Notes: Trying to figure out how Paul and Hamilton would react to each other has been a puzzle from the start. They rarely ever interacted on the series, and the great majority of the handful of times Paul ever mentioned Hamilton, it was in a derogatory way. That's pretty much all I've had to go on. That, and Hamilton's reluctance to prosecute Paul in season 3's Paul Drake's Dilemma. I've always tried to write their interaction with a certain undercurrent of tension, expecting that someday it would erupt. That's how I finally ended up with this chapter as it is.

Chapter Ten

"She had the box?"

Hamilton got up, facing the frustrated Paul in the private lounge where they had gone to talk. He was still in the middle of his explanation concerning Tragg's injuries. "Yes, she had the box," he said. "She hit me with it and ran out the door. I couldn't go after her without further compromising Tragg's well-being."

"Or maybe you were just too dazed from the hit," Paul retorted.

"She hit my hands so I couldn't hold onto her," Hamilton said, a noticeable edge to his voice. "What are you trying to say, Drake? That I'm using my friend as an excuse because I'm too embarrassed to say that she stunned me?"

Paul rocked back, fixing him with a hard look. ". . . No," he said at last. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm sorry." He turned away, his shoulders slumped. "I guess the stress of all this is just getting to us both."

"I guess." Hamilton shoved his hands in his pockets.

"So what now?" Paul exclaimed with a wild gesture. "We don't even know who Maureen really is. Without knowing that, we won't know where to look. She wouldn't go anyplace where she'd be expected to turn up as Maureen."

"Della and Andy told me something interesting," Hamilton said. "They both remember this field trip the school kids went on, to a big mansion someone had converted into a private museum. And from their description of the man, he could be our missing Mr. Vann."

Paul perked up, spinning around to face him again. "Really?"

Hamilton nodded. "The problem is, he wasn't going by that name. Neither Della nor Andy remember the name he was using. As our luck would seem to have it, the file on the trip has gone missing, too."

"And there's a ton of houses around here that have been converted into museums," Paul groaned. "I guess I know what I'll be doing tomorrow." Suddenly getting an idea, he asked, "Do they remember if he had some particular interest?"

"Unfortunately, they said his collection had a little bit of everything," Hamilton said.

"Great, just great."

Paul looked to the door. The doctor had said they could talk in the lounge as long as no one needed to use it. And he had said he would come and get them if there was any change in Tragg's condition. The door remained closed, with no sound of footsteps outside at all.

A sidelong glance at Hamilton revealed that he was watching the door too. Paul turned to look at him more closely. Although Burger would never want it seen, especially by Paul, his eyes were filled with quickly changing emotions. He was worried. He was tense. He had hope. In that moment he looked vulnerable.

Paul looked away. It made him too uncomfortable, to see his sometimes-enemy like that. It was not how he thought of Hamilton Burger at all.

Or perhaps . . . was it possible that what made him the most uncomfortable was that Burger had showed that side to him, inadvertency notwithstanding?

"I'm sorry about Tragg," Paul mumbled at last. "The doctors really don't know what to think about his condition?"

"No, they don't," said Hamilton. "I couldn't tell them what I saw back at the house. I'm not even sure what I saw. But they're saying Tragg's sick and exhausted and suffered a terrible shock, all of which I agree with. He was delirious after it happened." He muttered the last part.

"What did he say?" Paul frowned.

Hamilton stiffened. He had not been quite aware that Paul had even heard him. And he was not sure that he wanted to share anything further—at least not about Tragg's accusations.

He and Paul had been thrown into this situation out of necessity, not choice. He had sometimes been exasperated or frustrated with Paul, yet he held nothing against him. But he knew Paul was still not sure what to make of him. Paul might think he was reining in his feelings, but Hamilton could tell quite well. He would be lying if he said he did not wish that someone else had been the other person to remember, someone who was on better terms with him. It was no different than what he was sure Paul wished.

". . . He indicated he finally realized Maureen is a fraud," he said at last, determining that that much was important and that Paul deserved to know. "But I don't know if he'll reject her when he wakes up."

"Why wouldn't he, after what she did?" Paul cried.

"Paul . . ." Hamilton looked at him, tired and sad. He was not even trying to hide it. "He's always been devoted to Maureen. He was devastated when she died. I'll be honest, I was worried about him when it happened. I wasn't sure if he'd be able to get through it. I couldn't seem to do much for him, but his niece Lucy helped a lot. I watched her bring him back to himself over time.

"Now he thought he had Maureen back—or that she'd never died at all. Maybe he started to get some inkling of the truth before or when he was attacked. If he did, and remembers her death, this is like losing her a second time. And as if that wasn't bad enough, this impostor hurt him physically as well as emotionally. I'm afraid he might go into denial, or worse—he might fully acknowledge she's a fake but want to stay with her anyway, just to be around someone who at least looks like Maureen and can apparently act like her enough to not always be detected."

Paul stared at him for a long moment. "I never thought we'd have to deal with something like that," he said. "I thought once he knew she was a phony there wouldn't be any more trouble!"

"Maybe there won't be. I can't say for sure, not until I can talk to him when he's lucid. I'm just warning you what might happen." Hamilton walked to the opposite side of the room.

"Last I checked, you're not a psychiatrist," Paul said.

"No, but I know what he said to me before he passed out. That's what made me worry." The edge was back in Hamilton's voice.

Paul probably should have taken the hint and backed off. Instead he pressed forward. He was right—the stress was getting to them both. And right now he could not seem to hold his tongue. What had happened to Tragg had been the last straw.

"You know, it seems like you're not telling me everything that's been going on," he objected. "What else have you been keeping back? And why? Don't you trust me? How are we going to solve this if we can't even trust each other?"

Hamilton went rigid. Paul had struck the worst possible nerve at this point. When Hamilton whirled to face Paul, unbridled fury was twisting his features. "I've told you everything you need to know!" he shot back.

"Then you are holding something back!" Paul cried. "Why don't you let me be the judge of whether I need to know it?"

"It wouldn't help. Look, Drake, you think I don't want to work with you. But did you ever stop to think why?" Without waiting for a reply Hamilton barreled on. "Don't you think I know how you feel about me?"

Paul was too worked up to stop to feel surprised. "Don't you know why I feel that way?" he boomed back.

"Of course!" Hamilton pointed at Paul. "It's the same reason behind what Mason's been saying lately. And Mignon. And Tragg." He jabbed himself in the chest with his forefinger. "I'm the bad guy here. That's what Vivalene wanted. Well, she's succeeded. The only people who don't hate me are the ones who don't remember anything about any of us! And you've hated me from the start, long before we knew anything about a box or a slab or a bubble over Los Angeles!

"It figures that we're the ones who remember. We'd each rather be working with just about anyone else. Instead we're forced to rely on each other. This has to place with the worst team-ups in history."

He stepped closer, his voice lowering but growing taut. "You're so anxious to know what important secrets I've been holding back. Well, I'll tell you. The earth-shattering information I've kept from you is some of the wild accusations Tragg and others have made about me."

At last ceasing his tirade, he stepped back. Paul was staring at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. ". . . What?" he stammered at last.

Hamilton said bitterly, "I didn't see any point telling that to someone who wouldn't care in the first place." He turned, walking back to where he had previously stood across the room.

Paul stayed where he was, shaken by the outburst. He had expected Burger's temper to snap at some point. He had not expected what he had just been told. His thoughts turned over themselves as he tried to work out an answer. What could he say to something he had never thought he would hear?

". . . I was out of line," he said at last. "I was angry and I wasn't thinking and it just came out."

Hamilton shrugged, not turning around. "I think you were thinking," he said. "I think you were saying what you've felt all along. It's not that I don't trust you. It's that you don't trust me."

Paul opened his mouth, then closed it. Was that right? He did not trust Burger?

. . . That was right, wasn't it.

"I guess I don't," he realized. "When we're on cases, I never know what you're going to come up with next or if Perry or I'm going to get in trouble and end up losing our licenses. I know you're just doing your job. Or I've said I know it. Maybe deep down, I still think you have something against either or both of us.

"There was a time when I wasn't even sure how much integrity you have. I thought you'd be capable of bugging Perry's office to find out what was going on and what he was up to. Perry came out strong against that idea, by the way. He always knew you better than I did." Or he used to, anyway.

Paul went on, "Even after you and Perry starting chumming around, I was suspicious. I wondered what you were up to or when all heck would break loose. I didn't think you could be a real friend to him. I didn't think you'd want to be.

"Okay, I thought you were using him! That's the truth. I tried not to feel that way. It took a long while, but I finally started to warm up to you a bit. But, I'm sorry to say, I guess there was still that nagging suspicion in the back of my mind."

Finally Hamilton turned back. "Well, so at last it's all out in the open," he said with a final gesture of weariness and irony. "No more of this pussy-footing around or lying to yourself."

He walked halfway to Paul and stopped. "You know, I came out and admitted to you that I'm not perfect," he remarked. "Sometimes I get frustrated with you and with Perry. I've lost my temper and made a fool of myself, sometimes even in court. I told you I'm not proud of it. That's still true. And I'll tell you something else. Even at my worst, I'd never sacrifice justice to get back at either of you or even to catch you on those law-bending excursions Perry is so fond of. When I go off into orbit, I come back to Earth before too long. At least, I hope so.

"I care about Perry. I don't want him to get disbarred. And I don't want you to lose your license." His shoulders slumped and he mumbled, "I care about you too."

Somehow, saying that and seeing Paul's gaping response seemed to give him a feeling of empowerment. Encouraged, he exclaimed, "Don't you know that? I didn't want to prosecute you the time you were framed for murder. Of all the times I've hated my job, I've never hated it more than I did then."

Paul was staring again. He shook his head as he turned away, shamed. "I didn't know that," he confessed. "I could tell you didn't want to be there, but I didn't know why."

"I'd feel the same if I had to prosecute you or Perry for bending or breaking the law, or if I'd been forced to charge Della as an accessory to murder. I don't like prosecuting people I know." Hamilton paused. "No. What I mean is, I don't like prosecuting my friends."

Paul felt all the worse now. "I've never thought of you as a friend," he said. "And you're saying you . . ." He swallowed hard. "Hoo boy. The one eating crow tonight is me. I've never felt like such a fool."

Hamilton walked over to him. "I guess we each have a lot to learn," he said. "But you're right, you know—we can't solve this problem together if we can't even trust each other. So, if that's the way it's going to be, we'd better part ways now."

Paul jerked up with a start. "We'll never make it on our own, either!" he declared. "You say Vivalene's been trying to make you the bad guy. She probably knows that if we all work together, we'll win. So let's not give her any satisfaction." He shifted. "If you'll give me another chance, maybe . . . maybe we can start over."

Hamilton was amazed. "You want to?"

"You don't know me too well if you think I don't want to make up for all these misconceptions I've had through the years," Paul said. "Anyway, like I said, we have a better chance against Vivalene if we stick together." He held out his hand. "Truce?"

Hamilton studied the gesture for only a brief moment before grasping Paul's strong hand with his. "Gladly," he said emphatically.

It was then that his cellphone gave a sharp ring. He jumped a mile.

"Isn't that supposed to be turned off in the hospital?" Paul blinked.

"Yes," Hamilton sighed. "I must have been so upset I forgot." He took it out and looked at the screen. "It's the Petersons' number," he gasped in surprise. Quickly he flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Mr. Burger?" The voice was soft, barely above a whisper. But Hamilton still recognized it as that of Howie Peterson.

"Howie, what's wrong?" he demanded. He had not been able to associate with the Petersons since this disaster had happened. According to Mrs. Peterson, after his falling out with Mignon they had decided he was a bad influence and they did not want him as Howie's godfather. He did not even know what Howie's feelings were on the matter. Mrs. Peterson had not let him speak with Howie.

That was something else he had not told Paul.

"I'm worried about Mignon," Howie said.

Hamilton tensed. "She's supposed to be home, asleep," he said. "Howie, why are you worried?"

"Because I woke up and wanted to call her, like I sometimes do when I have a bad dream," Howie said. "And I called and Larry answered. He was telling me Mignon was asleep, too, but then there was this big crash and he yelled 'What are you doing, coming in here?'"

Now Hamilton was worried too. "Did it sound like someone was breaking in the house?"

"Uh huh. And it sounded like Larry knew who it was."

Hamilton frowned deeply, exchanging a look with the bewildered Paul. "Could you hear what that person said to Larry?" he asked.

"Nope. The phone died. Mr. Burger, will you do something?" Howie pleaded.

"Of course I will," Hamilton said. "I'll call the police and go out there myself. Are you alright, Howie?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm in my closet with my dumptruck." Howie paused. "Mr. Burger?"

"Yes?"

"I miss you."

Hamilton's heart twisted at the plaintive voice. "I miss you too," he said. "I'll tell you what—go back to bed and I'll let you know when I find out about Mignon."

"Okay. Bye."

Hamilton pulled the phone away from his ear and immediately began dialing the number of the police. "I thought they were going to put an officer on guard at the house!" he muttered in frustration.

Paul stared. "What's going on? I caught something about Mignon and Larry and somebody busting in the house."

"Somebody Larry might have known," Hamilton said. "Maybe someone overpowered the police guard."

"Or the cop is mixed up is this too," Paul pointed out.

Hamilton looked pained. "I hate to think that, but you're right, Paul. That's also possible."

Soon he had the desk sergeant on the phone. He explained the problem quickly, requesting a squad car be sent to the Germaines' house. He also asked for a guard to be sent to the Peterson home, just in case the intruder would see that the call came from there and go to get Howie. The sergeant agreed. Hamilton hung up, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

"You're not going to bother turning that off?" Paul noted.

"No, because I'm leaving," Hamilton said. "I have to check on Mignon myself." He headed for the door.

"I'm coming with you," Paul determined, chasing after him.

They nearly crashed into Della in the hall when they opened the door and stepped out. "Oh, I was just coming to get you," she exclaimed. "I told the doctor I'd pass along his message."

Both men came to attention. "What is it?" Hamilton queried. Maybe it wasn't too bad of news, if the doctor was letting Della bring it. At least, he could hope so.

Della's eyes flickered with sadness. "Lieutenant Tragg is semi-conscious right now," she reported. "He keeps calling for Maureen. Sometimes he says he's sorry. Sometimes he asks why she betrayed him." She looked down. "I tried to see him, but I couldn't stay. It was just heart-breaking."

Hamilton heaved a deep sigh. "Have they had any luck finding his niece?"

"They called UCLA," Della said. "They think she's staying overnight at a cabin with some friends."

"A cabin without phone service, I bet," Paul groaned.

Della nodded. "The police were going to go up there, I think."

"I don't envy them," Hamilton remarked. "But I hope they get her down here soon. She might be able to do some good for Tragg."

"You're going to see him, aren't you?" Della said, looking from him to Paul.

Hamilton debated with himself. He did want to see Tragg, and he would definitely look in for a minute, but he doubted he would stay right now, for several reasons. "Yes, but I think I'm the last person he'll want to see," he said. "And now Mignon might be in trouble. We were going to drive out there."

"What's wrong?"

All three started at Perry's concerned voice. Paul decided to be the one to reply.

"It sounds like someone broke into Mignon Germaine's house," he said. "She and Larry might both be hurt."

Perry was further troubled. "Have the police been called?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. "I'm going to look in on Tragg and then go."

"I'll start out first," Perry said. "I'd like to know what's happened there myself."

"Alright," Hamilton said as he hurried past. "I'll be glad to have you along, Perry. Excuse me."

"Don't forget to turn off your phone," Paul called after him.

Hamilton only slowed his pace enough to reach in his pocket and grab his phone to do just that.

Paul looked back to Perry and Della. "So who's staying and who's going?" he wondered.

"I think Miss Street should stay here, at least until they find Tragg's niece," Perry said.

"Because it's safer?" Della returned, saying the unsaid.

Perry paused. He had not expected that clear-cut deduction. "Well . . . yes, partially," he said. "Of course, if anything is amiss at the Germaines' house, it will probably be over with long before any of us get there."

Paul nodded. "Someone should be here anyway," he said. "But I wonder if it'd be better if it was me. Tragg might wake up more and . . ."

"And you remember things that we don't," Perry concluded.

"Something like that," Paul admitted. "Boy, you don't remember and I still can't fool you."

Perry smiled. "I remember you, Paul."

Della closed her purse. "If we're going to leave, maybe we'd better hurry," she said.

"I'm still not sure I like the idea of you accompanying me, Miss Street," Perry said. "The police will likely be there when we arrive, but there could still be danger."

Della smiled. "I've experienced danger before, Mr. Mason."

Perry was gently amused. "You're stubborn," he said. "Alright, let's not waste any more time. Goodbye, Paul. Good luck holding the fort here."

"Good luck with whatever you find out there," Paul returned. "And you're probably going to incur the wrath of Principal Anderson by taking Della along."

"Quite rightly too, I imagine," Perry said as he and Della walked up the corridor.

xxxx

Della was right about Lieutenant Tragg's state. When Hamilton pushed open the heavy door to his room the man was lying on his back, his head turned to the side as he gazed blankly at nothing.

"Maureen?" he weakly rasped, apparently aware that the door had opened.

Hamilton was chilled. He entered the room, letting the door close behind him. "No," he said. "It's me."

Tragg blinked, almost imperceptibly. "Mr. Burger. . . ." He grabbed for him with a shaking, clammy hand. For a moment his eyes flickered, seeming clear again as they had so briefly when he had been on the floor.

Hamilton let Tragg take hold of his wrist. "What is it?" he asked. He realized that he had not mentioned the clearing gaze to Paul either, but that had not been intentional. Now, seeing it again, he wondered what it meant.

"I'm sorry," Tragg rasped. "I'm so . . . sorry for how I've treated you. And for not believing you."

"Do you believe me now?" Hamilton asked. Did he dare to hope?

"I don't know," Tragg said. He sounded vague again. His eyes were glassing over.

Hamilton reacted swiftly. "Think, Tragg, think!" he cried, gripping the older man's shoulder. "You have to believe me. Your life depends on it!"

"My . . . life?" Tragg repeated.

"Yes, your life. That woman posed as your wife and then tried to kill you!"

Various emotions swam through Tragg's eyes. "She isn't Maureen," he said at last.

"No, she isn't." Hamilton looked at him with regret. "I'm sorry."

Tragg leaned heavily into the pillows. "Maureen is dead then," he said, staring at the ceiling. "Deep down I've really known it. And I knew that woman was a fake. I couldn't bring myself to believe it."

". . . What are you going to do?" Hamilton waited with worry for the answer. Would Tragg still remember his heart-broken words from just before he lost consciousness? Regardless of whether he did or not, would he follow through?

"I . . . don't know," Tragg said again. "I can't go back to her. I shouldn't, and yet . . . I have to know why. She's my only connection to Maureen."

"She doesn't have any connection with Maureen!" Hamilton protested. "She's a cheap fraud who knows enough about your wife to pretend to be her." His voice lowered. "Tragg, it doesn't matter why. She's poison. Leave her alone, please. She might kill you next time."

Tragg just sighed quietly, releasing Hamilton's wrist from his grasp. "I'm sorry," he said again. He was slipping back into a state of lesser consciousness. Once again he was not likely to be responsive.

Hamilton wanted to stay, but he was also worried about Mignon. Battling with himself, he at last stepped back. "I'm sorry too," he said. "I'll be back later." He hurried for the door.

xxxx

Maureen was annoyed but undaunted. Within the concealed room she worked with both the Forbidden Box and the Slab of Reflections, chanting quietly just as Mr. Vann had taught her to do. She had lost her chance to finish the draining of Tragg, but it would still be completed. She had taken so much life energy from him already that Mr. Vann had informed her it would be possible to put him under a partial mind-control, enough so that thoughts would be whispered to him and he would believe them to be his own and follow their instructions.

She smirked in the illumination from the box. If she played her cards right she would have Tragg turning up on their doorstep, sacrificing himself willingly without really knowing why or what was going on. It was deliciously cruel. And most effective.

"This war is still on, Mr. Burger," she purred. "And the tide is about to turn."

xxxx

The police had already arrived at the Germaines' when Perry and Della pulled up for the second time that night. Della hastened to get out of the car, not waiting for Perry to open her door. She was worried. She had only met Mignon briefly, but she liked the aloof woman. And she could not bear to think of someone else Mr. Burger knew being harmed tonight.

He was under far too much pressure as it was. He had managed to relax while sitting with her at the hospital, but as soon as Paul had come in he had tensed. She did not know what had happened to them when they had gone off to talk in private, but she was certain she had heard yelling coming from the direction of that lounge at one point.

"Della!" Perry called from behind her. "Wait!"

Della ground to a halt upon reaching the sidewalk—not so much because of the request as because of what else Perry had just said. She turned to face him in amazement. "Mr. Mason, you just called me by my first name," she announced.

Perry stared. "I did?" He stopped, mulling over his words. ". . . I did. I'm sorry for the informality, Miss Street. I was worried."

Della smiled. "I didn't say I didn't like it, Mr. Mason," she said. "Anyway, I suppose that if we're trying to break away from our false memories we should both be on a first-name basis."

The ground shook under them both. Della stumbled into Perry, who braced himself and held onto her until the quaking ceased.

"Two small earthquakes in one night," he observed.

"The sky was flickering strangely too," Della said.

She turned to look at the house. The front door was open. From this angle, she could see inside to where the living room was a shambles. And Mignon was kneeling on the floor with Larry's head on her lap. He was breathing heavily in great pain. His arms were over his stomach, making it unclear whether blood had been drawn or if he had just been viciously punched.

Worried all over again, and forgetting the tremor for the moment, Della ran forward. "Mrs. Germaine!" she cried as she got onto the porch. A police officer in the yard exclaimed in protest.

Mignon looked up at Della's call. Della drew back in sickened horror. Mignon's eyes were filled with a depth of anguish that Della could not remember ever seeing before.

"This is what was done for my attempt to help Mr. Burger," she said. "This was the price. And it is too great to pay. I cannot help him any further."