Chapter Eight

Paul slid into a corner booth at Clay's Restaurant and Grill, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder as he did. Hamilton was already there, sipping a cup of what was probably tea. He looked up, watching Paul.

"You're late," he accused.

"Sorry," Paul retorted, his voice sharp. "Someone tailed me for several blocks. I didn't want him following me in here, so I led him on a wild goose chase and hopefully lost him."

Hamilton sighed. "Alright, alright." He set down the cup. "What's been happening aside from that?"

"Well, I'll be honest—I'm not sure." Paul crossed his arms on the table. "Perry and Della are going out again tonight."

Hamilton blinked. "That's a good thing," he exclaimed. "We wanted them to take to each other."

"Yeah, but I don't think they're remembering," Paul said in frustration. "It's been four days and still nothing."

Hamilton sighed. "And the longer it goes on, the worse it gets for us," he said. "On the other hand, think about Vivalene and Judge Heyes. They must be getting pretty edgy too."

"And they haven't done anything," Paul growled. "That's more agonizing than if they had! We don't have any idea when or where they're going to strike!"

"You've been in Perry's office more than I have," Hamilton said. "How has Vivalene been acting?"

"Cool as a cucumber," Paul said. "A frozen cucumber. I can hear the ice forming on every word."

"That's the same kind of reception I've gotten," Hamilton said. "When I went in, she said 'You think you're pretty smart, don't you.'"

"No 'darling' on the end?" Paul said, half-sarcastic.

". . . Yes," Hamilton said. "It was probably the most chilled word of all."

"So how's Perry treating you now?" Paul wondered.

"I don't think he knows how to treat me," Hamilton admitted. "He's still suspicious, I can tell that much. But the thing with Della has softened him at least somewhat."

He pushed the menu aside. "Maybe they still will remember. I guess we couldn't expect it to be so easy that they'd take one look at each other and everything would come back."

"That's what I wanted to have happen," Paul grumbled.

Hamilton nodded. "It would've been nice. I won't deny that."

Paul sat up straighter. "Hey, have you seen Tragg lately?" he demanded. "He looks terrible!"

"I know," Hamilton frowned. "I keep telling him to see a doctor. He won't even be able to do his work if he goes on as exhausted as he's been the last few days."

"I just don't understand it." Paul shook his head. "Tragg's sick. His wife's alive. Nobody remembers anything. It's like the worst kind of trippy dream!"

Hamilton nodded. "That woman couldn't really be his wife. What worries me is who she actually is."

"An innocent bystander dragged into this mess?" Paul suggested.

"Or an accomplice of Vivalene's and Heyes'," Hamilton said. "I'm going to go over there from here and talk to her about Tragg's condition. Maybe I can figure out something about her based on how she reacts to that."

"Why didn't you try that sooner?" Paul wondered.

"I've been trying every day," Hamilton said in exasperation. "Nobody's been home. Tragg told me she goes shopping a lot."

"She must be draining his bank account dry," Paul said in disbelief.

"And that's not how she used to be," Hamilton said.

"No one else is, either, so that doesn't mean much," Paul retorted.

Hamilton glanced in the direction of the counter. When Paul followed his gaze he stared in surprise. Clay was wiping down the counter, looking their way with a disapproving frown.

"What's his problem?" Paul exclaimed. "I've never seen Clay look like that before."

"I'm his problem," Hamilton sighed. "Vivalene's been having a heyday making trouble for me. She put it into Clay's head that I threatened to close this place down, after someone got food poisoning supposedly from eating here." He paused. "Of course, if someone really had gotten food poisoning I'd have to open up an investigation," he quickly added. "I'd hope Clay would understand, but judging from this he might not."

"Oh brother. What hasn't Vivalene done to you?" Paul said.

"At this point, I don't even know anymore. My neighbors have been giving me some black looks too." Hamilton shook his head. "But nevermind about me; that's not important."

A bit surprised, Paul moved to a different topic. "We need to figure out some kind of strategy for what we're going to do," he said.

"Unfortunately, I think we've done all we can for now," Hamilton said. "If we push too hard, they're just going to rebel all the more. I say the best thing is to just casually slip comments about our past experiences with them into the conversations. Maybe something will touch off a spark of memory. Meanwhile, we'll stay on alert in case Vivalene and her pals do something. They won't stay quiet forever."

Paul sighed, idly spinning the menu around on the table. "You know, we haven't seen hide nor hair of Flo," he realized.

"I do know. And it worries me." Hamilton leaned back. "With her and Vivalene's penchant for switching places, maybe she's even in Perry's office sometimes. And that would put Vivalene Heaven knows where."

"Heaven knows where is right," Paul agreed. "It scares me to think about those girls wandering around town and us not even knowing where. At least I thought we knew what Vivalene was up to."

"She always has several different angles," Hamilton said. "We've probably only seen the smallest part of one of them."

Paul nodded. ". . . Have you heard back from Mignon yet?"

"She called me a couple of days ago," Hamilton said. "She said she wasn't having any luck, but she thought she might have a lead. She said she'd call when she saw if it would work out."

"I hope it does," Paul said. "Boy, could we use some good luck now."

Hamilton's phone rang, startling them both. He took it out, glancing at the screen. "It's Mignon," he said. "Excuse me." He turned away, flipping the phone open. "Hello?"

"Mr. Burger, I'm afraid I have bad news." The reception was static and threatened to completely fade out.

Hamilton pressed the phone harder against his ear, at the same time pushing back the pain at hearing her address him in such a cool, formal manner. "Mignon, I'm having trouble hearing you," he said. "Where are you? What's wrong?"

"For the last few hours I've been attempting to leave Los Angeles and go to Oregon to speak with a friend of Douglas Peterson's," Mignon said. "Strangely, I discovered that all the airplanes at LAX are grounded. The staff doesn't even seem aware of why they're not flying. They told me something very vague about the weather."

"What?" Hamilton burst out. "I haven't heard anything about this!" Paul, as well as several other patrons, turned to look at him in surprise.

"The majority of the citizens appear to be taking it in stride," Mignon said. "I also tried the train and bus stations, with the same result. Finally I decided I would simply drive to Oregon on my own."

"Is that where you are now?" Hamilton asked.

"Unfortunately, no. I'm just at the edge of Los Angeles County. My car passed through an invisible barrier at the county line. As soon as it was across, it nearly careened off the road. I have tried to go forward several more times, and each time I've come closer to being killed. Finally I decided it was no use. When I drove back towards the barrier, I passed through without any trouble whatsoever.

"These people do not want anyone to leave Los Angeles County!"

Hamilton leaped to his feet. "That's ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "Are you saying we're trapped in some kind of bubble?"

"If you want to call it that."

"I'm coming out there," Hamilton declared.

"Feel free. But . . . don't do anything unnecessarily dangerous," Mignon pleaded.

"This I have to see for myself," Hamilton said. "Are any other cars around?"

"No. In fact, I didn't pass one car on this highway at all."

Hamilton was bowled over. "Alright. Goodbye, Mignon." He hung up and looked to Paul, who was standing by now as well.

"What, for crying out loud, is going on?" Paul demanded.

Hamilton glanced at the restaurant filled with goggle-eyed people. ". . . I'll tell you outside," he said. "Let's go." He left some coins on the table in payment for the tea and hurried for the door. Paul chased after him.

Within a few minutes of them departing the establishment another disbelieving cry echoed over the property.

"You have got to be kidding!" Paul burst out.

"I wish I were," Hamilton retorted. "Look, Paul—I don't like this any more than you do. I'm one of the most skeptical people you'll ever find. Even something relatively more mild, like ghosts, sounds outlandish to me. But over the past few weeks even I've been forced to acknowledge that strange things are going on. And this . . . this tops it all!" He headed for his car.

"But you still can't believe it unless you see it yourself," Paul said as he followed. He had parked nearby.

"I don't disbelieve Mignon. But yes, I like to see things for myself. I didn't know you were any different." Hamilton unlocked his car and got in. "You can come or not."

"I'm coming," Paul said. "I'll follow you in my car."

"Fine." Hamilton shut the door.

While he backed out of the parking space, Paul hastened to his own vehicle. His heart was pounding. What on earth was happening to them? Were they really trapped in the county? Why? How?

And how would they make everything go back to normal?

xxxx

Mignon was waiting for them at the county line. She stepped out of her car when she saw them pulling up, crossing to a space several feet away.

"This is the barrier," she called, placing her hand in seeming thin air. Something translucent rippled under the beams of their headlights.

"Unbelievable," Paul gasped. Both he and Hamilton hurried over, reaching to touch the substance as well. It was almost like the sensation of plunging one's hand into water, except that there was no liquid.

"This isn't possible," Hamilton objected. "A bubble around the entire county? What's holding it up?"

"It may be powered by the missing box," Mignon said.

Hamilton poked it. "Did you try walking through without your car?"

"Yes. It was worse without the car. I was violently thrown."

Hamilton turned to stare at her in shock. Now that he was taking a closer look he could see that her clothes were torn and her skin scratched in several places. "Mignon, are you badly hurt?" he gasped.

Mignon looked pleased by his concern. "No," she said. "I'm alright." But Hamilton could not help but notice that she was moving somewhat stiffly.

"Well, so now what?" Paul threw his hands in the air. "As if things aren't already bad enough, we're being held hostage in our own county!"

"I've never heard of such a thing," Mignon said. "I can ask some of my friends, but somehow I doubt that they will know, either." She looked to the men. "I firmly believe that we must find the box and the slab in order to solve this. Every other idea we try has been failing miserably."

"And those missing artifacts must be in the lion's den. Oh great," Paul groaned.

"Do everything you can to investigate your enemies and any place they might have hidden these objects," Mignon said. "I will do whatever I can to help."

"Mignon, you've done plenty." Hamilton gently placed an arm around her shoulders to steer her away. "Let me help you get cleaned up and I'll drive you home."

Mignon tensed at his touch but then relaxed, quirking an eyebrow. "What about my car?"

"I'll send a couple of my investigators for it in the morning," Hamilton promised.

Mignon considered it. "Very well. I'll allow you to bind up my wounds, Mr. Burger," she said at last.

Hamilton looked into her eyes. "If you really believe me, can't you call me Hamilton again?" he pleaded.

Mignon looked away, pierced by the sadness and hurt in his eyes and voice. ". . . If I am to fully believe you, I have to let go of everything I remember. That is difficult. In my memories you hurt me deeply."

"It didn't happen," Hamilton said. "At least, I hope it didn't. We've always agreed to disagree. I don't know how to convince you of that."

By now Paul was feeling very uncomfortable. "Okay, I'm just going to mosey on home, maybe start another search on the elusive Mr. Vann." He turned to go.

Hamilton started to attention. "Oh, Paul, I'm sorry," he said, guilty now. "Yes, maybe you'd better go home. We'll be leaving in a few minutes too."

Paul nodded. "I'll see you later. Call me if anything happens."

"That goes for you too," Hamilton said.

xxxx

Clay's was still open for business as the night wore on. Perry had decided to take Della there for a late dinner, much to Vivalene's annoyance and disgust. Della looked around, impressed by the homey design and cozy atmosphere.

"I like this," she said. "You say you know the owner?"

"For a couple of years now," Perry said. "Clay's a good man." He led Della to a corner booth—the same one Hamilton and Paul had occupied.

Della slid into the seat. "So . . . why did you want to have dinner again?" she asked.

Perry sat across from her. "Because I like you," he said. "I want to know more about you.

"Why did you accept?"

"Because . . ." Della hesitated. "Because I like you too. Because I like being with you. Because I'm curious."

"Curious?" Perry said easily.

Della nodded. "If we're honest with ourselves, aren't we both here because we're wondering if two certain men have been telling the truth? Because we have a feeling, however small, that they might be? Because . . ." She looked into his eyes. "This feels right?"

Something flickered in Perry's eyes. "Yes," he admitted at last. "It does feel right."

"Then . . ." Della drew a deep breath. "Do you think Mr. Drake and Mr. Burger are right about everything?"

Perry fell silent, mulling over her query. "I should know what to think," he said. "But I don't. And I also don't know if I'm just a good old-fashioned skeptic . . . or if I'm afraid."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he was appalled. What was he doing? He had not meant to share something so deeply personal with this woman, no matter how much he enjoyed her company. And yet that, too, felt right. Anyway, it was too late to take it back now.

Della was stunned by the revelation. "The great Perry Mason afraid? Of what?"

Perry frowned. He could say Nevermind and switch topics. But he had opened the door. Now, the thought of unloading at least some of his concerns sounded like a relief.

"Afraid of letting go," he finally said. "Of accepting that everything I thought I knew is a lie." He paused. ". . . Of accepting that someone I remember as my nemesis actually is a friend."

Recognition shone in Della's eyes. "You mean Mr. Burger," she realized.

Perry nodded. "For as long as we've known each other we've been at each other's throats. We've said in no uncertain terms that we don't want to be around each other any more than necessary. At least . . . that's how I remember it. And if it isn't true . . . then what have I been doing? How coldly have I been treating him these last few days?"

Della pondered on her reply. "I'm sure he would understand, given the circumstances," she said. "Just as I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

Perry nodded. "I suppose. But you see, I'm not sure I'll understand." He poured a glass of water from the courtesy pitcher and offered it to Della. She accepted and he poured a glass for himself as well. "Even though I know I can't truly be blamed if I don't remember the right way of things, I can't bear the thought that I've been treating a friend as he doesn't deserve."

A quiet smile tugged at Della's lips. "You're a good man, Mr. Mason," she said. "And if it turns out that Mr. Drake and Mr. Burger are right, I think I'll like working for you."

Perry regarded her in surprise. He smiled as well. "And I shall like having you work for me, Miss Street."

xxxx

The next phone call came just as Maureen was making certain Tragg was asleep in bed after a long shift at work. She snatched the receiver up after the first ring. "What do you have to tell me?" she half-barked, walking around the small table in the hall to the open doorway of the nearest room.

"It's been four days," came Judge Heyes' voice. "What kind of operation are you running? Something should have been done by now! Instead you've not only allowed Mason to reunite with his beloved secretary, you haven't done a thing as they've gone out nearly every one of the succeeding evenings!"

"Oh fiddlesticks," Maureen retorted. She had not been expecting this. It should have been her contact calling. "It's true, what I suspected—you know next to nothing about strategy! I want to lure them into a false sense of security. And if they don't get lured, then they'll be constantly tense and on edge, expecting something terrible to happen. Either way I get a good laugh."

"And while you're getting your jollies, then what?" Heyes cried. "They could start remembering! You were worried about that too. That was why you told me they should never meet up."

"Yes, yes, I know all that." Maureen glanced with impatience at the clock. "Do you have a point to this communication? If not, I need to drain my darling husband while he's still out like a light."

"I do have a point," Heyes growled. "And it has to do with your darling husband. I want you to think about going a little faster. Don't take several more days or even weeks. Drain as much life energy or whatever hocus pocus nonsense you're doing so he'll die sooner. Much sooner."

"How much sooner?" Maureen asked boredly.

"Tomorrow! Tonight!" Heyes wailed.

"Sorry," Maureen answered. "It won't work that fast. Besides, I don't want to rush my fun. I want to savor these days as we work towards making our spell permanent."

"Oh you fool!" Heyes burst out. "You'll savor so much and so long that everything will fall apart!"

"It won't," Maureen replied immediately. "You were complaining that nothing's been done since Mason and Street met. Well, something is going to be done. Not what you asked for, but something."

". . . Aren't you going to tell me what it is?" Heyes demanded after a moment of expectant silence.

"No. I think I'll let you be as surprised as everyone else," Maureen said. "Now goodbye."

"Don't forget that you're working for me!" Heyes yelled. "Not the other way around!"

Maureen responded by hanging up on him. "You're wrong, Judge," she sneered to herself. "You're merely a convenience of mine. I don't need you any longer. You won't be sharing the new world with me when our spell is sealed. You'll be dead, just like Lieutenant Tragg."

She went to retrieve the box from the attic.

xxxx

"Is this the last one?"

Mignon watched as Hamilton finished treating a cut on the back of her hand. "Yes," she said. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Hamilton was relieved that it had not taken long to tend to Mignon's injuries. He had worried that she might be hurt worse than she appeared to be. The wounds, however, seemed to be superficial. He had taken care of all that he could see, yet wondered if there were others that she did not want him to know about.

Mignon leaned back in the passenger seat. Hamilton replaced the first aid kit in the trunk before getting in the car and starting the engine.

"Mignon, why did you do that?" he exclaimed after a brief pause. "After what happened when you were in the car, I'd think you would've used more discretion!"

"Would you?" Mignon returned.

Hamilton glanced at her. "Would I what?"

"Have used more discretion. Or would you have decided to see whether it was affected by metal alone and if a human being could pass through unharmed?"

Hamilton sighed. "Alright, you've got me," he admitted. "I might have done that."

"I felt if I did it instead, and discovered that it was dangerous whether or not I was driving my car, you would not be tempted to try it."

Hamilton gripped the steering wheel, nearly slamming on the brakes in utter shock. "Mignon!" he cried.

"I know it was foolish." She looked out at the dark California night. "I don't even quite know why I decided to do it."

Hamilton easily picked up on the jab in that remark. "Mignon, what did I do to you?" he demanded. "In your memories, I mean."

She shook her head. "It wasn't one specific incident as much as it was a series of events. And it culminated with a fierce argument and a mutual agreement to not associate with each other."

"All because of what?" Hamilton countered. "The worst thing we disagree on is the existence of the supernatural. And I can't believe that would be so huge in the big picture that we wouldn't want anything more to do with each other."

Mignon sighed. "As I remember it, it went far deeper than that.

"Tell me, what made you the way you are? So skeptical, unable to take anything serious if it's the slightest bit supernatural?"

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "I don't think anything really made me that way," he said. "Well, I mean, if you're trying to ask if I had a specific experience that made me a cynic, the answer is no. Not everyone who disbelieves had some life-shattering experience that made them bitter. Some people just never see the sense or logic in it. It sounds ridiculous, even crazy, to them."

"Do you believe in God?"

"Now that really has nothing to do with it," Hamilton frowned. "Yes, actually, I do believe in God. But not everyone who believes in God also swallows everything supernatural hook, line, and sinker. In fact, in some cases it may shape why they don't believe in stuff like that. I guess the way I look at it, I honestly can't believe God would've created a world where things like magic or spells run rampant. If He's supposed to be a God of order, then to me it doesn't make sense. It would result in complete chaos!"

"I don't pretend to have all the answers," Mignon said. "But there are so many things that don't make sense in this world. And there is already chaos without the aid of magic and spells."

"Exactly. So why make more?"

"I believe that magic can be used for good as well as for evil," Mignon said. "And therein lies the balance. With a proper balance you have order and not chaos."

Hamilton shook his head. "You know, Mignon, even without you remembering, this conversation is a lot like discussions we've had in the past." He smiled a bit. "Maybe that means there is hope."

"You doubted it?"

"No," Hamilton said slowly. "But it is discouraging. Paul and I were both hoping that something big would happen if Perry and Della met. Instead, there's still no indication that anyone remembers."

"Perhaps it's something that will take a great deal of time," Mignon said. "Little by little, the truth will emerge."

"Unfortunately, I have this feeling that we don't have a great deal of time," Hamilton answered. "I can't believe Vivalene and her cronies are just going to stay static. Something disastrous could break at any time."

"On that point, I'm sure you're right."

Mignon perked up as they pulled up in her driveway. Another car was already there.

"Larry's home," Hamilton observed.

Mignon nodded, undoing her seatbelt. "He's probably worried."

"He's asked me several times to stop filling your head with nonsense," Hamilton said. "He thinks I've lost my marbles."

"Well." Mignon stepped out of the car, a slight smile playing on her lips. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still sane."

Hamilton stared in surprise. He snapped back to his senses, exiting the vehicle to accompany Mignon to the porch. She waited for him before proceeding up the walkway.

"Will you be coming in for a few minutes?" she asked.

"Thank you, but I shouldn't," Hamilton said. "I was going to talk with the woman impersonating Tragg's wife."

Mignon's eyes flickered with worry. "You might not be safe going there alone. Maybe Larry should go with you."

"I'll be fine," Hamilton assured her. "Larry would never go for that, anyway. He might say something that would make it worse."

Mignon sighed. "Then I suppose I'll wait to hear from you."

They stepped onto the porch and she searched her purse for her keys. Before she could locate them the door opened and Larry stood in the lighted doorway. "Mother!" he cried. "Where have you been?"

"I've been out at the county line," Mignon said.

Larry whirled to stare at Hamilton. "Mr. Burger, what have you been dragging my mother into?" He gestured at the assortment of cuts and bandages. "She's hurt!"

Hamilton flinched. "Larry, I never want to get your mother into anything dangerous," he said.

"It isn't his fault, Larry," Mignon said. "I got myself hurt." She stepped inside.

"But you were doing something for him, weren't you?" Larry exclaimed.

"Larry, that's enough." Mignon's voice had gone stern. "I was doing something for all of us. Don't you understand?"

"No, I don't!" Larry shot back. "Mr. Burger's been telling you these crazy stories and you believe all of them!"

"Nevermind," Hamilton interrupted. "I need to go now. Please don't argue on my account." He turned, heading down the steps.

A knife flew out of the darkness, slamming into a wooden post not more than six inches from his head. He whirled, his eyes wide. Mignon cried out in horror.

Larry ran out on the porch. The sound of footsteps flew over the grass in the darkness. In a moment they stopped and a car motor roared to life. The mysterious assailant had fled.