Unlikely

by Ravensara

Following the conclusion of Preston & Child's Helen Trilogy, Special Agent Pendergast is unable to put himself at ease until he has successfully exorcised the demons from his past. Delving deep within his own subconscious, he unwittingly attracts the attention of a mysterious stranger who serves first to distract him, and then to reassure him of his place in the universe.

1. Chapter 1

Foul weather had been devastating the country. A rash of tornadoes in the Southwest and Midwest states had everyone on edge, heat waves were destroying crops in the mid-Atlantic states and sending the unwary to emergency rooms, wildfires ravaged the west, it seemed like it would never stop raining down south, and New England had been suffering from floodwaters. Without a current case to keep him preoccupied, the tall, slender man had sent his household staff and ward upstate to relax in the mountains. He had indicated it was a precautionary measure based upon future weather predictions, though in actuality he strongly desired some time to himself.

Within the dark recesses of a once opulent mansion on Riverside Drive, he poked listlessly at the remains of an unseasonable fire that had been set to help draw the dankness and humidity from the stale air. He was a man of nearly unfathomable inner strength according to his few and carefully chosen friends, an intense mystery wound tighter than an eight day clock if you asked those he worked for and with, an indomitably fierce protector and defender of true justice those who managed his more mundane household affairs would admit…but had you asked him yourself, just as he stood resting his forehead against a forearm propped against the mantel edge, a wrought iron poker dangling uselessly from his right hand as his pale grey, almost silvery eyes focused inward to stare at nothing…then he would likely only reply that he was tired and perhaps no more so than any other man if you happened to push the issue a little.

He had been seeking the source of a leak in an upstairs bathroom, and so his shirtsleeves had been pushed past his elbows and his fair hair drooped a little, spidery strands caressing the tops of his faint eyebrows. It wasn't that he needed to attempt a plumbing or carpentry repair by himself—he was wealthy enough to afford any contractor's ridiculous fees—but he'd been feeling useless of late and needed to occupy his body whilst his mind wandered, lest he get himself into trouble by instead developing some detestable habit just to fill a physical void.

It had been difficult to ignore the sherry. He was fond of it as an occasional treat—no more, but in his current state of mental disarray he did not trust himself not to imbibe too much. He was well aware that exercise would normally help to bring him back around, but suspected he might push himself too far not only to reassure himself of his own prowess, but also as a means of self-imposed punishment. Not known as an especially emotional man by any means, and something of a meditation master and pinnacle of self-control, this did not mean that he did not feel. The sheer jumble of emotions that had assaulted him lately had worked to smother his senses until he could almost claim to feel nothing at all…and yet there he stood, still for so long the embers before him had expired entirely, and he was able to make out fine strings of miniscule ashes arising in ghostly coils as whispers of weather drifted feather-light down the brick chimney and past the heavy iron flue.

Lifting his head, he smiled faintly at the sensation of fresh air against his warm forehead, and then addressed an alabaster bust beside the exposed bricking above the mantel as, "Lenore." A single chuckle that almost sounded like a soft cough moved his shoulders before he sighed. Within his dark and gloomy manse he did not normally feel so melancholy. He actually preferred cool shadows and quiet to bright sunshine and loud music or barking dogs, laughing children, or what have you.

From elsewhere issued a groan that ended in a wooden squeak. The man remained utterly still, apparently unaffected, but inwardly tense and focused. Had he ever heard the house make such a sound before? It sounded as though it had come from the attic, and sure enough he detected a hoarse wind gust growing in pressure as it sought entry to his domain. His eyes closed and he exhaled. Another late-day storm sliding in from the west. Sandbags already lined his property in an effort to divert rivers of rain flow. Alone, under the circumstances, a part of him relished the notion of some kind of challenge, even if it proved to be nothing more than an attempt to minimize water damage to his home.

It had felt good to tense for just a second. Felt wonderful to empty his mind of Helen, of Viola, of even his own twin sons for only a moment. He'd felt in control. Of late his life had been spiraling out of control. It took a lot, he mused, to really jar him, to really rattle his cage. He turned his head, slouching slightly, viewing the vastness of his dwelling with fresh eyes, seeing it as a stranger might, an ordinary fellow off the street. The strength he derived from the comforts of eccentricity now absent. Subconsciously he knew he was methodically seeking the fresh chinks in his psychological armor and attempting swift repairs to it by any means possible…even if it meant minor alterations to his personality, his very lifestyle.

Vincent, he thought abruptly. What if I called him and suggested an unlikely meet up? Surely he would enjoy a baseball game in the flesh, or, or…pints in a local pub! His posture sagged. How ridiculous! If anything, a "guy's day out" or "male bonding" diversion would only arouse suspicion, provoke questions. No, he needed to be alone. Needed time to sort things out, lick his wounds. His teeth clenched. The idea that someone of his stature and training might require a period in which to cower or sulk until the last rumble of thunder had become lost to memory….

He strode uncertainly toward a high-backed chair upholstered in aged velvet and pivoted slowly as he sank down into it. In his mind he saw himself again at his desk in his apartment, the instruments of his demise laid out before him, nothing for it but to determine a potency and a when. He had felt very certain that he was ready for it, though not so certain as to what might come after. He had encountered so much strangeness in his lifetime that a religious notion of an afterlife seemed altogether possible, and yet organized religion was not something he cared to entertain inside his very analytical mind. It had its purpose, and he his own. Should it ever be of service to him, he knew where he could find it.

He would not allow himself to relive that one moment, the turning point where she had interrupted him. That tantalizing flower of fine womanhood who seemed genuinely to care, the Lady Maskelene, a wonderful package of contradictions that yet harmonized so beautifully, arriving in the nick of time…to be turned away. She had, he admitted, undoubtedly saved his life, but…in the episode he played and replayed, usually at night when all he desired was blissful, senseless sleep, it was not she who burst through his door to find him at his lowest…but Helen. Strange angel he'd thought he'd known so well. Gone forever. Like his own brother. Like….

Snapping from his reverie, he grew aware of his hunger. It was almost pleasant because he had been without appetite for so long, eating only because he knew he must and not because he actually cared to. He found himself in the kitchen, a large, echoing space with a vaulted ceiling dangling spotless high-end pots and pans, cold grey light seeking to penetrate the many narrow windows. Rain striped the old glass that was already wavy with slight imperfections. He didn't recall the journey, and so knew his body was attempting to care for itself despite his darkly over-saturated mind. The stainless steel and glass door opened to reveal garish packaging designed to attract simpler minds. Nothing appealed to him. But he loitered there anyway, enjoying the feel of the chilled air drifting across his clammy, bare arms and seeking entrance through the neck of his shirt.

Instead he found the sherry and poured himself a healthy splash. He swirled it close to his face to watch the viscous glaze it imparted to the crystal before sliding back into itself like an ocean wave caressing a sandy shore. The bouquet was pleasing. He tilted it back, let the liquid impart its very soft warmth to his lips, but did not drink, tasted what had managed to seep into his mouth, and then set the glass down and walked out of the room.

He desperately required true, deep, restful, restorative sleep. He had been fighting its urges, and those closest to him had commented politely upon his haggard countenance. Perhaps, he now realized, it was not actual sleep he craved, for he had become so lax lately, so languid and passive whilst absorbed in his thoughts. No, it could not be actual sleep that he needed…but dreams. Of course! Nature's way of helping him sort through the emotional mess his mind had become, trying desperately to deal with and satisfactorily resolve multiple problems simultaneously. He had been fooling himself by latching onto absurd patterns in efforts to make sense of what he was apparently too close to. A nap then, yes…yes. No…it wouldn't work. He'd been sleeping so poorly of late, wasting valuable dreamtime attempting to control the flow of his thoughts to avoid the worst memories…and the nightmares his imagination would spawn from them. Perhaps it was time to relinquish the comfort of control and allow his weary mind free will, to stand in the onslaught of the nightmares that would surely consume him and face down each one until he'd regained his former confidence and composure.

In the comfort of a bed that smelled of him, in a room he had darkened, though not entirely, the man lay mostly on his left side, painted by never ending strokes of grey rain magnified upon his body and the contents of the room by the weak artificial light on the outskirts of his property. He lay still only because he lacked the motivation to make himself more comfortable. He attempted to will himself to sleep by imagining he had amnesia and knew absolutely nothing of his past whatsoever. A groaning gust of wind returned him to full consciousness. He rolled onto his back, concentrating on his heartbeats, willing them slower and slower still. A muscle spasm twitched his thigh. He tried his right side, strangely recalling that while he fell asleep faster if lying on his right, he tended to entertain more dreams if he lay upon his left. Must have to do with blood pooling into one hemisphere of the brain, he thought. My brain is constantly being rewired by circumstance to maximum efficiency, and I must avoid the consequences of giving in to shock. I must not adopt counterproductive measures designed to spare myself in the line of duty. Or the line of my life, he thought, unaware that his thinking had slowed with huge gaps of nothingness between ideas. I suppose it isn't a very straight line…. But he saw that it stretched back into a tunnel like an abandoned pneumatic line deep, deep down beneath the city. Down through the layers of fossil-rich earth. Down and back far away through time. The walls brown only so far as he could see them, and he thought they were the color of drying blood. A bloodline. A heartbeat. If he turned around, what would he see then? If the past was dark…surely there was a light source…because he could make out the color and texture of the walls very near him…rough carved and predominantly brown…which he could only be aware of this far underground if there was some source of light behind him. Meager at best, but some sort of illumination. So he turned slowly to see the soft glow of yellow from a moth-tormented glass and metal lantern hanging from the center pole of the canvas tent. The air was oppressive and filled with the sound of leaves lashing against each other in the balmy breezes, the occasional whine of an insect annoyingly close to his head.

Helen! he thought impulsively, his gaze sweeping the tent, the lightweight collapsible furnishings, a small trunk containing their clothes. "Helen?" he called, ducking out into the night. The sky was a deep gemstone blue, almost black, the horizon itself barely discernable yet noticeably pale. Was it pre-dawn or just after dusk? Was she preparing for herself a nourishing hot beverage or had she stolen outside to relieve herself in the latrine? "Helen?" he tried louder. It seemed like a storm was approaching or perhaps skirting by. The silhouettes of nearby jungle foliage whipped back and forth in a frenzy. He remained still and listened. Cool moisture spat against his skin. It would rain at any second. He raised a hand above his brow, shielding his eyes. "Helen?"

A table moved slightly, one edge lifted by a strong wind gust. Something soft and lightly scratchy blew past his leg. He stared into nothing, willing something to alert him, and then he heard the groan…of a distant lion.

Margo clutched at his elbow. "Do you think you can stop it?"

He had lifted the rifle from his side and broken it to load it. "Of course. I hunted lions once in Africa. A single shot between the eyes…." What he'd thought was a fresh cartridge was only a tube of rolled paper. As the creature closed in, he quickly patted down his pockets and glanced about, seeing only dark shapes and shadows within the unlit museum.

"There it is!" she gasped, her grip tightening.

He glanced up to witness a shock of bright rust red in the flash from a sudden lightning bolt. "Now why was it dyed red?"

"Shoot it! Shoot it!"

He snatched his arm away, irritated at how the hysterical woman was jostling him. The roll of paper had unspooled into a long curl. He lifted it closer for inspection in the darkness and thought he could make out an emblem like a stylized eagle clutching a wreath. Nazis! he thought. This is sabotage! Within the wreath however he saw a pyramid instead of the expected swastika, and then he knew it was not an eagle at all but a phoenix, and the disc was no wreath but an outline of the moon. "It's just one of their experiments," he told Miss Green. "None of them based upon any sane principles whatsoever."

"Whose experiments?"

"The Nazis."

"In the jungle?" she asked.

"Yes…they were living in the jungle. A small, German community deep within the jungle…."

"But what is that thing?" she asked, pointing toward a moving shadow.

He sighed and lowered the gun. "A mere figment of my own imagination, I fear."

"Are you going to shoot it?"

"No. No need. If I'm to figure out any of this mess, then what I need to do is confront it directly." He took a few steps toward where he believed the beast to be, and then heard an agonized shriek behind him. Despite the darkness, he could rather clearly make out Margo on the floor, with the mutated beast crouching over her, scrabbling excitedly at her body while the terrifying maw made short work of her neck. "Ah…that was not the outcome I had hoped for," he intoned in his soft, educated, buttery New Orleans drawl. He watched the horror for a few moments, expecting the beast to confront him. When it merely lay where it had crouched, content to have found what it craved within the woman's skull and noisily making short work of it, he finally stepped forward to tap it roughly where he thought its shoulder should be. "Excuse me. I know who you are."

The beast ignored him, smacking and crunching and stinking quite a bit as well.

"If you were of a right mind, you would not have mauled this woman at all. You actually know her."

The thing farted, and the tall, pale man was forced backward, seeking a handkerchief through which he hoped to mute some of the olfactory horror.

He heard a slight sound between rumbles of thunder and stepped backward a few feet as though the odor was growing worse rather than dissipating. He leaned heavily against a Plexiglas display case with a sigh. "What are you doing here?"

A voice replied uncertainly, "I've been here…all my life."

He turned and crouched, extending a hand into the darkness between the encased sarcophagus and the wall, and a small hand reached tentatively toward him, the pale fingers waving like antennae, before the rest of the figure emerged enough that he could make out the frightened features. "Who put you here?"

"He did," the child told him, pointing.

Standing slowly, the man turned, but saw only the grandfather clock with its featureless face, the heavy brass pendulum swinging with a faint tock. "What time is it?" he asked softly.

"Eighteen," replied the child.

Glancing down he saw that what he'd thought was a young girl was in actuality a boy with very fair features and frightened pale eyes. Is it myself? he wondered, dropping to one knee. "Are you eighteen?"

"No, sir," the boy answered, drawing near him but never making contact.

"Where are your parents?"

The boy pointed downward, and the man knew he referred to the family crypts beneath the house.

"And where is your brother?"

"But I am here, sir."

The clock struck the hour and loud, low chimes made the entire room seem to spin.

Now the child took his hand and looked up at him with concern. "You should sit down, sir."

"Yes, yes…I suppose I could." He allowed the boy to lead him through the mansion that felt peculiarly empty. "What is the year?"

"It is the year when the pigeons fly back home again, sir."

"The pigeons?"

As they strolled a long hallway, the child pointed up at some of the framed prints hung upon the peeling fabric that concealed the horsehair plaster walls. His silvery eyes made out scenes of strange horrors, classic nudes attempting to escape wild-eyed monsters, Kronos devouring his own offspring, an Audubon print of a dead crow with its feet in the air, the pale rectangles where art used to hang, and one gaping hole frigid air seemed to pour out of.

The man discerned an exceptionally potent horror in the very blackness of that jagged hole, though his normal senses detected nothing but the ghostly wisps of icy condensation that swirled and evaporated before his eyes. For some odd reason, he felt it imperative that he not allow himself to cross directly in its path as though it was in actuality the end of the barrel of a very large gun.

The boy tugged at him with irritation. "Come along, then. Your sherry awaits you in the sitting room."

Unable to tear his gaze from the strange hole, he heard his voice emerge as a cracked whisper.

"I'm not waiting, then," the boy decided, but the man refused to release his hand.

Get a hold of yourself, he was telling himself, attempting to force the paralyzing fear from his mind. Thus, he would not let go of the child's hand.

The boy tugged, grunting, trying to use his free hand to pry the man's fingers loose. "If you don't let go, I'm telling Mother!"

Mother? He knew then that the hole exuded the breath of the grave. Their parents were down there and they could most certainly hear them! "No, no…don't do that."

"Oh, what do you care?" The child grumbled, leaning backward but getting nowhere. "They always believe you and never me! It's always been you!"

He glanced downward and saw young Diogenes withdrawing a knife from a concealed sheath beneath his sock. His brother met his eyes and smiled amiably. "We'll have it fixed in just a moment, won't we?"

Snatching his hand away before it was removed from his body, he flattened himself against the far wall. The breath of the hole was like a storm now, whistling and causing the entire wall to heave like a set of lungs. Artwork fell. Glass shattered. Frames broke. Diogenes was sucked out into blackness, but as he watched, his form grew redder and redder until it glowed and formed a tail like a comet. The wind ceased abruptly and the man stepped forward, breathless, trying to make out what his brother had become as he shrank into the darkness. Hands upon the cold, damp wall, he dared to gaze into the depths of the grave until a flash of lightning showed him his own features and he leaped backward from what was actually a mirror.

Again the clock sounded, low and mournful, and the man ran through the house. Doors slammed behind him. Each room was empty or held only a very few worn or decayed items. "I am not afraid," he repeated, running as hard and fast as he could. "I am not afraid." Then, why am I running? He halted in one of the front rooms they had used as a receiving parlor. Beyond the windows was the front porch. The carpet was threadbare, the furnishings missing. A very small woodstove painted white stood between two windows. The only sound was his labored breathing. I must be breathing loudly in my sleep, he reasoned, and concentrated on slowing his heart again, hands on his knees. It is storming outside and I am in an agitated state of mind. Nearly sheer curtains swayed, and somewhere he could hear the faint tinkling sound of someone's metal wind chimes. It's probably rain, he thought, trying to tune in to what was going on in the room he knew he slept in as well as the room he currently occupied many miles to the southwest.

It wasn't often that he could dream and simultaneously be aware of activity in the vicinity of his sleeping body, but it wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, either. His ability to focus his mind during meditation only seemed to have enhanced his lucid dreaming abilities. "I don't want to be lucid," he whispered, nearing a window and finding it wide open. They had never, ever been left wide open when he had lived there as a child—especially at night. The screens seemed to be missing and he marveled at the lack of mosquitoes.

No, he told himself. No details. This isn't me controlling the dream. This must play out on its own. I mustn't interfere. I am here to observe and learn. He moved away from the window, closed his eyes and shook his head. Not lucid, not lucid, I am not lucid, he tried to convince himself, but the fact that he was meant he would remain that way until he woke up. He knew how to strengthen a dream interrupted, how to resume one, how to even alter the entire setting to see if the same storyline would find a way to continue playing out…but how did one relinquish control of a conscious dream? How did one resist the urge to exercise complete control?

He turned for the door, but there was none. At this he smiled. Perhaps the desire to relinquish control was enough to revert the dream back into its normal state. He turned again, his gaze drawn to the ornamental woodstove that was the only thing to look at within the room. With a sudden and loud crash every window dropped back to the sill. He jumped, his heart racing, able to hear his body breathing where it lay upon the bed in his room. Of course…nightmares. There were no lucid nightmares. "Just thunder," he stammered breathlessly, backing against a wall. His foot stumbled over something on the floor that resembled a wooden toy horse with wheels. Behind him, something jabbed him, and he grabbed for it. The doorknob. Grateful, he turned, twisting and pulling, except there still was no door. Fingers scrabbling along the wallpaper, the only thing he turned up was an old light switch. There were no lights to turn on, but he clicked it anyway. "Hello?" he called, pounding on the wall. It sounded hollow. "Hello? Diogenes? Mother? Father? Anyone?" He turned, hoping some item that could help him might have magically materialized, but all he saw was a strange, large hump in the carpeting, sinking into itself a little before growing still.

He felt sick inside. This was not a scenario he could control like his meditative visions. This was what he had feared when he had begun this experiment: a full-blown nightmare. "Have to face it, have to face it," he told himself, a hand to his forehead as he recalled the sudden appearance of the mirror in the hallway. "No control!" he abruptly growled, miserable with indecision. Should he attempt to wake himself, try the trick again later? He knew that attempting to wake himself often resulted in dreams in which he believed he was actually awake until some bizarre occurrence that would remind him he was still unconscious. He had to swim upward through the layers of his own psyche and force himself to resume control of his own form again. Even that could prove difficult, for the effort often resulted in sleep paralysis, leaving him unable to rise from his bed, and often drawing him back down deep into the dream world again. "How vexing," he groused, feeling within his suit for his gun and withdrawing the Les Baer. Angry, he parted his feet and took aim, deflating the weird carpet bulge. It did not bleed, shriek, nor expel vermin. It barely moved when the bullet pierced it. He walked toward it, bending to poke a finger into the black-edged hole, when the entire carpet engulfed him like a cocoon and he found himself falling through what he thought must be a massive hole in the floor.

Light flickered like a strobe, and as he fought the thick fabric that engulfed him, there came a terrible report like a cannon's roar. The man thrashed and felt himself topple, throwing himself backward at the last second to land upon a soft surface. His heart beat so fast that he chuckled. Outside there raged an awful storm, and inside his bedroom he lay partially entwined in his bed linens, his own clothing twisted about his frame uncomfortably. His breathing slowed. He had broken out in perspiration and struggled weakly against the sheets and coverings, tugging to get a sense of how to free himself from various corners and drapes. Slowly he revealed his bedraggled form and finally lay still, exhausted from his efforts, imagery from the dreams drifting to the forefront of his mind like bubbles from the depths of a swamp. The room was darker still and the rain beat sporadically against the glass as though he'd driven the mansion into a huge carwash. As he relaxed again, his body cooled until he felt the need to draw at least a portion of sheet across himself. He felt more tired than when he'd initially attempted to drift off. Sleep pulled insistently at his senses, and he eventually gave in, fighting to avoid returning to any of the scenarios he had already endured.

Two days, he had told them. "I shall join you in two days' time, and should I fail to appear by supper on the fifth, then you must suppose I have taken on another assignment. That being the case, I shall certainly endeavor to at least contact you." His staff had accepted his words without question, used to his peculiar habits, only Proctor allowing an eyebrow to lift in dubious fashion. To him, his trusted chauffer and bodyguard, he had offered only a crooked, tight-lipped grin and quick nod as further explanation. The man undoubtedly knew someone he might send by the place; just a quick drive down the street to make certain nothing seemed at first glance amiss. The security system was ingeniously devised, so that even when it appeared to be powered off, some aspects of it continued their surveillance, and his employer was all too aware that Proctor had the means to check it whenever he wished. Alone he would be, but by no means unaccounted for. The only way he could utterly vanish would be if he actually left the premises, paid for everything in cash, assumed a false identity, and traveled far by unknown means of conveyance.

Constance, his lovely ward, had gazed upon him steadily before he'd turned away, a slight smile upon her lips, her large eyes wide, but expressionless. Proctor on the other hand actually approached him close enough to quietly ask, "If there is any way in which I may be of service-"

To which he'd lightly touched his arm to reassure him and shook his head, resuming the asymmetrical smile.

"As you wish," the larger man said, ducking his head as he turned smartly away to climb behind the driver's seat of the elegant sea fog grey automobile and start it with the key clutched within his gloved hand.

Then he woke himself with a snort.

Swinging his legs from the bedside so that the loose sheet cascaded to the floor, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, noting the clamminess of his forehead. The walls creaked with stress. The wind uttered loud, dry whistles as it poured around lampposts, signposts, and numerous tall buildings. He turned toward a clock near the bed, but preferred not to know the hour. Am I ill? he wondered, applying the back of his hand to his cheek and temple, then palpating the glands beneath his jaw. I am most likely dehydrated, he decided, loosening his shirt so he could draw it back into place, then tugging free his belt and laying it aside in a chair near the door. The lighting in the bathroom was paltry. While he had gone to some expense to upgrade other aspects of the roomy mansion, he had done little with his own private quarters as yet, feeling comfortable surrounded by a little antique decay. Frosted, bubbled glass tulip shades extended past a mirror that featured unsilvered streaks of coppery flakes like lines of strata in exposed rock. The bulbs were weak, the light they produced nearly a dull blue grey that brought out the glow of the white enameled sink before him while relegating the rest of the tight space to dreamy shadow. Within the bespecked, imperfect mirror his skin appeared cadaverous, the irises of his eyes colorless aside from twin dark ring outlines that appeared battleship grey. He prodded his features as though he could learn something more of himself by feel. Fine wrinkles had begun to show high on his cheekbones, beneath the outer corners of his eyes, and his forehead took on the look of closed Venetian blinds more than he cared for when he tensed his muscles. He ran tepid water from the flaking chromed tap, testing the temperature with a few fingers wagged through the stream, then cupped his hands and filled them. The liquid cooled before it overflowed and felt wonderful splashed over his face. He kept his long fingers pressed to his eyelids for a moment, then reached to turn the water off with one hand while feeling for a hand cloth with the other. Food, he thought, and then, no, water.

The hallway beyond was dark. The floor creaked, though he knew exactly where to tread if he desired utter silence. His shoulder brushed the wall to his right and he thought of the hallway from his dream, the one inside his childhood home, with strange art upon the walls and that terrible, gaping hole of pitch-black nothingness and strange, funereal silence. Why had he thought of his mother? Why her specifically? Was his psyche so shaken that he thought to shout out to her for comfort like the small child he had seen? Preposterous! He recalled his lengthy training at the hands of a Tibetan master. "The past is nothing more than an elaborate composition that was played for you, and though you may still believe you can hear certain passages echoing tantalizingly, they will yet grow ever more muffled, losing cohesion within your ever evolving mind until only the simplest aspect of the refrain remains."

His hand found the banister and glided along its perfectly polished surface as he descended, stepping carefully and just so, using his knowledge of the structure to move without a sound. If he allowed the dream to fade naturally instead of trying to analyze it while it remained fresh, then only its simplest message would remain.

The world came to him in grey and silvertone flickers as though he had stepped into an old, grainy black and white film. For the moment, the wind had abated to lonely, frustrated howls, and was not making the house creak. There was abundant lightning, but very little and seemingly distant thunder. He thought he should check the leak upstairs soon and make certain that the means he had contrived of allowing the intruding water to drain into a bathtub was still intact.

But first a drink.

It seemed cold downstairs, more so than usual, and perhaps even a tad more humid, too. He should check the thermostat or maybe set a fire and curl up with a book until he felt drowsy again. He moved down a short hall and turned left, stepping into the kitchen. He was nearly at the refrigerator when a quick tattoo of lightning allowed him to envision a figure seated at the central island.

His breathing ceased. He could feel his heart beat. Staring hard into darkness broken by the silhouettes of appliances and fixtures, utensils and cookware, the only light a murky dimness emanating from the wet world outside, he listened and strained his senses.

Click. His left hand had flicked the main light switch upward. And now a stranger squinted at him in irritation from where she sat hunched over a half-eaten sandwich and the accessories she had used to create it. "Pardon me from interrupting your repast," he said gently, his mind analyzing every aspect of the unexpected scene, "but are we acquainted?"

One eyebrow lifted as she chewed slowly, watching him. He could see that her pupils were large and wondered if she was under the influence of some form of pharmaceutical. Otherwise, she appeared rather clean and healthy…aside from her own ghostly pallor. As he waited for her reply, she stared back at him, lifting a potato chip and destroying it thoughtfully between her molars.

He inhaled sharply. "Did you not hear me? I would like you to identify yourself."

She swallowed and inhaled, but remained slightly slumped, appearing unimpressed by him.

The man glanced downward, realized he was disheveled. "Have you business here, with me, or do I need to escort you from the premises?"

Both dark brows moved toward each other over her wrinkled nose and she managed to select another chip without breaking her stare, and tasted it and crunched it into oblivion like the last one.

Strangely, the fact that there was a stranger casually supping within his domain failed to alarm him as much as it might nearly anyone else. Her demeanor was far too complacent, as though she was watching an intriguing television program and not an extraordinarily intelligent and dangerous if need be federal agent open his refrigerator door and withdraw a sealed bottle of spring water. She must know who I am, he mused. But why does she not address me?

"What is your name?" he finally asked after a long, soothing drink from the bottle.

The girl shrugged and poked at her chips. "'manda."

"Amanda," he repeated, assuming his pronunciation was the more accurate. "Do you have some sort of business with me?" She listlessly moved a few of the larger chips around. "Have you come here to ask my assistance?" She shook her head, placing an index finger in her mouth to get the potato chip flavor from it. "Well, how did you get in?"

She looked up at him, squinting as though she hadn't heard him or perhaps considered him an idiot. Finally, she shrugged and lifted the sandwich to her lips.

"This house has never seen delicatessen cold cuts…nor potato chips…and what is that, some kind of soda?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Why did you break in here with a bag of groceries and decide to dine in my kitchen, alone in the dark?"

"Not my idea," she grunted, chewing.

He listened, turning slowly. "Are you alone? Did you come here with anyone else?"

"You," she said, shrugging again, still chewing.

"Are you claiming there is no one else here? Only you and I?" He winced at her reaction. "Are you genuinely so dispassionate, or do you suffer muscle spasms of the trapezius?"

Her eyes opened a little wider as she stared at him and he saw they were exceptionally pale blue, something along the lines of faint color trapped within the depths of an iceberg. As he stared back he took in the blue sheen of her unnaturally black hair and the perfection of her powder-white complexion. He swallowed and tried, "Are you a friend of Corrie's?"

Completing her meal, the girl stood and brushed at her clothing to dislodge errant crumbs. He could see now that she was neither so tall nor as well developed as he'd imagined. He guessed her age to be somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. He asked, "Are you a runaway? Did you think the place abandoned and gain entry to safeguard yourself against the storm?" And saying this, it occurred to him that her long hair was glossy, well kept, and well combed. Her outfit, a simple red top and plain, but fitted denim jeans, with unmarked black suede boots protruding gave no indication that she had spent any recent time out of doors. As she approached, he inwardly tensed, prepared for anything untoward, yet appeared perfectly calm without. With astonishment he watched her skirt by and hit the lights on her way out of his kitchen.

"I say, Miss, if you do not tell me why you are here, then I am afraid I shall put you out."

She didn't hurry as she wandered the halls, and he found it peculiar that she didn't pause or look around to try and gauge her surroundings. It was as if she was intimately familiar with the place already. In fact, her feet made no sound whatsoever upon the wooden flooring as though she was all too aware of the precise places to set them to achieve complete secrecy.

"Are you…a friend of Constance?"

"Constant?" she asked, emerging into a room lit silvery blue from light seeping past heavy drapes. He watched her move about in near-darkness, examining things on shelves that were difficult at best to see.

"Constance? Constance Greene?"

"Don't know…Constant Green. Soylent Green…heard of that. It's people, right? 's Constant Green people?"

Clearly she was not in her right mind. "How do you know this place?"

She shrugged.

"Please stop shrugging and respond with words when I question you."

"'kay."

"Complete words," he added, "if possible."

"Sorry."

He had moved close behind her to observe her better. The pale coloration of his own eyes made them particularly light sensitive, and he assumed hers must be as well. Without touching her, he moved his hands close to her back, noting he could feel no heat emanating from her body. Perhaps she was chilled. Bending slightly, he realized that she seemed to lack any sort of odor. Despite her strange behavior, her bizarre communication methods, and the fact that she did not strike him as a threat of any kind made him wonder if she had been trained in the true ninja arts, and was therefore extraordinarily dangerous to him.

"What's this?" she asked, turning suddenly, but failing to react to his way too close proximity. She held something squarish and vaguely shiny in her hands. He had guessed its identity before he had accepted it from her, and said, "It is a type of porcelain music box shaped like a piano. The design is French Victorian, and it has gold gilt edges and genuine walrus ivory keys." He took hold of the protruding key to turn it for her, then wondered why he was considering entertaining this enigmatic stranger at all. "Amanda, how do you happen-" Glass shattered and rained past his left hand. The music box had been upon a shelf behind glass. He did not recall her unlocking the glass face, opening it, then lowering it again after taking the antique from the shelf. Now he had tried to replace the item via the most direct route and broken the case. In the darkness the girl was suddenly as close as he had been to her a moment before. She took his hand in hers and he was surprised at her icy touch. Her fingertips, soft as flour, slid all over his hand as though she had perfect vision and could see any cuts he might have suffered. Her examination was completed swiftly, and she had already blended with the shadows, moving across the room, nearly invisible with her back to him and her long hair concealing her body down to her waist. He reached to place the music box back and struck glass again. This time he snatched his hand back in surprise, and moved his head for a better look at the reflections upon the surface. Impossible! He reached to gently stroke the front of the glass case with his fingertips and found it intact. Moving his feet about, he detected no broken glass on the floor. Lightning flashed and he distinctly saw the little trinket still upon its shelf. He tried to lift the cabinet front and found it locked.

Turning suddenly, he realized he had lost track of the stranger, and moved for the nearest light switch. She was nowhere to be seen. He left the room and moved silently, but with all haste, to peer quickly within every room she might have conceivably wandered into, but failed to locate her. "Amanda?" he called a bit urgently, concerned that now that she had managed to elude him, perhaps her true intentions were being acted out. "Amanda? Can you hear me?" He hurried about, making his way toward the nearest place where he might obtain a particular weapon. "Amanda? Please respond to me! I'd like to speak with you." He deftly retrieved one of many hidden handguns he kept loaded just in case and continued moving, making his way back toward the kitchen since it was the last place he had seen her. If, by chance, her visit was innocent in nature, then odds were she had only left to locate a bathroom or had returned to collect her groceries so that she might leave or at least refrigerate the unused portions.

The bathrooms he passed were unoccupied. The kitchen was clean. There was no trace of her supper. No crumbs on the floor or counter. No waste in the rubbish bin. No new items had found their way into the refrigerator. He turned the light out and backtracked. She could see fairly well without light, so any room was a possible destination. Was she a thief? Some kind of assassin? A spy? An extraordinarily quiet and strange transient? He felt ridiculous for letting her vanish.

Dodging into a closet beneath the stairs, he opened a hidden panel that revealed a set of surveillance equipment and rapidly scanned the views on every camera. Nothing. He checked a display that let him know what doors had been recently utilized and saw that only the ones he himself had opened had moved at all. Scanning back through time, he saw that absolutely no doors leading to the outside had been touched since he had closed and locked up behind his staff and ward. No windows at all showed any signs of tampering. Which meant his visitor had either discovered some new means of gaining entry to his abode, had managed to alter the data in his security system, had somehow bypassed the system, or had entered earlier and perhaps been hiding inside the mansion all along.

After all, it had taken him some time to discover that Constance had been abiding there for decades.

On impulse, he clicked on a small light so he could examine his left hand. It was utterly untouched. No marks whatsoever. He had imagined it, then? Had she managed to hypnotize him somehow? Or…could it be he had a ghost?

He felt his forehead. Clammy. Am I ill? Perhaps still dreaming…? That seemed likely. Yet…even his most lucid dreams had never felt so real, the detail so precise. "If I am dreaming," he whispered to himself, holding the handgun aloft. No. How morbid. A bullet through the braincase was not a good way to prove if he was dreaming or not. He sighed.

Wake myself up, or shall I allow this mystery to play out, he wondered, exiting the closet and closing the door tight. He heard a slight creak and glanced upward, catching sight of a door swinging without provocation. "Drink me," he sighed, and maneuvered up the steps toward the still ajar door. It creaked again as he pushed it gently with the hand that held the gun. He didn't know if he should shoot Amanda or not. While almost positive he was still in bed asleep, it wouldn't be worth the risk or paperwork to shoot her, particularly if this was all real and she was merely a teenaged girl who had managed to run amok of him while his nerves were slightly frayed.

The room was small and sparsely furnished with a crude iron bed and a hobbyhorse to one side. "This is a dream," he decided, relaxing some, aware no such room was decorated thusly inside his voluminous home. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he called, enjoying the thrill of the hunt. A closet door swung slightly on its hinges as lightning flashed. He stepped toward it, tensed for the thunder he knew was forthcoming, counting the seconds so he could determine its distance from the house. He grinned in a most creepy manner, titillated by the absurd horror-movie setting, marveling at the solid feel and heft of the gun. He used the barrel to nudge the door open and the thunder cracked softly at first, seemingly racing toward his location like the sharp reports of ice breaking beneath his feet on a frozen river, culminating in the very distinct and accurate roar of a male African lion so real that his body hair stood on end. "How marvelous!" he exhaled, tensed for anything. Behind a few strange garments dangling from wire hangers, past a painted bamboo bumbershoot, beyond a tall, wooden vase gilded gold and featuring Asian artwork, he saw torn wallpaper exposing a sizeable hole.

"The white rabbit went this way," he muttered, pushing items aside so he could crawl behind the wall.

He knew that the mansion, or any home-like setting within a dream, signified himself, and that moving deeper into it behind the walls or under floors, discovering hidden rooms and staircases, was his way of exploring his own inner psyche. "This should be interesting," he told himself, discovering a broad, dark staircase leading upward to his right. In reality, he should have encountered a brick wall. Upward was a good sign. It meant progress. He started up the warped, badly creaking steps, carpeted by some poorly tacked-on threadbare fabric. It was darker above him, and finally he could make out the underside of an angle of the roof. A door faced him from the right, but there was no knob when he grabbed for it, and in fact there was no door either. It was a square of lightless ebony. Beyond it felt cold and empty…not like a basement or an abandoned tool shed, but as though this doorway opened directly into the void of space. A part of him withered, sensing that he was moving out of lucidity and into a nightmare. He could wake from the nightmare, not control it. Disappointed, he spun and fired several shots into the lowest part of the ceiling. Light seeped through the holes he'd created, and he placed his fingers in them, gripping shattered, rotted wood and yanking it toward himself, exposing another room. He struggled with the dry, dusty, easily splintered wood until he could climb past it into a long, attic room furnished with a plain red rug, a yellow beanbag chair, a television, and a flimsy TV tray table with a sweating plastic tumbler of cold liquid upon it. This room felt uncomfortably warm and smelled of freshly sawn pine. It was nothing like any place he was familiar with, and he didn't care for it. At the far end he saw a small round window and moved toward it. He could not tell where the bright lighting in the room came from. His footsteps creaked and echoed, until he realized he was actually hearing someone else's footsteps in an adjoining space. "Hello?" he called, feeling foolish, for he knew that every creature, every being we encounter in our dreams is in actuality just an aspect of ourselves. "My anima is pretty," he decided, thinking of the teenaged girl. "Amanda? Is that you?" he called louder, but the other footsteps continued without pause so that he doubted that whomever was making them had heard him at all.

Dead bugs lay amidst dust on the windowsill, and now he could see that it was not truly round, but more of a hexagon in outline with a plus-shaped pane dividing the glass. Outside he glimpsed the edges of the house and distant silhouettes of taller structures. "I have dreamed myself into the Winchester mansion," he quipped, shaking his head in wonder.

Turning, he noted that the long room was now no larger than one of his smaller bathrooms, the long red rug rumpled, the chair touching his right calf, the TV on the floor to his left, the TV tray no longer present. "Tacky things," he muttered, reaching for the knob of the door almost directly behind himself. It opened into a beautifully appointed game room featuring built-in shelving full of cloth-bound books, an opulent billiard table of tiger maple topped with crimson felt and thick gold tassels at every pocket, Baroque chairs with oiled seats of elk leather, a brass chandelier, matching wall sconces, and red striped fabric wallpaper broken with sprays of painted flora and tiny, gold-haired cherubs. "Better," he said, striding confidently within.

At the far right corner was a small, white door set within a gilded doorframe. Servants' entrance, he mused, beelining for it. It allowed him access to a narrow hallway, then a flight of densely carpeted stairs. He thought to descend this time, all too aware that he had entertained this exact sort of tiring dream before, spending what seemed like entire nights moving from room to room in an endless labyrinth of them, glimpsing the outside but never achieving it until he finally awakened. "Not tonight," he assured himself, picking up speed, racing through doorways and up and down staircases, punching through walls to access crawlspaces. It finally occurred to him that his heart must be racing, reacting to things only his mind was actively involved in, and he should calm himself if he expected to awaken feeling rested. Pausing within a grand living room before a massive fireplace set within a wall of stone, the head of a huge black grizzly mounted above it, he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and began to will himself into a state of drowsy bliss. Before long, aware only of the sound of his own breathing, he staggered backward and fell into an overstuffed leather chair polished with something that held hints of sandalwood, lime, bamboo, and oak moss. The room spun beyond his slitted eyes. He allowed his head to loll, sensing the spinning sensation deep within his own mind, knowing that it would enhance the lucid nature of the dream, focusing his thoughts and granting him complete control.

Darkness descended upon him like a blanket. It soaked into his psyche, and he sank within dark, murky, comforting quiet. For some time he was motionless, asleep within a dream. His heartbeat slowed, his respiration quieted, his body temperature lowered until the noticeable coolness of the dream aroused him.

Before him stood a wall. Beyond it, vaguely shifting, living blue. He felt utterly at peace, saturated with calm. The floor beneath his feet was marble tile or some material very like it. Heavy, dark wood lined the thick panes of glass he stared at. Distantly he heard a soft cry that echoed. A strange tingling sensation began in his wrists and traveled along his arms, down his body to his legs, warming him as it filled him. He felt almost groggy. He was in such a deep state of passiveness that anything could have happened to him and he would have allowed it as if he was nothing more than a jellyfish at the mercy of sunlight and a shallow tide pool. Dark shadows undulated across his vision, moving slowly and deliberately. Eventually, listening to the sporadic bits of groans and whines of soft whale song, he became aware that he was not alone.

A slight smile lifted the corners of his lips. He wondered what the girl would bring.

But she only stood very near the glass, her hands clasped behind her back, staring. Her long hair touched her wrists. She remained perfectly still. "You must be my anima…to utilize self control like that." Had he spoken aloud? He didn't think his jaw had actually moved and could not recall taking a breath in order to begin speaking.

Slight movement caught his attention and he witnessed a thin stream of saltwater sliding down from the ceiling, slithering in and out of the joining of two pieces of darkly stained molding. The girl remained motionless. Water began to pool beneath her feet. He sat up and slowly gazed around, noting they were surrounded by the vast tank of seawater. To the left was a large panel that looked like a door.

The trickle became a fine spray. He swallowed, attempting to will himself still and calm. He became entangled in the horrific notion that should he approach her, take her shoulder and turn her gently towards himself for a word or two, that he would find she had passed away long ago and her flesh would be nothing but a few slimy, discolored ropes dangling from some of the protuberances of her otherwise bare skull.

She began to turn, and he drew his legs up, tensing.

The quarter profile appeared normal, and he suspected she was smiling if not smirking at him.

"We have a leak," he mentioned, relaxing his form.

"It's in the bathroom," she replied. "You haven't fixed it yet."

He emitted a small chuckle as he glanced about the strange room again. "If these walls should fail…."

A trio of humpback whales glided very near the glass, a very large adult, a juvenile and a calf.

"My heavens," he said, impressed.

The girl turned and appeared pensive as she looked down at the puddle she stood in. "You might want to fix this."

"Of course," he said, gaining his feet and approaching her. He sought the source of the leak, but had nothing to halt it with. "I suppose I could tear stuffing out of the chair…or chew a bit of leather and cram it in there…."

"Or call a plumber."

He looked down at her and was struck by her fair beauty. Her skin glowed faintly in the blue-hued light, flawlessly youthful, bringing to mind his initial enchantment with Helen. "Hello, Amanda," he whispered, wishing to use the name of his long-lost beloved as though it could transform her like a spell into the woman he most desired.

"Aloysius," she said, making a face as though she had just taken note of a stray bit of hair or lint caught on her tongue. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Terrible name," she told him, turning for another look through the thick window.

He laughed. "Is any name more awful than another? It is an antiquated moniker, to be sure, but one that I have always felt helps to better define me; the imagery it conjures in the minds of your average-"

She inhaled sharply and blinked. "Okay! Okay! I guess it's better than Diogenes."

He knew for certain that she was who he thought she was; the female incarnation of himself, his anima. How else could she know him so well? "Yes, well, do you have any idea what the neighborhood children used to call him? Ah, of course you do…you are just another aspect of myself."

She glanced into his eyes like he was crazy, then shook her head.

"You don't believe me? I have had this dream before…aware that I am dreaming, in control of every aspect of my subconscious, and the characters I have peopled my nighttime adventures with doubting me, sometimes aggressively so…insisting I am anything but sane until I do this-" He thrust a hand at her chest and managed to knock her a few steps backward.

Amanda crossed her hands over her chest and glared at him.

"Hold still," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and using the free one to push at her flesh, the fingers clenched together in the sword-style of a martial artist, squinting as he concentrated on pushing his flesh through hers, solid through solid, as he had demonstrated before for the unbelievers of his dreams. Eventually, she caught his hand and deflected it away, then glared at him with growing irritation, ducking from beneath his grip on her shoulder. "Watch this," he said, turning and touching his toes to the base of the glass wall, standing straight and stiff, his nose cold against the unyielding surface he faced. He closed his eyes and willed the sensation upon himself, the strange, scrapey pressure of his nose pushing through glass crystals, the coldness of the glass as it outlined his slowly progressing form, holding his breath as he tended to do whenever he performed this particular trick. A loud, muffled groan made him blink and he found himself standing in the puddle with his nose mashed up against the glass, the oil from his skin marring the surface as the side of an entire adult whale slid by on the other side.

Aloysius placed his palms against the cool surface, finding it very solid…aside from the sheen of wetness beginning to glide down his side of it.

"Like sherry," Amanda mentioned, watching the liquid meet and cascade over his fingers.

"I don't understand," he said.

"You are not where you think you are."

"I am dreaming."

"Yes."

"I am in bed, in my mansion, asleep while it storms outside. My troubled mind playing tricks on me."

"You live in a mansion?"

He turned toward her, watching water droplets fall from his hands. "I possess several different abodes."

"You possess a boat?"

He blinked at her, then looked around. "Do you think we need one?"

"Maybe a submarine."

He shook his head and paced. "This is not a nightmare, not a nightmare. I refuse to succumb to one! I can handle this!" Rising on one toe, he spun like a dancer, rotating several turns before he felt a bit dizzy and breathless.

She applauded politely. "I'm getting bored."

He nodded, vaguely embarrassed as he straightened his tie and smoothed down his jacket. "Is that a doorway?" he asked, pointing past her.

She turned her head. "Elevator. It's broken."

"Are you certain?" He moved toward it, his expensive handmade shoes tapping through the shallow puddle with little splashes. There was no panel of buttons to summon a car with, and nothing to grip that might allow them to slide the wood back and reveal the lift behind it. He spread his fingers wide and tried to use the pressure of his hands to force the concealing panel open. His fingers felt along the joining edges of the wood frame, seeking a means to separate it and force his way through. The gentle tug of water increased as the leather of his shoes became saturated and his socks began to wick saltwater to his feet, chilling them. "Amanda," he said, "if this is not where I think I am…then where, exactly are we?"

She was levitating just above the surface of the roiling waters so that they nearly matched in height. With a slight, almost sad smile, she reached for his hand and clutched it to her chest, staring into his pale, troubled eyes. "Hold your breath."

"What?"

Frigid, swirling water and bubbles abruptly surrounded them. He tried to keep his eyes open, but without any means of orientation, he felt only confusion. Aloysius tried to relax, knowing his body should right itself either shoulders upward or downward, after which he could see if the water appeared brighter before him or darker, thus giving him some sense of direction. The violent onrush of water tossed him like a limp toy in the mouth of a terrier, so that even the bubbles that escaped his lips gave no clue which way up might be. The entire time he struggled, his left hand remained firmly caught by the stranger, so that he wondered if he had tossed and turned in his sleep and perhaps enwound his hand in a bit of sheet.

"Axel," he heard, and his eyebrows moved toward the bridge of his nose. "Axel, wake up."

He blinked, seeing tall spires of grasses near his face, feeling a slight breeze buffet his skin. He lay on his side atop uneven, weedy ground. Sand clung to his damp attire and pale skin. He spat and sputtered sand and who knew what else from his lips as he pushed himself into a sitting position and gazed at the nearest buildings. Coughing, he wiped at his mouth with a sandy sleeve, and made a face. "I feel dreadful. Where have you taken me?" He actually knew exactly where he was, but they were the first words that came to mind in his state of agitation. "We need to get back to the mansion…or my apartment. I require clean clothes and a hot shower."

Amanda stood near him, watching him, the wind drawing stray hairs away from her shoulders and setting them dancing about her face. The sun was behind her, and he lifted a hand to partially block its rays as he looked at her. "Why did you call me Axel?"

"Ae Ecks Ehl," she explained, offering him a hand to help him rise. "Ae Ecks Ehl Pendergast."

He stood unsteadily and brushed at his soiled clothing with his palms. "You know my name is Aloysius." Plenty of sand flew before his efforts, and plenty seemed to embed itself deeper in the dark fabric of his jacket and slacks. "And Axel is spelled with an E in it. It is not my name. I don't care for it at all."

The teen shrugged and turned away from him.

"I believe these shoes are ruined."

"Ahoy!" someone called. "Do you require assistance?"

Pendergast looked up at a small boat with a shallow draft and New York City Police markings screened on it. Ahoy? Had they actually said ahoy? He squinted in the bright light and turned a circle, noting the island they stood on was as small as he remembered and litter strewn more so than usual—probably as a result of the storm. Within his heavy, moist jacket he discovered his stiff, waterlogged wallet and withdrew it to display his identification. "FBI," he announced. "Yes, we require assistance! Can you take us back to the mainland?"

The little boat approached slowly, the pair aboard it grinning and talking to each other. When it was close enough, the female officer disembarked and made her way toward them, halting a cautious distance away. "May I examine your ID?"

He tossed the wallet and she caught it. "How do you happen to be stranded here, Agent Pendergast?"

"A story for another time," he sighed, dropping his gaze to the teen.

"Something work-related?"

"Of course."

"And who is this?" The policewoman, more comfortable with them now, started toward Amanda, but her partner called to her, asking for her help in anchoring the little patrol boat. She turned away and caught a rope he'd cast, then sought the sturdiest looking wood-stemmed plant to hold it temporarily.

"This feels too real," Aloysius mentioned softly. Amanda turned his way, squinting. Her hair looked dry, her attire perfect, shoes without a speck of sand clinging to them, and he looked…a mess.

"I'm sorry, here you go," the policewoman said, approaching him with his wallet in her outstretched hand. "Do you need us to radio your department or your supervisor for you?"

"That won't be necessary," he replied, tucking the wallet back into his pocket.

"Is she…your.…"

He said, "assistant."

"Your assistant?"

"She is assisting me…with my case, yes."

The cop's eyebrows rose, but she smiled at the teenager amiably. "Are you okay, Miss?"

Amanda nodded.

The male police officer jogged up with a pair of towels for them. "We can give you a lift, but we'll have to radio it in that we're transporting someone."

"As you must," Pendergast said, wadding the towel into a sort of thick swab and using it to bat sand from his clothing.

"Have you been here long?"

"Not really," he told the female officer.

"Were you…in an accident?" The male officer queried.

"Not quite. Thank you," he handed back the towel and the male cop shook it out. Amanda handed hers back also, and no one noticed that she had done nothing other than hold it. The two officers wandered back toward their small watercraft. "This no longer feels like a dream."

"Not dreaming," the girl said, gazing into the wind, her long hair streaming behind her.

"But this has to be a dream," he insisted, nearing her enough to lightly catch her elbow and guide them slowly toward the police vessel. "It simply must. How else could I possibly have gone from my bed to…to Rat Island?"

Amanda shrugged.

"Please don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shrugging. Please, please answer my queries directly."

They were close enough now to the boat that they mutually decided to stop speaking to each other. Pendergast held her hand, helping to guide her as she stepped from a low sand ledge across shallow, lapping water and the male cop hauled her safely on board. The female handed her a life vest and showed her how to don it. Pendergast leaped lightly to the edge of the boat, wavering there for just a moment, then dropped safely onto the small deck. He ran his hands across his wayward hair, discovering to his distaste that it was as damp and full of sand as his outfit. Out of curiosity, he stared back toward the small island as they departed, imagining there must be a boat, a raft, some means of conveyance that had brought them there aside from…astral travel? The boat bounced across the slight chop, and a few seagulls swooped over their wake, seeking disturbed fish.

While the male police officer piloted the little craft, the female sat hunched over a notepad she jotted details of their encounter within. Amanda stood as far forward as she could, her voluminous black hair whipping behind her. She was still and unaffected by the movement of the vessel. Pendergast continued to stare at her thoughtfully from behind, wondering how this new scenario was going to play out.

As they were disembarking upon a floating dock, the female asked, "What was her name again?"

"Her name is Amanda," the agent told her, following the girl closely as she headed for land.

"Her last name?"

Ignoring the woman, he hurried after Amanda, hopping up onto a higher stationary dock and following its winding path up onto pavement. He took hold of her arm again. "What is your last name?"

"Last name? 'manda…always my name."

"What is your full name?"

"'manda."

He asked, "It is A-manda, is it not?"

"'swhat I said."

"You tend to soften and slur your words," he told her, holding onto her tightly enough to slow her progress. "It is unfortunate because you possess a soft speaking voice. I find myself having to replay your words in my mind to ensure I heard you correctly."

"Hm," she said, pulling him along like a dog on a leash.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she answered.

That intrigued him. "Do you reside in this area?"

She started to shrug, then looked angry with herself. "I live at home," she insisted petulantly.

"And…which way might that be?"

She halted and studied the skyline, finally pointing in the general direction of Central Park.

"I don't believe I have ever seen you before," he told her, traveling forward again.

She turned to study his features in daylight. "Look half dead."

This caused his pale brows to rise and a quirky smile to grace his lips. "Let us catch a cab. These wet shoes are deplorable."

He had noticed that touching her cool, smooth, unblemished skin seemed to lend his fingertips a faint tingling sensation. In the back of the taxi he tried not to appear too creepy as he held her left hand and gazed down at her arm, noting a lack of fine hairs. He turned it gently, noticing there were no visible veins just beneath the surface of her skin. Then he took her wrist between forefinger and thumb just so, seeking a pulse. "Are you from this area?"

"Guess so," she answered uncertainly, gazing at the passing sites around them.

"What are your parents' names?"

Her features wrinkled, and she finally looked him in the eye, admitting somberly, "I…don't know."

He reached gently to brush her long hair away from her neck, then stroked it as though he was fond of her, while checking for healing head wounds. "Where do you go to school?"

"I'm sorry, Bud," the cabbie grunted, yanking the wheel and drawing the Ford up beside a line of parked cars, "but you gotta get out. Now."

Pendergast was perplexed for just a moment until he realized how the backseat activity must seem to someone who hadn't been following the storyline thus far. "Of course," he answered quickly, taking Amanda's hand and pulling her after him.

"Not her," the driver said. He was about fifty, heavyset and muscular, hirsute and tattooed. "Are you okay, honey? Do you need me to take you somewhere? Like a friend's house maybe? Or maybe to the police?"

She eyed him strangely and exited the backseat. Pendergast gratefully pulled her after himself onto the sidewalk and kept moving, aware the cabbie had his address. No matter; should anyone in a position of authority question him, he knew nothing untoward would be discovered.

Aside from the strange teenager herself.

"Are you hungry?" he asked her as they walked past bagel shops and delis, gift shops and narrow stores selling cheap versions of designer objets d'desire.

She shrugged, then turned and apologized to him. "No. I'm okay."

"I could use a little something myself, but I can wait until we make it back home."

He was able to hail another cab and refrained from attempting further examinations upon the girl until they reached the mansion. He deactivated the security system and led her within. Despising his ruined shoes, he bent to remove them, glancing up to see she had vanished again. "Amanda?"

"Hm?"

He sighed. "Can I entertain you with a good book perhaps while I refresh myself? I…I want you to be here when I return."

She turned to face him from the base of the staircase. "Not sure…where I am."

"You…don't recognize this place?"

"Your house," she said, one eyebrow arched.

"Yes. This is my house. Can I be assured you will still be here after I have cleaned myself up?"

She looked downcast and said quietly, "…not sure where to go…."

"Excellent. Please make yourself at home, but don't wander far. I shan't be long." He strode toward the staircase carrying his shoes, but paused alongside her. "If…if you would please indulge me a moment," he asked, setting his shoes and sodden socks atop his own feet to avoid wetting the floor. He faced her, and she looked up at him. For a long moment he simply stared into her eyes, rather uncannily similar to his own, but distinctly more blue. Shooting his cuffs, he reached to either side of her head, then brought his hands up to her throat. His fingers slowly ran along the line of her carotid artery while his thumb sought the indentation at the base of her throat where her pulse should be easily felt. "Do physicians have difficulty determining your pulse rate?" His eyes widened when he felt her hands alight upon his hips. "Could you…not do that?" He shifted his position and one shoe rolled sideways, landing leather-first upon the floor. Pendergast lifted her arm and felt in the crook of her elbow. He lingered only a moment before sliding his hand up to her armpit, which, bizarrely, felt cool to the touch. Puzzled, he placed a hand behind her neck beneath her skull, then slipped his fingers just beneath the neck of her shirt. No warmth. No discernable pulse. The other shoe fell and he no longer cared. Moving closer, he tilted her head back and drew her lower eyelids down, peering at the whites of her eyes. They both were solid white if not ever so slightly blue…with absolutely no sign of fine blood vessels. He reached within a pocket for a tiny LED flashlight and shone it into her dark pupils, one then the other, peering down into her eyes…and seeing nothing at all. The pupils remained unfathomably black, reminding him for a second of the strange room he had encountered at the top of the hidden staircase in his dream. Her pupils failed to react to the bright light shining in them. "Forgive me," he murmured, and gave her face a sharp, quick slap. She reached up toward a cheek that bloomed with a classic oil-painting rosiness, but he held her wrist to prevent her from touching her skin. Puzzled, and feeling a tad guilty for startling her, he allowed his thumb to caress the faintly warm mark and felt relieved to know she must, indeed, be human. Still touching her face, he asked, softly, "You will await me?"

"Await you?"

"You will not leave the house? I promise I shall not take long."

The girl turned away and stood with her back to him, looking about as though the place was now unfamiliar. "Okay," he heard her say softly, and watched her stroll uncertainly toward the kitchen.

Pendergast raced up the stairs, loosening damp clothing as he went. He deposited his entire wardrobe in a laundry chute and raked his closet, seeking something casual while he ran the shower. He bathed quickly, but efficiently, dressed hurriedly, pausing only for a pensive look at his rumpled bed. Was he asleep in it or not? He didn't feel like he was dreaming, but he had been fooled before. He descended in creased slacks and a plain white shirt, buttoned to the throat with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, his hair almost dry and combed perfectly into place. "Amanda?"

He took quick peeks into various rooms as he headed in the direction he had last seen her take. Finally he discovered her within the old conservatory. "Ah."

She looked at him, then away, still unimpressed. "Big house."

"It is a bit much. My needs are surprisingly few, but I do so appreciate high quality tinged with a touch of…the odd shall we say?"

"FBI," she murmured, caressing a harpsichord that had been silent for decades.

"Yes. Did you not know that? You know my name…my full name…."

"Axel."

He winced slightly, but smiled at her. "Amanda…did you come to me because you require my help as a federal agent?"

Now she smiled. "I did not need help."

He considered the inflection of her words. "Do you insinuate…that I require your assistance? In some manner?"

She shrugged and winced. "Sorry."

He trailed her around the antique instrument. "Have you…ever been to…the South American rainforests?"

"Dunno."

His eyes narrowed. "Do you recall…ever being examined within a laboratory?"

She halted, her eyes wide. "Yes…."

His heart beat faster. "Are you familiar with the genetic experiments conducted by Nazi scientists back in the nineteen thirties and forties?"

"No," she said, looking a little perturbed. "No."

"Have you…ever seen anyone wearing a Nazi type uniform…or even a swastika?"

"No," she sighed, wandering toward a music stand.

"You do have memories of a laboratory, though…can you recall why you were being examined?"

"Tests," she answered distractedly, letting her gaze follow ornamental molding around the room.

"Did anyone ever say anything to you about DNA, or genes, stem cells.…?"

"Jeans," she said, plucking at the spotless pair she wore.

It seemed far-fetched, but he asked her, "Have you ever had an IQ test?"

When she turned toward him, she cocked her head. "I what test?"

"Have you ever heard of such a test?"

She almost shrugged, but groaned instead. "No…I don't know…maybe."

"Would you mind…if I administered such a test on you?"

At first she looked apprehensive, but her mood lightened quickly and she nodded. "Okay."

Pendergast wondered if she was agreeable to the experiment because it was something familiar to her. The notion of a laboratory had not seemed unsettling to her. "Come with me," he said, extending a hand for her to take. Her grip was cool and caused his skin to tingle. He hoped to learn the cause of the sensation.

The old mansion had multiple subterranean chambers, some connected to one another and others not. The girl seemed vaguely intrigued as he led her down into darker, cooler places, avoiding some doorways and accessing others until he activated the lights and illuminated a small, but serviceable multi-purpose laboratory. He released her hand and she stepped forward to look around, lacking any signs of fear or suspicion.

"Does this remind you of any place you've been before?"

"Sort of. Maybe. Kinda small."

"My requirements are few," he reminded her gently. He closed the door and locked it, then cleaned his hands and began perusing the contents of drawers and cabinets. "Would you mind," he began, smiling when he saw her already seated upon the examination table, "if I fingerprint you?"

The girl made a funny face like she thought it might tickle, but consented.

The agent had a small, simple kit of the sort used to gather fingerprints from children as a fun activity at public safety events. He donned Nitrile gloves and approached her, keeping his features as neutral as possible. "Do the people you see in the laboratory…do they wear gloves and masks?"

"No."

He peeled back the film on a square of ink and set the cardstock he'd make the prints on beside her. "You might want to stand beside me so I can roll your fingers and get good prints."

She slid down, and while her movements were casual, he noted she made no sound whatsoever.

"Give me your left hand." She offered it and he told her to relax, pretend her hands were boneless. Pendergast isolated her thumb and carefully pressed it onto the square of black ink. Then he lifted it, positioned it over the appropriate square on the cardstock and applied it expertly, slowly rolling the digit while maintaining pressure. The print came out as a plain smudge. He acquired an alcohol wipe and cleaned the thumb carefully, then made a second attempt with the same result. Lifting her freshly cleaned thumb, he squinted at it, manipulating it in the harsh lighting. Keeping hold of her hand, he reached for a large lighted magnifier on a tall, flexible gooseneck stand, turned it on, and began to study her fingers.

Not only did Amanda lack any indication of fingerprints, but as he drew her hand and arm beneath the lens, he saw her skin lacked any type of texture at all. With a sharp sigh, he looked at her face and she looked back, awaiting judgment. "You are a conundrum."

"I'm a what?"

"You appear to be a physical impossibility, young lady. Are you young? You look like you are in your early teens, but based on what I'm seeing here…I could not honestly guess your age at all. Perhaps…like Constance…."

"Constant…Green?"

"I have never had a dream that went on this way…I have never in my life experienced so realistic a dream…."

"Not a dream," she told him, shaking her head slowly.

"But, my dear, this absolutely must be a dream because otherwise you simply could not exist. Even were this in fact reality, wakeful reality, then how could you know the things I said to you in a dream?"

"You are not dreaming," she told him.

Again he ran her wording through his head before allowing himself a faint smile. "You are suggesting that I am but a figment of your imagination? That this is your dream?"

Unhappily she sighed and let her gaze drop to the worthless fingerprint cards.

Pendergast swept her hands up in his and told her, "I think you are the most fascinating character I have ever had the pleasure of meeting within my dreams or without, Amanda. While we are still able to interact, may I continue to study you?"

"'kay."

He beamed and patted the tabletop. "Please be seated." He retrieved a stethoscope and inserted the buds into his ears. "Please be still." He applied the sensitive disc to her chest where he had attempted to push his hand through her earlier. Silence. "Take a breath, please." He felt her body move, saw it, but heard nothing. Examining the disc, he tapped it lightly and winced at the loud sounds he produced. Then he slipped it between the buttons of his shirt and listened to his own heartbeat and breathing. "Lay back, please."

"Say please a lot."

"Good manners bespeak an excellent upbringing and intelligent nature." He hesitated over her form. "May I…I would like to place this against your bare skin."

She only gazed up at him without concern.

The man gently lifted the edge of the square cut neckline just enough to ease the end of his stethoscope over her heart. From the outside of her shirt, he pressed gently against her form, attempting to pick up any normal sound whatsoever. Nothing. Moving away from her and removing the listening device, he said, "I'd like to draw some blood."

"Okay."

"You are extraordinarily agreeable."

"Okay."

"Allow me to take your temperature," he said, returning to her side with an object he placed just inside her ear canal. He activated it and waited. No temperature. This did not surprise him. "I believe I have an old mercury thermometer somewhere." After sterilizing it, he asked her to part her lips, and distracted himself by taking hold of her lower lip and peeling it downward. No visible blood vessels. He was about to insert the thermometer when he was struck by an interesting thought and bent slowly, watching her reaction, until he was close enough to sniff her breath. Clearly she was breathing. He could see it, he could feel it soft against the skin of his freshly shorn face. But there was no odor. Nothing. Hesitant, he steeled himself to dip farther and practically inserted his nose into her open mouth for a good whiff…of nothing.

"Uck," she said, looking at him while he kept hold of her lower lip.

"You…are incomplete," he marveled softly, releasing her. "You seem…nearly perfect…like someone's human ideal…aside from your communication skills."

She cocked her head again.

"Thus I must assume that whatever aspect of myself you represent is also incomplete…." Mind whirring, he turned away.

"Blood?"

"Yes, thank you." He used a length of soft rubber tubing to tie off her upper arm, then asked her to make a fist while he prepared a syringe. "It's almost as if…you have no heart…." he whispered to himself. When he returned to her, he palpated the inner crook of her elbow and failed to locate a vein. He repeated the procedure on her other arm with the same results. "Let's remove your shoes," he said, taking hold of surprisingly pliant, soft suede-like material and pulling gently. The short boot slid off easily, exposing a naked, pale, perfect foot. He'd already seen that her nails were as flawless as a doll's with nothing caught beneath them. Her toenails, of course were exactly the same, only squared off and shorter. Pendergast, feeling free to do as he pleased so long as at least one of them was just dreaming all of this, planted his muzzle within the boot's opening and inhaled deeply.

Amanda watched him carefully.

"You are odorless," he announced. "You would make an excellent hunter."

He chucked the boot haphazardly over his shoulder and bent over the foot, noting no calluses, no hangnails, nothing peculiar at all save for the fact she was too perfect. "Nexus 6?" he asked, peeking at her from the end of the table.

"Huh?"

He felt around her foot and ankle, then boldly rolled the hem of her pant leg up enough to satisfy himself that she sported no stubble, not even the dots of roots waiting to sprout from her flesh. The skin of her leg was as smooth as banana skin. Staring up at her, he entertained a final thought that gave him pause. If nowhere else, he should be able to get a pulse from her inner thigh. Nothing he had done so far had bothered her in the least. He strongly suspected he could possibly autopsy her and she wouldn't complain. The dream, if that's what this was, felt way too real. He swallowed contemplatively. There was no need to examine her that completely. He was only killing time, satisfying curiosity, seeking the extent of his imagination and trying to decipher the psychological implications as he went.

Then again he was human and everything that the status implied.

But perhaps she was not. And if this was not a dream… "…then you are the single most important gift of science to mankind."

"'kay," she said, finishing with a tiny smile.

He chuckled, amazed by her. "Is anyone looking for you? May I keep you?"

Her brow furrowed.

"Until I awaken…or you do. Whichever comes first."

When he finally pierced her sterilized skin with the needle, she showed no sign she was even aware of what was happening. Aloysius closed his eyes to slits and concentrated on her inner workings through feel, seeking the blood vessel he knew should be there. It occurred to him he might simply draw up a sample of whatever he possibly could, but whatever halted him from indulging in amoral behavior kept him from abusing her flesh. He eventually withdrew the steel and pressed a cotton ball to the exit point. "Hold this," he told her, pushing her index finger against the absorbent stuff while he sought an adhesive bandage. Before applying it, he lifted the cotton for a quick peek and saw nothing. No blood. No tiny red dot on her skin. Stealing a quick glance into her eyes, he gently seized the skin and pinched it upward, attempting to squeeze forth a drop…but there was no mark on her whatsoever beneath the magnifying light, so he tossed the cotton and bandage in the waste bin.

"You feel pain, don't you?"

"No."

His eyes sparkled. "If I struck you…you would not feel it?"

"Not really."

He pulled a stool up beside her and sat on it. "There is a genetic anomaly, a disease, in which the sufferer cannot feel any pain, not even heat nor cold."

Amanda merely blinked.

He pinched her arm while gazing into her eyes and she reacted not at all. "Well, now I know something about you." Wheeling the stool across the small room, he caught himself at the counter and activated a computer. "There can't be many teenaged girls in this area named Amanda who possess this particular genetic marker."