REVAMPED AS OF APRIL 2014

By the way Carmen had sounded over the phone when she called him at seven in the morning, Mort would have thought she was being attacked by someone, and the fact that a part of him considered that a valid possibility was enough for him to break his "no speeding on mountain roads" rule. When he arrived at her house and rushed up the front porch through her open door, however, the only thing he found her staring down was a large manila envelope sitting unopened on the kitchen table.

Mort and Carmen's decision to 'see where things went' had thus far been working for them. It had been three weeks since then, and while they were admittedly taking things slow – at a fairly Leave it to Beaver-esque pace, actually – they were pleasantly surprised at the smooth sailing they had come across so far. Mort had at least gotten to a point where he felt like he knew Carmen a little better and was able to decipher her for the most part, except for right about now.

"I – Rob must have dropped this off on the porch while I was sleeping. I asked him to find me what he could about my – my real parents," she stammered, her hands shakily drumming on the table at either side of the envelope, as though she was afraid to touch it. "I guess I just wanted you around when I opened it."

"Sure, sure," Mort said, nodding in understanding as he sat down on the sofa next to her, hesitantly placing an arm around her shoulders. "I'm here now so – rip that sucker open."

Something about Mort's constant attempts to diffuse loaded situations with awkward humor was… refreshing. In spite of herself, Carmen managed to laugh a little bit and pick up the envelope with quivering hands.

The contents of the envelope were by no means extensive, and were certainly not the best of quality - a few pages were simply photocopies of old, handwritten records, one of which specifically was a water-damaged death certificate from Pointe Coupee Parish, Louisiana.

"Louisiana?" Carmen said, holding the paper up closer to her eyes. Her eyes wandered next to the top of the death certificate. Though the water damage was extensive, she managed the make out the name at the top: Barbara Allen. She let out a small gasp and placed the papers down on the table, her face pale as she turned to look at Mort.

"Well?" Mort asked.

"Barbara Allen," she said, her burrow furrowing as she tapped her fingertips together in a steeple-shape in front of her mouth. "She died in Louisiana in 1986 - the cause is blotted out," she said. "There's a few pages out of the autopsy report, but it's all just doctor's scribble that I can't make heads or tails of."

"Just about your mother?"

"Yeah," Carmen said in a defeated voice, resting her elbows on her knees and running her hands through her hair. "But - it's something. It's infinitely more than I've had for all my life up until now." She shrugged, and a brief silence settled again before she turned to look at Mort. "I - I'm so sorry," she laughed stiffly, looking upwards and groaning. "I woke you up and pulled you away from whatever you were doing for this -"

"No - hey, come on," he said with a lopsided grin, squeezing her around the shoulders again. "Of course I'm gonna show up when you call."

It was nice, Mort thought, being the one that someone called again when they needed someone - especially someone like Carmen, who put every ounce of effort into being strong and independent and self-sufficient. Even Mort, who was far from the romantic he once considered himself to be when he was a young man, could admit that the month or so he had spent around Carmen Anderson had done him a world of good.

Right now, however, it seemed painfully obvious that despite all of his good intentions, there was not a great deal he could do to help her. He cleared his throat and gave her shoulders another squeeze.

"Maybe - maybe you need a little time to process this," he suggested. "I'm gonna go. But... call if you need me."

"Thanks," Carmen said with a small smile. Mort leaned over and kissed her forehead before making an exit.

Bravo. That was nice - very sensitive. Very Don Juan -

"Shutupshutupshutup," Mort muttered under his breath as he walked down the steps of Carmen's front porch to his car. "Not now. Not now." His expression morphed into a deep frown as the familiar voice - his own voice - began taunting him in his own head again.

You sure it's a good idea to go through with this with her? You're falling, Mort. Fast and hard.

"Yup. Falling hard. Thank you for pointing that out," he said as he climbed into his car, starting the engine and giving it a vigorous rev as though that would drown out the voice. "Sorry to disappoint you, old sport, but I'm happy and I've got this covered."

Are you sure about that? I wouldn't be back if you didn't think you needed me. You need me here, Mort.

"No. No, I do not," he said, his teeth gritted as he backed out of the driveway and started back down Lake Drive. "Why would you think that? Why would you-"

Bad things happen to people you get close to. Bad things happen to people you care about.

"If you're trying to suggest that something bad is going to happen to Carmen because of us seeing each other-"

I'm not suggesting, Mort. I'm telling. You know that you're not a safe person to be around. You're the worst kind of person to be around, and you need to tell her that before she gets too attached. You need to stop this before everything goes too far.

"I have been with this woman for three weeks," Mort sneered, his face contorted in anger as he sped down the hilly roads. "Three weeks which also happen to have been the best - the happiest three weeks I have had in years."

Of course it starts that way. You'd be smart to stop this so your memories of this stay good. Weren't you happy with Amy?

"Stop it."

Didn't you love Amy?

"Shut up." Mort said, his jaw now feeling painfully tight. "Shut up. I've got this. I don't need you. I DON'T FUCKING NEED YOU!" he roared into the empty car, slamming his hands hard on the steering wheel. Luckily, no one was around to hear his horn go off as he hit it with his fist.

Okay. You can keep on denying it all you want, but the point will come that you can't. You'll be happy for a while - maybe you'll sleep with her, fall in love with her, think you want to get serious with her. But at some point, he'll come back.

"Who?"

You know who. And you know that he'll be back. You know that he isn't done. They never found out what happened to Amy, and soon, no one will know what's happened to Carmen. One way or another, you're gonna lose her. You can't stop him -

"Yes. Yes, I can. I know better now," Mort said. "I have my head on straight this time. Even if he does come back, he's not going to lay a hand on her."

We'll see. Maybe he won't kill her - but who knows? There are worse things.

And the voice spoke no more.

Mort reached into his glove compartment and reflexively pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd not touched in a long, long time. Lighting it up and taking a long, indulgent drag, he hurried up his porch step and fumbled with his keys. This was bad. This was very bad.

"Shooter's not going to come back. He's not, is he?" Mort asked, expecting some kind of reply from his voice of reason. "Shooter is somewhere far, far away now. He's not coming back -"

"Aren't I, Mister Rainey?"

Mort whirled around, only to find that no one was there. He felt his pulse begin racing, and he finally caved, giving his jaw a hearty, satisfying crack. He shook the tension out of his neck and pushed his door open, flopping down in his sofa and burying his face in a pillow. He just wanted to go to sleep - and that he did.

For the past few weeks, Mort's dreams had been relatively pleasant - admittedly, some had been more than pleasant, though he never divulged this to anyone. This morning's nap, however, was suddenly bombarded with a very realistic nightmare. He wasn't falling, or bleeding. He wasn't even hurt. But...

There was John Shooter standing right in front of him. He knew he was dreaming, and so he felt a sudden surge of gall, striding up to the old man in his hat and overalls.

"Shooter."

"You thought I was done with you, Mister Rainey?" he chuckled, his eyes glinting darkly from under the brim of his hat. "I ain't lettin' up on you. I'm a man of principle, y'see? I don't let up on no one who takes what's mine."

"You already killed my wife," Mort said through gritted teeth. "You killed her even though I had proof that your fucking story -"

"This ain't about a story anymore, Mister Rainey. This is about more than a story. This is about principle."

Mort glared, not sure if he was more angry at Shooter himself, or the fact that there was still nothing left within his power to stop him. He remembered now, for the first time in a long time, the day Amy had disappeared - he had been sleeping. He woke up to a message scribbled on the wall to go outside, where Mort found a bloody shovel, but no bodies. Just the shovel, to which was tied a note that read that Shooter had taken care of whoever had been bothering Mort, and that he'd be back to collect one day.

"I did it as a favor to you, Mister Rainey. You wanted them gone. They done nothin' but hurt you. I did you a favor."

"And you disappeared so everyone would think that I killed them," Mort growled angrily. "And now that things are finally falling back into place, you're coming to collect. How about you don't do any more favors, you redneck piece of -"

"I'm not gonna do nothin' messy to your pretty lady friend. I seen her," Shooter grinned, showing all of his old, yellowing teeth. "What I've got in mind for this one is much more dignified, never you fear."

"Don't."

"Don't?" Shooter asked mockingly, "I thought you'd have learned by now, Mister Rainey. You can't tell me what to do. You're going to stand back and let me do my good work, Mister Rainey, until I've got what I needed."

"You said the story didn't matter anymore -"

"Let me do my work, Mister Rainey." Shooter said, his eyes narrowing in a sadistic type of glee. He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and turned away. In an instant, the view of the back of his head faded into the likeness of Carmen's back. She turned to face him.

"Mort? Why?" she asked, her voice echoing as though she were too far away to be heard correctly. "You could have stopped this."

"Stopped what?" Mort said, leaning forward.

"You let this happen," she said, shaking her head. Her eyes were tearing slightly. "You didn't tell me. You didn't say anything."

"Carmen?" he said desperately. He reached out to touch her, only to find that with every step he took towards her, she was slipping farther and farther away. "Carmen, come back -"

"I can't," she said, her voice growing less and less clear. "I'll never come back. You're losing me, Mort. You're doing this..." She began to fade away, as was everything else. Soon, all that was left besides Mort was blackness. He clenched his eyes shut and clasped his hands into his hair on either side of his head.

"Let me wake up now," he muttered weakly, rocking back and forth where he stood. "Not real. Not real -"

You really thought you were in control, didn't you?

Mort's eyes flew open, and though he was still dreaming, he was standing in his own living room, looking right at... himself. Not again, he thought. Not again.

You're losing it again, Mort. You know you have no control over this.

"Go away," he said, attempting to walk away, but finding the duplicate of himself appearing in front of him everywhere he turned. "You and Shooter - both of you - go."

Carmen's a good girl. You don't want to be the end of her, do you? Anything you touch burns, Mort. Do you want that for her?

"Go away."

Do you want to wake up one day wondering how she died, just like you wonder with Amy?

Mort froze and gulped, clenching his eyes shut again and instinctively making a strange humming sound in attempts to drown out the voice.

Don't tune me out, Mort. You're falling in love with her, aren't you? Do you want to be the reason someone else you love gets killed?

"SHE ISN'T GOING TO GET KILLED!" he said, threatening to tear out every hair in his dead.

Yes, Mort. She is. You know she is. You know if you keep seeing her, bad things will happen. And you know she cares about you. Bad things will happen, and she won't walk away if you let her get too attached.

"Nothing's going to happen. NOTHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!" Mort roared, unable to open his eyes. "You are not part of my life anymore. Shooter is not part of my life anymore. Amy and Ted are not part of my life anymore. Carmen is part of my life, and I'm not going to -"

Suit yourself, Mort. But don't say I didn't warn you.

Mort woke up in a cold sweat, jumping straight up and banging his shin on the table. Yelping in pain and reaching over to nurse the hurt limb, one of his flailing arms hit an empty soda can off of the table and sent it clanging to the floor.

"Shit," he muttered, sitting up and running his hands through his hair, searching frantically around the room to be sure that he was in fact alone. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

Carmen had spent the greater part of her morning drinking coffee and staring at the contents of the manila envelope as though she had missed something - she was inwardly infuriated with herself for caring so much. It made no difference, she tried to convince herself. Knowing her mother's name was a significant discovery, but in the end, it held no bearing upon anything. She groaned, turning the papers upside down and shoving them away across her table. She was startled and gave an audible squeak at the sound of a knock on her door. When she glanced up, she noticed an unfamiliar silhouette outside, and it took a moment to realize it was Sheriff Newsome.

"Can I help you?" she asked hesitantly, not opening the screen door to invite the man inside. "Is there a problem?"

"Just making the rounds," he said casually, though Carmen knew that was a flat-out lie. He had no business coming up her - he'd never made rounds on Lake Drive before, unless he had something he was trying to dig up. "I know you're new in town, so I was checking up on you."

"You're checking up on me, sheriff," Carmen said, raising her eyebrows pointedly, "because I've been spending a lot of time with Mort Rainey. Isn't that the reason?"

The older man went a little red in the face, and he cleared his throat consciously. "Smart woman."

"Thank you."

Carmen could tell by his expression, however, that it had not been meant as a compliment.

"Miss Anderson," he began again, slipping on his sunglasses as though they could somehow make him cut a more imposing figure. "I think you know by now that there are - a lot of stories about what happened up in these woods, over at Mister Rainey's house. I was just dropping by to see what you knew -"

"Mort and I are seeing one another regularly," Carmen said, lilting over the words so that it was clear that she meant they were seeing one another in romantically. "And I can assure you, I don't see any reason to think that he's done anything."

"We know he has." The sheriff said sternly, crossing his arms in front of him. "And I don't think you know what you're getting into. But I just want to be sure you're aware - if there's anything you know, anything you hear about his wife or -"

"If it's not enough for a search warrant, it's not enough for me," Carmen interrupted resolutely."So while I appreciate your concern, it isn't needed."

"His behavior isn't the behavior of a man who hasn't done anything wrong," Newsome said, though he took a step back from the screen door as though Carmen was somehow overpowering him. "Why would he hide up here in the woods from us if he's done nothing wrong?"

"Why should he want anything to do with any of you after the way you treated him?" Carmen asked, her eyes narrowed. "If you know him so well, you know what his wife did. You know what he went through and you turned your back on him - you only remembered he existed when people in town started gossiping. I work in the media, sheriff. I know how people think. You're only interested in people you can judge."

Sheriff Newsome removed his sunglasses again and stared down at Carmen, his face now even more red than earlier. There was a reason he wasn't too fond of city folk coming into his town - they disrupted the peace, and Carmen was clearly the most blatant kind of disruption. But she didn't know what she was getting into - she would be difficult to keep an eye on.

"I wonder if anyone would want to come through this town if I tipped some of my reporter friends onto what was going on here," she said, clearly testing him as she leaned closer to her screen. "How the sheriff - the town's most upstanding gentleman - is relentlessly haranguing a local celebrity writer who just lost his wife."

"That's blackmail, Miss Anderson."

"It's the truth," Carmen asked, her voice deceptively calm as she opened the screen door and finally stepped out to join him outside on the porch, as though in obvious challenge. "It's only blackmail if it's something to be ashamed of. If you believe you're right, sheriff, that means you have... nothing to worry about."

He stared for a moment, nodded, and left. Carmen shut the door behind him and raised her middle finger, sticking her tongue out immaturely once he was out of sight. She could already tell that she was out of place in a small town like this where everyone was in everyone else's business. She had been expecting quaint and quiet - not petty and intrusive.

Tashmore Lake was a town of many surprises - and the bearer of those surprises was often Sheriff Newsome, who had now resolved to pay Mort Rainey a visit as well. The Sheriff was a man of principle, and though Carmen Anderson had much more nerve than he felt a woman ought to, he was sure that it was out of an innocence and an ignorance which Mort Rainey had taken advantage of. He felt compelled to look out for the girl, despite her insistence that she neither needed nor desired protection. He made his was up Lake Drive to Mort's home, knocking loudly on the there. When Mort answered, he was still a mess and smelled thickly of smoke, having needed to take the edge off after his hell of a dream.

"Mort, I came to talk to you."

"Then by all means, talk on," Mort groaned sleepily, walking over to the door and propping it open with his forearm. "I've got all day, Sheriff. Come on in."

"No, thank you," Newsome snapped, glaring at Mort. "I'll keep it short. I don't know what kind of stunts you're pulling out here in the woods, but I told you -"

"You told me you were going to try and pin me for murder, and it never happened," Mort said, raising his eyebrows incredulously. "I don't think there's anything more to discuss. The cases were closed, and to be frank, sir, I don't think it's legal for you to keep investigating me like I'm still a suspect. That's not your job."

"It's my job to maintain order in this town, and I don't find it orderly that your lady friend is getting tangled up in your business," Newsome said shortly. "I spoke with her just earlier, and I don't like how you've got her well-trained to defend you tooth and nail. I don't know what kind of spell you have on her -"

"I don't think what Carmen and I do is any of your business, Sheriff."

The older man fell silent and stared at Mort as though in shock at the fact that he'd again been interrupted - he was the law in this town, and these city slickers came by trying to trample on it. It wasn't right. He glared and tipped his hat.

"I suppose we have nothing more to discuss today, then, Mister Rainey," he said throatily. "You rest easy. I'll be on the lookout if your Mister Shooter ever shows up again."
Without another word, not even a greeting of "good day' or 'nice speaking with you', Newsome strode back to his car and drove away.

I told you. Trouble. Sheriff Newsome has already shown up on Carmen's doorstep - do you really want to put her through that? Do you want her to feel like she needs to watch her every move in this town?

"She'll be fine," Mort said, rubbing his forehead tiredly and attempting to relieve some of the tension that had accumulated there. "She can handle them -"

But she shouldn't have to. She doesn't know what she's signing up for. You can deny it as long as you want to, and I'll let you, but eventually you'll see. Something's gonna give, Mort. Sooner or later, something's gonna happen to both of you, and you'll remember that I told you so.

For the rest of the day, Carmen replayed her encounter with the Sheriff over and over again in her mind - she genuinely didn't believe that Mort could have done the things they accused him of. Not the Mort she knew. She knew in town, they believed Shooter was a lie. They thought Mort had killed all of those people...

Carmen didn't know a whole lot about Amy, truth be told. It was too soon for her to know a whole lot about her. She knew a great deal about what Amy had done, what Amy had said, what had happened between them - but she didn't know much about Amy as a person. She knew only that Amy was someone who Mort had once loved, and who he regretted loving with ever fiber of his being. But the fact still stood that he loved her, and Carmen did not think he was capable of the things he was accused of.

In the month or so that she had known Mort, he had been willing to share so much of his own life with her - his childhood up here in the mountains, his career, the way he got ideas for his stories - it had to be real, she thought to herself. It had to be. Didn't it?

The question plagued her all the way into the night, as she sat up with a mug of hot cocoa on the sofa bed that Mort had somehow managed to fix.

It took hours to reach the conclusion that yes, she needed to believe him. She needed to believe him because she was falling for him, and falling harder than she'd fallen for anyone before. The last person she could honestly say that she had fallen for was Robert Wallace - but they had been so young, so idealistic back then, that once adult life started, they realized that no matter how hard they'd fallen, there was a time you just got right back up.

It was scary, and it was fast, but for whatever reason, Carmen didn't see that as the inevitable end of whatever this was with Mort. And if that was the truth - if the switch had somehow finally gone off in her head that it was time to really be with someone - she had to believe in him.

Original A/N's

Thanks to last chapter's reviewers: Kurama13, Dawnie-7, and Sleeping Schizophrenic

Yes, I know that Shooter and Mort Rainey are indeed the same person but...well, let's just say that things are gonna get a little blurry as far as that's concerned.

And about the Sheriff's little cameo in this chapter...well, take my word for it that he won't be leaving Mort alone. Eventually. he'll drop in again.