


Paradox Delusion

by LalSoong1687



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Sci-Fi, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2014-04-29 13:52:38
Rating: M
Chapters: 23
Words: 89,751
Publisher: www.fanfiction.net
Story URL: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6300418/1/
Author URL: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1590677/LalSoong1687
Summary: Sam leaps into a psychic and must learn to accept his own psychic potentials to solve the leap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:**

"-ren, Karen, Karen," Sam Beckett said through his host's mouth as he simultaneously finished leaping into the person. Who is Karen? he wondered. He stood in a living room with a cathedral-style ceiling that, despite its considerable size, was scarcely furnished. "Karen," he uttered again. A peculiar feeling overcame him as though somehow he knew the woman and that he'd been inside this house before.

He noticed a man, darting a camcorder back and forth, standing three steps up on a stairway. Yet Sam saw only shadows on the wall. What was going on here? Was this man filming the room as evidence to something or waiting for someone to enter the room?

Suddenly, an apparition of a woman manifested several feet in front of him, undulating like the tail of a kite in the wind. Sam opened his mouth wide in awe. The woman was wearing a white, summer dress and her tousled, golden hair slapped her wildly as though caught in a strong wind. Sam distinctly saw her powder blue eyes, but the remainder of her face was obscure.

_I've leaped into a movie director_, Sam decided, thinking he was here to film a horror flick. He didn't believe in ghosts and the idea that the apparition was real didn't even cross his mind. He had dealt with the possibility of ghosts before when he helped a young woman named Troian lay her drowned husband to rest. Despite the housekeeper's uncanny resemblance to a drowned mistress of one of Troian's ancestors-also drowned-the time traveler hadn't been totally convinced that ghosts existed.

Even skeptical, Sam had an eery feeling that he knew the name of the ghostly figure floating before him.

"Karen?" he asked.

"Help me, help me," the ghost pleaded barely above a whisper as her features twinkled in and out.

"Oh boy," Sam mumbled.

He felt an object strapped around his neck and glanced down to see a 70mm camera. He grasped it and quickly snapped several pictures. Slowly the mystical figure dissipated as if melting into the ceiling.

"I think I got her on video, Patrick," the man on the stairway exclaimed as he turned the camcorder off. "Can you believe it? We could actually have an authentic ghost sighting on our hands!" He stepped down, approaching Sam. "Should I call the Sheffields to let them know? Or do you want to try to capture the other ghost on film first?"

Beckett struggled to look away from the spot where the ghost had been, slowly turning toward the other man. The man was tall and muscular with long black hair wrapped in a ponytail.

The man stared quizzically at Sam as though he were trying to figure out who Sam was. _That's not possible,_ Sam decided, but still he wondered.

Sam cleared his throat and squeaked out, "Let's call the Sheffields," hoping his host would have replied the same.

. The man turned away, set the camcorder down beside the telephone on a small table beside the stairway, then picked up the telephone receiver.

While the other man spoke on the telephone, Sam scanned his surroundings. He had an unshakable feeling that somehow he had leaped in at the wrong time. Not for the first time, he wished his brain didn't become so swiss-cheesed with every leap, because he sensed something vaguely familiar about this house as though he'd been inside it before. But who had he been and did that leap have anything to do with his reasons for being here now?

The other man finished talking with Mr. Sheffield about the bizarre sighting, hung up and went back to Sam. "I'm Raymond Steele," he said, holding his hand out to the time traveler. "You may call me Ray."

Sam shook the man's hand, feeling ridiculous in doing so. He sensed that his host knew this man, probably as a best friend.

"I know this is confusing for you," Raymond continued. "It's a bit confusing for me, too."

"It is?"

"We didn't expect you to arrive so soon. Look, I don't want to sound presumptuous-like I'm trying to tell you how to handle this situation-but I think you'll be better off aware that I've known about your coming for weeks. Patrick told me about you as soon as he was sure."

"Wait a minute. I thought I was Patrick."

"Well, you are," the man said with a smile. "For a while." With that, he grabbed the camcorder and walked over to a small console with a twenty-inch television. "I better get this beast hooked up before the Sheffields arrive." He found the necessary cable on the floor and began connecting the camcorder to the set.

Sam shook his head, feeling totally flummoxed. What was Raymond insinuating? Did he know that someone else was inside his friend's body? If so, why did he seem so calm with the knowledge? Although Sam leaped from host to host for altruistic reasons, most possessions were thought of as malevolent. If Raymond even suspected that Patrick was possessed, he should have been acting petrified, not serene.

"Please explain exactly what and how you know about me, Ray."

After hooking the other end of the cable to the television, Raymond said, "I'll tell you, but you may be skeptical or afraid of what I have to say."

Taken aback, Sam's mind reeled for a moment as he tried to think of anything more frightening than knowing your best friend was possessed. "Go on," Beckett said, nodding his willingness to listen.

"Patrick is a parapsychologist; a psychic."

Sam chuckled, not because he didn't believe that Raymond was, at the very least, sincere about his affirmation, but because he didn't want to reveal that the very idea did indeed frighten him. He listened to Raymond's explanation without interruption.

"Several months ago he had a precognition that you would be coming," Raymond continued. "He's very discreet about his ability, because he doesn't want any bad publicity that might interfere with his career as a photo journalist. I respect Patrick's privacy, so normally I would keep quiet about his abilities. I wouldn't be telling you this if he hadn't expressively given me permission to do so. I think of him as my best friend, and he often confides in me. Patrick and I first joined forces two years ago when a privately funded grant in parapsychology teamed us up. We obtain our funds through a liaison agent named George Bennett. The person or company actually funding our research maintains their anonymity that way. We both also supplement our incomes by accepting freelance assignments. A year ago, Patrick told me that he is not only interested in psychic research, but that he also practices PSI techniques regularly. He strikes me as an honest man, and I've never doubted his claim. Shortly after he confessed that to me, he offered to become my mentor. The lessons he's taught me and continues to teach me are invaluable and have profoundly changed my life. He's quite a remarkable man."

"Why did he wait an entire year before telling you?"

"Patrick had to be absolutely certain that he could trust me. He also needed to determine that I was completely ready to learn fully about PSI. If a person attempts any PSI activity without the proper safeguards, the repercussions could be quite volatile. That is why Patrick offered to become my guide when I accepted that I had some PSI ability. It is too dangerous to explore any psychic abilities without the aid of an expert."

"That makes sense."

"About a month ago, he told me that he would be going away for a while, someplace where no one would be able to find him. I didn't understand what he was talking about at first, but then he explained how you would be taking his place. We thought you'd be coming some time tonight, perhaps even tomorrow morning. But we barely had time to set up before you arrived."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

"I'm not sure. Patrick spent a great deal of time trying to determine when you should have arrived. He could not pinpoint the exact moment of your arrival, but was almost positive that you wouldn't show up before this evening."

"He was wrong."

Raymond nodded and said, "If we can figure out why, we will be better prepared to help the Sheffields and the ghosts in this house."

"If your friend is a psychic, then why am I here? Isn't he more qualified to handle this situation?"

"That is not entirely true. Patrick believes that it is for multiple reasons. He needs to distance himself from the assignment. There is an excellent chance that by distancing himself he will be able to see some things he otherwise wouldn't. As for you, don't discount any skills you bring in. Being psychic doesn't mean one is all powerful. If you have any other questions, feel free to ask. I'm not as psychically aware as Patrick, but he's taught me a lot of the basics." Raymond paused, allowing Sam time for any inquiry.

Still adjusting to the situation, Sam could not think of anything he needed to ask. "I'll let you know if I think of anything."

Steele nodded. "Good enough. I'm going to have a cup of coffee. Would you like-now isn't that a strange question for me to ask Mr. Caffeine?" He chuckled at the inside joke.

"Sure," the time traveler replied anyway.

As soon as the other man left, Sam began hunting for a mirror. Unable to find one, he approached the television screen, hoping it would offer him a glimpse. The reflection of a well-groomed bearded man in his late thirties peered back at him. Beckett smiled.

Raymond returned with the coffee, and Sam uneasily averted his eyes from the screen. Even though this man knew he wasn't Patrick, Sam felt foolish gawking at the psychic's reflection. He accepted his coffee with a "thank you", and drank it while they waited for the Sheffields to arrive.

"How long have you and Patrick been on this assignment?" Beckett asked.

"Assignment?" Raymond looked shocked. "I'm surprised you didn't call this a mission or an investigation. That's what most people outside psychic vernacular would refer to this as."

"I learned the term from a previous leap," Sam explained. "The man I leaped into assisted an angel on assignments given to them by God."

"Really!" Raymond exclaimed. "Why, that's wonderful!"

"Are you telling me that neither you nor Patrick were aware that angels return to Earth for various assignments? I thought a psychic would be aware of such a thing."

"Being psychic also doesn't make us omniscient. Patrick is not privy to everything God does."

"Of course not. I'm sorry I made such an assumption." He repeated his initial question, "When did you and Patrick take on this assignment?"

"We just arrived this morning," Steele replied. "We spent a couple of hours talking with the Sheffields at a nearby restaurant, getting acquainted with them and discussing our game plan. Patrick and I decided that we could accomplish more quickly by remaining in this house around the clock. Fortunately, Mr. Sheffield agreed. Then we came back here and got set up."

"Tell me what you know about the Sheffields, then."

"Not much actually. They purchased this house three months ago, but only lived here for six weeks. Lisanne Sheffield is genuinely frightened and easily upset whenever the subject of this house is brought up. Her husband, Charles, is very protective of her-so go easy on her. Mr. Sheffield isn't the type to forgive if you cross him."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sam replied, gulping down the last of his coffee and setting his cup down on the console. "Do you believe this house is haunted?"

Before Raymond could reply, the door opened. The Sheffields hesitated in the doorway, afraid to enter their own home.

Raymond nodded in answer to Sam's question. "Don't you?"

Beckett knew how real the apparition had appeared, yet he'd heard of cleverly planned-out hoaxes before. Looking at the Sheffields he noticed that they were a handsome couple in their late twenties.

"She's gone, right?" Mrs. Sheffield asked in a quavering voice. She had a slightly plump build, auburn hair, and dark brown eyes. "I hate it when she sneaks up on me. She thinks it's funny to knock things out of my hands."

"It's all right, Lisanne," her husband reassured her, coaxing her inside the house. He was about a foot taller than his wife, lanky, and had thick strawberry-blond hair.

"You do believe us?" Lisanne asked Sam. Her need for someone to acknowledge her sanity was palpable on her face. "Our house is haunted."

"We're going to do everything we can to get to the bottom of this," Beckett replied, patting her shoulder to reassure her. He glanced at Charles Sheffield, making sure the man wasn't jealous. The man appeared tense, but perhaps more from being back inside the house than jealousy. "I think my friend over there has your ghost on tape. Would you like to see it now?"

Lisanne glanced timidly at her husband, and he gently placed his arm around her. He seemed almost as reluctant as she did, but slowly nodded.

Sam led them toward the video hookup. Raymond pressed "play", before stepping out of the way. The apparition appeared on the screen. "Help me, help me," came her cry. It sent shivers down Beckett's spine; the second time, though vicarious, was nonetheless chilling.

Lisanne shrieked and brought her shaking hand to her forehead. "I've never actually seen her," she said. "I mean, I've always known when she was there, because I could feel her presence. But she never revealed herself in any kind of physical form to me."

Sam offered the woman a look of sympathy. He'd heard many ghost stories as a child, had never believed any of them, but now was beginning to sway toward believing that this one might be authentic. He felt as uneasy as Lisanne if not more so, because he suspected he was expected to force the ghosts to relinquish their hold on the house.

Al Calavicci popped into the room from several years into the future as a hologram sent to observe and aid Dr. Beckett as he encountered new problems. Al watched the ghostly image over Sam's shoulder. Raymond scanned the room, a puzzled look coming over him, and Sam wondered if he sensed Al. The ghost faded from the screen and a moment later, the picture changed to snow. Suddenly, the room grew dark, cloaked by a tenebrous presence.

"Uh-oh Sam, I don't like this," Al said.

"Please Charles, I want to go now," Lisanne shrieked. "They're never going to leave this house. I'm terrified of them."

The lights flickered on and off as though affected by a storm, but their surroundings remained ominously quiet. Sam walked up to the console and turned off the TV and camcorder, hoping somehow that it would abate the bizarre activity.

The time traveler looked up and said, "Please stop. These people haven't done anything to you." He had no basis for it, but Sam had a premonition that the ghosts were keeping an intransient hold on the house because of him, not the Sheffields. He shook the thought as he remembered through his swiss-cheesed brain that leaps could never affect his or Al's life directly-so he believed.

Suddenly, a white flash of light shot from the ceiling toward Sam. Lisanne shrieked again. Gasping, Sam stepped back, nearly tripping. The light zipped past him, and darted up the stairs. Over his initial fright, the physicist climbed partway up the stairs, half-expecting the ball of light to manifest into a demon. It had disappeared. The overhead lights came back on. Slowly, glancing a couple times behind himself, Sam stepped back down.

"Charles," Lisanne exclaimed in a quavering voice, "Let's go!"

"Okay," Charles replied, grasping his wife gently by the arms. "Why don't you wait out in the car for me, and I'll be just a minute."

"What are you going to do, Charles?" Despite her obvious fright, Lisanne stood her ground beside her husband.

Her husband grasped her hands, lovingly. "Don't worry about me. Please, go out where it's safe, so I can talk with Mr. Marland in private." Lisanne hesitated and then nodded before stepping outside. Sheffield turned toward Sam and said, "I hope you understand, Mr. Marland. I can't subject my wife to this anymore. She's been through too much the past five years. She's had three miscarriages, on top of that her father recently died, and now this. We chose this house because of its secluded surroundings. I thought the large yard and the pond out back would provide my wife with an atmosphere she could grow comfortable with. I don't think we'll be returning to this house unless you can get rid of our unwelcome guests."

"I do understand, Mr. Sheffield, and I will try my best."

"You'll be staying in the house around the clock, then?"

Sam glanced toward Al and the project observer said, "No, Sam. It would be too stressful if you don't get out of the house every once in a while."

"At least one of us will be here at all times," Sam answered. "We'll need to run errands. It's also likely that we'll need to leave the house as part of our investigation."

"Investigation! I just want you to get rid of the damn ghosts. I don't need a report on their lives-or deaths."

"Learning about their lives could be quite crucial in convincing them to leave."

"Fine then," Sheffield said tersely, dismissing the argument. "Feel free to use any of the facilities while you're here." Sheffield reached into his pants pocket and removed his wallet. Opening it, he found a piece of paper and handed it to Sam. "That's the number where we're staying. If any new developments or problems should arise, call me. Do not relay any messages through my wife, or even bother her with this mess. I don't want you upsetting her. Understood?"

"Yes," Sam replied. "I understand you perfectly, Mr. Sheffield."

Charles returned his billfold to his pocket, said "thank you," and left.

Sam understood what Charles Sheffield wanted, but how did he go about solving the problem?

"You handled that rather well," Raymond told Beckett sincerely. "Only an initiate can normally pick up on the necessity to learn about someone's past to help their future."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

For a moment, Sam stood there contemplating the dilemma, wondering what he could possibly try in this situation that a psychic couldn't. He'd never been as puzzled by God's choice in his leap host as he was now.

"I'll go see what I can scrounge up for dinner," Raymond offered, breaking the awkward silence.

"Ah, thank you," Sam said, slowly turning toward the assistant.

"No need to thank me. It is my turn-Ah, Patrick and I agreed to take turns cooking dinners. I guess he weaseled his way out of that deal." Raymond disappeared into the kitchen.

Beckett turned toward his informant. "Al?"

Calavicci puffed heavily on his cigar before removing it from his mouth. "You've leaped into Patrick Marland, a photo journalist. And the date is February 20, 1991, the place Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina." He looked up from the handlink. "I spoke with this Patrick Marland before coming here."

"And?" Sam asked, thinking it unusual that his friend would talk with the host before contacting him, and making sure he was all right.

"He's very coherent, unlike most people when they arrive inside The Waiting Room."

"And that's why you spoke with him before locating me?"

"He insisted. I'd almost swear he knows more than Ziggy about what is going on. Some of what he's saying contradicts Ziggy's data, but his explanations are so thorough-And Sam, he even knows your name. He doesn't have all the answers. He says that we'll have to work through them as we proceed. He was particularly worried about the timing of your leap in. He insists that you've leaped in several hours too early."

Sam mused over Al's words, letting the information sink in. "If I've leaped in too early, then it could potentially jeopardize our mission. Did Marland give you any indication of what he thought might happen?"

"He claims that he needs to run scenarios and jiggle a few locked doors before he feels comfortable with providing us with his insight."

"Locked doors?"

Al puffed on his cigar, blowing smoke before he replied. "Must be some psychic terminology." He gestured with his hand to indicate he wanted to take the conversation in another direction. "Marland says that he takes assignments from newspapers all over the country," the project observer continued. "He read about this haunted house a while back, and decided it was worth checking out."

"Al, has he told you about his other ability?"

"You mean the parapsychology?" the hologram asked, waving his cigar around. Sam nodded and Al let out a smirk-filled groan. "I'm not sure I buy his story, Sam."

"Why not? He knew my name, didn't he?"

"Yeah, maybe he does have some ability, but if he's so psychic, why would he need your help? If he can read people's minds and see into the future, then he can do just as well as we can with Ziggy's help if not better."

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Al. We don't know yet exactly what Patrick Marland's specific abilities are. HE wouldn't leap me into Patrick without a good reason."

Al punched a few buttons on the handlink, slapped it, but seemed dissatisfied with the reply.

"I felt so disoriented after I made this leap, more than usual. Then it suddenly dawned on me that I've been inside this house before during another leap."

The project observer turned full circle, looking up and down as he did so. "Now that you mention it-talk about deja vu." Again, he punched buttons on the handlink, this time looking content by the answer. "Ziggy says that this house formerly belonged to a Ben and Karen Simms. Sam, wasn't that the woman that you almost-"

"I didn't almost. She wanted to have an affair, but I talked her out of it, remember?"

"Yeah, but it got a little hot and-"

"Don't say it!"

"I don't think I could have resisted as easily as you did," the hologram said with a far-off look in his eyes.

"Think about how you felt when you came home from Vietnam and learned that Beth had married another man."

A solemn expression overcame Al as he nodded in complete accord.

"I think I have somewhat of an idea why I leaped here."

"And that is?"

"I'm here to help Karen. She won't realize that I am the same man she once almost had an affair with, but with my familiarity toward her, I'm hoping that she will instinctually trust me. She's obviously in distress or she would have crossed over into the afterlife. I intend to help her find peace. Why else would I return here, Al? Do you suppose something went wrong with the original leap?"

"If it did, then why did you leap out? I thought you said that wasn't possible."

"In theory, it's not. But we're dealing with reality here. Maybe I leaped, because I thought I had succeeded or maybe even more importantly because Ziggy thought I had succeeded. At any rate, you better have Ziggy run through her databanks for any activity during or after that leap that may somehow associate back to it. In the meantime, what does she believe we're here to do now?"

"Ziggy believes you're here to do exactly what the Sheffields asked of you: get rid of their unwanted house guests. Ziggy says that Ben and Karen died in a car accident in 1970 and have been haunting this house ever since."

"Car accident," Sam echoed. He almost always leaped out of people with a sense of "happily ever after," but it hadn't worked out that way for Karen and Ben Simms. "How did it happen?"

"The police report is inconclusive. It states that the accident occurred on a sunny spring day. Ben was driving, but he wasn't speeding, nor was he drunk. He careened off the road for no known reason and plunged off a bridge into a river. Although both of them knew how to swim, they were both found still inside the car."

"It could have been a suicide. Maybe Ben was unable to adjust back to a normal life. Maybe he wanted to take Karen with him."

Al sighed heavily. "Until the Sheffields bought the house three months ago, it stood abandoned for over ten years."

"Ten years! Then something must have happened to scare people off. Have Ziggy check into any previous owners-and why the Sheffields chose to buy it. Check on data about any ghost stories from the neighborhood."

Al punched several buttons on the handlink. "Ziggy's processing data on this house since Ben Simms returned from Viet-" Al peered into the handlink, astonished. "Get this-Ziggy says that Ben and Karen Simms fought constantly after he returned from Vietnam, because Ben believed that Karen had an affair with Andrew Montgomery."

"Ben thinks that Karen had an affair with the reporter I leaped into! Al, that's a paradox, because we know that she did until I leaped into the guy and changed history."

About a year ago, his time, Sam had leaped into Andrew Montgomery, a reporter, and as Andrew he'd spent a great deal of time inside this house, interviewing Karen Simms, the daughter of a senatorial candidate. Sam not only proved that one of the candidates was illegally obtaining votes, but talked Karen, who believed her husband dead, out of having an affair-with him!

"I think you're here to prove that to Ben," the project observer said.

"Wait a minute-if Ben wants revenge on Montgomery, then why is he haunting this house? He has no reason to believe that Montgomery would ever return here."

Sam waited for a long moment while Al, consternation coming over him, consulted Ziggy.

"Ziggy doesn't have an answer to that. Maybe Ben's attached to the house for some reason." Al puffed on his cigar. "Uh oh, Sam. Ziggy says there's only a 11.2% chance that you're going to convince Ben in time."

"In time for what?"

Al glanced at the handlink, confirming what he already knew. "In time to prevent your death."

"My death! Why would Ben want to attack me?"

Both men stared solemnly at one another for a long moment. Al brought his cigar to his mouth and puffed heavily as though in deep thought. The project observer obviously had no idea.

"Sam, Patrick tells me that he keeps a journal," the hologram finally said. "Go through his camera bag and pull out the hardbound book inside. He wants you to read everything he wrote in that book. I'll get back with you later on the house's history."

"Where's Patrick's camera bag?"

"Upstairs," Al began, "second door on the right, on top of the desk." He punched a button on the handlink, and popped out.

Sam climbed the stairs and opened the second door on the right, gasping as he got a good look at the room. Suddenly a vision forced its way through his swiss-cheesed memory. He could hear a woman's laughter. "Andrew, you are the funniest man I've ever met," the woman said faintly.

"Karen?" Sam called out. No one answered; the laughter died away. _I've been in this room before,_ Sam realized. _I was here with Karen Simms as Andrew Montgomery. Karen invited me up here, because she wanted to-_

Sam shook his head, remembering how tempted he had been by the glamorous woman-a temptation that Andrew Montgomery, in the original history, had not been able to resist. Beckett had changed that history, and Karen remained celibate until her husband returned from the war. Sam leaped out, believing Karen and Ben Simms would live happily ever after. He had never leaped without believing he had done at least some good-had thought he would be trapped inside another's body if he ever couldn't change history for the better.

So what happened? Perhaps the evil leaper had her hand in this. If so, who had she leaped into? _Karen,_ Sam decided. _She would want to leap into Karen, so she could make it look as though Karen had actually had an affair with Andrew Montgomery._ Upon his last encounter with Aleah, Sam had managed to woo her away from evil, but Zoey, her holographic advisor, had eagerly taken her place. How many lives had Zoey corrupted since then? Sam made a mental note to ask Al to search Ziggy's data banks to see if there were any unusual circumstances leading up to the accident that caused Karen and Ben's deaths.

Recovering from the sudden memories, Sam remembered what he'd come up for-Patrick's journal. Opening the camera bag, he found the journal in the long side pocket, then sat down on the bed to begin reading. As he opened the book, a picture fell out and landed upside down on the floor. Retrieving it, Sam was stunned to find himself staring at a picture of his younger self being lifted by his teammates after he had scored the winning point for the Elkridge basketball team. He flipped over the photograph and was further perplexed by the scrawl written on the back: "Sam Beckett, what does it mean?" _That's what I'd like to know,_ Sam thought.

He set the picture on the bed beside himself, then flipped the pages to the first entry, written on November 8, 1990. The passage contained only one sentence. 

I saw the flashing blue light in my dream last night. 

Sam took special notice that Patrick had written "the" instead of "a" in front of "flashing blue light" and immediately wondered what Patrick knew about him. He continued. The next entry had been written two days later. 

I've thought of little else since I awoke from the dream. It was quite bizarre. Not only did I see the light flash, but I felt as though it were dragging me along on a journey to where-or when-I'm not sure. Yet, I had a strong desire to follow and be led.

I'm sure something is about to happen, something that may change my life forever. Someone is coming. Who is he? 

The next entry came the following day and was very disconcerting to Sam. 

I spent today leafing through old photo albums, ones that I took years ago when I was still in high school. It literally took me hours before I came across one that brought pause. I'd taken a picture of the Elkridge basketball team in 1969 right after they'd won a penultimate game. I was particularly interested in the young man in the center being lifted by his teammates. I could see a trace of a blue light around his face. Was it something on the film? Or had it portended my dream?

I removed the photograph and stared at it until my eyes began to water. Flipping it over, I learned that the man's name was Sam Beckett. But how does he fit into my dream? What does the flashing light mean? 

Sam read several more entries all centering on the dream, which Patrick had four more times in the next two weeks. The most startling entry came on November 23 after Patrick woke up from the fourth recurrence. He wrote: 

Can Sam Beckett travel through time? Does God want Sam Beckett to come to my time, my life? If HE does, I must prepare for Beckett's arrival. I need to find out all I can about the man. It is important that I understand who he is, so I can know how to convince him that God would only place us together if we could engender a high level of trust. 

Sam didn't know much about Patrick Marland yet, but the man had invoked a strong curiosity in him. He plunged into the next entry, dated November 25. 

God wants Sam Beckett to leap into my life, but HE will only let it happen with my countenance. Should I agree to this- 

A knock at the door interrupted him. It was Raymond, coming to tell him that dinner was ready. Beckett reluctantly set the book down and followed the other man downstairs. _I didn't realize that God gave anyone a conscious choice about my leaping in!_ Sam thought. He'd forgotten he was hungry.

Al stepped out of the imaging chamber and walked up to the artificial intelligence unit. Before he could instruct Ziggy, she took the initiative. "Good afternoon, Admiral. I understand that you're working with a psychic on this one."

"You've already spoken with him!"

"We've communicated, but not with words. Ooh, he's got such a sexy mind! His transfer rate his almost phenomenal."

Great, just what he needed, a computer with a sex drive that almost matched his own. "So you're saying he spoke telepathically with you?"

"He can access my terabytes any time."

Already, this leap had Al pretty frazzled and now he had to deal with a highly intelligent computer who was acting like a teenager with raging hormones. He was thinking about Karen. Why did she have to die? Why couldn't she and Ben have been happily reunited and live a perfectly contented life together until they grew old? Any leap dealing with military wives always left him feeling numb. It hit far too close to home; it reminded him of his own years of misery without his beloved Beth. Karen was already dead. So how could he or Sam possibly help her now?

"Admiral?" Ziggy questioned, breaking through the observer's reverie.

"Oh, sorry," Calavicci offered meekly. "What do you have on this Patrick Marland? He had to ask, though he wasn't looking forward to Ziggy's lascivious answer. 

Fifteen minutes later, Al stepped into the Waiting Room. Although Ziggy had competently supplied him with information, he still felt compelled to seek out Marland's input.

Patrick Marland had been drinking coffee almost incessantly since arriving in the Waiting Room that afternoon, a habit he said he'd never be able to break. He was now sitting at a small round table while Al stood over him. "He was supposed to leap in right about now," he said without looking at the project observer. "It didn't happen that way, but this still feels like the right time."

"What do you mean, he was suppose to? Is the timing that important?"

"Oh yeah!" Patrick finally glanced up at Al, a serious look on his face. "Timing can very easily set our course. I've been running various scenarios, as you know, in an attempt to learn why Sam leaped into my life several hours ahead of my expectations."

"And?"

"I believe there are pieces to the equation that I did not consider. We may be dealing with more than two spirits here, and I should have realized that possibility."

"More than two! I don't like the sound of that."

"Unfortunately, I have been unable to verify just how many spirits we are dealing with. I have run into several locked doors."

"Can't you break your way through them?" Al asked, swinging his arm in the air to emphasize his words.

"No! Locked doors are put into place as safety barriers. For some reason, it is dangerous for me to know all the answers-at least at this time."

"It sounds like an excuse to me," Al countered. "If a so-called psychic can't figure out all the answers, then you can just say there was locked door. It's an easy way out."

"I do understand your skepticism, Al. In fact, I would prefer a skeptic over someone who would believe everything they hear with blind faith. A wise person questions everything and establishes their beliefs through experiences and empirical data."

"I find that a very unusual philosophy for a psychic to take."

"Not really. The majority of true psychics do not use their abilities against others. We are not out to prove ourselves superior to the world, but rather to help in any way that God sees fit to guide us." He paused to let his words sink in. "I understand that Sam leaped into Karen Simms' life while her husband was still in Vietnam."

"Yes, he was there to make sure her father won a senatorial election. But what I don't understand is why we couldn't prevent her death. God, I hate to think about the way she died." He turned away from Patrick in a vane attempt to conceal his tears.

"She reminds you of someone?" the psychic prodded.

Al nodded slowly. "My first wife, Beth. I was a POW over in Vietnam and so she assumed I'd died. Beth had me legally declared dead a couple of years later so that she could remarry. When I came back a few years later, I couldn't find her. It hurt like hell! But I can't blame her."

"And yet you did?"

"For a long while I was angry, very angry. I drank a lot. I didn't care about my appearance any more or what anyone thought of me. If it weren't for Sam, I'd probably still be drunk and feeling sorry for myself. He's been a real kick in the butt; just what I needed."

Wanting desperately to change the subject, Calavicci redirected their conversation to Patrick. "So when did you supposedly become psychic?" he asked Patrick in a mocking tone. He thought back to the oriental woman Sam had become involved with during his leap into Dylan Powell. She'd claimed to be psychic and even called Sam by name. Yet Al still remained unconvinced that the incident had been anything more than coincidental or isolated at best.

"After I almost drowned," Patrick replied, placing the palm of his hand on his chin to rub his beard only to realize that since he was inside Beckett's body, he had no beard. "When I was thirteen, my father and I went on a fishing trip, I wasn't wearing a life jacket, and I wasn't that great of a swimmer either. I fell into the water while trying to rustle a big fish. My father went in after me, but I'd already been under water for five minutes before he pulled me out. I spent over forty-eight hours in a coma, and the doctors said it was a miracle when I woke up with no brain damage."

Waving his cigar around, Al said, "Except for that ability you woke up with. Wouldn't you call that a form of brain damage?"

"Some might. It can be scary at times, but it can prove life-saving as well. Does that mean you believe my story?"

"The part about the accident and the coma. I'm not so sure about the other stuff."

"Well, at first I picked up on little things," Patrick continued, "like knowing the next line in a movie I'd never seen, or what someone was going to say during a conversation. Then several months after my accident, my mom was going to take a bus trip to see her sister who lived in St. Louis. I begged her not to go, because I knew something was going to happen. She believed in my PSI ability. She thought it was cute and funny-until that moment. I'd never seen her turn so pale. She postponed her trip for the day, and that night while watching the news we learned that the bus she'd been scheduled to ride had been involved in an accident. Over half the people aboard had been killed."

Al wasn't sure whether or not to believe Patrick's story and could think of no comment, wise-crack or serious, to make in response. He sat down, anxious to hear more stories from the psychic. "Tell me more."

As they sat down at the dinner table, Raymond told Sam, "Patrick and I have grown accustomed to always saying grace before dinner. I hope you don't object."

"Not at all," Beckett replied. "Actually, I think it's quite appropriate, given the nature of our assignment."

They bowed their heads and closed their eyes. "Dear Heavenly Father," Raymond began, "we'd like to ask you to please bless this food and this house, in which we will be living for a while. We hope you will help us understand what we need to do to accomplish this assignment. Help us find a way to resolve whatever conflicts present themselves during our stay here. Please bless Charles and Lisanne Sheffield, my friend Patrick, Sam Beckett, who sits here now beside me, and most importantly Karen and Ben Simms. May their turmoil end soon. Amen."

They opened their eyes, and picking up their utensils, began to eat.

"I've been reading Patrick's journal," Sam said between bites, hoping the news wouldn't anger the psychic's friend. "He gave me permission through my friend, Al." He broke off a piece of garlic bread and popped it into his mouth.

Raymond nodded, showing no surprise as he chewed a bite of spaghetti. "And you'd like to ask me something about that?"

"Well-yeah, actually. How much has Patrick told you about his dreams and visions?"

"A lot." Raymond paused to sip at his coffee. "He wanted to make sure I was fully aware of the situation we were getting into before you arrived."

"Then are you aware of my relationship with the ghosts-I mean, back when they were alive?"

"Patrick didn't know himself until very recently. You see, visions are often obscure. He found the ad the Sheffields placed and immediately, he knew that he was supposed to come here. He's known that you were coming for quite some time, but it wasn't until he began speaking with the Sheffields that he began to put it all together."

"I see. Patrick also wrote that God gave him a choice on whether or not I leaped into him. Do you suppose that's fair when most of the people I leap into have no warning at all?"

"That's not completely true. What you don't realize is that so many things happen at a spiritual level. Although your hosts are not consciously aware that you are going to leap into them, God would not permit such a possession without a prior agreement. If you want a more thorough explanation of this, you'll have to ask Patrick.

"Besides, even looking at Quantum Leaping from a secular viewpoint, you still have to take into consideration the positive changes you make in their lives or the lives of someone they care about. That alone outweighs the temporary confusion you cause them."

The time traveler nodded and stood to take his dishes to the sink. "Let's hope I can do that now."

"Have confidence, Sam."

Sam wasted no time before returning to the guest room and back to reading the journal, beginning with starting over with the November 25th entry: 

God wants Sam Beckett to leap into my life, but HE will only let it happen with my countenance. Should I agree to this deal even if it might mean my death? If I don't will someone else suffer because of my decision? I don't think I could live with that guilt. 

November 27:

It is incredible what Sam Beckett has done. The man must be a genius. He thought up a time traveling project-and has met with success!

HE told me about Beckett through a vision this morning. I don't know why HE feels I should be aware of project Quantum Leap.

Sam must be leaping from life to life, doing good deeds wherever God sends him. Do I need Sam's help? Or does he need mine?

Who needs his help? 

For a moment, Sam was taken aback by Patrick's words. _I guess I'm going to have to ask Al to set Patrick straight,_ Sam thought. _My leaping cannot benefit either Al or myself. It could disrupt the space-time continuum if a leap ever did._ Sam continued reading, wondering what other surprises Patrick's journal had to offer. 

November 30:

Today, God let me know that Sam Beckett is psychic.

Sam doesn't know he's psychic. His abilities are only transitional, but could be awakened with little effort. I don't know if HE wishes for Sam to use his ability. I also, still, don't know why Sam and I need cross paths. How will we be able to help one another? Yes-that feels right-I think we need each others help.

God will let me know why when the time is right. 

Sam looked away from the journal in awe. Him psychic? He couldn't fathom the idea. He'd heard many stories about psychics, and although he was slightly skeptical, he'd always tried to remain open to the concept.

He didn't know yet if he was supposed to help Patrick in any way, but so often leaps did help the person he'd leaped into. What really confused him was Patrick's firm belief that he, Patrick, was meant to help Sam in some way. How was that possible? 

The November 30 entry continued:

I think HE wants Sam to realize his potential. I hope Sam will want to learn how to use his talents to save someone-possibly himself.

But from whom?

I am frightened for Sam. I feel responsible for him somehow. I must find a way to help him. If he is to succeed, he will need a teacher. I think God has chosen me to be Sam Beckett's teacher.

I will not let HIM down. I cannot, because failure could mean my death.

This morning, I went to the library to read through old newspapers and periodicals to dig up any information on Dr. Sam Beckett. He began college at an early age and quickly built a reputation as a physics genius. His thesis paper became one of the most highly regarded at [UCLA]. It dealt with his Quantum Leap theory, which he turned into a project in 1990.

I could visit Beckett at his lab now, but I get the sense of that being wrong. The younger Sam Beckett of my time should not be made aware of what is to come. It is too soon for him. Approaching him could possibly disrupt the whole QL project. 

December 2:

HE and I have established a set of conditional prerequisites to my leaping into Sam Beckett. Sam cannot die during this mission. Sam will develop psychically during his leap-in, but only at a pace that is reasonable and safe for him. Sam will be able to rely heavily on my guidance and if at any time, he is in danger, we will immediately switch places again.

I have given my consent, with these conditions in place, for Sam to leap into my life, into my body. 

December 3:

Sam Beckett needs to understand that I will allow no harm to come to him. He must not feel guilty if this mission fails, because a large portion of the burden must fall on me. God wants me to serve as Beckett's mentor and advisor. There are many things pertinent to this mission that Beckett doesn't yet understand. 

Sam wondered how Patrick thought he could serve as his mentor. It was impossible to meet and interact with the person he'd leaped into. If only it were possible, Sam believed he would enjoy meeting Patrick Marland.

December 7:

I have a feeling that someone is angry at Sam-or rather someone he has been during a leap. I don't know who he or she is, but I can sense his or her animosity. He/she wants this leap host dead for some personal vendetta.

I believe Sam Beckett is innocent. Anyone who would travel through time to help put right what once went wrong would not cause deliberate harm. Sam does not realize he has caused this trouble, or that anyone is out to get this host. If Sam comes, I will let him read this, so he will be warned of the danger.

I only pray that together we can conquer this problem.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

Al returned the following morning as Sam was finishing his shower. The time traveler slipped on Patrick's housecoat and sat on the corner of the bed.

"I read part of Patrick's journal last night, and I found some of it quite surprising. His takes on the situation are absolutely incredible. Al, you need to set him straight on one thing, though. He needs to know that neither you nor I can ever benefit from a leap."

"I'll let him know that," the hologram responded. He didn't make eye contact and his friend knew immediately that something was wrong.

"Al, are you okay?"

"I'll be fine. I just didn't get much-" He stifled a yawn and rubbed at tired, red eyes. "-sleep last night."

"Come on, what has you so upset?" Sam asked as he dried his hair.

"I just can't stop thinking about Karen. I keep seeing this image of her car tumbling down the embankment." He emphasized his words with animated arms.

"I understand. You feel that you've failed to make yet another military couple happy. It's not your failure alone. I'm not even sure it's our failure. Maybe it wasn't meant to be."

"Wasn't meant to be! I am so sick of hearing that phrase! Beth and I weren't meant to be. Karen and Ben weren't meant to be. Tell me, Sam, what was? What's God's master plan with our lives?"

"I don't know. But if I ever find out the answer, you'll be the first person I share it with."

"Thanks, I guess," Al replied, his temper mellowing. He lifted the handlink and established communication with Ziggy. "Sam, Ziggy's searched through her entire database for possible connections to your leap into Montgomery. She also ran through alternate scenarios and came across some really weird contradictions. If I'm reading this information correctly, it appears as though Karen and Andrew Montgomery may never have had an affair in the first place."

"What! How can that be? Ziggy told us that they had had an affair. Even though she could have had Ben legally declared dead, Karen felt guilty about the affair. That was why, I thought, that I leaped in to talk her out of it. Ziggy's been known to be wrong before, but never this wrong."

"I guess there's always a first time, Sam."

"Okay. Let's say Ziggy was in error, and that we handled the leap incorrectly. How do we go about fixing our mistake?"

"Ziggy's still working on that. I'll let you know as soon as she comes up with any possibilities."

"While Ziggy's doing that, why don't you ask Patrick if he can get a take on the reason?"

"Sure, I'll do that." His response came out muffled by a yawn.

"And then get a couple more hours of sleep."

The project observer gave Sam a mock salute. "Ziggy also finished the data on the house's history. When the Simms' died, the house went to Ben's mother, Anna."

"Is his mother still alive?"

Al punched a couple buttons on the handlink. "Anna Simms died in 1993-yeah, she's still alive now, here in 1991. Do you think you should contact her, though?"

"I don't know. What else did Ziggy find out?"

"Well, Anna kept the deed for a while, hesitant to sell since the house had been in their family for five generations. But she was so strapped for money that eventually she did sell in late 1980 to a painter-" Al slapped the handlink. "Ah, Martin Bridgeman."

"Did Anna live here?" Sam asked.

"Yes, the entire time. She moved in a week after her son and daughter-in-law died."

"Then her son must have appeared to her. She had to have realized their spirits were still in the house." Sam paused, vaguely remembering that this wasn't the first time he'd returned to interact with the same people during a leap-only last time none of them had died since the previous leap. "Al, have Ziggy run through possible scenarios leading up to Ben and Karen's death. Something isn't adding up right here. I have this feeling like I shouldn't even be here. It's as though Zoey or some other evil force has been at work here."

"What other evil force?"

"I don't know-maybe the devil himself."

The hologram shuddered at the thought, because once the devil hadimpersonated him during a leap. "Sam, you don't think-" Al left the thought unfinished as he consulted with Ziggy. They stood silently for a couple minutes as Al stared into the handlink. "There are no indications that Zoey might have been involved here."

"Ziggy ran through all the possible scenarios that quickly?"

"Well, no, she's still working on it."

"We haven't proven that Zoey isn't at work here either. Have Ziggy consider this scenario: Maybe Zoey leaped into Karen just as Ben was returning from Vietnam. As Karen, Zoey could have led Ben to believe that his wife had had an affair."

"Okay that sounds like something Zoey would do, but you're forgetting one thing, Sam. Ben Simms is the one who is supposedly influenced by demons."

"Yes. . .now. Consider this, after Zoey has firmly implanted the belief that his wife has had an affair into Ben's head, she leaps out of Karen. Then she allows her demon cohorts to coerce Ben into driving his car off the road and into the river."

Al turned to the handlink and after a minute of fiddling with it said, "Ziggy says that you could be right."

"If I am, then that would be a logical reason for them not to crossover after death. They're probably both very confused."

"Unfinished business?"

"More likely, Zoey has unfinished business-with me-and she's using the Simms' to get to me. Ask Patrick for his opinion on this. He might have a better idea than Ziggy whether there's any evil influence going on here."

"Okay, Sam," Al said, nodding as he continued to punch buttons on the handlink, furrowing his brows. "Ziggy has no more data on Anna Simms. But there's more on Martin Bridgeman-He only lived here for a few months, then suddenly abandoned the place, claiming some pretty peculiar stuff going on. He put the house on the market, but given the publicity the house received from the press, no one bought the place until the Sheffields came along."

"Why do you suppose the Sheffields were willing to buy a house that had been on the market so long?"

Al asked Ziggy, and the readout from his handlink said that there was insufficient data to answer that question. "Maybe they didn't believe the stories any more than you did when Troian claimed her dead husband, Julian, was speaking to her."

"Okay, I'll buy that, but I'm going to ask Charles about it. Troian's situation was bizarre, but there was a logical explanation for it as there could be here as well."

"Sam, you don't really believe that, do you? You saw the way the Sheffields reacted to the video tape; they were genuinely scared. I mean, with Julian we just heard his voice, but you saw Karen Simms floating in the air. Try to explain that one away!"

"Okay, okay," Sam replied, shaking his head. "Where does this Martin Bridgeman live now?"

After asking Ziggy, Al said, "In a small town called Hope about twenty miles from here. The street address is 1554 East Lake."

"Okay, go back to when Anna Simms still owned the house; Did she ever rent rooms out to anybody, let anyone live here?"

"Anna lived in this house alone, Sam."

"In this huge house!"

"Well, I think it made her feel closer to her dead son."

Sam fell silent for a long moment, thinking back when he leaped into Andrew Montgomery. "Karen lived here alone, too, Al," he said. "She told me that she loved this house, didn't ever want to leave it. She felt protected and comforted under its roof."

"Yes," the project observer agreed. "Karen was trying to get a writing career going, and she found the quiet atmosphere of the house refreshing."

"Yeah, I remember that. That's why she was so attracted to Andrew Montgomery-because he was a writer, too. In fact, he was the only person she ever shared any of her writing with. Al, run a history check on Andrew Montgomery. It's possible Karen or Ben had contact with him after my leap. If so, he may know something that could help us."

"Good idea," Al said and sent the new inquiry to Ziggy.

Sam stood, walking over to the dresser to remove a fresh outfit. "After I eat breakfast, I'll make a few phone calls, piece together everyone's part in this house's history."

"I'll see what I can do on my end." Al replied, pushing the button that opened the imaging chamber. "I'll have Ziggy dig up Ben Simms' military records."

"And continue to check for any signs that Zoey or another force might be interfering here."

Al stepped through the door and disappeared.

Over breakfast, Sam told Raymond that he'd read part of Patrick's journal. "I don't doubt that Patrick has the ability," he said, "but I can't accept his belief that I'm psychic as well."

"You're what's called a transitional psychic," Raymond replied. "Your abilities haven't been awakened yet."

"Well, I'd just as soon they remained asleep." Sam gulped down the last of his coffee before continuing. "I dealt with a haunted house once before and it turned out to just be a hoax. There's probably a hidden video camera somewhere that projected that so-called apparition."

"Then why don't you search the house? Maybe when you're done, you'll be more inclined to believe."

"I'll do that. Besides, we don't know for sure that that ghostly woman was even Karen Simms. I mean, she looked a lot like her, but with a little make up, many blond women in their late twenties could be made up to look like Karen Simms' ghost. Maybe I'm here just to uncover a hoax. Once I prove it, I'll be able to leap."

Before Raymond could reply, their coffee cups started moving across the table. Both men grabbed their cups barely in time to prevent them from crashing to the floor.

"Karen," Raymond said. "She's come to show you how wrong you are. Patrick believes there are ghosts in this house. I'm inclined to side with him." He glanced up, down, and around the room. "Are you still here, Karen?"

Karen replied by turning their plates counter-clockwise several times. With his mouth agape, Beckett tried to convince himself that he still didn't believe what his eyes were seeing.

"Do you think this is a hoax, too?" Raymond asked, staring at Sam.

Beckett looked under the plates, then under the table, hoping to find some physical proof for the incident. He saw nothing unusual. "You're a magician, right?" he asked Raymond.

In response, Karen made several objects in the room move at once, dishes flew out of the cupboard, appliances began running and Sam felt an invisible hand prickle the back of his neck.

"Why are you angry?" he asked, surprised by his own sudden admission that he could be talking to a ghost.

"She's not angry," Raymond told him. "She's confused and upset. She doesn't know what to do to regain her husband's affection. But she's not angry."

"Then what can I do to help her? As soon as the question was asked, the activity in the room ceased, all dishes floated back into the cupboard unbroken.

"I don't know you very well, but I have a feeling that the easy solution rarely works in your line of work."

Looking chagrined, Sam nodded slowly. "But what if I'm right about not having any psychic abilities?"

"Patrick would never have agreed to let you leap into his life without assurance that you had the ability to handle the situation whether that required non-psychic or psychic abilities."

Sam laughed nervously. "How do I go about waking mine up?"

"Since you're a psychic, maybe you can answer a couple of questions," Al said as he sat across from Patrick. He'd managed to catch about an hour's nap and was feeling much better now. "First, are you getting any vibes that tell you why Sam might have leaped out of Montgomery if he hadn't been successful?"

For a moment, Patrick sat in contemplation, rubbing his beard. "You must consider that each leap has more than one objective. Sometimes, they are so layered that it is difficult to separate them, but each is important in its own right. On one level, you have Sam succeeding during the leap. Karen did not have an affair. A conspiracy was uncovered. Maybe you and Sam erred in believing that Karen ever did have an affair. That is not nearly as catalytic as causing her tohave an affair would have been.

"As to why Sam has leaped back, through me, I've been giving that a lot of thought. Through visionary work, I've uncovered one distinct possibility: Sam needed to leap into me so I could distance myself from the situation. If I were physically there right now, I would most likely be too close to realize what is really going on. Since I arrived here, I have been receiving an impression that Ben Simms is being influenced by demons."

"That was my other question! Sam and I have reached the same conclusion. We've dealt with evil forces before. We suspect one in particular of being involved here. Her name is Zoey. Only problem, she hasn't actually shown up. She likes to gloat over her handiwork."

"Hmm. . ." Patrick's expression grew inward as though he were reliving old memories. "I've sensed a presence from time to time in my work. I've never been able to place a face or a name, but occasionally, I've felt this overwhelming force trying to tug me in the opposite direction. I've dreamed of it, too. It's taken many forms, sometimes earthly animals like birds, or large cats, other times its presented itself in beastly forms. I cannot say that the demon which has plagued me is this Zoey you speak of. However, I am sure they are in the same league."

"Making wrongs out of rights," Al concurred.

"Have you considered that she may not be showing herself as a way to trick you, to steer you away from her plans?"

"That's what Sam believes. I'm beginning to believe it myself. He beat Zoey once, and I'm sure she feels she has a score to settle. She enjoys putting wrong what Sam has put right. We have every indication from Ziggy's databanks that Sam had successfully completed his leap as Andrew Montgomery and now everything clearly indicates that all did not go right afterward."

"We must determine how long this influence has been going on. Also, we need to know whether a demon is possessing or may be even impersonating Ben."

"Wouldn't Karen Simms know it wasn't her husband if some demon were impersonating him?"

"You would think so. However, if the demon has been around since he returned from Vietnam, it is possible that she could be deceived as well."

"She would have assumed that the war had changed him," Al agreed. "Ben would have been vulnerable and the timing would give Zoey a considerable advantage."

"Al, what do you think?" Sam asked after they'd both reported their PSI-related conversations with Patrick and Raymond to each other. They were in the upstairs guest bedroom and Sam was holding the picture of himself.

"Well, this is all weird, but Ziggy says that Patrick is telling the truth, and that exploring your own psychic ability will increase your odds of fixing the problem."

"Fixing the problem," Sam mused. "We're not even totally sure yet what the extent of the problem is. Any sign of Zoey?"

"None."

"That really worries me," Beckett admitted. "If I'm wrong and Zoey really isn't involved here, then what other possibilities are there? Ben can't be angry with me, because he has no way of knowing that I exist."

"I don't know. I wish I had an answer to give you."

"What did Ziggy come up with about Ben's tour in Vietnam?"

"Ben spent nearly eighteen months in Vietnam, then was honorably discharged from the army with the rank of a sergeant. While there, he served three tours, coming home briefly between the first two. During the third tour, Ben inadvertently led his troops into a trap." Al looked up somberly. "Nearly all of them were killed." He paused to puff on his cigar. "He came home during the summer of '69, and he and Karen fought constantly until their car careened off the road and down the river embankment, killing both of them instantly."

"He must have felt guilty about leading his men to their death," Sam surmised. "Maybe he projected that anger toward his wife."

Al glanced into the handlink. "Ziggy says there's a 99% chance that that had at least something to do with the arguments he instigated with Karen."

"But that still doesn't explain why he believed Karen had an affair with Andrew Montgomery. I thought I had prevented that before I leaped. Why would I leap out if I hadn't truly fixed everything? Unless Zoey really did leap into Karen."

"Ziggy's as baffled as we are."

"Even if Zoey is involved here, maybe we should consider another demon as well: the Vietnam War.

"You may be right," Al replied, gazing into the handlink. "His state of confusion after the war could have left him quite vulnerable to demonic influence. If this is all true, though, why do you suppose Zoey hasn't shown up to gloat yet?"

"Maybe she's trying a new strategy to throw us off her sent. We know her MO and she knows it."

Looking back up, Al asked, "Did you make those phone calls?"

"I spoke with Anna Simms. She agreed to talk with me Sunday after church services. I left a message on Bridgeman's machine."

"What are you going to do now, Sam?"

"I'll go talk with Raymond and find out exactly how to tap into my supposed ability."

"Meet you downstairs," the hologram said, then popped out.

Beckett set the picture down on the desk before heading down to the kitchen where Raymond was already sitting at the table. Two cups of coffee were setting on opposite ends of the table. Sitting down, Sam sipped at his coffee before asking the assistant to tell him something about PSI.

The time traveler listened as Raymond explained how to communicate telepathically with Patrick. Raymond told him that each transition was referred to as a Level and that Sam would have to reach at least Level five before he could speak with Patrick. If he managed as high as Level seven, he would probably be able to see Patrick.

"I have a strong desire to meet Patrick," Beckett admitted, "but still the thought of doing anything PSI related frightens me."

"That's quite understandable."

"Ray, may I ask you a personal question?" Steele nodded. "You said earlier that Patrick was guiding you through your own PSI abilities. How much of a psychic are you?"

"Not quite as skilled as Patrick. . .but I'm learning."

"Do you ever have visions?"

"Yes. My abilities are a bit different then Patrick, though. Most of his visions center around future events. I'm what is known as a clairvoyant."

"You see things as they're happening?"

"Correct. My visions usually involve someone I have previously had contact with, but not always."

"Have you ever tried Levels?"

"Oh yeah! Many times. It is one of the safest PSI activities and generally the best starting ground for novice psychics."

Al stood near the doorway, handlink poised, asking Ziggy for corroborant data as Raymond's explanation unfolded. If Sam agreed to do the exercise, Ziggy was capable of monitoring his biofeedback.

"Before you begin, you'll need to get very comfortable," Raymond continued. "If you're too tense, you will not have a successful Levels session."

"If I do decide to do this-and I haven't yet-I want Al to talk me through it," Sam insisted. Raymond raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sam mistook it for disapproval. "He's always been there to help and support me, and I wouldn't want this situation to be any different."

Raymond nodded. "That's not only acceptable, but will probably give you better odds of success."

"You agree?"

"Yes. I'm only surprised that you articulated it so well. 'talking one through Levels' is a psychic term."

"Oh," Sam replied, then hesitated. "It's just a coincidence-my using psychic terms, I mean."

"That could be, but there's another possibility that you're not considering. Perhaps you're not even aware of it. If you were not at least a little psychic, even if you and Al had brainwave attunement; you would not be able to communicate over time and space."

"Our brainwave attunement, as you call it, can be explained scientifically. With a little help from Ziggy, our computer, Al and I are able to communicate over time and space. No claims of psychic ability have ever been proven scientifically."

"A psychic believes based on faith, Sam. I know this is all new to you and so much new stuff to deal with all at once can be pretty frightening. I can assure you that both Patrick and I have done Levels before and that no harm came to us."

Beckett considered this for a moment. "Can Levels be done lying down?"

"Yes. That is the way it is usually done. You should remain still, letting Al coax you through the Levels, while only moving your right index finger as you're ready for each transition. Do you want to try it right now?"

"I told you I haven't made up my mind that I'm even going to do it at all!" Sam said forcefully.

Ray took a deep breath and said. "I know, and I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm pushing. It's just that if you participate in Levels with Patrick, it will better your odds. I don't want to gamble with Patrick's life, but you do have another option, and I'm obligated to make you aware of it. You can conduct an investigation. Get to know Karen and Ben Simms as though they were a part of your own family. Find out their strengths and weaknesses and use them to your advantage when dealing with them. There is a slight chance that that alone would be enough to convince them to leave this house. However, it is my belief that your best odds would come by employing a combination of psychic and investigative techniques. Studying personal belongings might help you learn about the lifestyle they led, but to _really_ get to know Karen and Ben Simms, you might want to rely on PSI techniques."

Still standing in the doorway, Al began punching buttons on the handlink, pounding it several times with his palm.

"I'm not convinced that tapping into some psychic power of mine will increase our odds."

"He's right, Sam," Al said. "Odds of success will go up by fifteen percent if you do the Levels."

Sam stood, nearly tipping over the chair. "Give me until morning to think about it. You'll have my answer then." He left the room, walking around the hologram. Though his friend was no more than thin air, he respected him by acknowledging his presence.

Sam returned to his room, picked up the journal, and laid on the bed to read more of the entries.

December 17:

I'm intrigued by an article I read today in a Carolina newspaper. A young couple from North Carolina, Charles and Lisanne Sheffield, just moved into a house only to discover it was haunted by previous inhabitants.

Although stories of hauntings are often fraudulent, I believe this one to be authentic. Their tale rings true.

Tomorrow, I will go to the library and research this case and similar ones.

December 19:

My library visit turned out more fruitful than I could ever have imagined! I spent two days and nearly two nights plowing through all the information.

A reporter from Georgia, Margaret Miller, has been writing a column on haunted houses for over a year. She has devoted several of her columns to the Sheffields. She believes, as I do, that they are telling the truth. Their house is haunted by a ghostly couple named Ben and Karen Simms.

Until they spoke with Mrs. Miller, the Sheffields had no idea who was haunting their house. Mrs. Miller researched the house's history and learned that in 1970, Ben and Karen Simms careened off the road and plunged into a river where they drowned. She'd also uncovered reports of the couple's incessant fighting before their death.

I don't know why yet, but I have the feeling that my profound interest in this case and my vision of Sam Beckett are somehow connected. If Sam is meant to take my place, then he must either be more adept at solving this problem or personally involved. I wonder which.

_How could Patrick know that I was connected to the Simms?_ Sam wondered. _There is no physical evidence to prove that I ever interacted with Karen._

He wondered if Patrick knew about Project Quantum Leap. But that would not explain how Patrick would know that Sam was specifically involved with the Simms. Could he be wrong? Could he have left physical evidence behind during the Montgomery leap?

He reflected back on his actions during that leap. Leaping into other people was like being an actor always forced to portray impromptu parts. There was no time for rehearsal, not even a moment to glance at a script before the play began. Although Beckett was good at convincing others that he was the person he'd leaped into, that did not preclude the possibility that he might have let some evidence of his true identity slip at some point. But even if he did, who would pick up on it? And even more puzzling, how would Patrick Marland get access to that information?

Slowly, reluctantly, as he considered and mentally discarded explanations, Beckett began looking at the one remaining possibility. Maybe there really was something to this PSI ability.

He returned to reading the journal.

December 21:

I got in touch with Ms. Miller today, who asked me to please call her Meg. I agreed, thinking that on a first-name basis we would have a better chance of helping one another. Meg was very receptive to me.

We made arrangements to meet at a cafe for lunch. Meg is a charming, enthusiastic woman with a great zeal for her work. She filled me in on all the new information she'd gathered since writing her last article on the Simms ghosts. She trusted my authenticity as easily as I trusted hers-a hard commodity to come by in these times.

She says that she has visited with the Sheffields, even experienced a few bizarre unexplainable occurrences, like moving coffee cups, and an invisible hand lightly running across the back of her neck. This woman has got guts! She didn't run out on the Sheffields. Instead, she asked if she could spend the night.

She advised me to contact the Sheffields. She is sure they will agree to let me into their home. I offered her an exclusive as long as she agreed to keep my involvement anonymous.

January 4:

I mailed a letter to the Sheffields today. Meg had given me both their address and telephone number a couple of weeks ago, but I wanted to wait until after the holidays before contacting them. I thought it less of an infringement if I wrote first, giving them the option of deciding whether to contact me.

In this letter, I explained to the Sheffields about my coming across their article written by Meg Miller while I was on assignment in Atlanta and that I had personally spoken with Meg Miller. I told them that I thought I could possibly help them and went on to supply examples of experiences that I feel qualify me for this assignment. I have worked with others before, including police on a number of occasions, but I have never worked on a private assignment before. I believe that it is imperative that I get this assignment, because several people depend on the outcome.

January 16:

Charles Sheffield called me today. He said he was sorry that he hadn't called sooner, but he and his wife deliberated for several days over whether or not they should believe my story. I said that was understandable, and Charles replied that if they could so easily be made to believe in ghosts, why not psychics?

He sounded distraught, like he was willing to try anything. He didn't want to lose the house-both he and his wife had fallen in love with it the moment the realtor had shown it to them. I sympathized and promised to get back in touch with them as soon as my work schedule lightened up.

I am amazed by the lack of blank spots. My objective to help the Sheffields and to help Sam Beckett seem so clear. It is almost scary!

January 22:

I received another phone call from Charles Sheffield today. He sounded very anxious for me to come to South Carolina. I tried to reassure him that I am still interested in helping him. However, I have other obligations I must complete first. I could tell he wasn't happy, but he did say that he understood my situation.

January 24:

I can sense that the time of Beckett's arrival is drawing close. I don't know exactly when he will arrive, but know it will coincide with the Sheffields.

January 31:

The best time for Beckett to arrive would be a day or two after I arrive in South Carolina. That way, I would have a chance to set everything up. It would be easier to guide him through an exploration of PSI skills and to help him make decisions.

February 6:

I heard from Charles Sheffield again. He and his wife have moved out of the home and are currently staying at a motel. He is strongly considering putting the house on the market. I told him that was certainly his right to do so. Nonetheless, I am still hoping for an opportunity to spend some time in the house before he makes a decision.

February 8:

During the past few days, I have been attempting to pinpoint as close as possible the moment when Beckett will make his leap in. I am nearly confident that it will not occur before I arrive in South Carolina and probably, I will get a chance to at least meet with the Sheffields. The most optimal time, at least for me, would be twenty-four hours after I arrive. If I have at least a little exposure to the house, it could prove very beneficial to my helping Beckett.

February 13:

Yes, sixteen to twenty-four hours after my arrival feels right. Any sooner, and we may have problems.

February 14:

If my calculations are wrong and Beckett does arrive sooner, it would be crucial for us to figure out why. I do not want him to think that there will be no hope of success if he leaps in at a less-than-optimal time. We will just have to compensate somehow.

February 17:

I just finished an assignment and have four weeks before the next assignment I've accepted. I'll call the Sheffield's tomorrow and make arrangements to meet with them.

I hope four weeks is enough time to solve their problem.

The entries ended there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

For several minutes, Sam pondered over what he'd read and thought about what steps he needed to take to uncover a solution. He knew he should probably call Charles Sheffield, but he didn't have anything new to report. If only he had more information to work with. _Meg Miller wants an exclusive_, he thought, looking back at the journal in his hands. He set the journal down on the desk and unzipped Patrick's bag. Surely, the psychic carried an address book with him. He found a couple paperback books underneath Patrick's pants, then he browsed through the side pocket, pulling out a small hardbound book with gold letters that read: ADDRESS AND TELEPHONE BOOK. Sam flipped through the pages until he came to the "M's." He found both an address and telephone number for Margaret K. Miller and decided to call the number.

He had the receiver in his hand when he realized he couldn't just call her without a legitimate reason. Returning to the journal, he reread the passage about Patrick's luncheon with Meg. He had written about Meg's reaction to this house. That she had not been afraid. That was a good place to start, Sam decided. He could ask her why she wasn't frightened.

When a man answered he said, "This is Patrick Marland. I need to speak with Meg Miller." The man asked him to hold for a moment as he got Meg. When she came, Sam introduced himself as Patrick Marland. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

"I needed an excuse to get away from my computer for a while. So what did you need?"

"I thought I should let you know that the Sheffields hired me and that I'm staying in their home until I'm finished with their case."

"Cool! And you're calling to give me that exclusive, right?" Excitement rang through her voice.

"That's partially what I'm calling for, but also because I thought maybe you could help me. When you spent the night in this house, you said you weren't afraid. I think probably most people would have been terrified in the same situation. Can you explain why you weren't?"

"I could sense that the ghost approaching me was benevolent. She-or at least I'm assuming it was Karen Simms-was frightened. I got the feeling that she was reaching out to me, begging for my help. I don't know. It could have been because I'm a woman. The whole experience was rather exhilarating. It was the most active, as far as I could tell, of the haunted houses I've investigated."

"You say that you sensed all this about the ghost? These impressions came to you easily?"

"Patrick, as I explained to you when we met, I've been interested in psychic phenomenon since a very young age-not unlike yourself. I'm really surprised you asked that question. You of all people should know that well-developed PSI skills come as a result of years of fine tuning them."

"Yes, of course. Look, I know you're a very busy person, but I could really use another perspective here."

"Tell me when, and I'll be on the freeway."

"Are you serious? I wasn't going to ask you-I mean, could you on such short notice?"

"Patrick, when you promised me an exclusive, I turned in a proposal to my publisher. He's prepared to pick up all expenses for an exclusive on this case. Now I hope you have a bed prepared for me, because I will be arriving sometime tonight-if you'll have me."

"Just like that, you can drop whatever assignment you're working on?"

"Just like that! Only the quick bird gets the can of worms. I don't plan on letting anyone get the scoop from underneath me. It's about a five hour drive from Atlanta. I'll need a couple of hours to gather my things, so I should arrive around-" she paused, apparently either to look at a watch or clock, "-seven p.m."

"Then we'll plan on dinner around seven-thirty," Beckett replied. "We'll see you then."

After hanging up, Sam removed the paper Charles Sheffield had given him from Patrick's wallet. He dialed the number, asked the hotel clerk to connect him with Sheffield's room, and after two more rings, Charles picked up.

"Mr. Sheffield, this is Patrick Marland," Sam began. "I just got off the phone with Meg Miller. She's on her way here."

"Has something happened?"

"Not exactly, but I was hoping that she would be able to help us. I hope you don't mind if another person stays in your house for a while."

"Just get the job done, Mr. Marland. I don't care about your means."

"I assure you that we'll take good care of your home, and we'll have it safe for you to move back into as soon as possible."

"I'm counting on that. Thank you."

"There's one other thing I'd like to ask you. Did you believe in ghosts before you purchased this house?"

"No, but I don't see how that is relevant.."

"Mr. Sheffield, this house spent a number of years vacant. I was just wondering if you felt any alarm about that."

"Well, I was concerned at first, but not because I thought there would be any ghosts. I was worried that there was something physically wrong with the house. One doesn't normally find a house this large for as cheap as my purchasing price."

Sam had no idea how much the other man had paid for the house, but didn't figure it was any of his business to inquire. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Sheffield."

"You're welcome." Charles Sheffield hung up.

Sam went to prepare the remaining spare bedroom for Meg. Afterward, he went to find Raymond to let him know to expect a guest that evening. He found Raymond sitting on the back porch.

"That sounds like an excellent idea," Raymond said after Sam told him. "I'm sure Meg will prove to be an asset to us."

"I'm glad you feel that way." For a moment, they stared at the back yard, watching the trees blowing gently and the sun shining brightly on the pond. "I finished reading Patrick's journal. He sounds like a perceptive and intelligent man. I still feel a bit uneasy-and afraid-but with a man like Patrick as my guide, I'm willing to open myself up to the possibility that I may have some PSI abilities myself."

"I'm happy that you were able to reach that decision so quickly." Raymond stood to look Sam directly in the eyes. "Rest assured that with Patrick as your guide, you're in good hands. He will make sure that all necessary precautions are taken to protect you."

"What should I do right now?"

"Relax. Your first couple of visions will be stable and sanguine. Don't be afraid to just let them happen."

"Are you saying now that I've acknowledged my psychic potential that visions will come as a natural outcome?"

"If you relax and are not afraid, they will come."

"I think I'd like to be alone for a while," Sam said and returned to his own room.

He picked up one of Patrick's novels, Julian's House by Judith Hawkes, and laid atop the covers to read. The story was about a young couple who, after moving into a house, learn that it already has an occupant-of a ghostly nature. The remarkable similarities between the work of fiction and the situation he now faced dumbfounded Sam. He read several chapters before setting the book aside. He contemplated over what Raymond had said to him earlier and realized he felt very relaxed at the moment. Glancing out the window, he noticed that it had started to rain. He had been so wrapped up in the novel that he hadn't heard the patter against the window until now.

He saw a woman as she covered her hair with a scarf and dashed several yards to a car. She stepped inside from the passenger door and leaned over to kiss the man in the driver's seat. Suddenly, they disappeared and Sam realized he'd had a vision without knowing it. But what could it possibly have meant?

He tried to will the vision to repeat itself. Instead, he saw a young woman in a white wedding dress, walking down an aisle. Her brunette curls danced with her every step. A man was escorting her, but Sam could not make out his face. The people in the church smiled at the bride as she past, tears of joy creasing some of their faces. They reached the chapel and the woman stepped up beside the groom, while her escort sat down in the front pew. Sam could still not make out his face.

"Who gives this woman to be wed to this man?" the preacher asked.

"Her mother and I," the escort replied.

"Do you Samantha-" 

The image faded and Sam, again, found himself back inside his room in the Sheffield house. He smiled, because this time he fully understood the vision. Then almost immediately, he had an unexpected and unexplainable sense that something wasn't right. He wondered if he shouldn't have said no to awakening his psychic abilities. What could happen now? Would he experience any of that volatility Raymond spoke of?

_Something's going to happen! _Sam thought. He couldn't explain how he knew this or what specifically was going to happen. I better talk to Raymond about this. He got up to search for the assistant.

He found Raymond in his bedroom viewing a tape through his camcorder. "Ah Sam," Raymond said. "I was just reviewing a recording that I'm thinking about submitting for a news program." He set the equipment down on his desk. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

Sam nodded. "I had a couple visions. They were stable, just like you promised. I think I witnessed my daughter's wedding." Sam paused. "I'd forgotten that I had a daughter."

"That sounds like a good stable vision."

"I've realized something else, too, since we spoke earlier. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. PSI is an awful lot like quantum physics. The theory of manipulating time can apply to both concepts. I change the past through quantum leaping, whereas a psychic could potentially alter the future through knowledge obtained through visions."

"Sometimes that is true. It is a very rewarding side to being a psychic."

"Then why did I come out of the second vision feeling a sense of foreboding?"

"I believe that you're intuitively picking up on something that is about to happen."

"What?"

Raymond's expression mirrored Sam's fear. "I'm not sure."

Sam opened the front door to a woman in her middle thirties. She had long golden blond hair and was wearing red cotton slacks and a sweater with a rose print. Lifting a bag in one hand and a bottle in the other, she said, "I hope you don't mind that I brought desert and a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, Patrick."

"No," Sam replied, taken aback by her forwardness. He stepped aside, so she could enter.

After a brief pause, Sam said, "Actually, I'm glad you brought the-"

"It's a dried fruit and nut mix. I picked them up at a health food shop on my way through town."

"They'll be great for after dinner." A buzzer went off in the kitchen and Sam chuckled lightly. "You know, your timing is perfect."

She followed him into the kitchen, where Raymond had removed the roast from the oven and was now setting the table.

"This must be the assistant you told me about during our luncheon," Meg said. Looking at her bag of dried fruit, she added, "I hope I bought enough."

"I'm sure you did," Sam replied. He nodded toward Raymond. "Meg, this is Raymond Steele, my assistant."

Raymond held out his hand and Meg shuffled the bottle of champagne, so she could shake it. "It's good to meet you," she said. Without looking away from Raymond, she said, "Patrick, the roast smells delightful."

"I'll get the wine glasses," Beckett offered. A search through the cupboards finally produced some glasses, and Sam joined Meg and Raymond at the table.

Meg opened the bottle and then handed it to Sam so he could fill their glasses. As he did so, Raymond began cutting the roast and dishing it out. "Thank you both," she said, accepting her meal.

They sat down around the table and dished out portions of potatoes and carrots.

"So, tell me what's been going on since you arrived here," Meg said.

Sam glanced at his assistant. "Raymond here made a video tape. Karen Simms materialized right in front of us, and we were prepared."

"Really! I have to see that." Meg's eyes grew wide with excitement.

"It isn't very long, a minute or two. That's all," Raymond commented. He turned toward Sam. "I developed the pictures while you read the journal, too. We should compare them to the image on the video and look for any possible discrepancies."

"Do you expect to find any?"

"If we're truly dealing with a spectral phenomenon, then it's possible that the video and the snap shots won't totally match."

"A skeptic would say that they weren't taken at the same time," Meg pointed out.

"Probably no one will believe it's authentic."

"I would like to see it for myself before I form an opinion."

"All right," Sam agreed. "I'll show it to you after dinner."

"That would be great. So has anything else happened?"

"This morning, while Raymond and I were eating breakfast, our coffee cups slid across the table, and then our plates began spinning, dishes flew out of the cupboard. It lasted for only a minute and then the dishes flew back into the cupboard undamaged. I felt something touch the back of my neck."

"It must have been Karen! When she came to me, I could sense that she didn't mean any harm. She's simply a very troubled spirit. Oh Patrick, we have to help her." Reflexively, Meg reached across the table and grasped Beckett's hand. When she realized what she had done, Meg blushed and released her grip. "Sorry about that."

"That's all right," Sam said. "I have a feeling that things are going to get far more active around here over the next several days. I hope I haven't placed you in any danger by inviting you here."

"I thought you understood that when I accepted your invitation, I accepted the danger. It's a part of my job description."

We've been conducting our own research into the Simms past and have learned that after Ben Simms returned from Vietnam, he believed that his wife had had an affair with a reporter named Andrew Montgomery."

"Did she?"

"No!" Sam replied, raising his voice. "They became friends when he was covering her father's campaign. Her father was a state representative. Maybe there were feelings between them-we can only speculate, but there was no proof that they had actually had an affair."

"So, Ben Simms got it into his head that his wife was having an affair and managed to kill himself and his wife in a car crash."

"That about sums it up," Raymond said.

"I thought you could help us figure out how to convince Ben that he's wrong," Sam said.

Meg smiled. "I will certainly give it my best try."

"How much contact did you have with Charles and Lisanne Sheffield?" Raymond asked Meg.

"Enough," she replied, showing distaste. "I had to interview them, of course, for my articles on this house. Mr. Sheffield was quite eager to provide me with information, but he was extremely protective of his wife-a little too protective."

"He can be rude," Sam said.

"Yeah. But for some reason Lisanne seems to love the man. Quite frankly, he worries me. I just hope that he never lays a hand on her."

"If he has, maybe she'd open up to another woman," Beckett suggested.

"If I can get her alone long enough, I will certainly try."

Raymond cleared his throat. "I'll wash the dishes, while you two view and discuss the video tape."

"You don't want to watch it again?" Sam asked surprised.

"I've watched it at least a dozen times already. I don't think I'm going to see anything I haven't already. Maybe a fresh eye can."

"I'll give it my best shot," Meg promised as she leaned back to grab the bag of dried fruits from the counter. "Would either of you like some of the dried fruits now?"

"Maybe after I'm done with the dishes." Raymond stood and, taking his and Meg's plates, walked to the sink. "The pictures are on the coffee table, and the video's already in the VCR."

"Thanks, Raymond. Let's get the video running," Sam said, and he and Meg stood, heading into the living room. After turning on the television, he grabbed the remote and sat down on the sofa beside Meg, leaving a full seat between them. He hit the rewound button.

Meg removed a handful of the mixture for herself, and then held the bag out toward Sam, who also took a handful. "A weakness of mine," she admitted. "Most people eat popcorn while they watch television. I like my dried fruits and nuts."

Sam picked up the small envelope and removed the pictures. As he laid them across the table, he and Meg glanced at each one. In some, it was difficult to even make out Karen's features, while in others her features were quite clear.

"I think I have them in the right order," he said. Using the remote, Sam ran the video in slow forward mode. Several, times, he rewound the tape and began over as they tried to compare the video with the snapshots. They could not find any differences. He allowed it to advance further.

Meg leaned forward and waved her arm. "Pause it!" she exclaimed and jumped off the couch, nearly spilling the bag of dried fruit in her excitement. She walked to the screen and tapped Karen's wrist. "She's wearing a bracelet."

"What's so significant about that?"

"When I was in high school, my best friend and I exchanged bracelets all the time-friendship bracelets. That's what this is." She turned back to take a closer look at the bracelet. "Hey, Patrick. It has the initials 'AM' on it. Didn't you say the guy who handled her father's campaign in 1970 was named Andrew Montgomery?"

"Yes. "

"I see?" Meg's expression grew distant as her mind began to work overtime. "Patrick...in the beginning there was AM...Patrick...PM."

"What?"

"Don't you get it? It's like time-AM, PM. In the beginning there was Andrew Montgomery and now there is Patrick Marland. AM was the beginning of the problem and now hopefully PM will be the end of it. I need to get my computer out of my trunk," she said as she rushed toward the door.

"Now, at this hour?"

"You have to get inspiration down as soon as it hits. Besides, my clothes are still in the trunk, too." She stepped outside.

Sam shook his head, trying to understand how Meg's mind worked. Even as he internally laughed at her impulsiveness, he realized that she had hit on something significant. If Andrew Montgomery had given Karen Simms a friendship bracelet, then they had to have had further contact after Sam's leap in.

Was Ben Simms right? Did his wife have an affair?

Sam unpaused the tape and continued to watch the video, while waiting for Meg to return. He froze the film on the bright ball of light, then advanced it a single frame at a time. He studied the screen carefully, hoping to see a face amongst the blurred flash. Over and over he rewound the tape to watch it again. He saw the outlining shape of a face, but couldn't make out any features.

Meg stepped back inside, barely managing to juggle both her suitcase and portable computer. Sam flicked off the video and coming to her rescue, grabbed the suitcase. He accompanied her to her room before saying good night and retiring to his own room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

Trying to relax so he would be able to sleep, Beckett decided to read a little more of Julian's House. He did not get much further, however, because he was more tired than he realized. After nodding off and jerking back awake three times, he decided to set the book aside. Besides, the parallels between fantasy and reality were swirling around too much in his head.

Ironically, his sleep was peaceful.

Just after dawn, a strange owl-like sound awoke the time traveler. Sam slipped on his pants, and went out into the hall to investigate. He saw nothing. All the lights were turned off. _I must have imagined it,_ he decided. _Otherwise the noise would have woken Meg and Raymond. Everything I've been told and everything I've read has influenced me more than I realized._ Then he wondered if maybe Zoey had caused it. Could demons make noises that only one person could hear? Sam supposed it was possible, especially with everything else he'd been made to believe during this leap.

He ran his hand along the landing, looking down. He halfway expected to see a goat as he had once before looking out a window and down a ladder. Although he saw nothing unusual, fear still gripped him. Thoughts of his imminent death engulfed him. _Oh God!_ As he tried to maintain his balance, he felt as though his feet were floating inches above the ground and hovering precariously over the landing. He opened his mouth to scream, but before he could, a vision came into focus, quickly engulfing him. He saw a man supine bound by ropes. A mob of men and women, surrounded him, chanting incoherently. They stared at the man, licking their lips as if he were a delicacy. A huge man nearly seven feet tall approached him, a grin covering his face. He brandished a weapon, that Sam could not see clearly as if his mind was deliberately blocking the object out to protect himself.

"Be careful, Sam," an unseen woman's voice said. "Let the vision go." The voice was instantly familiar, but Sam couldn't place a face with it. Had he met her during one of his countless leaps? Or was she someone he knew from his life-his real life? For some bizarre reason, that Sam could not pinpoint, he was reluctant to listen to her. He floated closer to the mob, and the voice grew more urgent. A crystal ball appeared transposing over the image of the cannibals followed by a woman with long black hair; Sybil, the gypsy from the carnival. _Listen to the souls in your eyes,_ she coaxed him. Though he could no longer see the mob of people, he still sensed their presence. He wanted to know who they were and where they were from. No matter how hard he concentrated, no insight came. His mind had a blank spot, disallowing the knowledge to flow into his conscious thoughts.

The vision dissolved and again, Sam was looking over the landing at the living room below. _Where am I?_ he wondered as he was attacked with vertigo. He tried to grasp the rail, missed, and slipped into another vision; this one a flashback. He screamed in shock. He was Victor Panzini, a Hungarian acrobat, and he had to catch his sister, Eva, after she did the triple, the very feat that had killed their mother. Sam was terrified of heights.

_Sam! Sam! Sam!_ another familiar voice yelled out to him. _Fight the negative feelings_. _Concentrate on your memory of our time together._ He'd fallen in love with her once when he leaped into a reporter named Dylan Powell. So why couldn't he recall her name?

His sweaty palms could no longer grip the landing and he lost his tenuous hold, plunging toward the living room below!

Sam hadn't noticed Raymond entering from the kitchen until the man broke his fall. Sam landed on top of Raymond with a hard thud. Otherwise, he might have broken his neck.

Fighting for breath, Beckett rolled off the other man. "Are you all right?" Sam asked, offering a helping hand.

"Am I all right? You're the one who could have died." Raymond accepted Sam's hand and both men stood.

"What the hell happened?" Meg asked, rushing out of her room still in her nightgown. She noticed the broken railing and backed away from it. Carefully, she climbed down the steps to join the men.

Beckett looked up at the landing, still feeling quite dizzy, and shook his head. "I'm not sure what happened. All I know is that a really weird noise like a owl hooting woke me up." Both of them looked at Sam quizzically, confirming that the call had only been meant for him. "When I reached the landing, I suddenly felt dizzy and overwhelmed by my fear of heights."

"You have a fear of heights?" Raymond didn't wait for a reply. "The entity must have sensed that and fed off your fear."

"This is getting really weird," Meg said, showing apprehension for the first time. "I didn't expect something like this to happen! The demon or entity or whatever we want to call it must have sensed that you were becoming PSI aware and fed you with an enormous amount of negativity." She glanced at the landing again and trying to lighten all of their moods. "You better stay away from stairways."

"Look, maybe what we need right now is something to help calm our nerves," Ray said. "I could make some hot chocolate."

"Thanks for the offer," Meg said, "but what I need is to get out for a while. It's nearly seven a.m.-my jogging hour, anyway. Excuse me." She returned to her room to change into her jogging suit.

Sam nodded toward Raymond and followed the other man into the kitchen.

After the cocoa had been made and poured and both men were sitting down at the kitchen table, Sam said, "When I was standing on the landing, I felt something or someone evil pushing me."

"I knew Ben would return soon," Raymond replied. "I just wish you'd gone into Levels before that happened."

"I'm not sure Ben caused this. It could have been a demon or an evil leaper named Zoey, who Al and I have encountered during a couple leaps. She enjoys going places I have already been and undoing the good I've accomplished. She once had a partner named Aleah, but deep down, Aleah was truly not evil, and I was able to convince her of that."

Raymond nodded. "Demons are in many places, trying to corrupt good people into losing their faith in God. That is quite probably what happened in Aleah's case."

"Yes, she was a good person, but she had been made to believe that the world rewarded kindness with hardship."

"Sometimes when I think about how God could let such putrefaction occur, I get so angry. Why must good people suffer? Why does HE have the ultimate say over how life dictates over billions of living creatures?"

Beckett was speechless. He would not have guessed that Raymond felt this strongly about their creator. There was still a lot he needed to learn about this man. Staring at Steele as he took another sip of his hot cocoa, the time traveler wondered how the other man would act on his anger. Would he rebel against God and religion in general? Or would he begin his own crusade against evil? Either reaction from Raymond would mean he still wore the mask of denial. As Sam continued to stare at the man he barely knew, he also wondered what had happened to him to engender such harsh feelings.

"Didn't your Mama ever tell you that it's impolite to stare?" Before Sam could apologize, Raymond broke out into laughter. "I'm just trying to bring you back down to Earth. . . .or is it back up? That's all."

"I'm sorry. It's just that. . . .I'm a bit surprised."

"Unfortunately, you are probably right about the current situation," Raymond said. He forcefully set down his cup as if saying he wanted to let his little tirade rest. "Whether it is this Zoey in this case, I do not know, but undoubtedly it is a servant or servants of the devil's who are every bit as powerful or even more so."

"You think there could be more than one at work here?"

"Did you succeed against Zoey?"

"Yes. I would not have leaped otherwise."

"Hmm. . .then Satan would play his hand better if he is indeed attempting another game."

"Game-maybe that's the way Satan sees it. But any God-fearing man would see it as a battle. When whoever-or whatever-was controlling me, I saw an image of these people. I think they were cannibals, because they had someone tied to a spit. I think that someone was me."

"No it wasn't!" Raymond exclaimed. "You've leaped into Patrick. It's only natural that some of his visions would flicker into your consciousness."

"Then his vision of cannibals must mean that-"

"Patrick believes that if he dies prematurely in this life then it's his destiny to suffer at the hands of cannibals in his next life."

"Prematurely? You mean murder, don't you?"

Reluctantly, Raymond nodded.

Sam felt the blood draining from his face and took a sip of cocoa to warm the chill engulfing him. He'd challenged death during many of his leaps, but never before had he faced the prospect of a nightmare reincarnation.

"By this evening, I hope you will agree to try Levels. It could aid you in probably more ways than you realize. You need Levels not only to help you tune into your psychic abilities, but to gain trust with Patrick in much the same way you're able to trust Al. You and Al have a bond through his ability to project himself as a hologram wherever you are. Patrick believes that a similar bond with him will boost your confidence enough to succeed."

"I know that I promised you an answer this morning, but with all that's happening-I'm still thinking about it," Beckett replied. "In the meantime, I need to get out of the house for a while. That'll help me think more clearly, and I'll be able to give you a definitive answer about Levels when I return. Anything you need while I'm out?"

"No. You just enjoy your break. I'll take care of whatever happens here."

"I'll try not to be gone too long." Standing, Sam left and headed outside. Before he reached the car, however, Al popped up beside him. "Al, am I glad to see you. Ben or some evil force attacked me a little while ago. I saw visions of cannibals preparing someone for eating. I thought that someone was me."

"What!"

"Now, I think that it was supposed to be Patrick's vision, but it still feels so real to me. If it hadn't been for Sybil-you remember the gypsy from the carnival show-Ben would have succeeded. After Sybil came to me, I remembered leaping into Victor Panzini and I felt almost as if I were swinging fifty feet above the ground all over again. And the strangest part was, that the height didn't scare me."

"That could be because you were more frightened by the vision. Sam, what does this have to do with Ben Simms?"

"I think Victor saved me just as much if not more than Sybil. By remembering that particular leap, I was able to remove myself from Patrick's hellish vision."

Al nodded wearily as if to say that he believed Sam, but at the same time was a bit embarrassed by the fact that he'd emphatically denounced the possibility of psychic abilities in the beginning.

"Then this force knocked me over the landing."

Al grew pale. "Sam, I didn't think Ben was capable of that!" He chewed nervously on his cigar. "Ziggy says that there's no sign of Zoey's handiwork here, but I'm inclined to doubt her word here-as you so often do. There has to be a demon at work here! Ben couldn't force such nasty visions on you and coax you toward the landing so he could push you off all by himself. Could he?"

"That's true. Except Meg told me that no one can force me to have a specific vision. This spirit thrusted negativity on me and my connection to Patrick caused me to experience his vision. I have a feeling that if this were Zoey at work, she'd show herself. She takes almost as much pleasure in gloating about what she's done as she does in the actual deed. But then maybe she's changing her strategy,. because we know her. Maybe she's employed others into doing her dirty work, so we can't prove she's involved."

"Then that makes this situation ten times worse, Sam! How do we fight someone we can't even see?"

The time traveler placed his hands on his hips and avoided making eye contact with his friend. "I think the only way is by trying Levels. Should I, Al?"

"Well, it's your decision," the project observer replied. "Patrick says that he will not push you into doing anything you don't want to do. But Ziggy says that it will double your chances."

"Double? I thought she said fifteen percent before."

"She did. She changed her mind. I don't know if Ziggy's confused or what."

"So what does that make my chances?" He was doubtful that he had much of a chance no matter what he tried, because this leap was so unlike any other.

"About fifty percent."

"I'm not sure what scares me more," Sam said. "Facing these demons or admitting that I might be psychic."

"You're going to do it, aren't you, Sam?"

Sam finally looked at his friend and slowly nodded. "Later tonight-after I've had a chance to regain my composure. So what did you pop in for?"

"What-oh, Ziggy dug up the info on Andrew Montgomery. He still works about thirty miles from here for the same paper he worked for in the 70's. Only now, he's the senior editor of _The Carolina Gazette_."

"Maybe I should pay Andrew Montgomery a visit and ask him point blank whether he and Karen Simms had an affair."

"Sounds like an interesting story angle to me," Meg said approaching Sam. "I don't know who you're talking with, but that's the most interesting one-sided conversation I've ever listened to."

The time traveler turned to face her, not sure how he was going to explain this one away. "What exactly do you think you heard?"

"Let me guess-you're talking with your guardian angel."

"Something like that," Sam replied, glancing quickly at the project observer. "Everyone needs a guardian angel to keep them in line."

"That's right, Sam," Al said, puffing contentedly on his cigar.

"Don't worry; your secret is safe with me-that is, as long as you let me come with you to talk with Andrew Montgomery. Maybe he'll let me write my next segment on him."

"Do you think he's going to want his name in a story about a ghost accusing him of having an affair with his dead wife?"

"We won't know unless we ask," Meg replied, giving his arm a squeeze before turning and walking toward the car. Confidently, she opened the passenger-side door and stepped inside.

Sam knew that she was overly excited about the assignment, but still couldn't help thinking about the similarities between now and his previous leap into Andrew Montgomery. He found Meg very tempting like the forbidden fruit. He wondered if Meg was married. Maybe he was here to prevent Patrick from having an affair with a married woman, he thought, though part of him argued that a man like Patrick wouldn't allow himself to become involved with a married woman. Could this leap parallel the other that closely?

As Sam drove, Al gave directions from the back seat.

"So, does your guardian angel talk back?"

"Doesn't yours?"

"Sometimes, I think he does. I just wish I was better at listening to him."

"Well, Al-that's my guardian angel-he's something special."

"I bet he is," Meg replied with a knowing smile.

Sam eyed her, wondering what she was thinking. Could she actually see Al, or did she simply believe him? Maybe she really did have her own guardian angel. The only other alternative was that she suspected he was schizophrenic and certifiably ready for a mental hospital and was just playing along with the notion of a guardian angel.

Al popped out as they neared their destination, telling Sam he had a lunch date with Tina.

Finding a parking spot not too far from the front door of the newspaper office, Sam parked the car and he and Meg stepped out.

The front office was divided into several cubicles. they approached the first one, where a black woman was typing at her computer. She paused at her work to look up at them and ask, "May I help you?"

"My name is Patrick Marland," Beckett said. "I'm a freelance photo journalist. We'd like to speak with Andrew Montgomery."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, not exactly."

Meg placed her hands on the desk and fixed the other woman with a firm, confident stare. "My name is Margaret Miller. I am an investigative reporter from Atlanta. I would like to discuss a story of mutual interest with Mr. Montgomery."

The black woman picked up her phone receiver and dialed an extension number. "Mr. Montgomery," she said, "there's a Patrick Marland and a Margaret Miller here to see you." She spoke with the editor for a few moments, repeating what Meg and Sam had told her. After hanging up, she told them, "He can see you now if you make it quick. Second office on the right. His name's on the door." She pointed toward a hallway.

"Thank you," Beckett said and he and Meg made their way to the editor's office. He knocked on the door and Montgomery ushered them inside.

"What can I do for you?" Montgomery asked, tucking his pen behind his ear. He was in his late forties, had pepper-colored hair and appeared genuinely willing to listen to them. Sam felt odd looking at a man he had once leaped into.

"We're here with a bit of an unusual request," Meg told him. "I'm Margaret Miller, an investigative reporter from Atlanta." She pulled out her billfold and gave him a business card. "I'm writing a series of articles on a house in Mt. Pleasant and some years ago, you were directly involved with its former occupant."

He leaned back in his chair and reflectively said, "Karen Simms. Now there's a name that hasn't come up in a conversation for a while."

"It's been twenty years since she died," Sam said, "and just like that you knew who we were talking about?"

"No real man could ever forget Karen Simms. She was one classy lady, not just beautiful; she didn't just look the part-She had a way about her that made men stop and pause. I consider myself so fortunate to have met her, to have gotten to know her so well."

"How well?" the time traveler challenged.

Montgomery made direct eye contact with him, and for a moment, Beckett thought the editor would refuse to answer the question, perhaps even dismiss them. Then Montgomery grinned and said, "Not as close as I would have liked. My ethics were not quite as well defined back then. I would have slept with her in an instant if she'd given me the sign she was willing. But unfortunately, she loved her husband." The latter he spoke with an icy tone.

He stood, and turning around, stared out his window. "When I heard about their accident," he continued, "I really started wondering: Was it really an accident? That war did something to a lot of men. Many of them came back in pieces, with legs and arms missing, but even some who were physically all there, still had something missing. That war stole their identity. Turned them into monsters. Now, I didn't know Ben Simms before that bastard war took control of his life, so I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt. Whatever happened between him and Karen after he returned, I don't think he was in his right mind."

"You went to her funeral, didn't you?" This question came from Meg, with a sympathetic tone.

"Yes," Montgomery replied, turning to face her, "yes, I did."

"You obviously loved her very much. On the record, would you mind if I asked you a series of questions about your relationship with Karen Simms?"

"Why don't you write out some questions and I'll answer them as soon as I find the time. If you'll excuse me, I'm supposed to meet the mayor for lunch." He stepped passed them, pausing at the door. "Leave the questions with Kate. She's the woman you spoke with earlier."

Beckett was surprised by Montgomery's willingness. Did the editor want others to know about his relationship with Karen Simms? Want them to know he had been in love with her? If so, maybe there had been more to their relationship after Beckett's leap out. Much more. Sam couldn't wait to read Montgomery's responses to Meg's questions.

A short while later as Sam and Meg left the

office, he asked, "Would you like to go out to lunch?"

"If you're buying, how can I refuse?"

"I'll even let you choose the place."

Meg chose a privately owned cafe a few miles from the newspaper office. They sat down at a booth by a window and when the waitress came, they ordered fettucini and coffee. and crab sandwich and a coffee.

Their conversation centered around their reactions to Montgomery and Meg's ideas about the continuation of her haunted houses series. Meg had been interested in the supernatural since she was a young girl.

"Sam," Al said, popping in beside the time traveler. "You need to get back to the house. Patrick is getting too worried that Raymond has been there alone too long already."

Startled, Sam jerked in Al's direction. He should have been used to the hologram's unannounced arrivals by now, but sometimes, he simply didn't expect Al to show up.

"Sorry, didn't mean to-"

Before he could finish, Meg said, "Your guardian angel is back."

Both Sam and Al looked at her and exclaimed, "What?"

"Why else would you suddenly look away from me at an empty space?"

"Then you can't actually see Al?"

Meg shook her head. "No. Usually, guardian angels prefer not to reveal themselves to anyone other than those they're guarding," she said. "If I were you, I wouldn't go around advertising that I have a guardian angel. Some people might think you're certifiably nuts."

"And you don't?"

Meg hesitated before answering, making Sam nervous. "Well, there are certain things that make me very curious. When I met you before, you seemed more relaxed, less worried about this whole situation. You didn't strike me as the type of man who would have a fear of heights. I remember you had a habit of playing with your beard-which annoyed me to no end. Then when you called me in Atlanta, you were startled that I would just drop everything to come here for this assignment. Any good reporter would know that sometimes other assignments take priority." She pointed at his styrofoam cup. "You've barely touched your coffee. The Patrick I met before would have gotten two refills by now. Sorry, but you know us investigative reporters. We notice everything. I actually like the person you are now, but you're too different. No one changes that much in a few weeks, so would you mind explaining yourself to me?"

Sam turned toward Al, hoping for advice. The project observer did not make eye contact as he fidgeted with the handlink. "Don't know how you're going to explain this one away, Sam. But you better think fast, because Patrick is getting very nervous about Raymond being left in the house by himself."

"I thought he agreed that it was best for each of us to get out every once in a while," Sam replied, momentarily forgetting that Meg couldn't hear Al.

"Wait a minute," Meg interjected. "He who?" She narrowed her eyes, staring at Beckett suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"You're Patrick Marland," Al said forcibly as though it could help the time traveler convince this inquisitive woman of it.

"I'm Patrick Marland," Sam said with a straight face.

Leaning toward him, Meg said, "I don't believe you," and without waiting for him to reply, she wiped her mouth with her napkin and walked away. She turned to glance at him, but then stepped outside and waited by Patrick's car for Sam to join her.

Beckett looked at the project observer, who only shrugged before pressing the button on the handlink that opened the imaging chamber. After paying the bill, Beckett exited the cafe, and walked passed Meg toward the car. "You're impossible, you know that."

"Only when I'm right." With a smug smile, she walked over to the passenger's side and stepped into the car as he did likewise from the driver's side.

For several miles, they rode in silence, with Meg staring knowingly at Beckett. Finally, growing agitated, he turned toward her. "If I'm not Patrick Marland, then who do you think I am?"

"A spirit. You've returned from the other side, Purgatory, limbo, whatever. Maybe you decided you didn't like what was on the other side, so you decided to possess a corporeal being. Maybe you're even here to help Ben Simms back to this side."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Why would I choose to possess a guy like Patrick Marland? Why would a guy like Patrick Marland even let me? He's a psychic. He knows how to safeguard against that sort of thing."

Meg leaned toward him with a big grin. "He-you said he. I knew you were someone else. No one talks about themselves in the third person! Not unless they're crazy. You're not _crazy_, are you?"

"I'm not a spirit." Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Most people are not as perceptive as you are." He paused, carefully contemplating what he was about to say. "You're right. I'm not Patrick Marland. Patrick is somewhere else-some other time, my time. He knew that we were going to switch places, and he agreed that we needed to."

"Go on," Meg said, wide-eyed and continued to listen, with barely an interruption, as the time traveler filled her in on the details of Project Quantum Leap.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:**

When Meg and Sam returned to the Sheffield home, they found Raymond in the living room with several of Patrick's snapshots laid out on the coffee table.

"Meg knows the truth about who I am," Sam explained.

Raymond nodded, not showing any surprise or demanding to know why Sam had confided in her. "I know these have nothing to do with this assignment," he said, turning back to the photographs, "but somehow they make me feel closer to Patrick."

Meg walked over to the coffee table and sat down on the carpet across from Raymond. Looking through the pictures, she said, "As a child, I was always fascinated when looking through my Grandma's old photographs. She had ten children, so I had lots of cousins. I understand how you feel about your friend. When my Grandma died a couple of years ago, I found comfort in her pictures."

Raymond looked at her. "Patrick is not dead."

"No, of course not, and Sam and I are going to help you see that no harm comes to him." Reaching out and grasping Raymond's hand, she added, "You're not alone in this battle." She looked up at Sam, who had walked up beside her.

He could see a fierce determination in Raymond's expression. That probably meant that Raymond was opting for a personal crusade against evil. Sam only hoped that the man wouldn't be so blinded by his anger and frustration that he forgot his original objective.

"Al said that we should get back to you," Sam informed Raymond. "Patrick is just as worried about you as you are about him." Sam sat down in the chair kitty-corner to the couch. "I've made my decision. I want to do the right thing, ease Ben's pain; stop this paradox before Patrick or myself get killed. I'll try the Levels."

"Levels?" Meg said, surprised.

As if on cue, Al popped in by the stairway. He was puffing nervously at a cigar.

Sam barely acknowledged the project observer before turning back to address Meg. "It's a psychic technique that will allow me to communicate directly with Patrick Marland."

Meg nodded knowingly. "Yes, I use the technique sometimes to help me relax as well as transmit my thoughts and feelings to my psychic partner. I was just curious why you hadn't told me you were considering trying them."

"Oh, I guess I should have realized that a lot of psychics would find the technique useful."

"You won't regret this," Raymond replied. "Our odds of tearing Ben from the demon's clutches will increase greatly. Patrick will be so pleased. He's very anxious to meet you."

"That's what I feel: a whole lot of anxiety."

"We'll do this in your room, if you like, where you can lie down." Raymond glanced around the room, his gaze stopping right at the spot where Al stood. "I trust your friend is nearby?"

"I'm right here," Al said, waving his cigar. He eyed Raymond eerily, obviously a little spooked that the man could sense where he was standing.

"Yes," Sam replied.

"Good," Raymond said and stood. "Then let's get started." He walked toward the stairs.

"You don't mind, do you?" Sam asked Meg.

"Of course not," she responded. "It's necessary if we want to succeed here. Besides, I can use the time to write up some notes. It's getting on toward my most productive hour. I'll see you at dinner."

They ventured upstairs, parting in the hallway. Sam went inside his room to find Raymond and Al waiting for him. He removed his shoes before climbing onto the bed. He fluffed the pillow, laid his head upon it, and sighed as he closed his eyes.

"I guess I'm ready," the time traveler said uneasily.

"Okay, Sam, try to relax," Al said in an equally uneasy tone. Al studied the handlink as Ziggy sent data on Sam's biofeedback.

Over a minute passed before Ziggy confirmed that Sam had entered Level One, followed by the slight movement of Sam's right index finger.

After wiping his brow, Al said quietly, "Let yourself relax, feel your body floating into Level two."

Slowly, Sam began drifting from one Level to the next, each subsequent Level taking a bit longer than the one before it. Sam grew noticeably tense as he began to enter into Level five. He felt anxious about talking with Patrick, and slipped back into Level four. Ostensibly calm, though he didn't feel it, Al coaxed Sam back through the transition, and Sam entered Level five again.

"Hello Sam," a warm voice said. "I knew you could do this."

"Patrick?" Sam questioned, his voice cracking. He felt like a schoolboy, eager, anxious, shy, all rolled up in an emotional bubble about to pop. He had never spoken, never even thought it possible, to a leap host before this leap-and now he was talking to the second host!

"Yes, Sam. This is Patrick." Although, Patrick's voice was clear, Sam could not see the psychic.

"Ah, Sam," this time it was Al calling him. "I can hear him, too-barely. Am I supposed to?"

This surprised Sam and he had no answer to offer. So he waited for an explanation from Patrick.

"It has to do with your brainwave attunement," the psychic said. "If both of you weren't closely attuned, you wouldn't be able to communicate from leap to leap, as you already know. Levels also works, because of this basic principle. Al can hear me now, because Sam, you are attuned between both of us. If you wish to go farther into Levels, where you could see me, Al would no longer be able to hear me."

"I understand," Sam said.

"So do I," Al said, "but a little warning about this attunement thing would have been nice."

"Do you not welcome the opportunity to monitor this interaction at least a little ways into it?"

"Well. . . .just warn me next time."

"I am sorry, Al, for overlooking the possibility of this happening. You have to understand, however, that we're dealing with so many variables here that it's difficult to remember to consider each one. I know this mission is immensely different than any of your others, but I am confident in both of your ability. I wouldn't have agreed to your making the leap otherwise."

"Agreed?" both Sam and Al questioned. "I don't understand how you know what's going on," Sam continued.

"Relax, my friend. You will in time. If both of you agree, it would be easier for us to now continue at a higher Level."

"Al?" Sam wished he could still see his friend, so he could read the observer's mood in his expression.

"Go ahead, Sam. I'll still be here when you get back."

"Allow yourself to rise," Patrick coaxed. "Seeing my reflection when you look in the mirror is not the same as seeing me face to face. The closer we can become the stronger our defenses will be."

Sam nodded his agreement, then realized Marland could not see the acknowledgment and squeaked out a "Yes." He drifted into the next level, then the next. Slowly, a bearded face appeared before him; Patrick.

Sam stared at his host, awestruck. He couldn't move his mouth to speak. His throat became constricted. Feeling rather silly, Beckett continued to stare.

"Sit," Patrick said gesturing toward a couch in the center of the white room they now occupied. It looked like the waiting room inside the Quantum Leap Project and yet it had almost a heavenly feel about it.

"How-" the time traveler began, but sat down beside the psychic without finishing.

Patrick smiled, saying, "It is good to see you, Sam. "Before I begin, do you have any questions you'd like to ask me?"

"Yes. Raymond was trying to explain to me how each of my hosts have spiritually agreed to my leaping in and briefly taking over their lives. How is that possible?"

"Most people think of the world as strictly linear, but that isn't so. If it were, time travel would not be possible, and you could not change little pieces of history. God is omnipresent, not just in the physical sense, but also in the cosmic sense. He is present at anyplace and anytime. A person can agree to become a host for you, Sam, anytime before or after their corporeal lifetime. Most of them are not consciously aware of this agreement while they are Earthbound, but their consent in many ways prepares them for the experience."

"Wow," Sam said, totally flabbergasted. "Have you spoken directly with God?"

"In a spiritual sense, everyone has. They just don't remember the experience when they're in this world. Have I spoken directly to God? Yes, but not in a linear sense."

"Then how do you understand so much about our cosmic relationships with God?"

"Through visions, dreams, and even occasionally through Heaven sightings."

"Heaven sightings? Are those like near-death experiences?"

"Not necessarily, though some are. I experienced my first Heaven sighting when I was in a coma at the age of thirteen. I think maybe for a couple of minutes I was clinically dead, but God had plans for me. He wanted me to return to my life."

"What do you see during these Heaven sightings?"

"The world beyond is beautiful, magical. Flowers can bud and bloom in a matter of seconds or a butterfly could take weeks to fly from one flower to the next. Time is irrelevant there. You can relive special moments and skip over others. You can leave your corporeal being behind and float among the stars. Nothing and everything matters. It's home, Sam. Once you remember what home truly is, you never desire anything else as much."

"That makes my dream to one day return home to Project Quantum Leap seem so trivial. . . .so childish."

"No, Sam, not childish. Your desire to return home, to your time, is important and has its own cosmic purpose. You cannot dismiss physical desires as trivial."

Sam nodded his understanding.

"We should begin right away with attempting to build trust between us. It is essential that we learn to trust each other. Otherwise, there will be little hope that we will succeed at this mission. I will make the first move in establishing such a bond by sharing some of my beliefs with you. I am a man of very strong ethics. I do not believe that anyone should be forced to participate in anything they don't want to. If you were to tell me this minute that you wanted out, I would not argue. I believe it is your right to choose your own primary mission structure. You have already accepted a responsibility to the Quantum Leap Project. I immensely respect all that you have already accomplished. I will not purposely do anything that will jeopardize your safety or security. Whether we succeed or fail here, the Quantum Leap Project will continue."

"I will not turn my back on you or this mission," Beckett promised.

"I suspected that about you, but still it had to be your choice. For me, this mission is a small piece of my primary life's mission. My actions here will have repercussions, good or bad, quite possibly both.

"There's another thing I must make sure that you understand right away," Patrick continued. "God has the power to force Ben and Karen Simms out of this realm. HE chooses not to force troubled spirits to move on, because it is better for them to first deal with their turmoil before entering HIS kingdom."

"That makes perfect sense," Sam replied, "because if God forced them, wouldn't it be like a mind rape?"

"Yes. I'm glad you understand. If you have no more questions, I will now begin teaching you techniques that will help you deal with the assignment we face. My life depends on your success. Ben Simms wants to kill Andrew Montgomery and he may attempt to kill you because you are standing in his way. If you can't stop him, The Almighty has promised that you will be able to leap out before the inevitable, and I'll be the one to die."

"You would do that for me, a total stranger?"

Patrick rubbed against his beard, continuing to smile, not answering Sam's question. "Let's begin the lesson," he said. "There's a PSI technique called flicker that you can use to help ward off Ben Simms." Patrick paused. "You've already experienced it involuntarily when Ben tried to force you over the landing. Someone came to your rescue flashing images into your conscious-that's what flicker is; flashing inside and out of a vision or visions."

"Sybil," Sam murmured, recalling the event. "But how can I use this technique on my own?"

"Focus on past leaps, my friend."

"How can I do that? With my swiss-cheesed brain, I can't even remember a lot of them."

"Relax. Let the visions come; let the persona of your hosts envelope you. Even if they don't remember the leap-in at a conscious level, many of them can still help you. Several of your hosts should work as a protective shield, which hopefully Ben will be unable to breach. Indeed, a couple of them will come to you, psychically aware of your dilemma."

"What if this doesn't work? What if Ben plows right through it?"

"There is no sure way, but you mustn't give up. The best strategy would be to use your PSI abilities in conjunction with rational, deductive reasoning. I don't want you to worry, because if you should fail, I've arranged for you to be leaped out in time."

"Arranged?"

Patrick nodded, again smiling without offering a verbal answer. "Think about what I've said and consider your options carefully."

"There really aren't options, though, are there? I have to learn to do this flicker or one or both of us will die."

"Your life is not in danger, my friend," Patrick replied.

"I hope you're right. Thank you for all your help, Patrick. There's one other thing I'd like to ask you about. I found a novel in your duffle bag titled_Julian's House_. I hope you don't mind that I started reading it. Anyway, I was wondering why you had it."

"I bought the book only a few days before I read the article about the Sheffields' dilemma. I didn't realize at the time that it would connect somehow with my real life-although I should have. I thought I was just buying a good story for some leisure time. Then I read the article about the Sheffields, and I just knew that I had to respond to it."

"I'm beginning to realize just how odd some psychic takes can be."

"They can indeed!"

"On that note, I think I'm ready to end this session now."

"Slowly, let yourself drift out of the Levels, while I begin to drift back toward the Waiting Room."

Slowly, Sam brought himself back into the physical body he occupied. He watched as Patrick's image went out of focus and eventually disappeared completely. Soon, he was back in the bed at the Sheffield's house.

"How do you feel, Sam?" Al asked.

"I'm okay," Sam replied. "In a way, Levels was a lot like meditation," Sam said. "It's different in the sense that I used it to communicate telepathically, but I feel relaxed just as though I'd spent the entire afternoon meditating."

He glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was after four p.m. He stood and the holographic observer reached out as though he meant to steady his friend-but his arm went right through Beckett, of course. Sam didn't need anyone's help. He actually felt better than he had in quite a long time.

"I think I'll go find Ray now," Sam said. "I should talk with him about what just happened."

"Ziggy says that he's in the living room with Meg," Al said after fiddling with the handlink. "I'll meet you down there." He popped out.

Beckett found Raymond and Meg watching TV, but Raymond muted the volume as soon as he saw the time traveler at the foot of the stairs.

"You look like you're feeling rather well," Raymond observed.

"I am actually. I had no idea that my overall mental and physical condition could be affected that positively by Levels."

"Yes," Meg said, "Levels can be one of the most relaxing and rewarding technique of a psychic. I'm glad you were able to experience those soothing effects."

"Sometimes visions or hallucinations will come as a result. But a rested Sam will have a better chance of convincing Ben to stop behaving so irrationally," Raymond said.

"Al, on the other hand," the project observer said, "is quite tired at the moment, so if you excuse me, I think I'll go get some shut eye." He popped out.

"That's only one of the advantages you gained by this Levels session. You are probably not even aware of some of them."

"Oh, really? What are some of the other advantages of Levels?"

"Levels can help keep all your psychic activity channeled properly, both during and after a session. Once you've had a session or two, your confidence can also rise. And although Levels is a purely psychic activity, it can also benefit many of your non-psychic activities. In general, Levels help you all the way around."

"You're right-I do feel quite rested. I'm glad I decided to give Levels a try."

Raymond nodded, without any "I told you so," because that obviously wasn't his style. "There are also residual PSI healing effects that will most likely advance your holistic health as a medical doctor and could help draw you closer to your goal of someday returning home."

"Really! I never considered all these possibilities, but they do make sense. I can definitely see now why you and Patrick were eager for me to enter into Levels."

"I'm glad you found Levels so rewarding. If you continue to use the ability to displace yourself from your host's body, it could have implications toward eventually getting you home, and this could even be a leap purpose for you. Consider, Sam, that you should continue to practice Levels in future leaps." Raymond paused for a moment to give Sam a chance to let the notion sink in. "It's getting late, so I will see you in the morning." Steele turned and exited the room.

Sam laid down and replayed the Levels session over and over through his head. The memory of Patrick's voice was comforting to him. Some hours later, he drifted into sleep.

He woke up as the sunlight began creeping through the window and spent several minutes just laying in bed before rising to get dressed. Placing his hand atop Patrick's journal setting on the desk, he closed his eyes and again tried to replay Patrick's every word inside his head. He wanted to stay in tune with Patrick, because he believed the psychic was a source of strength. Sighing, he stepped outside the room.

"How are you feeling?" Raymond asked when Sam entered the kitchen. Raymond had made a pot of coffee and without asking, poured Sam a cup.

"A bit strange," the time traveler replied, graciously accepting the coffee. "I remember how I felt when I made my first leap. My brain was swiss cheesed during the process, but I'll never forget the sensation of entering my first host. It took me a few leaps to get used to the sensation. This was stranger. I don't think I could ever get used to going into Levels."

"Many psychics find going into Levels like second nature."

Sam paused in the middle of taking a sip of his coffee. "Well, maybe I'm not cut out to be a psychic after all." He sat down at the table and Steele joined him.

"What are you going to do today?"

"Well, I've read most of Patrick's journal, so I'm not sure what else to do other than wait for Ben to show up."

"I don't think he'll come today."

"Why do you say that?"

Raymond hesitated. "A premonition."

"There seems to be a lot of that going around here."

Meg walked in wearing a jogging suit with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was in a ponytail, but several loose strands mopped her sweaty brow. "It's going to be a fairly nice day," she said. She walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. "What would you boys like for breakfast? How does Spanish omelets with bacon on the side sound?"

"Sounds delicious," Beckett replied.

"If you're doing the cooking," Steele added.

"I spent my college days working as a short-order cook." She grabbed the eggs, butter, onion, and pepper out of the refrigerator. "You're in for a real treat."

Several minutes later, Meg had the food cooked and joined the men at the table. Both Sam and Raymond complimented her on the omelet. Meg's cooking actually reminded Sam of his mother's cooking, making him feel nostalgic.

"I'm going to make a run to the grocery story," Raymond said as they were finishing the meal. "Anything either of you'd like me to pick up?"

"Whatever you'd like to eat would be fine with me," Sam replied.

"Do you mind if I accompany you into town?" Meg asked. "I need to pick up some supplies, and we can save gas if we ride together."

"Of course, I don't mind."

"Just give me fifteen minutes to shower and change." She stood and started gathering the dishes.

"I'll take care of the dishes," Sam offered. "You two go and take care of your errands. It's my turn to stay and _babysit_ this house." 

While cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, Sam was acutely aware that he was alone. He had thought little of Raymond and Meg leaving when they'd first decided to go shopping, but the moment Raymond pulled his car out of the driveway, Sam had to fight against running after them, yelling at them to come back. He'd faced dangerous situations before, but somehow being left in a house when the only other occupants were ghosts, frightened Sam more than his swiss-cheesed mind allowed him to remember he'd ever been.

After he'd finished with the kitchen work, Sam removed his wallet from his pants pocket and pulled out the card Charles Sheffield had given him. Walking over to the phone he picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

"Hello," Charles answered on the second ring.

"Hello, Mr. Sheffield. This is Patrick Marland," Sam replied. "I still have a ways to go before solving our little problem here, but I thought I better update you on the situation."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense."

"We believe that Ben Simms is being influenced by demonic forces."

Al made his appearance directly behind Beckett and said, "Sam, Simms suffered from post-traumatic syndrome after he came home from Vietnam. Karen tried to talk him into seeing a psychiatrist, but he refused to see any shrink."

Talking at the same time as the hologram he obviously couldn't hear, Charles said, "So? Why would demons be so interested in forcing these ghosts to remain in my home? I thought if demons took your soul, they forced you to live eternally in Hell."

"We don't know the answer to that yet. What we do know is how the demons were able to so easily influence Ben Simms. Ben - spent time over in Vietnam," Sam replied. "He had a lot of problems when he returned home, including the possibility that his wife had an affair. She says she didn't have an affair, and I know she didn't."

"How would you know? Are you having long conversations with her that you haven't told me about?"

"No," Sam said, realizing his blunder. Even if Charles believed Patrick was psychic that didn't mean he would accept the reality of time travel. "It's just a hunch. I think if I convince Ben that she didn't have an affair, he'll leave."

"I don't care how you get rid of them. Just get them out of my house!"

Sam started to reply, but before he could he heard the distinct click of Sheffield hanging up. He turned toward Al, hoping the older man could advise him. Al, in turn, sought the advice from Ziggy.

"Ziggy says that there's an 11.7 percent chance you can tell Ben Simms that you didn't have an affair with his wife and that he'll believe you. He also says there's an 86.9 percent chance that someone will try to kill you again."

After a moment of silence, the time traveler asked, "What should I do?"

Al consulted Ziggy. "Ziggy says your best odds are in trying to contact Ben Simms."

"My best odds are 11.7?"

"Well, at the moment, but Ziggy's working on formulating another plan." Suddenly the lights on the handlink began flashing rapidly and Calavicci peered down at it. "Ziggy says that you should concentrate on past leaps; that you could find security against Ben through them."

"Patrick told me the same thing, but how? And why?"

Again, Al returned to Ziggy for help, punching a couple buttons and smacking the handlink once. "I don't know. I guess there's strength in numbers. Ziggy says that, though most of them aren't consciously aware of your situation, several people you've leaped into want to help you. Sybil is predominately in the air. Ziggy says her soothing vibes can be felt like water in a whirlpool."

"Did Ziggy really come up with that or are those your words?"

"Ziggy does tend to get a little too analytical at times." Al paused. "Anyway, it's like they're sending their subconscious, or spirits, or something your way. If you concentrate on them; let their persona surround you like a protective shield."

"Then I should try to make contact with one of these people before I try to get a hold of Ben Simms?"

The hologram peered into the handlink. "Your odds of warding off a blow are going up, Sam."

"But who do I call?"

Al knew that his friend didn't mean by phone. "Ziggy's not sure," he replied, lowering the handlink. "I think we better ask Patrick about that."

Sam spent the hours that followed thinking through his strategy and rereading the journal entries. He broke from the routine only long enough to eat dinner. Meg and Ray arrived just as he was finishing the meal and joined him. Excusing himself, he went to bed early in hopes that his dreams would have better advice to offer.

Al entered the room to find Patrick leafing through a photo album. Walking up to the psychic, Al discovered that it contained pictures of the party the crew had thrown for Sam right before he took his first leap.

"I thought it would help me feel closer to him," Patrick said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Al replied. "Gooshi said you wanted to see me."

Patrick closed the book before answering. "Ziggy's wrong," he said. "You do not want Sam to try to contact Ben Simms. That would most likely draw the attention of the demons influencing him."

"How did you know-" Al began, but stopped himself as he realized the answer. "I'll admit Ziggy can be wrong sometimes."

"Not unlike we humans." He took a sip of his coffee. "I'd like to enter into Levels with Sam again. I'm confident that Sam understood everything yesterday, but something is nagging at me. I have this feeling-almost like a desire-to repeat the process. I don't know if it's pertinent that we do this, but I don't want to take any chances."

"I'll get the message to Sam. When do you think we should plan this?"

"Tomorrow, certainly no later than the next day. Ask him to compile a list of questions he wants to ask me. You know Sam better than I. Do you think he'll agree to this?"

"Well-I don't think there's any danger in it, "Al said slowly. "Is there?"

"No. Levels are perfectly safe."

"Then he'll do anything that might help solve our problem."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:**

Sam found himself crouched behind a boulder. He noticed other men in the distance, mostly obscured by trees, rocks, and bushes. Gunfire thundered through Sam's ears as he scoured the area looking for its origin. Examining his clothes, he recognized the outfit, khaki jacket, pants, and black boots, as part of the WWII era.

_This isn't possible,_ he thought, assuming he'd leaped into a WWII soldier. _I wasn't even born during WWII_.

The gunfire continued to roar and Sam heard the agonizing screams of mutilated men. Dr. Beckett felt helpless. Cringing with their every cry, he wished he could put an end to their suffering. He'd spent years studying medicine, but now, here in the jungle, he could help no more than the next kid.

"Halt dem Feuer. Jetzt!" yelled a german soldier. "Da alle tot. Wir geht. Wir geht. Schnell!"

_They think I'm dead,_ Sam thought, feeling his heart pumping the contradiction.

He watched for a long moment as the Nazi troops cleared out of the area, then listening to the roaring sound of their vehicles driving away.

Slowly, cautiously, he stood. _I must be here to save someone's life,_ he thought, still believing he'd leaped into the soldier. He walked circumspectfully from tree to tree, knowing the enemy was gone, but apprehensive all the same.

"Matthew," came an almost inaudible plea. "Matthew."

Following the voice, Sam found a man partially hidden by a bush. All the doctors in the world couldn't save the injured soldier. He was holding his intestines with his hands.

"Help me, Matthew," the man begged. "Pull the trigger."

Sam, looking down at his pale knuckles, noticed the rifle for the first time. So great was his fear that he hadn't realized until this moment that he carried anything.

"Please!"

Sam remembered watching his father as he ended the suffering of a cow after she'd impaled herself on a fence post. There'd been no hope for her either; just long agonizing hours before the natural passing took its place. A bullet was more humane.

Sam put the barrel of his rifle to the soldier's temple. Even knowing he was doing the right thing, he had to close his eyes before pulling the trigger. With the sound of the gunshot, he awoke.

"Oh God!" Sam exclaimed, clutching the covers. He had only meant to rest for a while as he waited for Meg and Raymond to return, not fall asleep. Although he hadn't actually killed a man, he still felt all the anguish, all the guilt. The gunfire, the screams, the blood had all seemed as real as the time he'd leaped into "Magic". He'd dealt with the horrors of death then, too, but he'd also saved his brother's life, not taken one.

Sam sat up trying to get the vivid image of the dream out of his head. _It really happened,_ he decided. _Matthew shot one of his fellow serviceman in order to put him out of his misery._ "Oh God," he reiterated. "How can anyone live with such an awful memory?"

"Let the pain go," a voice whispered as the wind shook against the window. "It's not your torture to bear."

"Who's there?" Beckett clamored out of bed. He looked out the window, under the bed, and even in the closet, but he couldn't find anyone. "Patrick?" No reply came.

The room darkened. A presence bore down on Sam as if intending to strangle him with its intangible hands.

"Ben, is that you," Sam said through cracked lips. He waited for a long moment for a reply that didn't come. "Ben, if we could talk, I'm sure we could resolve this calmly like two rational men. I know Andrew Montgomery was with your wife-but as a friend, not a lover. They didn't have an affair. Andrew Montgomery was assigned to help Karen's father win the senatorial election. His opponent was obtaining votes illegally, as you know, and it was Montgomery's job to prove that."

The temperature in the room suddenly dropped substantially. Sam's breaths grew labored and his mouth dry. His fingers and toes grew numb as he fought the edges of hyperthermia as though he were caught in a blizzard.

"Ben, please," Sam barely managed.

"I'm here for you, Beckett," a gruff male voice said. "I'll keep you out of harm's way."

"Magic!" Sam exclaimed. "I was just thinking about you." _Maybe there really is something to this thinking about past leap hosts._

"I know that, man. We troops, we gotta stick together."

The door swung open and Sam felt the spirit fleeing from the room. Simultaneously, the atmosphere returned to normal.

"Are you all right?" Raymond asked.

"I am now," Beckett replied, rubbing his hands together to regulate his circulation. "For a moment, It felt like a freezer in here. How'd you know I was in trouble?"

"I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast when an eery feeling overcame me." Raymond grew a shade lighter and rushed out of the room. "Breakfast!"

Sam took a quick shower before dressing in blue jeans and a sweater. All the time the warm water sprayed his body, he thought of the old movie "Psycho" and listened intently for the entity's return. His worries proved unfounded and ten minutes later, the time traveler was downstairs enjoying scrambled eggs, hash browns, and biscuits with gravy.

While they ate breakfast, Sam described his dream to Raymond and Meg. Al showed up just after they finished eating, and he and Sam spoke as the time traveler did the dishes. "How's it going, Sam?" the project observer asked.

"I had a dream," Beckett replied. "I've never had one quite like it. It seemed so real. I was a soldier in battle during WWII, cowering behind a boulder as I watched while the rest of my brigade was gunned down. And then I heard from Magic."

"Patrick tells me that he believes he was a WWII soldier named Matthew Wayneright in his last life."

"Do you think that's who I was in my dream?"

"I don't know, but it seems most likely."

Sam chuckled, having thought of an analogy that strongly correlated his life with Patrick's. "You know, I think Patrick is one of the few people who might understand how I feel, because leaping is like an exaggerated form of reincarnation. Patrick must remember bits and pieces of his life as Matthew as I remember certain things about the people I've leaped into."

"True," Al said with a look of deep thought and puffed on his cigar. "I also have empathy for Patrick, but I don't think his past life has any bearing on our problem. I mean, sure I'll buy that you had a visionary dream, but does everything visionary have to relate to something else?"

"But Ben was a soldier just like Matthew. I don't see how you can say that my dream wasn't connected to this leap. I think I dreamed about it for a reason. I'm just not sure yet how knowing about it is going to help me."

Al consulted Ziggy, then said, "Ziggy says that there's a 92% chance that the only reason Ben thought Karen had an affair was because of his Vietnam experience."

"See? Ziggy can agree with me occasionally. I think Matthew is the key to convincing Ben that he's wrong."

"Ah, Sam," Al began, hesitation in his voice. "Patrick wants you to write up a list of questions for him and then go through Levels with him again."

"Why?"

Before Al could reply, Raymond reentered the room, clutching a large envelope. Meg walked in behind the assistant. "This just arrived," the assistant said, setting the package on the table as Meg walked in behind him. "The return address says it's from Anna Simms."

"Sam, think about another Levels session," Al said. "It would be the easiest and the best way for Patrick to teach you. Tina's expecting me to take her to a movie. It's the matinee, so we'll have the back seat all to ourselves. See you, Sam." He popped out.

Sam sat down at the table, and as he stared at the package, dread overwhelmed him. He realized that Anna Simms had to have mailed this package before their phone conversation. Yet she hadn't mentioned doing so.

"Sam, the suspense is killing me," Meg said like someone anxiously awaiting a Christmas present.

He glanced at her and nodded before ripping open the package and pulling out its contents. He found several letters written by Ben to Karen, postmarked Vietnam.

Also inside, he found a short note from Anna, which read: "These letters are one of the few tangible memories I have of my boy. Please take special care of them as I would like them back as soon as possible, Anna Simms." Sam looked toward Raymond, wondering if he had known the letters were coming.

"This is most fortunate, Sam," Raymond said, picking up one of the letters to examine the envelope. "I wonder what motivated Anna to send these."

Meg began thumbing through the letters and began arranging them in order of postmarked dates.

"I don't know," Beckett replied. "She didn't even mention it when we spoke over the phone. Maybe she'll tell me when I see her on Sunday. I guess I have some reading to do tonight. If you wouldn't mind," he said to Meg, "I could use your help reading through them."

"Of course, I don't mind, she replied.

Beckett turned toward Raymond. "But what if these letters contain something important on a psychic level and I don't even recognize it? I still don't understand why I'm doing everything that Patrick can do better."

"Patrick would not have agreed to let you leap into his body if he didn't believe that this mission would benefit from either your presence here-or his having more distance."

"I never thought of that possibility," Sam mused.

"He knew that if he tried to help you and didn't succeed that he might endure tortured future lives. Study these letters, concentrate; let your mind relax, so your thoughts can flow freely. If there's anything of importance in them, I'm confident that you'll see it."

Sam sighed heavily, not completely convinced and stood. "Why don't we take these letters into the living room?" He gathered up those envelopes Meg hadn't yet sorted and they left the kitchen together. _I haven't spent this much time reading and studying since I was in college,_ he thought. _I only hope Ben doesn't reappear before I figure out the answer to this test._

They scattered the letters out on the coffee table and sorted them into chronological order before Sam read the first handwritten letter aloud to Meg.

_March 25, 1968_

_Darling,_

_I have been here only days and it already feels as though I've spent a lifetime away from you. I love you too much to fill my letters with the graphic details of this war. You would hardly understand its meaning, for I am here, and understand very little myself._

_My troop is sleeping in small tents, with at least two soldiers alert and on watch at all times. We move every day, because it is not safe to remain in the same spot long. I've shed a good five pounds already, and I've discovered new muscles. You're always telling me how much you wished I would exercise, my darling. I'm never alone, can hardly think in private, but without your gentle, caring touch, I feel so lonely._

_Every day, I pray for the war to end, so I can return to your loving arms._

_Yours always,_

_Ben_

The next few letters continued to be loving and tender, but as Sam progressed through them, he sensed a coldness creeping into them. Meg offered to take over the reading, and Sam, his voice becoming hoarse, quickly agreed.

_July 16, 1968_

_Karen,_

_Two days ago, I watched a friend, Darren Krycowski, step on a land mine. He was no more than a few feet in front of me. It could have been me!_

_I can't sleep anymore and when I do, I dream of Darren's death. I can see his mutilated body whether my eyes are opened or closed. I fear that image will never leave me. Karen, I cannot adequately describe how he looked, how watching him die felt. It was more horrible than any imagined nightmare. _

_I wonder if he had a wife, children. His parents most surely must be aching with the loss. I don't ever want to put you through that. Oh God, please let me come home safely to you._

_Love,_

_Ben_

_August 12, 1968_

_Karen,_

_I am so sorry I have let so many days pass without writing to you. We have been on our feet for many days, with very little time for rest. Sergeant Briggs is terrified, because he lost his informant a week ago. The boy (I don't think he was more than fifteen) was caught in a bombing at a restaurant. Briggs may be paranoid, but he thinks the bombing was directed specifically at his informant. He may be right._

_Three days ago, we were raided and lost four men. Two others were wounded and flown out by helicopters. I must confess that a part of me wished I had been taken aboard that helicopter. Even at the expense of losing an arm or a leg-at least I could escape from this hell hole._

_Yours,_

_Ben_

"How could he write this to the woman he loved?" Meg asked. "He's not even telling her how much he loves her anymore."

"I've never been in a war," Sam replied, "but Al has, and he's told me stories about how Vietnam was. That war broke a lot of good men."

"For someone who promised that he would spare Karen the graphic details, Ben sure is morbid in his later letters."

"It sounds as though he was becoming obsessed with the war."

"But he was repulsed by it." Picking up the next letter, Meg resumed reading.

_September 1, 1968_

_Karen,_

_I have a confession. I can't go on without telling you what really happened the day Darren died. He was severely injured by the land mine, but I don't know if he could have been saved-all I know is that he was in agonizing pain. I couldn't stand there and watch him suffer, slowly bleeding to death. I had to do something. No one was coming. Please forgive me! I brought my rifle up to his temple and pulled the trigger. _

Ben did not even sign this letter.

"Wait a minute!" Sam exclaimed, standing up to pace around the coffee table. "I can't believe the parallels! I had a visionary dreams about a soldier named Matthew Wayneright. I think Patrick was him in a previous life. Anyway, Matthew also had to shoot a fellow officer in a similar situation."

"That's uncanny," Meg commented. "Perhaps there was a reason behind your having the dream. Somehow it must connect with what Ben and Karen are going through."

"I'm thinking the same thing myself. I just wish we could figure out exactly what that is." He sat back down on the couch. "Why don't you finish reading the letters now?"

The next several letters were filled with more and more graphically detailed accounts of Darren's final moments. It began to seem as though Ben were writing to a stranger. The letters stopped for a full six months, until he sent a brief note letting Karen know he had been discharged and was coming home.

"Why didn't he write her during that time?" Sam asked. "Karen was frantically worried that he was dead all those months. She kept expecting someone to knock at her door with the bad news."

"It's so weird thinking about you being with her during part of that time," Meg replied. "Sam Beckett, you are such a kind and caring man. A lesser man would have succumbed to the temptation." She brought her hand to his face.

"Andrew Montgomery. . .in the original history, they did have an affair."

"Are you sure of that?"

"I'm surprised you asked that. My computer Ziggy made the same suggestion. Maybe I was wrong about Karen and Montgomery having an affair. I just don't understand why."

"We all make mistakes. Sometimes we enter-or don't enter-a relationship for what we believe are good reasons. It doesn't mean that we're always right."

"I get the feeling that you're talking about someone other than Karen and Ben." He remembered how impressed Patrick had been with Meg and wondered if the feeling ran both ways.

"You could say that." She averted her eyes for a second, embarrassed. "I've been thinking a lot about Lisanne Sheffield. The way she and her husband interact really has me worried. Charles claims that he loves his wife, wants to protect her, but he's too overbearing. I really wish I had the opportunity to talk with Lisanne alone."

"Maybe now would be a good time. Charles is probably at work, and I got the impression that Lisanne doesn't work."

"He probably wouldn't let her get a job if she wanted one! If you'll give me the number to where they're staying, I'll give her a call."

Sam pulled out his wallet and handed the card with the phone number to her. While she walked over to the phone to dial the number, he carefully gathered up Ben's letters, returning each one to its envelope. He was just finishing the task when Meg hung up the phone.

"That's half the battle won," she said. "Lisanne agreed to see me."

"I'm glad to hear that. The living need our help, too."

"Ah yes." Meg grew a bit dreamy-eyed. "I was wondering if you'd do me a favor while I'm gone."

"Sure. What is it?"

"I have a few unpublished articles that I'd really like to get your opinion on before I hand them in to my editor."

"No problem."

After Meg left, Sam went to his room with the articles. He barely began reading them however, when he suddenly lost his grip on the papers . A vision of Matthew flashed before him. The soldier had been escaping from a death camp when he stepped on a land mine. Clutching his own chest and gritting his teeth, Sam could feel the other man's pain, though the agonizing death had happened several decades earlier. As Sam cried out, he remembered "Magic" and the woman photo journalist who had died in place of his brother.

_That's the ticket, Beckett,_ Magic rang through. _Let the image go!_

Then his vision changed as he watched a car driving down a lightly-traveled road and listened as the couple inside fought. He could see Karen Simms' hair blowing in the wind.

Sam hovered over Ben, almost feeling his thoughts, and yet he was somehow detached at the same time as though in a dream state.

"I didn't have an affair," Karen screamed. "You're crazy Ben!"

Angry, Ben grabbed his wife and fiercely shook her. Sam watched from two decades later as Ben pressed his thumbs against her throat, cutting off her air. Simms did not look like a man who had ever loved his wife, Sam thought. No, he looked like a man possessed. Though Ben had released his foot from the accelerator, the road went downhill, and so the car maintained its momentum, veering off the winding road. Screaming, Ben released his grip on Karen and reached for the steering wheel, but he was too late. The car rolled three times down the embankment and into the river below. Ben and Karen knew no more, for their lives ended inside the crumpled mass that had once been their car.

Fighting to pull himself away from the vision, Sam tried to picture pleasant images. He thought of cotton candy, popcorn, and ferris rides. Slowly, the bloody image of Ben and Karen's fatal accident dissipated from his mental view.

"Come to me Sammy," an affectionate female voice said.

"What?" Sam asked, shaking his head in hopes to clear it. He looked out the door, surprised to see his mother, but not as she would be now, but rather as she was during his childhood: young and thin, so pretty. "Mom!" he exclaimed. So overwhelmed with the need for maternal love, he thought little of her youthful appearance.

_It's just an illusion_, said an unidentified speaker. _You must fight it, Sam!_ The time traveler vaguely remembered the voice as someone he'd once leaped into, but he couldn't recall a face or a name.

"Come with me," the image of his mother pleaded as it glided over the landing to hang suspended in the air.

"No, no," Sam barely managed to say as he faltered away from the landing. He moaned, struggling to regain control of the body he occupied. He made it into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. The spirit left like a strong gust of wind.

"Oh God," Sam exclaimed, realizing how close he'd come to jumping. _These demons are stronger than I realized_, he thought. Only now did his acrophobia kick in; his pulse raced. He began sweating profusely, unable to concentrate on anything but his intense fear of heights. He couldn't go near the landing, couldn't climb down the steps, couldn't leave the room. He was sure that the demon would return and have its way with him.

Al zapped into the room and removed his cigar from his mouth, shock written on his face. "Sam!" he exclaimed. "You've got to snap out of it or these demons are going to win."

"I can't, I can't," Sam barely managed through dry lips.

"Yes, you can! You have to!"

"But he was trying to force me off the landing. I-I can't go back out there."

"Well, he's going to come back and win if you don't snap out of it. Ah. . .think of past leap hosts. . ." Al faltered, waving his cigar and then slamming his palm against the handlink in frustration. "Oh. . .remember Victor Panzini? He was a trapeze artist and you caught his sister, Eva, after she did the triple. You tackled your fear of heights then, and you can do it again now."

"No, I can't," the time traveler wailed helplessly. "If he can use my mother to entice me, what chance do I have?"

"That's why you need to go into Levels again, Sam, so Patrick can help you grow stronger. You have the ability, Sam. You just need to be taught how to use it."

"Okay," Beckett said weakly as he wiped his brow and sat up. He intertwined his hands, trying to steady them. After a moment his breathing and pulse regulated. "Okay, I'll go into Levels again."

Al sighed with relief. "Are you going to be all right now? I really don't want to leave you alone."

Sam nodded. "I'll go downstairs and find Raymond." He stepped out of his room, and Al followed him throughout the house until he found Raymond in the laundry room, washing some of her clothes.

"Okay, Sam," Al said. "He'll take care of you. I'm going to inform Patrick of your decision." He opened the imaging door and vanished.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight:**

Meg pulled into the motel parking lot and after finding the Sheffield's room, pulled into the nearest available spot. For several seconds, she just stared at the door wondering what she was going to say to Lisanne. She couldn't just come right out and ask the woman if her husband was abusing her! _I'll start by talking about the house, _Meg decided. _Her husband probably doesn't tell her anything, and she has a right to now what's going on._

She stepped out of the car, and walking up to the door, knocked. Lisanne answered immediately, her expression anxious.

"Mrs. Sheffield, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice."

"Please, call me Lisanne," the other woman said. "It is really I who should be thanking you." To Meg's surprise, she began crying. "Come inside where it's warm." After she ushered Meg inside, Lisanne grabbed a tissue from off the dresser and wiped her face with it. "I apologize for my outburst."

"No need. It's completely understandable."

"It's just this whole situation has me on edge," Lisanne explained anyway. "I don't know what to do. I feel so cooped up in this hotel room. I was supposed to have a lovely house to roam around in, with a nice big yard to plant flowers and eventually for kids to play in."

Without hesitation, Meg wrapped her arms around Lisanne and patted her reassuringly on the back. "There, there, you let it all out. Don't hold anything back."

After a long moment, Lisanne pulled away, and said, "I shouldn't be making you listen to me babble like this." She attempted to wipe her face with the already-used tissue before discarding it. "You came here for a reason. I'm ready to listen to what you have to say now."

"Let's sit down first," Meg said, nodding toward the small table with two chairs next to the window. Once they were seated, Meg asked, "Has your husband told you that I'm now staying at the house to help Mr. Marland?"

"No, he didn't. That's why I was so surprised when you called me. I wasn't even aware that you were in town. Charles doesn't like to talk about the house-at least not with me. He doesn't tell me much of anything-for my protection."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I don't think you should be kept in the dark, not about your own house. Certainly you've heard the saying that forewarned is forearmed? You cannot prepare yourself for anything if you're not aware that it's coming."

"Go on then," Lisanne said anxiously. "Tell me what's been happening."

"Initially, we thought there were two ghosts present, Karen and Ben Simms. We still believe they are the ones you encountered before contacting me, but now we have reason to believe that others are present as well."

"Really!"

"We haven't been able to determine how many others yet. We are fairly certain, though, that they are attempting to influence Ben Simms."

"You mean, corrupt him?"

"Quite possibly."

Lisanne mused over this information for a minute. "I don't think I could ever step into that house again. How could you ever assure me that it was no longer haunted?"

"I'm afraid that no one can assure you enough if you have doubts," Meg said and placed her hand atop the other woman's anyway. She smiled sweetly at Lisanne. "You will have to find your own faith."

"I don't go to church. I don't even follow any particular religion."

"Do you believe in God?"

"Yes," Lisanne responded, averting her eyes. "I really don't think about it much though. Is that really bad?"

"I think you're a good person. Just open your heart to HIM. HE will guide you through this."

"I wish I had the strength."

"You don't have to go through this alone. I will help you. If you ever want to talk for any reason, I want you to know that I'm available to listen."

"I wish Charles was as willing to listen as you are. He thinks he knows what is best for me, but he never gives me a chance to decide for myself. I'm partially to blame for that. I rely on him too heavily."

"Have you considered any activities that would take you out of the home? Maybe even a part-time job?" Now Meg decided it was time to divert their conversation to whatever problems Lisanne was having with her husband. When Lisanne didn't answer, Meg added, "I'm sure that living out of a motel the past few weeks hasn't helped your savings."

"We can't afford to live here indefinitely. Our bills are already accumulating. If we don't sell our home, we can't afford to buy another one. But who will buy a house if they know it's haunted?" She rubbed at her red eyes, fighting another outburst. "Charles doesn't want me to get a job to help out, though."

Meg wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but she thought she heard a little contempt in that statement. "Lisanne, what do _you_ want?"

"I'm not sure. I've never really given it much thought. Charles has always earned enough money to support both of us, and I've always thought that I would be the one to stay home and take care of the children. But there hasn't been any children." Lisanne turned away to look out the window, fresh tears clouding her red eyes.

Watching the other woman, Meg imagined how the other woman's entire life must have been. She most likely never received any real encouragement from her parents or teachers. Meg thought about how she would have turned out if her parents hadn't encouraged and supported her career goals. . .if Lucas hadn't wanted a career woman for a wife. "Stop me if you think I'm being too presumptuous, but I think that right now some sort of job would be perfect for you. You need something to take your mind off your personal troubles, not financial troubles to compound your situation."

"I wouldn't know what to do, or even where to look for a job." Lisanne looked back toward Meg, her solemn face showing her determination to remain pessimistic about her situation. "Why would anyone want to hire me? I never went to college, and I don't have any real training."

"What are your hobbies? You said something about liking flowers?"

Lisanne smiled. "I grew up with flowers. My mom still raises them in a green house and then each spring, she puts up a sign along the side of the road and sells the plants to people. I've learned a lot from her about plants. I wish she weren't so far away."

"Well, that's a start. I'm sure there are several flower shops in the area. Maybe one of them is hiring."

"Wouldn't make any difference. Charles won't let me get a job. Meg, I really appreciate your concern, but it just isn't going to work." Lisanne crossed her arms over her chest, trying to look stronger than she obviously felt. "Thank you for filling me in on what's happening at the house. I can't say that it makes me any less afraid, but at least I'm no longer sitting alone in this hotel room. . .wondering."

"Lisanne, do you love your husband?"

"Of course! Do you really think I would have married him if I didn't?"

Lots of women marry men they don't love for whatever reason they convince themselves is a good one, but Meg quickly decided that was the wrong thing to say to this woman. "I'm sorry. I should not have asked that question." After a long and awkward stare, Meg added, "I've overstayed my welcome."

Lisanne did not stand, so Meg saw herself out the door. Once outside, Meg mumbled, "That could have gone better." Suddenly, she realized she had not learned what she had initially come to find out. Was Charles abusing his wife?

She would have to remember Lisanne Sheffield in her prayers tonight.

That afternoon, Ray walked by Meg's room and saw her sitting on the edge of her bed, looking at a picture. She had only returned from her visit with Lisanne Sheffield a short while ago, and he had wanted to find out how it went. He thought he saw tears glistening Meg's face and decided to see if she was okay first. Knocking gently on the open door, he asked, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, really," she replied, lowering the picture to her lap. "It's just that sometimes I really miss my husband."

"I didn't take you for married."

"I'm a widow."

"A widow? At your age?"

"Yeah; at my age."

He stepped inside the door, sensing that she really needed someone to talk to. "May I sit down?" he asked, gesturing toward a desk chair. She nodded and he pulled it out and sat down. "I won't pry if you'd rather keep what's bothering you a secret."

"That's all right. I think it will help me to talk about it." She looked down at the picture and touched the young man's face with her fingertips. "Luke was a member of the Delta Force. He was killed in a rescue attempt in Iran in 1983. His helicopter was gunned down."

"So you've been a widow for nine years already."

"Just about. We'd been married for three years at the time. We met in 1979 during Desert One. I had just finished my bachelor's degree in journalism and was on my first assignment. Luke was among the first of the young men to join the newly-formed Delta Force. He was damn proud to serve his country, and he planned to make a full career out of it. I supported him all the way. We had plans to see the world together. We figured wherever he was stationed, I could find freelance assignments. I never thought I would end up with a permanent residence in Atlanta."

"It sounds like you loved your husband and were fully dedicated to him. But, there's something else bothering you, isn't there? A six-year old wound doesn't just spontaneously open up without a little salt added to the mix."

"You're so perceptive, Raymond," Meg answered with an appreciative smile. She stood and placed the picture in the top dresser drawer. Turning around to face him, she said, "Did Sam tell you that I went to visit Lisanne Sheffield today?"

"Yes, he did. How did that go?"

"Not as well as I had hoped. I guess I was really expecting too much. Lisanne doesn't know me. Why would she want to tell a relative stranger all her deep dark secrets? Still-" Meg lowered her head. "I feel so frustrated that I couldn't do more for her. How do you help someone who doesn't seem to want to be helped?"

"That's a tough call. Give it time. She may trust you yet."

Meg smiled warmly at him. "You seem to know the right thing to say."

Al returned to check on Sam and found the time traveler far more relaxed than he had been that morning.

"Run a history check on Meg Miller," Beckett requested. "I want to trust her, but I need to now that she's legit before we divulge too much information to her."

Calavicci jabbed his cigar toward his friend. "Good thinking, Sam." He consulted with Ziggy for a moment, reading the information coming across his handlink without sharing it with Sam. He stared reticently at the handlink for a long moment.

"Al, what is it?" Beckett asked impatiently.

"Her husband was Delta Force," Al finally said. "He died during a rescue attempt in Iran. . . .Sam, in effect that makes her a war widow."

"Do you still think that Matthew Wayneright doesn't tie in with this leap? The war connections keep growing stronger and stronger."

"I'll see if Ziggy can't obtain a little more information on Matthew," Al conceded before popping out.

Sam decided he needed to talk with Meg. Although it was protocol to have Al check on people his leap hosts interacted with, he felt as if he was intruding on Meg's personal domain. Perhaps it was because she knew who he really was. Whatever the reason, he felt he had to let her know that he was aware that she was a widow. He knocked lightly on her open door, pushing it slightly forward by the force. He noticed Raymond sitting on her desk chair.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.

"Not at all," she replied.

Raymond stood saying, "I'll leave you two alone so you can talk in private." He turned sideways to get past Beckett. "Excuse me.

"I wanted to talk with you about my visit with Lisanne anyway, Sam," Meg said. "Come on inside. Have a seat." After he was comfortable in the chair Raymond had just vacated, Meg continued. "I tried to talk her into finding a job. It would not only help their financial situation, but it would build her self-confidence as well. Charles will not _let_ her get a job. Come on, this is the nineties! It is so frustrating to try to help someone too afraid to take your help."

"I'm sorry it went so badly. Did you get any proof one way or the other of spousal abuse?"

"No. I couldn't just come right out and ask her. I was hoping she would give me some kind of hint that she wanted to talk about it."

"You did your best." He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she leaned over and hugged him. After she released her grip, he said, "The reason I needed to talk with you is because I feel obligated to let you know I had Al run a check on your history. I know what happened to your husband."

"I see," she responded, momentarily taken aback. "I understand why you felt it necessary. I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same thing in your shoes. Still. . .it feels odd. You have the ability to check on my past, but I have no way of verifying yours."

"I'll do my best to earn your trust."

She smiled and squeezing his arm, said, "Telling me that you know about my husband, Luke, is a good start. You're a lot like him, you know-more concerned with helping other people than yourself."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine:**

Unable to sleep, Sam concentrated on questions for Patrick for hours, but formulated only four decent ones. Every moment that passed, he expected one of Zoey's demons to show up. Such expectation brought goose bumps to his arms, a tightening in his chest and sweat at his brow. If he hadn't before, he now clearly understood why horror authors prolonged anticipation before the monster jumped out of the closet (so to speak). Perhaps Zoey was baiting him in much the same way-let him know the attack was coming, but not when. Then as he began to believe, actually rationalize, that enough time had passed that there wouldn't be an attack, out a demon would jump with a "Boo!" so unexpected that the mere utterance of it would send poor Sam Beckett into shock.

"Get a hold of yourself," Sam muttered as he tightened his grip on the pen. He picked up his paper to reread his questions for at least the dozenth time, hoping they would influence new ones.

Just after midnight, a tap came at Sam's open door, and he looked up to see Raymond standing in the doorway. "I saw your light was still on when I got up to use the restroom, so I thought I'd check on you."

"I've been brainstorming about what to ask Patrick when we go into Levels again."

"And how many questions have you come up with?"

"Only four I'm afraid."

"I think you're going about it all wrong, Sam. You should let yourself relax for a while. Once you've cleared your head, the questions will come naturally."

"I'm too wide awake to sleep," Sam replied.

"Then I have the perfect solution. Do you like to play cards?

"It's been a long time, but I used to play with my roommates during my college years."

"That's fine. I won't mind winning for a change." With that, Raymond turned and headed back downstairs.

Raymond was right. After playing Gin for an hour (and losing miserably), Sam did begin to think more clearly. When he returned to his room, he was able to jot down three more questions to ask Patrick in a matter of only minutes. With his confidence boosted, Sam decided he would tell Al that he was ready to try Levels again just as soon as his holographic friend made another appearance. He finally felt less frightened of demons and drifted off to sleep for several hours.

He awoke to a loud crash in his room. Momentarily disoriented, he stumbled out of bed with the blanket still wrapped around him. Suddenly ornaments flew off a shelf from the other side of the room, one by one, zooming toward him. He ducked, barely avoiding a ceramic clown. Even as swiftly as he moved, Beckett caught sight of the huge grin on the clown's face and wondered oddly if it weren't laughing at him.

"Ben!" Sam tried to plead with the ghost, "you don't have to listen to these demons." Before he could say any more, the figurines became suspended in the air about a foot from him. They seemed to be staring at him, sad expressions on their faces. Even the clown, which only a moment ago seemed like evil incarnate, now seemed pathetic. Had he made the wrong assumption? "Karen, it's you, isn't it?"

As if in answer, the ceramic figures succumbed to gravity, crashing to the floor. Beckett knew she wanted him to reassure her that everything could be made right again with her husband. He couldn't even convince himself of that possibility, though. When he had leaped into Andrew Montgomery, he came to know Karen quite well, and even now through his swiss-cheesed brain, he recalled that Karen had loved Ben just as endearingly as Beth had loved Al. Both women had thought their husbands had died during combat in the Vietnam War, and both women had moved on to other relationships. Until-at least in Karen's case-Sam had intervened.

Sam bent down and began picking up the ceramic pieces and throwing them away, first the clown, then an owl, then-the white cat had broken at the neck. Sam paused with the two pieces of the ceramic feline in his palm.

_I used to have a cat just like this one,_ he thought. _She was killed by someone who didn't like cats. Someone twisted Snow's neck until it snapped._ Sam remained in a daze for several seconds before remembering that he had never owned a white cat. He'd had tan cats, and black cats, and calicos, but never a purely white one. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was holding_his_ white cat in his palm. Slowly, he managed to throw the pieces in the trash can. As soon as they hit the bottom of the can, whatever force that had protruded the memory into Sam's conscious dissolved. He realized quite clearly that somehow, maybe through a glitch in Project Quantum Leap or perhaps a psychic link with Patrick, he had just experienced one of Patrick's memories.

"Mr. Marland," a barely audible voice said.

Sam could not see anyone in the room with him, but knew Karen had spoken.

"Please, you got to help me."

Sam glanced around the room, trying to pinpoint Karen Simms' location. Seconds later, a figure began materializing next to the shelf. After only a moment, Sam recognized Karen's features-at least what he could see of her.

"He doesn't believe me," she said. "I love Ben so much, but he thinks I betrayed him. I see hatred in his eyes. He wants to kill you."

"Why does he want to kill me?"

"I don't know. He sees you as a threat of some kind. You're here in our home, and he thinks you're trying to force us to go away. He doesn't want to leave-not until he has his vengeance!"

"Against Andrew Montgomery?"

"Yes. He thinks I had an affair with Andrew. He won't believe me when I tell him nothing happened! I thought Ben had died over in Vietnam, but I still did not have an affair with another man!" Her image flickered for a moment.

"Karen, how is it that you can come to me now and have this conversation? You've never spoken with anyone before."

She shrugged. "You've changed somehow. I was able to latch onto you stronger than I could anyone before."

I've had a good teacher, Sam mused, thinking of both Patrick and Raymond at that moment. "Do you trust me?"

She contemplated the question fully before answering. "I think I do. If you didn't want to help me, you would have left by now."

"Good. I don't know why Ben won't believe you. I think maybe it has something to do with what he went through over in Vietnam. He finds it very hard to trust anyone."

"How will you convince him if I can't? I'm his wife. He loves me-or at least he did once, and I can't even have a rational conversation with him anymore. He'll go to Hell if he kills someone. Oh, please help me! I don't want to lose my husband."

"I will try," Sam promised.

Sam wished he could comfort her, but he couldn't hug her, pat her on the back, or squeeze her hand.

"Karen, are either you or Ben capable of leaving this house?"

"No-at least I don't think so. My memory of the accident and the funeral is so fuzzy." She began to fade, and her words grew faint. Sam strained to hear what she was saying. "I remember being there, but shortly after we drifted back toward this house, and we have remained here ever since."

"Then your husband isn't thinking logically. If Ben is so intent on seeking revenge on Andrew Montgomery, how does he expect to accomplish it from here? What reason would Montgomery have for come back here after twenty years?"

"He's never had a reason, but Ben refuses to give up. I think he believes he can use you to lure Andrew into the house." Her image came back into full focus. " I fear it's because he's listening to the others-I think they're corrupted spirits, maybe even demons. They've tried speaking to me. I've done my best to ignore them, but they are powerful persuaders. They seem to know what I want and try to use it against me. I'm so afraid that they have succeeded with Ben!"

"Okay, Karen, try to calm down. I have considered the possibility that demons are involved here." Sam contemplated over whether or not he should tell Karen who he really was. He needed to decide quickly before Karen phased out of this dimension. There was no way of telling when she would be able to return. "I'm not really Patrick Marland," he told her. "I may look like the man, but that is because I have Quantum Leaped into him."

"What! How?"

"I'm from nearly a decade into the future. I devised what I call the 'string theory' when I was in college, and I spent many years working on a project called Quantum Leap in an attempt to prove my theory. I believed that our lives are like a string, and if you take that string and role it up into a ball, all points of your life touch each other and that it should be possible to leap back and forth within one's lifetime."

"And you're saying that you've accomplished that?"

"Yes. When I made my first leap attempt, I didn't realize I'd be leaping inside of other people, but that's the way it's worked out. Now every time, I leap to a new place and time, I become a new person. This time, I'm Patrick Marland."

"Could you leap back to 1970?"

Sam was taken aback by the question. Why hadn't he considered that she would ask such a thing? Of course, she would want him to go back twenty years-before her death; before Ben accused her of having an affair!

"I wish I had control of when and where I leap. I'm sorry that I can't promise to do that for you, Karen."

"I understand."

"I'm working with Patrick now, though, to help you with your current situation. We've spoken through a technique called Levels. He's explained to me some psychic techniques that I can use to help me prevent Ben from carrying out his plan to destroy Andrew. Hopefully, I will be able to convince him that he's wrong about the affair and coax him away from the demons' influence."

"This thing called Levels-is it possible that I could speak with your psychic friend this way?"

Sam ruminated over the question for a moment. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted. "It might be possible, but I would have to ask Patrick's for his permission first. I'm planning to meet him during a second Levels session today. If he agrees, we could conduct a third Levels with you later."

Karen smiled, but it quickly turned to alarm. "Ben's calling me," she said. "I have to go." She took two steps away from the bookshelf, and disappeared.

Sam went downstairs to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. Al popped in a few minutes later, wearing a long bright-red cardigan. Sam suspected that he would never get used to the strange clothes his friend wore. They studied one another solemnly as if caught in a rapport common to people who just watched a sad movie together. Somehow, Sam suspected that Al understood his mood completely.

"Patrick had a white cat when he was a boy," Sam said, looking away from the hologram. "I'm not sure why I know, but I'm as sure of it as I am that my name is Dr. Sam Beckett." He turned back toward his friend as Al nodded.

"Patrick just told me all about Snow White-that's what he called her. He said that he was very attached to her and when he was twelve, someone-"

"broke her neck," Sam interjected.

"You had another vision?"

"Not exactly. Karen sent these figurines flying across the room and then let them crash to the floor. When I went to pick up the ceramic cat, I suddenly just knew about the cat. The memory was so strong that at first I thought Snow White was my cat."

"I don't like the sound of that Sam," Al said. "What if Ben was trying to use Patrick's memories to confuse you, so-"

"No! It wasn't Ben. Karen appeared in my room after getting my attention."

"Sam!"

"She's worried, Al, and she can't rest until this conflict is resolved. She says that demons are trying to persuade her to join them and that she thinks they're already influencing Ben. She wants to enter Levels with Patrick and I. I think that's a good idea, so I'm going to ask Patrick about it when we enter into today's Levels session."

"Don't you think that's just a bit too dangerous? If you start inviting Karen in on Levels, what's to prevent Ben or the demons from trying to invade your Levels session?"

"I'm not sure, but I don't think that's possible. It has something to do with something Patrick explained to me about cosmic agreements with God. HE gives everyone of my leap hosts a choice before I leap into their lives, and I think Levels would work the same way. God wouldn't allow someone else to invade like that. I'm almost positive that Patrick and I are completely safe when we conduct a Levels session. No one can join us unless we invite them."

Al sighed, resigned to accept Sam's conviction.

"Ask Ziggy how long she thinks it'll be before Ben-or that corrupted spirit-shows up again," Sam said.

Playing the handlink like a musical instrument, the project observer wheedled an opinion out of Ziggy. "Ziggy believes that the spirit was weakened during your confrontation and probably won't reappear for another thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Sam you need to spend that time working on strategies that will increase your odds. I'm afraid of what might happen during the next confrontation. He nearly killed you during the last!"

"I know that, a-and I'm as concerned as you are."

"Were you able to think of anything to ask Patrick?"

"I came up with seven questions."

"Sam, I don't think you should wait any longer to go back into Levels."

Reluctantly, Beckett sighed. "I agree."

"Talking to Al?"

Sam turned to see Meg in her jogging suit, standing in the doorway. He hadn't heard her arrive. "We've decided that I should go back into Levels again-after breakfast."

He could not tell by Meg's reaction whether she was surprised by this news or not. "I wish you luck, then. Do you think you'll uncover something new this time? Of course, you do," she added quickly before Sam had a time to answer. "Otherwise, you wouldn't bother. I'm exhausted from my run. I think I'll take a long bath. If you need my help with anything, I'll be upstairs."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten:**

"It's good to see you again, Sam," Patrick said. As he came into focus, Sam saw him sitting on the coach. He gestured for the time traveler to sit down beside him. "Are you ready to begin with your first question?"

"First, there's a couple of things I need to tell you about. I contacted Meg Miller, and she decided to come down. Another point of view couldn't hurt our case, I figured. Something else happened to me this morning that you need to know about. I guess you'd call it a revelation. I know about your cat, Snow White, and how she died."

Patrick nodded. "I'm not surprised that one of my most vivid memories emerged into your consciousness. I could sense our psychic link growing stronger. Be careful, Sam. If you have any more visions or revelations of any kind, don't let them control you. There may be a corrupted spirit involved here looking for such an opportunity to take advantage of you. Concentrate on your past and the other people you've leaped into. The spirit will have a much more difficult time manipulating you, if you do."

"I'll try my best," Beckett replied. "I leaped into a priest once. I was wondering if you knew whether he was one of the spirits trying to help me."

"I believe that's a very good possibility. Although the Church often takes a dim view on parapsychologists, some individual priests do not. I think you have a special bond with this priest, having once leaped into him. In a cosmic sense, he may be as connected to you as you and I are this moment."

"It's not that I don't believe you, but I really find all this hard to imagine. Are you saying that although this priest does not consciously know that he is helping me, that he is somehow communicating with me?"

"Yes, and his presence is strengthening your barrier against Ben Simms."

Sam nodded, accepting the explanation although he was not quite able to shake the eerie feeling of knowing that past hosts could influence him. "The second question: I had a vision of cannibals. I've taken on the partial persona of other leap host's before, but I'd never experienced anything so intense. I was wondering if you had any idea what this vision might mean."

Patrick nodded. "The entity influencing Ben knew how to throw enough negativity your way to place you over the edge, literally. He may be aware of your acrophobia."

"How?"

"If he is being manipulated by corrupted spirits or demons, they may have fed him information."

"Zoey?"

"Possibly. We don't have enough information yet to know that for certain."

"How do I prevent him from controlling me like that?"

"The same way you ward off spontaneous visions or revelations like the one about Snow White: concentrate on _your_ past. If you allow yourself to make a PSI connection with Montgomery, it might force Ben to acknowledge that an affair never occurred."

Sam paused for a moment to contemplate the psychic's suggestion. He wondered if he would truly be capable of letting his inhibitions go enough to allow visions to come when he faced another confrontation with Ben. He felt too weak. "The third question is another journal-related question," he continued slowly. "Did you see these visions while you were awake or asleep?"

"Both. I can't always control when or where I have them. Thanks to the grace of God, there is usually sufficient time between them. Some visions can be a tremendous shock to the psyche."

Sam nodded in agreement. "That brings me to question number four about the dream I had. You were a soldier named Matthew Wayneright in your last life, right?"

"Yes," Patrick replied in an oddly calm voice. Had he found peace with the way his last life had ended so brusquely?

"Do you think those memories can help in any way?"

Sam saw the psychic's expression change from one of grim concern to one of hope.

"If you can make Ben understand the correlation between his experience and Matthew Wayneright. It won't be easy, especially when Ben is none too willing to listen. Do you understand what I'm talking about, Sam?"

"I have to convince Ben that his experience over in Vietnam is distorting his sense of reality, that many soldiers of war suffer from such delusions."

Patrick nodded. "I think it's time that I tell you about the second journal."

"There's another one?"

"It's in the bottom drawer of the desk in the bedroom. When we're finished with Levels, I want you to read it. But under no circumstances are you to share specific details with anyone, not even Raymond. I would not share it with you if it were not absolutely necessary."

"What's in this journal?"

"I've documented a series of visions that I've had during the past several months. They're connected with everything you've read in the first journal, but they are so significant that I felt they needed to be kept in a separate journal. I didn't want you to know about this journal until I felt you were ready. Read each entry carefully, Sam. I don't just mean meticulously-I mean you need to safeguard against any triggers. We are connected, you and I, and I'd like to avoid another incident like the one you had with the cannibal vision."

"How do I safeguard against any triggers?"

"Read them slowly and in between entries, think about everyday, non-psychic things. Draw strength from past leap hosts and most importantly, if you begin to feel the least bit odd, take a break and come back to the journal later."

"Okay," Sam replied with a lump in his throat.

"This journal talks about the future lives I will have to live if this leap fails. If it does, I don't want you to feel guilty, because as much as any one of your hosts had a choice about your leap in, I have chosen these lives as my alternate future."

"What will happen during these lifetimes?"

"I think it's best that you find that out from the journal. The cannibals belong to one of these worlds. You will learn all that I know about them by reading the journal."

"If Ben does attack me-or rather, you, and then you die, is there any way to prevent your having to live those horrible future lives?"

"There is, but I have already agreed to them." Patrick turned pale, nearly grey. "When God agreed to let you leap out upon failure, HE presented me with three choices. I could enter into a limbo state. I could spend time in a non-Heaven state, such as Purgatory, or I could continue my psychic mission in alternate dimensions. It is important that you understand why I have chosen the latter and will not renege on my promise.

"The worlds where I will live out these alternate lives are quite devastating. I believe that by placing myself into the lives of victims of horrific torture, I will somehow incite positive change in each of those worlds. But I don't want you to dwell on my fate if you should happen to fail. You've done a lot of good, Sam, helped a lot of people. I want you to remember that."

"I realize that, but what you ask. . .I'm not sure I can promise to turn my emotions off. My failure-your future!"

Patrick brought a reassuring hand to Beckett's shoulder. "You have taken on so much responsibility already. Let me own my problems, my responsibilities, my. . .life. I agreed to live through a chain of reincarnations in alternate universes, because while we're connected anything either of us does effects the other. If I accomplish something, then you earn, for a lack of a better word, points toward returning home."

"Does that mean-"

"Yes, Sam, you can go home. Someday, when you've reached your goal, you will be allowed to go home. Neither you nor I know exactly what that goal is, but be assured, that with each success, we are closer to obtaining it."

"How does knowing all this make you feel? Do visions ever make you lose sleep or anything?"

"Yes," Patrick replied, "boy do they ever! That's how I became addicted to coffee. I had to have something to get me going on those mornings I had a freelance assignment to get to. There are times when I wish I could totally block out visions. When I feel this way, I wish I'd never had my accident, never slipped into a coma, and never had my psychic abilities awakened. However, when I'm thinking rationally, as I am right now, I remember that God has a purpose for everyone. I don't fully understand what he has planned for me. No one can know that. But I know that HE gave me my psychic abilities, so I could fulfill some preordained mission. When I slipped into my coma, I nearly died. During that time, I had a conversation with God. He told me everything and nothing in that encounter."

"That's a contradiction if I ever heard one."

"In a non-linear universe, one second can be an hour, one hour a second. Many words can be spoken and unspoken. Over the years, HE has allowed me to remember snatches of our conversation, one detail at a time. Don't you see, to know it all at once-what makes the universe tick-in our mortal form-It would be too overwhelming even for someone in a highly psychic state."

A long moment of silence elapsed between them as Sam drank in the fountain of information just presented to him.

"I'd like to know more specifically about your reasons for allowing me to leap into your life," he finally said.

"At first my memory of the actual agreement was quite vague, but HE has helped me realize fully the circumstances surrounding the agreement through visions, dreams, and personal insights. I was offered the choice. I accepted, conditionally."

"Conditionally? You bargained with God?"

"Yes, but not the way a bureaucrat would bargain. I asked that HE ensure me that if the situation becomes fatal that HE would allow you to leap out."

"But failure during a leap precludes my being able to leap out."

"So, what you're saying is that if you don't accomplish your goal during a leap, you'd have to live out the rest of that person's life? What would happen to that person then?"

"I guess they would be stuck in my body."

"You believe that theory, because you've never had to test it. Your leaps have always been successful. There have been many theories throughout history that were believed for decades, even centuries, until someone came along and disproved them."

"Are you saying that you're the one who can disprove my theory about leap failure?"

"If you fail, I think a valuable lesson could be learned."

"Wait a minute! That sounds as though you're saying I need to fail this leap in order to accomplish success!"

Patrick sighed. "Life is riddled with paradoxes." He paused in thought for a long moment. "That is one of the possible outcomes. I don't know. Maybe youdo need to fail, so I will have to endure those future lives. Maybe that is a greater trade off."

"But Karen-I can't bare the thought of failing her again. If we leave her in limbo-"

"I know this is all very difficult for you to accept, Sam. You must remember that I am as unsure of the outcome as you are. Maybe we will help Karen find peace. Just maybe we will."

There are several others, some with higher probabilities than others."

"And they are?'

"They're not all clear to me. Some come as vague images, and I'm sure, others not at all. I do know that there's a slight chance that you could develop a personal insight into Ben's turmoil, but I hope not at the expense of recognizing that you have a second mission here."

"I don't know what you're talking about. How can I have another mission when I'm spending all my time reading your journal, trying to tap into my psychic ability so I can convince Ben the demons are lying to him and that he should leave the Sheffields alone."

"I believe it is best that you figure this one out on your own, but I will tell you that you shouldn't forget about the Sheffields. They have needs beyond their house problem."

"Meg visited Lisanne Sheffield yesterday, hoping to find out whether or not Charles is abusive. She didn't really get any answer to that, but she did learn that Charles strongly opposes the idea of his wife getting a job. Living out of a hotel, their financial situation has to be getting quite strained.

"I'm glad Meg went to see Lisanne. She's a very receptive woman. If anyone can get Lisanne to open up it's Meg."

"She was a bit discouraged when I spoke to her."

"Tell her not to give up."

Sam nodded.

"I must also stress the importance of my own personal mission to you, Sam. I accepted this leap-in for several reasons, but none as important as the need to instruct you."

"Again, you have me at a loss. All this talk about psychic phenomena is so new to me."

"That's okay. I realized that, and that is exactly why I thought it was so important to accept this leap-in now while your psychic abilities are still latent. There will be times during future leaps where you'll need to tap into these abilities as a receptor. They'll probably be few and far between, but I do sense that the need is out there. I need to prepare you for them."

"I've never considered that one leap could influence another."

"I understand how, when you're caught up in the importance of your current mission, that you can lose sight of the "big picture." But Sam, the most wonderful part about your leaping is the chain reaction. Everything you do, everything you learn, you take with you into your next leap. When you better yourself, you become more qualified to handle new situations. Past leaps not only help you through experiences, but also because you remain connected with many of your hosts. On a subconscious level, I believe you are aware of this, Sam."

"There was a woman I met once who saw something in my eyes. She said they were filled with souls. I think I heard her voice when I saw the cannibals-But she was never a host."

Patrick nodded. "It is also possible for you to become connected with highly psychic individuals, whom you come into contact with."

"There's one other thing I'd like to ask you before I slip out of Levels to read that journal. Karen came to me earlier today."

Concern registered on Patrick's face, but he did not say anything.

"She wants to speak with you. She feels that you can help her figure out how to deal with her husband. She's afraid of him. What's worse, demons are trying to coax her over to their side.

"Sam, if God thought it would work out better for me to deal with her directly, HE would never have asked for my permission to allow you to leap in."

"But what if God wants you and I to work together to help Karen. Through Levels, we can do that."

Patrick reflected on this suggestion for a moment. "That is a possibility that I have not considered. Let me think about it for a while. I'll give you my recommendation through Al."

"Recommendation?"

"Yes. The final decision should be yours."

As Sam nodded, he slowly allowed himself to slip away from Patrick and back into his room. Calavicci had popped out sometime during the Levels session. "Al?" Beckett called although he knew his friend couldn't hear him from outside of the imaging chamber. He got up and walked out of the room and across the hall. Hearing the gentle clicking of Meg's keyboard, he decided to knock.

After a moment, she came to the door. "How did it go?" she asked.

"I think it went rather well-except when I came out of Levels, Al was no longer in the room. That bothered me for a moment." He paused. "Am I disturbing your writing? We can talk later."

"No, it's fine. I can use a break anyway. Would you like to take a walk and talk about it?"

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that."

"Give me a minute to get my shoes and coat on, then, and I'll be right out."

Meg, following Sam's gaze, glanced over her shoulder, obviously aware that the project observer had returned. As Al stepped toward Sam, he fiddled with the handlink.

"Sam, I'm sorry about stepping out for a while, but the session went on for so long," Calavicci said. "Did Patrick answer all your questions?"

"Al asked whether Patrick answered all my questions," Sam explained to Meg as he sat up. "Yes, he did." During the next few minutes, the time traveler recounted his interaction with Patrick Marland.

"What do you think I should do, Al?" Beckett asked when he'd finished.

"I think you should step out of the house for a while," the hologram replied. "That way you can clear your head before the next surprise rears its ugly head."

"Meg suggested the same thing." Sam glanced at her with a smile. "We're going to take a walk together in a couple of minutes."

"Ah. . .lucky you," Al said enviously. "I wouldn't mind taking a dame like that-"

"Al!"

"What did he say?" Meg asked.

Sam looked at the project observer as he replied. "He said he was leaving, so we could take our walk."

"Okay, I get the picture, Sam," Al said before popping out.

A couple minutes later, Sam and Meg stepped out the front door. "It's getting dark out already!" Sam exclaimed.

"Already? It's after six o'clock. You didn't realize how long your Levels session lasted, did you?"

"Apparently not."

"Let's go that way," Meg said, pointing to her left. "We can walk through the park just a couple of blocks away.

They made their way down the sidewalk and through the park. Meg stopped at the swings and sat down in one. Following her example, Sam sat down in the next one over.

"I used to love to swing when I was a little girl," she said, bending and flexing her legs slightly. "To be so innocent again."

"Why not?" Sam said and began pumping his swing upward. It felt good to behave like a child for a while, to forget the problems they faced.

With a squeal, Meg joined him and they competed to see who could swing the highest. After several minutes, they both grew exhausted and conceded to a tie.

"Thanks, Sam," she said after catching her breath. "I really needed that."

"We better get back before it's pitch dark out."

When they returned to the Sheffield house, Raymond greeted them at the door. "Charles Sheffield called while you were gone," Raymond said. "He's none too happy."

"We're working as fast as we can," Sam replied.

"No. That's not it. Lisanne told him about Meg's visit yesterday."

"I should have considered that possibility," Meg said. "I should never have stuck my nose in their personal business."

Sam placed his hands reassuringly on her shoulders. "Don't fret about it. I'll call Sheffield back and calm him down."

"How?"

"I don't know. I'll improvise."

Sam went to the phone and dialed the hotel number from memory. Sheffield answered on the second ring. "Mr. Sheffield, this is Patrick Marland returning your call."

"Yes. I want to thank your little friend for coercing my wife."

"Meg did not coerce your wife, sir. She just wanted to help."

Hearing this, Meg walked up to stand beside Sam. She was obviously trying to restrain herself from grabbing the phone and telling Sheffield off.

"My wife does not have to work. I make plenty to support her. But now thanks to your friend, she's gone out and gotten herself a job at a flower shop. I don't need my wife coming home every day with dirty hands and too tired to cook a decent meal."

"Mr. Sheffield, did you ever consider that your wife might find working with plants rewarding?"

"Well, I can't ask her that now, because I don't know where she is!"

Sam lowered the phone to whisper to Meg, "He doesn't know where she is!"

Alarm registered on her face, but she didn't reply. They couldn't carry on a conversation while they still had Charles Sheffield on the phone.

"Mr. Sheffield," Sam said, returning the receiver to his face, "I'm sure your wife will return soon, and Meg apologizes for the trouble she caused. We will certainly understand if you decide to call us off the case and hire someone new."

"No, no. Bringing someone new in would just undermine the progress you've made. Just stick to getting rid of the ghosts from now on and leave my wife alone!" Sheffield hung up the phone.

"Well, I can't say that I calmed him down," Sam said returning the receiver to its cradle, "but at least he didn't fire us. Lisanne was hired by one of the flower shops in the area. Although Charles warned us to stay away from his wife, I don't think that would be a good idea."

"I don't either!" Meg exclaimed.

"Be very careful, you two," Raymond interjected. "Getting in the middle of a domestic problem can be dangerous."

"I've been through my share of danger," Meg told him.

"So have I," Sam said.

"There's obviously something not right going on between them," Meg added. "If only I had some kind of proof, I'd go to the police or a social worker."

"But even with proof," Sam began, " if Lisanne isn't willing to press charges-"

Meg clenched her fist. "I pray to God that she's left him." After she had a chance to release some of her anger, she said. "I think we need a bouquet of flowers to brighten the living room. I'll go out and buy some tomorrow."

"Good thinking."

Raymond shook his head, but rather than say any more, he opted to retreat into the kitchen.

"What should we do now?" Meg asked.

"You said earlier that you wished you could know a little about my past. I'd like to show you something." He led her up to his bedroom and grabbed the photograph of himself off the dresser. "Patrick took this photograph of me when we were in high school."

"You knew each other!" she exclaimed as she accepted the picture.

"Not exactly. We both lived in Indiana, but we attended different high schools. He was at that basketball game, taking pictures for his school's newspaper."

"There's a blue light surrounding you," Meg said. "Either that high school gym had odd lighting or-"

"That was the moment I leaped out. You see, a while back I leaped into myself, at the age of sixteen, and I went back to win that basketball game against Bentleyville."

Al returned at that moment, chewing on an unlit cigar. "I trust you're done with your walk by now," he said.

Sam glanced at the older man, but did not respond.

"A lot of people wish to return to their childhood," Meg said, oblivious to Al's presence. "You actually got to for a while." She handed the photograph back to Beckett.

"I kept this picture out, because Raymond says that photographs help Patrick see his visions clearer. Unfortunately, I can't see anything beyond the photo. I felt so vulnerable like a puppet. I let the spirit lead me out into the hallway and I would have jumped if Patrick hadn't warned me."

"I was with him, Sam, when he sent the warning," Al said as he lit his cigar and began puffing on it. "He kept saying 'fight back,' over and over so many times that I thought he was going to start convulsing."

Sam walked over to the desk and removed the second journal. "Patrick told me to read this right away."

"What is it?" Meg asked.

At the same time, Al asked, "Another journal?"

"Yes, a journal," Sam replied, glancing from Al to Meg. "Al's here again," he informed Meg. "I hope this gives me the strength to convince Ben to fight the evil spirits, so I can leap out of here."

"I hope so too, Sam," Al replied.

Meg walked up to Sam and grasped his free hand. She obviously sympathized with his plight, but was she becoming too attached to him even though she realized he would eventually leap out?

"Al, do you haven anything new you need to tell me?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right," the project observer admitted. "Looks like Meg's taking good care of you."

"Thanks for your concern, Al. Now if you would excuse me, I'd like to read a little of this journal before dinner."

"While you do that, I'll have a talk with Patrick. Let's see if we can't come up with any ideas." He punched a couple buttons, then stepped through the door, taking him back to The Waiting Room.

"Could you give me some time alone, Meg?" Sam asked.

"Of course," she replied. "I have some research that I've been procrastinating about. I guess I can get to that now. Thanks for the walk, Sam."

"I should be thanking you."

Meg looked a bit embarrassed, but smiled and kissed Sam on the cheek. They stared at one another for a long moment and Sam felt a sudden tension between them. He was beginning to feel attracted to this woman! But would it be right to make a move now? He would only be Patrick for a short while longer and he had no idea whether it was Patrick's destiny to form a permanent relationship with Meg or not.

"I'll see you later," she said, breaking the tension by turning and leaving the room.

Sam sat down at the desk and began reading the second journal, which foretold of bizarre future lives.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven:**

November 13,

My visions and impressions have become progressively stronger. Perhaps that's because I need to understand what must happen before it's fully set in motion. I will have to experience future lives-and deaths.

I sense that it's not only important that I live as each of these incarnations, but is also important how I die. My approach to those events; my attitude, somehow matters.

November 16,

The first life is becoming clearer to me. I will be taken captive and kept as a prize. I will be held for a period of time and cultivated as livestock.

First, they will bind me, naked, on a horizontal pallet. My cage is a solitary cell: no other victims are held with me. The bonds are inescapable, allowing only enough movement to keep my circulation normal.

Their goal is to produce a product laden with as much meat as possible. This means that the captive must remain completely restrained as to have no exercise at all.

Yet, because of their beliefs one activity is frequently generated during captivity. They keep the captives-at least the males-sexually active. They don't mate their victim, but stimulate him to climax and sometimes attempt to produce that sort of engagement in a way experienced as violent and painful.

Beyond that exception, though, physical activity is restricted and the captive remains immobile, on his back to facilitate the fleshing out of the body for the time of harvest.

From here, I fear it. Yet, I know if the effort to solve the delusion does not succeed, that I must accept-indeed embrace-this fate.

Sam thought about his vision of the cannibals and tried to remember the details. It had been quite frightening and yet it had revealed only a fraction of what he had just read. _I can't let this happen to Patrick! _He could not recall ever having failed a leap, but that did not lessen his terror. He felt almost as though he were in danger of experiencing the torment. Perhaps that was because he was inside Patrick Marland and very much experiencing the other man's life right now.

November 24,

The nature of the visions puzzle me.

I will live in other dimensions, where events I'm used to thinking of as terrible will happen to me.

I almost understand why. From this life perspective, I indeed fear it. Yet, fear-though present-isn't what I feel most strongly in those lives.

In the first, I still don't know how I'm taken captive. I do know that I begin to feel a perverse need for what will happen. My surrender of the psyche aspect of self is total and early.

As I'm being held and cultivated, I begin feeling eager to serve the use well; and even early on, desire for consummation of the purpose. During this term, if left alone, my entire being begins yearning the time of serving their ends-even though I know I will not only be killed, but it will be a painful protracted experience.

In the more immediate, I feel intense desire for having my body successfully prepared to best suit their needs. My need is so strong that the bonds that restrain me trouble me most because they limit my ability to cooperate with my keepers. My eagerness to surrender becomes overwhelming and never diminishes.

I welcome the arrival of the actual preparing of myself as food.

I feel a fine irony in this life, with my desperate desire to be both fully cultivated to best serve and also to come to that end. If the first stage is implemented successfully, they will extend the time they keep me alive-almost doubling it-to develop the meatiest possible livestock.

Yet I feel a need for that, too, and thus become increasingly alert to the subtle sensory signals that drift to consciousness each time the fellow in charge performs the periodic inspection. 

November 26,

Before long, the desire to fulfill the needs of the captors affects all I do. I must be force fed through tubes to be plumped up. These tube feedings occur two ways: insertion into the esophagus; and-intermittently, and seemingly specifically to develop the abdomen area-through the naval [If Sam Beckett reads this, he may wish that the project check records for any medical procedures using similar techniques.] I willingly take the tube into myself, though I know the substance they will pump into me will stuff my body so fully as to engender pain.

They want well-ripened, but not fatty, livestock, and the diet is designed to produce that.

They are an odd society, mostly primitive with some modern technology and anatomical/physiological knowledge. I don't know where I am, but suspect another place, another dimension. 

November 28,

Upon the final, painful evaluation of the flesh, the instructor tells me I will live two more days, undergoing preparation for the harvest.

Preparation on the last two days includes three main processes: the continuation of sexual activities, internal and external cleansing of the body, and the seasoning of the meat.

The worst is the indescribably intrusive and painful act of cleansing, of internal purgation and evacuation. As soon as one is determined ripe for harvest, one is no longer fed so that this may be accomplished. The rest I cannot even write, here, but have in some way experienced in psychic revelation as most unpleasant and distressful.

Some of the forms of enforced sex are also unpleasant-even painful at times, but for the most part, these experiences

occur as I've become accustomed: not my choice but accepted as fact surrendered to and physically satisfying if not pleasant in a personal way.

The third activity, though, evokes sensual pleasure that results in ecstasy at times. The rubbing into oneself of the special herbs that will act as seasoning. Whatever they do for the meat of all livestock, they induce pleasure in the subject when the prey is treated. It takes but a single such occasion before I become desirous of such event, even though I realize these are preparations for my slaughter.

I have become anxious for that outcome long since and am more than ready for the consummation of that fate. 

Sam looked up from the journal, sickened by what he had just read. He knew that his own world had had its share of horrors, the Holocaust, concentration camps, and the prospect of nuclear war, but no amount of exposure to such knowledge could lessen the repulsion he felt. He closed his eyes, trying to gather inner strength. _Sybil_, he thought, _how would you handle this situation? Would you tell me that it's as inevitable as my leaping from life to life, collecting souls in my eyes?_ Sam waited for a long moment, trying to will a vision.

_Be strong, Sam_, Sybil said. Beckett could not see the gypsy, but her words were as crisp as though she were in the room with him. _If Patrick must go through these other lives, then it is with a purpose._

Opening his eyes, Sam looked down at the journal, not to read the words, but to just look at it. The hardbound book felt foreign in his hands, like it belonged to another world.

"Patrick wants me to read it," Beckett said aloud. Never before had he had so much trouble making himself do something that needed to be done. He sighed heavily and began reading the next entry.

December 5,

Last night's visions baffle and trouble me more than those that have come before. The voodoo religion believes in "living dead" and that is what happens to me.

Boiling me alive is the first stage of preparation. Somehow, I know how long it takes-twelve minutes of agonizing burning before I succumb to death. When death comes, the psyche vanishes into oblivion. But not for long.

My psyche awakes bound to the body, which is now on a slab, as the boiling ends. Soon, I realize that though I am conscious, I am physically dead. I have no mobility, but I experience excruciating pain as they finish preparing my body. Yet, somehow I derive pleasure from it. I am aware, sentient, and so I fear.

Those in charge of the tribe begin gutting my body. I feel the knife penetrate just below my rib cage and the preparer slice my body open from there to my pelvis. Next comes the removal of my innards. Those deemed edible will be cooked separately from the main body; those deemed inedible preserved for other uses by the tribe.

Sam stopped reading midway through the entry and wiped his brow. The thermostat in the house was only set at seventy degrees, but Sam was perspiring as though it was the middle of summer. He felt dizzy and rubbed his temples to ebb the headache coming on. After a long moment, he forced himself to look at the journal again.

Despite my awareness of pleasure, I am unprepared for my intense reaction to the preparer closing his fist around the first of my internal organs and subsequently cutting it loose.

The greatest torture now becomes the need to have each step begin to unfold. When one organ, or other internal portion of my body, has been removed, my desperate need for the next excision to commence is unimaginable.

Once all my organs are removed, my pleasure has become so intense that I feel titillated at the prospect of the next phase when the chef in charge will prepare the heart and lungs, which are the prized elements of their cuisine. Next, he closes my body with pins as one would a chicken.

I'm left desperate for the commencement of the next stage, though I know instinctively that I will begin to feel distress now. I'm desperate even for the distress.

December 8,

It seemed far too long after the gutting before I felt my body being moved. Almost instantly, I'm facing downward.

The second cooking stage is a barbecue and to accomplish that my body must be run through with a spit. I feel a strong need for the rod to penetrate and become one with my eviscerated corpse.

They cannot logically know I am still in some way able to feel this. Yet, it is almost as if they do. The skewering progress is slow, enhancing my ecstasy.

Yet, it is not this, but the next phase, when my body is hung above a fire and cooked, that makes the slowness an agony. I experienced something while being backed that should mean pain, but brings unimaginable pleasure instead. 

Sam suddenly felt the need for a drink. Taking the journal with him, he went downstairs to pour a double scotch from the wet bar in the living room. He found Meg working at the coffee table.

She looked up from the pile of books and papers to ask, "How is everything going?"

"This journal is a bit more intense than I expected," he admitted. Though he had not drunk much since his college days, Sam managed to down the scotch quickly. After he finished the drink, he still felt tense and very unwilling to read any more of the journal.

"Go easy on that stuff, Sam," Meg said as she began closing her books and putting them in a pile. "I understand how the contents of that journal must make you feel, but don't you think you'll regret it later if you become drunk now? Let yourself relax. Read the journal slowly, and try to tap into the strengths of your past hosts."

"Thanks for the advice. You sound a lot like Patrick right now."

"I'm flattered. And on that note, I better leave you alone." She picked up her books and papers. "I'll see you in the morning."

Once Meg had disappeared up the stairs, Sam poured himself another scotch, this time with ice and with plans to drink this one slower-Meg was right that he shouldn't try to get drunk. Beckett went to the sofa to read more of the journal. 

December 9

With the skewer protruding at both ends, I find myself again on my back. They bind the extremities to the pole, which gives me intense pleasure as when the process began. The foreman binds my ankles, crossed, over the top of the pole, then place my arms over my head and bind my wrists in a similar fashion.

I knew what to expect-somewhat, but not precisely-next. Still, the pleasure sensation came as a shock wave as the preparer fastened my penis to the pole-and did so by piercing the tip and fastening it. It felt unlike anything in physical life.

And when it was done, I felt in need of nothing so much as the process of undergoing the next phase of the cooking of the body I had inhabited less than four hours ago.

December 13,

The worst experience is the rapes. Certain things are valued in their cultures, and this is one. They believe consumption translate to action, to inclination. The male organs are valued in their flesh food only after the heart and the brain. In the ideal, male livestock is sexually as active as possible (but denied any actual female mating) throughout cultivation, most ideal if death and sex occur simultaneously. The enforced act is often painful and always unpleasant.

That is not so of the sensual, but not sexual attentions given the body-including the male parts. Those produce not only pleasure, but often ecstasy as they treat the body with concoctions that open pores to allow full absorption, then with growth enhancers and herbs that will help season the flesh of the body for the dining.

When the cooking is done, the dead carcass I had animated is taken from the grill and laid on a slab. The first course will consist of the heart and appropriate external flesh.

December 16,

The sensations do not end, even after the consumption of all the body deemed edible. The "trainer" had told me of the fate of the rest.

I wonder if I will feel pleasure, pain, some of both, or if I will reach oblivion-or some other afterlife form-before.

I know what to expect, though. The bones will be pulverized, ground to fine powder. Those organs deemed inedible (such as lung, spleen, pancreas) will be burnt to ashes. The ashes and powder that result will be scattered into the fields around the village in the belief they will enrich the land. As with all they do, they will prize most-and keep separate-the remains of the sexual-reproductive parts. This will be reserved for some use specific to the chieftain's own garden. 

December 20,

Intermittently for nearly a year after the tribe buries my remains in the fields, my psyche has awakened, knowing of being dead. My bones were pulverized to powder and the inedible organs burned into ashes.

I cannot leave this "body" until two special things happen. They come in the springtime. A special plant grows at the spot where my remains are buried. Then two babies are born to the tribe, both fathered by the chieftain on the first night my body fed them.

I know that I will fade into oblivion for a short while before I will be reincarnated into the next life. As I see it from here, I will become a harem girl, destined for execution on her lord's order.

Perversely, I feel peace as I write this. I also feel some connection with the man who will leap into my physical body. The intense feeling of traveling from one life to another; I can only admire Sam Beckett for what he's forced to do. If he reads this and does not know what to do, I cannot hold this against him.

HE has sworn to me that if Sam Beckett leaps in, he will not be entrapped. Sam Beckett will be permitted to leap out if my death becomes unavoidable.

_Why would Patrick's soul need to remain in this dimension for so long after death? _Beckett wondered. He didn't understand why Patrick wouldn't immediately enter into a new life or at least spend a while in some type of purgatory. What was the purpose behind his remaining in the cannibals world? How could it possible effect change in that world?

December 22,

There are blank spots in my visions of this future life, yet they are so few and so vague that I must conceive it inevitable that I shall die and go on to these bizarre future lives.

But if that's so, I should see no blank spots at all.

I can do nothing but hope and pray that this man, Sam Beckett, will come through. He is the only one who can alter my destiny.

I can't understand how to interpret the blank spots. They mean Sam Beckett can succeed, but they are so restricted so limited, the chances seem tenuous.

December 27,

I'm already beginning to feel the pull of those later lives. I'm feeling a strong desire for that leap-in to happen even though I know that could mean waking up in the body of someone-in some future life-who will be the prey of cannibals without ever returning to my own body.

He must know that I see a possibility of him leaping into someone in the circumstance in each of the lives.

It is nearly time, I suspect. Yet, too, I know I must finish this record first, so Sam Beckett will have this data to draw upon.

Someone grabbed Sam by the shoulders and he nearly spilled what little he had left of his scotch. He turned to see Meg standing behind him.

"Hey, why don't you put that journal down," she said, gently prying it out of his hands and tossing it on the coffee table, "and take me out to lunch. You look like you could stand to get out of the house for a while. If you read too much of that journal in one stretch, you could risk experiencing a PSI overload."

"You're right of course," he replied.

Meg smiled at him triumphantly. "Great!"

Al entered the Waiting Room only seconds after Sam sat down to read the journal. He spoke with Gooshi briefly, getting the affirmation he desperately needed: Sam's body was still in good physical health.

He then stepped into the room where Patrick, in Sam's body, was relaxing on the couch drinking a cup of coffee. He seemed unperturbed by the events taking place during his time. Al found this not only perturbing, but shocking as well.

"Sam found the second journal," Al said. "What is so important that you had to keep a separate journal?" Al relit his cigar and puffed on it while waiting for the psychic's reply.

"The second journal documents the visions and dreams I had about future lives I will have to live if Sam's mission is unsuccessful."

"What about Sam?" Al asked, pointing an accusing cigar at Patrick. "What effect will reading this journal have on him? It won't cause another incident like the one that sent him over the landing, I hope."

"I won't lie to you and say that there are no dangers to reading the journal. That is why I told Sam that under no circumstances is he to let anyone else read the journal and that includes Raymond. I must assure you that I would not have told Sam about the journal if Another incident like the falling wasn't more likely to happen _if_ he doesn't read the journal. He needs to be informed, so if anything does happen, he'll be able to combat it. My first couple of visions about the cannibals were forced upon me. I know how frightening that can be. I don't want Sam to have to go through it again any more than you do."

Al nodded his acquiescence. He walked across the room, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Puffing heavily on his cigar, he took a long moment before turning around. He expected to see concern or impatientness on the psychic's face, but instead Patrick looked upon him with equanimity.

"After I had two visions of the cannibals I began to realize that they might bear significance on my own life, so I began looking for more visions. I strongly advise against Sam attempting the same until he has learned how to use safety barriers. His psychic abilities are not fine tuned yet, but either Meg or I could teach Sam how to use safety barriers. If any visions do come to him, Sam needs to be careful. If he doesn't feel prepared for one, he can force them away by concentrating on the people he's encountered during past leaps, as I told him during Levels. They are his strengths."

"But leaping causes him to have a swiss-cheesed mind. What if when faced with some demon's incursion, he can't remember anything?"

"To paraphrase John Lennon, he'll get by with a little help from his friends. I think you know what you need to do, as do I."

"Be there to remind Sam. That's why I'm called the project observer, of course. Ziggy says that the second Levels increased Sam's chances of success. I want to know if you agree."

"Knowledge always comes better armed than ignorance. Sam asked the right questions, and I gave him honest answers. He'll be facing the demons with the best possible odds. I did not seek out visions relative to failing Sam." Patrick brought his hand to his face and began rubbing his beard in contemplation. "Now in retrospect, I realize I probably should have."

"I'm not sure I understand. How can you fail Sam?"

"If I don't direct him properly on how to handle any psychic activity that might arise during the time he spends as me, I will have failed him more than anyone could predict."

"Can you do that now?" Al had never felt so flustered by any leap before, not even the time when he'd tried to win Beth back.

"I'm afraid there isn't much time-and the conditions must be right. I will try, but you must reassure Sam that his best chances are to use his past hosts as barriers against evil spirits." Patrick shook his head. "I spent so much of my time screening for possible failures during the future lives that I was blinded to any other possible failures."

"What made you suddenly realize your mistake?"

"Sam's vision of the cannibals. I should have realized that his link with me might drastically enhance his psychic abilities."

"Then when he leaps out of you, will his psychic abilities tone down?"

"Quite probably."

Al sighed with relief and puffed at his cigar. "That's good."

"I don't want you to get the impression, however, that Sam will lose all psychic abilities. The knowledge and abilities that he is gaining through this leap will greatly aid him in future leaps. If I did not believe that, I would not be so willing to take all the risks I'm taking."

"But he won't have evil spirits baring down on him in the future, right?" Al asked nervously.

"I sincerely hope not. You should know I can't promise you that with absolute certainty, though. If you've dealt with this Zoey in the past, there is a chance that she will continue to pop up from time to time."

"We'll just have to be ready for her then." The project observer jotted his cigar in the air as if punching some unseen enemy."

"That's the spirit, Al! Tell Sam that I've considered his suggestion to do a third Levels. I believe that talking directly with Karen could help me uncover the specific events that carried out from the moment the demons entered their lives. Sam must realize, however, that Karen is just as likely to have gaps in her knowledge as the living."

"I'll tell him." After a long silence, Al asked, "What about Sam's dream about the soldier named Matthew? Sam seems to think that it was a warning of some sort. He thinks that Matthew, or God, or someone high up there is trying to point out some connection between Matthew, Ben, and myself."

"We can rule out Matthew, himself."

"Oh?" Al asked as they gazed into each other's eyes.

Patrick took on an air of assumption, not bothering to explain his comment. "I think God is lending a hand. HE wants to see Sam succeed just as much as we do."

"If God is willing to help Sam through his dreams, then why does he allow such possibilities like those future lives you say you must endure if Sam isn't successful?"

"That is not for us mere mortals to understand. God has a higher purpose, and we, as his children, must abide by it." * * * 

"Thanks for talking me into getting out of the house for a while," Sam told Meg as they pulled into the driveway of the Sheffield home. "I needed the company."

"I'm glad I was available," she replied coyly.

"I really didn't mean it like that. You were very pleasant company. I agree with what Patrick said about you."

"What did Patrick say about me?" Her expression changed from annoyed to expectant.

"Ah. . .I probably shouldn't have even mentioned it. He wrote about you in his journal, and I really have no right to share his personal thoughts with anyone."

Meg sighed heavily. "I wish you hadn't mentioned it either. Now I'm going to wonder if he likes me or not."

"Oh, he likes you," Sam replied unable to keep a grin off his face. "So do I."

He turned toward her, and Meg returned the smile. Finding her charm irresistible at that moment, Sam leaned over and kissed her. She was obviously having similar thoughts about him, because she returned his kiss with equal fervor. Her sweet smelling perfume mingled with the strawberry scent of her shampoo. Bathing in her essence, Sam did not want to break free of her embrace.

Finally, when he could no longer hold his breath, he ended the kiss and gulped in air. Still they clung to each other until finally, with a gesture, Meg let Sam know that she wanted to go inside.

"Oh, you're back," Raymond said from the living room couch as they walked through the door. He was watching a movie on the television. "I was beginning to get a bit antsy being alone in the house."

"Al said that Patrick didn't like the idea of you being alone in the house right now," Sam replied. "Did anything happen?"

"You could say that! For a while, the lights were flickering on and off like crazy. Whoever or whatever was causing it seems to have gone away for now. I managed to get some of the activity captured on video."

He reached for the remote on the coffee table and used it to begin playing the tape he'd left in the VCR. Still standing, Sam and Meg watched the recorded phenomenon.

"You didn't experience any negativity like when I fell over the landing?" Beckett asked.

"Surprisingly, no. The entity had to realize that I was alone in the house, but it only seemed to want to scare me, to tease me."

"Maybe it wanted Sam to return," Meg suggested.

"That still leaves us with the question of 'why me?' The only answer I keep coming up with is that demons are at work here. They know who I am and what I'm here for because of my encounters with Zoey."

"That must be quite unnerving," Meg said. "You continue to help people from leap to leap, but you're never sure when Zoey might undermine your efforts."

"We won't let that happen," Raymond said with conviction. "Between the four of us, we _can_ stop her and any demons she has working for her. We have God on our side!"

Holding out her hands to each of them, Meg clutched both men's hands. "We have our strength, and if we have trouble finding it, we can rely on each other as strength boosters." For a long moment, they stood still and the confidence between them grew almost tangible. Then Meg finally released her grip and stood back. "I think I'd like to write about this. Do either of you mind if I write a personal portfolio about you? I won't mention names."

"I think it's a good idea," Raymond replied. "If you'll let us read them, It could help us keep a perspective on what we're doing."

"That's a cool idea! I have no problem with that. I think I'll get started on it at once." She dashed toward the stairs.

Sam followed her, saying, "Meg, could I talk with you for a moment first?" She stopped at the landing, allowing him to catch up. "I think we need to talk about what happened in the car."

"We will Sam. I need time to think. Let me write up some notes, and then we'll talk later this evening. Okay?"

Sam nodded. "I think I can keep myself entertained for that long."

She reached out and touched him lightly on the cheek before turning to walk into her bedroom and close the door. Glancing down at the living room below, Sam noticed that Raymond had returned to his movie. _I think everyone's going to be just fine for a while,_ Beckett decided and went to his own room in hopes of finishing _Julian's House_.

That night over the dinner table, all three of them behaved complacently, barely talking to one another. Raymond asked how Meg's portfolios were going. Sam's was coming along fine, but she hadn't begun Raymond's yet other than a few jotted notes. Sam felt eery about the mood that was pervading over them, but he didn't know what to say. He wanted to talk with Meg about what was happening between them, and he couldn't do that with Raymond in the same room.

It was Meg's turn to wash the dishes. Sam waited until Raymond left the room before approaching Meg. "Give me a half hour to finish cleaning up the kitchen, and I'll join you in your room where we can talk in private."

"Okay," Beckett said, awkwardly feeling like a schoolage boy. Why was he so nervous? Could it be because he was having real feelings for Meg? He was in Patrick's body, Patrick's life! He could not stay here indefinitely.

Sam squeezed her gently on the shoulder before leaving the room and heading upstairs to his bedroom. He sat at the desk and stared at the journal he'd left setting there. He still had a few entries to read. He felt afraid to read them. _What if one of them causes me to have a vision?_ he thought. _I don't want to have one now, while I'm waiting for Meg!_

She knocked gently before entering the room, but did not wait for his reply. "Oh Sam!" she said as he stood and took her into his arms. "This is unplanned and so very unexpected. I'm not an impulsive person. I always think things through very carefully."

They kissed.

"Have you thought this through?"

"I've thought _about_ it. I can't think of anything else!"

They kissed again, this time their lips lingering longer.

"This is totally the wrong thing to do," she said even as she allowed him to lead her to the bed.

"I know," he responded as he began to undress her.

Sam could barely recollect any past lovers; he only knew this moment, here with Meg as he explored every crevice of her body, seeking out her pleasure areas. She wanted him. He wanted her. Pleasing each other, they passed away the remainder of the evening.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve:**

The telephone on the desk let out a shrill cry, awakening the time traveler. He glanced at his watch, discovering that it was a few minutes before eight in the morning. Meg, eyes still closed, rolled over to squeeze Sam. He returned the embrace quickly before getting up to answer the phone. Meg moaned loudly, but sat up to stretch in an attempt to come fully awake.

"Hello," Sam answered as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"Hello, is this Patrick Marland?" a man asked, his tone pleasant. After Sam replied that it was, the man continued: "I would have gotten back with you sooner, but I was out of town with an art exhibit. This is Martin Bridgeman."

"Yes, Mr. Bridgeman!" Sam exclaimed, suddenly coming fully awake. He stood up to pace along the desk as he spoke. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Meg getting up from bed and slipping on her housecoat. "As I said on your answering machine, I'm a freelance photo journalist, and I'm conducting research on alleged hauntings. I was wondering if you'd be willing to talk with me about the old Simms' house."

Meg walked around the bed to stand beside Sam. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his shoulder. He kissed her on the forehead as he listened to Bridgeman's reply.

"Mr. Marland, I really don't see the point. My stay at the house in Mt. Pleasant was so long ago and so brief that-"

"I understand your reluctance, but I think you could be of some help to my investigation. I'd like to hear why you bought the Simms' house and then put it back on the market in a matter of weeks. Did something happen while you were living there?" Beckett consciously reminded himself to say "there" instead of "here." He wondered what Bridgeman's reaction would be if he knew that Sam, or rather Patrick, was staying at the house in question.

Bridgeman paused for so long that Sam feared the man would hang up. "Can you meet me at my place in an hour?"

Sam took only a brief moment to think about it. He had just a little over four hours before his meeting with Anna Simms. He could manage it. "I'm on my way." He hung up the phone and turned toward Meg. "Martin Bridgeman has agreed to meet with me."

"I'm going with you," Meg insisted.

"I don't know if-"

"Sam, I'm an investigative reporter. Who better to help you get answers?"

Beckett nodded, feeling foolish about his initial reluctance. "Of course, but only if you can be ready in five minutes. I'll call Anna Simms while you're getting ready to make sure it's okay with her if you come along."

Sam never saw a woman get ready so fast.

Sam and Meg arrived at the Bridgeman house about an hour later. After Sam knocked on the front door, they waited anxiously. Holding Meg's hand, he stared into her emerald eyes and thought how attractive she looked in the green pants suit she had opted to wear today. A moment later, a young pleasant-looking woman in her early twenties answered the door. She had short black hair pulled back with a headband. Her skin was a light olive color, indicating a partial Oriental ancestry.

"Patrick Marland?" she questioned expectantly, and he nodded. "My father was not expecting you to bring anyone with you."

"This is Margaret Miller," Beckett replied. "She's a friend. There isn't a problem with her being here is there?"

The woman shifted her eyes, hesitating to answer.

"I'm an investigative reporter for the Atlanta Review," Meg explained. "Mr. Marland and I are working together on this case. We just want to ask your father a few questions about the house in Mt. Pleasant, and then we'll be on our merry way."

Smiling shyly at them, she waved them inside.

"May I take your coats?" she asked as they stomped the mud off their shoes onto the welcome mat.

"Thank you," Beckett replied, removing his trench coat and handing it to the woman. Meg also handed her coat to the girl.

The girl opened a hall door, removed a hanger, then placed the coats inside the closet. Sam waited patiently, though anxious to meet Bridgeman, for her to finish.

"My father is in the sunroom," she told them. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you the way." Bridgeman's daughter led Beckett and Meg down an L-shaped hallway and into the sunroom.

Martin Bridgeman turned away from his half-finished painting when he heard them come in. "Oh, Mr. Marland," he said, a lilt in his voice, as he set down his paint-brush and wiped his hands with a cloth he grabbed from atop a tray. "I wish you'd told me you were bringing such a lovely lady with you. I would have taken the time to spiff up." He discarded the cloth and said, "Have a seat." He pointed toward a small table with four chairs. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

Martin Bridgeman looked nearly sixty with long grey hair-which he wore in a pony tail-a fuzzy beard, and spectacles propped loosely upon his nose. He was much lighter complexioned than his daughter. Sam got the impression that Bridgeman was a man of prestige, someone other people looked up to.

"Coffee would be fine-black," Beckett replied.

"I take mine with a little sugar, thanks," Meg answered. She and Sam pulled out chairs and sat down.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Sam said, "and you can call me Patrick if you like."

Bridgeman nodded. "Martin, here." He turned toward his daughter. "Mia, would you be a dear and get us some coffee, please?" Bridgeman asked her.

She nodded and stepped out of the room.

"She takes after her mother, Chen," Bridgeman said, smiling with pride. "She's quite fortunate she doesn't take after me at all. What would she do with such a prominent nose, eh?" The man cackled, pushing up his glasses to emphasize his point.

Though Sam wasn't sure why the man wanted to discuss his daughter's genetic traits, he sensed that Bridgeman was lonely for a companion, anyone to talk with.

"Only wish Chen-my wife-had been around to see our little girl grow up," Bridgeman continued. He sat down across from Beckett right next to Meg. "She died of cancer when Mia was only nine-horrible death." He paused, staring awkwardly at his hands.

"I'm sorry," Sam offered, noticing that, despite the intervening years, his wife's death still deeply affected Bridgeman.

"We are, both of us, really sorry, Martin," Meg said. "But we need to discuss the house in Mt. Pleasant." Reaching in to her purse to pull out a mini cassette recorder, she asked, "Do you mind if I record our conversation?"

"No, I don't mind, but I'm afraid you've probably wasted your time coming out here," the man said. Meg set the recorder on the table and pressed play anyway. Bridgeman removed his glasses and began wiping them with his flannel shirt. "There isn't much to tell, really. When my wife died, I left Okinawa and returned to the states with my daughter. I bought the house in Mt. Pleasant because of its location. I thought it would offer me a great place to relax and work on my art. I found my stay there to be far from relaxing.

"Things kept moving around on their own in that old house. I don't mean that I _saw_ them move around, but I kept finding my belongings in places where I hadn't left them." He returned his spectacles to his face. "I thought I had an uninvited guest-and I don't mean a ghost!"

"I can understand your skepticism," Sam replied. "I was quite skeptical at first, myself. But I've been staying in the house the past few days." Sam decided that Bridgeman needed to be told this if he hoped to convince the man that ghosts actually resided in the Mt. Pleasant house. "And I've seen things that can only be explained metaphysically."

"The first time I visited the house," Meg added, "I saw a coffee cup go flying through the air and felt someone touch my shoulder when I was alone in the room."

"I saw dishes moving on their own, too," Sam said.

Bridgeman turned pale, bringing a shaking hand to his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me that you were staying in that house over the phone?"

"I was afraid you'd react just as you are now."

After a long moment, the older man said, "Indeed, it takes courage."

Sam was immediately aware of the man's contradiction. Bridgeman adamantly claimed he didn't believe the house haunted, yet he openly acknowledged that one needed courage to stay at the Mt. Pleasant house.

"Would you mind explaining what you mean by that?" Meg asked.

"I was sure that some hoodlum was hiding in that house while I was living there. I had the police check it out, but they didn't find anyone or even any evidence to prove that anyone had trespassed."

"Then Martin, how do you explain the strange things that are still going on in the house more than a decade later? Surely you're not going to tell me that you believe the same hoodlum is still ransacking the house!" the physicist challenged.

"Of course, I no longer believe that! Now that I look back on it, I'm willing to admit that I might have been careless. I probably moved those items myself and just forgot about it. You haven't shown me any proof of the supernatural!" Bridgeman snapped. "Until I've seen tangible proof with my own eyes, I will not believe in ghosts or poltergeists or whatever else you claim is in that house!"

Sam wished he had thought to bring the video tape and the pictures of Karen. He would have loved to see the expression on Bridgeman's face when he saw the apparition on his television screen and flipped through the photographs.

"I do have proof," Beckett said. "I only wish I had thought to bring it with me. My assistant, Raymond Steele, captured the female apparition on a video tape, and I snapped several photographs of her."

"I can vouch for that," Meg said. "I've seen the video, and it is incredible! The ghost of Karen Simms is suspended in the air begging for someone to help her. I honestly believe that she's trapped between dimensions. She and her husband died violently and are now being influenced by evil spirits that will not allow them to crossover into Heaven."

Bridgeman raised his eyebrows and dismissed Meg's claim with a wave of his hand. Turning toward Beckett, he asked, "And what proof do you have that you didn't just use some high-tech special effects to make the video?"

This man would not be persuaded easily, if at all.

"I don't have any," Sam said humbly.

Bridgeman nodded triumphantly. "Now you feel like an imbecile, right? Imagine how I felt when the cops came out to the place. They treated me like I'd gone around the bend."

Mia returned with their coffee and set the cups before them. Sam smiled at the girl, though she didn't offer one in return. She seemed unhappy to serve them as though she only did it because she was obliged to. Wondering if his initial impression of Martin Bridgeman had been all wrong, Sam questioned the girl's subservient behavior. He kept his distaste in check, telling himself that he didn't really know anything about their relationship. Quite possibly, he was misreading Mia's signals.

"Thank you, Mia," Bridgeman said, taking a gulp of the coffee. He paused as though expecting his daughter to leave the room again. When he realized she intended to stay, he continued anyway. "I didn't want to believe I was getting senile and forgetting where I was putting things, but I went to the doctor anyway-you know, just for my peace of mind. He said my health was pretty good for a man nearing fifty."

"Glad to hear that."

"Well, I can't say my health is quite as good now at sixty, but that's life. I've allowed the belly to swell a little," Bridgeman said, patting his abdomen. "Anyway, we are getting off the subject. When I could find no reasonable explanation for the misplaced items, I decided no home was worth all the hassle, no matter how serene the location, so I packed my belongings and moved out."

The older man glanced at his daughter, who was still standing before them, placidly listening to their conversation. She seemed content just to absorb the information rather than contribute to it. Bridgeman returned his focus on his guests.

"The house stayed on the market for several years, which put me in a financial bind, but I wasn't about to return to it. I stayed in a small apartment for a while until I had a substantial amount banked from art sales."

"That seems like an extreme action for a man who only believed he was dealing with a derelict trespasser," Sam observed.

"If its only problem was vagrants, Martin," Meg began, and Sam noticed that the older man immediately grew tense with anticipation, "then why did such a gorgeous house stay on the market for so long?"

They waited, with growing tension, for a reply. "I don't know," Bridgeman finally answered, sounding cross. "I'm not a real-estate agent." He gulped at his coffee, which seemed to ease his anxiety a little.

Sam persisted, determined to crumble the older man's denial. "There has to be some reason you agreed to meet me. You could have told me all this over the phone and saved us the trip out here. I'm inclined to believe that you do think something strange is happening at the Simms house. Please, drop the facade, Martin, so we can get to the bottom of this problem."

"You have no right to talk to me that way in my house." Bridgeman stood abruptly. "I told you what I believe, and I'm sticking to that story. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a painting I need to get back to."

Mia's gaze followed her father as he wandered back to his painting. Once her father was fully engaged in his favorite activity, she turned back toward Sam and Meg and whispered, "Follow me."

Meg quickly stopped her cassette player and slipped it back into her purse. Then Mia led them into the living room.

"My father is not telling you everything," Mia informed them.

"Wonderful!" Meg exclaimed. "Do you mind if I record you?" She reached into her still-open purse.

"No," Mia snapped, then quickly added, "I'm sorry, but I don't want there to be any chance of my father finding out what I'm about to tell you."

"That's all right. I'm sure that between the two of us, we can remember everything you have to say."

Mia lowered her gaze to stare at her hands. "My father is lying to you. He didn't see anything, as he said, but I did, and he's well aware of that. That's why he wanted to move so quickly. He was afraid that Ben or Karen Simms were after me. I was only eleven at the time, and in his eyes, quite vulnerable."

"What exactly did you see?" Sam asked.

"Karen Simms' apparition a couple of times. And other times, it got very cold in my room. You do believe me, don't you?"

"Yes," Beckett replied. "I've seen Karen myself. I told your father that I have her on video tape, but he refuses to believe that it could be authentic."

"I'd love to see that tape." She shook her head. "As much as I'd like to, I couldn't dare take the chance of my father finding out."

"Why does your father frighten you?" Meg asked.

"My father doesn't frighten me, not in the way you're implying. He's just very protective of me. I'm all he has. Can't you understand that?"

Meg nodded, clasping the girl's hand for a moment to offer reassurance. "Some might find the tape extremely frightening, but maybe in your case, it might give you peace of mind, reassure you that you're not really crazy thinking you've seen a ghost. The world is so skeptical. How can you not be frightened?"

"You sound like a woman with a lot of experience."

"I'm an investigative reporter. I investigate the supernatural for a living. You can't do my job without receiving a lot of flack from the general public."

Mia nodded eagerly. "That's it exactly. Ever since I saw her apparition, I've been very interested in the supernatural, but I don't tell most people about my fascination, because they would treat me like I was weird, or worse, insane. It angers my father, so I'm careful not to leave any books or articles on the subject where he can find them." She paused for a moment, grinning slightly as though contemplating something. "I believe I have some psychic ability, though I certainly wouldn't tell Dad that."

"Maybe that was what attracted Karen to you," Sam said. "Maybe she thought you could have helped her."

"If only I'd been a little older, a little more experienced, maybe I would have been able to help her."

Which room did you sleep in?"

"Upstairs, the second room on the right side of the hall."

"The same room I'm staying in," Sam muttered. A shiver ran through him as he remembered the other morning when the spirit's presence chilled the room.

Mia reached into her pants pocket and pulled something out. "Maybe this will help channel your psychic energy," Mia said and held her palm out to reveal a chain and locket.

Sam took the locket, hesitated, then opened the locket. He and Meg peered down at the tiny pictures inside and were taken aback as they found themselves staring at the faces of Karen and Ben Simms.

"I think it belonged to Karen Simms. I found it in the attic along with other things, clothes mostly, that must have belonged to her. My father made me take the clothes to Goodwill. I never told anyone that I found the locket. I'm not sure why I kept it, except maybe for some unknown reason, I felt a connection with Karen. I feel so sad every time I think about the way she died."

"You know how Karen and Ben Simms died?" Sam said.

"Yes. I didn't back when we lived in the house, but later when I got old enough to do my own research, I went to the library in Mt. Pleasant and found the newspaper article on their accident."

"How did you know I might be psychic?" Sam asked.

"I can feel your aura," she replied, looking wise beyond her years.

Sam cupped his hand around the side of her face, only briefly, to show not only his thanks, but his respect for her prudence.

Sam looked again at the pictures. He'd seen her as a ghost recently, but he'd forgotten just how beautiful Karen Simms had been in life. Her features were well-defined, unblemished, and her smile warmed the room even from inside a picture. She looked ten years younger than her actual age.

"Thank you for sharing your experience with us," Meg said. "If you want the locket back-"

"No," Mia said hastily. "I've held on to it for too long already."

"What is going on?" Bridgeman asked as he stepped into the doorway. "I thought you already left, Mr. Marland, Miss Miller."

Noting the formality, Sam hid the locket in his clutched hand. "We were just on our way out," he replied. He glanced back at Mia to mouth a "thanks." They quickly stepped passed the older man and out into the foyer.

As they found their coats in the closet and slipped them on, Meg said, "This place is almost as spooky as the Sheffields' house."

"I couldn't agree more," Sam replied as he opened the front door and they stepped outside.

He felt pity for Mia Bridgeman, and in a way, for her father as well. Though Bridgeman was a brilliant artist, Sam had the impression that somehow the man failed to see the beauty in the world.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen:**

As he drove toward the Baptist church where Anna Simms had asked him to meet her, Sam clutched the locket in his hand. He debated whether or not he should show it to Anna. Would she insist that he turn the locket over to her? He didn't understand why, but he didn't want to give the locket to the woman. Was Mia Bridgeman right? Could the locket help him channel his psychic energies?

In the passenger seat next to him, Meg was listening to the recording she had made of Martin Bridgeman and typing notes on her laptop computer. She was so absorbed in her work that she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. How did she find the inner strength to deal successfully with everything? He admired her professionalism.

Sam reached a red traffic light and pulled up behind a gold Mustang. While he waited for the light to change, he opened the locket. Karen and Ben looked like the perfect happy couple. _These pictures were taken before the war_, Sam reminded himself. They _were_ a happy couple then. The loss of such innocence sickened him.

Suddenly, an involuntary shiver rose up his back. A wave of nausea overcame him, and he could no longer focus on the pictures. Sam blinked several times, then looked up at the traffic light. The blurry double red light refused to come into focus.

"Sam, are you all right?" he heard Meg ask as she squeezed his arm.

"Yeah. . .I'll be all right," he replied, blinking several times to clear his head. "I just felt dizzy there for a moment."

The light turned green, and Sam closed the locket, setting it on the dash. As he picked up speed, his dizziness completely abated. 

They arrived at the Baptist church just as the donation plate was making its way around. Although it had been a long while since Sam attended a church service, he remembered his regular visits with his family while he was growing up. John Beckett had not been a wealthy man, but he made sure that his children were close to God and always provided them with their Sunday's best.

As they sat in the back pew, Sam scanned the room and wondered which of the five or six elderly women was Anna Simms. A woman in the third pew, Anna Simms he concluded, turned around, noticed him, and waved. She looked to have been a beautiful woman in her youth, but the years had not been kind to her.

A young man took the donation plate to the back for emptying.

"Let us join in one final prayer before we conclude today's service," the minister said.

They bowed their head while the minister read from the Bible. Afterward, people began leaving the church. When the church was nearly empty, Sam and Meg stood and approached Anna Simms.

"Patrick Marland, I bet," the elderly woman said, holding out chubby fingers to quickly squeeze his arm.

Beckett nodded and he and Meg sat down beside her. "Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mrs. Simms."

"No one wants my son to find peace more than I do." Tears glistened her eyes. Obviously, the pain of losing her son still affected her deeply. "So it is I who should thank you for offering to help my Bennie."

"This is Meg Miller, the colleague I mentioned on the phone." He gestured toward Meg. "She's an investigative reporter from the Atlanta Review and wrote the original article on your son's house. I hope you don't mind that I brought her along."

"No, not at all," Anna said, smiling. "It's good to meet you, dear."

Meg smiled back, clasping the elderly woman's hand. "I want to help your son and daughter-in-law find peace," she said. "They don't deserve to spend eternity stuck in limbo."

"Bless you, my child." Anna turned toward Sam. "Did you receive Ben's letters that I sent through UPS? I do hope they weren't lost! I would have sent them by certified mail if that weren't so darned expensive. I'm a poor elderly woman, you know."

"Yes, I received them," Sam reassured her, "and they're in fine shape. I read all of them the day I received them. If you need them back right now, I have them out in my car."

"Do you think holding on to them for a while might help you ease Bennie's pain?"

"It may."

"Then you hold on to them for a while. You look like an honest man to me. You'll return the letters when you've accomplished what you've set out to do."

"I'll take good care of your letters. I can promise you that."

They fell silent as Sam contemplated how to bring up the subject of the house and the haunting. "Ah, Mrs. Simms, after your son died, did you experience anything unusual inside his house?"

"Mr. Marland, I realize why you came to see me, so maybe it would be easier for all of us if I just told you my story without you grappling with questions." Sam nodded his acquiescence. "Bennie was a sweet boy. Mind you, he got in his share of trouble growing up, but he never hurt anybody. He was loyal to his country, so he didn't complain when they told him he had to go over there and help them fight that war. Each time he came back home for a visit, I could tell they'd kept another little piece of him over there until there was nothing left that was Bennie anymore. That vicious, monstrous war robbed me of my boy. It turned him into some cold-hearted demon I didn't even recognize."

"Did you know that he thought Karen had had an affair?"

"Yes," Anna answered. "They fought constantly over her alleged affair after he came home the last time. I liked Karen as though she were my own daughter. She told me that she had never cheated on Bennie, and I believed her. Neither of us could convince Bennie of that, though. He just wasn't himself anymore. Anyway, then the accident happened, and nothing else mattered. My only child was gone. . .gone forever." Anna paused, fighting against tears.

"I moved into their house, hoping I would feel close to them. I believed they were with God. I thought they'd be looking down at me from Heaven. I never believed in ghosts before then. But my Bennie, he's still in that house. And so is Karen. I never actually so them. I could sense their pain, though, feel it almost like it were my own."

"I'm sure you were dealing with your own pain, Mrs. Simms," Meg said. "Why did you stay there for so long?"

"I couldn't desert them. I didn't want to leave ever, but I had no choice. The house was too expensive for one old woman to maintain. I couldn't afford to stay." Anna clutched Sam's hand, her eyes pleading with him. "Please help my boy find peace, Mr. Marland."

"Mrs. Simms, you knew Ben better than any other living person," Sam said. "What can you tell me about him that might help me help him?"

"He liked the Beatles."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"After he died, I played their records for him. It was the only thing that ever calmed him. You see, lots of those fellas over in Vietnam got into that Rock -n- Roll music. It was the one part of home they could cling to while they fought that senseless war. That's why Bennie grew attached to the Beatles."

"It could work," Meg agreed. "Most people find music so soothing during life. Why not after life as well?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Simms," Sam said. "We will do everything in our power to help your son."

"God bless you both," the elderly woman said.

They stood and walked out of the church, accompanying Anna to her car, then returned to Patrick's car. Deciding to visit a music store before returning to the Sheffield's home, they drove to the nearest town. After a twenty-minute search, they found a music store in a shopping center.

Sam parked the car, but hesitated before stepping out.

"Are you all right?" Meg asked as he leaned his head against the steering wheel.

"I will be in a minute," he replied. "I just didn't realize how overwhelming conducting these two interviews would be for me." He closed his eyes and took two quick heavy breaths.

"You take your time. The music store isn't going anywhere-and neither am I."

Sam glanced up at Meg, and she smiled sweetly at him. She understood what he was going through, he realized. Asking her to join him and Raymond, had been the best decision he'd made during this leap. He leaned over and they hugged fiercely. Meg intended to help him through this transition.

For a brief moment, he fantasized about not leaping-as if he had any control over it! He wanted to remain with Meg, to build a life with her. She had said that he reminded her of her husband Lucas. Could he make her happy?

But that would not be fair to Patrick. And hoping for it was not fair to him or Meg either.

He pulled away from her and nodding, he said, "I'm okay now. Let's see if we can find that cd." He opened his car door and stepped out.

The Sheffield's had a decent stereo system, which included a compact disc player and surround sound. Sam removed the copy of the Beatles greatest hits 1962-66 from its case and inserted it into the player. He hit play and the music blasted throughout the room. Quickly, he found the volume control and turned the sound down several notches. He then joined Meg on the sofa, placing his arm around her.

"What's going on?" Raymond asked stepping onto the landing. He descended the stairs and approached them. "You nearly scared me out of my wits, blasting the stereo like that."

"I'm sorry," Sam offered. "I should have checked the volume before starting the music."

" Why'd you buy a Beatles' album, anyway?"

"Anna Simms told us that Ben liked the Beatles," Sam replied. "Apparently, the Fab Four are the only thing that can soothe the savage beast."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"We have to remember that Ben's not the savage beast," Meg gently reminded him.

"No, of course not," Sam said. "All I meant is that maybe the music can lull him away from the real beasts. If we can remind him of what was good in his life, maybe he'll shed some of his anger."

"What did you find out from Martin Bridgeman?" Raymond asked.

"He was skeptical-at least so he said. I have a feeling that he didn't want to admit what he really believed."

"He was obviously lying," Meg commented. "His daughter, Mia, told us so. "

"His daughter?" Raymond questioned. "I didn't know he had any children."

"Yeah, just one. She lived with him alone inside this house. I'm sure that he knew there were ghosts in the house. Why else would he flee with his daughter, abandoning the house? He was afraid she was in danger."

"He wasn't much help at any rate," Meg said. "The trip would have been wasted if it weren't for his daughter."

Sam nodded in agreement. "She claims she saw Karen a couple of times and that her bedroom often became cold, just like the other morning when you rushed into my room. I must be sleeping in the same room!" Sam removed the locket from his shirt pocket where he had placed it after leaving the church. "She also found this in the attic." He opened it and showed the pictures to Raymond.

"You must be careful with that," Raymond said.

"It's just a picture. What harm could it do?" Even though he asked the question, Beckett wondered if the locket _could_ present danger. He remembered the dizzy spell he'd had in the car. What if he lost control the next time one of the spirits showed up?

"Photographs can trigger a severe psychic charge. And once a particular psychic ability is awakened, it can never sleep."

"That may be a bit extreme," Meg countered only to add, "though psychics do have to be very careful."

"If it's so dangerous for me to look at these pictures," Sam said, "then why did Patrick let me see that high school photograph of myself?"

"Photos of oneself do not cause a PSI charge. It is important that you understand your connection. Without that knowledge, it would have been impossible for you to succeed."

Sam nodded and looked down at the pictures of the Simms. Despite Raymond's warning, he didn't want to believe that a couple of photographs could do him any harm. He did not feel nauseous now, not even slightly dizzy.

The stereo began playing "Penny Lane," which mentioned a barber showing photographs. It gave Sam an eerie feeling, given the context of their discussion.

"Karen could have been a model," the time traveler said. "It's a shame she had to be another victim of the war."

"Agreed. But there's nothing we can do to change that. We should concentrate on what we do have control over."

Raymond's words cut deeper than he probably realized, because Sam knew that if he had done things differently during the Andrew Montgomery leap, he might have prevented the Simms' deaths.

_I wish I could leap back to that time,_ he thought, _and set things right this time._ He snapped the locket shut in defeat.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen:**

Sam went to his room to think for a little while. Where should he go from here? Did he have all the pieces to solve this puzzle? If so, why did he still feel so unprepared?

He retrieved the future lives journal and rested his hand on it. I'm afraid to even open it! He realized. How much worse could it get? He didn't want to know the answer. But he knew that he _needed_ to know the answer.

Yet some inner voice told him that it wasn't quite time to return to the entries. Had Patrick perhaps sent him a warning? If so, then what exactly did Patrick believe he should be doing right now? Sam closed his eyes in an attempt to better focus on whatever message his psychic mentor might be trying to send him.

A knock at his door interrupted his concentration.

"Yes?" he said.

Meg opened the door and popped her head inside. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"I could use a little distraction at the moment."

She nodded before her eyes rested on the journal. "I think now would be a good time to begin explaining safety barriers to you."

Maybe Patrick had sent the message-or rather messenger.

"Yes," Beckett agreed. "I would like to feel as safe as possible before any more spirits show up."

"Okay. Just let me get some paper from my bedroom and I'll meet you downstairs in the living room."

He waited for her at the base of the stairs until she came down in a flurry with several sheets of typing paper in hand. "Let's sit down on the couch where I can draw on outline at the coffee table to help me better demonstrate how you can use safety barriers and why they are important."

She waited for his nod of approval and then walked over to the sofa. Once they were seated, she wrote four headings at the top of her paper: Grounding, buffering, interface level, and psychic competency development.

"It will be easiest to explain this chart by going from right to left," she said, tapping the fourth header. "First, you need to determine, with my help, your evolutionary path of PSI development." She jotted this down underneath the header. "Even among primary psychics there are for each individual areas that are unsafe for them. It is usually in some way contradictory to their personal mission. Depending on their mission structure, two psychics who are otherwise equal, could use different PSI tools and techniques. While they may have some practices in common, there will most likely be certain areas that are perfectly safe for one psychic, but dangerous for the other to even attempt."

"That's why it's so important that we join forces to go against these evil spirits," Sam commented.

"That's right. Before we go any further with this chart, I need you to state verbally your intentions for upgrade. How far are you willing to go?"

Sam hesitated, realizing this was his last chance to turn back. He thought about Ben and Karen and the happy couple they had been in the beginning. Ben was a good man who had been corrupted by evil, both while living and after death. Sam knew that his conscience would only allow him to make one decision.

"I am willing to advance as far as is necessary to help Ben and Karen," he replied.

"Good. I'm proud of you, Sam." Meg squeezed his hand reassuringly. "The next step is in realizing who should not be exposed to PSI at all if avoidable. In this case that would include Andrew Montgomery and the Sheffields. You should consider those who are psychically aware but not truly active and enhance their capacity for buffering."

"That would probably include Al."

Meg nodded. "It is also important to be aware of areas that God does not want you to work." She jotted down a note referring to this on the paper. "If anything you attempt while exploring your psychic abilities feels wrong in any way, then stop that activity immediately. Some of the warning signs of this include Headaches, dizziness, and fatigue."

"So physical symptoms can serve as safety barriers. That's reassuring."

Next, Meg wrote: determine the correct purpose(s) of the work.

"That would be to help Ben and Karen Simms," Sam said.

"That is most likely part of your purpose, but I suspect that you are only allowing yourself to see a small portion of the big picture. What you need to explore here in addition to this current mission, is your entire life's mission. How will developing these PSI skills now effect your efforts to return home? And how will they enhance your role as a medical doctor?"

"Raymond said something earlier about Levels having a holistic effect."

"Yes, Levels can play a big part in it. There is also a new procedure being used with coma patients that you might be interested in knowing about. Some believe that music can help draw patients out of a coma."

"Because it's soothing and uplifting. This is all very interesting. I'd like to believe that I could take what I'm learning here and use it to help others in need. Do you envision that as my purpose?"

"You are the one who will have to discover that for yourself. God has a purpose for everyone and it is up to every individual to realize what his or her purpose is."

"Of course. That makes sense."

"But if it feels right to you, Sam," Meg added with a reassuring smile. Sam returned the smile. "Next on the list comes your check points. Any time you have to introduce potentially psychic material-no matter how slight the risk-you should precede it with some type of warning. Always give the recipient the opportunity to determine the risk to themselves and whether or not they are willing to take that risk. This should go both ways-you should expect other psychics to warn you before they offer you any material or information that may be potentially hot for you to handle."

"That's why Raymond became so upset when he found out that Mia Bridgeman had given me that locket with Karen and Ben's pictures inside."

"Yes, I was a bit worried about that myself," Meg replied. "Although the locket may prove useful to us, Mia was a bit naive in how she presented it to you. She should have asked the both of us if we wanted to see it first."

"That's why I felt dizzy after we left the Bridgeman's. I guess I should consider myself lucky that the effect wasn't any worse."

"Yes. Whenever you feel there is a chance something may be dangerous for you, do not even touch it. Always, always side on the error of caution." She allowed a brief pause, so Sam could muse over the advice. "There are also ways to set up barriers," Meg continued as she jotted more notes on the paper. "If a psychic feels something is potentially hot for another person, then he or she can place barriers, which essentially manifest themselves as locked doors. Patrick undoubtedly has set up a few of these for your protection."

"How does Patrick know what could potentially be hot for me? You said earlier that what is unsafe for one psychic can be perfectly safe for another."

"True. It is not always easy to predict every danger. That is why it is always best to err on the side of caution. If at any time you feel pushed by some outside force-"

"Like when I fell over the landing?"

"Yes, exactly. Although fortunately, most examples are not quite that extreme. Whenever you feel this happening, you should stop whatever you are doing and question what is going on. Think your actions through very carefully. It is quite possible that an opposing force is pushing you to do something you need to do anyway, and they can actually use that to their advantage and create a highly volatile situation. If they push you to react too quickly, or to do something sooner than you ought to, the energy overload will create negativity."

Meg flipped over the paper and after rewriting the headers at the top, she jotted the next topic under the fourth column. "You can use minerals, colors, and talismans as good-luck charms. Several minerals tend to have a balancing effect including quartz, diamond, ruby, and emerald. Anything with a crystal structure is a potential means to boost your PSI functioning. Which stones work best often depend on the individual. You can test various minerals to see what works best for you. I would suggest that you begin with your birthstone, since it almost always proves as a balancer for most psychics."

"My birthday is in August. I believe its birthstone is Emerald. I wonder," Sam mused, "since I'm inside Patrick, would it help if I used both of our birthstones?"

"Your dilemma is obviously a unique one," Meg responded. "I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to try."

"I'll have to find out his birthday, then."

"Actually, it is quite likely that you will find a piece of jewelry with his birthstone among his personal belongings. Besides minerals, the color themes you choose to wear will also work on you in a similar manner. Earth colors, greens and browns in particular, are useful in grounding applications. Colors can be used in both warding and buffering applications and thus one psychic can use a particular color theme for another."

"Is that why you're wearing green today?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Meg replied. "I knew we were going to have this lesson today. I thought this outfit was very appropriate for the situation."

"It's also very beautiful on you-brings out the sparkle of your eyes."

"Flattery will get you everywhere with me, Sam Beckett," she teased. She grabbed her necklace and lifted it so Sam could get a closer look. It was a bouquet of flowers with tiny turquoise jewels as the blossoms. "This was given to me by my Grandma. It is my most prized talisman. Whenever I wear it, I have this overwhelming sense that my Grandma's spirit is guiding me."

"I've always thought of Al as my good-luck charm."

Meg smiles broadly and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, that's not quite the same thing, but. . . ." After an awkward silence, Meg jotted more notes on the paper. "You should always proceed with caution when approaching potentially volatile material. Unless there is an emergency, you should handle it in stages, taking breaks in between and testing the okayness to continue at each checkpoint."

"That makes sense, but how will I recognize when one stage ends and another begins?"

"That is a valid question. Usually, when another psychic gives you material, he or she will provide appropriate pagebreaks in the material. Otherwise, it is best to seek out the advice of your guide-if you decide to do guide work-and then evaluate both their advice and your own instinct about the material. If it doesn't feel right to continue at any certain point, then that is probably a good place to step back and take a break. It is always better to err on the side of caution. If you look at material you are uncertain about and it causes damage, you can't undo that.

"Also, you need to be aware that safety and risk factors of PSI skills and techniques will differ among individuals," Meg continued. "Dreams can be used as a tool to test for these differences and it is a technique that I've employed on several occasions."

"How is that possible? Do you ask others to write down their dream experiences and then interpret them?"

"That is certainly a productive method, but there is also another PSI technique that we can employ with the dreamer's permission. This technique involves actually entering the subject's dream and testing them with various dream scenarios to see how they react when presented with choices."

"Is it similar to Levels?"

"Not entirely. Although both are relaxing, dreams are filled with random imagery, while Levels is a conscious communication between psychics. That concludes all the topics under psychic competency development, Sam. Do you have any further questions?"

"Will this ever seem like second nature to me?"

Meg squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I believe it will-if you are willing to work at it and have faith in both your ability and in God."

"With you as a guide, I think I can find the continued will to keep trying."

"Why don't we take a break here? You have a lot of new information to digest already. You should buffer it a bit with a little mundane activity and when you feel ready, we can continue this lecture."

"How about in an hour?" he asked and she nodded. "What type of activity would you recommend during the interim?"

"It should be something with little or no chance of causing a psychic vision. It isn't much fun, but I've always found household cleaning to be one of the most mundane activities."

Beckett grinned. "I suppose the kitchen floor could use mopping." With that, he stood and walked toward the kitchen to tackle the chore.

When Sam stepped back out of the kitchen having completed the task of mopping the kitchen as well as cleaning out both the microwave and refrigerator, he found Meg on the phone. From the sounds of her conversation, he gathered that she was talking long distance with her editor. His heart suddenly pounding, for a moment, he feared that her boss would order her to return to Atlanta. _No_, he remembered, _she has explicit permission to make this case her top priority. _

"Before we begin the next phase, Sam," Meg began, "do you have anything you'd like to ask or say?"

"I'm sure some will come to me, but right now, I'm still trying to absorb it all."

"Very well." Meg flipped through the handwritten pages back to the first page. "We are going to discuss the interface level now. Your intellect will allow you to look at what, other than PSI, your life path has led you to. Most importantly, this would include your quantum leaping, which has led to your ability to change history in positive ways."

"Which I consider to be primary over any psychic abilities."

Meg nodded. "That's fine. In fact, I believe for you, that PSI should hold secondary importance to your changing history and should only take primary importance if and when a particular leap needs to draw on any such abilities."

"That is an acceptable path to me," Sam replied.

"The next technique that falls under this category is called centering. Once you define the overall context of a situation, you need to stay focused on its purpose. You can have multiple purposes sometimes, but it is still important to keep your awareness of objectives in a proper balance.

"After that comes comprehensiveness of perspective, which are available on a need-to-know basis. Some misdirections are allowed, because sometime the process of error gives a better final answer. Again, it is important for this reason that we work together as a group, with each of us bringing in our own unique part to play in the resolution."

"Part of my uniqueness can be in the fact that I have been so many different people and have lived so many lives through leaping into all these people. I have literally seen through the eyes of many perspectives."

"Exactly! I think you've really hit on something there, Sam."

Meg scrawled the next technique down, setting wards, and Beckett did not have a clue as to what the terminology meant. He eagerly anticipated her explanation.

"A ward is something a person can program into their subconscious mind to prevent them from crossing over a psychically dangerous line. It is also possible for another psychic to set up a type of 'netting' around someone to protect them."

"Then Patrick has probably done this for me," Sam said, seeking out reassurance.

Meg nodded. "Above all else, I believe Patrick wants to protect you from harm. He would rather sacrifice himself than live with the guilt of causing you pain. I feel the same way."

"Wait a minute! I don't feel right letting anyone commit any sacrifices for me."

"Sam, Patrick and I are the established psychics. We knew the risks going into this. You, on the other hand, leaped into this situation without knowing what to expect. Please accept our pledges to protect you. You certainly must know that we are doing everything to ensure everyone's safety-including our own."

"I guess I will have to learn to live with that-but don't expect me not to worry about you."

For a moment, Meg stared pensively at Sam seemingly at a loss for words. Then she leaned over and kissed him. "You are a wonderful man, Sam Beckett." Returning her gaze to the paper, she attempted to focus on her role as teacher. "You can use PSI to evaluate, through dreamwork and Higher Self and guides work, what your center should be at any time period. By applying PSI to non-PSI, this usage in itself can promote balance.

"Next, we'll cover using incense and scented candles you can use to help aid in psychic functioning. Various plants have properties that can enhance either the psychic or the mundane side. Patchouly, pine, and coffee have properties that aid prosperity. Jasmine and vanilla can aid in psychic functioning, while there are others that effect spirituality and with enhancing intellectual elements of a situation.

"I'm covering this topic under interface essentially because the aroma work is rather mundane or only psychic in the spirituality sense, which generally manifests differently and is more tied into an Earth plane than to PSI mission or project work. They are tied into the mundane, because the elements come from the Earth. Aromatherapy can be used in combination if you have some idea of using it correctly, and two or more elements can enhance varying elements of the work. However, if they are used incorrectly, two combined fragrances may nullify each other."

"I've heard of aromatherapy. I read once that the practice of aromatherapy dates back as far as the Egyptians."

"That is correct. They, as well as the Romans and Greeks of the time, developed strong beliefs in the healing and cleansing powers of certain plants. The emperors of China also researched the topic heavily and developed the fifty-two volume Pen Tsao Kang Mu, a catalog of medicinal herbs, in 1590."

"Wow. And four hundred years later, many people still adhere to the natural healing powers of plants."

"Doing things naturally appeals to a lot of people."

"Maybe it would be a good idea for us to go out and purchase a few plants," Sam concluded. "They probably sell them at the shop Lisanne is now working at. That gives us an excuse for checking in on her."

"I was thinking along the same line myself," Meg replied. "After I finish instructing you, I could make a trip into town."

"That's a good idea. Not only could you better choose the plants that would help us, but Lisanne probably feels more comfortable talking to you."

"I agree. I'm sure she will find another woman less intimidating. To continue the lesson, the next category is dream work. We've already hit on the topic of dreams a little in reference as a tool to test another's PSI ability. However, dreams can be used for many other purposes, including both PSI and non-PSI circumstances. Often, dreamwork can be done under the control of guides and sometimes have the simple purpose of just giving the dreamer a direction. Dreams are one of the most useful means of gathering data to determine where your evolutionary path and those to whom you have responsibility should be. You can also determine your overall center this way. Although today you realize that your mission is to help Ben Simms accept the truth about his wife, you need to recognize and understand your overall life path."

"To change the world for the better."

"That's certainly a large part of your life path. However, you need to look within yourself to completely understand and the easiest way to do that is through dreamwork. Having a couple of highly visual dreams analyzed by someone qualified in that area could prove very eye opening."

"How do I determine whether a dream interpretation is accurate for me? When I leap into people, facets of their personalities remain in tact. Isn't it likely that they also influence my dreams?"

"Yes, definitely, to varying degrees. Your circumstance is quite unique and I would be intrigued at the prospect of analyzing some of the dreams you've had since you began leaping. If you would be willing-and if there is time, of course-could you write the details of a couple of them down, I would also need a short bio about the host you were leaped into at the time you had each dream experience."

"I take it you have experience with dream interpretation then?"

"Yes, and I can provide references with any analysis. I have studied dreamwork since my teen years and have written up interpretations for several people. In fact, I am currently working on a book-length project about several dreams I've interpreted. It will be completely factual, although I will be keeping the true identities of each of my subjects anonymous. I would love to include one of your dreams in the project-but I'm not sure how I would convince any potential publisher of its authenticity."

"I hope you won't let that stop you from trying."

"Then you agree? Great! But you know, we have diverted from the main issue here and should really return to the chart on safety barriers." Meg picked up her pen and wrote the next note before continuing.

"Okay, the next topic is related, and we already touched on it a bit earlier. Testing dreams is a psychic skill that can be used to get a certain "feel" for another's unique personality or fingerprint if you will, which manifest through Levels or dream spheres. Once you recognize their uniqueness, you can easily distinguish it from an impersonator."

"Is that how you guessed I wasn't really Patrick?"

"Yes. It is the main reason why I was able to so easily realize that you were not Patrick. You and he have a lot of similarities on the surface, but I'm trained enough to differentiate your two distinct personality signatures."

"But you waited a while before telling me."

"I had to test my assumption, thoroughly feel you out. Just because Iknew you weren't Patrick, doesn't mean that I was immediately able-without a shadow of a doubt-to determine that you were a benign entity. Then even when I determined you weren't evil, there was still your own reaction to consider if I were to reveal too early that I knew you weren't Patrick. I didn't want to frighten you. I had to be sure that you were prepared to deal with a psychic knowing your secret."

"I'm beginning to understand how carefully you have to handle anything PSI related."

"And with that in mind, we can move on to the next subject: Defining 'hot' themes as well as positive themes for life experience. To determine areas that are potentially hot for you, it is best to first examine those things which are difficult for you in the mundane sense. Hot PSI areas often reflect them and are most likely areas of highest risk to you."

"Like my fear of heights?"

"Exactly. On the other side, receiving unexpected gifts, even small ones such as bookmarks or key chains, are usually very positive. The feeling of being cared about that these small gifts evoke can positively effect what you do and how you react to anything."

"That makes sense."

"As well as constantly evaluating potential 'hot' areas, you should also periodically reevaluate your needs for PSI upgrades. You should be on guard for any opposing forces that may vie for too rapid an upgrade. They may be motivated to do this, since opening PSI pathways in itself has physiological effects that can disrupt any psychic's work. So if and whenever you have the inclination to increase your work load, evaluate carefully whether the desire is stemmed directly from God or if something else is pushing you in that direction."

"I-I hadn't realized that was possible," Beckett stammered.

"Do you wish to rescind your okay to upgrade?"

"No. This mission is too important. Ben and Karen need me. Patrick needs me. . . you need me. How could I ever turn my back on all of you-and live with myself? I want to do this, and I will go into it knowing and accepting all the risks. Please continue."

"All right, then. We have reached the next safety factor heading: buffering. Buffering can be either PSI or non-PSI, but what it does is put a cushion around PSI work that creates a safer environment for use, and in some cases helps avoid overloads of PSI energy. Sometimes, this can be done on one's behalf by other individuals and someone who is functioning at a lower PSI level can actual serve as the perfect buffer. That's one of the reasons why Raymond and Patrick have such a strong relationship. In your case, you are helping Patrick buffer by leaping into him. Because of your leap in, he has been able to distance himself from this mission. It allows him to think clearly and work on a solution without any major risk of PSI overload."

"So that's why HE had me leap into Patrick even though I'm far less qualified."

"Yes. That is part of the reason, but let's not also forget that HE has reasons that will benefit you as well."

"Patrick has emphasized that. It's just a little hard for me to get used to. I've always believed that leaps couldn't benefit me, because the risk of causing paradoxes was too great."

"Sam, if you think about it-although you are constantly leaping back and forth through time, your time, or rather your body, still exists in a linear time. You continue to age, and I believe that is true of your mental and spiritual being as well. It is okay for you to learn and grow. I'm sure you have learned with each and every leap and quite frankly, I don't believe you could prevent any of it if you wanted to. It is time that you set aside your misconceptions and thoroughly evaluate just what it is you want to accomplish from here on out." She paused, blushing. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to lecture you."

"That's all right. I think I had it coming."

"Let's move on then to drama work. Psychics often develop an awareness of acting methodology and circles of awareness, because it helps them in knowing when a trusted associate is around in some way. This technique can also help buffer against opposing forces. Furthermore, going into a character other than yourself can be an excellent way to buffer yourself. This method helps remove yourself from the reach of adversarial forces."

"That's why Patrick says I should concentrate on past hosts."

"Yes, it is. By allowing himself to be displaced from the situation, Patrick is actually better able to contribute to solving the problem."

"Through Levels."

"That's certainly the easiest way. Another technique that can help is by placing a buffer between different PSI projects. It is unwise to overlap PSI projects or even place them back to back. You should allow adequate time in between, busying yourself with mundane or at least something non-PSI related.

"Why don't we take a break here. We can discuss grounding after we've had dinner. I'd like a chance to get down to the flower shop before it closes anyway."

"I agree. Give Lisanne Sheffield my well wishes."

"I will, and hopefully, I'll come back with more than plants-hopefully I'll have information about her personal relationship with her husband." She pronounced the last word with an air of indignity. She kissed him quickly and then dashed off to get ready.

"I'll have dinner ready when you get back," Sam yelled after her.

While he prepared a meatloaf and potato salad, Sam studied the notes Meg had written for him. He set the papers on the counter as he mixed the meatloaf. Beside them, he had the locket open so he could glance at Karen and Ben's pictures. Sam couldn't explain why he felt so tense-for he knew that Raymond's warning was only part of it-but somehow, he knew that the pictures in the locket could either solve his problem or exacerbate it.

One moment, he was still staring at Karen's angelic face and in the next, he saw a lion roaring. He nearly dropped the meatloaf before the vision faded. _I leaped into another photographer_, Sam realized, trying to remember the man's name. Was it Paul or John? No. George? _No,_ he told himself, realizing he was naming off the Beatles. _His name doesn't matter._

Al popped in nearly causing Sam to drop the meatloaf for a second time. "I'm a little jumpy right now, Al," he apologized.

"That's all right," the project observer replied.

"Al, remember the photographer that I leaped into, the one who had to take pictures of a lion?"

"Yeah," Al said with a nod. "That was the time you got to spend a couple of days with that gorgeous-"

"Al. . .Al! I had a vision of a lion jumping out at me."

"That's not good, Sam! You think you're suffering from some of that negativity again?"

"I don't know. . .I don't think so. Patrick said that my past leaps could only help me. It was a pretty scary vision, but maybe it was trying to remind me how bravely I handled that leap and how brave I need to be for this one. Think about it, Al."

"Mmm. . .maybe you're right."

"What was his name?"

"What? Oh, his name was Carl."

Sam grew dreamily as the name brought back specific memories. "That's right, and I helped this young model from Indiana overcome a drug addiction. She returned home." His voice cracked a little as he grew sentimental. He remembered his desire to return home. He would give anything during that moment to slop the pigs or milk the cows. . .just to be with his family.

"How did your meetings with Bridgeman and Anna Simms go?" Al asked.

"They went quite well actually. Bridgeman's daughter gave me a locket that used to belong to Karen Simms." He picked up the locket to show it to his friend.

"She was a beauty," Al remarked.

"That she was. I keep wondering why HE didn't leap me back to just before their deaths. Why couldn't I be here to see that they lived?"

"Maybe because you're here to help the Sheffields."

"Or just Lisanne," Sam mused. "Meg went to the flower shop where Lisanne works to check on how she's doing-but also to buy some plants to help us. . .somehow. She explained it all, and I have it on these papers." Sam leafed his fingers through the papers to show Al. "But I'm still trying to digest all the information. Simply memorizing the words isn't enough in this case."

"Now that's what really has me worried. You're too new at all this, and yet you have to pull it off. How?"

"Anna suggested that I might try listening to the Beatles, since they were Ben's favorite group. You might say, I'm hoping to soothe the savage beast."

"Let's just pray it works!"

"Al, ask Ziggy what becomes of Bridgeman and his daughter. I'm particular concerned about Mia. She seemed like a very nice girl, and I hope everything turns out for her."

The project observer turned to the handlink for a moment. "Mia is currently attending college and in a couple of years, she obtains a Bachelor's degree in graphic arts. She later goes on to become a cartoon sketch artist and a couple of the animations she works on become box office hits."

"I'm relieved to hear that."

"Ah Sam, the real reason I came was to let you know that Patrick has decided that it would be a good idea to conduct a Levels session with Karen Simms. He believes she can explain the events from the time the evil spirits first appeared up until now. He warned me, though, that we shouldn't expect her to know everything."

Sam nodded his acquiescence. "Tell him that I'd like a chance to finish reading the second journal. I should be ready to conduct the third Levels tomorrow."

"Hopefully Karen will be able to join you." Al tapped his handlink, opening the door to the imaging chamber. "I'll let you know if anything changes on my end."

Sam had to chuckle at that.

He placed the meatloaf into the preheated oven, then left to retrieve Patrick's future-lives journal. He would read the remainder of the journal and listen to the Beatles while waiting for dinner to bake.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen:**

Sam could understand why Ben had found the Beatles soothing. Before opening Patrick's journal, he listened to "Strawberry Fields Forever."

He sat down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Once he was completely relaxed, Beckett felt he was ready to delve into the remaining installments of the future-lives journal:

January 3,

When my psyche emerges from oblivion, it enters the life of a harem girl. The sultan, of course, "owns" all his wives, who are actually more like slaves by our standards.

After a lifetime of abuse, she defies the sultan. Outraged, he orders her execution by a Greek-style wheel, which is in effect a form of crucifixion. The woman's punishment includes excruciating sexual torture. It's impossible for a man to describe, let alone imagine experiencing. All I know is that every guard under the sultan is allowed his turn with her and that whips, spikes, and prodding instruments are used on her.

I have to wonder if Sam Beckett deals with female stimulations in his time travel. Quite possibly, he is the only man who can understand how truly violated a woman victimized by rape feels.

Sam remembered the one rape victim he had leaped into. Although he had arrived after the rape occurred, he shared much of her emotional pain. He lived in a world where the gap toward equality was narrowing, and yet, discrimination was still quite prevalent. Contemplating a world as perverse as the sultan's made Sam violently ill. He felt helpless, knowing he could do nothing to change that world.

He glanced at the wet bar, tempted to get up and pour himself another scotch on the rocks.

January 4

The harem girl is afraid to die. She is terrified of the destiny she knows she faces, and yet at the same time, she feels an eerie peace with it. She knows that her death will be the catalyst that starts the revolution. She will die for her kind, so they may one day rise to equality. I know little more other than that despite her torture, the harem girl dies with only blissful thoughts.

January 7

Lifetimes three and four are much vaguer.

In lifetime number three, I believe I am a princess in a dimension equivalent to Ancient Troy. The city is captured during war and most inhabitants are either taken as slaves or are executed. As a member of the ruler class, I will experience death by impaling. It will not be a quick death as I am impaled in multiple non-vital regions.

The fourth lifetime is similar to the latter in that I will once again be impaled. Only this time, I will be making a self-sacrifice. I am unable to "see" any more at this time. Perhaps knowing more would affect me too negatively in this lifetime.

There is something not right with my cosmic baggage. I'm getting a sense that Sam Beckett and I are becoming too psychically linked; that he may experience some of my pain and horror. It is nearly in a blank spot, but I believe that potential for cohabitation at some point exists. HE assures me that it's Sam's own commitment to help that keeps the psychic bond between us this tight.

Sam didn't like the sound of a psychic bond. He found it difficult enough to deal with the possibility that he had _any_ psychic abilities. Still, he'd never been one to back away from a problem. That's why he had such a high success rate with quantum leaping. He wasn't about to let this challenge meet with failure. He would continue no matter how linked he became with Patrick, no matter how much pain and horror he would have to endure. He would save Patrick, and he would save the souls of Ben and Karen Simms.

_Am I to experience these future lives with Patrick?_ Sam wondered. _Is that what he means by a psychic bond?_ Beckett wasn't sure that he could handle such a test. "I want to help Patrick!" he said aloud, trying to speak with conviction.

From inside the Waiting Room, Patrick picked up on Sam's emotional state. He closed his eyes and concentrated and after a moment, he clearly heard Sam's spoken words. "You're a good man, Sam Beckett," Marland sent back.

At first, Sam was shocked to hear Patrick's voice. He hadn't realized that the psychic was listening to him, of course, but once he accepted the psychic connection, Beckett felt comfortable-even relieved-about it.

January 9

There is something about the fifth lifetime that sends psychic shivers through me. I feel this world comes closer to our society than the others.

They are in the midst of a civil war that has lasted for several years. They are nearing anarchy. What little is left of the government barely functions. Its officials are afraid to issue orders for fear of assassination.

Those who want peace are confused. They don't know whom to trust. Many are executed for the most infinitesimal violations.

January 11

There are several factions, each demanding that their ways are supreme. Life is devalued. Each faction sees members of the others as inferior to their own. The nobility are the first to be executed. Then prisoners of war are captured. Many are taken to concentration camps, tortured beyond belief. If they are lucky, they will be put on trial. The trials are more like theatrical plays. Everyone is pronounced guilty, and everyone is executed immediately, on the spot.

Then the judge orders the corpse auctioned to the highest bidder among those who will pay for such a prize. Corpses are worth unimaginable amounts of money, because the people of this world enjoy dissecting and studying them for perverse reasons.

_This world is embroiled in a war a lot like several we've had in our own world,_ Sam thought. _World War II, Vietnam. . .As Matthew, Patrick must have felt the same confusion and pain as Ben. Why am I here, then? I was never in a war. How am I supposed to convince Ben that I understand where he's coming from? That's like telling a pregnant woman in labor that I understand the pain she's going through. _

January 14

When my time comes, I will listen to the theatrical recounting of all my "crimes." In essence, I have done nothing even deserving of a slap on the wrist. But my willfulness, my loyalty to the barely-functioning government is considered a high crime by this faction. Upon being proclaimed guilty, I am sentenced to be executed by a hypospray. I barely hear the order before I am lying dead on the floor.

Afterward, I see the time traveler leaping into the agent of the sale; to make a difference, to help end this carnage theme.

_Ben must have been that confused over in Vietnam_, Sam thought. _He probably didn't know whom to trust or what to believe. Al would probably understand that best of any of them involved. _Sam stood and began pacing, holding his place in the journal with his finger._ Al! That's it! _Sam stopped his pacing as he realized the pertinent connection between him-or rather Al-and Ben. _Al is the missing piece to the puzzle. That's why God wanted me to take Patrick's place. We need both Al and Patrick to help convince Ben that he's not alone. Other men have suffered through the horrors of war._

Only one entry remained in the second journal. Eager to share his plan with Raymond and Meg, he quickly read through it.

January 15

There is one more lifetime in which I live a long, peaceful life well into my nineties. As my time draws near, I sense Sam Beckett leaping into someone close to me. This lifetime discharges the horror of the others and severs the psychic link between Sam and I. Yet, the time traveler is there by his own accord. And we may remain linked, not as melded almost to one, but as friends-more as I with Raymond or he with Al-forever, if he chooses it, and I do. I choose to honor the choice of the man who would do this for others by choice.

I don't know if I am destined to live out all these lifetimes. That knowledge is hidden in a blank spot. I sense that it is possible that I will only have to endure some of them, but it is just as likely that I will have to live out-and die through-them all.

I do want to note that in the visions I have seen alterations in that first lifetime. Sometimes, I see a different version of cannibals. In this, we meld; Sam becomes one with me for awhile. This is not my choice, but if he cannot let go of the guilt, it will happen.

Learn to let go, Sam, for both our sakes. It will benefit everyone-you, me, those societies.

Sam closed the journal and walking over to the stereo, turned off the CD. He wondered if they could come up with a solution before Ben reappeared.

As Meg stepped into the flower shop, the sweet-smelling fragrances enhanced her mood. She hoped that the pleasant atmosphere was having an equally positive influence on Lisanne Sheffield.

Lisanne was waiting on another customer and did not immediately notice that Meg had entered. When she did as she was handing the customer her change, she smiled broadly and stepped around the counter to approach her. Since there were no other customers at the moment, she had a few minutes to chat.

"I'm glad you decided to stop by, Meg," Lisanne said. "I've been wanting to thank you for encouraging me to get this job. It's the best decision I've ever made."

"I'm relieved to hear that. How is Charles dealing with it? Has he begun to accept your need to work?"

"He's still angry." Meg was almost certain that she saw fear in Lisanne's eyes. "He does not want me to work, but this is one time, I've decided, that I am not going to give in."

"Good for you," Meg said, giving Lisanne's arms a squeeze. "So how are you really doing?"

"While I'm here, at work-" Lisanne fingered a nearby plant as she spoke. "-I can almost forget everything that happened in that house."

Meg wondered if there wasn't more that Lisanne wasn't telling her. What else did work help her forget about?

"I was worried that you might be angry that I stopped by. I really have no business in your personal life-"

"Oh don't think that! I'm actually glad that someone cares enough to make sure I'm doing all right. I haven't been able to make many friends since I finished high school." Meg wondered if she really meant since she'd married, but kept the thought to herself. "I don't know why you care so much about me, but I'm really grateful." Lisanne began to choke a little on her words and her eyes began to water.

Meg gently clutched the other woman's arm and after only a slight hesitation, she wrapped her arms around Lisanne, giving her a firm, reassuring hug. "I am your friend, Lisanne. You can be sure of that."

Another customer entered at that moment, and Lisanne pulled away from Meg's embrace to quickly rub at her eyes. "If you will excuse me," she said, walking away to greet the other customer.

Meg browsed the shop while Lisanne was busy with the other customer. She found a couple jasmine plants in one corner and bent to sniff at the pale yellow buds. She selected the healthier looking of the two plants and brought it over to the checkout counter. She did not see any vanilla plants, and decided she would wait until Lisanne was free again, so she could ask her if the shop had any.

After the other customer left with a flat of begonias, Lisanne turned back toward Meg. "Oh, you wanted to buy something."

"Yes," Meg replied. "If you don't mind, I'd like to put a couple of plants in the living room.

"Of course, I don't mind." Lisanne examined the jasmine plant. "I have always loved yellow flowers, because they remind me of a summer's day."

"I was also looking for a vanilla plant, but I didn't see any."

"We have only a couple of very small vanilla plants. That's probably why you overlooked them." Lisanne walked back around the counter and crossed to the other side of the room. Reaching past several plants, she lifted a small pot. "You're the first person to request a vanilla plant since I started working here. I don't think most people even realize that vanilla comes from a plant."

"Patrick and I are planning to use it for aromatheraputic purposes. Do you know what that is?"

"I have heard of it. Isn't that using plant oils on the body for natural healing and cleansing?"

"Yes, exactly. Jasmine and vanilla both aid in psychic functioning. I think we need all the boost in strength we can find."

"Of course." Lisanne hesitated, biting at her lips. "Why don't you just take the plants? I'll pay for them out of my wages. Your using them in my house, so consider it part of your expense account." Meg started to open her mouth to protest, but Lisanne stopped her. "I insist! Please, it's about the only thing I can do and it makes me feel good to help anyway I can."

"All right, then," Meg said with a nod. "You call me any time if you ever want to talk about anything."

"I will, Meg, and thank you so very much for offering me support."

Meg picked up the plants and left the shop with them. _Well, I didn't establish whether or not Charles ever abused her, _she realized._ But at least I know that Lisanne has a positive outlook on the rest of her life. I think she's going to be just fine._

Over dinner, Meg told Raymond and Sam about her visit with Lisanne Sheffield. "Do you think we should contact the police about this?" she asked.

"Without Lisanne's coming right out and admitting it," Sam said, "we don't have any real proof that she's in an abuse situation."

"Sam's right," Raymond said. "As much as it pains us, there really is nothing we can do. Hopefully, Lisanne will decide to help herself."

"I just pray I made it clear to her that she can count on me if she ever needs any help getting away from that bastard!" Meg stood up and began clearing the table. "I believe it's my turn to wash the dishes. As soon as I'm finished, Sam, I'd like to wrap up your lesson in safety barriers."

Nodding, he replied, "I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

When they stepped into the living room, Sam noticed the two small plants on the coffee table. "I take it you found what you were looking for," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "Not only are they pleasant smelling, but they will aid us psychically as well. Let's have a seat, shall we?" She pointed toward the couch as she headed toward it and sat down. She had set her notes right between the two plants and picking up her pen, began jotting down more notes down for Sam. "Grounding involves the use of non-PSI or at the least, activities that produce very little PSI. At the top of this list would be any household chores or anything else considered everyday responsibilities. Then there is also mineral and color grounding. You should choose the items you wear carefully. Reading and watching television can also serve as grounding tools, but you must be very careful about what you choose. Some fiction does have subtle PSI presences."

"I've been reading a book called _Julian's House_. I found it in Patrick's back. It's a haunted house story quite similar to what we're experiencing here."

"I see." Meg grew pensive for a moment. "If Patrick left it inside his bag when he knew you were coming, he must have felt that it was safe enough for you to read the novel. I'm sure it has helped your perspective as well."

Sam nodded. "I'm relieved that I didn't place myself in danger inadvertently."

Meg patted him on the hand. "It was wise of you to ask. You can bet that Patrick took every precaution to ensure that the book would be safe for you to read, though." She paused for a couple of beats. "Now, to continue with the lesson on grounding-In general, crystalline mineral structures tend to enhance PSI functioning and non-crystalline mineral structures tend to have a grounding effect. There are also certain minerals that tend to have a balancing effect on the whole and that's often individual to the psychic."

"How do I figure out which ones would do that for me?"

"The only true way is by testing different stones. Basically, stones like agate, onyx, jade, and turquoise tend to have a grounding effect. As I said before, you should also have at least one piece of jewelry with your birthstone. It tends to help balance you.

"Also, we've already discussed colors earlier, but we need to touch on it briefly again under grounding. Earth colors are grounding colors and that basically includes your browns and your greens.

"The next item, thematic concept grounding, is a little difficult to explain out of context. Basically, you can have themes which are positive for you for any reason. You may associate some of them through Project Quantum Leap, while others will stem from your childhood. In a way, these themes that you create through your experiences become talismans that have an effect of enhancing safety. For example, a Christian could find a talisman in crosses and crucifixes."

"Would figurines of animals make good talismans? I grew up on a farm and have always felt a special bond with animals of all kinds."

"Animals can make excellent talismans for someone like you. If you find any porcelain figurines that you're particularly fond of or that bring back pleasant childhood memories, then they would make good talismans for you.

"Then we have music. . .You've already been listening to the Beatles and since you were a teen during their peak years, quite possibly they serve as a grounding tool for you. Certain artists can serve as a grounding tool overall, and again this depends on the individual psychic. If you find yourself able to associate with any artist and the particular music genre they perform in, then they will most likely help you when trying to ground out psychic energy.

"Earthly things can help ground you. Long showers or baths, especially when natural bath oils are used to provide sensual pleasure can be very effective in grounding out high psychic energy.

"Finally, the last item on the chart is the effect of items received as gifts. With the exception of gifts in areas you have defined as "hot" themes, items received from someone else will tend to have a grounding effect. Also its color, whether it's part of one of your personal themes, and if it contains any minerals will figure into this." Meg sighed heavily. "With that, we've finally finished my long lecture. I certainly hope I haven't overwhelmed you! Do you have any final questions?"

"Yeah. . .actually, a big one. How do I apply all this to our current situation?" He picked up the notes from the coffee table and glanced through them with a fluster. "How do I know if I'm choosing the safest route?"

"The best plan for tonight, Sam would be to relax and allow yourself to absorb everything you've learned today. Tomorrow, after you've had time to think about all of it, I will help you realize the answer to that question. I have some sample bath oils I'd like you to try."

"A small gift," Sam said with an impish smile.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Meg replied, blushing slightly.

From her reaction, Sam wondered if maybe she hadn't realized that it could be looked at that way. _She may be psychic, but she's still human._ Sam felt some reassurance by that, because it helped him feel more comfortable with his own flaws.

"Well, I suppose I should go to my room and get the bath oils for you."

Several minutes later after Meg had brought the oils to him and had explained what each one contained and how it would help, Sam excused himself and went up to his room to take a long, leisurely bath.

Sam set the bath oils, along with a towel, on the floor next to the tub. Once he'd tested the water until it had reached a considerably warm temperature, Sam closed the stopper. He stretched a little before starting to remove his clothing, realizing his muscles-or rather Patrick's muscles-were a little tense. Completely stripped, he stuck his right foot into the water as a second test before fully immersing himself into the tub. He waited to turn off the water until it was nearly overflowing.

Deciding to allow the warm water to gently massage him for a few minutes, he leaned back, closed his eyes and thought about everything Meg had explained to him. Would tomorrow bring the showdown? And if so, which outfit should he wear? _I never thought the clothes I chose to wear would ever have an effect on a leap_, he mused with a smile.

Slowly, he allowed himself to drift back up from the comforting water to reach for the bath oils. he found himself wishing he had removed the lids before stepping into the water, because it took some effort to unscrew them with wet hands. He sniffed at each oil before deciding to try the one containing a blend of chamomile, peppermint and spearmint, which said it helped with mental balance. _It smells the best of the three_, he decided. _That's certainly a good start. _He began rubbing it along his neck and chest, breathing in the aroma. He figured the scent had a large factor in the oil's healing abilities. If he breathed it in through his nasal passages, he reasoned, his olfactory nerves would report the sensation to his hypothalamus the part of the brain responsible for feelings of happiness, anger and sexual desire. Quite probably, that was how aromatherapy worked. Already in the first moments, as he began applying the oil to his arms and then his legs, he was feeling the effects of the natural blend. He lingered at his feet to give them an extra massaging. They were the farthest point from his nostrils, but he figures the oil would also aid in healing the dry, roughness of the bottom of his feet.

Reaching for his towel, he stood and began drying off. He stepped out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his waist when he noticed the project observer standing beside his bed.

"I thought I'd allow you a little privacy," All said, waving his cigar.

"Thanks," Beckett replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. "So what's up on your end?"

"Ziggy says that the odds that the evil spirits are going to make an appearance are going up. She predicts that it will most likely happen sometime tomorrow."

"I'm still scared, Al, but I think I'm as ready as I could possible be to battle them."

Al and Sam stared into each other's eyes, neither speaking, but both understanding completely what the other was thinking. Afterward, Al excused himself so Sam could get some rest. They both knew they had a big day ahead of them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen:**

Sleep took a long time coming that night for Sam, and when he finally did sleep, he slipped into Matthew's persona again. As Matthew, he climbed out of a pit. His throat was parched, and his hands bloody. He struggled against the soft soil losing almost as much ground as he gained. Several times he nearly fell to the bottom where he would probably break his neck. Then miraculously he reached the top, collapsing as he fought to remain conscious.

_Got to get out of here_, he thought, knowing the Nazi guards would be making their way back soon. He stood on shaky legs and began running barefoot across the rocky terrain.

His final step brought the world up in a fiery blaze. Matthew flew several yards before landing hard and smacking his head against a mound of rocks. Several seconds passed by before he understood what had happened. He felt the blood flowing from his open wound and shivered from the heat loss. Extreme agony set in and Sam, as Matthew, realized that no one was around to help him; he was going to die slowly and painfully. He screamed with his last ounce of energy and awoke from the too-real nightmare.

For several minutes, Beckett lay terrorized in bed, unable to move. He heard the phone downstairs ring three times, then stop. A minute later, Raymond came up to tell him that Charles Sheffield wanted to talk with him.

"Hello," Sam said after he came downstairs and picked up the phone.

"Mr. Marland, what is going on?" Charles asked acidly. "Am I paying you good money just to live in my house? What have you been doing?"

"Well, Mr. Sheffield," Sam began, "the ghosts haven't exactly been cooperative. They have already tried to kill me twice."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Charles said, momentarily taken aback. "This is just great. I'm going to end up placing the damn house on the market and with the word spreading to more and more people that it's haunted, I may never sell it-or sell it for so little that I might as well give it away."

"Mr. Sheffield, have you ever served during a war?" Sam asked.

The reply came after a long pause. "No, I haven't, not that it's any of your business. I don't see how that has any bearing on the real estate value of my house."

"Then you wouldn't understand the turmoil Ben Simms is going through. Helping him deal with his post-traumatic syndrome is the key to convincing him to leave your house. Now that will certainly help your cause, but quite frankly, I'm most concerned with Ben's spiritual being. I'll call you when anything new develops."

Sam hung up, suddenly feeling more confident having given Sheffield a piece of his mind. Maybe the man would fire him, but Sam didn't think so. Sheffield was too desperate and probably wouldn't want to waste the time it would take to find someone else willing to take on the case.

_I have to get out of here_, Beckett thought. _This has to end soon_. He wondered who would return first: Al or Ben? _I can't wait_, he decided. _Ziggy said that my best odds would be for me to call Ben before he attacked, so I could distract him. I have to try and hopefully Al will show up to help me. He'll know something's wrong._

Feeling increasingly vulnerable, Sam decided to search through Patrick's belongings for any items that could potentially serve as barriers against negative activities. He found a small box nestled in a corner of the psychic's travel bag and when he opened it up, he found two chains with birthstones, one for August and the other for March. Beckett grinned. Patrick had been thinking ahead.

Removing the chains, Sam slipped both of them around his neck. He felt better immediately if only they served to help him relax.

"You've decided to conduct another Levels session?" Raymond asked.

Beckett hadn't even realized that Raymond was standing behind him until the assistant spoke. He turned around, and said, "Your perceptiveness continues to amaze me. Did you also know that Patrick and I are going to invite Karen this time?"

"No, but I think it is a good idea. However, you should eat breakfast first. Meg's already in the kitchen making a special breakfast."

"What is she fixing this time?" Sam asked, his mouth already watering.

"Blueberry pancakes, sage sausage patties and fresh-squeezed orange juice."

"She's too good to us," Sam said as they walked into the kitchen to find hot meals already on the table waiting for them. "You're too good to us," he reiterated so Meg could hear.

"I know what we're about to face, especially you, Sam, and I want to be sure that we at least have a good meal in us before we face the challenge." Meg sat down and gestured for the men to join her. "How comfortable are you with yesterday's lesson on safety barriers? Were you able to resolve your doubts?"

"I think I'm beginning to gain perspective on everything. The bath oils certainly helped. I chose this outfit, figuring I needed all the positive psychic energy I could muster today." He pointed at his clothes, a blue plaid shirt with light blue pants. Next he pointed to his right hand, which had a ring on the forefinger. "I found this in one of Patrick's side pockets. Patrick must be a Sagittarius." He indicated the topaz setting. "I don't have anything with my birthstone, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to try Patrick's birthstone, since we are connected."

Smiling at Beckett, Meg said, "You're doing beautiful."

"Sam and Patrick are going to conduct another Levels session today. This time, they're inviting Karen Simms. Hopefully Karen can provide some necessary information."

"That ought to be the easy part," Sam said, "but how do we deal with the evil spirits when they show up next time? Al says that our computer, Ziggy, has predicted they will show up against sometime today."

"I believe he's right," Meg replied, with no surprise in her voice. "You must remember everything Patrick's taught you."

"Remember those whose bodies you've shared through leaps," Raymond added. "Remember and concentrate on the strength each and every one of them offers you."

"And remember we're here to offer our support, too, Sam," Meg said.

Sam acknowledged his gratitude by squeezing Meg's hand gently. "I already had a feeling that our time is drawing near before Al showed up last night. I don't want to wait any longer than it takes to finish this meal before entering into Levels. I just know they're planning a surprise attack."

"Expect the unexpected," Meg said, "and you will always be prepared."

"Let's pray you're right," Raymond said, nodding toward Meg. 

They worked together to clean up the breakfast mess, so Sam could move on quickly to the Levels. Al arrived just as Sam was wiping down the table to tell the time traveler that Patrick was ready to begin whenever Sam was.

"Al just informed me that Patrick is ready," Sam said, addressing both Meg and Raymond. "How do we know for sure that Karen knows she's welcome to join us?"

"You will have to trust Patrick on that one," Raymond responded. "He will help you call her."

As they wandered out into the living room, Sam said, "I don't want to do this Levels in the bedroom." His companions fixed him with puzzled stares. "It may sound strange, but I have a couple of reasons. I was in the bedroom both times I was attacked. Changing how we're doing things could throw the evil spirits off. I'd also like to play the Beatles cd-at a low volume- because I think it might help Karen feel more relaxed."

"I don't see anything wrong with that," Raymond said. "Meg and I can go upstairs, and you can call us when you've finished the Levels."

Before they could leave the room, the front doorbell rang.

"Were either of you expecting anyone?" Meg asked as she turned to go answer the door. Both men shook their heads. With a remarkable calm, she opened it to Andrew Montgomery, who was carrying a folder. "Mr. Montgomery, what a surprise to see you here." She nearly gasped out the words, unable to control her worry. They couldn't have inexperienced players inside the house at this penultimate moment!

"I'm sorry. I probably should have called first," Montgomery replied, seeming not to notice Meg's tone. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Sam approached them, standing behind Meg. While a part of him was glad to see Montgomery, another part of him wondered if it wasn't wrong for Montgomery to be here. They didn't know for sure when Ben or an evil spirit was going to show up again and Montgomery could be in serious danger. In fact, the man could actually be their primary target!

"Mr. Montgomery, I don't mean to sound rude, but you probably shouldn't be here. Your life could be in danger if you stay."

"I'm not sure I understand. Driving on the freeway every day, my life is in danger. How can my life be in danger by just coming to talk with you?"

"Mr. Montgomery, whether you believe me or not, there are ghosts in this house and some of them may be evil. One of them most certainly is being coerced somehow into believing that you had an affair with his wife. It is not safe for you here! Why don't you choose a nearby restaurant and Meg and I will meet you there later for lunch."

"I should have considered that," Montgomery replied slowly as he glanced around the living room. He gulped thickly as if expecting to see one of the purported ghosts. "It's just that I had a very strong urge to see this place again." He looked up toward the second floor. "It's such a beautiful house." He returned his gaze to Sam. "But you're right.. . .I shouldn't be here. Do you know where the Perkin's Restaurant is?"

"I'm sure I can find it."

"It's just off the by-pass as your coming into town. Why don't we meet there at twelve-thirty."

"That's fine with me," Sam replied and glanced at Meg.

She nodded in agreement. "We look forward to reading your answers to our questions."

"Good. Have a pleasant morning," he said. Although Montgomery said it with seriousness, Beckett couldn't help but feel a bit eery about the well wish.

"You, too," he simply said and closed the door as Montgomery began to walk back toward his car.

As he turned around, Sam tuned into the music again. The Beatles continued to drone lightly throughout the room, singing of a "Long and Winding Road." It was appropriate, he thought, they were indeed about to travel down a long and winding road, and he wasn't sure where it would lead to.

"Let's try this again," he told everyone. "I'll lay on the couch and get started. Al, you pop back into the Waiting Room and let Patrick know that I'm ready."

"And Raymond and I will make a polite exit," Meg said and turned to do just that.

Al waited until Sam was comfortably on the couch before popping out. This time, Sam felt confident enough to slip into Levels without his friend's help and so he began. Climbing to Level seven came with a natural ease. He really was beginning to get the hang of all this, he realized. 

"Hello again, my good friend," Patrick said. "Allow yourself to drift as high as possible."

As Sam complied with he psychic's wishes, he asked, "How will Karen know to join us? How _can_ she even join us?"

"We will have to call for her. If she hears us-and I think she will, because she's very anxious to speak with the both of us-we will coax her forward. We can help her reach us in much the same way Al helped you the first time."

"Okay. Do we just call out her name?"

"No. There's more to it than that. We must use our minds fully to call out to her. If both of us concentrate on reaching her, we should have no problem making contact."

"I'm ready to try that."

"Good. If it helps you to speak her name aloud, that is fine. We should begin now."

"Karen!" Sam exclaimed. After a moment, he realized she obviously had not heard him. _Maybe I didn't put enough of my mind into_ it, he decided. He closed his eyes and tried to focus fully on Karen, pushing thoughts of anything else aside. "Karen!"

"Dr. Beckett," Karen, barely audible, replied.

"Karen," Sam replied. "Relax, listen to the sound of my voice, and let yourself slowly rise to my Level."

Patrick nodded his accordance, obviously pleased with his student's progress with PSI.

Sam spoke slowly, continuing to coax the ghost forward until Karen Simms came into focus. "It's good to see you again, Karen," he said. As she stared at him a bit puzzled, he realized that she had never seen his true face, nor heard his true voice. "I'm Dr. Sam Beckett. I'm the one who spoke with you yesterday."

She raised her hand as if to touch him, but her fingers passed right through his face. "You're a beautiful man, Sam Beckett."

Sam turned toward Patrick for guidance. Where did they begin? he asked with his expression. "Patrick?"

"It is good to meet you my dear lady," the psychic said. "I am glad you asked for this meeting and that Sam agreed to it. We should accomplish a lot during this session. I must first ask you if you are willing to divulge personal information about your relationships both with your husband and Andrew Montgomery with us?"

"I understand that if I don't, it would hinder your helping us find peace. I would do anything to have the Ben I fell in love with returned to me. That is, anything short of making a deal with the Devil."

Sam could see the seriousness in her face, and so, obviously, could Patrick. "We won't let it come to that," Patrick promised.

The time traveler allowed himself a moment to pray that Ben Simms hadn't already made a deal with the devil. Hopefully, his coercion by the evil spirits was completely involuntary.

"I believe I can trust both of you," Karen said. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"Why not from the point where I leaped out of Montgomery," Sam suggested. "Your father's opponent had just resigned from the election, and Montgomery-or rather I-was among the reporters fielding questions. Then there was a party afterwards. I leaped out just as you accepted an invitation to dance from your father."

"If it was really you during all that time, who'd I fall in love with? You or Andrew?"

"I should explain something to you," Beckett said. "When I leap into someone, many aspects of their personality still remain. Although we've technically switched places, we are very much connected. I think that is why I am able to fool others so easily into believing that I am the person I've leaped into."

"I see," Karen said, growing distant. "Then it really was Andrew who I fell in love with." She appeared relieved by this conformation. Better to be in love with two men than three, Sam supposed.

"You thought about having an affair, but you didn't. I believe that is because you also loved your husband very much." _I meant 'love'_, Sam thought, realizing he had used the word in the past tense. Karen either didn't notice, or didn't feel the need to correct him.

"I was quite young when I met Bennie," Karen said, rubbing thoughtfully at her chin. "I was seventeen, a senior in high school. He was only three years older than me, but when you're that young, three years is a world apart. He was in college, more experienced, more mature. I would have to admit that I quickly became quite love sick. He was all I could think about when we were apart, and when we were together, I felt as though his kisses could just eat me up and I would be in Heaven."

"As you grew older, matured yourself, did your image of Ben change?" Sam asked.

"Of course. I tried to deny it at first, but eventually I did figure out that Ben was only human. He was a mortal man with his own built-in faults. Did I still love him? Yes, very much. To be honest, the love I felt for him later on was not only more realistic, but deeper and more mature. We married shortly after I graduated from college at twenty-two. We bought the house where you are now staying. We had several months of honeymoon bliss. Then Ben was ordered to serve in Vietnam."

"And as you said, you were very lonely during that time."

"I almost fell apart when I learned he had been drafted. He promised me that no matter how many miles and how many days were between us, we would always be together. I know he meant it, but the war took that part of him away from us."

"After you realized that your husband had changed, you met Andrew Montgomery, and he offered you the companionship that was lacking in your life."

"Exactly. I tried to ignore my attraction to Andrew at first. I wanted to remain faithful to my husband-really I did!"

"Did you see a lot of similarities between Andrew and Ben? Was that why you found yourself attracted to another man?"

"I wouldn't say they were exactly alike. In fact, there were many differences between Ben and Andrew. But they were both good listeners, and they both genuinely treated me with respect and would have done anything to please me."

"Did you realize that Andrew Montgomery was still in love with you?"

"Still?" Karen appeared shocked. "But I'm. . . .dead."

Beckett turned toward his psychic adviser, who had remained complacent for most of this exchange. He didn't know how to respond to Karen and hoped that Patrick knew what to say.

"Just as you still have the memories of the man your husband was, so does Andrew Montgomery have the memories of the woman you were," Patrick explained. "He is a man who lives in the past."

"That is so sad," Karen said near tears. "If he has wanted me all these years, then he hasn't opened himself up to love anyone else. I feel somehow that I led him on, that I cheated him out of a life of happiness."

"Don't feel that way," Sam coaxed her. "During my leap into Andrew's life, I could tell that you were offering him friendship, nothing more."

"At first, but then I fell in love with him, too."

"If you don't object," Patrick began, "we should move on. I hate to rush either of you, but we don't know how much time we have."

Both ghost and time traveler nodded their understanding.

"Tell us about the day Ben returned from Vietnam," Patrick prodded "How did he behave?"

Karen grew distant, and Sam suddenly became fearful that she would refuse to talk about that day. For a heartbeat, he forgot that she had been the one to set up this meeting and even braced himself for her abrupt leave.

"My memory of that day is so hazy," she said slowly.

Beckett opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick raised a hand, signalling that they should give Karen a chance to finish.

"It's almost as if I wasn't there. . .or like I was watching myself from a distance."

"I've encountered another leaper a few times," Sam told her, deliberately avoiding telling Karen that this other leaper was evil. "Is it possible that you were leaped into?"

"Oh my God! I surely don't know." She looked away from them, trembling. The notion obviously frightened her very much. "I suppose it's possible."

"I'm sorry that I'm frightening you, but for your own protection you needed to know that she exists."

"This other leaper, what is she like?" Karen asked, looking Sam straight in the eyes. She meant to hear the truth!

Sam hesitated, floundering for a way to not frighten Karen anymore than she already was. There was no way other than to be blunt with her, he realized, and swallowed heavily before answering. "This other leaper is nothing like me. I leap into people to set right what went wrong. Zoey, she corrupts people, turns them against each other. She's out to ruin people's lives!"

"You've already been considering this possibility, haven't you?" Karen let out a violent shudder. "It makes sense. This Zoey could have impersonated me and then went out of her way to make Ben believe that Andrew and I'd had an affair. And if that's true. . .how do we convince him that it wasn't me during that time? I mean, maybe as far as he's concerned I _am_ the one who told him all about the affair!"

A long pause fell between them. "My dear lady," Patrick said, "we will do everything within our power to help you. We believe that Zoey or some other equally evil force is at work here and continues to either influence or impersonate your husband."

"Impersonate! Are you telling me that that's not my Bennie-How could I not have known? If they can deceive me that easily-"

"Karen," Sam began, wanting more than ever to be able to touch her, to comfort her, "these evil leapers are masters at what they do. They've made a career out of deceiving people. You cannot blame yourself for not seeing through their masquerade. Besides, we have not yet been able to determine that Zoey is involved."

"But if she is how can we ever stop her?"

"I will not lie to you. It will not be easy. But we have God and hopefully, we can build enough trust in each other to resolve this situation."

"What do you need me to do?"

"If you could try to get through to your husband, maybe you can help us learn more about the motive and method of the evil forces involved here."

Karen nodded slowly. "I will do everything within my power to get through to Ben. I only hope that these evil forces don't block my every move."

"Keep your faith in God. He will guide you."

"I will."

Karen asked to leave after that, anxious to find her husband and to help them uncover the true nature of their common enemy. Patrick talked her slowly out of Levels. Then he and Sam slipped out of Levels simultaneously.

When he came back fully into Patrick's body, Sam sat up on the couch and reflected for a moment about the session. He was glad he had decided to conduct the third Levels session and knew that Karen would be able to help them now. He was actually beginning to feel some hope that they could save Ben's soul and that he and Karen could finally crossover into the afterlife.

Five minutes later, he went upstairs to find Meg.

"There it is!" Meg exclaimed, pointing left and leaving Sam just barely enough time to pull into the turning lane and into the parking lot of Perkin's Restaurant. They found a free spot a ways from the front door and made their way inside.

"We have a third member to our party," Sam informed the hostess as she greeted them just inside the door.

Montgomery, sitting at a booth, looked up and noticing them, waved at them. "They're with me," he said just loud enough for the hostess to hear.

The hostess grabbed two menus and lead them to the table. She gave them their menus and told them a waitress would be by to serve them momentarily.

After Sam and Meg settled into the seat beside him, Montgomery removed a folder from his briefcase and slapped it onto the counter. "I have all the answers I could possibly provide you with inside this folder."

Sam opened the folder and began browsing through the pages.

A young woman in an apron walked up to their table. "Hello, my name is Molly," she told them. "I'll be your waitress today. Would either of you like to order your drinks now?"

"I'll have a coffee," Sam replied, barely looking up from the folder.

"An ice tea," Montgomery ordered.

"I'll also have a coffee," Meg told Molly as the girl jotted the order on her pad.

"Look, I know it reads like an autobiography," Montgomery apologized after the waitress had walked away. "Maybe that's what it really is, but all the answers you asked for are actually there amongst all my purple prose."

"You weren't in touch with Karen after the senatorial elections, were you?" Beckett asked. He hadn't thought to ask Karen that question earlier. Perhaps that was because, he dreaded the answer. If he knew that Montgomery had went out of his way to see Karen after his leap-in, it would add to the nagging feeling that he had failed Karen.

"I saw her a few times."

Bull's eye! Sam may have been successful at preventing the affair, but he could do nothing about deflating Montgomery's love for Karen. "What about after her husband returned?"

"Once or twice. She asked me not to come back, that she was trying to work things out with the jerk. So I backed off. It was the hardest thing I ever did-leaving her in the arms of that maniac."

Sam couldn't help the doubt rising in him that the man wasn't being totally honest. He toyed with the idea that his leap objective was really to get Montgomery to confess to the affair he had with Karen Simms. _No,_ he told himself, _that's not the way it happened!" _Allowed he said, "Ben Simms was not a maniac; he was a war victim and the aftershock from a war can make normal people do strange things."

Molly returned with Montgomery's iced tea, two coffee cups and a pot of coffee. As she poured the coffee, she asked, "Would you like to order now?"

Sam had been so caught up in dealing with Montgomery that he had forgotten to look at the menu. "What's the special of the day?"

"A sirloin dinner with salad, soup and a dinner roll for $6.99."

"I'll have that then, medium-well."

"Why don't we all have the special," Montgomery said presumptuously.

Meg eyed him funny, but then shrugged and said, "Sure, why not?"

After they each chose a salad dressing and a flavor of soup, Molly left to give the order to the cook.

"Andrew, please don't take this the wrong way," Sam began, "but are you being totally honest with us here? Because if you're not-"

"I loved Karen too much to harass her! Do you think I want to see her continue suffering in limbo like she has for so long already?" Shamelessly, he began to cry. "I'd rather she settled matters with her husband and crossed over to Heaven-or whatever lies beyond-and remain blissfully with him. I've lived a miserable, lonely life, mostly because of the pain I caused her. I would only be more miserable if I knew I had a chance to help resolve it-and did nothing."

"Please don't blame yourself."

"How can I not?"

Sam noticed a few customers in their immediate area turn in their direction. A couple appeared annoyed, while others seemed curious. Their conversation halted for a long moment, until attention drew away from them. "You must keep reminding yourself that the war was responsible."

"Mr. Montgomery-Andrew," Meg said, "You are, at best, only partially at fault. I agree with Patrick. The Vietnam War _did_ cause a great deal of Ben Simms' problems. You didn't know him before the war, so that's why you would have a narrow view of who he really was. But you're a reporter-an editor now-so you should know how the war effected so many veterans."

"You're right, and I wish that were enough to make me feel less guilty. My attitude shames me. I must apologize. Geez, I was a reporter long before I became an editor. We're all reporters here. We know what the Vietnam War was like. Maybe not firsthand, but we've seen enough, reported enough to know how violence corrupts. There just is no cut and dry answers to life, no definitive right or wrong. No one is completely innocent or guilty. I lie somewhere in between, sucked into life's idea of normalcy." He laughed, his tone laced with sarcasm. "What I wouldn't give now to go back in time and throw aside my morality. If I spent one night with Karen, maybe she would have chosen me over her husband. I would have taken care of her. And maybe she would still be alive today. The irony of it!"

Throughout their meal, Sam realized that Montgomery didn't want to be discouraged away from his self-pity. Nothing Beckett or Meg could do or say could lessen the guilt Montgomery felt over his handling of his brief relationship with Karen Simms. The man simply wanted to punish himself. 

When they returned to the house, Raymond rushed outside before they had a chance to even step fully out of the car. "I need both of you to try to stay calm," he began, though he blatantly was having difficulty following his own advice. "I think we should all stay outside for a while."

"What's going on?" Sam asked, barely resisting the urge to go against Raymond's advice.

"I think the evil spirits were waiting for the opportunity to get one of us alone."

"Why didn't I consider that?" Meg asked in a self-berating tone.

"Why didn't _we_ consider it," Raymond countered. "Since you left to meet Montgomery, the paranormal activity inside the house has been at an all-time peak."

"Then we should all go back inside," Sam suggested. "Maybe they won't be so brave with three of us to fight them."

"No," Raymond replied, stepping between Sam and the doorway. "I am sensing a strong need to really think this situation through carefully before we go back inside."

"I think he's right, Sam," Meg said.

"All right. I'll agree not to go back inside for a while if you agree to go on another walk with me," Sam said to Meg. "I wouldn't mind getting a closer look at the pond in the back yard."

"That sounds like a lovely idea," she said, walking around the car to place her arm around his arm. Looking at Raymond she asked him, "What will you be doing in the meantime? Surely, you're not planning to go back inside!"

"No. I think I need to distance myself from this house even further than either of you. Otherwise, I will risk the possibility of experiencing a PSI overload. Will both of you be okay if I go on a short drive to clear my head?"

"Of course," Meg said. "You take all the time you need. When you return, we'll go inside together."

Nodding, Raymond added, "Whatever you do, don't go back inside the house without me." He turned and after fishing his keys out of his pocket, stepped into his car.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen:**

Meg and Sam waited until Raymond had backed out of the driveway before walking around the side of the house to the back yard. They glanced at one another several times along the way, expressing their worries without words. Neither of them spoke until they reached the pond.

"This place is so beautiful, nothing like the stereotypical haunted house," Sam said. "That appellation is suppose to be reserved for two hundred-year old decrepit mansions. It hardly looks like a site where evil spirits would choose to lurk."

"We both know that we can't base reality on stories we heard over campfires as children."

"I guess the moment of confrontation is imminently upon us. You, Raymond, and Patrick have taught me so much during the past few days. So why am I still so afraid of facing what lies inside that house?"

"Because it is human nature to fear evil," Meg replied. "I am every bit as frightened as you are!"

"But we have to face it," Sam conceded. "With God by our side and our combined psychic energy-including that coming from my past leap hosts-we have a fighting chance."

"That's good, Sam. If we continue to think like that, we'll combat these evil spirits with a force to be reckoned with."

"What do you suppose will be their next attack strategy?"

"I wish I had a definitive answer to that, Sam. We can base our guess on what you know about Zoey, but then we still haven't determined whether she's the driving force behind all this."

"Why does there seem to be more questions surrounding this case than answers?"

A car door slammed shut, interrupting their conversation.

"That can't be Raymond back already," Sam said as he rushed toward the front yard. Meg followed close behind him. They found a 1987 yellow Mustang parked in the driveway. "That's Charles Sheffield's car," Sam realized. "I hope he isn't too angry to find no one inside the house."

Meg cast him with a doubtful look. "We are talking about Mr. Wonderful," she said. "It takes very little to rouse his temper."

"You're right." He shook his head, wondering when this leap was going to get any easier. It wasn't, he realized. And they needed to act quickly. "With Sheffield in the house, we can't wait for Raymond to return before we go back into the house. No matter how unlikable a guy Charles Sheffield is, we can't let him fall prey to any evil spirits."

Conceding with a nod, Meg followed Sam to the front door. Meg turned the handle, but it would not budge. "It's locked!" she exclaimed.

"Let me try it," Sam said, fishing the key out of his pants pocket. The key did not even turn in the lock! "I don't believe Sheffield is the one who locked us out."

At the same time, they both peered through the window pane in the door and both gasped at the sight that greeted them. Many objects had been tossed haphazardly throughout the room.

Sheffield was standing in the center of the living room, his hands on his hips and muttering to himself. For a moment, Sam entertained the notion that Sheffield, in a fit of anger, had devastated the room. Yet, he knew Sheffield could not possibly have been here long enough, and besides, Raymond had already told them that the house had become increasingly active.

They continued to watch as Sheffield sat down on the bottom step and tilted his head sideways as though he was looking at someone. But who? Neither Sam nor Meg could see anyone. Sheffield began to talk to this unseen entity.

"Who-?" Sheffield stammered.

"Allow me to introduce myself," a woman said. She was leaning against the railing two feet above him, with her feet in the air! "My name is Zoey. I've come to ask you a favor," she said with a cool smile.

"What makes you think I would do anything for you?"

Oddly, he did not even think to ask her how or why she was in his house. Her icy brown eyes bore into him, somehow giving him the sensation of a fire burning at his core, and he could think of nothing. He knew he wouldn't-probably even couldn't-refuse this woman anything.

"There's a certain physicist in our midst," she continued, ignoring his question. "He's eluded me before, but _not_ this time. You don't know him, because he's disguised himself as someone else, a psychic named Patrick Marland."

"Patrick Marland-the man I have working in my house!"

"Yes and what's worse, they're in collusion together." Zoey laughed internally. Until this mission, Patrick had not known Zoey's true identity. She had seen fit that he didn't. And at first, she had been outraged that he now knew her name, but quickly she began planning strategies on how to turn his to her advantage. For years now, she had been monitoring Patrick's activities. She hated his good-deed nature every bit as much as Sam Beckett. How delicious this revenge would be if she could get them both with a single blow! "They don't care about helping you. If you let them, they may even convince your wife to leave you."

"She's already found a job!"

"See, then I am right. The are working against you. So what are you going to do about it?"

Sheffield clenched his fists tightly. Though he did not provide a verbal answer, Zoey smiled like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the canary.

"You help me, and I'll see that your wife returns to your open arms."

He looked back up at her with wondering, childlike eyes. She knew she had him. She knew his allegiance was rapidly leaning toward her. She would act as his savior, make him believe she would take care of him. He would become her willing pawn, bending to her every wish. But in the end, he would bend just a little too far.

"It's some type of vapor lock," Meg said as she examined the door. "Someone or something in there with Sheffield does not want us to interfere."

Just as Meg voiced that conclusion, the door handle turned on its own and the door popped open. she looked surprisingly at Sam before pushing the door further open and stepping into the living room. Sam quickly followed behind her.

Charles Sheffield was now standing again, but still glancing upward at the railing. Having heard them step inside he turned to notice them, he yelled, "Where the hell have you been? I'm paying you good money to keep a constant watch on this house, not to run off on some pleasure trip."

Beckett studied the room, almost expecting to see demons hovering near the ceiling ready to pounce on them. Although he did not see anything unusual, his fear that Ben was being demonically influenced did not go away. There _were_demons in the room and Charles Sheffield had spoken to one of them. Meg appeared to be also looking for demons, but answered Sheffield as she bravely stepped toward him.

"There was a potential risk of PSI overload," she explained. "We agreed that it was necessary that we all step outside for a few minutes. I assure you that we have no intention of abandoning this house or of not extricating the ghosts haunting it. But please understand, if any of us suffer harmful side effects from negative PSI energy, we would become incapable of tackling yours and Ben and Karen Simms' problem."

"What if I don't believe you?" Sheffield challenged and then he glanced over his shoulder as though listening to someone that Meg and Sam still could not see or hear. Beckett noticed the man nod ever so slightly.

"Raymond told us that the evil spirits were reeking havoc. Look around." Sam waved his arm to indicate the entire room. "Items have been scattered all over the place. I'm sure that it is still dangerous for us to be here now."

"Oh really?" Sheffield asked and Sam swore he could see a smirk on the man's face. "The only danger I see here is the two of you! I told you to leave my wife alone. Now because of your meddling, little lady-" he pointed an accusatory finger at Meg. "-Lisanne has more interest in her precious plants than she does in me."

"I'm glad she finally wised up," Meg quipped.

Sam opened his mouth in awe. He felt a growing contempt for Sheffield as well, but he wasn't sure that openly admitting it was wise. He wouldn't have expected Meg to respond so impulsively.

"Look, you bitch!" Forcefully, Sheffield grabbed Meg by the hair. "Now what are you going to do?" he challenged Beckett. "How are your psychic powers going to get you out of this situation? Oh. . .but you're not really the psychic, are you?"

"Wh-what would make you think that?" Sam felt his heart racing. Zoey was here. He was more sure of it than before. How much had she told Charles Sheffield? More importantly, how much of it was the truth?

"You're that physicist. . .the leaper. . . Sam Beckett." Sheffield paused in between words as though he were being fed the information. "You are hear to see that Lisanne leaves me!"

"Now hold on a minute. Whoever is telling you that, is lying to you."

"Oh, how do I know you're not the liar? You're the one who came here, to my home, telling me you were Patrick Marland, a psychic. Lies. I know that know!" Sheffield reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. Clicking it open, he pressed the blade against Meg's throat. She started to shriek, but quickly suppressed it. "Tell me why you're really here, or the babe gets it."

"Zoey!" Sam yelled, even though he was quite sure she could hear him if he whispered. "Why are you letting Charles Sheffield, a mere mortal, do your dirty work? Why don't you show your face? We should have this out between the two of us. We don't need to involve other people."

"Wrong answer, Beckett!" Sheffield said with a nervous laugh. He removed the blade from Meg's throat to point it at Sam.

Sam was very frightened and he didn't know whether he was an equal for Sheffield even without the switchblade present, but he saw an opportunity to save Meg and so he bravely charged at Sheffield. He grabbed the other man by the arm, trying to wrestle the weapon out of his hand. Meg managed to escape Sheffield's grasp as the two men engaged in a struggle for the switchblade. The switchblade slashed across Sam's arm just before he tore it away from Sheffield's grasp and it went clattering across the floor. Meg shrieked as she saw the blood pouring from the wound in Beckett's arm. He pressed his other hand to staunch the flow, but Sheffield plowed on top of him and began pummeling his head against the hard floor.

Al popped in, having been alerted of the danger by Patrick, waving his arms as he yelled, "Sam, you're Jimmy and you've just been released from the hospital. You're going to work with your big brother, Frank. You're so proud. . . You're the Great Spontini and you're rushing to save your daughter. She's attempting a death-defying trick, but she's not going to succeed. You have to get to her fast before she dies. Sam, Sam, fight back!"

Sam focused on his friend through the corner of his eye. His vision grew fuzzy and he blinked several times to clear it with little success. Although he thought of the leap hosts as Al mentioned them, he could not find the strength to pull free of Sheffield. Sam felt life quickly draining from him and he struggled to hold on to consciousness.

"Ah, you're Ortega and you're being strapped to the electric chair. You're guilty, or rather, Ortega's guilty, but you know another man's innocent. You can't let him die, Sam. Sam, you can't let Patrick die!"

Al paced frantically back and forth, his mind racing, trying to come up with a solution.

"Ben, you listen to me," he yelled, the cords in his neck tightening. "Can you hear me?" He prayed ghosts fell in the same category as young children and animals. "You may think that no one understands you, but you're wrong! I understand you. I was a soldier in the war, too. I spent five years trapped in a pit in Vietnam. I know what you went through. I know what it's like to come home and discover that your wife has fallen in love with another man. But in your case, your wife waited for you. Oh God, please believe me!"

Hearing Al's words through a vacuum, Sam suddenly was swept away by a vision. He nearly passed out from the shock of it. Staring at Sheffield's face, he saw Al's face-or rather the face of the Boogyman, the Dark Angel. Satan himself.

_Our Father who art in Heaven,_ came a voice that Sam could not immediately place. _Hollowed be thy name. . ._ As Sam recognized the voice as that of Father Tony's, the connection between himself and the priest faded. He tried to psychically call out to the father, but he was too weak.

Sheffield lifted his right arm and mustering up his full strength, slammed his fist into Beckett's eyes, one after the other. The pain was incredible and blood ran down Sam's face as he suspected his nose may have been broken from one of the blows. Sheffield continued to pummel his face and Sam quickly became blinded by the bruises. No longer able to think clearly, Sam lost all hope of overpowering Charles Sheffield.

Visions suddenly flashed before Sam of cannibals carving a man for their feast. He could hear Al calling out to him, pleading him to concentrate on past leaps and to find the strength to overpower Sheffield. But he could not even answer his friend. Fighting the rising fear, Sam struggled to block out the images. He knew the demons were forcing them on to him. If only he could convince Sheffield to turn away from their evil influence...

Patrick's words of advice flashed through him like a recording and Sam concentrated on remembering his past leaps. He thought about the time he had to photograph a lion at close range and the pretty models, pretending to catch birds as they fluttered throughout the studio.

"Fight, Sam," he heard inside his head. He had neither the energy nor the concentration left to heed those words. He was Dr. Sam Beckett. He was a time traveler. And he was about to die. Even without a swiss-cheese memory, at that moment he would not be capable of remembering anymore.

_I'm going to die_, he thought, or rather screamed inside his befuddled mind.

He could hear Meg screaming and through his now blurry vision, he realized she was running toward the telephone. "Oh my God! The phone's not working!" she exclaimed. A moment later, Sam lost consciousness.

"Uh-oh, that's not good!" Al exclaimed as Meg returned the phone receiver to its cradle, and noticed the loose wire. Why had Sheffield disconnected the phone? Unless he had come here for premeditated murder! But why? Was he really that angry over his wife working at a flower shop?

"No!" Meg yelled as she suddenly realized what was happening. "Ben, if you can hear me, it's within your power to make them stop!"

"Good idea!" Al said, joining her plea for help. Although she couldn't hear him, maybe Ben Simms could.

How could she be sure to get Ben's attention? The Beatles! She ran over to the stereo."

"Oh, you're going to play the cd Sam bought," Al realized aloud. "That's the ticket!"

A classical rendition blared out at them. Raymond must have been listening to it while they were gone. Glancing back at Sheffield and the time traveler, she saw Sheffield grab Sam by the shirt collar and begin dragging the time traveler across the floor toward the stairway. A trail of blood followed them.

"Hurry! Hurry!" Al waved his arms wildly, cigar in one hand and handlink in the other. He's going to kill Sam if you don't get Ben's attention quickly!"

She fumbled with the player to remove the compact disk. Hunting for the Beatles cd, she cursed under her breath. Where had Raymond set it? First, she checked on and around the stereo, but there were no cds left setting out. Realizing how meticulous Raymond was, she opened up the drawer underneath the stereo system and discovered two rows of compact disks. They were in alphabetical order! She grabbed the Beatles and removed it from its case. After placing it in the player, she advanced it to "All You Need is Love" and pressed play. She had a feeling that a song about love and sung by John Lennon would have the most chance of drawing Ben out.

One glance up at Sheffield who was dragging a sheet out of the bedroom to tie around Sam's neck, reaffirmed her belief in the urgency of the situation. "Come on, Ben! Stop them!"

"Oh God!" Al exclaimed. "Meg, you keep calling for Ben. I'm going to find Raymond and see if I can attract his sixth sense and get him to come back here. Gooshi, center me on Raymond, now!" The project observer popped out.

Meg watched in horror as Charles Sheffield tied one end of the sheet around the still-unconscious time traveler's neck and the other end to the railing and then released his grip on Sam. The time traveler began swinging from the railing.

Raymond had begun to almost instantly feel better as he drove away from the house. A light rain had started and he found the mundane swishing of the wipers comforting. For several minutes, he drove with a sense of euphoria that he had not experienced in a long time. This case had been taking more of a psychic toll on him than he had realized.

Popping into the back seat, Al said, "Raymond, can you hear me? Well, I don't know if you can hear me or not, but maybe you can _feel_ me. It's urgent! You have to get back to the house now! Or Sam is going to die!"

Raymond reached a four-way stop and suddenly an image of a man hanging from a rope flashed before him. He could not make out the man's face, but somehow he knew who it was.

Making a U-turn in the intersection, he received angry honks from the other two drivers at the stop signs. He pushed the accelerator up to twenty miles over the speed limit. He had to get back now!

Punching his handlink, Al popped out and zoomed back on Sam.

When Al popped back into the Sheffield living room, Charles Sheffield was walking down the stairs. Actually growling at Meg, he said, "Now it is your turn, little lady."

She screamed and hunted wildly around the room for anything she could use as a weapon.

"Throw liquor bottles at him if you have to," Al yelled. "Conk the bastard over the head!"

Al was beginning to feel a bit uncanny about all this PSI business, because at that moment, Meg opened up the liquor cabinet and pulled out a full bottle of brandy. Raising the bottle, she smashed it across Sheffield's forehead as he came charging toward her. For a moment, he stared at her with shock until succumbing to the blow.

Whimpering and shaking, Meg dropped the bottle handle beside Sheffield's unconscious body. She jumped over him and rushed up the stairs. As she reached Sam, she desperately tried to loosen the sheet around his neck, but instantly she realized two things: She didn't have the strength to loosen the knot, and even if she did, Sam would plunge to the living room, which could also kill him.

"Try to hold him up!" Al exclaimed, rising so he was standing in the air beside them. Meg was already trying desperately to pull Sam up with no luck. "Oh, you're not strong enough." Not for the first time, he wished he wasn't a hologram to Sam Beckett. "If only Raymond would hurry up and get here!"

As he said that, another figure came floating across the ceiling toward them. It was Ben he realized almost immediately. Al resisted the urge to tell the ghost he was a little late in answering them. Still trying to save Sam, Meg didn't seem to notice Ben's arrival-until he spoke.

"Is he. . . .dead?" the ghost asked.

"He soon will be!" Meg screamed, the blood rushing to her face.

Raymond rushed into the room, a look of shock clearly on his face even before he'd had the chance to ocularly assess the danger.

"Raymond, hurry! He doesn't have much time left!" He punched buttons on the handlink, desperate for any information Ziggy had on both Sam and Patrick's conditions. They were still alive, but fading quickly.

In several long strides, Raymond made his way across the room and up the stairs to help Meg pull Sam up to the landing. He struggled with the knot in the sheet, but after several seconds finally managed to loosen it from around Sam's neck.

As Raymond was doing this, Al continued to consult with Ziggy and to his relief saw that Sam's chances of surviving were gradually increasing, now up to sixty-two percent. He decided to compare that to Patrick's odds of surviving and learned that while Sam's chances continued to rise, Patrick's hovered close to fifty percent. Was Sam preparing to leap? Al wondered.

"Call for help!" he yelled at Meg and then bent to perform CPR on his friend.

"I can't-Sheffield disconnected the phone." She shrieked and began shaking uncontrollably, turning deathly pale.

"Think straight, Meg-for Sam and Patrick's sakes. There's another phone in Sam's room."

Suddenly coming back to life with hope, Meg darted into Sam's room and when she picked up the receiver, was relieved to hear a dial tone. Quickly, she punched in 9-1-1. She barely managed to stay calm enough to inform the dispatcher on the other end of the emergency.

Raymond continued to perform CPR and although Patrick began to breathe shallowly, he did not regain consciousness. The dispatcher kept Meg on the line until the paramedics arrived. Raymond stepped aside so the two paramedics could work on stabilizing Patrick's condition, but still hovered close enough to watch tensely. Silently, he prayed that his friend would not be taken from him.

"Ben," Raymond said, "I won't begin to claim that I understand all the pain you feel.

"But I do understand," Al inputed with a wave of his cigar.

" However, I do believe that while you were held captive in that pit that you believed you were going to die."

"I thought I was going to die over there, too," Al chimed in, "But thoughts of my wife kept me going.

" So strong was your conviction that even when you were rescued and sent home, you probably felt like you were dead, like life had nothing left to offer you."

"My wife was no longer waiting for me when I got home. She had thought I was dead, so she fell in love with someone else and remarried. You have to understand how difficult it is to wait years, not knowing if your husband is alive or dead and still having to continue to live yourself. Your Karen waited for you. She stayed faithful to you, and was still waiting for you when you returned. You have to believe me. Karen did not cheat on you."

"John is dead," Ben said.

"What?" Raymond exclaimed. "I don't understand."

On the stereo, "The Ballad of John and Yoko" began playing.

"He's talking about one of the Beatles!" Meg exclaimed.

Ben, his image almost fading, looked toward the speaker. "John is dead," he repeated.

"Yes, John Lennon is dead," Raymond acknowledged, "but he didn't die in a war-he died-" Raymond paused as an idea quickly came to him. "-but he died a senseless death. He died a senseless death, too, just like all the war victims. You were a war victim. You may have returned home physically in one piece, but the war still stole a part of you-a vital part of you."

"Yes, the war," Ben said in an agonizing tone. "So much blood and gore, people ripped apart-some of them children!"

"It was awful," Al agreed with emphasis.

"All of us here feel hurt and anger over what happened to those people over there, soldiers, women, and children," Raymond said. "But we can't change our history. We must move on."

"I tried to move on...I wanted to move on..." Ben looked away.

"I know how difficult it is to move on," Al told the ghost. "I was there, too. I lived through that war. I came home after that war to a country filled with people who did not understand the war. Nobody understood the war. Moving on is difficult, I know, but I did it. And you can, too, Ben."

"If you move on, you can find peace,"Raymond said. "God is willing to forgive you and accept you into his kingdom."

"I don't know if that is true. You must forgive me for a few moments. I must go."

"Wait!" Raymond exclaimed, but before he even had the word out, Ben had vanished.

They continued desperately to try to help Patrick until the paramedics arrived to take over.

Suddenly an apparition appeared above them and hurled toward the floor, taking on human form, Karen Simms. She was followed by her husband.

"Ben, Karen!" Al exclaimed. He learned directly at Karen. "Thank you for convincing him to return." He feared that Sam could not leap until the problem between the Simms was fully resolved.

"What the hell?" one of the paramedics said as he glanced up. He was too professional to pause in administering aid to Patrick, though.

"Ben," Meg said approaching him, "you have to see how wrong all of this is." She pointed first to Patrick and then to Sheffield. "These spirits who have been telling you that Karen was unfaithful to you have been lying to you. They thrive on bad circumstances. They love corrupting good people."

"They're pure evil," Al added. "They saw a weakness in you and they took advantage of you."

Zoey's head manifested above Ben. "Are you going to listen to them, darling, when I can give you everything you want?"

"What can you give me? What have you given me?" Ben challenged. "I think you've only taken from me, and I didn't see it until now."

"Please! They're the ones who have taken from you. Sam Beckett leaped into Andrew Montgomery and fell in love with your wife."

"No, she is lying to you, Ben!" Karen pleaded. "Sam Beckett is a kind and decent man. He did leap into Andrew, but not to get me to fall in love with him, or with Andrew. He leaped in to help uncover a conspiracy against my father. I won't lie to you and tell you that I never had feelings for Andrew, but the important thing is that I never carried through on them. Never! I love you, Ben. I always have. I always will. I was worried that you might be dead when Andrew came into my life, and he offered me comfort and friendship."

Ben studied the devastation in the room for a long moment. Everyone watched him tensely, Karen knotting her hands in her dress, Al chewing on his cigar, and Zoey scowling with impatience.

"Oh Karen," he said, a deep sadness in his voice. he reached out to her, and she raised her hands to clutch his. "Why didn't I believe you?"

Zoey harrumphed and pressed buttons wildly on the handlink, her connection to her artificial intelligence unit. "Maybe you've won in this matter," she snapped, "but Patrick Marland is still in a dire situation." With that, she pushed a button on her handlink forcefully and disappeared inside her imaging chamber.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen:**

Raymond and Meg waited anxiously for over an hour while the doctors rushed to save Patrick's life. Pacing the waiting room, Raymond did most of the talking while Meg listened. She played with her hair nervously and fidgeted with her clothes, but commented often enough to indicate that she was listening. He knew he was speaking nonsense, but if he didn't keep talking, keep pacing, he knew he would go crazy with worry. Several times, he wandered down the hall for more coffee.

He had been as excited about taking on this assignment as Patrick had been but now more than anything he wished they hadn't bought that issue of the Atlanta Review and hadn't read the article written by Margaret K. Miller.

The police had arrived at the Sheffield residence about fifteen minutes after the ambulance and paramedics. Charles Sheffield, after being treated for a mile concussion, had been arrest and was currently being detained at the county jail. Although extremely tired, Raymond was too preoccupied with the possibility that his friend might die to allow himself to rest.

He did not tell Meg that he was overwhelmed with guilt. Why had he left the house? he should have went for a walk with Meg and Sam. Then he would have been there when Sheffield showed up-and he could have come to his friend's defense. How could he ever forgive himself if Patrick died?

Finally, Doctor Egan, came out to talk with them, stopping Raymond's internal chastisement, at least temporarily.

"How is he?" Raymond asked through trembling lips. Meg stood to stand, arms nervously folded across her chest, and hear the news.

"He's slipped into a coma," Doctor Egan replied. "It may be quite some time before he regains consciousness."

"If he ever does?"

Hesitantly, the doctor nodded. "The arm needed twelve stitches. He lost a lot of blood, but he's undergoing a blood transfusion which should take about another thirty minutes."

"What about any possible brain damage?" Meg asked.

"It's too early to tell the extent of any lost brain functions, but his EEG came out normal. Our main concern is his windpipe, which was nearly crushed, and at this point, we don't even know whether or not he'll be able to talk ever again. We will know more when we have the chance to thoroughly examine the results of the tests. I've placed him in ICU. His condition will be constantly monitored. Do you know who did this to him?"

"Yes. It was the owner of the house in which we were staying in. He was furious, because he believed we were trying to break up him and his wife."

"Is there any truth to that?"

"None whatsoever."

"I helped his wife get a job," Meg informed the doctor. "Charles Sheffield saw that as a threat. I don't know what decade he's living in, but in the nineties, it's acceptable for wives to work and in many cases, necessary."

"What were you doing in his house?"

Flustered, Raymond looked away from the doctor and stared out the window. "Well, it'd be a little difficult to explain."

"I don't have any right to pressure you for an answer, but whatever it is you best think it over thoroughly. Sheriff Yeltsin will be by shortly to take a full statement from the both of you. I hope you plan to cooperate with him," Doctor Egan continued. He sighed heavily, obviously perturbed by the incident. "Does Mr. Marland have any family I can call?"

"His mother is still living, and he has a younger sister. Ah. . .I believe you'll find their numbers in his billfold."

The doctor nodded and left the room.

Raymond returned to his pacing, wondering if the police were now informing Lisanne Sheffield that her husband had attempted murder. 

About forty-five minutes later, a nurse approached them to let them know that they could see Patrick for a few minutes. Anxiously, they followed the nurse down the corridor to ICU.

Raymond had heard and understood Doctor Egan, and yet he was not fully prepared for the sight of his friend with all sorts of machinery hooked up to keep him alive. Patrick appeared lifeless, despite that the machine monitoring his heartbeat and another showing his EEG patterns, were giving out near-normal readings.

A nurse, hovering in the doorway, watched as Raymond clutched Patrick's hand and silently prayed. When he was done, she said, "Two more minutes, Mr. Steele."

He nodded without looking up at her. Not letting go of his friend's hand, he prayed that Patrick would return his grasp.

Returning to the waiting area, Meg and Raymond sat down with another cup of coffee, and closed his eyes. The image of his friend lying helpless in the hospital bed would not leave him alone.

"Excuse me," a man said and Raymond and Meg looked up to see a heavy set man with a badge, which read Sheriff Yeltsin, pinned to his jacket. "Are you Raymond Steele?"

"Yes," Raymond answered hoarsely.

"And you are Meg Miller?" Meg nodded.

"I need to talk to the both of you one at a time. Ma'am if you don't mind, I need to ask you to step out of the room for a while."

"I think I'll go browse the gift shop for a while," Meg offered before leaving.

"Do you mind if I sit down beside you?" the sheriff asked. Raymond shook his head and the sheriff took his seat. "I'm really sorry about your friend, but I must ask you a few questions. When we questioned Charles Sheffield he told us that you and Patrick Marland were staying in their home, but they wouldn't say why. Can you explain what happened?"

"I'm not sure I can, but I'll try. Charles Sheffield believed that Patrick and Meg were trying to convince his wife to leave him. Meg went to visit Lisanne at their hotel room once, because she was worried about her. She didn't like the way Sheffield was treating her."

"How was that?"

"He was overly protective like he wouldn't let her out of his sight. So Meg went to talk with Lisanne, because she thought if there was any real trouble going on in their marriage, maybe Lisanne would open up to another woman. Meg found out that Lisanne wanted to get a job, but Charles strongly discouraged it. Meg convinced her to stand up for herself. It was quite incredible really that Lisanne found the perfect job right away. Meg went to visit her there at the plant shop, and Lisanne was happy there. I don't understand why any man would object to his wife finding a job that she really enjoys to occupy her time."

"I agree with you. My wife has been a member of the workforce for the past twelve years. As hard as it is for you or I to understand, many men during the fifties and earlier thought a woman's place was in the home doing the housework and taking care of the kids. Unfortunately, even in the nineties there are a few men left of that school."

"There is no excuse for that!"

"And you believe this is the only reason he attempted to kill Patrick Marland?" Raymond nodded. "Why him? It sounds as though Meg Miller was the main one involved here."

"I'm not an expert on criminal motivation, Sheriff. I can only guess that he attacked patrick, because he saw patrick as the one in charge of our operation. Besides, maybe it all fit in with Sheffields' warped idea of male domination. He could have been thinking that Patrick was responsible for Meg's actions because he didn't keep her on a tight enough leash."

"Okay. That's a fair answer. You still haven't told me why Sheffield allowed you in his house. You did, however, let it slip that the Sheffields were staying in a hotel room. Just why was that?"

Raymond grappled for a moment between ideas of telling the sheriff lies, partial truths or the whole truth. Eventually his moral values won out. "The Sheffields hired Patrick and I to investigate a series of unexplainable events, which they believed could only be the direct result of a haunting."

"Ghosts?" Yeltsin questioned skeptically.

"Yes, and Patrick and I concurred. There is a substantial amount of spectral activity occurring in their home."

"I see." His tone was still quite dubious.

"Mr. Sheffield wanted Patrick and I to monitor his house for any unusual activity. And whether you believe it or not, we did witness things that could only have a supernatural explanation."

"Let me guess, you boys think you have some psychic connection with the afterworld."

"It's the truth," Raymond replied adamantly. "I have proof on video tape. There were two ghosts in that house, Ben and Karen Simms." He paused, beginning to cry, quiet, uncontrollable sobs.

Yeltsin placed a reassuring arm around Raymond. "I know how difficult this must be for you. Take a moment to catch your breath."

"I'm sorry," Raymond apologized several seconds later. "I've been trying so hard to remain calm, so I can make it through this night. "I never thought anything like this would happen."

"Did you witness Charles Sheffield attack your friend?"

"No. I was out for a drive. I didn't return until he had hung Patrick, and Meg had knocked Sheffield unconscious with a liquor bottle."

"I see, then I'll ask for specific details from her. You aren't planning to leave this town any time soon, are you?"

"No!" Raymond snapped. He intellectually understood why the Sheriff had asked the question, but it still sounded absurd. The thought of leaving his friend's side when Patrick was fighting death never crossed his mind. "I'm sorry," he said in a quieter tone. "It's just that I'm so worried about my friend. You have to understand that I'd do anything to help him."

"Of course, I do. I hope your friend pulls through. If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with your friend now." The Sheriff tapped Raymond reassuringly on the shoulder before standing up and walking away.

Al exited the imaging chamber and rushed passed a startled Gooshi and into the room where Sam's body was kept. Though he prayed Sam had leaped out of Patrick, he feared that Sam was fighting for his life. Sam had met with danger enough times before, but never had he clung to life so tenuously.

Al could not see Sam. The team of doctor's on the Quantum Leap project were hovering over Doctor Beckett's body, attempting to revive him.

"How is he?" Al asked, wanting to touch his friend, but knowing he needed to keep his distance so the doctors could do their job. They'd already hooked up a electrocardiograph and were now checking for any signs of brain activity.

Dr. Beeks glanced at Al. "He's in a coma," she replied. "We'll know more in a couple of minutes."

Al placed his cigar in his mouth, but didn't puff on it. Instead, he let it hang, limp in his mouth as he watched helplessly while his friend fought to stay alive. He didn't know if Sam's soul was here in 1999 or back in the past with Patrick. But whenever the time traveler was, Al could not help him.

"We're not picking up any brain activity," one of the doctors exclaimed. "I think we're losing him."

_No_! Al screamed internally. _This can't be happening_! Sam was supposed to leap out to somewhere safe if his life was in danger. HE promised that to Patrick.

Gentle, feminine arms wrapped around Al's waist to comfort him, but he didn't turn to look at the woman. He couldn't look away from his friend.

"Al, I think you better get some rest," Tina said. "They won't stop trying, not until they've tried everything. You know that."

"I know that, but what if they try everything, and nothing works?" Finally, he did look at his lover. "I can't rest," he said. "I don't know what I can do, but I can't rest."

"Okay," Tina nodded, "I understand."

Shamelessly, Al broke into tears. "If he's really dead, then I have nothing left. My entire life for the past several years has revolved around Sam and the Quantum Leap project. I'm nothing without him. Nothing without Sam."

Before his leaps had always been instantaneous, but this leap seemed prolonged, almost has though he were hovering through not only time, but space as well. _God, what is happening to me_? he tried to scream, but could find neither the voice nor the body from which to propel the words. Had he destroyed the space-time continuum as he knew it?

Then somehow he suddenly knew where he was and why he was there. He needed to remain calm and rational, because wherever Patrick was, he now needed Sam's help. Their roles had reversed. It was time to return the favor, for Sam to play the guide.

For a long time, he remained in that strange void, floating . . .floating. . .

Until he heard a voice, indiscernible at first, but quickly growing louder. "Can anybody hear me?" Patrick asked in a frightened voice.

"Yes," Sam replied. "I'm right here beside you." He reached out to touch Patrick reassuringly, and Patrick flinched, obviously afraid of the darkness.

"But I can't see you!"

"Don't let that scare you. You're safe where you are."

"Where am I, then?"

"You're in between dimensions," Beckett answered. "God created this crevice where neither time nor space exists, to give us a chance to recover from our ordeal. When we are physically, emotionally, and spiritually prepared, we'll slip fully into a dimension."

"If we're here, in between dimensions, then we must be dead. We've failed!"

Sam had never experienced failure in a leap and had to admit that he had been starting to believe that he couldn't fail. This was a highly unusual circumstance-even for Quantum Leaping, he had to admit. It was riddled with contradictions and paradoxes. Somehow he now knew that they were meant to initially fail all along. . .so they could meet with an even bigger success.

"No, Patrick, I don't believe we're dead. I think we are in some type of coma-induced limbo. And we haven't even failed-not yet. There was a part of the equation that I don't think you considered-didn't even realize as a possibility. You assumed that you would have to be dead to crossover into other dimensions, so I did not even look for a near-death scenario. Now that it has occurred, and we realize the error-Patrick, we have to examine why it is a positive turnabout that we met with partial failed in our dimension."

"It is _my_ failure, because I am the more experienced psychic. I was supposed to guide you and prepare you for _any_ possible outcome. In that, I failed."

"That only proves you're human-like the rest of us," Sam said in a warm tone. "I understand why God allowed you to slip into a coma and for us to get stuck in this limbo. We met with partial failure, because he needs you to live out those other lives. As painful as it will be, it is your destiny to help each of those worlds begin to make positive changes. In a way, it's a lot like my leaping from lifetime to lifetime putting right what once went wrong. You will remember everything, not from life to life, but if you succeed-when you return to your life as Patrick Marland. The knowledge will aid me in my life's primary mission-writing. Who knows maybe a Pulitzer Prize is part of your destiny after all."

"I'm scared," Patrick said, shaking violently. Sam placed reassuring arms around the other man. They remained that way for a long time, with Patrick crying softly into Sam's chest.

Sam had no sense of time, but he imagined that hours passed. Sometimes, he and Patrick spoke, while at other times they spent long moments in silence. Eventually, Sam felt something tugging at him and realized he was being taken to a different time-and place.

He felt a strong pull forcing him inside another host. _Who am I_? he wondered, oddly sensing Patrick's aura nearby as though he were still one with the psychic.

He tried to move, discovering that his limbs were strapped securely to a spit. He wiggled his hands to loosen the rope, but it wouldn't budge. He moaned as unbearable pain rose from his abdomen. He realized it was a lot like he felt after Thanksgiving dinner-only a lot worse. After he overcame his initial shock, Sam realized that there was a tube, pumping a yellow-brown liquid, running down his throat. He started to gag and his throat swelled around the tube, cutting of his air supply. _I'm going to die_, Sam thought.

A tall man, nearly seven feet tall rushed up to Sam, and sticking his fingers in Sam's mouth, forcefully reopened the victim's air passageway. Chuckling, he gestured toward another man, who eagerly joined him. The first man licked his lips and chuckled again, a laugh that seemed to carry with the wind for miles. Through the corner of his eye, Sam could see a huge pot with a blazing fire underneath. He had the sinking feeling that that pot was meant for him. _Oh God, they're cannibals!_ he screamed internally. He suddenly remembered what he had read in Patrick's journal. _This was supposed to be Patrick's destiny. Not mine! Not mine!_

As the men grabbed either end of the spit and lifted it, Sam bizarrely felt eager for the boiling pot, wanted to experience the agonizing death. Before they reached the pot, however, the flashing blue light hurdled him into his next host and out of danger.

"Oh boy," he exclaimed as he realized he was now the tall man, carrying the victim to the boiling pot. The thought of watching someone boil to death revolted him, but he didn't dare stop. What would the other cannibals think? More importantly, what would they do if he refused to participate in their ritual? Besides, he knew this destiny had to be carried out no matter how torturous it was for him or Patrick. He had to continually remind himself that it was for the good of this world. Although at the moment, he couldn't see how.

"Be careful," a woman exclaimed. "If you drop it, you'll contaminate the meat!"

Sam glanced in her direction, trying not to show his disgust. He wished Al would show up with some advice or that he would leap again. He was in another dimension, one where time passed at an accelerated rate compared to his world. Al probably couldn't find him, probably couldn't travel to this world even if he could find Sam. Worse, Al probably thought he was dead. Upon arriving into the void, he had realized that Patrick, in their world, had slipped into a coma. Now he wondered if he had also slipped into a coma so he could enter into this dimension.

"If you don't cook the meat soon, sire," a man piped up. "I shall start an entreaty to have you denounced as head."

The crowd began chanting, a low almost inaudible verbiage. Sam's nerves rang with deja vu as he remembered the eery vision he'd had on the landing.

He tried to will himself to bring the victim's body closer to the boiling water. He stared into the pot and thought of lobsters screaming as they were being cooked alive and knowing this would be ten times worse. "I can't," he tried to say, but before the words were fully expelled, he leaped yet again.

This time, into a small child watching the ritual assassination from a distance. He tried to hide his eyes in the skirt of a woman who must have been the boy's mother, but the mother reached down, tilting his head away from her skirt and slapped him briskly across the cheek.

"You'll watch," she said, "and you'll enjoy every succulent moment of it."

He watched, barely controlling the urge to vomit, as the victim screamed in agony. Sam struggled to break free from the woman's grasp, but she held on firmly. A moment later, he escaped when the pulling of the leap stole him from her and the cannibals' world.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen:**

The body of Dr. Sam Beckett opened its eyes, glanced around the room and quickly registered confusion.

"Where am I?" he squealed. He sat up and started to pull the tubes out of his body.

"Don't do that," Doctor Beeks said, rushing over to her patient to reattach the tubes. "The tubes are for your protection."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Doctor Verbena Beeks. Do you know who you are?"

"Of course, I know who I am! What kind of a question is that?"

Having heard Sam's voice, Al raced into the room. "Sam!" he exclaimed.

"Now, who the Hell are you? My name's not Sam. I'm Ronnie J. Purnell."

"Oh. . .of course, you are," the observer replied with obvious disappointment. No matter how hard he prepared himself for the inevitable stranger inside his friend's body, he always held out an ounce of hope that the next time Sam would leap back into his own lifetime.

"I want to know where I am and how I got here!" Ronnie demanded. "I'm supposed to be at work. If my boss discovers I've left the restaurant he'll fire me!"

Walking away from Purnell without answering the boy, Al quickly picked up the handlink, which he'd left setting on the counter. "Ziggy, give me data on where Sam is, now!" Al felt alive again, because now he knew Sam was alive.

Hartford, Connecticut, October 17, 1979

Sam had leaped into a high school senior, whose worst problems were a mild case of acne and whether or not he would have a date for Friday night's dance. Ronnie worked at a local diner and Sam found himself cooking a basket of fries as he leaped into the boy.

Ten minutes later, Al arrived, looking almost as ghostly as Karen Simms, just as the lunch crowd was dispersing. "What happened, Sam?" he asked. "Ziggy couldn't find you for several hours!"

"I don't know," Sam said in a low voice so no one else would hear. He was scraping the excess hamburger grease off the grill. "I don't remember exactly, but I had this feeling that Patrick and I were still connected. I wasn't inside of him, I don't think, but he was nearby. I can't remember exactly what happened, but I'm left with this feeling of great despair. I believe Patrick was in grave danger and that I had no way of helping him. He was altered somehow, not Patrick, and yet still Patrick. I don't think he remembered his past life as Patrick."

"Sam, Patrick's _not_ dead."

Beckett stared pensively at his friend. "I think he's in some sort of limbo-not alive and not dead. He's over there, Al, helpless, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop his torture."

"Ah. . .Sam," Al said, feeling equally as helpless. He looked to his link to their artificial intelligence. "Ziggy has been monitoring Patrick's history for a six-month period after your leap in. He slipped into a coma right after you leaped out, but he's still alive. Unfortunately, Ziggy can't get a lock on Patrick after six months, so we don't know if he comes out of the coma or-if he dies." Al looked back into his handlink. "Ziggy says that Charles Sheffield was convicted for attempted murder and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison."

"Attempted-then that's proof that Patrick didn't die."

Al punched a few buttons on the handlink, shaking his head. "Ziggy is confused about the entire Marland leap. When you disappeared, Ziggy began running scenarios. Every time she thought she might have a solution, something interfered and she had to start over. If only we knew more about what was happening during your time in that other dimension. Can you remember anything else inside that swiss-cheese brain of yours? We have to figure out some way to prepare ourselves in case this were to happen again."

A cold shiver ran down Beckett. He didn't want to think about returning to that horrific dimension or any like it!

Sam wiped his hands on his apron before removing it. Ronnie's boss had given him permission to take a twenty-minute break after cleaning the grill. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned toward the hologram.

"Al, let's sit at one of the booths where no one will see me _talking to myself_."

They walked out into the dining area and sat at a booth near the jukebox, which was playing _Heart of Glass_ by Blonde. The only customers in the diner were a middle-aged man by himself and a woman with her school-aged daughter and they were sitting at the opposite end of the room.

"All I'm getting is vague impressions," Sam said after sipping his coffee. "At first, I thought my life was in danger, but now I don't think I was ever in danger. Someone else was in danger, but I can't remember why. I can't even remember for sure if it was Patrick."

"You must have saved him," Al replied.

"I get the feeling that I didn't, not really. That I wasn't even suppose to."

"Did this place where you were at have anything to do with the places Patrick wrote about in his journal?"

"Journal?" Sam questioned, vaguely remembering having read any such book.

"The one where he wrote about his future lives. Sam, you do remember? Is it possible that even though he's in a coma, Patrick could be living out those future lives?"

"Yes. I-I think you're right." Sam brought his hands to his temples, suddenly remembering the pain felt by the man on the spit. "Cannibals-they were preparing another human being for a feast. That was the first alternate life Patrick wrote about in his journal. Al, it's all going to be played out-every life he wrote about in that journal."

"That's good, Sam-I mean, that you remember." He punched a few buttons on the handlink, relaying the new information to Ziggy. "Maybe now Ziggy will have a better idea as to why your psyche is still connecting with Patrick's." He waited for an answer from Ziggy. "She thinks you followed Patrick through the dimension, because you bonded psychically with one another and that the only way you could have done so was. . . .willingly. She doesn't think that the link between you and Patrick can be completely dissolved until you are ready to distance yourself and break the connection."

"Okay then," Sam replied, his mind racing to come up with a plan. "We need to figure out why I've leaped into Ronnie, so I can leap again and hopefully go some place where I can do something about helping Patrick."

As Beckett spoke, the project observer rapidly communicated with Ziggy using the handlink. "You're here to save a toddler-"

Before Al could finish, the woman across the room screamed, "Oh God! Somebody, please help my baby!"

"Sam, the little girl over there-she's choking," Al exclaimed.

Sam rushed over to the girl, pulled her out of the booth, and as a frightened mother watched with awe, performed the Heimlich maneuver, dislodging a piece of hamburger. The child gasped a welcome breath.

"Oh thank you," the woman told Sam as she took her child into her arms. "How can I repay you?"

Sam tried to tell her that her gratitude was enough, but leaped before he could get the words out.

Floating through a void again, Sam wondered, _Where am I_? _More importantly, who am I_? He could not see and so he called out for anybody who could hear him. No answer came. "Patrick!" he yelled. After calling out to his friend, he realized Patrick was not here, would not be coming back here to this void. Patrick could not cross over or even come to this in between until he had completed every future life mission. This place of loneliness, of nothingness, belonged completely to Sam.

After several minutes, a strong gravity-like pull spiraled Sam Beckett downwards into his next host.

"Oh boy," he said with a groan as he realized he was dressed in a silky see-through gown that revealed his host's full-figured breasts. _What could be worse than this_? he wondered. A large masculine hand reached out, touching him on the shoulder and gently pulling him down. _Sorry I asked_.

"Oh, my little lamb," the man said in a deep, rich voice, "you were wonderful." He began fondling the breasts of Sam's host.

Sam stared into the brown eyes of the heavyset man lying in bed with him. The man was wearing nothing but a crown with rubies. Sam quickly looked away, bringing his hand up to his face so he couldn't see the naked man.

"I don't feel well," Sam said, hoping the man would let him go. He always hated leaping into a woman, but this had to be one of the worst situations he'd ever found himself embroiled in. What if this man actually expected him to-no he couldn't even think about the prospect. "I'd like to take a bath," he pleaded.

"I'll join you. You can scrub my back and a few other places."

"No," Sam replied, chuckling nervously, "I'd rather take one alone."

"You'd defy my wishes?" the man screamed, grabbing Beckett forcefully by the arm. "I could have your head on a platter. You could be on the crucifixion wheel with Flora tomorrow if you so much as look at me funny."

"I won't. I promise." Sam struggled to think of a way out of this situation. There was no way he was going to get caught taking a bath with another man!

"Go fetch me something to eat," the man bellowed, nearly pushing Sam off the bed. "I'm hungry."

"Okay," Sam replied quickly, relieved that the man had abandoned the notion of a bath. He glanced around the room, hoping to find some clothes that belonged to his host. He only found a pair of slippers on the stone floor and slipped his host's dainty feet into them.

"Do it now!" the sultan bellowed.

"Okay, okay." Sam left the room, folding Lamb's arms around her chest in a feeble attempt to cover her body. He wandered across the hallway, taking a stairway down to the first floor. He hoped he could find the kitchen right away before the sultan grew any angrier.

"Al, Al," he called in a low voice, even though he knew Al could not hear him until he popped in-if he could pop in to wherever Sam was. _Al's not coming_, the time traveler thought. _I'm in some bizarre other world again._ Oddly, leaving his own world brought the memory of his other dimensional leap back into clear focus. He knew what he had to do; he couldn't interfere with Patrick's destiny in this altered reality. However, he had to use every possible opportunity to learn what he could to help matters in normal reality.

He wandered through the halls, checking room after room until finally finding the kitchen. A platter of fried drumsticks, from what ever type of bird people ate in this world, were setting in the ice box. He looked around for some means to reheat the meat, but there were no appliances in the room. The sultan struck him as a barbarian anyway and probably wouldn't care whether he ate his meal hot or cold.

_Now if I can find my way back_, Beckett thought as he stepped back out into the hallway. He was most definitely lost. There were steps several yards away, but they were leading down. He turned to go the other way.

"Is somebody up there?" a female voice exclaimed. "Please, I'm so confused. I just need someone to talk to."

Sam hesitated, a pang of sympathy welling up inside his chest. He didn't know who the woman was or why she was so desperately lonely, but he understood her emotional state. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her. Yet, he knew the sultan was waiting for his meal, probably getting angrier by the moment.

"Please!" the woman wailed.

He couldn't ignore her pleas. He climbed down the narrow steps, immediately getting assaulted by the stench permeating every corner of the room. Only one small window provided any light, and Sam remained at the bottom step until adjusting to the darkness. He inched forward, feeling his way around all the obstacles. He noticed a small cell ahead.

"You came, Lamb," the woman said, standing up and gripping the bars. Wearing a white robe and a black sash, she looked like a martial artist from Sam's world. "I thought tomorrow would come without anyone to say goodbye to."

"I must be here to rescue you," Sam said.

"Rescue me! How? You don't have a key and these bars-" She wrapped her hands around two of them to demonstrate. "Are made of the strongest steel."

No!" Sam suddenly realized. "I'm so sorry, but I can't try to rescue you. Altering your fate would distort the future of this world."

The woman fixed him with her brown eyes, causing a shiver to run through Sam's body. "I think I understand-but that doesn't make it any easier."

Sam reached out to touch the prisoner with his free hand. "I know how difficult tomorrow will be for you, but through it all remember that those who will be forced to watch, will never forget. They will learn from your torture. You will become a martyr in their eyes and a drastic change in this world will soon follow."

"Thank you, Lamb, for coming to see me," Flora said, lowering her eyes. "But you better leave now before they catch you and sentence you to the same fate. This world doesn't need two martyrs."

Sam grasped Flora's hand fleetingly and then turned and walked back up the stairs. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, to lean against the wall and close his eyes. This was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do-letting someone die. Destiny could not be altered here, for it was vital to their souls. Once complete understanding came, he leaped. 

August 6, 1984: Daytona 

He leaped into a race car driver going 140 mph down a winding track. "Ohhh boyyyyy!" he screamed as he saw other drivers racing against him. Swerving to avoid a crash, he barely kept the car under control. He crossed the finish line, but drove nearly halfway around the track before bringing the car to a complete stop. After removing his helmet and checking to make sure no cars were coming, he stepped out of the car.

Slowly, leaning against the vehicle, he walked around to the other side, as he tried to get his bearing. Please God, don't let me throw up! he said, closing his eyes. Something unusual is going on here, he thought, vague details about his last leap flashing across his swiss-cheesed memory. He recalled speaking with a woman who had been awaiting her death. But who was she? And why was she so willing to die?

A heavy set man and a young woman rushed toward Beckett, snapping him out of his reverie.

"You did it, Luke!" the woman exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him and planting him with a kiss. She was a medium-built woman with short auburn hair. She was wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of Luke's car printed on it. A moment later, camera flashes nearly blinded Sam as he accepted a huge trophy from a bearded man. With the resilience he'd gained from years of leaping into strangers, Sam began answering the reporters' questions.

Al popped in beside Sam. "Thank goodness I finally found you. Sam, after you saved that girl from choking, your body in the Waiting Room went back into a coma state."

Sam looked at Al, wishing he could speak, but others were already whisking him away. They escorted him into a limousine and the young woman took a seat beside Sam. Searching out clues to help him with Luke's identity, Sam glanced down at the woman's left hand and noticed a wedding band on her finger. She was Luke's wife. Now if he could just learn her name! He reached over and grabbed her hand and she smiled brightly at him.

"I think I'll wear my green dress," she told him.

Al popped in and poked his head through the limousine window. "Ah. . .she-Diana-was going to wear the red one."

"I thought you were going to wear the red one, Diana."

"It's a little tight, dear. That's why I changed me mind and decided I'd wear the green one."

"Oh, I'd love to see you in that red dress," Al said.

Sam turned to him sternly and with his expression, asked the observer why he was here.

Toying with the handlink, Al began feeding him the information from Ziggy. "You're thirty-four year old Luke Sorel. You've been a race car driver for the past ten years, and you've been overtaxing yourself lately preparing for the race you-or rather he-just won.

The limousine driver took them to a Marriott and Sam followed Dianna's lead up to the fifth floor. As soon as the door closed behind them, Dianna stripped off her t-shirt, showing no immodesty. She shouldn't, of course, Sam reminded himself; she was Luke's wife, but he, Sam Beckett, always felt embarrassed when placed in this type of situation. He felt relieved that Al hadn't followed them up here.

"You better get showered and changed Luke," Dianna said as she opened the closet to remove her green dress. "We don't have a whole lot of time."

"Sorry," Sam said, realizing he had been staring at her. "You're right of course."

"I know what you're thinking about me." She snickered. "We can have a private celebration later."

"Oh boy," Sam said under his breath so she couldn't hear. He entered the bathroom and began preparing for a shower. He only hoped that he leaped out before this private celebration took place. 

Twenty minutes later, they were back in the limousine heading toward the restaurant where a party was being held in Luke's honor.

Al popped back in just as Sam took his seat at the table. "Sam, Ziggy's running

scenarios, but we don't know yet why you've leaped into Luke. Worse, we have no idea why your body keeps slipping into a coma and we keep losing contact with you. Ziggy still hasn't been able to uncover any more information about Patrick Marland. It doesn't make any sense since Patrick is a highly respected photo journalist. If he came out of the coma, then he should have bylines appearing in newspapers all over the country."

Al paused while Sam accepted a toast from Brent, Luke's manager.

"To Luke Sorel," Brent said. "May others forever eat his dust."

Al studied information that Ziggy was sending through the handlink. "Sam, Ziggy says that you have to tell Brent that you can't participate in the next race. Luke dies in that race."

Sam glanced cautiously at the observer before quickly returning his gaze to Luke's manager.

"How do you feel now that you got your first trophy?" Brent asked. "I bet you can't wait 'til the next race, huh?"

"Well, actually, today's race thoroughly wore me out," Sam replied, expecting Luke's manager to respond by encouraging him to drive in the next race.

"We've hardly had any quality time together for the past several months," Dianna added.

Brent's smile wavered, but he didn't reply. Instead, he leaned toward the woman beside him and began whispering in her ear.

"Sam, can you excuse yourself from the room?" Al asked.

"Excuse me," Sam said. "Nature calls."

Al followed Sam into the bathroom and after checking each stall to determine that they were alone, they spoke freely.

"Al," Beckett said, "I know why you can't come to me during the time my body's in the coma. I traveled over into another dimension."

"Yes, that's right. You were with the cannibals last time, remember? Where were you this time?"

"I was part of a harem. I was a woman and so was Patrick. He-I mean she-was facing execution. She was about to become a martyr, so positive changes could occur in her world. Patrick and I, we're still connected somehow and until that connection is broken this is going to continue happening."

"Then Patrick must have died."

"I don't think so. I think that he's going to come out of that coma, but don't ask me why I'm so sure. I just have this feeling. Once he's made positive changes in all those future lives he outlined in his journal, he will be allowed to return to this life. Al, don't you see that it's a lot like my putting right what once went wrong?"

"Maybe, but thank God you don't have to endure all that torture in order to make positive changes." Al looked helplessly down at his handlink. "Unfortunately, Ziggy isn't as psychic as Patrick."

Does Ziggy know what happens to Meg Miller?"

After consulting with the computer through the handlink, Al replied, "She enjoys a very rewarding career as a writer. Ziggy's confused about her personal life, though. Sometimes Ziggy reports that Meg never remarried, while other times she believes she did marry."

"Patrick?"

Al consulted with Ziggy. "Maybe. . .Ziggy's not even clear on that."

"I believe I will have the chance to set things right, Al. Somehow, someway, God is going to give me the opportunity to go back and help everyone involved with the Sheffield case. Patrick is not going to die.

"I wish I had as much faith," Al muttered. Then he purposely changed the subject, "Sam, just make sure Luke doesn't drive in next week's race. Go out there and tell Brent that you need to take a vacation."

"Okay," Sam nodded. "I need to finish this leap as quickly as possible, so I can go someplace where I can learn more about what's going on with Patrick." 

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"I'm not sure I do either, but there really is no choice." He stepped out of the bathroom.

Al followed him out and stood a few yards away as Sam informed the group that he would not be participating in the next race. Many questions were asked, but Sam remained adamant about his decision.

"I don't understand," Brent said after the crowd began to break up. He grasped Sam by the arms. "But who am I to question my number one hero? You did great out there today, son. You've earned a vacation. You and Dianna go somewhere pleasant and let the world take care of you for a while."

Can't be this easy, Sam thought. A leap has never been this easy. But as he was finishing the thought, he leaped out of Luke anyway. With the leap in transit, he realized Sorel's purpose-to give him a much-needed vacation from his current mission, to prevent his psyche from becoming overtaxed.

Images invaded Sam's psyche. Just as he thought he'd reached the next place for a leap, something would pull him away. He saw people struggling, a young girl being forced out of her bed at gun point, the same girl being executed as a stake was driven through her chest. He saw a baron castle, one that had once been filled with life and now housed only broken and torn relics.

Then he saw no more.

"Please, Ziggy," Al said, walking up to the artificial intelligence unit, "tell me you know where Sam leaped to."

"Not at the moment, Admiral Calavicci," the computer's feminine voice responded. "But I am evaluating the data rom his two previous coma-induced dimensional leaps and believe I will shortly arrive at a formula to determine Dr. Beckett's exact location."

"Will it be possible for me to get in touch with him while he's over there?"

"Estimated probability is 76.4%.

"Good. Keep working on it, Ziggy. I'm going to go sit beside Sam. Just beep me when you've figured something out." Placing the handlink in the pocket of his jacket, the project observer headed toward the white room where his friend's body lay in a coma state.

Staring at Sam's comatose body was painful, almost unbearable for Al. Yet he could not leave his friend's side until there was some way he could help Sam. Every once in a while, Beeks or one of the other project doctors ventured inside the room to routinely check on Sam, but for the most part, the two friends were left alone in silence.

After more than an hour, Al's handlink beeped three times. He removed it from his pocket to find it flashing rapidly. Pressing the button that allowed a voice link to Ziggy, he said, "Ziggy, have you figured something out?"

"Yes, Admiral," Ziggy replied. "I believe I have located Dr. Beckett."

"I'm on my way," Al said, jumping up from his chair. he paused at the doorway to look back at his friend. "I'm coming for you buddy."

Rushing into the main lab that housed the artificial intelligence unit, Al found Gooshi waiting for him.

"Admiral, I do not think it's a good idea for you to attempt this," the scientist said. "If you make contact with Dr. Beckett, we have no way of knowing whether we can retrieve either one of you."

"I cannot just leave him hanging out there somewhere in limbo," Al argued. Al opened the door to the imaging chamber and as he stepped through it, he heard Ziggy say, "Good luck, Admiral."

Then he found himself in complete darkness.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty:**

"Sam!" Calavicci exclaimed. "Can you hear me?" He waited desperately for a reply. "Ziggy, can you still hear me?" he asked into the handlink."

"Yes, Admiral Calavicci."

"I'm caught in some type of void. Can you amplify Dr. Beckett's signal at all?"

"I am currently rerouting power to help you, Admiral. It should only take another twenty-five seconds." Less than half a minute and yet it seemed unbearably long to the project observer. "Power routed to imaging chamber has been increased by forty-three percent," Ziggy informed him.

Slowly, the darkness shifted to light and the project observer found himself standing in a village with buildings made of brick and dirt paths that were used for roads. The streets were lit by lanterns hanging from posts every twenty feet or so. Three horses were tethered a ways ahead and people were walking along either the side of the street.

None of them were Sam.

"Where is he Ziggy?"

The reply was painfully slow and garbled. The project observer smacked at the handlink without positive results. "Come on, Ziggy! You can't let us get cut off like this!"

A few more seconds passed with Al fighting with the handlink when Ziggy finally came through clearly. "Can you understand me now, Admiral?"

"Yes! What happened?"

"A temporal displacement. Time passes much faster in the world you have entered. I have made a few adjustments to my audio program to compensate. For a moment, you sounded like one of the chipmunks."

"Chipmunk! You should have heard what you sounded like, you-"

"Now, now, Admiral, calm down. Dr. Beckett is in the third building to your left."

"Thanks, Ziggy."

"However, there is not enough power to automatically center you on Dr. Beckett. I am afraid you will have to walk to him."

"Just let me know who he's leaped into once I get there."

"Of course, Admiral."

More than ever, Al was glad no one from this world could see him. Although they were outwardly human, there were distinct differences, which Al noticed every time he passed one of them-like wider noses and webbed fingers. He wondered if they were meant to aid in swimming, but he didn't see any water nearby.

He reached the third building, which was the one with the tethered horses outside. At least the animals look normal, he thought, staring into their faces. This, of course, spooked the horses, and Al quickly slipped into the building before anyone noticed the commotion.

The room was filled with men and cigarette smoke and probably reeked of alcohol-but as a hologram, Al was grateful he couldn't smell any of it. He glanced around the room for any sign that one of the men saw and recognized him. No one seemed to notice him.

"Dr. Beckett has leaped into the bartender," Ziggy informed him and Al turned to look at a heavyset man standing behind the bar pouring drinks. Sam was trying to inconspicuously signal Al to come over, while playing out the duties of his leap host. Not an easy feat.

Al rushed over to his friend. "Sam, boy am I ever glad to see you! I know you can't talk, so just keep pouring the drinks and listen to me. Ziggy came up with a formula based on your other two previous leaps into alternate dimensions that enabled her to track you down. She had to increase the power to the imaging chamber by forty-three percent for me to come to you. Do you have any idea where Patrick is in this world?-Ah, move your head, yes or no."

Sam nodded and then tilted it slightly to his right. At first, Sam didn't understand what his friend was trying to tell him until he noticed the paper setting at the end of the bar. He walked over to read what it said.

Convicted murderer to be executed.

Saturday at Noon

Village Square

The paper went on to explain both the crime and the alleged perpetrator, a twenty-nine year old male named Polaris Ilod. He would be leaving behind a wife and two small children. The execution would be carried out in prolonged, agonizing detail on a what was referred to as the "agony wheel." Al shuddered at the thought of it.

Finally, with a free moment, Sam walked over to the project observer.

"So this is Patrick's fate in this world?" Al asked the time traveler. He felt strange asking Sam for information he usually supplied him, but somehow in this altered reality, it felt right to ask Sam for details.

Sam replied in a low voice, "Yes."

"But he's not guilty, right? We're here to see that he gets cleared of the charges."

"No! We can't do anything that would stop the execution." Sam glanced nervously at the patrons, making sure no one noticed he was "talking to himself." Luckily, all the men were either too drunk or too caught up in what they were doing to care. "I know what I'm here to do. I have to help Patrick accept the torture, to not fight it, and to get through it."

"Sam-"

"I know, I know. It won't be easy, but it's the only way to save this world."

"I'm not leaving you," Al said adamantly. "I'm going to stick by your side every second until you leap from this horrendous world."

Beckett nodded his gratitude quickly before going back to his station to fill the next round of drink orders.

The bartender Sam had leaped into, Nax, had a small apartment above the bar. Once the bar closed, Sam and Al went upstairs to talk in private.

"Ziggy has no idea what day it is in this world, because the time is passing by at an astronomical rate compared to ours," Al said tapping the buttons on the handlink. "So she can't tell us how long we have before the execution takes place."

"We have eight hours," Sam informed the project observer as though it were the most natural thing for him to know. "This is early Saturday morning right now. Al, you probably spent a couple of hours looking for me." Al nodded. "Well, like you said, time is accelerated over here. I've been bartending for more than a week now. A bartender can learn a lot from his customers."

"It's amazing, Sam!"

"What?"

"You'd think the major shift in time acceleration would screw up your biological functions, or something."

"That has been a theory of many scientist, but until now there has been no way to prove it-or disprove it. I'm fine. When I'm over here, in one of these altered-accelerated-realities, my biological functions seem to adjust just fine to the temporal shifts."

"Well, even so, I'm glad I'm a hologram."

"I think we better get a few hours sleep," Sam said. "Even holograms require that and we'll want to be rested to deal with. . .this." He could not bring himself to describe what they faced. It was bad enough that they would have to endure it. Worse that Patrick would have to suffer through it. Continual thoughts of the execution prevented either of them from getting much sleep. Sam wondered if his imagination was far worse than the actual punishment and feared it was not.

When he awoke shortly after ten, Sam realized that he had managed a couple hours sleep. He noticed Al standing beside the dresser, accessing information from Ziggy and suspected that his friend hadn't gotten any sleep.

"So, what does Ziggy say?" he asked, hoping the question didn't sound too serious.

"Ziggy says that she has absolutely no data on this altered world and that I should take my cues from you. Talk about switching places!"

Al's words sent something close to an electrical shock through Sam. For a brief moment, he almost remembered a time when their roles were reversed, but the memory was fleeting. Seconds later, he dismissed the notion to imagination.

"If you're supposed to take my cue, then I want you to stand away from the execution."

"Sam, I will not leave you during this leap." He punctuated every word with his cigar.

"I'm not asking you to leave me. Just stand back several yards. If today goes as I suspect it will, I'm going to have to get right up close to Patrick's incarnate during his most agonizing moments. I don't want you to suffer through that needlessly."

"I wish you didn't have to either."

Sam looked away from his friend and stepped toward the door. "Well, that makes two of us. I'm suppose to save people's lives, not help them die."

"Just what this world needs, a Jack Kovorkian."

Sam paused with the door open to look back quizzically at his friend. "Who?"

"Never mind, Sam," Al replied with a wave of his cigar. "This time your swiss-cheese memory is doing you a service. The correlation is a bit too morbid to explain."

Sam dismissed the subject with a shake of his head and stepped out into the hallway.

When they stepped outside a couple minutes later, a crowd of people were already heading toward the spot of the execution though the staring time was still more than ninety minutes away. There were even children among them! People were being examined thoroughly by armed guards as they came into the village center for any concealed weapons. The government did not want anyone shooting the prisoner, offering him a quick death that would end his misery. No weapons were uncovered that either Sam or Al could see, and people were permitted to pass. Sam morbidly wondered if that meant all the people wanted the prisoner to suffer for as long as possible-all the more fun to watch.

Sam forcefully made his way through the crowd to get a close look at the round wheel standing at the village center. It looked almost like a satellite dish on a cement platform. But the obvious differences were startling. Its surface was abrasive and four shackles were spaced evenly apart for securing the arms and legs of its victim. Upon closer examination, Sam noticed several holes in the disk and when he looked behind it, he saw the blades. Being a medical doctor, Beckett was able to approximate where the blades would stab the man based on their location and angles and the placement of the shackles. The blades were precisionly aimed to stab the flesh in non-vital areas to prolong the torture.

Others were interested in examining the execution device as well, though Sam doubted that most of them realized how grueling the execution they were about to watch would be. Thinking about the nightmares these people would have for weeks, perhaps years after this event made Sam queasy, but he knew it was necessary for them to realize the need to force changes.

More spectators forced their way toward the torture device, and Sam allowed himself to be pushed away from it. Slowly he made his way back to Al, who was standing under the shade of a tree, though inside the imaging chamber, the shade had no real effect on him.

"Don't describe it to me," the project observer pleaded. "I don't think my stomach can take it. I'm just glad I didn't have any breakfast."

"Same here," Sam replied. "I have a feeling that there are going to be a lot of sick people today. I'm here to help Patrick's alter endure the pain, but maybe I'm also here to help these people deal with the shock of the trauma." He turned to gaze at the crowd. Off to the side, several children were laughing and playing. He prayed it wasn't the last time they would laugh.

Three men in uniforms came out fifteen minutes before the execution was scheduled to begin and asked the people to back away from the torture disk. Their holstered weapons convinced otherwise reluctant people to obey. No one was permitted to stand closer than thirty feet of either side of the disk while the prisoner was brought out and shackled down.

When the prisoner was brought out, he was surrounded by several guards, but Sam managed to get a good enough look at the man to notice his general features. Polaris Ilod looked remarkably like Patrick. Not that Sam couldn't see obvious differences as the man drew closer-he could-but his beard, his eyes, and especially the way he moved, were all characteristics of the Patrick Sam had known so briefly. This leap continued to get harder and harder to endure.

"Oh. . .Jesus," Al said, removing his cigar from his mouth. He was obviously equally as taken aback by the sight of Ilod.

Just as the guards were shackling the prisoner to the torture disk, Ilod looking in Sam's direction and gazed at the time traveler as though recognizing him. _He knows the bartender I leaped into_, Sam tried to convince himself unsuccessfully. There was something about the way Patrick's alter stared at Sam-like he knew who he really was and why he was here.

But why in this lifetime? Not only had Patrick's alter not recognized Sam in the two previous lifetimes, but he hadn't even remembered his life as Patrick. What was different about this world?

The crowd had grown very quiet as everyone became mesmerized by the preparation of the prisoner. Even the smallest children had grown still to gawk. Did they realize what was going to happen? Or did they think they were about to watch a circus act?

As much as it repulsed him, Sam shared some of their awe and could not resist the urge to step dangerously close to the line the guards had drawn for the crowd.

"Sam," Al exclaimed and a split second later, the time traveler noticed a guard walking toward him. He did not back down.

Reaching Sam, the guard bruskly began searching him. "I don't have any weapons," Sam assured the guard. "I just want to watch like everybody else." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but Sam knew he had to say them-knew he had to get even closer to Patrick's alter.

The guard pulled the wallet of Sam's host from his pants pocket and began going through it. After reading the identification, the guard looked back up at Sam, startled.

"Why didn't you just tell me you were Polaris Ilod?" he asked. "It would have saved us both a lot of trouble."

"Tell you-" Sam began to question, but the guard had already grabbed him by the arm and was leading him toward Patrick's incarnate. They went past the victim to stand behind the disk.

Some members of the crowd grew quite unruly and attempted to cross the line. The guards were prepared for the outburst and had night sticks ready to beat them back.

"Congratulations on winning the contest," the guard said to Sam.

"Contest?"

"Now I know that one of the conditions was that you keep it secret from the general public, but you don't need to play naive with me. You have the honor of shoving the first blade through the execution disk."

It took all of Sam's strength not to vomit. He turned away from the guard, hoping the other man hadn't noticed how ill he was becoming. He looked at the blades and thought of the still very-much alive man on the other side of the torture device. How could he, a man whose life mission was to save lives, thrust the first blade into Ilod's flesh?

"Oh. . . .God," he said as he raised his hand toward a knife that would slice into Ilod's right leg. _Here it goes,_ Sam thought, willing his fist around the handle. Before he had the chance to debate about how wrong this was, he thrust the knife through the hole. Ilod let out an agonizing scream, which sent a wave of nausea rippling through Sam, and he stepped back unable to cover his revulsion. The guard grabbed him by the arm to steady him.

"I'm all right," Sam said, shoving the guard aside and making his way around the front of the disk. He stared into Ilod's grey, cloudy eyes and could say nothing to comfort the man.

"You did what you had to do," he told Sam. A tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't let it deter him. "We must allow my fate in this world to be carried out fully, Sam."

"You remember?" Sam asked, shocked. "How is that possible here? You had no memory in the other two worlds."

"It does not interfere with this world for me to know. It would have in the other two worlds for safety reasons. It is also possible for Al to join you here, but he couldn't before in the other two worlds. Don't ask me how I know. There isn't time to explain it. Tell me, Sam, how long will my torture last?"

"It will depends on a number of things." Beckett swallowed heavily. "First, how frequently they stab you. . .how much you struggle."

"A little difficult." Ilod demonstrated how restricted his movement was.

"Okay. . .whether they remove any of the blades." Ilod was already shaking his head before Sam had finished. "How quickly you go into shock. . .how perfect their aim is."

"They've had much practice-though this is the first time with an audience." He let out another blood-curdling scream. Without warning, a knife had been plunged into his left leg. "How long?" he said between heavy breaths.

"Hours. . .maybe even more than a day."

"Sam-" Ilod's lips began quavering uncontrollably. "Sam, I don't know if I can go through with this!"

Sam clutched his friend firmly, but reassuringly by the right hand and leaned toward him. "You have to-for all the innocent people of this world. You are their wake-up call. They will see you as a martyr and they will no longer stand by silently allowing others to be tortured to death. Promise me you will be strong-that you won't let this break your soul. This will come to pass. God will award your soul."

Ilod fixed him sternly and nodded with complete understanding-and acceptance. The pain would become more and more unbearable, but somehow he would get through it.

And forget during the next lifetime.

Sam stepped away from his friend to study the crowd. Their fascination had waned. As the third blade went through Ilod's arm, they no longer saw this execution as fun and games. A few were even backing off. Young mothers were rushing to the outskirts of town with their screaming children.

Others, who chose to remain, covered their eyes only watching the execution tentatively.

"Do you see this? Are you watching this?" Sam yelled out to them. "This is the exciting show you came to watch."

Two of the guards came around through the crowd to bruskly escort Sam out of the village center. And yet, Sam continued to talk to the crowd.

"Remember this!" he yelled, "and especially remember how it makes you feel. You don't have to stand for this. The voice of many will bring about change. Make a change!"

There were only a few still more interested in the execution to pay attention to Sam. The majority were watching him, intent on his words. A couple were even nodding in complete agreement. _They will be the leaders of the uprising,_ Sam supposed. They would bring about the change that Patrick had predicted in his journal. There would be a change. Ilod's painful death would not be for naught.

Feeling at least an ounce of satisfaction over this knowledge, Sam leaped out of the bartender.

"Well, are you going to shoot me or are you going to just stare at me all day?" a woman wearing a long party dress asked.

It took Sam a moment to realize that he had leaped into a man holding a camera in his hand. They were standing in the foyer of a very elaborate restaurant. Quickly, he took several shots of the woman at varying angles. As he finished, a man approached him.

"Bobby, you are one lucky sonofagun getting this gig," the man said. "There's always rich pretty women at a charity ball. Too bad that other fella had to get hisself nearly killed, though."

"Other fella? You mean, Patrick Marland?"

"Of course! I hear his assailant didn't make bail and that the prosecutor's shooting for the maximum sentence. Who'd a thought an editor of a newspaper would ever attempt murder, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Have you heard how Marland's doing?"

"It don't look like the poor fella's coming out of the coma any time soon. Can you believe he's been comatose for nearly two months? Of course, he's got a far sight to go before he holds any record. I heard that the longest coma-"

"Are you with the newspaper?" a man in a three-piece suit interrupted them. "Take our picture. My wife, she's real photogenic."

As Sam lifted the camera and snapped the picture, he leaped.

Al stepped out of the imaging chamber and rushed toward the artificial intelligence unit. "Where is Dr. Beckett, Ziggy?" he ordered bruskly. He had no reason to expect the computer to locate Sam the instant of his leap. Locating Sam usually took Ziggy several minutes.

"I have not yet determined that, Admiral," Ziggy replied coolly. Unlike other computers, she had an ego-and didn't hesitate to show it off. "I have it narrowed down to sometime in the 1980's. . . ."

Al waited, chewing on his cigar.

"He's in 1983-somewhere in New York City. . . .Oh, sorry, Admiral, Dr. Beckett has already leaped again."

"Where? Can you tell me at least if he's still in our world?"

"I'm afraid not-that is, I mean, to say I'm afraid he is not. he has crossed over to another dimension once again."

"Then locate him and use your special formula to center me on him!"

"I will certainly try. However, there is no guarantee that the formula will work with the new dimension."

"Well, what are the odds this time?"

"About fifty percent."

Dread overwhelmed the admiral like bricks weighing him down. He hated waiting more than anything. He had no idea if Sam was safe wherever he was and Al's worst fear was that Sam would never return and would be forced to remain in limbo-or face tortures similar to those Patrick was enduring.

"You know where I'll be," he told Ziggy and slipped out of the room.

Images flashed before Sam again. He saw people living in scantily-put-together huts that they called home. They had little clothing, little belongings, and their bellies were swollen with hunger. Sam saw a young man running with a sack of grain across a desert. He saw that same man sometime later and in another place, still running, this time without the sack of grain. The man was being chased by an angry mob. The man jumped off a cliff and hit his head on the stone floor below. His pursuers climbed slowly and carefully down the cliff side to retrieve the man. He was unconscious, but still breathing. They did not handle him gently. Why handle someone they were about to assassinate with care? Time shifted abruptly forward, and Sam saw a child eating bread made from the grain. The child was smiling. Her belly was full for the first time in weeks.

Sam saw darkness, nothing more.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One:**

I'm there again, Sam thought as he leaped into the next host. This is another dimension.

He turned around, studying his surroundings, finding he was on a paved street. Just ahead several yards, a huge crowd blocked the roadway. He approached them, curious about what they were watching. Urgently, he fought his way through the spectators, somehow knowing that he didn't have time to waste.

A boy of about fourteen or fifteen was kneeling on a platform with his arms tied behind his back. Hovering over him, a man held a small object. Beckett squinted, trying to make out what the object was. It looked like a syringe-no, he realized, it was more like a hypospray used in the futuristic world of Star Trek. The boy glanced at Sam and oddly smiled. The time traveler wanted to stop the execution, wanted to end the vicious cycle, but he knew, from the boy's smile, that this death had some purpose. The man pressed the hypospray against the boy's neck and within moments, the boy's body crumpled to the floor.

Sam wanted to cry out, wanted to show his grief, but the uproar amongst the onlookers drowned him out. They were clapping as though having listened to an eloquent speech instead of having just witnessed a murder.

They're at war, Sam realized, suddenly remembering Patrick's journal and more specifically the entry referring to this world. People at war do crazy things.

That was why it had been so difficult to persuade Ben to forgive Karen.

"Are you coming to the auction?" the man beside Sam asked.

"Auction?" How could people talk about such things after witnessing an execution?

The man seemed not to notice Sam's confusion. "I hear that this boy is going to go for a fine price."

Suddenly, Sam remembered every word of Patrick's journal entries on this world. "Oh boy. . ." he mumbled. The body would be used for twisted autopsy experiments. Louder, Sam answered the man, "Yes." He watched three men carefully place the body in a zipper bag. "I think I will."

"I'm glad to hear that, but I hope you don't think you're going to out bid me." He laughed heartily and slapped Sam on the back. "See you."

"Yeah, see you," Sam replied without enthusiasm.

It took Beckett a while to figure out where this auction was going to take place. He couldn't come right out and ask people at the risk of sounding stupid. Normally, he relied on Al for such information, and thinking about it, made him miss his friend all the more. He wondered if his friend would find a way into this dimension, but didn't figure it likely. During the last altered world, Sam had been there for more than a week when Al showed up. With the body auction going on that night, it didn't seem likely that he would remain here that long.

It turned out that, unlike the execution, the auction was not publicly advertised. Only the richest and most prestigious members of the community were invited to bid on the body. In the process of learning all this, Sam also found out the boy's "crime." Filup had been coerced by gang members to steal a doll from a six-year old girl. Afraid he would never fit in otherwise, the fifteen-year old boy snatched the doll from the screaming girl's hands and tossed it down a well. Apparently, this society believed that dolls possessed souls like living, breathing people, and Filup had essentially been charged with murder.

What the judge called a trial was a joke. Filup had been tried, sentenced, and executed all on the same day. And now his body was going to be auctioned off for someone's sick necrophiliac pleasure tonight. Reminding himself that this wasn't his world didn't help steady Sam's queasy stomach any.

When Sam arrived at the old barn where the auction was taking place, there were hardly any seats left. Apparently, a rather large portion of the community was considered prestigious. He had to sit in the back row where his view was very poor.

"Have you heard how many bodies are going to be auctioned off today?" a fat woman, leaning toward him, asked.

"No, I haven't."

"Rumor has it-sixteen. Can you believe it! No wonder there are so many people here."

"Yeah. . .ah, this is my first auction. How many bodies are usually auctioned off?" Sam hoped he didn't sound foolish asking.

"Oh, usually nine or ten at the most. I came close to winning the bid on one of them last time. My husband needs one to complete his thesis in bimolecular engineering."

Sam didn't like the sound of the "engineering" part given what he already knew about this world and decided not to ask her to explain.

A tall, husky man walked up to the podium on the stage and the crowd quickly quieted down. "Sorry for the delay, folks," he said with a smile. "I know you're all pretty anxious to get this started. We had just a _little_ trouble transporting a couple of the bodies, but I assure you that all is fine and no harm has come to any of the bodies. And without any further ado-" he turned to look somewhere off stage. "Gentlemen, please bring out the first body."

Carefully, four men carried out a large coffin-like box and placed it directly in front of the podium. Slowly, two of them lifted the hinged lid to reveal the body of a beautiful young woman with long golden curls and a white silk dress. She looked peaceful, at sleep. The four men walked off the stage, casually.

"Our first specimen," said the man at the podium, "is Ardrion Kralitz. She was executed just this morning for aborting her four-month fetus. Who will give $500 yingums for this body?" Someone raised his hand. "Do I hear $600?"

The fat lady raised her hand as she mumbled, "They haven't even begun." Within seconds, the bid was up to $7500.

"Going once, going twice. . ."

"$7525!" the fat lady yelled, standing to be heard.

"Do I hear $7550? No one else shouted out a bid. "Sold for $7525. Come up and sign the agreement form, Ma'am."

"I finally saved up enough!" she exclaimed, clapping all the way to the stage.

Each body continued to go for considerably high bids. When the auctioneer reached the body of the young Filup, he started the bid at 10,000 yingums. This startled Sam. Why was the boy's body worth more than the others? He leaned over to ask the fat woman, somehow sure she would fill him in on all the details.

"People bid on the crime committed," she informed him. "Didn't you know that?" She sounded completely flabbergasted.

"Why is throwing a doll down a well a valuable crime?"

She snorted and shook her head incredulously. "He not only committed murder, but he destroyed a young girl's life. she has lost her guardian, the one who would have led her into adulthood and eventually into motherhood as well."

Sam was afraid to ask for anymore details. She was already eyeing him like the alien he was. As well were others nearby who had caught snatches of the conversation. He decided to leave and stood, trying to fight his way out of the crowd, but before he could, he leaped out.

Sam found himself leaping into a man standing in the doorway to a kitchen. He glanced around, unsure if he was back in his own world or in yet another bizarre alter world.

"Are you going to take Matthew his supper, or not?" a woman inside the kitchen asked Sam, pointing at a full plate.

"Ah. . .yeah," Sam replied slowly as he took the plate.

He only hoped he didn't have too much trouble finding the room. He walked through the living room and down a hall. Only one door was open, so he ventured toward it and peered inside.

Lying on a bed was an elderly man, who appeared infirm. The man put forth a great effort to lift his head and smile at Sam. "I knew you would be coming," he said in a raspy voice.

Sam hesitated in the doorway for a moment, staring at the elderly man and wondering. "Ah. . .I brought you your supper," he said, slowly walking toward the bed.

"Set it down on the nightstand, son. I'll get to it later. Pull up that chair over there and sit with me for a spell. We have much to talk about, much to catch up with. Do you know who I am?"

Sam studied the man intently from his grey eyes to his grey hair to his grey beard. Though weak and wrinkled, the man wore an expression of contentment. He'd led a long and satisfying life in this world.

"You're Matthew, of course," Sam replied. His name quavered slightly on the name Matthew. Where had he heard that name before? Oh God, how he hated having to live with a swiss-cheesed brain. He always forgot the most important details at the moment he needed to retrieve them.

Seeming to understand Sam's confusion, Matthew said, "I've come full circle. Do you not understand? I have lived many lives and suffered through many deaths. This life has been a good one. I have experienced many years with the love of a wonderful woman. Together, we raised four children and now have seventeen grandchildren. My wife, bless her poor soul, passed on two years ago. Now it is almost time for me to join her. But we both know I won't_really_ join her-not yet. Son, do you know who I am?" the man asked again.

Sam leaned forward and grasped the man's wilting hand. "Patrick?" he said. "I knew, or at least I think I did, but I wasn't sure whether or not you would know."

The man chuckled lightly. "Oh, I've known. I've lived a long time, knowing. I could not tell anyone, not even my wife, Tilya. Reincarnation is not a strong belief in this world."

"That must have been difficult for you."

"Don't fret about that, Sam. I lived a normal and happy life in this world. I have no regrets, no unfulfilled wishes. I am ready to go back now-back to _our_world. As Patrick, I will realize my greatest achievements. Now that my fates in each of these worlds have come to pass, I will remember them-and learn from them-and grow from them. They will be the crux of what I become."

Matthew closed his eyes and almost at a whisper, said, "I'm so tired. . .I'm so tired." His hand slipped from Sam's and grew limp. Staring at the elderly man, Sam did not even see a flicker of movement. After enjoying a long and rewarding life in this world, Matthew had succumb to death peacefully.

Sam placed both of the man's hands across his chest and then stood. "Rest in peace, Matthew," he said. "Rest in peace."

A moment later, Sam leaped out of that world.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**

He found himself leaping into a man standing in a courtroom only a few feet away from the judge. A tumult was growing among the watchers as the judge pounded his gavel and threatened contempt charges against several people.

"Mr. Everheart," the judge said, addressing Sam, "would you please try to keep your witness under control?"

"Yes, your Honor," Beckett replied and turned toward the witness. He was shocked to see Lisanne Sheffield sitting in the witness chair! He whirled around anxious to see who the defendant was and found himself staring at Charles Sheffield.

"Mr. Everheart, is there a problem?"

Sam tried to think quickly, but he didn't even know yet whether Sheffield was his client or if he had leaped into the prosecuting attorney. After he had helped Patrick through all of the altered lives, he had expected to leap into a new situation, one that did not involve Patrick or any of the other players from the leap at the house in Mt. Pleasant. Yet here he was staring into the face of the man who had attempted to kill Patrick and had sent Patrick into a perilous journey of tortured lives. He prayed he wasn't the defense attorney. How could he ever be expected to defend a man that he knew firsthand was guilty.

"If you have no further questions, counselor, then ask your witness to step down," the judge bellowed.

"I have no further questions, Your Honor." Sam felt his mouth grow dry.

"We will have a recess for lunch, then." The judge tapped the table with his gable. "Court will recommence at one-thirty."

Sam did not have time to eat. He had just over an hour to familiarize himself with Everheart's notes and case strategy. To his dread, he found the attorney's notes on the defense table and gathered them up. _Al please show up soon,_ he thought as he made his way through the crowd and out of the building. _I cannot, will not, defend this man. You've got to get me out of this mess!_

A group of reporters confronted him before he could reach the steps leading toward the street. "Mr. Everheart, do you honestly believe your client is innocent?" one of them asked.

Several of them began asking questions at once. "I'm afraid I can't give anything specific away about the case. Now if you would excuse-"

Sam started to push his way past them, but stopped suddenly when he recognized a familiar face in the crowd. Meg was covering this story! _Good for her,_ he thought. He hoped to have the opportunity to read a copy of her report. If anyone could accurately describe this case, Meg was certainly the one. He wanted to say something to her, that he was glad to see her again. He realized, however, that she didn't know that he was Sam Beckett. He wanted to reach out and hug her. He was sure he had fallen in love before, but until now, leaping around had not afforded him the opportunity to reunite with someone he loved. And yet he wasn't sure that revealing his true identity to Meg was the correct thing to do. He would only leap out again, probably never to return to her life.

The other reporters continued to bombard Sam with questions, but Meg stared at him quizzically as though she was beginning to realize.

"I have to work on the case," he said forcefully and made his way down the steps.

It tore him up inside to leave Meg behind. He knew that now was not the right time to talk to her. He would have to find the time later. Perhaps, make the time. Maybe, if he had been correct, and she really had shown a glimmer of recognition, she would seek him out. Right now, he needed to confer with Al. Hopefully, the hologram would make his appearance shortly.

_Now to figure out which car Everheart drives,_ he thought as he glanced from car to car parked on the side of the road. He also noticed a full parking lot only a block away.

Al appeared in the middle of the street, oblivious to the car passing through him. When the traffic was clear, Sam began crossing the street to join his friend.

"Sam, you've leaped into an attorney-" he tapped a few buttons, "-named Jacob Everheart."

"Just direct me to his car and we'll talk along the way."

After fighting with the handlink, the project observer provided the answer. "Everheart owns a white 1985 Cadillac. It's parked over in the parking lot." Al pointed with his cigar. "third row, seventh car in."

"Thanks, Al."

As they made their way over to the parking lot and to the third row, Al did most of the talking. "Patrick Marland is still in a coma and Charles Sheffield is being tried for his attempted murder. Sheffield was released on a $10,000 bail after only three days in jail. The prosecuting attorney finished with his last witness yesterday and apparently gave a very convincing argument."

"Charles Sheffield may have been influenced by Zoey, but he tied that sheet around my neck of his own volition."

"You mean Patrick's neck, Sam."

"It was me he was interacting with. I felt the sheet around my neck. You can't blame me for hating the man. Al, how can I possibly defend him? I've leaped into his defense attorney! I must be here for some other reason, but for the life of me, I can't figure it out at the moment. What does Ziggy say?"

"Ziggy's still not sure," Al said, punching away on the handlink. "One thing is for sure, though, she doesn't think you're here to see Sheffield acquitted-and neither do I."

"Guess who I ran into before you popped in?"

Al offered Sam a quizzical look as he puffed on his cigar.

"Meg!" Sam exclaimed. "And I'd almost swear she knew who I was."

They reached Everheart's car and Sam fished in the man's pocket for keys. After Sam unlocked the driver's side door and got into the car, his holographic friend walked through the other door and sat down, too.

"Yeah, well, she's already proven that she has psychic abilities."

"Where are we going, Sam?"

"I don't know. Someplace where I can study Everheart's notes."

Al consulted with Ziggy. "There's a restaurant called the Candlelight Inn-go three blocks and turn left.

Once they'd arrived at the restaurant and a hostess had led Sam to a booth seat, Beckett opened Everheart's briefcase and began browsing through the notes, while Al continued to provide him with any new information Ziggy could gather.

The waitress arrived and took Sam's order for a diet coke, grilled chicken sandwich and a small salad. He wanted to eat something quick, so he would have more time to work on figuring this leap out.

"We should call Meg to the stand," Beckett said quietly so as not to attract the attention of other customers. "Then after her, Raymond. "They're the only ones who saw what happened-except me."

"Sam, you're thinking like the prosecuting attorney. By the way, what witnesses did the prosecuting attorney call?" Al asked. He could find out that information from Ziggy, but was prodding Sam to look more thoroughly through Everheart's notes.

Leafing through the papers, Sam found that about one-third of the notes contained information that the state had been required to give the defense. Sam spoke as he flipped through the pages. "Raymond and Meg. . .Dr. Egan... Sheriff Yeltsin...every officer that investigated the alleged crime scene. It says here that my next witness is Martin Bridgeman! Why?"

Al began fiddling with the remote. "When Meg was questioned on the witness stand, it came out that she and Patrick-or you rather-went to visit Martin Bridgeman about the haunting case. The prosecuting attorney apparently thought that Martin Bridgeman might be able to help him uncover some type of conspiracy that you guess were involved in."

"Conspiracy? What difference would that make? Sheffield attempted murder. There is no justifiable motive for murder."

"Let's hope the jury agrees with you Sam." The project observer resumed his activity with the handlink. "Get this, Sam: Ziggy has just come up with a new theory as to why you've leaped into Sheffield's lawyer. she thinks you're here not to acquit Sheffield, but to make sure that Meg and Patrick get together."

"Get together? I'm not sure I understand. At the risk of sounding egotistical, it was me she fell in love with."

"Well, you may not like to hear this, but Ziggy says that Meg actually has feelings for Patrick that she hasn't admitted to herself yet and that Patrick is rather fond of her as well. Ziggy believes that the only reason that they didn't get together before you leaped into Patrick is that Meg has not yet been able to shed the ghost of her dead husband. Think about it, Sam. You could leap out of here a week from now or one hour from now. Either way, you're going to be out of Meg's life. Ziggy says that there is a 99.9% chance that you are here to get Meg and Patrick together. I mean, look at those odds! Ziggy has been pretty sure before, but never _this_ sure, Sam."

Slowly, Sam nodded. "You're right, of course. If I don't convince them that they are meant for each other, then they'll never get together. I can't risk jeopardizing their happiness over my jealousy, and maybe if I can convince Meg right away, I can leap out of here and not have to worry about defending Sheffield."

"That's the spirit, Sam."

Sam began reading Everheart's notes more thoroughly.

After several minutes, the waitress brought out Beckett's food, and he continued to read while he ate. He managed to place a couple grease stains on the pages while eating, but at least he felt somewhat prepared when it came time to return to the court.

Al left by way of the imaging chamber to continue helping at the _Quantum Leap_ Project Headquarters. After paying his bill, Sam left the restaurant and drove back to the courthouse.

He prayed he would be able to locate Meg before it was time to go back into the courtroom. To his relief the mob of reporters were still waiting for him when he returned and Meg was among them. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him and he raised his hand to silence them.

"I tell you what," he said. "I'll speak to one of you. I'll answer questions that with the condition that whoever I choose has to share the information with the others."

This brought strong protests by the group, but Sam was adamant. "That's my final offer," he said. He looked straight at Meg. "Young lady, this is your lucky day. Would you please join me inside the courthouse?"

"Don't worry," she told the tumultuous group as she followed Sam. "I solemnly swear to bring back a complete report. "

They found a couple of empty seats in the hallway outside the courtroom and sat down. Without hesitation or scruples, Sam grasped Meg by the hands and said, "Look into my eyes. You notice something, don't you? Please, tell me it's true."

"Sam?" she questioned. "I wasn't sure if it was true."

"Yes, it's me." Sam nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh Sam!" Meg hugged him and then kissed him passionately and he returned it with equal fervor. "Sam, I'm happy to see you, but why have you leaped into Sheffield's attorney of all people?"

"I've been asking myself the same question. I don't know. Some bizarre twist of fate, I guess. Ziggy doesn't have any idea either.

When at last Meg's surprise had subsided a bit, Sam decided to approach the subject of Patrick. "Have you visited Patrick at all?" he asked.

"Probably not as often as I should. But what is there for me to do? He's still in a coma."

"Talk to him, play music for him. I hear it's great therapy for coma patients. You'd be amazed by the number of coma patients who say they were aroused by such therapy."

Meg looked away from Sam and knotted her hands. "You're probably right," she admitted.

"Then you'll go see him?"

Meg nodded. "But how does this bear on us?" she asked.

"As much as I've grown to love you, it pains me to admit that there can be no 'us.'"

"Oh Sam!" she exclaimed, turning to hug him once again. She began crying on his shoulder. "I will never forget you."

"I only hope that I can promise the same thing."

Meg pulled away and wiping at her eyes, said, "Now, about those answers to my questions."

Before he could answer, Sam felt the beginning tug of his leap out and quickly responded, "You'll have to ask Everheart for those."

_I'm finished_, Sam thought sadly mid-leap. He would miss being connected with Patrick and staring at Meg's smiling face.


	23. Epilogue

**Epilogue:**

He leaped, into a hospital corridor, wearing a white jacket and a name tag that read "Dr. Robert Egan." He glanced around, hoping his surroundings would give him a clue as to what year he'd leaped into, surmising that he was probably somewhere in the late eighties, no later than early nineties.

He approached the nurse's station, wondering what he would say. He could ask for a patient's chart, but he didn't know the name of any of the patients.

"Give me our coma patient's chart," he ordered, not knowing what gave him the compulsion to do so.

"Which one, Dr. Egan?"

"Ah, the one who's been in a coma the longest."

Eyeing him questioningly, the nurse pulled the chart out and handed it to Beckett. "Are you feeling all right, doctor?"

Sam smiled nervously, and nodded. "I'll be fine." His grin faltered as soon as he looked down at the chart. The patient's name was Patrick Marland. _I still have unfinished business with Patrick_, he thought. _But what?_ "Excuse me." Quickly, he headed for Patrick's room.

Patrick appeared lifeless with only a heart monitor beeping away to dispute that impression. Sam wondered if Patrick's psyche had returned to his body or if it was still lost somewhere in an alternate universe. _I'm back,_ he thought, trying to convince himself that that had to mean that Patrick was back as well. He approached the psychic, and lifted the man's hand.

Al popped in startling Sam. "Ziggy says that there's a 98% chance that Patrick will come out of the coma today and will fully recover," the hologram said.

"Al, how long has he been this way?"

Peering into the handlink, Al slapped it a couple times. "Five and a half months."

"He slipped into a coma as soon as I leaped out, didn't he?" Sam asked as the memory registered fully again in his swiss-cheesed mind. "I was with him over there. I saw him in every lifetime. It was horrible, Al."

"I know, Buddy," the hologram said gloomily.

"Except for the last one." The time traveler and the hologram looked at one another and shared a glimmer of hope. "In that one world, Patrick lived a long and rewarding life. And get this, his name was Matthew.

Do you suppose that has some sort of cosmic meaning?" Al asked.

Sam could only shrug-and wonder himself.

"Ziggy also says that the Sheffield's house is no longer haunted and that Lisanne filed for a divorce two days after Charles was arrested.

Before Sam could ask if Ben and Karen had found peace, someone at the door interrupted them.

"Doctor, is there any change?"

Sam turned toward the doorway to see Lisanne Sheffield. He glanced at Al, who mirrored his puzzlement. The hologram immediately sought out Ziggy's opinion. "She's been visiting Patrick every Saturday since the accident. She feels partly responsible, because Patrick wouldn't be near death if he hadn't been trying to help her."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Sheffield," Sam said.

"Doctor Egan, it's nine-thirty in the morning."

"Ah-well, you know how us doctors' schedules are. We sometimes forget to sleep at night and the morning runs into the afternoon and the afternoon into the night..."

"I see," Lisanne said, but she still wore a look of wariness.

"Anyway, in answer to your question, I believe there's an excellent chance that our friend might wake up today."

Lisanne beamed. "Does his mother know?"

"I don't think so."

"I have to go call her." Lisanne rushed out of the room.

"Al," Sam began, "why am I back in Patrick's life?"

Al consulted, Ziggy, not answering Sam's question for several seconds. "You're here to simply talk with Patrick when he comes out of his coma," he finally said.

"That's all? If Patrick's going to be all right anyway, then what's the point of my returning now?"

"I don't know. I guess we just wait and see."

Both men turned toward the patient, staring solemnly. "What does Ziggy say about Meg?"

After a couple of squeals from the handlink, Al replied, "Ziggy says that she's been visiting Patrick almost every day. She even brings a tape player and plays his favorite songs for him."

"We need to find out how to get a hold of her. She needs to be here when Patrick wakes up."

Consulting again with the artificial intelligence unit, Al said, "Ah. . .she's staying at the Sheridan hotel two miles down the road. The hotel number is 555-8392."

Sam picked up the phone on the nightstand and dialed the number. When the receptionist answered, Sam asked her to connect him to Meg's room. she answered on the third ring. She was naturally excited to hear that Patrick was showing signs of coming out of the coma soon and informed Sam that she would leave for the hospital as soon as she hung up the phone.

Realizing he needed to check on Dr. Egan's other patients, Sam asked the nurse at the station to page him immediately the moment Patrick began to stir. Although his thoughts were on seeing Meg again as he visited each of the patients, he knew that giving her time alone with Patrick was the right thing to do.

It was hours later when the nurse summoned Sam from the cafeteria. Patrick had come out of his coma. As if on cue, Al appeared before Sam reached the patient's room.

Meg was sitting in a chair, leaning over to hold Patrick's hand. She was looking at him the way she once looked at Sam. Sam squeezed his hand into fists and used all of his energy to muster up the courage to not burst into the room in a fit of jealousy. He sighed heavily before stepping into the room.

"I know it's hard, Buddy," Al said. "I've been there before."

The time traveler glanced back at his friend. The admiral had lost his one true love, Beth, after suffering five agonizing years as a POW. No one understood better about love than Al.

Noticing that Sam had entered the room, Meg turned in his direction and said, "Dr. Egan," in a pleasant voice.

"Good to see you again. . .Meg." Sam hoped that she didn't mind that Dr. Egan called her by her first name. "Welcome back to the world, Mr. Marland," Sam approached the patient. Sam removed the pen light from his jacket pocket and examined Patrick's eyes, ears, nose and throat. "Do you remember what happened?"

"No," Patrick barely managed. "Wasn't there."

Sam glanced at Meg and wondered if he should reveal to her his true identity. She smiled back at him questioningly and he decided that after all they'd been through, she deserved to know. "There's something I need to tell the both of you."

Before he could confess his secret, Raymond Steele, nearly out of breath, rushed into the room. "I had to see it with my own eyes!" he exclaimed with a huge grin on his face. He walked around to Patrick's free side and grasped his friend by the forearm. "Welcome back to the land of the living. You really know how to scare a guy."

"I think I'm back for good," Patrick promised.

After a moment, Raymond looked up at the doctor. "Thank you for everything, Dr. Egan."

I'm not really Dr. Egan."

Everyone fixed him with a startled look. "Sam?" they all uttered almost simultaneously.

Patrick still looked a bit weary, as expected, but he raised himself up to a sitting position, obviously eager to speak with Beckett. He grabbed his water, taking a long, slow sip. Meg placed her arms around Patrick to help support him.

"I suspected I would see you again," Patrick said to Sam.

"I had thought that the time in the courtroom would be the last time I'd see either of you," Sam said, looking at Meg. "I'm glad I was wrong. "This allows us one last time together as a group, so we can say a proper goodbye.

"Is Al here?" Patrick asked.

"Yes," Sam replied, glancing at the hologram.

Al removed the cigar from his mouth. "I'm here all right."

The psychic smiled thinly.

"He said-" Sam began.

"I heard him," Patrick interrupted. "Can't see him, but I can hear him." Patrick paused for another sip of his water. "Thank you. Thank you to both of you. I couldn't have helped Ben Simms rid himself of the anger that was eating away inside of him without your help."

"I just feel bad that you had to suffer," Sam replied.

"Don't be." Patrick grinned. "If I hadn't allowed myself to suffer, each of those other worlds I lived in would not have experienced such significant changes so quickly. The knowledge I have gained through my experiences will aid me throughout the rest of my life. I plan to put it to good use with my career and hopefully help a few people in this world." He gazed up at Meg. "And if it hadn't been for you, there wouldn't be any hope for Meg and I. We were both too blind sighted to realize how we truly felt for one another."

"He remembers my every visit," Meg explained, "the music I played for him, the soothing words I spoke to him. Thank you, Sam, for convincing me not to give up on Patrick."

"You're a good man, Patrick," Beckett said with admiration. "You deserve this special woman."

"You're a good man, too, Sam. That's why God has you leaping around. It takes an extraordinary altruistic soul to do what you do. I don't think many others qualify. And someday, you'll return home, too."

Sam leaped, feeling a twinge of sadness at finally being separated from Patrick Marland.

**The End**


End file.
