Notes: Thank you to everyone who has been showing interest! I wish I could reply to everyone who reviews. I enjoy interacting with fellow fans. I try to reply personally to all signed reviews where possible. Sometimes it isn't. If I haven't been able to contact you of late, please know that I continue to greatly appreciate your thoughts! I hope everyone will continue to enjoy this story.

Chapter Nine

"This has been a wonderful evening. Thank you, Mr. Mason."

Perry smiled. "You're quite welcome, Miss Street. I was about to thank you."

He glanced at Della. He was driving her home after their time together. Although she had been attentive all evening, now she seemed a bit occupied. And it did not take long to see why. Several red-and-blue lights were flashing on a side street Perry had chosen to drive down.

"What happened here?" Della gasped.

"I don't know," Perry frowned. He was about to drive on past when a familiar man gave him pause. "Why, it's Mr. Burger!"

Della leaned forward. "It is!" she realized. "Mr. Mason, we should stop."

"I agree." Perry pulled over to the curb. He and Della got out, walking across the street to where the cars were gathered in front of a modest house.

"What happened?" he called.

Hamilton looked up with a start from where he was talking to an exhausted Lieutenant Tragg. "Perry, Della," he said in surprise.

"Oh, everything's fine here, Counselor," Tragg said. "Except for the part about someone trying to shish-kabob our district attorney." He nodded to where police photographers were snapping pictures of the knife in the post.

Della was horrified. "Mr. Burger, are you alright?"

"They missed me by a few inches," Hamilton said. "We don't know who it was."

"Someone hired by Vivalene," Perry said. He was not sure why he said it or if he even fully believed it, but it came out all the same. And somehow it sounded right.

Hamilton started. "Do you know something about this, Perry?" he asked, his eyes filled with questions.

"No, I don't," said Perry. "But you insist that Vivalene is out to get us. You're probably at the top of her hit list."

"I think she wants to torture me instead of killing me," Hamilton said. "Unless she's given up and just wants me dead before I can encourage you any more." He looked from him to Della. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

"Not really," Perry said. "There's some slight sensations, but that's all."

Della nodded. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burger," she said in all sincerity.

"It's alright," Hamilton said, although he looked disappointed. "You can't help it if you can't remember."

Tragg stood to the side, frowning at their conversation. He was stubborn, not wanting to accept that any of this nonsense was real or could be. Perhaps, really, deep down he was afraid of its truth—but for a somewhat different reason than what Perry had cited to Della.

If everything Hamilton was saying was genuine, then what about Tragg's wife? Was she truly dead? Had someone slipped into her place?

He had not wanted to admit it, even to himself, but he had picked up on some strange behavior from Maureen of late. Sometimes she seemed cooler. Sometimes he almost had the feeling that she was putting on an act, that she did not really love him. Still, the moments passed and she was loving again and Tragg put aside all thoughts that anything was wrong. But they gnawed at his heart nevertheless.

All he really knew was that if he had lost his wife once, he did not want to lose her again. He did not know that he could even bear to go through it a second time. The house was so empty without her.

What was he saying? Did he remember? Was some part of him awakening to the cruel memories of coming home and not finding her there waiting?

No. No, that was not possible. He was not remembering. Maureen was alive. She had always been alive. She had never died. And she still loved him. Any time he thought she did not, he was imagining things, probably brought on by Hamilton's fairytales. They were warping his mind.

"Well," he said, snapping his notepad closed as he returned to the present, "I think we've done all we can do here for now. Mr. Burger, do you have somewhere else you can go tonight? I doubt you should be alone at your house."

"I could take out a hotel room," Hamilton said, without much hope. Their enemies most likely could and would find him anywhere. Right now he was not sure whether the knife was a warning or a failed attempt to kill him.

"Then I suggest you do it," Tragg said gruffly.

"Lieutenant," Perry interrupted, "will you look into what I said?"

"What was that? . . . Oh. That Vivalene hired someone?" Tragg shook his head. "Mason, I'm surprised at you. Such disloyalty to your secretary isn't like you. And now suddenly, because of fables told to you by not only your friend Drake but your archenemy Mr. Burger, you turn against her?"

Perry looked to him, unshaken. "I believe even fables deserve a fair examination, Lieutenant. I find it strange that you, being Mr. Burger's friend, won't even consider that what he's saying has any merit."

"He may be a friend, but that doesn't mean I think there's merit in everything he says. And that's his own policy too, I believe." Tragg gave Hamilton a sidelong glance. "He's told Mrs. Germaine more than once that there's no value in her religious beliefs."

Hamilton's mouth fell open. "What?" He spun around to face Mignon. She would not meet his gaze. "That isn't true!" he protested in desperation. "I don't believe in voodoo, but I'd never say something like that! Mignon, I respect that you believe in it."

She raised her eyes. "Lieutenant Tragg exaggerates," she said. "In my memories you did say that, but it was just once."

Hamilton swallowed hard. ". . . When we decided not to associate any more," he realized.

Mignon nodded. "Yes."

Hamilton went to her. "Mignon, I am so sorry." The sincere sorrow was obvious in his eyes. "I don't blame you for not wanting anything to do with me. But please believe me, Mignon—it didn't happen. I never said that."

Mignon looked down. "I want to believe you." She met his gaze. "I don't know that I can just yet. Maybe soon."

It was the best Hamilton could hope for at this point, he supposed. "Maybe," he agreed.

Della looked to Perry, uncomfortable. "Maybe we should go," she said. "This is too private. I feel like we're intruding."

Perry nodded. "I think you're right. There's not much more we can do here anyway."

Tragg watched as Perry took Della's arm to guide her away. "It's my duty to advise you both to be careful," he said. "After all, someone tried to kill you first, Mason."

"That isn't something that can be easily forgotten," Perry said. "We'll be careful, Tragg."

Della waited until they were out of earshot to speak again. "I feel sorry for Mr. Burger." She shook her head. "He looks so . . . so sad. I can't believe he doesn't believe everything he's been saying."

"Oh, he believes it," Perry said. "The problem is no one else does."

"Not even you, Mr. Mason?" Della returned. "Even after saying your secretary might be involved?"

They reached the car and Perry held the door open for her. "I still don't know, Miss Street," he said. "Even after that."

"Maybe you do, deep down," Della said, "and the problem is just like you said—you're afraid."

Perry shut the door and went around to the other side of the car. "That's quite an accusation," he said as he eased himself inside. "That I might already have the answer, I mean. It was just at dinner when we both talked about our doubts. Are yours starting to fade?"

Della pondered on the query. "I think they might be starting to," she said.

"Because of how sad Mr. Burger looked?" Perry interjected. "He could be having a delusion."

"I don't believe that," Della said. "But I'm not changing my mind only because of him." She smiled. "A lot of it has to do with you, Mr. Mason. In fact, the largest part."

"I'm honored," Perry said, smiling too.

He was just about to start the engine when a tremor shook the street. Both he and Della froze. Did they need to prepare for an oncoming earthquake? Minor ones were so commonplace, but this felt more dangerous—as though it was a prelude for something bigger. Still, in a moment the trembling diminished and ceased as mysteriously as it had come.

Della gripped her purse. "That was a surprise," she said.

"Just another night in California," Perry said.

The ground was still growling and rumbling under the surface. Perry lingered, his hand on the keys. If this kept up, it might become unsafe for them to drive away. They might have to take shelter at the Germaine house. At last, however, the earth seemed to calm itself. Perry turned over the engine and carefully departed.

Mignon had caught herself on the porch railing as the property shook. Hamilton looked to her in concern as he gripped the railing with one hand. Her conflicted eyes surprised him. "What is it?" he asked. "It's just an earthquake—a small one at that."

Mignon stared into the distance. High above them the sky—or maybe the transparent case in which they were trapped—was flickering wildly, as though threatening to burst. "I wonder if that's truly all it is," she mused.

"What are you talking about?" Hamilton exclaimed. "What else could it be?"

"Perhaps something has been upset in the balance of this bubble," Mignon said. "It's behaving oddly."

"Is that good or bad?" Hamilton was not about to let down his guard. He would rather chuckle quietly about this, but he could not afford to think for certain that there was nothing to it.

"I don't know," Mignon said. "Possibly good, since this entire plot is evil. Another wrench may have been thrown into their plans."

"You mean like someone remembering?" Hamilton could not keep the hopeful inflection out of his voice.

"That could be," Mignon said, noncommittal. "Or maybe at least deciding to try."

Hamilton could do little more than hope it was true. But he also wished that Mignon would make that same momentous decision. He was trying to push aside his own hurt in the face of getting everything back to normal, but he could not hide it all. He felt as though he had lost every close friend he had once had.

xxxx

Maureen was awake, sitting up at the kitchen table when Tragg came in. "What happened?" she asked. "That must have been a terribly important call, to get you out of bed in the middle of the night."

"It was," Tragg said, tossing his hat and coat on the rack before going to her. "Someone tried to kill Mr. Burger."

"No!" Maureen got up, frowning. "There's been an epidemic of that going around. Arthur, maybe you should stay out of it. You could be next."

"I'm not going to stay out of it," Tragg countered. "I deal with danger every day, Maureen. It just comes with the territory. Besides, Hamilton Burger is my friend, no matter what kinds of outrageous stories he tells. I want to find who's out to get him."

Maureen sighed. "I know, Arthur, but . . ." She shook her head. "Nevermind." She started to walk past, but stopped. "Oh, did you feel that earthquake a while ago?"

Tragg nodded. "It was nothing," he said. "It probably didn't even register on the Richter scale."

"That's where you're wrong, Arthur. It was something. Most assuredly it was something. And it registered on a far more important scale."

Tragg narrowed his eyes. There was something about Maureen's tone of voice that he did not like at all. It was almost as though she was angry. Danger seemed to be dripping from every word. "Maureen, what are you getting at?" he demanded.

She turned back to face him. In her hands she held a strange and unfamiliar box. Underneath the lid, a purple substance was swirling.

Tragg took a step back. "What have you got there?" he asked in displeasure.

"I'm sorry, Arthur." Maureen stepped forward, not sounding the least bit sorry. "I didn't want to have to do this yet, but certain events are moving too fast for us. That wasn't an ordinary earthquake."

"What?" Tragg scoffed. "Maureen, what kind of nonsense are you saying now?"

She went on as though she had not heard him. "I know it wasn't, because the dark power in this box threatened to escape when it happened. And that can't be allowed."

She jerked the lip up without another word. The purple strands flew out, encircling Tragg as he stared in disbelieving shock. The more he tried to extricate himself, the more they tightened their somehow physical grip. And he could not even try to fight for long. Something about their power was quickly weakening him, almost as if he was being put under a strong anesthesia. But he struggled for consciousness with all his might.

"Maureen!" he screamed. It was a cry saturated in betrayal.

The last thing he saw before his eyes sank closed was his wife's cruel and sadistic smirk.

xxxx

Andy sighed, thrusting aside the latest forms and papers he had to look over and sign before the night was out. He ran a hand through his already out-of-place hair, sending it all the more prominently into his right eye.

"Why did I ever decide I wanted this job?" he grumbled to the room.

He paused. It was odd, but suddenly he was not sure of the answer. He could not even clearly recall when he had become the principal. It was as though he had always held that position. And of course that was impossible.

Slowly he leaned back into the couch. He still had some bruises from the abduction the other night. But in spite of how insane that experience had been, something about the action and the danger felt familiar to him. He had clobbered that enemy quite soundly. Where had he learned that? It was not the sort of skill an elementary school principal needed to rely on.

A bit of a smile sneaked over his features. "A police lieutenant, huh?" he said, again addressing nothing other than the room and the furniture and the crackling fire in the hearth.

He gazed up at the ceiling. What Paul Drake was telling was so fantastic it could not be real. It defied all logic and sense. And yet there were things that did not fit well if it were not true.

How did he explain Della's growing fixation with that lawyer Perry Mason? She had told Andy that she had felt something of their connection before Paul had ever come into the picture. That was what had made his words mean something to her.

They were still seeing each other. Andy was not sure what to make of it at all. He had wondered if he should advise Della to leave it alone. But at the risk of sounding cliché, this seemed to be bigger than any of them. Perry and Della were drawn to each other. Andy had observed it very clearly, and he had not been the only one to do so.

Della had been making waves at the school the last few days. The other teachers were in awe, some even jealous, that she had struck up an association with someone as famous and prominent as Perry Mason. But she did not care what they thought about it.

Paul had come to see Andy earlier that day, asking him how he felt now that he had had time to digest what was happening and what Paul had said. Andy had not even known what to tell him. He still did not know that he believed, or ever could; yet on the other hand he doubted he could say he did not believe.

A glance at the clock told him that he had to put aside all such foolish thoughts. He would be a zombie tomorrow if he did not finish up here and get to bed. But try as he might, he could not concentrate on the school papers when he went back to them. They blurred before his eyes.

Instead, all he could think about was a field trip the school had gone on some time ago. It had been to a large, private museum in a rich eccentric's house. The man had worn his hair to his shoulders, but had been very clean-cut and stylish. And he had borne a strange and unsettling smirk, almost as if he had known something that no one else there had.

"Mr. Vann," Andy breathed. The man matched Paul's basic description of their missing thief. Andy knew him by a different name, he thought, but offhand he could not remember what it was.

From what else he did recollect, Mr. Vann was wealthy enough to control many of the politicians and other public officials in the county. Of course, that was mainly rumor without provable fact. But Andy could believe it. And now he was wondering if Mr. Vann controlled Judge Heyes among his other subjects.

Andy got up, heading out of the living room and into his private office. He had to find the file on that field trip. There should be a copy of it in his filing cabinet. And if not there, he could tap into it via the school's network.

If all else failed, he would try to contact Della. Maybe she would remember the name the man was going by.

xxxx

The thoughts were spinning in Hamilton's mind as he drove down the streets of Los Angeles. He was heading for maybe a hotel room, maybe his house; he had not decided yet. Or maybe he would try again to catch Maureen. Lieutenant Tragg might be back at the station, freeing his wife for the talk Hamilton wanted to have with her.

He turned a corner. There had not been any more strange seismic activity. The sky or the bubble had long ago calmed as well. The night was cold and dark. And although he found Mignon's explanation hard to swallow, it was a fact at any rate that the weather bureau was puzzled. There were no indications that the plates had been creating an earthquake of any size tonight.

Hamilton sighed to himself. Here he was, trying desperately to get everyone to believe him about their lost memories, and he could not even fully accept all possible levels of supernatural activity that might be abounding on this case. Just how much logic was he going to have to abandon to get everything back to normal?

And if . . . when that happened, would he ever be able to dismiss strange and supernatural things with as much ease as he had up to this point? Had his outlook been permanently altered? He could not even say. He wanted to continue to deny that certain things were possible, yet after what he had seen and experienced, could he, in all honesty?

Somehow, while lost in his soliloquy he had driven right to Tragg's house. The lights were still on, he noted. But Tragg was probably home; his car was in the driveway. Maybe Hamilton would just drive on by tonight. He could not very well have a candid conversation with Maureen if her husband was around.

Only . . . what was that flashing purple glow? It looked so similar to what had come out of the box, in what seemed another lifetime ago. He parked, leaning forward to stare at it more.

The scream from inside the house chilled his blood. Without wasting another second he sprang out of the car and ran to the porch. "What's going on in there?" he yelled, pounding on the door. "Tragg, what's wrong?" The door was locked. Undaunted, he kicked it in.

The sight that met his eyes stabbed him with horror and disbelief. Tragg was collapsing to the floor, enveloped by several misty purple tendrils anchored in a familiar metal box. And holding the box while standing over him with a satisfied sneer was Maureen.

Hamilton did not make a habit of physically attacking women. He was a gentleman even with the vilest of females. But despite his skepticism over the supernatural it was obvious that Maureen was responsible for whatever was happening to her husband. And she was so involved with it that even the sound of the door banging against the wall did nothing to rouse her from her abominable task. Hamilton had to break the . . . spell, or whatever it was.

He ran forward, grabbing Maureen from behind. She gave an outraged cry and fought back, sending them tumbling to the floor as their balance was lost. The attack on Tragg forgotten, she struggled and flailed against Hamilton. "Let me go!" she shrilled. "What right do you have, barging into our house this way?"

Hamilton held fast. "What right do you have, hurting your husband?" he snapped back. "Or whatever he is to you. I know the truth. I know you're not really his wife!"

Tragg's eyes opened just slightly. "What . . . what are you doing?" he moaned. "Don't hurt her!"

That only made Hamilton angrier. "Look at him, still worried about you even after whatever it was you were doing to him!" he burst out. "You don't deserve him. He's always been devoted to the real Maureen."

Maureen was not about to answer any questions or accusations. At last she closed the box and lashed out, striking his hands with it. Hamilton cried out, his grip loosening. Maureen pulled free and got up, running for the door. It banged shut after her.

Hamilton's eyes narrowed as he watched her go. She would have to get away for now. Tragg needed help.

He sat up on the floor, pushing back the burning pain in both his hands. "I'm just lucky they're not broken," he muttered to himself. That box had been hard.

He reached out, his right hand trembling as he laid it on Tragg's shoulder. "Tragg! What happened?" he demanded. "How bad are you hurt?"

Tragg shuddered, trying to look up at him. His eyes were glazed. "Mr. Burger, I . . . I don't understand," he choked out. "Maureen was . . . she was trying to hurt me. Why?"

"That wasn't Maureen," Hamilton said bitterly. He took Tragg's wrist, checking his pulse. It was racing. "Tragg, I know it's hard, but you have to calm down," he pleaded. "At this rate you might have a heart attack or . . ."

Tragg seemed not to hear. "And now she's gone," he said, the anguish twisting his voice. "She won't be coming back, will she?"

"I don't know," Hamilton said in all honesty. "I hope she won't. She's hurt you enough." He loosened Tragg's tie and the top button of his dress shirt.

Tragg's look was accusatory. "You chased her away," he said. "It's because of you that she's left and I've lost her a second time!"

Hamilton flinched. Tragg was delirious and surely did not mean it, but that knowledge did not curb the hurt he felt. "She was killing you!" he cried. "You admitted yourself that she was hurting you. I was trying to save you from her!"

Tragg gave a sad sigh. "Yes, I know," he said, the fog over his mind clearing for one moment. "But . . . even with what she was doing, she's . . ." His eyes started to close. "She's all I have left of Maureen." He fell limp.

Hamilton panicked. "Tragg!" he exclaimed. "Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me?" He bent down, desperate as he searched for breath. Tragg was still alive, but his breathing was pained. His pulse, slowing at last, was probably slowing too much.

Hamilton pulled out his phone, dialing 911 in one swift motion. As he talked with the dispatcher, he could only pray that help would arrive soon.

And that they would know what to do when they came.

xxxx

The doctors at Central Receiving Hospital were baffled. As far as they could tell, Lieutenant Arthur Tragg had collapsed from utter, sheer exhaustion. He had also suffered an immense emotional shock, which was explained easily enough by Hamilton telling them that Tragg's wife had wanted him hurt. He had been unable to tell what he had actually seen, but he had tried to say enough to make Maureen's guilt very clear. He did not want her to be allowed to see Tragg, if she came to finish whatever heartless job she had started.

He leaned forward in the waiting room, gazing at the floor. He felt so helpless. What now? Would Tragg live? Would he . . . would he die, with hardly anyone remembering their true connections to him?

What on earth had Maureen been doing to him? And where had she taken the box? He would not care about her location save for that box. They needed it. They had to figure out how to use it to get everything back to normal.

Had he done the right thing, to let her go? Maybe he could have caught her, had he gone immediately. But he had been so worried about Tragg, lying so still on the floor. How could he have left? What if that would have made the difference between life and death and Tragg would have been beyond help upon Hamilton's return?

What would happen to all of them with that box still in their enemy's hands?

"How is he?"

He looked up with a start at the quiet, concerned voice. Della was standing in front of him, her gloves in one hand. Of all people, he had not expected to see her right now. He was grateful, of course. But he was also surprised.

"He's . . ." He shook his head. "They say he needs rest to get back his strength. A lot of rest. But the shock he went through was so harsh, they're . . . they're not sure if he'll get to that point."

Della gasped. "Oh no. I'm so sorry."

Hamilton sighed. "He's strong and stubborn. I can't believe he won't pull through this." He knew he was trying to convince himself more than her. He had no way of knowing if this shock was too much for Tragg to endure. Tragg had been so convinced that his wife was alive. His last words had indicated that perhaps now he knew and accepted the truth, yet was still unable to part with even a faux Maureen. What would that do to him?

"Then I'm sure he'll make it," Della said kindly.

Hamilton studied her inquiringly. "Are you here alone?" he wondered.

"Oh! I came with Mr. Anderson and his cousin Jimmy," Della explained. "You see, Mr. Anderson called me tonight wanting to ask me something. And Jimmy came to his house right while we were on the phone, to tell Mr. Anderson about Lieutenant Tragg. He was going to the hospital and . . . well, I asked to come." She shifted, awkward. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Hamilton said. ". . . Oh." He stood, running a hand through his hair. "Where are my manners tonight. Please sit down." He gestured at the chairs.

"Thank you." Della sat, watching him in concern. "How are you?" she asked as he sat next to her.

He blinked. "Me? I'm not the one in the hospital bed."

"I think the family and friends suffer just as much as the person hurt," Della said. She looked like she wanted to say more, but was hesitant.

Hamilton shrugged. "Well, I'm alright," he said. "I'm just angry. That two-faced Maureen impostor did this to him!" His eyes narrowed. "And I'm going to make sure she's caught and locked away."

"I'm sure she deserves it," Della said.

Hamilton nodded. He had not told anyone yet that she had had the box with her. He wanted to talk about it with Paul first, in private. And he also wanted to tell Mignon. He had tried to call her, feeling that she needed to know in spite of the unseemly hour. But Larry had answered and had insisted he was not going to wake her up at any time that night. Perhaps it was for the best; Mignon certainly needed to sleep. Waiting a few hours longer to tell her would surely not change much about their situation.

Again Della hesitated. ". . . You said that Lieutenant Tragg is a friend of all of ours, didn't you?" she asked finally. "Mine and Mr. Mason's and Mr. Drake's and Mr. Anderson's?"

"Yes," Hamilton nodded. "I called Perry and Paul. They should be coming in too." He frowned, peering at her. "What is it?"

Della looked embarrassed. "What about you and I?" she queried. "Are we friends?"

Hamilton was stunned. "Yes," he said again. "It might not always seem like it, but we're friends."

"I'm sorry I don't remember," Della said in complete sincerity. "I wish I could."

"It's alright," Hamilton said. "Maybe soon."

"Maybe," Della agreed. "But I'd like to try to renew that friendship now, tonight." She looked into his eyes. "You look like you could use one."

An amazing sense of relief and release washed over him. Della did not remember, yet she also did not have anything against him in her false memories. He would not have to listen to any other accusations tonight.

"I could," he confessed, his voice cracking from both the strain and his gratitude. "Thank you."