Date: Tue, 19 Jan 93 10:46:31 CST From: Ingrid de Beus To: ql-archive@cisco.com Subject: Enemies: part two Message-Id: _Enemies_ by Ingrid de Beus (c)1993 Ingrid de Beus Part Two: Sam's head aches. Touching his hand gingerly to his forehead, he goes back into the kitchen and opens the freezer compartment of his host's refridgerator, hoping for some ice. He breaks open an ice-tray and gathers a few cubes onto a clean dishtowel from a drawer. Holding the package to the lump on his head, Sam sighs and rolls his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tension in his back. Slowly, he walks back into the living room. "Oh, nice job, Dr. Beckett, " Sam mutters dispiritedly to himself, pacing aimlessly around the room. "I'm sure Al loved being compared to a child-molester. He's thrilled to know your opinion of him. He can't wait to see you again." Sam stops walking in circles, and considers. "I can't let the idea of Al not wanting to come back get to me too badly, " he thinks. "So, what'll it be? Do I find the bedroom, get some rest, and wait for Al to come back with some more information? How often in all my leaping around has that worked? How the heck would if I know if it ever had?" Determined to fill his mind with an objective, Sam crosses the living room and starts trying the doors in the tiny corridor, looking for the bedroom. "Closets, closets, " he mutters, encountering only boxes and suitcases. The next door is the bathroom, before which Sam hesitates, and then steps inside, and hits the lights. The face in the mirror is the same as that in the kitchen. The eyes are still bloodshot, but at least it's Sam's own worried expression that creases the forehead beneath the ice-pack and draws lines around the mouth. Sam flips the light switch again, and has his hand on the bedroom doorknob when the phone rings, making him wince and clamp firmly down on his make-shift ice-pack. Hurriedly he crosses the room and picks up the receiver before it can kill him. "Hello?" So much for waiting for Al, a small voice in the back of his head pipes sarcastically. "Gerry?! " a slightly accented female voice comes barreling into Sam's head. He moves the receiver a inch or so away from his head, wishing for a soft pillow and a few decades' sleep. "Yes?" he responds in a slightly hushed voice, hoping that the caller will take the hint. The response is, thankfully, more normally pitched. "Gerry, thank goodness. What time is your train arriving this evening? " Sam recognizes the signs of panic in his limbs, and takes a deep breath to allay them. He grips the receiver tightly, as though to steal some of its metal stolidity for his own salvation. "I don't know, " he says. There is a pause on the other end of the line. Sam shuts his eyes, brief images of catastrophe flying through his head, all accompanied by shards of pain. "You don't know. Perhaps you have forgotten your mother's birthday, hm? Perhaps it means nothing to you that your mother is wasting away in a big house with no children in it, while you play in the city all day.." The voice deepens and becomes enriched with unspoken tears and heavy overtones. Despite the potential for imminent disaster, Sam feels a little relieved. A maternal guilt-trip was something he could withstand, at least for the time being. "Well, " winds up the voice, sounding hurt and pouty, "you could take the 6:30 train, and I could meet you at the station." Sam, his head pounding, nearly agrees by reflex. "No, uh, wait, " he sputters, trying to think of an excuse. No reason could possibly fly at this point. "What station? " he asks, finally, somewhat feebly. "Westport, of course. Did you think I moved? " Gerald's mother sounds willing and able to start another speech, and Sam hurries to end the conversation. "Of course, Westport. Ha, just a little joke, uh, Mom." A cold tricklet of water from the melting ice rolls down Sam's back, making him twitch. "Gotta go, Mom, bye, " he says quickly, and hangs up. He exhales fully, sucking back just enough through his nose to keep himself from getting light-headed. Still holding the ice-pack to his head, Sam heads once more for the bedroom, his mind now occupied with the crisis at hand, hoping to find a change of clothes, and maybe an address book. After some wrong turns and two sets of directions, Sam finds the train station and catches the 6:30 train towards Westport. He's managed to enjoy a shower, so he's feeling more human as he finds a seat. It's a commuter train, but there are only a few people in the car with him. "Not a lot of people for a commuter train," Al echoes Sam's thoughts as he pops in at Sam's elbow. Sam deliberately unclenches his startled hands from the vinyl seat covers and looks at Al. "They're probably all commuting in the other direction. It's.. it's good to see you, Al, " he says, and means it. The observer looks up and down the aisle, attempting to not meet Sam's eyes as casually as possible. "Yeah, well.." he says, dismissively. Sam clears his throat. "Al, about what I said earlier.. I didn't mean it." The green of Al's suit clashes abominably with the yellowish seat covers, but Sam ignores it. Al gestures vaguely in reply, and pulls out the handlink with Ziggy. Sam puts out his hand, and then draws it back before it can pass through Al's arm. "Al, " he insists. Al glances warily at Sam. "It was unthinking of me, " Sam continues, low-voiced, "I'm sorry. " Al's face is briefly blessed with a youthful grin. "I know, Sam. " he says, gruffly. In a clearer voice, he continues, "Well, Ziggy isn't making a whole lot of sense on this one, I'm afraid, Sam. " Sam nestles back uncomfortably in his seat, used to, if not pleased with, this sort of news. "What have you got, Al?" he asks, smiling at Al's efforts to bend the handlink to his will. "You're on your way to Gerald's mother Vera's birthday party -- I hope you brought a change of clothes, Sam, 'cause it's supposed to last all weekend. Gerald's mother is turning 50 years old, and she's invited a lot of people to her house for a party on Saturday. You're going down early, partly to make up for the fact that the younger son isn't going to attend the party, and partly because Mrs. Funddiker insisted, I think. You forgot her flowers." "Flowers?" asks Sam, confused. "Yeah. There are records of regular credit card purchases by Gerald at florists in his neighborhood, every Christmas and every July. It's probably the only present he gives her. " Al tries to sound casual, but he can't quite hide an element of urgency in his tone. Everything that Sam does on a leap is important, especially the details. "What kind of flowers?" asks Sam. Al glances at the handlink. "Doesn't say. But he ordered gardenias for her, ah, funeral, which isn't for a while, incidentally. " Sam grimaces slightly, and Al shrugs apologetically. "Oh, I nearly forgot. The guest list to this party includes a lot of Gerald's colleagues from work, but not a lot of his friends, judging from what records Ziggy has been unearthing. So, keep on your toes, buddy. " Sam nods, but Al hesitates to continue. "Al, why am I here?" "Well, ah, that's the tough part." "Isn't it always, " Sam says, with a touch of sarcasm. Al hits a few buttons on the handlink, which squeaks in protest. "Yeah, there's no answer from any of the preliminary scenarios we've run through Ziggy, and background checks on all of Gerald's immediate family haven't turned up anything, either. My initial impression, in case you're interested, is turning out to be right. There's nothing interesting about this guy's life, or any of the lives he comes in contact with. " "What do you mean, haven't turned up anything?" "I mean, there are no imminent crises in the lives of Gerald or his immediate family, or apparently in any of his friend's lives," Al insists. "But I always leap in at the start of some horrendous problem, Al. " Sam considers for a moment. "What about his boss?" Al slaps the handlink. It squawks disconsolately. He shrugs. "Nothing. Your boss is David Benton, vice-president in charge of civil plannings division.. huh, he gets audited in another eight years, but that's not why you're here. I'm sorry, Sam." "That's ok, Al. " Sam smiles briefly, and a little bitterly. "You know, at any other time I'd be ecstatic at the chance of a vacation from emergencies. " "But?" asks Al regretfully, knowing the answer. "But I can't help thinking, no matter how I occupy my mind, of a bruised, terrified, furious little face. This man's life is not a rest cure, Al." Al looks down at his friend, and glances at the handlink. Sliding it into his pocket, he addresses himself directly to Sam, fiddling only slightly with his cigar. "I've done a little research," pronounces the observer, "and the only ten-year old girl that Gerald could reasonably be in regular contact with is Danielle Layton, daughter of Arthur Layton, who's in the same general department as Gerald. " Al pauses as Sam turns towards him. "Regular contact? what do you mean by that?" Sam asks quickly. "Well, I thought I'd ask Dr. Beeks about this leap, " continues Al. "I mean, she is a psychiatrist, and all. She told me that child molestation usually occurs between.. persons who are acquainted with each other. " "Acquainted.." murmers Sam. Al looks at him with concern. "She didn't seem like a stranger to the apartment." Sam looks up at Al. "Layton is an engineer, Mrs. Layton is a housewife, and Danielle is an only child. " Al continues, by way of completion, and brings up his cigar, and inhales deeply, waiting for Sam's next, inevitable question. "And what did you find out when you ran her name past Ziggy?" Sam asks, anxiety creeping into his tone. Al quickly pulls out the handlink again, his frustration evident in the force he inflicts on the controls. "Nothing, Ziggy can find no connection other then the working relationship between your fathers -- Gerald and her fathers'." Al amends his statement quickly. Sam slumps, a posture which Al unconsciously echoes. "Couldn't it be Danielle that I'm here to help?" Sam asks, trying to hold onto this brightening thought. The handlink is again consulted, with noisy results. "All Ziggy says is that she grows up, gets married, has a couple of kids, a job as a secretary in a Chicago insurance company, no apparent worries, no tragedies in her life." Al lets his hands fall to his side, and rocks forward on his toes just a little. "There isn't even any record, as far as we can determine, of any abuse in her life." Considering this, Sam straightens in his seat. The train begins to slow in anticipation of a station platform. "Ok, Al. You go back and talk to Dr. Beeks some more, and get Ziggy to concentrate on this weekend. Maybe the fact that the abuse doesn't show up anywhere in Danielle's history is a clue, in itself. Maybe she buried it so deeply that she never told anyone." Sam eyes narrow slightly, and he seems to gaze at some far-off point which exists for him, alone. Al looks more closely at Sam, a familiar anxious feeling beginning to work its way into his gut. "Sam?" he asks warningly. Sam looks at him quickly, and smiles. "Don't worry, Al. I'll go to the party, and I won't jeopardize any of Gerald's business relations, no matter how much I feel like messing up his life for him." Al relaxes just a little at Sam's reassurances. "Ok, " he accedes, "just you remember that you can't do anything radically out of character, or you'll jeopardize your chances of getting out of this nozzle's existence. " Sam smiles again, briefly, at his friend's turn of phrase. Al taps the handlink once more, summoning the Imaging Chamber door. The train pulls to a stop. "It's your stop, Sam, " he says, as the door closes on him. Sam scrambles to his feet, and heads for the door. He's barely five paces down the platform when he's hailed by a gracefull older woman in a long wool coat. "Gerry! " she cries, waving a manicured hand, "are you playing games with me? " Sam turns and walks towards her, remembering only now that he agreed to be picked up at the station. This must be Vera Funddiker. As he approaches, the woman bounds forward with an energy belying her age and grasps his arm. "It's been so long since you saw me last, you silly boy, I'm so glad to see you. " The words seem to billow out of her mouth. Gerald's mother wears a strong perfume, as Sam finds out after being clung to for the rest of the way to the car. "Surely not that long?" he asks, a little hesitantly. Best to say as little as possible. Mrs. Funddiker flounces and pouts a little. She reminds Sam, absurdedly, of an over-petted peckinese. She plucks at his sleeve, and belatedly Sam realizes that his attention has been wandering. "I said, do you mind terribly?" says Mrs. Funddiker, fixing Sam with an inquisitive stare that Sam finds rather harsh, despite its friendly overtones. Gerald's mother is beginning to grate on him. "I'm sorry, do I mind what?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sound too distant. The answer waits until both he and Gerald's mother are to the car; Mrs. Funddiker automatically assumes the driver's seat. "I was just saying that with the extra guests, the house will be very full tomorrow, and you might have to give up your bedroom to a couple. " "No, no, I don't mind. " Silence briefly reigns in the car as Mrs. Funddiker guides it out of the parking lot and onto rain-soaked and tree-lined streets. Soon she's talking again, going over all the plans she had made for her party, but Sam barely hears her, because the view outside his car window is capturing his attention. Sam looks around him with startled pleasure. It had been a long time, he realizes, since he's seen this many trees. The road seems to swoop and dive among them like a swallow's flight, and Sam finds himself wishing he could walk a while, in this little New England town. There's a light threat of more rain in the air; the condensation makes the woods on both sides of the road a little more vague, and a little more tempting to explorers. Sam feels an old and familiar ache in his chest, and the car seems a trap to him. He should be out, exploring and discovering to the best of his abilities! Sam smiles to himself at his thoughts. He is bound for this business, this leaping about in time. "-- and you can keep Danielle company; I know you two get along so well." Sam's pleasant thoughts grind to a singularly chilling halt. "Danielle? " he asks, his voice a whisper. "Yes, of course, she's coming with her father. Weren't you listening?" "Yes.. no.. uh.." Sam is saved from further comment as the car suddenly turns down a smaller road, which turns into a driveway in front of a large colonial-style house. Mrs. Funddiker is out of the car with a bound. Sam follows more slowly. He looks up at the dark grey sky. It rumbles with distant disquiet, and Sam cannot help but agree. To be continued...