving the missile afterward, especially as it meant flashing his ‘tushi’.

Which made him think of Mireille again, which in turn reminded him why he had leaped into her life – to preserve it.

“Now if you can tear yourself away from your fantasies for just a minute…”

Al obediently turned back to face Sam, knowing that the leaper wanted useful information. He pressed a button on his handlink and summoned the enigmatic Ziggy.

“What did you mean, Ziggy, when you said Mireille died mysteriously? Was she kidnapped or what?” Sam wanted to know.

“Miss Mireille Voyer, aged 17 years and ten months, died in her sleep during the night of Tuesday, March 5^th,1957. The death certificate indicates natural causes. Your current date is Friday, March 1^st.”

“Beware the Ides of March,” muttered Al, to which Sam just rolled his eyes.

“I don’t understand.” Sam frowned and shook his head. “How can I prevent a death from natural causes? How am I supposed to stop Mireille dying in her sleep? Keep her awake all night? And then what happens the next night? I can’t keep her awake forever.”

The leaper shucked off the covers in his frustration and bewilderment. Forgetting his less than demure attire, he stood up and paced the room. 

Then he rounded on the two holograms.

“What the hell is mysterious about dying in bed? What aren’t you telling me Ziggy? I want to know everything you know, and I want to know now!” As he said this last he sat back down on the bed and prodded his forefinger into the mattress for emphasis.

“The square root of 15,241,383,936 is 123,456; the population of …”

“Ziggy!” Sam threw up his hands. He had truly created a monster.

Undeterred by the interruption, Ziggy continued to churn out facts and figures at lightening speed.

-“Shut her up, Al, or I’ll…”

-“…Aurora Lofton is carrying a fetus of 38 days gestation…”

“What did you say?” Al’s jaw dropped.

“I said shut her up, Al…”
         “No, not you Sam, her," Al said, shaking his head and pointing the butt of his cigar towards his holographic counterpart.  "Ziggy, what was that about Dr Lofton?”

Ziggy declined to repeat her statement.

“As fascinating as this may all be, can we please get back to something relevant, like the details of this Leap!” Sam suddenly realized that he was raising his voice rather more than was prudent given that Raoul had already told him he could hear from downstairs. He lowered his voice accordingly, though his tone remained commanding and insistent.

“I need one of you to tell me what I need to know, before ‘room service’ turns up. I don’t care which of you obliges, but make it soon!”

“Calm yourself, Dr Beckett, I am detecting elevated stress levels, and I am reading an increase in the norepinephrine, epinephrine and adrenaline present in your system.”

“The best way to reduce my stress, Ziggy,” Sam told her through gritted teeth, “is to quit stalling and give me some answers.”

“Okay, Sam, keep your shirt on!” Al cut in, then sniggered, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot, you aren’t wearing one.”

Sam could feel himself getting red in the face, from a mixture of embarrassment and anger. He subconsciously pulled down the hem of his skimpy garment. Why were they avoiding his questions? What was it they couldn’t—or more probably wouldn’t—tell him?

“Does the mystery have something to do with what happened to me earlier?” he hazarded, hoping that Mireille was not destined to have to endure the same excruciating agonies he’d experienced.

“Not so far as we know.” Al reassured him. “Seems like Mireille, or Mimi as her folks call her, has been sickly all her life. The twins were born very premature, and neither was expected to pull through.”

“Interestingly, that’s how they obtained their names. Once they were sure that both girls were going to survive, the parents declared it a miracle - Marvella and Mireille are both Cajun French for miracle!” Ziggy interjected.

Al smiled until a sharp look from Sam reminded them not to wander off topic.

“This is relevant, Sam, trust me. Mireille was the younger of the twins, by a full nine hours, and her delivery was long and traumatic. Though they didn’t recognize it as such at the time, she has, among other problems, an under-developed immune system. She’s had one illness after another, poor thing.”  Al’s face took on a wistful expression as he thought of his own daughters and their childhood illnesses. He remembered the sleepless nights spent worrying over every crisis Christa endured with her heart condition.

Sam spared a moment to feel for the mother, spending so long in labor, and not even sure if she would have one child, let alone two, to show for it at the end. Ziggy had said that this was ’57, so the girls must have been born around 1940 - way before most of the modern aids to childbirth. It was no wonder that Mimi had developed long-term complications.

Sam felt his heart sink. How could he possibly intervene to change history if Mimi had died as a result of lifelong ill health?

He recalled the absent-minded doctor referring to her ‘current malady’. The old man clearly had no idea what was ailing her, and had simply assumed that her constant illness had finally killed her. Was that the extent of the mystery? Perhaps Sam’s advanced medical knowledge could diagnose what was killing her and get the right treatment before it was too late. Assuming it wasn’t already too late. Though getting Mimi to let her ‘sister’ examine her could be tricky, he would have to try.

It was at this point that the young lady in question re-appeared, bearing a tray weighed down with a huge bowlful of gumbo. As the aroma of it reached his nostrils, Sam’s stomach growled in anticipation.

As instructed, Sam made himself comfortable and tucked in to the repast, indicating that Mimi should sit on her bed and chat to him while he ate.

“Have you had yours?” he enquired, not wanting the invalid to miss her meal on his account.

“Some,” she replied, “I wasn’t very hungry.”

“You gotta keep your strength up,” Dr. Beckett scolded.

“I managed a lot more than yesterday,” boasted Mimi. “Guess that session this afternoon really did me a lot of good.” She beamed at him, and Sam thought what a lovely smile she had.

“Session?” queried Sam, wanting to learn as much as he could about Mimi in case something gave him a clue as to how to help her.

“The acupuncture, remember? I guess your funny turn made you forget. While you were having your fitting I took Mamma’s advice and went and had an acupuncture and moxabustion session. They worked on the meridian points for my stomach, and I haven’t been sick all evening!”

Al took a couple of steps backward, switched off Ziggy’s hologram, and looked as if he were about to bolt out of the Imaging Chamber. He was shaking his head and looking nervous. Something reminded Sam that Al had a thing about needles, and he assumed this was what had disturbed his Observer. Al soon told him there was more to it than that.

As Mireille went into details of where they had placed the acupuncture needles, and the heat treatment, Al looked more and more wide eyed, and concluded to Sam:

“Bingo! I was right, buddy. I was right all along.”

Sam looked at him quizzically.

“Pins in your effigy, Sam…”

The leaper almost choked on his gumbo, but quickly reassured Mimi, and vicariously Al that he was all right.

“No, really, think about it, Sam. Acupuncture sticks pins in you to make you feel better, right?”

Sam could only nod, trying to make it seem like he was paying complete attention to Mireille’s account, though he was easily able to concentrate on both speakers at once.

“And voodoo, or hoodoo or whatever the hell Zig wants to call it, is sticking pins in a likeness of you to cause you pain, isn’t that the idea?” Al pressed.

“Uh-huh,” confirmed Sam, though the look he gave his superstitious sidekick made it clear he didn’t believe in it for a minute.

Al looked triumphant. “Mireille’s an exact likeness of Marvella. You’re in Marvella’s aura. When they put the pins in her, they made her feel better, and caused you horrendous pain. That’s why you had no after-effects – the pins come out, the pains go away! QED, as you and Dom would say.” Al waved his hands expansively, and his eyes challenged Sam to come up with a viable alternative explanation.

Sam continued to look skeptical, though he had to admit that the description Mireille was giving him of where the pins had gone sounded too eerily familiar to be easily dismissed.

Whilst his scientific mind remained reluctant to accept so paranormal an explanation, the Doctor hoped that Al was on the money when it came to the ‘no after effects’ bit. He could certainly live with that assessment.

Sam finished his meal at more or less the same time that Mireille finished her account of the alternative therapy that seemed to have done her so much good.

He told her he was really pleased for her, and glad to see her looking better than she had in weeks, and then, at Al’s urging, he jokingly insisted that next time she take her sister along to share the treatment, so that the voodoo effect could be negated. He expected her to laughingly dismiss the suggestion, but instead she looked alarmed and, almost tossing the food tray aside, she pulled Sam into another embrace.

“Oh Ella, I never thought of that! I’m so sorry. I’d never do anything to hurt you, you know that!”

Over her shoulder, Sam silently mouthed at Al, ‘Thanks a lot, now look what you’ve done!’ Al merely shrugged, and gave him an ‘I told you so’ sort of expression.

Sam reassured Mimi that he bore her no ill will nor held her culpable for his earlier trauma, but was surprised and somewhat alarmed when she expanded, “I know you sometimes feel ‘echoes’ of my aches and pains, but I never dreamt that we were ‘linked’ strongly enough for you to…” she pulled back and looked in her sister’s eyes, then broke off into a sob.

Sam patted her shoulder and told her not to fret, reiterating that he felt fine now and was happy for her improved condition. Though she was lively enough, and in good spirits, Sam could nevertheless tell that she was still not in the best of health. Whilst the reflection had told him Marvella’s hair was thick and full of body, Mimi’s looked tired and lack-luster, as did her eyes. She wasn’t pale, far from it, she looked flushed, but that could just be excitement and the hot gumbo.

Sam looked at her closely, trying to spot any other symptoms that could give him a clue as to why she had such a short life expectancy. Strangely, it was her fingernails that rang alarm bells with him, but his Swiss-cheesed brain couldn’t quite lock on to what the little vertical white lines meant. Maybe it was just a sign of malnutrition resulting from her inability to keep much down.

He didn’t have a chance to finish his examination, as their mother called Mimi to bring Ella’s tray down, and leave her sister to rest.

Yet again, Sam reiterated that he felt fine now and didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Mimi smiled indulgently at him.

“Maybe so, but do ya wanna argue with Mamma?” Sam smiled back. His own mother was equally formidable when it came to her offspring’s health.

“Get some sleep, sis, I’ll try not to wake you when I come up.”  Mimi kissed her sister’s forehead, “Love ya.”

“Back at ya!” Sam replied, as Mimi retreated, taking the tray with her as instructed.

Once he was alone again, Sam rounded on Al.

“I want a complete medical history on Mimi, I wanna know every ailment she’s ever had, no matter how minor. Not just recent, I want everything from the day she was born, understand?”

Al knew that Marvella’s influence was bleeding through the leap process in bucket loads, but he also knew that Sam’s own compassionate heart was in part responsible for him bonding so strongly with Mireille.

“It’s a pretty long list, Sam, but you got it. The poor girl could fill a year of medical journals with her problems.”

Al then relayed the requested information to his partner as succinctly, yet accurately as possible.

It made for depressing listening, and Sam was amazed that the young woman was as well adjusted and upbeat as she appeared. She’d had a really tough time her entire life, yet she had not wallowed in constant self-pity or used her ill health as an excuse to shirk her duties or responsibilities. She had kept up with her studies (with some help from her sister) and led a surprisingly active social life. Sam was filled with admiration for her, and an even greater determination to see that she survived. Just hearing the catalogue of what she’d had to put up with made him feel tired, especially since he’d been unable to come up with any helpful ideas despite giving the matter his deepest concentration.

That thought suddenly made him realize how much time had elapsed in discussing Mimi’s past, and Sam decided that he should sleep on the problem, and come back to it fresh in the morning.

Al had just said his goodnights and left Sam to settle down when the young lady in question returned, startled to find her sister still awake.  Sam had fully intended to be sound asleep before Mimi retired for the night, so that she could undress in privacy. As it was, she chatted amiably while Sam did his best to avert his eyes, thankful that at least Al was no longer there to make ribald comments.

Before she settled down, Mimi took a couple of spoonfuls of a medicine that made her grimace. It didn’t smell any better than it appeared to taste. Sam snuck a look at the bottle and discovered it was Shark Liver Oil.

The scientist recalled from somewhere in the depths of his mind that the substance had been known to have healing properties since the 18^th century, and that the active alkoxy glycerols in it helped to strengthen the immune system - stimulating the formation of antibodies, by increasing the number of white blood cells and thrombocytes in the blood. However, it had never been a very popular treatment, certainly not like the more common, more generally beneficial cod liver oil, and Dr Beckett was surprised and impressed to see it in use here, though he was somewhat relieved that Mimi was the one taking it, not himself.

He was more than a little thankful that before she kissed her sister goodnight, Mimi had slipped to the bathroom to brush her teeth, so that he didn’t experience the taste second hand.

Having prayed together, Mimi got into her bed, and they exchanged small talk – mostly about the approaching Mardi Gras celebrations, until they were each too drowsy to concentrate on what the other was saying. Soon, they were both sleeping peacefully.

Sam began to fidget in his sleep, then to toss and turn. After a while, he roused, and turned over, curling up in a ball, his face screwed up. He surfaced enough to remember where he was, and fought to ignore the irritation to his system, anxious not to disturb Mireille.

Still uneasy, he fidgeted again, and the nagging thought wheedled into his mind that he was in for another round of whatever had assailed him earlier.

He felt hot, and nauseous, and he had stomach cramps.

‘Probably too much gumbo,’ his brain decided, ‘maybe it just doesn’t agree with me.’

He squirmed some more, trying to get comfortable. ‘Go back to sleep,’ his brain instructed him. ‘Sleep it off, you’ll be fine.’

He tried. He tried hard. Rolling over and shuffling in the bed, he attempted to minimize his discomfort. ‘Think of something else,’ he told himself. ‘Relax.’

That proved impossible. The cramps worsened, the nausea increased.

Finally, he could endure no more, and decided a trip to the bathroom was inevitable.

Easing himself up in the bed, he did his best not to let the bedsprings squeak or give any other betrayal of his movements, though sitting up made his head spin and his stomach churn.

Pausing, eyes still closed, to steady himself; Sam put his hand to his mouth and stifled a belch. A sense of urgency rose up within him, on a tide of bile.

Launching himself from the bed in an attempt to reach the bathroom in time, Sam noticed with alarm that Mimi’s bed was empty. A sudden realization struck him, and he sat back down heavily.

What was it Mireille had said? Marvella sometimes felt ‘echoes’ of her pains. Was that what he was experiencing? It had to be.

Yet it felt so real. It felt so awful.

‘Get a grip,’ he admonished himself, as a violent stomach cramp doubled him over, clutching his midriff.

‘Pull yourself together, it isn’t real, it isn’t real.’ Sam forced himself to control his breathing, to slow the pounding of his heart. ‘Phantom pains, nothing more.’ His intellect processed the message, but his instinct was harder to convince.

Sounds reached him from the bathroom - disturbed, distressed sounds - focusing his attention on the source of the ‘echoes’. If he felt this bad, how much worse must Mimi be feeling, experiencing the genuine article?

‘There’s nothing whatsoever wrong with you, Samuel John Beckett,’ a voice nagged inside his head, sounding remarkably like his mother, Thelma, ‘so quit shirking your duty and go and help that girl.’

Sam took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Then he swallowed hard, set his jaw, and rose determinedly to his feet, pointedly disregarding the dizziness his equilibrium tried to trick him into believing he was feeling.

By the time he was at the bathroom door, he was in control, and had managed to exorcise the worst of the phantom pains. He knocked gently, and whispered, not wanting to wake their parents.

“Mimi? Are ya alright?”

‘Silly question,’ he chastised himself, as the cramps fought to reassert themselves in his own system.

A harsh whisper came back to him, “Go back to bed, Ella. Sorry, I didna mean to disturb ya. I’ll be fine.” The merest hint of a sob punctuated her reassurance.

Sam tried the door and discovered it wasn’t locked. He went in, to find Mireille kneeling, her head over the bowl of the toilet, into which she promptly vomited.

Sam moved closer and gently held her hair back, stroking her back soothingly with his other hand. When she had finished, he reached for a facecloth he saw hanging over the sink, and helped her to clean herself up, then he passed her a glass of water, so she could rinse the unpleasant taste from her mouth.

Mireille smiled her thanks, blinking back tears that threatened to sneak from the corners of her eyes.

“Hurts worse than ever, huh?” Sam was moved to suggest. It was really more a statement than a question.

“You’re feelin’ it too, aint ya?” Mimi looked into her sister’s eyes, and found confirmation there of what Marvella verbally denied. Mimi lowered her eyes then, and turned away apologetically, though Sam was swift to assure her she had no need to feel guilty.

Mireille sniffed. “I thought…ungh…” she clutched her stomach.  “I hoped…” she put her hand to her mouth much as Sam had earlier.

“That the reprieve would last a bit longer,” supplied Sam, knowing instinctively exactly what Mimi was thinking. The acupuncture had felt like a miracle cure, allowing her to feel better than she had in a long time. It was cruelty beyond measure that the improvement had been so short lived. No wonder the normally stoic young lady was on the verge of crying a river. She had every right to feel sorry for herself.

Sam hugged her, and told her sincerely that he wished he could take all her pain from her, that he could feel it for her rather than with her.

A wan smile of appreciation was quickly eradicated by a quick dive for the bowl, as Mimi was sick again. Sam did his best as before to support and soothe her, ‘til the worst was over.

So it went on, for well over an hour, until Mimi was weak and trembling, and tearful. Finally, she managed only a dry heaving retch, and once he’d made her sip some more water, Sam suggested that she try returning to bed. Mimi leaned heavily on him as they stumbled back to their room, and looked at him with silent gratitude when he slipped into her bed beside her, and cuddled her close until she drifted off to sleep. Though Sam wished to consult with some urgency with his Observer on a theory that had begun to form in his mind and was troubling him deeply, he was once again grateful to be spared the embarrassment of Al deliberately misconstruing his actions and his intentions.

Whilst Mimi fell asleep fairly quickly, Sam lay awake fretting. He kept turning over in his mind the unmistakable signs he had spotted when he saw Mimi in the bathroom, and telling himself that surely he must be mistaken. The symptoms had finally fallen into place – the thick flaky skin and small ‘corns’ on her palms and the soles of her feet, the slight swelling of her face, eyes and ankles, the marks on her nails, the overly sensitive nerve endings, together with the headaches, stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and irritability – all pointed unequivocally to a single diagnosis, but it was so outrageous as to be utterly implausible. He needed to consult with Al and Ziggy before he could act upon his suspicion. There was one sure way to test his theory, and get a definitive answer one way or the other, but it was a route he was more than reluctant to go down.

A while before dawn, Mimi stirred in her sleep and rolled over, almost pushing Sam out of the shared bed. Sleep was still eluding him, so he caught himself easily, and then slipped unobtrusively out from under the covers, retreating to Marvella’s empty cot, where he sat cross-legged, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, meditating on the problem that plagued him.

That was precisely how Al found him over an hour later.

“Ahem!” Sam had obviously not noticed his arrival, nor did he respond to the prompt.  “What planet you on, Sam?” Al waved his ghostly hand in front of Sam’s face.

“Huh?” Sam’s eyes focused on his holographic helper, and he shook himself out of his trance-like state. “Oh good, you’re here at last, Al. I need to consult Ziggy on something…”

“Pleased to see you too, buddy!” huffed Al, snidely; offended that Sam should want to talk to Ziggy and not his best friend.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sam was preoccupied by the conundrum he’d been cogitating all night, and didn’t notice his companion’s sulk.

Al recognized the look of intensity in Sam’s expression, and realized that no slight had been intended. Something had come up during the night, and it was important enough to demand the attention of every facet of Sam’s diamond-sharp brain. So he called up his holographic cohort, while asking Sam what he’d learned that was so important.

“I think I know what Mimi died of, Al,” began Sam, and he could almost see both holograms’ ears prick up at the pronouncement. “And if I’m right, then it was certainly not natural causes – she was murdered!”

PART THREE

“What do you mean, murdered, Sam?” spluttered the retired Rear Admiral, “How?  Who by?  Why?” Al began pacing; uncomfortable with the idea that what Sam suggested could possibly be true—as uncomfortable as Sam was himself.

“Slow down, Al, you’re making me dizzy,” admonished Sam in a whisper, indicating the dormant figure next to him, and his desire that she should not overhear his half of the conversation.  “I wish I knew,” he continued. “I can’t believe it. Who could possibly want to murder a poor sweet child like that? It seems so unlikely – I’ve been sitting here trying to find another explanation, but I don’t think there is one…”

He proceeded to detail for Ziggy the symptoms he’d observed in Mimi, and asked her if she concurred with his diagnosis.

“It would definitely appear to be the only logical conclusion, Dr. Beckett,” confirmed the parallel hybrid computer. “In fact, I give it a 99.87% certainty that you have correctly deduced Miss Voyer’s cause of death.”

“Is there any way you can prove it, Sam?” Al looked a little green around the gills. This sort of thing always made him feel somewhat queasy, and he loosened his iridescent silvery blue-green tie and undid the top button of his emerald green shirt, laced through with random gold threads that traced across the verdant pasture of fabric like broken cobwebs on dew-stained grass.

“I don’t fancy my chances convincing Doc Coignac that he’s overlooked something this big, do you?” Sam sighed, knowing what he was going to have to ask of his friend, and knowing exactly how Al would react.

“What you gonna do then, buddy?” Al pressed, as keen to avoid the original history repeating itself as his quixotic companion.

“Not a lot I can do, is there? But there is a way you can get conclusive evidence…”

“Me?” Al looked bemused, “You think Marvella knows something? I mean I’m happy to talk to her, but you can’t think…” A horrified look crossed his face; incredulous that Sam could even contemplate the idea of Marvella murdering her sister.

Sam was equally appalled that Al could suggest such a thing:  “No, of course not Al,” he hastily reassured his holographic friend, “In fact it isn’t the Marvella in the Waiting Room I need you to talk to…”

“Huh?” Al looked sideways at the Leaper; afraid his recent malady had addled his wits.

“I’m sorry, Al, I know you’re not gonna like this, but I need you to track down Marvella in your time…” he paused as a thought occurred to him. “She is still alive in your time, isn’t she?” He looked questioningly at Ziggy’s holographic form.

“Indeed she is,” confirmed the computer, “and I believe I know what you are suggesting. An excellent plan, if I may say so, father.”

“Would one of you mind letting me in on this brilliant scheme of yours?” Al looked from one to the other, not liking being the only one not’ in the know’.

Mireille stirred again, so to minimize the risk of waking her, Ziggy brought the Admiral into the loop.

“Dr. Beckett requires you to contact the contemporary Marvella Voyer and obtain her permission to exhume the body of her deceased sister so that an autopsy may be performed.”

Al turned even greener than his shirt.

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” he said, swallowing hard, “I mean, it’s been, what nearly fifty years? There, uh, there won’t be a lot left…” his voice trailed off as he tried not to picture the state the corpse would be in. He remembered Sam in a mausoleum, and how an earthquake had shattered open some old coffins. He shuddered, banishing the gruesome image that his memory conjured up. He wanted no part of it.

“There will be enough., Ziggy stated categorically. “Traces of arsenic have been found in the hair and fingernails of corpses over a century old. In fact,” she looked at him smugly, “that is how the true cause of death was established as chronic arsenic poisoning in the case of Napoleon Bonaparte a full 140 years after he died.” She looked so well pleased with herself as she imparted this knowledge that anyone would think she were taking credit for the discovery herself.

Al called for Dom to fetch him a glass of water ‘quick’, and took a couple of staggering sidesteps, and then sat down forcefully on one of the chairs he’d had installed at intervals throughout the Imaging Chamber. Moments later, a long tall glass of iced water appeared in his hand and he sipped it gratefully.

Sam looked on sympathetically. He had anticipated this very reaction.

“Don’t worry, Al,” he reassured his friend softly. “You just have to arrange it; you don’t have to witness it. Get the forms signed to release the body to the Project. Have Beth do the examination. We want to keep as few people involved in this as possible, and we certainly don’t want to alarm the local authorities.” Al didn’t bother correcting Sam. The Leaper didn’t need to keep track of the change in command at the infirmary. “Meanwhile, Ziggy and I will see if we can work out the who, the how, and the why.” Al could almost see the cogs of Sam’s brain cranking into gear as he set his mind to these new problems, “Couldn’t be the gumbo cos we all had that…” he mused aloud to himself, more or less oblivious to the continued presence of his two informants, who took the hint, and left.

Al finished the glass of water, and still sat a minute or two before emerging from the Imaging Chamber. He found this whole turn of events most unsettling and it was all he could do to hold onto his lunch, which was threatening to exit the way it arrived.

When he did descend the ramp to the Control Room, his legs were still somewhat rubbery, and he steadied himself on Ziggy’s main console.

“You look as if you just rode the Ultra Twister, Al,” commented Dom Lofton, moving forward to offer a supporting hand. Al waved him away, but with a wan smile of appreciation for the offer. “My innards feel like it too!” he admitted.

“Do you need me to call Beth?” Dom offered.

“No thanks, Lofty,” Al was gradually recovering his composure, though he was gagging for a smoke to steady his nerves. “I’ll be fine in a minute.  Ziggy?” he turned his head upward to glare at the glowing blue orb that was, in essence, Ziggy.

“Admiral?” the voice was icily polite.

“Just give me the address, Zig, so I can get this over with.” The retired rear admiral squared his shoulders and strode out to throw a couple of things in an overnight bag for his trip.

“Harry is filing the flight plan as we speak, Admiral.” Ziggy’s voice filled his quarters. “He will be waiting for you on the runway by the time you get there. I will have Dr. Lofton prepped and ready in the examination room at such time as you return.”

Al swallowed, then acknowledged with a nod, tugging on the hem of his crisp white jacket, having changed into dress uniform. He thought he should look official for a task of this gravity.

Part of him would have liked to take the controls of the Lear himself. He often found flying had a calming effect on him when he was in the pilot’s seat. Gave him a feeling of being in control, he supposed. Still, if he had to have a ‘chauffeur’, he couldn’t have asked for better than Harry. They went way back together, back to the 70’s, just after he got repatriated… Al stopped himself from going down that particular memory lane. There were plenty of happier memories from the years that followed.  It was good to know there were people like Harry out there that they could call on at times like these. Had budgeting permitted, Al would have had Harry’s company on permanent payroll, since there was often the need to get from A to B in a hurry. As it was, Harry was happy to waive a retainer, taking payment only for the jobs he was called on to do, (and then barely covering costs, if Al were any judge) yet making sure there was always a plane standing by if it were needed. He’d drop anything to help out his buddies Al and Sam, he’d told them, and so far he’d always been as good as his word. He also made sure that only he or his brother Lenny piloted the Project jobs too, so that security could be maintained. Discretion was his middle name; Harry was a good egg.

Al spent the time in pleasant reminiscences and tall tales and general camaraderie, and Harry proved to be just the tonic he needed to take his mind off the gruesome task that awaited him.

All too soon, though, the journey was over and the ex-astronaut came back down to earth. Harry told him the plane would be refueled and ready for take-off by the time he got back and Al waved his thanks as he drove off in the rental car Ziggy had so efficiently arranged to be waiting for him.

Alone again, Al soon fell to worrying, both about how he could tactfully achieve his mission and also how Sam was faring back in 1957 without him. He knew that both Sammy-Jo, by virtue of her genetic link, and Dom Lofton, thanks to his genius brainwaves that were somehow ‘on the same frequency’ as Sam’s own, could comfortably deputize for him if needed, but he preferred to handle things himself. There it was again, the need for control. Had Julianna been right when she called him a stubborn old control freak? In fact, she’d been calling him that a lot lately, both before and after they’d discovered she was his daughter. Despite the context, thoughts of Jules raised a smile on Al’s lips.

Some twenty minutes later, Al was entering Semolina’s restaurant on Metairie Road, looking up nervously at the giant crawfish that sprawled over the doorway with head and claws looking like they were going to have you for dinner. It was somehow symbolic of the fact that Al felt he was being swallowed up by events he would just as soon have nothing to do with.

Al sat at the table by the window as had been pre-arranged. He had the menu open in front of him, but just at the moment, food was the last thing on his mind.

He was looking over the top of the folder, watching the door, and eventually he was rewarded when his dinner companion entered. Though she was instantly recognizable to him as Marvella Voyer, the years had been less than kind to her. She was some six years younger than Al, but she looked a good ten years older. Her once luxurious jet black hair was now totally gray, and much shorter and thinner than it had been in her youth. Her complexion was careworn. Her body was thin and frail, and stooped, and she walked with great difficulty and the aid of a Zimmer frame. As she entered, one or two of the customers by the door rose up, either out of respect or in an attempt to help her, he couldn’t be sure. She was fiercely determined and independent though, and with a firm but friendly look let it be known that she would get there, on her own, in her own good time.

As she approached, Al rose to his own feet, and moved round to pull her chair back for her, waiting patiently while she eased herself into it.

“Thank you kindly, Sir,” she smiled at him, her eyes ablaze with curiosity.

“Rear-Admiral Albert Calavicci, retired, at your service, ma’am.” He introduced himself formally, then added, “but please, call me Al.”

“It seems you have the advantage, Admiral…” she caught his corrective look and amended, “Al. For you appear to know that I am Marvella Voyer, spinster of this parish!” The term was used without rancor, but with a modest shrug. “Have we met before, Sir?” she tilted her head sideways, examining him. Her expression was perplexed, as if a vague memory stirred but then vanished. She smiled apologetically.

Al returned the smile, declining to admit or deny their previous meeting, and took his seat across the table from her.

“My, my, but don’t ya look swell in yer swanky uniform!” she observed, peering through her glasses at the array of medals on his chest. “’Tis a shame I see a wedding band on that finger of yours, or I might just be tempted to snap ya up myself!” Al felt himself blush.

She reached out her hand and lightly touched his arm, “No offense, Sir. Just my little joke to break the ice. It’s been a very long while since a gentleman invited me out to dinner, and in such a mysterious manner. My interest is piqued.”

Al wished that he could just share an agreeable meal with this charming woman, instead of putting her through the painful experience of dredging up the worst time of her past.

“Pleasure before business, I think,” suggested Al, handing her a menu, “What would you like?”

Marvella barely glanced at it. She knew exactly what she wanted, and recommended Al to have the same:

“…The Southwest Chicken...”

Al looked down the list and found it to be a pasta dish, of penne pasta with grilled chicken, tortilla strips, jalapeno peppers and a southwest sauce.

“Mmmn, sounds yummola,” he agreed, “and to follow…?”

“Why, the bread puddin’ of cawse!” as if there could be any doubt. She looked at him as much as to say, ‘one can tell you’re from out of town!’

Al attracted the attention of their waitress and placed their order.

“Tell me something about yourself, Al,” Marvella said his name with deliberate emphasis, to show she had taken note of his desire for informality.

While they waited for their meal, Al gave her his potted biography - as far as security would permit.

Marvella listened with interest, and not inconsiderable amazement, asking occasional questions, and not taking her eyes from her rapt attention of him for more than a second to acknowledge the receipt of her order. She laughed at his tales of exploits in the Navy, and as an astronaut, and she looked with genuine interest at the photos from his wallet of his lovely wife and beautiful daughters.

Halfway through the meal, she raised her wine glass to him, tilted her head and asked, “What, pray, is a man of your caliber doin’ wantin’ to tawk to l’il ol’ me?”

Al’s face fell. He’d been dreading this moment.  “I need your help, Miss Voyer, on a delicate matter.”

“Marvella, please!” She shot him a look that said he should have known better, since she’d been addressing him as Al at his behest for all this time.

“You may not be so friendly when you hear what I need to talk to you about…” Al returned, lowering his eyes and shuffling uncomfortably in his seat.

The smile on her face felt unexpectedly awkward, and she smothered it. Marvella looked Al in the eye, trying to read what it was that suddenly made this self-assured, supremely confident and competent man look so shy and insecure.

Though his caution alarmed her, she felt she had to reassure him.

“Whatever it is, Al, it has to be important to bring ya to this neck of the woods, so why don’t ya just get it out into the open, huh? We’ll take as read your apology for upsetting me, and my forgiving you, okay?”

Al couldn’t help but relax a little in the face of her no-nonsense attitude. He smiled at her, and reached out a hand to lightly touch her arm, inclining his head in acknowledgement of her generous offer.  “Believe me, I wish I could spare you this, Miss… uh, Marvella…” Al corrected himself.

“I’m listening, dawlin’.” she encouraged.

“It’s about your sister, Mireille…” he began.

Marvella started, dropping her knife. Whatever she might have been expecting, this was so far down the list as to be off the page. She lost something of her own composure, and a look of profound sadness filled her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Al’s eyes mirrored her sorrow, “I know I’m re-opening old wounds.”

“My sister died a very long time ago, sir. What does she have to do with… with anything?” Her voice was just a little cold, though she resisted the urge to get up and leave. She had promised to hear him out, and she would honor that promise.

He had tried to warn her that she would find this painful; she just hadn’t realized that the nerve he was to touch was still so raw, even after all these years.

“I have reason to believe that your sister was murdered,” now he was saying it, Al wanted it out and over with. He registered her gasp of shock, but before she could counter his claim, or escape from what she didn’t want to hear, he hit her with a half-truth.  I need your help to prove it in order to stop the culprit from striking again.”

He couldn’t possibly explain that the victim was the same, that there was a chance it would be her sister’s life she was saving.

To her great credit, Marvella Voyer did not become hysterical at the shocking revelation. Pushing her plate aside, her appetite completely dissipated, she reached for her handbag and drew out a handkerchief, with which she dabbed her eyes.

Al poured her a glass of water, and paused to let her assimilate the news.

She sipped the water gratefully, and drew a deep breath to calm herself.

“Oh my,” she breathed, putting a hand to her chest.

Al instantly rose to his feet, “Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?” he reached into his pocket for his mobile phone.

Marvella put down her glass and held up her hand, indicating that she would be all right in just a minute. Al wasn’t so sure, she looked pale and shaky, and he hovered for a moment, lest she keel over where she sat.

Closing her eyes, she blew out a long slow breath, holding on to the edge of the table.

“Miss V…”

“Don’t fuss; I shall be fine if ya give me a moment,’ she interrupted him.

Thoroughly chastised, Al returned to his seat, though not to his meal. He too had lost his appetite.

After another few sips of water, Marvella looked at Al as if nothing had happened.

“You’d best explain yourself,” she instructed him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Al challenged, “I can take you home; this can wait until you feel stronger.” ‘Oh, Sam,’ he thought to himself, ‘I know you wouldn’t want this, I wish there could be some other way.’ Deep down, though, he knew there was not, or it would not have been asked of him.

“That could be a long wait, young man!” her smile returned with a self-deprecating glance at her frail form.

Al spluttered at being called young man, given that he was her senior, but thought it ungallant to point out her error.

“You say there could be another life at stake?”

Al nodded emphatically. Experience gave him the nagging worry in the back of his mind that not only could Mimi still die, but that Sam’s intervention could potentially cause his own demise. Al would do anything in his power to prevent that outcome.

“In that case, I think ya’d better tell me what ya want me to do.”

“Thank you, uh, Marvella,” Al tilted his head, as if seeking silent permission to address her thus once more.  He drew a deep breath.  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you how I know, but we have a strong indication that Mireille was killed by chronic arsenic poisoning…”

“Who would do such a thing?” Marvella burst in, incredulously. “Do you know who it was?” There was an edge of anger to her tone, as if to say, woe betide the perpetrator if she got her hands on them.

“Unfortunately not, at the moment,” Al admitted. “We are working on it, I promise you. Is there anyone you can think of who might have had a reason to…”

“Absolutely not!” Marvella could not have been more emphatic. “My sister was kind and sweet and loving, and she never hurt a soul.”

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I’m sorry.”

Marvella retrieved her plate and began toying with her food, as much to have something to occupy her hands as anything else. The meal, though delicious, had lost its appeal.

“Ya came here for more’n t’ask me that didn’t ya?”  Though this was all unbearably hard for her to take in, and a part of her wanted to hate the Admiral for confronting her with such distasteful and incredible thoughts, she could see that there was nothing malicious in his intent, and that he was genuinely trying to prevent another tragedy. Right now, he was fingering the collar of his starched shirt, and looking like he’d rather the ground open up and swallow him, than he have to ask her whatever else it was that was on his mind. With remarkable perspicacity, she suddenly appreciated how hard it had to be for him to do this, and how sensitively he was handling it. For that, she had to admire and even like the man.

Her first impression of him had been favorable, and she prided herself on being an excellent judge of character. She smiled a sad half smile.

“I apologize for my attitude, Al,” she let the epithet tell him that she was neither upset nor angry with him. “Ya have a job t’do, and I ain’t been makin’ it easy on ya.”

“I have no right to expect you to…” Al really liked this feisty old gal more and more. He hated having to put her through this ordeal, and although it was obviously painful for her, she had the grace to be sensitive to his predicament. She was quite a woman.

“Oh hush now, dawlin’.” Marvella reached out and patted his arm as she had done earlier. “Let’s get this over with, so we can get back to enjoyin’ our meal. T’would be a shame to let this good food go to waste.”

Al couldn’t help but smile. She had an almost Italian appreciation for good cuisine.

“Indeed!” he acknowledged. “Very well. I need to ask you uh, that is er, to get your permission…”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, I ain’t gonna break! Ask me, dawlin’.”

“The only way we can prove Mireille was poisoned…” Al felt himself getting queasy at the thought again, and was overwhelmingly grateful when the incredible woman opposite him once more came through to let him off the hook from which he was so ineloquently squirming.

“Is to examine her remains.” It was said quietly, her head bowed, with a sort of reverence.

“I’m afraid so.” Confirmed Al.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she admonished, “I have watched my share of Quincy, and C.S.I., Al. I know the routine.”

“I have to have your consent, to exhume…”

“Ya don’t have to spell it out,” Marvella didn’t want to hear the words anymore than Al wanted to utter them. She still thought of her sister as her sister, not as ‘the body’, and wished to keep it that way.  “Just tell me one thing…” she requested.

“If I can,” came the cautious yet earnest reply.

“How sure are ya that this will help save your mysterious victim.”

Al allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He could dance around this one without risking a breech of security.  “With my friend Dr. Beckett on the case, I can all but guarantee it.”

“He’s a good man, ya doctor friend?” she wanted to know. “Good at his job?”

“The best, the very best,” Al assured her sincerely.

“That’s good enough for me,” Marvella decided, and declared the matter closed by taking up her cutlery and purposefully resuming her repast.

PART FOUR

Sam knew he didn’t need to elaborate when he suggested Ziggy help him with his detective work. She would see to it that the Marvella in the Waiting Room was gently questioned to establish if Mireille had any enemies, or if anyone had ever expressed a desire to hurt her--all the awkward questions that would arouse suspicion if he were to start prying in the past.

For his part, assuming for the moment that his diagnosis was accurate, Sam intended to make his first priority working out how the poison was being administered. It was clear that Mimi had been exposed to measured doses over something like a three-week period, the toxin having a cumulative effect, making her sicker by the day. If exposure was stopped quickly, she had every chance of making a complete recovery, but the longer her system continued to absorb the arsenic, the more likely it was that even if he saved her from the fatal dosage, she would suffer long term side effects such as muscular atrophy, possibly even paralysis, or convulsions, or neuropathy – usually a symmetrical sensory-motor polyoneuropathy… Sam stopped himself from mentally listing every single possible negative effect Mimi might have to endure – it was too depressing a prospect, and one he had every intention of preventing.

He rose and bathed and dressed as quietly as possible, letting the invalid sleep in, and giving him a chance to explore the house before the rest of the occupants were up and about. Fortunately, Marvella’s daily wardrobe was less extreme than her Mardi Gras costume, and he found a pair of purple pedal pushers and a lilac polo shirt, and some flat soft shoes that resembled ballet pumps. He tied her hair back into a ponytail with a lilac scarf.

A quick tour sufficed to allow him to act as if he’d lived there all his life – his main area of interest was the kitchen. It was probably the largest and most used room in the house, with a well stocked and well ordered pantry, gleaming clean but well used pots, pans and utensils, and a solid table and sturdy chairs that could no doubt tell many a tale of shared meals and family discussions if only they could talk.

Being odorless and tasteless made arsenic the poison of choice for many a villain. Unfortunately, it also made it extremely difficult for a man on a mission to detect. Sam handled every ingredient of culinary potential, and looked for signs of tampering. He also looked for any indication that Mireille’s medical problems led her to a special, and therefore separate, diet. He found none.

Frustrated at his lack of progress, Sam resolved to stick to Mimi as if they were not merely identical but Siamese, and to ensure that whatever she ate, he sampled too. To that end, he whipped up some omelets à la Beckett and served the rest of the family breakfast in bed, much to their surprise and delight.

Under the guise of tempting Mimi to eat, Sam placed a large portion on a single plate, and took turns at eating forkfuls himself and offering Mireille the next.

She ate sparingly at first, saying that her stomach still felt somewhat tender from the sickness in the night, but she made a brave attempt, and had to admit that the appetizing aroma and tremendous taste were persuading her to ‘be a glutton’.

She ate more than Sam had dared hope, and he finished off the rest, trying not to think of the horrible price he would pay if it turned out any of the ingredients had been compromised. Since there had been no indication of anyone else in the household suffering the gastric ill effects at all over the previous weeks, Sam thought it unlikely that the poison was reaching Mimi through her food. It would be too difficult to ensure that she and she alone, ate the offending item. Unless the poisoner were one of the family who could administer it to a single plate once the meal were served…

Sam shook his head. In the short time he had known them, Sam had seen the Voyers to be a close knit, caring family. They were devoted to each other. The idea that one of them should want Mimi dead, and in such a horrific and long-suffering way, was too awful to consider. The only possible motive he could entertain, and that only by an extreme stretch of the imagination, was that her loving parents somehow thought she had suffered too long and wanted to spare her more. Yet if that were the case, they would find something quick acting, not prolong and exacerbate her agonies with arsenic. The more he thought about it, the more it gave Sam a headache. He was going round in circles, and coming up empty.

Once the meal was finished, Sam suggested that Mimi take it easy in bed, while he went down to wash the dishes, but she told him firmly that she wasn’t in the habit of letting a little sickness hold her back, and she wasn’t about to start now.

Sam was amazed and impressed by her resilience. Life had dealt her a tough hand, but she was determined to make the best of it, and her positive mental attitude was inspirational.

Together, the two sisters gathered the crockery from their own and their parents’ rooms, and descended the stairs to begin the task of cleaning up.

They chatted amiably as they worked, and Sam had just started to relax when he felt a twinge of stomach ache. He instinctively looked over to Mimi just as she doubled over, clutching her midriff and puffing out her cheeks.

With a hasty, “Sorry, no offense,” she ran from the room, and following behind her, Sam heard that she only just made it to the bathroom in time.

As with the night before, Sam went in and soothed her, and cleaned her up between bouts of vomiting. His brow furrowed. Though he could feel the odd ‘echo’ of her extreme discomfort, he managed to relegate it to the depths of his subconscious. They were echoes, nothing more. His own system showed no signs of having been poisoned. Yet Mimi was clearly displaying fresh symptoms of renewed poisoning. How had it gotten into her since last night? He’d been watching her the whole time. Well, apart from when he fixed breakfast. It didn’t make any sense.

After a while, Xin Qian called out enquiring if Mimi needed anything, but she reassured her mother that Ella was taking good care of her.

Finally, Sam once more led an exhausted Mireille back to her bed, insisting that she rest and take it easy. Mimi’s protest was half-hearted and short-lived.

“I am kinda tired,” she confessed as Sam tucked her in. “All this sickness really takes it out of you!” she laughed dryly at her own wit, and Sam smiled at her, trying to hide his concern. If he didn’t come up with some answers soon, Mimi had only four days to live.

“Maybe I oughta take some more medicine,” Mimi suggested, reaching for the bottle of Shark-Liver oil. “Doc said I could as much as double the dose. I’ve been taking a bit extra, but it hasn’t helped any, probably cos I ain’t bin keeping it down.”

Sam’s first instinct was to pour a spoonful of the elixir for the patient, but as he moved to help her, it was as though a light bulb switched on in his brain and an alarm bell rang.

“Have you had any yet today?” he asked innocently.

“Yeah, when I first woke up, like always.” Mireille stretched further toward her prize, wincing as she did so, and flexing her fingers, “Darned pins and needles,” she muttered.

Sam lunged for the bottle, knocking it from her hand, so that it fell to the floor and shattered into dozens of pieces, spilling the oil on the carpet.

“Now look what you’ve done,” snapped Mireille, “I could’ve managed.” She looked on the verge of tears again, and Sam couldn’t blame her. Nor did he take offence at her short-tempered outburst. He knew it was borne of irritation caused by the poisoning.

“I’d best get it cleaned up before Momma sees it,” suggested Sam, “Sorry, Mimi.” He tried to make it seem a clumsy accident, keeping his suspicions to himself.

“It’s okay. I know you were only trying to help. It’s just that I don’t have any more. That was my last bottle.”

‘Good,’ thought Sam. Aloud he said, “I’ll go to the pharmacy and get you some more, as soon as I’ve cleaned up here.”

“Thanks, sis. I’m sorry to be a pain, and…”

Sam forestalled her apology, by leaning forward and kissing her forehead. “I’d do anything for you, you only have to ask.” He told her, and wasn’t sure how much of what he said came from Marvella, and how much from himself.

The carpet took more scrubbing than he thought, and it was mid-morning before he made it to the pharmacy, where a young man called Mallory served him, and asked after Mireille, and seemed to take a great interest in her welfare.

When he took the fresh bottle of Shark-Liver Oil up to her, Sam felt he was ‘prodded’ by Marvella’s influence to tease Mimi about the boy, saying that she had a not so secret admirer. At first she took it good naturedly, but when Sam revealed the identity of her would-be beau, she looked shocked.

“Oh come on now, Ella, he’s the last boy to want anything to do with me, you know that. He’s made it clear he’ll never leave Heloise. She’s lucky to have a boy who’ll stand by her like that, after what happened…” she trailed off, turning her head away from Sam as if in apology for raising a topic that was banned. Though the alarm bells were ringing louder than ever-in Sam’s brain, he dare not question Mimi on what she had just said. Ella was obviously supposed to know the details of this romantic history, and anything he could ask would sound too out of character. His mind began working overtime again – he imagined a love triangle, Mallory and Mimi involved and Heloise finding out. Maybe, despite being the ultimate victor in the love stakes, whatever happened was enough for this Heloise to want to make Mimi suffer for it. Hell hath no fury and all that.

Sam began wishing he’d sent someone else to talk to the latter day Marvella. He wanted answers to an increasing number of questions, and he wanted them quickly. He wasn’t sure how long Al would need to be away to accomplish his mission, nor if the Project would send a substitute to make contact as they had once or twice before. Knowing it was a drain on power, it was unlikely they would bother unless they thought it important – and they couldn’t possibly know how badly he wanted to reference Ziggy’s vast repository of knowledge. He just hoped that Ziggy’s meticulous attention to detail would lead her to extract the relevant facts from Marvella in the Waiting Room, and recognize their significance once established.

In the meantime, Sam kept himself busy running errands and doing chores, and keeping an eye on Mimi, who rose after lunch, and offered to help, but Sam pulled double duty to make sure she sat and rested, suggesting she read a little.

By dinnertime, she seemed quite perky, and Sam dared to hope that the worst was over for her. She even asked if they could attend the Saturday parade together, but their mother thought it unwise, as did Sam, who despite Mimi’s protests that Ella should at least have some fun, refused to go without her, assuring them all that he was content to stay home. Though she had submitted to her parents’ will and her sister’s worry gracefully, Mimi continued to attest that she was feeling much better, and so Sam was more than shocked when an hour or so later, she was back in the bathroom, and he was suppressing echoes of extreme stomach ache.

Could he have been wrong about the Shark-Liver oil being the source of the poison?

Sam didn’t think so. It was the only thing that Mimi took exclusively, and since he’d been there, each relapse had followed a dose of medication. Yet he had secured a fresh supply himself. Nobody but the boy at the pharmacy and himself had handled it before Mimi, and her personality certainly didn’t suggest that she was into self-harm. Nor was she a likely candidate for something like Munchausen’s syndrome; heaven knew she had enough real problems without needing to fabricate more.

The only logical conclusion he could come to was that somehow the whole batch of Shark-Liver Oil bottles had been accidentally or deliberately contaminated. But still that didn’t make sense, for surely Mimi would not be the only person to purchase it? Doc Coignac had been swift to denounce the idea of an epidemic, and mentioned no one else with similar symptoms to ‘Mireille’s current malady’.

The more he thought about it, the more it made Sam’s head spin. He had to be overlooking something obvious. The answer had to be staring him in the face, so why could he not see it? Watching Mimi suffer, and feeling even the echoes of her pain, knowing what she was going through was tearing him apart. He was here to prevent this, and so far he’d made a mess of it, literally. Frustration boiled within him, giving him yet another sleepless night.

At the end of what returned to being a pleasant meal, Marvella gave Al the signature he needed, along with the name of a good hotel where he could spend the night. Though anxious to get back to Sam, there was no way in the world he was going to stand in Cypress Grove cemetery in the pitch dark watching them open up Mireille’s mausoleum. He may have had many heroes whom he aspired to emulate, but Burke and Hare didn’t feature anywhere in the line-up. In Al’s book few things were creepier and harder to find a justification for than sneaking around in the night, disinterring the deceased. Even the friendly statue of a stag near the gateway, looking for all the world like Harry Potter’s patronus, was not enough to reassure him.

Having insisted on escorting Miss Voyer home, and then booking into his hotel room, Al called in to headquarters, giving a progress report, and asking if there were any news from Sam’s end. A short but passionate private conversation with Beth rounded off the communication, and he settled down for the night, asking the receptionist to book him an early wake up call in the morning.

Thus it was that as soon as the relevant authorities reported for work the next day, they found a determined ex-Admiral on their doorstep, with an exhumation order, and soon had workmen on site removing Mireille Voyer from her eternal resting place. A hired hearse followed Al’s hire car back to the airport, and she was loaded onto Harry’s plane for her journey to Destiny. All this was conducted under the watchful eye of her twin, Marvella, who despite Al’s protest that she had no need to subject herself to the distress, and his assurance that he would see Mireille was handled respectfully, insisted on seeing for herself that things were “done right”. She had to lean on Al for support, and her eyes misted over as the coffin was loaded into the hearse, but on the whole, she bore up bravely.

Al wasn’t sure how he could deter her from trying to return to PQL with him to oversee the actual autopsy, and was surprised when she didn’t challenge the fact that it wasn’t to be performed locally, but she made it clear that she trusted him, and his ‘doctor friend’, and simply made him promise to visit with her again when her sister was returned to her, and to let her know how things turned out.

Outwardly, Al assured her he would, though privately, he hoped that if things worked out, he wouldn’t have to return a corpse at all, but a living breathing sister, if not to the current Marvella, at least for a good few years more than in the original history.

As he readied himself to depart, Marvella took him by the hand.

“Don’t be a stranger now, dawlin’ y’hear?” she instructed, “If ya ever find yersel’ in this neck of the woods, ya look me up now.”

With extreme gallantry, Al bent forward and kissed the liver-spotted knuckles.

“You have my word, on that, Miss Marvella. I can’t wait to find an excuse to taste that Southwest chicken again!” He winked at her, letting her know that her company, as much as the food, would draw him back again. Even though he knew in his heart that if they got their way she wouldn’t remember him, the thought of extending his acquaintanceship with this dear old lady gave him cause to smile to himself.

On the return journey, Harry’s jovial banter helped Al to forget he had a coffin in the cargo hold for company. Upon landing, he was abruptly reminded, as staff rushed out to remove the precious package, and wheel it inside.

Al walked alongside, his back ramrod straight, forming his own private honor guard to the fallen, in obedience to his promise to Marvella that her sister should be treated with respect. At the door to the examination room, he handed her over to his wife, who was standing waiting ready to assist Aurora.

Ziggy’s careless pronouncement came back to Al, and he wondered if Aurora knew herself of her condition, as it was still early days. He decided to say nothing, but to wait until she and Dom decided to make the announcement officially. He would act surprised with the best of them. The thought then struck him to wonder if her fetus could be endangered by the lingering traces of the substance for which they would be searching. He had no idea what prompted the thought, but once there, it nagged at him, so that he could not let it rest.

“Beth?”

“Yes honey?”

“It isn’t dangerous, is it, this examination? You aren’t erm gonna to get arsenic poisoning from the uh…”

“Don’t be silly, Al, I’ll be fine.” She kissed him on the cheek and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Now let us get the job done.”

Relieved for his wife, the concern for Aurora still niggled; unborn babies were more susceptible than adults to harmful influences.

Trying to be as discreet as possible, he withdrew some distance from the ladies before he asked in a whisper:  “Ziggy? Do you remember telling Sam and me something earlier?”

“I remember telling you many things, Admiral, on innumerable previous occasions, including that your grammar could be improved. I remember every word I have ever said to you and you to me, although there are countless of those that my memory banks would prefer not to access. You need to be more specific if you wish me to elucidate on a particular fact.”

‘Oh great,’ thought Al, ‘she’s well and truly in Prima Donna mode.’

“Concerning Doctor Lofton, Zig, her uh…”

“What about it, Admiral?”

“Does she know?”

“Not with as much certainty as I do,” pronounced the computer smugly.

“Is the uh, ‘newcomer’, is there any risk?”

“Why, Admiral!” Ziggy sounded surprised, “I did not realize that you cared!”

“Just answer the question, you snide silicon diva.” Al’s whisper was escalating to a clenched jawed growl, though the ladies he was so anxious to prevent hearing him had already entered the examination room to commence their distasteful duty.

“It is unlikely, but possible. The odds of a birth defect, or premature termination…”

“Never mind the details. If there’s even a slight risk, shouldn’t we warn her?”

“I would be saddened if something untoward were to occur,” agreed Ziggy. “I was going to ask the Doctor and the Professor if they would consider making me the child’s godmother.”

Despite the gravity of the situation that had prompted the conversation, Al spluttered with laughter at that idea.

“You?” he intoned, incredulously, “What the hell makes you think you could be a godmother?”

Rather than answer him, Ziggy settled for throwing back at him:  “Oh and I suppose you think you should be godfather, simply by virtue of the fact that you are of Italian extraction!”

Al could feel his blood pressure rising, but he bit back the caustic comment his brain was composing, and settled for:

“It won’t matter if the little tike doesn’t make it. How do we get Aurora out of there without panicking her? Should I tell Beth?”

“Only if we can find no other way, Admiral. I am sure Dr. Lofton would not want this information to become common knowledge, particularly before she has had a chance to tell the Professor.”

“Right,” Al agreed. “So what do we do? We need to get her out of there and the sooner the better. Can you tell her there’s a phone call for her?”

“She would simply ask me to take a number so that she could return the call later. Dr. Lofton is very conscientious.” There was admiration in Ziggy’s mechanical tone.

“Yeah, right.” Without realizing it, Al had begun pacing.

“What if you told her there was a medical emergency? Somebody hurt out here…”

“There are other staff members who could attend, Admiral. You are not thinking logically.”

“What if it was Dom? If you said Dom was hurt she’d come. Beth would come out for me!”

“I understood the idea was to avoid causing Dr Lofton panic, not to create a situation that will alarm her…”

“Of course, silly idea…” Al was rubbing his forehead, getting more and more frustrated. He suddenly rounded on Ziggy:  “I don’t hear you coming up with any better suggestions. You’re supposed to be the repository of all that there is to know. What brainwave can you come up with? Huh?” he challenged.

“Well, Admiral, my suggestion would be…”

Al never got to hear what the supercomputer’s brilliant suggestion would have been, for at that very moment, the lady in question exited the examination room of her own volition, rapidly and with her hand covering her mouth. She looked decidedly green around the gills.

Without a word, she pushed past Al, almost knocking him over, and burst through the swing door to the ladies rest room down the corridor with such vehemence that she almost knocked it from its hinges.

Beth peered out after her, and surprised at seeing Al still there, remarked, “I thought she was made of sterner stuff. One look inside the coffin and she went all first year med student on me! Look after her for me would you, hon? Tell her I can manage by myself.” Then she ducked back inside.

“Result!” Al punched the air, and then looked toward where the door had barely stopped swaying, observing in unison with Ziggy, “Morning sickness!”

It was the first time in recorded history that the pair had been in such complete agreement about anything.

Sunday morning found Sam staring at the bottle of Shark liver oil on Mimi’s nightstand. Despite all evidence and logic to the contrary, Sam could find no other cause of contamination, and so kept coming back to the conclusion that the substance had to be the source of the poisoning. It made no sense; he’d bought a new bottle, it had to be pure, surely. He began to doubt his whole diagnosis, and wished Al would return and tell him one way or another, what he was looking for. If he was mistaken, and something else was responsible for Mimi’s demise, he needed to know so that he could start working on another way to save her.

Right now she was sleeping peacefully, which was more than he had done all night, but soon she would wake, and reach for her medicine.

Sam didn’t know if he should allow her to take it, and if not, how he could prevent her. There was no way she would fall for another ‘clumsy accident’, and besides, the carpet couldn’t take another soaking.

He was getting desperate for answers, to the point where his hand hesitantly reached toward the bottle. If it contained the poison, even one dose should be enough to give him cramps and make him sick. Not very sick, nowhere near as bad as Mimi, but enough to know it wasn’t phantom pains. If he experienced no symptoms, he’d know it was safe to let her take her medicine. If on the other hand, he found himself doubled over, and dashing for the bathroom, he’d have enough proof to know that somehow he’d have to stop her from touching the stuff.

Sam swallowed, and tried to stop his hand from shaking, a look of determination etching itself on his face. He really wasn’t looking forward to this, especially since he’d have given higher odds than Ziggy had ever quoted him that he was about to voluntarily make himself ill. 

Steeling himself, he snatched the bottle up by the neck, and removed the lid. For a few moments he just stared at it, then he moved it toward his mouth. When it was almost there, he caught a whiff of the awful fishy aroma of the medication, and that in itself was enough to make him pause. Just the smell was making him feel nauseas. He lowered the bottle, and was about to return the stopper when Mimi moaned softly in her sleep, reminding him what was at stake. With renewed resolve, Sam pinched his nose, and raised the bottle to his lips…           

TO BE CONTINUED