Cliffhanger: A few weeks ago…

He was handsome, with dark round eyes, high cheekbones, and a small droopy mouth. Even in his early forties, he still upheld his good looks with amazing endurance. This sort of face was rare. You didn't see people this movie-star-beautiful very often. So rare was this face, that it only belonged to two people.

Morton Rainey slung his tattered bathrobe over his shoulder, and continued to brush his teeth as he walked around the house. Where did I put that laptop? He thought. He rummaged through the noticeable piles of soda cans and chip bags that scattered his desk. Mrs. Garvey needed to come back and do her job. This place was a mess, that loafer.

When you're a writer, it's a real blow to your professionalism when you've lost your own material. And Mort took this as a very disturbing thought indeed, as he was such a successful novelist. What would Grisham say to me? Or worse, King?

He spent another five minutes stocking around his house in search of his computer, while trying not to wallow in his own self pity. But at last, Mort shrugged as a simple sign of defeat. He'd find it eventually. No need to go trashing my own house in search of a dumbass laptop I don't even need right now. And Mort definitely didn't need to find his laptop. He was stuck in the middle of his first chapter, and had no inspiration to write more.

He walked quickly to the bathroom to spit out his toothpaste and wash out his mouth. After which, he proceeded to the bedroom, where he spent a grand total of twenty-two seconds picking out the day's outfit: a checkered dress shirt and jeans. This ensemble wasn't so bad, maybe a little musty from weeks on the floor, but still wearable nevertheless.

On a normal day, Mort wouldn't be getting dressed at all. It was close to eleven thirty in the morning now, and usually, he'd still be asleep on his couch. However, this day was special. It was one of the few, rare occurrences where Mort Rainey would actually step outside his screen door and face the great wide world that he'd paid for. Keep in mind though that this was no noble act - he just going out to buy more cigarettes. Mort always kept at least one pack of them in the top drawer of his desk (not to smoke of course, because he'd quit) for the sake of mental security.

Mort pulled on a musty old jacket, and made his way to his car. The weather was fine and cloudless, if brisk; so unlike the heavy storm that had unexpectedly hit Tashmore Lake two weeks prior. A fortnight ago, the lake had been the picture of some terrific seaside nightmare: with ominous waves of churning water that threatened to topple Mort's cabin over, which sat alone on the lake's shore.

But, now that the storm had drifted off, everything was pleasantly calm in its own post-storm kind of bliss. It was autumn, and the colorfully green forest that had once surrounded Mort's house was semi-bare. Crispy leaves that had fallen from the trees now covered almost every patch of ground in sight.

It didn't take Mort very long to drive into town. All the floods and puddles from the storm had made the roads muddy, but nothing bad enough to get worked up over. He could easily navigate the dirt roads he needed to. And after another twenty minutes, he'd reached his chosen destination: the local grocery store. Mort remembered a day some time before, when he'd gone into that store and had refused to buy a package of cigarettes because he'd stomped out the habit, and hadn't wanted anyone around to think otherwise. Now though, he didn't really care what people thought about him and his habits. He needed those cigarettes (but obviously, not to use).

The glass swing door was pushed. It was pushed again. Then it was pulled open and Mort stepped through, a single bell noting his entrance. Three men sat at the counter and various townsfolk were shopping in each of the three aisles. All of them looked up when he came in.

Mort lowered his head slightly and cleared his throat. Damn townspeople, giving me looks. That sort of behavior was considered uncouth where he came from, but this was the backcountry and things were different out here. At least, that's what Mort shrugged it off as.

With a final curious flick of the eyebrows, he walked to the counter where the three men sat and pulled up a stool for himself. He ignored their insistent stares. The woman behind the counter was middle-aged and had her hair done up in a massive bun atop her head.

"Can I help you?" She said with a large dose of sarcasm in her apparently naturally irksome voice. Mort grimaced at her and straightened up.

"Uh… yes," he said, still getting over her voice. He drew his eyes away from her hair and flipped an index finger at the wall behind her. "Could I get a pack of cigarettes?" There was an awkward pause. Mort looked at her expectantly, and she did likewise. "Please?" He offered weakly.

The woman let out an irritated sigh. "What kind do you want?" She droned.

Mort grimaced again. Has this town gone straight to hell? Everyone here has an attitude now. I need a cigarette, I need a cigarette (not to smoke, though). "Oh," he said, still trying to sound polite, "What do you have?"

The woman sighed again, turned to look at the wall, and then back at him. "You can't see it from here?" She droned on.

"Uh… no." Mort said, smiling toothlessly. "Bad eyesight."

The woman rolled her eyes at him. "We've got Marlboro and Pall Mall. But the truck comes in tomorrow if you want to wait for a wider selection…"

No. Mort couldn't wait for those cigarettes. I need them now (but not to smoke). "No." Said Mort shortly, he tried another friendly smile and diverted his eyes, once again, from the woman's hair. "No, no, these are fine. They're great. I'll take some…"

Marlboro or Pall Mall, Marlboro or Pall Mall? Mort thought. Marlboros were okay, he had nothing against them. But Pall Mall sounded better; he'd always liked those (for his desk drawer). But there was something tugging at the back of his brain. Something that told him that Pall Malls were disgusting. That he'd rather eat slime that put those in his "desk drawer." And it was that strange, bothersome tugging that drove him to buy Marlboro instead.

"That'll be three eleven," said the woman in her irritating voice.

Mort quickly paid for his cigarettes and left the shop, numerous gazes following him out as he went. He was trying not to think about the Marlboro cigarettes in the plastic bag next to him. It was tough not to wonder why those weren't Pall Malls in there instead. He knew he liked them, but then - why didn't he like them?

Too confused and too strained to think of anything else but the road, Mort drove on. The lake came into view. His beautiful lake... I should really go there more often. That's what Amy would want. She'd want me to get out of the house more. To get some fresh air…

Mort's mind started to drift back to memories of his ex-wife. Her sweet face and long pale hair, she was so beautiful. He loved her more than anything; he'd give anything for her; forgive her for anything - even for Ted. But he had already forgiven her, hadn't he? He forgave her long ago. Hadn't he?

Mort's train of thought switched, and he thinking about his laptop. He still needed to find that goddamn thing, wherever it was. He could imagine it now, hiding under a heaping pile of papers by his couch. Not to worry though, he'd look for when he got back. After he ate something, and took a nap. This little trip to the store had worn him out like making dough. Mort was exhausted, and he yearned for his bathrobe.

Here was his turn. Mort steered the wheel, and drove around the thin bushel of orange-leaved trees that blocked his cabin from sight. He was met with an unsettling scene: another car was already parked at his cabin, pulled right up to the side of it. The car was a silver Chrysler, sleek and new. Mort furrowed his brow, and his heart rate mounted. That wasn't any car he knew from around here.

He maneuvered into his usual spot and got out, plastic bag in hand, but didn't walk to the screen door quickly. On the contrary, he took every second as slow as possible, checking the tire tracks of this alien vehicle, then the few specks of mud and dead leaves that dotted the Chrysler's bottom edge. The car was empty when he peered inside and despite the messy pile of maps and atlas in the back seat, was incredibly well-kept. Mort's nose twitched as he thought of his own car: dirty and covered with trash and cigarette butts- that someone must have stolen from me and smoked in my car! Because, needless to say, Mort didn't smoke.

Bringing his mind back to this mysterious car, Mort tried to come up with its story. Maybe a tax collector had decided to stop by, or a… Jehovah's Witness. But neither of those came close to making sense. It wasn't tax season, and what weirdo missionaries came out to the middle of nowhere to preach to people? At last, Mort turned the corner, and the screened porch of his cabin came into view. He tensed.

There was no one to be seen in there. No one was sitting on the whicker chairs or the couch. Had he locked the front door? Whoever had parked by his house might have trespassed and gone inside. They could be waiting for him with an axe or somethi-

"Mr. Rainey?" Said a voice. Mort jumped and whipped his head around. A woman in her late twenties was standing about ten feet from him, having just walked around the same corner he had. A large, formidable-looking man followed her clad in navy. He looked tough and stayed silent; a wall of strength and dominance. Is that a cop? Mort thought, noticing a shiny black something by his waist.

"Who are you? How did you…" Mort stopped talking and thought. He couldn't say 'get in here,' they weren't in his house. "What are you doing here?" He said instead.

The woman was suddenly befuddled. "Wait I'm confused," she said, and shook her head. She glanced down at the sheet of paper she held in her hand. "You are Morton Rainey? Or, do I have the wrong address?"

"No, no, no," Mort said nonchalantly, and trying not to stare at the policeman that stood behind the woman. "I am Mort. Rainey. Mort Rainey, yeah…" he bent his head to try and look around the corner they'd appeared from. "Where did you come from? I mean, I saw the car but –"

"Oh we were just around back looking for you." Explained the woman, she offered a friendly smile and momentarily dropped her business-like approach. "You have a lovely garden, by the way."

Mort's face scrunched. A garden? I don't have a garden do I? But he couldn't think about that right now. Now wasn't the time for that.

"What's this about?" he insisted. He was fighting the fierce urge to unwrap his Marlboros, and they certainly weren't for his desk drawer.

The woman's eyes dotted around the premises. First the lake, then her car, Mort's car, the porch, the door – "May we come inside? I think it'd be better if we talked in there."

The inevitable question had been asked. Mort had been excepting this however, and he shrugged indifferently to show it. "Uh… sure." The policeman gave him a look. "I mean, of course. Come in."

Two minutes later, the strange woman and the cop were sitting on Mort's favorite couch whilst the owner himself bustled around the kitchen. Mort burrowed through his fridge, looking for something eatable. Surely there was something that a nice business woman would drink? Orange juice, no. Beer, no. What about this milk? What the hell am I thinking, of course not. Coffee, coffee… do I even have coffee? This kind of stressful situation was exactly what Mort had bought this cabin to avoid and these people were making it worse. He wished they would just disappear in their sliver Chrysler and leave him alone. He didn't even know what they were here for yet. That's it. They'll drink orange juice and they'll like it.

After another few minutes of hysterical searching (this time for clean glasses), Mort walked back into his mess of a living room, a cup of orange juice in each hand.

"Oh, thank you." Said the woman as Mort balanced her glass on the sofa's armrest. He didn't like how her eyes kept inspecting his things in such a disparaging way: this pile of newspapers, that bag of chips, a soda, a shirt, a laptop – the laptop. Mort ruffled his hair.

Mort gave the policeman his glass (who merely nodded curtly) and stood opposite the strangers that sat his couch. Not one of them drank their juice.

"What's this about?" Mort said again, more seriously this time.

The woman stopped staring at the state of his house, and looked at him. She had dropped her neighborly manner and had replaced it with a sort of startled edge. "You weren't expecting us? You had to have known we were coming. We sent letters…" Mort shook his head, a little shamefully. It had been weeks since he'd gone through the large pile of mail by his door. The woman didn't press the matter though, and gestured her paper. "My name is Diane King. And this is my um… my colleague, Ronnell Jackson. We're here from the Hermann and Love Practice. You received our calls no doubt…"

"Nope. Can't say that I have." Mort said sprucely. His phone had been unplugged for a couple of weeks, anyway. He looked them over again, letting his eyes settle on the big policeman guy on his couch. "He doesn't look like a lawyer."

Ms. King's business-like approach intensified. "Mr. Jackson certainly isn't a lawyer, Mr. Rainey. He's a police officer. And I'm not a lawyer either, if that's what you're thinking. Hermann and Love… isn't a law firm."

Mort kept silent. He was expecting more of an explanation, but she didn't present any. "So what are you?" He inputted.

"Hermann and Love," she said the words carefully, as if wondering what their effect would be, "is a psychiatric clinic."

Mort paused for a moment. "What do you mean?"

Ms. King was surprised by his reaction, but why? Why did she and Mr. Jackson over there expect him to know anything about this? What would a psychiatric clinic want with him?

Ms. King started to speak again and Mort could practically see the wheels begin to turn in her head. What was she thinking about? "We're based in up in New York City." She explained in a very clear, slow voice. "We've been hired by the state to put you through an extensive observational program. It has to do with what happened a couple weeks ago. You should know all this…"

Mort was startled. This didn't make any sense. All he could do or think about was one thing that he was racing through his mind, echoing back and forth. "What happened a couple weeks ago?"

Ms. King shuffled. "I can't say," she whispered. "I'm not at liberty to tell you. I'm just… I'm just supposed to come here and collect you."

"Collect me?" Mort repeated.

"Can I ask?" Ms. King said very matter-of-factly before Mort had time to ask another question. She threw a glance at the front door. "Where did you come from just now? Where did you go? Into town?"

Mort was getting confused. "I was in town. I went to the grocery store..."

"What for?"

Mort tightened his grip on his plastic bag. "What does this have to do with anything, Ms. King?"

The woman gave him a look for this last remark, but Mort didn't flinch at it. He wanted to know what was going on, and was about to say more but caught himself in mid-breathe.

Suddenly, everything made an unnerving sense. The paper with his background information on it, the brand-new company car parked outside, the police officer on stand-by just waiting for to try something funny. "What happened a couple weeks ago?" Mort demanded.

A/N: It's a long story, but this is the original chapter... and there's nothing else. I just needed to publish this part to complete a mental circle. Now that it's done, reviews scarcely matter. But, if you've got something to say...