Returning to the Control Room, Al found Verbena waiting for him. She had that look of professional concern mixed in with a friend's compassion. She followed him into the elevator. "How did it go? Did you tell Sam?"
With an "I'm-not-going-to-tell-you-anything" smile he asked, "What time is it?"
"A little past nine."
He escorted her off the elevator and gallantly kissed her hand. "Goodnight, Dr. Beeks. I'll see you in the morning." His step was strong and confident, his manner showed total control. She felt relieved, but she had forgotten how proficient a liar Al was when necessary.
Walking into his rooms, he found Beth and Allegra watching a movie. "Any good?"
Allegra said, "It's Brad Pitt. Who cares if it's good."
Without stopping he told them, "I'm going for a ride."
Beth looked at him, "Not without talking to me first." She followed Al into the bedroom. "Allegra told me about your mother." He said nothing. "More silent treatment, huh?" She watched him pull clothes from the closet. "You don't need to go off riding tonight. It's too late and you're tired." Still more silence. "And I'm not going to stop you, am I?" It's not that he didn't want to talk to Beth. He just knew that starting to talk would be overwhelming and he needed something else at the moment. After he changed into his leathers, he kissed his bride and made his way outside to the private garage he had built for his toys.
Sam crawled back into bed trying not to wake Renee. He thought he was successful, but she mumbled under her breath, "Did you and Jeffrey have a nice heart to heart talking about me?"
"Renee, don't start. It's late."
She sat up and stared at Sam. "Don't start? This is usually the time you enjoy starting things?"
To say he hated this leap was grossly inaccurate. He despised every moment of it and each second made him feel worse and worse. "Except tonight. I don't want to start anything tonight. I'm tired and I want to sleep. Goodnight." He rolled over and pulled the thin blanket over him.
Renee just lay back and turned her back to Sam. "I heard Jeff singing to his sister again. I wish he'd stop it."
Even though he didn't want to talk, he had to ask, "What's wrong with singing to his sister? I bet Al sang all the time to Trudy." Sam surprised himself with his comment.
Attacking his blind side, Renee slapped him hard. His first reaction was to hit back, but Sam Beckett never hit a woman in his life and even this situation wouldn't bring him to that point. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, took his pillow and quietly and without anger said, "I think it's better if I sleep on the couch."
"Why should tonight be different?" He was at the door of the room when she said, "Tell your son to go to bed."
Looking into her eyes, he told her "His sister needs him. He can stay where he is as long as he wants. Goodnight."
Oddly enough, the desert was the Navy man's favorite place, especially at night when midnight blue skies dulled the sharp outline of the mountains. This was a world where time didn't matter and peace was the gospel for the day. Out in the desert, he wasn't responsible for budgets, reports, hiring, firing, for people's lives. He was just a man in the barest of nature's elements, catching his breath and allowing himself to become nothing but a blessedly insignificant speck of dust.
A small wood fire provided warmth and the only earthly light. Sitting with his back against a rock, his leather-clad legs outstretched before him, he stared into a thermos of coffee. His body was tired, his mind even more so and contemplating coffee grounds was the most complicated thinking he wanted to do, but wanting wasn't enough.
No amount of desire for a blank thought kept the truth from him. His mother not only abandoned him and Trudy, but fabricated indescribably ugly lies. She told people he murdered his sister. Trudy was the only continued source of love he had throughout his childhood, but this was not the time to think about Renee, Sam, or anything else. This time was set-aside for him to become nothing and to lose all sense of physical self. It was a necessary indulgence that kept his brain on track despite all the twisted curves thrown at it.
He threw the rest of his coffee into the fire and listened to it spit. The night was ending long before he wanted it to. There was no respite available anymore, not even out under the clear night sky he dearly loved. He carefully scooped sand over his fire until he assured himself it was out and made his way toward the Duck, his new Ducati Testastretta racing cycle.
His hideout in the mountains was half an hour off the main road leading to the project. By now, it was past three o'clock in the morning and he had the splendor of the New Mexico night to himself. The wristlink, his connection to the Project, flashed in soft hues. After zipping his leather jacket and securing his helmet, he started the powerful race engine, made one last check of the fire and rode toward home.
He owned five motorcycles including the flaming red monument to speed he was riding. His Duck was designed for asphalt, not mountain paths, but speed was what he desired, even while riding the dark, unpaved mountain chicanes. The steeply graded turn was excessively tight and because of it, the damned blind spot was pretty big. Even the light of the moon couldn't brighten the shaded road. He wasn't sure what kind of wildlife he hit, but his front tire flung the little critter under the rear. Once the racing tires lost contact with the gravel road, he lost control of the machine.
All he had to rely on was years of instinct, but instinct can't move mountains. The Testastretta turned into a catapult throwing him into a massive outcropping of rock. His left arm hit first, then his shoulder, back and head. The ringing in his ears and the crunching noises didn't sound promising. Bits of wristlink scattered around. In his mind he heard Sam saying, "Oh, boy!" His own voiced words weren't quite so tame. Then, as consciousness faded, he heard nothing.
Gooshie was running around frantically. He pushed every button imaginable on the communications console. "Dr. Beeks, anyone, anyone at ALL! Where the heck are you?"
Verbena entered the Control Room wearing a robe and slippers. "Gooshie, calm down. What's wrong?"
Gooshie was looking nervous and perplexed. The sexy-voiced computer finally answered for him, "Admiral Calavicci left the project premises over seven hours ago on his motorcycle."
Verbena asked, "Where did he go?"
With a calm, cool voice, Ziggy told them, "I can project the Admiral is between 30.62 and 31.42 miles from the project, but I can't give you a precise location. The wristlink program ceased communication indicating it's been damaged or destroyed. This means we must assume the Admiral is injured."
Gooshie's concern finally found legitimacy. "See? I told you."
"You didn't tell me he was hurt!" Verbena was on the phone in half a second. "This is Dr. Beeks. Admiral Calavicci is out somewhere on his motorcycle and is injured. We need to organize a search immediately." She listened for a moment, "Yes, send out as many as you can. Ziggy will give you the areas to search." She hung up the phone and turned to Gooshie.
Gooshie was feeding queries into Ziggy. "I'm going to try and see if we can somehow locate the wristlink. Some part of it must still be online."
Verbena dreaded he next duty. "I better call Beth."
Eight hours later, the Admiral awoke in a clean, sterile room. A dull beeping noise was the only sound he heard. His eyes tried focusing, but he had trouble making out real shapes until he saw something move. Concentrating on the swatch of red, he finally recognized Beth. "I guess I'm not dead."
She was sitting on a chair pulled next to him. "Not yet and not for lack of trying. You're lucky."
He eyeballed the myriad of traction wires threaded through the flesh and bone of his left arm. Gulping down his dread he said, "That's me. Admiral Lucky." He looked away from the rigging.
His frightened wife asked, "What happened?"
"I think I hit some kind of lizard. Damn, I didn't mean to kill it." It took a few seconds for him to realize Beth was fighting back tears. "I'm okay, Beth. Stupid accident, that's all."
"You scared the shit out of me and when you're well enough, I'm going to whack you myself." There was no holding back tears now, but she tried to get through it by telling Al about his injuries. "Your left arm is pretty badly torn up. You broke your elbow, shoulder and scapula into a whole bunch of little pieces and thank God you wear a helmet. At least you didn't splatter your brain all over the rocks. You got a pretty substantial concussion, though. You could have fractured your skull. Brain injury, oh God." She was getting nervous. Al could see it in her eyes. She kept reminding herself that he was awake and alert. He was probably going to be okay if he rested. "Headaches are going to be standard fair for you for awhile and you'll need some very serious rehab to get your arm back in shape. Overall, you are, as I said before, very lucky." His curly hair fell forward in a way she knew he hated. Brushing it off his face she continued, "You have a lot of healing to do."
Al knew she wasn't only talking about his body. However, in a flash of a second, he set his priorities. Dealing with a bum arm wasn't one of them. He'd had broken bones before. The headaches? Well, his entire life was a headache. No big change there. Things were still in order. Sam came first. "I don't have time for this."
She didn't want to state the obvious, but the Admiral was a man who dealt with facts. "Look, Al, the best thing for Sam is getting you healthy. We'll work out the logistics with Ziggy. Anyhow, considering the situation with you and your mother," and the time was right to play her hand, "it's better if you sit this one out."
Despite the emotional and now physical hurts he was going through, he smiled at her weak attempt to get him off the leap. "No sell, Beth. I have to get back to Sam and work this out with Jeff. When I was up in the mountains I realized the boy doesn't need Sam. He needs me. Sam's there so I can get involved." He had to rely on his wife's expertise. "Now, you have to figure out a way for me to get back to Sam." Looking at his injured arm he said, "I'll need something to wear over this monstrosity." She said nothing and didn't move. Gesturing at his pinned and wired arm he said, "I need your help with this, Beth. It's important to Jeff and to me. If his parents won't be there for him, then I will. He's my brother."
Beth knew her husband was going to do what he believed was right. It was one of the reasons she married him. So many people tried to talk her out of a life with that odd little Italian boy, Al Calavicci. He was moody, irresponsible, arrogant and on the road to hell, but from the instant she laid eyes on him, she knew different. Yeah, he could be irritating, but at the center of his being was a genuine commitment to leave the world a better place. Al would make his mark through his willingness to lay down his life for other people time after time after time. This thing with Jeff was no different. If she made him stay in the infirmary, he would die inside. If she let him go he might die. She knew that for her husband, dying inside was worse. "I'll find something for you to wear." Fighting back more tears, she kissed him and whispered, "Why did I ever fall for you?"
He heard what she meant to say. He heard her tell him to be careful, to remember he had a wife, children and grandchildren who loved him. All he said was, "It was the uniform. What girl wouldn't fall for an ensign?"
"Calavicci, you are incorrigible, but I like that. I'll be back soon."
Beth left him to gather his thoughts. "This is going to hurt." He winced at the pains that shot through his arm.
Ziggy was the ever-present monitor at the Project. She heard his muttering. Her deep, breathy voice whispered to him. "Admiral Calavicci, I don't want you to die."
"Ziggy, you're a computer. Why would you care?"
"Because your neurons are part of my CPU. I depend on you for my life."
With a slightly embarrassed growl, he said, "You'd exist just fine without me.
"But, as you so well know, Admiral, existing isn't the same as living."
He had to stop a minute. "Yeah, well, listen, I want to get some sleep. Dim the lighting. It's like a damned surgical auditorium in here."
"That's because it isa surgical auditorium. Rest well, Admiral." The lights powered down and the harsh outlines of the hospital equipment shaded over in grays. Al closed his eyes and managed a few almost satisfying deep breaths before he fell into a medication induced asleep.
Sam and Renee were finishing up the lunch dishes. They had only polite conversation all day. That was fine by Sam. Knowing this was the woman who had hurt his friend so deeply was making this leap very difficult. He didn't particularly want to help her, but he was there for Jeff and he needed to remember that. Her silence was beginning to get on his nerves. One of them had to start and he figured it was him.
"Renee, Jeff and I talked last night."
"I know. I heard you, remember? What did the little loose cannon have to say?"
"Don't call my son names. I don't like it."
Her eyes threw icicles at him. "At least you admit he's your son. Last week you kept blaming him on me."
"I'd like to take complete credit for him. He's a fine boy, smart, focused. Reminds me of someone I know.
Renee didn't want to talk and that was painfully obvious. He moved toward her thinking that a non-threatening, caring husband would be better able to talk sense to her. Putting his arm around her he said, "Come on, let's go sit down. Let's forget last night and try to talk some of this out, and see what we can do for our son." She was easily led out of the kitchen and onto the back porch. They sat on the wrought iron glider. His arm went around her and again, she buried her head in his shoulder and Sam could hear her cry and feel her body shake. "It's okay. He's going to be okay. We'll make it work out." The words were incredibly empty sounding, but at the moment, they were the best he could come up with.
"Dan, why is he doing this to me? Why does he hate me?" She wiped away the tears with both hands. "I never did anything to him.
Sam tried to frame his thoughts carefully. "He doesn't think you love him. He thinks you hate him because he looks like Al."
The startled look on her face let Sam know that he had opened up a forbidden subject. "I don't want to talk about that again."
"I think we have to. Jeff told me you said Al drowned his sister. Why did you tell him that?"
Her startled look gave way to more violent anger. She brought her hand back and tried to deliver another slap to Sam's face. This time, he caught her hand before it landed. Renee pulled away from Sam. "You're the one who told me to make up that story. The children didn't ever need to know about Al and Trudy."
There was no reason to stop now. The conversation had already produced results that Dan and Renee would have to deal with long after Sam leaped. "They were little children. Why would I want you to tell lies like that?"
She stared into him with anger and hate. Without another word, Renee walked out leaving Sam to wonder about a family whose primary method of dealing with problems was to hit and then storm away. He needed Al's help and the Admiral was making himself far too scarce.
Sam sat on the porch trying to work out some solution for Jeff and a way to help Al, but no good ideas were coming. The longer he was in Dan Hackett's skin, the more he hated this leap.
Renee left Sam and went into the basement of her home. The Harrington's basement had a large finished rec room. A ping-pong table filled one end and a second kitchen was at the other. A full bath was there and another door opened into a workroom. There was the normal workroom stuff, the boiler, the water heater, washer and dryer, and other mechanical necessities for the house. The wall held metal shelves filled with lots of boxes.
Behind the front row of boxes on the top shelf was another smaller box that may have held cigars at one time. She carefully pulled off the dried, cracking rubber band holding the top closed.
Paul Wakefield was grumbling about stubborn patients as he worked on dismantling the overhead traction holding the Admiral's arm in place. "You need to be here, not in the Imaging Chamber."
Years of putting up with Vietnam's torture made Al adept at hiding his pain. Tightening his stomach muscles, he managed only a slight flinch when his elbow was drawn toward his body. "Just secure this contraption so that I can get back to Dr. Beckett."
"You know," Paul increased the tension on the wire through Al's wrist, "anyone else would be in the hospital for two weeks with this kind of injury, not a few hours."
Trying to diffuse the issue and forget the pounding in his head, Al smiled. "Aren't I remarkable?"
Paul ignored the comment. "You're not going to get a sleeve over this. Let me bind your arm to your body. Then you can pin the sleeve down." With his most serious doctor voice, Paul added, "You cannot be moving your shoulder. It is very unstable."
"I've broken bones before."
Looking directly into the Admiral's eyes he warned, "Not like this. I'm not sure you're going to regain full use of that arm. Traction offered you the best opportunity to recover completely. You're blowing it Admiral. I won't make any promises now."
He heard the warning and it registered, but he refused to lose control of the situation. "You done playing mean doctor now?" Wakefield sighed in exasperation. "Listen, Paul, I am responsible for my own actions. If I'm screwing up my chances to play the violin, so be it."
The doctor wrapped more and more elastic bandages around Al's arm and body. "What about those damn motorcycles of yours? Can you ride without an arm that works? How about flying airplanes?"
The doctor's tirade had to end. Al put on his most authoritative commander's face. "I'm tired of listening to this. I understand what you're saying and what I'm doing. Your job now is to make me as healthy as you can given the conditions I have to work in. No one else can be with Sam on this leap. He needs me more than you will be privileged to know. So, do you understand now?"
His speech didn't faze Paul Wakefield in the least. "I always did understand. Just as long as you do too." He ran out of bandages. "I'll be right back."
He walked past Al toward the door which Beth had entered unnoticed. She had several changes of clothes in her hands. "I didn't know which you wanted or could wear." Laying the pile on the hospital bed where Al was seated she tried to ignore what she had heard. "Do you think any of these will fit over your arm?"
Looking at the options he shook his head. "If this was an ordinary cast, any of them would do, but I don't think these will work without some major surgery."
"On the clothes or your arm?"
"Don't you start with me. I've got enough of a headache as it is." Reaching for some pants, he kept right on talking. "What happened to my motorcycle?"
"I don't really care." He gave her the look, "I guess it's still on the cliff where they found you."
"Have it brought back here. I need to see if it can be repaired." Try as he might, he couldn't dress with his arm strapped to his body.
Beth didn't want him to be doing what he was doing. She wanted him to safe in the infirmary, his arm in traction, his injured head staying still, but it was not to be. She decided to lighten her own mood by letting a smile creep across her face. "Can I help with your pants, sailor?"
Al shot a mischievous look at her, "I'm trying to put them on, babe, not take them off."
Beth saw him grimace. His getting dressed was such a mistake, but she gave in yet again. "Okay, let me dress you." She brought his favorite black tweed slacks. They matched the three shirts stacked next to him. Paul came back with his supplies. He put the bandage and a neck brace on the bed next to Al.
Al looked at the brace and asked, "What's the collar for?"
"If you're going to roam around the project, you need to wear it. With a head injury, the less you bounce your brain around, the less headache you'll have." He unrolled a bandage. "I'm going to pull your arm up a little here. It's going to hurt." A short grunt confirmed Paul's caveat. "Told you." The wrap was applied and then another and then another. "Beth, I need your help. Stand behind him, okay?"
She moved to the other side of the bed and took the end of the elastic that Paul handed her. Beth thought she had become used to the scars across his back. It was just part of him, but at that moment, it was like seeing them for the first time again. There were too many to count, but then there was that one, the one made by a hot iron brand. Her hand moved toward the mark and she touched the raised ridge with her finger. She thought she was talking to herself when she asked, "God, why did You let them do this to him?"
This time, there was no playfulness in his voice. "Drop it, Beth. Just give Paul the end of that so I can get the hell out of here." The rest of the taping went on without any talking. Paul reached for the collar. With his good hand, Al pushed it away. "I go in the Imaging Chamber wearing that, Sam will have a fit. It's going to be bad enough I got this arm to contend with."
Mustering all the sarcasm he could, Paul snarled, "Aren't motorcycles fun?"
"Get out so I can finish getting dressed." Paul left the Admiral and Beth. She saw him concentrating on controlling the pain.
There was still something she needed to say. "Al, I have a favor to ask of you." His face twisted in anticipation of her next words. "Don't look at me like that. Just listen to what I have to say." He resigned himself to one final bawling out and Beth took a big breath to gather her own courage. "Usually, when you're not in the Imaging Chamber, you're at your desk working on reports, or answering memos from the fed heads, or figuring out another way to get funding for the project. You've got something more important to worry about now, you. When you're not with Sam, you must rest and take care of yourself. It's important," she lowered her eyes.
There had been periods in his life, years actually, when he didn't feel loved or cared for, but right now, his wife made him forget those times. With his good hand, he cradled her chin, tilted her head up and gently kissed her forehead. "Okay. Just for you."
Nearly an hour had past. Renee was still angry with Sam and hadn't yet come upstairs. Jeff wasn't home and Al was making himself scarce. There was not a lot to do. In fact, there was nothing he wanted to do except contemplate the enormity of the problem he was dealing with. Four people were going to die if he failed, but he honestly had little desire to help Al's mother. In fact, she made his stomach churn. With nothing else to do, he turned on the television and found the local PBS station broadcasting an old Julia Child show. Since he was supposed to know how to do that kind of stuff, he settled in to watch and hopefully learn something useful.
While he was sitting there, Dan's daughter Michelle entered the room. "Hi, Daddy." A light peck on the cheek was a kindness that Sam really needed.
He asked her, "Is Jeff still sleeping?"
"Yep. I'm going to the library. I have to do some research for a project."
The word "project" made him suddenly feel lonely for the immense steel and concrete bunker he called home. "What kind of project?"
She shook her head in disgust. "I have to write about Italy's role in the Second World War. Pretty boring, huh?"
"Actually, it should be pretty interesting. You could ask your mother. She . . ." He chose his words carefully, "knew a lot of Italian immigrants."
Michelle looked at her "father' as if he were a lunatic. "Right, Dad. I'll see you later." Another peck on the cheek and he was alone. Thoughts of his last conversation with Renee flooded his mind. It was Dan's idea to make up lies about seven year old Al, horrible lies. Why would he do that? Why would Renee agree to it? Why didn't they just not acknowledge the existence of the children instead of lying about them? When Al got back, he was going to tell him to get some answers from Dan.
Wanting more information and not getting any by sitting there, Sam turned off the television and decided to confront Renee again. He softly made his way to the room in the basement where he saw a light glowing. Walking into the workroom, Sam surprised his wife. She responded by snapping, "Leave me alone."
"I think we should talk again, Renee."
The cigar box was quietly closed and discreetly put on the shelf. "I don't want to talk, Dan." She picked up a load of dirty clothes and started sorting. "We're going through the motions here."
Sam wasn't completely sure of what he was hearing. "The motions?"
"We've never really had anything going for us. You got what you wanted." She let him know her feelings, "It hasn't exactly been a picnic for me though, has it? I thought Vince was a pain in the ass. Being with you was going to make my world perfect. I was supposed to come first."
Once again, the focus was on Renee, not her son. Sam was beginning to lose his temper. "We have a problem here with Jeff. How are we going to solve it?"
She looked like a pit bull about to attack. "You've always come up with good stories in the past. Why not just make something up and we can all lie again for the rest of our lives." With still intensifying anger, she blew past Sam, "I'm going to Randhurst. I want new shoes."
Renee blasted her way out of the room. Left alone again, Sam wondered again what he should do. Without anything looking particularly pressing, he started to explore the basement a little. Maybe he'd find something that could help him on this leap.
Sam hated the voyeuristic nature of his job as leaper, but sometimes he had to invade privacy. This leap was atypical though. By finding out about Dan and Renee, he was also going to learn about Al and he felt sure the Admiral was not comfortable with that.
Tucking away his misgivings, Sam pulled a box labeled "pictures" down from the shelves. A small basement window provided enough light to see the history of this family. The photos were meticulously labeled with names and dates, the handwriting very feminine. He found a picture of little Leo sitting on Dan's lap. There was another of Arnie and Leo seeing Santa Claus. Little Bill and Jill were nestled in their mother's arms in another. One after another, the photos showed a happy family, little clones of Dan Harrington except for the one boy. Jeff didn't look like the others and his face rarely had a bright, cheerful smile. The moodiness, the determination, the separateness he had seen in Al's face so often was duplicated here. He put the junior high school graduation picture of Jeff away. Behind him he heard the Imaging Chamber door and he heaved a grateful sigh.
Al positioned himself so that his arm was hidden from Sam's view. "Find anything interesting?"
"Family photos." Turning on his friend, he grumbled, "I'm glad you finally saw fit to come back. Where the hell were you?"
Al ignored the last question. "I'd have been here sooner if I could." He faced Sam, whose jaw dropped to the floor. "I had a little spill on my motorcycle. Smashed it up pretty good, so I hear."
"Little spill? Did you break your arm?"
"I broke my elbow, my arm, shoulder and scapula, which I understand is very hard to do. Paul Wakefield's got me wired up here. It'll be okay. You got family pictures there?" Al moved closer to Sam.
The hints weren't subtle. Sam knew Al was telling him discussion about the arm was not going to happen. He fingered the photos. "Yeah. Thought I'd see what I could find on my own. All I found are these."
Al stared into the box and tried to see the faces there. There was Leo, Arnie, the twins, but few pictures of Jeff were evident. There was a look of disappointment on his face. Finally he mumbled, "This is stupid, Sam, but would you do me a favor?" Thinking better of his request, Al gently, very gently shook his head. "No, forget it."
"Al, what do you want?"
It was a desire to know something about his own life. "I'd kind of like to see a picture of Jeff when he was about seven. You think there's one in there somewhere?"
"They got all kinds of photos" He smiled at Al's desire to make the comparison. "You want to see how much you two looked alike as kids?" He started thumbing through the stacks of pictures.
Al confessed, "Not really. I don't have any pictures of me when I was little. I'm just curious to see what I looked like."
Sam remembered his own well-chronicled childhood and asked, "No pictures? At all?"
"Who was going to take them?" Sadly he added, "Or keep them?"
The melancholy soul of Admiral Calavicci was almost empty now and he was searching for something to fill him up again. A picture, a link to a past where his sister was alive and well, this would maybe recreate the sense in him that at some point his childhood he was part of a family. Sam found a photo of Jeff wearing a Superman suit, hands on his hips, staring into the lens with a determined look, the look of a hero. It was almost sweet to see such a typical childhood pose. He held the picture up for Al to see. "I think this is it, Al." With a gentle chuckle, he said, "Looks like one of your suits."
Al didn't respond to the comment. He lost himself in the face of the young boy. A million memories flashed through his mind, most of them too painful to stay with. In a few seconds, he was done looking. "That was a bad idea. Put it away. Cute kid, though, wasn't he?"
Sam smiled, "Yeah, he was. Still is a good looking boy." Al's eyes lingered over the pictures. Sam packed away the box quickly to try and bring the Admiral back to the present reality. "So, do you have any more information on Jeff?"
"Not much really. I just figured I'd better let you know what was going on with me here."
"You ready to tell me more about your arm?"
"What's to tell? I busted up my arm real good. Wakefield did the preliminary surgery early this morning. When things quiet down, he'll do the rest."
"Preliminary surgery? How bad did you break it?"
"I guess my scapula and collar bone each fractured. The humerus has three fractures. The radius and ulna each have two."
Sam winced at the realization of the seriousness of Al's injuries. "You have nine breaks in five bones? You shouldn't be here. I take it you wore a helmet."
"Yeah, so, for a change, you're not the reason I have a headache." Al wanted to stop talking about himself. "You got anything for me?"
While it didn't seem directly a part of the leap, Sam had a gnawing feeling. "Al, Renee told me that Dan made her tell those stories about you and Trudy, that they weren't her idea."
Al wasn't buying it. "And you believe that?"
He wanted to tell Al to rein in his attitude, but he couldn't deny his friend's feelings. "I don't know, but there's a lot going on here and the more I know about the family, the better I can help with Jeff's problems."
Any other time, the comment wouldn't have been noticed, but here and now, when Al felt he was the catalyst for Jeff, Sam just told him that he was simply a conduit for information. "Okay, Sam. I'll get you the information you need." He didn't want to go back yet. To help waste time, he walked around. Eye-balling the heater he grumbled, "Geez, these things were energy wasters."
Sam could see Al was wasting his own energy, but maybe he, needed to. "Yeah, I guess so."
Trying to read the label, Al leaned over and the movement sent a wave of incredible pain through his head. He recoiled against it and tried to cover up a small groan. It didn't work. The good doctor made a move to help, but a holographic hand reached through Al rather than to him. Al responded with, "I'm fine. I just moved too quick." A hollow smile flashed at Sam, but it was unconvincing. "Ziggy said Jeff likes a lot of the same stuff I did when I was his age."
"Other than girls and cars, what would that stuff be?"
This time the smile was real and Calavicci was back if momentarily. "Isn't that enough? Hell, remind him there aren't a lot of girls at boot camp. Maybe that'll keep him in school."
"I somehow don't think that's enough. What else does he like?"
"You know, theater, electronics, books, designing engines, figuring out how to go faster than the other guy."
"That's why you got into the space program, isn't it? Flying at mach three wasn't fast enough."
"Never thought of it in those terms, but I guess so. I like moving fast."
"Forget Ziggy, Al. What's going on in Jeff s mind? You know him better than anyone."
Al thought back to his own teen years. "When I was a senior in high school, I was 16. It was a rough year because the orphanage tossed me out. Let's see, I stayed with Sol DeVito, a schizo who lived in my neighborhood. I took care of the place in exchange for room. I needed an address in order to stay in school."
Sam didn't think he'd be hearing stories of Al's past, but he wanted to know more. "You took care of him for room and board?"
"Wrong on two counts. I took care of the room, not him. I cleaned up and stuff which when you're living with a major schizo is not easy. The second thing is he gave me room, no board. I didn't eat too often that year." The Admiral saw the sadness in the time traveler's face, "Sam, no one cared if I lived or died, no one except Trudy. I don't know how I got into Annapolis when I graduated, but it was great. I had books, clothes, and food three times a day. Before Annapolis, I don't ever remember having three full meals in one day."
In the past Al alluded to hard times, but Sam never envisioned his friend went to bed hungry throughout his young life. The abundance of food, love and support on the Beckett farm was almost an embarrassment to him now. "Al, I didn't realize," He couldn't finish.
"Realize what? That I'd been telling you the truth all these years? When people don't care, you don't eat. The Navy pulled me out of hell. You know, Jeff doesn't think anyone except his sister cares if he lives or dies. I guess we really are two of a kind. Annapolis saved my life. Maybe he should go into the Army. It could be the best thing for him."
"What are you talking about?"
His head and arm throbbed and made his patience grow short. "I know you don't hold the military in too high regard, but it provides a home, structure, and consistency. There's no question about your next meal. You get clean clothes to wear. They send you to school, if you want. Most importantly, you're part of a team that depends on you and respects you. If Jeff is looking for respect, how can we tell him it's wrong?"
"You're talking about changing his self-esteem. That's a lot to do in a few days. I don't know if I can. The easier way is to keep him out of the Army."
Al found a soapbox and he seemed to gain strength from his anger. "Easier for whom? And who said easier is better? You keep telling me he's just like me. If that's the case, I got to tell you, the Navy was the best thing that happened to me. I met Beth in the Navy. If I've made anything out of my life, it's because the military was there for me when no one and nothing else was. Jeff is in the same place just for different reasons and I don't know if they're all that different." His good hand tried to push the pain back into his head.
Sam was getting nervous for his injured buddy. "Calm down. I'll do what's right for Jeff, not easy for me. I think maybe you should go back and rest. Have Beeks talk to Dan. This will all work out right."
His stomach was churning with the agitation he created for himself. "Sorry, Sam. It's just that I've met the kid." The statement surprised him. "I know him, Sam. The name is coming back to me. Somehow I met him, but where?"
"Don't worry about it. Get back to the Infirmary and rest. I don't think it's important to what's happening now."
The growing ache in his head was getting hard to hide. "Yeah. I'll come back after Beeks talks to the pig in the Waiting Room." The door opened and Al disappeared into the future.
Dr. Beeks approached Dan Harrington. This was a conversation she knew needed to happen, but she dreaded. Dan was slowly waking from his drug-induced sleep. Verbena waited for a few minutes. When his eyes opened and focused on her, she smiled. "Hello, Dan. Feeling rested?"
His first reaction was a typical. He thought he would awaken from his sleep and the nightmare would be over, but the black woman was back. "I thought I'd be home in bed."
"I know. Sorry, but you'll be home soon." She pulled a chair close to Dan. "I'd like to talk a little. Is that okay?"
"Like I have a choice." He was giving in to his circumstance.
"Would you tell me about your wife?"
Of all the questions he thought would be asked, that was the last. "Renee? What about her?"
"Our research tells us she was married before." She left it at that hoping Dan would fill in the details. Her silence was telling Dan he was expected to go on.
"That marriage was a fiasco, She was too young and the man she married was out of town most of the time. She deserved better."
Using her best psychobabble, she said, "From what you say, it sounds like she did. Want to tell me more?"
"About Renee's first marriage? Why don't you tell me what you know already?"
The statement was tinged with antagonism. Verbena felt Dan's discomfort, but she decided to honor his request. "We know that you and Renee changed your names and when Renee left her husband, she also left her two children." The amiable countenance Dan wore changed rapidly to a defensive and deceitful face. "We also know you and Renee told your biological children that her son murdered her daughter and then he committed suicide by hanging himself. Is this true?"
Dan tensed up and answered through clenched teeth. "Yeah. The kid was psychotic. He tried to kill his sister a couple of times. It was terrible."
Verbena spoke quietly but with conviction. "You misunderstood my question. I was asking if it was true you told your children those lies." Stating the truth in easy language, Verbena continued. "Renee's children were not dead when she left and her son was not a murderer. Can you tell me why you decided to fabricate that story?" Her voice punctuated the word "fabricate."
There was an angry silence and the clenched jaw was joined by clenched fists. "Why are you saying this? We didn't lie."
"Dan, we know the truth. In fact," she debated her next statement, but she went for it "I know Al Calavicci."
Several times visitors had tried to run out of the Waiting Room, but it was a futile exercise. This time was no different. Dan pushed Verbena away from him and made a dash. The guards were alerted to the trouble and entered with weapons drawn. Dan's anger gave way to terror. He looked to Verbena. "What do you want from me? Who are you?"
Standing outside arm's reach, Verbena tried to calm him down. "My name is Verbena. Remember? I told you my name earlier."
"That's not what I mean. What is this all about?"
Complete truth was out of the question, but Verbena was skilled at sidestepping issues. "This is about helping Jeff, but we have to know what's going on in order to help."
Looking at the armed men in front of him Dan asked, "Would they really shoot me?"
"Without a second thought." She decided not to tell him the bullets were tranquilizer darts.
A heavy sighed shuddered out. "Okay, okay. I'll talk to you, but they have to leave."
With a gentle wave of her hand, the two Marine guards left and secured the door behind them. She ushered Dan back to the table. "Why did you and Renee leave New York?"
He spoke too matter-of-factly. "Renee's husband was out of town again. He didn't care about her, so we left. That simple."
"What about the children? Why did you leave Al and Trudy alone?"
He looked at her as if she asked the most stupid question ever. "They weren't mine. I didn't want to pay for someone else's mistakes. What man would?"
The psychologist's jaw dropped. "You mean, because you weren't the biological father, you abandoned two young children?"
"I figured the punk would take care of the retard."
Professional detachment was disappearing far too quickly. "The punk and the retard? Why did you make up a story about Al killing Trudy? He loved her more than anyone in the world."
"They were dead to us, so they might as well be dead to the world." With a villain's cheerfulness, he said, "See, people don't ask about Renee's first kids because it's too hard for them to deal with. It's the family secret. No one brings up those two."
"Renee went along with this?"
"If she wanted to marry me, she had to."
"You demanded she lie about her children?" The visitor nodded. Verbena was astounded, "So, you're telling me in order for you to allow Renee to desert her husband and children, she had to abandon them and tell lies that Al murdered his sister."
"You said the punk is alive. Did the retard live, too?"
Verbena's outrage was barely under control. "Trudy had Down syndrome. Don't call her a retard. I find that offensive."
Dan had regained his confidence and his swaggering male ego was starting to push Verbena's buttons. "Listen, my kids are all normal. I didn't want freaks contaminating my family."
Regaining some composure, Verbena asked, "Why didn't you just say they stayed with their father? that he took them? That was closer to the truth."
Seeing that he now controlled the conversation, Dan smugly answered, "I wanted to make sure Renee never tried to contact them. If I made her tell people Al murdered his sister, then I knew she'd never try to get them back. Too many people would ask questions and she doesn't have the guts to come clean."
Verbena was further appalled. "You used her children to control her."
With a flash of evil in his eye, Dan answered coldly, "I have every right to control my wife any way I want."
It was all beyond her understanding. "You know, maybe Al and Trudy were lucky. I think living with you would have been worse for them than the hell they ended up living."
"They were useless, ugly freaks that deserved to die."
"They were children, for God's sake."
"Not my children. I didn't want trash in my house."
It took a lot of concentration and deep breathing for Verbena to say nothing more and exit. Gooshie was working on a nearby panel. The psychologist couldn't contain her anger anymore. "Do you believe that man? He actually said Al and his sister were trash and useless, ugly freaks that deserved to die." Finally Verbena caught Gooshie's eye. There was a worried look on the programmer's face. Verbena glanced in the direction Gooshie's eyes were focusing. The Admiral was standing by the monitoring console. Gooshie turned back to the dismantled panel, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. Al stared into Verbena's eyes and without a word, walked to the elevator, disappearing behind the closed doors. Verbena regretted everything about the last five minutes. "Oh, God, I'm so stupid." She spoke to the walls, "Ziggy, return the elevator to this level. I need to talk to the Admiral."
"He won't appreciate that."
"When I want your advice, I'll ask for it. Get him back down here. That's a direct order." She waited at the sliding door. When it opened, Ziggy was right. Al was not happily surprised. "Before you say anything, I told Ziggy to bring you back here." She got on the elevator with him and pressed the button. "I think you need to be in the infirmary. Paul can put you back in traction." He didn't say a word. The elevator stopped and they both got out, walking toward the Project hospital rooms. Inside, Al started taking off his shirt without a lot of success. "Can I help?" Still no sound from the Admiral. A shift in his posture indicated that he'd accept the assistance. The first noise she heard him make was a painful groan when the sleeve caught on the wires in his arm. "I'm sorry." The quiet was making her nervous. The Admiral had a history of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and this leap was heavily involved in two situations that could cause the syndrome to reappear. He was on the brink of losing the battle for his mental health. "You didn't need to hear what Dan said to me. You want to talk about it?"
His voice was dark, deep, quiet and disturbingly lost. "Get Paul to hook me back up and get me something for this headache."
"Please, let's talk about what you heard." There were no more words spoken, not even by Verbena. She left his side to find the physician.
