Author's Note: OMG!!!! Long chapter! I didn't mean for it to get this long, but then I promised everyone lots of Mort, and I had to deliver. So I hope this forestalls any complaints if I don't get another chapter out for awhile. ; ) Not that I'm planning to take my time, of course.

I knew there was a reason I never ventured into the backwoods, Carly groused to herself on her third return trip to the small town of Tashmore Lakes. Despite having spent her early years in a suburb of Augusta, Carly was at heart a townie. She navigated by buildings, familiar intersections, and street signs. Here there were nothing but tree after rank of trees. It looked very nice, and beautiful, and rustic, but she would have enjoyed it more if she'd been in the passenger seat and someone else had been driving. Time to stop and ask for directions.

She pulled into a parking spot in front of what was quaintly described as "Bowie's General Store and Diner." Leisurely, she climbed out of her now dust-ridden car, and looked around. This town was part of Rainey's refuge. Perhaps not the part that would tell her the most about him and what he'd been thinking and/or feeling, but it would perhaps show her. . . . I don't know. His public face, perhaps. There has to be a reason he fled to Tashmore, a reason other than he owned property here. He makes enough money to have taken refuge anywhere. So there must have been at least a little about the town that appealed to him.

The town was very . . . picturesque. It was still early enough in the morning and in the spring that the rising sun made what was undoubtedly a mountain-fed lake steam. The trees were still pale green with brand new growth. A small gazebo in what seemed to be the town square gleamed white with fresh paint, as did a large, grange-style building several streets down the block.

As for the people, there were several young couples out walking dogs before heading to work, a few kids on bicycles – some with backpacks, one delivering papers – or skateboards. She could hear someone behind the store off-loading crates of goods. A few older men dressed in overalls and hats proclaiming the names of farming equipment walked up the stairs and entered the store. It was all very . . . normal. Slow-paced. Undemanding. Impersonal.

Impersonal? Carly had to think about why she thought that. Perhaps it was the way that not one person here had yet met her eyes, even though they threw curious glances at her. No one had made an effort to greet her. No one had said anything, even though she was sure that at least the boy with the paper route had seen her come and go at least once, if not more.

If this was how the citizenry always acted, then Carly could see how this could have appealed to Mort. Fresh from finding out about his wife's affair and heading towards divorce proceedings, he would have been hurt and depressed. This was a place he could come and still be alone in the midst of a crowd. People were polite, but unobtrusive. If he started to look disheveled, tired, strained, he might get looks, but no one would press for information. It was the worst type of environment a depressed person could root themselves in, and the kind that most ran to.

Carly didn't think this was meant as a permanent residence. It was too long of a commute for other things that he'd eventually need. The general store was nice, but he'd have to go to Berlin which was the closet big town and over the New Hampshire state border, for major shopping, for printer cartridges, or for car repairs. This was meant as a quick fix, but it'd dragged on as Mort had kept himself isolated which would only aggravate depression.

Okay, so I've seen the town and I don't think I'll get much more from it. I just need to talk to a few people, find out where the cabin is, then get out there.

Stepping over a puddle – it must have rained the day before – Carly walked up to the store and went inside. Too late, she realized that the screened door was the same kind her grandma had had. The homemade door slammed behind her, and she internally cringed, but didn't let it show. A few old timers at the bar turned their heads and stared blankly at her. She shrugged and walked over to them, taking a seat at an unoccupied chair.

"Mornin'," an older lady greeted Carly, coming over with a coffee pot. Without asking if the doctor wanted any, she turned over her cup and filled it. "You another lawyer?"

"Excuse me?" The question took her by surprise. What did the woman mean by, "another lawyer"?

"You're not from the district attorney's office?"

Carly noticed that the men along the bar seemed to be listening to the conversation, as if they too had something at stake. "No, although I suppose I work for the same people. When was . . . my colleague . . . here?"

The denial of being a lawyer had killed some of the woman's – Gerda by her nametag – interest in her. "Few months back. A guy killed a couple men, then tried to do in his ex. A pity really. He was such a quiet guy. A little strange, but then again, he was a writer." Gerda set her carafe back on a warmer, seemingly interested enough in Carly to go ahead and relate the town dirt. "Famous guy too. His name was Mort Rainey. Heard of him?"

"I own one of his books," Carly replied in a non-committal tone. "Haven't read all of it yet."

"He knew what he was doing, I can tell you that. We never expected him to loose it like that. His wife was the one that did it to him. Can't figure out why."

"His wife?"

"Yeah. Mrs. Rainey was a real friendly sort. Spent a lot of time up at Bocker's nursery, looking at plants for her garden. She'd drop by for a cup of tea and some conversation now and then. I think she missed city life during the summers they were here. But Mr. Rainey preferred his privacy, and he never even seemed to realize she was gone."

"Why do you say that?"

That question earned Carly a hard look. "You sure you're not a lawyer? Poking around like this?"

"I'm sure. You've just got me interested is all." Interested because anything she could learn, especially about the dynamics of the Rainey's relationship, could be helpful. Amy had said that she didn't think Mort had wanted to kill her, but she was too close to the situation. Outsiders sometimes had better insights.

"Well, every once in awhile, before he stopped smoking, Mr. Rainey would drop by for a pack of L&M's. I'd ask something about Mrs. Rainey, mentioning that she'd told me the last she'd been in town, and he'd get this blank look on his face, as if trying to remember whether or not he'd known she'd left the house."

"So what made him snap, do you think?" Carly took a sip of her coffee and winced; she didn't think it was possible, but she'd just found a brew stronger than Leo's. She dumped in a few packets of sugar.

"Dunno. Perhaps just too much time alone. The last time he came out, after the split, he only came into town every two weeks or so. Wouldn't say much when he did either. But like I said, we never expected him to murder anyone. 'Specially not Greg or Tom."

"Why not them?" Was there someone in the community that people thought would eventually be murdered in there sleep?

"Well, Tom was getting' pretty close to being an octogenarian, and Tom had a wife and two kids. Both of them had known Rainey since he bought the house about six years ago. Tom at least was the closest thing Rainey had to a friend around here."

Another customer came in, and Gerda left her position at the counter to pour them a cup of her paint-thinner brew, and to take their order. When she came back, she was all business again. "So where you headed?"

"The Rainey place actually."

Gerda looked at her suspiciously. "Real estate? Well, it's about time the place was put up. It needs some new memories."

Carly shook her head and handed over one of her business cards. "I'm actually Mr. Rainey's doctor."

"A shrink. Well, that's a first."

"Actually, the only thing I've ever shrunk in my life is laundry." Carly hated the term 'shrink.' It made it sound as if she dealt with deflating oversized egos. "I actually came in to get directions. I thought I knew where I was going, but after having to double back for the third time, I can take a hint."

"You following a map?" Carly nodded. "Well, they pushed the highway through two years ago, getting rid of some of the access roads. Now you just take the highway up to access road 15, turn left on Androscoggin road, and follow that until it turns into the Rainey's driveway."

"Thank you." Carly started to get up, but was stopped by another question.

"You meeting someone up there?"

"Mrs. Rainey."

"She thinking about selling?"

"I believe so, yes." This time Carly managed to get off her seat and almost out the door before she had a question to ask. "Umm, do you remember the name of the lawyer who was here a few months ago?"

"Sure. Easy enough name to remember considering his profession. It was Lawley."

Once again Carly gave her thanks, before climbing into her car and driving down the highway. If she drove a little faster than the posted limit, it certainly wasn't because she was focused more on the A.D.A. than on how fast the trees were going by.

It wasn't.

By the time she reached the cabin, Carly only had a half an hour to explore before she was supposed to meet Amy. With luck, Rainey's ex-wife would be a little late. Carly would have had time to form some impressions by then, and she'd probably be ready for some company. It was just too quiet up here in the mountains.

There wasn't much to see in front, except for overgrown shrubs and some tall weeds. Wandering through mud to the back of the house, Carly took in the stream that led down to the most remote of Tashmore's lakes. There were three of them, each being progressively smaller, with the town built on the shores of the biggest. They were named "Love," "Faith," and "Hope" respectively. Somewhat ironic, but she didn't pay too much attention to it.

The entire area around the house was hemmed in with trees, making the small clearing dark even at noon. When things were well cared for, Carly was sure that the house and grounds looked very nice, very relaxing. But with weeds growing through the gravel in the driveway, and fir branches crowding the eaves, and out of control junipers threatening the windows, the little house merely looked lost, alone, and very isolated. This was not a good place for Rainey to end up.

The sky clouded, and she could see rain moving towards her across the lake. Having no desire to get wet, Carly moved into the shelter of the screened porch. It wasn't a big area, or at least it wasn't while cluttered with rusted metal pieces of what might have once been farm equipment lined against the outside wall, and several tables, a couch, and what looked to be a seat out of a car on the inside. To Carly's inexperienced eyes, they looked as if they'd been rescued from a junk market and were sitting around waiting for something to be done with them. Remembering that Amy was an antiques broker, perhaps that was what they'd originally been meant for. Perhaps they were going to be sold, or restored, or simply used for pieces, but whatever future they'd had had been changed the moment the Rainey's had split. She could imagine Mort sitting around in the same rusts fashion, once sitting and waiting for his wife to do something with him, then sitting abandoned.

Carly tried the door, but it was locked. I suppose I'll look around here some more, she sighed, once again turning to look at the porch. What's this? Carly spotted a pair of scissors, very out of place on the porch. She bent down to look at them, and got a queasy feeling; there was a very small lock of pale hair stuck in them. These had last been used as a weapon.

Before she could obsess on this fact for too long, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel as someone drove up to the house. Straightening, Carly walked to the door to the porch and stood there, watching as Amy parked. As she'd expected – not wanted, but expected – the former Rainey missus had brought her fiancé. The need for moral support was one Carly understood, but she simply didn't like this man. He used charm to cover the fact that he didn't really care what happened to Mort now that he was in a place where he could no longer hurt Amy. What he didn't realize was that perhaps his lover needed closure to what was a disturbing experience. Just because Milner had never loved Rainey, didn't mean that Amy hadn't. And that she didn't still have some need to see that her ex-husband had a better life than that of a vegetable.

"Is that all you need?" Amy was pale and drawn. Carly had been relentless, if gentle, in her questions and probing into what had happened here. She wanted to know how the house had looked on the outside, how it'd looked on the inside, and could Amy repeat exactly what Mort had said. The house was a disaster, had it been like this while Mort lived here? Was she sure that Mort didn't know anyone named 'Shooter,' and why would he be obsessed with such a man? Most disturbingly, the doctor had asked for a reenactment of how Mort had chased her through the house.

"Yes, actually. You said that you thought that Mort had created this man 'Shooter,' but you thought he might have done it to punish himself, not to punish you. Do you know what he might have been punishing himself for? Was it for being a bad husband?"

"No . . . I don't think that." She looked nervously at Ted who was hovering nearby, listening intently.

Sensing what the problem was, Carly said, "We're almost done here, Mr. Milner. Why don't you wait outside and Amy will be right out."

It'd been the wrong thing to say. "Now see here. I don't care if you're a doctor or not, but you're upsetting Amy. You've made her do things that no one should have to do, all because you're trying to help a murderer –"

"Ted!"

Carly smiled icily. "That has yet to be proven, and for the moment I'm afraid you have to do as I ask. If you have a problem with it, you have your lawyers petition mine for you to be present while I discuss matters pertinent to my patient." Milner did not look happy. "But for the moment, you have no legal right to be here, and I must ask you to leave. If you and Mrs. Rainey were married, this would be another matter entirely, but you aren't. So please, let me do my job so I call allow you to comfort your fiancée, which is yours."

Ted shot a look at Amy, but when she made no indication that she'd like him to stay, he harrumphed and left. Carly turned her attention back to Amy, and waited for some sort of explanation.

"Mort . . . he was afraid I'd told Ted about this. I hadn't – there's no reason for him to know – but Mort was still paranoid. So I suppose I still feel that it's a secret I need to keep." Amy took a deep breath. "A few months after Mort got his second book published, a woman came forward with an accusation that he'd plagiarized a manuscript she'd tried to get published the year before. Mort was working part time as an editor for a publishing house, the same one she'd sent her manuscript to, and . . ." She shrugged. "Anyway, Mort denied having ever read her story, and the company tracked down the man who had edited it. He'd gone back to school to be an engineer. The charges were dropped, but for a few weeks there, Mort was a different person. He was defensive, absentminded, obsessed. He wasn't eating, or sleeping. He became a chain smoker and developed a fascination with Jack Daniels. He was in bad shape. Almost – almost – like he was during the divorce, but not quite that bad."

"How long ago was this?"

"About seven years. It was the summer after that that I brought him up here to relax. He fell in love and bought the cabin."

"And what does that have to do with the events of last October?"

"Well, it was in the middle of that mess that he wrote 'Secret Window.'"

"And that's the story that this Shooter identity was claiming Mort had plagiarized." This at least was familiar from Carly's files.

"Right. But I think this all matters because at one point, Mort did plagiarize a story. All through college he kept trying to submit a story to some literary magazine. They always sent his submissions back. Well, sometime after he graduated – and this was a few years before we met – he found some sort of ditto sheet of a story one of his classmates had written. The classmate was a good writer, better than Mort, and Mort decided he wanted to see if it was him or his writing that the staff at the magazine didn't like. So he sent in the story with no intention of going through with publishing it. He didn't think it would be accepted, and if it was, he'd say he'd changed his mind and take it all back. But the story was accepted, and he was so stunned that he forgot to tell them not to publish it. For months he was terrified that someone might recognize the story, tell the magazine, and then he'd be totally discredited as a writer."

"And no one found out," Carly guessed quietly, thinking over Amy's suggestion. Deep seated guilt could cause a man to break down, especially if he'd nearly done so when accused of plagiarism in the past. "But if that was the reason for Shooter, then why did he come after you?"

Amy shrugged. "I don't know. But it wasn't Mort who chased me through the house. I believe that. There was someone else in my husband's skull. You're a psychiatrist. Don't you know about split personalities?"

Carly laughed dryly. "I know enough to realize that the medical community has never come to any sort of consensus about the existence of any sort of condition that would merit one person having two totally separate and distinct personalities. There are doctors who say yes, and doctors who say no, and the really smart ones say that we don't know enough about the brain to make a definite decision on either side of the fence. Either way, I don't have enough information to even bring such a diagnoses to my bosses."

"What kind of proof do you need?" Now on top of pale and drawn, Amy looked concerned.

"The kind that I can only get from the horse's mouth. And our Mr. Ed isn't talking. Now, I'd like to get some clothes, and perhaps some books for Mort while I'm here, if you could point out his favorites for me."

Her conversation with Amy still rang in Carly's head as she rode up the elevator to the third floor on Monday morning. For a long time now, she'd suspected that something had been missed in Rainey's original psych evaluation, but for the life of her, she'd been unable to figure out what it was. She'd started to believe that she was just being paranoid, or perhaps just hoping that she'd be able to pin all his behavior on something that would keep him from a murder conviction.

Of course, if he doesn't get better, he'll never make it to court. He'll just live here for the next fifty years or until he croaks. They didn't have a lot of patients like that, but they had a few who were getting close to death's door. People who'd been convicted in the sixties and who hadn't been successful in getting appeals. Carly didn't want that to be Mort. She wanted to eventually see him into a half-way house, or on his own with a companion like Toby. That kind of life would be better for his state of mind than anything he could have while here. And we're taking the first step today.

His room on the second floor was ready. The mess with the reimbursement for paint had never been satisfactorily settled, and she'd ended up paying for it out of her own pocket, but that was life. Amy had been helpful – more than helpful after the afternoon Carly had put her through – and had helped gather books, favorite CD's, and a wooden clock that Mort had made from a kit. She'd even gone so far as to order some reproductions of some pictures that Mort had loved but had been burned down along with the house in Derry.

His clothes Carly had taken home and washed. After six months of sitting in drawers, they'd been musty and most had still been laying on the floor where he'd dropped them. It'd taken an afternoon of extra washing, but Carly had gotten them done, along with some serious repair work on what Amy said was Mort's robe. It'd been so worn that both women had been convinced that it'd become a favorite article of clothing, so Carly had refrained from tossing it out along with Mort's socks and underwear. Amy had bought more of both, and they were now sitting in drawers in Mort's room, along with all his other clothes.

The only thing that the room was missing was Mort himself, and he'd become something of a dilemma. The orderlies on the second floor had heard about his early reputation – proving to Carly more than anything that first impressions were hard to shake – and had demanded that he come down on a gurney, heavily sedated and strapped down to boot. Carly had protested, arguing that he wasn't an animal, he wasn't going to rip anyone's throat out with his bare teeth, and that besides, he'd been the epitome of the word 'docile' for the past however many months.

After extensive arguing to first Marchman, and then to Adam, both camps had been forced to compromise. And if Carly wasn't particularly happy, at least she'd come out of bargaining better than the nurses who weren't speaking to her at the moment.

They'll get over it once they get used to Rainey. He's too gentle for anyone to want to do anything but coddle him. But for his first appearance he was going to appear with Carly and Toby, who were going to have four orderlies and two armed guards in tow. It was the guards that Carly objected to. Six people would be enough to subdue and sedate a single patient who'd only moved around enough to keep his muscles from completely atrophying. He could walk, but much more than that would tire him, even with adrenaline to help.

The moment she stepped out of the elevator and onto the third floor, chaos enveloped her. There were people asking her what to do, how to do, when to do, etc. There was her armed escort, seemingly arguing with the four – rather large and intimidating – orderlies they were supposed to be working in cooperation with. There was Ralph and Betty, who seemed to be refusing to do or say anything until Carly was there to give them their orders. And for some reason, there was a very out of place Mr. Lawley in the corner, observing the chaos with a smirk on his face.

Forcefully pushing her way through the mess of people, Carly made her way to the sign-in sheet, and wrote her name, noting the mass of names in front of hers. The dates next to the signatures indicated that each of these people had signed in that morning. Oh no, they're not all coming in. If they want to see the worst Rainey can give, that'll be the way to get it.

Working her way along the gate, she reached Ralph and asked him to hit the security gate a few times with his nightstick to get everyone's attention. The ploy worked, and Carly straightened her shoulders, ready to straighten this mess in the same way.
"I see you've all signed in, already," she started in a loud, clear voice. "Unfortunately, that was unnecessary for most of you. The only people going inside this ward will be myself, Mr. Carlson," she gestured to Ralph, "Nurse Ratchet, and Mr. McWade." There were loud protests to this, and Ralph had to use his nightstick again.

"I think you've all been here long enough to realize that a commotion of this size has the chance of upsetting even the most calm and composed patients, of which Mr. Rainey is not. I want this move to be beneficial, not traumatic." People started to grumble, but Carly raised her voice in said in a strict, no-nonsense tone, "Here are your assignments. If you feel that you cannot complete them in the matter I ask, you will be sent back to your regular duties, and I will find someone else to do your job. Is that understood?" There were nods.

"Alright. Any nurses here from the second floor, please report back to your positions. I believe that you were asked to help the orderlies there make sure that all patients are kept out of the corridors we'll be using to reach Mr. Rainey's room. I don't expect trouble, but I don't want to invite it by altering his environment that drastically. You're dismissed." A group of three women went to the elevator, pushing the down button. They were young, obviously here to see what the hullabaloo was about. Carly would cut them some slack this time.

"Next, while I am resigned to having an armed guard with us to ensure that no one is hurt, you will not be necessary until we reach the second floor. I must ask you to leave as well."

The two men who'd been assigned to her looked at each other, shrugged, and turned to leave. Carly pushed them out of her mind, and turned her attention to the small group left in front of her. One was Toby, who'd apparently shown up late, four were her orderlies, and one was Lawley.

Deal with the easiest first, she reminded herself. "Toby, go ahead and go to Rainey's room. Start reminding him that we're going to move him, but be gentle."

Toby rolled his eyes as if her reminder to be gentle was tantamount to reminding him that the sky was blue. He then saluted, and left with Betty to go sit with Mort.

"You four," Carly started next, waving at the orderlies. "I'd like you be waiting in the elevator when we come out with Mort. If he thinks you're part of the scenery, I don't think he'll get agitated. He's started to notice other people, and I don't want to throw too many at him at once." The men nodded, and went to stand by the elevators doors, joking softly amongst themselves.

The doctor turned to her last irritant and immediately took up a stance that would let him know she saw him as one. "And just what are you doing here, Mr. Lawley?"

"Please, call me Mick."

"Oh no," she said, raising her chin a little. "That would indicate some sort of familiarity between us, or god forbid, friendship." She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you're here for your interview, I suggest you just leave now. Rainey isn't going to be in any state –"

It was Lawley's turn to interrupt. "While I admire your passion and devotion to your patients, doctor, I think that perhaps you're getting just a little bit carried away." Carly blinked, certain that he was the first to accuse her of getting carried away. "I'm not here to interrogate your patient. I'm just here to observe how he reacts and interacts to and with people. That's all. I'll go wherever you'd like to place me, but I would like to see just what his temperament is, especially when he's upset."

He was being more obliging than Carly could have expected, but just the sight of him – from perfect blond hair and green-blue eyes to polished wingtips – irritated her. Coldly she said, "Then you may wait on the second floor along with the guards. You'll get to see Rainey as he comes down the hall. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to see to my patient."

Tess had to tell herself that she was not retreating as she hurried down the halls to Mort's room. That was ridiculous. That man did not do anything more than annoy her, and she was used to dealing with annoyances. If she just stayed indifferent towards him for a little bit longer, he'd get the same picture everyone else had, and he'd leave her alone. And in the meantime, she'd focus on her work, because her work was what was important.

Ralph opened the door for her, and Carly stepped in, immediately relaxing at the sight of Toby and Mort sitting at the table. Toby was talking about some kind of unfortunate camping trip he'd taking following his graduation. It was full of nasty weather (acts of God), forgotten supplies, and getting lost in the middle of nowhere without any gas for his Jeep. She was used enough to Toby's stories by now to realize that he was exaggerating a little, but was most likely doing so for Mort's benefit. To help him see that taking the elevator to the floor below couldn't possibly be all that bad.

Carly let the story come to a conclusion before she stepped forward and stole Mort's attention. "Hello Mort, how are you today?" He looked at her suspiciously. "Did Toby remind you that we're going to take a little trip?" He looked down at his piece of paper as one shoulder raised a fraction of an inch. "Don't worry," Carly soothed, coming over to the table and taking a seat. "It'll be a short one, and I promise that no one else will talk to you, and I won't make you talk to anyone. It's just going to be you, and me, and Toby." She glanced up at her co-conspirator.

"Easy trip man," Toby agreed. "Done it a thousand times. No rapids to shoot, no bears, and no chance of getting struck by lightning. It'll be easier than a walk in the park."

"We need to get you into a new room, Mort." She could see that he was thinking about all this. "Remember I told you about your room? It's much nicer than this one. I even brought some of your books. Would you like to read again?" Mort looked down at the table, pulling some paper and a few crayons to him. He didn't try to communicate; Carly thought that the movement had more to do with claiming territory than anything else. "There's paper in the room I made for you, Mort. And crayons. And if you're good, I'll see what I can do about getting you some pens. Or pencils if that's what you prefer."

The lure of new writing utensils was what made Mort give her a side-long glance. She smiled. "Are you ready to go?" He looked at Toby, who winked, then at his own hands; he seemed worried.

"It'll be okay, Mort. I promise. We'll take it slow."

Mort finally nodded and stood after another ten minutes of thinking. Carly smiled, hiding as much of her excitement as she could. A bottle of champaign was a good companion of excitement, not a wary and shy man.

Carly walked to the door and waited for her boys – as she was coming to think of them – to join her. Mort was hesitant and a little unsteady on his feet, but Toby kept pace with him, keeping up a steady stream of calming and meaningless chatter. With both men at her side, she knocked on the door and waited for Ralph to open it. He had his own orders to move slowly, so as to not alarm Mort. The security guard at least was familiar to him, but moving outside the room on a jaunt that would not end in the showers was new.

By the time they'd reached the security check-point though, Carly was relieved to find that she'd been worrying for no reason. Mort walked with her and Toby, his eyes focused on his feet. She thought he might be listening to the still talking Toby, but she wasn't sure. Now and then, Mort had hesitated, but it'd only been for a few seconds, and he'd never made any indication that he wanted to go back to his room. For the moment he was trusting them, and that was more an indication of progress than anything else Carly had seen in weeks.

Toby broke away from them to go push the button for the elevator. Carly wanted as little standing still time as possible, on the theory that action in this case, precluded thought; Mort would have to focus on one or the other in what was a new situation to him. She hadn't anticipated the effect that having one of his escort leave would have on Mort, though. The moment Toby moved ahead, he looked up, a brief flash of concern flashing over his face.

"It's alright, Mort," Carly soothed, brushing her fingers against the sleeve of his regulation hospital pajamas. He didn't respond, but his jaw tightened and he picked up the pace a little. It was more than obvious that the breaking up of his core group taxed his peace. When they reached the elevator, Mort relaxed a little, but he also seemed more alert than he had before, and his mouth pulled down into a little frown.

"See, I told you this would be a breeze," Toby tried to reassure their patient. "Pretty soon we'll have you doing the hundred-yard dash." Carly just rolled her eyes and shook her head, and prodded both men forward as the doors slid open.

Mort had been installed in his new room for almost an hour, but Carly was reluctant to leave. After their lengthy trip through the corridors of the check-in ward, Mort had been visibly agitated; he'd gotten a bad case of shakes, and he kept wringing his hands. Her only comfort was that this behavior had proved in front of some of the most skeptical witnesses – the guards and Lawley – that even under stress, Mort displayed no violent behavior. That was a triumph all in itself, and moreover, it was Mort's triumph, even if he didn't realize it.

But he does seem to have a surplus of adrenaline, she thought as she watched her patient prowl back and forth across the room. She didn't think he'd actually seen any of it yet; he was just getting accustomed to moving around in a larger space. Or perhaps looking for corners. Another one of Carly's orders had been for the furniture to be moved around until all the corners in the room were taken. It was time for him to stop retreating every time something upset him, and it was less traumatic to appear in a room that didn't have any, than to get used to having them and then to have them be taken away.

She didn't attempt conversation. That was Toby's province, and he was getting some lunch. For the next three days, Mort wouldn't be left alone. Both she and Toby had decided it would take that long for Mort to start to grow comfortable in his new surroundings. Toby would be taking late afternoons, nights, and early mornings, while Carly stayed the rest of the time. And now was the best time to start. She had her own things with her so she could start writing reports and start a final batch of paperwork, and Mort . . . Mort had a lot of things to get used to.

And he might be encouraged to if I stop watching him like a hawk and resume my normal activities while I'm around him. Stabilization was what everyone was hoping her and Toby's presence would provide, but they had to act normal in order to provide that. Reports then.

Carly took a seat at the small table the room had – nothing more than a two foot square surface with two chairs, the kind found in most hotel rooms – and pulled out her laptop. Within minutes she was typing away while watching Mort out of the corner of one eye.

After ten minutes, he started to notice her – or her typing – and started throwing glances at her as he paced. After twenty, he was coming to rest on the chair across from her occasionally, before pacing some more. Twenty-five – he would sit and look at the laptop before turning his head to examine the room. Really examine it. Thirty – he was staring at her laptop intently. "No, Mort," she murmured. "You destroyed the last thing I gave you to type with. We'll have to see how you behave with a pen before trying that again." She gave him a pen, and he tucked it into the pocket of his pajamas.

It was an hour later before he was actually looking at the bookshelves and drawers as if he wanted to explore. Carly was ready for a break, so she put her screen down and murmured, "Go ahead, Mort. Everything here is yours. You can touch it." He examined her, refusing to make eye contact, then got up and walked to the closet. He opened the door enough to peer inside, then closed it. Next he ruffled through his drawers, pulling out a pair of clean socks before moving on to the bookcase. There, he ran his fingers along the spines of several books, before choosing one. His head turned as he looked for somewhere to go with his treasures, but there were no corners. The look he sent Carly was nearly pitiful.

"You can sit on the bed, Mort. It's yours."

Hesitantly, he walked across the room – the bed was on the opposite wall from the table – and stood in front of the bed. Something caught his eye and he turned his head. He froze. Carly looked to where he was staring so intently, and saw that some helpful nurse had hung his robe on the hook on the back of the door.

"Yes, Mort. That's your robe. I fixed it." He walked across the room and touched it, studying ratty edges and fraying hems before deciding that it was his. With a shaking hand, he took it off the hook and carried it back to the bed along with the book and the socks. Taking a cross-legged seat and leaning against the wall, he held his belongs and stared at some point above Carly's head.

She liked to think that it was his way of thanking her.

Author Thanks: many thanks to Merrie (I must admit that your cliffnotes reviews make me laugh. Cover everything in 30 seconds. And I gave you this 'more' you're always asking for.); Dawnie-7 (Very bad things? Would I do that? Maybe it'll lead to very good things. I'm very glad you approve of Toby. I like him.); HumiliatedGrape (You can never say "I love this fic" too many times. That's my opinion at least. Thanks for catching those small goofs. That's what happens when you write just too darn fast.); pandagal (Michael? Jealous? Where do you guys get this? Perhaps he's totally harmless. Or not. I'm not telling yet. I hope the length of this makes up for the length…wait. Never mind. I updated on the 19th. That wasn't too long ago. is proud); CleopatraVII (Small details are what keep people awake in the middle of the night, so they must be important. I like to use them – makes things seem just a little more real. And Mort…I'm slowly working on him. It's fun. And my lips are sealed about Michael.); normal human being (I only sign in if I'm posting something. Don't feel bad about missing chapters or not reviewing. It's summer. Schedules are off. Things happen. But at least it did give you two consecutive chapters to read. Less cliffhangers that way. Forget well-rounded, around the knees is just fine.); Amy (There's no such thing as enjoying a story too much. It's just not possible. As for Michael being mentally stable…well, Carly works in a mental hospital. There's a lot of that going around. I hope you approved of Amy, and the very small amount of Ted. Hope the cabin visit was all you expected. Lawley? Perhaps. Poor Carly needs someone to twitch her tail now and again. I certainly hope you survived to read this. ); Spoofmaster (I hope you got to see this new chapter two. God bless all bookmarks.); Nithke (Good suggestions for moving Mort, btw. Decided to kind of go middle of the road, although I was tempted to let him freak out. Carly told me that wouldn't be allowed though, because too many people would be watching, and I'd set his progress back. I had no choice but to listen. Whoa – scary chicken you've got there, and YAY! more French!); Esmeralda Sparrow (I certainly hope this chapter was up to expectations.); A Cheerful Reader (You're absolutely right about the State-funded paint job. You'll notice I took a cue from you and made poor Carly pay for it herself. I hate the fact that doctors have become druggists, so I definitely wanted a heroine who would go against that. And yes, I should be good at bluffing. I did it all through high school.); Sparrow Lover (I hope this chapter didn't disappoint either, but I get the feeling I know what your answer will be. ); Rebel Lady (I'm glad you like Toby. He's one of my favorites, and a joy to write. And you just think you're going to get answers. Don't worry about catching on to the window thing. Sometimes I think I may be a little too obtuse. Mort did know about paperwork – she did some in his room. Why did Michael get sent to Briar Ridge? Umm…I'll have to look that up. I'm glad you like this side of Mort. The lack of a realistically damaged Mort in this fandom is one of the reasons I decided to write a fic. More variety was needed.); CaptainJackSparrowsGirl (lol! Someone did a hit and run review, and made me laugh in the process. Hope this was worth the wait.)