********************
Chapter Ten
**************

I must have slept. When I wake, the apartment is dark, except 
for the shifting palette of bright colors dancing on the walls of 
the living room, choreographed by the garish blend of flashing 
neon lights outside. Even above the rattle of the ancient air 
conditioner, I can hear the night-long party on Bourbon Street 
has started. The mix of human voices and a seductive beat of 
music invades the apartment.

The warmth in the living room is oppressive. The French doors 
are still closed. The rain is still spilling against them. It is not 
enough to quell the crowd of revelers in the streets below.

It is impossible for me not to notice Sam. Among the graceful old
antiques, he looks like a breathtaking work of art. A statue. 

Adonis Reclining.

Adonis At Sleep.

He is sprawled on the chaise lounge by the French doors, 
oblivious to all the noise outside. The rain on the window and 
the shifting neon lights play colorful patterns over his chest.
Over his handsome face. Over his lips.

I kneel beside him, enthralled with watching the rise and fall of 
his chest. In the play of lights, his bruises and welts and scars 
are almost lost. There is a light sheen of sweat on his body, 
giving him an eerie polish, like a statue. 

Adonis Reclining.

He must have fallen asleep quickly. He clutches a pair of the 
new boxer shorts in one hand while the other holds his bath 
towel modestly in place. I pull the boxers gently from his fingers. 
He does not move. Like a statue. 

Adonis At Sleep.

Suddenly, I need to touch him again, to see my hand on his 
shoulder again as it was this afternoon when he sat silently on the 
sofa. I want to touch him, and I don't want him to know it. I don't 
want him to see how really needy I am. I don't want his pity. I 
don't want his rejection.

But I need to touch that marble-like skin with the blurred colors 
playing over it. 

I place my palm on the flat plane of his stomach. So hot and silky. 
I lean forward and run my hand over his lightly furred chest. The 
hairs are silky, too, and fall in the wake of my fingers as I move 
to brush one nipple, ever so softly.

I hear his breath catch and pull my hand away quickly. In that 
instant, a thousand bewildering thoughts and emotions flood my 
brain. Aside from the perplexing flush of my own sudden desires,
my conscience is screaming at me: I am taking advantage of him. 
He's injured. I shouldn't be doing this. He trusts me. 

What if he wakes?

But he does not move. He is a statue. 

My Adonis. 

Bravely -- or perhaps pathetically -- I give in to my impulses and 
that innate hunger. I draw my fingers along the muscles of his 
arm, delighting in the ripple of goose-flesh that blooms along the 
trail of my hand. He shudders and sighs, rolling his head toward 
me. He still does not wake.

Emboldened, I push away just enough of the soft bath towel to 
expose a hip. I hesitate: I can see a narrow strip of bruising, 
making my guilt bloom anew in the pit of my stomach.

I bow to tenderly kiss the marred flesh there, but feeling its warmth,
feeling the stony hardness of bone just beneath his velvety skin,
fills me with longing. I run my teeth lightly along that ridge of bone, 
enjoying the slightly soapy taste of his skin on my tongue. I can feel 
the goose-flesh prickle and spread over his groin.

This time, he moans and shifts his hips slightly. 

I pull away hastily, watching for any sign that he might be 
awakening. His head lolls again, changing the play of shadows 
over that handsome face of his, but he remains asleep.

I marvel at his male body. At the simple joy a woman can get 
from merely touching, exploring. My sexual encounters, like 
my life, have been prescribed: text-book gropings in the dark. 
Needless to say, they have been few and far between - and I 
never felt like I missed much. 

Until now.

I shower his arms and shoulders with light kisses, brush his 
flat nipples with my lips and delight in watching them harden. 

It is such a sweetly powerful feeling to tease these reactions 
from his sleeping body. Desire and need are driving me now.

I lay my head gently on the heat of his stomach, lightly massaging 
his legs and inner thighs as far as I can reach. I smile as I feel the 
goose-flesh race along his leg, and I see his erection stirring to 
life under the hand and towel that lay protectively over it.

His moans and tiny gasps are barely discernible over the beating 
drums outside our windows. Under my ear, I hear the beat of 
his heart begin to pick up. Suddenly, I feel fingers run through 
my hair. I lift my head to look at him. 

His eyes are open, looking down at me, soft with an unfamiliar 
emotion. 

Well, maybe unfamiliar to me.

He cautiously makes no other move except to tilt his head and 
part his full lips, inviting me. Offering himself to me. Letting me 
feel my power as a woman. 

God. 

He is so beautiful.

Doubt creeps into this moment. Perhaps this is wrong? Am I taking 
advantage of him? He's been through so much.

When I hesitate, his eyes darken with wariness. I can almost feel 
him pulling back, going into himself with practiced abruptness. 

Sweet Jesus, the man is just as afraid of rejection as I am. Before 
he can completely distance himself, I place my hands on either 
side of his face and bring those wonderful soft lips to mine.

At first, I feel some of his initial reluctance.

Then, his sweet surrender. 

His mouth opens for me. He offers himself to me again. A 
supplicant, willing to serve. He slips the towel away, allowing 
me to look at him. He reaches under the soft cotton of my T-shirt, 
and suddenly my touch-starved flesh is alive with sensations.

He tugs gently at the cotton, nips at the material with his teeth.
He is anxious to reach my breasts, to suckle, to please me.

I laugh and pin his wandering, insistent hands to the chaise 
lounge. "Let me enjoy your body first," I whisper into his ear. 

He closes his eyes and shivers with excitement. He is willing.

He will do as I ask. 

A dream lover. 

My Adonis.

The love-making was just that: the tender creation of passion 
with attention to detail, the slow weaving of a spell. The delicacy 
of devotion, not the clinical restraints of sex without feeling. The 
half-shy explorations of each other, built slowly into the joyful 
discoveries of each other. 

He did not rush me, seeming to know what I needed. 

It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before.

We had both slipped into sleep in the comfort of the big antique 
bed. When I awake later, I look down to see him asleep with his 
mouth still at my breast, one long leg thrown over my body, one 
arm wrapped possessively around my waist. He has entangled me 
so, it is hard to see where I end and he begins.

I marvel at my boldness with him last night. Unconsciously, this 
is the need I was seeking to fill.

The street party has ended. The dim light of dawn is chasing the 
dark shadows out of the living room and color is seeping back into 
everything. I am content to lay here and tangle and twist my 
fingers in Sam's dark hair and think again about making love with 
him last night.

Such an unexpected treasure. 

Such a flood of need and emotion coming from both of us. 

His own need rivaled, maybe surpassed, mine... Another clue to 
the mystery of Sam? 

My thoughts wander as I think about him, feeling his silky hair 
slip through my fingers.

Today, we would begin the search for who he was. Maybe Edel's 
new cousin-in-law, the detective. Antoine Judice, once the bane 
of my childhood. Maybe he could help.

I feel a small pang of apprehension at the thought of Sam 
recovering his memory. For the first time, I realize I may be 
alone again. Maybe more alone than before. No job to return 
to. No apartment to return to.

My apartment! The vision of my ruined apartment rises up again. 
They -- the unseen ones -- they will have ransacked my apartment 
by now. Searched through my things. Studied my address book. 
Looked for clues for where I might run.

Surely it won't be long before they discover the significance of the 
Terrebonne family in my life.

These anxious thoughts begin eroding the satisfaction and wonder
I felt when I awoke with Sam in my arms.

I feel him moving, sweetly nuzzling my breast, tightening his arm 
around my waist. I smile. He is still half-asleep, yet I can feel his 
physical eagerness growing again, hard against my hip. Just as I 
reach down to caress his face, I hear him gasp and freeze with 
shocking suddenness.

He lifts himself up on one elbow, staring at his hand on my 
stomach. His eyes rake over my nakedness and then his. He 
looks at me with pure anguish in his eyes. 

"Sam? What's wrong?" 

He is frightening me. 

He pulls sharply away from contact with me, as if he had just 
discovered his hand stuck in a flame. Horrified by his body's own 
natural reaction, he desperately claws at a sheet trying to cover his 
erection.

"What are you doing? Sam? Where are you going? What's wrong? 
Please. Don't do this to me." 

I am reduced to pleading? 

He blindly tears at the mosquito netting, trying to get free from the 
bed. He is acting as if he had just woke up and found himself in 
bed with a dying leper! He is making me feel dirty and worthless 
and...

"I-I'm s-sorry, D-Dana," he gasps.

My heart lurches. Dana! Did I hear him right? Did he think he was 
making love to that Dana Ghost of his?

He turns his back on me and rises quickly out of the bed. "I-I sh-
shouldn't have... I'm s-sorry." 

He is gone from the room quicker than it takes me to realize that 
tears are streaming silently down my face.

I try to feel numb, but this is too humiliating. I feel like a foolish 
teen who has just given her virginity to the class lecher and then 
discovered him bragging about his sexual conquest to a huge 
audience of leering listeners the following day. 

Pulling on my long T-shirt, I steel myself for the short walk to the 
bathroom. I will have to pass by him. There is no way to save my 
dignity. I refuse to beg an explanation for his odd behavior from 
him. 

I have a fragility to protect, too, you heartless bastard.
 
I needn't have worried like some neurotic about facing him. He 
has parked himself on that damn chaise lounge and turned into a 
statue again, his head in his hands, staring out the French doors 
toward the riverfront. An icon of absolute misery. 

I feel sick to my stomach. What had I done? 

Why had he become so different from the dream lover I 
discovered last night?

Alone in our aloneness again. 

Neither of us would make the first overture that would explain or 
end this sudden painful rift.

I head into the bathroom, already driving the emotions and pain 
deep inside me, trying to bury them before they weaken me. 

********************
Chapter Eleven
**************

Bathed, dressed in a light sundress, make-up carefully applied.
 
I still don't feel any better.
 
Watching my reflection in the mirror, I wonder if my years are 
more apparent on my face -- or body -- than I think they are. 
Was he horrified at the prospect of making love to an older woman? 
Did I repulse him so much?

I stop that line of thinking immediately. I could derail myself on 
that runaway train of thought in no time flat. 

I check myself in the mirror again. And again. And then become 
angry with myself for falling victim to this nonsense. Whatever 
it is, it's HIS problem, not mine.

So how come it hurts so much?

Enough. I have to go out there and face him sometime.

Sam is dressed in new jeans, a simple white T-shirt and his new 
shoes. He is on the couch, quietly waiting for me. He looks up 
quickly and rises to his feet as soon as I enter the room, but I 
determinedly avoid eye contact with him. I was never good at 
"talking things out" when it came to personal matters, and right 
now, my feelings of humiliation are threatening to overcome me.

Shit. His medication. Time for another injection. 

"You need another dose of the anti-convulsant," I say simply, still 
avoiding eye contact.

He sits again, looking awkward and nervous. He pulls the sleeve 
of his T-shirt up for me as I ready another syringe for him. As I 
swab the injection site with an alcohol pad, he turns his face up 
to me.

Ahhh, God - he wants to say something. Spare me.

"C-can we talk about...?"

I plunge the needle in a bit more roughly than necessary. He jumps 
and grimaces, making me feel like Dr. Mengele for a moment. But 
at least it cut off his attempt at conversation. 

I cannot afford him the luxury of trying to smooth things over 
right now. I just don't want to hear what he has to say.

"Will you be coming downstairs with me?" I try to keep my 
voice cool and detached-sounding as I head toward the door. 

I don't know how successful I am, because he seems to quail at 
my question. Perhaps he is quailing at the icy tone in my voice. 
He stands, rubbing the sore spot on his arm making me feel 
another twinge of guilt. He silently nods, waiting for me to take 
the lead. He still looks as if he wants to say something to me, but 
his hesitancy merely makes for a stupefying silence between us.

Which pisses me off all the more.

"Fine," I reply to his silent response.  "Well, let's be on our way. 
Today is the day we start looking for clues to who you are. We 
wouldn't want to waste any time finding you a way out of this 
prison I seem to have trapped you in, would we?"

Christ, I sound like a bitter old harridan. 

As I reach for the door, I feel a strong grip on my arm. I am pulled 
around to face him. He is still looking miserable, and that just 
makes me feel angry at him. I snap my arm away from his grip 
and struggle to turn back to the door.

He grips my arm again and this time pushes his body against 
mine, pinning me against the wall. "D-don't. Please. L-listen 
to me."

All my hurt wells up in an unreasonable rage. I ball my fists and 
hammer on his chest. "Let me go. Get away from me. I don't 
want you to touch me -- ever again."

He pushes away from me immediately, and I dive for the door, 
blinking away those stupid threatening tears.

"It w-wasn't you." His raised voice cracks with emotion. 

He couldn't have picked a worse response. I turn on him sharply.

"Wasn't me? WHO wasn't me? The woman you were having 
sex with last night? That wasn't me? It wasn't me you were 
making love to? Well, you made that abundantly clear this 
morning. You acted as if you woke up with a dead dog in 
your arms. You made me feel like dirt."

He is backing up, stumbling, as I advance on him, shouting and 
crying at the same time.

"I-I'm ... I'm s-sorry," he pleads in that godawful, pitiful 
stammer of his. "P-Please listen. J-Just listen. Don't go until 
you l-listen. Please."

We are both startled by a sharp rap on the door.

"Deanna? It's me. Antoine Judice." 

The voice is not familiar, but over thirty years have gone by since 
I have last seen the loathsome pest from my childhood. The deep 
rough voice from the other side of the door has practiced authority. 

I swing the door open wide, and my eyes settle on a dark, heavily 
jowled, mustachioed man. The freckles I remembered are gone 
now, but the gap-toothed smile is not. Shiny shoes. Tailored suit 
hiding a pot belly. Brown, curly hair oiled and slicked back 
from a receding hairline with just enough to pull into a tiny pig-
like tail on the back of his head. Gold pinkie ring. 

Ugh.

All these years later, he has managed to maintain his annoying, 
arrogant facade.

"Antoine? Come in. Have you spoken to Edel already?" 

Antoine Judice steps swiftly into the apartment, almost seeming to 
ignore my greeting.

I look behind him out into the hallway. Neither Edel or Lucille are 
anywhere to be seen. My new guest grasps my hand in a limp attempt 
at a gesture of greeting, but his attention is clearly focused 
already.

On Sam. 

"Did I hear an argument? I did not mean to pry." He does not look 
at me, but instead, moves toward the young man. 

Sam casts his eyes down at Antoine's question, hooking his 
thumbs in his jeans pockets and turning away.

I answer. "Uh... Yes. You did hear an argument -- of sorts. I'm 
sorry, Antoine. I didn't expect to have comp--"

Antoine waves a hand at me dismissively. "No problem, Deanna. 
Just wanted to be sure everything was okay." 

He looks from me to Sam. 

When he turns to me again, it is with outstretched arms. He kisses 
me wetly on both cheeks. God help me, I still feel a bit of 
revulsion. I have to resist the urge to wipe my skin clean of the 
feel of him. I wonder briefly where this sudden reaction of mine 
comes from. Certainly not the annoyance I felt toward him in my 
childhood? 

No. This felt more sinister. My little voice is struggling to be 
heard, again.

Antoine has returned to his study of Sam, planting his wide body 
firmly in front of the young man, as if symbolically cornering 
him. Backed up against the couch, Sam has no place to move. The 
New Orleans detective pushes his thick hand forward as an 
offered greeting, but the way he looks at Sam bothers me. 

"Hello. Captain Antoine Judice, City of New Orleans Detective 
Division."

Sam shakes the proffered hand, but he looks a little perplexed, 
uncertain of how to react. I had not told him that a policeman had 
been drafted to help in the search for his identity. Our touchy 
disagreement forgotten, Sam looks helplessly toward me for 
guidance on how to react to the stranger before him.

I thrust away my initial feelings of unease. After all, Edel had sent 
this man to us.

"Antoine, please sit down. Sam, this is a childhood friend of 
mine." I almost choke on those words, but I save Sam from the 
need to make a response to Antoine's introduction. The big man 
eases his bulk onto the couch, apparently unaware of my 
discomfort.

Sam is aware of it, though. He is looking at me with wide dark 
eyes that speak volumes. He is reacting to my body language 
like state-of-the-art radar, alert and tense. 

I rush to seat myself across from Antoine. Sam, however, retreats 
to that damned chaise lounge and settles where he can keep a 
sharp eye on both of us. 

If there is an air of discomfort here, Antoine has deliberately 
chosen to ignore it. Or perhaps, he is cultivating it.

"How is your wife, Antoine? Edel tells me you married his 
cousin Laurelie?"

The heavyset man shrugs his shoulders, broadcasting his lack of 
interest in pursuing a conversation about his family. Certainly not 
Terrebonne style; family pride and loyalties run deep. 

"You're looking fine, Deanna," he says, turning my polite inquiry 
into an opportunity to leer at me. He smirks. "You really filled out 
as a woman. Real fine." 

He looks suggestively at Sam and back at me. 

I wonder how much of the argument he had heard before he knocked 
on the door. Sam is blushing, and I can feel the tell-tale heat 
creeping into my face, too. 

I am getting fed up with this odd behavior, but I decide to press 
beyond it. "I'm sure you've heard our story from Edel. We need 
to find out Sam's true identity. The records that came with him to 
the lab may have been manufactured." 

I hand the burly detective the file folder that I had taken from the 
lab. 

In the corner of my eye, I can see Sam stir a bit, as if startled. He 
seems attentive and curious. It suddenly occurs to me that this is 
the probably the first time he has become aware of the existence of 
any information on himself. I feel a bit guilty. Why had it never 
occurred to me that he should have been shown the file?  Because 
I had considered them fake?

Antoine is leafing through the file, pausing every now and then to 
read something more carefully. He looks over at Sam, evaluating 
him. 

"Says here your name is Gary Redmond."

Sam shakes his head emphatically. "N-n-no!"

"N-n-no? R-r-really?" Antoine mocks Sam. "You stutter, boy? 
Says in here that Gary Redmond stutters... has since he was a kid."

Sam looks again at the file in Judice's hands, stunned.

Antoine continues in his snide manner: "These are pictures of you. 
Your fingerprint file, no? Bulletin descriptions -- describing a dark 
young man.... 'bout your height... 'bout your weight... 
Distinguishing characteristics..." He leans over, glaring at Sam.  
"Says here Gary Redmond has a gunshot wound -- upper left 
quadrant of his chest, close to his shoulder. How about it, boy? 
Seem familiar yet?"

Sam lifts his hand to his left shoulder in a self-conscious gesture, 
touches the smooth cloth of his brand new T-shirt, feeling for the 
rough skin of a haunting old injury. His eyes meet mine. They are 
clouded with confusion. I am as breathless as he seems, remembering 
how it felt to have my lips pressed against that scar last night, 
kissing it tenderly, not asking him the "how" or "why" or "who". 
Afraid to ruin the sweetness of the moment with a sudden ghost of 
a memory gained or a memory lost.

Antoine Judice makes a rude sucking sound over his teeth and 
snorts at Sam, "Arrest reports -- also yours? Where's the big 
mystery?"  He looks back at me. "Seems pretty clear, Deanna. 
This young prick is a killer named Gary Redmond."

"You know that kind of evidence can be made up, Antoine," I say 
through clenched teeth. Why is he acting like this? 

Judice arches an eyebrow at me as a sort of challenge and abruptly 
turns back to Sam. "1666 Merrimac Court," he barks at him. 
"Mean anything to you, boy?"

Sam starts to shake his head and then hesitates, as if remembering 
something. Suddenly, he pales a bit. "Y-yes. Th-that's the address 
of... of G-Gary Redmond's m-mother's home," he answers in 
almost a whisper.

I feel a precipitous drop in my gut. "How would you know that?" 
I gasp. I know he has not seen this file.

Sam looks as shocked and confused as me. He opens his mouth 
as if to speak, but he clearly has no answer, no defense.

I whirl on the New Orleans detective. "What is the meaning of all 
this, Antoine? His answer means nothing. With everything else 
that has been done to him, it's easily possible he could have been 
subjected to... to..." 

What, Deanna, what? Is there an excuse? A rational explanation? 
How, in God's name,  could he possibly have known this 
stuff? I am screaming inside.

I push away my suspicions and exclaim, "...to brain washing."

"This isn't international intrigue going on here, Deanna," Antoine 
snorts derisively. "Brain washing isn't as easy as you might think. 
It's not like something out of the dime novels. Have you thought 
maybe this is just a routine case of this psycho trying to press an 
advantage here? I mean, you have to admit the amnesia routine is a 
good ruse. He's made a pretty clean escape so far, and he seems 
pretty comfortable living off you and..."

I cut him short, not wanting to hear any more. Not wanting to have 
my suspicions raised again. Not wanting to think that the man I 
held close to me last night might be a sick, vicious human. 

"Surely, you can't be serious, Antoine. Have you heard the whole 
story or not? There is nothing 'routine' about this. Sam was a 
captive, an innocent. He was held -- against his will -- as a 
prisoner, not a willing volunteer. I was there, Antoine. He still has
the welts and bruises from the beatings and the tracks in his veins 
from the drugs. That would seem to be evidence enough that there 
is something amiss here!"

I am aware of Sam moving apprehensively, but I force myself not 
to look at him. I can not look at him. It is easier to ague with the 
greasy bastard in front of me. I am afraid that if Sam sees my eyes 
right now, he will see my doubt, my betrayal.

"Relax, Deanna." Judice adopts a smarmy, patronizing tone with 
me. "From another point of view, all this fuss over one man 
seems a bit odd, don't you think? If he's not Gary Redmond, 
then who the hell is he?"

Who the hell is he, indeed.

"THAT, Antoine Judice, is what you were meant to help us 
find out," I reply icily, clenching my fists.

The detective's entire face seems to be curled into a sneer. "And 
what if I find out that this here boy of yours is a serial killer who 
was supposed to end his days on Death Row, missy? Are you 
going to stand aside when I drag him back to the lock-up where 
he belongs?"

I hear a strangled cry of protest from Sam as he starts to get up 
from the chaise lounge. Antoine is quick to raise his hand, 
gesturing firmly to Sam to remain seated. The young man obeys, 
but he seems coiled with frustration now. He perches on the edge 
of the chaise lounge and looks as if he is anxious to blurt out a 
defense.

Antoine leans forward with another question for him. "Deirdre 
Jean Holloway. Remember her, Gary? Tell me how she died."

I glance at Sam, anxious for an answer myself. I didn't think it 
was possible for Sam to get any paler, but he suddenly looks 
sick, his lips white. He rubs a hand over his stomach nervously 
and does not answer.

"Do you know how Deirdre Jean Holloway died, boy?" 

Antoine spills a bit more viciousness into his question, like a chef 
with a favored recipe: Add some tension, turn up the heat, watch 
for squirming. Get ready to burn the poor animal skewered alive 
on the spit, roasting over the hot coals of "justice".

God help him -- Sam looks cornered. He licks his lips and looks 
at me. And once again, I have the odd feeling that he is not seeing 
me. He is looking for someone else. He desperately wants me 
to be that someone else right now. That someone who might come 
to his emotional rescue right now.

I drop my eyes quickly. I am not whomever he is looking for.

At the same time, I realize that he knows. He knows how the 
person Antoine is asking about died. I could see it in the misery 
and fear in his eyes. But how can he? How can he know who 
Deirdre Jean Holloway is and how she died and yet NOT be her 
killer? How? 

I feel as if I am caught in a deep freeze, slowly numbing the 
emotions I had been unraveling in myself through Sam. I can't 
have been this wrong about him. The needful, tender lover I 
touched last night? Is he a sick murderer? The idea was so 
inconsistent with what little I knew -- or sensed -- of the 
mysterious young man. 

Yet, there is so much that isn't known.

"I d-don't feel w-well," Sam stammers weakly, still looking at 
me. 

"Deirdre... Jean... Holloway." Antoine intones angrily over 
Sam's soft protest. "Tell me how she died, boy."

Sam shakes his head and drops his face to his hands. "N-n-no. I 
c-can't."

"You know, don't you, Gary?" Antoine presses.

Sam keeps shaking his head. "NO. I-I mean... y-yes. I do, 
but I d-didn't k-kill her."

His face is paper-white. 

"Oh? You d-didn't k-kill her?" Antoine is mocking again, 
becoming the bully I hated in my childhood. "How's that, Gary? 
How could you know if you're NOT the killer himself? How do 
you know about Gary Redmond's mother's address? This is 
YOUR face in this police file shot, isn't it? These are YOUR 
fingerprints, eh? And this? See? It's YOUR rap sheet, Gary... 
Look for yourself. Maybe this will jog that so-called faulty 
memory of yours."

Antoine flings the file at Sam, and it strikes him in the face. 
Loose papers flutter all around him onto the floor. Sam drops 
to his knees and grasps at the file's scattered contents like a 
starving beggar after bits of bread tossed to him. He is breathing 
in quick, tight gasps. He is just as terrified of the possibility that 
these papers might reveal his true life as I am. His hands shake 
visibly as he picks up and drops each sheet, scanning them only 
briefly.

"I think he's taken advantage of you and the Terrebonne family 
long enough, Deanna," Antoine says smugly, rising off the couch 
and hitching his tailored pants up over his belly in a self-important 
gesture. "I'm going to make arrangements to take him in."

I can feel the dread welling up in me. I can hear my little voice 
protesting the injustice of the mock trial just enacted before me. 

The prisoner is the victim; the prosecutor is the criminal. 

On the floor, Sam is clutching the FBI report, reading and 
rereading, lips moving. He is rocking himself slightly, curled 
against the chaise lounge. 

Through all of this, he has never looked as scared and lost as he 
does right now. I recognize the erosion happening within him: 
self-doubt, one of the most destructive acids that can be poured 
into a human soul.

Sam may not have been able to remember who he was, but he 
had been absolutely sure about who he wasn't. 

Until now. 

Until Antoine had poisoned him with self-doubt.

This is not the time for me to let my own doubts and weaknesses 
allow me to fail him. I will not become part of Antoine Judice's 
game plan.

Flooded with irritation, I snap the papers out of Sam's hands and 
hastily gather up the rest of the file. I can feel the heat of rage in 
my face. "Well, thank you very much, Monsieur Judge-And-Jury 
Judice! Is THIS the help you offer to us? You intended to haul 
Sam out of here in handcuffs, no matter what, didn't you?" 

I straighten up and stand as close to Antoine's face as his belly 
will allow. 

"Well, YOU aren't calling the shots right now, Antoine. I AM."

"THIS is a police matter now, Miss Branson." He tries his 
official cop chatter on me. I am tolerating none of it, however.

"Screw you and your police matters, Antoine. It's been my life, 
my family, my job, my apartment, my money, my safety, and 
my sanity that has been compromised here. And as long as I've 
gone so far as to lay all that on the line for this man, I WILL have 
all the answers I need to justify putting myself, as well as my 
adopted family, at risk. And ONE of the answers I am seeking is 
Sam's identity. Until I have that answer, I WILL NOT turn him 
over to the likes of you nor to the very people who have been trying 
to harm him.

"There is too much that does not make sense here, Antoine. If 
you were indeed looking out for our interests, you would know 
that. Just tell me: whose side you are really on, Antoine Judice?"

My raised voice becomes an accusation. Antoine seems to be 
seething at my outburst, but he offers a bit of a retreat from his 
Top Cop persona. I'm sure he expected me to be the same meek 
and mild victim he was used to terrorizing. He probably gets 
away with it with women to this very day.

Too bad, Antoine. Right now, I am as far away from that timid 
little self within me as I have ever been.

"All right. Okay! Jesus, you've gotten feisty in your old age, 
Deanna. Calm down."

"Stop telling me to calm down, Antoine." God, what a stupid 
bastard he is.

"Fine! All Right! Merde! I'll stop, but I do have to ask you, 
MISS Branson: What else have you laid on the line with this 
guy? What's your real interest? Just a lonely old spinster looking 
for some action?" 

Incredible. He is daring to turn his spotlight on me now? Again, in 
less than a second, he has started sounding like the bullying pest 
that haunted part of my childhood.  

I am almost too shocked at his switch in tactics to react at first -- 
but not shocked enough. The sting in my palm as it strikes his 
fleshy cheek is exquisitely satisfying. I can "sense" more than 
"see" Sam starting to bristle with tension over this emotional tussle 
between me and Antoine. Out of the corner of my eye, I am aware of 
Sam looking over at us.  

He had been oblivious to us when he was absorbed in the horror 
of the file that has the name of Gary Redmond on it. My raised 
voice is drawing his attention again.

Doesn't stop Judice, though. The Sonofabitch. His leer has a 
meaner edge to it this time.

He reveals the snake that he is, moving closer to whisper to me. 
Coward. He is instinctively removing himself from Sam's range 
of hearing. "Nice, Deanna, real nice. So? What's he got, huh? 
C'mon, tell me. What's he got that is so fucking special? What is 
making you act like such a silly schoolgirl? Is he hung like a 
stallion or something?"

"You ignorant bastard!" Enraged, I am about to slap him again. 
He prevents my striking him by pressing in closer to me. His 
smirk has a personal quality to it now. This isn't the tactic of a 
cop; it's the weapon of a twisted man.

"What cute little tricks does he perform for you, eh, Deanna?" 
His breath is hot on my face, stinking of bad coffee.

I can see Sam slowly rising to his feet. I don't think he can hear 
Antoine's piggish insults, but he is certainly divining the 
threatening behavior correctly.

Oh, please God, I don't want him to get involved in this.

"How's he keeping you entertained? You like your pretty boys 
young, eh? Doesn't matter if he's a convicted rapist? Killer? Is he 
showing you some exotic techniques, or are you teaching him 
some new..."

That does it! I'm not going to allow his sick insults to continue. 
I bring my arms up to shove Antoine away from me, but already, 
Sam has moved more quickly than I would have thought possible. 
He spins my tormentor around and away from me.

And for his effort, he catches the backside of Antoine Judice's 
meaty hand, hard, across his face, sending him hurtling back to 
the floor. Judice snarls and leans over to grab the front of Sam's 
shirt. Before he can do anything else though, I run to throw open 
the apartment door and hiss, "Get out." 

I notice Antoine's demeanor shift dramatically, and he lets go of 
Sam immediately. I am confused by the abrupt change until I 
notice he is looking past me. Almost as suddenly, I realize why 
the brute is now behaving himself. 

Edel is standing in the doorway. 

His bushy dark eyebrows are knotted in consternation as he 
regards me, my childhood antagonist and then Sam. He steps 
inside with deliberate slowness, brushing my arm in reassurance, 
turning his ebony eyes on Judice. 

"Antoine," he says with a nod and a forced smile. 

Then, with calculated exaggeration, Edel smiles at Sam who is 
still slumped on the floor.

"Sam! How are you feeling today, Pup? Feel any need to go out 
adventuring again?"

Sam looks up at him, blinking and favoring one reddened eye.

Edel is being very deliberate in his attention to him. He moves 
beside the young man and gently helps him to his feet. He 
straightens Sam's shirt. He takes Sam's jaw in his hand and 
slowly turns the young man's face to look at the bright red 
handprint that now mars it.

"Your 'guest' attacked me, Edel," Antoine has the nerve to huff 
as he straightens his tie. 

I start to protest but Edel looks at me and shakes his head, 
silencing me. "Allow me to apologize for the Pup, here, Antoine. 
He, perhaps, does not understand your exalted position in the 
Police Department of the City of New Orleans," Edel says evenly.

"You're harboring a murderer, Edel," Antoine snaps. He jabs an 
accusing finger my way. "And the saintly Doctor Branson is an 
accessory. Aiding and abetting is serious stuff, Edel. She's 
putting you all in danger for the sake of a little..."

"Please. Sit down, Antoine." Edel's tone is still too aggravatingly 
calm. "Sam, are you all right?"  He places a friendly hand on the 
younger man's shoulder before he turns to the New Orleans cop. 
It is a silent gesture, meant to tell Antoine that Edel Terrebonne has 
judged Sam worthy of his trust and protection and daring the other 
man to question it.

For his part and to his credit, Sam just nods and remains silent. 
He looks wan and moody, but he does not register any 
astonishment at Edel's friendly attentions nor his calm 
deportment in the face of all this outrage.

Sam has well-honed instincts about people and situations, it 
seems. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register this as another clue. 
He is extremely perceptive, even in this strange environment. He 
has lived by his wits before.

Antoine shifts his gaze from Edel to Sam, lingering angrily on the 
young man's face. 

Edel is grinning broadly. "Sammy here went out yesterday and did 
the 'tourist thing', Antoine. Did you hear the story? Maybe Sam 
will tell you himself someday, eh? Free as a bird. And yet, he 
came right back here. Funny, eh? It's just not the kind of thing 
you'd expect of a convicted serial killer on the run."

Edel roughs up Sam's hair affectionately and then takes a seat on 
the end of the couch opposite from the big detective. "Sit, 
Antoine. As I stood outside that door, I thought I heard that you 
were about to give  Deanna some ideas on how you might be able 
to help us find the Pup's real name."

I deliberately let the door slam shut with a bang and take another 
seat. Antoine glares at me like a seasoned chess champ who just 
got check-mated by a pre-schooler. I force myself to be polite as I 
press the disarrayed file back into his hands.

"Evidence says he's Gary Redmond, Edel," Antoine growls, 
dropping the file disdainfully to the side. "We've got notices out 
all over the state. They want him back. And it wasn't too hard to 
figure you had him here when I got your message earlier. You're 
harboring a rapist and a killer of young girls."

I notice Sam's face go leaden, almost trance-like when Judice 
begins his accusation again.

However, I am so immersed in the electric atmosphere of anger 
and distrust permeating the air right now that I am barely aware of 
Sam slipping quietly toward the short hallway to the bathroom.

Antoine moves quickly though, gesturing sharply at Sam. "Sit 
down, mister! You'll stay right where I can see you."

Sam stops, leaning weakly against the wall, but Edel waves him 
on.

"Let him be. He's not running away. Go ahead, Sam. It's okay." 
Edel is still keeping his voice level and patient. I can tell he 
is angry with Judice, however. "I think we all know the kind of 
evidence you see in that file can be convincingly created and 
planted, Antoine. There is too much that seems suspicious about 
the circumstances under which Deanna found him at Pinck 
Pharmaceuticals Lab in Lobdell, don't you agree? I mean, you 
being a detective division head and all, I'd have thought you'd
want to double check a few facts first, wouldn't you?"

Edel's eyes are bright with challenge, and the two men are locked 
in a silent glaring contest for a few moments.

The sound of violent retching in the bathroom propels me to my 
feet, leaving them behind.

Sam is on his knees, bowed over the toilet seat, gagging. He is 
ashen-colored and shaking. He has nothing in his stomach to 
offer, yet his body is insisting on trying to heave something up.

When I touch him, Sam starts violently and shrinks away, sliding 
up against the old claw foot tub. 

"I c-can't stop seeing it...," he moans. "B-blood. Blood. So m-
much blood." Running his hand over his sweaty forehead and 
hair again and again, he looks nearly frantic. 

He is scaring me. He suddenly seems so disconnected, not even 
aware of me. 

There is no room in here to move. I start to feel lightheaded, 
conscious of the suffocating confines of this tiny bathroom. It 
is becoming prison-like, transformed by Sam's panic and my 
alarm. 

He is hyperventilating. Wild-eyed. Acting like a trapped animal. 
"Why? W-why do I see them? H-how could I kn-know ?" he is
whispering. Clearly, he is not addressing me.

"Sam? Hey -- take it easy." If I can calm him down, I will be able 
to calm my own fears. God forgive me. I'm too scared to even 
reach out and touch him. I can only utter my impotent cliches. 
"Hush now. Breathe. Come on... Slow down. Deeper breaths...
Hush. Hush now. It'll be okay."

"N-no... It can't be okay," he whispers as if talking to a ghost. He 
doesn't even look up at me. He suddenly fixates on his hands, 
staring at them open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He begins rubbing 
them frantically over his jeans. "How can it be okay? L-look. S-s-
so m-much blood. How? How?"

He grits his teeth. He grimaces and rubs his hands against his 
thighs with more fury. He is grunting with the exertion of trying to 
rid his hands of the unseen blood. He is absolutely unaware of 
me. I am certain of it. 

Unaware of where he is. 

Unaware of who he is now.

I watch helplessly. It is like watching someone drown and being 
powerless to save him.

A pair of big arms push past me, reaching down to Sam. The 
young man is tugged to his feet as I hear Edel's deep baritone 
voice rumble, "Stop it. Sam, you're going to hurt yourself. 
Stop. Settle down. Now." 

Edel has the young man in a fierce bear hug, trying to calm him 
down. Watching the two of them, I feel a sensation of relief. 

Sam is responding. 

He has stopped his hysterics and is now clinging to Edel. 

Edel is the lifesaver for the drowning man.

He has shown me more strength than I would have thought 
possible over these past several days. I can only watch with 
new appreciation the way he gently handles the mysterious stricken 
stranger I have dragged into his life. He and Lucille have accepted 
Sam without question. They shouldered my burden and joined in 
the fight to save him, without considering the cost. Watching Edel 
as he speaks in low soothing tones to Sam, I feel again the 
unconditional love I was given by these people. 

I hope Sam can feel it, too. He seems to need it.

I fear I have failed him at that.

I watch Edel and Sam with the last of my pent-up tears coursing 
down my face. So much for the morning make-up session. Max 
Factor himself couldn't hide the war-paint of unchecked emotions 
that I have on my face.

"Better now, Pup? Eh? Are you okay?" Edel has Sam standing, 
shaking him gently by his shoulders, looking into his eyes. I see 
Sam's head nod slowly, but the fright and misery are still hanging 
like a pall over him. Edel dampens a washcloth and presses it into 
one of Sam's hands while simultaneously nudging the young man 
into the hallway.

Turning to me, he hugs me close for a long moment then says, 
"I'm sorry. My apologies. To both of you. Antoine Judice was a 
big error in judgment on my part." He holds me a bit away from 
him, looking down at me. His eyes are full of deep concern. "Are 
you okay?"

I don't know what to say. I am such a mess of emotions right 
now.

"I don't know, Edel. I'm just hoping against hope that I haven't 
made any big errors in judgment myself."

As those ill-thought-out words escape my lips, my eyes meet 
Sam's. 

I've done it again. 

He looks wounded and quickly turns away. Edel prevents me 
from going after him.

"Just wait, Deanna. Feelings are running a little high right now," 
Edel warns me wisely. He brushes away tears from my face and 
tries a reassuring smile. "Clean up, woman. Judice is gone. I 
came up here to take you and Sam over to Lucille's house in the 
Garden District. Her doctor friend, Peter deBroca, arrived last 
night from Baton Rouge, and I'd like him to check Sam over this 
morning, okay?"

Edel, the lifesaver.

I nod numbly. I am beginning to feel some real empathy for Sam; 
I feel pushed and pulled between every little event these days. No 
control. 

"What about Antoine?" I ask before Edel leaves me to join Sam in 
the living room.

Edel's face darkens almost imperceptibly. "That will be my 
problem, Deanna. It was my error. It remains to be seen if Antoine 
Judice left here just now with any sense of honor -- He promised 
to check on the Gary Redmond facts and to contact the law 
enforcement agencies involved in the case. I am not holding my 
breath, however. I didn't wish to involve too many others in this, 
but now, I may have to. If Antoine turns out to be a bad seed, Sam 
is in danger and so are you... Now, get ready. And pack your 
things. I don't want either of you to be here if Antoine returns in 
force."

That thought chills me to the bone. The pursuit is about to start 
again?

The pursuit had never stopped, I remind myself wearily.

********************
Chapter Twelve
**************

The ride to Lucille's Garden District home took less than twenty 
five minutes through the heart of New Orleans, but the time 
passed in sullen silence. Edel was lost in thought, preoccupied 
with the possible risk that Antoine Judice might represent. I was 
too numb and too weary to wonder about which way Fate was 
going to pull us this time.

Sam sat quietly in the back seat, still gripping his file in his fist. 
Back at the apartment, he wouldn't let me have it, clutching it 
tightly when I reached for it. There was little use in trying to 
explain my thoughtless remark about my "judgment" to him. 

By the time we were ready to leave, he had shut himself down 
quite efficiently. I had sensed anger where the hysteria had been, 
resolve where the confusion had been. And was there any "trust" 
left for me? I hadn't been able to tell. He was too damn good at 
hiding those feelings. 

He probably always had been, and I wondered if that had made 
him a dangerous man.

During the ride, I would sometimes hear the shuffle of paper and 
knew he was re-reading his "life", trying to make sense of his 
jumbled memories and the horror that described a man named 
"Gary Redmond".

As we turn off St. Charles Avenue onto a street lined with stately 
oaks and blooming magnolias, I can see Lucille's beautiful home 
behind its wrought iron gates, much smaller than the many 
mansions surrounding it in this district but a jewel in its own right. 
Even the gray noon mist of rain does not take away from its gentle 
beauty.

The gates open to admit Edel's car into the short driveway just as 
the mist turns into a genuine Louisiana deluge.

"I won't be coming in," Edel says quietly, looking over at me and 
then back at Sam. "Dr. Pete deBroca is here, Sam. He's a good 
friend of Lucille's, a neurologist. He hails from Baton Rouge and 
has tried unsuccessfully for several years now to separate my 
sister and business partner from the Blue Lady and whisk her 
away to that backwater town." He allows a smile to me. "Seems 
some of us Terrebonne's come to love a bit later in life than 
others," he adds cryptically.

His manner turns serious again. "Deanna, I have some contacts to 
make. Tell Lucille about Antoine and the wild hair he seems to 
have up his ass over Sam. Tell her to be on the lookout when she
goes down to the Blue Lady this morning and to call me on the 
cell phone if anything happens. It won't be too much of a stretch 
for Antoine to suspect that I've brought you here. We'll have to 
move on quickly. I know I can get you to a safe house south of here 
in Terrebonne Parish. Before we do that, though, I'll have to attend 
to some business for you. There won't be time to swing by my 
lawyer's office and see how much success she has had in getting 
some of your assets liquidated. I'll get some cash for you, and then 
we have to get you and Sam out of town, I think. The sooner, the 
better."

He leans over and places a gentle kiss on my cheek. "You have 
been remarkable throughout all of this, little sister." 

I am surprised at the wistfulness in his voice, but before I can 
react, he turns back to Sam. "And so have you, Pup. We'll find a 
way out of this mess, Sam, if you're still willing to trust me." 

I realize what Edel is doing; he's extending an apology and a 
measure of respect toward the young man. And Sam realizes it, 
too. He reaches over the car seat to grasp Edel's hand, but he is 
still not smiling. His eyes are dark and troubled.

"I-I'm the cause of the mess. I don't want to bring you all this 
t-trouble," he says with a quick glance at me. "I've been 
thinking... It would be better if I s-struck out on my own. I 
should go."

I tense with terror at the thought, but it is Edel who reacts the 
quickest. He grips Sam's hand and does not let go, his own eyes 
growing dark and serious.  "Sam, I'm sure you know that's the 
worst thing you could do right now. You leave; they win. You 
won't get any closer to the answers you need, and you'll be 
putting your own life in their hands."

Sam glances at me again. "At least -- that way -- it will just be 
me," he says so softly that it is almost a whisper.

Time for me to speak. "Please, Sam. Don't. There is so much else 
that is a danger to you out there. You have no idea what they've 
done to you... to your brain. Dr. Kent -- Victor -- gave me as much 
information on the procedures done to you as he could. You have 
had damage done to a very vital part of yourself. You may need 
help. "

He lowers his eyes, but does not look any less resolved in his 
intent to leave.

Edel repeats his earlier assertion, still gripping Sam's hand. "You 
leave; they win. It's that simple, Sam. And as for us, we are hip-
deep in this mess with you already. And I don't rightly cherish the 
thought of leaving this challenge unfinished. This has become 
personal with me, too. Understand? Trust me?"

Sam lifts his eyes to Edel, studying him, it seems. After a long 
pause in which the steady drumming of the rain on the car roof 
was the only noise that could be heard, Sam nods, but with a kind 
of resignation. Trust isn't a word he seems comfortable with. 

Maybe it's been an alien concept to him for a long, long time. 

"I-I am sorry," he says unnecessarily. Edel just shakes his hand, 
firmly as if a pact were made. Or perhaps renewed.

"I can't say how soon I'll be back," Edel says quickly. "Just be 
ready to move as soon as I show up. Now get. Both of you. I can 
see Lucille standing at the door, waiting." He spares another quick 
smile to reassure me and nods toward the door.

Sam bolts from the car into the rain, pressing the file protectively 
to his chest. I reach over and get the duffel bag full of Sam's 
medications and the Genera information on him. "I wish this were 
over," I admit quietly to Edel. "I wish I hadn't involved you and 
your family."

"Hush! We are YOUR family, too. Now, go!" Edel's tone is 
scolding.

He is gone from the driveway by the time I make it onto the porch 
and look back. 

                        **************

Dr. Peter deBroca is unusually tall -- Lincolnesque. He must enjoy 
the similarity himself because he has a carefully trimmed beard 
resembling President Lincoln's, inviting more comparison.

His eyes have none of Lincoln's world-weary expression, though. 
They practically spark with liveliness and intelligence. As we meet 
in the foyer, Lucille making the necessary introductions, I can see 
him beginning to evaluate Sam already.

Sam looks apprehensive again. Nervous. He remains quiet 
through the polite ritual of greetings.

Pete commands the moment, subtly taking charge. "The Cajun 
Princess, here," he laughs as he nods to Lucille, "Has already 
begun making breakfast for us all. A 'womanly' duty she excels 
at -- along with waiting on me hand and foot."

Lucille sputters and gives him a playful glower. She looks so 
much like her brother, Edel, when she does that, I notice. 

"Watch your step, Peter. Your sexist remark will be duly noted 
by the OTHER doctor in the room," she says in a deliberate tone. 
"Y'all go into the parlor. You know where I'll be."

"Wait," I call after hastily as she heads down the hall. "I have 
some things to tell you." Looking back at Pete and Sam, I ask, 
"Do you need me to be with Sam right now?"

Pete shrugs. "I can do a quick preliminary neuro exam." He looks 
over at Sam. "He can talk, right?" 

Sam shifts his weight anxiously. He looks annoyed. 

Oh-oh. Pete would have done better to address him directly. I 
know Sam is getting weary of being talked about as if he were a 
senseless being. 

"Of c-course I c-can." he says a bit tersely. Then he looks more 
upset, as if he feels his stuttering has betrayed him.

Realizing his error, Pete moves to place one of his long hands on 
Sam's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. The young man 
stiffens slightly at his touch, but Pete just smiles. "Sorry, Sam 
-- I slip into my 'bad bedside manner' mode far too easily. I am 
working on it, though. Why don't you and I head into the parlor?"

Sam turns wordlessly, following the direction Pete motions to 
him. 

"He's having a hard time with this," I whisper as I put the duffel 
bag in Pete's hand. "Information on some of the procedures that 
had already been completed on him are in Dr. Kent's journal in 
this bag. His memory was 'taken' from him -- possibly several 
weeks ago. The latest procedures on him were done to try to help 
him repair damage." 

I nearly choke on my "sanitized" description of what Victor did to 
Sam. It sounded so... altruistic, and that was far from the truth 
about Victor Kent. 

"Look for signs of brain injury on the..."

Pete raises his hand to stop me mid-sentence. "Let me draw some 
conclusions without the facts first, Deanna. We can talk later. Has 
he had any medications?"

I nod my head and watch as Sam sits stiffly on the couch near 
the fireplace, studying the room, awaiting his next "test". 

"Earlier today. He's been getting some anti-convulsants -- but 
irregularly, thanks to our adventures over the past couple of days. 
It's all in the journal. Everything about the Genera project and 
what has most recently been done to Sam is in there." 

I pause, watching as Sam drops his head wearily to his hands. 
His eyes are closed and under different circumstances, the casual 
observer might suppose he is relaxing. But I can sense his tension. 

He is seeming less like an invalid and more like a caged animal 
with each passing hour.

"He has shown some remarkable improvements, Pete. He's 
been through a lot -- physically and mentally," I add, sadly, as I 
watch the dark young man.

Pete just nods and waves me away from himself and his patient.

                        **************

Lucille reacts with less surprise than I supposed she might have 
regarding my story about Antoine Judice. 

"He is a slippery bastard. I always thought so," she grumbles. "I 
have often worried about Laurelie -- we hear very little from her 
since she married that fool seven years ago. Her sister -- 
remember Jeanine? -- thinks she is getting physically abused." 
She pauses and gives an angry shake of her head. "Antoine is 
an odd man. I would not trust him, and I should have insisted 
that Edel stay away from him. Edel is surely beating himself 
up over this mistake."

"Yes. He is," I add quietly. My guilt is threatening to consume me 
again. "Lucille, do you think Antoine will turn Sam in?"

She gives a derisive snort. "We have had few dealings with 
Antoine Judice, Deanna. I do not trust him. Merely a woman's 
strong intuition. I suspect -- and I know Edel has wondered -- 
whether Antoine is a 'corrupt' cop. He has risen through the 
ranks down there a little too fast for comfort, and he dresses a 
little too well, if you know what I mean. If Edel chose to confide 
in Antoine on Sam's behalf, I'm sure it was because he believed 
Antoine is well-connected and could get some answers for Sam 
more quickly than some of Edel's other resources."

"So. You do think there is a danger?"

Lucille sighs. "I do. Antoine is connected, for sure. I am 
suspicious of how deeply he is connected -- and to whom. If it came 
to a choice between his own hide and his family... Well, Antoine 
feels pretty invulnerable, and he doesn't think he has anything to 
fear from Edel. It is the security of a fool."

She sets a steaming mug of molasses-sweetened coffee in front 
of me and looks me straight in the eye. "If he betrays you -- if he 
betrays Sam -- he will have much to fear, Deanna." Her remark is 
cryptic.

"This merely changes the pace, Sister. Edel will do his best for 
you. You know that."

I nod. "I know. This is all complicated by the question of who 
Sam really is, Lucille. The further I get drawn into this whole 
unreal mess, the less sure I am. About anything. I feel helpless,
without control, without assurances, without a life."

She pats my hand, gently. "I imagine you are, little sister. And I 
imagine that is much the way Sam feels, too."

"I think about that often," I admit. "And I think of how little I have 
been able to help him with that lately. It's as if, with Sam getting 
stronger, I have had a harder time letting myself trust and care for 
him." I can feel the tears starting. "I sometimes think the only 
things I ever learned to care for or relate to are lab animals -- 
specimens -- which he was when I first laid eyes on him. He was 
easier to care for when he was helpless, when I could be in control.

"And then I worry. About myself. Maybe Sam and I are alike 
right now, Lucille. He doesn't know who he is, and I don't know 
who I am. He's facing some nasty suspicions about his past, 
and I'm getting some nasty suspicions about myself, too."

"Deanna," Lucille says forcefully, busting up my pity party. 
"What Sam needs now are people who believe in him. Belief 
keeps those suspicions at bay. It is the same for you. We have 
had you in our lives for a long, long time. We believe in who 
you are. It is time for you to realize that."

The philosophy session is brought to an end abruptly as Pete 
deBroca walks in and seats himself across the table from me. 
"Good news. Bad news. Want my first impression?"

"Where's Sam?" I ask, startled. 

"I gave him a mild sedative and told him to lay down for 
awhile," Pete sighs as he reaches for a mug of coffee. 
"He's upstairs in the front guest bedroom. He's wound up 
pretty tightly, Deanna. I don't think he'll sleep."

"Did you get to do an exam?"

Pete shrugs. "A quickie.  On the good side, he seems reasonably 
alert and aware of his situation. Considering what the journal 
chronicles about what was done to him, he is doing unusually 
well. I can't say whether that is a tribute to his own recuperative 
powers and good fortune or to the 'skill' of Dr. Kent and the
promising miracle of the Genera Project." 

I shiver at the mention of Victor's name.

Pete continues, "On the bad side, I can tell SOMETHING has 
happened to him. There are weakened reflex responses from 
his right side. Small delays. A difference in reaction times and 
size of his pupils. His eyes are the only real clue that he has 
had some injury or physiological interference in his brain. It 
is so subtle... And his memory -- just damn peculiar. He is 
unable to access much of it. Or so it seems. Yet he tells me 
he has some very vivid pictures of some rather disturbing 
memories. He is genuinely frightened. He doesn't believe 
these memories 'belong' to him, and frankly, I am inclined
to believe him."

Peter shakes his head and looks at me. "This is scary, Deanna. 
I'm not reading this kind of stuff in the medical journals; it's
more like something out of science fiction. Someone actually 
severed that young man from his real life in his own head -- 
and then 'planted' other memories in him? Is that possible?"

"The whole concept behind the Genera Project was science 
fiction until a few years ago, Pete," I reply wearily. "Now 
there are several pioneers in the field of brain cell regeneration. 
Victor Kent was one of them. When I found out Vi -- Dr. Kent -- 
had a human subject, I knew the timing wasn't right. Human 
trials on this are years away. Maybe decades away."

Pete deBroca's frown deepened, but he listened with rapt 
interest as I continued.

"It became pretty clear, pretty quickly, that the Genera research 
was a smoke screen for some other plan these unknown people 
already had in place for Sam. Dr. Kent was nervous about losing
his damnable research opportunity and so he decided to use Sam
in his experiment anyway -- hoping to escape with Sam and his
Genera Project intact. He lost his gamble back at the lab, but we 
were able to get away, as I am sure Lucille told you. As for the
details of Sam's condition and prognosis... Well, things 
happened so quickly at the lab over these past two days, I 
can't tell you much more than what is in those notes. 

"I can tell you, though, that in spite of some very harsh physical 
treatment and the extreme circumstances of our escape, Sam has 
been showing signs of rapid improvement. He's steadier on his 
feet. He's more talkative, despite that stutter. He seems more 
alert to his surroundings, more responsive..."

I stop, suddenly assaulted with the memory of his body against 
mine last night. The hungry eagerness that radiated from him. 
The need, so apparent in his kisses and moans of pleasure at 
any touch.

Pete is talking, snapping my attention back into the present. 

"The stutter is probably more the result of the emotional trauma 
-- maybe a mild childhood affliction that he had grown out of 
and regressed back to under this stress."

That doesn't make me feel better. Gary Redmond was a stutterer. 
I pray it is a coincidence. As Lucille said, Sam needs someone to 
believe in him right now. He needs that belief from me.

"His physical comeback would be a good sign, though." Pete is 
saying. "Has he had any seizure activity?"

I tense at the memory of Sam, on that lab table, head locked 
down, his tortured body in the throes of a grand mal seizure.

"Yes," I answer quietly. "He had one just after the last 
procedure performed on him in the lab. And he may have had 
one yesterday while he was out wandering. I wasn't with him. 
He had just been in a fight with some gang toughs at one of
the Saint Louis Cemeteries. By the way it was described to 
me, the seizure was most probably a 'petite mal'. Plus, he 
had a kind of... dissociative episode this morning. He 
didn't seem to be aware of me or his surroundings. He acted 
as if he were hallucinating until Edel snapped him out of it."

The good doctor raises his eyebrows. "That doesn't figure into 
the picture. Was it prompted by a physical trauma?"

I cringe at the memory of Antoine Judice backhanding Sam. 
"He had been struck, yes, but it was also in the midst of some 
pretty scary accusations that were being put to him at the time.
That was when he seemed to recall those vivid memories he 
claims do not belong to him."

Peter deBroca's face was full of consternation. "How odd. 
You said you've been medicating him?"

"He was getting a sedative and an anti-convulsant at the lab. 
I give him injections of an anti convulsant -- Tegritol, I think. The 
vial isn't well labeled. He got an injection about two and a half 
hours ago." I offer weakly.

Pete raised an eyebrow. "This morning? Before he had that 
dissociative episode you told me about?" 

I nod. Pete looks perplexed. "How long after the injection did he 
have this episode?" 

Oh my God. 

It never occurred to me.

"About twenty minutes later."

"And where had you gotten the medications?"

"Well... uh... from Victor. Dr. Kent. I would suppose he got 
them from the lab at Pinck Pharmaceuticals." I stop, choked 
with horror as I begin to suspect something about the unmarked 
vials of "anti-convulsant". 

I don't think Victor knew either.

"The medicines. Could they have been tampered with all along? 
Could Sam's recollections...? Could some of them actually be 
'false'? Induced? Suggested? With drugs to keep him in a mildly 
hypnotic state -- vulnerable to suggestion?"

Pete shrugs. "Of course, there are drugs that will aid a state of 
suggestibility. If he hasn't been getting a regular anti-convulsant, it 
could explain why he is having occasional seizures. But those 
'memories' he says he's having... I'm just not sure. They are pretty 
vivid to him. False memories, perhaps?" 

Pete shrugs again. "Well, we know nowadays that that is a 
very real possibility. I wouldn't be able to tell you too much more 
about Sam's memories -- especially the ones that are so disturbing 
to him -- until he has some tests. PET scans have been used 
recently to differentiate a 'true' memory from a 'false' one. It's a 
bit complicated, but essentially, the medial temporal lobe of the 
brain is active during true or false memory events, but only 'true' 
memories will show activity in the temporal parietal region, the 
area where we process sound. A good cognitive neuroscientist 
could give Sam an idea of what is going on in his head -- and 
why -- with a procedure called cortical mapping. If Sam's only 
vivid memories right now are shown to be false, than it is a pretty 
clear indication that his brain had been subject to some 
experimentation before you found him. And as I said, drugs 
could be part of that process, too."

My mind is reeling over these new possibilities. How much 
had Sam been exposed to before he was brought to the labs at 
Pinck Pharmaceuticals? The medications he had been receiving 
and those that I have been giving to him unwittingly may have 
exacerbated his already complex problems. 

Perhaps they were part of the plan to make Sam into someone 
else. Perhaps Sam wasn't Gary Redmond. Perhaps "they" 
intended that he was to be re-made into that killer named Gary 
Redmond.

I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands.

"How much else can they have done to him? Why? Who is he 
to them? And here I am -- playing right into their hands."

"You've helped him more than harmed him. Don't forget that. 
And don't worry; we'll find out more soon. He's lucky to be 
alive, Deanna," Pete responds. "Look, just leave the rest of 
those medications with me. I've already taken a blood sample 
from him as well. I can run a complete drug screen on that at the 
labs I use here in New Orleans. In the meantime, I've given him a 
dose of oral Phenobarbital. I'll get a prescription written and filled 
for him. I'm sure he'll appreciate getting away from those shots, 
anyway."

"Is he really lucky to be alive?" I ask with a heavy heart.

The question is cynically rhetorical. Neither Pete nor Lucille 
respond. The thick sullen silence is cut by the trill of the 
kitchen phone. 

As Lucille answers it, Pete leans toward me. "Deanna, you 
know that he needs further evaluation. I'd prefer that he be 
hospitalized and evaluated with every neurological test known 
to mankind right now."

"I'd prefer that, too, Pete," I answer a bit too angrily. "But those 
people -- the faceless ones -- the ones who did this to him -- they
are standing between Sam and any hope he has of a complete 
recovery. You know, it's ironic... They could have killed him 
more simply than all this. But as long as they keep him running 
and keep him away from getting help, they still will have 
'killed' him."

Doctor deBroca agrees with a rueful nod of his head. "Whatever 
happened to Sam is subtle. It was done with a level of expertise 
that is unknown out here in the day-to-day world of medicine. 
That kind of purposeful manipulation is frightening. Not just for 
Sam, either. If power like this exists out there, then every citizen 
is in danger."

Lucille hangs up the phone noisily just then. "Time for me to head 
to The Blue Lady. I'd better be there in case Antoine decides to 
send in the troops with a search warrant."

Pete stands and puts his arms around her waist. "Ah, The Blue 
Lady. It's sad, Deanna; my 'competition' is another woman."

Lucille kisses him quickly and pushes him away. "Come on. 
There is much to do. Deanna, here are the keys to my car. If we 
call, take it and head out - anywhere. Pete, you'll have to drive 
me down to the Quarter."

"Right," Pete agrees grimly. He looks at me. "I'll get his 
prescription and get those tests ordered." He pauses. "It's a 
shame, Deanna. He'd benefit from treatment and therapy right 
now."

I nod glumly. No need to beat a dead horse. Sam's first priority 
right now is survival.

Lucille puts her cell phone in my hand. "Edel's number is #1. 
The Blue Lady is #2 and Pete's phone is #3. Call if anything 
happens."

********************
Chapter Thirteen
**************

The house is eerily quiet after they leave. In an odd attempt at 
normalcy, I finish the making the breakfast that Lucille had 
started: bacon and eggs, cinnamon toast. If Sam is awake, he 
should be hungry.

And just as that thought occurs to me, I hear his soft voice from the 
doorway behind me.

"They are c-coming, aren't they? I can feel it."

He states it as a fact. His premonition. His feeling. 

His handsome face is drawn and somber when I turn to look at
him.

"There is no way to tell, Sam," I try to reassure him. "We'll do 
what we can to stay safe. Come, eat breakfast." I set the plates of 
food on the table, still feigning "normalcy", but I am sure he can 
tell how disheartened I am feeling.

Sam pulls out a chair and sits down, studying me for a moment. 
He places the wrinkled, much-abused file he has held for the past 
two hours in front of him.

"I think I know w-where the answers are," he says, fingering the 
paper, ignoring the food.

He opens the file and lays his hand over the copy of the FBI 
report. "I have to call -- I need to talk to these men, the ones 
who signed th-this report."

"Sam, there is no time to do this now," I say in a voice that 
sounds too much like pleading. "Eat. We have to be ready to leave 
as soon as..." 

The look on his face stops me. I am controlling him again.

He is adamant. His jaw, clenched; his eyes, dark. "They will 
never give me the time. Not now, not later. If th-they mean to 
throw me into a cell or drag me back into a lab, they w-will do it. 
And there will be no other t-time for me to get this answer. Do you 
think they would hesitate t-to do this t-to you? You could wake up 
tomorrow without a memory of all of this."

His eyes meet mine and linger. "Without a memory of me," 
he says softly, a near whisper. "You would never know I had 
been in your life at all." His eyes drop away from mine. "Maybe 
that w-would be a good thing."

A deep coldness settles in my gut. He's right. There will be no
other time. I pick up the phone. "Information. Long distance. Area 
codes for Washington, DC, please."

Sam looks at me with obvious relief. 

"Please eat. This is bound to take more than a few minutes," 
I say. This time he listens, turning to the breakfast hungrily.

The precious minutes it takes us to get through to the FBI 
Headquarters seem to stretch into hours. Sam is waiting silently 
on the phone for a connection, bouncing his leg nervously, 
chewing his lip and running his hand over the well-worn report. 

I find myself listening over the rainstorm outside, straining for 
the sound of police sirens. Would Antoine Judice be that bold? 
Would he send a squad of police after Sam? I expect if Sam 
really WAS a killer named Gary Redmond, then yes, we would 
hear the wail of sirens now.

If, however, Sam is a target, a chosen martyr for some shadowy 
cause, then this will all happen quietly. Secretly.

I am beginning to feel the stirrings of real fear and panic. I 
wonder how long Edel will be gone.

At that moment, I hear the thin electronically-distorted voice of a
woman coming from the phone Sam is holding. The automation of 
the government. Sam squirms as the mechanical voice offers him a 
menu of endless choices. He looks grim, punching a few more 
numbers into the keypad.

More waiting. More menus. I realize I am as impatient as Sam at 
this point. I reach over and hit the speaker button on the phone,
anxious to hear whether this attempt will reap real information
or expose us to a new danger.

"Violent Crimes Unit. Washington Bureau." A male voice this 
time. Human. Somber, professional. 

Sam is momentarily speechless. "Uh... H-hello. William 
Patterson, please." He is trying to speak slowly and carefully, 
keeping his stammer at bay. 

There is a long pause at the other end of the line, then: "Agent 
Patterson is ... uh... no longer with the Bureau, sir. May I 
help you? What is this in regard to?" The voice is still polite and 
professional.

Sam shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. "H-How 
about Reginald Pardue? May I speak with him?"

"Reggie?" The voice on the other line sounds surprised then 
hesitant. "Sir, Agent Pardue is deceased. What is this about? 
May I help you?"

Sam swallows nervously and says, almost as if uttering a prayer, 
"Fox Mulder... I-Is there a Fox Mulder in your unit?" 

Sam is shaking, and the voice on the other end is silent for a 
much longer time. Over the speaker, we can hear an odd 
muffled click, as if a mute button were suddenly pressed.

What in the hell is going on?

Sam squeezes his eyes shut as he waits. And waits.

I have half-convinced myself this was a big mistake. Visions 
of police cars bearing down on this house from all directions 
rise up. Just as I lean forward to tell Sam to hang up, I hear the 
deep professional voice on the speaker, startling us both:

"Sir? I'm sorry about the delay. I was checking something for 
you. I am forwarding you to Agent Mulder's office. Please hold."

I didn't even hear the tinny ring before I heard the sound of a 
woman's voice. "Agent Dana Scully."

Sam looks as if he's stopped breathing. "Is Fox Mulder...? M-may 
I speak to...?" 

He can't finish his sentence.

The silence on the other end is deafening but only for a moment. 
"Mulder?" 

Sam is stunned. Is she addressing him?

"Mulder? Mulder? Dear God... MULDER," she is crying.