Author's Note: I'm so sorry this took so long!!!!! It's hard to get into the head of someone who refuses to talk though, and I hope this makes up for the time it took to write. I won't say anything more here.

Author's thanks at the end.

The-woman-who-wasn't-Amy wasn't here. He was alone. Mort didn't know how long he'd been alone – whether it'd been minutes or days – but he was alone. He didn't know if this was good or bad. He didn't know why he was alone. He didn't know if he'd hurt someone and if being alone was the punishment.

And frankly, he didn't care.

Oh, he hoped he hadn't really hurt someone, but if that the was price for being alone, he couldn't seem to find it within himself to be upset. After all, he couldn't hurt anyone more than he'd hurt Amy, could he?

But then again, he didn't want to think about that. If he did, then he'd be forced to really think, and that would lead him to feel, and that would drive him insane with guilt. Not that he wasn't insane already. If he'd done what he much have done – after all, how would those men have ended up dead without him? – then he was already lost to reason. But had he done it? He didn't remember, and he didn't want to remember. Being driven mad with guilt had to be more unpleasant than simply choosing to let one's self drift away.

Days, hours, minutes passed. The waking dreams started again. The details of those last few days – what he could remember of them – were etched into his brain. It was never a surprise when Karsch turned up – talking about, "We know what you're doing. We want it to stop. We're watching you." – or Ted showing up with divorce papers, or even Chico rooting away in a corner. He watched them all blankly in his mind's eye, or perhaps with his waking eyes. At first it had been disturbing, and then irritation, and now blasé. He even saw that damn paragraph about George and Abby printed on the walls.

But out of everyone and everything he saw and heard, Amy was never among them. Never. He didn't know if that was a good thing, a bad thing, or just his guilt-ridden and scared mind trying not to think about things that would only upset him.

It was odd how his mind steered away from subjects like Amy. Almost as if a "V chip" had been wired into his brain. The moment he started getting agitated, his mind changed channels on him like a nun flipping past the Playboy channel. Was it simply because his mind was still in shock after the events of the fall, or was it a symptom of something more sinister?

Had he killed those people?

He couldn't remember, and in his state that was something of a relief.

The-woman-who-wasn't-Amy was back. Or at least he thought she was. Some indomitable part of his mind hoped she was a hallucination because she was too bossy. And if she wasn't real, then he didn't have to listen. The lethargic, more reasonable part of his mind muffled that hope. He knew something was wrong with him, but embracing it probably wasn't the best course of action. Better to ignore it. Or her. Whatever the case was.

"Hello . . . you today?"

He heard enough of the question to realize what she wanted, but he didn't feel like talking. Language was crude and sloppy, and that was dangerous. Instinctively he knew that it was.

". . . hope . . . to it . . . brought a visitor . . ."

Well, that settled it. He was imagining things. Or another doctor. Doctors . . . he thought that perhaps there were a lot in this place that he was. Not that he cared.

". . . Mort? . . . . Amy. You remember . . . you?"

He remembered all too well. The rough grip of a screwdriver in his hand. Her car pulling up into the driveway. A dangerous darkness. A flare of pain. Amy on the ground, bleeding. The terrible knowledge that he'd hurt her. More darkness, but safe this time. He didn't want to remember. That first darkness scared him.

"You asked . . . little while ago . . . wanted . . . she was alright . . . here she is."

He blinked, trying to decode the words of the-woman-who-wasn't-Amy. His wife –

ex-wife

– was here? He blinked again, his mind racing to wrap itself around the concept. He had memories, terrible ancient memories, of her coming to this place. Memories of dreams of her trying to speak to him, and he couldn't hear her words over the screaming in his head.

Perhaps he had seen her in his waking dreams. Why would someone visit a person who'd terrorized them? But despite his doubts, the blond woman who appeared was his –

not yours

– Amy.

"Mort?" He didn't look up from his lap. He couldn't look up from his lap. Her voice was too clear in his ears, too real, too solid to be brushed aside as another hallucination. His vision went dark in shock and denial. If she was really here, then he could have really hurt her, and he could still really hurt her. She'd hurt him, and tiny piece of him – a piece that was ballooning by the second – wanted her to pay for her betrayal.

Go away, Amy. Again he was looking through the front windows of the cabin and watching her drive up in her Subaru. Go away.

She didn't. While he couldn't see, he could hear and feel, and he knew she'd moved closer. Her voice came from a place closer to the ground than where it'd first appeared.

"Mort, I'm sorry I haven't been visiting. I don't like seeing you like this." Amy's voice fell silent as if she were waiting for a response from him. But he couldn't. His voice had been robbed from him the moment his self-control had dissolved. So many months he'd been silent, and even now he couldn't speak. "Mort? Can you hear me?"

Yes he could hear. He could hear how her voice was characteristically going shrill in distress. Calm down, Amy. Calm down. One didn't have to be sincere to quiet her nerves, only had to speak to her in a soft voice. But he had no voice, so he couldn't calm her. The shrillness of her voice set up residence in his temples, throbbing with his pulse.

His vision suddenly cleared. Amy was close enough to touch . . . so close . . . she was touching him. He could feel a single fingertip on his wrist. It drug him back through the layers of silence and nothingness that had become his mind. It anchored him. It linked him to the real world – the vibrant and detailed one he'd been avoided and instinctively feared.

He fought. The colors here burned his eyes, sounds assailed his ears, his clothes pulled at his shoulders, his mouth tasted funny, and the air smelled unpleasantly stale. Mort jerked away from Amy's touch as if it burned like acid, trying to escape back to his self-imposed quarantine, but it was too late; the movement only jolted him into the real world, settling his senses all the more firmly in an existence that he feared.

Amy . . . he mouthed her name in despair, fearing for what he might become with so many details beating at his senses. They overwhelmed him, making his fingers itch to capture each one on paper, even if he had to use his own blood for ink.

Too much. His mind couldn't keep up with the deluge of physical input. Stop. He had to make it stop, he had to. It'd strip what was left of his sanity if he let it. Without knowing, he started rocking back and forth, desperately trying to get back to that silent place in his own mind.

Carly watched the entire exchange between Amy and Rainey, noting the subtle changes in the man as he responded to his ex-wife's voice. Having disappeared into the background of this human melodrama, she stood with her clipboard supported with one arm as she took notes. This was the first time she'd ever seen Rainey in any state that approached cognizant. His eyes were clouded, but at least a person was looking out through them.

When Amy had touched him, she'd been sure they were going to need Ralph after all. He'd shivered, and blinked, and reacted to the light. She'd tensed, prepared to jerk the other woman away if need be, but the attack had never come. On the contrary, he'd said her name. Well, no sound had emerged, but his lips had moved and he'd obviously recognized her. That was progress. That was a great deal of progress.

But somewhere in the sixty seconds between this development, and the moment she relaxed, something went wrong. She'd seen the brief bloom of panic in her patient's eyes, and then he'd started to rock back and forth, his eyes once again focused inward.

"Amy, come here," Carly said softly, reaching out for the woman. This wasn't a good sign. This was a sign of a man on the edge, and she didn't want him to become violent – that would destroy any hope she had of getting him out of the ward.

Amy did, confused and concerned, but she knew by now to listen to the doctors in charge of her ex's care. But even so, her head craned around as Carly hustled her to the door and pushed her through the door.

"Ralph, go get Betty or another orderly. I think we may need a tranquilizer, but no one is to come into the room without my permission or Rainey turning violent. Understood?" She didn't wait for a confirmation, immediately twirling on her heel and walking back to Rainey. In the thirty seconds that her back had been turned, he'd moved from rocking to banging his head against the wall.

"Mort . . . Mr. Rainey . . . you need to stop." He didn't respond to her; he was curled up in a fetal position, his forearms covering his face as his hands were clasped, and rocking back against the wall, his scull connecting with it with every movement. And his momentum just kept increasing.

"Mort, stop it," she said, taking the risk of reaching for him. The moment her hands closed around his wrists, he howled, as if her fingers were searing him. She jumped back, loosing her grip in the process. Mort slammed back against the wall, his head making a dismal thwack against the plaster.

Carly winced, and hoped that would be enough to make him stop his frantic movements, but it wasn't. He did it again. And again. And again. There were drops of blood on the wall. This has to stop. Believing there was more hysteria to his actions than madness, she once again grabbed his wrists – both in one hand this time – and jerked him towards her. Before he could fight, she reached out and slapped him.

Silence. Both Carly and Mort froze. His eyes opened and focused on her hands around his wrists. She watched as his gaze moved up her arms to her face.

When their eyes met, she received a shock; Mort Rainey, at this moment, was completely lucid.

"Doctor. You really should go home now."

Carly looked up from her notes and research to find a concerned orderly at her side. She suddenly became aware of the darkness outside the windows and her empty stomach.

Not answering the woman, she checked her watch – it was a quarter past nine. Her work day had ended five hours ago. She looked to the gurney next to her chair – Rainey was still unconscious.

He'd given himself a decent concussion this afternoon. Carly was unsure of how much of this was her fault and how much would have happened eventually if they'd continued with his previous course of treatment. Not that it mattered; she still felt the same pricks of responsibility.

"Has his status changed?" she asked the concerned nurse as she stood and stretched.

"No, doctor. We're going to keep him for a day or two for observation."

Carly nodded. "And you'll remember not to give him any sedatives, no matter what?"

The nurse looked offended. "We do know what we're doing here in the infirmary," she barely kept herself from huffing. "We have Mr. Rainey under full control."

Carly glanced back down at the gurney, seeing that Rainey was indeed under control – they'd used the restraints to limit his mobility. She hated seeing those leather straps. These patents weren't animals and those looked too much like collars or leashes, never mind that they were only around wrists and ankles. It Rainey became too unmanageable, she knew that two more straps would be fastened around him. One at the chest and one at the waist.

But however much she professionally disliked that thought – how could patients treated like animals ever become fully functioning members of society again? – she didn't protest. It wasn't her place. If anyone were to do so, it's be Dr. Gable, a clear-eyed and fiercely intelligent woman of fifty-five or so. She'd been offered retirement five years ago, but she'd turned it down, saying that the facility would be hard pressed to find another physician that was better qualified to care for Briar Ridge's patients. Carly for one believed her. Dr. Gable had tended to her own father as he'd suffered from extreme dementia and Alzheimer's. And she also supported the woman's decision to search for her own replacement. Gable would retire when she'd found someone she trusted to take care of her patients. Carly respected the woman greatly.

"Call or page me if there's any change in his condition," she instructed the nurse, who nodded shortly. Apparently she's not over that question about the sedatives. Carly didn't offer an apology.

Gathering her things, she spared one last glance for her patient, and left the ward, intent on going home.

She stopped by the break room and gathered her purse and coat from her locker. The weather had turned chilly in the past few days. After hanging up her stethoscope and white lab coat, she closed the door and headed out, stopping only when someone called to her from the office.

"Doctor . . . doctor Beckham."

Carly turned to find a young man in a green John Deere cap waiting for her, a large coffee can full of rhododendrons in his hands. "Michael," she greeted him. "What are you doing here still?" She knew that most half-way houses had curfews.

"Mister . . . mister Graham made me bring these to you." Michael held the flowers out to her.

Carly smiled, knowing Todd should have been a bit more specific in his instructions. Michael would follow directions to the letter, never stopping to take other things into consideration. He'd been told to deliver flowers to her, and so he'd waited – probably past his curfew – to get them to her. She'd have to talk to the old man in the morning. But in the meantime. . . .

"Thank you, Michael." She took the flowers from her. "Now, isn't it time for you to get home?"

The young man looked around, confused and with a frown on his face. "I'm . . . I'm late. They won't let me in."

"Yes they will," Carly said gently. "Just make sure this doesn't happen a lot. If you're going to be late, find someone else who can do your job for you, alright?" The man nodded. "Good. Now let me call you a cab."

"You're . . . you're a nice person, Dr. Beckham."

"So are you, Michael." Carly stepped into the office, nodding to the night staff, and called a cab. When one of the male orderlies from the first floor ward walked by, getting ready to take the bus home, she called to him. "Excuse me, Michael. I'll be right back."

"Yes . . . yes ma'am."

Carly smiled and walked over the man she'd called to. His name was Colby and she'd worked with him once or twice. He always had a big smile on his face and was a total professional. "Hey, doctor. What can I do for you."

"See that man over there?" She gestured back towards the office.

"Michael. Sure, I know Michael."

"Oh good. We'll I'm afraid that Todd made an error in judgment when he asked Michael to bring me some flowers. He's missed his bus and his curfew. I've called a cab for him, and I'm going to call his group home, but I don't want him riding there by himself. If you'll ride with him there, I'll pay the cabbie to take you home too."

Colby shrugged. He was a bachelor and in no hurry to get home. "Sure. No problem."

"Thanks," Carly said sincerely. "I'd do it myself –"

"But rules are rules. I understand." Colby nodded to her, then went over to talked to Michael, leading him out the door and out of the building as their cab pulled up.

Carly followed at a distance, paid the cabbie after giving him directions, then went back inside to call the home. Arrangements made and no one else in the vicinity needing her help, Carly sighed and finally headed out to her car.

Bast was going to be upset that her dinner was so late.

"Amy, come to bed. It's late."

Amy Rainey woke from her half doze at the window. Her mind had been miles and hours away, in another time and place entirely. While her thoughts weren't coherent, they all focused on her ex-husband.

Dr. Beckham had said that this afternoon was actually a large step forward in Mort's recovery, but she couldn't see that. How could that much grief, confusion, and pain be recovery? How could that do anyone any good?

How had Mort survived so many months holding that all inside him?

"Amy honey, I don't think you should go back if this has you so unsettled. Not to mention its dangerous. What would have happened if Mort had attacked you?"

She certainly wouldn't have been surprised. She deserved his anger. That she hadn't been on the receiving end of that violence was the real surprise.

Mort – but not Mort – coming towards her, bare hands violent and threatening. Apologizing for what he was about to do. The warning to stop. He didn't. The shot. The blood. The realization. The confusion. The hysteria.

What would have happened if I hadn't gone to the cabin that day?

When Ted took her arm to lead her to bed, she didn't resist.

But she never fell asleep either.

Author's Thanks: thanks go to . . . . Dawnie-7 (it took me awhile to figure out just what Mort's reaction was, but I think I got it figured out rather well. Be sure to tell me if you think I'm off. ); smoochies221 (yes, evil cliffhanger. Those are always the best in my opinion.); normal human being (LOL! Good point with the pipe. And yes, sometimes Carly will play dirty, although it was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you. I know she was determined, but that little twist wasn't something I'd planned on.); Cassie (You-fics. I swear those are the bane of my existence. Enough Mary-Sues might as well be You-fics, so why even bother to write something like that. I dunno.); Esmeralda Sparrow (I know this couldn't be classified as a quick update by any stretch of the imagination, but I hope it was worth waiting for.); Nithke (Paranoia can be a good thing at times . . . especially as a plot device. ; ) Thanks for the complements; I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much.); CaptainJackSparrowsGirl (I'm glad you're finding the story interesting.); pandagal (I don't know how much Mort is coming back for Amy's sake – or how much she deserves it – or for his own. All I know is that I'll be glad when I can write dialogue for him again.); SS (Ooo . . . and extension of the movie, eh? I guess that means I've got my characters down. It's hard to tell sometimes, especially when you're writing someone for the first time.); Pirate Rhi (I'm glad this is different than a lot of stories in this fandom. I still feel like I'm reinventing a cliché, but if I'm doing it well, then I suppose that doesn't matter.); CStini (More chapters will come as fast as I can get into Mort's head.); Cayenne Pepper Powder (Yes, I admit to evil tendencies. Amy . . . she's nicer in the book than in the movie, and I don't plan on making her a regular . . . at least not at the moment. These things change. And I'm glad you find Carly to be likable. That's always a good thing.); Broken Reflection (Professional. Wow. There's a description I haven't heard before. I hope that means you're finding this some high quality reading material. I know this wasn't soon, but it was the best I could do.)