I don't have time to make explanations to him. Mackey is my main concern right now. He is collapsed, as if only road-weary, over the steering wheel. I pull on his shirt to move him back against the seat. He is already halfway to unconsciousness, and he feels like a lead weight. "Help me!" I cry desperately to the man in the seat behind Mackey. "I need to sit him up!" He untangles himself from the corner of the seat and leans forward a bit hesitantly. I can see he is still fighting his own fears and mistrust. He pulls Mackey back and holds him semi- upright, watching anxiously as I look for a site to give this injection to the injured man. "Mackey? Listen. We're going to make it." I am talking too hurriedly, covering my own doubts. "I'm giving you a shot. It's the sedative from the lab. It will help you cope." Mackey seems to laugh, closing his eyes wearily. "Sam's stuff? Hey, Sammy -- thanks for sharing, buddy." Another laugh. The other young man looks confused, not understanding Mackey's ironic joke. "Help me get him into that seat," I command. He moves a bit more quickly now. Between the two of us, we move our injured driver to a semi-reclining position in the middle of the Cherokee. The wound is far more vicious than I imagined. I pull off my lab coat and ball it up to use as a pressure bandage over the bullet hole in his inner thigh. Useless. The mere change of position may have harmed him more than I care to admit. Tears of fright and frustration begin trickling, then pouring, from my eyes. I am sobbing loudly and hysterically as I press the useless cloth over Mackey's leg. He is dying. Suddenly, I feel the nameless prisoner's hand on my shoulder. He is drawing me out of the back seat and gently pushing me toward the driver's door. He looks at me with a kind of understanding as he climbs in next to Mackey and takes my place at the futile attempt to keep Mackey's life from draining away. Still sobbing, I start the engine and head us toward Ponchatoula's obscure web of back roads. The damp Louisiana night could care less about all this soul-wrenching agony. Nature can be a cold mother, heedless of our woes. The starlit sky would be beautiful if a man weren't dying here. The sonorous love songs of the swamp critters would be entertaining if we could afford to pause and listen. The inky shadows would seem comforting if they weren't a reminder that more man-made horrors will be out here looking for us soon. The jeep gamely bumps and rolls over ragged back roads and over rutted dirt roads. I had become so fixated on the drive and the changing landscape that I am genuinely surprised when the engine begins coughing and sputtering. What is going on? The Jeep Cherokee rolls another few hundred yards before the engine falls silent. I could only sit, stunned, for a few long moments. I stare with horror at the gas gauge. Empty. "Are we stopped?" The weak concerned voice is Mackey's. How can I possibly tell him this? I stare out at the cypress lined dirt road in front of us, saying nothing. "Snap off those headlights, Doc!" Mackey orders. Dying or not, he still has the most common sense of the three of us. The silence is made to seem more ominous by the now total darkness around us. Mackey, bless him, is still in his survivalist mode - at least for the sake of me and his former prisoner. "Lady Doc, you're going to have to listen closely. They'll be in the skies soon, probably in helicopters. Using FLIR equipment and night-scopes. Do you know what that means?" "I do." FLIR -- Forward Looking Infrared -- equipment that could track us through the darkest night with our own body temperatures leading them right to us. It was hard not to give in to the feeling of hopelessness right now. "You... have to take Sam here... and head out on foot..." Mackey was talking with effort now. "You won't have much time... Take the... flashlight I've got in the back. You'll need it... And if they're looking now..." He cursed quietly for a moment and continued, "If they ARE looking by air, you two are in trouble..." My heart is pounding. The young man is looking bewildered. I can see his profile in the dim greenish lights from the dash board as he turns from Mackey to me and back to Mackey. Maybe his internal confusion is saving him from all the terror I'm feeling right now. He just looks lost, pulled along in the wake of all this inexplicable frenzy. Mackey regains his voice. "They'll be looking... for three - maybe two heat signatures -- moving, running. As soon as you think you hear them, try for cover... God... I don't know how you'll ... fuckfuckfuck... I can hardly think..." "Mackey. No more. Don't try!" I rush to fill the silence. "Don't worry about us. I-I think ... I'm pretty sure I know where we are out here. Help's not too far away. I'll come back for..." That gets Mackey animated! He opens his eyes wide. "No! Don't you come back! You take Sam, and you keep going. Keep moving. Never stop." "Mackey, I can't just leave you!" He smiles. "Fine. I'll watch for the rescue team you send back, Doctor. Sure. Send someone... but YOU have to take Sam and keep going! Keep him safe until you can find his people ... where he came from ... who he is..." As I race around to the back to collect the flashlight, the tall dark young man is slowly backing himself away from Mackey's side. He stands stiffly outside of the Jeep, staring back at the man who just hours ago had seemed like an enemy to him. I'm sure this is all adding to his confusion. "My gun!" Mackey suddenly says. "Dr. Branson... get my gun. I tucked it under me on the front seat. There are two extra clips in the glove compartment." I hastily retrieve them and innocently hand them to him. He smiles sadly and shakes his head, pushing the weapon back into my hand. "I'm not going to need it. You will. And, Lady Doc? One more favor?" "Anything, Mackey," I answer as I nervously place the gun and two clips of ammo in our duffel bag. "Could ... Would you please fix up a fatal dose of those drugs of Sam's?" My heart seems to stop. I can hardly look at Mackey without the tears starting up again. I swallow hard, blink away the tears and open the duffel bag. "Anything for you, Mackey." My words are choking my throat, and I have to fight to keep my hands steady as I draw two overly-large doses of the sedatives. As I place the two syringes near Mackey's hand, I can feel that his flesh is already beginning to feel unnaturally cool. Impulsively, I lean over him and kiss his forehead. "Thank you," I whisper. "You are an unexpected guardian angel, Mackey." Sam is watching, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Mackey's eyes are closed, but I can see him smile wanly. "Well, don't look for my bill in the mail," he says softly. He opens his eyes to gaze at the dark young man standing at the open car door. "Hey, Sam? Forgive me, buddy?" Sam is biting his lower lip. "S -s-sure," he stammers in his soft voice. He looks so bewildered and helpless. "Better give him my boots, ma'am. He's not outfitted... for the Louisiana farmlands. They should fit. I know... he's a Big Foot like me. Right, Sammy?" The young man nods numbly but makes no move to get Mackey's boots. I rush to remove them as gently as I can and shove them into his arms. He seems immobilized, staring at his former guard. I hurry to lock up the vehicle protectively around Mackey. I can see our guardian angel fingering one of the syringes already. I know he won't wait for rescue. He and I both know rescue is the matter of fiction and fantasy by now. The arrival of the killing troops, the search team? That is fact, and they will be here soon. "Come. We have to get going... Come on," I have to pull my new responsibility away from the Jeep and down the darkened road. I can feel his puzzlement as he stumbles to keep pace with me, still clutching Mackey's boots to his chest. ******************** Chapter 7 ************** Night is no protection from the steamy blanket of humid heat that hugs Louisiana. We are both damp with sweat. "Sam", as I have now come to think of him, is stumbling more often. He is probably exhausted, but I am too terrified to let him stop and rest. He does not complain. He has followed me meekly since we left Mackey over half an hour ago. I had to stop to help him put on Mackey's boots when we finally ventured off the road. He was either unable or reluctant to do it himself. I hope it is the latter. I still can't assess how functional he is, and his inability -- or unwillingness -- to communicate has not made it any easier. I hope he is more frightened than impaired. As I navigate through tangles of brush, clutching his hand, pulling him forward, I wonder if he had been a quiet young man in the life that had been wiped from his brain. I wonder a lot about him. Did he have a girlfriend? A wife? Maybe this "Dana" that he seems to recognize in me is an important piece to the puzzle of "Sam". He's handsome, with a perfectly imperfect face. A lean, youthful body. And eyes that seem haunted, one clue that his other life may have had the kind of danger in it that we are now running from. That and the mysterious scars on his body. There has been pain; that much is easy to deduce. His body is the witness to the physical pain. His sad eyes are the windows to the emotional pain. What was it about him that made three very different people lay down our lives for him? I feel a bit of anxiety over examining my motivations right now. But I am sure of one thing: timing certainly figures prominently. "Sam" was tossed into the lives of three people who had big personal struggles going on, I realize. Mackey was feeling the dishonor and discomfort of a bad decision to join an inhuman organization. Victor was feeling the regret of a decision to work on a company task that mocked all he had worked for in his research career. I had gotten the feeling he was regretting "us", as well. Both of us, living lives of denial and desperation. Who knows if that could ever had been changed? Maybe this is all just Fate, having a rocking good time with our puny lives. I can't bring myself to "miss" Victor, but I do regret his death. Even as I am awed by the bravery it took to make so dramatic a move on his part. Such a sacrifice. Had he really cared that much? About me? Or about Sam, who was now Victor's legacy, the first human treated with the Genera Promise. Would Sam regain his memory because of what Victor took it upon himself to do? Shamefully, I had to admit a bit of scientific curiosity with my hope for Sam's recovery. However, Dr. Kent's "experiment" was too easy to compare to Frankenstein and his monster. I turn away from that thought, too scared to contemplate it. Too scared, for Sam's sake. But Victor had taken this risk for another reason. He had also intimated that he had cared for me. That realization will take a while to sink in deep enough to touch that part of me that I keep so carefully hidden. Am I also hiding all the personal reasons I have come to feel so protective toward this young man from myself? Suddenly, I am pulled out of my reverie-on-the-run when I feel Sam's hand jerk violently from mine. I turn to see him trying to struggle up from where he had fallen. He is panting. And trembling. His long legs go out from under him once more before I can get to his side. He is trying so hard. My heart goes out to him. He is exhausted, leaning momentarily, pausing in the cradle of my arms. "S-s-sorry.," he gasps. "F-fell d-down..." I prevent him from trying to get to his feet again, holding him tighter to me. "It's okay. Let's just catch our breath for a moment. We need a bit of rest." I stroke his damp hair, listening to his labored breathing in the dark. It feels good to stop running. It feels good to hold him. His body is firm and warm in my arms. He is not uncomfortable this time. He seems to give into his need, reaching up to wrap his arms around my waist, hesitantly at first, and then leaning wearily into my embrace. He seems to only take as much as he thinks he must. As soon as his breathing slows, he gently pushes himself free and rises to his feet. I take his hand and start forward again. We hadn't gone a hundred yards, before he tugs me to a stop again. "L-l-listen!," he says in an alarmed voice. It takes me a second or two, but finally I detect a distant thrumming. The whipping of heat-heavy Louisiana air by the long blades of helicopters. It sounds as if there are more than one! I yank the young man forward, just now regretting that he is wearing those damnable white scrubs. Even in this shadowy starlight, he glows! Viewed through a night-vision scope, he would seem to shine out of the darkness like the sun! And Mackey had warned us about thermal surveillance equipment! I fight feelings of hopelessness as we dash across a small open field, hoping to find cover before those choppers come over the tops of the cypresses and sight us. My blood is pounding in my ears, and my ragged breathing is noisier than the man I am pulling a step behind me. He grunts and goes down again. I can feel my heart sinking as I turn back for him yet another time. But this mishap is a godsend! As I turn, I spot an oddly familiar cow barn to our right, about two hundred yards away. I force him to his feet quickly and drag him off in the direction of the barn. The helicopters are still a distance away when we make it as far as the old wooden structure. I can hear the nervous lowing of cows inside. Forcing the broken door open just enough to squeeze through, I push myself through the narrow opening and pull him in after me. Startled cows trot quickly away from us to huddle in a corner. I shove Sam to his knees near bales of hay and begin burying him in the dry stuff. I am out of breath and damn near out of adrenaline-fueled energy. "Got...to cover... you... Sam... Stay! Hear me? Stay! Don't... move a muscle... until I come to get you... Understand?" I realize I am shouting at him when I notice his eyes go wide with that bewildered fright again. I can't waste time on soothing him and making explanations now. The deeper I bury him in these bales the less of a chance there is that the heat from his body will be picked up by the sensors. As for me... I slowly approach the skittish cows and work my way into the midst of them. I cling to the neck of an aging Jersey, sandwiched between it and another cow. I listen for the approach of the helicopters. If they are using the sensors, my heat signature might get confused in the blend of heat signatures from the mass of cow bodies around me. It takes such an agonizingly long time. I am scarcely breathing as the thunderous rumble of the choppers rolls overhead. The hi- tech engines are almost undetectable, but the pounding of the blades on the air is palpable. The cows snort anxiously and move about as one big helicopter moves low over the roof of the barn. Oh Sweet Jesus! Is it hovering? I press myself closer to the leathery hide of my Jersey. She does not move, thank God. I watch the hay bales from where I stand. Sam seems to be doing okay. I do not see any movement from his direction. Prayer is the only thing left. And they don't have a sensor for that, do they? Does God, I grimly add to my thought. I am suddenly startled by the blast of a shotgun. Close. Very close. The cows start mooing and shuffling. Another blast scatters them, and this time I have to cling to my Jersey as she runs for the communal safety of her bovine sisters. I can hear the helicopter still hovering. But above the pulsing rumble of the blades, I can hear a stream of curses in Creole the likes of which I haven't heard since I was a kid! The voice, vaguely familiar even as raised and furious as it is, seems to be coming from just outside of the barn. I see a brilliant light illuminate the outside, penetrating our hiding place through the barn's many chinks and holes. Have we been discovered? No. The light from above seems to be directed at the wiry figure of the man shrieking outside. I dare not leave my cow-cover, but I can peer through a cracked plank of wood to see what has their attention. A little man, clothed in a thin night shirt that comes down to the middle of his bowed calves, is jumping up and down in a rage, shaking a fist at the metal death angel hovering above, cursing it. Unafraid. And looking utterly ridiculous. Until he reaches down to load another two rounds into the old shotgun he is carrying and swings it skyward again. There are chickens squawking and scattering in every direction over the illuminated barnyard. The helicopter seems to pause, then slowly lifts and swings away, dimming its huge searchlight. I still dare not breathe. Does this mean they didn't see us? Are we safe? For now? The cranky Cajun is still cursing a blue streak over the chicken noise. The barn door swings open and a bright light plays over the interior of the barn. "Awright, you lit'l' weasels! I am seein' you run in here. I am ridding you of the cops, eh? So now you come out and face ma 'Sadie'! Out! Vite! Vite!" Sadie? I only knew one person in this part of the country who named a shotgun after a much despised ex-wife: Marraine Solange's younger brother, Guy. It could only be divine intervention if I had stumbled into his fields at a time like this! "M'su Guy?" The craggy little man I remember swings both light and the barrel of "Sadie" in my direction. Rising from the midst of his small herd of cows, I must look like a night demon. "Red-on-the-Head? Eh! Is that you?!" "Yes sir." I feel like I'm twelve years old again. Marraine Solange's family called me by that nickname. Red-on-the-Head. My red hair always stood out against the handsome dark heads of the Terrebonne clan. He lowers the gun and starts forward. "Mon Dieu! This I cannot believe! These flying bastards -- they are looking for YOU?" In the light I can read the incredulity on his brown, craggy face. "Uh -- yes. Me and..." I dart forward and began pulling hay bales down from the haphazard pile. Guy Terrebonne looks at me as if I am crazy, until he sees the young man I have uncovered in the midst of the hay. Sam is spitting bits of hay, snorting it out of his nose, coughing it out of his throat, slapping it out of his hair. Guy's brown eyes go large. "First I am thinking you are escaping from a crazy house, mebbe? Now, I am seeing that you are bringing another crazy with you?" He is staring at the young man's blood-stained, formerly white hospital scrubs. Sam is silent, ducking his head down to avoid the painful glare of the flashlight in his eyes. "Don't be silly!" It feels good to laugh again, even if it is out of nervous relief. "I am not sure who they are. But they are after us. After this man." Guy runs a critical eye over me. "Surely, it has only been a few weeks since I am seeing you at the funeral, little one," says Guy. "So now you are running through swamps with criminals? You were never known for your high spirit or love of adventure, cherie." "He is not a criminal!" I am wringing my hands. How DO I explain Sam? "We don't know who he is. HE doesn't know who he is! He was brought into the lab and Victor -- Dr. Kent -- was told to perform an experiment on him. They have taken his memory. They were trying to manipulate his brain, his thinking..." "Yes?" Guy regards the young man with more curiosity. "And this Dr. Victor Kent? Is he that weak-chinned Protestant bastard that you brought to us last year?" Dear Guy. Famous for his direct and bigoted comments. Marraine Solange was constantly slapping him on his sun-browned, balding head for his nasty remarks. But we all knew his acidic tongue hid a very soft heart. "It's been nearly two years, and yes, that was him," I say, recalling the disastrous weekend in New Orleans long ago. "He is dead, killed last night at the lab, trying to get us to safety." Guy's dark eyes settle back on me, wordlessly. "There is another young man dead, also," I continue. "We had to leave him in the car on the back roads east of here." I am still wringing my hands. "I didn't know where to run. I thought the family would know how to get this one to safety. Or -- or help me find out who he is. I know Edel has many connections." "Legal or illegal?" Guy snorts. But he is not derisive. He is proud of his family, proud of their bohemian ways. "It appears you have a long and serious story to tell me, Red-on-the-Head. Let us help your mystery man to the house. He is looking none too steady on those long legs of his." Guy grips Sam, who has managed to wobble upright, under an arm. Guy is old, but lean and strong, his hearty little frame forged by a lifetime of work on his farm. I grab the duffel bag, feeling inside for the gun. I don't know why the feel of it is comforting. It is useless against the army in the shadows. ************** Two hours later and I am finally feeling the need to sleep. Sam had stumbled, uninvited, onto Guy's worn but comfortable couch. He had fallen asleep almost immediately, probably his first drug-free sleep in a long time. I worried about the need for medication. I had not even had a moment to study Victor's notes on his patient. Recalling the man's seizure on the treatment table yesterday, I made sure I had at least injected him with Victor's recommended dose of anti-convulsants. Sam moaned a bit at the injection, but he never moved, never opened his eyes. I sat and watched him sleep the way a mother watches over a fever-ravaged child while I listened to Guy's brisk fractured-French chatter on the phone in the kitchen. He was talking to Edel, his nephew who had stood quietly with me during Marraine Solange's death watch. Edel would come for me. I knew he would. Guy had begun fixing some food for me. Sam's breathing had been deep and regular for quite a while, and he was as still as stone. I rose wearily from my self-imposed vigil and went to take a cool, cleansing bath. The next hour was spent eating in the warm company of one of my adopted family, telling old Guy my long story, worrying over my mystery man and waiting for Edel to arrive at dawn. I fell asleep on Guy's musty bachelor's bed. He had remained unmarried since driving the legendary first wife "Sadie" from his home - nearly fifty years ago. And the story was still told in family circles. Why watch soap operas, I had thought before I drifted off. This family has its share of lively stories. And now, I guess, timid little "Red-on-the-Head" would add to the rich family tradition with a story of her own. Almost unbelievable. How my life has changed. ******************** Chapter Eight ************** I can feel the gentle shaking of the bed. It seems as if I had just closed my eyes. I awaken, looking into the dark, twinkling eyes of Edel Terrebonne. His vivid smile lights up his dark handsome face. Forgetful of where I was and of all that had happened, I smile back remembering with affection my schoolgirl crush on this big man. Now, even with his neat black beard and curly black hair elegantly peppered with gray, he still has that charm that made me as giddy as a fool back then. But my smile fades quickly. The memories of the events of the past few days come flooding back to me. That tortured young man... "Sam! Is he all right?" Edel's smile dims just a bit. "Would 'Sam' be that filthy pup on Uncle Guy's sofa?" He laughs and stands up. "Yes, Deanna. He seems fine. Sleeping soundly. He could use a bath, though." He offers me his broad hand so that I can get to my feet. I feel so timid around him. "Thank you, Edel, for coming to get us. Has Guy told you...?" "Uncle Guy has told me part of a story so fantastic -- so crazy -- that I had to come here and see for myself. And here YOU are! Little Deanna." "Please, don't start, Edel. I am terribly unsure of what I am doing. Or why I am doing it." I brush my fingers self-consciously through my hair. "I - I have to check on Sam." I flee the bedroom -- and the questioning gaze of Edel. "Your young man is being hard to waken," Guy tells me in his sing-song Cajun accent. "I am trying for the past five minutes!" It doesn't look as if Sam had moved at all during the night. He is still breathing deeply but normally. His skin feels a bit cool, but not unreasonably so. I shake his shoulder. Gently at first, then with increasing firmness. He moans softly and stirs but does not wake. He is too hard to rouse, I think worriedly. "Sam? Sam? Sam, listen to me! You have to wake up now. Sam." His eyes flutter open and stare dully forward for a moment. His eyelids threaten to slide shut again. I shake his shoulder quickly. "Sam, wake up. Sam?" His eyes pop open, a bit more focused this time. "S-Sam?" he whispers. "Sam." He is acting oddly, as if he were somewhere else, lost in thought. Sam is not his name. It can't be. My suspicions about his assigned name grow stronger as I watch him work "Sam" over in his mind. I sense this is the name of someone he knows. Someone close? If it were an enemy, I don't think he would look as wistful or melancholy as he does just now. "Are you remembering something?" I ask quietly. Sometimes the shadowy relaxation of twilight sleep allows the brain to conjure thoughts and images we would be otherwise unable to experience. Maybe the young man's injured brain was trying to fight its way back. He turns his eyes on me. "N-n-no," he says with sadness. Then his eyes wander to Guy and Edel, and his breath catches in his throat. I can feel his body tense under my hand. "These are friends, Sam," I hasten to reassure him. "My family. They will help us." "Hello, Sam," rumbles Edel's deep voice. He reaches forward and grips the younger man's hand in a friendly shake. "I'm Edel Terrebonne. And this cranky Cajun is my uncle, Guy Terrebonne, who runs off cops and copters with his rusty shotgun!" "Silence, boy," Guy snaps at him with feigned annoyance. "I'll be feeding you, Sam, before Edel is leaving wit' you. Y'all be needing a clean-up 'fore then, eh?" "Do we have time?" I ask Edel, panicking. "There may be roadblocks." "There ARE roadblocks, Deanna Put an extra hour on my drive out here from the city," Edel assured me with that damn twinkle in his eye again. I could tell he had questions, but he would wait for me to tell my story first. 'No questions asked' was a moral imperative in the Terrebonne family. "You and the pup, here, must be very, very famous. You needn't worry. I understand the need to stay hidden. We will sink you into the ocean of life in the Big Easy's French Quarter for the time being, eh?" He looks at Sam who is struggling to sit upright by now. "He will need help, yes?" I nod, and Edel easily lifts Sam to his feet, steering him toward the bathroom. "Edel, be careful with him. He has many reasons to be frightened of strangers. His warden was uncommonly brutal with him." Edel's eyes darken with concern. He nods, understanding. "I will throw his clothes out to you. It may be that Uncle Guy will have a shirt that may fit him, but between us, we have no pants that will be long enough - or narrow enough. He'll have to use these pants again." I just nod. Sam is looking worriedly over his shoulder at me as he is led away. I try to tell him with my smile. I feel safe. As I always do when I am near this big, rowdy family. I know I can trust them. But how does Sam feel? ************** The Louisiana dawn was warm and softly lit when we finally got on the road. Sam, still looking exhausted but better after his bath, had wolfed down Guy's breakfast offering of bacon, eggs and biscuits. He stammered his thanks as we left. Edel had directed me to the back seat of his Cadillac and guided Sam in alongside of me. "Try to sleep," he said to us both. "It will be about an hour and a half before we get to 'The Blue Lady'." The "Blue Lady" is the blues bar that Edel and his sister Lucille own on Toulouse, just off of Bourbon Street. Sam doesn't hesitate to curl up on the gray leather seat and lay his head in my lap, immediately closing his eyes. He has fallen back into that deep sleep again, even before Edel has made it to the end of Guy Terrebonne's property. Either he is feeling less suspicious of all this strangeness I am pulling him into -- which is unlikely -- or his weary body is demanding this of him. I lightly rub my hand over his shoulder and back, hoping he feels the comforting touch through his heavy blanket of sleep. I worry, slipping my fingers absently through his damp silky hair. He's so dependent upon me right now. What am I going to do with him ? "He looks ill-used, Deanna. I saw the bruises." I look up to see Edel's eyes on me in his rear view mirror. I nod and sigh. "Yes, he was beaten... drugged... had his memory taken from him." "And Victor Kent's part in all of this? What had he done?" I think to myself. But to Edel, I say, "He was the scientist in charge of seeing to it that Sam's memory - his life, really - was taken from him permanently." Edel's eyes look angry. "You know, Deanna. I didn't like that doughy brain-boy Victor Kent when I met him," he growls. "But I don't know if I can imagine him being so inhuman as to destroy a person's life so deliberately or so painfully." "I know. Me neither." I lean my head back against the soft leather. "In the end, Edel, he failed at it. He realized -- too late -- it wasn't him either. He is one of two men we have to thank for getting out of that lab alive last night. And he may have given Sam some help in regaining his memory, I hope. Time will tell, I suppose." "And the other is a young man, found dead in a black Jeep Cherokee on Countyline Road about two miles from the back of Uncle Guy's farm ?" I gasp. "How do you know that ? Has it been on the news already?" Edel doesn't answer just then because he is slowing to a stop and lowering his automatic window. I freeze when I see the approach of a uniformed state policeman. No, Edel! What are you doing? I want to scream. My arm tightens protectively over Sam, who is still oblivious to all of this. The policeman leans over and nods companionably to Edel and turns to look directly at me. If he talks to me, I will not be able to answer. My heart is in my mouth. "'Mornin' again, Edel. So. This is Mizz Branson?" He tips his hat politely to me, and he runs an evaluating look over the man asleep on my lap. "And is that the fella they're bustin' our balls over?" "Yep." Edel's answer sounds too pleasant. What is going on? "Well, y'all got clear sailin' from here to the Blue Lady as long as you stay off of 55 South and I-10 into the city, y'hear? Just as well. Morning commuter traffic is going to be a mess, especially with all these roadblocks." "Sure thing, Rudy," Edel says as he shifts back into drive. "How goes the search, eh?" Officer Rudy flashes a smile directed at me. "Far as I can tell, they're frustrated as hell. Oh, and of course, we've all been gettin' the usual dose of bull-shit and name-callin' from these fools, whoever they may be. You know -- all about us 'close- mouthed Cajun motherfuckers' an' what 'dumb, lazy-ass idiots' all we 'swamp-suckin' Southerners' are." His smile broadens. "I don't know from dumb, and I may not know from lazy-assed, but there's a bunch of us that down-right resent being called close-mouthed!" He and Edel roar merrily over his joke. I smile weakly. Edel and his connections. We were still safe. Maybe safer than I realized. "On our way, Rudy," Edel says to his friend. "You hear anything more on that man they found?" "Nope. That got shut down quicker than the snap of a cocodrie's jaw! I don't think they even have a name on the corpse --" "Mackey!" I realize I am almost shouting. Rudy jumps a little. "Ma'am?" "His name is Mackey. Was Mackey. I don't know if that was a first or last name, but don't let them bury him without a name. Please." Rudy nods and tips his hat solemnly. "Sure thing. I'll do what I can, Mizz Branson, but I think those Big Guys that have been yankin' us law enforcement types around by our leashes have already taken him away. The Jeep. Everything. Nothin' but rumor left." I flop back into the seat, numbed and incredulous. Rudy leans over Edel's shoulder and looks at me and Sam. "That's the least of your worries, ma'am. You stick with Edel. We'll do what we can to keep a cover over you and that fella there. And we'll try to figure out who that boy is, and why he's causing such a fuss out there." "I have some of his records. They've been faked I'm sure, but maybe that'll be a starting point. I have them right here." "Keep 'em close for now." Rudy looks around nervously just then. "Okay, we've chatted long enough. Get on your way, folks. Edel, you know where to find us with that information she's got, okay?" Edel just waves and accelerates the car forward. "Edel Terrebonne, you are still a secretive son of a bitch," I begin growling. "OoooEeeeee, Little Sister!," he chortles. "You've picked up some spicy language with your new-found spunkiness, eh?!" His laughter is infectious. I smile and shake my head at his nonsense. Little Sister, indeed. "Did you think I had turned you and your pup in? And dishonored the unwritten Terrebonne family law? No, mon chere, you are quite safe." He sobers suddenly. "But your Sam presents some problems. We must see what we can do for him. But first, food and rest, eh? We'll buy clothes for you and Sam, and Lucille will hide you two safely away. Better now?" In the rear view mirror, his eyes are crinkled and twinkling again. "Much better," I say with evident relief. Suddenly, I feel safe enough to drop off to sleep. ************** "...Up. C'mon, Deanna. Wake up." Wha...? Where are we? I stare stupidly around. My neck aches. I begin to sit up but have to stop when I realize Sam is still sleeping soundly with his head in my lap. Edel is reaching into the back seat and pulling him gently away from me and into a sitting position. I can see a big black man standing by Edel ready to help lift the stranger into a carry between them. I feel a stirring of fear, wondering if all this is being watched. Toulouse Street is nearly deserted in the early dawn hours. Time for this part of the French Quarter to rest from its nightly merry-making and prepare for day tourists and more revelry. Streets are re-opened. Bars wiped down, floors mopped, garbage set out in the narrow cobbled streets. No one notices our odd, clumsy pilgrimage into the dim interior of the "Blue Lady". "Deanna! Thank Mother Mary! You are safe!" The strong arms of Lucille, Edel's sister wrap around me in genuine affection. She kisses my cheek and fixes her beautiful dark eyes on mine. "What has happened since we saw you last? How is it you have come to be in so much danger?" Her eyes settle on my handsome young companion. Sam, who has wriggled free of his two helpers, is looking unsure of these new surroundings and still half-claimed by sleep. "And your new friend? He is the center of much excitement, eh?" says Lucille with a smile. My return smile is rueful. "His name is...uh... Sam. He needs a bed and some solid undisturbed rest, Lucille. And a doctor." "Of course. And so do you, my sister, by the sight of you." Lucille reaches behind the ornate, old-fashioned bar that dominated one entire wall of the tiny night club. She jangles a set of keys before me. "You will have Queen George's apartment. It is above us and sits in the corner with balconies overlooking Bourbon and Toulouse. It will be impossible to sleep once the sun sets tonight, but for now it will be safe and quiet enough." "Queen George?" Edel shrugs. "He's one of Lucille's many gay boarders. Queen George The First. And The Last. Trust me, there will never be another like him." Edel laughs at my puzzled face and ushers me toward a back door that Lucille has already disappeared through. "He's quite a fixture around here. Lucille says he is staying up in the Garden District for the week. His apartment is small, but it will do until we can find someplace safer for you and --" He cranes his head around, looking for his other charge. Sam is still standing by the door, looking uncertain. "Sam," Edel calls, waving him forward. "Come on. This way, eh? Hurry." The young man hesitates, looking once again at the new strange surroundings. I extend my hand to him. He steps forward and takes it like a man reaching for a life saver. This must be costing him; I am amazed at his trust in me when so much of what he has already experienced has been so hurtful and terrifying. Queen George's apartment is indeed small. One bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchenette. But the expansive living room is decorated in beautiful old antiques and has a corner of French doors that open up onto a wrought iron balcony , overlooking the very heart of Bourbon Street. Lucille throws open those doors to encourage a breeze. "Ooooo, it's going to be steamy today, Deanna! Still, there is a soft wind coming up from the riverfront. George has an air conditioner in his bedroom window. It works, but it is old and noisy. Have you eaten yet?" "Yes, Lucille. Thanks. Guy fussed like a hen over both of us." Sam is wandering wordlessly through the living room to the open French doors. Lace curtains dance lazily in the hot breeze as he reaches for them. "NO!" I hear myself shout at him. He jumps nervously and stares at me over his shoulder. Edel is already pulling him away from the open windows. "I don't think she wants you to be seen by anyone out there, Sam," Edel says trying to explain my outburst. "You've got to keep out of sight for a bit. Do you understand?" "N-no. I-I was j-just l-looking." He seems upset. When his hazel eyes turn to me, they are dark with the suspicion I saw in them in that cage at the lab. "A-am I s-still a p-prisoner?" Well, how do I answer that one? In a way, I note sadly, he is still a prisoner. When I don't reply, Sam slides down onto the old couch and stares sullenly at the open doors that I denied to him. I sit next to him and take his hand, but he won't look at me. "We can't take chances right now, Sam. Edel and Lucille are helping us stay safe -- away from those men who took you. But they are still looking for you -- and me, I guess. We need a place for you to recover. We need to find out your real identity. And we have to be especially cautious right now." I can still see the resentment in the set of his jaw. I squeeze his hand. "You have to trust me, Sam. I would never keep you caged up. I am not one of them. Understand?" He turns those soulful eyes to me, finally. Again, while he searches my face, I get the feeling he is seeking someone else in me. He lowers his eyes and nods, resigned. Edel, bless him, slides one of his big hands over Sam's shoulder supportively. "It won't be long, Sam. Let us help until you are better, stronger. Okay?" Again, he nods but does not look up. "I am t-tired," he says softly. "Take the bed, Sam. I have to talk to Edel and Lucille." He rises a bit unsteadily and heads into the bedroom, leaving the door open. I am sure he doesn't want to be in any small closed rooms again. Lucille watches him worriedly. "What have they done to him, Deanna?" she asks, shaking her head. "Apparently, they've done enough damage to take away his memory, his life. But to continue to hunt him? What is that about?" "I think the answer to that is in who he really is," I answer wistfully. "Well, be that as it may. Right now, he will need new clothes," Lucille declares, "And you, too, Deanna. Will you come with me? We can talk on the way. Sam will be safe here. The boys downstairs will watch out for him." Despite only a few hours sleep, I am interested. It will seem like the only normal thing I have done in ages. I automatically turn as if to look for my purse, when a horrible realization comes over me. I look at her, a bit embarrassed. "I've left everything behind, Lucille. In the middle of an escape scene resembling something out of a B action movie, I had little time to grab my purse or money or..." Lucille hugs me before I can finish. "Sister, sister. That is not your concern. We are well able to take care of you and your Sam. Come now -- before reason overtakes you and you insist on sleep." Edel has a frown on his face. "I've been thinking, Deanna: If they've found your purse, they've found their way to your apartment, eh? They've probably searched your personnel records by now. Your personal business files. I am concerned that if you try to access your bank accounts, credit cards or any part of your life back in Lobdell, they will be watching. They will find you." I pale. I had never given it a thought. Now, images flood my mind: shadowy strangers creeping through the shredded remains of the life I knew less than forty- eight hours ago. I see familiar furniture being toppled, pictures torn from walls, drawers emptied, mattresses thrown and personal papers being carefully studied by a dark cadre of men I'd never met and who had never met me. Yet, there they were: standing in my home, now suddenly investing much time and interest in the quiet life of one Dr. Deanna Branson. I shiver and shove the vision from my mind. "They'll go through everything, won't they?" Edel nods. My gut feels twisted. "And they'll find you and Lucille as well, won't they?" I speak, not as though it were a question, but a certainty, a realization that was quickly chilling me. Edel shrugs, but he looks grimmer. "That may be, Deanna. We will prepare for any contingency. It is not for you to concern yourself with. Perhaps we should stop to see a lawyer friend of ours. With power of attorney, she can access your accounts. By the time they have figured you are in New Orleans, we will have set up a safe place for you and Sam." My mind is reeling. Edel seems to have considered all these matters already. I have not. This is so alien to my thinking. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed. There is so much to do. I still need to find a doctor among the Terrebonne's many contacts who can reasonably evaluate Sam's condition. His stuttering and unsteadiness are disconcerting. And there has been no assessment of the damage that has been done to his memory -- or of the mistreatment he suffered before arriving at that PPC lab. I glance at the old grandfather clock. It has been about five hours since his last medication. By the time I return, he can have another dose. Then we will both sleep -- I hope. However, while I am with Lucille and Edel, I will have to make time to plan a bit further into our uncertain future. Before leaving, I slip into the bedroom to check on Sam. He has already curled onto the antique four poster bed, draped with a web of fine mosquito netting. His eyes are closed. He seems to be sleeping despite the clanking and whining of the old air conditioner. I tenderly brush a lock of his silky hair from his forehead and pull the red coverlet over him. ******************** Chapter Nine ************** Six shopping bags. I am exhausted. Shopping is not for the faint-hearted. And it is not something I excel at under the best of circumstances. The wardrobe I managed to assemble for Sam and myself was a study in Spartan apparel. For him, a few pair of practical jeans and summer weight light pants, a number of light plain T-shirts, socks, a pair of sturdy walking boots, and with the help of Edel's expert input, several lightweight pair of boxers. For myself, summer tees, cotton shorts, a few sun dresses, sandals, walking shoes, jeans and, politely rejecting Edel's playful expertise this time, a respectable cache of bras and panties. I leave Edel and Lucille in the outdoor courtyard behind the Blue Lady, discussing our conversation with their lawyer and making phone calls. I am grateful to let them handle my life right now. I am too tired to think. Juggling packages for a better grip on the apartment keys, I glance ahead down the old narrow hallway as I round the top of the stairs. I halt in my tracks, not daring to breathe. The apartment door is gaping open! I drop the packages and run to the tiny apartment. The breeze from the river is pushing the curtains about. I can smell the threat of rain. The cloudy dimness is settling over the apartment. No one is here. My knees feel watery as I head for the bedroom. Useless. I can see from the living room that the old bed is deserted, its brilliant red coverlet thrown back. The bathroom is empty as well. Gripped by the fuzzy logic of fear, I even search dark corners of tiny closets, behind doors, under the bed. Nothing. Panic has so totally seized me that I do not remember stumbling back downstairs and out into the courtyard. I can see Edel and Lucille rise from their chairs, their faces mirroring concern. "Deanna? What is it?" Lucille's voice is like an thin echo above the roar in my ears. Edel is helping me to a chair. "Sam... Sam is gone," I wheeze. I feel faint. Edel presses a glass to my lips. The sting of strong Southern Comfort burning its way down my throat shocks me to my senses. "I'll check with the boys," Edel says quickly. "Maybe someone saw him." But when he returns, he is shaking his head. "Mario says everyone has gone for the day. He saw no one go through." "We've got to find him," I say shakily. "He'll get hurt. And he hasn't had his medication. He should have had it half an hour ago! What if he...? What if they...?" I can barely talk. I can barely think. Lucille takes my hand firmly and pulls me to my feet. "Come. There is little time to waste. If he is just wandering, then he is probably near-by. We can split up, go in different directions." "No, Lucille! I don't want Deanna on the streets. We'll lock the bar up and Mario can help. He saw the boy this morning. He knows what he looks like. Deanna, you must stay in the apartment. Do you understand?" I nod woodenly, tears welling up in my eyes. I feel so helpless again, so trapped. Is this how Sam felt? Is this why he left? The angry look in his eyes when I called him away from the open windows haunts me now. Lucille guides me upstairs while Edel hastily makes a few phone calls on his mobile phone. I sit numbly on the old chaise lounge by the French doors of the apartment balcony. I can see the mid- morning throngs of tourists. I can feel the approach of a storm, see the charcoal clouds roiling over the riverfront several blocks away. When the torrents of rain begin to fall twenty minutes later, I am still staring up the street, expecting to catch a glimpse of Sam. Hoping that he is okay. Praying that he will be found. ************** I have not moved -- I glance at my watch -- in three hours. Three hours that passed slowly. The storm moved in and intensified, sending rolls of thunder down the nearly deserted wet streets. Sheets of rain paint the French Quarter scenery with a pall of gray. The lace curtains still dance in the wind, but now they move heavily, weighted with dampness, flicking raindrops at me as they snap in the shifting breezes of the storm. I am aware of someone pulling the French doors together, closing out the wind and the wet. Blinking, I look up at Edel, clothing soaked, rubbing his curly dark hair with a bar towel. I don't need to ask. I can see it in his eyes: they didn't find him. I wrap my arms around my queasy stomach. "Hey, Little Sister," Edel says softly. "It'll be okay. We'll find him. I called a few of my friends in the police department - ones I can trust to keep their mouths shut and their eyes open. They know the situation." I squeeze my eyes shut to prevent the tears that are threatening. "He may be sick, Edel. I'm so afraid something has happened to him." Edel wraps his big arm around me and presses his rain-damp forehead to mine, sighing. "Deanna. I don't know how you managed to get yourself in the middle of all this intrigue, but I can see Sam is important to you. If you care for him, then we -- your adopted family -- we will care for him, too. He will be fine. Maybe this is just something he needs to do." I wave my arms in exasperation. "NEEDS to do? I don't even know if he KNOWS what he needs, Edel! He needs doctors! He needs hospitals. Technology. Science. He needs to get help. And, I can't even get him that because we are running from some unseen enemy, some hidden threat." My voice collapses into a whisper and a sob. "I'm so scared, so scared." Edel pulls me to his big chest for a few moments. "Hush now. Remember that Sam is scared, too, Deanna. Think of all that has been taken from him. Maybe his freedom is the one thing he felt he could get back." With that wisdom, he gives me another quick hug and then firmly lifts me to my feet. "Come. Keep vigil with us downstairs. We must open up the bar in a few hours, but until then, you can sit with Lucille and me, and we can discuss what must be done when your Sam returns. I think we have a doctor we can trust -- a good friend of Lucille's from Baton Rouge. And we'll start the search for Sam's real identity. Antoine Judice is coming by soon. You remember him, eh? That greasy little squirrel that used to irritate you so when you were younger." I grimace through my tears at my memory of a nasty, gap- toothed, freckled boy with a penchant for chasing and bullying girls. Edel had caught him up by the collar more than once for bothering Lucille and me at play. I have not seen him in over thirty years. "How can he help?" I ask. Edel shrugs and smiles. "Well, after all those years of practice chasing the young Terrebonne women around, he finally up and catches himself one! My cousin Laurelie. And he has also caught himself a cushy position in the detective bureau of the New Orleans Police Department. Captain. Only God knows how that happened!" My eyes must have widened in shock. Edel hastens to add, "Don't worry. He is just one of the many who can help, Little Sister. I've asked him because he is of our family. Sam will be taken care of. He'll come back -- safely. Now, come. Let's go downstairs and worry as a group, eh?" A small bit of my bleakness falls away. It is so easy to believe when Edel believes. He is such a pillar of quiet strength. Sam and I are very fortunate to have him here for us. ************** Another hour crawls by. The rain has not let up. Fine. It suits my mood. Most of my time is spent leaning over a cup of steaming cafe au lait, holding my head, imagining what trouble Sam might be getting into and replaying the horrific events of the last few days of my life. At 3:00, I am roused out of my waking dream state by the loud rattling at the locked doors of the bar. I look up as Lucille sprints for the door. I can make out the rain-blurred image of a tall black man standing at the window panes. He is supporting a slightly smaller man at his side. Sam? I rise slowly, nearly in shock, as Lucille opens the door. "Boukman! Mon Dieu! Look at you two! Where have you been?" It IS Sam beside him. He looks miserable. Utterly exhausted. Soaking wet. Blood streaming from a cut on his lip. The plaid shirt given to him by Guy torn at the neck and right sleeve. White scrub pants now blackened with mud. The tall black man with the beautiful toothy smile helps Sam to a chair beside me. Sam does not look at me. And I am too stunned to touch him. Lucille drops a warm, dry towel in my lap, so I move to gently wipe the blood and rain away from his face. He still won't look at me. "Sam," I whisper kneeling in front of him, trying to catch his eyes. "I was so worried! Why did you leave?" He stiffens and shifts his face away from me. The muscle in his jaw is jumping with tension. His face is flushed red with exasperation and embarrassment. He remains silent. Lucille drops another warm towel over his head and shoulders. With a slight nod of unspoken thanks to her, he slowly moves to dry himself off. I am beginning to feel my initial relief turn into annoyance. He is acting like an errant child and treating me like an overbearing mother. At least, that's the way he is making me feel right now. I turn to the big black man who had brought him in. I had noticed him earlier this morning, cleaning up behind the bar with Lucille and had assumed that he was one of their nighttime bartenders. He is accepting towels and coffee from Edel. "Where did you find him?" I ask a bit too tersely. It is clear that Sam won't tell me. "Never lost 'im, Ma'am," Boukman chuckles in his deep rumbly voice. "I saw Sam here on Pirate's Alley near the St. Louis Cathedral this mornin' just after I was off shift. I knew he wasn't supposed to be out gallivantin' about by himself, so I tagged myself along, staying behind him most o' the time. "I sure don't know what he was up to -- eh, Sam? He seemed to be jus' kinda wanderin'. Lookin' in shops. Watchin' street musicians, performers in the square, the vendors settin' up at the market place. Restin' up at the riverside near the Moon Walk down at Woldenberg Park. Gettin' rained on." Boukman stops and smiles at Sam, who is looking more embarrassed. "Tailin' him in the rain was almost all worth it when he wandered down into the old red-light district. Some of the working girls spotted him and were all over him like hungry cats on a stick o' sweet cream butter! Right, Sammy?" Sam shifts uncomfortably in his chair and swallows, not daring to look anyone in the eye. "I was content to let him do his wanderin', Ma'am," Boukman says to me. "He seemed like a kid in a candy shop. He spent a lot of time in the museums, especially the voodoo museum. He made a big mistake, though, headin' up to the St. Louis Cemeteries." Edel grunts, shakes his head, looks over at Sam. "Not smart, Pup," he growls softly. "Well, he found that out the hard way, eh, Sam?" Boukman chortles. "He stops at the old tomb of Marie Laveau -- Maman Laveau, our famous VooDoo Queen -- and he seems all transfixed by the X's that people are always chalkin' on her tomb to pay homage to her spirit. He didn't even see the gang of toughs headin' at him until it was almost too late." Boukman leans toward Sam. "Lucky thing I was there to save your skinny white ass, boy! Those bastards live for the slippery feel of someone else's blood on their hands. You never go in those cemeteries 'less you're in a group -- and a damn big group at that!" "Yeah, like the National Guard, eh?" Edel grumbles. Everyone laughs except Sam. I don't think his head could have hung any lower at that moment. "Wh-what happened?" I ask breathlessly. "Well, I had swept away two of the little pricks, but three had taken Sammy down. Or so I thought. He was up and fighting like a rabid wolverine in seconds. Did a pretty professional job of bringing down two of them with a fancy spin-kick -- karate- like! He was sheer poetry to watch! Mah man! Sammy!" Boukman is warming to the story. Sam seems to be shrinking in his chair. "We cleaned up, eh, Sam? Five o' them motherfuckers an' not a one left standing. I grabbed Sam and got him outta there before the patrol rode through. He wasn't too steady on his feet after that, and he was actin' a little funny. So, I bummed a ride for us from Rocky Morton. I didn't think he should be out adventurin' any more today." Acting funny? I look at Sam, but he is still avoiding eye contact. "How do you mean 'acting funny'?" I ask Boukman. The handsome young black man rolls his eyes to Sam and back to me. "Uh, well, ma'am -- He sorta went quiet and spooky. Just starin', not answerin' me when I was talkin' at him. That's when I saw Rocky go by, and I waved him down. We hustled Sam back here. He seemed okay by the time we got him in the car, though." "Sam? That sounds like a petite mal seizure. Do you remember anything about it?" I ask solemnly. The young man shrugs at first and then slowly shakes his head, self-consciously fingering the tattered remains of his plaid shirt. I just stare at him in exasperation. If it was a seizure, it could have been much worse. And had it happened just minutes earlier, when he was attacked... "Why did you leave, Sam?" I ask him again. Without looking at me -- or anyone in our group -- he answers me with his own pointed question, "Am I s-still a p-prisoner?" There is silence. Fueled by lack of sleep and hours of worry, I can feel an unreasonable irritation growing in me. "You should have called, Boukman," Lucille scolds harshly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Now it is Boukman's turn to look chagrined. He smiles charmingly, though, flashing his white teeth and looking over at Sam. "Yeah, well, I do apologize for that. I just didn't want to rat him out. Besides, he seemed to be doing okay for himself -- most of the time. Just seemed to me that I could let him do his explorin' as long as I held back and kept an eye on him. Never seemed to need my help until he headed into that cemetery, and I knew that was gonna be trouble. Maybe I shoulda helped you fight off those women, too, eh, Sam?" This time, Sam cocks his head, looking up at Boukman and smiles, just a little. Then he glances over at me and quickly returns to studying the floorboards. Inexplicably, my mild feelings of annoyance transform into hurt and rage. I push away from the table and run blindly upstairs to the apartment. Flinging aside the mosquito netting, I throw myself onto the bed and let go with a flood of tears that can in no way make up for the betrayal I am now feeling. The arrogant bastard. The selfish prick! Is THIS who he really is? A self-centered risk monger? Doesn't he know he OWES me some consideration? Did he do this kind of inconsiderate crap to a wife? A girlfriend? To that... that... "Dana" person, perhaps? I can't do this. If "Dana" did, well, then she's made of stronger stuff than me. More power to her, whoever she is! I punch the pillows angrily. I feel a cool damp hand on my shoulder and freeze. "Hey..." I hear Sam's soft voice near me. I will NOT answer him. Two can play at these damn childish games. He shakes my shoulder gently. "Hey," he repeats, more softly than before. I will NOT answer. There is a long silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him slide down along the wall beside the bed and sit, pulling his knees to his chest and running long fingers through his damp hair. He sneezes and sniffles. His clothing -- the remains of it, that is --is still wet. I'm sure the air-conditioned room is chilling him. Serves him right. He sneezes again. This time he groans and holds his head. Serves you right. Serves you right. Serves you right!, I chant angrily at him in my thoughts. He sneezes again. That does it. I whirl on him, feeling like a demon summoned from hell. "Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you, you stupid bastard," I shriek. "Just stop it. Get out of here. Get out of this room. If you think that you can wander loose in goddamn New Orleans while half of the underworld is out for your ass, then GO. Have fun. Knock yourself out. Just GET OUT OF HERE!" His jaw drops a little in shock at my outburst. I cannot stop my bitter tongue. "You don't get it, do you? Mackey died trying to protect you. The only family I've ever known have put themselves at risk for you. I've turned my whole life inside out for you. How stupid can you be?" I can see the shock slowly evolving into torment on his face. He is leaning away from me, his eyes glistening. And still I did not stop. "Go on -- Get out of here! I've got DAYS of sleep to catch up on -- lost because of you, you self-centered bastard. You brain- damaged... child!" He flinches, looking stunned. And very, very hurt. Oh God. That was uncalled for. Congratulations, Deanna. In the leaden silence that follows my outburst, he looks at me, nods, and slowly gets to his feet, still unsteady. He leaves the room without a word. I throw myself back on the pillows, unable to stop my tears. I am just as angry at myself now. I have hurt him with a different kind of cruelty. I should have known he was feeling locked in, caged and restless. I've been treating him like a passive player in all this high drama. Treating him like my lab animals. Controlling him, not explaining, talking over him as if he had no say in this desperate part of his own life. Treating him like a lab specimen. Specimen 51. There has been so little time to consider the true man behind the mystery. All along, Sam has unconsciously given us little clues about himself. He wasn't a stranger to these dark events and intrigue. He looked scared, sure, but on a purely instinctual level, he knew when to fight and when to run. He pushed himself hard throughout this ordeal. He would have done so without my help, certainly. I sit up and wipe my eyes. I think I'm being a little self-indulgent with this pity party of mine. What did I really expect of Sam? What did I really want from him? I pause in the doorway. Sam is sitting on the couch, arms crossed protectively over his chest, staring out beyond the lace curtains at the endless torrents of rain. The room is dim and shadowy without the afternoon sun to brighten it. It looks like Sam. Dark, moody. I sit quietly at the other end of the couch, watching him, unsure of what to say. He speaks first, without looking at me. "I d-didn't m-mean to... D-didn't w-want to m-make you angry. I j-just...j-j-just..." Frustrated with his stuttering speech, he gives up struggling for words. He drops his hands into his lap and stares at them. He finally bursts out emotionally, "I'm n-not s-s... s-stupid!" I edge closer to him on the couch. "Sam, I didn't mean those words I said. You know that, don't you?" He doesn't answer, just keeps staring at his hands. "I should apologize, Sam. What I said was said out of anger. I was scared. When I came here and found you had gone, I felt... I felt..." What? WHAT? What did I truly feel when I saw that empty bed? I touch his shoulder, left naked by the torn shirt. He shivers but does not move. I can feel his body's warmth fighting the dampness of his clothes, the velvety touch of his skin under my fingers. I watch, fascinated at the sight of my own fingers caressing his skin, caring -- not clinical. "I felt abandoned," I whisper. "I felt alone and frightened. And frightened for you." There. I said it. That was my need speaking, and now I can't look at him. I'm too embarrassed. I pull my hand away from him quickly. Too quickly. Best not to examine my emotions and my needs now with this vulnerable young man. I can rationalize a thousand reasons why I suddenly need him so. I can talk myself out of this. I'm very good at distancing, shutting down. And that's what I do -- with a vengeance. Standing up abruptly, I say, "You need to wash up. Get out of those wet clothes. There are new clothes for you in the bags near the bathroom. Just let me get your medication and then -- please -- I need to sleep. I'm very tired. And you should sleep, too. The action out there on Bourbon Street will pick up soon, and the noise will be unbearable." I keep my voice deliberately light. I'm back in my lab doctor mode, where I feel more control over myself. Unfortunately, it means having more control over him, too. He says nothing. He says nothing when I give him the injection he hates so much. But I know he is watching me with a new intensity. I can feel his eyes on me. He suffers the shot and then gets up, heading for the bathroom. All without one word. As I watch him leave the room, I am overcome with an unreasonable desire to call out to him. To have him hold me close. To hold him close to me. Why is he so hard to read when I am feeling so naked, so emotionally exposed? In the bedroom, I undress and pull on a long cotton T-shirt. I cocoon myself in the old bed, pulling the netting all around me and pulling the coverlet over my head. I just want to hide. Disappear -- like Sam did today. I just want to get back to the safety and numbness of my old life -- like Sam. Did he have a safe life to go back to? No. Maybe not.