From: nakazawa@phakt.usc.edu (Rei Nakazawa)
Newsgroups: alt.ql.creative
Subject: "He Is Risen" Part 2
Date: 22 Apr 1994 23:42:26 -0700
Organization: University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA
Message-Id: <2pag0i$t0l@phakt.usc.edu>

Thanks to all who took the time to respond; hope Part 2
doesn't disappoint!  At any rate, for those who missed the
last part: my standard opening remarks:

I welcome any and all comments/constructive criticism; that's
what I'm here for, after all.  If I get enough thumbs-up, I'll
be posting other stories, though I'll leave a decent break...
I'll be going home May 7 or so, but I'll try to keep up via
modem every once in a while.  As for me, I hope to be doing
this for quite a while.  I'll keep on doin' this as long as
others are and/or as long as the readership is out there...
As I said before, if Star Trek can last so long, why now this
newsgroup?

And now, without further blabbing, part 2...

	Sam didn't feel much better the next morning.  The day 
was as overcast and cold as the previous night, though it had 
stopped raining.  Sam sat up in bed.  He picked up the alarm 
clock next to him.  Ten thirty-six.  The space next to him was 
empty, and he could smell and hear bacon frying downstairs.  He 
rolled out of bed and sleepily put on a long sleeved shirt and tan 
slacks.  As he shuffled down the stairs, the sound of frying 
stopped.  All the lights in the house were on.  He found Stacey, 
still in her pajamas, an apron over them, at the stove, tipping 
several strips of bacon onto a plate.  Sam watched her silently 
walk to the dining room table and place the plate there, along 
with a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and a pitcher of juice.  
The spread made Sam's mouth water, but he found his eyes being 
drawn to the dark, puffy eyes of Stacey.
	Sam sat down, Stacey silently mimicking.  He reached for 
the scrambled eggs and spooned some on his plate as "his" wife 
forked pancakes onto hers.  Sam got himself a couple of strips of 
bacon and a cup of coffee and ate in silence.  The only sound was 
the slurping of Stacey's juice as she drank.  Sam's nerves began to 
reach a breaking point.
	"Where's, uh, Jenny?" he finally asked.
	"This is Thursday, remember?  She's at school.  I thought 
getting away would do her some good, get things back to normal 
as soon as possible.  You think you could pick her up this 
afternoon?"
	"Sure."  He half heartedly chewed on some bacon as more 
silence followed.  _I've been hearing a lot of that on this Leap,_ he 
thought.
	"Who is he?" Sam asked.
	Stacey dropped her forkful of food in shock.  "W-what?"
	"Who were you seeing?"  Stacey stood up, mute, then 
turned away sobbing, as the window in front of her darkened, 
and a few dead leaves drifted by in the wind.  Sam got up and 
stood behind her, gently placing his hands on her shoulders.  
"Please, tell me.  You thought I was dead.  I understand!  
Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault.  Just tell me.  I have to 
know."
	Stacey stood at the window, her quiet sobbing the only 
sound.  "I slept with him!" she blurted.  "I slept with him, Jake!  Is 
that what you wanted to hear?"  
	"Dr. Brewster?" Sam asked.
	She nodded dumbly.  "How did you know?"
	"Little things."  Sam sucked in a deep breath.  "Stacey, I 
understand.  Really.  You don't have to go on like this."
	"No, you don't understand!" she shrieked, wrenching away 
from Sam's grasp.  "I love Ray, Jake!"  Sam recoiled, stunned.  
"Ray wanted me to tell you that I'd be leaving you.  I-I couldn't 
tell you, but I haven't gotten anything out of this marriage for 
years, Jake.  I just couldn't tell you with what you've been 
through."  She sniffled as Sam stared.  "I have to go," she said 
flatly, running up the stairs.
	Sam watched her go with sinking heart.  "Oh boy."
	
	Sam squinted as he slowly drove his car through the streets 
of Serene.  The weather was anything but serene; rain was still 
coming down in buckets.  Yet several cars passed by as he 
struggled to see the main street through the curtain of rain that 
stained his windshield.  It was almost night.  Next to no light 
penetrated the blanket of dark clouds that hovered over the town 
and refused to go away.
	Sam was fairly sure he could find the mill.  After all, this 
was a small town, so finding the mill should've been easy.  But as 
Sam could barely make out the road in front of him, he wondered 
if it was a good idea going to the mill at all.  He had a feeling that 
part of his problems lay at the mill.  Whatever urgent matter Jake 
was planning to talk to his partner about before he "died," there 
was a very good chance it had something to do with those 
mysterious debits he'd noticed in the books.
	Sam came to a halt in front of a small store, "Huggins's 
Goods," to be exact.  Maybe he could ask directions here.  
Discreetly, however; it would seem unusual for a long time 
resident and pillar of the community not to know his way to his 
own business.
	The store reminded Sam of the old fashioned general store: 
several small shelves filled with goods, a candy counter, barrels 
everywhere, and a warm homey feeling.  A few customers were 
wandering about, and a white haired old man was behind the 
counter, chatting happily with a middle aged housewife.
	A bell above the door jingled merrily as Sam entered.  At 
this noise, the people in the store looked up, and froze.  It was as 
if the entire scene had been captured on film: the customers stared 
at him with wide eyes, the old man's form seemed to shrink in an 
instant, and the housewife's made up face paled.
	"M-Mr. Andrews," the housewife greeted.  She turned 
quickly to the old man.  "Thank you for your help, Mr. Huggins," 
she said quickly.  Staring at Sam all the while, she hurried out of 
the room with a pace just short of a run.  As Sam turned toward 
the counter, he saw out of the corner of his eye the other 
customers quietly make a beeline for the exit.
	"Mr. Huggins," Sam greeted carefully, as if trying to calm a 
rabid dog.
	"Good to see you up and on your feet, Mr. Andrews," 
Huggins said slowly.  He bent over very slightly, then 
straightened up again.  "What can I do for you?"
	_He seems to be taking this calmly,_ Sam thought.  _Could 
he be the only one in this town taking this well?_  "Well, you 
know that I've been out for a month now.  Mr. Owens and I were 
planning to move our home office to make us more accessible.  
Do you know if Mr. Owens went on ahead with our plans?"
	"Well, that's a right good idea, Mr. Andrews.  Be nice if we 
didn't have to leave town and go all the way down the old 
McInerny farm road to the mill to see you.  Nope, I think he's still 
keeping the offices up at the mill."
	"Thanks."  Sam began to turn to go, but a tiny glint of light 
behind the counter caught his eye.  It was then he notice that Mr. 
Huggins was clutching a small, highly polished wooden crucifix 
behind the counter with a death grip.  Fortunately, he didn't seem 
to notice Sam notice.  Sam merely smiled and left the store.

	Sam was not far out of town when an old friend popped 
up inside his car.  "Al!  Where the hell have you been?"	
	"Sorry, Sam, but we're having a helluva time trying to get 
anything useful out of this Andrews guy.  I mean, he can hardly 
remember anything, and with his Swiss-cheese memory added 
on..."
	"I get the picture."
	"Say, where are you going?"
	"To my... Jake's factory.  I'm going to talk to his partner."
	Al went back to work.  "Right, Dexter Owens.  According 
to Ziggy, before he was your partner, he ran this travel agency in 
New York.  Some clients sued him for breach of contract.  It never 
went through, but it was enough to put him out of business."  Al 
raised an eyebrow.  "Wait, here's something.  In the original 
history, your... Jake's wife, Stacey, disappears in a couple of days.  
No one ever sees or hears from her again."  Al suddenly went 
quiet.  "According to this, Jenny becomes an orphan after that.  
Goes from foster home to foster home.  Ends up being a waitress 
at a truck stop."
	"That's terrible..."  Sam dared to look over at his friend's 
face. "What?  Is there something more?"
	"You don't get it, do you Sam?"  Both men were silent.  "If 
Jenny becomes an orphan, that means that Jake isn't around in a 
couple of days, either."
	It took Sam a second to find his tongue again.  "But you 
can't find the death certificate to confirm this?"
	"Not yet.  WeUll have it in a little while." Al drew a smoke-
filled breath from his cigar.  "Look, Sam, maybe you'd better take 
it slow right now.  We still don't know how Andrews dies..."
	"Then maybe you'd better find out," Sam snapped, his 
previous talk with Stacey still fresh on his mind. "And figure out 
what happens to Stacey."
	Al cocked an eyebrow, but thought better of saying 
something.  "Right, Sam."  He vanished immediately.
	It didn't take long to find the old farm road, but after ten 
minutes of driving down the unpaved road in the storm, Sam was 
afraid that he would get stuck before he reached the mill.  
Fortunately, he could see ahead of him the outline of several 
smokestacks against the night sky, which even now were pouring 
clouds of smoke out, which seemed to bond with the real clouds 
still soaking the ground below.  The sign hanging over the door 
was lit by several lamps: Andrews & Owens Food Processing.  
Apparently no one bothered to change the sign.  Sam drove up as 
close as he could to the mill's roof overhang and jumped out.  He 
held his hat tight to his head as he dashed into the service 
entrance.
	He soon found himself in the middle of a bustling 
community of conveyor belts, processors, and grinding machines 
he had no idea of the function of.   Even though he entered 
silently, the announcement of Sam's presence seemed to spread 
like electricity through the mill.  Immediately all the workers 
stopped dead and turned towards Sam.  The only sound seemed 
to be the inexorably churning machines and Sam's own breathing.  
He grinned a small half grin and inched his way towards a nearby 
door marked "Office."  Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed Sam's 
movements.  He noticed one of the workmen cross himself as Sam 
passed him.  Without turning around, Sam pulled open the door 
and backed in, slamming it behind him.
	He turned to see Dexter Owens staring open mouthed at him, evidently 
startled by the unusual entrance.  Owens shook his 
head and smiled.  "Jake.  I didn't expect to see you here until 
Monday.  You had a rough day."
	"I have a feeling it's going to be even rougher."
	"I know what you mean."  Like Stacey, Owens got up and 
looked out the window behind his desk.  "It must've been tough 
getting through this weather.  Hope it doesn't rain too long."
	"That's not exactly what I mean," Sam said slowly.
	Owens turned, seemingly puzzled, yet with a gleaming 
bead of sweat dripping down his forehead.  "Then what do you 
mean?"
	Sam sucked in a breath.  He wasn't sure how to say what 
he wanted to say tactfully.  He couldn't even be sure his 
suspicions were true.  But he knew he had to ask if he wanted to 
find out what happened to Jake Andrews.  "When I came home, I 
noticed a note I'd written to myself that I forgot about.  I was 
supposed to talk with you the day after the... incident.  About 
those losses in the company?"
	Owens began to sweat even more, and his face flushed a 
little.  "I see.  We were supposed to discuss what went wrong, 
weren't we?"

	"What went wrong?" Jake Andrews considered this.  It was 
strange, but he wasn't panicked at all.  Even though he had 
woken up from what felt like a long sleep in a room with blue 
walls and wearing what felt like a sweater and facing a face he 
didn't recognize in the mirrored table in the middle of the room, 
he was calm.  The man wearing the wildly multicolored shirt 
called the place the Waiting Room.  He wasn't quite sure what to 
make of his assertion that he was 38 years in the future, but some 
of the things that had happened to him was almost as strange.  "I 
don't know, really."
	"Don't know or can't remember?" the man asked.  As the 
man paced the room, Jake's eyes followed the blinking plastic 
thing that the blinking plastic thing the man had that he 
occasionally pressed.
	"That I can't remember.  I couldn't remember that I was 
going to see Dexter until you reminded me."
	"Well, do you remember why you collapsed the way you 
did?"
	Jake stroked his beard in thought.  "I've been thinking 
about that.  I remember that I went into a coma when I was a little 
kid, even though then it was only for a couple of days.  But for a 
few hours I was dead.  At least, the doctors thought so.  That's 
why I put in my will that I be buried as is, just in case, even 
though the doctors said it would never happen again."
	"Why didn't you just tell people what was wrong?"
	"I didn't want them to feel sorry for me if it never was 
going to come back.  I think I was told that it was some disease 
they haven't named yet.  And there are a lot of stories I've read 
about people who have been declared dead, but weren't."
	Ziggy supplied a couple of these through the hand link, 
but Al ignored them.  

	"So he thinks that as he got older, whatever was causing 
the comas got more severe, which was why he was out for a 
month.  But he still couldn't think of a reason why the books were 
short," Al reported.
	Sam knew.  "There must be _something_ you can do, 
Sheriff!  Each employee of the mill has been cheated out of a total 
of a thousand dollars!"  He was unusually upset, but it was 
natural.  By the end of his talk with Owens, Sam was sure that 
Owens had been embezzling from the company.  On his way out, 
Sam was stopped by a worker, an act that must've taken a lot of 
courage.  He asked for help paying his hospital bills, run up by 
his mother, stricken with a heart condition.  His reduced 
paychecks weren't enough, and Owens had pleaded helplessness 
when asked about the pay cuts he'd instituted.  As the son of a 
man who had died of a heart attack, Sam knew the worker's 
helplessness well.  And the thought of an innocent person 
possibly dying because of Owens' greed had strained Sam to the 
breaking point.
	"I'm sorry, Jake."  Sheriff Davis sat at his desk sadly.  "I 
know how you feel, but even a warrant to search his records 
requires some evidence.  We don't even know if there is any theft 
involved.  Right now, it's his word against yours.  For all I know, 
you could've been the one embezzling."
	"You can't just sit by while innocent people are cheated!" 
Sam bellowed.
	"Sam, calm down!" Al hissed.  "There's nothing he can do!"
	"But..."  Sam sighed.  He knew the sheriff and Al were 
right.  There was simply nothing to be done.  The best thing to do 
would be to force Owens to resign, but he would still be getting 
away with several thousand dollars that rightly belonged to the 
employees.
	Sheriff Davis stood again and clapped a hand on Sam's 
shoulder.  "Look, if it'll make you feel better I'll watch Dexter for 
the next couple of days.  If he does anything remotely suspicious, 
I'll take him in and get a warrant to search his records.  Okay?"
	It wasn't perfect, but Sam knew it was better than nothing.  
"Sure.  Thanks, sheriff."

	Sam looked into the grey clouded sky outside the sheriffUs 
office, a sky much like his own mind.  Al followed him out in his 
own inimitable way, punching keys on his hand link.  "In the 
original history, Owens got the factory after Andrews died.  It 
folded about ten years later.  The whole town suffered.  Nearly 
destroyed it."
	"It is Owens, isn't it?"
	"Ziggy gives that a 81% chance.  Now, though, Owens 
disappears right after Andrews died.  The factory is bought by 
this corporation from Chicago, and everything gets back on track 
again.  Maybe you scared him away."
	"Maybe.  Has Ziggy got anything else on Stacey's 
disappearance?"
	"Nothing, though Ziggy says that there's a good chance 
that she's having an affair with..."
	"Doctor Raymond Brewster.  I know."
	"And how do you know?" Al asked, his suspicion 
growing.
	"I asked her."
	"You asked her," Al repeated.  "How did you know?"
	"It was a feeling I had," Sam responded, growing 
unreasonably irritated.
	"Right.  Now she knows that you know." Al paused.  
"Sam, have you considered that Stacey may have vanished 
because..."
	"She killed her husband?  She didn't."
	"Sam, it's something you have to consider."
	Sam turned on his friend, his eyes blazing.  "No, it isn't!  
She would never have killed him!"
	"And you know this, right?"
	"Damn right I do.  Look, if she killed Jake, why would she 
leave her daughter, whom she obviously loves, behind?"
	"I don't know, but Ziggy says that there's a 69.2% chance 
that she's the one who..."
	"Ziggy doesn't know what the hell she's talking about!"
	"All right, all right, Sam." Al backed off, sensing from the 
almost wild look in Sam's face that he was being pushed towards 
the edge.  "I'll go back and see what I can find out."  Al paused as 
the Imaging Chamber door opened up.  "Sam, I know how you 
feel.  You're facing a lot right now.  But you aren't going to do 
yourself, Jenny, or the town any good if you don't approach this 
with a clear head."
	"Thanks for the advice, Al.  Why don't you go something 
useful, like concentrating on keeping Stacey alive?"  Al opened 
his mouth to respond, but thought better of it.  He exited the 
Chamber and shut the door behind him.

	The day had been far from perfect.  _When it rains, it 
pours,_  Sam thought bitterly as he watched rain lap against his 
windshield.  One unpleasant event seemed to follow another.  
Sam realized that part of it came from his pursuit for the truth.  It 
was a dirty job, but only Sam could do it.  Which was why he 
found himself parked in front of the office of Dr. Raymond 
Brewster.
	The gum chewing receptionist was filling out a form as 
Sam entered the outer room.  She looked up in boredom as Sam 
approached her desk.
	"I'd like to talk with Dr. Brewster," he said, wiping rain off 
his face.
	"Dr. Brewster is in with a patient right now," the 
receptionist said in the stereotypical receptionist nasal tone.  
"Who may I say is asking?" She glanced behind Sam to make sure 
that no one else was waiting.
	"Jake Andrews." 
	A glint of fear flashed into her eyes, but just for an instant.  
She pressed a button on an intercom speaker.  "Mr. Andrews to 
see you, Doctor," she said with just a hint of a tremble in her 
voice.
	"Tell him I'll see him in a second," came the response, 
slightly garbled through some static.
	"Dr. Brewster says..."
	"I heard him," Sam assured her.  He lowered himself onto a 
large white couch and picked up a magazine.  It was a month old 
issue of Time.  Flipping through it, articles on the work of the 
newly formed Peace Corps, the latest box office numbers for 
_West Side Story,_ and friction over the brand new Berlin Wall 
flashed by Sam's eyes.  He could barely remember many of the 
stories, but he knew that historical knowledge, or lack of it, would 
be no help in this Leap, except maybe news from the town of 
Serene, North Dakota.
	"Jake?"  The burly form of Dr. Brewster nearly filled a 
doorway next to the receptionist's desk.  A tall woman in a fur hat 
was barely able to squeeze by on her way out as the doctor 
stepped forward with a large grin.  "I never thought you'd be out 
in this weather, especially after yesterday!"
	"Yeah, well, I've been hearing a lot of that."
	"So, what can I do for you?"
	"It's not me, Doctor.  It's Stacey.  She's been telling me that 
she's been having problems, and maybe you can help." He stared 
at Dr. Brewster significantly.
	Dr. Brewster cleared his throat.  "Uh, why don't we step 
into my office?"  He backed away as he swept an arm toward the 
office door.  Sam entered.  The office was bright, despite the lack 
of sunshine, and was neat and clean to the point of sterility.  Sam 
sat down on one of the chairs in front of the wooden desk.  Dr. 
Brewster carefully shut the door and sat down behind the desk, 
his smile all but gone.  "How much has she told you?"
	"Enough."
	"And I suppose you've come to tell me to stay away from 
her?"  Dr. Brewster's face was split with a smug and cruel smirk 
that seemed alien on his open, handsome face.
	"Actually, I don't really know what to do.  Find out the 
truth, I suppose."
	"Well, now you know.  She loves me, Jake, and I love her.  
All things considered, I wish it weren't true, but it is."  He 
shrugged sympathetically.  "If you want to divorce her, that's fine 
with me."
	"She still loves me," Sam said, unsure of where the words 
were coming from.  "I know she still loves me."
	Dr. Brewster smiled as if he were correcting a precocious 
child, almost condescendingly.  But he said nothing, and Sam 
found that the most painful thing of all.  Without another word, 
Sam got up and staggered toward the door.  If he had hoped to 
convince Dr. Brewster that his affair could not continue, he now 
saw that it was impossible.  He left the office with a heart as 
heavy as lead.  He had no idea what his next move should be, but 
he had a feeling that he was going to learn soon.

Concludes soon...