Notes: I'll be honest, I have trouble writing interaction between Perry and Della. It doesn't always flow for me like it does when I write for some other characters. Sometimes it almost feels like pulling teeth! But, since I'm very aware that a good portion of the readers are likely Perry/Della fans, I really do try to put in scenes with them whenever I can. Perry and Della's relationship was even a key factor in The Broken Ties, although I admit it wasn't the central focus. But I hope all of you shippers like what I come up with for these two, even though it isn't and most likely never will stray into romantic territory. I do the best I feel I can. Their scenes aren't just part of the plot; they're written especially for you. Thank you for your interest!

Chapter Four

Della was walking the floor of her apartment, her anticipation and conflicted feelings running high. She had barely slept for the remainder of the night. And with the onset of morning, she had popped awake very soon after at last dozing to sleep.

Of course, it was needless to say that she was overjoyed to have Paul back. But at the same time she was frightfully worried. In his current state of mind, was he really and truly "back"? And what if somehow he actually had committed a gruesome crime? Even if he had not been in his right mind at the time, would they be able to prove it?

And what about how Paul would feel if he had—Heaven forbid!—killed someone? Della doubted that under the circumstances he would ever get over it or be able to forgive himself.

The knock on the door brought her back sharply to the present. She hurried over and hauled it open. She was expecting Perry, and to her relief, she found him.

"Good morning," Perry smiled in greeting. "Are you ready to go?"

Della nodded, grabbing her purse from the table next to the door. "Perry, you said you'd tell me how things went with Paul when you took him home last night," she said as she stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind her.

Perry sighed. "Unfortunately, Della, if you're hoping to hear that Paul made some improvement during our conversation, there's not much I can really tell. He was still upset. He was willing to listen to my suggestions and seemed on the one hand to believe that I was actually there, but on the other hand there was a feeling that he had removed himself from the situation and was very distant."

"Oh Perry." Della could not help feeling sick inside. "Maybe you should have stayed with him."

"I offered to," Perry admitted while they walked up the hall and down the stairs. "Paul insisted he would be alright there alone."

"Have you talked to him today?" Della asked in concern.

"I tried, but the line was busy." Perry glanced to her. "Have you?"

Della shook her head. "I was afraid of waking him up," she said.

"He definitely needed the sleep. But he may not have gotten it." They arrived on the ground floor and were soon stepping into the sunny yet chilly Los Angeles morning.

Della looked to Perry with unbridled worry. "Oh Perry, what are we going to do?" she exclaimed. The entire situation was so overwhelming.

"Hamilton and his office will be doing all they can," Perry said. "So will the police. And so will we. But there isn't much we can do about the mystery until a possible victim is found. Meanwhile, there is something else very important for us to do, something we'll need to do all the more if a victim is found." He and Della halted on the sidewalk and he turned to face her. "Be there for Paul."

Della nodded slowly. "I just wish there was something we could do to help him realize this is real." Her voice lowered. "It's so hard to see Paul this way."

"It is," Perry agreed. "And there must be more to it. More to why Paul attacked Hamilton, more to why he didn't come back, and why he did come back now. . . ." He shook his head. "If only we could fit the pieces together. Right now we don't even have enough pieces to try."

"Do you think Paul might remember in time, now that he's here?"

"Hopefully," Perry said. "But what worries me is this. If he's really been the pawn in a cruel plot, then most likely, him coming back now wasn't an accident. So what else does this mysterious enemy have in mind for him?" Reaching the car, Perry opened the door for Della before going around to the driver's side and getting in.

Della entered and pulled down the seatbelt. "What about how Mr. Burger was knocked unconscious in the cemetery?" she wondered. "Could this mysterious enemy have done that?"

"I don't know." Perry strapped himself in and turned the key in the ignition. "I can't understand why they would. Were they trying to ensure a meeting between Hamilton and Paul?"

"Surely there would have been easier, less brutal ways to do that," Della said as Perry pulled away from the curb. "It must have been horrible for Paul to find Hamilton lying in the grass that way, especially when Paul thought he'd killed him."

Perry gripped the steering wheel. "Maybe that was what they had in mind," he realized. "What if they wanted Paul to see Hamilton unconscious and think he was going out of his mind seeing the dead body of a man he'd supposedly murdered?"

Della gasped. "Oh Perry, that's horrible!"

"But it could be highly possible." Perry's phone rang and he reached down to bring it up and answer it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Perry." It was Hamilton. "Have you got in touch with Paul today?"

"I tried. The line was busy."

"Well, he might have been talking to me. Or to Lieutenant Drumm."

Perry's eyes narrowed. "What's happened, Hamilton?" At his side, Della tensed.

"Too much. My contact's disappeared, after drugging my investigator. Paul wanted to know if there was an unsolved murder involving a body that was stabbed multiple times. And there was a body like that, from an unsolved murder three months ago. Now Lieutenant Drumm tells me there's another one, found just this morning."

"Another one?" Perry pulled over to the side of the road to focus his complete attention on the call. "Do the police know the identity this time?"

"No. It's exactly the same as the first one, stripped of all identification. Lieutenant Drumm was going to call Paul and talk with him about it, and about whatever Paul might remember about the first victim. I'm going to the station to look at the information they have so far. I thought I should call and let you know."

"Thank you, Hamilton. We'll come to the station too." Perry glanced at the bewildered Della.

"Alright. I'll see you and Della there."

As Perry hung up, Della could see that he was troubled. "What is it?" she asked in concern.

"I'll tell you on the way to the police station." Perry pulled back onto the road. "This case has become even more complicated."

Then

"Mr. Burger! What happened?"

Hamilton winced, looking up at the bewildered and worried Leon as he slowly and carefully made his way into the office. He was still sore and aching from the attack the previous night. And the ache really went far deeper than the physical pain.

He collapsed into his chair. "It's a long story, Leon. I don't understand what happened or why." He raised a hand to his forehead, tiredly massaging it. "I'm not even sure I should say anything about it right now."

Leon frowned, following him into the inner office. Although he was holding several folders in his hands, he had all but forgotten their presence. "Mr. Burger, you're hurt," he exclaimed. "Surely you can't expect I wouldn't be worried." Although he did not press further about the cause, the unanswered questions hung in the air. He cared about his employer and wanted to know when something went drastically amiss.

"Oh, it's not that bad. I'll be fine in a day or two." Hamilton took his hand away but still looked both exhausted and sad. He debated with himself a moment before speaking again. "Leon . . . what would you think if, without warning, someone whom you thought you were getting along with better attacked you?"

Leon stared at him in bewilderment and confusion. "Was there any provocation for the attack?" he asked.

"No, not that you know of," Hamilton said.

Leon rocked back, considering his response. "I . . . I think I'd wonder if he'd suddenly lost his mind, Sir. And I'd wonder if there was anything at all I could have done to make him that angry. Unless I knew for sure that he would never do something like that if he had control of himself."

"He wouldn't," Hamilton said. But in spite of himself he wavered. "At least . . . I honestly can't imagine that he would." He shook his head. "Oh, I don't know, Leon. Something was definitely wrong. But what?"

At last he sighed, seeing his secretary's worried expression. "I guess you'll find out soon enough," he said. "Or you'll start to put the pieces together and come up with your own explanation. I'd rather you hear the truth, even though we don't have very much of it right now. I don't like to mention it when we have no idea what's wrong, but Paul Drake assaulted me last night. Now he's disappeared."

Leon's eyes went wide behind the frames of his glasses. "Paul Drake? But . . ."

"I know, it just doesn't make sense." Hamilton reached for his laptop. "There wasn't any rhyme or reason to it. I was talking with Perry when Paul came barreling out from around the side of Vivalene's old house and shot his fist into my face. And he kept coming at me and fighting with me until he threw me over his shoulder to the ground."

Leon was aghast. "I just can't think that of Mr. Drake," he said. "He seemed so apologetic when he came to see you after he had to pretend to be brainwashed by that Portman woman."

"Yes, and we haven't had any problems with each other since before then." Hamilton typed in his password and waited while the Desktop screen loaded.

"Are there . . . any charges out against him?" Leon was hesitant with his query.

Hamilton glanced at him. "I'm not pressing charges, Leon. At least not until I know why he did it. If he's not out of his head or sick, then . . ." He trailed off. "Then I guess that's when it would mean he did it on purpose."

"Well . . ." Leon shifted, uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "If you'll forgive me, Sir, I wasn't able to help overhearing some of the discussion surrounding Lieutenant Tragg's behavior last December and Captain Caldwell's several weeks ago. And . . . well, maybe it could be something like that?"

"I've thought of that," Hamilton admitted. "Perry has too."

After he had finally gotten back enough strength to stand up the past night, he and Perry had discussed the catastrophe. Hamilton had not wanted to have to think about mind-control (or Heaven forbid, possession). Although of course if it came down to a choice between that or Paul simply turning against him, Hamilton would rather consider even the horror of possession.

Leon could tell from Hamilton's guarded tone that he really did not want to have to discuss that line of conversation. And so, with diplomacy and sincere concern he changed the subject. "Mr. Burger, is there anything I can do for you? I can tell you're in pain, Sir."

Hamilton looked up at him, genuinely touched by the offer and the concern. "Thank you, Leon. I can manage. Although . . ." He paused. "I'd rather get up as little as possible before I have to be in court."

"Of course, Sir," Leon nodded. "But are you sure you should even go today?"

"I'll probably just stay at the table as much as I can," Hamilton confessed. "I'll be fine if I do that."

Leon was not surprised by that answer. It took something gravely incapacitating to keep Hamilton away from court. He had gone in all kinds of miserable states, from dealing with a raspy voice while getting over a bout of laryngitis to being forced to use crutches with a broken leg. Maybe he usually managed to not overwork himself long into the night the way Perry was prone to do, but he still pushed himself to his own limits.

xxxx

It was strange—no, downright frightening—to suddenly come back to yourself and realize that everything was a blank and you had no memory of what had transpired to get you into such a state in the first place.

Paul was wandering down a lonely street in a desolate part of Los Angeles when he finally became aware of what he was doing. He slowed to a stop, glancing around as he tried in vain to figure out what his purpose was in being there. Was he investigating for Perry? Just taking a walk? What was going on? Why did nothing sound right? More to the point, why couldn't he remember what was right?

The last thing he recalled at all was that it had been night. Now it was day again—a cloudy and overcast day at that.

He reached for his notepad. He was missing what could be up to twelve hours. Maybe he had written something down that would help him bring them to mind.

But while he was raising his hand to his pocket he froze. There was something red all over his hand. It was streaked across the other one, too. He brought both hands up to his eyes, his heart gathering speed as he stared in horror and disbelief. "Blood," he whispered.

Why was there blood on his hands? Was someone hurt? Was he going for help?

He was clutching a cream-colored piece of cloth in one hand, too. It was also streaked with crimson. Where had that come from? It looked like it had been torn from a suit.

An image flashed through his mind, an incomprehensible, sickening image. He was wrenching Hamilton Burger's arm up over his head, then punching him in the stomach and thrusting him over his shoulder to the ground.

It wasn't a nightmare; he had really done it. It was coming back to him now.

But . . . why? Why would he do something like that? Burger was his friend. They had come to an understanding. And yet Paul had felt an overwhelming feeling that he had to attack. That was why he had done it. And . . . how far had he gone?

. . . Hamilton had been wearing a cream-colored suit last night.

Paul stared at the blood with new comprehension. "No," he whispered.

His mind blanked out after the judo throw. What had happened next, however, now seemed perfectly clear.

It was Hamilton's blood on his hands. Paul had seriously hurt or maybe even killed him.

If Paul had been rational and fully under his own power, he would have immediately looked for a newspaper stand, no matter how grisly the cover story was. Instead he stayed far away. The newspapers would be all telling of the attack, he knew. He would be wanted by every police officer in the county. Not even Perry could save him now. And if he were guilty, which he surely had to be, he would not want to be saved. He would want to pay the highest price for the evil he had committed, no matter how unwittingly.

An hour later he sank onto an old and rotting bench, running his hands into his hair. He had tried to wash the blood out. Most of it had dispersed, but he still felt as filthy as if it had stayed right there. His hands were tainted. He would turn himself in that moment if it were not for the utter terror he felt over what he had done. If he could so mercilessly deal out injury and possibly death to Hamilton Burger, how could he be confident that it would not happen again, to the police or even Perry or Della?

The very thought sent an icy chill up his spine. He could not put them in danger. He could not take the chance at all. Even calling on the phone was off-limits, at least for now. He had to stay away, just until he found out why this had happened. Then he could ensure it would not happen any more. And then and only then would he return to accept his just punishment.

What had Burger thought, when Paul had attacked? If he had been murdered in cold blood? What could he have thought? What if it had been reversed?

Paul was not sure what he himself would think, if Burger assaulted him like that. In his shock and hurt he might think that what that Portman nut had tried to make him believe was true, that Hamilton had always been using Paul and that now his usefulness had expired.

But Paul had rebelled against all of that witch's lies. She had only been preying on his past doubts and trying unsuccessfully to blow them out of proportion. True, he had struggled for a short time with his feelings, but that was over and done with.

. . . So did that mean that if Hamilton had attacked him, Paul would feel that something had to be wrong and that Hamilton was not acting on his own volition?

Even if he would, that did not mean that Hamilton had felt that way about being attacked by Paul.

"You were lying to me, Drake. You were lying all the time! You never cared about me, not really. You proved that last night."

Paul clenched a fist. Burger was not there. It was just in his head, just his envisioning of what Burger might tell him. He could hear the bitterness and hurt in the imagined but well-remembered voice.

"That's not true," he protested under his breath.

But who would believe him now?

Did he even believe himself?

"I never hated you," he whispered, echoing words he had spoken in what now seemed another lifetime. "I did care about you."

But if Hamilton was dead and his spirit lingered, aware of Paul's words, it would not make a difference now. There was no way he could forgive Paul for this.

There was no way Paul could forgive Paul for this.

Now

Della was horrified by the time Perry informed her of what was going on. "Oh Perry," she gasped. "For Paul to remember details about a murder that really happened . . ."

Perry pulled in at the police administration building and turned off the engine. "It looks bad," he said with a deep frown. "But there's no physical evidence to connect him with the murder. They can't arrest him just on the basis of a vague memory he thinks he has."

"Even if there never is, what if Paul goes on thinking he killed someone?" Della pushed open the door and stepped onto the concrete.

"He'll never be the same," Perry said. He walked around the car and to Della's side.

When Della spoke again, her voice was low. ". . . And if he can never fully accept that Hamilton wasn't that person?"

Perry rested a hand on Della's back. "Let's not think about that."

Della dropped the subject as they walked to the front entrance. But in spite of her best efforts she could not stop thinking about it. Paul's attitude on the situation had haunted her throughout the past night and was continuing to do so now.

Paul had always been such a rational and non-violent person. This entire experience seemed like an unbelievable and even downright impossible frame. The only problem was that Paul had actually committed at least some crimes. It had not been an impostor. Not unless something else had been in control of his body at the time.

"Perry . . ." Della looked up at her longtime employer and friend. "Do you think it's possible that we're dealing with something otherworldly again? As much as Hamilton and maybe even you don't want to think so?"

"It's always possible, Della." Perry pulled the door open for her and waited for her to step inside before he followed suit. "But I don't want to look at such possibilities right off the bat. Yes, we've had more than one brush with things that previously seemed impossible. But in all of our experiences through the years, those paranormal or science-fiction encounters have been the exception rather than the rule."

"I know. And I don't really want to believe it either." Della sighed. "It's just that all of this is so unlike Paul."

"That's an understatement." Perry glanced to the windows at the desk in the lobby. It did not look like any were free. Lines stretched at every one that was currently open.

"Perry!"

Perry and Della both jumped a mile. Hamilton was coming from the long corridor to the left. "Hello, Perry, Della," he said in greeting as he approached.

"Hello, Hamilton," Perry returned with a nod.

"Hello, Mr. Burger," Della added, trying to smile. Suddenly seeing him was making her remember the assault. She had been horrified and frightened for him when he had lain, stunned, on the grass. At last he had struggled up with the aid of Perry and Lieutenant Tragg and seemed to be physically alright, but she had still seen the image of his pain and hurt in his eyes. Hamilton had never been good at hiding his feelings.

"Have you been here long?" Perry spoke, breaking into Della's solemn thoughts.

"I just got here," Hamilton said. "Paul's in Lieutenant Anderson's office."

"I see," Perry mused. "We'd better join them then."

It was a strange sight that greeted them when they entered moments later. A folder lay open on Andy's desk, revealing graphic photographs of a mortally stabbed and lifeless body. Paul was peering at them, shaking his head at each one. "I don't know this guy," he declared.

Andy sighed. "Well, hopefully that's a good thing." He looked up. "Hello, Mr. Burger. Perry, Della."

The visitors returned the greeting. Paul looked up, adding his own. "I guess you know what's going on here," he said to Perry, who nodded.

"Hamilton told us," he said.

Hamilton went to the desk for a closer look at the photographs. He gasped, his eyes going wide. "Is this the body from this morning?" he demanded.

"Why, yes, it is," said Andy, regarding him in surprise. "What is it?"

"Paul didn't recognize him. But I do."

Everyone turned to stare. "Who is it, Mr. Burger?" Andy asked in amazement.

Hamilton picked up the top picture, holding it up enough for Perry to see it too. "It's my contact from yesterday," he said. "The one who said Paul was dead!"