Author's Note: After much, much delay, I've finally got something up. Things will definitely start rolling now in regards to how fast I update things. I'm between jobs right now and it's hard to get a lot of free time to just write. Especially as my temperamental laptop has its own schedule of when it decides to allow me to work wireless or not.

Anyway, I'm having a lot of trouble deciding the outcome of this story. Whose baby is it? Who will Sam end up with? What will she do when it's born? Hmm. Lots of decisions coming my way.

But, that's my problem. Enjoy what I've got so far! And thanks again for everyone's patience.


Chapter 8

Jack woke the next morning to a horrible retching sound in the next room. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand and quickly fumbled with the door to wrench it open. Leaving it ajar, he hurried to Samantha's door and leaned his head against it; the awful sound grew louder and was obviously coming from inside.

"Sam?" He called in a restrained voice. "Hey, Sam, open the door a minute, will you?" He heard her cough and gag before footsteps thundered to the door and she swung it open. "Jesus…"

She looked a mess. Her hair stuck out at oddly angled tufts and dark bags hung under her eyes. She stared up at him with a dead stare before her eyes widened and she ran from the doorway and lunged herself at the bathroom. The retching sound made him cringe, but he stepped inside the room and shut the door.

He found her hunched over the toilet seat, her elbow propped on the roll of tissue while her hand supported her forehead. Jack reached for a washcloth and ran cold water over it until it was saturated and its surface cooled. He squatted down next to her, and leaned her back against the wall, placing the cloth on her forehead.

Sam whimpered in protest but did not stop his efforts. "Relax, it's okay. I've had two kids; I've seen this sort of thing before." Sam looked at him in horror before her face crumpled. "Okay, okay, bad joke, I'm sorry."

She took over control of the towel and let him lean back on his heels. "Ginger ale," she mumbled. "Saltines…" Jack nodded and located the mini bar by the TV monitor. He grabbed to bottles of the soda and searched for the crackers. "In my duffel bag," she croaked from the bathroom floor, and he found them immediately.

"Here you go," Jack murmured, lowering himself back down to her spot on the floor and unscrewing the bottle cap. She weakly thanked him and took a careful sip from the green bottle. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming down with something? I would have had Viv come down with me, or Danny."

Sam shrugged and took a bite of the saltine he offered. "I guess it was one of those twenty-four-hour viruses." He watched her skeptically as she chewed. "Will you run the hot water in the bathtub and plug the drain? I think I'll try and take a bath before we head out to the rehab center."

"I can go on my own if you don't feel up—"

"Just run the goddamn bath, Jack." Sam glared at him with what little strength she had and he relented. "I'll be ready in a few." After he left she leaned her head back against the wall and breathed in the steam the hot running water produced. Morning sickness, she thought dismally. Wonderful.

As she soaked in the ceramic tub, she closed her eyes and thought of the phone call she'd made only six hours ago and of how the person she'd called was reacting six hours later. The hand held was on the sink counter less than a foot away. It seemed more like a mile. Flicking the soapy water from her fingers, she stretched to reach it and grabbed the phone to her body. She paused, and dialed a number. He answered on the second ring.

"Malone."

"Jack? Listen, I'm sorry, I don't think I'm up to going out there…"

"Fine, I understand," he interrupted gently. "I'll call you around eleven and give a report of anything I find. Just take it easy, all right?"

"Yeah, I will. Thanks," she said, her throat beginning to constrict. "Good luck." Sam hung up the phone and placed it back on the sink counter before submerging herself completely underwater.


Forty-five minutes later she was sitting on her still unmade bed, wrapped in a terrycloth robe with her hair bound by a towel on her head. She was applying lotion to her dry legs and feeling guilty about missing the visit to the rehab center in Winchester, although she knew she wouldn't have made fifteen minutes before feeling sick to her stomach again. She looked down at her stomach. The idea of pregnancy was still foreign to her, but the realization that something was changing inside of her was beginning to actualize.

She was going to have to tell him. She had already applied for a paternity test because the whirlwind month in which the baby was conceived left her confused and uncertain. She needed to get DNA samples from both of them, but how the hell was she supposed to ask for something like that? Um, yeah, Martin? Could I have a sample of your sperm for a quickie DNA test? You see, I'm not quite sure whose child I'm carrying and I thought I might want to find out… She smirked and fell back against the rumpled bed sheets.

Jack, not that our already complicated beyond belief relationship could become anymore so, but I may or may not be having your baby; care to donate some sperm to find out?

She could already see his expression in her head.

"I gotta get out of here," she murmured to herself, staring up at the oddly patterned ceiling. So, a few minutes later, she threw on some semi-casual clothes, contemplated her appearance in the mirror (as well as what she'd look like with an engorged abdomen several months from now), and strode coolly out the door.

After she'd descended the stairs to the lobby, she looked to where a plump woman of about forty sat at a Victorian-esque couch with a mug of coffee in her hand. The woman glanced up when she heard Sam clear her throat.

"Good morning," she said brightly. "Would you like some breakfast?" Sam shook her head no and declined. The woman sighed and got to her feet. "Neither did your husband. You Yankees should learn to eat better; notice birds like me live longer with food in my stomach."

"He's not my husband," Sam corrected, but the woman didn't hear her. "Anyway, I was wondering if there was some sort of map or anything of the town that I could have?"

"Front porch on the left as your leaving," the woman called, picking up a piece of dark bacon and munching on it. "There's a list of sights and historical buildings, if you like that sort of thing."

"Thank you," Sam replied, when in truth all she wanted was a walk in which she wouldn't get lost. As the woman said, a stack of maps was waiting for her on the front porch and she took one hastily before flinging herself outdoors.

It was cold, and so she stuffed her arms into a long, wool sweater-jacket her mother made her two Christmases ago. The air was thick and damp with early morning dew and fog that smelled so sweet she opened her mouth to taste it. She suddenly realized how Jack meant when he described this place to her. It was beautiful in a way that its beauty was untouched by modern industry and sound pollution.

She sighed just to break the silence. Sam squinted and saw a square brick building with a painted sign hanging over the entrance. From the plate and silverware portrayed on the black surface, she took it to be a nostalgic restaurant from the eighteenth century, and with a smile, fed her secret passion for history.

A bell on the front door chimed against the glass as she entered. Sam looked around at the warm interior and smiled to herself. A fire was beginning to liven in a large brick fireplace and wide-paneled wooden floor stretched on either side of her, supporting reminiscent tables and chairs as well as a built in bench beneath the front two windows. It was quaint, homey, and made her simply want to melt into a puddle.

Why would someone ever leave here? She thought mindlessly, her thoughts of Mrs. Romero.

"Ma'am, can I get you a table?" Sam looked up into the eyes of a middle-aged woman with a black apron around her hips.

"Could I—is that seat by the fire available?" The woman smiled and set a menu and silverware at the table Sam indicated. "Thanks. The fire looks great."

"Everyone loves this seat. D'you know, George Washington used to come into this very restaurant every morning for breakfast in the late 1700s or so? He used to sit in this very spot." The waitress looked nostalgically at the chair Sam now occupied as if she could remember the famed customer. "And, Stonewall Jackson saved this place from being burned to the ground in the Civil War."

"No kidding?" Sam said in disbelief, and the woman nodded blankly. "This is quite a place." The waitress chuckled and took out an order book.

"Not from around here, then?" she asked patiently.

"New York," Sam admitted, scanning the leather menu. "I'm investigating a missing person's case for the city." From the corner of her eye, she saw the woman's smile falter.

"Who is it you're looking for?" Sam looked up and was surprised to see the woman's face had lost its glow and was now almost pale.

"Two girls," Sam replied, lowering her menu. "Rebecca and Isabel Romero." The woman blanched and grabbed onto the chair opposite Samantha. "Did you—did you know them?"

"Know them?" The waitress sighed looking sadly into Sam's wide eyes. "I was their aunt." Samantha dropped her menu on the table, suddenly losing her ravenous appetite. "And their crackpot mother was my sister."

"If I could ask you some questions, Mrs…?"

"Davis. You can call me Sue."

"Sue, if I could talk to you about the girls and Mrs. Romero, it would benefit the case immensely." Suddenly Sam was out of introverted, newly maternal instinct and in her baggy sweater and jeans, she was the composed professional from New York, investigating a case.

Sue sniffed and looked up as a couple entered the small tavern, waved, and moved to a vacant table. "I don't know how much I can help, missy; Eliza kept people out of her life and her children's. Even to her relatives."

Sam took the woman's hand which was trembling ever so slightly. "Anything will help, Mrs. Davis." Sue looked into Sam's eyes and nodded after exhaling slowly.

"I'll do what I can. Let me get the Greene's their coffee. They're here every morning." She stood up and smiled at her customer as if nothing had happen out of the ordinary. "Would you like some tea, missy?"

Sam nodded with a brief smile before digging in the knit purse she'd brought with her for a pad and pen. There were a few sheets of crumpled paper on the very bottom and a colored pencil. It would have to do.


Author's Note: Well, there you have it. Nothing too eventful, I know, but it'sa transition period. All reviews, critiques, flames are welcome...hopefully constructive. Thanks for your patience and interest. --LV :-)