(11)
After all that had happened, Al was reluctant to leave Sam to fend for himself at Collinwood. So he tagged along as the scientist headed downstairs in search of breakfast. They found Mrs. Johnson in the cavernous kitchen, loading the everyday china into an industrial dishwasher.
"Good-morning," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I saved you a plate -- in the warmer."
Following her gesture, Sam located the warming oven and extracted a plate loaded with blueberry pancakes, crisp-brown sausage links, and scrambled eggs. He carried it over to the table and sat down. Mrs. Johnson appeared a moment later with a pitcher of milk and a container of maple syrup.
"If you need anything else, you just ask," she said, pouring him a glass of milk. "There's orange juice--fresh squeezed--if you want."
"This is fine." Son of a dairy farmer, Sam had long-ago acquired the habit of drinking milk with his meals. Of course, this milk hadn't come fresh and creamy from the barn. But in some small way, it was a reminder of home. He emptied the glass.
Mrs. Johnson smiled and left the pitcher for him.
Using the 'link to adjust his interface with Sam's reality, Al perched on the table, and eyed the pancakes hungrily. His stomach grumbled a comment.
Sam grinned, and swallowed with relish. "It is good."
"Thank you." Mrs. Johnson reappeared, beaming at the compliment. "It was my mother's recipe. They're Willie's favorite meal, blueberry flapjacks and sausage." She sighed and shook her head. "Poor Willie..."
Sam looked to Al for guidance. The Observer consulted the 'link. "Her nephew. Works for...oh, perfect. He works for Barnabas Collins."
"Is...something wrong with Willie?" Sam asked cautiously.
Mrs. Johnson gathered herself. "No, he's fine, I'm sure. It's just...Well, you remember how he was, of course. Before Mr. Collins took him on." She sighed again. "I'm just being silly, I know, but sometimes...I can't help worrying about him, still. If Willie should lose his position...I just don't know what he'd do. Mr. Collins--Roger, I mean--certainly wouldn't welcome him back here."
Sam fumbled for an appropriate response. "Uh, I'm sure...Willie will be fine."
"Yes." Mrs. Johnson gave Sam a smile. "I'm sure he will be. He's been so much better..."
She went back to her dishes, and Al, tilting down to speak into Sam's ear, offered conspiratorially, "Yeah, I'll bet ol' Barney keeps him on his toes."
Sam said nothing. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was glad he wasn't in Willie's shoes.
After he'd finished eating, Sam and Al strolled outside, into the gardens. The sky was a washed out gray and there was a briskness to the air that made Sam glad of his thick wool sweater. He paused beside a cherub fountain and inhaled the crisp, rain washed air. A faint smile touched his lips. "You know, there has been one good thing about this Leap."
"Oh?" Al cocked an eyebrow, anxious to be enlightened. "What's that?"
"We haven't had to hide out even once in a bathroom so we can talk."
Since usually only Sam could see or hear Al, he was frequently forced into hiding in order to carry on a conversation with the Observer without seeming to be talking to himself...or worse. The most usual hiding place, unfortunately, generally turned out to be a bathroom of one form or another. And some forms were definitely better than others.
Al shared the lopsided smile. "Small favors, eh?"
"Al." Sam was whispering, like a bird watcher afraid he'd startle a rare finch. He pointed. "Look."
"What?" Al peeped over the hedges. "Oh."
Near the edge of the stone flagged path, a little girl stood solemnly watching them.
"Sarah," Sam breathed, edging forward cautiously. "Can you see her, Al?"
"Yes," the Observer said, unhappily. "This is the, uh, ghost, right?"
"Right."
"Imagine my joy."
Sam didn't respond right away; he was intent on approaching Sarah. As before, she was dressed in a white muslin gown that reached to her ankles and a lace cap over her strawberry blonde curls. As Sam came closer, she backed away, beckoning him to follow her.
"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, his voice hushed. "What do you want?"
"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in an episode of Lassie?" Al asked of no one in particular. Sam shot him an annoyed look, but Sarah stopped, her attention turning to the hologram.
"Who are you?" she asked, staring at Al in wide eyed astonishment.
No less astonished, the Observer stared back at her. "You can see me?"
"Of course, I can see you," she said, as if the answer should have been self-evident. The 'link caught her eye, and she reached out to touch it. Her hand passed through the hologram, and she started. "Oh!"
Al looked equally startled, as if he'd expected a ghost to be able to make contact with his own insubstantial form. Sarah turned back to Sam, reached out. Her hand on his was warm, solid. Both men stared at the girl, her small hand holding Sam's.
"You're not a ghost," Sam said, quietly. Her hand was solid, real. Flesh and bone. "You're real, alive..."
"I don't think so, Sam, " the Observer said dubiously, waving the 'link. "Ziggy says that Sarah Collins definitely...died. In 1790. He says there's a gravestone in the family cemetery and everything."
The girl's bright blue eyes tracked from one confused adult face to the other. "I went away," she said. "But I came back."
"Why, Sarah? Why did you come back?" Sam asked.
"Because he needed me. I had to come back."
The men exchanged glances. "Who needed you, Sarah?" Al asked, then rolled his eyes. "I don't believe this...I'm talking to a ghost!"
Ignoring the question, Sarah skipped a few steps, holding her skirts. "Come with me, Sam. I have something to show you. Something important."
Before Sam could press for details, she was flitting quickly across the lawn. The scientist ran after her.
Al yelped for him to wait, but the physicist was already gone, paying no heed to his friend's shout. Grumbling, Al stabbed one blunt finger at the handlink's tiny control pad. "Gooshie, center me on Sam--and hurry!"
There was the usual brief "blip" in reality, and Al popped back into view beside Sam, who stood contemplating a dilapidated wooden shack. It looked like a gardener's shed or something, thought Al, a former inner city kid who didn't know beans about horticulture. He turned to ask the Indiana farm boy--and noticed the ghost, standing in front of the closed door of the shack. She beckoned insistently, then turned and glided through the door as easily
as Al might have done, had he been so inclined, which he wasn't.
At this indisputable proof that the little girl was indeed a spirit, Al yelped and fell back a step. But Sam reached for the door, opened it, and looked back inquiringly at his friend. "Uh-uh," the Observer said firmly. "No way, Sam.
If you think for one minute that I'm gonna follow some spook into--Sam!"
Ignoring Al in the certain knowledge that the Observer would brave an entire haunted house full of ghosts before he'd let Sam confront them on his own, Sam forged ahead. Al cursed loudly--and followed at his heels.
The interior of the shack was even less inspiring than the outside had been. To Al's unhappy eyes it resembled nothing so much as the set from a low-budget horror show. "Look at this junk, will you?"
He waved his cigar at the center of the cramped space, where someone had been redecorating in Early Weird. On the plank flooring, they had drawn a chalk circle and, within the circle, a star. Fat black candles sat at each of
the star's five points. Mystic-looking symbols and dried bits of herbs were scattered across the circle, making it look like the kitchen floor of a particularly messy cook. Al doubted that any of the herbs were as harmless as
oregano.
"I don't like this, Sam," he said. "This is...Well, quite frankly, I don't know what the hell this is, but I don't think it's a new method for getting bigger roses."
Kneeling, Sam examined the strange runes. He picked up some of the herb material, then rubbed his fingers together, crushing the dried plants. He sniffed, made a face. "Bitter."
"Uh, Sam..." There was a nervous edge to the Observer's voice. "Ziggy says all this looks like...uh, like black magic. Or something." With anxious eyes, he scanned the shadowy corners. "Maybe we should get out of here."
"Sarah wanted us to see this." Sam stared thoughtfully at the circle. "It must mean something."
"Yeah, it means somebody around here has a seriously strange hobby," Al opined sharply. "And I do not want to be here when they come back to play."
As Sam started to his feet, there was a series of rapid pops--tiny bursts of displaced air as the candles lit themselves. "Oh, boy..."
He backed away, toward the door--which slammed shut with a decidedly ominous finality.
"Uh-oh." Al waved his arms wildly, urging Sam to hurry. "You've got to get out of here, Sam. Now."
That sounded like good advice to Sam. He lunged for the door, grabbed the rusted knob, and pulled. But as ramshackle as the shack appeared, it must have been surprisingly well constructed. The door wouldn't budge.
"Come on, Sam, " Al urged, tensely. "Put some muscle into it. Kick it down!"
Kick it...? Oh, right. Taking a deep breath, Sam centered himself, gathering his chi, then launched a furious kick at the stubborn door.
He'd timed it perfectly; his foot struck the exact center of the door--and the impact knocked him on his butt. Flat on his back, he lay there, stunned, and blinked up at the Observer.
"What the hell happened?" Al demanded.
"It felt like hitting a brick wall," Sam said, breathlessly. With a groan, he struggled to his feet. Tentatively, he reached toward the door...and cried out in shock and pain as his fingers encountered some kind of invisible barrier. Cradling his hand, he said, "There's something...Can Ziggy detect it?"
The link moaned unhappily. Al shook his head. "There's some kind of distortion. We can't get a clear reading."
The Observer poked his head through the door,(the barrier, or whatever it was, didn't seem to affect him), and reported, "There's nothing I can see, but..."
"What is it?" Sam reached automatically for Al's shoulder to pull him back inside; naturally, his hand passed right through the hologram's insubstantial form. "What do you see?"
Popping back into the room, Al consulted the handlink. He ignored the question. "Sam, look for something that belongs to Vicki, a scarf or a piece of jewelry, anything."
Dutifully, Sam scoured the room. It was empty of furnishings, the only decor was the strange circle on the floor. Kneeling, he carefully brushed away the plant material to reveal a small metal object. He held up the music box. "Will this do?"
"We'll see." Al consulted the link, again. "Okay, here's what I want you to do. Snuff out the candles." He looked up to find the scientist staring at him. "Hurry, Sam."
Wearing a dubious frown, Sam obeyed. The Observer nodded encouragingly. "Good. Now scatter the herbs outside the circle, get as much of them out as you can. Quickly, Sam."
Muttering to himself, Sam did as instructed. "Now what?"
"Ziggy says to erase the symbols around the edge of the circle, scuff them out. But don't break the circle!" Al watched as Sam worked, then said, "Now place the music box in the center of the circle. Okay, now you have to redraw the pentagram so that it's right side up. If you do that--"
"Wait," said Sam. "How do you know it's inverted? It's on the floor."
"I don't know," Al said, impatiently. "I'm just taking Ziggy's word for it and I suggest you do, too. Now will you hurry up and redraw the--"
"How am I supposed to do that? I don't have anything to draw it with!"
Checking with the computer, Al said, "Ziggy says it should be enough if you just pantomime drawing it, go through the motions. As long as it's clear in your mind that that's what you're doing, it should work."
Skeptically, Sam lightly traced the star, just touching the chalk lines with his index finger, visualizing the pentagram so that its apex was pointed in the opposite direction. He finished, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Al. "Well? Did it work?"
"Try the door," Al suggested, with a wave of his cigar.
But before Sam reached the door, wild laughter filled the close confines of the shack. Both men froze, staring at one another in shock. It was the same voice, the one they had heard on Widow's Hill.
"Non, non, ma petit!" The voice seemed to come from every direction. "You do not escape me so easily this time. Vous avez affaire a un ennemi redoubtable."
A 'redoubtable enemy,' indeed, Sam thought as the voice trailed off into more high-pitched shrieks of laughter. From nowhere, a fierce wind sprang up, blinding him. The force of the wind shoved him into the wall. "Al!"
"Right here, Sam!" The Observer's welcome rasp was reassuringly close. "Right here!"
"What's happening?" Sam had to shout to make himself heard above the howling of the wind.
"Don't ask me," Al yelled. As a hologram, he was untouched by the maelstrom. "Can you make it to the door?"
Hugging the wall, one hand shielding his face, and following Al's voice, Sam fought his way back to the door. Without Al to guide him, Sam would've been lost, despite the small size of the shack. The unnatural wind pummeled him, tore at his hair and his clothes, threatened to force him to his knees.
Waving the flashing link like a beacon, the Observer led the way, alternately cheering and haranguing Sam until he'd fought his way to the door. "Come on, Sam! Just a little further!"
At last, Sam's outstretched fingers brushed the worm-eaten wood of the door. He felt like cheering. Instead, he threw his shoulder into it as hard as he could. The anticipated resistance failed to materialize, and Sam went sailing through the opening to land in a bruised tangle of limbs on the grass.
"Sam!" Al peered down at him with concern. "Are you all right?"
Groaning, the physicist sat up and surveyed the damage. The freak wind had dissipated as quickly and inexplicably as it had arisen.
"I'm okay," he mumbled unconvincingly, as he got slowly to his feet. He hurt all over. Limping slightly, he went to the shack and cautiously peered inside. But it offered no clues as to what had just happened. "Al? Am I losing my mind?"
"If you are," the Observer said blandly; "You're in good company. Even Ziggy saw it this time."
Sam's smile was wry. "Of course, we're all linked, so it could just have been a shared hallucination."
The link squealed. Grinning, Al translated, "Ziggy says he does not hallucinate, and he's worried that you would even suggest it. He wants to know if you hit your head."
"Tell Ziggy--" Sam began caustically, then thought better of it. He was allowing himself to be baited by a computer--his computer, his brain child. Suddenly, he felt very tired. "I have a headache."
Instantly Al was all concern. "You didn't really get hit on the head, did you? Maybe you should let that doctor have a look at you."
"I did not get hit on the head!" Sam fended him off with a scowl. "I just starred in the twister scene from The Wizard of Oz! I'm entitled to a headache!"
Sam's voice was heavy with sarcasm and verging on a shout, but Al overlooked it; the kid was under a lot of stress. He said gently, "Why don't we go back to the house, now."
"Good idea. Maybe I can crawl under the bed and not come out until this particular nightmare is over."
"That's defeatist talk, Sam," Al scolded. "It's not like you."
"Has Ziggy made any new predictions based on..." A gesture took in their surroundings. "...all this."
Al obediently tapped the link's keys. He waited a beat, reading, then both dark brows shot up. "You're in luck. Ziggy now says there's a 69% probability that all we have to do is take care of the memory problem and you'll Leap."
Sixty-nine percent was pretty low, but Sam was in no mood to quibble. "And how does he suggest we do that?"
"Well, we have an idea about that, actually." Quickly, Al filled him in on his plan. "Verbena can alter Vicki's memory, so she doesn't recall whatever it is that she shouldn't. Then Vicki can safely return home and you can Leap."
"I don't know..." Sam looked uneasy. "I don't like the idea of tampering with someone's mind."
Al snorted softly. Gently, he reminded Sam, "You may not like it, but you do it every time you Leap. Besides, Ziggy says this may be your only ticket outta this loony bin. And it's a sure bet Vicki would like to get back to her
own body."
"Wouldn't we all?" Sam sighed. "Okay. But only if Vicki agrees."
The Observer gaped at him. "Do you have any idea what you're asking, here? This woman has been through a lot, Sam. She's on edge, recovering from heavy sedation...Hell, at this point, I don't know if she's capable of making that kind of decision."
"I'll only consider it if she agrees to the plan," Sam insisted firmly. "Otherwise, it's plan B."
"We don't have a plan B!"
"Then I guess you'll just have to talk to Vicki, won't you?"
Reluctantly, Al nodded, then asked, "Do you have any idea why Maggie Evans would want to hurt Vicki?"
Confused by the apparent non sequitur, Sam frowned at him. "Who?"
"Well, that answers that question." Al gestured expansively as they walked. "Maggie Evans. Her father owns the pub in town, and she's having a little extracurricular fling with Roger."
"What makes you think she has anything to do with this?"
"I saw her outside the shack, just before all hell broke loose," Al said darkly. "She was chanting, and I don't mean a mantra."
"But...why? And for that matter, do you mind telling me how?"
"According to Ziggy...black magic." Seeing the look on Sam's face, the Observer hastily added, "I don't like it any more than you do. All this hocus pocus is not my idea of a good time, you know. My idea of a good time--"
Hastily, Sam interrupted. "I know what your idea of a good time is, so spare me the lurid details, okay?"
"Ziggy thinks that we've found the real reason for your daredevil act last night. That circle was some kind of spell aimed at Vicki, and since you currently are Vicki..."
"What about the real Vicki?" Sam asked, suddenly worried. "Did it affect her, at all?"
"No, Ziggy says she's fine--all things considered. It's you we have to worry about. As long as you're Vicki you're going to be in danger here."
"All I have to do is Leap."
"Yeah, and Ziggy says you've changed history," Al said. "Now, Vicki doesn't die at Widow's Hill. That obit vanished as soon as Barnabas pulled you back from the cliff."
His heavy brows knit above somber eyes. "Unfortunately, another one immediately popped up to take its place. The new obituary says that Vicki dies at the Old House. Tomorrow night."
* * * *
After all that had happened, Al was reluctant to leave Sam to fend for himself at Collinwood. So he tagged along as the scientist headed downstairs in search of breakfast. They found Mrs. Johnson in the cavernous kitchen, loading the everyday china into an industrial dishwasher.
"Good-morning," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I saved you a plate -- in the warmer."
Following her gesture, Sam located the warming oven and extracted a plate loaded with blueberry pancakes, crisp-brown sausage links, and scrambled eggs. He carried it over to the table and sat down. Mrs. Johnson appeared a moment later with a pitcher of milk and a container of maple syrup.
"If you need anything else, you just ask," she said, pouring him a glass of milk. "There's orange juice--fresh squeezed--if you want."
"This is fine." Son of a dairy farmer, Sam had long-ago acquired the habit of drinking milk with his meals. Of course, this milk hadn't come fresh and creamy from the barn. But in some small way, it was a reminder of home. He emptied the glass.
Mrs. Johnson smiled and left the pitcher for him.
Using the 'link to adjust his interface with Sam's reality, Al perched on the table, and eyed the pancakes hungrily. His stomach grumbled a comment.
Sam grinned, and swallowed with relish. "It is good."
"Thank you." Mrs. Johnson reappeared, beaming at the compliment. "It was my mother's recipe. They're Willie's favorite meal, blueberry flapjacks and sausage." She sighed and shook her head. "Poor Willie..."
Sam looked to Al for guidance. The Observer consulted the 'link. "Her nephew. Works for...oh, perfect. He works for Barnabas Collins."
"Is...something wrong with Willie?" Sam asked cautiously.
Mrs. Johnson gathered herself. "No, he's fine, I'm sure. It's just...Well, you remember how he was, of course. Before Mr. Collins took him on." She sighed again. "I'm just being silly, I know, but sometimes...I can't help worrying about him, still. If Willie should lose his position...I just don't know what he'd do. Mr. Collins--Roger, I mean--certainly wouldn't welcome him back here."
Sam fumbled for an appropriate response. "Uh, I'm sure...Willie will be fine."
"Yes." Mrs. Johnson gave Sam a smile. "I'm sure he will be. He's been so much better..."
She went back to her dishes, and Al, tilting down to speak into Sam's ear, offered conspiratorially, "Yeah, I'll bet ol' Barney keeps him on his toes."
Sam said nothing. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was glad he wasn't in Willie's shoes.
After he'd finished eating, Sam and Al strolled outside, into the gardens. The sky was a washed out gray and there was a briskness to the air that made Sam glad of his thick wool sweater. He paused beside a cherub fountain and inhaled the crisp, rain washed air. A faint smile touched his lips. "You know, there has been one good thing about this Leap."
"Oh?" Al cocked an eyebrow, anxious to be enlightened. "What's that?"
"We haven't had to hide out even once in a bathroom so we can talk."
Since usually only Sam could see or hear Al, he was frequently forced into hiding in order to carry on a conversation with the Observer without seeming to be talking to himself...or worse. The most usual hiding place, unfortunately, generally turned out to be a bathroom of one form or another. And some forms were definitely better than others.
Al shared the lopsided smile. "Small favors, eh?"
"Al." Sam was whispering, like a bird watcher afraid he'd startle a rare finch. He pointed. "Look."
"What?" Al peeped over the hedges. "Oh."
Near the edge of the stone flagged path, a little girl stood solemnly watching them.
"Sarah," Sam breathed, edging forward cautiously. "Can you see her, Al?"
"Yes," the Observer said, unhappily. "This is the, uh, ghost, right?"
"Right."
"Imagine my joy."
Sam didn't respond right away; he was intent on approaching Sarah. As before, she was dressed in a white muslin gown that reached to her ankles and a lace cap over her strawberry blonde curls. As Sam came closer, she backed away, beckoning him to follow her.
"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, his voice hushed. "What do you want?"
"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in an episode of Lassie?" Al asked of no one in particular. Sam shot him an annoyed look, but Sarah stopped, her attention turning to the hologram.
"Who are you?" she asked, staring at Al in wide eyed astonishment.
No less astonished, the Observer stared back at her. "You can see me?"
"Of course, I can see you," she said, as if the answer should have been self-evident. The 'link caught her eye, and she reached out to touch it. Her hand passed through the hologram, and she started. "Oh!"
Al looked equally startled, as if he'd expected a ghost to be able to make contact with his own insubstantial form. Sarah turned back to Sam, reached out. Her hand on his was warm, solid. Both men stared at the girl, her small hand holding Sam's.
"You're not a ghost," Sam said, quietly. Her hand was solid, real. Flesh and bone. "You're real, alive..."
"I don't think so, Sam, " the Observer said dubiously, waving the 'link. "Ziggy says that Sarah Collins definitely...died. In 1790. He says there's a gravestone in the family cemetery and everything."
The girl's bright blue eyes tracked from one confused adult face to the other. "I went away," she said. "But I came back."
"Why, Sarah? Why did you come back?" Sam asked.
"Because he needed me. I had to come back."
The men exchanged glances. "Who needed you, Sarah?" Al asked, then rolled his eyes. "I don't believe this...I'm talking to a ghost!"
Ignoring the question, Sarah skipped a few steps, holding her skirts. "Come with me, Sam. I have something to show you. Something important."
Before Sam could press for details, she was flitting quickly across the lawn. The scientist ran after her.
Al yelped for him to wait, but the physicist was already gone, paying no heed to his friend's shout. Grumbling, Al stabbed one blunt finger at the handlink's tiny control pad. "Gooshie, center me on Sam--and hurry!"
There was the usual brief "blip" in reality, and Al popped back into view beside Sam, who stood contemplating a dilapidated wooden shack. It looked like a gardener's shed or something, thought Al, a former inner city kid who didn't know beans about horticulture. He turned to ask the Indiana farm boy--and noticed the ghost, standing in front of the closed door of the shack. She beckoned insistently, then turned and glided through the door as easily
as Al might have done, had he been so inclined, which he wasn't.
At this indisputable proof that the little girl was indeed a spirit, Al yelped and fell back a step. But Sam reached for the door, opened it, and looked back inquiringly at his friend. "Uh-uh," the Observer said firmly. "No way, Sam.
If you think for one minute that I'm gonna follow some spook into--Sam!"
Ignoring Al in the certain knowledge that the Observer would brave an entire haunted house full of ghosts before he'd let Sam confront them on his own, Sam forged ahead. Al cursed loudly--and followed at his heels.
The interior of the shack was even less inspiring than the outside had been. To Al's unhappy eyes it resembled nothing so much as the set from a low-budget horror show. "Look at this junk, will you?"
He waved his cigar at the center of the cramped space, where someone had been redecorating in Early Weird. On the plank flooring, they had drawn a chalk circle and, within the circle, a star. Fat black candles sat at each of
the star's five points. Mystic-looking symbols and dried bits of herbs were scattered across the circle, making it look like the kitchen floor of a particularly messy cook. Al doubted that any of the herbs were as harmless as
oregano.
"I don't like this, Sam," he said. "This is...Well, quite frankly, I don't know what the hell this is, but I don't think it's a new method for getting bigger roses."
Kneeling, Sam examined the strange runes. He picked up some of the herb material, then rubbed his fingers together, crushing the dried plants. He sniffed, made a face. "Bitter."
"Uh, Sam..." There was a nervous edge to the Observer's voice. "Ziggy says all this looks like...uh, like black magic. Or something." With anxious eyes, he scanned the shadowy corners. "Maybe we should get out of here."
"Sarah wanted us to see this." Sam stared thoughtfully at the circle. "It must mean something."
"Yeah, it means somebody around here has a seriously strange hobby," Al opined sharply. "And I do not want to be here when they come back to play."
As Sam started to his feet, there was a series of rapid pops--tiny bursts of displaced air as the candles lit themselves. "Oh, boy..."
He backed away, toward the door--which slammed shut with a decidedly ominous finality.
"Uh-oh." Al waved his arms wildly, urging Sam to hurry. "You've got to get out of here, Sam. Now."
That sounded like good advice to Sam. He lunged for the door, grabbed the rusted knob, and pulled. But as ramshackle as the shack appeared, it must have been surprisingly well constructed. The door wouldn't budge.
"Come on, Sam, " Al urged, tensely. "Put some muscle into it. Kick it down!"
Kick it...? Oh, right. Taking a deep breath, Sam centered himself, gathering his chi, then launched a furious kick at the stubborn door.
He'd timed it perfectly; his foot struck the exact center of the door--and the impact knocked him on his butt. Flat on his back, he lay there, stunned, and blinked up at the Observer.
"What the hell happened?" Al demanded.
"It felt like hitting a brick wall," Sam said, breathlessly. With a groan, he struggled to his feet. Tentatively, he reached toward the door...and cried out in shock and pain as his fingers encountered some kind of invisible barrier. Cradling his hand, he said, "There's something...Can Ziggy detect it?"
The link moaned unhappily. Al shook his head. "There's some kind of distortion. We can't get a clear reading."
The Observer poked his head through the door,(the barrier, or whatever it was, didn't seem to affect him), and reported, "There's nothing I can see, but..."
"What is it?" Sam reached automatically for Al's shoulder to pull him back inside; naturally, his hand passed right through the hologram's insubstantial form. "What do you see?"
Popping back into the room, Al consulted the handlink. He ignored the question. "Sam, look for something that belongs to Vicki, a scarf or a piece of jewelry, anything."
Dutifully, Sam scoured the room. It was empty of furnishings, the only decor was the strange circle on the floor. Kneeling, he carefully brushed away the plant material to reveal a small metal object. He held up the music box. "Will this do?"
"We'll see." Al consulted the link, again. "Okay, here's what I want you to do. Snuff out the candles." He looked up to find the scientist staring at him. "Hurry, Sam."
Wearing a dubious frown, Sam obeyed. The Observer nodded encouragingly. "Good. Now scatter the herbs outside the circle, get as much of them out as you can. Quickly, Sam."
Muttering to himself, Sam did as instructed. "Now what?"
"Ziggy says to erase the symbols around the edge of the circle, scuff them out. But don't break the circle!" Al watched as Sam worked, then said, "Now place the music box in the center of the circle. Okay, now you have to redraw the pentagram so that it's right side up. If you do that--"
"Wait," said Sam. "How do you know it's inverted? It's on the floor."
"I don't know," Al said, impatiently. "I'm just taking Ziggy's word for it and I suggest you do, too. Now will you hurry up and redraw the--"
"How am I supposed to do that? I don't have anything to draw it with!"
Checking with the computer, Al said, "Ziggy says it should be enough if you just pantomime drawing it, go through the motions. As long as it's clear in your mind that that's what you're doing, it should work."
Skeptically, Sam lightly traced the star, just touching the chalk lines with his index finger, visualizing the pentagram so that its apex was pointed in the opposite direction. He finished, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Al. "Well? Did it work?"
"Try the door," Al suggested, with a wave of his cigar.
But before Sam reached the door, wild laughter filled the close confines of the shack. Both men froze, staring at one another in shock. It was the same voice, the one they had heard on Widow's Hill.
"Non, non, ma petit!" The voice seemed to come from every direction. "You do not escape me so easily this time. Vous avez affaire a un ennemi redoubtable."
A 'redoubtable enemy,' indeed, Sam thought as the voice trailed off into more high-pitched shrieks of laughter. From nowhere, a fierce wind sprang up, blinding him. The force of the wind shoved him into the wall. "Al!"
"Right here, Sam!" The Observer's welcome rasp was reassuringly close. "Right here!"
"What's happening?" Sam had to shout to make himself heard above the howling of the wind.
"Don't ask me," Al yelled. As a hologram, he was untouched by the maelstrom. "Can you make it to the door?"
Hugging the wall, one hand shielding his face, and following Al's voice, Sam fought his way back to the door. Without Al to guide him, Sam would've been lost, despite the small size of the shack. The unnatural wind pummeled him, tore at his hair and his clothes, threatened to force him to his knees.
Waving the flashing link like a beacon, the Observer led the way, alternately cheering and haranguing Sam until he'd fought his way to the door. "Come on, Sam! Just a little further!"
At last, Sam's outstretched fingers brushed the worm-eaten wood of the door. He felt like cheering. Instead, he threw his shoulder into it as hard as he could. The anticipated resistance failed to materialize, and Sam went sailing through the opening to land in a bruised tangle of limbs on the grass.
"Sam!" Al peered down at him with concern. "Are you all right?"
Groaning, the physicist sat up and surveyed the damage. The freak wind had dissipated as quickly and inexplicably as it had arisen.
"I'm okay," he mumbled unconvincingly, as he got slowly to his feet. He hurt all over. Limping slightly, he went to the shack and cautiously peered inside. But it offered no clues as to what had just happened. "Al? Am I losing my mind?"
"If you are," the Observer said blandly; "You're in good company. Even Ziggy saw it this time."
Sam's smile was wry. "Of course, we're all linked, so it could just have been a shared hallucination."
The link squealed. Grinning, Al translated, "Ziggy says he does not hallucinate, and he's worried that you would even suggest it. He wants to know if you hit your head."
"Tell Ziggy--" Sam began caustically, then thought better of it. He was allowing himself to be baited by a computer--his computer, his brain child. Suddenly, he felt very tired. "I have a headache."
Instantly Al was all concern. "You didn't really get hit on the head, did you? Maybe you should let that doctor have a look at you."
"I did not get hit on the head!" Sam fended him off with a scowl. "I just starred in the twister scene from The Wizard of Oz! I'm entitled to a headache!"
Sam's voice was heavy with sarcasm and verging on a shout, but Al overlooked it; the kid was under a lot of stress. He said gently, "Why don't we go back to the house, now."
"Good idea. Maybe I can crawl under the bed and not come out until this particular nightmare is over."
"That's defeatist talk, Sam," Al scolded. "It's not like you."
"Has Ziggy made any new predictions based on..." A gesture took in their surroundings. "...all this."
Al obediently tapped the link's keys. He waited a beat, reading, then both dark brows shot up. "You're in luck. Ziggy now says there's a 69% probability that all we have to do is take care of the memory problem and you'll Leap."
Sixty-nine percent was pretty low, but Sam was in no mood to quibble. "And how does he suggest we do that?"
"Well, we have an idea about that, actually." Quickly, Al filled him in on his plan. "Verbena can alter Vicki's memory, so she doesn't recall whatever it is that she shouldn't. Then Vicki can safely return home and you can Leap."
"I don't know..." Sam looked uneasy. "I don't like the idea of tampering with someone's mind."
Al snorted softly. Gently, he reminded Sam, "You may not like it, but you do it every time you Leap. Besides, Ziggy says this may be your only ticket outta this loony bin. And it's a sure bet Vicki would like to get back to her
own body."
"Wouldn't we all?" Sam sighed. "Okay. But only if Vicki agrees."
The Observer gaped at him. "Do you have any idea what you're asking, here? This woman has been through a lot, Sam. She's on edge, recovering from heavy sedation...Hell, at this point, I don't know if she's capable of making that kind of decision."
"I'll only consider it if she agrees to the plan," Sam insisted firmly. "Otherwise, it's plan B."
"We don't have a plan B!"
"Then I guess you'll just have to talk to Vicki, won't you?"
Reluctantly, Al nodded, then asked, "Do you have any idea why Maggie Evans would want to hurt Vicki?"
Confused by the apparent non sequitur, Sam frowned at him. "Who?"
"Well, that answers that question." Al gestured expansively as they walked. "Maggie Evans. Her father owns the pub in town, and she's having a little extracurricular fling with Roger."
"What makes you think she has anything to do with this?"
"I saw her outside the shack, just before all hell broke loose," Al said darkly. "She was chanting, and I don't mean a mantra."
"But...why? And for that matter, do you mind telling me how?"
"According to Ziggy...black magic." Seeing the look on Sam's face, the Observer hastily added, "I don't like it any more than you do. All this hocus pocus is not my idea of a good time, you know. My idea of a good time--"
Hastily, Sam interrupted. "I know what your idea of a good time is, so spare me the lurid details, okay?"
"Ziggy thinks that we've found the real reason for your daredevil act last night. That circle was some kind of spell aimed at Vicki, and since you currently are Vicki..."
"What about the real Vicki?" Sam asked, suddenly worried. "Did it affect her, at all?"
"No, Ziggy says she's fine--all things considered. It's you we have to worry about. As long as you're Vicki you're going to be in danger here."
"All I have to do is Leap."
"Yeah, and Ziggy says you've changed history," Al said. "Now, Vicki doesn't die at Widow's Hill. That obit vanished as soon as Barnabas pulled you back from the cliff."
His heavy brows knit above somber eyes. "Unfortunately, another one immediately popped up to take its place. The new obituary says that Vicki dies at the Old House. Tomorrow night."
* * * *