Notes: I realized that I didn't remind at the very beginning of this story that Mignon and Larry Germaine are canon characters from season 8's The Fatal Fetish, for anyone who might be coming in on this story and hasn't read the previous one. The backstory Hamilton relates in this chapter is my own idea, however.

Chapter Eleven

Andy felt uncomfortable as he stood to the side of the hospital bed, gazing down at the unconscious man upon it. The patient was a stranger to him, as far as he knew. And yet the district attorney and that detective both insisted that Andy was like a son to him.

"Do we know each other?" Andy was embarrassed to even be asking the question, whether or not he thought he would receive a response. He did not. The only answer was the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Holding his hat in his hands, Andy turned away and began to pace the floor. "You know, several days ago I never would have believed that I would be here tonight, waiting for news on your health. I'm just a quiet, unassuming principal of an elementary school in the Valley. The stories I was told about our knowing each other have been so preposterous. And yet . . . well, things have happened that make it impossible for me to outright reject them."

He stopped walking as a tremor shook the building. Tragg was not bothered; he did not so much as stir. Then it was over just as suddenly as it had begun.

"That's been happening so much tonight," Andy muttered with a frown. He paused. ". . . And now my scars are acting up again."

One of the things that he had initially dismissed as utter nonsense was the tale about him having been shot and nearly killed by Vivalene. But when he had inquired further and asked where he had been shot, the answer had chilled him.

"As I understand it, you were shot in the back, right about here." Hamilton had indicated the spot on his own back. "And it came out here." He had pointed to his right side.

Andy had watched in fascinated horror. "Here and here?" He had shaken his head, unable to comprehend it. "No . . . that can't be."

"Why not?" Hamilton had retorted.

Andy's expression was probably still burned in Hamilton's mind. "Because I have two scars in those exact locations. Scars that I've never been able to account for."

They pained him occasionally, usually when the weather was bad. They had acted up tonight during every one of the earthquakes. As Andy moved about now, he felt somewhat stiff.

"Did I really die?" he wondered, his voice hushed. "Did my spirit wander?"

Both Hamilton and Paul had felt awkward telling that to Andy, but they had in the desperate hope that Andy would remember something about such a unique and eerie experience. He did not. However, he had not had a decent night's sleep since being told.

"I keep waking up with the feeling that someone is trying to contact me," he said, half to the unconscious man and half to the room. "I hear him calling me in my dreams, but I don't know who it is. And yet . . . I feel like I'm supposed to know." He slapped his hat against his leg. "It's the most maddening thing!"

He stared into the distance. Hamilton and Paul had also mentioned Andy's friend Otto Norden, killed in the line of duty. Andy had traveled with him during his out-of-body experience. If someone actually was trying to get in touch with him through his dreams, could it be Otto?

Or was he allowing himself to be completely taken in with these tales? He still could not fully grasp their truth. Maybe his mind was fabricating all sensations of someone attempting to make contact.

But what if it wasn't? What if it was all real, just as he had been told?

He sighed, turning away. "I don't even know why I came here," he confessed. "Maybe I was looking for some answers. But if I was, I haven't found any. Only more questions."

"Andy . . ."

He jumped a mile, whirling to stare at Tragg in wide-eyed shock. Tragg was awake again, his eyes glassy but obviously focused directly on Andy. Andy rushed back to the bedside.

"You know my name?" he said in astonishment. "How?"

Tragg paused. Confusion passed across his face. "I don't know," he said. "You . . . don't look familiar to me. And yet you say I called you by your right name?"

"Yes," Andy said. "My name is Andrew Anderson."

Tragg frowned, leaning back into the pillows. "Mr. Burger told me about you," he rasped. "That's all I know of you." He gazed into the distance. "And still I woke up with your name on my tongue, while you're right here in the room. That's an odd coincidence."

"It is, isn't it," Andy said. Suddenly he was many times more unsettled than when he had come in.

"You didn't introduce yourself when you came in, did you?" Tragg wondered.

"No," Andy said. "You weren't awake, so I didn't make an introduction."

"How strange," Tragg mused. "Strange indeed."

xxxx

Hamilton was overwhelmed. He stood with Paul in the waiting room near the Emergency entrance, watching out the darkened window for the arrival of an ambulance. Their exchange from the past few moments was playing over and over in his mind.

"Oh! I'm glad I caught you before you could leave," Paul had said several minutes ago. He had jogged up to Hamilton almost as soon as Hamilton had departed Lieutenant Tragg's room. "You might want to sit tight here for a while."

Hamilton had stiffened, staring at Paul in concern. "Why? What's happened now?" he had demanded.

Paul had looked honestly regretful and sickened as he had replied. "Perry just called. Apparently Larry Germaine was badly beaten. They're bringing him in to the hospital now."

Hamilton would not be surprised if he had gone sheet-white at that news. "How serious is it?" he had gasped.

"I don't know," Paul had said. "But Perry also said Mignon was really shaken up."

That was not a surprise. Larry was the most important thing in Mignon's life. For him to be hurt was the worst possible blow Vivalene or anyone could have dealt her.

". . . How long have you known the Germaines?"

Hamilton looked up with a start. "It's been years," he said in surprise. "I knew Mignon even before she was married."

Paul gave a low whistle. "Wow. So over twenty years then."

"Yes." Hamilton stared out the window without really seeing anything. "And she was always as stubborn and strong-willed as she is now. When I met her, she was just new to Los Angeles, trying to start out in show business. She never did make it too big in Hollywood, but she found she liked telling a story through dance better. She'd already danced some in New Orleans."

"So . . . were you two ever . . ." Paul trailed off, suddenly realizing how awkward this question was. But he had already started it and now Burger was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Well, more than friends?" Paul addressed the rest of his query to the windowsill.

Hamilton looked like he was not sure whether to be amused or appalled that Paul had asked. "No," he said. "We're good friends. We have been since shortly after we met. There's never been anything else between us."

"Oh," Paul said. Now he could not think of anything else to say.

"I was friends with her husband too," Hamilton said. "The three of us did things together a lot."

"Well, that's good," Paul said slowly. "That you all got along, I mean." He hesitated. "What about Larry?"

Hamilton blinked. "What about him?"

"Did he get along with you?" Paul clarified.

"Oh sure," Hamilton said. "I didn't see him too much, though." He sighed. "It wasn't that long after he was born that I got insanely busy. We were all pretty young then. I was trying to get started with what I wanted to do in life. And Mignon was focusing most of her attention on being Larry's mother. She gave up her career until Jack died and she needed to find a way to make a living."

"She's done pretty well for herself," Paul said.

Hamilton nodded. "I'm not even sure what her backstory is in this place," he frowned. "She's a voodoo priestess here. That's about all I know. She told me that when we were looking through her books."

"Was she always into that kind of thing?" Paul wondered.

"For quite a long time, at least," Hamilton said. "She's from New Orleans. She learned a lot about it down there. Around here, she was always involved with the Creole and voodoo communities."

"Hamilton Burger, friends with a voodoo priestess." Paul shook his head. "Now that's something I never would have pictured."

"Whether she was a priestess or not wouldn't have any bearing on if we're friends," Hamilton said.

"I know, but it still sounds kind of off-the-wall," Paul said.

"We've always disagreed on voodoo and the existence of magic, I'll tell you that," Hamilton said.

"What did Jack think?" Paul could not help feeling curious.

"Jack wasn't really into it, either, but he let her do what she wanted," Hamilton said. "Larry takes more after Jack in that respect. But he has Mignon's stubbornness."

Paul nodded. "I figured out that much."

Something caught his eye out the window. "Hey," he announced. "An ambulance is pulling up now. I think I see Mignon."

Hamilton came to immediate attention. "Yes, that's her," he declared. He hurried to the corridor. The paramedics were rushing Larry in on a stretcher, shouting instructions to each other as they entered the ER. Mignon followed behind, almost as if in a daze. She stopped in front of the closing emergency room doors, gazing through their small square windows.

Della was not far behind her, apparently having come along to try to offer support and comfort. Perry was not there. He had probably lingered behind at the house, looking for clues.

Hamilton hastened to Mignon's side. "Mignon," he started to say.

She cut him off without looking at him, instead continuing to stare blankly at the windows. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burger," she said, her voice quiet and unshakable. "I can't do any more for you. They will return and kill Larry if I try."

Hamilton rocked back. He should have expected this twist. Of course Vivalene would get to Mignon through Larry. Beating up Mignon would not likely have frightened her enough to back out. Beating up her son was more than enough ammunition to achieve the desired result.

". . . Do you know who they were?" he asked.

"No," Mignon said. Finally she turned to face him. "And if I knew, I could not tell you."

"Mignon, I'm sorry about Larry," Hamilton said—and he truly was. "I'm worried about him and I don't want him to be hurt any worse than he already is. But how can you let these people rule your lives like this? What kind of life will Larry even have in the world they're trying to make?"

"At least he will have a life," Mignon said. "Mr. Burger, you don't need me. You have other associates who are helping you now." And they will probably be targeted next. The unspoken words hung in the air.

Hamilton ignored them. "You're wrong, Mignon," he protested. "I do need you. But it isn't because I need you to do more research for me." He looked into her eyes. "I need you to try to remember the truth. I need your support."

She hesitated for a long moment. Then, slowly, she touched his arm. "They can't force me to want them to win," she said. "I will keep trying to remember. But regardless of that, you have my support, Mr. Burger. I will be praying for your success."

"Thank you," Hamilton said in all sincerity.

Mignon walked past him to the waiting room. Hamilton watched her before turning away with a frustrated sigh. One step forward, two steps back.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burger."

He turned around at the sound of those same words spoken by another voice. Perry had come alongside Della. Both were grim and sobered.

"I knew it would be a blow to you, for Mrs. Germaine to withdraw her services," Perry continued.

"It is," Hamilton admitted, looking from him to Della and back. "But more than that, I'm furious that they've hurt Larry. This is going too far!"

Della nodded in full agreement. "I think I should go to her," she said. From her worried face, she was torn, also wanting to be there for Hamilton if she could.

Hamilton noticed and was grateful. "Yes," he said. "Mignon could use a friend right now. Please, go to her."

Della hurried past. Perry and Hamilton glanced her way, then looked back to each other.

"Where did you come from, Perry?" Hamilton wondered. "I thought you were back at the Germaines' house."

"I was following a bit behind the ambulance," Perry said. "I had to find a place to park." He sighed. "I'm afraid there wasn't much to see at the Germaines' house, other than the toppled furniture."

"Did Larry say anything?" Hamilton asked. "Howie Peterson said he sounded like he knew who was breaking in."

Perry shook his head. "Larry was in too much pain to say anything," he said. "And Mrs. Germaine didn't know who it was. She was awakened by the commotion in the living room. When she went in, two men dressed in black trenchcoats were fleeing to the door. One of them called over his shoulder, 'This is what happens to anyone who supports the district attorney in his madness. Goodnight, Mrs. Germaine.' She didn't recognize the voice."

Hamilton started to pace. "I should have guessed Vivalene would try something like this," he said. "I shouldn't have got Mignon involved!"

"Of course you should have," Perry returned. "If your words are truth, then this affects every one of us. It should be in all of our greatest interest to see that this mystery is solved."

Hamilton nodded. "I know that, but . . ." He stopped, turning to face Perry with questions in his eyes. For a split second he had forgotten that Perry did not remember. The exchange had been so natural.

Perry sighed. "I believe something strange is going on," he said. "I don't know that I believe Vivalene is involved. There isn't any proof."

"There's never any proof," Hamilton said in disgust. "But Perry, you told the police she might have hired someone to knife me!"

"And I don't know why I did," Perry said. "Tragg was right—disloyalty to my secretary isn't like me." He shook his head. "I tried to call Vivalene afterwards. She claimed she was at home with a TV dinner and that she was horrified over someone trying to kill you."

"Of course she'd say that," Hamilton muttered.

"I know what you're thinking," Perry said. "That she's not my secretary. I don't know that, either."

"But you know that being with Della feels right," Hamilton said. "Why can't you fully accept that? Why does part of you still hinge on Vivalene?" His shoulders slumped. "Nevermind. That's a stupid question. Me being a skeptic, I should understand your reasons better than some."

Perry managed a half-smirk, devoid of any real humor. "It doesn't feel so good on that side of the argument, does it."

"No, it doesn't." Hamilton frowned. "But you make it sound like it's something new to me. I'm often trying to get the court to believe the cases I'm presenting, and when you're around, I usually have a tough time of it."

"That's true," Perry mused.

"But it's not important right now," Hamilton said.

Perry nodded. "Della told me about this man with the private museum," he said. "Paul is going to investigate, I presume."

"Yes," Hamilton said, but he was distracted by what else Perry had said. "Perry, you said 'Della'!"

Perry opened his mouth to retort and closed it again. ". . . Instead of 'Miss Street', you mean," he deduced.

Hamilton nodded. "You must be feeling pretty comfortable around her."

"I am," Perry acknowledged. He gazed with thoughtfulness into the distance. "Yes, I am."

xxxx

Mignon looked up as Della approached. "Has there been any news?" she asked without hope.

Della shook her head. "I'm sorry." She came to stand with the other woman at the window. "It might be a while before we hear anything. Why don't you come sit down?"

"Thank you, no." Mignon gripped her arms. "I can't relax when Larry is hurt." A shudder went up her spine.

"It must have been horrible," Della said in sympathy.

Mignon nodded. "When I went into the living room and found him on the floor, my world collapsed around me." She wrung her hands. "I feel badly to leave Mr. Burger in the lurch, but I can't risk my son's life." She searched Della's eyes questioningly. "Do you think I shouldn't have refused to keep helping Mr. Burger?"

Della was surprised. Uncomfortable at being put on the spot, she considered her words before replying. "I think you should do what you think is best," she said at last. "Of course you wouldn't want Larry to be hurt any more." She watched Mignon, trying to figure out what she was thinking. Was Mignon having doubts herself that she had done the right thing?

Mignon sighed, walking away from the window. "I never would have thought that Hamilton Burger would come to me for help," she said. "It meant a lot to me that he was willing to set aside his pride and call on the 'vodun priestess'. It showed his level of desperation. Of course, then he started telling me what was wrong and I no longer knew what to think."

"I thought you believed him," Della said in surprise.

"I did," Mignon nodded. "I still do. And yet I haven't been able to let go of the way I remember the past. To think of a world where he did not hurt me and we did not have a falling out seems too incredible, too unreal. When I see the pain in his eyes it pierces me. But it does nothing to help me reject all that I remember and thought I knew."

"That would be hard for anyone," Della said. "It would take a lot of faith."

"I thought I had faith," Mignon said. "I have meditated on and prayed about what he's told me, but all I feel is troubled. That doesn't mean that it's false; it could simply be my own unrest getting in the way of my receiving an answer. I don't think I realized just how deeply Mr. Burger's unkind words have been ingrained in my heart until I became faced with the possibility that they never happened."

Della looked down. She was not sure what to say. She was not going through what Mignon was. For her part, she found it relatively easy to set aside what she had thought was true and accept that maybe something else was true instead. That stirring, that longing, in her heart spoke to her so clearly. Did Mignon not feel something similar? Or was her unrest blocking it out?

The hospital shook with the force of another earthquake. Stronger than the previous tremors, it rocked the room and the lights. A lamp came dangerously close to vibrating off an end table. Several magazines slipped to the floor. As it calmed, a murmur rose among the others in the waiting room.

Mignon gripped her arms. "The bubble is flickering again," she noted. "More powerfully this time." She gazed out at the sky as it darkened. Energy leaping from the encasing continued to provide an occasional flash.

"It's beautiful," Della said. "If it really is connected with the spell, isn't it a good thing for it to flicker? Mr. Burger said you thought it meant the spell's power might be weakening."

"I don't know," Mignon sighed. "I'm unsure of everything connected with the spell. I just hope that Mr. Drake locates the box and the slab."

"I'm sure he'll be doing everything he can to find them," Della said. "He found me. And Mr. Anderson too, although that was quite by accident."

"What does Mr. Anderson think about all this?" Mignon asked.

"He isn't sure," Della said. "But I think he's starting to give in."

Mignon sighed. "I wish I could."

Della laid a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe when you hear that Larry will be alright," she said.

"Maybe," Mignon agreed without much hope.

She glanced at a holiday garland that had been draped in front of the nurses' station. "It's difficult to even feel festive under these circumstances," she remarked.

Della nodded. "I think that's when we need this season the most," she said.

"You are wise, Miss Street," Mignon said.

A bit embarrassed, Della shook her head. "I'm just someone who knows how comforting it can be," she said.

xxxx

The rest of the night passed in worried discomfort for everyone involved. Paul left the hospital, determining that instead of getting any sleep he would commence the search for Mr. Vann. Perry decided to try again to seek for possible information on Vivalene's involvement. Andy also left, shaken over the experience in Lieutenant Tragg's room and returning home to ponder in solitude.

That was the last departure of which Hamilton was aware. Exhausted and bearing badly frayed nerves after the long and agonizing night, he went back to the lounge where he and Paul had quarreled and sank into the couch. No one else was around, so he lay down and soon was sound asleep.

He could have been out of it for five minutes or five hours for all he knew. When a feminine hand grasped his shoulder and an urgent voice cried, "Mr. Burger!" he started awake in an instant.

"What is it?" he exclaimed.

Della was standing over him, her eyes filled with panic. "I'm sorry I had to wake you, but Lieutenant Tragg is gone!"

Hamilton leaped off the couch in disbelieving alarm and dread. "What do you mean 'gone'?" he retorted.

Realizing what he might be thinking, she hurried to clarify. "I mean literally gone," she said. "He's not in his room and his clothes are missing! A patient swears he went past her room and outside, all by himself!"

Hamilton headed for the door, relieved on one count but worried on another. "He isn't well enough to be out!" he burst out as he hastened into the hall. "And he should know that. Where would he go?"

"No one knows!" Della said, running after him. "The police are checking his house, but if he's going there he isn't there yet. They're also checking all the possible ways to get there."

"This patient is sure no one was with him," Hamilton said. Vivalene would be brazen enough to abduct someone she wanted from the hospital.

"Yes," Della said. "Oh Mr. Burger, what are we going to do?"

"I'm going to put some of my investigators on it too," Hamilton said. "And then I'm going to go look myself. Do Perry and Paul know?"

"I called them," Della said. "I couldn't reach Paul, but Perry—I mean, Mr. Mason—said he would start looking right away."

Hamilton frowned. Had Paul run into some trouble while looking for Mr. Vann? On the other hand, maybe he had just fallen asleep somewhere. He was probably just as worn-out as Hamilton.

"I'll check Paul's home and his office," Hamilton decided.

"Mr. Burger, I want to help you look for him and Lieutenant Tragg," Della implored.

Hamilton only slowed his pace for a brief moment. Della was still stubborn too, in her own way.

"Alright," he relented, both because he did not have time to argue and he welcomed another pair of eyes. "But stay right with me!"

"Don't worry," Della smiled. "I can follow orders."

"Most of the time anyway," Hamilton muttered.

Louder he asked, "How's Larry?"

Della let out a sad sigh. "The doctors think he'll make it, but he hasn't woke up yet. Mignon has been with him ever since they let her go in."

"And she hasn't had any sleep herself," Hamilton knew. "Was I asleep a long time?"

"Four or five hours," Della said.

Hamilton glanced at the clock, trying to push aside the feelings of guilt for having managed to sleep when Mignon had had none. "What's Larry's room number? I want to stop and look in on them before we go."

"It's right down this hall," Della said. "The last door on the right."

Hamilton hurried over and eased the door open. Larry, bandaged and bruised, was lying unconscious in the bed. Mignon was in the sole chair, watching him.

"Hi," Hamilton said quietly from the doorway.

Mignon looked up. "Larry is supposed to recover," she greeted. "I'm going to stay with him. I assume you're going to look for the missing lieutenant?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. "Mignon, you should really try to get some sleep yourself." It was pointless to say it, but he did anyway.

"I'll sleep," Mignon said, "after Larry wakes up and shows me he will be alright."

"That could be a while," Hamilton said gently.

"I will wait as long I must," Mignon said, leaving no room for argument.

Hamilton sighed. "Alright. I'll check with you when we get back."

Mignon nodded in reply. ". . . Be careful," she said after a pause.

"We will," Hamilton said, and quietly shut the door.

xxxx

Steve Drumm, hardboiled private eye, was typing furiously on his laptop, seeking any and all information on the man his latest client was attempting to find. This person did not want to be found. Steve could not even discover if he was outside of Los Angeles. Of course, on the other hand, that might not have anything to do with the guy at all.

He smacked the edge of the laptop with the palm of his hand. Something was outrageously wrong with all the channels of communication. Connecting to any website based outside of Los Angeles had been almost impossible for the last few days. And of course there was the thing with all travel outside the county limits being down. No one could even offer a valid reason why.

In agitation he got up from his desk. He had encountered fellow private investigator Vern St. Cloud outside the building where they had their separate offices. Vern, who all too often over-looked important clues, had shrugged everything off and said he was sure they knew what they were doing. It was absolutely aggravating.

But Steve could not blame that nonchalant attitude solely on Vern, not this time. It was the reaction Steve had been getting from almost everyone. By now he wanted to kick something and yell Doesn't anyone care that something is wrong in this city? Why was everyone so lethargic? It did not make sense!

A thump against his office door made him jump a mile. Well, so someone else had kicked something. He strode over and pulled the door open.

A shaking and sickly man fell into his arms. In shock he braced himself, staring beyond the windblown hair into the careworn and bewildered face. Why, he knew this man! "Lieutenant Tragg!" he exclaimed.

Tragg gripped his shoulder with a trembling hand. "Something's wrong in my head," he gasped. His eyes were glassy but filled with fright. "There's another voice in there, whispering to me. Help me, please!"