Junk

by genesssa

Sam Beckett leaps into 1985 London as Luther, a young junkie suspected of serial child-killing. Doyle and Bodie are on the case. Sam finds unlikely allies in a Texan family but can't run forever; he must prove Luther's innocence, of which he is unsure. Bodie has a personal stake in capturing Luther. Al wants Sam to save the real Luther's life by medicating. Whump but no actual sex.

6. JUNK Chapter Five

JUNK

Chapter Five

Having spent the night in Exeter and caught the first train in the morning, Doyle and Murphy stood in front of Britrail's Bodmin Parkway station and both wondered silently whether anyone ever came to that dreary spot on purpose. Murphy had been to Bodmin Moor as a child and vaguely remembered from that trip only an encounter with another child his age, who had averred, after a spat, that the Boogeyman was going to get him. Murphy had been terrified for two hours, then suddenly and for no particular reason disbelieved and felt all right again. He remembered otherwise enjoying the trip, although he could not remember its purpose or even who had taken him. He had no recollection of this station or its middle-of-nowhereness. Doyle, on the other hand, had seen most parts of England and in most cases had seen only the dreariness of the crimes, the plots, the perps, and the distractions of the dangers, the urgencies and, of course, always-lurking death. The station meant nothing to him and the town meant less, though surely he'd been here, spoken to people here, maybe had a meal or two here. Then the agents wondered less silently what the connection was between Bodmin Parkway, the train station to which the Whatleys had presumably gone, and Bude, their supposed destination.

"What the hell are they up to?" was how Murphy expressed it.

"Who are they anyway?" was Doyle's output. Neither could answer the other, so they shrugged and headed off to find out where most conveniently to hire a car. When they got there they found that not only had no one fitting the Whatleys' description hired a car that day but no one of any description had hired a car for a week. "Maybe we should call them and ask."

"On this new type of R.T. we could," Murphy pointed out. Just when one thought CI5 was going to linger forever in the stone age one was handed new equipment or sent off for new training.

They were halfway to Bude in a small brown Audi when the R.T. went off. Doyle reached for his, remembered he hadn't replaced the missing one and cursed rather loudly. Murphy took a hand off the wheel to flip his open. "Six-two."

"Murph," came Bodie's voice, "you babysittin' Doyle or he babysittin' you?"

"Sharrup," said Doyle, grabbing the R.T. from Murphy. "Whazzup?"

"Cowley hates me. Everyone hates me. I hate me. Tell me you love me."

"I hate you."

"It's ever so mutual."

"So what's really up?"

"You tell me. Nothing on this end. A whole lot of nothing. Angela's still missing. Finnegan is guilty as sin but I can't tell of what and I can't crack him. I need you here, Ray."

Doyle glanced quickly at Murphy to see if the latter had picked up Bodie's true distress, but Murphy was pretending to watch traffic, although there was none to speak of. "What about Mbake?" Silence. "Bodie?"

"Checked out her flat. She keeps kids there. I got some papers and Cowley's looking them over but... Ray... I don't know what's going on. There's definitely been kids here but this is no torture chamber. Would you mind dreadfully if I quit this mob and went off to wait table for a living?"

"Here? This? Where are you?"

"I'm staking out her flat. I want to have a talk with the lady."

"But you'd rather not talk."

"I'm serious, damn it, Doyle! Grab the little creep, stick a nice long needle in his arm and let Murphy write down whatever he spews. I need you here!"

Doyle had never heard Bodie sound so lost; it threw him, and as he was already fairly well thrown by this misbegotten chase, it irritated him too. "Get a grip, Bodie lad. I can't be holding your hand all the time! Got to give Cowley equal time."

A raspberry was his immediate response, followed by "So let Cowley watch the lady's flat. I give up."

Murphy chuckled at this, so Doyle elbowed him for having only pretended not to listen. "I give up, I give up, I give... Hallo, here she is. Three-seven out."

"Bodie?" The R.T. had already gone dead but as soon as Doyle flipped it shut it sang again. "Four-five."

"Come back," said Cowley. "They're in Edinburgh. It's all over the news. Your young Allbright is a national hero."

However hastily Bodie had cut off his friend, still he waited five minutes before getting out of the Capri and returning to Mbake's flat. He hoped he didn't look as if he had spent the night (awake) in the car. He ran his fingers over his close-cropped hair. He breathed into his hand but could not smell his breath.

She had arrived on foot; Bodie expected she either had parked a vehicle elsewhere in the area or did not own one (it would explain, he reasoned, why she'd had to borrow Finnegan's Jag). He stood in front of her door for another five, listening to her move around in there. He could hear her singing to herself in her own language. He could not imagine a woman who sang like that harming small children. He wanted to run away. He knocked on the door.

The singing stopped after the second knock. Bodie heard footsteps, then chains clinking, and then he was standing face to face with the African beauty who had impressed him some months back. She took his breath away now (she was even still wearing white), but he managed to answer her inquiring expression with a smile and "Hello. My name is Bodie." He flashed his card at her but her eyes never left his. "CI5. We're conducting an inquiry. I wonder if I might disturb you for a few minutes?" She held her gaze for another 15 seconds then looked him up and down in a way that ordinarily would've thrilled Bodie but which now put him on the defensive. He felt frisked, and indeed perhaps that was the meaning of her look because a moment later she opened the door more widely and bade him enter.

She led him to the living room and he sat where he had sat before, once more having to push papers aside. She sat on a folding chair, on top of some papers, and held out her hand. He took out his card again and she examined both sides of it, then handed it back to him. "How may I help you" she asked, in a soft accent.

"We are investigating the theft of a white Jaguar..." (she laughed when he pronounced it "Jag-yew-ar"; later Bodie thought that meant she'd been associating with Americans) "... E-type, and we have reason to believe you might know something about it."

She smiled at him with all her teeth. She had fine teeth. "Why in the world would I know about a thing like that? Perhaps you have come to the wrong address."

Bodie shook his head. "No, ma'am. There is no mistake. You are Doctor Maimouna Mbake?" He pronounced it correctly, mentally thanking Doyle.

"Yes I am."

"Do you know a Mister Marcus Finnegan?"

"Oh you are talking about Mister Finnegan's very nice Daimler which was stolen. But that was a very long time ago you know. Why are you investigating it now?"

"We think this car may have been used in the commission of a crime."

"And what has this to do with me?"

"What is your relationship with Marcus Finnegan, if I may ask?"

"No, I am afraid you may not ask, as it isn't any of your business." Her smile never wavered. "Is there anything else I can do to help you Mister Bodie?" She had great control but her eyes flickered to a clock behind Bodie's head and he knew what she was looking at and suddenly also guessed why. He tried not to give himself away but he involuntarily glanced toward the front door.

Doctor Mbake stood up so he stood up too. He was punished for being a gentleman, for once; she had stood up in order to reach a bookshelf behind the chair, and she brought a quite heavy green glass ship's prism (there serving as a paperweight) around to Bodie's ear. It didn't have the impact it could have, since he pulled away at the very last instant, but he did stagger. She fled into the kitchen and he followed, grabbing her by the skirt of her gauzy white dress. It didn't rip; he pulled her in to him, only to get his head slammed more directly and with much greater force. He groaned and collapsed on the kitchen floor, ending up half under the kitchen table and half in Mbake's way as she brought Angela into the apartment. Bodie, still conscious, heard Angela cry,

"Oh my God!" and felt the two women step over him. "He's not dead is he?"

"Never mind that. Have you found her?"

"Yes, but we've got to hurry."

"All right then. Get whatever you need now. It might be a time before we can come back here."

Bodie stopped himself from lifting his hand to his head; he wasn't sure he could but he was pretty sure he shouldn't, at least not until the women had gone. He thought he understood that they were going somewhere. He knew he should follow them but he didn't particularly wish to be killed either, even by accident, so he held still, and while he was holding still he passed out.

When Bodie regained consciousness he sat up too fast and knocked himself out again against the underside of a chair. It didn't take him long, though, to come back around, and this time he wriggled slowly over onto his stomach and crawled out from under the table and the chair. He sat up. He touched his ear and winced. Then he gingerly tapped above that ear and yelled. His hand came away bloody. "Shit," he said. He used the table to pull himself onto his feet, and to drag himself to the double sink. There were dirty dishes in both halves; he put all the dishes from the right side into the left side and then held his head down as low as he could manage, using the spray to wash the blood out of his hair. The water was cold and stung. He let it waken him. This was going all wrong. He was supposed to be making love to this woman, not planning to track her down and maybe kill her. He imagined himself running after her. They were in a dark building, both completely winded and gasping. When he caught her he should pull her in to him and press against her so that she could be transformed by his passion, so that her heart could ache as badly as his and strain as hard; they should become one another. They should both be breathing out of control, breathing in the sweat of their mutual exertion. They should be electrified by this contact, intoxicated by that electricity, powerless against how the touch of each other's skin and clothing made the tiny hairs (hers downy, his rough) rise on their arms, on their necks, on their breasts and between their thighs, they should pant into one another's armpits and necks and mouths and nostrils, they should be lapping each other's sweat like cats, clawing each other's hair, there should be room for not so much as an atom to pass between their bodies. Instead he would throw her against a cement wall and press against her not to pleasure her but to keep her from escaping, and he would fumble for handcuffs and she would push him away and a gun would appear in her hand. He would shout for her to drop it but she would raise it and he would have no choice, he would shoot her and her white dress that should be soaked with their saliva and tears and the liquidity of their lust would instead become a red dress, soaked with her blood.

He sat down at the table and flipped open his R.T.

"Six-two..."

"Three-seven here... mostly here...

Doyle's voice was just this side of panicked. "You son of a bitch, we've been trying to raise you, where the fuck have you..."

"Hurt," said Bodie. That changed everything.

"Mbake's flat?"

"Yeah."

"Don't move."

Eleven minutes later Jax and Cowley burst through the door, flattening themselves against walls, guns up. They saw him sitting at the table, head in hands. He hadn't even looked up, though they'd made a racket. Cowley nodded Jax on to check out the other rooms and himself went to Bodie, took his hands gently down from his face, made him focus. "You're not hurt badly, son. You've just lost some blood is all." He kept one wrinkled hand on Bodie's for a long moment, then got up and, meeting Jax coming back, sent him off for a clean towel. He soaked the towel himself, and applied it to the agent's wound.

"I never got such service," said Jax, joking, but Cowley cringed. He didn't mean to play favorites, yet he knew he did. Bodie, for example, was one of his most irritating agents - wrongheaded a good deal of the time, stubborn all of the time, a pain in the ass undoubtedly, and not at all unlike Cowley himself. Cowley could've had a son like Bodie, he sometimes thought, not without some measure of alarm. He was a good control to his operatives. He trained them well and retrained them often, protected them when he could, sacrificed them if he had to and never let on that he respected them, much less loved them. Somehow he did love Bodie, and he made damned sure the lad would never know it. He rinsed and wrung the towel, reapplying it with a tenderness Bodie would never remember.

Murphy didn't want to drop Doyle off at Newquay's little airport but he hadn't got much choice, considering the frantic agent had threatened everything from shooting Murphy to shooting himself if he weren't dropped off. Six-two had never had a permanent partner but it didn't take a quantum physicist to notice that once partnered, agents tended to bond with a fierceness and devotion that, sadly, characterized few actual marriages. Murphy knew that Doyle would kill anyone (including Murphy) or die any time (including now) for Bodie, and that Bodie would do likewise, doubled, for Doyle. There was no arguing with that, and no use being offended; logic shmogic.

Newquay was about as far south of Bodmin as Bude was north. As soon as Cowley's call had come, they'd turned southeast toward Plymouth, from which they could fly to Edinburgh. Bodie's call had changed that; sure, one could fly to London just as easily as to Edinburgh from Plymouth, but Newquay was quite a bit closer, and as serious as Doyle had been in his pursuit of Luther, only Bodie mattered now. Murphy could either hop a quick flight to Plymouth, change planes and carry on to Edinburgh ahead of Doyle or accompany Doyle to Gatwick and fly to Edinburgh from there - or, if the plane schedules didn't match, drive to Plymouth in the hired car and fly thence. "Or drive to Edinburgh," said Doyle, unreasonably, "but regardless I'll have to catch you up later." Thus Newquay it was.

Alas, the agents had just missed one of the four Brymon flights to Gatwick and had hours to wait. At the counter, Doyle let out a frustrated shriek and tore his curls. People looked. Murphy considered surprising him then and there, cuffing him and delivering him to Cowley for dry cleaning, but Doyle was already back out the door before Murphy could make such a decision, much less execute it. Murphy trotted after him, then ran, fearing to lose him altogether. "Doyle!" he shouted, then "Ray!" He'd never before called Doyle by his first name.

In the car park, a few feet from the hired car, Doyle turned. "Catch the next flight to Gatwick," he shouted. "I'll drive home from here."

Since Murphy had the keys he was emboldened to shout back "No!" Doyle strode to the younger agent and grabbed the front of his shirt. "No," repeated Murphy, softly. Doyle barreled Murphy into the nearest car, reached into first the wrong pocket, then the right one, and took the keys with barely a fuss. Indeed Murphy's arms were loosely raised; he was burning with rage and resentment at the attack but he certainly wasn't about to scuffle with this madman, who now, before releasing Murphy, reached into his own jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. He stuffed them into Murphy's still-raised hand. They fell loosely to the tarmac. Doyle shrugged, walked away, let himself into the hired car and drove off the lot. Murphy doubted he was returning the car. He stooped to pick up the money, then stayed hunkered down for a bit. He liked both Doyle and Bodie, even if they did tend to rag on him a without mercy. They treated everyone that way, even each other. They were rough on themselves, too. He hoped Bodie wasn't seriously hurt but he feared more for Doyle at the moment. He reached for his R.T. to call Cowley and then he let out a shriek not unlike Doyle's at the counter. He'd let Doyle go off to God knows where without an R.T.

There was no way for anyone, not even Cowley, to call Doyle back.

Sam and the Whatleys had been unable to escape the thanks due them, and that included a good deal of unwelcome media attention. On the helicopter that carried them to Edinburgh, Sam gave his name as Peter Whatley and evaded questions about how he'd known in advance the train was doomed by shrugging, smiling and sometimes admitting, "I just had a feeling." At least he had thought to tear off the soaking dress in the chopper. Someone had a blanket for him.

The hospital was worse but he was too tired to give much more of an answer even had he been able to think of a good one, and eventually the reporters had to give up. Steve was by his side at all times and often used his size to keep mere breathing space around Sam. Madeline spirited the protesting publicity hound, Rose, away from the hospital where they'd all been taken, to The Howard on Great King Street. The police questioned them to no avail before leaving them alone in their suite; the only one available had been the honeymoon suite and Rose was as jazzed by the luxury of it all as by the adventure. "We're heroes!" she cried, again and again, jumping on the bridal bed, running her hands over appointments and furnishings, exploring every crevice, never settling for a moment. Madeline let her rave on. She sat in a stuffed chair under an unlit lamp and waited for her husband to find her.

Steve delivered Sam to the Howard a full two hours after the rest of his family had arrived. Rose had ordered a rather lavish room service and was enjoying herself. She jumped up from a settee, her mouth still full, and nearly knocked Sam down hugging him. "We're heroes!" she squealed.

"We're twigged," said Steve, "as you Brits say. We'd better move on, and fast."

They paid for the night, though it was barely mid-morning, and got a taxi to take them to the train station. Throughout the ride Steve dropped numerous loud hints about their traveling south, and once at the station he gave each of his party enough money to buy a ticket to a different northbound destination (served of course by the same train). They split up and made their purchases at separate windows. Sam used the name "San Beckett" and was glad that Rose's jeans fit him. When they rejoined at the correct track, they dutifully turned all tickets over to Steve, who would keep them until the train had begun to move, and then pay necessary adjustments to Aberdeen. "Daddy," said Rose, admiringly, "you're the coolest."

Sam agreed. He hadn't said much since the accident. Al had been up all night with him and then vanished back to the future to catch forty or sixty winks. Sam didn't mind so much. He needed to work things out. He alternately felt sick and reasonably well, convinced that his duties lay in helping Rose and terrified that another child would be killed, determined to prove Luther innocent and just as determined to put as much distance as ever he could between himself and the men who wanted to see him hanged.

Back at the station, Murphy was checking to see if anyone had sold a southbound ticket to a party of four that fit the description he could give. No one had.

Doyle drove down to the beach to think. It's not that he couldn't think and drive at the same time; he was just afraid of driving away from wherever he finally decided he needed to be. He parked on the street and trotted down to Lusty Glaze Beach, which ordinarily would've made him laugh aloud but now just made him think of Bodie and worry more. He walked right to the water's edge and stared out at the gray sky and the gray water. It was beginning to drizzle again; it had rained the night before and would the next night, too. His still-soiled white sweater-jacket was insufficient, Bodie had as usual stolen his heavier plaid, and he'd had no time to go home and grab his leather jacket, but he didn't feel the cold much. The plane to Gatwick wouldn't leave for another five hours. It was a six-hour drive to London - maybe five and a half the way Doyle drove. He said to Bodie's face in the waves, "If you die, Bodie, I'll fucking kill you, I swear I will."

He got back into the hired car, bought a tankful of petrol, tried to telephone Cowley but got no answer, then drove and drove. He cursed himself for not having had Murphy drive to Plymouth to begin with; his trip would have been that much shorter. He was stopped for speeding no fewer than four times, and each time used his CI5 ID to regain the road. The rain had worsened; it would've slowed down a less determined man. He stopped for more petrol only but otherwise flew: he almost ran two lorries off two different roads and nearly got himself killed turning into a wrong-way lane once in London, five hours later.

Bodie hadn't even stayed in Casualty as long as Jax had (two hours to Jax's four), but somehow was attended to by the same Pakistani doctor. "Is this some kind of hobby of yours," asked the doc, "getting smacked on the head? Is this the new way to play cricket?"

"Oh yes," said Bodie, quite himself again and cheerful. "But the trick is, we have to have it done in Islington or it doesn't count." He didn't even mind Jax's ribbing, which he felt at any rate that he deserved.

Cowley had come too, to Bodie's surprise, and wasn't yelling at him, to his further surprise. He spoke quietly to the doctor while Bodie stood leaning against a wall, refusing to sit on the gurney, tenderly poking at his bandaged head. Cowley came back with the doctor and, while Bodie signed the papers, ordered Jax to take Cowley home.

"The hell he will... sir," protested Bodie. "They're getting away."

"They're long gone already, Bodie, thanks to your inept techniques. My God, man, your reputation for dealing with women must be a complete fiction!"

"Yes, sir."

"You go home now and get some warm clothes together. You'll want to join Doyle and Murphy in Edinburgh."

"Edinburgh, sir?" They had not discussed the case at all other than for Cowley to debrief Bodie. "Not Bude?"

"Whoever his partners in crime may be, they never arrived in Bude, and they all popped up in Edinburgh - on television, yet. Seems your runaway lad saved a great many lives in a bloody big train wreck. So when you catch him you'd better handle him with the softest of kid gloves, Bodie, or the media will handle you."

"Christ," said Bodie. "I'm on my way."

"Home, Bodie."

"Sir, I can bloody well buy a cardigan in Edinburgh. Put me on a jet now sir or I'll fly there myself."

"I'll put you in cuffs and you'll not leave your bed, Bodie. You'll get home, sleep for two hours, put on warm clothes and wait for Jax to take you to the airport. Now, Bodie."

"Yes, sir," was the meek response. Sleep didn't sound all that bad, in fact. He let Jax lead him away.

He was awakened from a variation of the burlap sack dream by a pair of hands shaking him urgently and a furious voice railing at him. His head ached. He didn't want to open his eyes. He was trying to get a scum-smeared sack to stop crawling after him and he was afraid that if he opened his eyes he might see something horrific. Then something smacked his face and his eyes flew open. "That you, sunshine?"

"You shit, how dare you go and get yourself hurt!" Doyle smacked him again, then drew in an especially deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to Bodie.

"Why, Goldilocks," said Bodie. "You care."

Doyle didn't want him to see the tears of relief in his eyes so he just muttered something quite obscene, which made Bodie laugh.

"You thought I was dead!" Bodie, delighted, sat up. "You thought you were coming to my funeral. That's why you're not in Edinburgh. Oy, lad, the Cow's gonna rip you a new posterior orifice you know. And what's that on your hand?" He reached for it.

Doyle pulled away, then raised his bandaged hand and waved it dismissively. He had to smile at "posterior orifice"; it was hardly like Bodie to be delicate. "Murphy's covering for me. Us. You feel strong enough to come with or are you not quite finished malingering, you indestructible ox? Of course I didn't think you were dead. If you were dead I'd have smelt you."

Bodie felt well enough to push Doyle off the bed and, standing up, give him a gentle kick as well. "I'm surprised you don't smell me now. Slept in the bloody car all night, only for this! Need a shower."

Doyle followed him to the bathroom and stood in the doorway. "Not supposed to be sleeping on stakeout, sunshine. And who says I can't smell ya?"

For that remark Doyle found himself headlocked, then thrust into the shower cubicle. He yelled as the cold water hit him but he was laughing too.

He wouldn't have to live down a faceful of tears, since they were being washed away, and he had his old Bodie back.

While Bodie showered, Doyle used his R.T. to call in to HQ and be chewed out rather thoroughly by a certain irate Scotsman. He said "Yes, sir," a lot, then asked for Jax to bring him an R.T. of his own - preferably the new type. Cowley couldn't very well refuse him an R.T. but he could blast Doyle for several more minutes for losing his old one. This he did. Bodie came out of the shower to catch the end of the diatribe. He looked weary. He'd taken the bandage off and his hair was all flattened where it had been taped.

"Call Murphy," he said.

"Six-two."

"Four-five here."

"Jesus Doyle, where are you? Is Bodie okay?"

"Never better," Bodie called, from the bedroom. He'd come out of the shower in a dark brown towel. Now he came out of the bedroom buttoning the cuffs of a dark brown shirt. He'd put on fresh khaki slacks.

"You're going to hate me," said Murphy.

"You didn't!"

"I did."

"Not a trace?"

"Well I met lots of people who saw them, and I found the cab that took them to the train station, but the trail went dead cold after that. Cabby said they talked about going to Bath, Salisbury, like that, but no one sold anyone a ticket to there. No one sold a party matching their description a ticket to anywhere."

"Then they're still in Edinburgh," Doyle decided.

"But no one saw them leave the station either! No one gave them a car, no one took them anywhere... And they had bags. We can't find the bags. They didn't just leave them."

"We?" Bodie put in.

"I'm working with the local constabulary. The cops talked to them a bit. We know better what we're looking for now. Ran the passports back through HQ. Nothing yet. Even played some telly stuff back, so now I know what they look like, even your Luther. Who are these guys?"

"Would you like to come back to Texas with us?"

Sam looked at Madeline so sadly that for a moment she almost thought she saw another person in his face, not the young Larry Presley at all, but a wiser person than anyone his age could possibly have grown to be. She put down her knitting to wait for his reply. "I would love to," he finally said, "but I don't think it would be the right thing to do. It is... most noble of you to offer."

"Most noble," repeated Madeline, and smiled too, picking up where she had left off.

The two of them were sitting quietly outdoors at a little white umbrella-table in back of a bed and breakfast a few miles outside Aberdeen, in Black Dog. They'd taken two rooms, one for Steve and Sam and the other for Madeline and Rose. It was not how the Whatleys had expected to be divided up, and Rose had pouted about not being able to share a room with Larry/Peter but it wasn't a horrid arrangement and the place was quite peaceful. Upon their arrival, Steve had called his colleague in Aberdeen, and early tomorrow morning he would be flown offshore to visit MacCulloch Field, in the North Sea. They'd had a late supper and Steve had gone to bed. Rose had taken a walk and had not yet returned, though darkness had fallen. "You don't know very much about me," said Sam, not sure where he was planning to go with this. "You may not want me in your life."

"You're a good boy," said Madeline. "You've had some troubles. Everyone makes mistakes. You're young yet and have plenty of time to become a fine man."

Sam found it humorous to be advised so maternally by a woman who was probably just slightly younger than he, although the knitting enhanced her dignity somewhat, but he said, seriously, "Maybe I'm not who you think I am."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe... maybe I have lied to you."

Madeline tried to see danger in his face, in his demeanor, tried to hear a threat in his voice, but could not. "About what have you lied, Larry?"

"Oh, just about everything."

Madeline laughed. "Only that?"

"Listen." Sam leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I lied to you about my childhood. I lied to you about my name; it's not Larry Presley. I lied to you about the nature of the trouble I am in. But I have never lied to you about how I felt, especially about my gratitude to you and your family, or about who I really am inside, and I do not believe I am a bad person."

"Do you want to tell me the truth about these things now?"

"Yes," said Sam, fervently, "but can I?"

"You mean will I keep your confidence."

"Yes."

Madeline thought. "Larry... well, I can still call you Larry for now I suppose. I am not sure I can promise you such a thing without knowing first what you are about to tell me."

"I understand."

They sat in silence for a while, Madeline knitting, looking up from time to time to see if Sam was going to come out with any startling news, Sam leaning on the table, frowning, trying to find words for what he wanted to say, trying to decide whether to say them. Finally he looked up and sat up straight. She put the knitting on the table.

"I used to use drugs. I may have done some foolish things in the past to obtain drugs. I don't use them anymore and I don't do those foolish things anymore either. That is the worst thing you can know about me; there isn't anything worse to know. But there are people in London who think I have committed some terrible crimes. These crimes have been committed but not by me. I have a brother who may have committed them but I am not sure. If he did, he did so without my knowledge or approval. The people who are looking for me are looking for him too, and they think I know where he is, but I really don't.

"The crimes that have been committed are horrendous. If you thought for even an instant that I was responsible for them I couldn't blame you for turning me over to the police, or even taking violent action against me yourself. I would feel the same. I would not expect you to tolerate the presence of someone who had done these things. They are violent crimes against children. You must believe that I am incapable of such acts. Please, if you cannot believe that I am incapable of such acts, then I don't dare tell you any more, and I don't dare stay with you anymore either, as kind as you have been."

"I believe you," said Madeline, simply.

Sam said "Thank you" and put his head down on his arms on the table. A great shudder ran through him and he didn't even know it. It wasn't his shudder. She reached out and touched his arm and he looked up immediately and smiled. "The people who believe I have committed these crimes are looking for me. They found me once and they tortured me."

"Tortured!"

"I'm sorry, I know that sounds melodramatic, but yes, tortured. Not... not like in a South American dictatorship, nothing like that, but... yes, tortured. Yes. And I don't know how, but I escaped. No... I'm not making this up. Look at me."

Madeline looked. She'd been thinking this was at least as wild a story as his private school yarn but his face commanded absolute belief.

"I was running away when you found me. They kept me awake for days. They... hit me. You saved my life. You've spirited me around the country and I'm grateful, but now... now, I am thinking, first of all, someone is out there committing these horrible crimes, and I am doing nothing to stop him."

"You're a boy," said Madeline, her knitting long forgotten. She leaned forward too. "What can you do?"

"I don't know," admitted Sam, "but I think I have to try. And anyway, can I run away forever? Shouldn't I clear my name? What chance do I have of becoming anything in the world if I don't clear my name?"

"What can we do to help?"

Sam thought. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all. Maybe nothing. Anyway nothing right now. We should sleep. I don't know why we're not all unconscious after a day like today.

"Where can Rose be?"

"Here I am, Mother." Rose and Al both came out of the shadows, Rose switching a small twig back and forth, Al looking unworried. (He'd just made love to Tina for the first time since Sam had leapt into Luther; who should worry?) Rose yawned. "I'm going to bed now okay?" She leaned over to give her mother a kiss, then gave Sam just as chaste a kiss. She gave absolutely no sign of having overheard a conversation of a confidential nature - nor did Al. "G'night."

The sun came up in Aberdeen and Black Dog but no one saw it through the pounding rain. Madeline had wanted to sit outside with her knitting, then take Sam and Rose into Aberdeen for lunch and shopping, but sitting outside was untenable, waiting for a bus in the rain (they had not hired a car) just as unthinkable, and the thought of Steve up in a helicopter in such a downpour rather frightening.

Rose sat sulking all day in the living room, watching television and flipping through the hostess' magazines. Madeline alternately sat with her daughter and pretended to watch the fluff on the tube, knitted in her room, and wandered restlessly to all windows between, checking the rain. Sam felt slightly worse than he had the day before and couldn't decide whether to stay in bed awhile or exercise to dispel the nausea. He finally opted for exercise and, despite protests from Rose, Madeline and the hostess, went out for a walk.

He turned away from Aberdeen and walked north instead, up a rather noisy dual-carriage highway. It didn't matter anyway, as he could barely see, such was the torrent. He walked faster and faster, enjoying the solitude, enjoying the very stretching of his long legs, disguised in the aura of Luther's short ones. He didn't need to see. He didn't even need to think; he'd been thinking all night and it hadn't done him any good, so why not empty his mind and just go? He hoped Al would wake up and come back, and about 20 minutes after he'd hit a good pace, he got his wish.

"Hi, Al."

"Well, hi, Sam. You seem to be feeling okay. Are you sure getting yourself all soaked is such a good idea?"

It was good to be able to speak freely with Al; no one was about to venture out close enough to overhear them, or, rather, Sam. "It doesn't matter, Al."

"Uh-oh. You're not still beating yourself up over that guy on the train, are you?"

"No, no..." They walked a bit, Sam not minding the sky spilling buckets on him and Al remaining perfectly dry in a silver jacket and crinkled silver pants, his cigar smoke swallowed by the rain. "Al, I need to know more about Billy. I need to know more about what's going on with the children. It might even help to find out what Ray and Bodie are doing. Maybe they've found out something. Maybe they have but they don't even know they have. Isn't there some way you can latch onto them and get me some information?"

"Well," said Al, tapping buttons, "we still haven't got a clue where Billy is. Luther is doing badly, physically, but mentally he's a little bit better and we've been able to talk to him, but he just says he was supposed to meet his brother at a certain gas station. I don't think that would help us much now. He won't say what he was bringing his brother and he won't say where Angela is likely to have gone. But..." he added, reaching as if to detain Sam, who, used to the hologram's gestures, did stop and look at his friend, "he is eating, and he does deny killing any of the kids."

"That's good, Al."

"Now, as for our friends at CI5, I think Gooshie can get me somewhere. Not sure where. Might be able to zoom me in on one of them - that is, if you're going to do okay here on your own. What are your plans, Sam?"

"I don't know," sighed Sam, walking again. "Steve should be back tonight and then we're all going off to Loch Ness."

"Oh, Loch Ness" cried Al. "Oh, I've always wanted to see Nessie! But Sam, that's not exactly a plan. You're just wasting time!"

Sam turned toward his friend, exasperated. "What would you like me to do, Al? Turn myself in? Go back to London alone and start chasing down child-killers without a single lead? Or maybe you'd like me to take a few shots so Luther can spill his guts more comfortably?"

"Sam, that's not fair."

They walked in silence for a minute or two. Then Sam stopped, turned, began to walk back. The rain actually seemed to be easing up somewhat.

"All right, Sam, stay where you are. I mean go with these people. Ziggy doesn't think they'll hurt you, anyway. I'll try to get some data for you by spying on the spies. Then maybe you can do some snooping of your own and clear your name."

"Luther's name."

"Whatever. Anyway, you're going to have to think about getting a shot some time."

"I don't need one."

"Luther needs one."

Sam was about to say, "Then give Luther one," and stopped himself. He knew Al's feelings about drugs; no one could be more vehemently opposed. Al had been in 'Nam, and he'd seen friends die of overdoses, do incredible things to support their addictions, come home wrecked and wasted. Sam knew, too, that his own changing condition was due to Luther's being periodically sedated, and he knew too that if Luther went cold turkey, Sam could be seriously injured. He knew that the sedation wasn't enough and that eventually Luther would have either to go cold turkey or to have another shot, either of methadone or of heroin. He understood why Al wanted him to take the shot instead of Luther. Whatever Sam took would affect Sam as much or as little as it ordinarily would, so a dose could be calculated for him that would not kill him. Luther wouldn't be hurt by something small enough not to kill Sam. Whatever Luther took, though, would affect Luther normally but be completely unpredictable for Sam. If Luther and Sam were both to survive, Sam was going to have to take a shot.