Notes: This chapter was highly delayed while I hurried to get my West Side Story Christmas oneshot finished. What's happening with Tragg is based on an idea of Crystal Rose's from our role-play story that heavily inspired this fic. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Chapter Four

Hamilton was dazed and confused as he wandered down the corridor to Paul's office. Seeing Perry as he was now had left Hamilton flabbergasted. And Vivalene, watching him depart while talking on the phone, had given him such a cruel, hate-filled smirk that Hamilton knew without a shadow of a doubt that she knew what was going on.

What was this? A plot against him personally? No one remembered the case against Vivalene. All of Hamilton's own office probably thought he was insane by now. Perry did not remember that he and Hamilton were friends and had treated him with ice. And Della, who might have been kinder and encouraged Perry to listen, had disappeared. Vivalene, unforgiving and deadly, had replaced her.

Well, if this wasn't a plot just to get revenge on him, Vivalene was certainly milking that angle for all it was worth. And Perry was probably in serious danger. How could it be otherwise, with Vivalene under his nose during working hours?

If only he could get Perry to listen! And before it was too late. In Perry's current mood it would probably take several miracles.

"You! Thanks for nothing!"

He jumped a mile at the sarcastic voice. He snapped back to the present, his eyes filled with questions. Paul was coming towards him, his expression filled with both anger and betrayal.

"What are you talking about?" Hamilton demanded. "What did I do?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Paul retorted. They stopped in the hall, facing each other. "When I got to work today, Tragg was there. He told me that you've recommended that my license be revoked. But what he said you did it for is something I never even did!"

Hamilton's jaw dropped. "Paul, I haven't done anything about your license," he said. "You're still in good standing. We both know that you sometimes bend the law—generally at Perry's directions—but I haven't heard about anything like that happening recently."

"That's not what Tragg said," Paul said. "And you know, he was acting kind of funny. I mean, aside from giving me these weird charges. In fact, everyone's been acting funny! My secretary backed Tragg up and insisted I'd done what you guys are accusing me of. But I guess if I tell you about that, you'll toss me in the loony bin next. Losing my license is bad enough without that."

Hamilton stared at him, contemplating and considering his words. Compared to how everyone else was behaving, Paul was acting . . . well, normal. Was it just his imagination? Why would Paul remember the truth?

"Paul," he said carefully, "do you remember Vivalene?"

"Do I?" Paul exclaimed. "Wait a minute. You remember her?"

"Who is she to you?" Hamilton demanded.

"What? She's a femme fatale! A murderess! She tried to kill Andy!" Paul's eyes flashed with both confusion and anger.

Now Hamilton gazed at him in awe. "Paul, you still remember!" he exclaimed. "After everything I've seen today I can hardly believe it, but . . ."

"Hey! You remember too!" Paul realized, amazed. "How? Why?"

"I wish I knew," Hamilton said. "Maybe what we should be asking is why no one else does."

"Not even Perry?" Paul glanced over Hamilton's shoulder. "I was just going to his office to talk to him. I couldn't get through on the phone."

"You're wasting your time," Hamilton said in weariness. "Perry doesn't remember."

"Nothing?" Paul gasped. "What about Della?"

"Della's not there," Hamilton told him. "Vivalene's wormed her way in as Perry's secretary. She knows what's going on, but he doesn't know the difference. She probably stopped your call from going through."

Paul stared at him, not wanting to believe it. Everything he knew and depended on had been turned on its head for no apparent reason. "This is insane!" he burst out. "What's happened to everyone?" He threw his hands in the air.

"What were you doing right before everything changed?" Hamilton asked.

Paul blinked. "I was driving to work," he said.

"Did you see a bright flash of light?" Hamilton wanted to know.

"Oh boy, did I ever!" Paul declared. "I almost ran off the road because of it! But when it faded everything seemed normal—until I got to work, that is."

"I got knocked out of my chair," Hamilton frowned. "There was some kind of a sound with the light."

"A weird hum," Paul said. "Yeah, I heard that too. It kept getting louder and louder."

"Something about that light must be connected with what's happened to everyone," Hamilton said. "It was right after I picked myself up that I discovered everything was wrong."

"Maybe it's group hypnosis," Paul suggested.

"Maybe. I don't even know what to suggest," Hamilton said. "Everything sounds off-the-wall, but now I'm not sure that any explanation could be as off-the-wall as what we've been seeing." He pondered for a moment. "Look, I'll straighten things out with Tragg. You go on to Perry's office. Maybe you'll have better luck with him than I did. And who knows, maybe with two of us bringing him the same story, he'll have to take more stock in it."

Paul perked up. "You're on!" he said.

Hamilton turned to go, then paused. "By the way, what exactly were you accused of doing?"

Paul sighed. "Withholding evidence," he mumbled. "On a case that doesn't even exist."

"Unfortunately, in everyone else's minds, it does," Hamilton said. "What is it, the Turner case?"

Paul regarded him with surprise. "Yeah, that's right."

Hamilton nodded. "In the last couple of hours I've heard more about this guy Turner than I've ever wanted to know. Okay. We'll meet back here in fifteen minutes."

"I'll see if I can bring Perry with me," Paul determined.

Hamilton laughed dryly. "That would take a miracle," he said.

"And we probably won't get one," Paul said grudgingly. "But we can hope, at least."

They went their separate ways, each trying to make sense out of their bizarre situation.

xxxx

Vivalene did not look surprised when Paul barged into the outer office. She leaned back, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Well, so Perry's detective friend has come to play. Or would that be former detective now?"

Paul stiffened at her presence and her words. It was one thing to be told Vivalene was here. It was quite another to see her, sitting in the chair that was Della's.

"How do you know about my career status?" he demanded. "In fact, how did you get in here at all? You're not supposed to be here! Perry would never let you stay if he knew!"

"Knew?" Vivalene spoke in vague, innocent terms. "Knew what? That I'm not supposed to be here?" She shrugged. "I doubt that. He wants me here."

"Only because he doesn't remember Della," Paul said. "What'd you do to him? And to Tragg?"

"You've been talking with the district attorney," Vivalene observed. "And sounding just as mad as he did. Perry won't listen to you."

"Well, I'm going to find that out from him, sister, not from you." Paul stormed towards Perry's office door. Just as he reached it, it flew open. Paul stopped short, briefly startled.

"Good afternoon, Paul," Perry greeted. "What's going on with you? I tried to call you and your secretary said that more than likely, you no longer have a job."

"I'm hoping that'll change in a few minutes," Paul said. "Perry, what's going on here? Why is Vivalene working for you? She's supposed to be in jail!"

Perry rocked back. "You're the second person to say that in less than twenty-four hours," he said, visibly stunned. "Maybe you'd better come inside."

"He's been babbling at me," Vivalene said. "And he has some very fascinating babbles."

"I'm sure he does," Perry said. "But I'd like to talk with him about them. Alone," he added.

"Well, of course," Vivalene shrugged. "Don't mind me."

Perry ushered Paul into his office and pulled the door shut after them. "Your secretary also said that it's the district attorney who saw to it that your job is on the line." He frowned. "I'm sorry, Paul. But I find it very curious that he's the other person who was telling me that Vivalene shouldn't be here."

"Perry, she shouldn't be!" Paul cried in exasperated despair. "We have to find out what happened to Della. Vivalene could have . . . well, killed her for all we know!"

Perry stiffened. "No," he said, his tone harsh. "No, Vivalene wouldn't have." Or did he really mean No, Della couldn't be dead? But that would not make sense, not when Perry did not even have the faintest idea who Della was. Of course, he would not want anyone to be dead, but he would not have such a strong reaction over a stranger.

He walked back to his desk, troubled. Paul trailed after him. "Perry, if you'd just listen for two minutes!"

Perry sat down and clasped his hands, looking to Paul. "I listened to Mr. Burger," he said. "I was concerned when he was saying these things. I'm more concerned for it to be you, Paul."

"Why?" Paul countered. "There's more than one person telling it to you now. That should mean that you'd put some stock in it."

"I know," Perry said. "That's what concerns me." He shook his head. "It's impossible. It couldn't be true. The thought that everyone in town has forgotten the true way of things other than you and Mr. Burger . . ."

"And Vivalene," Paul said. "Don't forget Vivalene."

"And Judge Heyes too," Perry mused. "Mr. Burger said that he knew. He thinks there's some crooked plot and Judge Heyes is right in the thick of it."

"Judge Heyes?" Paul echoed. "Oh brother. If he's in on this along with Vivalene, we're really in trouble."

Perry's frown deepened. "You believe he's corrupt too?"

"We all knew he was!" Paul said. "Up to this afternoon, as far as I know, we all knew!"

Perry leaned back, mulling over this information. "I just can't believe it," he said. "What could cause something like this?"

"Oh, believe me, Perry, we're just as puzzled as you are," Paul said. "Probably more."

"Yes," Perry mused. "You probably are." He reached for a pad of paper. "You say this woman's name is Della Street?"

Paul shook his head. "You don't know how weird it sounds to hear you asking that." He sighed. "But yeah. That's her name."

Perry scribbled it down. "I believe I'll do some checking into this."

"I'd be happy to help you look," Paul said. "I want to find her too."

"It's not that I wouldn't be grateful for the help," Perry said. "But I don't want you to get into any more trouble than you're already in. The district attorney won't hesitate to prosecute you for these charges."

"He remembers the same stuff I do," Paul countered. "He doesn't even know that he was supposed to have charged me."

Perry stared at him. "I'm not sure who to be more worried for in this situation," he said.

"Me either," Paul said.

xxxx

Tragg was just leaving Paul's office when Hamilton approached. With his drawn expression and sunken eyes he looked tired, but Hamilton had no chance to comment or ask about that. When Tragg noticed him, he perked up.

"Oh, Mr. Burger," he greeted, pulling the door shut behind him. Under his other arm he carried several folders. "You'll be happy to hear that I've uncovered all the evidence we should need to see that Mr. Drake officially loses his license when you try him in court."

"I'm not happy to hear it," Hamilton replied, "because I never pressed charges against him in the first place." He reached for the folders. "Tragg, these are trumped-up charges!"

Tragg's eyes widened. "Are you saying someone's trying to frame him?"

"I don't know what someone's trying to do," Hamilton said. "All I know is that none of this should even be happening. Tragg, we're supposed to be prosecuting Vivalene!"

"Mason's secretary?" Tragg shrugged. "Well, not that I wouldn't enjoy doing that, but what for?"

"She isn't Perry's secretary!" Hamilton cried in sheer desperation. "She tried to kill Andy!"

Tragg stared at him. "Mr. Burger, I'm worried. Have you been getting enough rest lately?"

"I'm fine," Hamilton said. "It's everyone else who's gone off the deep end. I . . ." He trailed off, the light overhead catching a glint on Tragg's hand. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Tragg followed Hamilton's gaze. "Is there something on my hand?"

"Your wedding ring," Hamilton realized. "Tragg, why are you wearing that?"

Now Tragg was defensive. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be wearing it?"

Hamilton rocked back. "No," he protested. "No, of course not. That's not what I meant. It's just that . . . well, you haven't worn it since Maureen died."

Tragg's eyes flamed in disbelief. "What are you talking about?" he roared.

Hamilton gaped. "She died years ago. You still grieve over her!"

"Maureen is alive and well!" Tragg shot back. "In fact, she just called me to see what I want for dinner tonight!" He thrust the folders at Hamilton. "If that's all, Mr. Burger, I'll see you later. Maybe." He stormed past, more furious than Hamilton had ever seen him.

Hamilton gawked after him, shaken to the core. "Maureen is alive?" he whispered to no one. "She can't be!What is this place?"

xxxx

The last bell of the afternoon rang throughout the school. As though on cue, within moments the students were leaping to their feet in every class and barreling towards the doors.

Della's second-grade students were no different. But while most of them were completely occupied with thoughts of going home to sports or television or video games, a few lingered to say goodbye.

"Thank you for the lesson, Miss Street," the last boy told her. He was quiet and polite, and while he was interested in some of the same sorts of activities that his peers were, there was a certain seriousness about him that made Della wonder what he had seen in his short life.

"You're welcome, Howie," she smiled. "Is your mother coming to pick you up today?"

Howie shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "She said she might be busy fixing someone's house today and she might not be able to get away."

Della blinked in surprise and set aside the stack of papers to grade. "What about your father?"

"He's working late at the museum," Howie said. "He said he's expecting an important call from a man in Oregon. They went out on an archaeological dig a few months ago."

"Oh, I see," said Della. "Well, Howie, what are we going to do with you?" She came from around her desk. "Everyone's going home now."

"Maybe I could go home with you," Howie suggested.

Della was touched. "Maybe. But I don't think you'd find it very fun," she said with a gentle smile. "I live all alone. There aren't any toys or books or things for boys to do."

"Oh." Howie looked at Della's desk, then up at her. "I could bring some things and visit sometime. We could play dumptrucks!"

"I think that sounds like a wonderful idea," Della said.

Footsteps in the doorway caused them both to turn and look. A woman in a black suit was entering the room. Before she could say a word Howie was running to her. "Mignon!" he exclaimed.

She smiled at him. "Hello, Howie." Looking up at the amazed Della she said, "Miss Street, I am Mignon Germaine, Howie's godmother."

Della quickly snapped to her senses. "Ms. Germaine, I'm happy to meet you," she said. "Howie's talked a lot about you. I was just wondering whether to take Howie home myself. I wasn't sure if anyone would be there for him if I did."

Mignon nodded. "Mrs. Peterson called and told me she would be delayed. I'll be staying with Howie until either Mr. or Mrs. Peterson return."

"That's good to know." Della smiled at Howie. "Well, I guess this is goodbye for now, Howie. I'll see you tomorrow."

Howie grinned. "Yup! Goodbye, Miss Street."

"Thank you for your concern about Howie," Mignon said. "He's spoken a great deal about you as well." She turned to go. "Perhaps we'll see each other again sometime."

"I'd like that," Della said.

She began to gather her papers and purse to the sound of their fading footsteps. As she worked, she pondered to herself.

Mignon Germaine must have traveled some distance to pick Howie up. She lived in downtown Los Angeles, where she practiced vodun as a priestess. It took almost thirty minutes to drive from there to the San Fernando Valley.

Della had to admit, she felt a slight twinge of disappointment to not have been able to visit more with Howie. Her job was her life. Outside of teaching, and the occasional date with another teacher, there was not much for her to do. Most evenings were spent alone in her house with the television or the stereo and stacks of papers to grade. It was lonely.

She paused when she reached for the morning paper she had brought to class with her. The cover story involved a large-scale case that the prominent defense attorney Perry Mason was working on. To the side of the story was a photograph of Mr. Mason looking seriously at a point just to the left of the camera.

She had felt a spark of something when she had caught a glimpse of the distinguished man's picture that morning. Bewildered, she had bought the paper because for some reason she could not bear to let it go. Looking at it again now, she felt the same sensation. There was something about Perry Mason and the idea of the trial that she could not quite place. It almost seemed as though she belonged there in the courtroom, taking notes at the defense's table.

But that was absolutely ridiculous. She was not an attorney's confidential secretary, nor had she ever been. It was just one of those strange things for which there was no definitive explanation, such as deja vu.

Stacking the newspaper on top of everything else, she lifted the small mountain and headed for the door.

Again she paused. Would it hurt anything if sometime she sought Mr. Mason out? Perhaps the feeling she had was there because she had the potential to be in a different career than she already was.

She smiled to herself, shaking her head. What a silly flight of fancy. She loved teaching those kids. No strange sensation was going to make her give that up, nor even consider it.

She resumed her pace, walking out the door and down the hall.

xxxx

Maureen was waiting when Lieutenant Tragg came through the door and into the house. She hurried to her husband, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Welcome home, Dear," she greeted. Seeing his storm-cloud expression, she paused. "Did you have a bad day at work?"

Tragg sighed, tossing his hat onto the rack in the corner. "Oh, it wasn't the greatest," he said, "but the most bizarre thing has nothing to do with the case I'm working at all. It's Hamilton Burger."

Maureen blinked. "What's wrong with him? You've been such good friends for so long."

"Yeah, I know." Tragg frowned. "I don't know what's wrong with him. Suddenly he doesn't seem to remember anything. I'm worried. He insisted he didn't recommend Paul Drake's license to be revoked."

"A lot of people could forget something like that," Maureen said. "But you said he doesn't seem to remember anything. Does that include us?"

Tragg hesitated. "He remembers us," he said carefully. He took off his coat, hanging it on the rack as well.

"But something is still wrong," Maureen finished.

Tragg turned to face her, his eyes troubled. "He thinks you're dead."

Maureen stared at him. "Oh, Arthur, you must be mistaken!" she exclaimed. "Maybe you misunderstood?"

"No." Tragg shook his head. "He was wondering why I was 'suddenly' wearing my wedding ring. He said I haven't worn it since you . . ." He trailed off. He did not even want to think about Maureen being dead. It gave him a horrible, icy, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Now Maureen looked troubled as well. "He must be very ill," she said. "Has he been working hard lately?"

"More than usual," Tragg admitted. "This Turner case has been keeping him going around the clock." He headed down the hall to wash up for dinner. It was already in the oven and the smell was absolutely tantalizing.

"Then that must be it," Maureen said. She followed him to the bathroom and leaned on the doorframe, watching as he bent over the sink.

"I'm afraid I completely blew up at him when he started talking nonsense about you," Tragg said. After washing his hands he leaned down, splashing water in his face. Straightening, he reached for a towel. "I've had time to cool down since then. Now I just feel guilty. You're right; he wouldn't be acting like that if he wasn't sick."

"Then try to encourage him to take some time off and get some rest," Maureen said. "Hasn't he got dozens of assistants at his beck and call?"

"Quite a number, yes," Tragg said. He set the towel aside and walked out, going back towards the kitchen. "But he's plenty busy even with their help."

"Is he a workaholic?" Maureen returned, hurrying to keep alongside.

"I wouldn't say that," Tragg said. "He likes a good vacation as much as the next guy."

"Well, how about calling him after dinner and apologizing?" Maureen said. "You could suggest a vacation too."

"Maybe," Tragg said noncommittally. "Although it would probably be better to apologize in person."

"Go to his house then," Maureen said. They entered the kitchen.

Tragg shook his head. "I can't tonight," he said. "I must be working too hard myself. I've been exhausted all day. Halfway home, I was so worn-out I wasn't sure I was going to make it back without falling asleep."

"A good dinner will wake you up," Maureen said. She pushed him lightly into a chair. "Just sit here and I'll serve you."

"You could be right," Tragg said. "I'm feeling more awake already."

Maureen laughed. "Good! My special meatloaf recipe always does the trick."

And perhaps it did, but the effect was very temporary. Within thirty minutes of finishing dinner Tragg had wandered into the living room to relax and had soon fallen asleep in his favorite chair.

Maureen stood over him, watching him with care. "Yes, Arthur, that's right," she said softly. "Sleep. It's good for you."

Going upstairs, she unlocked a trunk in the bedroom and soon returned with an ominous, ancient box. Chanting quietly under her breath, she held the container in front of Tragg as the lid rose. Dark purple beams encircled his body, but he was too deeply in slumber to notice.

Maureen's face twisted in a wretched sneer. "And your life energy is good for our little project. You will do well fueling this dark spell until it's too late to reverse it. Of course, by then you'll sadly be dead, but oh well. There always have to be sacrifices to meet great ends."

The purple light, having taken its fill, withdrew and slipped back into the box. She closed the lid, straightening up.

"I'll have to thank Mrs. Tragg sometime for the use of her identity," she smirked. "Although I'm sure she'll want to tear me apart with her bare hands for what I'm doing to you, Arthur."

Her shoes clicking on the floor, she stepped out of the room.