From: lalsoong@sprynet.com (Christine Wirick ) Subject: Pardox Delusion, part 18 Date: Sun, 23 Feb 1997 04:29:52 GMT Message-ID: <3317c762.33259603@m3.sprynet.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Chapter Eighteen: Raymond and Meg waited anxiously for over an hour while the doctors rushed to save Patrick's life. Pacing the waiting room, Raymond did most of the talking while Meg listened. She played with her hair nervously and fidgeted with her clothes, but commented often enough to indicate that she was listening. He knew he was speaking nonsense, but if he didn't keep talking, keep pacing, he knew he would go crazy with worry. Several times, he wandered down the hall for more coffee. He had been as excited about taking on this assignment as Patrick had been but now more than anything he wished they hadn't bought that issue of the Atlanta Review and hadn't read the article written by Margaret K. Miller. The police had arrived at the Sheffield residence about fifteen minutes after the ambulance and paramedics. Charles Sheffield, after being treated for a mile concussion, had been arrest and was currently being detained at the county jail. Although extremely tired, Raymond was too preoccupied with the possibility that his friend might die to allow himself to rest. He did not tell Meg that he was overwhelmed with guilt. Why had he left the house? he should have went for a walk with Meg and Sam. Then he would have been there when Sheffield showed up--and he could have come to his friend's defense. How could he ever forgive himself if Patrick died? Finally, Doctor Egan, came out to talk with them, stopping Raymond's internal chastisement, at least temporarily. "How is he?" Raymond asked through trembling lips. Meg stood to stand, arms nervously folded across her chest, and hear the news. "He's slipped into a coma," Doctor Egan replied. "It may be quite some time before he regains consciousness." "If he ever does?" Hesitantly, the doctor nodded. "The arm needed twelve stitches. He lost a lot of blood, but he's undergoing a blood transfusion which should take about another thirty minutes." "What about any possible brain damage?" Meg asked. "It's too early to tell the extent of any lost brain functions, but his EEG came out normal. Our main concern is his windpipe, which was nearly crushed, and at this point, we don't even know whether or not he'll be able to talk ever again. We will know more when we have the chance to thoroughly examine the results of the tests. I've placed him in ICU. His condition will be constantly monitored. Do you know who did this to him?" "Yes. It was the owner of the house in which we were staying in. He was furious, because he believed we were trying to break up him and his wife." "Is there any truth to that?" "None whatsoever." "I helped his wife get a job," Meg informed the doctor. "Charles Sheffield saw that as a threat. I don't know what decade he's living in, but in the nineties, it's acceptable for wives to work and in many cases, necessary." "What were you doing in his house?" Flustered, Raymond looked away from the doctor and stared out the window. "Well, it'd be a little difficult to explain." "I don't have any right to pressure you for an answer, but whatever it is you best think it over thoroughly. Sheriff Yeltsin will be by shortly to take a full statement from the both of you. I hope you plan to cooperate with him," Doctor Egan continued. He sighed heavily, obviously perturbed by the incident. "Does Mr. Marland have any family I can call?" "His mother is still living, and he has a younger sister. Ah. . .I believe you'll find their numbers in his billfold." The doctor nodded and left the room. Raymond returned to his pacing, wondering if the police were now informing Lisanne Sheffield that her husband had attempted murder. About forty-five minutes later, a nurse approached them to let them know that they could see Patrick for a few minutes. Anxiously, they followed the nurse down the corridor to ICU. Raymond had heard and understood Doctor Egan, and yet he was not fully prepared for the sight of his friend with all sorts of machinery hooked up to keep him alive. Patrick appeared lifeless, despite that the machine monitoring his heartbeat and another showing his EEG patterns, were giving out near-normal readings. A nurse, hovering in the doorway, watched as Raymond clutched Patrick's hand and silently prayed. When he was done, she said, "Two more minutes, Mr. Steele." He nodded without looking up at her. Not letting go of his friend's hand, he prayed that Patrick would return his grasp. Returning to the waiting area, Meg and Raymond sat down with another cup of coffee, and closed his eyes. The image of his friend lying helpless in the hospital bed would not leave him alone. "Excuse me," a man said and Raymond and Meg looked up to see a heavy set man with a badge, which read Sheriff Yeltsin, pinned to his jacket. "Are you Raymond Steele?" "Yes," Raymond answered hoarsely. "And you are Meg Miller?" Meg nodded. "I need to talk to the both of you one at a time. Ma'am if you don't mind, I need to ask you to step out of the room for a while." "I think I'll go browse the gift shop for a while," Meg offered before leaving. "Do you mind if I sit down beside you?" the sheriff asked. Raymond shook his head and the sheriff took his seat. "I'm really sorry about your friend, but I must ask you a few questions. When we questioned Charles Sheffield he told us that you and Patrick Marland were staying in their home, but they wouldn't say why. Can you explain what happened?" "I'm not sure I can, but I'll try. Charles Sheffield believed that Patrick and Meg were trying to convince his wife to leave him. Meg went to visit Lisanne at their hotel room once, because she was worried about her. She didn't like the way Sheffield was treating her." "How was that?" "He was overly protective like he wouldn't let her out of his sight. So Meg went to talk with Lisanne, because she thought if there was any real trouble going on in their marriage, maybe Lisanne would open up to another woman. Meg found out that Lisanne wanted to get a job, but Charles strongly discouraged it. Meg convinced her to stand up for herself. It was quite incredible really that Lisanne found the perfect job right away. Meg went to visit her there at the plant shop, and Lisanne was happy there. I don't understand why any man would object to his wife finding a job that she really enjoys to occupy her time." "I agree with you. My wife has been a member of the workforce for the past twelve years. As hard as it is for you or I to understand, many men during the fifties and earlier thought a woman's place was in the home doing the housework and taking care of the kids. Unfortunately, even in the nineties there are a few men left of that school." "There is no excuse for that!" "And you believe this is the only reason he attempted to kill Patrick Marland?" Raymond nodded. "Why him? It sounds as though Meg Miller was the main one involved here." "I'm not an expert on criminal motivation, Sheriff. I can only guess that he attacked patrick, because he saw patrick as the one in charge of our operation. Besides, maybe it all fit in with Sheffields' warped idea of male domination. He could have been thinking that Patrick was responsible for Meg's actions because he didn't keep her on a tight enough leash." "Okay. That's a fair answer. You still haven't told me why Sheffield allowed you in his house. You did, however, let it slip that the Sheffields were staying in a hotel room. Just why was that?" Raymond grappled for a moment between ideas of telling the sheriff lies, partial truths or the whole truth. Eventually his moral values won out. "The Sheffields hired Patrick and I to investigate a series of unexplainable events, which they believed could only be the direct result of a haunting." "Ghosts?" Yeltsin questioned skeptically. "Yes, and Patrick and I concurred. There is a substantial amount of spectral activity occurring in their home." "I see." His tone was still quite dubious. "Mr. Sheffield wanted Patrick and I to monitor his house for any unusual activity. And whether you believe it or not, we did witness things that could only have a supernatural explanation." "Let me guess, you boys think you have some psychic connection with the afterworld." "It's the truth," Raymond replied adamantly. "I have proof on video tape. There were two ghosts in that house, Ben and Karen Simms." He paused, beginning to cry, quiet, uncontrollable sobs. Yeltsin placed a reassuring arm around Raymond. "I know how difficult this must be for you. Take a moment to catch your breath." "I'm sorry," Raymond apologized several seconds later. "I've been trying so hard to remain calm, so I can make it through this night. "I never thought anything like this would happen." "Did you witness Charles Sheffield attack your friend?" "No. I was out for a drive. I didn't return until he had hung Patrick, and Meg had knocked Sheffield unconscious with a liquor bottle." "I see, then I'll ask for specific details from her. You aren't planning to leave this town any time soon, are you?" "No!" Raymond snapped. He intellectually understood why the Sheriff had asked the question, but it still sounded absurd. The thought of leaving his friend's side when Patrick was fighting death never crossed his mind. "I'm sorry," he said in a quieter tone. "It's just that I'm so worried about my friend. You have to understand that I'd do anything to help him." "Of course, I do. I hope your friend pulls through. If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with your friend now." The Sheriff tapped Raymond reassuringly on the shoulder before standing up and walking away. * * * Al exited the imaging chamber and rushed passed a startled Gooshi and into the room where Sam's body was kept. Though he prayed Sam had leaped out of Patrick, he feared that Sam was fighting for his life. Sam had met with danger enough times before, but never had he clung to life so tenuously. Al could not see Sam. The team of doctor's on the Quantum Leap project were hovering over Doctor Beckett's body, attempting to revive him. "How is he?" Al asked, wanting to touch his friend, but knowing he needed to keep his distance so the doctors could do their job. They'd already hooked up a electrocardiograph and were now checking for any signs of brain activity. Dr. Beeks glanced at Al. "He's in a coma," she replied. "We'll know more in a couple of minutes." Al placed his cigar in his mouth, but didn't puff on it. Instead, he let it hang, limp in his mouth as he watched helplessly while his friend fought to stay alive. He didn't know if Sam's soul was here in 1999 or back in the past with Patrick. But whenever the time traveler was, Al could not help him. "We're not picking up any brain activity," one of the doctors exclaimed. "I think we're losing him." No! Al screamed internally. This can't be happening! Sam was supposed to leap out to somewhere safe if his life was in danger. HE promised that to Patrick. Gentle, feminine arms wrapped around Al's waist to comfort him, but he didn't turn to look at the woman. He couldn't look away from his friend. "Al, I think you better get some rest," Tina said. "They won't stop trying, not until they've tried everything. You know that." "I know that, but what if they try everything, and nothing works?" Finally, he did look at his lover. "I can't rest," he said. "I don't know what I can do, but I can't rest." "Okay," Tina nodded, "I understand." Shamelessly, Al broke into tears. "If he's really dead, then I have nothing left. My entire life for the past several years has revolved around Sam and the Quantum Leap project. I'm nothing without him. Nothing without Sam." * * * Before his leaps had always been instantaneous, but this leap seemed prolonged, almost has though he were hovering through not only time, but space as well. God, what is happening to me? he tried to scream, but could find neither the voice nor the body from which to propel the words. Had he destroyed the space-time continuum as he knew it? Then somehow he suddenly knew where he was and why he was there. He needed to remain calm and rational, because wherever Patrick was, he now needed Sam's help. Their roles had reversed. It was time to return the favor, for Sam to play the guide. For a long time, he remained in that strange void, floating . . .floating. . . Until he heard a voice, indiscernible at first, but quickly growing louder. "Can anybody hear me?" Patrick asked in a frightened voice. "Yes," Sam replied. "I'm right here beside you." He reached out to touch Patrick reassuringly, and Patrick flinched, obviously afraid of the darkness. "But I can't see you!" "Don't let that scare you. You're safe where you are." "Where am I, then?" "You're in between dimensions," Beckett answered. "God created this crevice where neither time nor space exists, to give us a chance to recover from our ordeal. When we are physically, emotionally, and spiritually prepared, we'll slip fully into a dimension." "If we're here, in between dimensions, then we must be dead. We've failed!" Sam had never experienced failure in a leap and had to admit that he had been starting to believe that he couldn't fail. This was a highly unusual circumstance--even for Quantum Leaping, he had to admit. It was riddled with contradictions and paradoxes. Somehow he now knew that they were meant to initially fail all along. . .so they could meet with an even bigger success. "No, Patrick, I don't believe we're dead. I think we are in some type of coma-induced limbo. And we haven't even failed--not yet. There was a part of the equation that I don't think you considered--didn't even realize as a possibility. You assumed that you would have to be dead to crossover into other dimensions, so I did not even look for a near-death scenario. Now that it has occurred, and we realize the error--Patrick, we have to examine why it is a positive turnabout that we met with partial failed in our dimension." "It is my failure, because I am the more experienced psychic. I was supposed to guide you and prepare you for any possible outcome. In that, I failed." "That only proves you're human--like the rest of us," Sam said in a warm tone. "I understand why God allowed you to slip into a coma and for us to get stuck in this limbo. We met with partial failure, because he needs you to live out those other lives. As painful as it will be, it is your destiny to help each of those worlds begin to make positive changes. In a way, it's a lot like my leaping from lifetime to lifetime putting right what once went wrong. You will remember everything, not from life to life, but if you succeed--when you return to your life as Patrick Marland. The knowledge will aid me in my life's primary mission--writing. Who knows maybe a Pulitzer Prize is part of your destiny after all." "I'm scared," Patrick said, shaking violently. Sam placed reassuring arms around the other man. They remained that way for a long time, with Patrick crying softly into Sam's chest. Sam had no sense of time, but he imagined that hours passed. Sometimes, he and Patrick spoke, while at other times they spent long moments in silence. Eventually, Sam felt something tugging at him and realized he was being taken to a different time--and place. He felt a strong pull forcing him inside another host. Who am I? he wondered, oddly sensing Patrick's aura nearby as though he were still one with the psychic. He tried to move, discovering that his limbs were strapped securely to a spit. He wiggled his hands to loosen the rope, but it wouldn't budge. He moaned as unbearable pain rose from his abdomen. He realized it was a lot like he felt after Thanksgiving dinner--only a lot worse. After he overcame his initial shock, Sam realized that there was a tube, pumping a yellow-brown liquid, running down his throat. He started to gag and his throat swelled around the tube, cutting of his air supply. I'm going to die, Sam thought. A tall man, nearly seven feet tall rushed up to Sam, and sticking his fingers in Sam's mouth, forcefully reopened the victim's air passageway. Chuckling, he gestured toward another man, who eagerly joined him. The first man licked his lips and chuckled again, a laugh that seemed to carry with the wind for miles. Through the corner of his eye, Sam could see a huge pot with a blazing fire underneath. He had the sinking feeling that that pot was meant for him. Oh God, they're cannibals! he screamed internally. He suddenly remembered what he had read in Patrick's journal. This was supposed to be Patrick's destiny. Not mine! Not mine! As the men grabbed either end of the spit and lifted it, Sam bizarrely felt eager for the boiling pot, wanted to experience the agonizing death. Before they reached the pot, however, the flashing blue light hurdled him into his next host and out of danger. "Oh boy," he exclaimed as he realized he was now the tall man, carrying the victim to the boiling pot. The thought of watching someone boil to death revolted him, but he didn't dare stop. What would the other cannibals think? More importantly, what would they do if he refused to participate in their ritual? Besides, he knew this destiny had to be carried out no matter how torturous it was for him or Patrick. He had to continually remind himself that it was for the good of this world. Although at the moment, he couldn't see how. "Be careful," a woman exclaimed. "If you drop it, you'll contaminate the meat!" Sam glanced in her direction, trying not to show his disgust. He wished Al would show up with some advice or that he would leap again. He was in another dimension, one where time passed at an accelerated rate compared to his world. Al probably couldn't find him, probably couldn't travel to this world even if he could find Sam. Worse, Al probably thought he was dead. Upon arriving into the void, he had realized that Patrick, in their world, had slipped into a coma. Now he wondered if he had also slipped into a coma so he could enter into this dimension. "If you don't cook the meat soon, sire," a man piped up. "I shall start an entreaty to have you denounced as head." The crowd began chanting, a low almost inaudible verbiage. Sam's nerves rang with deja vu as he remembered the eery vision he'd had on the landing. He tried to will himself to bring the victim's body closer to the boiling water. He stared into the pot and thought of lobsters screaming as they were being cooked alive and knowing this would be ten times worse. "I can't," he tried to say, but before the words were fully expelled, he leaped yet again. This time, into a small child watching the ritual assassination from a distance. He tried to hide his eyes in the skirt of a woman who must have been the boy's mother, but the mother reached down, tilting his head away from her skirt and slapped him briskly across the cheek. "You'll watch," she said, "and you'll enjoy every succulent moment of it." He watched, barely controlling the urge to vomit, as the victim screamed in agony. Sam struggled to break free from the woman's grasp, but she held on firmly. A moment later, he escaped when the pulling of the leap stole him from her and the cannibals' world.