(5)
A search of Vicki's room had turned up her diary in the stand beside the bed. Sam firmly quashed a flicker of guilt; he often had to snoop in the service of a Leap. Curling up on the bed, he began to read.
Vicki kept her diary conscientiously. The daily entries revealed a sensitive, introspective individual who was fascinated by the history of her employers' family. As he skimmed the journal, Sam learned more about the Collins family history than he really wanted to know. He could only wish that she had been a bit more observant about the people currently residing at Collinwood.
He turned the page. Maybe there was something useful...A name caught his eye. He stopped skimming, and settled down to read the passage more carefully.
It quickly became clear that she had started to develop romantic feelings for the modern Barnabas Collins. Even so, Sam got the impression this too was colored with her fascination for the past, as he read about Barnabas' courtly manner and old-world charm. She wrote that there was something about him that was at once strange and familiar...especially the "dark fire in his eyes" when he looked at her.
Reading further only strengthened his impression of her as a hopeless romantic-- but also a lonely person in search of an identity. She was an orphan, without roots or family, and she yearned desperately for some sense of history to call her own. For some reason, she seemed to feel that, at Collinwood, she might find at least a clue to her mysterious past. But, according to her journal, all she had found so far were more mysteries.
Setting the diary aside, he scrubbed tiredly at his eyes. He hoped Al was having more luck back at the Project. A glance at the clock informed him that several hours had passed since he'd begun his search. He sighed. No wonder his eyes felt like he could use them for sandpaper.
Deciding he wasn't going to achieve anything by hiding in Vicki's room, he ventured out to explore the house. By trial and error, he located the main stairs and headed down them.
On the landing, he stumbled to a halt, startled by the sight of a familiar face gazing down at him from the wall.
He stared at the full-length portrait, his eidetic memory supplying a mental snapshot of the man he'd seen the night before. There was no mistaking the resemblance. In fact, except for the 18th-century clothes, they might be the same man. Was this what was confusing Ziggy, causing him to fixate on the previous Barnabas? Sam hoped that glitch would be corrected soon; he needed all the help he could get.
As if conjured by the thought, Al suddenly stepped through a glowing Door which had appeared without warning on the staircase. The Observer glanced at the painting--and did a classic double-take. Taking the ubiquitous cigar from his mouth, Al waved it at the portrait. "Hey, that's our guy! " He frowned. "Why is he dressed like that?"
"Never mind that now," Sam said impatiently. "Please tell me there's good news."
"Depends on your definition of 'good.'" Al stuck the cigar back in his mouth and waggled the 'link at Sam. "Verbena's been talking to our Visitor, but..."
"But?" prompted Sam, fearing the worst.
"She still insists there's a vampire on the loose." Al automatically covered his throat, evoking a faint grin from Sam.
"I'll bet you're thrilled about that."
"As long as one doesn't actually jump out at me with fangs bared--" Al grumbled, then noticed Sam's pointed gaze, and hastily stuffed the offending hand in his pocket.
"You've checked the data?" Sam asked.
"Fourteen ways from Sunday. Ziggy says he's right, we're all wrong,...and Barnabas Collins is an extremely well-preserved 200 year old man."
Sam sighed. "Check it again, all right?"
Al tossed off a casual salute. "Back in a flash."
He summoned the Door and stepped through. The Door wasn't really there, of course, any more than Al was really there. It was a conceit, designed to ease the transition between Project and Leap site for both Observer and Leaper. It served as a kind of visual metaphor, a buffer for the Observer's comings and goings. Most importantly, from Sam's point of view, it kept Al from winking on and off like a defective television set.
Or a ghost.
Sam felt an unexpected shiver ripple down his spine. Chiding himself--he was getting as bad as Al--Sam nonetheless wished that particular analogy hadn't occurred to him. Without thinking, he turned and wandered back to his room.
He was startled to find the music box open. Wondering who could've set it to playing, he glanced around the room--and found himself staring at a little girl of about nine or ten. Sam had no idea who she was; Al hadn't mentioned any Collins children except David.
She was studying him closely, a puzzled frown drawing her fine brows together. "Who are you?" she asked. "You're not Miss Winters."
One of the oddities of Quantum Leaping (and there were many) was the ability of certain people to see him as himself. Usually, the phenomenon was limited to small children, animals, and a few others. This girl seemed older than the usual age (about five), but it was obvious she wasn't seeing Victoria Winters.
Not without a qualm or two, Sam said, "My name is Sam. What's yours?"
"Sarah."
An electric shock jolted down his spine. That was one of the names in Vicki's diary, one of the Collins ancestors. Carefully, he said, "Sarah...Collins."
She nodded. "Where is Miss Winters?"
"Away," Sam said vaguely. "I've sort of taken her place for a little while. Don't worry, she's safe."
"I'm glad." Her inquisitive gaze fell on the music box as Sam reached for it and gently closed the lid. "That was Josette's. My big brother gave it to her."
Was he really having this conversation? "Your brother?"
"Barnabas. He gave it to Miss Winters, too."
He gave it to Miss Winters, too? Sam stared at her. Was she confusing the two men, as Ziggy was? Or...could it be there was only one Barnabas Collins, a man somehow displaced 200 years in time?
"Why are you here?" Sarah asked.
Good question. Unfortunately, he didn't have a good answer. Sam sat down on the bench before the dressing table. "Sarah, do you know why anyone would want to hurt Miss Winters?"
From reading Vicki's diary, he had formed an opinion of his host, and she didn't seem like a woman on the verge of suicide, despite her obvious loneliness. Her writings had painted a portrait of a lively spirit, determined, intelligent, and remarkably well-adjusted, despite her romantic leanings.
"Hurt her?" Sarah's smooth brow furrowed. "No, he doesn't want to hurt her. It's because of Josette, you see."
Intent on every nuance, Sam leaned closer. "Who doesn't want to hurt her, Sarah? Barnabas? Please, honey, if you know something, you have to tell me. I'm here to help Miss Winters."
"It was the witch, before, who tried to hurt her. Barnabas loves Miss Winters, but it's because of Josette. He wants Miss Winters to be his new Josette."
Sam's head was spinning. He closed his eyes trying to make sense of it all. "Sarah..." There was no answer. He opened his eyes, looked around. She was gone, as if she'd never been there. He hadn't heard the door open or close, so how ...?
Had he spent the last few minutes talking to a ghost?
Ridiculous. Sam rose and began to pace, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. "Ghosts..."
"Ghosts? Where?" Al's voice went up half an octave, and he nearly gave himself whiplash trying to look in all directions at once. "Where?"
Sam yelped and nearly fell over the bench. He hadn't heard the Door; Al must have come in out in the hallway. "Don't do that!" he said, righting himself. He'd once threatened to make the Observer wear a bell; it still seemed like a good idea.
"What do you mean 'ghosts'?" Al demanded, getting back to the heart of the matter.
"That doesn't matter--"
"Maybe not to you--"
"Al." Sam didn't have the energy to deal with his friend's paranormal paranoia. "Just tell me what happened when Victoria showed up in the Waiting Room. Before she was sedated."
Al consulted the handlink. "Well, she was pretty upset. She seemed to think someone was trying to kill her. And she wasn't sure whether it was 1790 or 1991."
When the Observer hesitated, Sam prompted, "What else?"
Al cleared his throat, stalling. "Sam, she wasn't exactly coherent at that point..."
"Al." Sam's tone conveyed the threat as clearly as if he'd spelled it out.
Al sighed. "She was calling out for someone named Sarah."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Al waved a cigar, freshly unwrapped from the packet Tina had given him. "There's no one named Sarah at Collinwood in 1991! Besides, it got really loopy after that. She was raving about witches, and this Barnabas fellow, shouting that he's a vampire."
"You're wrong," Sam said. "There is someone here named Sarah. I've talked to her."
One bushy black brow lifted. "Who is she, then?"
"I...don't know."
Picking up on the hesitancy in Sam's voice, and putting it together with the earlier remark about ghosts, Al groaned. "I really hate this bump in the night stuff!"
"Don't look at me, it wasn't my idea." Sam rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Is that all she said?"
"Isn't it enough?" The cigar went into the side of his mouth. "Verbena knocked her out right about then. We were afraid she'd hurt herself. "Or, more to the point, hurt Sam's body. "Verbena thinks she may be delusional. Maybe that explains that walk off a cliff."
Sam shook his head. "I still can't believe she'd kill herself. Besides, I saw Sarah. That wasn't a delusion."
Al glanced around sharply, as if expecting something gruesome to leap out at him from the woodwork. "I do not want to hear any more about spooks and specters! This place gives me the willies, as it is."
"She could see me, Al," Sam said. "The real me."
Looking uncomfortable, Al shrugged. "Still..."
"She told me that Barnabas is her brother."
Al jumped. "Now hold on just a minute. Are you trying to tell me that you think Ziggy is right? That this guy is actually the same...?"
"I don't know what to think," Sam admitted. "But it bears checking out."
"Wonderful." Ziggy would love that. Al's expression soured further; he'd have to apologize. Again. "If you really think I should..."
A voice from the doorway derailed that uncomfortable train of thought. Both men looked around to see who had called, "Miss Winters?"
A boy stood in the doorway. Nine or ten, incongruously formal in crisp tan slacks and a navy crested blazer. All that was missing was a miniature club tie, Sam thought, trying (and failing) to picture himself similarly attired at that age. He seemed to recall his mother despairing of ever getting him to church with his Sunday best intact. Of course, his brother Tom had played no small part in that...
"That's David," Al informed him, reading from the 'link. "Roger Collins' son." There was a pause, then he added, under his breath, "Poor kid."
Sam wondered what had occasioned the sympathy, but aloud only said, "Hello, David," and smiled at the solemn face turned up to his.
"When are you going to start my lessons, again?" the boy asked.
"Uh, well, I'm not sure." Sam shared a helpless look with Al, who shrugged; he didn't know either.
"Don't look at me," he said. "I'm not running this Leap."
"David! There you are!" Behind the boy, a second figure appeared in the doorway.
"Be still my heart." Al sighed happily, ogling the blonde's long legs, clearly displayed in a tight leather miniskirt.
Sam shot him a censorious look.
"What?" Al angled for a better view. "She can't hear me."
The young woman was scowling at the boy. "David, I told you not to bother, Vicki. She needs her rest."
"And that cute little..." Sam's withering expression caught him mid-thought, "...lady is Carolyn Stoddard, Elizabeth's daughter."
"But Carolyn," David whined, resisting as she pulled him out the door.
She was firm, hauling him by the arm back out into the hall. "You can talk to Vicki, tomorrow." She sent him on his way, then turned an apologetic look on Sam. "Sorry about that, he got away from me."
"It's okay." Sam remembered Elizabeth mentioning that Carolyn would be overseeing David until he (or, rather, Vicki), had recovered from whatever it was he was supposed to be recovering from. "I hope he isn't giving you any trouble."
She shrugged. "No more than usual. How about you, how are you feeling?"
"Better, I think."
"It's good to see you looking so well, Vicki. You really had us all worried, you know." Sam didn't know; that was the problem. Fortunately, she didn't wait for an answer. "But you're back now, and I'm sure you'll be your old self again in no time."
If only you knew, Sam thought, exchanging a wry look with the Observer. Aloud, he said, "I feel guilty about your having to do my job."
She laughed it off. "Oh, don't worry about that. David's actually been almost human, lately. Besides, Barnabas wouldn't like it if I let anything interfere with your recovery."
Something about the way she said it raised the hackles at the nape of his neck.
"Have you, uh, remembered anything?" she added, trying to sound casual and failing. "You know, about what happened to you in the past."
"No." He watched her relax. What were they all so afraid Vicki would remember? And, more troubling, why were they all so convinced she had actually traveled through time? "Carolyn--"
But she retreated into the hall. "Gotta run, Vicki." A strange half-smile touched her lips. "Barnabas is expecting me, and I don't want to keep him waiting."
Why did that simple statement send a shiver along his backbone? More confused than ever, Sam watched her go. So did Al, but his attention was focused more on the seductive sway of her hips than on her parting words.
"Do you have any idea what she was talking about?" Sam demanded, his voice shaking Al out of his almost meditative contemplation.
"Don't look at me." When the physicist made a disgusted noise in his throat and moved away, Al followed. "Look, I'm not The Amazing Calavicci, I can't read minds, you know. However, if you're interested, I do have some information for you."
"You have my undivided attention."
Al flourished the 'link. "In the last several months, there have been at least four unsolved murders. All the victims were completely drained of their blood."
Aghast, Sam stared at him. "You're not serious."
"Damn serious, Sam." The Observer chewed on his cigar. "Ziggy thinks there may be a connection to this Leap."
"What kind of connection?" Disturbing images were loose in Sam's mind.
In Al's, too. He tapped the handlink. "Officially, the cases were never really closed. There was some suspicion directed at a local man, a retired college professor. He died under mysterious circumstances."
"What exactly are 'mysterious circumstances'?"
"We don't know. That's why they're mysterious. Anyway," Al continued, "apparently the murders ended with this professor's death. But he wasn't the only suspect."
"Don't tell me, let me guess."
"Barnabas Collins," Al said flatly.
"Our Barnabas Collins?"
"The one and only," Al said, then looked as if he regretted the phrasing. He shrugged in annoyance. "You know what I mean."
"Do you think he did it?"
Another shrug. "The police never came up with anything conclusive--and neither have we. Unless you count Vicki's assertion that the man's a vampire."
It was obvious from Sam's glare that he didn't. The Observer pointed out, "No blood in the bodies, remember? It makes a kind of sick sense."
"If you believe in vampires," Sam said. "Which I don't."
"I dunno, Sam..." Al was far less convinced. "Remember Count Bathory?"
"No."
"Swiss cheese..." Al muttered. He shook off the bad memories Sam obviously no longer shared. Lucky man. "Never mind."
In his hand, the 'link screeched. Both men started, and Al slapped irritably at the offending device. "Damn it, Ziggy, don't do that."
He shot an apologetic glance at Sam. "I'd better go and see what the current crisis is."
Al keyed the Door code into the link, and the glowing rectangle of blue-white light appeared beside him. "I won't be gone long. I hope." Then he stepped into the light, and vanished, taking the light with him.
***
A search of Vicki's room had turned up her diary in the stand beside the bed. Sam firmly quashed a flicker of guilt; he often had to snoop in the service of a Leap. Curling up on the bed, he began to read.
Vicki kept her diary conscientiously. The daily entries revealed a sensitive, introspective individual who was fascinated by the history of her employers' family. As he skimmed the journal, Sam learned more about the Collins family history than he really wanted to know. He could only wish that she had been a bit more observant about the people currently residing at Collinwood.
He turned the page. Maybe there was something useful...A name caught his eye. He stopped skimming, and settled down to read the passage more carefully.
It quickly became clear that she had started to develop romantic feelings for the modern Barnabas Collins. Even so, Sam got the impression this too was colored with her fascination for the past, as he read about Barnabas' courtly manner and old-world charm. She wrote that there was something about him that was at once strange and familiar...especially the "dark fire in his eyes" when he looked at her.
Reading further only strengthened his impression of her as a hopeless romantic-- but also a lonely person in search of an identity. She was an orphan, without roots or family, and she yearned desperately for some sense of history to call her own. For some reason, she seemed to feel that, at Collinwood, she might find at least a clue to her mysterious past. But, according to her journal, all she had found so far were more mysteries.
Setting the diary aside, he scrubbed tiredly at his eyes. He hoped Al was having more luck back at the Project. A glance at the clock informed him that several hours had passed since he'd begun his search. He sighed. No wonder his eyes felt like he could use them for sandpaper.
Deciding he wasn't going to achieve anything by hiding in Vicki's room, he ventured out to explore the house. By trial and error, he located the main stairs and headed down them.
On the landing, he stumbled to a halt, startled by the sight of a familiar face gazing down at him from the wall.
He stared at the full-length portrait, his eidetic memory supplying a mental snapshot of the man he'd seen the night before. There was no mistaking the resemblance. In fact, except for the 18th-century clothes, they might be the same man. Was this what was confusing Ziggy, causing him to fixate on the previous Barnabas? Sam hoped that glitch would be corrected soon; he needed all the help he could get.
As if conjured by the thought, Al suddenly stepped through a glowing Door which had appeared without warning on the staircase. The Observer glanced at the painting--and did a classic double-take. Taking the ubiquitous cigar from his mouth, Al waved it at the portrait. "Hey, that's our guy! " He frowned. "Why is he dressed like that?"
"Never mind that now," Sam said impatiently. "Please tell me there's good news."
"Depends on your definition of 'good.'" Al stuck the cigar back in his mouth and waggled the 'link at Sam. "Verbena's been talking to our Visitor, but..."
"But?" prompted Sam, fearing the worst.
"She still insists there's a vampire on the loose." Al automatically covered his throat, evoking a faint grin from Sam.
"I'll bet you're thrilled about that."
"As long as one doesn't actually jump out at me with fangs bared--" Al grumbled, then noticed Sam's pointed gaze, and hastily stuffed the offending hand in his pocket.
"You've checked the data?" Sam asked.
"Fourteen ways from Sunday. Ziggy says he's right, we're all wrong,...and Barnabas Collins is an extremely well-preserved 200 year old man."
Sam sighed. "Check it again, all right?"
Al tossed off a casual salute. "Back in a flash."
He summoned the Door and stepped through. The Door wasn't really there, of course, any more than Al was really there. It was a conceit, designed to ease the transition between Project and Leap site for both Observer and Leaper. It served as a kind of visual metaphor, a buffer for the Observer's comings and goings. Most importantly, from Sam's point of view, it kept Al from winking on and off like a defective television set.
Or a ghost.
Sam felt an unexpected shiver ripple down his spine. Chiding himself--he was getting as bad as Al--Sam nonetheless wished that particular analogy hadn't occurred to him. Without thinking, he turned and wandered back to his room.
He was startled to find the music box open. Wondering who could've set it to playing, he glanced around the room--and found himself staring at a little girl of about nine or ten. Sam had no idea who she was; Al hadn't mentioned any Collins children except David.
She was studying him closely, a puzzled frown drawing her fine brows together. "Who are you?" she asked. "You're not Miss Winters."
One of the oddities of Quantum Leaping (and there were many) was the ability of certain people to see him as himself. Usually, the phenomenon was limited to small children, animals, and a few others. This girl seemed older than the usual age (about five), but it was obvious she wasn't seeing Victoria Winters.
Not without a qualm or two, Sam said, "My name is Sam. What's yours?"
"Sarah."
An electric shock jolted down his spine. That was one of the names in Vicki's diary, one of the Collins ancestors. Carefully, he said, "Sarah...Collins."
She nodded. "Where is Miss Winters?"
"Away," Sam said vaguely. "I've sort of taken her place for a little while. Don't worry, she's safe."
"I'm glad." Her inquisitive gaze fell on the music box as Sam reached for it and gently closed the lid. "That was Josette's. My big brother gave it to her."
Was he really having this conversation? "Your brother?"
"Barnabas. He gave it to Miss Winters, too."
He gave it to Miss Winters, too? Sam stared at her. Was she confusing the two men, as Ziggy was? Or...could it be there was only one Barnabas Collins, a man somehow displaced 200 years in time?
"Why are you here?" Sarah asked.
Good question. Unfortunately, he didn't have a good answer. Sam sat down on the bench before the dressing table. "Sarah, do you know why anyone would want to hurt Miss Winters?"
From reading Vicki's diary, he had formed an opinion of his host, and she didn't seem like a woman on the verge of suicide, despite her obvious loneliness. Her writings had painted a portrait of a lively spirit, determined, intelligent, and remarkably well-adjusted, despite her romantic leanings.
"Hurt her?" Sarah's smooth brow furrowed. "No, he doesn't want to hurt her. It's because of Josette, you see."
Intent on every nuance, Sam leaned closer. "Who doesn't want to hurt her, Sarah? Barnabas? Please, honey, if you know something, you have to tell me. I'm here to help Miss Winters."
"It was the witch, before, who tried to hurt her. Barnabas loves Miss Winters, but it's because of Josette. He wants Miss Winters to be his new Josette."
Sam's head was spinning. He closed his eyes trying to make sense of it all. "Sarah..." There was no answer. He opened his eyes, looked around. She was gone, as if she'd never been there. He hadn't heard the door open or close, so how ...?
Had he spent the last few minutes talking to a ghost?
Ridiculous. Sam rose and began to pace, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. "Ghosts..."
"Ghosts? Where?" Al's voice went up half an octave, and he nearly gave himself whiplash trying to look in all directions at once. "Where?"
Sam yelped and nearly fell over the bench. He hadn't heard the Door; Al must have come in out in the hallway. "Don't do that!" he said, righting himself. He'd once threatened to make the Observer wear a bell; it still seemed like a good idea.
"What do you mean 'ghosts'?" Al demanded, getting back to the heart of the matter.
"That doesn't matter--"
"Maybe not to you--"
"Al." Sam didn't have the energy to deal with his friend's paranormal paranoia. "Just tell me what happened when Victoria showed up in the Waiting Room. Before she was sedated."
Al consulted the handlink. "Well, she was pretty upset. She seemed to think someone was trying to kill her. And she wasn't sure whether it was 1790 or 1991."
When the Observer hesitated, Sam prompted, "What else?"
Al cleared his throat, stalling. "Sam, she wasn't exactly coherent at that point..."
"Al." Sam's tone conveyed the threat as clearly as if he'd spelled it out.
Al sighed. "She was calling out for someone named Sarah."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Al waved a cigar, freshly unwrapped from the packet Tina had given him. "There's no one named Sarah at Collinwood in 1991! Besides, it got really loopy after that. She was raving about witches, and this Barnabas fellow, shouting that he's a vampire."
"You're wrong," Sam said. "There is someone here named Sarah. I've talked to her."
One bushy black brow lifted. "Who is she, then?"
"I...don't know."
Picking up on the hesitancy in Sam's voice, and putting it together with the earlier remark about ghosts, Al groaned. "I really hate this bump in the night stuff!"
"Don't look at me, it wasn't my idea." Sam rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Is that all she said?"
"Isn't it enough?" The cigar went into the side of his mouth. "Verbena knocked her out right about then. We were afraid she'd hurt herself. "Or, more to the point, hurt Sam's body. "Verbena thinks she may be delusional. Maybe that explains that walk off a cliff."
Sam shook his head. "I still can't believe she'd kill herself. Besides, I saw Sarah. That wasn't a delusion."
Al glanced around sharply, as if expecting something gruesome to leap out at him from the woodwork. "I do not want to hear any more about spooks and specters! This place gives me the willies, as it is."
"She could see me, Al," Sam said. "The real me."
Looking uncomfortable, Al shrugged. "Still..."
"She told me that Barnabas is her brother."
Al jumped. "Now hold on just a minute. Are you trying to tell me that you think Ziggy is right? That this guy is actually the same...?"
"I don't know what to think," Sam admitted. "But it bears checking out."
"Wonderful." Ziggy would love that. Al's expression soured further; he'd have to apologize. Again. "If you really think I should..."
A voice from the doorway derailed that uncomfortable train of thought. Both men looked around to see who had called, "Miss Winters?"
A boy stood in the doorway. Nine or ten, incongruously formal in crisp tan slacks and a navy crested blazer. All that was missing was a miniature club tie, Sam thought, trying (and failing) to picture himself similarly attired at that age. He seemed to recall his mother despairing of ever getting him to church with his Sunday best intact. Of course, his brother Tom had played no small part in that...
"That's David," Al informed him, reading from the 'link. "Roger Collins' son." There was a pause, then he added, under his breath, "Poor kid."
Sam wondered what had occasioned the sympathy, but aloud only said, "Hello, David," and smiled at the solemn face turned up to his.
"When are you going to start my lessons, again?" the boy asked.
"Uh, well, I'm not sure." Sam shared a helpless look with Al, who shrugged; he didn't know either.
"Don't look at me," he said. "I'm not running this Leap."
"David! There you are!" Behind the boy, a second figure appeared in the doorway.
"Be still my heart." Al sighed happily, ogling the blonde's long legs, clearly displayed in a tight leather miniskirt.
Sam shot him a censorious look.
"What?" Al angled for a better view. "She can't hear me."
The young woman was scowling at the boy. "David, I told you not to bother, Vicki. She needs her rest."
"And that cute little..." Sam's withering expression caught him mid-thought, "...lady is Carolyn Stoddard, Elizabeth's daughter."
"But Carolyn," David whined, resisting as she pulled him out the door.
She was firm, hauling him by the arm back out into the hall. "You can talk to Vicki, tomorrow." She sent him on his way, then turned an apologetic look on Sam. "Sorry about that, he got away from me."
"It's okay." Sam remembered Elizabeth mentioning that Carolyn would be overseeing David until he (or, rather, Vicki), had recovered from whatever it was he was supposed to be recovering from. "I hope he isn't giving you any trouble."
She shrugged. "No more than usual. How about you, how are you feeling?"
"Better, I think."
"It's good to see you looking so well, Vicki. You really had us all worried, you know." Sam didn't know; that was the problem. Fortunately, she didn't wait for an answer. "But you're back now, and I'm sure you'll be your old self again in no time."
If only you knew, Sam thought, exchanging a wry look with the Observer. Aloud, he said, "I feel guilty about your having to do my job."
She laughed it off. "Oh, don't worry about that. David's actually been almost human, lately. Besides, Barnabas wouldn't like it if I let anything interfere with your recovery."
Something about the way she said it raised the hackles at the nape of his neck.
"Have you, uh, remembered anything?" she added, trying to sound casual and failing. "You know, about what happened to you in the past."
"No." He watched her relax. What were they all so afraid Vicki would remember? And, more troubling, why were they all so convinced she had actually traveled through time? "Carolyn--"
But she retreated into the hall. "Gotta run, Vicki." A strange half-smile touched her lips. "Barnabas is expecting me, and I don't want to keep him waiting."
Why did that simple statement send a shiver along his backbone? More confused than ever, Sam watched her go. So did Al, but his attention was focused more on the seductive sway of her hips than on her parting words.
"Do you have any idea what she was talking about?" Sam demanded, his voice shaking Al out of his almost meditative contemplation.
"Don't look at me." When the physicist made a disgusted noise in his throat and moved away, Al followed. "Look, I'm not The Amazing Calavicci, I can't read minds, you know. However, if you're interested, I do have some information for you."
"You have my undivided attention."
Al flourished the 'link. "In the last several months, there have been at least four unsolved murders. All the victims were completely drained of their blood."
Aghast, Sam stared at him. "You're not serious."
"Damn serious, Sam." The Observer chewed on his cigar. "Ziggy thinks there may be a connection to this Leap."
"What kind of connection?" Disturbing images were loose in Sam's mind.
In Al's, too. He tapped the handlink. "Officially, the cases were never really closed. There was some suspicion directed at a local man, a retired college professor. He died under mysterious circumstances."
"What exactly are 'mysterious circumstances'?"
"We don't know. That's why they're mysterious. Anyway," Al continued, "apparently the murders ended with this professor's death. But he wasn't the only suspect."
"Don't tell me, let me guess."
"Barnabas Collins," Al said flatly.
"Our Barnabas Collins?"
"The one and only," Al said, then looked as if he regretted the phrasing. He shrugged in annoyance. "You know what I mean."
"Do you think he did it?"
Another shrug. "The police never came up with anything conclusive--and neither have we. Unless you count Vicki's assertion that the man's a vampire."
It was obvious from Sam's glare that he didn't. The Observer pointed out, "No blood in the bodies, remember? It makes a kind of sick sense."
"If you believe in vampires," Sam said. "Which I don't."
"I dunno, Sam..." Al was far less convinced. "Remember Count Bathory?"
"No."
"Swiss cheese..." Al muttered. He shook off the bad memories Sam obviously no longer shared. Lucky man. "Never mind."
In his hand, the 'link screeched. Both men started, and Al slapped irritably at the offending device. "Damn it, Ziggy, don't do that."
He shot an apologetic glance at Sam. "I'd better go and see what the current crisis is."
Al keyed the Door code into the link, and the glowing rectangle of blue-white light appeared beside him. "I won't be gone long. I hope." Then he stepped into the light, and vanished, taking the light with him.
***